A Matter of Honor

by Archer, Jeffrey

  The box was split into twelve equal compartments. He raised the lid of the first compartment, and stared down in wonder. Before him lay precious stones of such size, variety, and color that would have made anyone who was not royal gasp. Gingerly he lifted the lid off the second compartment, to find it contained pearls of such quality that one single string of them would have transformed a plain girl into a society beauty. As he opened the third box, his amazement did not lessen, and he understood for the first time why his grandfather had been considered one of the most enterprising merchants of the century. And now it all belonged to Alex Romanov, an impecunious government official, who was already wondering how he could possibly enjoy such riches.

  It took Romanov a further hour to go through the contents of the remaining nine compartments. When he reached the last one—almost an anticlimax, in that it contained nothing but gold coins—he felt thoroughly exhausted. He checked the clock on the wall: four-thirty. He began to replace the lids on each of the compartments, but during the treasure hunt he had come across one object of such magnificence that he could not resist removing it. He paused as he held up the long heavy gold chain weighted by a medallion, also made of solid gold, that hung from it. On one side was an engraved picture of his grandfather—Count Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov, a proud, handsome man—while on the other was a profile of his grandmother, so beautiful that she surely could have worn any of the jewelry in that treasure trove with distinction.

  For some time, Romanov held the chain in his hand before finally placing it over his head and letting the medallion fall from his neck. He gave the piece one last look before tucking it under his shirt. When he had replaced the lid on the last compartment he slid the box back into place and locked it.

  For the second time that day Romanov’s thoughts turned to his father and the decision he must have made when faced with such a fortune. He had gone back to Russia with his secret. Had he planned to rescue Alex from the life of drudgery that was all he could look forward to? What had been his plans, and had they included Alex? His father had always assured him that he had an exciting future but that there were secrets he was too young to share, and he, in turn, had passed that information on to the authorities. His reward had been a place at the Komasol. But his father must have taken that secret to the grave, because Alex would never have learned of the fortune if it had not been for … Poskonov.

  His mind turned to the old banker. Had he known all along, or was it a coincidence that he had been sent to this bank first? Members of his chosen profession didn’t survive if they believed in coincidence.

  A false move and the State would not hesitate to send him to the same grave as his father and grandfather. He would have to be at his most skillful when he next came into contact with the old banker, otherwise he might not live to choose between power in his homeland or wealth in the West.

  “After I have found the Czar’s icon I will return,” he said quite audibly. He turned suddenly as the alarm bell’s piercing sound rang out. He checked the clock on the wall and was surprised by how much time he had spent in the locked room. He walked toward the vault door and on reaching it pressed the red button without looking back. The great door swung open to reveal two anxious-looking Herr Bischoffs. The son stepped quickly into the vault, walked over to the five boxes, and made safe the bank’s locks.

  “We were beginning to get quite worried about the time,” said the old man. “I do hope you found everything to your satisfaction.”

  “Entirely,” said Romanov. “But what happens if I am unable to return for some considerable time?”

  “It’s of no importance,” Herr Bischoff replied. “The boxes will not be touched again until you come back, and as they are all hermetically sealed, your possessions will remain in perfect condition.”

  “What temperature are the boxes kept at?”

  “Fifty degrees Fahrenheit,” said Herr Bischoff, somewhat puzzled.

  “Are they airtight?”

  “Certainly,” replied the banker. “And watertight, not that the basement has ever been flooded,” he added quite seriously.

  “So anything left in them is totally safe from any investigation?”

  “You are only the second person to look inside those boxes in fifty years,” came back the firm response.

  “Excellent,” said Romanov, looking down at Herr Bischoff. “Because there is just a possibility that I shall want to return tomorrow morning, with a package of my own to deposit.”

  “Can you put me through to Mr. Pemberton, please?” said Adam.

  There was a long pause. “We don’t have a Mr. Pemberton working here, sir.”

  “That is Barclays International in London, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Lawrence Pemberton. I feel certain I’ve got the right branch.”

  The silence was even longer this time. “Ah, yes,” came back the eventual reply. “Now I can see which department he works in. I’ll see if he’s in.” Adam heard a phone ringing in the background.

  “He doesn’t seem to be at his desk at the moment, sir, would you like to leave a message?”

  “No, thank you,” said Adam, and replaced the receiver. He sat alone, thinking, not bothering to switch on the light as the day grew darker. If he was to carry through the idea, he needed some information that Lawrence as a banker should find easy to supply.

  A key turned in the door, and Adam watched Lawrence enter and switch the light on. He looked startled when he saw Adam seated in front of him.

  “How does one open a Swiss bank account?” were Adam’s first words.

  “I can’t imagine one would find it that easy if all you have to offer is next week’s unemployment check,” said Lawrence. “Mind you, they usually keep a code name for English customers,” he added, as he put his copy of the Evening News on the table. “Yours could be ‘pauper.’”

  “It may surprise you to learn that it was a serious question,” said Adam.

  “Well,” said Lawrence, taking the question seriously, “in truth, anyone can open a Swiss bank account as long as they have a worthwhile sum to deposit. And by worthwhile I mean at least ten thousand pounds.”

  “Yes, but how would you go about getting the money back out?”

  “That can be done over the phone or in person, and in that way Swiss banks don’t differ greatly from any bank in England. Few customers, however, would risk the phone, unless they’re resident in a country where there are no tax laws to break. In which case why would they need the gnomes of Zurich in the first place?”

  “What happens when a customer dies and the bank can’t be sure who the rightful owner of the assets is?”

  “They would do nothing, but a claimant would have to prove that he was the person entitled to inherit any deposits the bank held. That’s not a problem if you’re in possession of the correct documentation such as a will and proof of identity. We deal with such matters every day.”

  “But you just admitted that it’s illegal!”

  “Not for those clients resident overseas, or when it becomes necessary to balance our gold deposits, not to mention the bank’s books. But the Bank of England keeps a strict watch over every penny that goes in and out of the country.”

  “So, if I were entitled to a million pounds’ worth of gold left to me by an Argentinian uncle deposited in a Swiss bank, and I was in possession of the right legal documents to prove I was the beneficiary, all I would have to do is go and claim it?”

  “Nothing to stop you,” said Lawrence. “Although under the law as it currently stands, you would have to bring it back to this country and sell the gold to the Bank of England for the sum they deemed correct, and then pay death duty on that sum.” Adam remained silent. “If you do have an Argentinian uncle who has left you all that gold in Switzerland, your best bet would be to leave it where it is. Under this government, if you fulfilled the letter of the law, you would end up with about seventeen and a half percent of its true value.�
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  “Pity I haven’t got an Argentinian uncle,” said Adam.

  “He doesn’t have to be Argentinian,” said Lawrence, watching his friend’s every reaction closely.

  “Thanks for the information,” said Adam and disappeared into the bedroom.

  The last pieces of the jigsaw were beginning to fit into place. He was in possession of Roget’s receipt of the icon originally meant for his father; all he needed now was a copy of the will to show that the document had been left to him. He could then prove that he was the owner of a worthless/ priceless—he still had no way of being sure which—copy of the Czar’s icon. He lay awake that night recalling the words in his father’s letter. “If there is anything to be gained from the contents of this envelope, I make only one request of you, namely that your mother should be the first to benefit from it without ever being told how such good fortune came about.”

  When Romanov returned to the hotel, via the Russian consulate, he found Petrova in her room dressed in jeans and a bright pink jersey, sitting in a corner reading, her legs dangling over the side of the chair.

  “I hope you had a fruitful afternoon?” he inquired, politely.

  “I certainly did,” Anna replied. “The galleries in Zurich are well worthy of a visit. But tell me about your afternoon: did it also turn out to be fruitful?”

  “It was a revelation, my little one, nothing less. Why don’t we have a quiet supper in my room so I can tell you all about it while we celebrate in style?”

  “What a magnificent idea,” said the researcher. “And may I be responsible for ordering dinner?”

  “Certainly,” said Romanov.

  Petrova dropped her book on the floor and began to concentrate on the extensive à la carte menu that had been left by Romanov’s bedside table. She spent a considerable time selecting each dish for their banquet, and even Romanov was impressed when it finally appeared.

  Anna had chosen as an entrée slivers of Gravlax edged with dill sauce. Accompanying it was a half-bottle of Premier Cru Chablis 1958. Between mouthfuls Romanov told her of the contents of his family inheritance, and as he described each new treasure the researcher’s eyes grew larger and larger.

  Romanov’s monologue was only once interrupted, by a waiter who wheeled in a trolley on which sat a silver salver. The waiter lifted the salver to reveal a rack of lamb surrounded by courgettes and tiny new potatoes. To accompany this particular dish, the hotel had provided a Gevrey-Chambertin.

  The final course, a fluffy raspberry soufflé, required in the researcher’s view only the finest Château d‘Yquem. She had selected the’49, which only made her lapse into singing Russian folk songs, which, Romanov felt, given the circumstances, was somewhat inappropriate.

  As she drained the last drop of wine in her glass Petrova rose and slightly unsteady, said, “To Alex, the man I love.”

  Romanov nodded his acknowledgment and suggested it might be time for them to go to bed, as they had to catch the first flight back to Moscow the following morning. He wheeled the trolley out into the corridor and placed a Do Not Disturb sign over the doorknob.

  “A memorable evening,” smiled the researcher, as she flicked off her shoes. Romanov stopped to admire her as she began to remove her clothes, but when he unbuttoned his shirt the researcher stopped undressing and let out a gasp of surprise.

  “It’s magnificent,” she said in awe. Romanov held up the gold medallion.

  “A bauble compared with the treasures I left behind,” he assured her.

  “Comrade lover,” Anna said in a childlike voice, pulling him toward the bed, “you realize how much I adore, admire, and respect you?”

  “Um,” said Romanov.

  “And you also know,” she continued, “that I have never asked you for any favor in the past.”

  “But I have a feeling you are about to now,” said Romanov as she lifted back the sheet.

  “Only that if the gold chain is nothing more than a mere bauble, perhaps you might allow me to wear it occasionally?”

  “Occasionally?” said Romanov, staring into Anna’s eyes. “Why occasionally? Why not permanently, my darling?” and without another word he removed the gold chain from around his neck and placed it over the young woman’s head. Anna sighed as she fingered the thick gold rings that made up the chain that Romanov didn’t let go of.

  “You’re hurting me, Alex,” she said with a little laugh. “Please let go.” But Romanov only pulled the chain a little tighter. Tears began to run down her cheeks as the metal began to bite into her skin. “I can’t breathe properly,” gasped the researcher. “Please stop teasing.” Romanov continued to tighten the chain against her throat until Anna’s face began to turn red as it filled with blood.

  “You wouldn’t tell anyone about my windfall, would you, my little one?”

  “No, never, Alex. No one, you can rely on me,” she choked out desperately.

  “Can I feel certain?” he asked with an edge of menace in his voice.

  “Yes, yes, of course, but please stop now,” she piped, her delicate hands clutching desperately at her master’s blond hair, but Romanov only continued to squeeze and squeeze the heavy gold chain around her neck like a rack and pinion, tighter and tighter.

  Romanov was not aware of the girl’s hands clinging so desperately to his hair as he twisted the chain a final time. “I’m sure you understand that I must be absolutely certain that you wouldn’t share our secret—with anyone,” he explained to her. But she did not hear his plea because the vertebrae in her neck had already snapped.

  On his morning run along the Embankment, Adam mulled over the task that still needed to be carried out.

  If he took the morning flight out of Heathrow on Wednesday, he could be back in London by the same evening, or Thursday at the latest. But there were several things that had to be completed before he could leave for Geneva.

  He stopped on the pavement outside his block and checked his pulse, before climbing the stairs to the flat.

  “Three letters for you,” said Lawrence. “None for me. Mind you,” he added as his flatmate joined him in the kitchen, “two of them are in buff envelopes.” Adam picked up the letters and left them on the end of his bed en route to the shower. He survived five minutes of ice-cold water before toweling down. Once he was dressed he opened the letters. He began with the white one, which turned out to be a note from Heidi thanking him for dinner and hoping she would be seeing him again sometime. He smiled and tore open the first of the buff envelopes, which was yet another missive from the Foreign Office Coordination Staff.

  Captain Scott—the rank already seemed out of place—was requested to attend a medical at 122 Harley Street at three o’clock on the following Monday, to be conducted by Dr. John Vance.

  Finally he opened the other brown envelope and pulled out a letter from Lloyds, Cox and King’s branch on Pall Mall, informing Dear Sir/Madam that they had been in receipt of a check for five hundred pounds from Holbrooke, Holbrooke and Gascoigne, and that his current account at the close of business the previous day was in credit to the sum of £272.18.4d. When Adam checked through the account it showed that at one point he had, for the first time in his life, run up a debt—a situation that he knew would have been frowned upon had he still been in the army, for as little as twenty years before it was in some regiments a court-martial offense for an officer to be overdrawn.

  What would his brother officers have said if he told them he was about to remove two hundred pounds from the account with no real guarantee of a return?

  Once Adam had finished dressing, he rejoined Lawrence in the kitchen.

  “How was the Shah of Iran?” he asked.

  “Oh, very reasonable really,” said Lawrence, turning a page of the Daily Telegraph, “considering the circumstances. Promised he would do what he could about his current financial embarrassment, but he was a bit pushed until the West allowed him to raise the price of oil from four pounds a barrel.”

  “Where did you
eventually take him to lunch?” asked Adam, enjoying the game.

  “I offered him a shepherd’s pie at the Green Man, but the bloody fellow became quite snotty. It seems he and the empress had to pop along to Harrods to be measured up for a new throne. Would have gone along with him, of course, but my boss wanted his wastepaper basket emptied, so I missed out on the Harrods deal as well.”

  “So what are you up to today?”

  “I shouldn’t let you in on this,” said Lawrence, peering at the photograph of Ted Dexter, the defeated English cricket captain, “but the governor of the Bank of England wants my views on whether we should devalue the pound from $2.80 to $2.40.”

  “And what are your views?”

  “I’ve already explained to the fellow that the only two-forty I know is the bus that runs between Golders Green and Edgware, and if I don’t get a move on, I’ll miss my beloved 14,” said Lawrence, checking his watch. Adam laughed as he watched his friend slam his briefcase shut and disappear out of the door.

  Lawrence had changed considerably over the years since he had left Wellington. Perhaps it was that Adam could only remember him as school captain and then leaving with the top classics scholarship to Balliol. He had seemed so serious in those days and certainly destined for greater things. No one would have thought it possible he would end up as an investment analyst at Barclays District and Commonwealth Office. At Oxford contemporaries had half-joked about him being a cabinet minister. Was it possible that one always expected too much of those idols who were only a couple of years older than oneself? On leaving school their friendship had grown, and when Adam was posted to Malaya, Lawrence never accepted the army report that said his friend was missing, presumed dead. And when Adam announced that he was leaving the army, Lawrence asked for no explanation and couldn’t have been kinder about his unemployment problem. Adam hoped that he would be given the chance to repay such friendship.