A Matter of Honor

“I think the time has come to let you know,” said the ambassador, “the significance of your achievement.” He then went on to tell Romanov of the briefing he had received from Moscow that morning.

Romanov was thankful he had never known how much was at stake.

“I have made an appointment to see the Foreign Secretary at three-thirty this afternoon, in order to brief him,” the ambassador continued. “We can be sure the British will only be interested in fair play. I am told he is not at all pleased as he had hoped to be in his constituency to open some fête; the British have a strange system for keeping their party system going.”

Romanov laughed. “To Aleuts,” he said, raising his glass. “But what is happening in Washington at this moment?”

“Our ambassador has already requested a meeting with the American Secretary of State to be scheduled for eight this evening. He is also setting up a press conference at the embassy to follow that meeting. It may amuse you to know that President Johnson had to cancel his visit to Texas this weekend and has requested that the networks should allow him to address ‘his fellow Americans’ at peak time on Monday on a matter of national importance.”

“And we achieved it with only hours to spare,” said Romanov, pouring himself another vodka.

“Touch and go, as the English would say. Let us also be thankful for the time difference between here and the United States, because without that we would never have been able to beat the deadline.”

Romanov shuddered at the thought of how close it had been and downed his second vodka in one gulp.

“You must join me for lunch, Comrade. Although your orders are to return to Moscow immediately my secretary assures me that the first plane leaving Heathrow for Moscow does not depart until eight this evening. I envy you the reception you will receive when you arrive back at the Kremlin tomorrow.”

“I still need the one thousand pounds for …”

“Ah yes,” said the ambassador, “I have it ready for you.” He unlocked the little drawer of his desk and passed over a slim wad of notes in a small cellophane wrapper.

Romanov slipped the tiny packet into his pocket and joined the ambassador for lunch.

Busch barged into Lawrence’s office.

“Romanov’s got the icon,” he shouted.

Lawrence’s jaw dropped. A look of desperation appeared on his face. “How can you be so sure?” he demanded.

“I’ve just had a message from Washington. The Russians have requested an official meeting with the Secretary of State to be arranged for eight this evening.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Lawrence.

“I do,” said Busch. “We’ve always known that God-damned friend of yours, like his father, was a lousy traitor. There’s no other explanation.”

“He could be dead,” said Lawrence quietly.

“I hope he is, for his sake,” said Busch.

The phone on Lawrence’s desk rang. He grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. “A Dr. John Vance wants a word with you, sir,” said his secretary. “He said you had asked him to call.”

Vance? Vance? Lawrence recalled the name but couldn’t quite place it. “Put him on,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Pemberton,” said a voice.

“Good morning, Dr. Vance. What can I do for you?”

“You asked me to call you after I had examined Scott.”

“Scott?” repeated Lawrence, not believing what he was hearing.

“Yes, Adam Scott. Surely you remember? You wanted him to complete a medical for your department.”

Lawrence was speechless.

“I’ve given him a clean bill of health,” continued the doctor. “Some cuts and a nasty wound, but nothing that won’t heal in a few days.”

“Cuts and wounds?” said Lawrence.