A Matter of Honor Read online

  When Romanov left Banks thirty minutes later hidden behind a tree with a broken neck he reluctantly admitted that the young pilot officer had been as brave as Valchek—but he couldn’t waste any more time trying to discover in which direction Scott was heading.

  Romanov headed west.

  The moment Adam heard the siren he came out of his reverie. He checked the little clock on the dashboard. He had only been driving for about an hour and a half. Could the French police be that efficient? The police car was now approaching him fast on his left, but Adam maintained the same speed—except for his heartbeat, which climbed well above the approved limit—until the police car shot past him.

  As the kilometers sped by, he began to wonder if it might be wiser to turn off onto a quieter road, but decided, on balance, to risk pushing on to Paris as quickly as possible.

  He remained alert for further sirens as he continued to follow the signs to Paris. When he finally reached the outskirts of the city, he proceeded to the boulevard de l’Hôpital and even felt relaxed enough to bite into another apple. In normal circumstances he would have appreciated the magnificent architecture along the banks of the Seine, but today his eyes kept returning to the rearview mirror.

  Adam decided he would abandon the vehicle in a large public parking lot; with any luck it could be days before anyone came across it.

  He turned down the rue de Rivoli and took in at once the long colorful banners looming up in front of him. He could hardly have picked a better place, as he felt sure it would be packed with foreign cars.

  Adam backed the Rover in the farthest corner of the square. He then wolfed down the last piece of cheese and locked the car. He started walking toward the exit but had only gone a few yards when he realized that the strolling holidaymakers were amused by his ill-fitting brown jacket, which he had completely forgotten. He decided to turn back and throw the coat in the trunk. He quickly took it off and folded it in a small square.

  He was only a few yards away from the car when he saw the young policeman. He was checking the Rover’s license plate and repeating the letters and numbers into an intercom. Adam inched slowly back, never taking his eyes from the officer. He only needed to manage another six or seven paces before he would be lost in the throng of the crowd.

  Five, four, three, two more paces backward, he estimated, as the man continued speaking into the intercom. Just one more pace … “Alors!” hollered the lady on whose foot Adam had stepped.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Adam, instinctively in his native language. The policeman immediately looked up and stared at Adam, then shouted something into the intercom and began running toward him.

  Adam dropped the brown coat and swung round quickly, nearly knocking the stooping lady over before sprinting off toward the exit. The lot was full of tourists who had come to enjoy the pleasures of the Louvre, and Adam found it hard to pick up any real speed through the dense crowd. By the time he reached the entrance to the car park, he could hear the policeman’s whistle a few paces behind him. He ran across the rue de Rivoli, through an archway and into a large square.

  By then another policeman was coming from his right, leaving him with no choice but to run up the steps in front of him. When he reached the top he turned to see at least three other policemen in close pursuit. He threw himself through the swinging door and past a group of Japanese tourists who were surrounding the Rodin statue that stood in the hallway. He charged on past a startled ticket collector and on up the long marble staircase. “Monsieur, monsieur, votre billet?” he heard shouted in his wake.

  At the top of the staircase he turned right and ran through the Special “66” Centuries Exhibition: modern—Pollock, Bacon, Hockney—into the impressionist room—Monet, Manet, Courbet—desperately looking for any way out. On into the eighteenth century—Fragonard, Goya, Watteau—but still no sign of an exit. Through the great arch into the seventeenth century—Murillo, Van Dyck, Poussin—as people stopped looking at the pictures and turned their attention to what was causing such a commotion. Adam ran on into the sixteenth century—Raphael, Caravaggio, Michelangelo—suddenly aware that there were only two centuries of paintings to go.

  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 cetableau soit soumis à la restauration.

  The first policeman had already entered the large room and was only a few paces behind as Adam dashed on toward 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.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  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. “And if he has any possessions on him, please keep them guarded under lock and key. Thank you once again,” he said before putting the phone down. His secretary took down every word of the conversation in shorthand as she had done for the past fourteen 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 traveling under false identification. Was it possible at last that someone had worked out he was innocent?

  When Adam arrived at the Ministry of the Interior, he was immediately ordered to empty all his pockets. One wristwatch, one apple, twenty pounds in travelers’ checks, eight francs, and one British passport in the name of Dudley Hulme. The station inspector asked him politely to strip to his underclothes. 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 get 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 center, with two wooden chairs on either side. His eyes checked over a single bed in the corner, which had on it an ancient horsehair 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 re