A Matter of Honor
“I was thinkin’ about taking up judo myself,” continued the leader, straightening his arm. “How long does it take to get any good at it?”
“I’ve been working at it three hours a day for nearly twelve years, and I’m still not up to Olympic standard,” replied Adam as he watched the dark-haired man in the duffle coat pass by the compartment again. This time he stared directly at Adam before quickly moving on.
“Of course,” continued Adam, “the only quality you really need if you are thinking of taking up judo seriously is nerve, and no one can teach you that. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.”
“I’ve got nerve,” said Terry belligerently. “I’m not frightened of nothin’. Or nobody,” he added, staring straight at Adam.
“Good,” said Adam. “Because you may be given the chance to prove your claim before this journey is over.”
“What’re you getting at?” said the “Heil Hitler”-clad youth. “You trying to pick a fight or somethin’?”
“No,” said Adam calmly. “It’s just that at this moment I’m being followed by a private detective who is hoping to catch me spending the night with his client’s wife.”
The four of them sat still for the first time during the journey and stared at Adam with something approaching respect.
“And are you?” asked the leader.
Adam nodded conspiratorially.
“Nice bit of skirt when you’ve got it in the hay?” Terry asked, leering.
“Not bad,” said Adam, “not bad at all.”
“Then just point out this detective git and we’ll sew him up for the night,” said the leader, thrusting his left hand on his right bicep while pulling up his clenched fist with gusto.
“That might turn out to be unnecessary,” said Adam. “But if you could delay him for a little when I get off at Waterloo East, that should at least give me enough time to warn the lady.”
“Say no more, squire,” said the leader. “Your friend the Peeping Tom will be delivered to Charing Cross all trussed up like a British Rail parcel.”
The other three youths burst out laughing, and Adam was beginning to realize that it had taken Romanov only one week to turn him into a storyteller almost in the class of Robin’s late father.
“That’s him,” whispered Adam as the duffle-coated man passed by a third time. They all looked out into the corridor but only saw his retreating back.
“The train is due to arrive at Waterloo East in eleven minutes’ time,” said Adam, checking his watch. “So what I suggest we do is … if you still think you’re up to it.” All four of his newfound team leaned forward in eager anticipation.
A few minutes later Adam slipped out of the compartment, leaving the door wide open. He started to walk slowly in the direction opposite to that in which the man in the blue duffle coat had last been seen going. When Adam reached the end of the carriage, he turned to find the man was now following quickly behind. As he passed the open compartment the man smiled and raised a hand to attract Adam’s attention, but two leather-clad arms shot out, and the man disappeared inside the compartment with a muffled cry. The door was slammed and the blinds pulled quickly down.
The train drew slowly into Waterloo East station.
Robin remained tense as the bus drew into Wigmore Street and came to a halt outside the RPO headquarters. A dark green Ford had been following them for at least thirty miles, and once she had become aware of it she had not dared to move from her seat.
As she dragged her double bass off the bus she looked back to see that the Ford had stopped about fifty yards down the road and turned off its headlights. Romanov was standing on the pavement looking like a caged animal that wanted to spring. Another man that Robin did not recognize remained seated behind the wheel. Adam had warned her not to turn around at any time but to walk straight into the RPO headquarters without stopping. Even so, she couldn’t resist looking Romanov in the eye and shaking her head. Romanov continued to stare impassively ahead of him.
When the last musician had left the bus Romanov and the colonel searched up and down the inside of the vehicle and then finally the trunk, despite noisy protests from the driver. Robin eyed them nervously from an upstairs window, as the two jumped back into the green Ford and drove off. She continued watching the car until the back lights had faded away in the darkness.
The colonel swung out of Wigmore Street toward Baker Street, bringing the car to a halt opposite Baker Street Station. Romanov jumped out, walked into a vacant telephone booth, and started thumbing through the A-D directory. Only one Robin Beresford was listed, and it was the same address as the young officer had read to him. He dialed the number and after ten unanswered rings smiled at the realization that she lived alone. He was not surprised.
“What now?” asked the colonel, once
Romanov was back in the car.
“Where’s Argyle Crescent, NW3?”
“Must be out toward Hampstead,” said the colonel. “But I’ll just check in the London A to Z road map. What’s the plan?”
“Rather than waiting for Miss Beresford to come out we will be waiting for her to come in,” said Romanov.
Robin slipped out of the back of the RPO headquarters about thirty minutes later. She zigzagged around Portman Square, then walked as quickly as she knew how up to the corner. She kept telling herself that Romanov was not coming back, but she found it impossible to stop herself from shaking all the same. She hailed a taxi and was relieved to see one draw up to her side almost immediately. She checked the driver and the backseat, as Adam had advised her, then climbed in.