A Matter of Honour (36 page)

“No, sir.
The CIA
have
been
on it for over a month.”

“Then it’s only surprising that the Russians
haven’t got their hands on the icon already.”

Nobody laughed.

“So what am I expected to do next? Sit and
wait for the Soviets to move 712 million dollars of gold from their New York
bank to the US Treasury before midnight on Monday?”

“They must also deliver their original copy
of the agreement to me at the same time,” said Rusk. “And they have only sixty
hours left to do that.”

“Where’s our copy, at this moment?” asked
the President.

“Somewhere deep in the
vaults of the Pentagon.
Only two people know the exact location. Since the Yalta conference, our copy
of the treaty has never seen the light of day.”

“Why have I never been told about it before
today?” asked the President. “At least I could have put a stop to so much
expenditure.”

“For over fifty years, we’ve believed the
Russians’ copy was destroyed at the time of the Revolution. As the years passed
it became clear that the Soviets accepted this as a
fait accompli
with the final acknowledgment of this fact coming
from Stalin at Yalta. Brezhnev must have come across something within the last
month that convinced him that their copy had only been mislaid.”

“Christ, another month and we would have had
a home run.”

“That is correct, sir,” said the Secretary
of State.

“Do you realise, Dean, that if the Russians
turn up at your office before midnight on Monday with their copy, all I’ll be
able to do will be so much piss in a thunderstorm?”

When the cottage door closed behind Adam,
all he could make out was the outskirts of a small town. While it was still so
early he felt safe to jog towards the
‘centre
ville’,
but as soon as the early-morning workers began to appear on the
streets, he slowed to a walk. Adam opted not to go straight into the centre of
the town but to look for somewhere to hide while he considered his next move.
He came to a halt outside a multi-storey car park and decided he was unlikely
to find a better place to formulate a plan.

Adam walked through an exit door at ground
level and came to a lift that indicated that the car park was on four floors.
He ran down the steps to the lowest level, tentatively pulled back the door to
the basement, and found it was badly lit and almost empty. Adam had chosen the
basement as he assumed that it would be the last floor to fill up with
customers. He walked around the perimeter of the floor and studied the layout.
Two cars were parked in the far corner, and a thick layer of dust suggested
that they had been there for some time. He crouched down behind one of them and
found that he was safely out of sight to all but the most inquisitive.

He began to fantasise that someone might
park a car on that floor and leave the keys in the ignition. He checked the
doors of the two cars already parked but both were securely locked. He settled
back to work out a more serious plan of how he could reach the coast by
nightfall.

He was deep in thought when he heard a
scraping noise that made him jump. He peered round the gloomy basement, and out
of the darkness a man appeared pulling behind him a plastic dustbin half full
of rubbish. Adam could barely see the old man dressed in a dirty brown coat
that stretched nearly to the ground and left little doubt about the height of
the previous employee. He wasn’t sure what he would do if the man continued to
walk towards him. But as he came nearer Adam could see that he was stooped and
old; the stub of a cigarette protruded from his lips. The cleaner stopped in
front of him, spotted a cigarette packet, picked it up and checked to be sure
it was empty before dropping it in the dustbin. After that, a sweet paper, a
Pepsi-Cola can and an old copy of
Le
Figaro
all found their way into the dustbin. His eyes searched slowly round
the room for more rubbish, but still he didn’t notice Adam tucked away behind
the farthest car. Satisfied that his task was completed, he dragged the dustbin
across the floor and pushed it outside the door. Adam began to relax again but
after about two minutes, the old man returned, walked over to a wall and pulled
open a door that Adam hadn’t previously noticed. He took off the long brown
coat and replaced it with a grey one that didn’t look in a much better state
but at least it made a more convincing fit. He then disappeared through the
exit. Moments later Adam heard a door close with a bang.

The cleaner had ended his day.

Adam waited for some time before he stood up
and stretched. He crept around the edge of the wall until he reached the little
door. He pulled it open quietly and removed the long brown coat from its nail,
then headed back to his place in the corner. He ducked down as the first of the
morning cars arrived. The driver swung into the far corner in such a fluent
circle that Adam felt sure it must have been a daily routine. A short dapper
man with a pencil moustache, dressed in a smart pin-stripe suit, jumped out of
the car carrying a briefcase. Once he had locked the car door he proceeded with
fast mincing strides towards the exit. Adam waited until the heavy door swung
back into place before he stood up and tried on the brown coat over his blazer.
It was tight on the shoulders and a little short in the arm, but at least it
made him look as if he might have worked there.

For the next hour he watched the cars as
they continued to arrive at irregular intervals. Tiresomely, all the owners
carefully locked their doors and checked them before disappearing through the
exit with their keys.

When he heard ten o’clock strike in the distance
Adam decided that there was nothing to be gained by hanging around any longer.
He had crept out from behind the car that was shielding him and began to make
his way across the floor towards the exit when a Rover with English
registration plates swung round the corner and nearly blinded him. He jumped to
one side to let the car pass but it screeched to a halt beside him and the
driver wound down his window.

“All – right – park – here?” the driver
asked, emphasising each word in an English accent.

“Oui,
monsieur,”
said Adam.

“Other – floors – marked –
privé,”
the man continued, as if
addressing a complete moron.
“Anywhere?”
His arm swept
round the floor.

“Oui,”
repeated Adam, “
bert
ay merst paak you,” he added, fearing he sounded too
much like Peter Sellers.

Balls, was what Adam expected to hear him
reply. “Fine,” was what the man actually
said.
He got
out of the car, and handed Adam his keys and a ten franc note.

“Merci,”
said Adam, pocketing the
note and touching his forehead with his hand.
“Quelle – heure – vous -retournez?”
he asked, playing the man at
his own game.

“One hour at most,” said the man as he
reached the door. Adam waited by the car for a few minutes but the man did not
come back. He opened the passenger door and dropped the food bag on the front
seat. He then walked round to the other side and climbed in the driver’s seat,
switched on the ignition and checked the fuel gauge: a little over half full.
He revved the engine and drove the car up the ramp until he reached the first
floor, where he came to a halt unable to escape. He needed a two-franc piece to
make the arm swing up and let him out. The lady in the car behind him
reluctantly changed his ten-franc note once she realised there was no other way
of getting out.

Adam drove quickly out on to the road
looking for the sign ‘Toutes Directions’. Once he had found one, it was only
minutes before he was clear of the town and travelling up the N6 to Paris.

Adam estimated that he had two hours at
best. By then the police would surely have been informed of the theft of the
car. He felt confident he had enough petrol to reach Paris; but he certainly
couldn’t hope to make Calais.

He remained in the centre lane of the N6 for
most of the journey, always keeping the speedometer five kilometres below the
limit. By the end of the first hour Adam had covered nearly ninety kilometres.
He opened the bag the farmer’s wife had given him and took out an apple and a
piece of cheese. His mind began to drift to Heidi, as it had so often in the
past two days.

If only he had never opened the letter.

Another hour passed before he spotted him
limping up a hill only a few hundred yards from the main road. A broad smile
came over Romanov’s face when he realised he could get to Scott long before he
could hope to reach the road. When Romanov was within a few yards of him the
flight lieutenant turned round and smiled at the stranger.

When Romanov left Banks thirty minutes later
hidden behind a tree with a broken neck he reluctantly admitted that the young
pilot officer had been as brave as Valchek – but he couldn’t waste any more
time trying to discover in which direction Scott was heading.

Romanov headed west.

The moment Adam heard the siren he came out
of his reverie. He checked the little clock on the dashboard. He had only been
driving for about an hour and a half. Could the French police be that
efficient? The police car was now approaching him fast on his left but Adam
maintained the same speed – except for his heartbeat, which climbed well above
the approved limit – until the police car shot past him.

As the kilometres sped by, he began to
wonder if it might be wiser to turn off on to a quieter road, but decided, on
balance, to risk pushing on to Paris as quickly as possible.

He remained alert for further sirens as he
continued to follow the signs to Paris. When he finally reached the outskirts
of the city, he proceeded to the Boulevard de 1’Hôpital and even felt relaxed
enough to bite into another apple. In normal circumstances he would have
appreciated the magnificent architecture along the banks of the Seine, but
today his eyes kept returning to the rear view mirror.

Adam decided he would abandon the vehicle in
a large public car park: with any luck it could be days before anyone came
across it.

He turned down the Rue de Rivoli and took in
at once the long colourful banners looming up in front of him. He could hardly
have picked a better place, as he felt sure it would be packed with foreign
cars.

Adam backed the Rover in the farthest corner
of the square. He then wolfed down the last piece of cheese, and locked the
car. He started walking towards the exit, but had only gone a few yards when he
realised that the strolling holidaymakers were amused by his ill-fitting brown
jacket which he had completely forgotten. He decided to turn back and throw the
coat in the boot. He quickly took it off and folded it in a small square.

He was only a few yards away from the car
when he saw the young policeman. He was checking the Rover’s number plate and
repeating the letters and numbers into an intercom. Adam inched slowly back,
never taking his eyes from the officer. He only needed to manage another six or
seven paces before he would be lost in the throng of the crowd.

Five, four, three, two, he backed, as the
man continued speaking into the intercom. Just one more pace...
“Alors!”
hollered the lady on whose foot
Adam stepped.

“I’m so sorry,” said Adam, instinctively in
his native language. The policeman immediately looked up and stared at Adam,
then shouted something into the intercom and began running towards him.

Adam dropped the brown coat and swung round
quickly, nearly knocking the stooping lady over before sprinting off towards
the exit. The car park was full of tourists who had come to enjoy the pleasures
of the Louvre, and Adam found it hard to pick up any real speed through the
dense crowd. By the time he reached the entrance to the car park he could hear
the policeman’s whistle a few paces behind him. He ran across the Rue de
Rivoli, through an archway and into a large square.

By then another policeman was coming from
his right, leaving him with no choice but to run up the steps in front of him.
When he reached the top he turned to see at least three other
policemen in close pursuit.
He threw himself through the swing door and
past a group of
japanese
tourists who were surrounding
the Rodin statue that stood in the hallway. He charged on past a startled
ticket collector, and on up the long marble staircase.
“Monsieur, monsieur, votre billet?”
he heard shouted in his wake.

At the top of the staircase he turned right
and ran through
The Special ‘66’
Centuries Exhibition,
Modern – Pollock, Bacon, Hockney- into the
Impressionist room – Monet, Manet, Courbet – desperately looking for any way
out.
On into Eighteenth Century – Fragon-ard, Goya, Watteau –
but still no sign of an exit.
Through the great arch into Seventeenth
Century -Murillo, Van Dyck,
Poussin
– as people
stopped looking at the pictures and turned their attention to what was causing
such a commotion. Adam ran on into Sixteenth Century – Raphael, Caravaggio,
Michelangelo
– suddenly aware that there were only two
centuries of paintings to go.