A Matter of Honor

“You know Scott better than any of us,” said Sir Morris, “and you still have no feel as to where he might be now, or what he might do next, do you?”

“No, sir,” admitted Lawrence. “The only thing we know for certain is that he has an appointment for a medical exam on Monday afternoon, but somehow I don’t think he’ll make it.”

Sir Morris ignored the comment. “But someone was able to get to Scott, even though we didn’t call D4,” he continued. “That icon must hold a secret that we haven’t begun to appreciated.”

“And if Scott is still alive,” said Lawrence, “nothing is going to convince him now that we’re not to blame.”

“And if we’re not, who is?” asked Sir Morris. “Because someone was so desperate to discover our next move that they must have taken one hell of a risk during the last twenty-four hours. Unless, of course, it was you,” said Sir Morris. The Permanent Secretary rose from his desk and turned around to look out of his window on to Horse Guards Parade.

“Even if it was me,” said Lawrence, his eyes resting on a picture of the young Queen which stood on the corner of his master’s desk, “it doesn’t explain how the Americans got there as well.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” said Sir Morris. “Busch has been briefing them direct. I never doubted he would from the moment he joined us. What I hadn’t anticipated was how far the Americans would go without keeping us informed.”

“So it was you who told Busch,” said Lawrence.

“No,” said Sir Morris. “You don’t end up sitting behind this desk risking your own skin. I told the Prime Minister, and politicians can always be relied on to pass on your information if they consider it will score them a point. To be fair, I knew the Prime Minister would tell the President. Otherwise I wouldn’t have told him in the first place. More important: do you think Scott can still be alive?”

“Yes, I do,” said Lawrence. “I have every reason to believe that the man who ran across the tarmac to our waiting plane was Scott. The French police, who incidentally have been far more cooperative than the Swiss, have informed us that our plane crashed in a field twelve miles north of Dijon, but neither Scott nor the pilot were to be found at the scene of the crash.”

“And if the French reports on what took place at the airport are accurate,” said Sir Morris, “Romanov escaped and they must have had a couple of hours’ start on us.”

“Possibly,” said Lawrence.

“And do you think it equally possible,” asked Sir Morris, “that they have caught up with Scott and are now in possession of the icon?”

“Yes, sir, I fear that is quite possible,” Lawrence said. “But I can’t pretend it’s conclusive. However, the BBC monitoring service at Caversham Park picked up extra-signals traffic to all Soviet embassies during the night.”

“That could mean anything,” said Sir Morris, removing his spectacles.

“I agree, sir. But NATO reports that Russian strategic forces have been placed at a state of readiness, and several Soviet ambassadors across Europe have requested formal audiences with their foreign secretaries, ours included.”

“That is more worrying,” said Sir Morris. “They don’t do that unless they are hoping for our support.”

“Agreed, sir. But most revealing of all is that the Active Measures section of the KGB, First Chief Directorate, has booked pages of advertising space in newspapers right across Europe and, I suspect, America.”

“Next you’ll be telling me they hired J. Walter Thompson to write the copy,” growled Sir Morris.

“They won’t need to,” said Lawrence. “It’s a story that will make every front page.”

If it hadn’t been for the ceaseless throbbing in his shoulder, Adam might not have woken so quickly. The barge had suddenly swung at ninety degrees and started heading east when Adam woke up with a start. He looked at the boatman and indicated that the river was far wider now and could he ease them nearer to the bank so he could jump off. The old man shrugged his shoulders, pretending not to understand, as the barge drifted aimlessly on.

Adam looked over the side and despite the lateness of the hour could see the bed of the river quite clearly. He tossed a stone over the side and watched it drop quickly to the bottom. It looked almost as if he could reach down and touch it. He looked up helplessly at the boatman but he continued to stare over his head into the distance.

“Damn,” said Adam, and, taking the icon out of his blazer pocket, held it high above his head. He stood on the edge of the barge feeling like a soccer manager asking the referee for permission to substitute a player. Permission was granted, and Adam leaped into the water. His feet hit the canal bed with a thud and knocked the breath out of his body despite the fact that the water only came up to his waist.

Adam stood in the canal, the icon still held high above his head as the barge sailed past him. He waded to the nearest bank and clambered up on to the towpath, turning slowly around as he tried to get some feel for direction. He was soon able to distinguish the Plow again and plot a course due west. After an hour of soggy jogging he began to make out a light in the distance that he estimated to be under a mile away. His legs were soaking and cold as he started to squelch his way across a field toward the first rays of the morning sun.

Whenever he came to a hedge or gate he climbed over or under like a Roman centurion determined to hold a straight line with his final destination. He could now see the outline of a house, which, as he got nearer, he realized was no more than a large cottage. He remembered the expression peasant farmer from his school geography lessons. A little cobbled path led up to a half-open wooden door that looked as if it didn’t need a lock. Adam tapped gently on the knocker and stood directly below the light above the doorway so that whoever answered would see him immediately.

The door was pulled back by a woman of perhaps thirty, who wore a plain black dress and a spotless white apron. Her rosy cheeks and ample waist confirmed her husband’s profession.

When she saw Adam standing under the light she couldn’t mask her surprise—she had been expecting the postman—but he didn’t often appear in a neat navy blue blazer and soaking gray trousers.

Adam smiled. “Anglais,” he told her, and added, “I fell in the canal.”

The lady burst out laughing and beckoned Adam into her kitchen. He walked in to find a man, evidently dressed for milking, sitting at a sparse wooden table. The farmer looked up and when he saw Adam he joined in the laughter—a warm, friendly laugh more with Adam than against him. When the woman saw that Adam was dripping all over her spotless floor she quickly pulled down a towel from the rack above the fire and said, “Enlevez-moi ça,” pointing to Adam’s trousers.

Adam turned toward the farmer for guidance, but his host only nodded his agreement and added a mime of pulling down his own trousers.