A Matter of Honour (28 page)

He began to realise how serious it was when
they told him that he would not be allowed to leave the Pentagon until Monday.
That didn’t surprise him once he’d seen the date on the bottom of the treaty.
So it was to be three days of solitude away from his demanding students and
chattering wife. He would never have a better opportunity to settle down and
read the collected works of Proust.

Romanov knew he couldn’t risk standing by
the side of the car for much longer. He was too conspicuously dressed not to be
noticed by everyone who came out of the hotel. Three minutes later he thew his
grey cap on the back seat and instructed Valchek to get rid of the car and then
return to the Consulate.

Valchek nodded. He had already carried out
Romanov’s orders to kill the two British agents as if he had been asked to fix
a burst water pipe. The only thing that hadn’t run to plan was when Valchek
tried to button up the dead chauffeur’s uniform. Romanov thought he detected
the suggestion of a smirk on Valchek’s face when he realised who would have to
be the chauffeur.

Romanov slipped into the shadows and waited
for another half hour, by which time he was sure the plan must have been
aborted from the London end. He hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him
to the Soviet Consulate. He didn’t notice the taxi-driver’s look of disbelief
at his passenger’s chauffeur-clad vision.

Could he really have lost Scott twice? Had
he also underestimated him? Once more and Zaborski was going to require a very
convincing explanation.

On his way back to the Consulate an image
kept flashing across Romanov’s mind, but he couldn’t make any sense of it.
Something had happened outside the hotel that didn’t quite fit. If he could
only think clearly for a moment he felt certain it would become clear to him.
He kept playing the last thirty minutes over in his mind, as if rewinding the
reel of an old film; but some of the frames still remained blurred.

Once Romanov was back in the Consulate
Valchek handed him a large envelope which he was informed had just arrived in
the diplomatic pouch from Moscow.

Romanov read over the decoded telex a second
time, still unable to fathom its possible significance.

“Information has come to light concerning
the late Colonel Gerald Scott, DSO, OBE, MC, that may prove useful when you
make contact with your quarry. Full documentation will be with you by morning,
latest, Al.”

Romanov wondered what headquarters had
discovered about Scott’s father that could possibly prove of interest to him.
It was still his avowed intention that the son would be despatched to join the
father long before any further missive from Moscow had arrived.

Romanov thought of his own father and the
escape route he had made possible by leaving such a fortune, and how for the
sake of advancement he had betrayed him to the State. Now, for the sake of
further advancement he had to kill Scott and bring home the icon.
If he failed...
He dismissed both fathers.

“Either he’s very clever or he’s living on
an amateur’s luck,” Romanov said, moving into the small office that had been
made available for his use. Valchek who followed him did not comment other than
to ask what he should do next.

“Tell me what you saw when we were at the
hotel.”

“What do you mean?” asked Valchek.

“Don’t ask questions,” said Romanov,
changing back into his own clothes, “answer them. Tell me everything you
remember seeing, from the moment we drew up outside the hotel.”

“We arrived at the Richmond a few minutes
before ten,” began Valchek, “parked the Mercedes on the far side of the road,
and waited for Scott to show up. We stayed put for a few minutes after ten but
Scott never materialised.”

“No, no, no. Be more specific. Don’t just
generalise. For instance, do you remember anything unusual taking place while
we were waiting?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Valchek. “People
continually entering and leaving the hotel – but I’m sure Scott wasn’t among
them.”

“You are fortunate to be so certain. What
happened next?” asked
Romanov.

“Next? You instructed me to go back to the
Consulate and wait for you to return.”

“What time was that?”

“It must have been about seven minutes past
ten. I remember because I checked my watch when that coach left.”

“The coach?” said Romanov.

“Yes, the one that was being loaded up with
musical instruments. It left about. . .”

“Instruments, that’s it,” said Romanov. “Now
I remember what was worrying me.
Cellos, violins, and a
double bass that didn’t go into the boot.”
Valchek looked puzzled but
said nothing. “Ring the hotel immediately and find out who was on that bus and
where they are heading.” Valchek scurried away.

Romanov checked his watch: ten fifty-five.
We are going to have to move, and move quickly. He pressed the intercom by the
side of the phone. “I want a fast car, and more important, a superb driver.”
Valchek returned as Romanov replaced the receiver. “The bus was hired by the
Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, who
are
on a European
tour...”

“Where are they heading next?” asked
Romanov.
“Frankfurt.”

He strolled away from the village, having
checked everything with a professional Soldier’s eye. The main street was
deserted but for a little boy who relentlessly kicked a plastic football into a
gap in the hillside which he was using as a goal. The boy turned when he saw
Adam and kicked the ball towards him. Adam kicked it back and the boy took it
in his arms, a wide smile appearing on his face. The smile disappeared as he
watched Adam continue quickly up the hill. There were only a few old houses on
the main road. On one side was a dangerous ravine with tree-covered hills
rising in the distance, while on the other side stretched green fields in which
cows, bells round their necks, munched happily away. It made Adam feel hungry.

He went further up the road until he came to
a sharp bend in the hill. Standing on the corner he could see down the hill for
about half a mile without being seen. He tested the feasibility of his plan for
several minutes and soon became expert at picking out British cars or cars with
British number plates as far as two or three hundred yards away. It didn’t take
long to work out how few foreigners bought British.

During the next twenty minutes he thumbed
optimistically at seven cars with English number plates heading towards
Lausanne, but they all ignored him. He had forgotten just how easy it had been
for him when he was a cadet in uniform. In those days almost everyone would
stop. He checked his watch: he could only risk it for a few more minutes. Three
more cars refused to pull up and when a fourth slowed down it only sped away
again as Adam ran towards it.

By eleven twenty Adam decided he could no
longer chance being seen on the road. He stared down the ravine, realising
there was no alternative left open to him now but to travel by foot. He
shrugged and began to climb down one of the steep trails that led into the
valley, in the hope of meeting up with the other road that was marked clearly
on the map.

He cursed when he looked at the open ground
between him and safety. If only he’d started an hour earlier.

“I fear Antarctic has become expendable.”

“Why?”

“Because we now know his father was involved
in helping Goering to an easy death.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No reason why you should although it’s
quite simple. That patriotic stiff-upper-lipped Englishman of yours is the son
of the bastard who smuggled a cyanide capsule into Goering’s cell at Nuremberg.
His reward for services rendered turns out to be the Tsar’s icon.”

“But all the members of D4 are convinced
that he’s our only hope.”

“I don’t give a damn what your D4 thinks. If
the father would side with the Germans during a war, why shouldn’t the son side
with the Russians in peace?”

“Like father, like son.”

“Precisely.”

“So what am I expected to do?”

“Just keep us briefed as to what the Foreign
Office is up to. Our agents in Switzerland will do the rest.”

“Faster!” said Romanov, aware that it was
not possible as the Ambassador’s driver was proving to be a consummate
professional. Not once did Romanov feel that he had missed a gap, a light, a
chance to overtake. In fact another five kilometres an hour on the speedometer
might well have seen them over the precipice. The moment they were on the
highway, with full lights blazing and the driver’s hand almost lodged on the
horn, the speedometer rarely fell below 130 kilometres an hour. “We must beat
them to the border,” he kept repeating as he thumped his fist on the leather
dashboard. After they had covered one hundred kilometres in fifty-five minutes,
the three men began watching ahead of them for the coach, but it was another
thirty kilometres before Valchek was able to point ahead and shout, “That must
be them, about a kilometre up the hill.”

“Force them off the road,” said Romanov, his
eyes never leaving the bus. The Embassy driver swung out to overtake and once
he was in front immediately cut across, forcing the coach driver to throw on
his brakes and swerve into the side. Valchek waved dictatorially at the coach
driver to slow down and the man stopped the vehicle just off the road on the
edge of the mountain.

“Don’t either of you speak. Just leave
everything to me,” said Romanov, “and remain near the driver in case there’s
trouble.” Romanov jumped out of the car and ran towards the coach, his eyes
already searching for anyone who might be attempting to leave it. He banged on
the door impatiently until the driver pressed a knob and the big doors swung
open. Romanov leapt on, with the other two following only paces behind. He took
out his passport from an inside pocket, flashed it in the frightened driver’s
face and shouted, “Who’s in charge here?”

Stephen Grieg stood up. “I am the manager of
the company, and I can...”

“Swiss police,” said Romanov. Grieg was
about to ask a question when Romanov said, “When you left your hotel in Geneva
this morning, did you take on any extra passengers?”

“No,” said Grieg. Romanov scowled.
“Unless you count Robin Beresford’s brother.”

“Robin Beresford’s brother?” enquired
Romanov, his eyebrows
raising
interrogatively.

“Yes,” said the manager. “Adam Beresford.
But he only travelled with us as far as Solothurn. Then he got off.”

“Which one of you is Robin?” said Romanov,
staring around a sea of men’s faces.

“I am,” piped up a voice from the back.
Romanov marched down the bus and saw the double bass case and then everything
fitted into place. It always worried him when something was out of context.
Yes, that was what hadn’t rung true. Why hadn’t she put the double bass in the
boot with all the other large instruments? He stared down at the heavy-framed
woman who now sat behind the monstrous instrument.

“Your brother is the one called Adam?”

“Yes,” said Robin.

“Quite a coincidence.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she
said, trying not to sound nervous.

“The man I am looking for just happens to be
called Adam as well.”

“Common enough name,” said Robin. “Perhaps
you’ve never read the first chapter of the Bible?”

“Six foot one inch, perhaps two inches, dark
hair, dark eyes, slim and fit. Not a convincing brother for you,” added Romanov
studying her frame.

Robin pushed back her red hair but didn’t
rise. Romanov could sense from the nervous expressions on the faces around him
that it was Scott who had been on the bus.

“Where was your
brother”
he emphasised the word, “intending to go once he had left
the coach?” Romanov asked, tapping his passport against his other hand, like a
baton.

“I have no idea,” said Robin, still not changing
her expression from one of uninterested politeness.

“I will give you one more chance to
co-operate with me. Where was your brother heading?”

“And I’ll tell you once more, I don’t know.”

“If you refuse to answer my questions,” said
Romanov, “I shall have to arrest you.”

“On whose authority?” asked Robin
calmly.

Romanov considered showing her his passport
but realised that this girl was sharper than either the driver or the manager.

“With the authority of the Swiss police,”
Romanov said confidently.

“Then no doubt you’ll be happy to show me
proof of your identity.”

“Don’t be insolent,” Romanov said sharply.
He towered over her.

“It is you who are insolent,” said Robin,
standing up. “You drive in front of our coach like a lunatic, nearly sending us
down the mountain,
then
the three of you burst in like
a bunch of Chicago mobsters, claiming to be Swiss police. I have no idea who
you are or what you are, but I’ll let you into two secrets. You touch me and
there are forty men on this coach who will beat you and your two cronies to
pulp. And even if you managed to get off this bus alive, we are members of the
Royal Philharmonic Orchestra of Great Britain, and as such are guests of the
Swiss Government. In a few moments when we cross the border, we will become
guests of the West German Government, so you’re about to get yourself on to
every front page in the world. Single-handedly, you will bring a totally new
meaning to the words ‘diplomatic incident’.” She leaned forward and pointing a
finger at him said, “So I’m telling you, whoever you are, in as ladylike
fashion as I can, ‘piss off’.”