A Matter of Honor

“Agreed, Comrade,” said Romanov.

“Good. Anyway as they both return to Switzerland early next week, we have quite enough to be going on with for now.”

“Yes, but what—” Romanov began.

“It will please you to know,” continued Poskonov, “that of the twelve remaining chairmen all have agreed to cooperate with us, and five have already phoned back. Four to say they have run a thorough check on the possessions of customers who have been out of contact with the bank for over twenty years, but have come up with nothing that remotely resembles an icon. In fact, one of them opened a deposit box in the presence of three other directors that had not been touched since 1931 only to discover it contained nothing but a cork from a 1929 bottle of Tailor’s port.”

“Only a cork?” said Romanov.

“Well, 1929 was a vintage year,” admitted the chairman.

“And the fifth?” inquired Romanov.

“Now that, I suspect, may be our first breakthrough,” continued Poskonov, referring to the file in front of him. He adjusted his spectacles with the forefinger of his right hand before continuing. “Herr Dieter Bischoff of Bischoff et Cie”—he looked up at his guest, as if Romanov might have recognized the name—“an honorable man, whom I have dealt with many times in the past—honorable, that is, by Western standards of course, Comrade,” added the chairman, obviously enjoying himself. “Bischoff has come up with something that was left with the bank in 1938. It is unquestionably an icon, but he has no way of knowing if it is the one we are looking for.”

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.