A Matter of Honor

by Archer, Jeffrey

  “I wish I could deliver it in person,” said Romanov.

  “Be satisfied, Comrade Major, that you have carried out your part of the operation in an exemplary fashion.”

  The ambassador pressed a button on the side of his desk. Two men appeared immediately. One held open the diplomatic pouch while the other stood motionless by his side. The ambassador handed over the icon and watched it being placed into the pouch. The two couriers looked as if they would have had no trouble in carrying out the ambassador’s desk as well, thought Romanov.

  “There is a plane standing by at Heathrow to take you both direct to Washington,” said the ambassador. “All the necessary documentation for customs has already been dealt with. You should touch down at National Airport around five o’clock Washington time, easily giving our comrades in America enough time to fulfill their part of the contract.”

  The two men nodded, sealed the diplomatic pouch in the ambassador’s presence, and left. Romanov walked over to the window and watched the official car drive the two men out onto Kensington High Street and off in the direction of Heathrow.

  “Vodka, Comrade Major?”

  “Thank you,” Romanov replied, not moving from the window until the car was out of sight.

  The ambassador went over to a side cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle from the refrigerator before pouring Romanov a large vodka.

  “It would not be exaggerating to say that you have played your part in establishing the Soviet Union as the most powerful nation on earth,” he said as he handed over the drink. “Let us therefore drink to the repatriation of the Aleuts as full citizens of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Romanov.

  “I think the time has come to let you know,” said the ambassador, “the significance of your achievement.” He then went on to tell Romanov of the briefing he had received from Moscow that morning.

  Romanov was thankful he had never known how much was at stake.

  “I have made an appointment to see the Foreign Secretary at three-thirty this afternoon, in order to brief him,” the ambassador continued. “We can be sure the British will only be interested in fair play. I am told he is not at all pleased as he had hoped to be in his constituency to open some fête; the British have a strange system for keeping their party system going.”

  Romanov laughed. “To Aleuts,” he said, raising his glass. “But what is happening in Washington at this moment?”

  “Our ambassador has already requested a meeting with the American Secretary of State to be scheduled for eight this evening. He is also setting up a press conference at the embassy to follow that meeting. It may amuse you to know that President Johnson had to cancel his visit to Texas this weekend and has requested that the networks should allow him to address ‘his fellow Americans’ at peak time on Monday on a matter of national importance.”

  “And we achieved it with only hours to spare,” said Romanov, pouring himself another vodka.

  “Touch and go, as the English would say. Let us also be thankful for the time difference between here and the United States, because without that we would never have been able to beat the deadline.”

  Romanov shuddered at the thought of how close it had been and downed his second vodka in one gulp.

  “You must join me for lunch, Comrade. Although your orders are to return to Moscow immediately my secretary assures me that the first plane leaving Heathrow for Moscow does not depart until eight this evening. I envy you the reception you will receive when you arrive back at the Kremlin tomorrow.”

  “I still need the one thousand pounds for …”

  “Ah yes,” said the ambassador, “I have it ready for you.” He unlocked the little drawer of his desk and passed over a slim wad of notes in a small cellophane wrapper.

  Romanov slipped the tiny packet into his pocket and joined the ambassador for lunch.

  Busch barged into Lawrence’s office.

  “Romanov’s got the icon,” he shouted.

  Lawrence’s jaw dropped. A look of desperation appeared on his face. “How can you be so sure?” he demanded.

  “I’ve just had a message from Washington. The Russians have requested an official meeting with the Secretary of State to be arranged for eight this evening.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Lawrence.

  “I do,” said Busch. “We’ve always known that God-damned friend of yours, like his father, was a lousy traitor. There’s no other explanation.”

  “He could be dead,” said Lawrence quietly.

  “I hope he is, for his sake,” said Busch.

  The phone on Lawrence’s desk rang. He grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. “A Dr. John Vance wants a word with you, sir,” said his secretary. “He said you had asked him to call.”

  Vance? Vance? Lawrence recalled the name but couldn’t quite place it. “Put him on,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pemberton,” said a voice.

  “Good morning, Dr. Vance. What can I do for you?”

  “You asked me to call you after I had examined Scott.”

  “Scott?” repeated Lawrence, not believing what he was hearing.

  “Yes, Adam Scott. Surely you remember? You wanted him to complete a medical for your department.”

  Lawrence was speechless.

  “I’ve given him a clean bill of health,” continued the doctor. “Some cuts and a nasty wound, but nothing that won’t heal in a few days.”

  “Cuts and wounds?” said Lawrence.

  “That’s what I said, old chap. But don’t worry about Scott. He’s fit enough to start work whenever you want him. That’s if you still want him.”

  “If I still want him,” repeated Lawrence. “Mr. Scott isn’t there with you at this moment, by any chance?”

  “No,” said Vance. “Left my surgery about ten minutes ago.”

  “He didn’t happen to tell you where he was going?” asked Lawrence.

  “No, he wasn’t specific. Just said something about having to see a friend off at the airport.”

  Once the coffee had been cleared away, Romanov checked his watch. He had left easily enough time to keep the appointment and still catch the plane. He thanked the ambassador, ran down the embassy steps, and climbed into the back of the anonymous black car.

  The driver moved off without speaking as he had already been briefed as to where the major wanted to go.

  Neither of them spoke on the short journey, and when the driver drew into Charlotte Street he parked the car in a layby. Romanov stepped out and walked quickly across the road He pressed the bell.

  “Are you a member?” said a voice through the intercom.

  “Yes,” said Romanov, who heard a metallic click as he pushed the door open and walked down the dark staircase. Once he had entered the club it took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the light. But then he spotted Mentor seated on his own at a little table near a pillar in the far corner of the room.

  Romanov nodded and the man, nervously touching his mustache, got up and walked across the dance floor and straight past him. Romanov followed as the member entered the only lavatory. Once inside, Romanov checked whether they were alone. Satisfied, he led them both into a little cubicle and slipped the lock to “engaged.” Romanov removed the thousand pounds from his pocket and handed it over to the man who sat down on the lavatory seat. Mentor greedily ripped open the packet, leaned forward, and began to count. He never even saw Romanov straighten his fingers; and when the hand came down with a crushing blow on the back of Mentor’s neck he slumped forward and fell to the floor in a heap.

  Romanov yanked him up; it took several seconds to gather the ten-pound notes that had fallen to the floor. Once he had them all, he stuffed them into the member’s pocket. Romanov then undid the member’s fly buttons one by one and pulled down his trousers until they fell around his ankles. He lifted the lid and placed the man on the lavatory seat. The final touch was to pull his leg
s as wide open as the fallen trousers would allow, the feet splayed apart. Romanov then slipped under the large gap at the bottom of the door, leaving the cubicle locked from the inside. He quickly checked his handiwork. All that could be seen from the outside was the splayed legs and fallen trousers.

  Sixty seconds later, Romanov was back in the car on his way to Heathrow.

  Adam arrived at Heathrow two hours before the Aeroflot flight was due to depart. He stationed himself with a perfect view of the forty-yard stretch Romanov would have to walk to board the Russian aircraft. He felt confident he would never reach the Aeroflot steps.

  Romanov checked in at the BEA desk a little after six. He couldn’t resist taking the BEA flight rather than Aeroflot even though he knew Zaborski would frown at such arrogance; he doubted if anyone would comment on this of all days.

  Once he had been given his boarding card, he took the escalator to the executive lounge and sat around waiting to be called. It was always the same—the moment any operation had been completed, all he wanted to do was get home. He left his seat to pour himself some coffee and, passing a table in the center of the room, caught the headline on the London Evening Standard. Exclusive. “Johnson Texas Weekend Canceled—Mystery.” Romanov grabbed the paper from the table and read the first paragraph but it contained no information he couldn’t have already told them. None of the speculation in the paragraphs that followed even began to get near the truth.

  Romanov couldn’t wait to see the front page of Pravda the next day in which he knew the true story would be emblazoned. By Western standards it would be an exclusive.

  “BEA announce the departure of their flight 117 to Moscow. Would all first-class passengers now board through gate number twenty-three.” Romanov left the lounge and walked the half-mile-long corridor to the plane. He strolled across the tarmac to the waiting plane a few minutes after six-fifty. The plane carrying the icon would be touching down in Washington in about two hours. Romanov would arrive back in Moscow well in time to see Dynamo play Spartak at the Lenin Stadium on Tuesday. He wondered if they would announce his arrival to the crowd over the loudspeakers as they always did when a member of the Politburo attended a match. Romanov walked up the steps and on board, stepping over the feet of the passenger next to him, thankful that he had been given the window seat.

  “Would you care for a drink before take-off?” the stewardess asked.

  “Just a black coffee for me,” said his neighbor. Romanov nodded his agreement.

  The stewardess arrived back a few moments later with the two coffees and helped the man next to Romanov pull out his table from the armrest. Romanov flicked his over as the stewardess passed him his coffee.

  He took a sip but it was too hot so he placed it on the table in front of him. He watched his neighbor take a packet of saccharine from his pocket and flick two pellets into the steaming coffee.

  Why did he bother, thought Romanov. life was too short.

  Romanov stared out of the window and watched the Aeroflot plane start to taxi out on to the runway. He smiled at the thought of how much more comfortable his own flight would be.

  He tried his coffee a second time: just as he liked it. He took a long gulp and began to feel a little drowsy which he didn’t find strange since he had hardly slept for the last week.

  He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He would now take every honor the State could offer him. With Valchek conveniently out of the way, he could even position himself to take over from Zaborski. If that failed, his grandfather had left him another alternative.

  He was leaving London with only one regret: he had failed to kill Scott. But then he suspected that the Americans would take care of that. For the first time in a week he didn’t have to stop himself falling asleep ….

  Ten minutes later the passenger seated next to Romanov picked up the Russian’s coffee cup and put it next to his own. He then flicked Romanov’s table back into the armrest and placed a woollen blanket over Romanov’s legs. He quickly slipped the BEA eye-shades over the Russian’s open eyes. He looked up to find that the stewardess was standing by his side.

  “Can I help?” she asked, smiling.

  “No, thank you. All he said was that he did not want to be disturbed during the flight as he has had a very hard week.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the stewardess. “We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,” she added, and picked up the two coffee cups and whisked them away.

  The man tapped his fingers impatiently on the little table. At last the chief steward appeared at his side.

  “There’s been an urgent call from your office, sir. You’re to return to Whitehall immediately.”

  “I had been half expecting it,” he admitted.

  Adam stared up at the Russian plane as it climbed steeply and swung in a semi-circle toward the east. He couldn’t understand why Romanov hadn’t boarded it. Surely he wouldn’t have taken the BEA flight. Adam slipped back into the shadows the moment he saw him. He stared in disbelief. Lawrence was striding back across the tarmac, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

  EPILOGUE

  SOTHEBY’S BOND STREET

  LONDON W.1

  October 18, 1966

  SOTHEBY’S BOND STREET

  OCTOBER 18, 1966

  “SOLD FOR FIVE thousand pounds to the gentleman in the center of the room. We now move on to number thirty-two,” said the auctioneer, looking down from the raised platform at the front of the crowded room. “An icon of Saint George and the dragon,” he declared, as an attendant placed a little painting on the easel next to him. The auctioneer stared down at the faces of experts, amateurs, and curious onlookers. “What am I bid for this magnificent example of Russian art?” he asked expectantly.

  Robin gripped Adam’s hand. “I haven’t felt this nervous since I came face to face with Romanov.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Adam.

  “It is, of course, not the original that hangs in the Winter Palace,” continued the auctioneer, “but it is nevertheless a fine copy, probably executed by a court painter circa 1890,” he added, giving the little painting an approving smile. “Do I have an opening bid? Shall I say eight thousand pounds?”

  The next few seconds seemed interminable to Robin and Adam.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the auctioneer, eventually looking toward an anonymous sign that had been given somewhere at the front of the room.

  Neither Adam nor Robin were able to make out where the bid had come from. They had spent the last hour seated at the back of the room watching the previous items coming under the hammer and had rarely been able to work out whose hands they had ended up in.

  “How much did the experts say it might go for?” Robin asked again.

  “Anywhere between ten and twenty thousand,” Adam reminded her.

  “Nine thousand,” said the auctioneer, his eyes moving to a bid that appeared to come from the right-hand side of the room.

  “I still think it’s amazing,” said Robin, “that the Russians ever agreed to the exchange in the first place.”

  “Why?” asked Adam. “They got their original back, the Americans extracted the treaty, and I ended up with a copy. As an example of diplomatic ingenuity, it was Lawrence at his most brilliant.”

  “Ten thousand from the front of the room. Thank you, sir,” said the auctioneer.

  “What are you going to do with all that money?”

  “Buy you a new double bass, get a wedding present for my sister, and hand the rest over to my mother.”

  “Eleven thousand. A new bidder on the center aisle,” said the auctioneer. “Thank you, madam.”

  “No amount of money can bring back Heidi,” said Robin quietly.

  Adam nodded thoughtfully.

  “How did the meeting with Heidi’s parents turn out?”

  “The Foreign Secretary saw them personally last week. It couldn’t help, but at least he was able to confirm that I had only been telling the truth.”

  �
��Twelve thousand.” The auctioneer’s eyes returned to the front of the room.

  “Did you see the Foreign Secretary yourself?”

  “Good heavens, no. I’m far too junior for that,” said Adam. “I’m lucky if I get to see Lawrence, let alone the Foreign Secretary.”

  Robin laughed. “I consider you were lucky to have been offered a place at the Foreign Office at all.”

  “Agreed,” said Adam, chuckling to himself. “But a vacancy arose unexpectedly.”

  “What do you mean, unexpectedly?” asked Robin, frustrated by how few of her questions had been answered directly in the last half hour.

  “All I can tell you is that one of Lawrence’s old team was ‘retired early,’” said Adam.

  “Was that true of Romanov also?” asked Robin, still desperately trying to discover all that had taken place since they had last met.

  “Thirteen thousand,” said the auctioneer, his eyes returning to the lady on the center aisle.

  “After all, he can’t have survived for long once they discovered you had done a switch that gave the Russians back the copy while Romanov ended up presenting you with the original,” said Robin.

  “He’s never been heard of since,” admitted Adam innocently. “All our information leads us to believe his boss, Zaborski, is to be replaced by someone called Yuri Andropov.”

  “Fourteen thousand,” said the auctioneer, his eyes settling on the gentleman at the front once again.

  “What happened when you produced those court papers proving that it was not your father who had smuggled the poison into Goering’s cell?”

  “Once that had been authenticated by the Russians,” Adam said, “Lawrence paid an official visit to the colonel of the regiment and furnished him with the Foreign Office’s conclusions.”

  “Any reaction?” probed Robin.

  “They’re going to hold a memorial service in Pa’s memory and they have commissioned some fellow called Wood to paint his portrait for the regimental mess. Mother has been invited to unveil it in the presence of all those officers who served with my father.”