A Matter of Honor

Adam took a hard left and only just avoided colliding with a tractor coming out of a newly plowed field. He took the next right and headed back toward the Boulogne road, desperately trying to think what he could do next. Every time he looked up the helicopter was there above him; he felt like a puppet dancing on the end of Romanov’s string.

A road sign depicting a low tunnel ahead flashed past them, and Adam dismissed the melodramatic idea of trying to make them crash; he didn’t need reminding that it was he who was proving to be the novice.

When he first saw the tunnel he estimated it to be sixty or seventy yards in length. Although it was quite wide, a double-decker bus could not have entered it without the upstairs passengers ending up walking on the bridge.

For a brief moment Adam actually felt safe. He slammed on the little Citroen’s brakes and skidded to a halt about thirty yards from the end of the tunnel. The car ended up almost scraping the side of the wall. He switched on his sidelights, and they flashed brightly in the darkness. For several seconds he watched as approaching cars slowed down before safely overtaking him.

At last he jumped out of the car and ran to the end of the tunnel where he pinned himself against the wall. The helicopter had traveled on some way but was already turning

back and heading straight toward the tunnel. Adam watched it fly over his head and moments later heard it turn again. As he waited, two hitchhikers passed by on the other side, chatting away to themselves, oblivious to Adam’s predicament.

He looked across desperately at the two young men and shouted, “Were you hoping to thumb a lift?”

“Yes,” they called back in unison. Adam staggered across the road to join them.

“Are you all right?” Adam heard one of them ask, but he could hardly make out which one, as his eyes had not yet become accustomed to the darkness.

“No, I’m not,” Adam explained simply. “I drank too much wine at lunch, and because of a cycle race the road is just crawling with police. I’m sure to be picked up if I go much further. Can either of you drive?”

“I only have my Canadian license,” said the taller of the two youths. “And in any case we are heading for Paris, and your car is facing the opposite direction.”

“It’s a Hertz Rent-a-Car,” Adam explained. “I picked it up on the rue Saint Ferdinand this morning, and I have to return it by seven tonight. I don’t think I can make it in my present state.”

The two young men looked at him apprehensively. “I will give you both one hundred francs if you will return it safely for me. You see, I can’t afford to lose my license, I’m a commercial traveler.” Adam explained. Neither of them spoke. “My papers are all in order, I can assure you.” Adam handed them over to the taller man, who crossed back over the road and used the car lights to study Albert Tomkins’s license and insurance before carrying on a conversation with his friend.

Adam could hear the helicopter blades whirling above the tunnel entrance.

“We don’t need the hundred francs,” the taller one said eventually. “But we will need a note from you explaining why we are returning the car to Hertz in Paris on your behalf.” Adam pulled out the colonel’s pen and, feeling remarkably sober, he bent over the hood of the car and scribbled on the back of the Hertz agreement.

“Do you want to come back to Paris with us?”

Adam hesitated. Couldn’t they hear the noise too? “No. I have to get to Boulogne.”

“We could drive you to Boulogne and still have enough time to take the car to Paris.”

“No, no. That’s very considerate. I can take care of myself as long as I can feel confident that the car will be delivered back as soon as possible.”

The taller one shrugged while his companion opened a rear door and threw their rucksacks on the backseat. Adam remained in the tunnel while they started up the engine. He could hear the purr of the helicopter blades change cadence; it had to be descending to land in a nearby field.

Go, go, for God’s sake, go, he wanted to shout as the car shot forward toward Boulogne. He watched them travel down the road for about a hundred yards before turning in at a farm entrance, reversing, and then heading back toward the tunnel. They tooted as they passed him in the dark, disappearing in the direction of Paris. Adam sank down on to his knees with relief and was about to pick himself up and start walking toward Boulogne when he saw two figures silhouetted at the far entrance of the tunnel. Against the clear blue sky he could make out the outline of one tall, thin man. They stood peering into the tunnel. Adam didn’t move a muscle, praying they hadn’t spotted him.

And then suddenly the thin man started walking toward him, while the other remained motionless. Adam knew he could not hope to escape again. He knelt there cursing his own stupidity. In seconds the man would be able to see him clearly.

“Don’t let’s waste any more valuable time, Marvin, we already know that the traitor’s heading back to Paris.”

“I just thought perhaps …” began the one called Marvin, in a Southern drawl.

“Leave the thinking to me. Now let’s get back to the chopper before we lose him.”

When Marvin was only twenty yards away from Adam he suddenly stopped, turned around, and began running back.

Adam remained rooted to the spot for several minutes. A cold, clammy sweat enveloped his body the moment he realized his latest pursuer was not Romanov. If one of them hadn’t referred to him as a “traitor,” Adam would have happily given himself up. Suddenly he had become painfully aware of the difference between fact and fiction: he had been left with no friends.

Adam did not move again until he heard the helicopter rise above him. Peering out, he could see outlined against the arc of the tunnel the Americans heading in the direction of Paris.

He staggered outside and put a hand across his eyes. The sunlight seemed much fiercer than a few minutes before. What next? He had less than an hour to catch the boat but no longer had any transport. He wasn’t sure whether to thumb lifts, search for a bus stop, or simply get as far away from the main road as possible. His eyes were continually looking up into the sky. How long before they reached the car and realized it was not him inside?

Cyclists began to pass him again as he jogged slowly toward Boulogne. He kept on moving and even found enough strength to cheer the British competitors as they pedaled by. The British team van followed close behind, and Adam gave it the thumbs-up sign. To his surprise the van came to a halt in front of him.