A Matter of Honor Read online

  Adam fried himself an egg and a couple of rashers of bacon, as there wasn’t much more he could do before nine-thirty, although he did find time to scribble a note to his sister, enclosing a check for fifty pounds.

  At nine-thirty he made a phone call. Mr. Holbrooke—Adam wondered if he actually had a Christian name—couldn’t hide his surprise at receiving a call from young Mr. Scott. Now that my father is dead, I must be old Mr. Scott, Adam wanted to tell him. And Holbrooke sounded even more surprised by his request. “No doubt connected in some way with that envelope,” he muttered, but agreed to put a copy of his father’s will in the post that afternoon.

  Adam’s other requirements could not be carried out over the phone, so he locked up the flat and jumped on a bus heading up King’s Road. He left the doubledecker at Hyde Park Corner and made his way to Lloyds Bank on Pall Mall, where he joined a line at the foreign exchange counter.

  “May I help you?” asked a polite assistant when he finally reached the front.

  “Yes,” said Adam. “I would like fifty pounds in Swiss francs, fifty pounds in cash, and a hundred pounds in traveler’s checks.”

  “What is your name?” she inquired.

  “Adam Scott.”

  The girl entered some calculations on a large desktop machine before cranking the handle round several times. She looked at the result, then disappeared for a few moments to return with a copy of the bank statement Adam had received in the morning post.

  “The total cost, including our charges, will be £202.1s.8d. That would leave your account in credit with £70.16s.4d.,” she informed him.

  “Yes,” said Adam, but didn’t add that in truth it would only be £20.16s.4d the moment his sister presented her check. He began to hope that the Foreign Office paid by the week; otherwise it would have to be another frugal month. Unless of course …

  Adam signed the tops of the ten traveler’s checks in the cashier’s presence, and she then handed over five hundred and ninety-four Swiss francs and fifty pounds in cash. It was the largest sum of money Adam had ever taken out at one time.

  Another bus journey took him to the British European Airways terminal on Cromwell Road, where he asked the girl to book him a round-trip ticket to Geneva.

  “First class or economy?” she asked.

  “Economy,” said Adam, amused by the thought that anyone might think he would want to go first class.

  “That will be thirty-one pounds please, sir.” Adam paid in cash and placed the ticket in his inside pocket, before returning to the flat for a light lunch. During the afternoon, he called Heidi, who had agreed to join him for dinner at the Chelsea Kitchen at eight o’clock. There was one more thing Adam needed to be certain about before he joined Heidi for dinner.

  Romanov was woken by the ringing of the phone.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good morning, Comrade Romanov, it’s Melinac, the second secretary at the embassy.”

  “Good morning, Comrade, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Comrade Petrova.” Romanov smiled at the thought of her now lying in the bath.”Have you come across the girl since you reported her missing?”

  “No,” replied Romanov. “And she didn’t sleep in her bed last night.”

  “I see,” said the second secretary. “Then your suspicions that she might have defected are beginning to look like a serious possibility.”

  “I fear so,” said Romanov, “and I shall have to make a full report of the situation to my superiors the moment I get back to Moscow.”

  “Yes, of course, Comrade Major.”

  “I shall also point out that you have done everything possible to assist me with this problem, Comrade Second Secretary.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Major.”

  “And brief me the moment you come up with any information that might lead us to where she is.”

  “Of course, Comrade Major.” Romanov replaced the phone and walked across to the bathroom in the adjoining room. He stared down at the body hunched up in the bath. Anna’s eyes were bulging in their sockets, her face contorted, and the skin already gray. After throwing a towel over the dead researcher’s head and locking the door, he went into his own bathroom for an unusually long shower.

  He returned and sat on his side of the bed, only a towel around his waist, and picked up the phone. He ordered breakfast, which arrived fifteen minutes later, by which time he had dressed. Once he had finished orange juice and croissants he returned to the phone trying to recall the name of the hotel’s manager. It came back to him just as the receptionist said, “Guten morgen, Mein Herr.”

  “Jacques, please,” was all Romanov said. A moment later he heard the manager’s voice, “Good morning, Herr Romanov.”

  “I have a delicate problem that I was hoping you might be able to help me with.”

  “I shall certainly try, sir,” came back the reply.

  “I am in possession of a rather valuable object that I wish to deposit with my bank, and I wouldn’t want …”

  “I understand your dilemma entirely,” said the manager. “And how can I be of assistance?”

  “I require a large container in which to place the object.”

  “Would a laundry basket be large enough?”

  “Ideal, but does it have a secure lid?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Jacques. “We often have to drop them off down lift shafts.”

  “Perfect,” said Romanov.

  “Then it will be with you in a matter of moments,” said Jacques. “And I shall send a porter to assist you. May I also suggest that it is taken down in the freight elevator at the rear of the hotel, thus ensuring that no one will see you leaving?”

  “Very considerate,” said Romanov.

  “Will a car be calling to collect you?”

  “No,” said Romanov. “I—”

  “Then I shall arrange for a taxi to be waiting. When will you require it?”

  “In no more than half an hour.”

  “You will find it parked outside the freight entrance in twenty minutes’ time.”

  “You have been most helpful,” said Romanov, before adding, “the chairman of the State Bank did not exaggerate his praise of you.”

  “You are too kind, Herr Romanov,” said the voice. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Perhaps you would be good enough to have my account prepared so that there will be no holdup.”

  “Certainly.”

  Romanov put the phone down, wishing he could export such service to Moscow. He only waited a moment before he dialed the first of two local numbers. On both occasions his wishes were immediately granted. As he replaced the phone for the third time there was a gentle tap on the door. Romanov went quickly over to answer it. A young porter stood in the corridor, a large laundry basket by his side. He smiled politely. Romanov merely nodded and pulled in the basket. “Please return as soon as the taxi has arrived,” said Romanov. The porter bowed slightly but said nothing.

  As soon as the porter had left, Romanov locked the door and put the chain in place before wheeling the laundry basket into the main bedroom and leaving it by the side of the bed. He undid the tough leather straps and threw open the lid.

  Next he unlocked the bathroom door and lifted Petrova’s stiff body in his arms before trying to cram it into the basket. Rigor mortis had already gripped the body; the legs refused to bend, and the researcher didn’t quite fit in. Romanov placed the naked Petrova on the floor. He held his fingers out straight and suddenly brought them down with such force on the right leg that it broke like a branch in a storm. He repeated the action on her left leg. Like the guillotine, it didn’t require a second attempt. He then tucked the legs under her body. It amused Romanov to consider that, had it been he who had been murdered, Anna Petrova would never have been able to get him in the basket, whatever she had tried to break. Romanov then wheeled the trolley into the researcher’s bedroom and, after emptying all her drawers, including Anna’s clothes, clean and dirty
, her shoes, her toilet bag, toothbrush, and even an old photograph of himself he hadn’t realized she possessed, he threw them in the basket on top of her. Once he had removed the gold medallion from around her neck and was certain that there was nothing of the researcher’s personal belongings left, he covered up the body with a hotel bath towel and sprayed it with a liberal amount of Chanel No. 5 that had been left courtesy of the hotel.

  Finally he strapped the lid down securely, wheeled the creaking basket out, and left it by the outer door.

  Romanov began to pack his own suitcase, but there was a knock on the door before he had finished.

  “Wait,” he said firmly. There was a muffled reply of “Ja, mein Herr.” A few moments later Romanov opened the door. The porter entered, nodded to him, and began to tug at the laundry basket, but it took a firm shove from Romanov’s foot before it got moving. The porter sweated his way down the corridor as Romanov walked by the side of the basket, carrying his suitcase. When they reached the rear of the hotel Romanov watched as the basket was wheeled safely into the freight elevator before he stepped in himself.

  When the ground-floor doors opened Romanov was relieved to be greeted by Jacques, who was standing by a large Mercedes waiting for him with the trunk already open. The taxi driver and the porter lifted up the laundry basket and placed it into the trunk, but Romanov’s suitcase could not be fitted in as well, so it had to be put in the front of the car alongside the driver’s seat.

  “Shall we forward your bill to the consulate, mein Herr?” asked Jacques.

  “Yes, that would be helpful …”

  “I do hope everything has worked out to your satisfaction,” said Jacques, as he held open the back door of the Mercedes for his departing guest.

  “Entirely,” said Romanov.

  “Good, good. And will your young colleague be joining you?” asked the manager, looking back over his shoulder toward the hotel.

  “No, she won’t,” said Romanov. “She has already gone on to the airport ahead of me.”

  “Of course,” said Jacques, “but I am sorry to have missed her. Do please pass on my best wishes.”

  “I certainly will,” said Romanov, “and I look forward to returning to your hotel in the near future.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the manager said as Romanov slipped into the backseat, leaving Jacques to close the door behind him and wave as the car moved off.

  When Romanov arrived at the Swissair office his suitcase was checked in, and he waited only moments before continuing on to the bank. Herr Bischoff’s son, accompanied by another man, also clad in a gray suit, were waiting by in the hall to greet him.

  “How pleasant to see you again so soon,” volunteered the young Herr Bischoff. His deep voice took Romanov by surprise. The taxi driver waited by the open trunk while Herr Bischoff’s companion, a man of at least six foot four and heavily built, lifted out the laundry basket as if it were a sponge cake. Romanov paid the fare and followed Herr Bischoff into the far lift.

  “We are fully prepared for your deposition following your phone call,” said Herr Bischoff. “My father was only sorry not to be present personally. He had a long-standing engagement with another customer and only hopes that you will understand.” Romanov waved his hand.

  The lift traveled straight to the ground floor, where the guard, on seeing young Herr Bischoff, unlocked the massive steel cage. Romanov and the banker proceeded at a leisurely pace down the corridor, while the giant carried the basket in their wake.

  Standing with folded arms by the vault door was another of the partners Romanov recognized from the previous day. Herr Bischoff nodded, and the partner placed his key in the top lock of the vault door without a word. Herr Bischoff then turned the second lock, and together they pushed open the great steel door. Herr Bischoff and his partner walked in ahead of Romanov and opened the top lock of all five of his boxes, while the guard placed the laundry basket on the floor beside them.

  “Will you require any assistance?” asked Herr Bischoff as he handed his Russian client a personal sealed envelope.

  “No, thank you,” Romanov assured him but did not relax until he had seen the vast door close behind him and all four of his Swiss helpers left invisibly on the other side.

  Once he felt certain he was alone, he stared down at the one large box he knew to be empty: it was smaller than he had recalled. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he unlocked it, pulled it out, and raised the airtight lid. It was going to be a tight fit. Romanov unstrapped the laundry basket and removed everything except the body. He stared down at the contorted face; the deep marks in the skin around the neck were now a dark blue. He bent over and lifted the researcher up by her waist, but as no part of the body moved other than her broken legs, he had to drop her into the box headfirst. Even then he had to adjust her various limbs in order that the box could be shut: had Anna been even an inch taller the exercise would have proved pointless. He then stuffed the girl’s belongings down at the sides of her body, leaving only the Chanel-covered towel behind in the laundry basket.

  Romanov proceeded to replace the lid on the airtight box before pushing it back securely in place and locking it. He then double-checked that it could not be opened without his own personal key. He was relieved to find he could not budge it. He hesitated for a moment, glancing at the second large box, but accepted that this was not the time to indulge himself: that would have to wait for another occasion. Satisfied that everything was back in place, he closed and strapped down the lid of the laundry basket and wheeled it back to the entrance of the vault. He pressed the little red button.

  “I do hope you found everything in order,” said the young Herr Bischoff once he had returned from locking the five boxes.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Romanov. “But would it be possible for someone to return the laundry basket to the Saint Cothard Hotel?”

  “Of course,” said the banker, who nodded toward the large man.

  “And I can be assured that the boxes will not be touched in my absence?” he asked as they walked down the corridor.

  “Naturally, Your Excellency,” said Herr Bischoff, looking somewhat aggrieved at such a suggestion. “When you return,” he continued, “you will find everything exactly as you left it.”

  Well, not exactly, Romanov thought to himself.

  When they stepped out of the lift on the ground floor, Romanov spotted Herr Bischoffs father with another customer.

  A Rolls-Royce accompanied by a police motorcycle whisked the Shah of Iran quickly away, and the chairman discreetly waved his farewell.

  When they reached the entrance to the bank, the young Herr Bischoff bowed. “We shall look forward to seeing you again when you are next in Zurich, Your Excellency,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Romanov, who shook hands with the young man and walked out on to the pavement to find the anonymous black car waiting to take him to the airport.

  He cursed. This time he did spot the agent he had seen earlier in the hotel.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “KILL HIM, SIR,” the corporal whispered in Adam’s ear.

  “Not much hope of that,” muttered Adam as he bounced into the center of the ring.

  The lean muscle-bound instructor stood waiting for him. “Let’s have a few rounds and see how you make out, sir.” Adam bobbed and weaved around the Physical Training Instructor, looking for an opening.

  Adam led with a left and received a tap on the nose for his trouble. “Keep your guard up,” said the sergeant major. Adam led again, catching the instructor a full blow on the chest, but was punished with a sharp left jab into the side of his head. He wobbled and his ear tingled, but this time he managed to keep his guard up when a right and left followed. “You’re feeble, sir, that’s your problem. You couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding.” Adam feinted with his right and then swung a left with such force that when it caught the sergeant major full on the chin he staggered and fell.

  The corporal standing by the
side of the ring smirked as the instructor remained on the floor. Eventually he managed to get back on his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” said Adam, his guard up and ready.

  “Don’t be sorry, you bloody fool … sir. You landed a bloody good punch. A technical knockout, to be accurate, so I’ll have to wait for a day or two to seek my revenge.” Adam breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his guard. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. It’s weight training for you now, sir. Beam work and floor exercises.”

  For the next hour the sergeant major chased, kicked, harried, and badgered Adam until he finally collapsed in a heap on the floor, incapable of lifting an evening paper.

  “Not bad, sir. I feel sure the Foreign Office will find some niche for you. Mind you,” he added, “as most of that lot are about as wet as a dishcloth even you’ll have a chance to shine.”

  “You are most flattering, sergeant major,” said Adam from a supine position.

  “Up, sir,” the instructor bellowed. Adam unwillingly got to his feet as quickly as his tired body would allow.

  “Don’t tell me, Sergeant Major.”

  “It’s the recovery that proves fitness, not the speed,” they said in unison.

  “Sad day when you left the army,” said the instructor to Adam once they were back in the Queen’s Club changing room. “Can’t name a lot of officers who have put me on the floor.” The instructor touched his chin tenderly. “That will teach me to underestimate a man who survived nine months of Chink food. And let’s hope the Foreign Office doesn’t underestimate you as well.”

  The sergeant major rose from the bench by his locker. “Same time Wednesday?”

  “Can’t make it Wednesday, Sergeant Major. I may not be back from a trip to Geneva.”

  “Swanning around Europe nowadays, are we?”

  “I could manage Thursday morning if that suits you,” Adam said, ignoring the jibe.

  “Your checkup with the quack is next Monday afternoon, if I remember correctly.”