A Matter of Honor

by Jeffrey Archer

  When Adam heard the whistle behind him he felt relieved that help was at hand, but as he turned he saw two officers with guns out of their holsters pointing toward him. He instinctively turned his jog into a run, and looking over his shoulder he saw that several police were now giving chase. He lengthened his stride again and, despite the trench coat, doubted if there were a member of the Swiss force who could hope to keep up the pace he set for more than a quarter of a mile. He turned into the first alley he came to and speeded up. It was narrow—not wide enough for even two bicycles to pass. Once he was beyond the alley he selected a one-way street. It was crammed with cars, and he was able swiftly and safely to move in and out of the slow-moving oncoming traffic.

  In a matter of minutes he had lost the pursuing police, but he still ran on, continually switching direction until he felt he had covered at least two miles. He turned into a quiet street and halfway down saw a fluorescent sign advertising the Hotel Monarche. It didn’t look much more than a guest house, and certainly wouldn’t have qualified under the description of a hotel. He stopped in the shadows and waited, taking in great gulps of air. After about three minutes his breathing was back to normal, and he marched straight into the hotel.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HE STOOD NAKED, staring at the image of Emmanuel Rosenbaum in the hotel mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. First he removed the teeth, then began to click his own up and down: he had been warned that the gums would ache for days. Then painstakingly he shed each layer of his bulbous nose, admiring the skill and artistry that had gone into creating such a monstrosity. It will be too conspicuous, he had told them. They will remember nothing else, had come back the experts’ reply.

  When the last layer had been removed, the aristocratic one that took its place looked ridiculous in the center of such a face. Next he began on the lined forehead that even moved when he frowned. As the lines disappeared, so the years receded. Next the flaccid red cheeks, and finally the two chins. The Swiss bankers would have been amazed at how easily the sharp rubbing of a pumice stone removed the indelible number on the inside of his arm. Once more he studied himself in the mirror. The hair, short and graying, would take nature longer. When they had cut his hair short and smeared that thick mudlike concoction all over his scalp, it made him feel like a deloused animal. Moments later he stood under a warm shower, his fingers massaging deep into the roots of his hair. Black treacly water started to run down his face and body before finally disappearing down the drain. It took half a bottle of shampoo before his hair had returned to its normal color, but he realized that it would take considerably longer before he stopped looking like one of these moronic staff sergeants in the United States Marines.

  In a corner of the room lay the long baggy coat, shiny shapeless suit, black tie, off-white shirt, woollen mittens, and the Israeli passport. Days of preparation discarded in a matter of minutes. He longed to burn them all, but instead left them in a heap. He returned to the main room and stretched himself out on the bed like a yawning cat. His back still ached from all the bending and crouching. He stood up, then touched his toes and threw his arms high above his head fifty times. He rested for one minute before completing fifty sit-ups.

  He returned to the bathroom and had a second shower—cold. He was beginning to feel like a human being again. He then changed into a freshly ironed cream silk shirt and a new double-breasted suit.

  Before making one phone call to London and two more to Moscow, he ordered dinner in his room so that no one would see him—he had no desire to explain how the man who checked in was thirty years older than the man eating alone in his room. Like a hungry animal he tore at the steak and gulped the wine.

  He stared at the colorful carrier bag but felt no desire to finish off the meal with one of Scott’s liqueur chocolates. Once again he felt anger at the thought of the Englishman getting the better of him.

  His eyes then rested on the little leather suitcase that lay on the floor by the side of his bed. He opened it and took out the copy of the icon that Zaborski had ordered he should always have with him so that there could be no doubt when he came across the original of Saint George and the dragon.

  At a little after eleven he switched on the late-night news. They had no photograph of the suspect, only one of that stupid taxi driver who had driven so slowly it had cost the fool his life, and the pretty German girl who had tried to fight back. It had been pathetic; one firm clean strike and her neck was broken. The television announcer said the police were searching for an unnamed Englishman. Romanov smiled at the thought of police searching for Scott while he was eating steak in a luxury hotel. Although the Swiss police had no photograph of the murderer, Romanov didn’t need one. It was a face he would never forget. In any case his contact in England had already told him a lot more about Captain Scott in one phone call than the Swiss police could hope to discover for another couple of days.

  When Romanov was told the details of Scott’s military career and decoration for bravery he considered it would be a pleasure to kill such a man.

  Lying motionless on a mean little bed, Adam tried to make sense of all the pieces that made up a black jigsaw. If Goering had left the icon to his father, and his alias had been Emmanuel Rosenbaum, then a real-life Emmanuel Rosenbaum didn’t exist. But he did exist: he had even killed twice in his attempt to get his hands on the Czar’s icon. Adam leaned over, switched on the bedside light, then pulled the small package out of the pocket of his trench coat. He unwrapped it carefully before holding the icon under the light. Saint George stared back at him—no longer looking magnificent, it seemed to Adam, but more accusing. Adam would have handed the icon over to Rosenbaum without a second thought if it would have stopped Heidi from sacrificing her life.

  By midnight Adam had decided what had to be done, but he didn’t stir from that tiny room until a few minutes after three. He lifted himself quietly off the bed, opened the door, checked the corridor, and then locked the door noiselessly behind him before creeping down the stairs. When he reached the bottom step he waited and listened. The night porter had nodded off in front of a television that now let out a dim, monotonous hum. A silver dot remained in the center of the screen. Adam took nearly two minutes to reach the front door, stepping on a noisy floorboard once, but the porter’s snores had been enough to cover that. Outside, Adam checked up and down the street, but there was no sign of any movement. He didn’t want to go far, so he stayed in the shadows by the side of the road, moving at a pace unfamiliar to him. When he reached the corner he saw what he had been searching for and it was still about a hundred yards away.

  There was still no one to be seen, so he quickly made his way to the phone booth. He pressed a twenty-centime coin into the phone and waited. A voice said, “Est-ce que je puis vous aider?” Adam uttered only one word, “International.” A moment later another voice asked the same question.

  “I want to make a reverse charge call to London,” said Adam firmly. He had no desire to repeat himself.

  “Yes,” said the voice. “And what is your name?”

  “George Cromer,” replied Adam.

  “And the number you are speaking from?”

  “Geneva 271982.” He reversed the last three digits: he felt the police could well be listening in on all calls to England that night. He then told the girl the number in London he required.

  “Can you wait for a moment, please?”

  “Yes,” said Adam as his eyes checked up and down the street once again, still looking for any unfamiliar movement. Only the occasional early-morning car sped by. He remained absolutely motionless in the corner of the box.

  He could hear the connection being put through. Please wake up, his lips mouthed. At last the ringing stopped, and Adam recognized the familiar voice which answered.

  “Who is this?” Lawrence asked, sounding irritated but perfectly awake.

  “Will you accept a reverse charge call from a Mr. George Cromer in Geneva?”

  “George Crome
r, Lord Cromer, the Governor of the Bank of Eng—? Yes, I will,” he said.

  “It’s me, Lawrence,” said Adam.

  “Thank God. Where are you?”

  “I’m still in Geneva, but I’m not sure you’re going to believe what I’m about to tell you. While we were waiting to board our plane home a man pulled Heidi into a taxi and later murdered her before I could catch up with them. And the trouble is that the Swiss police think I’m the killer.”

  “Now just relax, Adam. I know that much. It’s been on the evening news, and the police have already been around to interview me. It seems Heidi’s brother identified you.”

  “What do you mean identified me? I didn’t do it. You know I couldn’t do it. It was a man called Rosenbaum, not me, Lawrence.”

  “Rosenbaum? Adam, who is Rosenbaum?”

  Adam tried to sound calm. “Heidi and I came to Geneva this morning to pick up a gift from a Swiss bank that Pa had left me in his will. It turned out to be a painting. Then when we returned to the airport, this Rosenbaum grabbed Heidi, thinking she had got the painting, which didn’t make any sense because the damned icon’s only worth twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Icon?” said Lawrence.

  “Yes, an icon of Saint George and the dragon,” said Adam. “That’s not important. What’s important is that …”

  “Now listen and listen carefully,” interrupted Lawrence, “because I’m not going to repeat myself. Keep out of sight until the morning and then give yourself up at our consulate. Just see you get there in one piece, and I’ll make sure that the consul will be expecting you. Don’t arrive until eleven because London is an hour behind Geneva, and I’ll need every minute to arrange matters and see that the consul staff is properly organized.”

  Adam found himself smiling for the first time in twelve hours.

  “Did the killer get what he was after?” Lawrence asked.

  “No, he didn’t,” said Adam, “he only got my mother’s chocolates …”

  “Thank God for that,” said Lawrence, “and be sure to keep out of sight of the Swiss police because they are convinced it was you who killed Heidi.”

  “But …” began Adam.

  “No explanations. Just be at the consulate at eleven. Now you’d better get off the line,” said Lawrence. “Eleven, and don’t be late.”

  “Right,” said Adam, “and …” but the phone had already been put down. Thank God for Lawrence, he thought. The Lawrence of old, the Lawrence of old who didn’t need to ask any questions because he already knew the answers. Christ, what had he got himself involved in? Adam checked the street once again. Still no one in sight. He quickly stole the two hundred yards back to the hotel. The front door remained unlocked, the porter asleep, the television screen still faintly humming, the silver dot in place. Adam was back on his bed by four-oh-five. He didn’t sleep. Rosenbaum, Heidi, the taxi driver, the Russian gentleman at Sotheby’s. So many pieces of a jigsaw, none of them fitting into place.

  But the one thing that worried him most was the conversation with Lawrence—the Lawrence of old?

  The two policemen arrived at the Hotel Monarche at twenty past seven that Thursday morning. They were tired, discontent, and hungry. Since midnight they had visited forty-three hotels on the west side of the city, on each occasion with no success. They had checked over a thousand registration cards and woken seven innocent Englishmen who had not come anywhere near fitting the description of Adam Scott.

  At eight they would be off duty and could go home to their wives and breakfasts; but they still had three more hotels to check before then. When the landlady saw them coming into the hall she waddled as quickly as possible from the inner office toward them. She loathed the police and was willing to believe anyone who told her that the Swiss pigs were even worse than the Germans. Twice in the last year she had been fined and once even threatened with jail over her failure to register every guest. If they caught her once more, she knew they would take her license away and with it her living. Her slow mind tried to recall who had booked in the previous evening. Eight people had registered, but only two had paid cash—the Englishman who hardly opened his mouth, Mr. Pemberton was the name he had filled in on the missing card, and Maurice, who always turned up with a different girl whenever he was in Geneva. She had destroyed both their cards and pocketed the money. Maurice and the girl had left by seven, and she had already made up their bed, but the Englishman was still asleep in his room.

  “We need to check your registration cards for last night, madame.”

  “Certainly, monsieur,” she replied with a warm smile, and gathered together the six remaining cards: two Frenchmen, one Italian, two nationals from Zurich, and one from Basle.

  “Did an Englishman stay here last night?”

  “No,” said the landlady firmly. “I haven’t had an Englishman,” she added helpfully, “for at least a month. Would you like to see the cards for last week?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” said the policeman. The landlady grunted with satisfaction. “But we will still need to check your unoccupied rooms. I see from the certificate that there are twelve guest bedrooms in the hotel,” the policeman continued. “So there must be six that should be empty.”

  “There’s no one in them,” said the landlady. “I’ve already checked them once this morning.”

  “We still need to see for ourselves,” the other officer insisted.

  The landlady picked up her pass key and waddled toward the stairs, which she proceeded to climb as if they were the final summit of Everest. She opened bedrooms five, seven, nine, ten, and eleven. Maurice’s room had been remade within minutes of his leaving but the old lady knew she would lose her license the moment they entered twelve. She just stopped herself from knocking on the door before she turned the key in the lock. The two policemen walked in ahead of her while she remained in the corridor, just in case there was any trouble. Not for the first time that day she cursed the efficiency of Swiss police.

  “Thank you, madame,” said the first policeman as he stepped back into. the corridor. “We are sorry to have troubled you,” he added. He put a tick on his list next to the Hotel Monarche.

  As the two policemen made their way downstairs, the landlady walked into room number twelve, mystified. The bed was undisturbed, as if it had not been slept in, and there was no other sign of anyone having spent the night there. She called on her tired memory. She hadn’t drunk that much the previous night—she touched the fifty francs in her pocket as if to prove the point. “I wonder where he is,” she muttered.

  For the past hour Adam had been crouching behind a derelict coach in a railway goods yard less than half a mile from the hotel. He had a clear view for a hundred yards in every direction. He had watched the early-morning commuters flooding in on every train. By twenty past eight Adam judged they were at their peak. He checked that the icon was in place and left his hideout to join the flood as they headed to work. He stopped at the kiosk to purchase a newspaper. The only English paper on sale at that time in the morning was the Herald Tribune, the London papers didn’t arrive until the first plane could land, but Adam had seen the Herald Tribune come in on the train from Paris. He made two other purchases at the station kiosk before rejoining the scurrying crowds: a city map of Geneva and a large bar of Nestlé’s chocolate.

  There were still over two hours to kill before he could present himself at the consulate. Although it was some way in the distance, he could already see the building he had marked out as his next place of sanctuary. He steered a route toward it that allowed him to stay in contact with the largest number of people. When he arrived in the square he continued under the shop awnings round the longest route, clinging to the wall, always avoiding the open spaces. It took a considerable time, but his judgment was perfect. He reached the front door as hundreds of worshippers were leaving after the early-morning Communion service.

  Once inside; he felt safe. Saint Peter’s was set out like most of the great cathedral
s of the world, and Adam found his bearings in a matter of moments. He made his way slowly down the side aisle toward the Lady Chapel, dropped some coins in one of the collection boxes, lit a candle, and placed it in a vacant holder below a statue of the Virgin Mother. He then fell on his knees, but his eyes never closed. A lapsed Catholic, he found he no longer believed in God—except when he was ill, frightened, or in an airplane. After about twenty minutes had passed Adam was distressed to see that there were now only a handful of people left in the cathedral. Some old ladies dressed in black filled a front pew, moving their rosary beads methodically and chanting, “Ave Maria, gratia plena …” A few tourists were craning their necks to admire the King beam roof, their eyes only looking upward.

  Adam rose slowly, his eyes darting from side to side. He stretched his legs and walked over to a confessional box partly hidden behind a pillar. A small sign on the wooden support showed that the box was not in use. Adam slipped in, sat down, and pulled the curtain closed.

  First he took out the Herald Tribune from his trench coat pocket, and then the bar of chocolate. He tore the silver paper from the chocolate and began to munch greedily. Next he searched for the story. Only one or two items of English news were on the front page, as most of the articles were devoted to what was happening in America. “The Pound Still Too High at $2.80?” one headline suggested. Adam’s eyes passed over the smaller headlines until he saw the paragraph he was looking for. It was in the bottom left-hand corner: “Englishman Sought after German Girl and Swiss Taxi Driver Murderer.” Adam read the story and only began to tremble when he discovered they knew his name.

  “Captain Adam Scott, who recently resigned his commission from the Royal Wessex Regiment, is wanted … please turn to page fifteen.” Adam began to turn the large pages. It was not easy in the restricted space of a confessional. “ … for questioning by the Geneva police in connection with …”