“Have you seen this man today?”
Neither showed any sign of recognition, and the younger one quickly returned to his story. Romanov sipped his coffee and began to consider whether he should make a run for Basic or call for reinforcements to sweep the hills. Then he noticed how the young man’s eyes kept returning to the photo. He asked once again if he had seen Scott.
“No, no,” said the young officer, a little too quickly. In Moscow Romanov would have had a yes out of him within minutes, but he would have to follow a more gentle approach here.
“How long ago?” Romanov asked quietly.
“What do you mean?” asked the policeman.
“How long ago?” repeated Romanov in a firmer voice.
“It wasn’t him,” said the officer, sweat now appearing on his forehead.
“If it wasn’t him, how long ago wasn’t it him?”
The officer hesitated. “Twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”
“What make of vehicle?”
The young officer hesitated. “A Citroen, I think.”
“Color?”
“Yellow.”
“Other passengers?”
“Three. Looked like a family. Mother, father, daughter. He was in the back with the daughter. The father said they were engaged.”
Romanov had no more questions.
Jim Hardcastle managed to keep a one-sided conversation going for over an hour.
“Naturally,” he said, “the IMF holds its annual conference in a different city every year. Last year it was Denver in Colorado, and next year it’ll be at Perth in Australia, so I manage to get around a bit. But as the export man you have to get used to a lot of travel.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Adam, trying to concentrate on his benefactor’s words while his shoulder throbbed on.
“I’m only president for a year, of course,” continued Jim. “But I have plans to ensure that my fellow delegates won’t forget 1966 in a hurry.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” said Adam.
“I shall point out to them that Colman’s has had another record year on the export side.”
“How impressive.”
“Yes, but I must admit that most of our profits are left on the side of the plate,” he said, laughing.
Adam laughed as well but sensed that Mrs. Hardcastle and Linda might have heard the line before.
“I’ve been thinking, Dudley, and I’m sure the wife would agree with me, that it would be most acceptable to us if you felt able to join the presidential table for dinner tonight—as my guest, of course.” Mrs. Hardcastle nodded, as did Linda, with enthusiasm.
“I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure,” said Adam. “But I fear my commanding officer might not be quite as delighted to hear I had stopped on the way back to England to take in a party. I do hope you’ll understand.”
“If he is anything like my old C.O. I certainly do,” said Jim. “Still, if you should ever be Hull way, look us up.” He took a card out of his top pocket and passed it over his shoulder.
Adam studied the embossed letters and wondered what MIFT stood for. He didn’t ask.
“Where in Dijon would you like to be dropped off?” asked Jim as he drove into the outskirts of the town.
“Anywhere near the center that’s convenient for you,” replied Adam.
“Just holler when it suits you, then,” said Jim. “Of course, I always maintain that a meal without mustard …”
“Can you drop me on the next corner?” said Adam suddenly.
“Oh,” said Jim, sad to be losing such a good listener. And he reluctantly drew the car up alongside the curb.
Adam kissed Linda on the cheek before getting out of the back. He then shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle.
“Nice to have made your acquaintance,” said Jim. “If you change your mind, you’ll find us at the hotel … . Is that blood on your shoulder, lad?”
“Just a graze from a fall—nothing to worry about. Wouldn’t want the Americans to think they’d got the better of me.”
“No, no, of course not,” said Jim. “Well, good luck.”
As the car moved off Adam stood on the pavement watching them disappear. He smiled and tried to wave, then, turning, he walked quickly down a side street looking for a shopping center. Within moments he was in the center of town, relieved to find that all the shops were still open. He began to search up and down the street for a green cross above a door. Adam had to walk only fifty yards before he spotted one. He entered the shop tentatively and checked the shelves.
A tall man with short fair hair wearing a long leather coat stood in the corner with his back to the entrance. Adam froze. Then the man turned round, frowning at the packet of tablets he wanted to purchase, while at the same time rubbing his thick Gallic mustache.
Adam walked up to the counter.
“Do you speak English, by any chance?” he asked the druggist, trying to sound confident.
“Passable, I hope,” came back the reply.
“I need some iodine, cotton wool, a bandage, and heavy adhesive tape. I fell and bruised my shoulder on a rock,” Adam explained.
The druggist quickly put the order together without showing much interest.
“This is what you require. That will be twenty-three francs,” said the druggist.
“Will Swiss do?”
“Certainly.”
“Is there a hotel anywhere nearby?” asked Adam.
“Around the next corner, on the other side of the square.”
Adam thanked him, handed over the Swiss notes, and then left the pharmacy in search of the hotel. The Hotel Frantel was, as promised, only a short distance away. He walked across the square and up the steps into the hotel to find several people were waiting at reception to be checked in. Adam flung his trench coat over his bloodstained shoulder and walked past them as he checked the signs on the wall. He then strode across the entrance hall as though he were a guest of several days’ standing. He followed the sign he had been looking for, which took him down a flight of stairs, to come head on with three further signs. The first had the silhouette of a man on the door, the second a woman, the third a wheelchair.
He opened the third tentatively and was surprised to find behind it nothing more than a sizable square room with a high-seated lavatory against the wall. Adam locked himself in and let his trench coat fall to the ground.
He rested for a few minutes before slowly stripping to the waist. He then ran a basinful of warm water.
Adam was thankful for the endless first-aid seminars every officer had to go through, never believing they will serve any purpose. Twenty minutes later the pain had subsided, and he even felt comfortable.
He picked up his coat with his right hand and tried to throw it back over his shoulder. The very movement caused the icon to fall out of the map pocket and onto the tiled floor. As it hit the ground, the sound made Adam fear it must have broken in half. He stared down anxiously and then fell to his knees.
The icon had split open like a book.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WHEN ADAM RETURNED to the Hotel Frantel an hour later few guests would have recognized the man who had crept in earlier that afternoon.
He wore a new shirt, trousers, tie, and a double-breasted blazer that wouldn’t be fashionable in Britain for at least another year. Even the raincoat had been ditched because the icon fitted snugly into the blazer pocket. He considered the shop had probably given him a poor exchange rate for his traveler’s checks, but that was not what had been occupying his mind for the past hour.
He booked himself into a single room in the name of Dudley Hulme and a few minutes later took the lift to the third floor.
Lawrence picked the phone up even before Adam heard the second ring.
“It’s me,” said Adam.
“Where are you?” were Lawrence’s first words.
“Ill ask the questions,” said Adam.
“I can understand how you feel,” s
aid Lawrence, “but …”
“No buts. You must be aware by now that someone on your so-called team has a direct line to the Russians because it was Romanov and his friends who were waiting for me outside the hotel in Geneva, not your lot.”
“We realize that now,” said Lawrence.
“We?” said Adam. “Who are we? Because I’m finding it rather hard to work out who’s on my side.”
“You don’t believe that …”
“When you get your girlfriend murdered, chased across Europe by professional killers, shot at and …”
“Shot at? said Lawrence.
“Yes, your friend Romanov took a shot at me today, hit me in the shoulder. Next time we meet I intend it to be the other way round, and it won’t be the shoulder.”
“There won’t be a next time,” said Lawrence, “because well get you out safely if you’ll only let me know where you are.”
The memory of Robin’s words, “Just be wary of how much you let him know,” stopped Adam from telling Lawrence his exact location.
“Adam, for God’s sake, you’re on your own. If you don’t trust me, who can you trust? I admit it looks as if we let you down. But it won’t happen again.”
There was another long silence before Adam said, “I’m in Dijon.”
“Why Dijon?”
“Because the only person who would give me a lift was going to a mustard conference in Dijon.”
Lawrence couldn’t stop himself smiling. “Give me your number, and I’ll phone you back within an hour.”
“No,” said Adam, “I’ll phone you back in one hour.”
“Adam, you’ve got to show some trust in my”
“Not now that I know what it is you’re all after, I can’t afford to trust anybody.”
Adam replaced the phone and stared down at the icon, which lay open on the bed. It wasn’t the signature of Gorchakov or Seward that worried him. It was the date June 20, 1966—that read like a death warrant.
“Goodnight, sir,” said the doorkeeper as the senior civil servant left Century House that evening. “Another late night for you,” he added sympathetically. He acknowledged the doorman by raising his rolled umbrella a few inches. It bad been another late night, but at least they had caught up with Scott again. He was beginning to develop quite a respect for the man. But how they failed to pick him up in Geneva still required a fuller explanation than the one Lawrence Pemberton had supplied the D4 with that afternoon.
He set off at a brisk pace toward Old Kent Road, conspicuous in his black coat and pin-striped trousers. He tapped his umbrella nervously before hailing a passing taxi.
“Dillon’s bookshop, Malet Street,” he told the driver, before getting in the back. Already seven-thirty, but he still wouldn’t be too late, and a few minutes either way wasn’t going to make that much difference. Pemberton had agreed to remain at his desk until all the loose ends were tied up and he was sure that nothing could go wrong this time. He allowed himself a wry smile as he thought how they had all accepted his plan. It had the double advantage of ensuring enough time for them to get their best men into position, while keeping Scott well out of sight in a deserted hideaway. He hoped that this was the last time they would expect him to come up with an original proposal.
“Eight shillings, guv’nor,” said the taxi driver, as he drew up outside Dillon’s. He handed over the money and added a sixpenny tip. He stood staring at the window of the university bookshop, watching the reflection of the taxi as it moved off. The moment the taxi had turned the corner onto Gower Street he began walking away. In moments he had reached a side road, onto which he turned. Ridgmount Gardens was one of those streets that even London cabbies had to think about for a few moments. He had walked only a matter of yards before he disappeared down some stone steps to a basement flat. He inserted a Yale key in the front door lock, turned it quickly, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
During the next twenty minutes he made two telephone calls, one international, one local, and then had a bath. He emerged back on Ridgmount Gardens less than one hour later dressed in a casual brown suit, pink floral open shirt, and brown brogue shoes. The parting in his hair had changed sides. He returned to Dillon’s on foot and hailed another taxi.
“The British Museum,” he instructed the driver, as he stepped into the back. He checked his watch: nearly ten past eight. Scott would be fully briefed by now, he thought, although his associates would be already on the way back to Dijon, as his plan had allowed for a two-hour delay.
The taxi drew up outside the British Museum. He paid and walked up the twelve steps in front of the museum, admiring the Byzantine architecture as he regularly did each week, before walking back down again to hail another taxi.
“Middlesex Hospital, please,” was all he said. The taxi executed a U-turn and headed west.
Poor bastard. If Scott hadn’t opened that envelope in the first place, the icon would have ended up with its rightful owner.
“Shall I drive up to the entrance?” asked the cabbie.
“Yes, please.”
A moment later he strolled into the hospital, checked the board on the wall as if he were looking for a certain ward, then walked back out on to the street. From Middlesex Hospital it always took him about three minutes at a steady pace to reach Charlotte Street, where he stopped outside a house and pressed a buzzer attached to a little intercom.
“Are you a member?” inquired a voice suspiciously.
“Yes.”
On the hour Adam phoned and listened carefully to all Lawrence had to say.
“I’ll take one more risk,” said Adam, “but if Romanov turns up this time, I’ll hand over the icon to him personally and with it a piece of property so valuable that no amount of money the Americans could offer would be sufficient to purchase it back.”
When Adam put the phone down Lawrence and Sir Morris played the conversation back over again and again.
“I think property’s the key word,” said Sir Morris.
“Agreed,” said Lawrence, “but what piece of property could be that valuable to both the Russians and the Americans?”
Sir Morris began slowly revolving the globe that stood by the side of his desk.
“What does that buzz mean?” asked Romanov. “We are not running out of petrol again, are we?”
“No, sir,” said the chauffeur. “It’s the new calling device now fixed to all ambassadorial cars. It means they expect me to check in.”
“Turn round and go back to that petrol station we passed a couple of miles ago,” Romanov said quietly.
Romanov started tapping the dashboard impatiently as he waited for the petrol station to reappear on the horizon. The sun was going down quickly, and he feared it would be dark within the hour. They had traveled about ninety kilometers beyond Dijon, and neither he nor Valchek had even seen a yellow Citroen going either way.
“Fill up again while I phone Geneva,” Romanov said the moment he saw the petrol station. He ran to the phone booth while Valchek still kept a watchful eye on the passing traffic.
“I am answering your signal,” said Romanov when he was put through to the euphemistically titled second secretary.
“We’ve had another call from Mentor,” said the second secretary. “How far are you from Dijon?”
The member stumbled about the dimly lit room until he came across an unoccupied table wedged up against a pillar in one corner. He sat down on a little leather stool by its side. He swiveled around nervously, as he always did when waiting for someone to bring him his usual malt whiskey on the rocks. When the drink was placed on the table in front of him he sipped at it, in between trying to discover if there were any new faces spread around the dark room. Not an easy task, as he refused to put on his glasses. His eyes eventually became accustomed to the dim light thrown out by the long red fluorescent bulb that stretched above the bar. All he could make out were the same old faces staring at him hopefully; but he wanted something new.
&n
bsp; The proprietor, noticing that a regular customer had remained on his own, came and sat opposite him on the other little stool. The member never could get himself to look the man in the eyes.
“I’ve got someone who’s very keen to meet you,” whispered the proprietor.
“Which one?” he asked, looking up once more to check the faces at the bar.
“Leaning on the jukebox in the corner. The tall, slim one. And he’s young,” added the proprietor. He looked toward the blaring machine. A pleasing new face smiled at him. He smiled nervously back.
“Was I right?” asked the proprietor.
“Is he safe?” was all he asked.
“No trouble with this one. Upper-class lad, right out of a top-drawer public school. Just wants to earn a bit of pocket money on the side.”
“Fine.” The member took a sip of whiskey.
The proprietor walked over to the jukebox. The member watched him talking to the young man. The boy downed his drink, hesitated for a moment, then strolled across the crowded floor to take the empty stool.
“My name is Piers,” the young man said.
“Mine’s Jeremy,” the member said.
“A gentle name,” said Piers. “I’ve always liked the name Jeremy.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“A dry martini, please,” said Piers.
The member ordered a dry martini and another malt whiskey. The waiter hurried away. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No, it’s only my second time,” said Piers. “I used to work in Soho, but it’s got to be so rough lately, you never know who you might end up with.”
The drinks arrived and the member took a quick gulp.
“Would you like to dance?” asked Piers.
“It’s an emergency,” the voice said. “Is the tape on?”
“I’m listening.”
“Antarctic is in Dijon, and he’s found out what’s in the icon.”
A Matter of Honor Page 22