A Matter of Honor

When Romanov was told the details of Scott’s military career and decoration for bravery he considered it would be a pleasure to kill such a man.

Lying motionless on a mean little bed, Adam tried to make sense of all the pieces that made up a black jigsaw. If Goering had left the icon to his father, and his alias had been Emmanuel Rosenbaum, then a real-life Emmanuel Rosenbaum didn’t exist. But he did exist: he had even killed twice in his attempt to get his hands on the Czar’s icon. Adam leaned over, switched on the bedside light, then pulled the small package out of the pocket of his trench coat. He unwrapped it carefully before holding the icon under the light. Saint George stared back at him—no longer looking magnificent, it seemed to Adam, but more accusing. Adam would have handed the icon over to Rosenbaum without a second thought if it would have stopped Heidi from sacrificing her life.

By midnight Adam had decided what had to be done, but he didn’t stir from that tiny room until a few minutes after three. He lifted himself quietly off the bed, opened the door, checked the corridor, and then locked the door noiselessly behind him before creeping down the stairs. When he reached the bottom step he waited and listened. The night porter had nodded off in front of a television that now let out a dim, monotonous hum. A silver dot remained in the center of the screen. Adam took nearly two minutes to reach the front door, stepping on a noisy floorboard once, but the porter’s snores had been enough to cover that. Outside, Adam checked up and down the street, but there was no sign of any movement. He didn’t want to go far, so he stayed in the shadows by the side of the road, moving at a pace unfamiliar to him. When he reached the corner he saw what he had been searching for and it was still about a hundred yards away.

There was still no one to be seen, so he quickly made his way to the phone booth. He pressed a twenty-centime coin into the phone and waited. A voice said, “Est-ce que je puis vous aider?” Adam uttered only one word, “International.” A moment later another voice asked the same question.

“I want to make a reverse charge call to London,” said Adam firmly. He had no desire to repeat himself.

“Yes,” said the voice. “And what is your name?”

“George Cromer,” replied Adam.

“And the number you are speaking from?”

“Geneva 271982.” He reversed the last three digits: he felt the police could well be listening in on all calls to England that night. He then told the girl the number in London he required.

“Can you wait for a moment, please?”

“Yes,” said Adam as his eyes checked up and down the street once again, still looking for any unfamiliar movement. Only the occasional early-morning car sped by. He remained absolutely motionless in the corner of the box.

He could hear the connection being put through. Please wake up, his lips mouthed. At last the ringing stopped, and Adam recognized the familiar voice which answered.

“Who is this?” Lawrence asked, sounding irritated but perfectly awake.

“Will you accept a reverse charge call from a Mr. George Cromer in Geneva?”

“George Crome

r, Lord Cromer, the Governor of the Bank of Eng—? Yes, I will,” he said.

“It’s me, Lawrence,” said Adam.

“Thank God. Where are you?”

“I’m still in Geneva, but I’m not sure you’re going to believe what I’m about to tell you. While we were waiting to board our plane home a man pulled Heidi into a taxi and later murdered her before I could catch up with them. And the trouble is that the Swiss police think I’m the killer.”

“Now just relax, Adam. I know that much. It’s been on the evening news, and the police have already been around to interview me. It seems Heidi’s brother identified you.”

“What do you mean identified me? I didn’t do it. You know I couldn’t do it. It was a man called Rosenbaum, not me, Lawrence.”

“Rosenbaum? Adam, who is Rosenbaum?”

Adam tried to sound calm. “Heidi and I came to Geneva this morning to pick up a gift from a Swiss bank that Pa had left me in his will. It turned out to be a painting. Then when we returned to the airport, this Rosenbaum grabbed Heidi, thinking she had got the painting, which didn’t make any sense because the damned icon’s only worth twenty thousand pounds.”

“Icon?” said Lawrence.

“Yes, an icon of Saint George and the dragon,” said Adam. “That’s not important. What’s important is that …”

“Now listen and listen carefully,” interrupted Lawrence, “because I’m not going to repeat myself. Keep out of sight until the morning and then give yourself up at our consulate. Just see you get there in one piece, and I’ll make sure that the consul will be expecting you. Don’t arrive until eleven because London is an hour behind Geneva, and I’ll need every minute to arrange matters and see that the consul staff is properly organized.”

Adam found himself smiling for the first time in twelve hours.

“Did the killer get what he was after?” Lawrence asked.

“No, he didn’t,” said Adam, “he only got my mother’s chocolates …”

“Thank God for that,” said Lawrence, “and be sure to keep out of sight of the Swiss police because they are convinced it was you who killed Heidi.”