A Matter of Honor

by Archer, Jeffrey

  Adam closed his eyes, painfully aware for the first time that Romanov had no idea what was inside the icon.

  Romanov was unable to hide his anger. He walked to the door and flung it open. “He’s yours,” he said.

  Dr. Stravinsky reentered the room and, smiling, continued as if nothing had interrupted him. “Professor Metz was never really satisfied with Stage Two because he found the recovery time even for an extremely brave and fit man like yourself could sometimes hold him up for hours, even days. So during his final years at the university he devoted his time to finding how he could possibly speed the whole process up. As for all geniuses, the final solution was staggering in its simplicity. All he had to produce was a chemical formula that when injected into the nervous system caused an immediate recovery—a rapid analgesic. It took him twelve years and several deaths before he came up with the final solution,” said Stravinsky, removing another vial from the cigar box and plunging the needle of a second syringe into the seal on the top of the vial.

  “This,” Stravinsky said, holding up the little vial in triumph, “when injected into your bloodstream, will aid recovery so quickly that you may even wonder if you ever went through any pain in the first place. For this piece of genius Metz should have been awarded the Nobel Prize, but it was not something we felt he could share with the rest of the scientific world. But because of him I can repeat the process you have just experienced again and again, never permitting you to die. You see, I can keep this generator pumping up and down every thirty minutes for the next week if that is your desire,” said Stravinsky, as he stared down at Adam’s white disbelieving face flecked with yellow specks of his vomit.

  “Or I can stop immediately after I have administered the antidote the moment you let me know where the Czar’s icon is.”

  Stravinsky stood in front of Adam and half filled the syringe. Adam felt intensely cold, yet the shock of his torture had caused him to sweat profusely. “Sit still, Captain Scott, I have no desire to do you any permanent injury.” Adam felt the needle go deep in, and moments later the fluid entered his bloodstream.

  He could not believe how quickly he felt himself recovering; in minutes he no longer felt sick or disoriented. The sensation in his arms and legs returned to normal while the wish never to experience Stage Two again became acute.

  “Brilliant man, Professor Metz, on that I’m sure we can both agree,” said Stravinsky, “and if he were still alive I feel certain he would have written a paper on your case.” Slowly and carefully Stravinsky began to smear more lumps of jelly on Adam’s chest. When he was satisfied with his handiwork he once again attached the electrodes to the jelly.

  “Coriolanus, Timon of Athens, Pericles.” Stravinsky thrust his palm down, and Adam hoped that he would die. He found a new level to scream at, as his body shook and shook. Seconds later he felt ice cold and, shivering uncontrollably, he started to retch.

  Stravinsky was quickly by his side to release him. Adam fell to the ground and coughed up what was left in his body. When he was only spitting, Pollard placed him back in the chair.

  “You must understand I can’t let you die, Captain. Now where is the icon?” Stravinsky shouted.

  In the Louvre, Adam wanted to holler, but his words barely came out as a whisper, the inside of his mouth feeling like sandpaper. Stravinsky proceeded to fill the second syringe again and injected Adam with the fluid. Once again it was only moments before the agony subsided and he felt completely recovered.

  “Ten seconds, we go again. Nine, eight, seven …”

  “Cymbeline.”

  “ … six, five, four …”

  “The Winter’s Tale.”

  “ … three, two, one.”

  “The Tempest. Aahhh,” he screamed and immediately fainted. The next thing Adam remembered was the cold water being poured over him by the colonel before he began to retch again. Once tied back in the chair Stravinsky thrust the syringe into him once more, but Adam couldn’t believe he would ever recover again. He must surely die, because he wanted to die. He felt the syringe jab into his flesh again.

  Romanov stepped forward and looking straight at Adam said,”I feel Dr. Stravinsky and I have earned a little supper. We did consider inviting you but felt your stomach wouldn’t be up to it, but when we return fully refreshed Dr. Stravinsky will repeat the entire exercise again and again until you let me know where you have hidden the icon.”

  Romanov and Stravinsky left as Colonel Pollard came back in. Romanov and the colonel exchanged a few sentences, which Adam could not make out. Then Romanov left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Pollard came over to Adam and offered him the water bottle. Adam gulped it down and was genuinely surprised how quickly he was recovering. Yet although his senses were returning to normal, Adam still doubted he could survive one more time.

  “I’m going to throw up again,” said Adam and suddenly thrust his head forward. Pollard quickly undid the knots and watched Adam slump to his hands and knees. He threw up some spit and rested before the colonel helped him gently back into the chair. As he sat down Adam gripped both sides of the chair legs firmly; then, with all the strength he could muster jackknifed forward, swung the chair over his head, and brought it crashing down on top of the unsuspecting colonel. Pollard collapsed in a heap, unconscious, on the floor in front of Adam and never heard him utter the words, “Henry VIII, and Two Noble Kinsmen—I’ll bet that’s one you’ve never heard of, Colonel. Mind you, to be fair, not everyone thinks Shakespeare wrote it.”

  Adam remained on his hands and knees over the colonel’s body, wondering what his next move should be. He was grateful that the soundproofed room was now working in his favor. He waited for a few more seconds as he tried to measure what was left of his strength. He picked up the water bottle that had been knocked over and drained it of its last drops. He then crawled across to the bed and pulled on his underwear and socks, his not-so-white shirt, followed by the trousers and shoes. He was about to put on the blazer but found the lining had been ripped to shreds. He changed his mind and stumbled like an old man back toward the colonel, removed his Harris tweed coat and slipped it on. It was large round the shoulders but short at the hips.

  Adam made his way to the door, feeling almost exhilarated. He turned the handle and pulled. The door came open an inch—nothing happened—two inches—still nothing. He stared through the crack, but all he could see was a dark corridor. As he pulled the door wide open, the hinges sounded to Adam like racing tires screeching. Once he was certain that no one was going to return, he ventured into the corridor.

  Standing against the wall, he stared up and down the thin windowless passage, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He could make out a light shining through a pebbled pane in a door at the far end of the corridor and began to take short steps toward it. He continued on, as if he were a blind man, creeping slowly forward until he saw another beam of light coming from under a door to his right about ten yards away from the one he needed to reach. He edged cautiously on and was only a pace away from the first door when it opened abruptly, and out stepped a small man in a white tunic and blue kitchen overalls. Adam froze against the wall as the kitchen hand removed a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from his pocket and headed away in the opposite direction. When the man reached the glazed door he opened it and walked out. Adam watched the silhouette outlined against the pebbled window, a match being struck, a cigarette being lit, the first puff of smoke; he even heard a sigh.

  Adam crept past what he now assumed was a kitchen and on toward the outer door. He turned the knob slowly, waiting for the silhouette to move. The outer door also possessed hinges that no one had bothered to oil for months. The smoker turned round and smiled as Adam’s left hand landed firmly in his stomach. As the smoker bent over, Adam’s right fist came up to the man’s chin with all the force he could muster. The smoker sank in a heap on the ground, and Adam stood over him, thankful that he didn’t move.

 
He dragged the limp body across the grass, dumped it behind a bush, and remained kneeling by it while he tried to work out his bearings. Adam could just make out a high wall ahead of him with a graveled courtyard in front of it. The wall threw out a long shadow from the moon across the tiny stones. About twenty yards … . Summoning up every ounce of energy, he ran to the wall and then clung to it like a limpet, remaining motionless in its shadow. Slowly and silently he moved round the wall, yard by yard, until he reached the front of what he now felt sure was the Russian embassy. The great green wooden gates at the front entrance were open, and every few seconds limousines swept past him. Adam looked back up toward the front door of the embassy, and at the top of the steps he saw a massive man, medals stretching across his formal dress jacket, shaking hands with each of his departing guests. Adam assumed he was the ambassador.

  One or two of the guests were leaving on foot. There were two armed gendarmes at the gate who stood rigidly to attention and saluted as each car or guest passed by.

  Adam waited until a vast BMW, the West German flag fluttering on its hood, slowed as it passed through the gates. Using the car to shield him, Adam walked out into the center of the drive, then, following closely behind, walked straight between the guards toward the road.

  “Bonsoir,” he said lightly to the guards as the car moved forward; he was only a yard from the road. “Walk,” he told himself, “don’t run. Walk, walk until you are out of their sight.” They saluted deferentially. “Don’t look back.” Another car followed him out, but he kept his eyes firmly to the front.

  “Tu cherches une femme?” a voice repeated from the shadows of a recessed doorway. Adam had ended up in a badly lit one-way street. Several men of indeterminate age seemed to be walking aimlessly up and down the curbside. He eyed them with suspicion as he moved on through the darkness.

  “Wha—?” said Adam, stepping sharply into the road, his senses heightened by the unexpected sound.

  “From Britain, eh? Do you search for a girt?” The voice held an unmistakable French accent.

  “You speak English,” said Adam, still unable to see the woman clearly.

  “You have to know a lot of languages in my profession, chéri, or you’d starve.”

  Adam tried to think coherently. “How much for the night?”

  “Eh bien, but it’s not yet midnight,” said the girl. “So I would have to charge two hundred francs.”

  Although he had no money, Adam hoped the girl might at least lead him to safety.

  “Two hundred is fine.”

  “D’accord,” said the girl, at last stepping out of the shadows. Adam was surprised by how attractive she turned out to be. “Take my arm and if you pass a gendarme say only, ‘Ma femme.’”

  Adam stumbled forward.

  “Ah, I think you drink too much, chéri. Never mind, you can lean on me, yes.”

  “No, I’m just tired,” said Adam, trying hard to keep up with her pace.

  “You have been to party at embassy, n’est-ce pas?”

  Adam was startled.

  “Don’t be surprised, chéri. I find most of my regulars from the embassies. They can’t risk to be involved in casual affairs, tu comprends?”

  “I believe you,” said Adam.

  “My apartment is just round the corner,” she assured him. Adam was confident he could get that far, but he took a deep breath when they arrived at a block of flats and first saw the steps. He just managed to reach the front door.

  “I live on the top of the house, chéri. Very nice view,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I’m afraid no—how do you say—lift.”

  Adam said nothing, but leaned against the outside wall, breathing deeply.

  “You are Fatigué,” she said. By the time they had reached the second floor she almost had to drag Adam up the last few steps.

  “I don’t see you getting it up tonight, chéri,” she said, opening her front door and turning on the light. “Still, it’s your party.” She strode in, turning on other lights as she went.

  Adam staggered across the floor toward the only chair in sight and collapsed into it. The girl had by this time disappeared into another room, and he had to make a supreme effort not to fall asleep before she returned.

  As she stood in the light of the doorway, Adam was able to see her properly for the first time. Her blonde hair was short and curly, and she wore a red blouse and a knee-length skin-tight black skirt. A wide white plastic belt emphasized her small waist. She wore black mesh stockings, and what he could see of her legs would have normally aroused him had he been in any other condition.

  She walked over to Adam with a slight swing of the hips and knelt down in front of him. Her eyes were a surprisingly luminous green.

  “Would you please to give me the two hundred now?” she asked, without harshness. She ran her hand along his thigh.

  “I don’t have any money,” said Adam quite simply.

  “What?” she said, sounding angry for the first time. Placing her hand in his inside pocket she removed a wallet and asked, “Then what’s this? I don’t play the games,” she said, handing the thick wallet over to Adam. He opened the flap to find it was jammed full of French francs and a few English pounds. Adam concluded that the colonel was obviously paid in cash for his services.

  Adam extracted two one-hundred-franc notes and dutifully handed them over. “That’s better,” she said, and disappeared into the other room.

  Adam checked quickly through the wallet to discover a driver’s license and a couple of credit cards in the colonel’s real name of Albert Tomkins. He quickly looked around. A double bed that was wedged up against the far wall took up most of the floor space. Apart from the chair he was settled in the only other pieces of furniture were a dressing table and a tiny stool with a red velvet cushion on it. A stained blue carpet covered most of the wooden floor.

  To his left was a small fireplace with logs stacked neatly in one corner. All Adam wished to do was fall asleep, but with what strength was left in his body, he pushed himself up, wobbled over to the fireplace, and hid the wallet between the logs. He lurched back toward the chair and fell into it as the door reopened.

  Again the girl stood in the light of the doorway, but this time she wore only a short pink negligee, which even in his state Adam could see right through whenever she made the slightest movement. She walked slowly across the room and once more knelt down beside him.

  “How you like it, mon chéri? Straight or the French way?”

  “I need to rest,” said Adam.

  “For two hundred francs you sleep in any ‘otel,” she said in disbelief.

  “I only want to be allowed to rest a few minutes,” he assured her.

  “Anglais.” she said, and began to try to lift Adam out of the chair and toward the bed. He stumbled and fell, landing half on and half off the corner of the mattress. She undressed him as deftly as any nurse could have done before lifting his legs up on to the bed. Adam made no effort to help or hinder her. She hesitated for a moment when she saw the shoulder wound, bewildered over what kind of accident could have caused such a gash. She rolled him over to the far side and pulled back the top sheet and blanket. Then she walked round to the other side of the bed and rolled him back again. Finally she pushed him flat on his back and covered him with the sheet and blankets.

  “I could still give you French if you like,” she said. But Adam was already asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WHEN ADAM EVENTUALLY awoke the sun was already shining through the small window of the bedroom. He blinked as he took in his surroundings and tried to recall what had happened the night before. Then it all came back to him and he suddenly felt sick at the memory. He sat on the edge of the bed, but the moment he tried to stand he felt giddy and weak and fell back down. At least he had escaped. He looked around the room, but the girl was nowhere to be seen or heard. Then he remembered the wallet.

  He sat bolt upright, gathering himself for a few moments before standi
ng up again and trying to walk. Although he was still unsteady, it was better than he had expected. It’s your recovery that counts, not your speed, he thought ironically. When he reached the fireplace he fell on his knees and searched among the logs, but the colonel’s wallet was no longer there. As quickly as he could, he went to the jacket hanging over the back of the chair. He checked in the inside pocket: a pen, a half-toothless comb, a passport, a driver’s license, some other papers, but no wallet. He searched the outside pockets: a bunch of keys, a penknife, a few assorted coins, English and French, but that was all that was left. With a string of oaths he collapsed onto the floor. He sat there for some time and didn’t move until he heard a key in the lock.

  The front door of the flat swung open, and the girl sauntered in carrying a shopping basket. She was dressed in a pretty floral skirt and white blouse that would have been suitable for any churchgoer on a Sunday morning. The basket was crammed with food.

  “Woken up, ‘ave we, chéri? Est-ce que tu prends le petit déjeuner?”

  Adam looked a little taken aback.

  She returned his stare. “Even working girls need their breakfast, n’est-ce pas? Sometimes is the only meal I manage all day.”

  “Where’s my wallet?” asked Adam coldly.

  “On the table,” said the girl, pointing.

  Adam glanced across the room to see that she had left the wallet in the most obvious place.

  “It not necessary of you to ‘ide it,” she reprimanded him. “Because I’m a whore don’t think I’m a thief.” With this she strode off into the kitchen, leaving the door open.