A Matter of Honour (32 page)

“Yes, please.”

A moment later he strolled into the
hospital, checked the board on the wall as if he were looking for a certain
ward, then walked back out on to the street. From the Middlesex Hospital it
always took him about three minutes at a steady pace to reach Charlotte Street,
where he stopped outside a house and pressed a buzzer attached to a little
intercom.

“Are you a member?” enquired a voice
suspiciously.

“Yes.”

On the hour Adam phoned and listened
carefully to all Lawrence had to say.

“I’ll take one more risk,” said Adam, “but
if Romanov turns up this time I’ll hand over the icon to him personally and
with it a piece of property so valuable that no amount of money the Americans
could offer would be sufficient to purchase it back.”

When Adam put the phone down Lawrence and
Sir Morris played the conversation back over again and again.

“I think
property’s
the key word,” said Sir Morris.

“Agreed,”
said
Lawrence, “but what piece of property could be that valuable to both the
Russians and the Americans?”

Sir Morris began slowly rotating the globe
that stood by the side of his desk.

“What does that buzz mean?” asked Romanov. “We
are not running out of petrol again, are we?”

“No, sir,” said the chauffeur. “It’s the new
calling device now fixed to all ambassadorial cars. It means they expect me to
check in.”

“Turn round and go back to that petrol
station we passed a couple of miles ago,” Romanov said quietly.

Romanov started tapping the dashboard
impatiently as he waited for the petrol station to reappear on the horizon. The
sun was going down quickly and he feared it would be dark within the hour. They
had travelled about ninety kilometres beyond Dijon and neither he nor Valchek
had even seen a yellow Citroen going either way.

“Fill up again while I phone Geneva,”
Romanov said the moment he saw the petrol station. He ran to the phone box
while Valchek still kept a watchful eye on the passing traffic.

“I am answering your signal,” said Romanov
when he was put through to the euphemistically titled Second Secretary.

“We’ve had another call from Mentor,” said
the Second Secretary. “How far are you from Dijon?”

The member stumbled about the dimly lit room
until he came across an unoccupied table wedged up against a pillar in one
corner. He sat down on a little leather stool by its side. He swivelled around
nervously, as he always did when waiting for someone to bring him his usual
malt whisky on the rocks. When the drink was placed on the table in front of
him he sipped at it, in between trying to discover if there were any new faces
spread around the dark room. Not an easy task, as he refused to put on his
glasses. His eyes eventually became accustomed to the dim light thrown out by
the long red fluorescent bulb that stretched above the bar. All he could make
out were the same old faces staring at him hopefully; but he wanted something
new.

The proprietor, noticing that a regular
customer had remained on his own, came out and sat opposite him on the other
little stool. The member never could get himself to look the man in the eyes.

“I’ve got someone who’s very keen to meet
you,” whispered the proprietor.

“Which one?” he asked, looking up once more
to check the faces at the bar.

“Leaning on the juke box
in the corner.
The tall, slim one.
And he’s young,” added the proprietor.
He looked towards the blaring machine. A pleasing new face smiled at him. He
smiled nervously back.

“Was I right?” asked the proprietor.

“Is he safe?” was all he asked.

“No trouble with this one.
Upper-class lad, right out of a top-drawer public school.
Just wants to earn a bit of pocket money on the side.”

“Fine.”
The member took a sip of whisky.

The proprietor walked over to the juke box.
The member watched him talking to the young man. The boy downed his drink, hesitated
for a moment, then strolled across the crowded floor to take the empty stool.

“My name is Piers,” the young man said.

“Mine’s Jeremy,” the member said.

“A gentle name,” said Piers. “I’ve always
liked the name Jeremy.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

“A dry Martini, please,” said Piers.

The member ordered a dry Martini and another
malt whisky. 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 discovered
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 June 20 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 recognise 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 were 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.”

“Wish I could take you there myself,” said
Jim. “Do anything to help an old soldier, but I’m a bit stuck tonight – of all
nights.”

“Don’t give it a second thought, Jim, I’ll
be all right.”

“I could always take him, Dad,” said Linda,
who had slipped up by her father’s side and was listening intently.

They both turned towards Linda who was
wearing a tight-fitting black crepe dress that started as low and ended as high
as it dared while her freshly washed hair now fell to her shoulders. She looked
up hopefully.

“You’ve only just got your licence, lass.
Don’t be daft.”

“You always treat me like a child when there’s
something worthwhile to do,” came back her immediate response.

Jim hesitated. “How far is this rendezvous?”
he asked apprehensively.

“About five, maybe six miles,” said Adam, “but
I’ll be fine. I can get a taxi easily.”

“The
lass is
right,”
said Jim, and taking his car keys out of his pocket, he turned to her and
added, “but if you ever let on to your mother I’ll kill you.” Jim took Adam by
the hand and shook it furiously.

“But I’ll be just fine...”

“I won’t hear of it, lad. Never forget, that
in the end we’re both on the same side, and good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Adam reluctantly.

Jim beamed. “You’d better be getting along,
lass, before your mother shows up.”

Linda happily took Adam by the hand and led
him away to the car park.

“Which direction?” she asked, once they were
seated in the car.

“The Auxerre road,” said Adam, looking down
at the piece of paper on which he had written the directions Lawrence had read
over the phone to him.

Linda set off at a slow pace, seeming at
first to be unsure of the car, but once they had reached the outskirts of the
town Adam suggested that she might go a little faster.

“I’m very nervous,” she said, as she put her
hand on Adam’s knee.

“Yes, I can tell you are,” said Adam,
crossing his legs quickly. “Don’t miss the turning,” he added when he noticed a
signpost pointing to the left.

Linda swung down off the main road on to a
country lane while Adam kept his eyes peeled for the building Lawrence had
described. It was another two miles before it came into sight.

“Draw into the side,” said Adam, “and turn
the lights off.”

“At last,” said Linda, sounding more
hopeful, as she brought the car to a halt.

“Thank you very much,” said Adam, as he
touched the door handle.

“Is that all I get for risking life and
limb?” asked Linda.

“I wouldn’t want you to be late for the
dinner.”

“That dinner will be about as exciting as a
dance at the Barnsley Young Conservatives.”

“But your mother will be worried about you.”

“Dudley, you’re so up-tight.”

“I wouldn’t be in normal circumstances but
if you stay much longer your life could be in danger,” Adam said quietly.

Linda turned ashen. “You’re not joking, are
you?”

“I wish I was,” said Adam. “Now, when I get
out of this car you must turn round and go back to the hotel and never mention
this conversation to anyone, especially your mother.”

“I will,” Linda
said,
souncung nervous for the first time.

“You’re a fantastic girl,” said Adam, and
took her in his arms and gave her the longest, warmest kiss she had ever
experienced. Adam then got out of the car and watched her do a five-point turn
before she headed off back in the direction of Dijon.

He checked his watch: an hour and a half
still to go before they were due, and by then it would be pitch dark. He jogged
over to the airfield and studied the burnt-out buildings that ran alongside the
road. It was exactly as Lawrence had described it. It was like a ghost town and
Adam was confident that no one else could be there yet as they still wouldn’t
have had enough time to carry out Lawrence’s plan.

Looking across the runway, Adam spotted the
ideal place to hide while he waited to see which of the two plans he had
prepared would prove necessary.

Flight Lieutenant Alan Banks was thankful
that the moon shone so brightly that night. He had landed the little Beaver
full of combat men in far worse conditions when a runway had been lit up like
the Blackpool seafront.

Banks circled the perimeter of the airfield
once and studied the two runways carefully. The airport had been out of action
for such a long time that none of the aircraft manuals included a detailed
ground plan.

The flight lieutenant was breaking every
rule in the book, including piloting an unmarked aircraft informing the French
that they would be landing in Paris; not easy to explain overshooting an
airport by over a hundred miles.

“I can make a landing on the north-south
runway more easily,” Banks said, turning to the SAS captain, who sat crouched
in the back with his five men. “How near to that hangar do you want me to go?”
he said, pointing out of the window.

“Stay well clear, at least a couple of
hundred yards,” came back the reply. “We still don’t know what to expect.”