A Matter of Honor

by Archer, Jeffrey

  “As much as we can get away with,” said Lawrence. “Along with the Americans we have seventeen operatives in Geneva, all of them trying to find Scott.”

  “The Swiss police have a thousand trying to do the same job, though heaven knows whose side they imagine they’re on,” added Snell.

  Lawrence chimed back in. “And it’s been almost impossible to convince them that Scott is not in any way responsible for the two murders. So we may have to get him out without relying on their cooperation.”

  “But what do you consider would be the outcome if Romanov or this Rosenbaum, who must also be part of the KGB, manages to get to Scott before we do?” asked Matthews.

  “A civilian against one of the Russians’ most ruthless agents. That’s all we need,” said Commander Busch.

  Lawrence inclined his head toward the American. “I’ve known Adam for most of my life. The irony of his particular predicament is that it was I who, without his knowledge, recommended that he should be interviewed for a place in the Northern Department. It was my intention that he should join us as soon as he had completed his course as a trainee. If Romanov or any of his cohorts come face to face with Scott, they’d better remember that he was awarded a Military Cross for facing a thousand Chinese.”

  “But if it turned out to be Romanov,” asked Snell, “would Scott be able to kill him?”

  “I would have said no before Rosenbaum murdered his girlfriend,” said Lawrence.

  “I still wouldn’t be confident of his chances even then,” said Busch.

  “Neither would I,” added Matthews.

  “That’s because you don’t know Adam Scott,” Lawrence retorted.

  Matthews lowered his eyes in order to avoid a clash with his boss. His boss. Ten years his junior. A shortlist of two, and they had chosen another Oxbridge man to be under secretary. Matthews knew that as far as the Foreign Office was concerned, he had gone to the wrong school and the wrong university. He should have taken his father’s advice and joined the police force. There were no class barriers there, and he would probably have been a chief superintendent by now.

  Sir Morris ignored the little outburst, which had become fairly common since he had selected Pemberton to leapfrog the older man.

  “Are we allowed to know,” interrupted Snell, looking straight at Busch, “why a relatively obscure icon is of such disproportionate importance to both Russia and the United States?”

  “We are as mystified as you,” said the American. “All we can add to your current information is that two weeks ago the Russians deposited gold bullion in New York to the value of over seven hundred million dollars without any explanation. We are, of course, not certain at the moment that there is any connection.”

  “Seven hundred million dollars?” said Sir Morris. “You could buy half the countries in the United Nations for that.”

  “And every icon that has ever been painted,” said Matthews.

  “Let’s get down to what we actually know, and stop guessing at what might be,” Sir Morris said, turning back to his number two again. “What’s the exact I.A. position?”

  Lawrence undid a folder with a red band around it, the words “Immediate Action” printed across the top in black. He did not need to refer to it, but still glanced down from time to time to check he had not forgotten anything. “As I have already briefed you, we have seventeen agents in the field, and the Americans are flying a further twelve into Geneva today. With the Russians and the Swiss roaming the city like knights of the Round Table in search of the Holy Grail, I can only believe that someone will come across Scott fairly soon. One of our biggest problems, as I explained, is that the Swiss are not willing to cooperate. As far as they are concerned, Scott is a common criminal on the run, and should they get to him first they have made it clear they will not allow him diplomatic immunity.

  “We, as well as the Swiss police and undoubtedly the Russians,” continued Lawrence, “have started checking out all the obvious places: hotels, guest houses, restaurants, airports, car hire companies, even lavatories, and we remain in constant touch with every one of our agents on the ground. So if Scott suddenly appears out of nowhere, we should be able to go to his aid at a moment’s notice.” Lawrence looked up to observe one of the team was taking down all the details. “Added to that, the Post Office is intercepting every call made to Barclays DCO from Geneva. If Scott does try to get in contact with me again at the bank or at my flat, it will be put through to this office automatically,” he said.

  “Is he aware that you work for the Service?” asked Snell, putting a hand through his dark hair.

  “No. Like my dear mother, he still thinks I’m a bank official in the International Department of Barclays DCO. But it won’t be long before he works out that that’s only a front. Unlike my mother, he doesn’t always believe everything I tell him, and after our conversation this morning he is bound to have become suspicious.”

  “Do we have anything else to go on?” Sir Morris asked, looking up at Lawrence.

  “Not a lot more at the moment, sir. We are doing everything possible, remembering this is not a home match; but I still anticipate that the exercise will be over one way or another within twenty-four hours. Because of that I have requested overnight facilities to be set up in the building. When you return after dinner you will find beds already made up in your offices.”

  “No one will be going out to dinner tonight,” said Sir Morris.

  The cinema door opened on to the busy pavement, and Adam slipped into the mainstream of commuters, who were now returning home for dinner. As he kept walking he made certain of as little head movement as possible, but his eyes never stayed still, checking everything within 180 degrees. After he had covered three blocks, he spotted a red Avis sign swinging in the afternoon breeze on the far side of the road. He safely reconnoitered the crowded crossing, but once his foot touched the far pavement he froze on the spot. Just ahead of him in the fast, jostling crowd stood a man in a raincoat. He was continually looking around while making no attempt to walk in either direction. Was he one of Rosenbaum’s men, the police, or even British? There was no way of telling whose side he was on. Adam’s eyes didn’t leave the man as he took out an intercom and, putting it to his mouth, whispered into it. “Nothing to report, sir. Still no sign of our man, and I haven’t seen any of the KGB either.”

  Adam, unable to hear the words, turned into a side road and almost knocked over a boy selling papers. “Le soldat anglais toujours à Genève” the headline blared. Quickly he crossed another road, where he came to a stop again, this time behind a marble statue in the center of a small patch of grass. He stared at the building in front of him, but he knew there would be no point in his trying to hide there. He started to move away as an empty large touring coach drew up and parked in front of the block. Smart blue lettering along the side of the coach proclaimed The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Adam watched as some musicians walked out of the front door and climbed onto the coach carrying their instrument cases of assorted lengths and widths. One was even lugging a large kettle drum, which he deposited in the trunk of the coach. As the musicians continued to stream out of the hotel, Adam decided he wouldn’t get a better opportunity. When the next group came through the double doors he walked quickly forward and stepped into the middle of them before anyone could have spotted him. He then continued on past them through the open hotel door. The first thing he spotted in the crowded lobby was a double bass leaning against the wall. He glanced at the label around the neck of the unwieldy case. “Robin Beresford.”

  Adam walked over to the counter and gestured to the clerk. “I need my room key quickly—I’ve left my bow upstairs, and now I’m holding everyone up.”

  “Yes, sir. What room number?” asked the clerk.

  “I think it’s 312, or was that yesterday?” said Adam.

  “What name, sir?”

  “Beresford—Robin Beresford.”

  The clerk handed him key 612. His only comment was
: “You were three floors off.”

  “Thank you,” said Adam. As he left the counter, he turned to check that the receptionist was already dealing with another customer. He walked smartly over to the lift, which was disgorging still more musicians. Once it had emptied he stepped in, pressed the button for the sixth floor, and waited. He felt exhilarated as the lift doors eventually slid across, and he was alone for the first time in several hours. When the doors opened again he was relieved to find there was no one standing in the corridor. He made his way quickly along the passage to room 612.

  As he turned the key and opened the door he said firmly in as good a French accent as he could manage, “Room service,” but no one responded, he stepped in and locked the door behind him. An unopened suitcase had been left in one corner. Adam checked the label. Obviously Mr. Beresford hadn’t even had time to unpack. Adam checked the room, but there was no other sign of the hotel guest apart from a piece of paper on the side table. It was a typed itinerary:

  European Tour: Geneva, Frankfurt, Berlin, Amsterdam, London.

  Geneva, bus 5.00 to concert hall rehearsal 6.00, concert performance 7.30, encores 10.00.

  Program: Mozart’s Horn Concerto, No. 1, Brahms’s Second Symphony, Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony.”

  Adam looked at his watch: by the time Robin Beresford had completed the “Unfinished Symphony,” he would be over the border; but he still felt safe to remain in room 612 until it was dark.

  He picked up the phone by the bed and dialed room service. “Beresford, 612,” he announced, and ordered himself some dinner before going into the bathroom. On the side of the basin was propped a little plastic bag with the words “Compliments of the Management” printed across it. Inside Adam found soap, a tiny toothbrush, toothpaste, and a plastic razor.

  He had just finished shaving when he heard a knock on the door and someone calling, “Room service.” Adam quickly covered his face with lather again and put on a hotel dressing gown before he opened the door. The waiter set up a table without giving Adam a second look.

  When he had finished his task he inquired, “Will you sign the bill, please, sir?”

  He handed Adam a slip of paper. He signed it “Robin Beresford” and added a fifteen percent tip.

  “Thank you,” said the waiter and left. As soon as the door closed behind him Adam’s eyes settled on the feast of onion soup, rump steak with green beans and potatoes and finally a raspberry sorbet. A bottle of house wine had been uncorked and needed only to be poured. He suddenly didn’t feel that hungry.

  He still couldn’t accept what he had gone through. If only he hadn’t pressed Heidi into joining him on this unnecessary journey. A week before she hadn’t even known him, and now he was responsible for her death. He would have to explain to her parents what had happened to their only daughter. But before Adam could face them he had to come up with some explanation for the things he hadn’t yet begun to understand. Not least the unimportant icon. Unimportant?

  Adam lay down on the bed and began to consider what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Antarctic is in possession of an icon of Saint George and the dragon. But we know from our files of that period that that particular icon was destroyed when the Grand Duke of Hesse’s plane crashed over Belgium in 1937.”

  “That’s what is written in your files in Washington,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “But what if your information is wrong and the icon was found by Goering and not returned to the Grand Duke?”

  “But Stalin confirmed at Yalta that the icon and its contents had been destroyed in the plane crash. He agreed to make no protest while he was not in possession of the original document. After all, that was the reason Roosevelt appeared to be gaining so little while Stalin was getting so much in return. Can’t you remember the fuss Churchill made?”

  “I certainly can, because he had worked out that it wasn’t Britain who was going to benefit from such a decision.”

  “But if the Russians have now discovered the original icon?”

  “Are you suggesting they might have the original document?”

  “Precisely. So you must be sure to get to Antarctic before the Russians do, or, for that matter, the Foreign Office.”

  “But I’m part of the Foreign Office team.”

  “And that’s precisely what we want the Foreign Office to go on believing.”

  “And who’s been sleeping in my bed, said Mother Bear.”

  Adam woke with a start. Looking down at him was a girl who held a double bass firmly by the neck with one hand and a bow in the other. She was nearly six feet and certainly weighed considerably more than Adam. She had long, gleaming red hair that was in such contrast to the rest of her that it was as if the Maker had started at the top and then quickly lost interest. She wore a white blouse and a black flowing skirt that stopped an inch above the ground.

  “Who are you?” asked Adam, startled.

  “I’m not Goldilocks, that’s for sure,” parried the girl. “More to the point, who are you?”

  Adam hesitated. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I can’t imagine why not,” she said. “You don’t look like Prince Charles or Elvis Presley to me, so go on, try me.”

  “I’m Adam Scott.”

  “Am I meant to swoon and run to your side, or scream and run away?” she inquired.

  Adam suddenly realized that the girl couldn’t have watched television or read a paper for at least two days. He switched tactics. “I thought my friend Robin Beresford was meant to be staying in this room,” he said confidently.

  “And so did I until I saw you on my bed.”

  “You’re Robin Beresford?”

  “You’re quite sharp for someone who has just woken up.”

  “But Robin?”

  “It’s not my fault my father wanted a boy,” she said. “And you still haven’t explained what you’re doing on my bed.”

  “Is there any hope of you listening to me for five minutes without continually interrupting?” asked Adam.

  “Yes, but don’t bother with any more fairy stories,” said Robin. “My father was a born liar, and by the time I was twelve I could see through him like a pane of glass.”

  “I should have a seat if I were you,” said Adam. “This may take longer than the average double bass accompaniment.”

  “I’ll remain on my feet, if you don’t mind,” said Robin. “At least until the first lie.”

  “Suit yourself. What would you like first? The good news or the bad news?”

  “Try me on the bad news,” said Robin.

  “The Swiss police want to arrest me and …”

  “What for?” interrupted Robin.

  “Murder,” said Scott.

  “What’s the good news?” she asked.

  “I’m innocent.”

  Romanov stood in the ambassador’s office and rested his fingers on the table. “I blame myself,” he said very quietly, “even more than I blame any of you. I underestimated the Englishman. He’s good, and if any of you are hoping to kill him before I get to him you’ll have to be very good.” No one assembled in the ambassador’s office that night was disposed to disagree with the Comrade Major. Romanov paused to study the group of men who had been flown in from several Eastern satellites at short notice. All with long records of service to the State, but only one of them, Valchek, was known to Romanov, and he worked too closely with Zaborski to be trusted. Romanov had already faced the fact that only a few of them were acquainted with Geneva. He could only pray that the British and Americans were suffering from the same problem.

  His eyes swept around the room. The Swiss police had the best chance of finding Scott, and they weren’t being at all helpful, he thought ruefully. However, Romanov had been pleased to learn from their head man stationed in Geneva that the Swiss had also refused to cooperate with the British or Americans.

  “Comrades,” he said, the moment they had all settled, “there is
no need to remind you that we have been entrusted with a vital assignment for the Motherland.” He paused to check if any of the faces registered the slightest suggestion of cynicism. Satisfied, he continued. “We will therefore maintain a tight surveillance over Geneva in case Scott is still holed up somewhere in the city. My own guess is that, like any amateur, he would be, and will wait until it’s dark, perhaps even first light, before he makes a run for the nearest border. The French border will be his most obvious choice. Despite going to war against the Germans twice in the past fifty years, the English have never bothered to master the German language, although a few of them can manage to speak passable French. So he’s more likely to feel safe in that country. It also offers him the opportunity to cross only one border before reaching the coast.

  “If he’s stupid enough to try and leave by plane, he will find we have the airport covered; if by train, we have the stations manned. But my guess is still that he will try to escape by motor vehicle.

  “I shall therefore take five men to the French border with me while Major Valchek will take another five to Basle to cover the German crossing point. The rest of you will remain on surveillance in Geneva. Those of you who have just arrived will relieve those agents who are in the field already. And don’t expect Scott to be roaming around looking like a tourist on holiday. Study your picture of the Englishman carefully and even be prepared for him to try and get away with some amateur disguise.”

  Romanov paused for effect. “The man who brings me the Czar’s icon need have no fear for his future prosperity when we return home.” Hopeful expressions appeared on their faces for the first time as Romanov pulled out the duplicate icon from his coat pocket and held it high above his head for all to see.

  “When you find the original of this your task will be completed. Study it carefully, Comrades, because no photographs are being issued. And remember,” Romanov added, “the only difference between this and Scott’s icon is that his has a small silver crown embedded in the back of the frame. Once you see the crown you will know that you have found the missing masterpiece.”