A Matter of Honour (39 page)

“. . .
Twelfth
Night, Hamlet,
The
Merry Wives of Windsor...
” Adam
said aloud for the first time.

“I see you wish to leave nothing to the
imagination,” said Romanov and disappeared behind him. Stavinsky checked that
the wires were attached to the collodion glue on Adam’s chest and then he
returned to the generator. “I shall press down the handle in three seconds’
time. You know what you have to do to stop me.”

“. . .
Troilus
and Cressida, All’s Well That Ends Well...”

As the handle plunged down the volts seemed
to find their way to every nerve-ending in his body. Adam let out such a scream
that if they had not been in a soundproofed room anyone within a mile would
have heard him. When the initial effect was over he was left shaking and
retching uncontrollably. Stavinsky and Pollard rushed forward to the chair and
quickly undid the nylon cords. Adam fell on his hands and knees, still
vomiting.

“Couldn’t afford to let you choke to death,
could we?” said Stavinsky. “We lost one or two that way in the early days but
we know better now.”

As soon as the sickness subsided, Stavinsky
threw Adam back up on to the chair and Pollard tied him up again.

“Where is the Tsar’s icon?” shouted
Stavinsky.

“. . .
Measure
for Measure, Othello, King Lear
...” Adam said, his voice now trembling.

Pollard picked up another bottle of water
and thrust it at Adam’s lips. Adam gulped it down but it was as a tiny oasis in
a vast desert. Romanov came forward and Stavinsky took his place beside the
plunger.

“You are a brave man, Scott,” said Romanov, “with
nothing left to prove, but this is madness. Just tell me where the icon is and
I will send Stavinsky away and order the colonel to leave you on the steps of
the British Embassy.”

“. . .
Macbeth,
Antony and Cleopatra...
”

Romanov let out a sigh and nodded. Stavinsky
pushed the plunger down once again. Even the colonel turned white as he watched
Adam’s reaction. The pitch of the scream was even higher and the muscles
contorted visibly as Adam felt the volts reach the millions of little
nerve-ends in his body. When once more he had been released, Adam lay on the
floor on his hands and knees. Was there anything left in his stomach that could
still possibly come up? He raised his head, only to be hurled back on to the
chair and bound up again. Stavinsky stared down at him.

“Most impressive, Captain Scott, you have
qualified for Stage Three.”

When Lawrence arrived at Orly Airport that
evening he was looking forward to a quiet dinner with his old friend at the
Ambassador’s residence. He was met at the barrier by Colonel Pollard.

“How is he?” were Lawrence’s first words.

“I hoped you were going to tell us,” said
Pollard, as he took Lawrence’s overnight suitcase. Lawrence stopped in his
tracks and stared at the tall, thin soldier who was in the full dress uniform
of the Royal Dragoon Guards.

“What do you mean?” said Lawrence.

“Simply that,” said Pollard. “I followed
your instructions to the letter and went to pick up Scott at the Ile de la Cité
but when I arrived I was informed that he had been taken away twenty minutes
earlier by someone else using my name. We contacted your office immediately but
as you were already en route the Ambassador ordered me straight to the airport
while he phoned Sir Morris.”

Lawrence staggered and nearly fell. The
colonel came quickly to his side. He didn’t understand what Lawrence meant when
he said, “He’s bound to believe it’s me.”

When Adam regained consciousness, Romanov
stood alone.

“Sometimes,” said the Russian, continuing as
if Adam had never passed out, “a man is too proud to show lack of resolution in
front of the torturer or indeed one of his own countrymen, especially a
traitor. That is why I have removed Stavinsky and the colonel from our
presence. Now I have no desire to see Stavinsky continue his experiment to
Stage Three, but I can stop him only if you will tell me where you have put the
icon.”

“Why should I?” said Adam belligerently. “It’s
legally mine.”

“Not so, Captain Scott.
What you picked up from the bank in Geneva
is the priceless original painted by Rublev which belongs to the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics. And if that icon were to appear in any auction
house or gallery in the world, we would immediately claim it as a national
treasure stolen by the seller.”

“But how could that be...?” began Adam.

“Because,” said Romanov, “it is you who are
now in possession of the original that the Tsar left in the safe-keeping of the
Grand Duke of Hesse and for over fifty years the Soviet Union has only had a
copy.” Adam’s eyes opened wide in disbelief as Romanov removed from the inside
pocket of his overcoat an icon of St George and the Dragon. Romanov paused and
then turned it over; a smile of satisfaction crossed his face as Adam’s eyes
registered the significance of the missing crown.

“Like you,” continued Romanov, “I only have
this one on loan – but you tell me where the original is and I will release you
and exchange the copy for the original. No one will
be
any the wiser and you’ll still be able to make yourself a worthwhile profit.”

“Old lamps for new,” said Adam with a sneer.
Romanov’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Surely you realise,
Scott,
that
you are in possession of a priceless masterpiece that belongs to
the Soviet Union. Unless you return the icon you are going to cause
considerable embarrassment for your country and you will probably end up in
jail. All you have to do is tell me where the icon is and you can go free.”

Adam didn’t even bother to shake his head. “Then
the time has obviously come to let you into some information you will be more
interested in,” Romanov said, extracting a single sheet of paper from an
envelope he removed from his inside pocket. Adam was genuinely puzzled, quite
unable to think what it could be. Romanov opened it slowly and held it up so
that Adam could only see the back.

“This single sheet of paper reveals a
sentence carried out in Moscow in 1946 by Judge I. T. Nikitchenko -the death
sentence,” continued Romanov, “pronounced on a certain Major Vladimir Kosky,
the Russian guard in charge of the Soviet watch the night Reichsmarshal Hermann
Goering died.” He turned the paper round so Adam could see it. “As you can see,
Major Kosky was found guilty of collaboration with the enemy for financial
gain. It was proved he was directly responsible for smuggling cyanide into the
Reichsmarshal’s cell on the night he died.” Adam’s eyes widened. “Ah, I see I
have dealt the ace of spades,” said Romanov. “Now I think you will finally tell
me where the icon actually is because you have an expression in England, if I
recall correctly: fair exchange is no robbery.
Your icon for
my icon, plus the legal judgment that will finally vindicate your father’s
honour.”

Adam closed his eyes, painfully aware for
the first time that Romanov had no idea what was inside the icon.

Romanov was unable to hide his anger. He
walked to the door and flung it open. “He’s yours,” he said.

Dr Stavinsky re-entered the room and,
smiling, continued as if nothing had interrupted him. “Professor Metz was never
really satisfied with Stage Two because he found the recovery time even for an
extremely brave and fit man like
yourself
could
sometimes hold him up for hours, even days. So during his final years at the
university he devoted his time to finding how he could possibly speed the whole
process up. As for all geniuses the final solution was staggering in its
simplicity. All he had to produce was a chemical formula that when injected
into the nervous system caused an immediate recovery – a rapid analgesic. It
took him twelve years and several deaths before he came up with the final
solution,” said Stavinsky, removing another phial from the cigar box and
plunging the needle of a second syringe into the seal on the top of the phial.

“This,” Stavinsky said, holding up the
little phial in triumph, “when injected into your blood stream, will aid
recovery so quickly that you may even wonder if you ever went through any pain
in the first place. For this piece of genius Metz should have been awarded the Nobel
Prize, but it was not something we felt he could share with the rest of the
scientific world. But because of him I can repeat the process you have just
experienced again and again, never permitting you to die. You see, I can keep
this generator pumping up and down every thirty minutes for the next week if
that is your desire,” said Stavinsky, as he stared down at Adam’s white,
disbelieving face flecked with yellow specks of his vomit.

“Or I can stop immediately after I have
administered the antidote the moment you let me know where the Tsar’s icon is.”

Stavinsky stood in front of Adam and half
filled the syringe! Adam felt intensely cold, yet the shock of his torture had
caused him to sweat profusely. “Sit still, Captain Scott, I have no desire to do
you any permanent injury.” Adam felt the needle go deep in and moments later
the fluid entered his blood stream.

He could not believe how quickly he felt
himself recovering. Within minutes he no longer felt sick or disorientated. The
sensation in his arms and legs returned to normal while the wish never to
experience Stage Two again became acute.

“Brilliant man, Professor Metz, on that I’m
sure we can both agree,” said Stavinsky, “and if he were still alive I feel
certain he would have written a paper on your case.” Slowly and carefully
Stavinsky began to smear more lumps of jelly on Adam’s chest. When he was
satisfied with his handiwork he once again attached the electrodes to the
jelly.

“Coriolanus,
Timon of Athens, Pericles.”
Stavinsky
thrust his palm down and Adam hoped that he would die. He found a new level to
scream at, as his body shook and shook. Seconds later he felt ice cold and,
shivering uncontrollably, he started to retch.

Stavinsky was quickly by his side to release
him. Adam fell to the ground and coughed up what was left in his body. When he
was only spitting, Pollard placed him back in the chair.

“You must understand I can’t let you die,
Captain. Now where is the icon?”
Stavinsky snouted.

In the Louvre, Adam wanted to scream, but
his words barely came out as a whisper, the inside of his mouth feeling like
sandpaper. Stavinsky proceeded to fill the second syringe again and injected
Adam with the fluid. Once again it was only moments before the agony subsided
and he felt completely recovered.

“Ten seconds, we go again. Nine, eight,
seven
...”

“Cymbeline.”

“. . . six, five, four...”

“The Winter’s Tale.”

“. . . three, two, one.”

“The Tempest.
Aahhhh,” he screamed and immediately fainted. The next thing Adam
remembered was the cold water being poured over him by the colonel before he
began to retch again. Once tied back in the chair Stavinsky thrust the syringe
into him once more, but Adam couldn’t believe he would ever recover again. He
must surely die, because he wanted to die. He felt the syringe jab into his
flesh again.

Romanov stepped forward and looking straight
at Adam, said, “I feel Dr Stavinsky and I have earned a little supper. We did
consider inviting you but felt your stomach wouldn’t be up to it, but when we
return fully refreshed Dr Stavinsky will repeat the entire exercise again and
again until you let me know where you have hidden the icon.”

Romanov and Stavinsky left as Colonel
Pollard came back in. Romanov and the colonel exchanged a few sentences which
Adam could not make out. Then Romanov left the room, closing the door quietly
behind him.

Pollard came over to Adam and offered him
the water bottle. Adam gulped it down and was genuinely surprised how quickly
he was recovering. Yet although his senses were returning to normal Adam still
doubted he could survive one more time.

“I’m going to throw up again,” said Adam and
suddenly thrust his head forward. Pollard quickly undid the knots and watched
Adam slump to his hands and knees. He threw up some spit and rested before the
colonel helped him gently back into the chair. As he sat down Adam gripped both
sides of the chair legs firmly, then with all the strength he could muster
jack-knifed forward, swung the chair over his head, and brought it crashing down
on top of the unsuspecting colonel. Pollard collapsed in a heap, unconscious,
on the floor in front of Adam and never heard him utter the words,
“Henry VIII
and
Two Noble Kinsmen –
I’ll bet that’s one you’ve never heard of,
Colonel. Mind you, to be fair, not everyone thinks Shakespeare wrote it.”

Adam remained on his knees over the colonel’s
body, wondering what his next move should be. He was grateful that the
soundproofed room was now working in his favour. He waited for a few more
seconds as he tried to measure what was left of his strength. He picked up the
water bottle that had been knocked over and drained it of its last drops. He
then crawled across to the bed and pulled on his pants and socks, shoes, and
his not so white shirt, followed by his trousers. He was about to put on the
blazer, but found the lining had been ripped to shreds. He changed his mind and
stumbled like an old man back towards the colonel, removed his Harris
tweed
coat and slipped it on. It was large round the
shoulders but short at the hips.