No one gave Connor, dressed in a long white catering coat and a Redskins cap, a second glance as he strolled casually past the concession stand towards the door marked ‘Private’. He slipped inside and locked the door behind him. In the darkness he walked noiselessly back along the narrow walkway until he was a few yards from the entrance to the JumboTron. He stood looking down at the vast steel girder that held the massive screen in place.
Connor gripped the handrail for a moment, then fell to his knees. He leaned forward, grabbed the girder with both hands, and eased himself off the walkway. He stared fixedly at the screen which, according to the architects’ plans, was forty-two feet in front of him. It looked more like a mile.
He could see a small handle, but he still had no idea if the emergency trapdoor that had been clearly marked on the engineer’s plans really existed. He began to crawl slowly along the girder, inch by inch, never once looking down at the 170-foot drop below him. It felt like two miles.
When he finally reached the end of the girder, he dropped his legs over the sides and gripped tightly, as if he was on horseback. The screen switched from a replay of a touchdown in the Skins’ previous game to an advertisement for Modell’s sporting goods store. Connor took a deep breath, gripped the handle, and pulled. The trapdoor slid back, revealing the promised twenty-two-and-a-half-inch-square hole. Connor slowly hauled himself inside and slid the door back in place.
Pressed in on all sides by steel, he began to wish that he had added a thick pair of gloves to his clothing. It was like being inside a refrigerator. Nevertheless, as each minute passed he became more confident that should it prove necessary to fall back on his contingency plan, no one would ever discover where he was hiding.
He lay suspended inside the hollow steel girder 170 feet above the ground for over an hour and a half, barely able to turn his wrist to check the time. But then, in Vietnam he’d once spent ten days’ solitary confinement standing upright in a bamboo cage with water up to his chin.
Something he suspected Arnie had never experienced.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Zerimski shook hands warmly with everyone he was introduced to, and even laughed at John Kent Cooke’s jokes. He remembered the names of all the guests, and answered every question that was put to him with a smile. ‘What the Americans call a charm offensive,’ Titov had told him: it would only add to the horror of what he had planned for them that evening.
He could already hear the guests telling the press, ‘He couldn’t have been more relaxed and at ease, especially with the President, whom he kept referring to as “my dear and close friend Tom”.’ Lawrence, the guests would recall, did not show quite the same degree of warmth, and was slightly frosty towards his Russian visitor.
After the introductions had been completed, John Kent Cooke banged on a table with a spoon. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt such a pleasant occasion,’ he began, ‘but time is marching on, and this is probably going to be the only opportunity I have in my life to brief two Presidents at once.’ A little laughter broke out. ‘So here goes.’ He put on a pair of glasses and began reading from a sheet of paper handed to him by his public affairs assistant.
‘At eleven twenty I will accompany both Presidents to the south entrance of the stadium, and at eleven thirty-six I will lead them out onto the field.’ He looked up. ‘I have arranged for the welcome to be deafening,’ he said with a smile. Rita laughed just a little too loudly.
‘When we reach the centre of the field, I will introduce the Presidents to the two team captains, and they in turn will introduce them to their co-captains and the coaches. Then the Presidents will be introduced to the match officials.
‘At eleven forty, everyone will turn and face the west stand, where the Redskins band will play the Russian national anthem, followed after a short pause by “The Star-Spangled Banner”.
‘At precisely eleven forty-eight our honoured guest President Zerimski will flip a silver dollar. I shall then accompany both gentlemen off the field and bring them back here, where I hope everyone will enjoy watching the Redskins defeat the Packers.’
Both Presidents laughed.
Cooke looked up at his guests, smiling with relief that the first part of his ordeal was over, and asked, Any questions?’
‘Yes, John, I have a question,’ said Zerimski. ‘You didn’t explain why I have to flip the coin.’
‘So that the captain who correctly guesses whether it’s heads or tails can choose which team kicks off
What an amusing idea,’ said Zerimski.
As the minutes slipped by, Connor checked his watch more and more frequently. He didn’t want to be inside the JumboTron for any longer than necessary, but he needed time to familiarise himself with a rifle he hadn’t used for some years.
He checked his watch again. Eleven ten. He’d wait for another seven minutes. However impatient you become, never go early — it only adds to the risk.
Eleven twelve. He thought about Chris Jackson, and the sacrifice he had made just to give him this one chance.
Eleven fourteen. He thought about Joan, and the cruel and unnecessary death Gutenburg had ordered for no reason other than that she had been his secretary.
Eleven fifteen. He thought about Maggie and Tara. If he managed to pull this off, it might just give them a chance to live in peace. Either way, he doubted if he would ever see them again.
Eleven seventeen. Connor slid open the trapdoor and eased himself slowly out of the confined space. He gathered his strength for a moment before swinging his legs over the girder and gripping it firmly with his thighs. Again, he didn’t look down as he began the slow forty-two-foot crawl back to the walkway.
Once he had reached the safety of the ledge, he pulled himself up onto the walkway. He held onto the rail for a few moments, steadied himself, and began a short series of stretching exercises.
Eleven twenty-seven. He breathed deeply as he went over his plan for the final time, then walked quickly towards the JumboTron, pausing only to pick up the empty Coke can he had left on the step.
He banged loudly on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened it, marched in and shouted above the noise of the ventilation unit, ‘It’s only me.’
Arnie peered down from the ledge above, his right hand moving towards the trigger of his Armalite. ‘Beat it!’ he said. ‘I told you not to come back till the Presidents were off the field. You’re lucky I didn’t put a bullet through you.’
‘Sorry,’ said Connor. ‘It’s just that I noticed how hot it gets in here, so I brought you another Coke.’
He passed the empty can up, and Arnie bent down to take it with his free hand. As his fingers touched the rim of the can, Connor let go of it, grabbed him by the wrist and, with all the strength he could muster, pulled him down from the ledge.
Arnie let out a terrible scream as he came crashing over, landing head first on the galvanised walkway, his rifle skidding away across it.
Connor swung round and leapt on his adversary before he had a chance to get up. As Arnie raised his head, Connor landed a straight left to the chin that stunned him for a moment, then grabbed for the pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt. He only just caught sight of the knee flying towards his crotch, but deftly moved to his left and managed to avoid its full impact. As Arnie tried to rise to his feet, Connor landed another punch, this time full on his nose. Connor heard the break, and as blood began to flow down his face, Arnie’s legs buckled and he sank to the ground. Connor sprang on him again, and as Arnie tried to get up he delivered a blow to his right shoulder that caused him to go into spasms. This time when he collapsed onto the walkway he finally lay still.