A Matter of Honour (31 page)

“How long ago?”
Romanov asked quietly.

“What do you mean?” asked the policeman.

“How long ago?” repeated Romanov in a firmer
voice.

“It wasn’t him,” said the officer, sweat now
appearing on his forehead.

“If it wasn’t him, how long ago wasn’t it
him?”

The officer hesitated. “Twenty minutes,
maybe thirty.”

“What make of vehicle?”

The young officer hesitated. “A Citroen, I
think. “

“Colour?”

“Yellow.”

“Other passengers?”

“Three. Looked like a family.
Mother, father, daughter.
He was in the back with the
daughter. The father said they were engaged.”

Romanov had no more questions.

Jim Hardcastle managed to keep a one-sided
conversation going for over an hour.

“Naturally,” he said, “the IMF holds its
annual conference in a different city every year. Last year it was in Denver in
Colorado, and next year it’ll be at Perth in Australia, so I manage to get
around a bit. But as the export man you have to get used to a lot of travel.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Adam, trying to
concentrate on his benefactor’s words while his shoulder throbbed on.

“I’m only President for a year, of course,”
continued Jim. “But I have plans to ensure that my fellow delegates won’t
forget 1966 in a hurry.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” said Adam.

“I shall point out to them that Colman’s has
had another record year on the export side.”

“How impressive.”

“Yes, but I must admit that most of our
profits are left on the side of the plate,” he said, laughing.

Adam laughed as well but sensed that Mrs
Hard-castle and Linda might have heard the line before.

“I’ve been thinking, Dudley, and I’m sure
the wife would agree with me, that it would be most acceptable to us if you
felt able to join the presidential table for dinner tonight – as my guest, of
course.” Mrs Hardcastle nodded, as did Linda with enthusiasm.

“I can think of nothing that would give me
greater pleasure,” said Adam. “But I fear my commanding officer might not be
quite as delighted to hear I had stopped on the way back to England to take in
a party. I do hope you’ll understand.”

“If he is anything like my old CO I
certainly do,” said Jim. “Still, if you should ever be Hull way, look us up.”
He took a card out of his top pocket and passed it over his shoulder.

Adam studied the embossed letters and
wondered what ‘MIFT’ stood for. He didn’t ask.

“Where in Dijon would you like to be dropped
ofF?” asked Jim as he drove into the outskirts of the town.

“Anywhere near the centre that’s convenient
for you,” replied Adam.

“Just holler when it suits you then,” said
Jim. “Of course, I always maintain that a meal without mustard...”

“Can you drop me on the next corner?” said
Adam suddenly.

“Oh,” said Jim, sad to be losing such a good
listener. And he reluctantly drew the car up alongside the kerb.

Adam kissed Linda on the cheek before
getting out of the back. He then shook hands with Mr and Mrs Hardcastle.

“Nice to have made your acquaintance,” said
Jim. “If you change your mind you’ll find us at the hotel... Is that blood on
your shoulder, lad?”

“Just a graze from a fall –
nothing to worry about.
Wouldn’t want the Americans to think they’d got the better of me.”

“No, no, of course not,” said Jim. “Well,
good luck.”

As the car moved off Adam stood on the
pavement watching them disappear. He smiled and tried to wave, then turning, he
walked quickly down a side street looking for a shopping precinct. Within
moments he was in the centre of town, relieved to find that all the shops were
still open. He began to search up and down the street for a green cross above a
door. Adam hadto walk only fifty yards before he spotted one. He entered the
shop tentatively and checked the shelves.

A tall man with short fair hair, wearing a
long leather coat, stood in the corner with his back to the entrance. Adam
froze. Then the man turned round, frowning at the packet of tablets he wanted
to purchase, while at the same time rubbing his thick Gallic moustache.

Adam walked up to the counter.

“Do you speak English, by any chance?” he
asked the dispenser, trying to sound confident.

“Passable, I hope,” came back the reply.

“I need some iodine, cotton wool, a bandage
and heavy Elastoplast. I fell and bruised my shoulder on a rock,” Adam
explained.

The dispenser quickly put the order together
without showing much interest.

“This is what you require but you will find
that the trade names are different,” explained the dispenser. “That will be
twenty-three francs,” he added.

“Will Swiss do?”

“Certainly.”

“Is there a hotel anywhere nearby?” asked
Adam.

“Around the next corner,
on the other side of the square.”

Adam thanked him, handed over the Swiss
notes, and then left the pharmacy in search of the hotel. The Hotel Frantel
was, as promised, only a short distance away. He walked across the square and
up the steps into the hotel to find several people were waiting at reception to
be booked in. Adam swung his trenchcoat over his’ blood-stained shoulder and
walked past them as he checked the signs on the wall. He then strode across the
entrance hall as though he were a guest of several days’ standing. He followed
the sign he had been looking for which took him down a flight of stairs, to
come head on with three further signs. The first had the silhouette of a man on
the door, the second a woman,
the
third a wheelchair.

He opened the third tentatively and was
surprised to find behind it nothing more than a sizeable square room with a
high-seated lavatory against the wall. Adam locked himself in and let his
trenchcoat fall to the ground.

He rested for a few minutes before slowly
stripping to the waist. He then ran a basinful of warm water.

Adam was thankful for the endless first-aid
seminars every officer had to go through, never believing they would serve any
purpose. Twenty minutes later the pain had subsided and he even felt
comfortable.

He picked up his coat with his right hand
and tried to throw it back over his shoulder. The very movement caused the icon
to fall out of the map pocket and onto the tiled floor. As it hit the ground,
the sound made Adam fear that it might have broken in half. He stared down
anxiously and then fell to his knees.

The icon had split open like a book.

263

When Adam returned to the Hotel Frantel an
hour later few guests would have recognised the man who had crept in earlier
that afternoon.

He wore a new shirt, trousers, tie and a
double-breasted blazer that wouldn’t be fashionable in Britain for at least
another year. Even the raincoat had been ditched because the icon fitted snugly
into the blazer pocket. He considered the shop had probably given him a poor
exchange rate for his traveller’s cheques but that was not what had been
occupying his mind for the past hour.

He booked himself into a single room in the
name of Dudley Hulme and a few minutes later took the lift to the third floor.

Lawrence picked the phone up even before
Adam heard the second ring.

“It’s me,” said Adam.

“Where are you?” were Lawrence’s first words.

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Adam.

“I can understand how you feel,” said
Lawrence, “but. . .”

“No buts. You must be aware by now that
someone on your so-called team has a direct line to the Russians because it was
Romanov and his friends who were waiting for me outside the hotel in Geneva,
not your lot.”

“We realise that now,” said Lawrence.

“We?” said Adam. “Who are we? Because I’m
finding it rather hard to work out who’s on my side.”

“You don’t believe that...”

“When you get your girlfriend murdered,
chased across Europe by professional killers, shot at and...”

“Shot at?” said Lawrence.

“Yes, your friend Romanov took a shot at me
today,
hit me in the shoulder. Next time we meet I intend it
to be the other way round and it won’t be the shoulder.”

“There won’t be a next time,” said Lawrence,
“because we’ll get you out safely if you’ll only let me know where you are.”

The memory of Robin’s words, “Just be wary
of how much you let him know,” stopped Adam from telling Lawrence his exact
location.

“Adam, for God’s sake, you’re on your own;
if you don’t trust me who can you trust? I admit it looks as if we let you
down. But it won’t happen again.”

There was another long silence before Adam
said, “I’m in Dijon.”

“Why Dijon?”

“Because the only person
who would give me a lift was going to a mustard conference in Dijon.”

Lawrence couldn’t stop himself smiling. “Give
me your number and I’ll phone you back within the hour.”

“No,” said Adam, “I’ll phone
you
back in one hour.”

“Adam, you’ve got to show some trust in me.”

“Not now that I know what it is you’re all
after, I can’t afford to trust anybody.”

Adam replaced the phone and stared down at
the icon which lay open on the bed. It wasn’t the signature of Stoeckle or
Seward that worried him. It was the date -June 20, 1966 – that read like a
death warrant.

“Goodnight, sir,” said the doorkeeper as the
senior civil servant left Century House that evening. “Another late night for
you,” he added sympathetically. He acknowledged the doorman by raising his
rolled umbrella a few inches. It
had
been
another late night, but at least they had caught up with Scott again. He was
beginning to develop quite a respect for the man. But how they failed to pick
him up in Geneva still required a fuller explanation than the one Lawrence
Pemberton had supplied the D4 with that afternoon.

He set off at a brisk pace towards the Old
Kent Road, conspicuous in his black coat and pin-striped trousers. He tapped
his umbrella nervously before hailing a passing taxi.

“Dillon’s bookshop, Malet Street,” he told
the driver, before getting in the back. Already seven thirty, but he still
wouldn’t be too late and a few minutes either way wasn’t going to make that
much difference. Pemberton had agreed to remain at his desk until all the loose
ends were tied up and he was sure that nothing could go wrong this time. He
allowed himself a wry smile as he thought how they had all accepted his plan.
It had the double advantage of ensuring enough time for them to get their best
men into position, while keeping Scott well out of sight in a deserted
hideaway. He hoped that this was the last time they would expect him to come up
with an original proposal.

“Eight shillings, guv’nor,” said the
taxi-driver, as he drew up outside Dillon’s. He handed over the money and added
a sixpenny tip. He stood staring at the window of the university bookshop,
watching the reflection of the taxi as it moved off. The moment the taxi had
turned the corner into Gower Street he began walking away. In moments he had
reached a side road into which he turned. Ridgmount Gardens was one of those streets
which even London cabbies had to think about for a few moments. He had walked
only a matter of yards before he disappeared down some stone steps to a
basement flat. He inserted a Yale key in the front door lock, turned it
quickly, stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

During the next twenty minutes he made two
telephone calls – one international, one local – and then had a bath. He
emerged back on Ridgmount Gardens less than an hour later dressed in a casual
brown suit, pink floral open shirt and brown brogue shoes. The parting in his
hair had changed sides. He returned to Dillon’s on foot and hailed another
taxi.

“The British Museum,” he instructed the
driver, as he stepped into the back. He checked his watch: nearly ten past
eight. Scott would be fully briefed by now, he thought, although his associates
would be already on the way back to Dijon, as his plan had allowed for a
two-hour delay.

The taxi drew up outside the British Museum.
He paid and walked up the twelve steps in front of the museum, admiring the
Byzantine architecture as he regularly did each week, before walking back down
again to hail another taxi.

“Middlesex Hospital, please,” was all he
said. The taxi executed a U-turn and headed west.

Poor bastard.
If Scott hadn’t opened that envelope in the
first place the icon would have ended up with its rightful owner.

“Shall I drive up to the entrance?” asked
the cabbie.