A Matter of Honor

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“But if you would like to leave your number, I will make further inquiries.”

“I’ll wait. Wouldn’t surprise me if you find him very quickly once he knows who is calling.”

There was a long silence at the other end, and Adam only hoped the shilling he had pressed into the phone would prove to be enough. At last there was a click, and then Adam heard a voice.

“Who is this?” said the voice, unable to mask its incredulity.

“You know very well who it is,” said Adam curtly. “I want to make a deal.”

“A deal?” Romanov repeated, his voice changing from one of disbelief to surprise.

“I’ll swap you my icon—which, as you so vividly pointed out, is worthless to me—in exchange for your copy, which is not. But I also require the papers that prove my father’s innocence.”

“How do I know you’re not setting me up?”

“You don’t,” said Adam. “But you’re the one with nothing to lose.”

The beeps began to sound across the line.

“Tell me your number,” said Romanov.

“738-9121,” said Adam.

“I’ll phone you back,” said Romanov as the line went dead.

“How quickly can we find out where 738-9121 is located?” Romanov asked the local KGB operative who sat opposite him.

“About ten minutes,” the aide replied. “But it could be a trap.”

“True, but with nineteen hours to go before the icon has to be in America I don’t have a lot of choice.”

Romanov turned back to the KGB agent. “What’s the traffic like in London on a Monday morning?”

“One of the busiest times in the week. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’ll need a motorbike and a superb driver,” was all Romanov said.

Adam could do nothing about the middle-aged lady who was now occupying his phone booth. He had nervously walked out to check the bridge when she slipped in. She must have been puzzled as to why the young man didn’t use the empty booth that stood next to it.

He checked his watch anxiously: 10:45. He knew he couldn’t risk waiting a minute after eleven but was confident that Romanov would have traced where he’d made the call from long before then.

The talkative woman was another twelve minutes before she eventually put the phone down. When she stepped out of the booth she gave Adam a warm smile.

Three more minutes and he would have to phone Lawrence and abort his original plan. He began to watch the Beefeaters as they patrolled under Traitors’ Gate. Traitors’ Gate—how appropriate, Adam thought. He had chosen the spot because he could see clearly up and down the path leading to the drawbridge and felt he could not be taken by surprise. And in desperation there was always the moat that surrounded them on all sides.

For the first time in his life, Adam discovered exactly how long five minutes could be. When the phone rang, it sounded like an alarm bell. He picked it up anxiously, his eyes never leaving the main road.

“Scott?”

“Yes.”

“I can now see you clearly, as I am less than one minute away. I will be standing at the end of the bridge by the end of that minute. Be sure you’re there with the icon. If you’re not, I shall burn the papers that prove your father’s innocence in front of you.”

The phone went dead.

Adam was delighted that another piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place. He stepped out of the phone booth and checked up and down the road. A BMW motorcycle swerved to a halt at the end of the bridge. A rider dressed in a leather jacket sat astride the bike but only seemed interested in watching the flow of traffic as it passed by the Tower. It was the man seated behind him who stared directly at Adam.