“This single sheet of paper reveals a sentence carried out in Moscow in 1946 by Judge I. T. Nikitchenko—the death sentence,” continued Romanov, “pronounced on a certain Major Vladimir Kosky, the Russian guard in charge of the Soviet watch the night Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering died.” He turned the paper around so Adam could see “As you can see, Major Kosky was found guilty of collaboration with the enemy for financial gain. It was proved he was directly responsible for smuggling cyanide into the Reichsmarschall’s cell on the night he died.” Adam’s eyes widened. “Ah, I see I have dealt the ace of spades,” said Romanov. “Now I think you will finally tell me where the icon actually is because you have an expression in England, if I recall correctly: fair exchange is no robbery. Your icon for my icon, plus the legal judgment that will finally vindicate your father’s honor.”
Adam closed his eyes, painfully aware for the first time that Romanov had no idea what was inside the icon.
Romanov was unable to hide his anger. He walked to the door and flung it open. “He’s yours,” he said.
Dr. Stravinsky reentered the room and, smiling, continued as if nothing had interrupted him. “Professor Metz was never really satisfied with Stage Two because he found the recovery time even for an extremely brave and fit man like yourself could sometimes hold him up for hours, even days. So during his final years at the university he devoted his time to finding how he could possibly speed the whole process up. As for all geniuses, the final solution was staggering in its simplicity. All he had to produce was a chemical formula that when injected into the nervous system caused an immediate recovery—a rapid analgesic. It took him twelve years and several deaths before he came up with the final solution,” said Stravinsky, removing another vial from the cigar box and plunging the needle of a second syringe into the seal on the top of the vial.
“This,” Stravinsky said, holding up the little vial in triumph, “when injected into your bloodstream, will aid recovery so quickly that you may even wonder if you ever went through any pain in the first place. For this piece of genius Metz should have been awarded the Nobel Prize, but it was not something we felt he could share with the rest of the scientific world. But because of him I can repeat the process you have just experienced again and again, never permitting you to die. You see, I can keep this generator pumping up and down every thirty minutes for the next week if that is your desire,” said Stravinsky, as he stared down at Adam’s white disbelieving face flecked with yellow specks of his vomit.
“Or I can stop immediately after I have administered the antidote the moment you let me know where the Czar’s icon is.”
Stravinsky stood in front of Adam and half filled the syringe. Adam felt intensely cold, yet the shock of his torture had caused him to sweat profusely. “Sit still, Captain Scott, I have no desire to do you any permanent injury.” Adam felt the needle go deep in, and moments later the fluid entered his bloodstream.
He could not believe how quickly he felt himself recovering; in minutes he no longer felt sick or disoriented. The sensation in his arms and legs returned to normal while the wish never to experience Stage Two again became acute.
“Brilliant man, Professor Metz, on that I’m sure we can both agree,” said Stravinsky, “and if he were still alive I feel certain he would have written a paper on your case.” Slowly and carefully Stravinsky began to smear more lumps of jelly on Adam’s chest. When he was satisfied with his handiwork he once again attached the electrodes to the jelly.
“Coriolanus, Timon of Athens, Pericles.” Stravinsky thrust his palm down, and Adam hoped that he would die. He found a new level to scream at, as his body shook and shook. Seconds later he felt ice cold and, shivering uncontrollably, he started to retch.
Stravinsky was quickly by his side to release him. Adam fell to the ground and coughed up what was left in his body. When he was only spitting, Pollard placed him back in the chair.
“You must understand I can’t let you die, Captain. Now where is the icon?” Stravinsky shouted.
In the Louvre, Adam wanted to holler, but his words barely came out as a whisper, the inside of his mouth feeling like sandpaper. Stravinsky proceeded to fill the second syringe again and injected Adam with the fluid. Once again it was only moments before the agony subsided and he felt completely recovered.
“Ten seconds, we go again. Nine, eight, seven …”
“Cymbeline.”
“ … six, five, four …”
“The Winter’s Tale.”
“ … three, two, one.”
“The Tempest. Aahhh,” he screamed and immediately fainted. The next thing Adam remembered was the cold water being poured over him by the colonel before he began to retch again. Once tied back in the chair Stravinsky thrust the syringe into him once more, but Adam couldn’t believe he would ever recover again. He must surely die, because he wanted to die. He felt the syringe jab into his flesh again.
Romanov stepped forward and looking straight at Adam said,”I feel Dr. Stravinsky and I have earned a little supper. We did consider inviting you but felt your stomach wouldn’t be up to it, but when we return fully refreshed Dr. Stravinsky will repeat the entire exercise again and again until you let me know where you have hidden the icon.”
Romanov and Stravinsky left as Colonel Pollard came back in. Romanov and the colonel exchanged a few sentences, which Adam could not make out. Then Romanov left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Pollard came over to Adam and offered him the water bottle. Adam gulped it down and was genuinely surprised how quickly he was recovering. Yet although his senses were returning to normal, Adam still doubted he could survive one more time.
“I’m going to throw up again,” said Adam and suddenly thrust his head forward. Pollard quickly undid the knots and watched Adam slump to his hands and knees. He threw up some spit and rested before the colonel helped him gently back into the chair. As he sat down Adam gripped both sides of the chair legs firmly; then, with all the strength he could muster jackknifed forward, swung the chair over his head, and brought it crashing down on top of the unsuspecting colonel. Pollard collapsed in a heap, unconscious, on the floor in front of Adam and never heard him utter the words, “Henry VIII, and Two Noble Kinsmen—I’ll bet that’s one you’ve never heard of, Colonel. Mind you, to be fair, not everyone thinks Shakespeare wrote it.”
Adam remained on his hands and knees over the colonel’s body, wondering what his next move should be. He was grateful that the soundproofed room was now working in his favor. He waited for a few more seconds as he tried to measure what was left of his strength. He picked up the water bottle that had been knocked over and drained it of its last drops. He then crawled across to the bed and pulled on his underwear and socks, his not-so-white shirt, followed by the trousers and shoes. He was about to put on the blazer but found the lining had been ripped to shreds. He changed his mind and stumbled like an old man back toward the colonel, removed his Harris tweed coat and slipped it on. It was large round the shoulders but short at the hips.
Adam made his way to the door, feeling almost exhilarated. He turned the handle and pulled. The door came open an inch—nothing happened—two inches—still nothing. He stared through the crack, but all he could see was a dark corridor. As he pulled the door wide open, the hinges sounded to Adam like racing tires screeching. Once he was certain that no one was going to return, he ventured into the corridor.
Standing against the wall, he stared up and down the thin windowless passage, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He could make out a light shining through a pebbled pane in a door at the far end of the corridor and began to take short steps toward it. He continued on, as if he were a blind man, creeping slowly forward until he saw another beam of light coming from under a door to his right about ten yards away from the one he needed to reach. He edged cautiously on and was only a pace away from the first door when it opened abruptly, and out stepped a small man in a white tunic and blue kitchen overalls. Adam froze against the wall as the kitchen hand removed a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from his pocket and headed away in the opposite direction. When the man reached the glazed door he opened it and walked out. Adam watched the silhouette outlined against the pebbled window, a match being struck, a cigarette being lit, the first puff of smoke; he even heard a sigh.
Adam crept past what he now assumed was a kitchen and on toward the outer door. He turned the knob slowly, waiting for the silhouette to move. The outer door also possessed hinges that no one had bothered to oil for months. The smoker turned round and smiled as Adam’s left hand landed firmly in his stomach. As the smoker bent over, Adam’s right fist came up to the man’s chin with all the force he could muster. The smoker sank in a heap on the ground, and Adam stood over him, thankful that he didn’t move.
He dragged the limp body across the grass, dumped it behind a bush, and remained kneeling by it while he tried to work out his bearings. Adam could just make out a high wall ahead of him with a graveled courtyard in front of it. The wall threw out a long shadow from the moon across the tiny stones. About twenty yards … . Summoning up every ounce of energy, he ran to the wall and then clung to it like a limpet, remaining motionless in its shadow. Slowly and silently he moved round the wall, yard by yard, until he reached the front of what he now felt sure was the Russian embassy. The great green wooden gates at the front entrance were open, and every few seconds limousines swept past him. Adam looked back up toward the front door of the embassy, and at the top of the steps he saw a massive man, medals stretching across his formal dress jacket, shaking hands with each of his departing guests. Adam assumed he was the ambassador.
One or two of the guests were leaving on foot. There were two armed gendarmes at the gate who stood rigidly to attention and saluted as each car or guest passed by.
Adam waited until a vast BMW, the West German flag fluttering on its hood, slowed as it passed through the gates. Using the car to shield him, Adam walked out into the center of the drive, then, following closely behind, walked straight between the guards toward the road.