A Matter of Honor

“Thank you,” said the waiter and left. As soon as the door closed behind him Adam’s eyes settled on the feast of onion soup, rump steak with green beans and potatoes and finally a raspberry sorbet. A bottle of house wine had been uncorked and needed only to be poured. He suddenly didn’t feel that hungry.

He still couldn’t accept what he had gone through. If only he hadn’t pressed Heidi into joining him on this unnecessary journey. A week before she hadn’t even known him, and now he was responsible for her death. He would have to explain to her parents what had happened to their only daughter. But before Adam could face them he had to come up with some explanation for the things he hadn’t yet begun to understand. Not least the unimportant icon. Unimportant?

Adam lay down on the bed and began to consider what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

“Antarctic is in possession of an icon of Saint George and the dragon. But we know from our files of that period that that particular icon was destroyed when the Grand Duke of Hesse’s plane crashed over Belgium in 1937.”

“That’s what is written in your files in Washington,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “But what if your information is wrong and the icon was found by Goering and not returned to the Grand Duke?”

“But Stalin confirmed at Yalta that the icon and its contents had been destroyed in the plane crash. He agreed to make no protest while he was not in possession of the original document. After all, that was the reason Roosevelt appeared to be gaining so little while Stalin was getting so much in return. Can’t you remember the fuss Churchill made?”

“I certainly can, because he had worked out that it wasn’t Britain who was going to benefit from such a decision.”

“But if the Russians have now discovered the original icon?”

“Are you suggesting they might have the original document?”

“Precisely. So you must be sure to get to Antarctic before the Russians do, or, for that matter, the Foreign Office.”

“But I’m part of the Foreign Office team.”

“And that’s precisely what we want the Foreign Office to go on believing.”

“And who’s been sleeping in my bed, said Mother Bear.”

Adam woke with a start. Looking down at him was a girl who held a double bass firmly by the neck with one hand and a bow in the other. She was nearly six feet and certainly weighed considerably more than Adam. She had long, gleaming red hair that was in such contrast to the rest of her that it was as if the Maker had started at the top and then quickly lost interest. She wore a white blouse and a black flowing skirt that stopped an inch above the ground.

“Who are you?” asked Adam, startled.

“I’m not Goldilocks, that’s for sure,” parried the girl. “More to the point, who are you?”

Adam hesitated. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” she said. “You don’t look like Prince Charles or Elvis Presley to me, so go on, try me.”

“I’m Adam Scott.”

“Am I meant to swoon and run to your side, or scream and run away?” she inquired.

Adam suddenly realized that the girl couldn’t have watched television or read a paper for at least two days. He switched tactics. “I thought my friend Robin Beresford was meant to be staying in this room,” he said confidently.

“And so did I until I saw you on my bed.”

“You’re Robin Beresford?”

“You’re quite sharp for someone who has just woken up.”

“But Robin?”

“It’s not my fault my father wanted a boy,” she said. “And you still haven’t explained what you’re doing on my bed.”

“Is there any hope of you listening to me for five minutes without continually interrupting?” asked Adam.

“Yes, but don’t bother with any more fairy stories,” said Robin. “My father was a born liar, and by the time I was twelve I could see through him like a pane of glass.”

“I should have a seat if I were you,” said Adam. “This may take longer than the average double bass accompaniment.”

“I’ll remain on my feet, if you don’t mind,” said Robin. “At least until the first lie.”