“Enlevez-le, enlevez-le,” the woman repeated, pointing at him, and handed him the towel.
Adam removed his shoes and socks, but the farmer’s wife went on pointing until he took off his trousers, but she didn’t budge before he had finally removed his shirt and underclothes and wrapped the towel around his waist. She stared at the large bandage on his shoulder but then quickly picked up everything except his blazer and took them over to the sink while he stood by the fire and dried himself.
Adam hitched up the towel around his waist, as the farmer beckoned him to join him at the table, pouring a large glass of milk for his guest and another for himself. Adam sat down next to the farmer, hanging his fashionable new blazer over the back of the chair near the fire. A delicious aroma arose from the pan where the farmer’s wife was frying a thick slice of bacon, which she had cut from the joint hanging in the smo
ky recess of the chimney.
The farmer raised his glass of milk high in the air. “Winston Churchill,” he toasted. Adam took a long gulp from his own glass and then raised it dramatically.
“Charles de Gaulle,” he said, and finished off the warm milk as if it had been his first pint at the local pub.
The farmer picked up the jug once more and refilled their glasses. “Merci,” said Adam, turning to the farmer’s wife as she placed in front of him a large plate sizzling with eggs and bacon. She nodded and handed Adam a knife and fork before saying, “Mangez.”
“Merci, merci,” Adam repeated, as she cut him a thick oval slice from the huge loaf in front of him.
Adam began to devour the freshly cooked food, which was the first meal he’d managed since the dinner he’d ordered at Robin’s expense.
Without warning the farmer suddenly rose from his place and thrust out his hand. Adam also got up and shook it gratefully, only to be reminded how sore his shoulder still was.
“Je droix travailler à la laiterie,” he explained.
Adam nodded and remained standing as his host left the room, but the farmer waved him down with a further “Mangez.”
When Adam had finished the last scrap of food—he did everything except lick the plate—he took it over to the farmer’s wife, who was busy removing a pot from the stove in order to pour him a large, steaming cup of hot coffee. He sat back down and began to sip at it.
Adam tapped his jacket pocket almost automatically to make sure the icon was still safely in place. He pulled it out and studied Saint George and the Dragon. He turned it over, hesitated, and then pressed the silver crown hard. The icon split in half like a book, revealing two tiny hinges on the inside.
He glanced up at the farmer’s wife, who was now wringing out his socks. Adam noticed his pants had already joined the trousers on the rack above the fire. She removed an ironing board from a little alcove by the side of the stove and began to set it up, showing no interest in Adam’s discovery.
Once again he stared down at the inside of the open icon, which was now laid flat on the table in front of him. The true irony was that the woman pressing his trousers was able to understand every word on the parchment while at the same time unable to explain its full significance to him. The complete surface of the inside of the icon was covered by a parchment, which was glued to the wood and fell only a centimeter short of the four edges. Adam swiveled it round so that he could study it more clearly. The scrawled signatures in black ink at the bottom and the seals gave it the look of a legal document. On each reading he learned something new. Adam had been surprised originally to discover it was written in French until he came to the date on the bottom—20 June 1867—and then he remembered from his military history lectures at Sandhurst that long after Napoleonic times most international agreements remained conducted in French. Adam began to reread the script again slowly.
His French was not good enough to translate more than a few odd words from the finely handwritten scroll. Under Etats-Unis William Seward’s bold hand was scrawled across a crest of a two-headed eagle. Next to it was the signature of Alexsander Gorchakov below a crown that mirrored the silver ornament embedded in the back of the icon. Adam double-checked. It had to be some form of agreement executed between the Russians and the Americans in 1867.
He then searched for other words that would help to explain the significance of the document. On one line he identified the words “sept million, deux cent mille dollars en or (7,2 million)” and on another “sept cent douze million, huit cent mille dollars en or (712,8 million), le 20 juin 1966.”
His eyes rested on a calendar hanging by a nail from the wall. It was Saturday, June 18, 1966. If the date in the agreement was to be believed, then in only three days the document would no longer have any legal validity. No wonder the two most powerful nations on earth seemed desperate to get their hands on it, thought Adam.
Adam read through the document line by line, searching for any further clues, pondering over each word slowly.
His eyes came to a halt on the one word that would remain the same in both languages and required no translation.
The one word he had not told Lawrence.
Adam wondered how the icon had ever fallen into the hands of Goering in the first place. He must have bequeathed it to his father unknowingly—for had he realized the true importance of what was hidden inside the icon, he would surely have been able to bargain for his own freedom with either side.
“Voilà, voilà,” said the farmer’s wife, waving her hands as she placed warm socks, pants, and trousers in front of Adam. How long had he spent engrossed in his fateful discovery? She looked across at the upside-down parchment and smiled. Adam quickly snapped the icon closed and then studied the masterpiece carefully. So skillfully had the wood been cut that he could no longer see the join. He thought of the words of the letter left to him in his father’s will: “But if you open it only to discover its purpose is to involve you in some dishonorable enterprise, be rid of it without a second thought.” He did not need to give a second thought to how his father would have reacted in the same circumstances. The farmer’s wife was now standing hands on hips, staring at him with a puzzled look.
Adam quickly replaced the icon in his jacket pocket and pulled his trousers back on.
He could think of no adequate way of thanking her for her hospitality, her lack of suspicion or inquisitiveness, so he simply walked over to her, took her gently by the shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed and handed him a small plastic bag. He looked inside to find three apples, some bread, and a large piece of cheese. She removed a crumb from his lip with the edge of her apron and led him to the open door.
Adam smiled at her and then walked outside into his other world.
PART III
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.