A Matter of Honor Read online

  “Do you want to come back to Paris with us?”

  Adam hesitated. Couldn’t they hear the noise too? “No. I have to get to Boulogne.”

  “We could drive you to Boulogne and still have enough time to take the car to Paris.”

  “No, no. That’s very considerate. I can take care of myself as long as I can feel confident that the car will be delivered back as soon as possible.”

  The taller one shrugged while his companion opened a rear door and threw their rucksacks on the backseat. Adam remained in the tunnel while they started up the engine. He could hear the purr of the helicopter blades change cadence; it had to be descending to land in a nearby field.

  Go, go, for God’s sake, go, he wanted to shout as the car shot forward toward Boulogne. He watched them travel down the road for about a hundred yards before turning in at a farm entrance, reversing, and then heading back toward the tunnel. They tooted as they passed him in the dark, disappearing in the direction of Paris. Adam sank down on to his knees with relief and was about to pick himself up and start walking toward Boulogne when he saw two figures silhouetted at the far entrance of the tunnel. Against the clear blue sky he could make out the outline of one tall, thin man. They stood peering into the tunnel. Adam didn’t move a muscle, praying they hadn’t spotted him.

  And then suddenly the thin man started walking toward him, while the other remained motionless. Adam knew he could not hope to escape again. He knelt there cursing his own stupidity. In seconds the man would be able to see him clearly.

  “Don’t let’s waste any more valuable time, Marvin, we already know that the traitor’s heading back to Paris.”

  “I just thought perhaps …” began the one called Marvin, in a Southern drawl.

  “Leave the thinking to me. Now let’s get back to the chopper before we lose him.”

  When Marvin was only twenty yards away from Adam he suddenly stopped, turned around, and began running back.

  Adam remained rooted to the spot for several minutes. A cold, clammy sweat enveloped his body the moment he realized his latest pursuer was not Romanov. If one of them hadn’t referred to him as a “traitor,” Adam would have happily given himself up. Suddenly he had become painfully aware of the difference between fact and fiction: he had been left with no friends.

  Adam did not move again until he heard the helicopter rise above him. Peering out, he could see outlined against the arc of the tunnel the Americans heading in the direction of Paris.

  He staggered outside and put a hand across his eyes. The sunlight seemed much fiercer than a few minutes before. What next? He had less than an hour to catch the boat but no longer had any transport. He wasn’t sure whether to thumb lifts, search for a bus stop, or simply get as far away from the main road as possible. His eyes were continually looking up into the sky. How long before they reached the car and realized it was not him inside?

  Cyclists began to pass him again as he jogged slowly toward Boulogne. He kept on moving and even found enough strength to cheer the British competitors as they pedaled by. The British team van followed close behind, and Adam gave it the thumbs-up sign. To his surprise the van came to a halt in front of him.

  The driver wound down the window. “Weren’t you the fellow who stopped me back in Abbeville?”

  “That’s right,” said Adam. “Has your man recovered?”

  “No, he’s resting in the back—pulled ligament. What happened to your car?”

  “Broke down about a mile back,” said Adam, shrugging philosophically.

  “Bad luck. Can I give you a lift?” the man asked. “We’re only going as far as Boulogne on this stage, but jump in if it will help.”

  “Thank you,” said Adam, with the relief of a bearded beatnik who has found the one person willing to stop to pick him up. The driver leaned across and pushed open the door for him.

  Before climbing in, Adam shielded his eyes and once more looked up into the sky. The helicopter was nowhere to be seen—although he knew it couldn’t be long before it returned. They would quickly work out there was only one place where the switch could possibly have been made.

  “My name’s Bob,” said the track-suited driver, thrusting out his free hand. “I’m the British team manager.”

  “Mine’s Adam.” He took the other’s hand warmly.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Boulogne,” said Adam, “and with luck I could still make my crossing by three.”

  “We should be there about two-thirty,” said Bob. “We have to be; the afternoon stage starts at three.”

  “Will your man be able to ride?” asked Adam, pointing over his shoulder.

  “No, he won’t be competing in this race again,” said the team manager. “He’s pulled a ligament in the back of his leg, and they always take a couple of weeks to heal properly. I shall have to leave him in Boulogne and complete the last leg myself. You don’t ride, by any chance, do you?” Bob asked.

  “No,” said Adam. “Run a little, but haven’t done a lot on wheels since my sister crashed the family tricycle.”

  “We’re still in with a chance for the bronze,” Bob said, as they overtook the British riders once more.

  Adam gave them the thumbs-up sign and then looked over his shoulder through the back window. He was thankful to see that there was still no sign of the helicopter as they drove into the outskirts of Boulogne. Bob took him all the way up to the dockside. “Hope you get that bronze medal,” said Adam as he jumped out of the van. “And thanks again. Good luck with the next stage.”

  Adam checked his watch: twenty minutes before the boat was due to sail. He wondered if it was too much time. He walked over to the ticket office and waited in a short line before buying a passenger ticket. He kept looking round to check if anyone was watching him, but no one seemed to be showing the slightest interest. Once he had purchased his ticket, he headed toward the ship and had just begun to start whistling a tuneless version of Yesterday when a black speck appeared in the distance. There was no mistaking it—the sound was enough.

  Adam looked up at the gangway that led to the deck of the ship, now only yards away from him, and then back to the speck as it grew larger and larger in the sky. He checked his watch: the ship was due to leave in twelve minutes—still time enough for his pursuers to land the helicopter and get on board too. If he climbed on and the Americans followed, they were bound to discover him. But if the Americans got on and he stayed off, that would still give him enough time to reach Dieppe before the next sailing …

  Adam jogged quickly back toward the large crowd that was hanging about waiting for the start of the next stage of the road race. As he did so the helicopter swept overhead and started hovering, like a kestrel that is looking for a mouse.

  “I thought you said you were desperate to be on that ship.”

  Adam swung round, his fist clenched, only to face the British team manager now dressed in riding gear.

  “Changed my mind,” said Adam.

  “Wouldn’t care to drive the van for us on the next stage?” said Bob hopefully.

  “Where does the next stage go?” Adam asked.

  “Dunkerque,” said the team manager.

  Adam tried to remember what time Robin had said her boat left from Dunkerque.

  “Six minutes,” a voice said over the loudspeaker.

  “Okay,” said Adam.

  “Good,” said the team manager. “Then follow me.”

  Adam ran behind the team manager as he headed toward the van.

  “Quatre minutes,” Adam heard clearly as Bob unlocked the van and handed him the keys. He stared toward the ship. The two Americans were emerging from the ticket office.

  “Deux minutes.”

  Adam jumped up into the driver’s seat, looked over toward the boat, and watched Marvin and his colleague stride up the gangplank.

  “Use minute.”

  “Just get the van to Dunkerque and leave the keys at the British checkpoint. We’ll see you whe