A Matter of Honor Read online

  Romanov leaped up from his seat in excitement. “Then I had better go and see for myself,” said Romanov. “I could fly out today,” he added. The chairman waved him back into his chair.

  “The plane you require does not leave Sheremetyevo Airport until four thirty-five. In any case, I have already booked two seats on it for you.”

  “Two?” inquired Romanov.

  “You will obviously need an expert to accompany you, unless you know considerably more about icons than you do about banking,” Poskonov added. “I also took the liberty of booking you on the Swissair flight. One should never fly Aeroflot if it can be avoided. It has managed only one aviation record consistently every year since its inception, namely that of losing the most passengers per miles flown, and a banker never believes in going against known odds. I have fixed an appointment for you to see Herr Bischoff at ten o’clock tomorrow morning—unless, of course, you have something more pressing to keep you in Moscow, Comrade?”

  Romanov smiled.

  “I note from your file that you have never served in Switzerland,” said the old man, showing off, “so may I also recommend that you stay at the Saint Gothard while you are in Zurich. Jacques Pontin will take excellent care of you. Nationality has never been a problem for the Swiss, only currency. And so that brings my little investigation up to date, and I shall be in touch again as soon as the two itinerant chairmen return to Switzerland next Monday. All I can do for the moment, however, is wish you luck in Zurich.”

  “Thank you,” said Romanov. “May I be permitted to add how much I appreciate your thoroughness.”

  “My pleasure, Comrade. Let’s just say that I still owe your grandfather a favor, and perhaps one day you will find you owe me one, and leave it at that.”

  Romanov tried to fathom the meaning of the old man’s words. There was no clue to be found in Poskonov’s expression, and so he left without another word. But as Romanov walked down the wide marble staircase, he considered the banker’s sentiment again and again because throwaway lines were never delivered to an officer of the KGB.

  By the time Romanov had returned to Dzerzhinsky Square his secretary informed him that Herr Bischoff’s assistant had telephoned from Zurich to confirm his appointment with the chairman at ten o’clock the following morning. Romanov asked him to call the manager at the Saint Gothard Hotel and book two rooms. “Oh, and confirm my flight on Swissair,” he added before walking up two floors to see the Chairman for State Security and brief him on the meeting he had had with the head of the National Bank.

  “Thank God for that,” were Zaborski’s first words. “With only nine days left, at least you’ve given me something to discuss with the General Secretary when he calls me at one tomorrow morning.”

  Romanov smiled.

  “Good luck, Comrade. Our embassy will be alerted to your every need. Let us fervently hope that you will be able to return the masterpiece to the walls of the Winter Palace.”

  “If it is in that bank, it will be in your hands by tomorrow night,” said Romanov, and left the Chairman smiling.

  When he walked into his own office he found Petrova waiting for him.

  “You called for me, Comrade?”

  “Yes, we’re going to Zurich.” Romanov looked at his watch. “In three hours’ time. The flight and the rooms are already booked.”

  “In the names of Herr and Frau Schmidt, no doubt,” said his lover.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN ADAM EMERGED from the interview he felt quietly confident. The chairman’s final words had been to ask him if he would be available for a thorough physical in a week’s time. Adam had told them he could think of nothing that would stop him attending. He looked forward to the opportunity of serving in the British Foreign Service.

  Back in the waiting room Wainwright looked up and handed him back his piece of paper.

  “Thank you very much,” said Adam, trying to look casual by slipping it in his inside pocket without looking at the results.

  “What was it like, old chap?” his companion asked cautiously.

  “No trouble for a man who has German, French, Spanish, and Italian as part of his armory,” Adam assured him. “Best of luck, anyway.”

  “Mr. Wainwright,” said the secretary, “the board will see you now.”

  Adam took the lift to the ground floor and decided to walk home, stopping on the corner of Wilton Place to buy a bag of apples from a pushcart boy who seemed to spend most of his time on the lookout for the police. Adam moved on, going over in his mind the board’s questions and his answers—a pointless exercise, he decided, although he still felt confident the interview had gone well. He came to such a sudden halt that the pedestrian behind only just stopped himself bumping into Adam. What had attracted his attention was a sign that read: The German Food Centre. An attractive girl with a cheerful smile and laughing eyes was sitting at the cash register by the doorway. Adam strode into the shop and went straight over to her.

  “You have not bought anything?” she inquired with a slight accent.

  “No, I’m just about to,” Adam assured her, “but I wondered, do you speak German?”

  “Most girls from Mainz do,” she replied, grinning.

  “Yes, I suppose they would,” said Adam, looking at the girl more carefully. She must have been in her early twenties, Adam decided, and he was immediately attracted by her friendly smile and manner. Her shiny, dark hair was done up in a ponytail with a big red bow. Her white sweater and neat pleated skirt would have made any man take a second look. Her slim legs were tucked under the chair.”I wonder if you would be kind enough to translate a short paragraph for me?”

  “I try,” she said, still smiling.

  Adam took the envelope containing the final section of the letter out of his pocket and handed it over to her.

  “The style is a bit old-fashioned,” she said, looking serious. “It may take a little time.”

  “I’ll go and do some shopping,” he told her, and started walking slowly around the long stacked shelves. He selected a little salami, frankfurters, bacon, and some German mustard, looking up now and then to see how the girl was progressing. From what he could make out, she was only able to translate a few words at a time, as she was continually interrupted by customers. Nearly twenty minutes passed before he saw her put the piece of paper to one side. Adam immediately went over to the cash register and placed his purchases on the counter.

  “One pound, two shillings and sixpence,” she said. Adam handed over two pounds, and she returned his change and the little piece of paper.

  “This I consider a rough translation, but I think the meaning is clear.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” said Adam, as an elderly woman joined him in the line.

  “You could invite me to share with you your frankfurters,” she laughed.

  “What a nice idea,” said Adam. “Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight?”

  “I was not serious,” she said.

  “I was,” said Adam, smiling. Another person joined the line, and the old lady immediately behind him began to look restive.

  Adam grabbed a leaflet from the counter, retreated toward the back of the store, and began to scribble down his name, address, and phone number. He waited for the two customers in front of him to pay, then handed over to her a “once-in-a-lifetime” Tide offer.

  “What’s this?” the girl asked innocently.

  “I’ve put my name and address on the center page,” Adam said. “I will expect you for dinner at about eight this evening. At least you know what’s on the menu.”

  She looked uncertain. “I really was only joking.”

  “I won’t eat you,” said Adam. “Only the sausages.”

  She looked at the leaflet in her hand and laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

  Adam strolled out on to the road whistling. A bad morning, a good afternoon, and—perhaps—an even better evening.

  He was back at the flat in time to watch the fiv