A Matter of Honor Read online

  Adam suddenly felt very small.

  “Coffee and croissants?” she shouted.

  “Fantastic,” said Adam. He paused. “I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

  “Not to think about it,” she said. “Ça n’est rien.”

  “I still don’t know your name,” said Adam.

  “My working name is Brigitte, but as you ‘ave not use my services last night or this morning you can call me by my real name, Jeanne.”

  “Can I have a bath, Jeanne?”

  “The door in the corner, but don’t take too long, unless you like croissants cold.” Adam made his way to the bathroom and found Jeanne had provided for everything a man might need: a razor, shaving cream, soap, flannel, clean towels—and a giant box of condoms.

  After a warm bath and a shave, delights Adam had nearly forgotten, he felt almost back to normal again, if still somewhat fragile. He tucked a pink towel around his waist before joining Jeanne in the kitchen. The table was already laid, and she was removing a warm croissant from the oven.

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

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” said Adam, grinning, taking the scat 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 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 service.”

  “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 just contacted me only 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, nervously touching his mustache.

  “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. “Neuchâtel on the French-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 were the only true words 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?” said Adam.

  “I know well.” Jeanne checked herself once more in the long hall 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 “Céline” 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 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 garden.” 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 couldn’t, twenty yards behind, 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 Right Bank of the Seine, and she did not look back; she had been instructed not to turn around in any circumstances. Keep going forward, 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 center 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 swinging 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 center and paused for a few seconds. Some of the men began to lose interest in the paintings. Satisfied by the impact she was causing, she flounced over to the guard, who straightened up his jacket and smiled at her.

  “Dans quelle direction se trouve de la peinture du seizième 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 gaze at the spectacle. “Je vais parler à la direction,” she screamed, and flounced off toward the main exit. The entire charade was over in less than thirty seconds. The bemused guard remained transfixed to the spot, 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