“And did he give them any clue?”
“No, all he told Pemberton was that he was in possession of a piece of property so valuable that no amount of money we could offer would be sufficient to purchase it back.”
“Indeed,” said the voice.
“The British think the important word is property,” said the caller.
“They’re wrong,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “It’s purchase.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because the Russian ambassador in Washington has requested a meeting with the Secretary of State on 20 June, and he’s bringing with him a bullion order to the value of 712 million dollars in gold.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“On our way to Dijon so that we can be sure to lay our hands on that icon before the British or the Russians. The Russians obviously feel confident that it will soon be in their possession. So my bet is that they must already be on the way.”
“But I’ve already agreed to go along with the British plan.”
“Try not to forget which side you’re on, Commander.”
“Yes, sir. But what are we going to do about Antarctic if we get our hands on the icon?”
“It’s only the icon we’re after. Once that’s in our possession, Antarctic is expendable.”
Adam checked his watch: a few minutes after seven.
It was time for him to leave because he had decided not to carry out Lawrence’s instructions to the letter. He intended to be waiting for them, and not as Lawrence had planned. He locked the bedroom door and returned to reception, where he paid for the use of the room and the telephone calls he had made.
“Thank you,” he said to the receptionist, and turned to leave.
“Dudley.” Adam froze on the spot.
“Dudley,” the voice boomed again. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Did you change your mind?” A hand thumped him on the shoulder—at least it wasn’t the left shoulder, he thought—as he stared down at Jim Hardcastle.
“No,” said Adam, wishing he possessed the guile of Robin’s father. “I think I was spotted in town so I had to get a change of clothes and keep out of sight for a few hours.”
“Then why don’t you come to the Mustard dinner?” said Jim. “No one will see you there.”
“Wish I was able to,” said Adam, “but I can’t afford to lose any more time.”
“Anything I can do to help?” said Jim conspiratorially.
“No, I’ve got to get to … I have a rendezvous just outside the town in less than an hour.”
“Wish I could take you there myself,” said Jim. “Do anything to help an old soldier, but I’m a bit stuck tonight—of all nights.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, Jim, I’ll be all right.”
“I could always take him, Dad,” said Linda, who had slipped up by her father’s side and was listening intently.
They both turned toward Linda, who was wearing a tight-fitting black crepe dress that started as low and ended as high as it dared. Her freshly washed hair now fell to her shoulders. She looked up hopefully.
“You’ve only just got your license, lass. Don’t be daft.”
“You always treat me like a child when there’s something worthwhile to do,” came back the immediate response.
Jim hesitated. “How far is this rendezvous?” he asked apprehensively.
“About five, maybe six miles,” said Adam, “but I’ll be fine. I can get a taxi easily.”
“The lass is right,” said Jim, and taking his car keys out of his pocket, he turned to her and added, “but if you ever let on to your mother, I’ll kill you.” Jim took Adam by the hand and shook it furiously.
“But I’ll be just fine …”
“I won’t hear of it, lad. Never forget that in the end we’re both on the same side. And good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Adam reluctantly.
Jim beamed. “You’d better be getting along, lass, before your mother shows up.”
Linda happily took Adam by the hand and led him away to the parking lot.
“Which direction?” she asked, once they were seated in the car.
“The Auxerre road,” said Adam, looking down at the piece of paper on which he had written the directions Lawrence had read over the phone to him.
Linda set off at a slow pace, seeming at first to be unsure of the car, but once they had reached the outskirts of the town, Adam suggested that she might go a little faster.
“I’m very nervous,” she said, as she put her hand on Adam’s knee.
“Yes, I can tell you are,” said Adam, crossing his legs quickly. “Don’t miss the turning,” he added when he noticed a signpost pointing to the left.
Linda swung down off the A road on to a country lane while Adam kept his eyes peeled for the building Lawrence had described. It was another two miles before it came into sight.
“Draw into the side,” said Adam, “and turn the lights off.”
“At last,” said Linda, sounding more hopeful, as she stopped the car.
“Thank you very much,” said Adam, as he touched the door handle.
“Is that all I get for risking life and limb?” asked Linda.
“I wouldn’t want you to be late for the dinner.”
“That dinner will be about as exciting as a dance at the Young Conservatives.”
“But your mother will be worried about you.”
“Dudley, you’re so uptight.”
“I wouldn’t be in normal circumstances, but if you stay much longer your life could be in danger,” Adam said quietly.
Linda turned ashen. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“I wish I was,” said Adam. “Now, when I get out of this car you must turn round and go back to the hotel and never mention this conversation to anyone, especially your mother.”
“I will,” Linda said, sounding nervous for the first time.
“You’re a fantastic girl,” said Adam, and took her in his arms and gave her the longest, warmest kiss she had ever experienced. Adam then got out of the car and watched her nearly drive into a ditch before she headed off back in the direction of Dijon.
He checked his watch: an hour and a half still to go before they were due, and by then it would be pitch dark. He jogged over to the airfield and studied the burned-out buildings that ran alongside the road. It was exactly as Lawrence had described it. It was like a ghost town, and Adam was confident that no one else could be there yet, as they still wouldn’t have had enough time to carry out Lawrence’s plan.
Looking across the runway, Adam spotted the ideal place to hide while he waited to see which of the two plans he had prepared would prove necessary.
Flight Lt. Alan Banks of the British Royal Air Force was thankful that the moon shone so brightly that night. He had landed the little RAF Hawker Typhoon in far worse conditions when a runway had been lit up like the Blackpool sea-front.
Banks circled the perimeter of the airfield once and studied the two runways carefully. The airport had been out of action for such a long time that none of the aircraft manuals included a detailed ground plan.
The flight lieutenant was breaking every rule in the book, including piloting an unmarked aircraft and informing the French that they would be landing in Paris; not easy to explain overshooting an airport by over a hundred miles.
“I can make a landing on the north-south runway more easily,” Banks said, turning to the SAS captain, who sat crouched in the back with his five men. “How near to that hangar do you want me to go?” he said, pointing out of the window.
“Stay well clear, at least a couple of hundred yards,” came back the reply. “We still don’t know what to expect.”
The six SAS men continued to stare cautiously out of the side windows. They had been briefed to pick up a lone Englishman called Scott who would be waiting for them, and then get out fast. It sounded easy enough, but it couldn’t be; otherwise they wouldn’t have be
en called in.
The pilot swung the Hawker around to the south and put the nose down. He smiled when he spotted the burned-out Spitfire that had been left derelict on the corner of the runway. Just like the ones his father used to fly during the Second World War. But this one had obviously never made it home. He descended confidently, and as the little plane touched down it bounced along the runway not because the pilot lacked experience but because the surface was so badly pitted.
Flight Lt. Banks brought the plane to a halt about two hundred yards from the hangar and swung the fuselage round a full circle, ready for that quick getaway the captain seemed so keen to execute. He pressed the button that cut the propellers and turned the lights out. The whirring slowed to an eerie whisper. They were forty-three minutes early.
Adam watched the new arrivals suspiciously from the cockpit of the Spitfire some four hundred yards away. He wasn’t going to make a run for it across that open ground while the moon shone so brightly. His eyes never left the little unmarked plane as he waited for some clue as to who the occupants might be. He estimated it would be another fifteen minutes before the moon would be shielded by clouds. A few minutes more passed before Adam watched six men drop out of the blind side of the aircraft and lie flat on the tarmac on their stomachs. They were correctly dressed in SAS battle gear but Adam remained unconvinced while he still recalled Romanov’s chauffeur’s uniform. The six soldiers made no attempt to move. Neither did Adam, as he was still uncertain which side they were on.
All six men on the ground hated the moon and even more the open space. The captain checked his watch: thirty-six minutes to go. He raised his hand, and they began to crawl toward the hangar where Pemberton had said Scott would be waiting, a journey that took them nearly twenty minutes, and with each movement they made they became more confident that Pemberton’s warning of an enemy waiting for them was unjustified.
At last a mass of clouds reached the moon, and a shadow was thrown across the whole airfield. The SAS captain quickly checked his watch. Five minutes to go before the rendezvous was due. He was the first to reach the door of the hangar, and he pushed it open with the palm of his hand. He wriggled in through the gap. The bullet hit him in the forehead even before he had found time to raise his gun.
“Move, laddies,” shouted the second in command, and the other four were up in a flash, firing in an arc in front of them and running for the protection of the building.
As soon as Adam heard the Scottish brogue, he jumped out of the cockpit and sprinted across the tarmac toward the little plane, whose propellers were already beginning to turn. He jumped on the wing and climbed in by the side of the surprised pilot.
“I’m Adam Scott, the man you’ve come to pick up,” he shouted.
“I’m Flight Lieutenant Alan Banks, old chap,” said the pilot, thrusting out his hand. Only a British officer could shake hands in such a situation, thought Adam, relieved if still terrified.
They both turned and watched the battle.
“We ought to get going,” said the pilot. “My orders are to see you are brought back to England in one piece.”
“Not before we are certain none of your men can make it back to the plane.”
“Sorry, mate. My instructions are to get you out. Their orders are to take care of themselves.”
“Let’s at least give them another minute,” Adam said.
They waited until the propellers were rotating at full speed. Suddenly the firing stopped, and Adam could hear his heart thumping in his body.
“We ought to get moving,” said the pilot.
“I know,” replied Adam, “but just keep your eyes skinned. There’s something I still need to know.”
Years of night marches made it possible for Adam to see him long before the pilot.
“Get going,” said Adam.
“What?” said the pilot.
“Get going.”
The pilot moved the joystick forward, and the plane started moving slowly down the crumbling runway.
Suddenly a dark figure was running toward them, firing long bursts straight at them. The pilot looked back to see a tall man whose fair hair shone in the moonlight.
“Faster, man, faster,” said Adam.
“The throttle’s full out,” said the pilot, as the firing began again, but this time the bullets were ripping into the fuselage. A third burst came, but by then the plane was going faster than the man, and Adam let out a scream of delight when it left the ground.
He looked back to see that Romanov had turned around and was now firing at someone who was not wearing an SAS uniform.
“They couldn’t hope to hit us now unless they’ve got a bazooka,” said Flight Lieutenant Banks.
“Well done, well done,” said Adam, turning back to the pilot.
“And to think my wife had wanted me to go to the cinema tonight,” said the pilot, laughing.
“And what had you planned to see?” asked Adam.
“My Fair Lady.”
“Isn’t it time for us to be going home?” asked Piers removing his hand from the member’s leg.
“Good idea,” he said. “Just let me settle the bill.”
“And I’ll pick up my coat and scarf,” said Piers. “Join you upstairs in a few moments?”
“Fine,” he said. Catching the eye of the proprietor the member scribbled his signature in the air. When the “account” arrived—a bare figure written out on a slip of paper without explanation—it was, as always, extortionate. As always, the member paid without comment. He thanked the proprietor as he left and walked up the dusty, creaky stairs to find his companion already waiting for him on the pavement. He hailed a taxi, and while Piers climbed in the back he directed the cabbie to Dillon’s bookshop.
“Not in the cab,” he said, as Piers’s hand began to creep up his leg.
“I can’t wait,” said Piers. “It’s way past my bedtime.”
“Way past my bedtime,” his companion repeated involuntarily and checked his watch. The die must have been cast. They would have moved in by now: surely they had caught Scott this time? And more important, the …
“Four bob,” said the cabbie, flicking back the glass. He handed over five shillings and didn’t wait for any change.
“Just around the corner,” he said, guiding Piers past the bookshop and into the little side street. They crept down the stone steps, and Piers waited as he unlocked the door, switched on the lights and led the young man in.
“Oh, very cozy,” said Piers. “Very cozy indeed.”
Flight Lieutenant Alan Banks stared out of his tiny window as the plane climbed steadily.
“Where to now?” said Adam, relief flooding through his body.
“I had hoped England, but I’m afraid the answer is as far I can manage.”
“What do you mean?” said Adam anxiously.
“Look at the fuel gauge,” said Alan Banks, putting his forefinger on a little white indicator that was pointing halfway between a quarter full and empty. “We had enough to get us back to Northolt in Middlesex until those bullets ripped into my fuel tank.”
The little white stick kept moving toward the red patch even as Adam watched it, and within moments the propellers on the left side of the aircraft spun to a halt.
“I am going to have to put her down in a field nearby. I can’t risk going on, as there are no other airports anywhere near us. Just be thankful it’s a clear moonlit night.”
Without warning the plane began to descend sharply. “I shall try for that field over there,” said the flight lieutenant, sounding remarkably blasé as he pointed to a large expanse of land to the west of the aircraft. “Hold on tight,” he said as the plane spiraled down inevitably. The large expanse of land suddenly looked very small as the plane began to approach it.
Adam found himself gripping the side of his seat and gritting his teeth.
“Relax,” said the pilot. “These Hawkers have landed on far worse places than this,” he went on, as the wheels touche
d the brown earth. “Damn, mud. I hadn’t anticipated that,” he cursed, as the wheels lost their grip in the soft earth and the plane suddenly nosedived. A few seconds passed before Adam realized he was still alive but upside down, swinging from his seat belt.
“What do I do next?” he asked the pilot, but there was no reply.
Adam tried to get his bearings and began to rock his body backward and forward until he could touch the side of the plane with one hand while gripping the joystick with his feet. Once he was able to grab the side of the fuselage he undid the belt and collapsed onto the roof of the plane.
He picked himself up, delighted to find nothing broken. He quickly looked around, but there was still no sign of the pilot. Adam clambered out of the plane, glad to feel the safety of the ground. He searched around for a considerable time before he discovered Alan Banks some thirty yards in front of the aircraft, motionless on his back.
“Are you all right?” asked the pilot, before Adam could ask the same question.
“I’m fine, but how about you, Alan?”
“I’m okay. I must have been thrown clear of the aircraft. Just sorry about the landing, old chap, have to admit it wasn’t up to scratch. We must try it again sometime.”
Adam burst out laughing as the pilot slowly sat up.
“What next?” Banks asked.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Alan, gingerly lifting himself up. “Damn,” he said, “it’s only my ankle, but it’s sure going to slow me down. You’d better get going without me. That bunch back there with the arsenal can only be about thirty minutes behind us.”
“But what will you do?”
“My father landed in one of these bloody fields during the Second World War and still managed to get himself back to England without being caught by the Germans. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Adam, because if I get back I’ll be able to shut him up once and for all. Which lot are chasing us this time, by the way?”
“The Russians,” said Adam, who was beginning to wonder if perhaps there was a second enemy.
“The Russians couldn’t be better; anything less and Dad wouldn’t have accepted it as a fair comparison.”
A Matter of Honor Page 23