A Matter of Honor

“Have a good flight,” said the banker.

“Thank you, M. Roget,” said Adam and replaced the receiver. He turned toward the BEA counter and was surprised to find that Heidi had not yet returned. His eyes began to search the ground floor for a newspaper shop as he feared she might well not have heard the departure announcement. Then he spotted her walking out through the double door, helping the old man he had noticed earlier.

Adam called out and quickened his pace. Something didn’t feel quite right. When he reached the automatic door he had to check his stride to allow it to slide back. He could now see Heidi standing on the pavement in front of him, opening a taxi door for the old man.

“Heidi,” he shouted. The old gentleman suddenly turned and once again Adam found himself staring at the man he could have sworn he had seen at the bank. “Mr. Rosenbaum?” he questioned. Then with a movement of his arm that was so fast and powerful it took Adam by surprise, the old man threw Heidi into the back of the taxi, jumped in beside her and, pulling the taxi door closed, hollered at the top of his voice, “Allez, vite.”

For a moment Adam was stunned, but then he dashed to the side of the taxi and only just managed to touch the handle as it accelerated away from the curb. The car’s sudden momentum knocked Adam backward on to the pavement, but not before he saw the petrified look on Heidi’s face. He stared at the license plate of the departing car: B712—was all he could catch, but at least he recognized it was a blue Mercedes. Desperately he looked around for another taxi, but the only one in sight was already being filled up with luggage.

A Volkswagen beetle drew up on the far side of the concourse. A woman stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked to the front to open the trunk. A man joined her from the passenger’s side and lifted out a suitcase before she slammed the trunk back into place.

On the curb, the two of them embraced. As they did so, Adam sprinted across the road and, opening the passenger door of the Volkswagen, leaped inside and slid into the driver’s seat. The key was still in the ignition. He turned it on, threw the car into gear, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and shot backward. The embracing couple stared at him in bafflement. Adam jerked the gear lever out of reverse into what he hoped was first. The engine turned over slowly, but just fast enough for him to escape the pursuing man. It must be third, he thought, and changed down as he began to follow the signs to the center of Geneva.

By the time he reached the first traffic circle he had mastered the gears but had to concentrate hard on remaining on the right-hand side of the road. “B712 … B712,” he repeated to himself again and again, to be sure it was fixed in his memory. He checked the license plate and the passengers of every blue taxi he passed. After a dozen or so, he began to wonder if Heidi’s taxi might have left the highway for a minor road. He pressed the accelerator even harder—90, 100, 110, 120 kilometers an hour. He passed three more taxis, but there was still no sign of Heidi.

Then he saw a Mercedes in the outside lane some considerable distance ahead of him, its lights full on and traveling well above the speed limit. He felt confident that the Volkswagen was powerful enough to catch the Mercedes, especially if it had a diesel engine. Meter by meter he began to narrow the gap as he tried to fathom why the old man would want to kidnap Heidi in the first place. Could it be Rosenbaum? But he had wanted him to keep the icon, or so the banker had assured him. None of it made sense, and he drove on wondering if at any moment he was going to wake up.

When they reached the outskirts of the city Adam hadn’t woken up as he followed carefully the taxi’s chosen route. By the next traffic circle only three cars divided them. “A red light, I need a red light,” Adam shouted, but the first three traffic lights into the city remained stubbornly green. And when one finally turned red, a van suddenly pulled in front of him, lengthening the gap between them. Adam cursed as he leaped out of the car and started running toward the taxi, but the light changed back to green just before he could reach it, and the Mercedes sped away. Adam sprinted back to the Volkswagen and only just managed to drive the car across the junction as the light turned red. His decision to get out of the car had lost him several crucial seconds, and when he looked anxiously ahead he could only just spot the taxi in the distance.

When they reached the Avenue de France, running parallel with the west side of the lake, both cars weaved in and out of the traffic, until the Mercedes suddenly turned left and climbed up a slight hill. Adam threw his steering wheel over to follow it, and for several yards careened up the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing a mail truck meandering down toward him. He watched carefully as the taxi turned left again, and in order to keep in contact, veered in front of a bus so sharply that it was forced to jam on its brakes. Several passengers, thrown from their seats, waved their fists at him as the bus’s horn blared.

The taxi was now only a couple of hundred yards ahead. Once again Adam began to pick up some ground, when suddenly it swerved to the curbside and screeched to a halt. Nothing seemed to happen for the next few seconds as Adam weaved his way toward the stationary taxi, skidding directly behind it. He then leaped out of the car and ran toward the parked vehicle. But without warning, the old man jumped out of the taxi on the far side of the car and sprinted off up a side street carrying with him Heidi’s airport shopping bag and a small suitcase.

Adam pulled the back door open and stared at the beautiful girl, who sat motionless. “Are you all right, are you all right?” he shouted, suddenly realizing how much she meant to him. Heidi did not move a muscle and made no reply. Adam put his arms on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, but they showed no response. He began to stroke her hair, and her head fell limply on to his shoulder like a rag doll’s, and a small trickle of blood started to run from the corner of her mouth. Adam felt cold and sick and began to tremble uncontrollably. He looked up at the taxi driver. His arms were loose by his sides, and his body slumped over the wheel. There was no sign of life in the middle-aged face.

He refused to accept they were dead.

Adam kept holding on to Heidi as he stared beyond her: the old man had reached the top of the hill.

Why did he still think of him as an

old man? He was obviously not old at all, but young and very fit. Suddenly Adam’s fear turned to anger. He had a split second to make a decision. He let go of Heidi, jumped out of the car, and started to sprint up the hill and after her killer. Two or three onlookers had already gathered on the curbside and were now staring at Adam and the two cars. He had to catch the man, who was still running. Adam moved as fast as he could, but the trench coat he was wearing slowed him down, and by the time he too had reached the top of the hill the killer was a clear hundred yards ahead of him, weaving his way through the main thoroughfare. Adam tried to lengthen his stride as he watched the man leap on to a passing streetcar, but he was too far behind to make any gain on him and could only watch the streetcar moving inexorably into the distance.

The man stood on the streetcar steps and stared back at Adam. He held up the shopping bag defiantly with one hand. The back was no longer hunched, the figure no longer frail, and even at that distance, Adam could sense the triumph in the man’s stance. Adam stood for several seconds in the middle of the road, helplessly watching the streetcar as it disappeared from sight.

He tried to gather his thoughts. He realized that there was little hope of picking up a taxi during the rush hour. Behind him he could hear sirens of what he presumed were ambulances trying to rush to the scene of the accident. “Accident,” said Adam. “They will soon discover it was murder.” He tried to start sorting out in his mind the madness of the last half hour. None of it made sense. He would surely find it was all a mistake … . Then, he touched the side of his coat pocket and felt the package that held the Czar’s icon. The killer hadn’t gone to all that trouble for twenty thousand pounds—murdering two innocent people who happened to have got in his way—why, why, why, was the icon that important? What had the Sotheby’s expert said? “A Russian gentleman had inquired after the piece.” Adam’s mind began to whirl. If it was Emmanuel Rosenbaum, and that was what he had killed for, all he had ended up with was a large box of Swiss liqueur chocolates.

When Adam heard the whistle behind him he felt relieved that help was at hand, but as he turned he saw two officers with guns out of their holsters pointing toward him. He instinctively turned his jog into a run, and looking over his shoulder he saw that several police were now giving chase. He lengthened his stride again and, despite the trench coat, doubted if there were a member of the Swiss force who could hope to keep up the pace he set for more than a quarter of a mile. He turned into the first alley he came to and speeded up. It was narrow—not wide enough for even two bicycles to pass. Once he was beyond the alley he selected a one-way street. It was crammed with cars, and he was able swiftly and safely to move in and out of the slow-moving oncoming traffic.

In a matter of minutes he had lost the pursuing police, but he still ran on, continually switching direction until he felt he had covered at least two miles. He turned into a quiet street and halfway down saw a fluorescent sign advertising the Hotel Monarche. It didn’t look much more than a guest house, and certainly wouldn’t have qualified under the description of a hotel. He stopped in the shadows and waited, taking in great gulps of air. After about three minutes his breathing was back to normal, and he marched straight into the hotel.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HE STOOD NAKED, staring at the image of Emmanuel Rosenbaum in the hotel mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. First he removed the teeth, then began to click his own up and down: he had been warned that the gums would ache for days. Then painstakingly he shed each layer of his bulbous nose, admiring the skill and artistry that had gone into creating such a monstrosity. It will be too conspicuous, he had told them. They will remember nothing else, had come back the experts’ reply.

When the last layer had been removed, the aristocratic one that took its place looked ridiculous in the center of such a face. Next he began on the lined forehead that even moved when he frowned. As the lines disappeared, so the years receded. Next the flaccid red cheeks, and finally the two chins. The Swiss bankers would have been amazed at how easily the sharp rubbing of a pumice stone removed the indelible number on the inside of his arm. Once more he studied himself in the mirror. The hair, short and graying, would take nature longer. When they had cut his hair short and smeared that thick mudlike concoction all over his scalp, it made him feel like a deloused animal. Moments later he stood under a warm shower, his fingers massaging deep into the roots of his hair. Black treacly water started to run down his face and body before finally disappearing down the drain. It took half a bottle of shampoo before his hair had returned to its normal color, but he realized that it would take considerably longer before he stopped looking like one of these moronic staff sergeants in the United States Marines.

In a corner of the room lay the long baggy coat, shiny shapeless suit, black tie, off-white shirt, woollen mittens, and the Israeli passport. Days of preparation discarded in a matter of minutes. He longed to burn them all, but instead left them in a heap. He returned to the main room and stretched himself out on the bed like a yawning cat. His back still ached from all the bending and crouching. He stood up, then touched his toes and threw his arms high above his head fifty times. He rested for one minute before completing fifty sit-ups.

He returned to the bathroom and had a second shower—cold. He was beginning to feel like a human being again. He then changed into a freshly ironed cream silk shirt and a new double-breasted suit.

Before making one phone call to London and two more to Moscow, he ordered dinner in his room so that no one would see him—he had no desire to explain how the man who checked in was thirty years older than the man eating alone in his room. Like a hungry animal he tore at the steak and gulped the wine.

He stared at the colorful carrier bag but felt no desire to finish off the meal with one of Scott’s liqueur chocolates. Once again he felt anger at the thought of the Englishman getting the better of him.

His eyes then rested on the little leather suitcase that lay on the floor by the side of his bed. He opened it and took out the copy of the icon that Zaborski had ordered he should always have with him so that there could be no doubt when he came across the original of Saint George and the dragon.

At a little after eleven he switched on the late-night news. They had no photograph of the suspect, only one of that stupid taxi driver who had driven so slowly it had cost the fool his life, and the pretty German girl who had tried to fight back. It had been pathetic; one firm clean strike and her neck was broken. The television announcer said the police were searching for an unnamed Englishman. Romanov smiled at the thought of police searching for Scott while he was eating steak in a luxury hotel. Although the Swiss police had no photograph of the murderer, Romanov didn’t need one. It was a face he would never forget. In any case his contact in England had already told him a lot more about Captain Scott in one phone call than the Swiss police could hope to discover for another couple of days.