A few moments later the President opened the car door.
‘OK, Andy,’ he said, ‘let’s get back before they discover what we’re up to.’
‘What are we up to?’ asked Lloyd as he chased the President up the stairs.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Lawrence, striding into the ballroom.
‘But sir,’ said Lloyd, ‘you’ll still need...’
‘Not now,’ said Lawrence, as he took his seat next to the Ambassador’s wife and smiled apologetically.
‘Did you manage to find it?’ she asked.
‘Find what?’
‘Your speech,’ said Mrs Pietrovski, as Lloyd placed a file on the table between them.
‘Of course,’ said Lawrence, tapping the file. ‘By the way, Olga, how’s that daughter of yours? Natasha, isn’t it? Is she still studying Fra Angelico in Florence?’ He picked up his knife and fork.
The President glanced in Zerimski’s direction as the waiters reappeared to remove the plates. He put his knife and fork back down, settling for a stale bread roll with a pat of butter and finding out what Natasha Pietrovski had been up to during her junior year in Florence. He couldn’t help noticing that the Russian President appeared nervous, almost on edge, as the time drew nearer for him to make his speech. He immediately assumed that Zerimski was about to deliver another unexpected bombshell. The thought put him off his raspberry souffle.
When Zerimski eventually rose to address his guests, even his most ardent admirers would have been hard pressed to describe his efforts as anything other than pedestrian. Some of those who watched him particularly closely wondered why he appeared to be directing so many of his remarks to the massive statue of Lenin in the gallery above the ballroom. Lawrence thought it must have been put there recently, as he didn’t remember seeing it at Boris’s farewell dinner.
He kept waiting for Zerimski to reinforce his message to Congress the previous day, but he said nothing controversial. To Lawrence’s relief he stuck to the bland script that had been sent to the White House that afternoon. He glanced down at his own speech, which he should have gone over with Andy in the car. His Chief of Staff had scribbled a few suggestions in the margins, but there wasn’t a witty phrase or memorable paragraph from page one to page seven. But then, Andy had also had a busy day.
‘Let me end by thanking the American people for the generous hospitality and warm welcome I have experienced everywhere I have been during my visit to your great country, in particular from your President, Tom Lawrence.’
The applause that greeted this statement was so loud and prolonged that Lawrence looked up from his notes. Zerimski was once again standing motionless, staring up at the statue of Lenin. He waited until the applause had ended before he sat down. He didn’t look at all pleased, which surprised Lawrence, as in his opinion the speech’s reception had been far more generous than it deserved.
Lawrence rose to reply. His speech was received with courteous interest, but hardly with enthusiasm. He concluded with the words, ‘Let us hope, Victor, that this will be the first of many visits you make to the United States. On behalf of all your guests, I wish you a safe flight home tomorrow.’ Lawrence reflected that two lies in one sentence were a bit much, even for a politician, and wished he had had time to read the line before delivering it. He sat down to respectful applause, but it was nothing compared with the ovation Zerimski had received for an equally banal offering.
Once the coffee had been served, Zerimski rose from his place and walked over to the double doors at the far side of the room. He soon began saying ‘Goodnight,’ in a voice that carried across the room, making it abundantly clear that he wanted his guests off the premises as quickly as possible.
A few minutes after ten had struck on several clocks around the Embassy, Lawrence rose and began moving slowly in the direction of his host. But, like Caesar in the Capitol, he found he was continually stopped by different citizens wanting to touch the hem of the emperor’s clothes. When he eventually reached the door, Zerimski gave him a curt nod before accompanying him down the stairs to the first floor. As Zerimski didn’t speak, Lawrence took a long look at the Nzizvestni statue of Christ on the Cross that was still in its place on the first landing. Now that Lenin was back, he was surprised that Jesus had survived. At the foot of the stone steps he turned to wave to his host, but Zerimski had already disappeared back inside the Embassy. If he had taken the trouble to accompany Lawrence beyond the front door, he would have seen the SAIC waiting for him as he climbed into the back of his limousine.
Braithwaite didn’t speak until the door had been closed.
‘You were right, sir,’ he said as they passed through the Embassy gates.
The first person Zerimski saw as he walked back into the Embassy was the Ambassador. His Excellency smiled hopefully.
‘Is Romanov still in the building?’ Zerimski bellowed, unable to hide his anger for a moment longer.
‘Yes, Mr President,’ the Ambassador said, chasing after his leader. ‘He’s been...’
‘Bring him to me immediately.’
‘Where will I find you?’
‘In what used to be your study.’
Pietrovski scurried away in the opposite direction.
Zerimski marched down the long marble corridor, hardly breaking his stride as he shoved open the door of the Ambassador’s study as if he was thumping a punchbag. The first thing he saw was the rifle, still lying on the desk. He sat down in the large leather chair normally occupied by the Ambassador.
While he waited impatiently for them to join him, he picked up the rifle and began to study it more closely. He looked down the barrel and saw that the single bullet was still in place. As he held it up to his shoulder he could feel its perfect balance, and he understood for the first time why Fitzgerald had been willing to fly halfway across America to find its twin.
It was then that he saw the firing pin had been replaced.
Zerimski could hear the two men hurrying down the marble corridor. Just before they reached the study, he lowered the rifle onto his lap.
They almost ran into the room. Zerimski pointed unceremoniously to the two seats on the other side of the desk.
‘Where was Fitzgerald?’ he demanded before Romanov had even sat down. ‘You assured me in this room that he would be here by four o’clock this afternoon. “Nothing can go wrong,” you boasted. “He’s agreed to my plan.” Your exact words.’
‘That was our agreement when I spoke to him just after midnight, Mr President,’ said Romanov.
‘So what happened between midnight and four o’clock?’
‘While my men were escorting him into the city early this morning, the driver was forced to stop at a set of traffic lights. Fitzgerald leaped out of the car, ran to the other side of the road and jumped into a passing taxi. We pursued it all the way to Dulles Airport, only to find when we caught up with it outside the terminal that Fitzgerald wasn’t inside.’
‘The truth is that you allowed him to escape,’ said Zerimski. ‘Isn’t that what really happened?’
Romanov bowed his head and said nothing.
The President’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘I understand you have a code in the Mafya,’ he said, clicking the breech of the rifle shut, ‘for those who fail to carry out contracts.’
Romanov looked up in horror as Zerimski raised the gun until it was pointing at the centre of his chest.
‘Yes or no?’ said Zerimski quietly.
Romanov nodded. Zerimski smiled at the man who had accepted the judgement of his own court, and gently squeezed the trigger. The boat-tailed bullet tore into Romanov’s chest about an inch below the heart. The power of its impact hurled his lithe body back against the wall, where it remained for a second or two before slithering down onto the carpet. Fragments of muscle and bone were scattered in every direction. The walls, the carpet, the Ambassador’s dress suit and white pleated shirt were drenched with blood.