A Matter of Honour (48 page)

“There is a plane standing by at Heathrow to
take you both direct to Washington,” said the Ambassador. “All the necessary
documentation for customs has already been dealt with. You should touch down at
National airport around five o’clock Washington time, easily giving our
comrades in America enough time to fulfil their part of the contract.”

The two men nodded, sealed the diplomatic
pouch in the Ambassador’s presence and left. Romanov walked over to the window
and watched the official car drive the two men out into Kensington High Street
and off in the direction of Heathrow. “Vodka, Comrade Major?”

“Thank you,” Romanov replied, not moving
from the window until the car was out of sight.

The Ambassador went over to a side cabinet
and took out two glasses and a bottle from the fridge before pouring Romanov
a large
vodka.

“It would not be exaggerating to say that
you have played your part in establishing the Soviet Union as the most powerful
nation on earth,” he said as he handed over the drink. “Let us therefore drink
to the repatriation of the people of Aleuts as full citizens of the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics.” “How is that possible?” asked Romanov. “I think
the time has come to let you know,” said the Ambassador, “the significance of
your achievement.” He then went on to tell Romanov of the briefing he had
received from Moscow that morning.

Romanov was thankful he had never known how
much was at stake.

“I have made an appointment to see the
Foreign Secretary at three o’clock this afternoon in order to brief him. We can
be sure the British will only be interested in fair play,” the Ambassador
continued. “I am told he is not at all pleased as he had hoped to be in his
constituency to open some fete; the British have some strange ideas about how
to keep their party system going.”

Romanov laughed. “To Aleuts,” he said,
raising his glass. “But what is happening in Washington at this moment?”

“Our Ambassador has already requested a
meeting with the American Secretary of State to be scheduled for eight this
evening. He is also setting up a press conference at the Embassy to follow that
meeting. It may amuse you to know that President Johnson had to cancel his
visit to Texas this weekend and has requested that the networks should allow
him to address ‘his fellow Americans’ at peak time on Monday as a matter of
national importance.”

“And we achieved it with only hours to
spare,” said Romanov, pouring himself another vodka.

“Touch and go, as the
English would say.
Let
us also be thankful for the time difference between here and the United States
because without that we would never have been able to beat the deadline.”

Romanov shuddered at the thought of how close
it had been and downed his second vodka in one gulp.

“You must join me for lunch, Comrade.
Although your orders are to return to Moscow immediately my secretary assures
me that the first plane leaving Heathrow for Moscow does not depart until eight
this evening. I envy you the reception you will receive when you arrive back in
the Kremlin tomorrow.” “I still need the £1000 for...” “Ah, yes,” said the
Ambassador, “I have it ready for you.” He unlocked the little drawer of his
desk and passed over a slim wad of notes in a small cellophane wrapper.

Romanov slipped the tiny packet in his
pocket and joined the Ambassador for lunch.

Busch barged into Lawrence’s office.

“Romanov’s got the icon,” he shouted.

Lawrence’s jaw dropped. A look of desperation
appeared on his face. “How can you be so sure?” he demanded.

“I’ve just had a message from Washington.
The Russians have requested an official meeting with the Secretary of State to
be arranged for eight this evening.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Lawrence.

“I do,” said Busch. “We’ve always known that
God-damned friend of yours, like his father, was a lousy traitor. There’s no
other explanation.”

“He could be dead,” said Lawrence quietly.

“I hope he is, for his sake,” said Busch.

The phone on Lawrence’s desk rang. He
grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. “A Dr John Vance wants a word with you,
sir,” said his secretary. “He said you had asked him to call.”

Vance? Vance? Lawrence recalled the name but
couldn’t quite place it. “Put him on,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr Pemberton,” said a voice.

“Good morning, Dr Vance. What can I do for
you?”

“You asked me to call you after I had
examined Scott.”

“Scott?” repeated Lawrence, not believing
what he was hearing.

“Yes, Adam Scott.
Surely you remember? You wanted him to
complete a medical for your department.”

Lawrence was speechless.

“I’ve given him a clean bill of health,”
continued the doctor. “Some cuts and a nasty bruise, but nothing that won’t
heal in a few days.”

“Cuts and bruises?” said Lawrence.

“That’s what I said, old chap. But don’t
worry about Scott. He’s fit enough to start work whenever you want him. That’s
if you still want him.”

“If I still want him,” repeated Lawrence. “Mr
Scott isn’t there with you at this moment, by any chance?”

“No,” said Vance.
“Left my
surgery about ten minutes ago.”

“He didn’t happen to tell you where he was
going?” asked Lawrence.

“No, he wasn’t specific.
Just
said something about having to see a friend off at the airport.”

Once the coffee had been cleared away,
Romanov checked his watch. He had left easily enough time to keep the
appointment and still catch his plane. He thanked the Ambassador for all his
help, left him, ran down the Embassy steps and climbed into the back of the
anonymous black car.

The driver moved off without speaking as he
had already been briefed as to where the major wanted to go...

Neither of them spoke on the short journey,
and when the driver drew into Charlotte Street he parked the car in a lay-by.
Romanov stepped out, walked quickly across the road to the door he was looking
for and pressed the buzzer.

“Are you a member?” said a voice through the
intercom.

“Yes,” said Romanov, who heard a metallic
click as he pushed the door open and walked down the dark staircase. Once he
had entered the club it took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to
the light.

But then he spotted Mentor seated on his own
at a little table near a pillar in the far corner of the room.

Romanov nodded and the man got up and walked
across the dance floor and straight past him. Romanov followed as the member
entered the only lavatory. Once inside, Romanov checked that they were alone. Satisfied,
he led them both into a little cubicle and slipped the lock to
engaged
. Romanov removed the thousand pounds from his pocket
and handed it over to the man who sat down on the lavatory seat. Mentor
greedily ripped open the packet, leaned forward and began to count. He never
even saw Romanov straighten his fingers; and when the hand came down with a
crushing blow on the back of Mentor’s neck he slumped forward and fell to the
ground in a heap.

Romanov yanked him up; it took several
seconds to gather the ten-pound notes that had fallen to the floor. Once he had
all hundred, he stuffed them into the member’s pocket. Romanov then undid the
member’s fly buttons one by one and pulled down his trousers until they fell
around his ankles. He lifted the lid and placed the man on the lavatory seat.
The final touch was to pull his legs as wide open as the fallen trousers would
allow, the feet splayed apart. Romanov then slipped under the large gap at the
bottom of the door leaving the cubicle locked from the inside. He quickly
checked his handiwork. All that could be seen from the outside was the splayed
legs and fallen trousers.

Sixty seconds later, Romanov was back in the
car on his way to Heathrow.

Adam arrived at Heathrow two hours before
the Aeroflot flight was due to depart. He stationed himself with a perfect view
of the forty-yard stretch Romanov would have to walk to board the Russian
aircraft. He felt confident he would never reach the Aeroflot steps.

Romanov checked in at the BEA desk a little
after six. He couldn’t resist taking the BEA flight rather than Aeroflot even
though he knew Zaborski would frown at such arrogance; he doubted if anyone
would comment on this of all days.

Once he had been given his boarding card, he
took the escalator to the executive lounge and sat around waiting to be called.
It was always the same – the moment any operation had been completed, all he
wanted to do was get home. He left his seat to pour himself some coffee and,
passing a table in the centre of the room, caught the headline on the London
Evening Standard.
Exclusive.
‘Johnson Texas Weekend Cancelled – Mystery.’ Romanov grabbed the paper from the
table and read the first paragraph but it contained no information he couldn’t
have already told them. None of the speculation in the paragraphs that followed
even began to get near the truth.

Romanov couldn’t wait to see the front page
of
Pravda
the next day in which he
knew the true story would be emblazoned. By Western standards it would be an
exclusive.

“BEA
announce
the
departure of their flight 117 to Moscow. Would all first class passengers now
board through gate No.
23.
” Romanov left the lounge
and walked the half mile long corridor to the plane. Romanov strolled across
the tarmac to the waiting plane a few minutes after six fifty. The plane
carrying the icon would be touching down in Washington in about two hours.
Romanov would arrive back in Moscow well in time to see Dynamo play Spartak at
the Lenin Stadium on Tuesday. He wondered if they would announce his arrival to
the crowd over the loudspeakers as they always did when a member of the
Politburo attended a match. Romanov walked up the steps and on board, stepping
over the feet of the passenger placed next to him, thankful that he had been
given the window seat.

“Would you care for a drink before take-off?”
the stewardess asked.

“Just a black coffee for me,” said his
neighbour. Romanov nodded his agreement.

The stewardess arrived back a few minutes
later with the two coffees and helped the man next to Romanov pull out his
table from the armrest. Romanov flicked his over as the stewardess passed him
his coffee.

He took a sip but it was too hot so he
placed it on the table in front of him. He watched his neighbour take out a
packet of saccharines from his pocket and
flick
two
pellets into the steaming coffee.

Why
did he bother
,
thought Romanov. Life was too short.

Romanov stared out of the window and watched
the Aeroflot plane start to taxi out on to the runway. He smiled at the thought
of how much more comfortable his own flight would be. He tried his coffee a
second time: just as he liked it. He took a long gulp and began to feel a
little drowsy which he didn’t find that strange as he had hardly slept for the
last week.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his
eyes. He would now take every honour the State could offer him. With Valchek
conveniently out of the way, he could even position himself to take over from
Zaborski. If that failed, his grandfather had left him another alternative.

He was leaving London
with
only one regret
: he had failed to kill Scott But then he suspected that
the Americans would take care of that. For the first time in a week he didn’t
have to stop himself falling asleep...

A few moments later the passenger seated
next to Romanov picked up the Russian’s coffee cup and put it next to his own.
He then flicked Romanov’s table back into the armrest and placed a woollen
blanket over Romanov’s legs. He quickly slipped the BEA eye shades over the
Russian’s head, covering his open eyes. He looked up to find that the
stewardess was standing by his side.

“Can I help?” she asked, smiling.

“No, thank you. All he said was that he did
not want to be disturbed during the flight as he has had a very hard week.”

“Of course, sir,” said the stewardess. “We’ll
be taking off in a few minutes,” she added, and picked up the two coffee cups
and whisked them away.

The man tapped his fingers impatiently on
the little table. At last the chief steward appeared at his side.

“There’s been an urgent call from your
office, sir. You’re to return to Whitehall immediately.”

“I had been half expecting it,” he admitted.

Adam stared up at the Russian plane as it
climbed steeply and swung in a semi-circle towards the East. He couldn’t
understand why Romanov hadn’t boarded it. Surely he wouldn’t have taken the BEA
flight. Adam slipped back into the shadows the moment he saw him. He stared in
disbelief. Lawrence was striding back across the tarmac, a smile of
satisfaction on his face.