A Matter of Honor Read online

  “I wish I could deliver it in person,” said Romanov.

  “Be satisfied, Comrade Major, that you have carried out your part of the operation in an exemplary fashion.”

  The ambassador pressed a button on the side of his desk. Two men appeared immediately. One held open the diplomatic pouch while the other stood motionless by his side. The ambassador handed over the icon and watched it being placed into the pouch. The two couriers looked as if they would have had no trouble in carrying out the ambassador’s desk as well, thought Romanov.

  “There is a plane standing by at Heathrow to take you both direct to Washington,” said the ambassador. “All the necessary documentation for customs has already been dealt with. You should touch down at National Airport around five o’clock Washington time, easily giving our comrades in America enough time to fulfill their part of the contract.”

  The two men nodded, sealed the diplomatic pouch in the ambassador’s presence, and left. Romanov walked over to the window and watched the official car drive the two men out onto Kensington High Street and off in the direction of Heathrow.

  “Vodka, Comrade Major?”

  “Thank you,” Romanov replied, not moving from the window until the car was out of sight.

  The ambassador went over to a side cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle from the refrigerator before pouring Romanov a large vodka.

  “It would not be exaggerating to say that you have played your part in establishing the Soviet Union as the most powerful nation on earth,” he said as he handed over the drink. “Let us therefore drink to the repatriation of the Aleuts as full citizens of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Romanov.

  “I think the time has come to let you know,” said the ambassador, “the significance of your achievement.” He then went on to tell Romanov of the briefing he had received from Moscow that morning.

  Romanov was thankful he had never known how much was at stake.

  “I have made an appointment to see the Foreign Secretary at three-thirty this afternoon, in order to brief him,” the ambassador continued. “We can be sure the British will only be interested in fair play. I am told he is not at all pleased as he had hoped to be in his constituency to open some fête; the British have a strange system for keeping their party system going.”

  Romanov laughed. “To Aleuts,” he said, raising his glass. “But what is happening in Washington at this moment?”

  “Our ambassador has already requested a meeting with the American Secretary of State to be scheduled for eight this evening. He is also setting up a press conference at the embassy to follow that meeting. It may amuse you to know that President Johnson had to cancel his visit to Texas this weekend and has requested that the networks should allow him to address ‘his fellow Americans’ at peak time on Monday on a matter of national importance.”

  “And we achieved it with only hours to spare,” said Romanov, pouring himself another vodka.

  “Touch and go, as the English would say. Let us also be thankful for the time difference between here and the United States, because without that we would never have been able to beat the deadline.”

  Romanov shuddered at the thought of how close it had been and downed his second vodka in one gulp.

  “You must join me for lunch, Comrade. Although your orders are to return to Moscow immediately my secretary assures me that the first plane leaving Heathrow for Moscow does not depart until eight this evening. I envy you the reception you will receive when you arrive back at the Kremlin tomorrow.”

  “I still need the one thousand pounds for …”

  “Ah yes,” said the ambassador, “I have it ready for you.” He unlocked the little drawer of his desk and passed over a slim wad of notes in a small cellophane wrapper.

  Romanov slipped the tiny packet into his pocket and joined the ambassador for lunch.

  Busch barged into Lawrence’s office.

  “Romanov’s got the icon,” he shouted.

  Lawrence’s jaw dropped. A look of desperation appeared on his face. “How can you be so sure?” he demanded.

  “I’ve just had a message from Washington. The Russians have requested an official meeting with the Secretary of State to be arranged for eight this evening.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Lawrence.

  “I do,” said Busch. “We’ve always known that God-damned friend of yours, like his father, was a lousy traitor. There’s no other explanation.”

  “He could be dead,” said Lawrence quietly.

  “I hope he is, for his sake,” said Busch.

  The phone on Lawrence’s desk rang. He grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. “A Dr. John Vance wants a word with you, sir,” said his secretary. “He said you had asked him to call.”

  Vance? Vance? Lawrence recalled the name but couldn’t quite place it. “Put him on,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pemberton,” said a voice.

  “Good morning, Dr. Vance. What can I do for you?”

  “You asked me to call you after I had examined Scott.”

  “Scott?” repeated Lawrence, not believing what he was hearing.

  “Yes, Adam Scott. Surely you remember? You wanted him to complete a medical for your department.”

  Lawrence was speechless.

  “I’ve given him a clean bill of health,” continued the doctor. “Some cuts and a nasty wound, but nothing that won’t heal in a few days.”

  “Cuts and wounds?” said Lawrence.

  “That’s what I said, old chap. But don’t worry about Scott. He’s fit enough to start work whenever you want him. That’s if you still want him.”

  “If I still want him,” repeated Lawrence. “Mr. Scott isn’t there with you at this moment, by any chance?”

  “No,” said Vance. “Left my surgery about ten minutes ago.”

  “He didn’t happen to tell you where he was going?” asked Lawrence.

  “No, he wasn’t specific. Just said something about having to see a friend off at the airport.”

  Once the coffee had been cleared away, Romanov checked his watch. He had left easily enough time to keep the appointment and still catch the plane. He thanked the ambassador, ran down the embassy steps, and climbed into the back of the anonymous black car.

  The driver moved off without speaking as he had already been briefed as to where the major wanted to go.

  Neither of them spoke on the short journey, and when the driver drew into Charlotte Street he parked the car in a layby. Romanov stepped out and walked quickly across the road He pressed the bell.

  “Are you a member?” said a voice through the intercom.

  “Yes,” said Romanov, who heard a metallic click as he pushed the door open and walked down the dark staircase. Once he had entered the club it took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the light. But then he spotted Mentor seated on his own at a little table near a pillar in the far corner of the room.

  Romanov nodded and the man, nervously touching his mustache, got up and walked across the dance floor and straight past him. Romanov followed as the member entered the only lavatory. Once inside, Romanov checked whether they were alone. Satisfied, he led them both into a little cubicle and slipped the lock to “engaged.” Romanov removed the thousand pounds from his pocket and handed it over to the man who sat down on the lavatory seat. Mentor greedily ripped open the packet, leaned forward, and began to count. He never even saw Romanov straighten his fingers; and when the hand came down with a crushing blow on the back of Mentor’s neck he slumped forward and fell to the floor in a heap.

  Romanov yanked him up; it took several seconds to gather the ten-pound notes that had fallen to the floor. Once he had them all, he stuffed them into the member’s pocket. Romanov then undid the member’s fly buttons one by one and pulled down his trousers until they fell around his ankles. He lifted the lid and placed the man on the lavatory seat. The final touch was to pull his leg