A Matter of Honor

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Do you want to come back to Paris with us?”

  Adam hesitated. Couldn’t they hear the noise too? “No. I have to get to Boulogne.”

  “We could drive you to Boulogne and still have enough time to take the car to Paris.”

  “No, no. That’s very considerate. I can take care of myself as long as I can feel confident that the car will be delivered back as soon as possible.”

  The taller one shrugged while his companion opened a rear door and threw their rucksacks on the backseat. Adam remained in the tunnel while they started up the engine. He could hear the purr of the helicopter blades change cadence; it had to be descending to land in a nearby field.

  Go, go, for God’s sake, go, he wanted to shout as the car shot forward toward Boulogne. He watched them travel down the road for about a hundred yards before turning in at a farm entrance, reversing, and then heading back toward the tunnel. They tooted as they passed him in the dark, disappearing in the direction of Paris. Adam sank down on to his knees with relief and was about to pick himself up and start walking toward Boulogne when he saw two figures silhouetted at the far entrance of the tunnel. Against the clear blue sky he could make out the outline of one tall, thin man. They stood peering into the tunnel. Adam didn’t move a muscle, praying they hadn’t spotted him.

  And then suddenly the thin man started walking toward him, while the other remained motionless. Adam knew he could not hope to escape again. He knelt there cursing his own stupidity. In seconds the man would be able to see him clearly.

  “Don’t let’s waste any more valuable time, Marvin, we already know that the traitor’s heading back to Paris.”

  “I just thought perhaps …” began the one called Marvin, in a Southern drawl.

  “Leave the thinking to me. Now let’s get back to the chopper before we lose him.”

  When Marvin was only twenty yards away from Adam he suddenly stopped, turned around, and began running back.

  Adam remained rooted to the spot for several minutes. A cold, clammy sweat enveloped his body the moment he realized his latest pursuer was not Romanov. If one of them hadn’t referred to him as a “traitor,” Adam would have happily given himself up. Suddenly he had become painfully aware of the difference between fact and fiction: he had been left with no friends.

  Adam did not move again until he heard the helicopter rise above him. Peering out, he could see outlined against the arc of the tunnel the Americans heading in the direction of Paris.

  He staggered outside and put a hand across his eyes. The sunlight seemed much fiercer than a few minutes before. What next? He had less than an hour to catch the boat but no longer had any transport. He wasn’t sure whether to thumb lifts, search for a bus stop, or simply get as far away from the main road as possible. His eyes were continually looking up into the sky. How long before they reached the car and realized it was not him inside?

  Cyclists began to pass him again as he jogged slowly toward Boulogne. He kept on moving and even found enough strength to cheer the British competitors as they pedaled by. The British team van followed close behind, and Adam gave it the thumbs-up sign. To his surprise the van came to a halt in front of him.

  The driver wound down the window. “Weren’t you the fellow who stopped me back in Abbeville?”

  “That’s right,” said Adam. “Has your man recovered?”

  “No, he’s resting in the back—pulled ligament. What happened to your car?”

  “Broke down about a mile back,” said Adam, shrugging philosophically.

  “Bad luck. Can I give you a lift?” the man asked. “We’re only going as far as Boulogne on this stage, but jump in if it will help.”

  “Thank you,” said Adam, with the relief of a bearded beatnik who has found the one person willing to stop to pick him up. The driver leaned across and pushed open the door for him.

  Before climbing in, Adam shielded his eyes and once more looked up into the sky. The helicopter was nowhere to be seen—although he knew it couldn’t be long before it returned. They would quickly work out there was only one place where the switch could possibly have been made.

  “My name’s Bob,” said the track-suited driver, thrusting out his free hand. “I’m the British team manager.”

  “Mine’s Adam.” He took the other’s hand warmly.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Boulogne,” said Adam, “and with luck I could still make my crossing by three.”

  “We should be there about two-thirty,” said Bob. “We have to be; the afternoon stage starts at three.”

  “Will your man be able to ride?” asked Adam, pointing over his shoulder.

  “No, he won’t be competing in this race again,” said the team manager. “He’s pulled a ligament in the back of his leg, and they always take a couple of weeks to heal properly. I shall have to leave him in Boulogne and complete the last leg myself. You don’t ride, by any chance, do you?” Bob asked.

  “No,” said Adam. “Run a little, but haven’t done a lot on wheels since my sister crashed the family tricycle.”

  “We’re still in with a chance for the bronze,” Bob said, as they overtook the British riders once more.

  Adam gave them the thumbs-up sign and then looked over his shoulder through the back window. He was thankful to see that there was still no sign of the helicopter as they drove into the outskirts of Boulogne. Bob took him all the way up to the dockside. “Hope you get that bronze medal,” said Adam as he jumped out of the van. “And thanks again. Good luck with the next stage.”

  Adam checked his watch: twenty minutes before the boat was due to sail. He wondered if it was too much time. He walked over to the ticket office and waited in a short line before buying a passenger ticket. He kept looking round to check if anyone was watching him, but no one seemed to be showing the slightest interest. Once he had purchased his ticket, he headed toward the ship and had just begun to start whistling a tuneless version of Yesterday when a black speck appeared in the distance. There was no mistaking it—the sound was enough.

  Adam looked up at the gangway that led to the deck of the ship, now only yards away from him, and then back to the speck as it grew larger and larger in the sky. He checked his watch: the ship was due to leave in twelve minutes—still time enough for his pursuers to land the helicopter and get on board too. If he climbed on and the Americans followed, they were bound to discover him. But if the Americans got on and he stayed off, that would still give him enough time to reach Dieppe before the next sailing …

  Adam jogged quickly back toward the large crowd that was hanging about waiting for the start of the next stage of the road race. As he did so the helicopter swept overhead and started hovering, like a kestrel that is looking for a mouse.

  “I thought you said you were desperate to be on that ship.”

  Adam swung round, his fist clenched, only to face the British team manager now dressed in riding gear.

  “Changed my mind,” said Adam.

  “Wouldn’t care to drive the van for us on the next stage?” said Bob hopefully.

  “Where does the next stage go?” Adam asked.

  “Dunkerque,” said the team manager.

  Adam tried to remember what time Robin had said her boat left from Dunkerque.

  “Six minutes,” a voice said over the loudspeaker.

  “Okay,” said Adam.

  “Good,” said the team manager. “Then follow me.”

  Adam ran behind the team manager as he headed toward the van.

  “Quatre minutes,” Adam heard clearly as Bob unlocked the van and handed him the keys. He stared toward the ship. The two Americans were emerging from the ticket office.

  “Deux minutes.”

  Adam jumped up into the driver’s seat, looked over toward the boat, and watched Marvin and his colleague stride up the gangplank.

  “Use minute.”

  “Just get the van to Dunkerque and leave the keys at the British checkpoint. We’ll see you whe
n we get there.”

  “Good luck,” said Adam.

  “Thank you,” said Bob, and ran to the starting line to join his teammates, who were anxiously holding his bike.

  “Trente secondes.”

  Adam watched the gangplank being hoisted up as the starter raised his gun.

  “On your marks, set …”

  The ship’s foghorn belched out a droning note and the two Americans started their journey to Calais.

  A second later, the gun went off as Adam put the van into second gear and headed toward Dunkerque.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ADAM SAT IN the little dockside cafe waiting for the coach to appear. The team van had been left at the checkpoint and he was not ready to board the ship but he still needed to be sure Robin was on it. It appeared with only ten minutes to spare and Adam greeted her as she stepped off the coach.

  “Just couldn’t keep away from me, could you?” said Robin.

  Adam burst out laughing and threw his arms around her.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  “I thought you were going back to England by some mysterious route—you know, spy rocket or something even more exotic.”

  “I had hoped to,” said Adam, “but the Americans were sitting at the controls just as I decided to climb aboard.”

  “The Americans?” she said.

  “I’ll explain everything once we’re on board,” said Adam. Neither of them noticed the young agent who had trailed Robin from Berlin. He sat in a phone booth on the far side of the dock and dialed an overseas number.

  “I wouldn’t have believed a word of it a week ago,” she said, “but for two things.”

  “Namely?”

  “First, a senior official of the Foreign Office returned Dudley Hulme’s passport to him in Amsterdam. Which reminds me to give you yours back.” She rummaged around in her bag for a few moments before taking out a dark-blue passport and handing it to him.

  “And what’s the second thing?” said Adam, taking the passport gratefully.

  “I had the doubtful pleasure of coming face to face with Comrade Romanov, and I have no desire to do so again.”

  “I intend to meet him again,” said Adam.

  “Why?” asked Robin.

  “Because I’m going to kill him.”

  Romanov and Tomkins arrived in Dover a few minutes before the ferry was due to dock. They waited expectantly. Romanov stationed himself so that he could look through the customs hall window and watch the ferry as it sailed into Dover harbor. He had found the perfect spot behind a coffee-vending machine from which he could observe everyone who entered or left the customs hall, while at the same time remaining hidden from view.

  “Just in case he should act out of character for a change,” said Romanov, “and fails to go in a straight line, you will cover the car exit and report back to me if you notice anything unusual.”

  The colonel left Romanov secreted behind the coffee machine while he selected a place for himself on the dockside where he could watch the cars as they entered the customs area some fifty yards from the exit gate. If Scott did leave the ferry in a car Tomkins would easily have enough time to run back and warn Romanov before Scott could hope to clear customs and reach the main gate. At least this would be the one place Scott couldn’t risk hiding in the trunk. Both men waited.

  The captain switched on his ship-to-shore radio to channel 9 and spoke clearly into the small microphone. “This is the MV Chantilly calling the Dover Harbormaster. Are you receiving me?” He waited for a moment, flicked up the switch in front of him and then heard: “Harbormaster to MV Chantilly. Receiving you loud and clear, over.”

  “This is the captain speaking. We have an emergency. A male passenger has fallen out of a lifeboat onto the deck and suffered multiple injuries to his arms and legs.” Adam groaned as the captain continued. “I shall need an ambulance to be standing by at the quayside to take him to the nearest hospital once we have docked. Over.”

  “Message received and understood, Captain. An ambulance will be waiting for you when the ship docks. Over and out.”

  “Everything will be all right, my dear,” said Robin in a gentle voice that Adam had not heard before. “As soon as we arrive, they are going to see you are taken straight to a hospital.”

  “I must get back to the bridge,” said the captain gruffly. “I shall instruct two stewards to bring a stretcher down for your brother.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Robin. “You have been most helpful.”

  “It’s quite all right, miss. You did say your brother?”

  “Yes, Captain,” said Robin.

  “Well, you might advise him in future that it’s in his best interests to drink less before he comes on board.”

  “I’ve tried,” said Robin, sighing. “You couldn’t believe how many times I’ve tried, Captain, but I’m afraid he takes after my father.” Adam held on to his leg and groaned again.

  “Um,” said the captain, looking down at the gash across Adam’s shoulder. “Let’s hope it turns out not to be serious. Good luck,” he added.

  “Thank you again, Captain,” said Robin as she watched the cabin door close behind him.

  “So far, so good,” said Robin. “Now let’s hope the second part of the plan works. By the way, your breath smells foul.”

  “What do you expect after making me swirl whiskey round in my mouth for twenty minutes and then forcing me to spit it out all over my own clothes?”

  Adam was lifted carefully onto the stretcher, then carried out on to the deck by two stewards. They waited at the head of the gangplank and placed Adam gently on the deck while a customs officer, accompanied by an immigration officer, ran up to join them. Robin handed over his passport. The immigration officer flicked through the pages and checked the photograph.

  “Quite a good likeness for a change,” said Robin, “but I’m afraid they may have to include this under ‘unusual scars’ in the next edition.” She threw back the blanket dramatically and revealed the deep gash on Adam’s shoulder. Adam looked suitably crestfallen.

  “Is he bringing anything in with him that needs to be declared?” asked the customs official. Adam couldn’t stop himself from touching the icon.

  “No, I wouldn’t let him buy any more booze on this trip. And I’ll be responsible for checking his personal belongings through with mine when I leave the ship.”

  “Right. Thank you, miss. Better see he gets off to the hospital then,” said the officer, suddenly aware that a restless mob of people was waiting at the top of the gangplank to disembark.

  The two stewards carried Adam down the gangplank. An attendant was on hand to check his wound. Adam waved gamely at Robin as they placed him in the ambulance.

  Romanov spotted her as she came through customs. “Now I know exactly how Captain Scott hopes to get off the ship, and we will be waiting for him when he least expects it. Go and hire a car to take us to London,” he barked at the colonel.

  The ambulance shot out through the customs gates with its lights full on and bells ringing. By the time they had arrived at The Royal Victoria Hospital the attendant had watched his patient’s remarkable recovery en route with disbelief. He was beginning to feel that the captain might have exaggerated the scale of the emergency.

  Romanov stood by the gate and smiled as he watched the coach carrying the musicians emerge from the deep black hole of the ship and take its turn in the line for customs.

  As Romanov’s eyes ranged up and down the coach he quickly picked out Robin Beresford. Just as he had anticipated, the double bass was propped up by her side, making it impossible to see who was seated next to her.

  “You won’t pull that one on me a second time,” Romanov muttered, just as the colonel appeared by his side, red in the face.

  “Where’s the car?” the Russian demanded, not taking his eyes from the coach.

  “I’ve booked one provisionally,” said the colonel, “but they’ll need your internation
al license. I forgot Scott has got mine, along with all my other papers.”

  “You stay put,” said Romanov, “and make sure Scott doesn’t try to get off that coach.” Romanov ran to the Avis desk at the same time as Adam was being wheeled into a little cubicle to be examined by the duty registrar.

  The young doctor leaned over his patient for several minutes. He had never seen a wound quite like it before. He examined him carefully, before making any comment. “Nasty lacerations,” he said finally, cleaning Adam’s shoulder wound. “Can you circle your arm?” Adam turned the arm in a full circle and straightened it out again. “Good. No break, at least.” He continued to clean the wound.

  “I’m going to put some iodine on the open cut, and it may sting a little,” said the doctor. He cleaned up both elbows before placing a plaster on them.

  “That didn’t happen today, did it?” he asked, staring at Adam’s half-healed shoulder.

  “No,” said Adam, without offering any explanations.

  “You have been in the wars lately, I’m going to give you an antitetanus injection.” Adam turned white. “Funny how many grown men don’t care for the sight of a needle,” said the doctor. Adam groaned.

  “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he suggested as he placed a large bandage over the top of the shoulder. “Do you have someone to collect you?” the doctor asked finally.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Adam. “My wife is waiting for me.”

  “Good, then you can go now, but please report to your GP the moment you get back home.”

  Romanov sat in the driver’s seat and watched the coach clear customs. He followed it out of the main gate and on to the A2 in the direction of London.

  “Are we going to intercept them on the way?” asked Tomkins nervously.