A Matter of Honour (30 page)

The driver leant across, took a lengthy look
at Adam and said in a broad Yorkshire accent, “We’re on our way to Dijon. Any
use to you, lad?”

“Yes, please,” said Adam, relieved that his
scruffy appearance had not put them off.

“Then jump in the back with my daughter.”

Adam obeyed. The Citroen moved off, as Adam
checked out of the back window; he was relieved to see an empty road stretching
out behind him.

“Jim Hardcastle’s the name,” said the man,
as he moved the car into third gear. Jim appeared to have a large, warm smile
perpetually imprinted on his chubby red face. His dark ginger hair went
straight back and was plastered down with Brylcreem. He wore a Harris
tweed
jacket and an open-necked shirt that revealed a little
red triangle of hair. It looked to Adam as if he had given up attempts to do
anything about his waistline. “And this is the wife, Betty,” he said, gesturing
with his elbow towards the woman in the front seat. She turned towards Adam,
revealing the same ruddy cheeks and warm smile. Her hair was dyed blonde but
the roots remained an obstinate black. “And sitting next to you is our Linda,”
Jim Hardcastle added, almost as an afterthought. “Just left school and going to
work for the local council, aren’t you, Linda?” Linda nodded sulkily. Adam
stared at the young girl whose first experiment with make-up hadn’t worked that
well. The dark over-lined eye shadow and the pink lipstick did not help what
Adam considered was an attractive girl probably in her late teens. “And what’s
your name, lad?”

“Dudley Hulme,” said Adam, recalling the
name on his new passport. “And are you on holiday?” he asked, trying to keep
his mind off the throbbing shoulder.

“Mixing business with pleasure,” said Jim. “But
this part of the trip is rather special for Betty and
myself
.
We flew to Genoa on Saturday and hired the car to tour
Italy,
First we travelled up through the Simplon Pass. It’s a bit breathtaking after
our home town of Hull.”

Adam would have asked for details, but Jim
didn’t reckon on any interruptions. “I’m in mustard, you see. Export director
for Colman’s, and we’re on our way to the annual conference of the IMF. You may
have heard of us.” Adam nodded knowingly. “International Mustard Federation,”
Jim added. Adam wanted to laugh, but because of the pain in his shoulder,
managed to keep a straight face.

“This year they’ve elected me President of
the IMF, the high point of my career in mustard, you might say. And, if I may
be so bold as to suggest, an honour for Colman’s as well, the finest mustard in
the world,” he added, as if he said it at least a hundred times a day. “As President
I have to preside over the conference meetings and chair the annual dinner.
Tonight I shall be making a speech of welcome to delegates from all over the
world.
”.

“How fascinating,” winced Adam, as the car
went over a
pothole.

“It certainly is,” said Jim. “People have no
idea how many makes of mustards there are.” He paused for a second and then
said, “One hundred and forty-three. There’s no doubt the Frogs make one or two
good attempts and even the Krauts don’t do too badly, but there’s still nothing
to beat Colman’s. British
is
best after all, I always
say. Probably the same in your line of country,” said Jim. “By the way, what is
your line of country?”

“I’m in the army,” said Adam.

“What’s a soldier doing thumbing a lift on
the borders of Switzerland?”

“Can I speak to you in confidence?” asked
Adam.

“Mum’s the word,” said Jim. “We Hardcastles
know how to keep our traps shut.”

In the case of Jim’s wife and daughter, Adam
had no proof to the contrary.

“I’m a captain in the Royal Wessex, at
present on a NATO exercise,” began Adam. “I was dumped off the coast at
Brindisi in Italy last Sunday with a false passport and ten English pounds. I
have to be back in barracks at Aldershot by midnight Saturday.” When he saw the
look of approbation appear on Jim’s face, he felt even Robin would have been
proud of him. Mrs Hardcastle turned around to take a more careful look at him.

“I knew you were an officer the moment you
opened your mouth,” said Jim. “You couldn’t have fooled me. I was a sergeant in
the Royal Army Service Corps in the last war myself. Doesn’t sound much, but I
did my bit for the old country.” The acronym for the Corps -’Rob All Serving
Comrades’ – flashed through Adam’s mind. “Have you seen any action yourself,
Dudley?” Jim was asking.

“A little in Malaya,” said Adam.

“I missed that one,” said Jim. “After the
big one was over, I went back into mustard. So where’s the problem in getting
you back to England?”

“There are about eight of us trying to reach
Alder-shot, and a thousand Americans trying to stop us.”

“Yanks,” said Jim with disdain. “They only
join wars just as we’re about to win them.
All medals and
glory, that lot.
No, I mean is there any real problem?”

“Yes, the border officials have been briefed
that eight British officers are attempting to get over into France and the
Swiss love to be the ones to pull us in. Only two officers out of twelve made
it back to barracks last year,” said Adam, warming to his own theme. “Both were
promoted within weeks.”

“The Swiss,” said Jim. “They’re even worse
than the Americans. They don’t even join in a war – happy to fleece both sides
at the same time. They won’t pick you up, lad, believe me. I’ll see to that.”

“If you can get me across the border, Mr
Hardcastle, I’m confident I will be able to make it all the way back to
Aldershot.”

“Consider it done, lad.”

The fuel indicator was flashing red. “How
many kilometres left when that happens?” demanded Romanov.

“About twenty, Comrade Major,” said the
driver.

“Then we should still make the French
border?”

“Perhaps it might be safer to stop and fill
up,” suggested the driver.

“There is no time for safety,” said Romanov.
“Go faster.”

“Yes, Comrade Major,” said the driver, who
decided it was not the occasion to point out they would run out of petrol even
more quickly if he was made to push the car to its limits.

“Why didn’t you fill the tank up this
morning, you fool?” said Romanov.

“I thought I was only taking the Consul to
lunch at the town hall today, and I had intended to fill the tank up during my
lunch hour.”

“Just pray for your sake that we reach the
border,” said Romanov. “Faster.”

The Mercedes touched 140 kilometres per hour
and Romanov relaxed only when he saw a sign saying they were only ten
kilometres from the border. A few minutes later a smile grew on his face as
they passed the five-kilometre sign, and then suddenly the engine spluttered as
it tried helplessly to continue turning over at the speed the pressed-down
accelerator was demanding. The indicator on the speedometer started to drop
steadily as the engine continued to chug. The driver turned off the ignition
and threw the gear lever into neutral. The sheer momentum of the heavy Mercedes
took them another kilometre before the car slowed to a complete stop.

Romanov did not even look at the driver as
he jumped out of the car and began running the last three kilometres towards
the border.

“I’ve come up with an idea,” said Jim, as
they passed a signpost warning drivers that the border was only two kilometres
away.

“What’s that, sir?” asked Adam, who could
now feel his shoulder beating like a steady
tune
hammered out by a child on a tin drum.

“When it comes to the time for us to present
our passports, you put your arm round Linda and start cuddling her. Leave the
rest to me.”

Mrs Hardcastle turned round and gave Adam a
much closer look as Linda went scarlet. Adam looked across at the mini-skirted
pink-lipped Linda and felt embarrassed by the predicament her father had placed
his daughter in. “Don’t argue with me, Dudley,” continued Jim confidently. “I
promise you what I have in mind will work.” Adam made no comment and neither
did Linda. When they reached the Swiss border a few moments later, Adam could
see that there were two checkpoints about one hundred yards apart. Drivers were
avoiding one line of traffic in which a row was going on between a customs
official and an irate lorry driver. Jim drove up straight behind the
gesticulating Frenchman. “Give me your passport, Dudley,” he said. Adam handed
over the violinist’s passport.

Why did you choose this line? Adam wanted to
ask.

“I chose this line,” continued Jim, “because
by the time it comes for our passports to be inspected I reckon the customs
officer will be only too happy to allow us through without much fuss.” As if in
reaction to his logic, a long queue started to form behind Jim, but still the
argument raged in front of them. Adam remained alert, continually looking out
of the back window, waiting for the moment when Romanov would appear. When he
turned back, he was relieved to find that the lorry in front of them was being
told to pull over into the side and wait.

Jim drove quickly up to the customs post. “Get
necking, you two,” he said.

Up until that point Adam had kept his hands
hidden in his trenchcoat pocket because they were so scratched and bruised. But
he obeyed Jim and took Linda in his arms and kissed her perfunctorily, one eye
still open watching for Romanov. To his surprise she parted his lips and began
exploring inside his mouth with her tongue. Adam thought about protesting but
realised there was no way he could make it sound gallant or credible.

“The wife, the daughter and the future
son-in-law,” said Jim, handing over the four passports.

The customs man started to check.

“What was all the trouble about, officer?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” said the
official, flicking through the passports. “I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you.”

“No, no,” said Jim. “They didn’t even
notice,” he said, pointing over his shoulder and laughing.

The policeman shrugged and, handing the
passports back, he said,
“Allez”
waving
them on.

“Sharp as mustard Jim, that’s what they call
me back in Hull.” He looked over his shoulder towards Adam. “You can stop that
now, Dudley, thank you.” Adam felt Linda release him with some reluctance.

She glanced at him shyly,
then
turned towards her father. “But we still have to go over the French border, don’t
we?”

“We have already been alerted to look out
for him and I can assure you he hasn’t been through this post,” said the senior
customs officer. “Otherwise one of my men would have spotted him. But if you
want to double-check, be my guest.”

Romanov went quickly from officer to officer
showing them the blown-up photograph of Adam, but none of them could recall
anyone resembling him. Valchek joined him a few minutes later and confirmed
that Scott was not in any of the cars still waiting to be allowed over the
border and that the Mercedes was being pushed into the border garage.

“Is it back to the hills, Comrade Major?”
asked Valchek.

“Not yet. I want to be absolutely certain he
hasn’t managed to cross the border.”

The senior official emerged from his post in
the centre of the road. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” said Romanov glumly. “You seem to be
right.”

“I thought as much. If any of my men had let
the Englishman through they would have been looking for a new job by now.”

Romanov nodded in acknowledgment. “Could I
have missed any of your staff?”

“Doubt it – unless
there’s
a couple of them taking a break. If so you’ll find them in the bar about a
hundred metres up towards the French border point.”

Four customs officers and a French waitress
were the only people to be found in the bar. Two of the officers were playing
pool while the other two sat at a corner table, drinking coffee. Romanov took
the photo out once more and showed it to the two men at the pool table. They
both shook their heads in an uninterested fashion and returned to potting the
multi-coloured balls.

The two Russians made their way to the bar.
Valchek passed Romanov a cup of coffee and a sandwich, which he took over to
the table where the other two border guards sat. One of them was telling his
colleague the trouble he had had with a French lorry driver who was trying to
smuggle Swiss watches over the border. Romanov pushed the photograph of Scott across
the table.

“Have you seen this man today?”

Neither showed any sign of recognition and
the younger one quickly returned to his story. Romanov sipped his coffee, and
began to consider whether he should make a run for Basle or call for
reinforcements to sweep the hills. Then he noticed that the young man’s eyes
kept returning to the photo. He asked once again if he had seen Scott.

“No, no,” said the young officer, a little
too quickly. In Moscow Romanov would have had a ‘yes’ out of him within minutes,
but he would have to follow a more gentle approach
here.