A Matter of Honor

“Get going,” said Adam.

“What?” said the pilot.

“Get going.”

The pilot moved the joystick forward, and the plane started moving slowly down the crumbling runway.

Suddenly a dark figure was running toward them, firing long bursts straight at them. The pilot looked back to see a tall man whose fair hair shone in the moonlight.

“Faster, man, faster,” said Adam.

“The throttle’s full out,” said the pilot, as the firing began again, but this time the bullets were ripping into the fuselage. A third burst came, but by then the plane was going faster than the man, and Adam let out a scream of delight when it left the ground.

He looked back to see that Romanov had turned around and was now firing at someone who was not wearing an SAS uniform.

“They couldn’t hope to hit us now unless they’ve got a bazooka,” said Flight Lieutenant Banks.

“Well done, well done,” said Adam, turning back to the pilot.

“And to think my wife had wanted me to go to the cinema tonight,” said the pilot, laughing.

“And what had you planned to see?” asked Adam.

“My Fair Lady.”

“Isn’t it time for us to be going home?” asked Piers removing his hand from the member’s leg.

“Good idea,” he said. “Just let me settle the bill.”

“And I’ll pick up my coat and scarf,” said Piers. “Join you upstairs in a few moments?”

“Fine,” he said. Catching the eye of the proprietor the member scribbled his signature in the air. When the “account” arrived—a bare figure written out on a slip of paper without explanation—it was, as always, extortionate. As always, the member paid without comment. He thanked the proprietor as he left and walked up the dusty, creaky stairs to find his companion already waiting for him on the pavement. He hailed a taxi, and while Piers climbed in the back he directed the cabbie to Dillon’s bookshop.

“Not in the cab,” he said, as Piers’s hand began to creep up his leg.

“I can’t wait,” said Piers. “It’s way past my bedtime.”

“Way past my bedtime,” his companion repeated involuntarily and checked his watch. The die must have been cast. They would have moved in by now: surely they had caught Scott this time? And more important, the …

“Four bob,” said the cabbie, flicking back the glass. He handed over five shillings and didn’t wait for any change.

“Just around the corner,” he said, guiding Piers past the bookshop and into the little side street. They crept down the stone steps, and Piers waited as he unlocked the door, switched on the lights and led the young man in.

“Oh, very cozy,” said Piers. “Very cozy indeed.”

Flight Lieutenant Alan Banks stared out of his tiny window as the plane climbed steadily.

“Where to now?” said Adam, relief flooding through his body.

“I had hoped England, but I’m afraid the answer is as far I can manage.”

“What do you mean?” said Adam anxiously.

“Look at the fuel gauge,” said Alan Banks, putting his forefinger on a little white indicator that was pointing halfway between a quarter full and empty. “We had enough to get us back to Northolt in Middlesex until those bullets ripped into my fuel tank.”

The little white stick kept moving toward the red patch even as Adam watched it, and within moments the propellers on the left side of the aircraft spun to a halt.

“I am going to have to put her down in a field nearby. I can’t risk going on, as there are no other airports anywhere near us. Just be thankful it’s a clear moonlit night.”