‘I don’t think Ted Turner could afford to adopt you. Now go to sleep, Sergei.’
There was another long silence.
‘One more question, Jackson?’
‘Tell me how I’m going to stop you.’
‘Why is this man so important to you?’
Jackson waited some time before answering. ‘Twenty-nine years ago he saved my life in Vietnam, so I guess you could say I owe him for those years. Does that make any sense?’
Sergei would have replied, but he’d fallen fast asleep.
15
VLADIMIR BOLCHENKOV, St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, had enough on his mind without having to worry about four mysterious phone calls. Chernopov had visited the city on Monday, and had brought the traffic to a standstill by demanding that his motorcade should be the same size as the late President’s.
Borodin was refusing to allow his men to leave their barracks until they were paid, and now that it looked as if he was out of the race for President, rumours of a military coup were beginning to surface once again. ‘It’s not hard to work out which city Borodin will want to take over first,’ Bolchenkov had warned the Mayor. He had set up a whole department to deal with the threat of terrorism during the election campaign. If any of the candidates were going to be assassinated, it wouldn’t be on his territory. That week alone, the department had received twenty-seven threats on Zerimski’s life. The Chief had dismissed them as the usual assortment of weirdos and lunatics - until a young lieutenant had rushed into his office earlier that morning, white-faced and talking far too quickly.
The Chief sat and listened to the recording the Lieutenant had made moments before. The first call had come through at nine twenty-four, fifty-one minutes after Zerimski had arrived in the city.
‘There will be an attempt on Zerimski’s life this afternoon,’ said a male voice with an accent that Bolchenkov couldn’t quite place. Mid-European, perhaps; certainly not Russian.
‘While Zerimski is addressing the rally in Freedom Square, a lone gunman hired by the Mafya will make the attempt. I will call back with more details in a few minutes’ time, but I will speak only to Bolchenkov.’ The line went dead. The brevity of the call meant there was no possibility of tracing it. Bolchenkov knew immediately that they were dealing with a professional.
Eleven minutes later the second call came through. The Lieutenant bluffed for as long as he could, claiming they were trying to find the Chief, but all the caller said was, ‘I will phone again in a few minutes’ time. Just be sure Bolchenkov is standing by the phone. It’s your time that’s being wasted, not mine.’
That was when the Lieutenant had burst into the Chief’s office. Bolchenkov had been explaining to one of Zerimski’s sidekicks why his motorcade couldn’t be allocated the same number of police outriders as Chernopov’s. He immediately stubbed out his cigarette and went to join his team in the terrorism unit. It was another nine minutes before the caller phoned again.
‘Is Bolchenkov there?’
‘This is Bolchenkov speaking.’
‘The man you are looking for will be posing as a foreign journalist, representing a South African newspaper that doesn’t exist. He arrived in St Petersburg on the express from Moscow this morning. He is working alone. I will call you again in three minutes.’
Three minutes later the whole department was assembled to listen to him.
‘I’m sure that by now the entire anti-terrorism division of the St Petersburg Police are hanging on my every word,’ was the caller’s opening salvo. ‘So allow me to give you a helping hand. The assassin is six foot one, has blue eyes and thick sandy hair. But he’ll probably be disguised. I don’t know what he will be wearing, but then you must do something to earn your wages.’ The line went dead.
The whole unit listened to the tapes again and again over the next half-hour. Suddenly the Chief stubbed out another cigarette and said, ‘Play the third tape again.’ The young Lieutenant pressed a button, wondering what his boss had picked up that the rest of them had missed. They all listened intently.
‘Stop,’ said the Chief after only a few seconds. ‘I thought so. Go back and start counting.’
Count what? the Lieutenant wanted to ask as he pressed the playback button. This time he heard the faint chime of a carriage clock in the background.
He rewound the tape and they listened once again. ‘Two chimes,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘If it was two in the afternoon, our informant was calling from the Far East.’
The Chief smiled. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It’s more likely that the call was made at two in the morning, from the east coast of America.’
Maggie picked up the phone by her bed and dialled a 650 number. It only rang a couple of times before it was picked up.
‘Tara Fitzgerald,’ said a brisk voice. No ‘Hello, good evening,’ or confirmation that the caller had dialled the correct number. Just the bold announcement of her name, so no one needed to waste any time. How like her father, Maggie thought.
‘It’s Mom, honey.’
‘Hi, Mom. Has the car broken down again, or is it something serious?’
‘Nothing, honey, I’m just missing your father,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I hoped you’d have time for a chat.’