A Matter of Honor Read online

  For the first time since Heidi’s death, Adam felt it was Romanov who was on the run.

  “What a great honor for our little establishment,” said Herr Bischoff, delighted to see the most important banker in the East sitting in his boardroom sharing afternoon tea.

  “Not at all, my dear Bischoff,” said Poskonov. “After all these years the honor is entirely mine. But now to business. Did you manage to get Romanov to sign the release form?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bischoff, matter-of-factly, “he did it without even reading the standard clauses, let alone the extra three you asked us to put in.”

  “So his inheritance automatically returns to the Russian people?”

  “That is so, Mr. Poskonov, and we in return …”

  “ … Will represent us in all the currency exchange transactions we carry out in the West.”

  “Thank you,” said Herr Bischoff. “And we shall be delighted to assist you in your slightest requirement, but what happens when Romanov returns to the bank and demands to know what has become of his inheritance?” asked Herr Bischoff anxiously.

  “I don’t think that problem will arise,” the Russian banker promised. “Now, I would like to see what is in those boxes.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Herr Bischoff. “Will you please accompany me?”

  The two banking chairmen took the private lift to the basement, and Herr Bischoff accompanied his guest to the underground vault.

  “I will unlock the five boxes now in your name with the bank’s key, but only you can open them with your key.”

  “Thank you,” said Poskonov, and left Herr Bischoff to open the five locks and return to the entrance of the vault.

  “Do take as long as you like,” said Herr Bischoff, “but at five o’clock the great door is automatically locked until nine o’lock tomorrow morning, and nothing less than a nuclear weapon would prize it open. At four forty-five an alarm goes off to warn you that you only have fifteen minutes left.”

  “Excellent,” said a man who through his entire banking career had never been given a fifteen-minute warning of anything.

  Herr Bischoff handed Comrade Poskonov the envelope with Romanov’s key in it.

  As soon as the massive steel door had been swung closed behind him, the Russian checked the clock on the wall. They had left him with over two hours to sort out what could be transported to Brazil and what would have to be left behind. A state pension and the Order of Lenin (second class) hadn’t seemed much of an alternative to Poskonov.

  He turned the key and opened the first of the small boxes and found the deeds to lands the State had owned for decades. He growled. The second box contained the shares of companies once brilliantly successful, now shells in every sense of the word. And to Poskonov’s disappointment the third of the small boxes only held a will proving everything belonged to Romanov’s father and his immediate heirs. Had he waited all these years to discover the stories the old man had told him of gold, jewels, and pearls were nothing but a fantasy? Or had Romanov already removed them?

  Poskonov opened the first of the large boxes and stared down at the twelve little compartments. He removed the lid of the first one tentatively, and when he saw the array of gems and stones that shone in front of him his legs felt weak. He put both hands into the box and let the gems slip through his fingers like a child playing with pebbles on a beach.

  The second box produced pearls, and the third gold coins and medallions that could make even an old man’s eyes sparkle. He hadn’t realized how long it had taken him to go through the remaining boxes, but when the alarm went off he was five thousand miles away already enjoying his newfound wealth. He glanced up at the clock. He had easily enough time to get everything back into the compartments, and then he would return the following day and remove once and for all what he had earned from fifty years of serving the State.

  When the last lid had been placed back on he checked the clock on the wall: six minutes to five. Just enough time to glance in the other box and see if he could expect the same again.

  He turned the key and licked his lips in anticipation as he pulled the large box out. Just a quick look, he promised himself, as he lifted the lid. When he saw the decaying body with its gray skin and eyes hanging in their sockets he reeled backward from the sight and, falling to the floor, clutched his heart.

  Both bodies were discovered at nine the next morning.

  The phone rang, and Adam grabbed at it before the shrill tone could deafen him a second time.

  “Your alarm call, sir,” said a girl’s voice gently. “tt’s eight o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” Adam replied and replaced the receiver. The call had proved unnecessary because he had been sitting up in bed considering the implications of his plan for nearly an hour. Adam had finally worked out exactly how he was going to kill Romanov.

  He jumped out of bed, threw back the curtains, and stared down at the Soviet embassy. He wondered how long the Russian had been awake.

  He returned to the side of the bed and picked up the phone to dial the number Robin had given him. The phone rang several times before it was answered by an elderly voice saying, “Mrs. Beresford.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Beresford, my name is Adam Scott, I’m a friend of Robin’s. I was just phoning to check that she reached home safely last night.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” said Robin’s mother. “It was a pleasant surprise to see her before the weekend. She usually spends the night in the flat when she gets back that late. I’m afraid she’s still asleep. Would you like me to wake her?”

  “No, no, don’t disturb her,” said Adam. “I only rang to fix up a lunch date. Can you tell her I’ll call back later.”

  “I certainly will,” she replied. “Thank you for phoning, Mr. Scott.”

  Adam replaced the receiver and smiled. Each piece of the jigsaw was fitting neatly into place, but without the colonel’s help he still lacked the vital cornerpiece. Adam began to put everything Tomkins needed, including his passport, personal papers, and wallet, into a large envelope. He removed the icon from his jacket pocket, turned it over, and carefully examined the little silver crest of the Czar. He then flicked open the colonel’s penknife and began the slow and delicate task of removing the crown.

  Thirty minutes later, Adam was in the lift on the way to the hotel basement. When he stepped out, he walked across to the space where he had parked the green Ford earlier that morning. He unlocked the door and threw the colonel’s old jacket onto the seat, then locked the car, checking all the doors before taking the lift back up to the ground floor.

  The manager of the men’s shop in the arcade had just flicked over the Closed sign, and Adam took his time selecting a white shirt, gray flannels, and a blue blazer, trying them on in their little changing room.

  At nine twenty-three he settled his bill with the Royal Garden Hotel and asked the doorman to bring the green Ford up from the parking lot. He waited by the hotel entrance.

  As the minutes passed, he began to fear that the colonel wouldn’t turn up. If he failed to, Adam knew that the next call would have to be to Lawrence and not Romanov.

  His reverie was disturbed by a honk on a car horn; the colonel’s rented car had been left by the entrance.

  “Your car is waiting on the ramp,” said the doorman, as he returned the keys to Adam.

  “Thank you,” said Adam and handed over the last of the colonel’s pound notes. He dropped the wallet into the large envelope, which he sealed, before checking his watch again.

  He stood waiting anxiously for another two minutes before he spotted the colonel puffing up the slope leading to the hotel entrance.

  He was clinging onto a small carrier bag.

  “I’ve done it, Captain Scott, sir, I’ve done it,” said the colonel, before he had reached Adam’s side. “But I must return immediately or he’s bound to notice it’s gone.”

  He passed the carrier bag quickly to Adam, who opened the top and stared down at the o