A Matter of Honor

“Suit yourself. What would you like first? The good news or the bad news?”

“Try me on the bad news,” said Robin.

“The Swiss police want to arrest me and …”

“What for?” interrupted Robin.

“Murder,” said Scott.

“What’s the good news?” she asked.

“I’m innocent.”

Romanov stood in the ambassador’s office and rested his fingers on the table. “I blame myself,” he said very quietly, “even more than I blame any of you. I underestimated the Englishman. He’s good, and if any of you are hoping to kill him before I get to him you’ll have to be very good.” No one assembled in the ambassador’s office that night was disposed to disagree with the Comrade Major. Romanov paused to study the group of men who had been flown in from several Eastern satellites at short notice. All with long records of service to the State, but only one of them, Valchek, was known to Romanov, and he worked too closely with Zaborski to be trusted. Romanov had already faced the fact that only a few of them were acquainted with Geneva. He could only pray that the British and Americans were suffering from the same problem.

His eyes swept around the room. The Swiss police had the best chance of finding Scott, and they weren’t being at all helpful, he thought ruefully. However, Romanov had been pleased to learn from their head man stationed in Geneva that the Swiss had also refused to cooperate with the British or Americans.

“Comrades,” he said, the moment they had all settled, “there is no need to remind y

ou that we have been entrusted with a vital assignment for the Motherland.” He paused to check if any of the faces registered the slightest suggestion of cynicism. Satisfied, he continued. “We will therefore maintain a tight surveillance over Geneva in case Scott is still holed up somewhere in the city. My own guess is that, like any amateur, he would be, and will wait until it’s dark, perhaps even first light, before he makes a run for the nearest border. The French border will be his most obvious choice. Despite going to war against the Germans twice in the past fifty years, the English have never bothered to master the German language, although a few of them can manage to speak passable French. So he’s more likely to feel safe in that country. It also offers him the opportunity to cross only one border before reaching the coast.

“If he’s stupid enough to try and leave by plane, he will find we have the airport covered; if by train, we have the stations manned. But my guess is still that he will try to escape by motor vehicle.

“I shall therefore take five men to the French border with me while Major Valchek will take another five to Basle to cover the German crossing point. The rest of you will remain on surveillance in Geneva. Those of you who have just arrived will relieve those agents who are in the field already. And don’t expect Scott to be roaming around looking like a tourist on holiday. Study your picture of the Englishman carefully and even be prepared for him to try and get away with some amateur disguise.”

Romanov paused for effect. “The man who brings me the Czar’s icon need have no fear for his future prosperity when we return home.” Hopeful expressions appeared on their faces for the first time as Romanov pulled out the duplicate icon from his coat pocket and held it high above his head for all to see.

“When you find the original of this your task will be completed. Study it carefully, Comrades, because no photographs are being issued. And remember,” Romanov added, “the only difference between this and Scott’s icon is that his has a small silver crown embedded in the back of the frame. Once you see the crown you will know that you have found the missing masterpiece.”

Romanov put the icon back in his pocket and looked down at the silent men.

“Remember that Scott is good, but he’s not that good.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“YOU’RE NOT BAD, Scott, not bad at all,” said Robin, who had remained standing by the double bass throughout Adam’s story. “Either you’re one hell of a liar, or I’ve lost my touch.” Adam smiled up at the massive girl, who made the bow she was holding in her right hand look like a toothpick.

“Am I permitted to see this icon, or am I supposed just to take your word for it?”

Adam jumped off the bed and pulled out the package containing the Czar’s icon from the map pocket of his trench coat. Robin put her double bass up against the wall and, leaving the bow propped against it, lowered herself into the only chair in the room.

Adam handed the icon over to her. For some time she stared at the face of Saint George without making any comment. “It’s magnificent,” she said at last, “and I can understand anyone wanting to possess it. But no painting could be worth the tragedy and trouble you’ve had to go through.”

“I agree it’s inexplicable,” said Adam. “But Rosenbaum or whatever his real name is has been willing to kill twice to get his hands on the piece, and he’s already convinced me that as long as I am in possession of the icon I’ll be the next in line.”

Robin continued to stare at the tiny pieces of gold, blue, and yellow that made up Saint George and the Dragon.

“No other clues?” she asked, looking up.

“Only the letter given to my father by Goering.”

Robin turned the painting over. “What docs that mean?” she asked, pointing to the tiny silver crown embedded in the wood.

“That proves it was once owned by a czar, according to the man from Sotheby’s. And greatly enhances its value, he assured me.”

“Still, couldn’t be worth killing for,” said Robin. She handed the icon back to Adam. “So what other secret is Saint George keeping to himself?”

Adam shrugged and frowned, having asked himself the same question again and again since Heidi’s death. He returned the silent saint to his trench coat.