A Matter of Honour (41 page)

“Good body,” she said, turning round and scrutinising
him carefully.
“Much better than I usually ‘ave.”
She
put the plate down in front of him.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” said Adam
grinning, taking the seat opposite her.

“I am ‘appy you notice,” said Jeanne. “I was
beginning to think about you.” Adam spread the roll liberally with jam and didn’t
speak again for several seconds.

“When ‘ave you last eat?” asked Jeanne as he
devoured the final scrap left on the plate.

“Yesterday lunch.
But I emptied my stomach in between.”

“Sick, eh? You mustn’t drink so much.”

“I think ‘drained’ might be a better word.
Tell me, Jeanne,” said Adam, looking up at her, “
are
you still available for work?”

She checked her watch. “One of my regulars
is at two this afternoon, and I must be back on the streets by five. So it
would ‘ave to be this morning,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” said
Adam.

“You could quickly give a girl, how do you
say in England? – a complex,” said Jeanne. “You not one of those weird ones,
are you?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Adam,
laughing. “But I would be willing to pay you another two hundred francs for
your services.”

“Is it legal?”

“Absolutely.”

“Alors,
that makes a change. ‘Ow
long you need me?”

“An hour, two at the most.”

“It’s better than the rate for my present
job. What am I expected to do?”

“For one hour I want every man in Paris to
fancy you. Only this time you won’t be available – at any price.”

“Scott has just contacted me a few minutes
ago,” said Lawrence to the assembled D4.

“What did he have to say?” asked an anxious
Sir Morris.

“Only that he was turning back the clock.”

“What do you think he meant by that?” asked
Snell.

“Geneva would be my guess,” said Lawrence.

“Why Geneva?” said Matthews.

“I’m not certain,” said Lawrence, “but he
said it had something to do with the German girl, or the bank, but I can’t be
sure which.”

No one spoke for some time.

“Did you trace the call?” asked Busch.

“Only the area,” said Lawrence, “Neuchatel
on the German-Swiss border.”

“Good. Then we’re in business again,” said
Sir Morris. “Have you informed Interpol?”

“Yes sir, and I’ve personally briefed the
German, French and Swiss police,” added Lawrence, which was the only true word
he had spoken since the meeting had begun.

Jeanne took forty minutes to get
herself
ready and when Adam saw the result he let out a long
whistle.

“No one is going to give me a second look,
even if I were to empty the till in front of them,” he told her.

“That is the idea,
n’est-ce pas?”
Jeanne said, grinning.

“Now, are you sure you know exactly what you
have to do?”

“I know well.” Jeanne checked herself once
more in the long mirror. “We ‘ave rehearse like military exercise four times
already.”

“Good,” said Adam. “You sound as if you’re
ready to face the enemy. So let’s begin with what in the army they call ‘advance
to contact’.”

Jeanne took out a plastic bag from a drawer
in the kitchen. The single word ‘Celine’ was printed across it. She handed it
over to Adam. He folded the bag in four, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket
before walking into the corridor. She then locked the flat door behind them,
and they walked down the stairs together and out on to the pavement.

Adam hailed a taxi and Jeanne told the
driver “Tuileries gardens”. Once they had arrived, Adam paid the fare and
joined Jeanne on the pavement.

“Bonne
chance,”
said Adam as he
remained on the corner, allowing Jeanne to walk twenty yards ahead of him. Although
he still felt unsteady he was able to keep up at her pace. The sun beat down on
his face as he watched her walk in and out of the ornate flower beds. Her pink
leather skirt and tight white sweater made almost every man she passed turn and
take a second look. Some even stopped in their tracks and continued watching
until she was out of sight.

The comments she could hear and Adam, twenty
yards behind, couldn’t, ranged from
“Je
payerais n’importe quoi,”
which she reluctantly had to pass up, to just plain
“Putain”,
which Adam had told her to
ignore. Her part had to be acted out, and for two hundred francs she would just
have to suffer the odd insult.

Jeanne reached the far side of the gardens
and did not look back: she had been instructed not to turn around in any
circumstances. Keep going forwards, Adam had told her. He was still twenty
yards behind her when she reached the Quai des Tuileries. She waited for the
lights to turn green before she crossed the wide road, keeping in the centre of
a throng of people.

At the end of the quai she turned sharp
right, and for the first time could see the Louvre straight in front of her.
She had been too embarrassed to admit to him that she had never been inside the
building before.

Jeanne climbed the steps to the entrance
hall. By the time she had reached the swing doors, Adam was approaching the
bottom step. She continued on up the marble staircase with Adam still following
discreetly behind.

When Jeanne reached the top of the stairs
she passed the statue of the Winged Victory of Samothrace. She proceeded into
the first of the large crowded rooms and began counting to herself, noting as
she passed through each gallery that there was at least one attendant on duty
in each, usually standing around aimlessly near one of the exits. A group of
schoolchildren were studying ‘The Last Supper’ by Giovanni but Jeanne ignored
the masterpiece and marched straight on. After passing six attendants she
arrived in the room Adam had described to her so vividly. She strode purposefully
into the centre and paused for a few seconds. Some of the men began to lose
interest in the paintings. Satisfied by the impact she was making, she flounced
over to the guard, who straightened up his jacket and smiled at her.

“Dans quelle direction se trouve la peinture
du seizieme siècle?”
Jeanne
asked innocently. The guard turned to point in the direction of the relevant
room. The moment he turned back, Jeanne slapped him hard across the face and
shouted at him at the top of her voice:
“Quelle
horreur! Pour qui est-ce que vous me prenez?”

Only one person in the Icon Room didn’t stop
to stare at the spectacle.
“Je vais
parler a la Direction”
she screamed, and flounced off towards the main
exit. The entire charade was over in less than thirty seconds. The bemused
guard remained transfixed, staring after his assailant in bewilderment.

Jeanne continued on through three centuries
more quickly than H. G. Wells. She took a left turn into the sixteenth-century
room as instructed and then another left brought her back into the long
corridor. A few moments later, she joined Adam at the top of the marble
staircase leading down to the front entrance.

As they walked back down the steps together,
Adam handed her the Celine bag and was about to set off again, when two
attendants waiting on the bottom step threw out their arms indicating they
should halt.

“Do you wish a run for it?” she whispered.

“Certainly not,” said Adam very firmly. “Just
don’t say anything.”

“Madame, excusez.-moi,
mais je dois fouiller votre sac.”

“Allez-y pour tout ce que vous y trouvez!”
said
Jeanne.

“Certainly you can search her bag,” said
Adam, returning to her side before Jeanne could say anything more. “It’s an
icon, quite a good one, I think. I purchased it in a shop near the
Champs-Elysees only this morning.”

“Vous
me permettez, monsieur?”
the
senior attendant asked suspiciously.

“Why not?” said Adam. He removed the Tsar’s
icon from the bag and handed it over to the attendant, who seemed surprised by
the way things were turning out. Two more attendants rushed over and stood on
each side of Adam.

The senior attendant asked in broken English
if Adam would mind if one of the gallery’s experts were to look at the
painting.

“Only too delighted,” said Adam. “It would
be fascinating to have a second opinion.”

The senior attendant was beginning to look
unsure of
himself
.
“Je
dois vous demander de me suivre”
he suggested in a tone that was suddenly
less hostile. He ushered them quickly through to a little room at the side of
the gallery. The attendant put the Tsar’s icon in the middle of a table that
dominated the room. Adam sat down and Jeanne, still bemused, took the seat
beside him.

“I’ll only be a moment, sir.” The senior
attendant almost ran out while the two other attendants remained stationed near
the door. Adam still did not attempt to speak to Jeanne although he could see
that she was becoming more and more apprehensive. He shot her a little smile as
they sat waiting.

When the door eventually opened, an elderly
man with a scholarly face preceded the senior attendant.

“Bonjour,
monsieur,”
the man began,
looking at Adam, the first man who did not show an overt interest in Jeanne. “I
understand that you are English,” and without giving either of them more than a
glance, he picked up the icon.

He studied the painting carefully for some
time before he spoke. Adam felt just a moment’s apprehension.
“Most interesting.
Yes, yes.” One of the attendants put a
hand on his truncheon.

“Interesting,” he repeated. “I would be
so
bold as to suggest,” he hesitated, “late nineteenth
century, eighteen seventy, possibly eighty.
Fascinating.
Not that we have ever had anything quite like it at the Louvre,” he added. “You
do realise it’s an inferior copy,” he said as he handed the icon back to Adam. “The
original Tsar’s icon of St George and the Dragon hangs in the Winter Palace in
Leningrad. I’ve seen it, you know,” he added, sounding rather pleased with
himself
.

“You certainly have,” said Adam under his
breath as he placed the icon back in its plastic bag. The old man bowed low to
Jeanne and said as he shuffled away, “Funnily enough, someone else was making
enquiries about the Tsar’s icon only a few weeks ago.” Adam was the only person
who didn’t seem surprised.

“I was only –” began the senior attendant.

“Doing your duty,” completed Adam. “A
natural precaution, if I may say so,” he added a little pompously. “I can only
admire the way you carried out the entire exercise.”

Jeanne stared at them both, quite unable to
comprehend what was happening.

“You are kind,
monsieur,”
said the attendant, sounding relieved. “Hope you come
again,” he added, smiling at Jeanne.

The attendant accompanied the two of them to
the entrance of the Louvre, and when they pushed through the door he stood
smartly to attention and saluted.

Adam and Jeanne walked down the steps and
into the Paris sun.

“Well, now can I know what that’s all about?”
asked Jeanne.

“You were
magnifique”
said Adam, not attempting to explain.

“I know, I know,” said Jeanne. “But why you
need Oscar-winning show by me when the picture was always yours?”

“True,” agreed Adam. “But I had left it in
their safe-keeping overnight. And without your bravura performance it might
have taken considerably longer to convince the authorities that it belonged to
me in the first place.”

Adam realised from the look on her face that
Jeanne had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know, that my first time in the Louvre?”
said Jeanne linking her arm in Adam’s.

“You’re priceless,” said Adam, laughing.

“That I’m not,” she said, turning to face
him. “Two hundred francs was our bargain even if it belongs to you or not.”

“Correct,” said Adam, taking out the colonel’s
wallet and extracting two hundred francs, to which he added another hundred. “A
well-earned bonus,” said Adam.

She pocketed the money gratefully. “I think
I’ll take an evening off,” she said.

Adam held her in his arms and kissed her on
both cheeks as if she was a French general.

She kissed him on the lips and smiled. “When
you next in Paris,
cheri
,
look me up. I owe you one – on the
house.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Antarctic was willing to give
Pemberton too many facts.”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me that Pemberton said he would
never phone back if you let him down again. Not only did he phone back but he
peppered you with facts. Which way did he say he was going?”