A Matter of Honor

“That’s what I said, old chap. But don’t worry about Scott. He’s fit enough to start work whenever you want him. That’s if you still want him.”

“If I still want him,” repeated Lawrence. “Mr. Scott isn’t there with you at this moment, by any chance?”

“No,” said Vance. “Left my surgery about ten minutes ago.”

“He didn’t happen to tell you where he was going?” asked Lawrence.

“No, he wasn’t specific. Just said something about having to see a friend off at the airport.”

Once the coffee had been cleared away, Romanov checked his watch. He had left easily enough time to keep the appointment and still catch the plane. He thanked the ambassador, ran down the embassy steps, and climbed into the back of the anonymous black car.

The driver moved off without speaking as he had already been briefed as to where the major wanted to go.

Neither of them spoke on the short journey, and when the driver drew into Charlotte Street he parked the car in a layby. Romanov stepped out and walked quickly across the road He pressed the bell.

“Are you a member?” said a voice through the intercom.

“Yes,” said Romanov, who heard a metallic click as he pushed the door open and walked down the dark staircase. Once he had entered the club it took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the light. But then he spotted Mentor seated on his own at a little table near a pillar in the far corner of the room.

Romanov nodded and the man, nervously touching his mustache, got up and walked across the dance floor and straight past him. Romanov followed as the member entered the only lavatory. Once inside, Romanov checked whether they were alone. Satisfied, he led them both into a little cubicle and slipped the lock to “engaged.” Romanov removed the thousand pounds from his pocket and handed it over to the man who sat down on the lavatory seat. Mentor greedily ripped open the packet, leaned forward, and began to count. He never even saw Romanov straighten his fingers; and when the hand came down with a crushing blow on the back of Mentor’s neck he slumped forward and fell to the floor in a heap.

Romanov yanked him up; it took several seconds to gather the ten-pound notes that had fallen to the floor. Once he had them all, he stuffed them into the member’s pocket. Romanov then undid the member’s fly buttons one by one and pulled down his trousers until they fell around his ankles. He lifted the lid and placed the man on the lavatory seat. The final touch was to pull his leg

s as wide open as the fallen trousers would allow, the feet splayed apart. Romanov then slipped under the large gap at the bottom of the door, leaving the cubicle locked from the inside. He quickly checked his handiwork. All that could be seen from the outside was the splayed legs and fallen trousers.

Sixty seconds later, Romanov was back in the car on his way to Heathrow.

Adam arrived at Heathrow two hours before the Aeroflot flight was due to depart. He stationed himself with a perfect view of the forty-yard stretch Romanov would have to walk to board the Russian aircraft. He felt confident he would never reach the Aeroflot steps.

Romanov checked in at the BEA desk a little after six. He couldn’t resist taking the BEA flight rather than Aeroflot even though he knew Zaborski would frown at such arrogance; he doubted if anyone would comment on this of all days.

Once he had been given his boarding card, he took the escalator to the executive lounge and sat around waiting to be called. It was always the same—the moment any operation had been completed, all he wanted to do was get home. He left his seat to pour himself some coffee and, passing a table in the center of the room, caught the headline on the London Evening Standard. Exclusive. “Johnson Texas Weekend Canceled—Mystery.” Romanov grabbed the paper from the table and read the first paragraph but it contained no information he couldn’t have already told them. None of the speculation in the paragraphs that followed even began to get near the truth.

Romanov couldn’t wait to see the front page of Pravda the next day in which he knew the true story would be emblazoned. By Western standards it would be an exclusive.

“BEA announce the departure of their flight 117 to Moscow. Would all first-class passengers now board through gate number twenty-three.” Romanov left the lounge and walked the half-mile-long corridor to the plane. He strolled across the tarmac to the waiting plane a few minutes after six-fifty. The plane carrying the icon would be touching down in Washington in about two hours. Romanov would arrive back in Moscow well in time to see Dynamo play Spartak at the Lenin Stadium on Tuesday. He wondered if they would announce his arrival to the crowd over the loudspeakers as they always did when a member of the Politburo attended a match. Romanov walked up the steps and on board, stepping over the feet of the passenger next to him, thankful that he had been given the window seat.

“Would you care for a drink before take-off?” the stewardess asked.

“Just a black coffee for me,” said his neighbor. Romanov nodded his agreement.

The stewardess arrived back a few moments later with the two coffees and helped the man next to Romanov pull out his table from the armrest. Romanov flicked his over as the stewardess passed him his coffee.

He took a sip but it was too hot so he placed it on the table in front of him. He watched his neighbor take a packet of saccharine from his pocket and flick two pellets into the steaming coffee.

Why did he bother, thought Romanov. life was too short.

Romanov stared out of the window and watched the Aeroflot plane start to taxi out on to the runway. He smiled at the thought of how much more comfortable his own flight would be.

He tried his coffee a second time: just as he liked it. He took a long gulp and began to feel a little drowsy which he didn’t find strange since he had hardly slept for the last week.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He would now take every honor the State could offer him. With Valchek conveniently out of the way, he could even position himself to take over from Zaborski. If that failed, his grandfather had left him another alternative.

He was leaving London with only one regret: he had failed to kill Scott. But then he suspected that the Americans would take care of that. For the first time in a week he didn’t have to stop himself falling asleep ….

Ten minutes later the passenger seated next to Romanov picked up the Russian’s coffee cup and put it next to his own. He then flicked Romanov’s table back into the armrest and placed a woollen blanket over Romanov’s legs. He quickly slipped the BEA eye-shades over the Russian’s open eyes. He looked up to find that the stewardess was standing by his side.

“Can I help?” she asked, smiling.