A Matter of Honor

by Jeffrey Archer

  Romanov wondered what headquarters had discovered about Scott’s father that could possibly prove of interest to him. It was still his avowed intention that the son would be dispatched to join the father long before any further missive from Moscow had arrived.

  Romanov thought of his own father and the escape route he had made possible by leaving such a fortune and how, for the sake of advancement, he had betrayed him to the State. Now for the sake of advancement he had to kill Scott and bring home the icon. If he failed … . He dismissed both fathers.

  “Either Scott’s extremely clever, or he’s living on an amateur’s luck,” Romanov said, moving into the small office that had been made available for his use. Valchek, who followed him, did not comment other than to ask what he should do next.

  “Tell me what you saw when we were at the hotel.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Valchek.

  “Don’t ask questions,” said Romanov, changing back into his own clothes, “answer them. Tell me everything you remember seeing, from the moment we drew up outside the hotel.”

  “We arrived at the Richmond a few minutes before ten,” began Valchek, “parked the Mercedes on the far side of the road and waited for Scott to show up. We stayed put for a few minutes after ten, but Scott never materialized.”

  “No, no, no. Be more specific. Don’t just generalize. For instance, do you remember anything unusual taking place while we were waiting?”

  “Nothing in particular,” said Valchek. “People continually entering and leaving the hotel—but I’m sure Scott wasn’t among them.”

  “You are fortunate to be so certain. What happened next?” asked Romanov.

  “Next? You instructed me to go back to the consulate and wait for you to return.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It must have been about seven minutes past ten. I remember because I checked my watch when that coach left.”

  “The coach?” said Romanov.

  “Yes, the one that was being loaded up with musical instruments. It left about …”

  “instruments, that’s it,” said Romanov. “Now I remember what was worrying me. Cellos, violins, and a double bass that didn’t go into the trunk.” Valchek looked puzzled but said nothing. “Ring the hotel immediately and find out who was on that bus and where they are heading.” Valchek scurried away.

  Romanov checked his watch: ten fifty-five. We are going to have to move, and move quickly. He pressed the intercom by the side of the phone. “I want a fast car, and more important, a superb driver.” Valchek returned as Romanov replaced the receiver. “The bus was hired by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, which is on a European tour …”

  “Where are they heading next?” asked Romanov.

  “Frankfurt.”

  Adam strolled away from the village, having checked everything with a professional soldier’s eye. The main street was deserted but for a little boy who relentlessly kicked a plastic soccer ball into a gap in the hillside which he was using as a goal. The boy turned when he saw Adam and kicked the ball toward him. Adam kicked it back, and the boy took it in his arms, a wide smile appearing on his face. The smile disappeared as he watched Adam continue quickly up the hill. There were only a few old houses on the main road. On one side was a dangerous ravine with tree-covered hills rising in the distance, while on the other side stretched green fields in which cows, bells round their necks, munched happily away. It made Adam feel hungry.

  He went further up the road until he came to a sharp bend down the hill. Standing on the corner, he could see down the hill for about half a mile without being seen. He tested the feasibility of his plan for several minutes and soon became expert at picking out British cars or cars with British license plates as far as two or three hundred yards away. It didn’t take long to work out how few foreigners bought British.

  During the next twenty minutes he thumbed optimistically at seven cars with English license plates heading toward Zurich, but they all ignored him. He had forgotten just how easy it had been for him when he was a cadet in uniform. In those days almost everyone would stop. He checked his watch: he could only risk it for a few more minutes. Three more cars refused to pull up and when a fourth slowed down it only sped away again as Adam ran toward it.

  By eleven-twenty Adam decided he could no longer chance being seen on the road. He stared down the ravine, realizing there was no alternative left open to him now but foot. He shrugged and began to climb down one of the steep trails that led into the valley, in the hope of meeting up with the other road that was marked clearly on the map.

  He cursed when he looked at the open ground between him and safety. If only he’d started an hour earlier.

  “I fear Antarctic has become expendable.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we now know his father was involved in helping Goering to an easy death.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No reason why you should, although it’s quite simple. That patriotic stiff-upper-lipped Englishman of yours is the son of the bastard who smuggled a cyanide capsule into Goering’s cell at Nuremberg. His reward for service rendered turned out to be the Czar’s icon.”

  “But all the members of the D4 are convinced that he’s our only hope.”

  “I don’t give a damn what your D4 thinks because if his father would side with the Germans during a war, why shouldn’t the son side with the Russians in peace?”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So what am I expected to do?”

  “Just keep us briefed as to what the Foreign Office is up to. Our agents in Switzerland will do the rest.”

  “Faster!” said Romanov, aware that it was not possible, as the ambassador’s driver was proving to be a consummate professional. Not once did Romanov feel that he had missed a gap, a light, a chance to overtake. In fact another five kilometers an hour on the speedometer might well have seen them over the precipice. The moment they were on the highway with full lights blazing and the driver’s palm almost lodged on the horn, the indicator rarely fell below 130 kilometers per hour. “We must beat them to the border,” he kept repeating as he thumped his fist on the leather dashboard. After they had covered one hundred kilometers in fifty-five minutes, the three men began watching ahead of them for the coach, but it was another thirty kilometers before Valchek was able to point ahead and shout, “That must be them, about a kilometer up the hill.”

  “Force them off the road,” said Romanov, his eyes never leaving the bus. The embassy driver swung out to overtake, and once he was in front immediately cut across, forcing the coach driver to throw on his brakes and swerve to the side. Valchek waved dictatorially at the coach driver to slow down, and the man stopped the vehicle just off the road on the edge of the mountain.

  “Don’t either of you speak. Just leave everything to me,” said Romanov, “and remain near the driver in case there’s trouble.” Romanov jumped out of the car and ran toward the coach, his eyes already searching for anyone who might be attempting to leave the coach. He banged on the door impatiently until the driver pressed a knob and the big doors swung open. Romanov leaped on, with the other two following only paces behind. He took out his passport from an inside pocket, flashed it in the frightened driver’s face, and shouted. “Who’s in charge here?”

  Stephen Grieg stood up. “I am the manager of the company, and therefore …”

  “Swiss police,” said Romanov. Grieg was about to ask a question when Romanov said, “When you left your hotel in Geneva this morning, did you take on any extra passengers?”

  “No,” said Grieg. Romanov scowled. “Unless you count Robin Beresford’s brother.”

  “Robin Beresford’s brother?” inquired Romanov, his eyebrows raising interrogatively.

  “Yes,” said the manager. “Adam Beresford. But he only traveled with us as far as Solothurn. Then he got off.”

  “Which one of you is Robin?” said Romanov, staring rou
nd a sea of men’s faces.

  “I am,” piped up a voice from the back. Romanov marched down the bus and saw the double bass case, and then everything fitted into place. It always worried him when something was out of context. Yes, that was what hadn’t rung true. Why hadn’t she put the double bass in the trunk with all the other large instruments? He stared down at the heavy-framed woman who now sat behind the monstrous instrument.

  “Your brother is the one called Adam?”

  “Yes,” said Robin.

  “Quite a coincidence.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, trying not to sound nervous.

  “The man I am looking for just happens to be called Adam as well.”

  “Common enough name,” said Robin. “Perhaps you’ve never read the first chapter of the Bible.”

  “Six foot one inch, perhaps two inches, dark hair, dark eyes, slim and fit. Not a convincing brother for you,” added Romanov, studying her frame.

  Robin pushed back her red hair but didn’t rise. Romanov could sense from the nervous expressions on the faces around him that it was Scott who had been on the bus.

  “Where was your brother,” he emphasized the word, “intending to go once he had left the coach?” Romanov asked, tapping his passport against his other hand, like a baton.

  “I have no idea,” said Robin, still not changing her expression from one of uninterested politeness.

  “I will give you one more chance to cooperate with me. Where was your brother heading?”

  “And I’ll tell you once more, I don’t know.”

  “If you refuse to answer my questions,” said Romanov, “I shall have to arrest you.”

  “On whose authority?” asked Robin calmly.

  Romanov considered showing her his passport but realized that this girl was sharper than either the driver or the manager.

  “With the authority of the Swiss police,” Romanov said confidently.

  “Then no doubt you’ll be happy to show me proof of your identity.”

  “Don’t be insolent,” Romanov said sharply. He towered over her.

  “It is you who are insolent,” said Robin, standing up. “You drive in front of our coach like a lunatic, nearly sending us down the mountain, then the three of you burst in like a bunch of Chicago mobsters, claiming to be Swiss police. I have no idea who you are or what you are, but I’ll let you into two secrets. You touch me, and there are forty men on this coach who will beat you and your two cronies into pulp. And even if you managed to get off this bus alive, we are members of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra of Great Britain, and as such are guests of the Swiss government. In a few moments when we cross the border, we will become the guests of the West German government, so you’re about to get yourself onto every front page in the world. Single-handedly, you will bring a totally new meaning to the words ‘diplomatic incident.’” She leaned forward and pointing a finger at him, said, “So I’m telling you, whoever you are, in as ladylike fashion as I can, ‘Piss off.’”

  Romanov stood staring at her for some moments and then backed away as Robin’s eyes remained glued on him. When he reached the front he waved at Valchek and the chauffeur, indicating that they should leave the coach. Reluctantly they obeyed him. The coach driver closed the door the moment Romanov’s foot touched the ground, and he quickly moved into first gear and drove back on to the highway.

  The entire orchestra turned round and gave Robin the kind of ovation normally reserved for the entrance of the conductor.

  It went unappreciated. Robin had collapsed back into her seat, shaking uncontrollably, only too aware that not one of the forty men on that coach would have lifted a finger against Rosenbaum.

  Sir Morris Youngfield glanced round the table: everyone was in place despite the few minutes’ notice the head of the D4 had given them.

  “Let’s hear the latest report,” said Sir Morris, looking up at his number two, who was once again seated at the far end of the table.

  “Not clever, sir, I’m afraid,” began Lawrence. “Two of our most experienced agents were selected to pick up Scott at the Richmond Hotel as planned and then take him to the safety of the British consulate.”

  “So what happened?” asked Sir Morris.

  “No one at our Geneva office can be certain. Our men certainly never turned up at the hotel, and they haven’t been seen since.”

  “What are the Swiss police saying?” asked Busch.

  “They are not being very helpful,” said Lawrence, turning to the American. “They are aware that we are not the only foreign power involved, and as is their custom in such circumstances, they have no intention of being seen to favor either side.”

  “Bloody Swiss,” said Snell with feeling.

  “And where do we imagine Scott is now?” asked Matthews.

  “We’ve also drawn a blank on that,” said Lawrence. Matthews smiled at Lawrence’s embarrassment. “We feel certain he must have boarded the coach with the girl”—he looked down at the sheet of paper on the table in front of him—“Robin Beresford. But he wasn’t on it when we were waiting for them at the border. The orchestra is due at their Frankfurt hotel in about one hour, so we will be able to find out more then. The German police are being far more cooperative,” Lawrence added.

  “Meanwhile what else are we doing?” asked Sir Morris.

  “Checking all the usual places as well as keeping a close eye on Romanov, who, incidentally, turned up on the French border last night. One of our old hands recognized him despite the fact that he’s cut his hair very short, doesn’t suit him, evidently.”

  “So Scott could be anywhere by now?” said Matthews. “Do you think he’s still in Switzerland or managed to cross one of the borders?”

  Lawrence hesitated. “I have no idea,” he said without expression.

  Sir Morris stared at him from the far end of the table but didn’t comment.

  “Do you think he’ll contact you again?” asked Snell.

  “Almost certainly, if he’s still alive.”

  “If Romanov is still in Geneva, Scott must be alive,” said Busch. “Because the moment he gets his hands on the icon he will head east.”

  “Agreed,” said Lawrence, “and we have men stationed at the airport checking every flight out to the east. I therefore suggest we follow up any further leads and assemble again tomorrow at seven A.M. unless Scott contacts me before then.”

  Sir Morris nodded and rose to leave. Everyone stood.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, and walked toward the far end of the room. As he passed Lawrence, he murmured, “Perhaps you could come to my office when you have a moment.”

  Adam slipped and stumbled the last few yards down the ravine before finally landing with a bump on his backside. His hands were cut and bleeding in several places, his thousers torn and smeared with clay and earth. He sat still for about two minutes trying to get his breath back as he looked back up toward the road. He had taken just under an hour to cover what a stone could have managed in three seconds. Still, there had been one advantage: no one could have seen him from the road. He gazed across the valley ahead. Anyone would be able to see him now, but he had left himself with no alternative.

  Judge by eye, check by map. The map wasn’t much help, but he estimated the distance to the far ridge to be about two more miles. At least the map had promised him there was a road, hidden from sight on the other side of the ridge. He studied the terrain—rolling green fields, no hedgerows to shield him, and then one wide, shallow river. He reckoned he could cover the ground to the road in about twenty minutes. He checked that the icon was securely in place and then set off at an even pace.

  Romanov had hardly uttered a word since the three men had been unceremoniously removed from the coach, and Valchek and the driver certainly hadn’t ventured any opinions. Romanov knew the girl had called his bluff, and he couldn’t afford a further diplomatic incident which would undoubtedly be reported back to his chairman in Moscow. But Romano
v would never forget the girl with the man’s name.

  Solothurn was about forty kilometers back in the direction they had already traveled, and the driver could have completed the journey in about twenty minutes had Romanov not insisted on slowing down as they passed every vehicle that traveled toward them. They checked the occupants of each vehicle on the other side of the road, just in case Scott had managed to thumb a lift. It was a necessary precaution in Romanov’s judgment, but it meant a total time of thirty-one minutes before they arrived back in Solothum. At least Romanov felt confident Scott wasn’t heading for the German border—unless he had been very well disguised or traveled in the trunk of a car.

  As soon as they reached Solothurn Romanov instructed the driver to leave the car in the middle of the village while they split up to see if they could discover any clues as to the route Scott might have taken. None of the locals whom they questioned had seen anyone resembling Scott that morning, and Romanov was beginning to wonder which border he should now head for when he turned around and saw the driver kicking a soccer ball back to a little boy. Romanov ran down the hill and was about to remonstrate with him when the boy turned and kicked the ball hard at the Russian. Romanov trapped the ball automatically and kicked it firmly past the boy and into the goal. Romanov turned toward the driver and would not have looked back if the ball had not reappeared at his feet. He picked it up in anger and was just about to throw it back at him when he saw the boy’s hopeful smile. Romanov held the ball high above his head. The boy ran up and jumped toward the ball, but however hard he tried, he couldn’t reach it.

  “Have you seen any strangers this morning?” he asked in slow, deliberate French.

  “Yes, yes,” said the boy. “But he didn’t score a goal.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Romanov.