A Matter of Honour (37 page)

Right or left? He chose right, and entered a
huge square room. There were three exits. He slowed momentarily to decide which
would be his best bet when he became aware that the room was full of Russian
icons. He came to a halt at an empty display case.
‘Nous regrettons que ce tableau soil soumis à
la restauration.’

The first policeman had already entered the
large room and was only a few paces behind as Adam dashed on towards the
farthest exit. There were now only two exits left open for him from which to
choose. He swung right, only to see another policeman bearing straight down on
him. Left: two more.
Ahead, yet another.

Adam came to a halt in the middle of the
Icon Room at the Louvre, his hands raised above his head. He was surrounded by
policemen, their guns drawn.

Sir Morris picked up the phone on his desk.

“An urgent call from Paris, sir,” said his
secretary.

“Thank you, Tessa.” He listened carefully as
his brain quickly translated the exciting news.

“Merci,
merci,”
said
Sir Morris to his opposite number at
the French Foreign Ministry. “We will be back in touch with you as soon as we
have made all the necessary arrangements to collect him. But for now, please
don’t let him out of your sight.” Sir Morris listened for a few moments before
he said: “And if he has any possessions on him, please keep them guarded under
lock and key. Thank you once again.” His secretary took down every word of the
conversation in shorthand – as she had done for the past seventeen years.

Once the police had snapped the handcuffs on
Adam and marched him off to a waiting car, he was surprised how relaxed, almost
friendly, they became. He was yanked into the back of the car by the policeman
to whom he was attached. He noticed that there was a police car in front of him
and yet another behind. Two motorcycle outriders led the little motorcade away.
Adam felt more like visiting royalty than a criminal who was wanted for
questioning for two murders, two car thefts and travelling under false
identification. Was it possible at last that someone had worked out he was
innocent?

When Adam arrived at the Surete on the He de
la Cite, he was immediately ordered to empty all his pockets. One wristwatch,
one apple, forty pounds in traveller’s cheques, eight francs, and one British
passport in the name of Dudley Hulme. The station inspector asked him politely
to strip to his vest and pants. It was the second time that day. Once Adam had
done so, the inspector carefully checked every pocket of the blazer, even the
lining. His expression left Adam in no doubt he hadn’t found what he was looking
for.

“Do you have anything else in your
possession?” the officer asked in slow, precise English.

Damn silly question, thought Adam. You can
see for yourself. “No,” was all he replied. The inspector checked the blazer
once again but came across nothing new. “You must be dressed,” he said
abruptly.

Adam put back on his shirt, jacket and
trousers but the inspector kept his tie and shoelaces.

“All your things will be returned to you
when you leave,” the inspector explained. Adam nodded as he slipped on his
shoes, which flapped uncomfortably when he walked. He was then accompanied to a
small cell on the same floor, locked in and left alone. He looked around the
sparsely furnished room. A small wooden table was placed in its centre, with
two wooden chairs on either side. His eyes checked over a single bed in the
corner which had on it an ancient horse-hair mattress. He could not have
described the room properly as a cell because there were no bars, even across
the one small window. He took off his jacket, hung it over the chair and lay
down on the bed. At least it was an improvement over anything he had slept on
for the past two nights, he reflected. Could it have only been two nights since
he had slept on the floor of Robin’s hotel room in Geneva?

As the minutes ticked by, he made only one
decision.
That when the inspector returned, he would demand
to see a lawyer.
“What the hell’s the French for lawyer?” he asked out
loud.

When an officer eventually appeared, in what
Adam estimated must have been about half an hour, he was carrying a tray laden
with hot soup, a roll, and what looked to Adam like a steak with all the
trimmings and a plastic cup filled to the brim with red wine. He wondered if
they had got the wrong man, or if this was simply his last meal before the
guillotine. He followed the officer to the door,

“I demand to speak to a lawyer,” he said
emphatically, but the policeman only shrugged.

Je
ne comprends pas I’anglais,”
he
said, and slammed the door behind him.

Adam settled down to eat the meal that had
been set before him, thankful that the French assumed good food should be
served whatever the circumstances.

Sir Morris told them his news an hour later
and then studied each of them round the table carefully. He would never have
called the D4 if he hadn’t felt sure that Adam was at last secure. Matthews
continued to show no emotion. Busch was unusually silent while Snell looked
almost relaxed for a change. Lawrence was the only one who seemed genuinely
pleased.

“Scott is locked up in the Ministry of the
Interior off the Place Beauvais,” continued Sir Morris, “and I have already
contacted our military attache at the Embassy...”

“Colonel Pollard,” interrupted Lawrence.

“Colonel Pollard,” said Sir Morris, “who has
been sent over in the Ambassador’s car and will bring Scott back to be
debriefed at our Embassy in Faubourg St Honore. Surete rang a few moments ago
to confirm that Colonel Pollard had arrived.” Sir Morris turned towards his
Number Two. “You will fly over to Paris tonight and conduct the debriefing
yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lawrence, looking up at his
boss, a smile appearing on his face.

Sir Morris nodded. A cool lot, he
considered, as he stared round that table, but the next half hour would surely
find out which one of them it was who served two masters.

“Good. I don’t think I shall need any of you
again today,” said Sir Morris as he rose from his chair.

Mentor smiled as Sir Morris left the room;
his task had already been completed.
So simple when you can read
upside-down shorthand.

A black Jaguar bearing CD plates had arrived
at police headquarters a few minutes earlier than expected. The traffic had not
been as heavy as the colonel had anticipated. The inspector was standing on the
steps as Pollard jumped out of the car. The policeman looked at the flapping
Union Jack on the bonnet and considered the whole exercise was becoming rather
melodramatic.

Pollard, a short, thickset man, dressed in a
dark suit, regimental tie and carrying a rolled umbrella, looked like so many
of those Englishmen who refuse to acknowledge that they could possibly be
abroad.

The inspector took Pollard directly through
to the little room where Adam had been incarcerated.

“Pollard’s the name, Colonel Pollard.
British Military Attache stationed here in Paris. Sorry you’ve been put through
this ordeal, old fellow, but a lot of paperwork had to be completed to get you
out.
Bloody red tape.”

“I understand,” said Adam, jumping off the
bed and shaking the colonel by the hand. “I was in the army myself.”

“I know. Royal Wessex, wasn’t it?”

Adam nodded, feeling a little more
confident.

“Still, the problem’s been sorted out now,”
continued the colonel. “The French police have been most co-operative and have
agreed to let you accompany me to our Embassy.”

Adam looked at the colonel’s tie. “Duke of
York’s?”

“What? Certainly not,” said Pollard, his
hand fingering his shirt front.
“Green Jackets.”

“Yes, of course,” said Adam, pleased to have
his mistake picked up.

“Now I think we ought to be cutting along,
old fellow, I know you’ll be relieved to hear that they won’t be laying any
charges.”

The colonel didn’t know just how relieved
Adam did feel.

The inspector led them both back out into
the hall where Adam had only to identify and sign for his personal belongings.
He put them all in his pocket, except for the watch, which he slipped over his
wrist, and his shoelaces, which he quickly inserted and tied. He wasn’t
surprised they didn’t return Dudley Hulme’s passport.

“Don’t let’s hang around too long, old
fellow,” said the colonel, beginning to sound a little anxious.

“I won’t be a moment,” said Adam. “I’m just
as keen to get out of this place as you are.” He checked his laces before
following Colonel Pollard and the inspector out to the waiting Jaguar. He
noticed for the first time that the colonel had a slight limp. A chauffeur held
the door open for him; Adam laughed.

“Something funny, old fellow?” asked the
colonel.

“No. It’s just that the last chauffeur who
offered to do that for me didn’t look quite as friendly.”

Adam climbed into the back of the Jaguar and
the colonel slipped in beside him.

“Back to the Embassy,” said Pollard, and the
car moved off briskly.

Adam stared in horror at the flapping Union
Jack.

When Adam awoke he was naked.

He looked around the sparse room but this
time, unlike the French jail, he was unable to see what was behind him: his
arms, legs and body were bound tightly by a nylon cord to a chair that had been
placed in the middle of the room, and which made him all but immobile.

When he looked up from the chair all he
could see was Colonel Pollard standing over him. The moment the colonel was
satisfied that Adam had regained consciousness he quickly left the room.

Adam turned his head to see all his clothes
laid out neatly on a bed at the far side of the cell. He tried to manoeuvre the
chair, but he could barely manage to make it wobble from side to side, and
after several minutes had advanced only a few inches towards the door. He
switched his energies to trying to loosen the cords around his wrists, rubbing
them up and down against the wood of the slats, but his arms were bound so
tightly that ne could only manage the slightest friction.

After struggling ineffectively for several
minutes he was interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open. Adam looked
up as Romanov strode through.

He decided he was no less terrifying at
close quarters. He was followed by another man whom Adam didn’t recognise. The
second man was clutching what looked like a cigar box as he took his place
somewhere behind Adam. Pollard followed him, carrying a large plastic sheet.

Romanov looked at Adam’s naked body and
smiled; enjoying his humiliation he came to a halt directly in front of the
chair.

“My name is Alexander Petrovich Romanov,” he
announced with only a slight accent.

“Or Emmanuel Rosenbaum,” said Adam, staring
at his adversary closely.

“I am only sorry that we are unable to shake
hands,” he added, as he began circling the chair. “But I felt in the
circumstances certain precautions were necessary. First I should like to
congratulate you on having eluded me for so long, but as you will now realise
my source in London can place a call every bit as quickly as yours.”

“Your source?” said Adam.

“Don’t be naive, Captain. You must be
painfully aware by now that you’re in no position to be asking questions, only
answering them.”

Adam fixed his gaze on a brick in the wall
in front of him, making no attempt to follow Romanov’s circumnavigations.

“Pollard,” said Romanov sharply, “put
Captain Scott back in the centre of the room. He seems to have managed to move
at least a foot in his getaway attempt.”

Pollard did as he was
bid,
first spreading the plastic sheet on the floor, then manoeuvring Adam till the
chair was on the centre of the sheet.

“Thank you,” said Romanov. “I think you have
already met our Colonel Pollard,” he continued. “That’s not his real name, of
course, and indeed he’s not a real colonel either, but that’s what he always
wanted to be in life, so when the opportunity arose, we happily obliged.

“In fact the good colonel did serve in the
British Army, but I fear he entered the service of King and country as a
private soldier and eighteen years later left, still as a private soldier. And
despite an injury to his leg – unfortunately not received from any known enemy
of the Crown – he was unable to claim a disability pension.
Which
left him fairly destitute.
But, as I explained, he always wanted to be a
colonel,” continued Romanov. “It was a good attempt of yours – The Duke of York’s?’
– but as the colonel had genuinely served with the Green Jackets it was the one
tie he felt safe wearing.”

Adam’s eyes remained fixed on the wall. “Now
I confess, our mistake over the Union Jack was lax but as it is impossible to
fly the Russian flag upside down without everyone noticing, it was perhaps
understandable. Although, in truth, Pollard should have spotted it immediately,
we must be thankful that you did not until the car doors were safely locked.”