“Merci,” said Adam, pocketing the note and touching his forehead with his hand. “Quelle—heure—vous—retournez?” he asked, playing the man at his own game.
“One hour at most,?
? said the man as he reached the door. Adam waited by the car for a few minutes, but the man did not come back. He opened the passenger door and dropped the food bag on the front seat. He then walked round to the other side and climbed in the driver’s seat, switched on the ignition, and checked the fuel gauge: a little over half full. He revved the engine and drove the car up the ramp until he reached street level, where he came to a halt, unable to escape. He needed a two-franc piece to make the arm swing up and let him out. The lady in the car behind him reluctantly changed his ten-franc note once she realized there was no other way of getting out.
Adam drove quickly out on to the road looking for the sign Toutes Directions. Once he had found one, it was only minutes before he was clear of the town and traveling up the N6 to Paris.
Adam estimated that he had two hours at best. By then the police would surely have been informed of the theft of the car. He felt confident he had enough petrol to reach Paris; but he certainly couldn’t hope to make Calais.
He remained in the center lane of the N6 for most of the journey, always keeping the speedometer five kilometers below the limit. By the end of the first hour Adam had covered nearly ninety kilometers. He opened the bag the farmer’s wife had given him and took out an apple and a piece of cheese. His mind began to drift to Heidi, as it had so often in the past two days.
If only he had never opened the letter.
Another hour passed before he spotted him limping up a hill only a few hundred yards from the main road. A broad smile came over Romanov’s face when he realized he could get to Scott long before Scott could hope to reach the road. When Romanov was within a few yards of him the flight lieutenant turned round and smiled at the stranger.
When Romanov left Banks thirty minutes later hidden behind a tree with a broken neck he reluctantly admitted that the young pilot officer had been as brave as Valchek—but he couldn’t waste any more time trying to discover in which direction Scott was heading.
Romanov headed west.
The moment Adam heard the siren he came out of his reverie. He checked the little clock on the dashboard. He had only been driving for about an hour and a half. Could the French police be that efficient? The police car was now approaching him fast on his left, but Adam maintained the same speed—except for his heartbeat, which climbed well above the approved limit—until the police car shot past him.
As the kilometers sped by, he began to wonder if it might be wiser to turn off onto a quieter road, but decided, on balance, to risk pushing on to Paris as quickly as possible.
He remained alert for further sirens as he continued to follow the signs to Paris. When he finally reached the outskirts of the city, he proceeded to the boulevard de l’Hôpital and even felt relaxed enough to bite into another apple. In normal circumstances he would have appreciated the magnificent architecture along the banks of the Seine, but today his eyes kept returning to the rearview mirror.
Adam decided he would abandon the vehicle in a large public parking lot; with any luck it could be days before anyone came across it.
He turned down the rue de Rivoli and took in at once the long colorful banners looming up in front of him. He could hardly have picked a better place, as he felt sure it would be packed with foreign cars.
Adam backed the Rover in the farthest corner of the square. He then wolfed down the last piece of cheese and locked the car. He started walking toward the exit but had only gone a few yards when he realized that the strolling holidaymakers were amused by his ill-fitting brown jacket, which he had completely forgotten. He decided to turn back and throw the coat in the trunk. He quickly took it off and folded it in a small square.
He was only a few yards away from the car when he saw the young policeman. He was checking the Rover’s license plate and repeating the letters and numbers into an intercom. Adam inched slowly back, never taking his eyes from the officer. He only needed to manage another six or seven paces before he would be lost in the throng of the crowd.
Five, four, three, two more paces backward, he estimated, as the man continued speaking into the intercom. Just one more pace … “Alors!” hollered the lady on whose foot Adam had stepped.
“I’m so sorry,” said Adam, instinctively in his native language. The policeman immediately looked up and stared at Adam, then shouted something into the intercom and began running toward him.
Adam dropped the brown coat and swung round quickly, nearly knocking the stooping lady over before sprinting off toward the exit. The lot was full of tourists who had come to enjoy the pleasures of the Louvre, and Adam found it hard to pick up any real speed through the dense crowd. By the time he reached the entrance to the car park, he could hear the policeman’s whistle a few paces behind him. He ran across the rue de Rivoli, through an archway and into a large square.
By then another policeman was coming from his right, leaving him with no choice but to run up the steps in front of him. When he reached the top he turned to see at least three other policemen in close pursuit. He threw himself through the swinging door and past a group of Japanese tourists who were surrounding the Rodin statue that stood in the hallway. He charged on past a startled ticket collector and on up the long marble staircase. “Monsieur, monsieur, votre billet?” he heard shouted in his wake.
At the top of the staircase he turned right and ran through the Special “66” Centuries Exhibition: modern—Pollock, Bacon, Hockney—into the impressionist room—Monet, Manet, Courbet—desperately looking for any way out. On into the eighteenth century—Fragonard, Goya, Watteau—but still no sign of an exit. Through the great arch into the seventeenth century—Murillo, Van Dyck, Poussin—as people stopped looking at the pictures and turned their attention to what was causing such a commotion. Adam ran on into the sixteenth century—Raphael, Caravaggio, Michelangelo—suddenly aware that there were only two centuries of paintings to go.
Right or left? He chose right and entered a huge square room. There were three exits. He slowed momentarily to decide which would be his best bet when he became aware that the room was full of Russian icons. He came to a halt at an empty display case: Nous regrettons que cetableau soit soumis à la restauration.
The first policeman had already entered the large room and was only a few paces behind as Adam dashed on toward the farthest exit. There were now only two exits left open for him from which to choose. He swung right, only to see another policeman bearing straight down on him. Left; two more. Ahead, yet another.
Adam came to a halt in the middle of the icon room at the Louvre, his hands raised above his head. He was surrounded by policemen, their guns drawn.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SIR MORRIS PICKED up the phone on his desk.
“An urgent call from Paris, sir,” said his secretary.
“Thank you, Tessa.” He listened carefully as his brain quickly translated the exciting news.
“Merci, merci,” said Sir Morris to his opposite number at the French Foreign Ministry. “We will be back in touch with you as soon as we have made all the necessary arrangements to collect him. But for now, please don’t let him out of your sight.” Sir Morris listened for a few moments. “And if he has any possessions on him, please keep them guarded under lock and key. Thank you once again,” he said before putting the phone down. His secretary took down every word of the conversation in shorthand as she had done for the past fourteen years.