A Matter of Honour (21 page)

He refused to accept that they were dead.

Adam kept holding on to Heidi as he stared
beyond her: the old man had reached the top of the hill.

Why did he still think of him as an old man?
He was obviously not old at all, but young and very fit. Suddenly Adam’s fear
turned to anger. He had a split second to make a decision. He let go of Heidi,
jumped out of the car and started to sprint up the hill after her killer. Two
or three onlookers had already gathered on the kerbside and were now staring at
Adam and the two cars. He had to catch the man who was still running. Adam
moved as fast as he could but the trenchcoat he was wearing slowed him down,
and by the time he too had reached the top of the hill the killer was a clear
hundred yards ahead of him, weaving his way through the main thoroughfare. Adam
tried to lengthen his stride as he watched the man leap on to a passing tram,
but he was too far behind to make any impression on him and could only watch
the tram moving inexorably into the distance.

The man stood on the tram steps and stared
back at Adam. He held up the shopping bag defiantly with one hand. The back was
no longer hunched, the figure no longer frail, and even at that distance, Adam
could sense the triumph in the man’s stance. Adam stood for several seconds in
the middle of the road helplessly watching the tram as it disappeared out of
sight.

He tried to gather his thoughts. He realised
that there was little hope of picking up a taxi during the rush hour. Behind
him he could hear sirens of what he presumed were ambulances trying to rush to
the scene of the accident. “Accident,” said Adam. “They will soon discover it
was murder.” He tried to start sorting out in his mind the madness of the last
half hour. None of it made sense. He would surely find it was all a mistake...
Then he touched the side of his coat, touched the package that held the Tsar’s
icon. The killer hadn’t gone to all that trouble for £20,000 – murdering two
innocent people who happened to have got in his way – why, why,
why,
was the icon that important? What
had the Sotheby’s expert said? “A Russian gentleman had enquired after the piece.”
Adam’s mind began to whirl. If it was Emmanuel Rosenbaum and that was what he
had killed for, all he had ended up with was a large box of Swiss liqueur
chocolates.

When Adam heard the whistle behind him he
felt relieved that help was at hand but as he turned he saw two officers with
guns out of their holsters pointing towards him. He instinctively turned his
jog into a run, and looking over his shoulder he saw that several police were
now giving chase. He lengthened his stride again and, despite the trenchcoat,
doubted if there were a member of the Swiss force who could hope to keep up the
pace he set for more than a quarter of a mile. He turned into the first alley
he came to and speeded up. It was narrow – not wide enough for even two
bicycles to pass. Once he was beyond the alley he selected a one-way street. It
was crammed with cars, and he was able swiftly and safely to move in and out of
the slow-moving oncoming traffic.

In a matter of minutes he had lost the
pursuing police, but he still ran on, continually switching direction until he
felt he had covered at least two miles. He finally turned into a quiet street
and halfway down saw a fluorescent sign advertising the Hotel Monarque. It didn’t
look much more than a guest house, and certainly wouldn’t have qualified under
the description of
an
hotel. He stopped in the shadows
and waited, taking in great gulps of air. After about three minutes his
breathing was back to normal and he marched straight into the hotel.

He stood naked, staring at the image of
Emmanuel Rosenbaum in the hotel mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. First he
removed the teeth,
then
began to click his own up and
down: he had been warned that the gums would ache for days. Then painstakingly
he shed each layer of his bulbous nose, admiring the skill and artistry that
had gone into creating such a monstrosity. It will be too conspicuous, he had
told them. They will remember nothing else, had come back the experts’ reply.

When the last layer had been removed, the
aristocratic one that took its place looked ridiculous in the centre of such a
face. Next he began on the lined forehead that even moved when he frowned. As
the lines disappeared, so the years receded.
Next the flaccid
red cheeks, and finally, the two chins.
The Swiss bankers would have
been amazed at how easily the sharp rubbing of a pumice stone removed the
indelible number on the inside of his arm. Once more he studied himself in the
mirror. The hair, short and greying, would take nature longer. When they had
cut his hair and smeared that thick, mud-like concoction all over his scalp he
realised how an Irishman must feel to be tarred and feathered. Moments later he
stood under a warm shower, his fingers massaging deep into the roots of his hair.
Black treacly water started to run down his face and body before finally
disappearing down the plug hole. It took half a bottle of shampoo before his
hair had returned to its normal colour, but he realised that it would take
considerably longer before he stopped looking like a staff sergeant in the
United States Marines.

In a corner of the room lay the long baggy
coat, the shiny shapeless suit, the black tie, the off-white shirt, woollen
mittens and the Israeli passport. Hours of preparation discarded in a matter of
minutes. He longed to burn them all, but instead left them in a heap. He
returned to the main room and stretched himself out on the bed like a yawning
cat. His back still ached from all the bending and crouching. He stood up, then
touched his toes and threw his arms high above his head fifty times. He rested
for one minute before completing fifty press-ups.

He returned to the bathroom and had a second
shower – cold. He was beginning to feel like a human being again. He then
changed into a freshly ironed cream silk shirt and a new double-breasted suit.

Before making one phone call to London and
two more to Moscow he ordered dinner in his room so that no one would see him –
he had no desire to explain how the man who checked in was thirty years younger
than the man eating alone in his room. Like a hungry animal he tore at the
steak and gulped the wine.

He stared at the colourful carrier bag but
felt no desire to finish off the meal with one of Scott’s liqueur chocolates.
Once again he felt anger at the thought of the Englishman getting the better of
him.

His eyes then rested on the little leather
suitcase that lay on the floor by the side of his bed. He opened it and took
out the copy of the icon that Zaborski had ordered he should always have with
him so that there could be no doubt when he came across the original of St
George and the Dragon.

At a little after eleven he switched on the
late-night news. They had no photograph of the suspect, only one of that stupid
taxi-driver who had driven so slowly it had cost the fool his life, and the
pretty German girl who had tried to fight back. It had been pathetic, one firm
clean strike and her neck was broken. The television announcer said the police
were searching for an unnamed Englishman. Romanov smiled at the thought of
police searching for Scott while he was eating steak in a luxury hotel.
Although the Swiss police had no photograph of the murderer, Romanov didn’t
need one. It was a face he would never forget. In any case, his contact in
England had already told him a lot more about Captain Scott in one phone call
than the Swiss police could hope to discover for another week.

When Romanov was told the details of Scott’s
military career and decorations for bravery he considered it would be a
pleasure to kill such a man.

Lying motionless on a mean little bed, Adam
tried to make sense of all the pieces that made up a black jigsaw. If Goering
had left the icon to his father, and his alias had been Emmanuel Rosenbaum,
then a real-life Emmanuel Rosenbaum didn’t exist. But he
did
exist: he had even killed twice in his attempt to get his hands
on the Tsar’s icon. Adam leaned over, switched on the bedside light,
then
pulled the small package out of the pocket of his
trenchcoat. He
unwrapped
it carefully before holding
the icon under the light. St George stared back at him – no longer looking
magnificent, it seemed to Adam, more accusing. Adam would have handed the icon
over to Rosenbaum without a second thought if it would have stopped Heidi from
sacrificing her life.

By midnight Adam had decided what had to be
done, but he didn’t stir from that tiny room until a few minutes after three.
He lifted himself quietly off the bed, opened the door, checked the corridor,
and then locked the door noiselessly behind him before creeping down the
stairs. When he reached the bottom step he waited and listened. The night
porter had nodded off in front of a television that now let out a dim,
monotonous hum. A silver dot remained in the centre of the screen. Adam took
nearly two minutes to reach the front door, stepping on a noisy floorboard just
once: but the porter’s snores had been enough to cover that. Once outside, Adam
checked up and down the street but there was no sign of any movement. He didn’t
want to go far, so he stayed in the shadows by the side of the road, moving at
a pace unfamiliar to him. When he reached the corner he saw what he was
searching for and it was still about a hundred yards away.

There was still no one to be seen, so he
quickly made his way to the phone box. He pressed a twenty centime coin into
the box and waited. A voice said,
“Est-ce-que
je peux vous aider?”
Adam uttered only one word, “International.” A moment
later another voice asked the same question.

“I want to make a reverse charge call to
London,” said Adam firmly. He had no desire to repeat himself.

“Yes,” said the voice. “And what is your
name?”

“George Cromer,” replied Adam.

“And the number you are speaking from?”

“Geneva 271982.” He reversed the last three
digits: he felt the police could well be listening in on all calls to England
that night. He then told the girl the number in London he required.

“Can you wait for a moment, please?”

“Yes,” said Adam as his eyes checked up and
down the street once again, still looking for any unfamiliar movement. Only the
occasional early morning car sped by. He remained absolutely motionless in the
corner of the box.

He could hear the connection being put
through. “Please wake up,” his lips mouthed. At last the ringing stopped and
Adam recognised the familiar voice which answered.

“Who is this?” Lawrence asked, sounding
irritated but perfectly awake.

“Will you accept a reverse charge call from
a Mr George Cromer in Geneva?”

“George Cromer, Lord Cromer, the Governor of
the Bank of Eng-? Yes, I will,” he said.

“It’s me, Lawrence,” said Adam.

“Thank God. Where are you?”

“I’m still in Geneva but I’m not sure you’re
going to believe what I’m about to tell you. While we were waiting to board our
plane home a man pulled Heidi into a taxi and later murdered her before I could
catch up with them. And the trouble is that the Swiss police think I’m the
killer.”

“Now just relax, Adam. I know that much. It’s
been on the evening news and the police have already been around to interview
me. It seems Heidi’s brother identified you.”

“What do you mean
identified
me? I didn’t do it. You know I couldn’t do it. It was a
man called Rosenbaum, not me, Lawrence.”

“Rosenbaum?
Adam, who is Rosenbaum?”

Adam tried to sound calm. “Heidi and I came
to Geneva this morning to pick up a gift from a Swiss bank that Pa had left me
in his will. It turned out to be a painting. Then when we returned to the
airport, this Rosenbaum grabbed Heidi thinking she had got the painting which
didn’t make any sense because the damned icon’s only worth £20,000.”

“Icon?” said Lawrence.

“Yes, an icon of St George and the Dragon,”
said Adam. “That’s not important. What’s important is that...”

“Now listen and listen carefully,”
interrupted Lawrence, “because I’m not going to repeat myself. Keep out of
sight until the morning and then give yourself up at our Consulate. Just see
you get there in one piece and I’ll make sure that the Consul will be expecting
you. Don’t arrive until eleven because London is an hour behind Geneva and I’ll
need every minute to arrange matters and see that the consul staff is properly
organised.”

Adam found himself smiling for the first
time in twelve hours.

“Did the killer get what he was after?”
Lawrence asked.

“No, he didn’t get the icon,” said Adam, “he
only got my mother’s chocolates...”

“Thank God for that and keep out of sight of
the Swiss police because they are convinced it was you who killed Heidi.”

“But. . .” began Adam.

“No explanations. Just be at the Consulate
at eleven. Now you’d better get off the line,” said Lawrence. “Eleven, and don’t
be late.”

“Right,” said Adam, “and...” but the phone
was only giving out a long burr. Thank God for Lawrence, he thought: the Lawrence
of old who didn’t need to ask any questions because he already knew the
answers. Christ, what had he got himself involved in? Adam checked the street
once again.
Still no one in sight.
He quickly stole
the two hundred yards back to the hotel. The front door remained unlocked, the
porter asleep, the television screen still faintly humming, the silver dot in
place. Adam was back on his bed by five minutes past four. He didn’t sleep.
Rosenbaum, Heidi, the taxi driver, the Russian gentleman at Sotheby’s.
So many pieces of a jigsaw, none of them fitting into place.