A Matter of Honor

Robin bent down and started to shuffle through the passports as if searching for her own. She picked out the two she had considered as possible substitutes and compared the photographs. The shorter man’s photo looked nothing like Adam. The older man’s was at least five years out of date but could have passed for Adam as long as the officials didn’t study the date of birth too carefully. She bundled up the passports, placing Adam’s in the middle. She then put them back in the plastic bag and returned the bag under the manager’s seat.

Robin made her way back to her seat. “Take a look at yourself,” she said, slipping the passport over to Adam. He studied the photo.

“Other than the mustache, not a bad likeness, and it’s certainly my best chance in the circumstances. But what will happen when you return to London and they find out my passport has been substituted?”

“You’ll be back in England long before us,” said Robin. “So put this one in an envelope with the calendar and send it direct to the RPO on Wigmore Street, W1, and I’ll see that they return yours.” Adam vowed to himself that if he ever got back to London, he would become a life subscriber to the Friends of the Royal Philharmonic.

“That seems to have solved one of your problems.”

“For the moment at least,” said Adam. “I only wish I could take you with me for the rest of the trip.”

Robin smiled. “Frankfurt, Berlin, Amsterdam, just in case you get bored. wouldn’t mind meeting up with Rosenbaum. But this time face to face.”

“He might just be meeting his match,” said Adam.

“Can I have a last look at the icon?” Robin asked, ignoring the comment.

Adam bent down to retrieve his trench coat and slipped the painting out of his map pocket, careful to shield it from anyone else’s view. Robin stared into the eyes of Saint George before she spoke again. “When I lay awake last night waiting for you to ravish me, I passed the time trying to fathom out what secret the icon held.”

“I thought you were asleep,” said Adam, smiling. “when all along, we were both doing the same thing. Anyway, did you come up with any worthwhile conclusions?”

“First, I decided your taste was for male double bass players,” said Robin, “or how else could you have resisted me?”

“But what about Saint George and the dragon?” asked Adam, grinning.

“To begin with I wondered if the little pieces of mosaic made up a code. But the picture is so magnificently executed that the code would have to have been worked out afterward. And that didn’t seem credible.”

“Good thinking, Batman.”

“No, you’re Batman. So I wondered if there was another painting underneath. I remembered from my schooldays that Rembrandt and Constable often painted on the top of their paintings, either because they didn’t care for their original effort or because, in the case of Rembrandt, he couldn’t afford another canvas.”

“If that were the answer, only an expert could have carried out the task of removing every piece of paint.”

“Agreed,” said Robin. “So I dismissed that as well. My third idea was that the crown on the back”—she turned the icon over and stared at the little piece of silver embedded in the wood—”indicates, as your expert suggested, that this is the original by Rublev and not a copy as you have been led to believe.”

“I had already considered that,” said Adam, “during my sleepless night, and although it would place a far higher value on the work, it is still not enough to explain why Rosenbaum would kill indiscriminately for it.”

“Perhaps someone else needs Saint George every bit as much as Rosenbaum does,” said Robin.

“But who and why?”

“Because it’s not the icon they’re after, but something else. Something hidden in or behind the painting.”

“That was the first thing I checked,” said Adam smugly. “And I’m convinced that it’s a solid piece of wood.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Robin as she began tapping the wood all over like a doctor examining someone’s chest. “I’ve worked with instruments all my life, watched them being made, played with them, even slept with them, and this icon is not solid right through, though God knows how I can prove it. If something is hidden inside, it was never intended to be discovered by laymen like ourselves.”

“Quite an imaginative little thing, aren’t you?” said Adam.

“Comes naturally,” she said as she reluctantly handed the icon back to Adam. “Do let me know if you ever discover what is inside,” she added.

“When I get five minutes to myself I might even spend some time on one or two of my own theories,” said Adam, returning the icon to his trench coat pocket.

“Two more kilometers to Solothurn,” said Robin, pointing out of the window at a signpost.

Adam buttoned up his coat. “Ill see you off,” she said, and they both made their way up the aisle. When Adam reached the front of the coach he asked the driver if he could drop him off just before they reached the next village.

“Sure thing,” said the driver without looking back.