A Matter of Honor

Neither adviser felt able to contradict their elected leader.

“So what are the British doing about all this?”

“Playing it close to the vest, as usual, Mr. President. It’s an English national who is thought to be in possession of the treaty at the moment, and they still seem quietly confident that they will get their hands on him and the icon before the Russians, so they may yet turn out to be our saviors.”

“Nice to have the British coming to our rescue for a change,” said the President. “But have we meanwhile been sitting on our backsides while the British try to solve our problems for us?”

“No, sir. The CIA has been on it for over a month.”

“Then it’s only surprising that the Russians haven’t got their hands on the icon already.”

Nobody laughed.

“So what am I expected to do next? Sit and wait for the Soviets to move seven hundred and twelve million dollars of gold from their New York bank to the U.S. Treasury before midnight on Monday?”

“They must also deliver their original copy of the agreement to me at the same time,” said Rusk. “And they have only sixty hours left to do that.”

“Where our copy at this moment?” asked the President.

“Somewhere deep in the vaults of the Pentagon. Only two people know the exact location. Since the Yalta conference, our copy of the treaty has never seen the light of day.”

“Why have I never been told about it before today?” asked the President. “At least I could have put a stop to so much expenditure.”

“For over fifty years, we’ve believed the Russians’ copy was destroyed at the time of the Revolution. As the years passed it became clear that the Soviets accepted this as a fait accompli, with the final acknowledgment of this fact coming from Stalin at Yalta. Brezhnev must have come across something within the last month that convinced him their copy had only been mislaid.”

“Christ, another month, and we would have been clear.”

“That is correct, sir,” said the Secretary of State.

“Do you realize, Dean, that if the Russians turn up at your office before midnight on the twentieth with their copy, it would make all of Kennedy’s efforts over Cuba look like so much piss in a thunderstorm?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WHEN THE COTTAGE door closed behind Adam, all he could make out was the outskirts of a small town. While it was still so early he felt safe to jog toward centre ville, but as soon as the early morning workers began to appear on the streets, he slowed to a walk. Adam opted not to go straight into the center of the town but to look for somewhere to hide while he considered his next move. He came to a halt outside a multistory parking lot and decided he was unlikely to find a better place to formulate a plan.

Adam walked through an exit door at ground level and came to a lift that indicated that the parking lot was on four floors. He ran down the steps to the lowest level, tentatively pulled back the door to the basement and found it was badly lit and almost empty. Adam had chosen the basement as he assumed that it would be the last floor to fill up with customers. He walked around the perimeter of the floor and studied the layout. Two cars were parked in the far corner, and a thick layer of dust suggested that they had been there for some time. He crouched down behind one of them and found that he was safely out of sight to all but the most inquisitive.

He began to fantasize that someone might park a car on that floor and leave the keys in the ignition. He checked the doors of the two cars already parked, but both were securely locked. He settled back to work out a more serious plan of how he could reach the coast by nightfall.

He was deep in thought when he heard a scraping noise that made him jump. He peered round the gloomy basement, and out of the darkness a man appeared, pulling behind him a plastic dustbin half full of rubbish. Adam could barely see the old man dressed in a dirty brown coat that stretched nearly to the ground and left little doubt about the height of the previous employee. He wasn’t sure what he would do if the man continued to walk toward him. But as he came nearer Adam could see that he was stooped and old; the stub of a cigarette protruded from his lips. The cleaner stopped in front of him, spotted a cigarette pack, picked it up, and checked to be sure it was empty before dropping it in the dustbin. After that, a candy wrapper, a Pepsi-Cola can, and an old copy of Le Figaro all found their way into the dustbin. His eyes searched slowly round the room for more rubbish, but still he didn’t notice Adam tucked away behind the farthest car. Satisfied that his task was completed, he dragged the dustbin across the floor and pushed it outside the door. Adam began to relax again, but after about two minutes, the old man returned, walked over to a wall and pulled open a door that Adam hadn’t previously noticed. He took off the long brown coat and replaced it with a gray one that didn’t look in a much better state but at least it made a more convincing fit. He then disappeared through the exit. Moments later Adam heard a door close with a bang.

The cleaner had ended his day.

Adam waited for some time before he stood up and stretched. He crept around the edge of the wall until he reached the little door. He pulled it open quietly and removed the long brown coat from its nail, then headed back to his place in the corner. He ducked down as the first of the morning cars arrived. The driver swung into the far corner in such a fluent circle that Adam felt sure it must have been a daily routine. A short dapper man with a pencil mustache, dressed in a smart pin-stripe suit, jumped out of the car carrying a briefcase. Once he had locked the car door he proceeded with fast mincing strides toward the exit. Adam waited until the heavy door swung back into place before he stood up and tried on the brown coat over his blazer. It was tight on the shoulders and a little short in the arm, but at least it made him look as if he might have worked there.

For the next hour he watched the cars as they continued to arrive at irregular intervals. Tiresomely, all the owners carefully locked their doors and checked them before disappearing through the exit with their keys.

When he heard ten o’clock strike in the distance Adam decided that there was nothing to be gained by hanging around any longer. He had crept out from behind the car that was shielding him and begun to make his way across the floor toward the exit when a Rover with English registration plates swung round the corner and nearly blinded him. He jumped to one side to let the car pass, but it screeched to a halt beside him and the driver wound down his window.

“All—right—park—here?” the driver asked, emphasizing each word in an English accent.

“Oui, monsieur,” said Adam.

“Other—floors—marked—privé.” the man continued, as if addressing a complete moron. “Anywhere?” His arm swept round the floor.

“Oui,” repeated Adam, “bert ay merst paak you,” he added, fearing he sounded too much like Peter Sellers.

Balls, was what Adam expected to hear him reply. “Fine,” was what the man actually said. He got out of the car, and handed Adam his keys and a ten-franc note.