A Matter of Honour (16 page)

“You are too kind, Heir Romanov,” said
Jacques. “Will there be anything else?”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to have my
account prepared so that there will be no delay.”

“Certainly.”

Romanov put the phone down wishing he could
export such service to Moscow. He only waited a moment before he dialled the
first of two local numbers. On both occasions his wishes were immediately
granted. As he replaced the phone for the third time there was a gentle tap on
the door. Romanov went quickly over to answer it. A young porter stood in the
corridor, a large laundry basket by his side. He smiled politely. Romanov
merely nodded and pulled in the basket. “Please return as soon as the taxi has
arrived,” said Romanov. The porter bowed slightly, but said nothing.

As soon as the porter had left, Romanov
locked the door and put the chain in place before wheeling the laundry basket
into the main bedroom and leaving it by the side of the bed. He undid the tough
leather straps and threw open the lid.

Next, he unlocked the bathroom door and
lifted Petrova’s stiff body in his arms before trying to cram it into the
basket. Rigor mortis had already gripped the body; the legs refused to bend and
the researcher didn’t quite fit in. Romanov placed the naked Petrova on the
floor. He held his fingers out straight and suddenly brought them down with
such force on the right leg that it broke like a branch in a storm. He repeated
the action on her left leg. Like the guillotine, it didn’t require a second
attempt. He then tucked the legs under her body. It amused Romanov to consider
that, had it been he who had been murdered, Anna Petrova would never have been
able to get him in the basket whatever she had tried to break. Romanov then
wheeled the trolley into the researcher’s bedroom and, after emptying all her
drawers, including Anna’s clothes, clean and dirty, her shoes, her toilet bag,
toothbrush and even an old photograph of himself he hadn’t realised she
possessed he threw them in the basket on top of her. Once he had removed the
gold medallion from around her neck and was certain that there was nothing of
the researcher’s personal belongings left, he covered up the body with a hotel
bath towel, and sprayed it with a liberal amount of Chanel No. 5 that had been
left courtesy of the hotel.

Finally he strapped the lid down securely
and

129

Jeffrey Archer wheeled the creaking basket
out and left it by the outer door.

Romanov began to pack his own case but there
was a knock on the door before he had finished.

“Wait,” he said firmly. There was a muffled
reply of “Ja,
mein Hen.”
A few
moments later Romanov opened the door. The porter entered, nodded to him and
began to tug at the laundry basket, but it took a firm shove from Romanov’s
foot before it got moving. The porter sweated his way down the corridor as
Romanov walked by the side of the basket, carrying his suitcase. When they
reached the rear of the hotel Romanov watched as the basket was wheeled safely
into the freight elevator before he stepped in himself.

When the ground floor doors opened Romanov
was relieved to be greeted by Jacques who was standing by a large Mercedes
waiting for him with the boot already open. The taxi driver and the porter
lifted up the laundry basket and wedged it into the boot, but Romanov’s
suitcase could not be fitted in as well so it had to be put in the front of the
car alongside the driver’s seat.

“Shall we forward your bill to the
Consulate,
mein Herr?”
asked Jacques.

“Yes, that would be helpful...”

“I do hope everything has worked out to your
satisfaction,” said Jacques, as he held open the back door of the Mercedes for his
departing guest.

“Entirely,” said Romanov.

“Good, good. And will your young colleague
be joining you?” asked the manager, looking back over his shoulder towards the
hotel.

“No, she won’t,” said Romanov. “She has
already gone on to the airport ahead of me.”

130

A Matter of Honour

“Of course,” said Jacques, “but I am sorry
to have missed her. Do please pass on my best wishes.”

“I certainly will,”
said
Romanov, “and I look forward to returning to your hotel in the near future.”

“Thank you sir,” the manager said as Romanov
slipped into the back seat leaving Jacques to close the door behind him.

When Romanov arrived at the Swissair office
his suitcase was checked in and he waited only moments before continuing on to
the bank. Herr Bischoff’s son, accompanied by another man, also clad in a grey
suit, was waiting in the hall to greet him.

“How pleasant to see you again so soon,”
volunteered the young Herr
Bischoff.
His deep voice
took Romanov by surprise. The taxi driver waited by the open boot while Herr
Bischoff’s companion, a man of at least six foot four and heavily built, lifted
out the laundry basket as if it were a sponge cake. Romanov paid the fare and
followed Herr Bischoff into the far lift.

“We are fully prepared for your deposition
following your phone call,” said Herr Bischoff. “My father was only sorry not
to be present personally. He had a long-standing engagement with another
customer and only hopes that you will understand.” Romanov waved his hand.

The lift travelled straight to the ground
floor where the guard, on seeing young Herr Bischoff, unlocked the great steel
cage. Romanov and the two bankers proceeded at a leisurely pace down the
corridor, while the giant carried the basket in their wake.

Standing with folded arms by the vault door
was another of the partners Romanov recognised from the previous day. Herr
Bischoff nodded and the partner placed his key in the top lock of the vault
door without a word. Herr Bischoffthen turned the second lock and together they
pushed open the massive steel door. Herr Bischoff and his partner walked in
ahead of Romanov and opened the top lock of all five of his boxes, while the
guard placed the laundry basket on the floor beside them.

“Will you require any assistance?” asked
Herr Bischoff as he handed his Russian client a personal sealed envelope.

“No thank you,” Romanov assured him, but did
not relax until he had seen the vast door close behind him and all four of his
Swiss helpers left invisibly on the other side.

Once he felt certain he was alone, he stared
down at the one large box he knew to be empty: it was smaller than he had
recalled. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he unlocked it, pulled it
out and raised the airtight lid. It was going to be a tight fit. Romanov
unstrapped the laundry basket and removed everything except the body. He stared
down at the contorted
face,
the deep marks in the skin
around the neck had turned to a dark blue. He bent over and lifted the
researcher up by her waist, but as no part of the body moved other than her
broken legs he had to drop her into the box head first. Even then he had to
adjust her various limbs in order that the box could be shut: had Anna been even
an inch taller the exercise would have proved pointless. He then stuffed the
girl’s belongings down at the sides of her body, leaving only the
Chanel-covered towel behind in the laundry basket.

Romanov proceeded to replace the lid on the
airtight box, before pushing it back securely in place and locking it. He then
double-checked it could not be opened without his own personal key. He was
relieved to find he could not budge it. He hesitated for a moment glancing at
the second large box, but accepted that this was not the time to indulge
himself: that would have to wait for another occasion. Satisfied that
everything was back in place, he closed and strapped down the lid of the
laundry basket and wheeled it back to the entrance of the vault. He pressed the
little red button.

“I do hope you found everything in order,”
said the young Herr Bischoff once he had returned from locking the five boxes.

“Yes, thank you,” said Romanov. “But would
it be possible for someone to return the laundry basket to the St Gothard
Hotel?”

“Of course,” said the banker, who nodded
towards the large man.

“And I can be assured that the boxes will
not be touched in my absence?” he asked as they walked down the corridor.

“Naturally, Your Excellency,” said Herr
Bischoff, looking somewhat aggrieved at such a suggestion. “When you return,”
he continued, “you will find everything exactly as you left it.”

Well, not exactly, Romanov thought to
himself.

When they stepped out of the lift on the
ground floor, Romanov spotted Herr Bischoff’s father with another customer.

A Rolls-Royce accompanied by a police
motorcycle whisked the Shah of Iran quickly away, and the chairman discreetly
waved his farewell.

When they reached the entrance to the bank,
the young Herr Bischoff bowed. “We shall look forward to seeing you again when
you are next in Zurich,
Your
Excellency,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Romanov, who shook hands
with the young man and walked out on to the pavement to find the anonymous
black car waiting to take him to the airport.

He cursed. This time he
did
spot the agent he had seen earlier in the hotel.

“Kill him, sir,” the corporal whispered in
Adam’s ear.

“Not much hope of that,” muttered Adam as he
bounced into the centre of the ring.

The lean, muscle-bound instructor stood
waiting for him. “Let’s have a few rounds and see how you make out, sir.” Adam
bobbed and weaved around the Physical Training Instructor looking for an
opening.

Adam led with a left and received a tap on
the nose for his trouble. “Keep your guard up,” said the sergeant major. Adam
led again, catching the instructor a full blow on the chest, but was punished
with a sharp left jab into the side of his head. He wobbled and his ear tingled
but this time he managed to keep his guard up when a right and left followed. “You’re
feeble, sir, that’s your problem. You couldn’t knock the skin off a rice
pudding.” Adam feinted with his right and then swung a left with such force
that when it caught the sergeant major full on the chin he staggered and fell.

The corporal standing by the side of the
ring smirked as the instructor remained on the floor. Eventually he managed to
get back on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” said Adam, his guard up and
ready.

“Don’t be sorry, you bloody
fool.
. . sir. You landed a bloody good punch.
A technical knockout, to be accurate, so I’ll have to wait for a
day or two to seek my revenge.”
Adam breathed a sigh of relief and
lowered his guard. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. It’s weight
training for you now, sir. Beam work and floor exercises.”

For the next hour the sergeant major chased,
kicked, harried and badgered Adam until he finally collapsed in a heap on the
floor, incapable of lifting an evening paper.

“Not bad, sir.
I feel sure the Foreign Office will be able
to find some niche for you. Mind you,” he added, “as most of that lot are about
as wet as a dishcloth even you’ll have a chance to shine.”

“You are most flattering, Sergeant Major,”
said Adam from a supine position.

“Up, sir,” the instructor bellowed. Adam
unwillingly got to his feet as quickly as his tired body would allow.

“Don’t tell me, Sergeant Major.”

“It’s the recovery that proves fitness, not
the speed,” they said in unison.

“Sad day when you left the army,” said the
instructor to Adam once they were back in the Queen’s Club changing room.
“Can’t name a lot of officers who have put me on the floor.”
The instructor touched his chin tenderly. “That will teach me to underestimate
a man who survived nine months of Chink food. So let’s hope the Foreign Office
doesn’t underestimate you as well.”

The sergeant major rose from the bench by
his locker.
“Same time Wednesday?”

“Can’t make it Wednesday,
Sergeant Major.
I may
not be back from a trip to Geneva.”

“Swanning around Europe nowadays, are we?”

“I could manage Thursday morning if that
suits you,” Adam said, ignoring the jibe.

“Your check-up with the quack is next
Monday, if I remember correctly.”

“Right.”

“Thursday at ten then, it will give you a
little longer to think about my right-hook.”

The Chairman of the KGB studied the report
on the desk in front of him: something didn’t ring true. He looked up at
Romanov. “Your reason for visiting Bis-choff
et
Cie
was because they claimed to be in possession of a fifteenth-century icon that
might have fitted the description of the one we are searching for?”

“That is correct, Comrade, and the chairman
of Gosbank will confirm that he personally arranged the meeting.”

“But the icon turned out to be of St Peter
and not of St George and the Dragon.”