A Matter of Honour (17 page)

“Also confirmed by Comrade
Petrova in her report.”

“Ah, yes, Comrade Petrova,” said Zaborski,
his eyes returning to the sheet of paper in front of him.

“Yes, Comrade.”

“And later that evening Comrade Petrova
mysteriously failed to keep an appointment with you?”

“Inexplicably,” said Romanov.

“But which you reported to
Comrade Melinski at the Embassy.”
He paused. “You were responsible for selecting Petrova yourself, were
you not?”

“That is correct, Comrade Chairman.”

“Does that not reveal a certain lack of
judgment on your part?”

Romanov made no attempt to reply.

The Chairman’s eyes returned to the file. “When
you awoke the next morning, there was still no sign of the girl?”

“She also failed to turn up to breakfast as
arranged,” said Romanov, “and when I went to her room all her personal
belongings had gone.”

“
Which convinced you she
had defected.
”

“Yes, sir,” said Romanov.

“But the Swiss police,” said
Zaborski,
“can find no trace of her. So I keep asking myself
why would she want to
defect?
Her husband and her
immediate family live in Moscow. They are all employed by the State, and it is
not as if this was her first visit to the West.”

Romanov didn’t offer an opinion.

“Perhaps Petrova disappeared because she
might have been able to tell us something you didn’t want us to hear.”

Still Romanov said nothing.

The Chairman’s gaze once again returned to
the file. “I wonder what it was that young Petrova wanted to tell
us?
Who else you were sleeping with that
night, perhaps?”
Romanov felt a shiver of fear as he wondered how much
Zaborski really knew. Zaborski paused and pretended to be checking something
else in the report. “Perhaps she could tell us why you felt it necessary to
return to Bischoffet Cie a second time.” Once again, Zaborski paused. “I think
I may have to open an enquiry into the disappearance of Comrade Petrova.
Because, Comrade Romanov, by the time you returned to the bank a third time,”
said the Chairman, his voice rising with each word, “every second-rate spy from
here to Istanbul knew that we were searching for something.” The Chairman
paused. Romanov was still desperate to find out if Zaborski had any real
evidence. Neither man spoke for some time. “You have always been a loner, Major
Romanov, and I do not deny that at times your results have allowed me to
overlook certain indiscretions. But I am not a loner, Comrade. I am a desk man,
no longer allowed your freedom of action.” He fiddled with the paperweight of
Luna 9 on the desk in front of him.

“I am a file man, a paper man. I make
reports in triplicate, I answer queries in quadruplicate, explain decisions in
quintuplicate. Now I will have to explain the circumstances of Petrova’s
strange disappearance to the Politburo in multiplicate.”

Romanov remained
silent,
something the KGB had taken several years to instil into him. He began to feel
confident that Zaborski was only guessing. If he had suspected the truth the
interview would have taken place in the basement where a less intellectual
approach to questioning was carried out.

“In the USSR,” continued Zaborski, now
rising from his chair, “despite our image in the Western world, we investigate
a suspicious death,” he paused, “or defection more scrupulously than any other
nation on earth. You, Comrade Romanov, would have found your chosen profession
easier to follow had you been born in Africa, South America or even Los
Angeles.”

Still Romanov did not venture an opinion.

“The General Secretary informed me at one o’clock
this morning that he is not impressed by your latest efforts, distinctly
unimpressed were the exact words he used, especially after your excellent
start. All he is interested in, however, is finding the Tsar’s icon, and so,
for the time being, Comrade, he has decided there will be no investigation. But
if you ever act in such an irresponsible way again it will not be an enquiry
you are facing, but a tribunal, and we all know what happened to the last
Romanov that faced a tribunal.”

He closed the file. “Against my better
judgment and because we are left with less than a week, the General Secretary
has allowed you a second chance in the belief that you will indeed come up with
the Tsar’s icon. Do I make myself clear, Comrade?” he barked.

“Very clear, Comrade Chairman,” said
Romanov, and turning smartly on his heel quickly left the room.

The Chairman of the KGB waited for the door
to close before his eyes settled back on the file. What was Romanov up to,
Zaborski needed to know, suddenly realising that his own career might now be on
the line. He flicked down a switch on the little console by his side. “Find
Major Valchek,” he ordered.

“I’ve never actually had champagne and
caviar,” admitted Adam, as he looked up at the beautiful girl who sat opposite
him across the table. He loved the way she tied her hair, and the way she
dressed, the way she laughed, but most of all the way she smiled.

“Well, don’t get frightened, because I can’t
imagine caviar will ever find its place on this particular menu,” teased Heidi.
“But perhaps soon when you are the proud owner of the Tsar’s icon, that is if
Mr Rosenbau...”

Adam put a finger to his lips. “No one else
knows about that, not even Lawrence.”

“That may be wise,” Heidi whispered. “He
will only expect you to invest all the money you make from the sale in his
boring bank.”

“What makes you think I’d sell it?” asked
Adam, trying to discover how much she had worked out.

“If you own a Rolls-Royce and you are out of
work you do not then go and hire a chauffeur.”

“But I’ve only got a motorbike.”

“And you’ll have to sell that as well if the
icon turns out to be worthless,” she said, laughing.

“Would you like a coffee to follow?” asked
the waiter, who was already clearing their table in the hope of fitting in two
more customers before the night was out.

“Yes, please. Two cappuccinos,” said Adam.
He turned his gaze back to Heidi. “Funnily enough,” he continued as the waiter
retreated, “the only time I’ve ever rung Lawrence at the bank the telephonist
couldn’t immediately locate him.”

“What’s so surprising about that?” asked
Heidi.

“It was as if they had never heard of him,”
said Adam, “but perhaps I was imagining it.”

“A bank that size must
have over a thousand employees.
You could go years without knowing everyone who worked there.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Adam said, as two
coffees were placed in front of them.

“When do you plan on going to Geneva?” Heidi
asked, after she had tried a sip of the coffee and found it too hot.

“First thing Wednesday
morning.
I hope to be
back
the same evening.”

“Considerate.”

“What do you mean?” asked Adam.

“To choose my one day off to fly away,” she
said.
“Not very romantic.”

“Then why not come with me?” he asked,
leaning across the table to take her hand.

“That might turn out to be more significant
than sharing your sausages.”

“I would hope so and in any case, you could
be most useful.”

“You do have a way with words,” said Heidi.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way. It’s
simply that I don’t speak German or French and I’ve never been to Switzerland
other than on a school skiing trip – and then I kept falling over.”

Heidi tried her coffee again.

“Well?” said Adam, not letting go of her
hand.

“The Swiss speak perfect English,” she said
eventually, “and should you have any problem with the bank, you can always get
in touch with Lawrence.”

“It would only be for the day,” said Adam.

“And a waste of your
money.”

“Not very romantic,” said Adam.

“Touche.”

“Think about it,” said Adam. “After the cost
of your return flight I will be left with only £19,969. I don’t know how I’ll
get by.”

“You really mean it, don’t you?” said Heidi,
sounding serious for the first time. “But women are not impulsive creatures.”

“You could always bring Jochen along with
you.”

Heidi laughed. “He wouldn’t fit on the
plane.”

“Do say you’ll come,” said Adam.

“On one condition,” said Heidi thoughtfully.

“Separate planes?” said Adam grinning.

“No, but if the icon turns out to be
worthless you will let me refund the price of my ticket.”

“It couldn’t be worth less than thirty-one
pounds, so I agree to your terms,” said Adam. He leaned over and kissed Heidi
on the lips. “Perhaps it will take more than one day,” he said. “Then what
would you say?”

“I would demand separate hotels,” replied
Heidi, “if it wasn’t for the high cost of the Swiss franc,” she added.

“You are always so reliable, Comrade Romanov.
You fulfil the primary qualification for a successful banker.” Romanov studied
the old man carefully, looking for some sign that he knew exactly what had been
awaiting him at the bank.

“And you are always so efficient, Comrade
Poskonov,” he paused, “the only qualification necessary in my chosen
profession.”

“Good heavens, we are beginning to sound
like a couple of ageing commissars at an annual reunion. How was Zurich?” he
asked, as he lit a cigarette.

“Like a Polish tractor. The bits that worked
were fine.”

“From that I assume the bits that didn’t
work failed to produce the Tsar’s icon,” the chairman said.

“Correct, but Bischoff turned out to be most
helpful, as was Jacques. My every need was catered for.”

“
Your
every need?”

“Yes,” replied Romanov.

“Good man, Bischoff,” said the banker. “That’s
why I sent you to him first.” The old man slumped down into his chair.

“Was there any other reason you sent me to
him first?” asked Romanov.

“Five other reasons,” said Poskonov, “but we’ll
not bother with any of them until you have found your icon.”

“Perhaps I’d like to bother now,” said
Romanov firmly.

“I’ve outlived two generations of Romanovs,”
said the old man raising his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to outlive a third. Let’s
leave it at that for
now,
I’m sure we can come to an
understanding when the spotlight is no longer on you.”

Romanov nodded.

“Well, you will be pleased to learn that I
have not been idle in your absence. But I fear my results also resemble a
Polish tractor.”

The banker waved Romanov to a seat before he
reopened his file which had grown in size since he had last seen it. “Originally,”
the chairman began, “you presented me with a list of fourteen banks, eleven of
which have now confirmed that they are not in possession of the Tsar’s icon.”

“I have been wondering about that – is their
word to be taken at face value?” asked Romanov.

“Not necessarily,” said the banker. “But on
balance the Swiss prefer not to become involved rather than tell a deliberate
lie. In time the liar is always found out, and I still, from this office,
control the cash flow of eight nations. I may not wield what they would call
financial clout but I can still put the odd spanner in the works of the
capitalist monetary system.”

“That still leaves us with three banks?”
said Romanov.

“Correct, Comrade. The first is Bischoff
et
Cie, whom you have already visited. But the other two
have refused to co-operate in any way.”

“Why is it your influence does not extend to
them?”

“The most obvious of reasons,” replied
Poskonov. “Other interests exert a stronger influence. If, for example, your
major source of income emanates from the leading Jewish families, or
alternatively the Americans, no amount of pressure will ever allow you to deal
with the Soviet Union.” Romanov nodded his understanding. “That being the case,”
continued Poskonov, “there still has to be an outside chance that one of these
two banks is in possession of the Tsar’s icon, and as they are never going to
admit as much to Mother Russia I am not sure what I can recommend you do next.”

The banker sat back and waited for Romanov
to take in his news.

“You are unusually silent,” Poskonov
ventured, after he had lit another cigarette.

“You have given me an idea,” said Romanov. “I
think the Americans would describe it as a ‘long shot’. But if I’m right, it
will be the Russians who will get the home run.”

“Baseball is a game that I’ve never
understood but I
am,
however, glad to have been of
some use today. Although I suspect you will still need this, whatever your long
shot.” Poskonov removed a single piece of paper from his file and handed it
over to Romanov. On it were the words: Simon
et
Cie,
Zurich (refused), Roget et Cie, Geneva (refused).