A Matter of Honour (25 page)

“And so did
I
until
I saw you on my bed.”

“You’re Robin Beresford?”

“You’re quite sharp for someone who has just
woken up.”

“But Robin?”

“It’s not my fault my father wanted a boy,”
she said. “And you still haven’t explained what you’re doing on my bed.”

“Is there any hope of you listening to me
for five minutes without continually interrupting?” asked Adam.

“Yes, but don’t bother with any more fairy
stories,” said Robin. “My father was a born liar, and by the time I was twelve
I could see through him like a pane of glass.”

“I should have a seat if I were you,” said
Adam. “This may take longer than the average double bass accompaniment.”

“I’ll remain on my feet, if you don’t mind,”
said Robin.
“At least until the first lie.”

“Suit yourself. What would you like first?
The good news or the bad news?”

“Try me on the bad news,” said Robin.

“The Swiss police want to arrest me and...”

“What for?” interrupted Robin.

“Murder,” said Scott.

“What’s the good news?” she asked.

“I’m innocent.”

Romanov stood in the Ambassador’s office and
rested his fingers on the table. “I blame myself,” he said very quietly, “even
more than I blame any of you. I underestimated the Englishman. He’s good, and
if any of you are hoping to kill him before I get to him you’ll have to be
very
good.” No one assembled in the
Ambassador’s office that night was disposed to disagree with the Comrade Major.
Romanov paused to study the group of men who had been flown in from several
Eastern satellites at short notice. All with long records of service to the
State but only one of them, Valchek, was known to Romanov personally and he
worked too closely with Zaborski to be trusted. Romanov had already faced the
fact that only a few of them were acquainted with Geneva. He could only pray
that the British and Americans were suffering from the same problem.

His eyes swept around the room. The Swiss
police had the best chance of finding Scott and they weren’t being at all
helpful, he thought ruefully. However, Romanov had been pleased to learn from
their head man stationed in Geneva that the Swiss had also refused to
co-operate with the British or the Americans.

“Comrades,” he said, the moment they had all
settled, “there is no need to remind you that we have been entrusted with a
vital assignment for the Motherland.” He paused to check if any of the faces
registered the slightest suggestion of cynicism. Satisfied, he continued, “We
will therefore maintain a tight surveillance over Geneva in case Scott is still
holed up somewhere in the city. My own guess is that, like all amateurs, he is,
and will wait until
it’s
dark, perhaps even first
light, before he makes a run for the nearest border. The French border will be
his most obvious choice. Despite going to war against the Germans twice in the
past fifty years, the English have never bothered to master the German
language, although a few of them can manage to speak passable French. So he’s
more likely to feel safe in that country. It also offers him the opportunity to
cross only one border before reaching the coast.

“If he’s stupid enough to try and leave by
plane he will find we have the airports covered; if by train, we have the
stations manned. But my guess is still that he will try to escape by motor
vehicle.

“I shall therefore take five men to the
French border with me while Major Valchek will take another five to Basle to
cover the German crossing point. The rest of you will remain on surveillance in
Geneva. Those of you who have just arrived will relieve those agents who are in
the field already. And don’t expect Scott to be roaming around looking like a
tourist on holiday. Study your picture of the Englishman carefully and even
be
prepared for him to try and get away with some amateur
disguise.”

Romanov paused for effect. “The man who
brings me the Tsar’s icon need have no fear for his future prosperity when we
return home.” Hopeful expressions appeared on their faces for the first time as
Romanov pulled out the duplicate icon from his coat pocket and held it high
above his head for all to see.

“When you find the original of this your
task will be completed. Study it carefully, Comrades, because no photographs
are being issued. And remember,” Romanov added, “the only difference between
this and Scott’s icon is that his has a small silver crown embedded in the back
of the frame. Once you see the crown you will know that you have found the
missing masterpiece.”

Romanov put the icon back in his pocket and
looked down at the silent men.

“Remember that Scott is good but he’s not
that good.”

“You’re not bad, Scott, not bad at all,”
said Robin, who had remained standing by the double bass throughout Adam’s
story. “Either you’re one hell of a liar, or I’ve lost my touch.” Adam smiled
up at the massive girl, who made the bow she was holding in her right hand look
like a toothpick.

“Am I permitted to see this icon, or am I
just supposed to take your word for it?”

Adam jumped off the bed and pulled out the
package containing the Tsar’s icon from the map pocket of his trenchcoat. Robin
put her double bass up against the wall and leaving the bow propped against it,
lowered herself into the only chair in the room.

Adam handed the icon over to her. For some
time, she stared at the face of St George without making any comment. “It’s
magnificent,” she said at last. “And I can understand anyone wanting to possess
it. But no painting could be worth the tragedy and trouble you’ve had to go
through.”

“I agree it’s inexplicable,” said Adam. “But
Rosenbaum or whatever his real name is has been willing to kill twice to get
his hands on the piece, and he’s already convinced me that as long as I am in
possession of the icon then I’ll be the next in line.”

Robin continued to stare at the tiny pieces
of gold, red, blue and yellow that made up St George and the Dragon.

“No other clues?” she asked, looking up.

“Only the letter given to
my father by Goering.”

Robin turned the painting over. “What does
that mean?” she asked, pointing to the tiny silver crown embedded in the wood.

“That proves it was once owned by a Tsar,
according to the man from Sotheby’s. And greatly enhances its value, he assured
me.”

“Still couldn’t be worth killing for,” said
Robin. She handed the icon back to Adam. “So what other secret is St George
keeping to himself?”

Adam shrugged and frowned, having asked
himself the same question again and again since Heidi’s death. He returned the
silent saint to his trenchcoat.

“What was to have been your plan if you had
stayed awake?” asked Robin. “Other than making the bed?”

Adam smiled. “I hoped to call Lawrence again
once I could be sure he had returned home and check if he had any more news for
me. If he wasn’t back, or couldn’t help, I was going to hire a car and try to
get across the Swiss border to France and then on to England. I felt sure that
between Rosenbaum and his men and the Swiss police they would have had all the
airports and stations fully covered.”

“No doubt Rosenbaum will have also thought
that much out as well, if he’s half as good as you claim,” said Robin. “So we’d
better try and get in touch with your friend Lawrence and see if he’s come up
with any bright ideas.” She pushed herself up out of the chair and walked
across to the phone.

“You don’t have to get yourself involved,”
said Adam hesitantly.

“I am involved,” said Robin. “And I can tell
you it’s far more exciting than Schubert’s Unfinished. Once I’ve got your
friend on the line I’ll pass him over to you and then no one will realise
who’s
phoning.” Adam told her the number of the flat and she
asked the girl on the switchboard to connect her.

Adam checked his watch: eleven forty. Surely
Lawrence would be home by now? The phone didn’t complete its first two rings
before Robin heard a man’s voice on the line. She immediately handed the
receiver over.

“Hello, who is that?” asked the voice. Adam
was reminded how strange he always found it that Lawrence never announced his
name.

“Lawrence, it’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m still in Geneva.”

“My clients were waiting for you at eleven o’clock
this morning.”

“So was Rosenbaum.”

“Who is Rosenbaum?”

“A six-foot, fair-haired, blue-eyed monster,
who seems determined to kill
me.
”

Lawrence did not speak for some time. “And
are you still in possession of our patron saint?”

“Yes, I am,” said Adam. “But what can be so
important about...”

“Put the phone down and ring me back again
in three minutes.”

The line went dead. Adam couldn’t fathom the
sudden change in his old friend’s manner. What had he missed during those
months he had lodged with him? He tried to recall details that he had
previously considered unimportant and that Lawrence had so skilfully disguised.

“Is everything all right?” asked Robin,
breaking into his thoughts. _

“I think so,” said Adam, a little mystified.
“He wants me to ring back in three minutes. Will that be all right with you?”

“This tour’s already lost eight thousand
pounds of the taxpayers’ money, so what difference can a few international
calls make?” she said.

Three minutes later, Robin picked up the
receiver and repeated the number. In one ring Lawrence was back on the line.

“Only answer my questions,” said Lawrence.

“No, I will not answer your questions,” said
Adam, becoming increasingly annoyed with Lawrence’s manner. “I want one or two
of my own answered before you get anything more out of me. Do I make myself
clear?”

“Yes,” said a
more gentle
sounding Lawrence.

“Who is Rosenbaum?”

Lawrence didn’t immediately reply.

“You’ll get nothing further from me until
you start telling the truth,” said Adam.

“From your description I have every reason
to believe Rosenbaum is a Russian agent whose real name is Alex Romanov.”

“A Russian agent?
But why should a Russian agent want to get
his hands on my icon?”

“I don’t know,” said Lawrence. “We were
rather hoping you might be able to tell us.”

“
Who’s
we?”

Another long silence.

“Who’s we?” repeated Adam. “You can’t really
expect me to go on believing you work for Barclays DCO.”

“I work at the Foreign Office,” said
Lawrence.

“In what capacity?”

“I am not at liberty...”

“Stop being so pompous, Lawrence.
In what capacity?”

“I’m the Number Two in a small section that
deals in...” Lawrence hesitated.

“Espionage I think is the current jargon we
laymen are using,” said Adam, “and if you want my icon that badly you had
better get me out of this mess alive because Romanov is willing to kill for it
as I am sure you are aware.”

“Where are you?”

“The Richemond Hotel.”

“In a public phone box?” asked Lawrence,
sounding incredulous.

“No, in a private room.”

“But not registered in your name?”

“No, in the name of a
friend.
A girlfriend.”

“Is she with you now?” asked Lawrence.

“Yes,” said Adam.

“Damn,” said Lawrence.
“Right.
Don’t leave that room until seven a.m.,
then
phone on
this number again. That will give me enough time to get everything in place.”

“Is that the best you can do?” said Adam,
but the phone had already gone dead. “It looks as if I’m stuck with you for the
night,” he told Robin as he replaced the phone.

“On the contrary, it is I who am stuck with
you,” said Robin, and disappeared into the bathroom. Adam paced around the room
several times before he tested the sofa. Either he had to rest his head on a
cushion, balanced on the thin wooden arm, or he had to let his legs dangle over
the far end. By the time Robin had come back out clad in a pair of sky-blue
pyjamas he had selected the floor as his resting place.

“Not much of a
chair,
is it?” said Robin. “But then British Intelligence didn’t warn me to book a
double room.” She climbed into the bed and turned out the light. “Very
comfortable,” were the last words she uttered.

Adam lay down flat on the bedroom floor,
using the cushion from the chair as a pillow and a hotel dressing gown as a
blanket. He slept intermittently, his mind switching between why the icon could
be that important, how Lawrence knew so much about it, and, most immediate, how
the hell were they going to get him out of the hotel alive?