A Matter of Honor

“I chose this line,” continued Jim, “because by the time it comes for our passports to be inspected I reckon the customs officer will be only too happy to allow us through without much fuss.” And as if in reaction to his logic, a long line started to form behind Jim, but still the argument raged in front of them. Adam remained alert, continually looking out of the back window, waiting for the moment when Romanov would appear. When he turned back, he was relieved to find that the lorry in front of them was being told to pull over into the side and wait.

Jim drove quickly up to the customs post. “Get necking, you two,” he said.

Up until that point, Adam had kept his hands hidden in his trench coat pockets because they were so scratched and bruised. But he obeyed Jim and took Linda in his arms and kissed her perfunctorily, one eye still watching for Romanov. To his surprise she parted his lips and began exploring inside his mouth with her tongue. Adam thought about protesting but realized there was no way he could make it sound gallant or credible.

“The wife, the daughter, and the future son-in-law,” said Jim, handing over the four passports.

The policeman started to check.

“What was all the trouble about, officer?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” said the policeman, flicking through the passports. “I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you.”

“No, no,” said Jim. “They didn’t even notice,” he said, pointing over his shoulder and laughing.

The policeman shrugged, and handing the passports back, he said, “Allez,” waving them on.

“Sharp-as-Mustard Jim, that’s what they call me in Hull.” He looked over his shoulder toward Adam. “You can stop that now, Dudley, thank you.” Adam felt Linda release him with some reluctance.

She glanced at him shyly, then turned toward her father. “Bu

t we still have to go over the French border, don’t wet?”

“We have already been alerted to look for him and I can assure you he hasn’t been through this post,” said the senior customs officer. “Otherwise one of my men would have spotted him. But if you want to double-check, be my guest.”

Romanov went quickly from officer to officer, showing them the blown-up photograph of Adam, but none of them could recall anyone resembling him. Valchek joined him a few minutes later and confirmed that Scott was not in any of the cars still waiting to be allowed over the border and that the Mercedes was being pushed into the border garage.

“Is it back to the hills, Comrade Major?” asked Valchek.

“Not yet. I want to be absolutely certain he hasn’t managed to cross the border.”

The senior official emerged from his post in the center of the road. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” said Romanov glumly. “You seem to be right.”

“I thought as much. If any of my men had let the Englishman through, they would have been looking for a new job by now.”

Romanov nodded in acknowledgment. “Could I have missed any of your staff?”

“Doubt it—unless there’s a couple of them taking a break. If so, you’ll find them in the bar about a hundred meters up toward the French border point.”

Four customs officers and a French waitress were the only people to be found in the bar. Two of the officers were playing pool while the other two sat at a corner table, drinking coffee. Romanov took the photo out once more and showed it to the two men at the pool table. They both shook their heads in an uninterested fashion and returned to sinking the multicolored balls.

The two Russians made their way to the bar. Valchek passed Romanov a cup of coffee and a sandwich, which he took over to the table where the other two border guards sat. One of them was telling his colleague the trouble he had had with a French truck driver who was trying to smuggle Swiss watches over the border. Romanov pushed the photograph of Scott across the table.

“Have you seen this man today?”

Neither showed any sign of recognition, and the younger one quickly returned to his story. Romanov sipped his coffee and began to consider whether he should make a run for Basic or call for reinforcements to sweep the hills. Then he noticed how the young man’s eyes kept returning to the photo. He asked once again if he had seen Scott.

“No, no,” said the young officer, a little too quickly. In Moscow Romanov would have had a yes out of him within minutes, but he would have to follow a more gentle approach here.

“How long ago?” Romanov asked quietly.

“What do you mean?” asked the policeman.

“How long ago?” repeated Romanov in a firmer voice.

“It wasn’t him,” said the officer, sweat now appearing on his forehead.