A Matter of Honour (24 page)

“But if it turned out to be Romanov,” asked
Snell, “would Scott be able to kill him?”

“I would have said no before Rosenbaum
murdered his girlfriend,” said Lawrence.

“I wouldn’t be confident of his chances even
then,” said Busch.

“Neither would I,” added Matthews.

“That’s because you don’t know Adam Scott,”
said Lawrence.

Matthews lowered his eyes in order to avoid
a clash with his boss.
His boss.
Ten
years his junior.
A shortlist of two and they had chosen another
Oxbridge man to be Under-Secretary. Matthews knew that as far as the Foreign
Office was concerned, he had gone to the wrong school and the wrong university.
He should have taken his father’s advice and joined the police force. There
were no class barriers there, and he would probably have been a chief
superintendent by now.

Sir Morris ignored the little outburst which
had become fairly common since he had selected Pemberton to leapfrog the older
man.

“Are we allowed
to know
,”
interrupted Snell, looking straight at Busch, “why a relatively obscure icon is
of such disproportionate importance to both Russia and the United States?”

“We are as mystified as you,” said the
American. “All we can add to your current
information,
is that two weeks ago the Russians deposited gold bullion in New York to the
value of over seven hundred million dollars without any explanation. We are, of
course, not certain at the moment there is any connection.”

“Seven hundred million dollars?” said Sir
Morris. “You could buy half the countries in the United Nations for that.”

“And every icon that has ever been painted,”
said Matthews.

“Let’s get down to what we actually know,
and stop guessing at what might be,” said Sir Morris turning back to his Number
Two. “What’s the exact IA position?”

Lawrence undid a folder with a red band
around it, the words ‘Immediate Action’ printed across the top in black. He did
not need to refer to it, but still glanced down from time to time to check he
had not forgotten anything. “As I have already briefed you, we have seventeen
agents in the field and the Americans are flying a further twelve into Geneva
today. With the Russians and the Swiss roaming the city like knights of the
round table in search of the Holy Grail, I can only believe that someone will
come across Scott fairly soon. One of our biggest problems, as I explained, is
that the Swiss are unwilling to co-operate. As far as they are concerned, Scott
is a common criminal on the run and should they get to him first they have made
it clear they will not allow him diplomatic immunity.

“We, as well as the Swiss police, and
undoubtedly the Russians,” continued Lawrence, “have started checking out all
the obvious places: hotels, guest houses, restaurants, airports, car hire
companies, even lavatories, and we remain in constant touch with every one of
our agents on the ground. So if Scott suddenly appears out of nowhere we should
be able to go to his aid at a moment’s notice.” Lawrence looked up to observe
that one of the team was taking down all the details. “Added to that, the Post
Office
are
intercepting every call made to Barclays DCO
from Geneva. If Scott does try to get in contact with me again at the bank or
at my flat it will be put through to this office automatically,” he said.

“Is he aware that you work for the Service?”
asked Snell, putting a hand through his dark hair.

“No. He, like my dear mother, still thinks I’m
a bank official in the International Department of Barclays DCO. But it won’t
be long before he works out that that’s only a front. Unlike my mother, he
doesn’t always believe everything I tell him and after our conversation last
night he is bound to have become suspicious.”

“Do we have anything else to go on?” Sir
Morris asked, looking up at Lawrence.

“Not a lot more at the moment, sir. We are
doing everything possible, remembering this is not a home match; but I still
anticipate that the exercise will be over one way or another within twenty-four
hours. Because of that I have requested overnight facilities to be set up in
the building should you feel we need them. When you return after dinner you
will find beds already made up in your offices.”

“No one will be going out to dinner tonight,”
said Sir Morris.

The cinema door opened on to the busy
pavement and Adam slipped into the main stream of commuters who were now
returning home for dinner. As he kept walking he made certain of as little head
movement as possible but his eyes never stayed still, checking everything
within 180 degrees. After he had covered three blocks, he spotted a red Avis
sign swinging in the afternoon breeze on the far side of the road. He safely
reconnoitred the crowded crossing, but once his foot touched the far pavement
he froze on the spot. Just ahead of him in the fast, jostling crowd stood a man
in a raincoat. He was continually looking around, while making no attempt to
walk in either direction. Was he one of Rosenbaum’s men, the police, or even
British? There was no way of telling whose side he was on. Adam’s eyes didn’t
leave the man as he took out an intercom and, putting it to his mouth,
whispered into it.
“Nothing to report, sir.
Still no
sign of our man, and I haven’t seen any of the KGB either.”

Adam, unable to hear the words, switched
into a side road and almost knocked over a boy selling papers. ‘
Le soldat anglais toujours à Genève
’
the headline blared. Quickly he crossed
another road, where he came to a stop again, this time behind a marble statue
in the centre of a small patch of grass. He stared at the building in front of
him but he knew there would be no point in his trying to hide there. He started
to move away as a large, empty touring coach drew up and parked in front of the
block. Smart blue lettering along the side of the coach proclaimed ‘The Royal
Philharmonic Orchestra’. Adam watched as some musicians walked out of the front
door and climbed on to the coach carrying their instrument cases of assorted
lengths and widths. One was even lugging a large kettle drum which he deposited
in the boot of the coach.
As the musicians continued to
stream out of the hotel Adam decided he wouldn’t get a better opportunity.
When the next group came through the double doors he walked quickly forward and
stepped into the middle of them before anyone could have spotted him. He then
continued on past them through the open hotel door. The first thing he spotted
in the crowded lobby was a double bass leaning against the wall. He glanced at
the label around the neck of the unwieldy case. ‘Robin Beresford.’

Adam walked over to the counter and gestured
to the clerk. “I need my room key quickly – I’ve left my bow upstairs and now I’m
holding everyone up.”

“Yes, sir.
What room number?” asked the
clerk.

“I think
it’s
312,
or was that yesterday?” said Adam.

“What name, sir?”

“Beresford – Robin Beresford.”

The clerk handed him key 612. His only
comment was: “You were three floors out.”

“Thank you,” said Adam. As he left the
counter, he turned to check that the receptionist was already dealing with
another customer. He walked smartly over to the lift which was disgorging still
more musicians. Once it had emptied he stepped in, pressed the button for the
sixth floor, and waited. He felt exhilarated as the lift doors eventually slid
across and he was alone for the first time in several hours. When the doors opened
again he was relieved to find there was no one standing in the corridor. He
made his way quickly along the passage to room 612.

As he turned the key and opened the door he
said firmly in as good a French accent as he could manage, “Room service”, but
as no one responded, he stepped in and locked the door behind him. An unopened
suitcase had been left in one corner. Adam checked the label. Obviously Mr
Beresford hadn’t even had time to unpack. Adam checked the room, but there was
no other sign of the hotel guest apart from a piece of paper on the side table.
It was a typed itinerary:

‘European Tour: Geneva, Frankfurt, Berlin,
Amsterdam, London.

‘Geneva, Bus 5.00 to
Concert Hall rehearsal 6.00, Concert performance 7.30, encores 10.00.
‘Programme: Mozart’s Third Horn Concerto,
First Movement, Brahms’s Second Symphony, Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.’

Adam looked at his watch: by the time Robin
Beresford had completed the ‘Unfinished Symphony’ he would be over the border;
but he still felt safe to remain in Room 612 until it was dark.

He picked up the phone by the bed and
dialled room service. “Beresford, 612,” he announced, and ordered himself some
dinner before going into the bathroom. On the side of the basin was propped a
little plastic bag with the words ‘Compliments of the Management’ printed
across it. Inside Adam found soap, a tiny toothbrush, toothpaste and a plastic
razor.

He had just finished shaving when he heard a
knock on the door and someone calling “Room service”. Adam quickly covered his
face with lather again and put on a hotel dressing gown before he opened the
door. The waiter set up a table without giving Adam a second look. When he had
finished his task he enquired, “Will you sign the bill, please, sir?”

He handed Adam a slip of paper. He signed it
‘Robin Beresford’ and added a fifteen per cent tip.

“Thank you,” said the waiter and left. As
soon as the door closed behind him Adam’s eyes settled on the feast of onion
soup, rump steak with green beans and potatoes, and finally a raspberry sorbet.
A bottle of house wine had been uncorked and needed only to be poured. He
suddenly didn’t feel that hungry.

He still couldn’t accept what he had gone
through. If only he hadn’t pressed Heidi into joining him on this unnecessary
journey.
A week before she hadn’t even known him and now he
was responsible for her death.
He would have to explain to her parents
what had happened to their only daughter. But before Adam could face them he
still had to come up with some explanation for the things he hadn’t yet begun
to understand. Not least the unimportant icon.
Unimportant?

After he had half finished the meal he
wheeled the trolley out into the corridor and placed the ‘Do not disturb’ sign
on the door. Once back in the bedroom he stared out of the window over the
city. The sun looked as if it had another hour allocated for Geneva. Adam lay
down on the bed and began to consider what had happened in the last twenty-four
hours of his life.

“Antarctic is in possession of an icon of St
George and the Dragon. But we know from our files of that period that that
particular icon was destroyed when the Grand Duke of Hesse’s plane crashed over
Belgium in 1937.”

“That may well be what is written in your
files,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “But what if your
information at Langley turns out to be wrong and the icon was found by Goering
but not returned to the Grand Duke?”

“But Stalin confirmed at Yalta that the icon
and its contents had been destroyed in the plane crash. He agreed to make no
protest while he was not in possession of the original document. After all,
that was the reason Roosevelt appeared to be gaining so little at the time
while Stalin was getting so much in return. Can’t you remember the fuss
Churchill made?”

“I certainly can because he had worked out
that it wasn’t Britain who was going to benefit from such a decision.”

“But if the Russians have now discovered the
existence of the original icon?”

“You are suggesting they might also get
their hands on the original document?”

“Precisely.
So you must be sure to get to Antarctic
before the Russians do, or for that matter, the Foreign Office.”

“But I’m part of the Foreign Office team.”

“And that’s precisely what we want the
Foreign Office to go on believing.”

“And who’s been sleeping in my bed, said
Mother Bear.”

Adam woke with a start. Looking down at him
was a girl who held a double bass firmly by the neck with one hand and a bow in
the other. She was nearly six foot and certainly weighed considerably more than
Adam. She had long, gleaming red hair that was in such contrast to the rest of
her that it was as if the Maker had started at the top and quickly lost
interest. She wore a white blouse and a black flowing skirt that stopped an
inch above the ground.

“Who are you?” asked Adam, startled.

“I’m not Goldilocks, that’s for sure,”
parried the girl. “More to the point, who are you?”

Adam hesitated. “If I told you, you wouldn’t
believe me.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” she said. “You
don’t look like Prince Charles or Elvis Presley to me, so go on,
try
me.”

“I’m Adam Scott.”

“Am I meant to swoon and run to your side,
or scream and run away?” she enquired.

Adam suddenly realised that the girl couldn’t
have watched television or read a paper for at least two days. He switched
tactics. “I thought my friend Robin Beresford was meant to be booked into this
room,” he said confidently.