A Matter of Honor

Valchek could only manage two or three steps before he slumped to the ground, still holding onto his intestines. Romanov bent down and helped him ease himself up against the trunk of a large tree.

“Leave me to die, Comrade Major. Do not waste any more of your time on me.”

Romanov frowned.

“How do you wish to die, Comrade?” he asked. “Slowly and in agony, or quickly and peacefully?”

“Leave me, Comrade. Let me die slowly, but you should go while you still have Scott in your sights.”

“But if the Americans were to find you, they might force you to talk.”

“You know better than that, Comrade.” Romanov accepted the rebuke, then rose and after a moment’s thought ran back to the car.

Valchek began to pray that once the bastard had left someone might find him. He’d never wanted this assignment in the first place, but Zaborski had needed extra eyes on Romanov, and Zaborski was not a man to cross. Valchek wouldn’t talk, but he still wanted to live.

The bullet from the 9mm Makarov went straight through the back of Valchek’s temple and blew away one side of his head. Valchek slumped to the ground, and for several seconds his body trembled and spasmed, subsiding into twitches as he emptied his bowels and bladder onto the brown earth.

Romanov stood over him until he was certain he was dead. Valchek would probably not have talked, but this was not a time for taking unnecessary risks.

When he woke the next morning he felt the same familiar guilt. Once again he swore it would be the last time. It was never as good as he had anticipated, and the regret always lingered on for several hours.

The expense of keeping up an extra flat, the taxi fares and the club bills nearly made it prohibitive. But he always returned, like a salmon to its breeding ground. “A queer fish,” he murmured out loud, and then groaned at his own pun.

Piers began to wake, and for the next twenty minutes he made his companion forget those regrets. After a moment of lying in exhausted silence the older man slipped out of bed, took ten pounds out of his wallet, and left it on the dresser before going to run himself a bath. He anticipated that by the time he returned the boy and the money would have gone.

He soaked himself in the bath, wondering about Scott. He knew he should feel guilty about his death. A death that, like so many others before him, had been caused by his picking up a young Pole whom he had thought was safe. It was now so many years ago that he couldn’t even remember his name.

But Mentor had never been allowed to forget the name of the young aristocratic KGB officer he had found sitting on the end of their bed when he woke the next morning, or the look of disgust he had showed for both of them.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ADAM LAY FLAT on his stomach in the bottom of the empty barge. His head propped on one side, he remained alert to the slightest unfamiliar sound.

The boatman stood behind the wheel counting the three hundred Swiss francs for a second time. It was more than he could normally hope to earn in a month. A woman standing on tiptoes was eyeing the notes happily over his shoulder.

The barge progressed at a stately pace down the canal, and Adam could no longer see the crashed plane.

Suddenly, far off in the distance, he heard distinctly what sounded like a gunshot. Even as he listened, the woman turned and scuttled down the hatch like a frightened rat. The barge plowed its course on slowly through the night while Adam listened anxiously for any other unnatural noises, but all he could hear was the gentle splash of the water against the barge’s hull. The clouds had moved on, and a full moon once again lit up the bank on both sides of the river. It became abundantly clear to Adam as he watched the towpath that they were not moving very fast. He could have run quicker. But even if it had cost him the remainder of his money, he was grateful to be escaping. He lowered himself again and curled up in the bow of the boat. He touched the icon, something he found himself doing every few minutes since he had discovered its secret. He did not move for another half hour, although he doubted that the barge had covered more than five miles.

Although everything appeared absolutely serene, he still remained alert. The river was far wider now than when he had first leaped on the barge.

The boatman’s eyes had never left him for long. He stood gripping the wheel, his oil-covered face not much cleaner than the old dungarees he wore—which looked as if they were never taken off. Occasionally he took a hand from the wheel, but only to remove the smokeless pipe from his mouth, cough, spit, and put it back again.

The man smiled, took both hands off the wheel and placed them by the side of his head to indicate that Adam should sleep. But Adam shook his head. He checked his watch. Midnight had passed, and he wanted to be off the barge and away long before first light.

He stood up, stretched and wobbled a little. His shoulder, although healing slowly, still ached relentlessly. He walked up the center of the barge and took his place next to the wheel.

“La Seine?” he asked, pointing at the water.

The boatman shook his head, no. “Canal de Bourgogne,” he grunted.

Adam then pointed in the direction they were moving. “Quelle ville?”

The boatman removed his pipe

. “Ville? Ce n’est pas une ville, c’est Sombernon,” he said, and put the stem back between his teeth.

Adam returned to his place in the bow. He tried to find a more comfortable position to relax and, curling up against the side of the boat, rested his head on some old rope and allowed his eyes to close.