A Matter of Honor

The member ordered a dry martini and another malt whiskey. The waiter hurried away. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“No, it’s only my second time,” said Piers. “I used to work in Soho, but it’s got to be so rough lately, you never know who you might end up with.”

The drinks arrived and the member took a quick gulp.

“Would you like to dance?” asked Piers.

“It’s an emergency,” the voice said. “Is the tape on?”

“I’m listening.”

“Antarctic is in Dijon, and he’s found out what’s in the icon.”

“And did he give them any clue?”

“No, all he told Pemberton was that he was in possession of a piece of property so valuable that no amount of money we could offer would be sufficient to purchase it back.”

“Indeed,” said the voice.

“The British think the important word is property,” said the caller.

“They’re wrong,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “It’s purchase.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the Russian ambassador in Washington has requested a meeting with the Secretary of State on 20 June, and he’s bringing with him a bullion order to the value of 712 million dollars in gold.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“On our way to Dijon so that we can be sure to lay our hands on that icon before the British or the Russians. The Russians obviously feel confident that it will soon be in their possession. So my bet is that they must already be on the way.”

“But I’ve already agreed to go along with the British plan.”

“Try not to forget which side you’re on, Commander.”

“Yes, sir. But what are we going to do about Antarctic if we get our hands on the icon?”

“It’s only the icon we’re after. Once that’s in our possession, Antarctic is expendable.”

Adam checked his watch: a few minutes after seven.

It was time for him to leave because he had decided not to carry out Lawrence’s instructions to the letter. He intended to be waiting for them, and not as Lawrence had planned. He locked the bedroom door and returned to reception, where he paid for the use of the room and the telephone calls he had made.

“Thank you,” he said to the receptionist, and turned to leave.

“Dudley.” Adam froze on the spot.

“Dudley,” the voice boomed again. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Did you change your mind?” A hand thumped him on the shoulder—at least it wasn’t the left shoulder, he thought—as he stared down at Jim Hardcastle.

“No,” said Adam, wishing he possessed the guile of Robin’s father. “I think I was spotted in town so I had to get a change of clothes and keep out of sight for a few hours.”

“Then why don’t you come to the Mustard dinner?” said Jim. “No one will see you there.”

“Wish I was able to,” said Adam, “but I can’t afford to lose any more time.”

“Anything I can do to help?” said Jim conspiratorially.

“No, I’ve got to get to … I have a rendezvous just outside the town in less than an hour.”