“Not this time,” said Romanov without explanation. He never once allowed the coach out of his sight all the way into the capital.
Adam walked out of the hospital and checked to see that no one was following him. The only people in sight were a man in a blue duffle coat walking in the opposite direction and a nurse scurrying past him, looking anxiously at her watch. Satisfied, he took a taxi to Dover Priory station and purchased a single ticket to London.
“When’s the next train?” he asked.
“Should be in any moment,” said the ticket collector, checking his watch. “The ship docked about forty minutes ago, but it always takes a bit of time to unload all the passengers.” Adam walked on to the platform, keeping a wary eye out for anyone acting suspiciously. He didn’t notice the dark-haired man in a blue duffle coat leaning against the shutters of the W. H. Smith’s stall reading the Evening Standard.
Adam’s thoughts returned to Robin getting safely home. The London train drew in, packed with passengers who had been on the boat. Adam moved out of the shadows and jumped on, selecting a carriage full of young hoods who were apparently returning from a day at the seaside. He thought it would be unlikely anyone else would wish to join them. He took the only seat left, in the far corner, and sat silently looking out of the window.
By the time the train had pulled into Canterbury no one had entered the carriage other than the ticket collector, who discreetly ignored the fact that one of the youths only presented him with a platform ticket for his inspection. Adam felt strangely safe in the corner of that particular compartment even when he noticed a dark-haired man in a blue duffle coat pass by the compartment door and look carefully in.
Adam was jolted out of his thoughts by a noisy claim made by one of the gang, who, during the journey, had given every appearance of being its leader.
“There’s a foul smell in this compartment,” he declared, sniffing loudly.
“I agree, Terry,” said his mate who was sitting next to Adam and also began imitating the sniff. “And I think it’s quite close to me.” Adam glanced toward the young man, whose black leather jacket was covered in small shiny studs. The words “Heil Hitler” were printed right across his back. He got up and pulled open the window. “Perhaps some fresh air will help,” he said as he sat back down. In moments all four of them were sniffing. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff. “I think the smell’s getting worse,” their leader concluded.
“It must be me,” said Adam.
The sniffing stopped, and the youths stared toward the corner in disbelief—momentarily silenced by Adam’s offensive.
“I didn’t have time to take a shower after my judo lesson,” Adam added before any of them had found time to recover their speech.
“Any good at judo, are you?” asked the one sitting next to him.
“Passable,” said Adam.
“What belt are you?” demanded Terry belligerently. “Go on, tell me, a black belt, I knew it,” he added, sniggering.
“I haven’t been a black belt for nearly eight years,” said Adam casually, “but I’ve been recently awarded my second Dan.”
A look of apprehension came over three of the four faces.
“I was thinkin’ about taking up judo myself,” continued the leader, straightening his arm. “How long does it take to get any good at it?”
“I’ve been working at it three hours a day for nearly twelve years, and I’m still not up to Olympic standard,” replied Adam as he watched the dark-haired man in the duffle coat pass by the compartment again. This time he stared directly at Adam before quickly moving on.
“Of course,” continued Adam, “the only quality you really need if you are thinking of taking up judo seriously is nerve, and no one can teach you that. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.”
“I’ve got nerve,” said Terry belligerently. “I’m not frightened of nothin’. Or nobody,” he added, staring straight at Adam.
“Good,” said Adam. “Because you may be given the chance to prove your claim before this journey is over.”
“What’re you getting at?” said the “Heil Hitler”-clad youth. “You trying to pick a fight or somethin’?”
“No,” said Adam calmly. “It’s just that at this moment I’m being followed by a private detective who is hoping to catch me spending the night with his client’s wife.”
The four of them sat still for the first time during the journey and stared at Adam with something approaching respect.
“And are you?” asked the leader.
Adam nodded conspiratorially.
“Nice bit of skirt when you’ve got it in the hay?” Terry asked, leering.
“Not bad,” said Adam, “not bad at all.”
“Then just point out this detective git and we’ll sew him up for the night,” said the leader, thrusting his left hand on his right bicep while pulling up his clenched fist with gusto.
“That might turn out to be unnecessary,” said Adam. “But if you could delay him for a little when I get off at Waterloo East, that should at least give me enough time to warn the lady.”
“Say no more, squire,” said the leader. “Your friend the Peeping Tom will be delivered to Charing Cross all trussed up like a British Rail parcel.”
The other three youths burst out laughing, and Adam was beginning to realize that it had taken Romanov only one week to turn him into a storyteller almost in the class of Robin’s late father.
“That’s him,” whispered Adam as the duffle-coated man passed by a third time. They all looked out into the corridor but only saw his retreating back.
“The train is due to arrive at Waterloo East in eleven minutes’ time,” said Adam, checking his watch. “So what I suggest we do is … if you still think you’re up to it.” All four of his newfound team leaned forward in eager anticipation.
A few minutes later Adam slipped out of the compartment, leaving the door wide open. He started to walk slowly in the direction opposite to that in which the man in the blue duffle coat had last been seen going. When Adam reached the end of the carriage, he turned to find the man was now following quickly behind. As he passed the open compartment the man smiled and raised a hand to attract Adam’s attention, but two leather-clad arms shot out, and the man disappeared inside the compartment with a muffled cry. The door was slammed and the blinds pulled quickly down.
The train drew slowly into Waterloo East station.
Robin remained tense as the bus drew into Wigmore Street and came to a halt outside the RPO headquarters. A dark green Ford had been following them for at least thirty miles, and once she had become aware of it she had not dared to move from her seat.
As she dragged her double bass off the bus she looked back to see that the Ford had stopped about fifty yards down the road and turned off its headlights. Romanov was standing on the pavement looking like a caged animal that wanted to spring. Another man that Robin did not recognize remained seated behind the wheel. Adam had warned her not to turn around at any time but to walk straight into the RPO headquarters without stopping. Even so, she couldn’t resist looking Romanov in the eye and shaking her head. Romanov continued to stare impassively ahead of him.
When the last musician had left the bus Romanov and the colonel searched up and down the inside of the vehicle and then finally the trunk, despite noisy protests from the driver. Robin eyed them nervously from an upstairs window, as the two jumped back into the green Ford and drove off. She continued watching the car until the back lights had faded away in the darkness.
The colonel swung out of Wigmore Street toward Baker Street, bringing the car to a halt opposite Baker Street Station. Romanov jumped out, walked into a vacant telephone booth, and started thumbing through the A-D directory. Only one Robin Beresford was listed, and it was the same address as the young officer had read to him. He dialed the number and after ten unanswered rings smiled at the realization that she lived alone. He was not surprised.
“What now?” asked the colonel, once
Romanov was back in the car.
“Where’s Argyle Crescent, NW3?”
“Must be out toward Hampstead,” said the colonel. “But I’ll just check in the London A to Z road map. What’s the plan?”
“Rather than waiting for Miss Beresford to come out we will be waiting for her to come in,” said Romanov.
Robin slipped out of the back of the RPO headquarters about thirty minutes later. She zigzagged around Portman Square, then walked as quickly as she knew how up to the corner. She kept telling herself that Romanov was not coming back, but she found it impossible to stop herself from shaking all the same. She hailed a taxi and was relieved to see one draw up to her side almost immediately. She checked the driver and the backseat, as Adam had advised her, then climbed in.
Romanov arrived at Robin’s front door a few moments after she had hailed the taxi. The nameplates on the side wall indicated that Miss Beresford resided on the fourth floor.
The door itself would have proved no problem to any self-respecting petty thief [in Moscow] and Romanov had secured entry within moments. The colonel quickly joined him before they proceeded silently up the dark staircase to the fourth floor.
Romanov slipped the Yale lock faster than Robin could have opened it with her key. Once inside he checked the layout of the room. The colonel stood around fidgeting. “Settle down,” said Romanov. “I don’t expect the lady will keep us waiting too long.” The colonel laughed nervously.
The taxi drew up outside the house as directed. Robin jumped out and tipped the cabbie extra because the witching hour had long passed and she at last felt safe. It seemed ages since she had been home. All she was looking forward to now was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.
Adam stepped off the train at Waterloo East a little after midnight and was pleased to find the underground was still running. He had avoided going on to Charing Cross, as he couldn’t be sure which side would have a reception committee waiting for him. He showed the season ticket to the West Indian on the ticket barrier and waited around on the underground platform for some time before the train drew slowly in.
There were several stations between Waterloo and his destination, and even at this time of night there seemed to be a prolonged stop at every one. Several late-night revelers got in at the Embankment, more still at Leicester Square. Adam waited nervously at each station, now aware that he must have caught the last train. He only hoped Robin had carried out his instructions faithfully. He looked around the carriage he was sitting in. It was full of night people, waiters, nurses, party returners, drunks—even a traffic warden. The train eventually pulled into his station at twelve-forty.
The ticket collector was able to give him the directions he needed. It was a relief to reach his final destination so quickly because there was no one else around to ask the way at that time of night. He moved slowly toward number twenty-three. There were no lights on in the house. He opened the swinging gate and walked straight up the path, removed the bunch of keys from his pocket, putting the Chubb one in the lock, pushed open the door quietly, and closed it noiselessly behind him.
At a little after twelve-ten the last train from Dover pulled into Charing Cross station. As Adam was nowhere to be seen, Lawrence instructed his driver to take him back to his flat on Cheyne Walk. He couldn’t understand why the agent whom he had handpicked hadn’t reported in. When Lawrence arrived home he put the key in his lock, hoping that he would find Adam already waiting for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HE PUSHED OPEN the swinging gate and made his way slowly up the path in the pitch-darkness. Once he reached the corner of the house he searched for the third stone on the left. When he located the correct stone, he pulled it up and felt around in the dirt with his fingers. To his relief the spare key was still in place. Like a burglar he pushed it into the lock quietly.
He crept into the hall and closed the door behind him, switched on the light, and began to climb the stairs. Once he had reached the landing he switched off the hall light and pushed open his bedroom door.
As he stepped in and flicked on the light switch, an arm circled his throat like a whiplash, and he was thrown to the floor with tremendous force. He felt a knee pressed hard against his spine, and his arm was jerked up behind his back into a half nelson. He lay on the floor, flat on his face, hardly able to move or even breathe. The first thing he saw was Adam.
“Don’t kill me, Captain Scott, sir, don’t kill me,” he implored.
“I have no intention of doing so, Mr. Tomkins,” said Adam calmly. “But first, where is your esteemed employer at this moment?”
Adam kept his knee firmly in the middle of the colonel’s back and pressed his arm a few inches higher before the colonel bleated out, “He went back to the embassy once he realized the girl wasn’t going to return to the flat.”
“Just as I planned,” said Adam, but he didn’t lessen the pressure on the colonel’s arm as he described in vivid detail everything that would now be expected of him.
The colonel’s face showed disbelief. “But that will be impossible,” he said. “I mean, he’s bound to noti—ahhh”
The colonel felt his arm forced higher up on his back. “You could carry out the whole exercise in less than ten minutes, and he need never be any the wiser,” said Adam. “However, I feel that it’s only fair that you should be rewarded for your efforts.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the fawning colonel.
“If you succeed in delivering the one item I require and carry out my instructions to the letter, you will be given in exchange your passport, driver’s license, papers, wallet, and a guarantee of no prosecution for your past treachery. But if, on the other hand, you fail to turn up by nine-thirty tomorrow morning with the object of my desire,” said Adam, “all those documents will be placed thirty minutes later on the desk of a Mr. Lawrence Pemberton of the F.O., along with my report on your other sources of income, which you seem to have failed to declare on your tax return.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Captain Scott?”
“As ten o’clock chimes,” said Adam.
“But think what would happen to me, Captain Scott, sir, if you carried out such a threat,” moaned the colonel.
“I have already considered that,” said Adam, “and I have come to two conclusions.”
“And what are they, Captain Scott?”
“Spies,” continued Adam, not loosening his grip, “at the present time seem to be getting anything from eighteen to forty-two years at Her Majesty’s pleasure, so you might, with good behavior, be out before the turn of the century, just in time to collect your telegram from the Queen.”
The colonel looked visibly impressed. “And the other conclusion?” he blurted out.
“Oh, simply that you could inform Romanov of my nocturnal visit, and he in return would arrange for you to spend the rest of your days in a very small dacha in a suitably undesirable suburb of Moscow. Because, you see, my dear Colonel, you are a very small spy. I personally am not sure when left with such an alternative which I would view with more horror.”
“I’ll get it for you, Captain Scott, you can rely on me.”
“I’m sure I can, Colonel. Because if you were to let Romanov into our little secret, you would be arrested within minutes. So at best, you could try to escape on the Aeroflot plane to Moscow. And I’ve checked, there isn’t one until the early evening.”
“I’ll bring it to you by nine-thirty on the dot, sir. You can be sure of that. But for God’s sake, have yours ready to exchange.”
“I will,” said Adam, “as well as all your documents, Colonel.”
Adam lifted the colonel slowly off the ground and then shoved him toward the landing. He switched on the hall light and then pushed the colonel on down the stairs until they reached the front door.
“The keys,” said Adam.
“But you’ve already got my keys, Captain Scott, sir.”
“The car keys, you fool.”
&nbs
p; “But it’s a hire car, sir,” said the colonel.
“And I’m about to hire it,” said Adam.
“But how will I get myself back to London in time, sir?”
“I have no idea, Colonel, but you still have the rest of the night to come up with something. You could even walk it by then. The keys,” Adam repeated, jerking the colonel’s arm to shoulder-blade level.
“In my left-hand pocket,” said the colonel, almost an octave higher.
Adam put his hand into the colonel’s new jacket and pulled out the car keys.
He opened the front door, shoved the colonel on to the path, then escorted him to the pavement.
“You will go and stand on the far side of the road,” said Adam, “and you will not return to the house until I have reached the end of the road. Do I make myself clear, Colonel?”
“Abundantly clear, Captain Scott, sir.”
“Good,” said Adam releasing him for the first time, “and just one more thing, Colonel. In case you think of double-crossing me, I have already instructed the Foreign Office to place Romanov under surveillance and put two extra lookouts near the Soviet embassy with instructions to report the moment anyone suspicious turns up or leaves before nine tomorrow morning.” Adam hoped he sounded convincing.
“Thought of everything, haven’t you, sir?” said the colonel mournfully.
“Yes, I think so,” said Adam. “I even found time to disconnect your phone while I was waiting for you to return.” Adam pushed the colonel across the road before getting into the hire car. He wound the window down. “See you at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, Colonel. Prompt,” he added, as he put the Ford into first gear.
The colonel stood shivering on the far pavement, nursing his right shoulder, as Adam drove to the end of the road. He was still standing there when Adam took a left turn back toward the center of London.
A Matter of Honor Page 32
