A Matter of Honor

by Jeffrey Archer

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Scott,” began Stravinsky. “Although you are an unexpected guest of the embassy, you are most welcome. You could of course make our association very short by simply letting me have one piece of information. In truth”—he let out a small sigh—“I only require to know the whereabouts of the Czar’s icon.” He paused. “Although I have a feeling it’s not going to be that easy. Am I correct?”

  Adam didn’t reply.

  “It doesn’t come as a great surprise. I warned Comrade Romanov after his laudatory description of you that a simple series of questions and answers would be unlikely to suffice. However, I must follow the normal procedure in such circumstances. As you will find, the Russians go by the book every bit as much as the British. Now you may have wondered,” added Stravinsky, as if it were an afterthought, “why a man who never smokes should be seen carrying a Cuban cigar box.”

  Stravinsky waited for Adam’s reply but none was forthcoming.

  “Ah, no attempt at conversation, I see you have been through such an experience before. Well, then I must continue talking to myself for the moment. When I was a student at the University of Moscow my subject was chemistry, but I specialized in one particular aspect of the science.”

  Adam feigned no interest as he tried not to recall his worst days in the hands of the Chinese.

  “What few people in the West realize is that we Russians were the first to pioneer, at university level, a department of scientific interrogation with a full professorial chair and several research assistants. They are still without one at either Oxford or Cambridge, I am told. But then the West continues to preserve a quixotic view of the value of life and the rights of the individual. Now, as you can imagine, only certain members of the university were aware of the existence of such a department, let alone able to enroll as a student—especially as it was not in the curriculum. But as I had already been a member of the Perviy Otdel it was common sense that I should add the craft of torture to my trade. Now I am basically a simple man,” continued Stravinsky, “who had previously shown little interest in research, but once I had been introduced to the ‘cigar box’ I became, overnight, an enthralled and retentive pupil. I could not wait to be let loose to experiment.” He paused to see what effect he was having on Scott and was disappointed to be met by the same impassive stare.

  “Torture, of course, is an old and honorable profession,” continued Stravinsky. “The Chinese have been at it for nearly three thousand years, as I think you have already experienced, Captain Scott, and even you British have come a long way since the rack. But that particular instrument has proved to be rather cumbersome for carrying around in a modern world. With this in mind, my tutor at Moscow, Professor Metz, has developed something small and simple that even a man of average intelligence can master after a few lessons.”

  Adam was desperate to know what was in the box, but his look remained impassive.

  “With torture, as with making love, Captain Scott, foreplay is the all-important factor. Are you following me, Captain?” asked Stravinsky.

  Adam tried to remain relaxed and calm.

  “Still no response, I see, but as I explained I am in no hurry. Especially, as I suspect in your case, the whole operation may take a little longer than usual, which I confess will only add to my enjoyment. And although we are not yet in possession of the Czar’s icon I am at least in control of the one person who knows where it is.”

  Adam still made no comment.

  “So I will ask you once and once only before I open the box. Where is the Czar’s icon?”

  Adam spat at Stravinsky.

  “Not only ill-mannered,” remarked Stravinsky, “but also stupid. Because in a very short time you will be desperate for any liquid we might be kind enough to allow you. But, to be fair, you had no way of knowing that.”

  Stravinsky placed the box on the floor and opened it slowly.

  “First, I offer you,” he said, like a conjurer in front of a child, “a six-volt nickel-cadmium battery, made by Eveready.” He paused. “I thought you would appreciate that touch. Second,” he continued, putting his hand back in the box, “a small pulse generator.” He placed the rectangular metal box next to the battery. “Third, two lengths of wire with electrodes attached to their ends. Fourth, two syringes; fifth, a tube of collodion glue, and finally, a vial, of which more later. When I say ‘finally,’ there are still two items left in the box which I shall not require unless it becomes necessary for us to progress to Stage Two in our little experiment, or even Stage Three.”

  Stravinsky placed everything in a straight line on the floor in front of Adam.

  “Doesn’t look like a lot, I confess,” said Stravinsky. “But with a little imagination I’m sure you will be able to work out its potential. Now: in order that Comrade Romanov and the colonel can enjoy the spectacle I am about to offer it is necessary to add a few details about the nervous system itself. I do hope you are following my every word, Captain Scott, because it is the victim’s knowledge which allows him to appreciate the true genius of what is about to follow.”

  It didn’t please Adam that Stravinsky spoke English so well. He could still vividly remember how the Chinese had told him what they were going to do to him in a language that he couldn’t understand. With them he had found it easier to allow his mind to drift during their diatribe, but he still ended up in a refrigerator for four hours.

  “Now to the practical,” continued the gray figure. “By sending a small electrical impulse to the end of the synapse, it is possible to pass on a larger electric message to thousands of other nerves within a fraction of a second. This causes a nasty sensation not unlike touching a live wire when the electrical power has been left on in one’s home, more commonly known as an electric shock. Not deadly, but distinctly unpleasant. In the Moscow school this is known as Stage One, and there is no necessity for you to experience this if you are now willing to tell me where I can find the Czar’s icon.”

  Adam remained impassive.

  “I see you have not paid attention during my little lecture, so I fear we will have to move from the theoretical to the practical.”

  Adam began reciting to himself the thirty-seven plays of Shakespeare. How his old English master would have been delighted to know that after all those years of drumming the complete Shakespearean canon into a reluctant student, Adam could still recall them at a moment’s notice.

  Henry VI, Part One, Henry VI, Part Two, Henry VI, Part Three, Richard II …

  Stravinsky picked up the tube of collodion glue, removed the cap, and smeared two lumps of it on Adam’s chest.

  . . Comedy of Errors, Titus Andronicus, The Taming of the Shrew …

  The Russian attached the two electrodes to the glue, taking the wires back and screwing them to the six-volt battery, which in turn was connected to the tiny pulse generator.

  … The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Romeo and Juliet …

  Without warning, Stravinsky pressed down the handle of the generator for two seconds, during which time Adam received a two-hundred-volt shock. Adam screamed as he experienced excruciating pain while the volts forced their way to every part of his body. But the sensation was over in a moment.

  “Do feel free to let us know exactly how you feel. You are in a soundproof room, and therefore you won’t be disturbing anyone else in the building.”

  Adam ignored the comment and, gripping the side of the chair, mumbled to himself Richard III, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, King John …

  Stravinsky pressed the plunger down for another two seconds. Adam felt the pain instantly the second time. The moment it was over he felt violently nauseated, but managed to remain conscious.

  Stravinsky waited for some time before he volunteered an opinion. “Impressive; you have definitely qualified to enter Stage Two, from which you can be released immediately by answering one simple question. Where is the Czar’s icon?”

  Adam’s mouth had
become so dry that he couldn’t speak, let alone spit.

  “I did try to warn you, Captain Scott.” Stravinsky turned toward the door. “Do go and fetch the captain some water, Colonel.”

  … The Merchant of Venice, Henry IV, Part One, Henry IV, Part Two …

  A moment later Pollard was back, and a bottle was thrust into Adam’s mouth. He gulped half the contents down until it was pulled away.

  “Mustn’t overdo it. You might need some more later. But that won’t be necessary if you let me know where the icon is.”

  Adam spat what was left of the water toward where his adversary was standing.

  Stravinsky leapt forward and slapped Adam hard across the face with the back of his hand. His head slumped.

  “You give me no choice but to advance to Stage Two,” said Stravinsky. He looked toward Romanov, who nodded. Stravinsky’s thin lips parted in another smile. “You may have wondered,” he continued, “how much more harm I can do with a simple six-volt battery, and indeed having seen in numerous American gangster movies an execution by the electric chair, you will know a large generator is needed to kill a man. But first it is important to remember that I don’t want to kill you. Second, my science lessons didn’t end at Stage One. Professor Metz’s mind was also exercised by the feebleness of this stage, and after a lifetime of dedicated research he came up with an ingenious solution known as ‘M,’ which the Academy of Science named after him in his honor. If you inject ‘M’ into the nervous system, messages will be transmitted to all your nerves many times more efficiently, thus allowing the pain to multiply without actually proving fatal.

  “I only need to multiply a few milliamps by a suitable factor to create a far more interesting effect—so I must ask you once again, where is the Czar’s icon?”

  … Much Ado About Nothing, Henry V, Julius Caesar …

  “I see you are determined that I should proceed,” said Stravinsky, removing a syringe from the floor and jabbing the long thin needle into a vial before withdrawing the plunger until the barrel of the syringe was half full. Stravinsky held the needle in the air, pressed the knob, and watched a little spray flow out like a tiny fountain. He moved behind Adam.

  “I am now going to give you a lumbar puncture, which, if you attempt to move, will paralyze you from the neck down for life. By nature I am not an honest man, but on this occasion I must recommend you to trust me. I assure you that the injection will not kill you because, as you already know, that is not in our best interest.”

  Adam didn’t move a muscle as he felt the syringe go into his back. As You Like … he began. Then excruciating pain swept his body, and suddenly, blessedly, he felt nothing.

  When he came round there was no way of telling how much time had passed. His eyes slowly focused on his tormentor pacing up and down the room impatiently. Seeing Adam’s eyes open, the unshaven man stopped pacing, smiled, walked over to the chair, and ran his fingers slowly over the large bandage that covered Adam’s two-day-old shoulder wound. The touch appeared gentle, but to Adam it felt like a hot iron being forced across his shoulder.

  “As I promised,” said Stravinsky. “A far more interesting sensation is awaiting you. And now I think I’ll rip the bandage off.” He waited for a moment while Adam pursed his lips. Then, in one movement, he tore the bandage back. Adam screamed as if the bullet had hit him again. Romanov came forward, leaned over and studied the wound.

  “I’m relieved to see my colleague didn’t miss you completely,” Romanov said before adding, “can you imagine what it will be like when I allow Dr. Stravinsky to wire you up again and then press the little generator?”

  … 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. Stravinsky 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. Stravinsky 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 Stravinsky. “We lost one or two that way in the early days, but we know better now.”

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

  “Where is the Czar’s icon?” shouted Stravinsky.

  “ … 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 Stravinsky 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 Stravinsky 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. Stravinsky 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. Stravinsky stared down at him.

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

  Adam passed out.

  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 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 Dragon 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 Ministry of the Interior, but when I arrived I was informed that he had been taken away twenty minutes earlier by someone using my name. We contacted your office immediately, but as you were already en route to the plane 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 Stravinsky and the colonel from our presence. Now I have no desire to see Stravinsky continue this 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 Czar left in the safekeeping 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 Saint 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 realize, 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 Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering died.” He turned the paper around so Adam could see “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 Reichsmarschall’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 honor.”