A Matter of Honor

/> “No,” said Adam. “I have to return by another route. But, Robin, when I reach London can you put me up for the night?”

“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” she said, and then repeated her address to be sure he had time to write it down. “When shall I expect you?” she asked.

“Around midnight tonight.”

“Do you always give a girl so much notice?”

The young KGB officer standing in the adjoining booth had caught most of the conversation. He smiled when he recalled Major Romanov’s words: “The man who brings me the Czar’s icon need have no fear for his future in the KGB.”

Adam jumped back into the car and drove on until he reached the outskirts of Beauvais, where he decided to stop at a wayside routier for a quick lunch.

According to the timetable he had picked up from the Hertz counter, the ferry he wanted to catch was due to leave Boulogne at three o’clock, so he felt confident he would still make it with about an hour to spare.

He sat hidden in an alcove by the window enjoying what might have been described in any English pub as a plowman’s lunch. With each mouthful he became aware that the French plowmen demanded far higher standards of their innkeepers than any English farm worker was happy to settle for.

As he waited for his coffee, he took out Albert Tomkins’s papers from his inside pocket and began to scrutinize them carefully. He was interested to discover exactly how many weeks he had been claiming unemployment benefits.

Through the window of the inn he watched as the first of the cyclists pedaled by. In the athletes’ determination to remain among the leading group, their muscles strained. As they shot through Beauvais, Adam was amused by the fact that they were all breaking the speed limit. The sight of the competitors reminded Adam that he was expected to attend the final part of his medical for the Foreign Office tomorrow afternoon.

Romanov read the decoded message a second time. “Scott returning Geneva. Check German girl and bank.” He looked up at the KGB officer who had handed him the missive.

“Does Mentor think I’m that naive?” said Romanov to his Parisian colleague. “We already know from our agent in Amsterdam that he’s now on his way toward the French coast.”

“Then why should Mentor want to send you in the opposite direction?”

“Because it must be him who’s been briefing the Americans,” said Romanov coldly.

Romanov turned to the colonel who was standing by his side. “We know it can’t be Dunkerque, so how many other possibilities are we left with?”

“Cherbourg, Le Havre, Dieppe, Boulogne, or Calais,” replied the colonel, looking down at the map laid out on the table in front of him. “My bet would be Calais,” he added.

“Unfortunately,” said Romanov, “Captain Scott is not quite that simple. And as the motorway takes you direct to Calais, the captain will expect us to have that part of his route well covered. I think our friend will try Boulogne or Dieppe first.”

He checked the timetable the second secretary had supplied him with. “The first boat he could hope to catch leaves Boulogne for Dover at three, and then there’s one from Dieppe to Newhaven at five.”

Romanov also checked Calais and Le Havre. “Good. Calais left at twelve this morning, and as he phoned the girl after twelve he had no hope of catching that one. And Le Havre doesn’t leave until seven-fifteen tonight, and he won’t risk leaving it that late. Assuming we can beat him to the coast, Colonel, I think Captain Scott is once again within our grasp.”

Once Adam had left the relais routier it was only minutes before he began to catch up with the straggling cyclists as they pedaled on toward Abbeville. His thoughts reverted to Romanov. Adam suspected that his agents would have the airports, stations, autoroute, and ports well covered. But even the KGB could not be in fifty places at once.

Adam took the Boulogne route out of Abbeville but had to remain in third gear as he kept to the center of the road in order to avoid the bobbing cyclists. He even had to slam his brakes on once when an Italian and a British rider collided in front of him. The two men, both traveling at some speed, were thrown unceremoniously to the ground. The British rider remained ominously still on the side of the road.

Adam felt guilty about not stopping to help his fellow countryman but feared that any holdup might present him catching his boat. He spotted the British team van ahead of him and speeded up until he was alongside. Adam waved at the driver to pull over.

The man behind the steering wheel looked surprised but stopped and wound down the window. Adam pulled up in front of him, leaped out of his car, and ran to the van.

“One of your chaps has had an accident about a mile back,” shouted Adam, pointing toward Paris.

“Thanks, mate,” said the driver who turned round and sped quickly back down the road.

Adam continued to drive on at a sedate speed until he had passed all the leaders. Then, once again, he put the car into top gear. A signpost informed him that it was now only thirty-two kilometers to Boulogne: he would still make the three o’clock sailing comfortably. He began to imagine what it might be like if he could survive beyond tomorrow. Would his life ever be routine again? Jogs in the park, Foreign Office interviews, workouts with the PTI and even the acknowledgment of the part he had played in delivering the icon into safe hands. The problem was that he hadn’t yet decided who had safe hands.

A helicopter looking like a squat green bullfrog swept over him; now that would be the ideal way to get back to England, Adam thought. With help like that he could even make it to Harley Street in time for his medical for the Foreign Office.

He watched as the helicopter turned and swung back toward him. He assumed that there must be a military airport somewhere nearby, but couldn’t remember one from his days in the army. A few moments later he heard the whirl of the blades as the helicopter flew across his path at a considerably lower level. Adam gripped the wheel of the car until his knuckles went white as an impossible thought crossed his mind. As he did so the helicopter swung back again and this time flew straight toward him.

Adam wound the window up and, crouching over the top of the steering wheel, stared into the sky. He could see the silhouette of three figures sitting in the helicopter cockpit. He banged his fist on the steering wheel in anger as he realized how easy it must have been for them to trace a car signed for in the one name they would immediately recognize. He could sense Romanov’s smile of triumph as the chopper hovered over him.

Adam saw a signpost looming up ahead of him and swung off the main road toward a village called Fleureville. He pushed the speedometer well over ninety, causing the little car to skid along the country lanes. The helicopter likewise swung to the right and, doglike, followed his path.