A Matter of Honor

by Jeffrey Archer

“Up the hill,” said the boy. To the child’s dismay, Romanov dropped the ball and began to run. Valchek and the driver followed after him.

  “Non, non,” cried the little boy, who followed after them. Romanov looked back to see the boy was standing on the spot where Adam had been thumbing lifts, pointing out over the ravine.

  Romanov quickly turned to the driver. “Get the car, I need the glasses and the map.” The driver ran back down the hill once again, followed by the boy. A few minutes later the Mercedes drew up by Romanov’s side. The driver jumped out and handed the glasses over to Romanov, while Valchek spread a map out on the hood of the car.

  Romanov focused the binoculars and began to sweep the hills in the distance. It was several minutes before the glasses stopped and settled upon a brown speck climbing up the farthest hill.

  “The rifle,” were Romanov’s only words.

  Valchek ran to the trunk of the car and took out a Dragunov sniper’s rifle with telescopic sights. He assembled the long, slim weapon with its distinctive wooden skeleton stock and checked that it was loaded. He then raised it, moved it around until it felt comfortable nestled in his shoulder, and swept the ground in front of him until he too focused on Scott. Romanov followed Adam’s relentless stride with the binoculars; Valchek’s arm moved with him, keeping the same pace.

  “Kill him,” said Romanov. Valchek was grateful for the clear windless day as he kept the rifle sight in the middle of the Englishman’s back, waited for three more strides, then slowly squeezed the trigger. Adam had almost reached the top of the ridge when the bullet tore through him. He fell to the ground with a thud. Romanov smiled and lowered the binoculars.

  Adam knew exactly what had ripped through his shoulder and where the shot must have come from. He instinctively rolled over until he reached the nearest tree. And then the pain began. Although the bullet had lost a lot of its power at such a distance, it still stung like an adder’s bite, and blood was already beginning to seep through his trench coat from the torn muscle. He turned his head and gazed back behind him. He could see no one, but he knew Romanov must be standing there waiting to take a second shot

  Turning with difficulty, he looked back up toward the edge of the hill. Only thirty yards to the safety of the ridge, but he would have to run over the top, remaining exposed for several vital seconds. Even if he made it, Romanov would still be able to reach him by car within thirty minutes.

  Nevertheless, that was his one chance. Slowly, very slowly, he crawled inch by inch up the ridge, thankful for the tree that he could still use as protection. One arm followed one leg, like a beached crab. Once he had covered ten yards, he knew the angle would be against him and Romanov would have a flat, slow-moving target to aim at. He moved four more lengths of his body and stopped.

  You can’t hold a rifle up on your shoulder forever, Adam thought. He counted to two hundred slowly.

  “He’s going to make a run for it,” Romanov told Valchek, as he raised his glasses, “which will give you about three seconds. I’ll shout the moment he moves.” Romanov kept the glasses trained on the tree. Suddenly Adam jumped up and sprinted as though it were the last twenty meters of an Olympic final. Romanov shouted, “Now,” and Valchek pulled the rifle up into his shoulder, focused on the moving man, and squeezed the trigger as Adam threw himself over the ridge. The second bullet whistled by the side of Adam’s head.

  Romanov cursed, as he stared through the binoculars, knowing that Valchek had missed. He turned to the open map. The others joined him around the car as he began to consider the alternatives. “He should reach that road in about ten minutes,” he said, putting his finger in the middle of a small red line that ran between Neuchâtel and the French border. “Unless the first bullet hit him, in which case it could take him longer. So how long will it take you to get to that border?” Romanov asked the driver.

  The chauffeur studied the map. “About twenty-five, at most thirty minutes, Comrade Major,” came back the reply.

  Romanov turned and looked back toward the hills. “Thirty minutes, Scott, that’s how long you’ve got to live.”

  When the car sped away, the little boy ran home as fast as he could. He quickly told his mother everything he had seen. She smiled understandingly. Only children had such imaginations.

  When Adam looked up, he was relieved to see the road was only about a mile away. He jogged toward it at a steady pace, but found that the running caused him even more discomfort. He was anxious to stop and check the wound but waited till he reached the road. The bullet had torn through the outer flesh of his shoulder muscle, leaving him in considerable pain. An inch lower, and he would have been unable to move. He was relieved to see that the blood had only made a small stain on his trench coat. He folded a handkerchief in four and placed it between his shirt and the wound. He knew he daren’t risk a hospital. As long as he could get to a pharmacy by nightfall, he felt he could take care of the problem himself.

  Adam checked the map. He was now only a few kilometers from the French border and decided, because of the wound, to cross into France as quickly as possible rather than keep to his original plan of going up through Basle and on to Bremerhaven.

  Desperately he began to thumb at any car that passed, no longer bothering with the nationality of the license plates. He felt he was safe for about twenty minutes but after that he would have to disappear back into the hills. Unfortunately there were far fewer cars driving toward the French border than there had been on the Basle road, and they all ignored his plea. He feared that the time was fast approaching for him to return to the hills when a yellow Citroen drew to the side of the road a few yards ahead of him.

  By the time Adam had reached the car the woman in the passenger seat had already wound down the window.

  “Where—are—you—going?” asked Adam, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully.

  The driver leaned across, took a lengthy look at Adam, and said in a broad Yorkshire accent, “We’re on our way to Dijon. Any use to you, lad?”

  “Yes, please,” said Adam, relieved that his scruffy appearance had not put them off.

  “Then jump in the back with my daughter.”

  Adam obeyed. The Citroen moved off as Adam checked out of the back window; he was relieved to see an empty road stretching out behind him.

  “Jim Hardcastle’s the name,” said the man, as he moved the car into third gear. Jim appeared to have a large, warm smile perpetually imprinted on his chubby red face. His dark ginger hair went straight back and was plastered down with Brylcreem. He wore a Harris tweed jacket and an open-necked shirt that revealed a little red triagle of hair. It looked to Adam as if he had given up attempts to do anything about his waistline. “And this is the wife, Betty,” he said, gesturing with his elbow toward the woman in the front seat. She turned toward Adam, revealing the same ruddy checks and warm smile. Her hair was dyed blonde, but the roots remained an obstinate black. “And sitting next to you is our Linda,” Jim Hardcastle added, almost as an afterthought. “Just left school and going to work for the local council, aren’t you, Linda?” Linda nodded sulkily. Adam stared at the young girl, whose first experiment with makeup hadn’t worked that well. The dark overlined eye shadow and the pink lipstick did not help what Adam considered was an attractive girl probably in her late teens.”And what’s your name, lad?”

  “Dudley Hulme,” said Adam, recalling the name on his new passport. “And are you on holiday?” he asked, trying to keep his mind off the throbbing shoulder.

  “Mixing business with pleasure,” said Jim. “But this part of the trip is rather special for Betty and myself. We flew to Genoa on Saturday and hired the car to tour Italy. First we traveled up through the Simplon Pass. It’s a bit breathtaking after our home town of Hull.”

  Adam would have asked for details, but Jim didn’t reckon on any interruptions. “I’m in mustard, you see. Export director for Colman’s, and we’re on our way to the annual conference of the IMF. You may have heard of us.” Adam n
odded knowingly. “International Mustard Federation,” Jim added. Adam almost wanted to laugh, but because of the pain in his shoulder, managed to keep a straight face.

  “This year they’ve elected me president of the IMF, the high point of my career in mustard, you might say. And, if I may be so bold as to suggest, an honor for Colman’s as well, the finest mustard in the world,” he added, as if he said it at least a hundred times a day.”As president I have to preside over the conference meetings and chair the annual dinner. Tonight I shall be making a speech of welcome to delegates from all over the world.”

  “How fascinating,” winced Adam, as the car went over a pothole.

  “It certainly is,” said Jim. “People have no idea how many makes of mustards there are.” He paused for a second and then said, “One hundred and forty-three. There’s no doubt the Frogs make one or two good attempts, and even the Krauts don’t do too badly, but there’s still nothing to beat Colman’s. British is best after all, I always say. Probably the same in your line of country,” said Jim. “By the way, what is your line of country?”

  “I’m in the army,” said Adam.

  “What’s a soldier doing thumbing a lift on the borders of Switzerland?”

  “Can I speak to you in confidence?” asked Adam.

  “Mum’s the word,” said Jim. “We Hardcastles know how to keep our traps shut.”

  In the case of Jim’s wife and daughter, Adam had no proof to the contrary. “I’m a captain in the Royal Wessex, at present on a NATO exercise,” began Adam. “I was dumped off the coast at Brindisi in Italy last Sunday with a false passport and ten English pounds. I have to be back in barracks at Aldershot by midnight Saturday.” When he saw the look of approbation appear on Jim’s face, he felt even Robin would have been proud of him. Mrs. Hardcastle turned around to take a more careful look at him.

  “I knew you were an officer the moment you opened your mouth,” said Jim. “You couldn’t have fooled me. I was a sergeant in the Royal Army Service Corps in the last war myself. Doesn’t sound much, but I did my bit for the old country.” The acronym for the corps—“Rob All Serving Comrades”—flashed through Adam’s mind. “Have you seen any action yourself, Dudley?” Jim was asking.

  “A little in Malaya,” said Adam.

  “I missed that one,” said Jim. “After the big one was over, I went back into mustard. So where’s the problem in getting you back to England?”

  “There are about eight of us trying to reach Aldershot, and a thousand Americans trying to stop us.”

  “Yanks,” said Jim with disdain. “They only join wars just as we’re about to win them. All medals and glory, that lot. No, I mean is there any real problem?”

  “Yes, the border officials have been briefed that eight British officers are attempting to get over into France, and the Swiss love to be the ones to pull us in. Only two officers out of twelve made it back to barracks last year,” said Adam, warming to his own theme. “Both were promoted within weeks.”

  “The Swiss,” said Jim. “They’re even worse than the Americans. They don’t even join in a war—happy to fleece both sides at the same time. They won’t pick you up, lad, believe me. I’ll see to that.”

  “If you can get me across the border, Mr. Hardcastle, I’m confident I will be able to make it all the way back to Aldershot.”

  “Consider it done, lad.”

  The fuel indicator was flashing red. “How many kilometers left when that happens?” demanded Romanov.

  “About twenty, Comrade Major,” said the driver.

  “Then we should still make the French border?”

  “Perhaps it might be safer to stop and fill up,” suggested the driver.

  “There is no time for safety,” said Romanov. “Go faster.”

  “Yes, Comrade Major,” said the driver, who decided it was not the occasion to point out they would run out of petrol even more quickly if he was made to push the car to its limits.

  “Why didn’t you fill the tank up this morning, you fool?” said Romanov.

  “I thought I was only taking the consul to lunch at the town hall today, and I had intended to fill the tank up during my lunch hour.”

  “Just pray for your sake that we reach the border,” said Romanov. “Faster.”

  The Mercedes touched 140 kilometers per hour, and Romanov relaxed only when he saw a sign saying, Rappelle Douane Dix Kilomètres. A few minutes later a smile grew on his face as they passed the five-kilometer sign, and then suddenly the engine spluttered as it tried helplessly to continue turning over at the speed the pressed down accelerator was demanding. The indicator on the speedometer started to drop steadily as the engine continued to chug. The driver turned off the ignition and threw the gear lever into neutral. The sheer momentum of the heavy Mercedes took them another kilometer before the car slowed to a complete stop.

  Romanov did not even look at the driver as he jumped out of the car and began running the last three kilometers toward the border.

  “I’ve come up with an idea,” said Jim, as they passed a signpost warning drivers that the border was only two kilometers away.

  “What’s that, sir?” asked Adam, who could now feel his shoulder beating like a steady tune hammered out by a child on a tin drum. “When it comes to the time for us to present our passports, you put your arm round Linda and start cuddling her. Leave the rest to me.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle turned round and gave Adam a much closer look as Linda went scarlet. Adam looked across at the miniskirted, pink-lipped Linda and felt embarrassed by the predicament her father had placed his daughter in. “Don’t argue with me, Dudley,” continued Jim confidently. “I promise you what I have in mind will work.” Adam made no comment and neither did Linda. When they reached the Swiss border a few moments later, Adam could see that there were two checkpoints about one hundred yards apart. Drivers were avoiding one line of traffic in which a row was going on between a customs official and an irate lorry driver. Jim drove up straight behind the gesticulating Frenchman. “Give me your passport, Dudley,” he said. Adam handed over the violinist’s passport.

  Why did you choose this line? Adam wanted to ask.

  “I chose this line,” continued Jim, “because by the time it comes for our passports to be inspected I reckon the customs officer will be only too happy to allow us through without much fuss.” And as if in reaction to his logic, a long line started to form behind Jim, but still the argument raged in front of them. Adam remained alert, continually looking out of the back window, waiting for the moment when Romanov would appear. When he turned back, he was relieved to find that the lorry in front of them was being told to pull over into the side and wait.

  Jim drove quickly up to the customs post. “Get necking, you two,” he said.

  Up until that point, Adam had kept his hands hidden in his trench coat pockets because they were so scratched and bruised. But he obeyed Jim and took Linda in his arms and kissed her perfunctorily, one eye still watching for Romanov. To his surprise she parted his lips and began exploring inside his mouth with her tongue. Adam thought about protesting but realized there was no way he could make it sound gallant or credible.

  “The wife, the daughter, and the future son-in-law,” said Jim, handing over the four passports.

  The policeman started to check.

  “What was all the trouble about, officer?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” said the policeman, flicking through the passports. “I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you.”

  “No, no,” said Jim. “They didn’t even notice,” he said, pointing over his shoulder and laughing.

  The policeman shrugged, and handing the passports back, he said, “Allez,” waving them on.

  “Sharp-as-Mustard Jim, that’s what they call me in Hull.” He looked over his shoulder toward Adam. “You can stop that now, Dudley, thank you.” Adam felt Linda release him with some reluctance.

  She glanced at him shyly, then turned toward her father. “Bu
t we still have to go over the French border, don’t wet?”

  “We have already been alerted to look for him and I can assure you he hasn’t been through this post,” said the senior customs officer. “Otherwise one of my men would have spotted him. But if you want to double-check, be my guest.”

  Romanov went quickly from officer to officer, showing them the blown-up photograph of Adam, but none of them could recall anyone resembling him. Valchek joined him a few minutes later and confirmed that Scott was not in any of the cars still waiting to be allowed over the border and that the Mercedes was being pushed into the border garage.

  “Is it back to the hills, Comrade Major?” asked Valchek.

  “Not yet. I want to be absolutely certain he hasn’t managed to cross the border.”

  The senior official emerged from his post in the center of the road. “Any luck?” he asked.

  “No,” said Romanov glumly. “You seem to be right.”

  “I thought as much. If any of my men had let the Englishman through, they would have been looking for a new job by now.”

  Romanov nodded in acknowledgment. “Could I have missed any of your staff?”

  “Doubt it—unless there’s a couple of them taking a break. If so, you’ll find them in the bar about a hundred meters up toward the French border point.”

  Four customs officers and a French waitress were the only people to be found in the bar. Two of the officers were playing pool while the other two sat at a corner table, drinking coffee. Romanov took the photo out once more and showed it to the two men at the pool table. They both shook their heads in an uninterested fashion and returned to sinking the multicolored balls.

  The two Russians made their way to the bar. Valchek passed Romanov a cup of coffee and a sandwich, which he took over to the table where the other two border guards sat. One of them was telling his colleague the trouble he had had with a French truck driver who was trying to smuggle Swiss watches over the border. Romanov pushed the photograph of Scott across the table.