A Matter of Honor Read online

  “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 Basic or call for reinforcements to sweep the hills. Then he noticed how 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.

  “How long ago?” Romanov asked quietly.

  “What do you mean?” asked the policeman.

  “How long ago?” repeated Romanov in a firmer voice.

  “It wasn’t him,” said the officer, sweat now appearing on his forehead.

  “If it wasn’t him, how long ago wasn’t it him?”

  The officer hesitated. “Twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”

  “What make of vehicle?”

  The young officer hesitated. “A Citroen, I think.”

  “Color?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Other passengers?”

  “Three. Looked like a family. Mother, father, daughter. He was in the back with the daughter. The father said they were engaged.”

  Romanov had no more questions.

  Jim Hardcastle managed to keep a one-sided conversation going for over an hour.

  “Naturally,” he said, “the IMF holds its annual conference in a different city every year. Last year it was Denver in Colorado, and next year it’ll be at Perth in Australia, so I manage to get around a bit. But as the export man you have to get used to a lot of travel.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Adam, trying to concentrate on his benefactor’s words while his shoulder throbbed on.

  “I’m only president for a year, of course,” continued Jim. “But I have plans to ensure that my fellow delegates won’t forget 1966 in a hurry.”

  “I’m sure they won’t,” said Adam.

  “I shall point out to them that Colman’s has had another record year on the export side.”

  “How impressive.”

  “Yes, but I must admit that most of our profits are left on the side of the plate,” he said, laughing.

  Adam laughed as well but sensed that Mrs. Hardcastle and Linda might have heard the line before.

  “I’ve been thinking, Dudley, and I’m sure the wife would agree with me, that it would be most acceptable to us if you felt able to join the presidential table for dinner tonight—as my guest, of course.” Mrs. Hardcastle nodded, as did Linda, with enthusiasm.

  “I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure,” said Adam. “But I fear my commanding officer might not be quite as delighted to hear I had stopped on the way back to England to take in a party. I do hope you’ll understand.”

  “If he is anything like my old C.O. I certainly do,” said Jim. “Still, if you should ever be Hull way, look us up.” He took a card out of his top pocket and passed it over his shoulder.

  Adam studied the embossed letters and wondered what MIFT stood for. He didn’t ask.

  “Where in Dijon would you like to be dropped off?” asked Jim as he drove into the outskirts of the town.

  “Anywhere near the center that’s convenient for you,” replied Adam.

  “Just holler when it suits you, then,” said Jim. “Of course, I always maintain that a meal without mustard …”

  “Can you drop me on the next corner?” said Adam suddenly.

  “Oh,” said Jim, sad to be losing such a good listener. And he reluctantly drew the car up alongside the curb.

  Adam kissed Linda on the cheek before getting out of the back. He then shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle.

  “Nice to have made your acquaintance,” said Jim. “If you change your mind, you’ll find us at the hotel … . Is that blood on your shoulder, lad?”

  “Just a graze from a fall—nothing to worry about. Wouldn’t want the Americans to think they’d got the better of me.”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Jim. “Well, good luck.”

  As the car moved off Adam stood on the pavement watching them disappear. He smiled and tried to wave, then, turning, he walked quickly down a side street looking for a shopping center. Within moments he was in the center of town, relieved to find that all the shops were still open. He began to search up and down the street for a green cross above a door. Adam had to walk only fifty yards before he spotted one. He entered the shop tentatively and checked the shelves.

  A tall man with short fair hair wearing a long leather coat stood in the corner with his back to the entrance. Adam froze. Then the man turned round, frowning at the packet of tablets he wanted to purchase, while at the same time rubbing his thick Gallic mustache.

  Adam walked up to the counter.

  “Do you speak English, by any chance?” he asked the druggist, trying to sound confident.

  “Passable, I hope,” came back the reply.

  “I need some iodine, cotton wool, a bandage, and heavy adhesive tape. I fell and bruised my shoulder on a rock,” Adam explained.

  The druggist quickly put the order together without showing much interest.

  “This is what you require. That will be twenty-three francs,” said the druggist.

  “Will Swiss do?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Is there a hotel anywhere nearby?” asked Adam.

  “Around the next corner, on the other side of the square.”

  Adam thanked him, handed over the Swiss notes, and then left the pharmacy in search of the hotel. The Hotel Frantel was, as promised, only a short distance away. He walked across the square and up the steps into the hotel to find several people were waiting at reception to be checked in. Adam flung his trench coat over his bloodstained shoulder and walked past them as he checked the signs on the wall. He then strode across the entrance hall as though he were a guest of several days’ standing. He followed the sign he had been looking for, which took him down a flight of stairs, to come head on with three further signs. The first had the silhouette of a man on the door, the second a woman, the third a wheelchair.

  He opened the third tentatively and was surprised to find behind it nothing more than a sizable square room with a high-seated lavatory against the wall. Adam locked himself in and let his trench coat fall to the ground.

  He rested for a few minutes before slowly stripping to the waist. He then ran a basinful of warm water.

  Adam was thankful for the endless first-aid seminars every officer had to go through, never believing they will serve any purpose. Twenty minutes later the pain had subsided, and he even felt comfortable.

  He picked up his coat with his right hand and tried to throw it back over his shoulder. The very movement caused the icon to fall out of the map pocket and onto the tiled floor. As it hit the ground, the sound made Adam fear it must have broken in half. He stared down anxiously and then fell to his knees.

  The icon had split open like a book.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHEN ADAM RETURNED to the Hotel Frantel an hour later few guests would have recognized the man who had crept in earlier that afternoon.

  He wore a new shirt, trousers, tie, and a double-breasted blazer that wouldn’t be fashionable in Britain for at least another year. Even the raincoat had been ditched because the icon fitted snugly into the blazer pocket. He considered the shop had probably given him a poor exchange rate for his traveler’s checks, but that was not what had been occupying his mind for the past hour.

  He booked himself into a single room in the name of Dudley Hulme and a few minutes later took the lift to the third floor.

  Lawrence picked the phone up even before Adam heard the second ring.

  “It’s me,” said Adam.

  “Where are you?” were Lawrence’s first words.

  “Ill ask the questions,” said Adam.

  “I can understand how you feel,” s