A Matter of Honor

“We are as mystified as you,” said the American. “All we can add to your current information is that two weeks ago the Russians deposited gold bullion in New York to the value of over seven hundred million dollars without any explanation. We are, of course, not certain at the moment that there is any connection.”

“Seven hundred million dollars?” said Sir Morris. “You could buy half the countries in the United Nations for that.”

“And every icon that has ever been painted,” said Matthews.

“Let’s get down to what we actually know, and stop guessing at what might be,” Sir Morris said, turning back to his number two again. “What’s the exact I.A. position?”

Lawrence undid a folder with a red band around it, the words “Immediate Action” printed across the top in black. He did not need to refer to it, but still glanced down from time to time to check he had not forgotten anything. “As I have already briefed you, we have seventeen agents in the field, and the Americans are flying a further twelve into Geneva today. With the Russians and the Swiss roaming the city like knights of the Round Table in search of the Holy Grail, I can only believe that someone will come across Scott fairly soon. One of our biggest problems, as I explained, is that the Swiss are not willing to cooperate. As far as they are concerned, Scott is a common criminal on the run, and should they get to him first they have made it clear they will not allow him diplomatic immunity.

“We, as well as the Swiss police and undoubtedly the Russians,” continued Lawrence, “have started checking out all the obvious places: hotels, guest houses, restaurants, airports, car hire companies, even lavatories, and we remain in constant touch with every one of our agents on the ground. So if Scott suddenly appears out of nowhere, we should be able to go to his aid at a moment’s notice.” Lawrence looked up to observe one of the team was taking down all the details. “Added to that, the Post Office is intercepting every call made to Barclays DCO from Geneva. If Scott does try to get in contact with me again at the bank or at my flat, it will be put through to this office automatically,” he said.

“Is he aware that you work for the Service?” asked Snell, putting a hand through his dark hair.

“No. Like my dear mother, he still thinks I’m a bank official in the International Department of Barclays DCO. But it won’t be long before he works out that that’s only a front. Unlike my mother, he doesn’t always believe everything I tell him, and after our conversation this morning he is bound to have become suspicious.”

“Do we have anything else to go on?” Sir Morris asked, looking up at Lawrence.

“Not a lot more at the moment, sir. We are doing everything possible, remembering this is not a home match; but I still anticipate that the exercise will be over one way or another within twenty-four hours. Because of that I have requested overnight facilities to be set up in the building. When you return after dinner you will find beds already made up in your offices.”

“No one will be going out to dinner tonight,” said Sir Morris.

The cinema door opened on to the busy pavement, and Adam slipped into the mainstream of commuters, who were now returning home for dinner. As he kept walking he made certain of as little head movement as possible, but his eyes never stayed still, checking everything within 180 degrees. After he had covered three blocks, he spotted a red Avis sign swinging in the afternoon breeze on the far side of the road. He safely reconnoitered the crowded crossing, but once his foot touched the far pavement he froze on the spot. Just ahead of him in the fast, jostling crowd stood a man in a raincoat. He was continually looking around while making no attempt to walk in either direction. Was he one of Rosenbaum’s men, the police, or even British? There was no way of telling whose side he was on. Adam’s eyes didn’t leave the man as he took out an intercom and, putting it to his mouth, whispered into it. “Nothing to report, sir. Still no sign of our man, and I haven’t seen any of the KGB either.”

Adam, unable to hear the words, turned into a side road and almost knocked over a boy selling papers. “Le soldat anglais toujours à Genève” the headline blared. Quickly he crossed another road, where he came to a stop again, this time behind a marble statue in the center of a small patch of grass. He stared at the building in front of him, but he knew there would be no point in his trying to hide there. He started to move away as an empty large touring coach drew up and parked in front of the block. Smart blue lettering along the side of the coach proclaimed The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Adam watched as some musicians walked out of the front door and climbed onto the coach carrying their instrument cases of assorted lengths and widths. One was even lugging a large kettle drum, which he deposited in the trunk of the coach. As the musicians continued to stream out of the hotel, Adam decided he wouldn’t get a better opportunity. When the next group came through the double doors he walked quickly forward and stepped into the middle of them before anyone could have spotted him. He then continued on past them through the open hotel door. The first thing he spotted in the crowded lobby was a double bass leaning against the wall. He glanced at the label around the neck of the unwieldy case. “Robin Beresford.”

Adam walked over to the counter and gestured to the clerk. “I need my room key quickly—I’ve left my bow upstairs, and now I’m holding everyone up.”

“Yes, sir. What room number?” asked the clerk.

“I think it’s 312, or was that yesterday?” said Adam.

“What name, sir?”

“Beresford—Robin Beresford.”

The clerk handed him key 612. His only comment was: “You were three

floors off.”

“Thank you,” said Adam. As he left the counter, he turned to check that the receptionist was already dealing with another customer. He walked smartly over to the lift, which was disgorging still more musicians. Once it had emptied he stepped in, pressed the button for the sixth floor, and waited. He felt exhilarated as the lift doors eventually slid across, and he was alone for the first time in several hours. When the doors opened again he was relieved to find there was no one standing in the corridor. He made his way quickly along the passage to room 612.

As he turned the key and opened the door he said firmly in as good a French accent as he could manage, “Room service,” but no one responded, he stepped in and locked the door behind him. An unopened suitcase had been left in one corner. Adam checked the label. Obviously Mr. Beresford hadn’t even had time to unpack. Adam checked the room, but there was no other sign of the hotel guest apart from a piece of paper on the side table. It was a typed itinerary:

European Tour: Geneva, Frankfurt, Berlin, Amsterdam, London.

Geneva, bus 5.00 to concert hall rehearsal 6.00, concert performance 7.30, encores 10.00.

Program: Mozart’s Horn Concerto, No. 1, Brahms’s Second Symphony, Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony.”

Adam looked at his watch: by the time Robin Beresford had completed the “Unfinished Symphony,” he would be over the border; but he still felt safe to remain in room 612 until it was dark.

He picked up the phone by the bed and dialed room service. “Beresford, 612,” he announced, and ordered himself some dinner before going into the bathroom. On the side of the basin was propped a little plastic bag with the words “Compliments of the Management” printed across it. Inside Adam found soap, a tiny toothbrush, toothpaste, and a plastic razor.

He had just finished shaving when he heard a knock on the door and someone calling, “Room service.” Adam quickly covered his face with lather again and put on a hotel dressing gown before he opened the door. The waiter set up a table without giving Adam a second look.

When he had finished his task he inquired, “Will you sign the bill, please, sir?”

He handed Adam a slip of paper. He signed it “Robin Beresford” and added a fifteen percent tip.