A Matter of Honor

Adam finally turned the icon over to find on the back a small silver crown inlaid in the wood. He stared at it, trying to recall what Mr. Sedgwick of Sotheby’s had said that proved.

“I wish my father had opened the letter,” said Adam, turning the icon brick over and once again admiring Saint George’s triumph. “Because it was his by right.”

Heidi checked there was nothing else left inside the box. She then flicked down the lid, and Adam locked it again with his key. He then tucked the muslin round the masterpiece, tied it up firmly, and zippered the little painting into the map pocket of his trench coat.

Heidi smiled. “I knew you’d prove you needed that coat even if it didn’t rain.”

Adam walked over to the door and opened it. The two bankers immediately returned.

“I hope you found what you had been promised,” said M. Roget.

“Yes, indeed,” said Adam. “But I shall have no further need of the box,” he added, returning the key.

“As you wish,” said M. Roget, bowing, “and here is the change from your traveler’s check, sir,” he said, passing over some Swiss notes to Adam. “If you will excuse me, I will now take my leave of you. M. Neffe will show you out.” He shook hands with Adam, bowed slightly to Heidi, and added with a faint smile, “I do hope you didn’t find us too cur—mud—geonly.” They both laughed.

“I also hope that you will enjoy a pleasant stay in our city,” said M. Neffe as the lift took its leisurely pace down.

“It will have to be very quick,” said Adam. “We must be back at the airport in just over an hour.”

The lift stopped at the ground floor and M. Neffe accompanied Adam and Heidi to the door. The door was held open for them, but they both stood aside to allow an old man to shuffle past. Although most people would have stared at his nose Adam was more struck by his penetrating blue eyes.

When the old man eventually reached the woman at the reception desk, he announced, “I have come to see M. Roget.”

“I’m afraid he’s in Chicago at the moment, sir, but I’ll see if his son is available. What name shall I tell him?”

“Emmanuel Rosenbaum.” The woman picked up the phone and held another conversation in French. When she had replaced it she asked, “Would you go to the fourth floor, M. Rosenbaum?”

Once again he had to take the fearsome lift, and once again he only just got out before its great teeth sprang back on him. Another middle-aged woman accompanied him to the waiting room. He politely declined her offer of coffee, thumping his heart with his right hand.

“M. Roget will be with you shortly,” she assured the old man.

He did not have to wait long before a smiling M. Roget appeared.

“How nice to make your acquaintance, M. Rosenbaum, but I’m afraid you have just missed M. Scott.”

“M. Scott?” the old man uttered in surprise.

“Yes. He left only a few minutes ago, but we carried out the instructions as per your letter.”

“My letter?” said M. Rosenbaum.

“Yes,” said the banker, opening for the second time that morning a file that had remained untouched for over twenty years.

He handed a letter to the old man.

Emmanuel Rosenbaum removed a pair of glasses from his inside pocket, unfolded them slowly, and proceeded to read a hand that he recognized. It was a bold hand written in thick black ink.

Forsthaus Haarhot

Amsberg 14

Vosswinnel

Sachsen

Germany

12 September 1945