A Matter of Honor

Anna had chosen as an entrée slivers of Gravlax edged with dill sauce. Accompanying it was a half-bottle of Premier Cru Chablis 1958. Between mouthfuls Romanov told her of the contents of his family inheritance, and as he described each new treasure the researcher’s eyes grew larger and larger.

Romanov’s monologue was only once interrupted, by a waiter who wheeled in a trolley on which sat a silver salver. The waiter lifted the salver to reveal a rack of lamb surrounded by courgettes and tiny new potatoes. To accompany this particular dish, the hotel had provided a Gevrey-Chambertin.

The final course, a fluffy raspberry soufflé, required in the researcher’s view only the finest Château d‘Yquem. She had selected the’49, which only made her lapse into singing Russian folk songs, which, Romanov felt, given the circumstances, was somewhat inappropriate.

As she drained the last drop of wine in her glass Petrova rose and slightly unsteady, said, “To Alex, the man I love.”

Romanov nodded his acknowledgment and suggested it might be time for them to go to bed, as they had to catch the first flight back to Moscow the following morning. He wheeled the trolley out into the corridor and placed a Do Not Disturb sign over the doorknob.

“A memorable evening,” smiled the researcher, as she flicked off her shoes. Romanov stopped to admire her as she began to remove her clothes, but when he unbuttoned his shirt the researcher stopped undressing and let out a gasp of surprise.

“It’s magnificent,” she said in awe. Romanov held up the gold medallion.

“A bauble compared with the treasures I left behind,” he assured her.

“Comrade lover,” Anna said in a childlike voice, pulling him toward the bed, “you realize how much I adore, admire, and respect you?”

“Um,” said Romanov.

“And you also know,” she continued, “that I have never asked you for any favor in the past.”

“But I have a feeling you are about to now,” said Romanov as she lifted back the sheet.

“Only that if the gold chain is nothing more than a mere bauble, perhaps you might allow me to wear it occasionally?”

“Occasionally?” said Romanov, staring into Anna’s eyes. “Why occasionally? Why not permanently, my darling?” and without another word he removed the gold chain from around his neck and placed it over the young woman’s head. Anna sighed as she fingered the thick gold rings that made up the chain that Romanov didn’t let go of.

“You’re hurting me, Alex,” she said with a little laugh. “Please let go.” But Romanov only pulled the chain a little tighter. Tears began to run down her cheeks as the metal began to bite into her skin. “I can’t breathe properly,” gasped the researcher. “Please stop teasing.” Romanov continued to tighten the chain against her throat until Anna’s face began to turn red as it filled with blood.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone about my windfall, would you, my little one?”

“No, never, Alex. No one, you can rely on me,” she choked out desperately.

“Can I feel certain?” he asked with an edge of menace in his voice.

“Yes, yes, of course, but please stop now,” she piped, her delicate hands clutching desperately at her master’s blond hair, but Romanov only continued to squeeze and squeeze the heavy gold chain around her neck like a rack and pinion, tighter and tighter.

Romanov was not aware of the girl’s hands clinging so desperately to his hair as he twisted the chain a final time. “I’m sure you understand that I must be absolutely certain that you wouldn’t share our secret—with anyone,” he explained to her. But she did not hear his plea because the vertebrae in her neck had already snapped.

On his morning run along the Embankment, Adam mulled over the task that still needed to be carried out.

If he took the morning flight out of Heathrow on Wednesday, he could be back in London by the same evening, or Thursday at the latest. But there were several things that had to be completed before he could leave for Geneva.

He stopped on the pavement outside his block and checked his pulse, before climbing the stairs to the flat.

“Three letters for you,” said Lawrence. “None for me. Mind you,” he added as his flatmate joined him in the kitchen, “two of them are in buff envelopes.” Adam picked up the letters and left them on the end of his bed en route to the shower. He survived five minutes of ice-cold water before toweling down. Once he was dressed he opened the letters. He began with the white one, which turned out to be a note from Heidi thanking him for dinner and hoping she would be seeing him again sometime. He smiled and tore open the first of the buff envelopes, which was yet another missive from the Foreign Office Coordination Staff.

Captain Scott—the rank already seemed out of place—was requested to attend a medical at 122 Harley Street at three o’clock on the following Monday, to be conducted by Dr. John Vance.

Finally he opened the other brown envelope and pulled out a letter from Lloyds, Cox and King’s branch on Pall Mall, informing Dear Sir/Madam that they had been in receipt of a check for five hundred pounds from Holbrooke, Holbrooke and Gascoigne, and that his current account at the close of business the previous day was in credit to the sum of £272.18.4d. When Adam checked through the account it showed that at one point he had, for the first time in his life, run up a debt—a situation that he knew would have been frowned upon had he still been in the army, for as little as twenty years before it was in some regiments a court-martial offense for an officer to be overdrawn.

What would his brother officers have said if he told them he was about to remove two hundred pounds from the account with no real guarantee of a return?

Once Adam had finished dressing, he rejoined Lawrence in the kitchen.

“How was the Shah of Iran?” he asked.

“Oh, very reasonable really,” said Lawrence, turning a page of the Daily Telegraph, “considering the circumstances. Promised he would do what he could about his current financial embarrassment, but he was a bit pushed until the West allowed him to raise the price of oil from four pounds a barrel.”