A Matter of Honor Read online

  When Adam heard the whistle behind him he felt relieved that help was at hand, but as he turned he saw two officers with guns out of their holsters pointing toward him. He instinctively turned his jog into a run, and looking over his shoulder he saw that several police were now giving chase. He lengthened his stride again and, despite the trench coat, doubted if there were a member of the Swiss force who could hope to keep up the pace he set for more than a quarter of a mile. He turned into the first alley he came to and speeded up. It was narrow—not wide enough for even two bicycles to pass. Once he was beyond the alley he selected a one-way street. It was crammed with cars, and he was able swiftly and safely to move in and out of the slow-moving oncoming traffic.

  In a matter of minutes he had lost the pursuing police, but he still ran on, continually switching direction until he felt he had covered at least two miles. He turned into a quiet street and halfway down saw a fluorescent sign advertising the Hotel Monarche. It didn’t look much more than a guest house, and certainly wouldn’t have qualified under the description of a hotel. He stopped in the shadows and waited, taking in great gulps of air. After about three minutes his breathing was back to normal, and he marched straight into the hotel.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HE STOOD NAKED, staring at the image of Emmanuel Rosenbaum in the hotel mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. First he removed the teeth, then began to click his own up and down: he had been warned that the gums would ache for days. Then painstakingly he shed each layer of his bulbous nose, admiring the skill and artistry that had gone into creating such a monstrosity. It will be too conspicuous, he had told them. They will remember nothing else, had come back the experts’ reply.

  When the last layer had been removed, the aristocratic one that took its place looked ridiculous in the center of such a face. Next he began on the lined forehead that even moved when he frowned. As the lines disappeared, so the years receded. Next the flaccid red cheeks, and finally the two chins. The Swiss bankers would have been amazed at how easily the sharp rubbing of a pumice stone removed the indelible number on the inside of his arm. Once more he studied himself in the mirror. The hair, short and graying, would take nature longer. When they had cut his hair short and smeared that thick mudlike concoction all over his scalp, it made him feel like a deloused animal. Moments later he stood under a warm shower, his fingers massaging deep into the roots of his hair. Black treacly water started to run down his face and body before finally disappearing down the drain. It took half a bottle of shampoo before his hair had returned to its normal color, but he realized that it would take considerably longer before he stopped looking like one of these moronic staff sergeants in the United States Marines.

  In a corner of the room lay the long baggy coat, shiny shapeless suit, black tie, off-white shirt, woollen mittens, and the Israeli passport. Days of preparation discarded in a matter of minutes. He longed to burn them all, but instead left them in a heap. He returned to the main room and stretched himself out on the bed like a yawning cat. His back still ached from all the bending and crouching. He stood up, then touched his toes and threw his arms high above his head fifty times. He rested for one minute before completing fifty sit-ups.

  He returned to the bathroom and had a second shower—cold. He was beginning to feel like a human being again. He then changed into a freshly ironed cream silk shirt and a new double-breasted suit.

  Before making one phone call to London and two more to Moscow, he ordered dinner in his room so that no one would see him—he had no desire to explain how the man who checked in was thirty years older than the man eating alone in his room. Like a hungry animal he tore at the steak and gulped the wine.

  He stared at the colorful carrier bag but felt no desire to finish off the meal with one of Scott’s liqueur chocolates. Once again he felt anger at the thought of the Englishman getting the better of him.

  His eyes then rested on the little leather suitcase that lay on the floor by the side of his bed. He opened it and took out the copy of the icon that Zaborski had ordered he should always have with him so that there could be no doubt when he came across the original of Saint George and the dragon.

  At a little after eleven he switched on the late-night news. They had no photograph of the suspect, only one of that stupid taxi driver who had driven so slowly it had cost the fool his life, and the pretty German girl who had tried to fight back. It had been pathetic; one firm clean strike and her neck was broken. The television announcer said the police were searching for an unnamed Englishman. Romanov smiled at the thought of police searching for Scott while he was eating steak in a luxury hotel. Although the Swiss police had no photograph of the murderer, Romanov didn’t need one. It was a face he would never forget. In any case his contact in England had already told him a lot more about Captain Scott in one phone call than the Swiss police could hope to discover for another couple of days.

  When Romanov was told the details of Scott’s military career and decoration for bravery he considered it would be a pleasure to kill such a man.

  Lying motionless on a mean little bed, Adam tried to make sense of all the pieces that made up a black jigsaw. If Goering had left the icon to his father, and his alias had been Emmanuel Rosenbaum, then a real-life Emmanuel Rosenbaum didn’t exist. But he did exist: he had even killed twice in his attempt to get his hands on the Czar’s icon. Adam leaned over, switched on the bedside light, then pulled the small package out of the pocket of his trench coat. He unwrapped it carefully before holding the icon under the light. Saint George stared back at him—no longer looking magnificent, it seemed to Adam, but more accusing. Adam would have handed the icon over to Rosenbaum without a second thought if it would have stopped Heidi from sacrificing her life.

  By midnight Adam had decided what had to be done, but he didn’t stir from that tiny room until a few minutes after three. He lifted himself quietly off the bed, opened the door, checked the corridor, and then locked the door noiselessly behind him before creeping down the stairs. When he reached the bottom step he waited and listened. The night porter had nodded off in front of a television that now let out a dim, monotonous hum. A silver dot remained in the center of the screen. Adam took nearly two minutes to reach the front door, stepping on a noisy floorboard once, but the porter’s snores had been enough to cover that. Outside, Adam checked up and down the street, but there was no sign of any movement. He didn’t want to go far, so he stayed in the shadows by the side of the road, moving at a pace unfamiliar to him. When he reached the corner he saw what he had been searching for and it was still about a hundred yards away.

  There was still no one to be seen, so he quickly made his way to the phone booth. He pressed a twenty-centime coin into the phone and waited. A voice said, “Est-ce que je puis vous aider?” Adam uttered only one word, “International.” A moment later another voice asked the same question.

  “I want to make a reverse charge call to London,” said Adam firmly. He had no desire to repeat himself.

  “Yes,” said the voice. “And what is your name?”

  “George Cromer,” replied Adam.

  “And the number you are speaking from?”

  “Geneva 271982.” He reversed the last three digits: he felt the police could well be listening in on all calls to England that night. He then told the girl the number in London he required.

  “Can you wait for a moment, please?”

  “Yes,” said Adam as his eyes checked up and down the street once again, still looking for any unfamiliar movement. Only the occasional early-morning car sped by. He remained absolutely motionless in the corner of the box.

  He could hear the connection being put through. Please wake up, his lips mouthed. At last the ringing stopped, and Adam recognized the familiar voice which answered.

  “Who is this?” Lawrence asked, sounding irritated but perfectly awake.

  “Will you accept a reverse charge call from a Mr. George Cromer in Geneva?”

  “George Crome