For the first time since Heidi’s death, Adam felt it was Romanov who was on the run.
“What a great honor for our little establishment,” said Herr Bischoff, delighted to see the most important banker in the East sitting in his boardroom sharing afternoon tea.
“Not at all, my dear Bischoff,” said Poskonov. “After all these years the honor is entirely mine. But now to business. Did you manage to get Romanov to sign the release form?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bischoff, matter-of-factly, “he did it without even reading the standard clauses, let alone the extra three you asked us to put in.”
“So his inheritance automatically returns to the Russian people?”
“That is so, Mr. Poskonov, and we in return …”
“ … Will represent us in all the currency exchange transactions we carry out in the West.”
“Thank you,” said Herr Bischoff. “And we shall be delighted to assist you in your slightest requirement, but what happens when Romanov returns to the bank and demands to know what has become of his inheritance?” asked Herr Bischoff anxiously.
“I don’t think that problem will arise,” the Russian banker promised. “Now, I would like to see what is in those boxes.”
“Yes, of course,” said Herr Bischoff. “Will you please accompany me?”
The two banking chairmen took the private lift to the basement, and Herr Bischoff accompanied his guest to the underground vault.
“I will unlock the five boxes now in your name with the bank’s key, but only you can open them with your key.”
“Thank you,” said Poskonov, and left Herr Bischoff to open the five locks and return to the entrance of the vault.
“Do take as long as you like,” said Herr Bischoff, “but at five o’clock the great door is automatically locked until nine o’lock tomorrow morning, and nothing less than a nuclear weapon would prize it open. At four forty-five an alarm goes off to warn you that you only have fifteen minutes left.”
“Excellent,” said a man who through his entire banking career had never been given a fifteen-minute warning of anything.
Herr Bischoff handed Comrade Poskonov the envelope with Romanov’s key in it.
As soon as the massive steel door had been swung closed behind him, the Russian checked the clock on the wall. They had left him with over two hours to sort out what could be transported to Brazil and what would have to be left behind. A state pension and the Order of Lenin (second class) hadn’t seemed much of an alternative to Poskonov.
He turned the key and opened the first of the small boxes and found the deeds to lands the State had owned for decades. He growled. The second box contained the shares of companies once brilliantly successful, now shells in every sense of the word. And to Poskonov’s disappointment the third of the small boxes only held a will proving everything belonged to Romanov’s father and his immediate heirs. Had he waited all these years to discover the stories the old man had told him of gold, jewels, and pearls were nothing but a fantasy? Or had Romanov already removed them?
Poskonov opened the first of the large boxes and stared down at the twelve little compartments. He removed the lid of the first one tentatively, and when he saw the array of gems and stones that shone in front of him his legs felt weak. He put both hands into the box and let the gems slip through his fingers like a child playing with pebbles on a beach.
The second box produced pearls, and the third gold coins and medallions that could make even an old man’s eyes sparkle. He hadn’t realized how long it had taken him to go through the remaining boxes, but when the alarm went off he was five thousand miles away already enjoying his newfound wealth. He glanced up at the clock. He had easily enough time to get everything back into the compartments, and then he would return the following day and remove once and for all what he had earned from fifty years of serving the State.
When the last lid had been placed back on he checked the clock on the wall: six minutes to five. Just enough time to glance in the other box and see if he could expect the same again.
He turned the key and licked his lips in anticipation as he pulled the large box out. Just a quick look, he promised himself, as he lifted the lid. When he saw the decaying body with its gray skin and eyes hanging in their sockets he reeled backward from the sight and, falling to the floor, clutched his heart.
Both bodies were discovered at nine the next morning.
The phone rang, and Adam grabbed at it before the shrill tone could deafen him a second time.
“Your alarm call, sir,” said a girl’s voice gently. “tt’s eight o’clock.”
“Thank you,” Adam replied and replaced the receiver. The call had proved unnecessary because he had been sitting up in bed considering the implications of his plan for nearly an hour. Adam had finally worked out exactly how he was going to kill Romanov.
He jumped out of bed, threw back the curtains, and stared down at the Soviet embassy. He wondered how long the Russian had been awake.
He returned to the side of the bed and picked up the phone to dial the number Robin had given him. The phone rang several times before it was answered by an elderly voice saying, “Mrs. Beresford.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Beresford, my name is Adam Scott, I’m a friend of Robin’s. I was just phoning to check that she reached home safely last night.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Robin’s mother. “It was a pleasant surprise to see her before the weekend. She usually spends the night in the flat when she gets back that late. I’m afraid she’s still asleep. Would you like me to wake her?”
“No, no, don’t disturb her,” said Adam. “I only rang to fix up a lunch date. Can you tell her I’ll call back later.”
“I certainly will,” she replied. “Thank you for phoning, Mr. Scott.”
Adam replaced the receiver and smiled. Each piece of the jigsaw was fitting neatly into place, but without the colonel’s help he still lacked the vital cornerpiece. Adam began to put everything Tomkins needed, including his passport, personal papers, and wallet, into a large envelope. He removed the icon from his jacket pocket, turned it over, and carefully examined the little silver crest of the Czar. He then flicked open the colonel’s penknife and began the slow and delicate task of removing the crown.
Thirty minutes later, Adam was in the lift on the way to the hotel basement. When he stepped out, he walked across to the space where he had parked the green Ford earlier that morning. He unlocked the door and threw the colonel’s old jacket onto the seat, then locked the car, checking all the doors before taking the lift back up to the ground floor.
The manager of the men’s shop in the arcade had just flicked over the Closed sign, and Adam took his time selecting a white shirt, gray flannels, and a blue blazer, trying them on in their little changing room.
At nine twenty-three he settled his bill with the Royal Garden Hotel and asked the doorman to bring the green Ford up from the parking lot. He waited by the hotel entrance.
As the minutes passed, he began to fear that the colonel wouldn’t turn up. If he failed to, Adam knew that the next call would have to be to Lawrence and not Romanov.
His reverie was disturbed by a honk on a car horn; the colonel’s rented car had been left by the entrance.
“Your car is waiting on the ramp,” said the doorman, as he returned the keys to Adam.
“Thank you,” said Adam and handed over the last of the colonel’s pound notes. He dropped the wallet into the large envelope, which he sealed, before checking his watch again.
He stood waiting anxiously for another two minutes before he spotted the colonel puffing up the slope leading to the hotel entrance.
He was clinging onto a small carrier bag.
“I’ve done it, Captain Scott, sir, I’ve done it,” said the colonel, before he had reached Adam’s side. “But I must return immediately or he’s bound to notice it’s gone.”
He passed the carrier bag quickly to Adam, who opened the top and stared down at the o
bject inside.
“You’re a man of your word,” said Adam, “and as promised you’ll) find everything you need in there.” He passed over his own package along with the car keys without speaking. He pointed to the hire car.
The colonel ran to it, jumped in, and drove quickly down the ramp of the Royal Garden Hotel before turning left into Kensington Palace Gardens.
Adam checked his watch: nine thirty-five.
“Could you call me a taxi?” he asked the doorman.
The driver pulled the window down and gave Adam an inquiring look.
“The Wood Workshop, Kings Road.”
Adam spent twenty minutes looking around the shop while the craftsman carried out his unusual request. Adam studied the result with satisfaction, paid him two half crowns, and then walked back on to Kings Road to hail another taxi.
“Where to, guv’nor?”
“The Tower of London.”
Everyone was in his place for the D4 meeting at nine-thirty, and Busch had gone on the attack even before Lawrence had had the chance to sit down.
“How in hell did you manage to lose him this time?”
“I must take the blame myself,” said Lawrence. “We had every port from Newhaven to Harwich covered, but the moment my man saw Romanov and his henchman leave the quayside at Dover and chase off down the motorway after the coach he assumed he must have seen Scott. I had already instructed the senior immigration officer at the port,” he continued, “to allow Scott to disembark without a fuss. It had been my intention to take over once he passed through customs. There seemed no reason to change that plan while we had Romanov under close surveillance. Scott then proceeded to fool both Romanov and our man at Dover.”
“But we were given a second chance when Scott got on the train,” persisted Busch. Lawrence stared at the American waiting to see if he would admit that his two CIA agents had also lost Scott at Dover.
“My man was on the train,” said Lawrence emphatically, “but had only the one opportunity to make contact with Scott while he was on his own, and at just that moment he was grabbed and badly beaten up by a bunch of drunken louts—teenagers, apparently—who were on their way back from a day trip to the seaside.”
“Perhaps we’re recruiting our agents from the wrong class of person,” said Matthews, staring down at his briefing papers.
Lawrence made no attempt to reply.
“So, as far as we can tell, Scott, the Czar’s icon, and Romanov are still holed up somewhere in London?” said Snell.
“It looks that way,” admitted Lawrence,
“Perhaps all is not lost then,” suggested Snell. “Scott may still try to get in touch with you again.”
“I think not,” said Lawrence quietly.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Busch.
“Because Scott knows that one of us in this room is a traitor and he thinks it’s me.”
“Good morning. Soviet embassy.”
“My name is Adam Scott, and I need to get in contact with a Major Romanov.”
“Good morning, Mr. Scott. We do not have a Major Romanov working at the embassy,” came back the polite reply.
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“But if you would like to leave your number, I will make further inquiries.”
“I’ll wait. Wouldn’t surprise me if you find him very quickly once he knows who is calling.”
There was a long silence at the other end, and Adam only hoped the shilling he had pressed into the phone would prove to be enough. At last there was a click, and then Adam heard a voice.
“Who is this?” said the voice, unable to mask its incredulity.
“You know very well who it is,” said Adam curtly. “I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?” Romanov repeated, his voice changing from one of disbelief to surprise.
“I’ll swap you my icon—which, as you so vividly pointed out, is worthless to me—in exchange for your copy, which is not. But I also require the papers that prove my father’s innocence.”
“How do I know you’re not setting me up?”
“You don’t,” said Adam. “But you’re the one with nothing to lose.”
The beeps began to sound across the line.
“Tell me your number,” said Romanov.
“738-9121,” said Adam.
“I’ll phone you back,” said Romanov as the line went dead.
“How quickly can we find out where 738-9121 is located?” Romanov asked the local KGB operative who sat opposite him.
“About ten minutes,” the aide replied. “But it could be a trap.”
“True, but with nineteen hours to go before the icon has to be in America I don’t have a lot of choice.”
Romanov turned back to the KGB agent. “What’s the traffic like in London on a Monday morning?”
“One of the busiest times in the week. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ll need a motorbike and a superb driver,” was all Romanov said.
Adam could do nothing about the middle-aged lady who was now occupying his phone booth. He had nervously walked out to check the bridge when she slipped in. She must have been puzzled as to why the young man didn’t use the empty booth that stood next to it.
He checked his watch anxiously: 10:45. He knew he couldn’t risk waiting a minute after eleven but was confident that Romanov would have traced where he’d made the call from long before then.
The talkative woman was another twelve minutes before she eventually put the phone down. When she stepped out of the booth she gave Adam a warm smile.
Three more minutes and he would have to phone Lawrence and abort his original plan. He began to watch the Beefeaters as they patrolled under Traitors’ Gate. Traitors’ Gate—how appropriate, Adam thought. He had chosen the spot because he could see clearly up and down the path leading to the drawbridge and felt he could not be taken by surprise. And in desperation there was always the moat that surrounded them on all sides.
For the first time in his life, Adam discovered exactly how long five minutes could be. When the phone rang, it sounded like an alarm bell. He picked it up anxiously, his eyes never leaving the main road.
“Scott?”
“Yes.”
“I can now see you clearly, as I am less than one minute away. I will be standing at the end of the bridge by the end of that minute. Be sure you’re there with the icon. If you’re not, I shall burn the papers that prove your father’s innocence in front of you.”
The phone went dead.
Adam was delighted that another piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place. He stepped out of the phone booth and checked up and down the road. A BMW motorcycle swerved to a halt at the end of the bridge. A rider dressed in a leather jacket sat astride the bike but only seemed interested in watching the flow of traffic as it passed by the Tower. It was the man seated behind him who stared directly at Adam.
Adam began to walk slowly toward the end of the bridge. He put a hand in his pocket to be sure the icon was still in its place.
He was about thirty yards from the end of the bridge when the second figure got off the bike and started walking toward him. When their eyes met, Romanov stopped in his tracks and held up the small, square frame. Adam did not respond in kind, but simply tapped the side of his pocket and continued walking. Both men advanced toward each other like knights of old until they were only a few paces apart. Almost simultaneously they stopped and faced one another.
“Let me see it,” said Romanov.
Adam paused, then slowly removed the icon from his pocket and held it to his chest for his adversary to see. Saint George stared at him.
“Turn it over,” said Romanov.
Adam obeyed, and the Russian could not hide his delight when he saw the little silver crown of the Czar embedded in the back.
“Now you,” said Adam. Romanov held his icon away from his body, as if brandishing a sword. The masterpiece shone in the summer sun.
“And the documents,” said
Adam, forcing himself to speak calmly.
The Russian pulled out a package from within his jacket and slowly unfolded them. Adam stared at the official court verdict for a second time.
“Go to the wall,” said Adam, pointing with his left hand to the side of the bridge, “and leave the icon and the documents on it.”
It was Romanov who now obeyed as Adam proceeded to the wall on the other side of the bridge and placed his icon in the middle of it.
“Cross slowly,” called Adam. The two men moved sideways back across the bridge, never getting closer than a couple of yards from each other until they had come to a halt at each other’s icon. The moment the painting was within his reach, Romanov grabbed it, ran, and jumped onto the motorcycle without looking back. Within seconds the BMW had disappeared into the dense traffic.
Adam did not move. Although it had only been out of his sight for just over an hour, he was relieved to have the original back. Adam checked the papers that would establish his father’s innocence and placed them in his inside pocket. Ignoring the tourists, some of whom had stopped to stare at him, Adam began to relax when suddenly he felt a sharp prod in the middle of his back. He jumped round in fright.
A little girl was staring up at him.
“Will you and your friend be performing again this morning?”
When the BMW motorcycle drew up outside the Soviet embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, Romanov leaped off and ran up the stairs and straight into the ambassador’s office without knocking. The ambassador didn’t need to ask if he had been successful.
“It worked out just as I planned. He was taken completely by surprise,” said Romanov, as he handed the icon over to the ambassador.
The ambassador turned the painting over and was relieved to see the little silver crown of the Czar. Any doubts he might have had were also dispelled.
“I have orders to send the icon to Washington in the diplomatic pouch immediately. There is no time to be lost.”
A Matter of Honor Page 33
