A Matter of Honor

Once the police had snapped the handcuffs on Adam and marched him off to a waiting car, he was surprised how relaxed, almost friendly, they became. He was yanked into the back of the car by the policeman to whom he was attached. He noticed that there was a police car in front of him and yet another behind. Two motorcycle outriders led the little motorcade away. Adam felt more like visiting royalty than a criminal who was wanted for questioning for two murders, two car thefts, and traveling under false identification. Was it possible at last that someone had worked out he was innocent?

When Adam arrived at the Ministry of the Interior, he was immediately ordered to empty all his pockets. One wristwatch, one apple, twenty pounds in travelers’ checks, eight francs, and one British passport in the name of Dudley Hulme. The station inspector asked him politely to strip to his underclothes. It was the second time that day. Once Adam had done so, the inspector carefully checked every pocket of the blazer, even the lining. His expression left Adam in no doubt he hadn’t found what he was looking for.

“Do you have anything else in your possession?” the officer asked in slow, precise English.

Damn silly question, thought Adam. You can see for yourself. “No,” was all he replied. The inspector checked the blazer once again but came across nothing new. “You must get dressed,” he said abruptly.

Adam put back on his shirt, jacket, and trousers, but the inspector kept his tie and shoelaces.

“All your things will be returned to you when you leave,” the inspector explained. Adam nodded as he slipped on his shoes, which flapped uncomfortably when he walked. He was then accompanied to a small cell on the same floor, locked in, and left alone. He looked around the sparsely furnished room. A small wooden table was placed in its center, with two wooden chairs on either side. His eyes checked over a single bed in the corner, which had on it an ancient horsehair mattress. He could not have described the room properly as a cell because there were no bars, even across the one small window. He took off his jacket, hung it over the chair, and lay down on the bed. At least it was an improvement over anything he had slept on for the past two nights, he reflected. Could it have only been two nights since he had slept on the floor of Robin’s hotel room in Geneva?

As the minutes ticked by, he made only one decision. That when the inspector re

turned, he would demand to see a lawyer. “What the hell’s the French for lawyer?” he asked out loud.

When an officer eventually appeared, in what Adam estimated must have been about half an hour, he was carrying a tray laden with hot soup, a roll, and what looked to Adam like a steak with all the trimmings and a plastic cup filled to the brim with red wine. He wondered if they had got the wrong man, or if this was simply his last meal before the guillotine. He followed the officer to the door.

“I demand to speak to a lawyer,” he said emphatically, but the policeman only shrugged.

“Je ne comprends pas l’anglais,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.

Adam settled down to eat the meal that had been set before him, thankful that the French assumed good food should be served whatever the circumstances.

Sir Morris told them his news an hour later and then studied each of them round that table carefully. He would never have called the D4 if he hadn’t felt sure that Adam was at last secure. Matthews continued to show no emotion. Busch was unusually silent while Snell looked almost relaxed for a change. Lawrence was the only one who seemed genuinely pleased.

“Scott is locked up in the Ministry of the Interior off the Place Beauvais,” continued Sir Morris, “and I have already contacted our military attaché at the. embassy … .”

“Colonel Pollard,” interrupted Lawrence.

“Colonel Pollard indeed,” said Sir Morris, “who has been sent over in the ambassador’s car and will bring Scott back to be debriefed at our embassy in Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Sureté rang a few moments ago to confirm that Colonel Pollard had arrived.” Sir Morris turned toward his number two. “You will fly over to Paris tonight and conduct the debriefing yourself.”

“Yes sir,” said Lawrence, looking up at his boss, a smile appearing on his face.

Sir Morris nodded. A cool lot, he considered, as he stared round that table, but the next half hour would surely find out which one of them it was who served two masters.

“Good,” said Lawrence. “Any queries?”

“May we know the full details?” asked Matthews.

Lawrence looked toward his chief who nodded his approval.

After Lawrence had gone over his proposed plan and answered any queries the meeting broke up.

Mentor smiled as Sir Morris left the room; his task had already been completed. So simple when you can read upside-down shorthand.

A black Jaguar bearing diplomatic plates had arrived at police headquarters a few minutes earlier than expected. The traffic had not been as heavy as the colonel had anticipated. The inspector was standing on the steps as Pollard jumped out of the car. The policeman looked at the flapping Union Jack on the hood, and considered the whole exercise was becoming rather melodramatic.

Pollard, a short, thickset man dressed in a dark suit, regimental tie, and carrying a rolled umbrella, looked like so many Englishmen who refuse to acknowledge they could possibly be abroad.

The inspector took Pollard directly through to the little room where Adam had been incarcerated.

“Pollard’s the name, Colonel Pollard. British military attaché stationed here in Paris. Sorry you’ve been put through this ordeal, old fellow, but a lot of paperwork had to be completed to get you out. Bloody red tape.”

“I understand,” said Adam, jumping off the bed and shaking the colonel by the hand. “I was in the army myself.”

“I know. Royal Wessex, wasn’t it?”

Adam nodded, feeling a little more confident.