A Matter of Honor

by Jeffrey Archer

  Adam suddenly felt very small.

  “Coffee and croissants?” she shouted.

  “Fantastic,” said Adam. He paused. “I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

  “Not to think about it,” she said. “Ça n’est rien.”

  “I still don’t know your name,” said Adam.

  “My working name is Brigitte, but as you ‘ave not use my services last night or this morning you can call me by my real name, Jeanne.”

  “Can I have a bath, Jeanne?”

  “The door in the corner, but don’t take too long, unless you like croissants cold.” Adam made his way to the bathroom and found Jeanne had provided for everything a man might need: a razor, shaving cream, soap, flannel, clean towels—and a giant box of condoms.

  After a warm bath and a shave, delights Adam had nearly forgotten, he felt almost back to normal again, if still somewhat fragile. He tucked a pink towel around his waist before joining Jeanne in the kitchen. The table was already laid, and she was removing a warm croissant from the oven.

  “Good body,” she said, turning round and scrutinizing him carefully. “Much better than I usually ‘e.” She put the plate down in front of him.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” said Adam, grinning, taking the scat opposite her.

  “I am ‘appy you notice,” said Jeanne. “I was beginning to think about you.” Adam spread the roll liberally with jam and didn’t speak again for several seconds.

  “When ‘ave you last eat?” asked Jeanne as he devoured the final scrap left on the plate.

  “Yesterday lunch. But I emptied my stomach in between.”

  “Sick, eh? You mustn’t drink so much.”

  “I think ‘drained’ might be a better word. Tell me, Jeanne,” said Adam, looking at her, “are you still available for work?”

  She checked her watch. “One of my regulars is at two this afternoon, and I must be back on the streets by five. So it would ‘ave to be this morning,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant,” said Adam.

  “You could quickly give a girl, how do you say in England? —a complex,” said Jeanne. “You not one of those weird ones, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Adam, laughing. “But I would be willing to pay you another two hundred francs for your service.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Alors, that makes a change. ‘Ow long you need me?”

  “An hour, two at the most.”

  “It’s better than the rate for my present job. What am I expected to do?”

  “For one hour I want every man in Paris to fancy you. Only this time you won’t be available—at any price.”

  “Scott just contacted me only a few minutes ago,” said Lawrence to the assembled D4.

  “What did he have to say?” asked an anxious Sir Morris.

  “Only that he was turning back the clock.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?” asked Snell, nervously touching his mustache.

  “Geneva would be my guess,” said Lawrence.

  “Why Geneva?” said Matthews.

  “I’m not certain,” said Lawrence, “but he said it had something to do with the German girl, or the bank, but I can’t be sure which.”

  No one spoke for some time.

  “Did you trace the call?” asked Busch.

  “Only the area,” said Lawrence. “Neuchâtel on the French-Swiss border.”

  “Good. Then we’re in business again,” said Sir Morris. “Have you informed Interpol?”

  “Yes sir, and I’ve personally briefed the German, French, and Swiss police,” added Lawrence, which were the only true words he had spoken since the meeting had begun.

  Jeanne took forty minutes to get herself ready, and when Adam saw the result he let out a long whistle.

  “No one is going to give me a second look, even if I were to empty the till in front of them,” he told her.

  “That is the idea, n’est-ce pas?” Jeanne said, grinning.

  “Now, are you sure you know exactly what you have to do?” said Adam.

  “I know well.” Jeanne checked herself once more in the long hall mirror. “We’ave rehearse like military exercise four times already.”

  “Good,” said Adam. “You sound as if you’re ready to face the enemy. So let’s begin with what in the army they call ‘advance to contact.’”

  Jeanne took out a plastic bag from a drawer in the kitchen. The single word “Céline” was printed across it. She handed it over to Adam. He folded the bag in four, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket before walking into the corridor. She locked the flat door behind them, and they walked down the stairs together and out on to the pavement.

  Adam hailed a taxi and Jeanne told the driver, “Tuileries garden.” Once they had arrived, Adam paid the fare and joined Jeanne on the pavement.

  “Bonne chance,” said Adam as he remained on the corner, allowing Jeanne to walk twenty yards ahead of him. Although he still felt unsteady, he was able to keep up at her pace. The sun beat down on his face as he watched her walk in and out of the ornate flower beds. Her pink leather skirt and tight white sweater made almost every man she passed turn and take a second look. Some even stopped in their tracks and continued watching until she was out of sight.

  The comments she could hear and Adam couldn’t, twenty yards behind, ranged from “Je payerais n’importe quoi,” which she reluctantly had to pass up, to just plain “Putain, which Adam had told her to ignore. Her part had to be acted out, and for two hundred francs she would just have to suffer the odd insult.

  Jeanne reached the Right Bank of the Seine, and she did not look back; she had been instructed not to turn around in any circumstances. Keep going forward, Adam had told her. He was still twenty yards behind her when she reached the quai des Tuileries. She waited for the lights to turn green before she crossed the wide road, keeping in the center of a throng of people.

  At the end of the quai she turned sharp right, and for the first time could see the Louvre straight in front of her. She had been too embarrassed to admit to him that she had never been inside the building before.

  Jeanne climbed the steps to the entrance hall. By the time she had reached the swinging doors, Adam was approaching the bottom step. She continued on up the marble staircase with Adam still following discreetly behind.

  When Jeanne reached the top of the stairs she passed the statue of the Winged Victory of Samothrace. She proceeded into the first of the large crowded rooms and began counting to herself, noting as she passed through each gallery that there was at least one attendant on duty in each, usually standing around aimlessly near one of the exits. A group of schoolchildren were studying The Last Supper by Giovanni, but Jeanne ignored the masterpiece and marched straight on. After passing six attendants she arrived in the room Adam had described to her so vividly. She strode purposefully into the center and paused for a few seconds. Some of the men began to lose interest in the paintings. Satisfied by the impact she was causing, she flounced over to the guard, who straightened up his jacket and smiled at her.

  “Dans quelle direction se trouve de la peinture du seizième siècle?” Jeanne asked innocently. The guard turned to point in the direction of the relevant room. The moment he turned back, Jeanne slapped him hard across the face and shouted at him at the top of her voice: “Quelle horreur! Pour qui est-ce que vous me prenez?”

  Only one person in the icon room didn’t stop to gaze at the spectacle. “Je vais parler à la direction,” she screamed, and flounced off toward the main exit. The entire charade was over in less than thirty seconds. The bemused guard remained transfixed to the spot, staring after his assailant in bewilderment.

  Jeanne continued on through three centuries more quickly than H. G. Wells. She took a left turn into the sixteenth-century room as instructed, and then another left brought her back into the long corridor. A few moments later, she joined Adam at the top of the
marble staircase leading down to the front entrance.

  As they walked back down the steps together, Adam handed her the Céline bag and was about to part again, when two attendants waiting on the bottom step threw out their arms, indicating they should halt.

  “Do you wish a run for it?” she whispered.

  “Certainly not,” said Adam very firmly. “Just don’t say anything.”

  “Madame, excusez moi, mais je dois fouiller dans votre sac.”

  “Allez-y pour tout ce que vous y trouvez,” said Jeanne.

  “Certainly you can search her bag,” said Adam, returning to her side before Jeanne could say anything more. “It’s an icon, quite a good one, I think. I purchased it in a shop near the Champs Elysées only this morning.”

  “Vous me permettez, monsieur?” the senior attendant asked suspiciously.

  “Why not?” said Adam. He removed the Czar’s icon from the bag and handed it over to the attendant, who seemed surprised by the way things were turning out. Two more attendants rushed over and stood on each side of Adam.

  The senior attendant asked in broken English if Adam would mind if one of the gallery’s experts were to look at the painting.

  “Only too delighted,” said Adam. “It would be fascinating to have a second opinion.”

  The senior attendant was beginning to look unsure of himself. “Je dois vous demander de me suivre,” he suggested in a tone that was suddenly less hostile. He ushered them quickly through to a little room at the side of the gallery. The attendant put the Czar’s icon in the middle of a table that dominated the room. Adam sat down and Jeanne, still bemused, took the seat beside him.

  “I’ll only be a moment, sir.” The senior attendant almost ran out while the two other attendants remained stationed near the door. Adam still did not attempt to speak to Jeanne although he could see that she was becoming more and more apprehensive. He shot her a little smile as they sat waiting.

  When the door eventually opened, an elderly man with a scholarly face preceded the senior attendant.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” he began, looking at Adam, the first man who did not show an overt interest in Jeanne. “I understand that you are English,” and without giving either of them more than a glance, he picked up the icon.

  He studied the painting carefully for some time before he spoke. Adam felt just a moment’s apprehension. “Most interesting. Yes, yes.” One of the attendants put a hand on his billy club.

  “Interesting,” he repeated. “I would be so bold as to sunggest,” he hesitated, “late nineteenth century, eighteen seventy, possibly ‘eighty. Fascinating. Not that we have ever had anything quite like it at the Louvre,” he added. “You do realize it’s an inferior copy,” he said as he handed the icon back to Adam. “The original Czar’s icon of Saint George and the dragon hangs in the Winter Palace in Leningrad. I’ve seen it, you know,” he added, sounding rather pleased with himself.

  “You certainly have,” said Adam under his breath as he placed the icon back in its plastic bag. The old man bowed low to Jeanne and said as he shuffled away, “Funnily enough, someone else was making inquiries about the Czar’s icon only a few weeks ago.” Adam was the only person who didn’t seem surprised.

  “I was only—” began the senior attendant.

  “Doing your duty,” completed Adam. “A natural precaution, if I may say so,” he added a little pompously. “I can only admire the way you carried out the entire exercise.”

  Jeanne stared at them both, quite unable to comprehend what was happening.

  “You are kind, monsieur,” said the attendant, sounding relieved. “Hope you come again,” he added, smiling at Jeanne.

  The attendant accompanied the two of them to the entrance of the Louvre, and when they pushed through the door he stood smartly to attention and saluted.

  Adam and Jeanne walked down the steps and into the Paris sun.

  “Well, can I now know what that’s all about?” asked Jeanne,

  “You were magnifique,” said Adam, not attempting to explain.

  “I know, I know,” said Jeanne. “But why you need Oscar-winning show by me when the picture was always yours?”

  “True,” agreed Adam. “But I had left it in their safe-keeping overnight. And without your bravura performance it might have taken considerably longer to convince the authorities that it belonged to me in the first place.”

  Adam realized from the look on her face that Jeanne had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You know, that my first time in the Louvre?” said Jeanne, linking her arm through Adam’s.

  “You’re priceless,” said Adam, laughing.

  “That I’m not,” she said, turning to face him. “Two hundred francs was our bargain even if it belongs to you or not.”

  “Correct,” said Adam, taking out the colonel’s wallet and extracting two hundred francs, to which he added another hundred. “A well-earned bonus,” said Adam.

  She pocketed the money gratefully. “I think I’ll take an evening off,” she said.

  Adam held her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks as if she were a French general.

  She kissed him on the lips and smiled. “When you next in Paris, chéri, look me up. I owe you one—on the house.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Antarctic was willing to give Pemberton too many facts?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told me that Pemberton said he would never phone back if you let him down again. Not only did he phone again, but he peppered you with facts. Which way did he say he was going?”

  “Back to Geneva. Something to do with the German girl and the bank.”

  “The girl’s dead and the bank’s closed today. He must be on his way to England.”

  “I would like to rent a car, which I will be dropping off at the coast. haven’t decided which port yet,” he told the girl behind the counter.

  “Bien sûr, monsieur,” said the girl. “Would you be kind enough to fill in the form, and we will also need your driver’s license.” Adam removed all the papers from his inside pocket and passed over the colonel’s driver’s license. He filled in the forms slowly, copying the signature off the back of the colonel’s Playboy Club card. He handed over the full amount required in cash, hoping it would speed up the transaction.

  The girl picked up the cash and counted the notes carefully before checking the back of the license against the signature on the form. Adam was relieved that she hadn’t spotted the disparity in the dates of birth. He replaced all Albert Tomkins’s documents and wallet in his inside jacket pocket as the girl turned round and removed an ignition key from a hook on a board behind her.

  “It’s a red Citroen, parked on the first floor,” she told him. “The registration number is stamped on the key ring.”

  Adam thanked her and walked quickly up to the first floor where he handed the key over to an attendant, who drove the car out of its parking space for him.

  When the attendant returned the key, Adam handed him a ten-franc note. Exactly the same sum as the other man had given him to let him know if an Englishman who fitted Adam’s description tried to hire a car. What had he promised? Another hundred francs if he phoned within five minutes of seeing him.

  PART IV

  THE KREMLIN

  MOSCOW

  June 19, 1966

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE KREMLIN

  JUNE 19, 1966

  LEONID ILYICH BREZHNEV entered the room, hardly allowing the other four members of the inner quorum of the Defense Council enough time to stand. Their faces were grim, resolute, no different from their public image—unlike Western politicians.

  The General Secretary took his place at the head of the table and nodded to his colleagues to sit.

  The last time the inner quorum of the Defense Council had been summoned to a meeting at an hour’s notice had been at the request of Khrushchev, who was hoping to enlist support for his Cuban adve
nture. Brezhnev would never forget the moment when his predecessor had uncontrollably burst into tears because they had forced him to order the Soviet ships to return home. From that moment, Brezhnev knew it could only be a matter of time before he would succeed Khrushchev as the leader of the Communist world. On this occasion he had no intention of bursting into tears.

  On his right sat Marshal Malinovsky, Minister of Defense; on his left Andrei Gromyko, the young Foreign Minister. Beside him sat the Chief of the General Staff, Marshal Zakharov, and, on his left, Yuri Zaborski. Even the seating plan confirmed Brezhnev’s obvious displeasure with the Chairman of the KGB.

  He raised his eyes and stared up at the massive oil painting of Lenin reviewing an early military parade in Red Square, a picture no one other than members of the Politburo had seen since it disappeared from the Tretyakov in 1950.

  If only Lenin had realized the icon was a fake in the first place, Brezhnev reflected … . Yet, despite the traditional Russian pastime of blaming the dead for everything that goes wrong, he knew that Vladimir Ilyich Lenin was beyond criticism. He would have to find a living scapegoat.

  His eyes rested on Zaborski. “Your report, Comrade Chairman.”

  Zaborski fingered a file in front of him although he knew the contents almost by heart. “The plan to locate the Czar’s icon was carried out in an exemplary fashion,” he began. “When the Englishman, Adam Scott, was caught and later … questioned”—they all accepted the euphemism—“by Comrade Dr. Stravinsky in the privacy of our embassy in Paris, the Englishman gave no clue as to where we would find the icon. It became obvious he was a professional agent of the West. After three hours, interrogation was momentarily suspended. It was during this period that the prisoner managed to escape.”

  “Managed,” interjected Brezhnev.

  Just as he had taught his subordinates over the years, the Chairman of the KGB made no attempt to reply.