A Matter of Honor

Adam began to walk slowly toward the end of the bridge. He put a hand in his pocket to be sure the icon was still in its place.

He was about thirty yards from the end of the bridge when the second figure got off the bike and started walking toward him. When their eyes met, Romanov stopped in his tracks and held up the small, square frame. Adam did not respond in kind, but simply tapped the side of his pocket and continued walking. Both men advanced toward each other like knights of old until they were only a few paces apart. Almost simultaneously they stopped and faced one another.

“Let me see it,” said Romanov.

Adam paused, then slowly removed the icon from his pocket and held it to his chest for his adversary to see. Saint George stared at him.

“Turn it over,” said Romanov.

Adam obeyed, and the Russian could not hide his delight when he saw the little silver crown of the Czar embedded in the back.

“Now you,” said Adam. Romanov held his icon away from his body, as if brandishing a sword. The masterpiece shone in the summer sun.

“And the documents,” said

Adam, forcing himself to speak calmly.

The Russian pulled out a package from within his jacket and slowly unfolded them. Adam stared at the official court verdict for a second time.

“Go to the wall,” said Adam, pointing with his left hand to the side of the bridge, “and leave the icon and the documents on it.”

It was Romanov who now obeyed as Adam proceeded to the wall on the other side of the bridge and placed his icon in the middle of it.

“Cross slowly,” called Adam. The two men moved sideways back across the bridge, never getting closer than a couple of yards from each other until they had come to a halt at each other’s icon. The moment the painting was within his reach, Romanov grabbed it, ran, and jumped onto the motorcycle without looking back. Within seconds the BMW had disappeared into the dense traffic.

Adam did not move. Although it had only been out of his sight for just over an hour, he was relieved to have the original back. Adam checked the papers that would establish his father’s innocence and placed them in his inside pocket. Ignoring the tourists, some of whom had stopped to stare at him, Adam began to relax when suddenly he felt a sharp prod in the middle of his back. He jumped round in fright.

A little girl was staring up at him.

“Will you and your friend be performing again this morning?”

When the BMW motorcycle drew up outside the Soviet embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, Romanov leaped off and ran up the stairs and straight into the ambassador’s office without knocking. The ambassador didn’t need to ask if he had been successful.

“It worked out just as I planned. He was taken completely by surprise,” said Romanov, as he handed the icon over to the ambassador.

The ambassador turned the painting over and was relieved to see the little silver crown of the Czar. Any doubts he might have had were also dispelled.

“I have orders to send the icon to Washington in the diplomatic pouch immediately. There is no time to be lost.”

“I wish I could deliver it in person,” said Romanov.

“Be satisfied, Comrade Major, that you have carried out your part of the operation in an exemplary fashion.”

The ambassador pressed a button on the side of his desk. Two men appeared immediately. One held open the diplomatic pouch while the other stood motionless by his side. The ambassador handed over the icon and watched it being placed into the pouch. The two couriers looked as if they would have had no trouble in carrying out the ambassador’s desk as well, thought Romanov.

“There is a plane standing by at Heathrow to take you both direct to Washington,” said the ambassador. “All the necessary documentation for customs has already been dealt with. You should touch down at National Airport around five o’clock Washington time, easily giving our comrades in America enough time to fulfill their part of the contract.”

The two men nodded, sealed the diplomatic pouch in the ambassador’s presence, and left. Romanov walked over to the window and watched the official car drive the two men out onto Kensington High Street and off in the direction of Heathrow.

“Vodka, Comrade Major?”

“Thank you,” Romanov replied, not moving from the window until the car was out of sight.

The ambassador went over to a side cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle from the refrigerator before pouring Romanov a large vodka.

“It would not be exaggerating to say that you have played your part in establishing the Soviet Union as the most powerful nation on earth,” he said as he handed over the drink. “Let us therefore drink to the repatriation of the Aleuts as full citizens of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

“How is that possible?” asked Romanov.