A Matter of Honor Read online

  Adam fried himself an egg and a couple of rashers of bacon, as there wasn’t much more he could do before nine-thirty, although he did find time to scribble a note to his sister, enclosing a check for fifty pounds.

  At nine-thirty he made a phone call. Mr. Holbrooke—Adam wondered if he actually had a Christian name—couldn’t hide his surprise at receiving a call from young Mr. Scott. Now that my father is dead, I must be old Mr. Scott, Adam wanted to tell him. And Holbrooke sounded even more surprised by his request. “No doubt connected in some way with that envelope,” he muttered, but agreed to put a copy of his father’s will in the post that afternoon.

  Adam’s other requirements could not be carried out over the phone, so he locked up the flat and jumped on a bus heading up King’s Road. He left the doubledecker at Hyde Park Corner and made his way to Lloyds Bank on Pall Mall, where he joined a line at the foreign exchange counter.

  “May I help you?” asked a polite assistant when he finally reached the front.

  “Yes,” said Adam. “I would like fifty pounds in Swiss francs, fifty pounds in cash, and a hundred pounds in traveler’s checks.”

  “What is your name?” she inquired.

  “Adam Scott.”

  The girl entered some calculations on a large desktop machine before cranking the handle round several times. She looked at the result, then disappeared for a few moments to return with a copy of the bank statement Adam had received in the morning post.

  “The total cost, including our charges, will be £202.1s.8d. That would leave your account in credit with £70.16s.4d.,” she informed him.

  “Yes,” said Adam, but didn’t add that in truth it would only be £20.16s.4d the moment his sister presented her check. He began to hope that the Foreign Office paid by the week; otherwise it would have to be another frugal month. Unless of course …

  Adam signed the tops of the ten traveler’s checks in the cashier’s presence, and she then handed over five hundred and ninety-four Swiss francs and fifty pounds in cash. It was the largest sum of money Adam had ever taken out at one time.

  Another bus journey took him to the British European Airways terminal on Cromwell Road, where he asked the girl to book him a round-trip ticket to Geneva.

  “First class or economy?” she asked.

  “Economy,” said Adam, amused by the thought that anyone might think he would want to go first class.

  “That will be thirty-one pounds please, sir.” Adam paid in cash and placed the ticket in his inside pocket, before returning to the flat for a light lunch. During the afternoon, he called Heidi, who had agreed to join him for dinner at the Chelsea Kitchen at eight o’clock. There was one more thing Adam needed to be certain about before he joined Heidi for dinner.

  Romanov was woken by the ringing of the phone.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good morning, Comrade Romanov, it’s Melinac, the second secretary at the embassy.”

  “Good morning, Comrade, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Comrade Petrova.” Romanov smiled at the thought of her now lying in the bath.”Have you come across the girl since you reported her missing?”

  “No,” replied Romanov. “And she didn’t sleep in her bed last night.”

  “I see,” said the second secretary. “Then your suspicions that she might have defected are beginning to look like a serious possibility.”

  “I fear so,” said Romanov, “and I shall have to make a full report of the situation to my superiors the moment I get back to Moscow.”

  “Yes, of course, Comrade Major.”

  “I shall also point out that you have done everything possible to assist me with this problem, Comrade Second Secretary.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Major.”

  “And brief me the moment you come up with any information that might lead us to where she is.”

  “Of course, Comrade Major.” Romanov replaced the phone and walked across to the bathroom in the adjoining room. He stared down at the body hunched up in the bath. Anna’s eyes were bulging in their sockets, her face contorted, and the skin already gray. After throwing a towel over the dead researcher’s head and locking the door, he went into his own bathroom for an unusually long shower.

  He returned and sat on his side of the bed, only a towel around his waist, and picked up the phone. He ordered breakfast, which arrived fifteen minutes later, by which time he had dressed. Once he had finished orange juice and croissants he returned to the phone trying to recall the name of the hotel’s manager. It came back to him just as the receptionist said, “Guten morgen, Mein Herr.”

  “Jacques, please,” was all Romanov said. A moment later he heard the manager’s voice, “Good morning, Herr Romanov.”

  “I have a delicate problem that I was hoping you might be able to help me with.”

  “I shall certainly try, sir,” came back the reply.

  “I am in possession of a rather valuable object that I wish to deposit with my bank, and I wouldn’t want …”

  “I understand your dilemma entirely,” said the manager. “And how can I be of assistance?”

  “I require a large container in which to place the object.”

  “Would a laundry basket be large enough?”

  “Ideal, but does it have a secure lid?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Jacques. “We often have to drop them off down lift shafts.”

  “Perfect,” said Romanov.

  “Then it will be with you in a matter of moments,” said Jacques. “And I shall send a porter to assist you. May I also suggest that it is taken down in the freight elevator at the rear of the hotel, thus ensuring that no one will see you leaving?”

  “Very considerate,” said Romanov.

  “Will a car be calling to collect you?”

  “No,” said Romanov. “I—”

  “Then I shall arrange for a taxi to be waiting. When will you require it?”

  “In no more than half an hour.”

  “You will find it parked outside the freight entrance in twenty minutes’ time.”

  “You have been most helpful,” said Romanov, before adding, “the chairman of the State Bank did not exaggerate his praise of you.”

  “You are too kind, Herr Romanov,” said the voice. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Perhaps you would be good enough to have my account prepared so that there will be no holdup.”

  “Certainly.”

  Romanov put the phone down, wishing he could export such service to Moscow. He only waited a moment before he dialed the first of two local numbers. On both occasions his wishes were immediately granted. As he replaced the phone for the third time there was a gentle tap on the door. Romanov went quickly over to answer it. A young porter stood in the corridor, a large laundry basket by his side. He smiled politely. Romanov merely nodded and pulled in the basket. “Please return as soon as the taxi has arrived,” said Romanov. The porter bowed slightly but said nothing.

  As soon as the porter had left, Romanov locked the door and put the chain in place before wheeling the laundry basket into the main bedroom and leaving it by the side of the bed. He undid the tough leather straps and threw open the lid.

  Next he unlocked the bathroom door and lifted Petrova’s stiff body in his arms before trying to cram it into the basket. Rigor mortis had already gripped the body; the legs refused to bend, and the researcher didn’t quite fit in. Romanov placed the naked Petrova on the floor. He held his fingers out straight and suddenly brought them down with such force on the right leg that it broke like a branch in a storm. He repeated the action on her left leg. Like the guillotine, it didn’t require a second attempt. He then tucked the legs under her body. It amused Romanov to consider that, had it been he who had been murdered, Anna Petrova would never have been able to get him in the basket, whatever she had tried to break. Romanov then wheeled the trolley into the researcher’s bedroom and, after emptying all her drawers, including Anna’s clothes, clean and dirty