A Matter of Honor

“Not clever, sir, I’m afraid,” began Lawrence. “Two of our most experienced agents were selected to pick up Scott at the Richmond Hotel as planned and then take him to the safety of the British consulate.”

“So what happened?” asked Sir Morris.

“No one at our Geneva office can be certain. Our men certainly never turned up at the hotel, and they haven’t been seen since.”

“What are the Swiss police saying?” asked Busch.

“They are not being very helpful,” said Lawrence, turning to the American. “They are aware that we are not the only foreign power involved, and as is their custom in such circumstances, they have no intention of being seen to favor either side.”

“Bloody Swiss,” said Snell with feeling.

“And where do we imagine Scott is now?” asked Matthews.

“We’ve also drawn a blank on that,” said Lawrence. Matthews smiled at Lawrence’s embarrassment. “We feel certain he must have boarded the coach with the girl”—he looked down at the sheet of paper on the table in front of him—“Robin Beresford. But he wasn’t on it when we were waiting for them at the border. The orchestra is due at their Frankfurt hotel in about one hour, so we will be able to find out more then. The German police are being far more cooperative,” Lawrence added.

“Meanwhile what else are we doing?” asked Sir Morris.

“Checking all the usual places as well as keeping a close eye on Romanov, who, incidentally, turned up on the French border last night. One of our old hands recognized him despite the fact that he’s cut his hair very short, doesn’t suit him, evidently.”

“So Scott could be anywhere by now?” said Matthews. “Do you think he’s still in Switzerland or managed to cross one of the borders?”

Lawrence hesitated. “I have no idea,” he said without expression.

Sir Morris stared at him from the far end of the table but didn’t comment.

“Do you think he’ll contact you again?” asked Snell.

“Almost certainly, if he’s still alive.”

“If Romanov is still in Geneva, Scott must be alive,” said Busch. “Because the moment he gets his hands on the icon he will head east.”

“Agreed,” said Lawrence, “and we have men stationed at the airport checking every flight out to the east. I therefore suggest we follow up any further leads and assemble again tomorrow at seven A.M. unless Scott contacts me before then.”

Sir Morris nodded and rose to leave. Everyone stood.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, and walked toward the far end of the room. As he passed Lawrence, he murmured, “Perhaps you could come to my office when you have a moment.”

Adam slipped and stumbled the last few yards down the ravine before finally landing with a bump on his backside. His hands were cut and bleeding in several places, his thousers torn and smeared with clay and earth. He sat still for about two minutes trying to get his breath back as he looked back up toward the road. He had taken just under an hour to cover what a stone could have managed in three seconds. Still, there had been one advantage: no one could have seen him from the road. He gazed across the valley ahead. Anyone would be able to see him now, but he had left himself with no alternative.

Judge by eye, check by map. The map wasn’t much help, but he estimated the distance to the far ridge to be about two more miles. At least the map had promised him there was a road, hidden from sight on the other side of the ridge. He studied the terrain—rolling green fields, no hedgerows to shield him, and then one wide, shallow river. He reckoned he could cover the ground to the road in about twenty minutes. He checked that the icon was securely in place and then set off at an even pace.

Romanov had hardly uttered a word since the three men had been unceremoniously removed from the coach, and Valchek and the driver certainly hadn’t ventured any opinions. Romanov knew the girl had called his bluff, and he couldn’t afford a further diplomatic incident which would undoubtedly be reported back to his chairman in Moscow. But Romano

v would never forget the girl with the man’s name.

Solothurn was about forty kilometers back in the direction they had already traveled, and the driver could have completed the journey in about twenty minutes had Romanov not insisted on slowing down as they passed every vehicle that traveled toward them. They checked the occupants of each vehicle on the other side of the road, just in case Scott had managed to thumb a lift. It was a necessary precaution in Romanov’s judgment, but it meant a total time of thirty-one minutes before they arrived back in Solothum. At least Romanov felt confident Scott wasn’t heading for the German border—unless he had been very well disguised or traveled in the trunk of a car.

As soon as they reached Solothurn Romanov instructed the driver to leave the car in the middle of the village while they split up to see if they could discover any clues as to the route Scott might have taken. None of the locals whom they questioned had seen anyone resembling Scott that morning, and Romanov was beginning to wonder which border he should now head for when he turned around and saw the driver kicking a soccer ball back to a little boy. Romanov ran down the hill and was about to remonstrate with him when the boy turned and kicked the ball hard at the Russian. Romanov trapped the ball automatically and kicked it firmly past the boy and into the goal. Romanov turned toward the driver and would not have looked back if the ball had not reappeared at his feet. He picked it up in anger and was just about to throw it back at him when he saw the boy’s hopeful smile. Romanov held the ball high above his head. The boy ran up and jumped toward the ball, but however hard he tried, he couldn’t reach it.

“Have you seen any strangers this morning?” he asked in slow, deliberate French.

“Yes, yes,” said the boy. “But he didn’t score a goal.”

“Where did he go?” asked Romanov.

“Up the hill,” said the boy. To the child’s dismay, Romanov dropped the ball and began to run. Valchek and the driver followed after him.

“Non, non,” cried the little boy, who followed after them. Romanov looked back to see the boy was standing on the spot where Adam had been thumbing lifts, pointing out over the ravine.