He had thirty seconds.
He turned and smiled at his minder in the back, and pointed to the newsvendor. The man nodded. Connor stepped out onto the sidewalk and started walking slowly towards the old man wearing a fluorescent orange vest. He didn’t once look back, so he had no idea if anyone from the second car was following him. He concentrated on the traffic moving in the opposite direction on the other side of the street, trying to estimate how long the line of cars would be when the light turned red again. When he reached the newsvendor, he already had a quarter in his hand. He gave it to the old man, who handed him a copy of the Post. As he turned and began to walk back towards the first BMW, the light turned red and the traffic came to a halt.
Connor spotted the vehicle he needed. He suddenly switched direction and started sprinting, darting in and out of the stationary traffic on the westbound side of the street until he reached an empty taxi, six cars away from the lights. The two men in the second BMW leaped out of the car and began running after him just as the light at DuPont Circle turned green.
Connor pulled open the door and threw himself into the back of the taxi. ‘Straight ahead,’ he shouted. ‘You get $100 if you beat that light.’
The driver pressed the palm of his hand onto his horn and kept it there as he ran the red light. The two white BMWs executed screeching U-turns, but the lights had already changed, and their path was blocked by three stationary cars.
So far everything had gone to plan.
The taxi swung left onto Twenty-Third Street, and Connor instructed the driver to pull over. When the car had come to a halt he passed him a hundred-dollar bill and said, ‘I want you to drive straight to Dulles Airport. If you spot a white BMW coming up behind you, don’t let it overtake you. When you get to the airport, stop for thirty seconds outside Departures, then drive slowly back into town.’
‘OK, man, anything you say,’ said the driver, pocketing the hundred-dollar bill. Connor slipped out of the cab, darted across Twenty-Third Street and flagged down another cab heading in the opposite direction.
He slammed the door shut as the two BMWs swept past him in pursuit of the first taxi.
‘And where would you like to go this fine morning?’
‘Cooke Stadium.’
‘I hope you got a ticket, man, otherwise I’ll be bringing you straight back.’
The three men stood as Zerimski entered the room. He waved them down as if they were a large crowd, and took the chair behind the Ambassador’s desk. He was surprised to see a rifle where the blotter would normally be, but he ignored it and turned to Alexei Romanov, who was looking rather pleased with himself.
‘I have some sad news for you, Alexei,’ said the President. Romanov’s expression turned to apprehension, and then to anxiety, during the long silence Zerimski allowed to follow.
‘I received a call earlier this morning from your cousin Stefan. It appears that your father suffered a heart attack during the night, and died on the way to hospital.’
Romanov bowed his head. The Ambassador and First Secretary glanced towards the President to see how they should react.
Zerimski rose, walked slowly over to Romanov and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. The Ambassador and First Secretary looked suitably grief-stricken.
‘I shall mourn him,’ said Zerimski. ‘He was a great man.’ The two diplomats nodded their agreement as Romanov inclined his head to acknowledge the President’s kind words.
‘Now his mantle has passed on to you, Alexei; a most worthy successor.’
The Ambassador and the Chief Secretary continued to nod.
‘And soon,’ Zerimski said, ‘you will be given an opportunity to demonstrate your authority in a way that will leave no one in Russia in any doubt who is the new Czar.’
Romanov raised his head and smiled, his brief period of mourning over.
‘That is,’ added Zerimski, ‘assuming nothing goes wrong this evening.’
‘Nothing can go wrong,’ said Romanov emphatically. ‘I spoke to Fitzgerald just after midnight. He’s agreed to my plan. He will report to the Embassy at four o’clock this afternoon, while you are at the football game with Lawrence.’
‘Why so early?’ asked Zerimski.
‘We need everyone to think he’s simply another member of the catering team, so that when he slips out of the kitchen six hours later nobody will give it a second thought. He will remain in the kitchen under my supervision until a few minutes before you rise to make your farewell speech.’
‘Excellent,’ said Zerimski. ‘And then what happens?’
‘I will accompany him to this room, where he will collect the rifle. He will then take the private elevator to the gallery that overlooks the ballroom.’
Zerimski nodded.
‘Once he is there, he will position himself behind the great statue of Lenin, where he will remain until you reach that section of your speech where you thank the American people for their hospitality and the warm welcome you have received everywhere, et cetera, et cetera, and particularly from President Lawrence. At that point, I have arranged for prolonged applause. Throughout it you must remain absolutely still.’