A Matter of Honor

“We realize that now,” said Lawrence.

“We?” said Adam. “Who are we? Because I’m finding it rather hard to work out who’s on my side.”

“You don’t believe that …”

“When you get your girlfriend murdered, chased across Europe by professional killers, shot at and …”

“Shot at? said Lawrence.

“Yes, your friend Romanov took a shot at me today, hit me in the shoulder. Next time we meet I intend it to be the other way round, and it won’t be the shoulder.”

“There won’t be a next time,” said Lawrence, “because well get you out safely if you’ll only let me know where you are.”

The memory of Robin’s words, “Just be wary of how much you let him know,” stopped Adam from telling Lawrence his exact location.

“Adam, for God’s sake, you’re on your own. If you don’t trust me, who can you trust? I admit it looks as if we let you down. But it won’t happen again.”

There was another long silence before Adam said, “I’m in Dijon.”

“Why Dijon?”

“Because the only person who would give me a lift was going to a mustard conference in Dijon.”

Lawrence couldn’t stop himself smiling. “Give me your number, and I’ll phone you back within an hour.”

“No,” said Adam, “I’ll phone you back in one hour.”

“Adam, you’ve got to show some trust in my”

“Not now that I know what it is you’re all after, I can’t afford to trust anybody.”

Adam replaced the phone and stared down at the icon, which lay open on the bed. It wasn’t the signature of Gorchakov or Seward that worried him. It was the date June 20, 1966—that read like a death warrant.

“Goodnight, sir,” said the doorkeeper as the senior civil servant left Century House that evening. “Another late night for you,” he added sympathetically. He acknowledged the doorman by raising his rolled umbrella a few inches. It bad been another late night, but at least they had caught up with Scott again. He was beginning to develop quite a respect for the man. But how they failed to pick him up in Geneva still required a fuller explanation than the one Lawrence Pemberton had supplied the D4 with that afternoon.

He set off at a brisk pace toward Old Kent Road, conspicuous in his black coat and pin-striped trousers. He tapped his umbrella nervously before hailing a passing taxi.

“Dillon’s bookshop, Malet Street,” he told the driver, before getting in the back. Already seven-thirty, but he still wouldn’t be too late, and a few minutes either way wasn’t going to make that much difference. Pemberton had agreed to remain at his desk until all the loose ends were tied up and he was sure that nothing could go wrong this time. He allowed himself a wry smile as he thought how they had all accepted his plan. It had the double advantage of ensuring enough time for them to get their best men into position, while keeping Scott well out of sight in a deserted hideaway. He hoped that this was the last time they would expect him to come up with an original proposal.

“Eight shillings, guv’nor,” said the taxi driver, as he drew up outside Dillon’s. He handed over the money and added a sixpenny tip. He stood staring at the window of the university bookshop, watching the reflection of the taxi as it moved off. The moment the taxi had turned the corner onto Gower Street he began walking away. In moments he had reached a side road, onto which he turned. Ridgmount Gardens was one of those streets that even London cabbies had to think about for a few moments. He had walked only a matter of yards before he disappeared down some stone steps to a basement flat. He inserted a Yale key in the front door lock, turned it quickly, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

During the next twenty minutes he made two telephone calls, one international, one local, and then had a bath. He emerged back on Ridgmount Gardens less than one hour later dressed in a casual brown suit, pink floral open shirt, and brown brogue shoes. The parting in his hair had changed sides. He returned to Dillon’s on foot and hailed another taxi.

“The British Museum,” he instructed the driver, as he stepped into the back. He checked his watch: nearly ten past eight. Scott would be fully briefed by now, he thought, although his associates would be already on the way back to Dijon, as his plan had allowed for a two-hour delay.

The taxi drew up outside the British Museum. He paid and walked up the twelve steps in front of the museum, admiring the Byzantine architecture as he regularly did each week, before walking back down again to hail another taxi.

“Middlesex Hospital, please,” was all he said. The taxi executed a U-turn and headed west.

Poor bastard. If Scott hadn’t opened that envelope in the first place, the icon would have ended up with its rightful owner.

“Shall I drive up to the entrance?” asked the cabbie.

“Yes, please.”

A moment later he strolled into the hospital, checked the board on the wall as if he were looking for a certain ward, then walked back out on to the street. From Middlesex Hospital it always took him about three minutes at a steady pace to reach Charlotte Street, where he stopped outside a house and pressed a buzzer attached to a little intercom.

“Are you a member?” inquired a voice suspiciously.