Romanov stood staring at her for some
moments and then backed away as Robin’s eyes remained glued on him. When he
reached the front he waved at Valchek and the chauffeur, indicating that they
should leave the coach. Reluctantly they obeyed him. The coach driver closed
the door the moment Romanov’s foot touched the ground and he quickly moved into
first gear and drove back on to the highway.
The entire orchestra turned round and gave
Robin the kind of ovation normally reserved for the entrance of the leader of
the orchestra.
It went unappreciated. Robin had collapsed
back into her seat, shaking uncontrollably, only too aware that not one of the
forty men on that coach would have lifted a finger against Rosenbaum.
Sir Morris Youngfield glanced round the
table: everyone was in place despite the few minutes’ notice the head of D4 had
given them.
“Let’s hear the latest report,” said Sir
Morris, looking up at his Number Two, who was once again seated at the far end
of the table.
“Not clever, sir, I’m afraid,” began
Lawrence. “Two of our most experienced agents were selected to pick up Scott at
the Richmond Hotel as planned and then take him to the safety of the British
Consulate.”
“So what happened?” asked Sir Morris.
“No one at our Geneva office can be certain.
Our men certainly never turned up at the hotel and they haven’t been seen
since.”
“What
are the Swiss police
saying
?” asked Busch.
“They are not being very helpful,” said
Lawrence, turning to the American. “They are aware that we are not the only
foreign power involved and as is their custom in such circumstances, they have
no intention of being seen to favour either side.”
“Bloody Swiss,” said Snell with feeling.
“And where do we imagine Scott is now?”
asked Matthews.
“We’ve also drawn a blank on that,” said
Lawrence. Matthews smiled at Lawrence’s embarrassment. “We feel certain he must
have got on the coach with the girl -” he looked down at the sheet of paper on
the table in front of him “- Robin Beresford. But he wasn’t on it when we were
waiting for them at the border. The orchestra is due at their Frankfurt hotel
in about one hour so we will be able to find out more then. The German police
are being far more co-operative,” Lawrence added.
“Meanwhile what else are
we
doing?” asked Sir Morris.
“Checking all the usual places as well as
keeping a close eye on Romanov who, incidentally, turned up on the French
border last night. One of our old hands recognised him despite the fact that he’s
cut his hair very short; doesn’t suit him, apparently.”
“So Scott could be anywhere by now?” said
Matthews. “Do you think he’s still in Switzerland, or managed to cross one of
the borders?”
Lawrence hesitated. “I have no idea,” he
said without expression.
Sir Morris stared at him from the far end of
the table but didn’t comment.
“Do you think he’ll contact you again?”
asked Snell.
“Almost certainly, if he’s
still alive.”
“If Romanov is still in Switzerland, Scott
must
still be alive,” said Busch.
“Because the moment he gets his hands on the icon he will head
east.”
“Agreed,”
said
Lawrence, “and we have men stationed at the airport checking every flight out
to the East. I therefore suggest we follow up any further leads and assemble
again tomorrow at seven a.m. unless Scott contacts me before then.”
Sir Morris nodded and rose to leave.
Everyone stood.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, and walked
towards the far end of the room. As he passed Lawrence, he murmured, “Perhaps
you could come to my office when you have a moment.”
Adam slipped and stumbled the last few yards
down the ravine before finally landing with a bump on his backside. His hands
were cut and bleeding in several places, his trousers torn and smeared with
clay and earth. He sat still for about two minutes trying to get his breath
back as he looked back up towards the road. He had taken just under an hour to
cover what a stone could have managed in three seconds. Still, there had been
one advantage: no one could have seen him from the road. He gazed across the
valley ahead. Anyone would be able to see him now, but he had left himself with
no alternative.
Judge by eye, check by map. The map wasn’t
much help but he estimated the distance to the far ridge to be about two more
miles. At least the map had promised him there was a road, hidden from sight on
the other side of the ridge. He studied the terrain – rolling green fields, no
hedgerows to shield him, and then one wide, shallow river. He reckoned he could
cover the ground to the road in about twenty minutes. He checked that the icon
was securely in place and then set off at an even pace.
Romanov had hardly uttered a word since the
three men had been unceremoniously removed from the coach, and Valchek and the
driver certainly hadn’t ventured any opinions. Romanov knew the girl had called
his bluff, and he couldn’t afford a further diplomatic incident which would
undoubtedly be reported back to his Chairman in Moscow. But Romanov would never
forget the girl with the man’s name.
Solothurn was about forty kilometres back in
the direction they had already travelled, and the driver could have completed
the journey in about twenty minutes had Romanov not insisted on slowing down as
they passed every vehicle that travelled towards them. They checked the
occupants of each vehicle on the other side of the road, just in case Scott had
managed to thumb a lift. It was a necessary precaution in Romanov’s judgment,
but it meant a total time of thirty-one minutes before they arrived back in
Solothurn. At least Romanov felt confident Scott wasn’t heading for the German
border – unless he had been very well disguised or travelled in the boot of a
car.
As soon as they reached Solothurn Romanov
instructed the driver to leave the car in the middle of the town while they
split up to see if they could discover any clues as to the route Scott might
have taken. None of the locals whom they questioned had seen anyone resembling
Scott that morning, and Romanov was beginning to wonder which border he should
now head for when he saw the driver kicking a football back to a little boy.
Romanov ran down the hill and was about to remonstrate with him when the boy
turned and kicked the ball hard at the Russian. Romanov trapped the ball
automatically and kicked it firmly past the boy and into the goal. Romanov
turned towards the driver and was about to shout at him when the ball
reappeared at his feet. He picked it up in anger and was going to throw it back
at the boy when he saw his hopeful smile. Romanov held the ball high above his
head. The boy ran up and jumped towards the ball but however hard he tried he
couldn’t reach it.
“Have you seen any strangers this morning?”
he asked in slow deliberate German.
“Yes, yes,” said the boy. “But he didn’t
score a goal.”
“Where did he go?” asked Romanov.
“Up the hill,” said the boy. To the child’s
dismay, Romanov dropped the ball and began to run. Valchek and the driver
followed after him.
“Nein,
nein,”
cried the little boy
who followed after them. Romanov looked back to see the boy was standing on the
spot where Adam had been thumbing lifts, pointing out over the ravine.
Romanov quickly turned to the driver. “Get
the
car,
I need the glasses and the map.” The driver
ran back down the hill once again followed by the boy. A few minutes later the
Mercedes drew up by Romanov’s side. The driver jumped out and handed the
glasses over to Romanov, while Valchek spread a map out on the car bonnet.
Romanov focused the binoculars and began to
sweep the hills in the distance. It was several minutes before the glasses
stopped and settled upon a brown speck climbing up the farthest hill.
“The rifle,” were Romanov’s only words.
Valchek ran to the boot of the car and took
out a Dragunov sniper’s rifle with telescopic sights. He assembled the long,
slim weapon with its distinctive wooden skeleton stock and checked that it was
loaded. He then raised it, moved it around until it felt comfortable nestled in
his shoulder and swept the ground in front of him until he too focused on
Scott. Romanov followed Adam’s relentless stride with the binoculars. Valchek’s
arm moved with him, keeping the same pace. “Kill him,” said Romanov. Valchek was
grateful for the clear windless day as he kept the rifle sight in the middle of
the Englishman’s back, waited for three more strides,
then
slowly squeezed the trigger. Adam had almost reached the top of the ridge when
the bullet tore through him. He fell to the ground with a thud. Romanov smiled
and lowered the glasses.
Adam knew exactly what had ripped through
his shoulder and where the shot must have come from. He instinctively rolled
over until he reached the nearest tree. And then the pain began. Although the
bullet had lost a lot of its power at such a distance, it still stung like an
adder’s bite, and blood was already beginning to seep through his trenchcoat
from the torn muscle. He turned his head and gazed back behind him. He could
see no one but he knew Romanov must be standing there waiting to take a second
shot.
Turning with difficulty, he looked back up
towards the edge of the hill. Only thirty yards to the safety of the ridge, but
he would have to run over the top, remaining exposed for several vital seconds.
Even if he made it Romanov would still be able to reach him by car within
thirty minutes.
Nevertheless, that was his one chance.
Slowly, very slowly, he crawled inch by inch up the ridge, thankful for the
tree that he could still use as protection. One arm followed one leg, like a
beached crab. Once he had covered ten yards he knew the angle would be against
him and Romanov would have a flat, slow-moving target to aim at. He moved four
more lengths of his body and stopped.
You can’t hold a rifle up on your shoulder
for ever, Adam thought. He counted to two hundred slowly.
“I suspect he’s going to make a run for it,”
Romanov told Valchek as he raised the glasses, “which will give you about three
seconds. I’ll shout the moment he moves.” Romanov kept the glasses trained on
the tree. Suddenly Adam jumped up and sprinted as though it were the last
twenty metres of an Olympic final. Romanov shouted “Now” and Valchek pulled the
rifle up into his shoulder, focused on the moving man and squeezed the trigger
as Adam threw himself over the ridge. The second bullet whistled by the side of
Adam’s head.
Romanov cursed, as he stared through the
binoculars, knowing that Valchek had missed. He turned to the open map. The
others joined him around the car as he began to consider the alternatives. “He
should reach that road in about ten minutes,” he said, putting his finger in
the middle of a small red line that ran between Neuchatel and the French
border. “Unless the first bullet hit him, in which case it could take him
longer. So how long will it take you to get to that border?” Romanov asked the
driver.
The chauffeur studied the map. “About
twenty-five, at most thirty minutes, Comrade Major,” came back the reply.
Romanov turned and looked back towards the
hills. “Thirty minutes, Scott, that’s how long you’ve got to live.”
When the car sped away, the little boy ran
home as fast as he could. He quickly told his mother everything he had seen.
She smiled understandingly. Only children always had such vivid imaginations.
When Adam looked up, he was relieved to see
the road was only about a mile away. He jogged towards it at a steady pace, but
found that the running caused him even more discomfort. He was anxious to stop
and check the wound but waited till he reached the road. The bullet had torn
through the outer flesh of his shoulder muscle leaving him in considerable
pain. An inch lower and he would have been unable to move. He was relieved to
see that the blood had only made a small stain on his trenchcoat. He folded a
handkerchief in four and placed it between his shirt and the wound. He knew he
daren’t risk a hospital. As long as he could get to a pharmacy by nightfall, he
felt he could take care of the problem himself.
Adam checked the map. He was now only a few
kilometres from the French border, and decided, because of the wound, to cross
into France as quickly as possible rather than keep to his original plan of
going up through Basle and on to Bremerhaven.
Desperately he began to thumb at any car
that passed, no longer bothering with the nationality of the number plates. He
felt he was safe for about twenty minutes but after that he would have to
disappear back into the hills. Unfortunately there were far fewer cars driving
towards the French border than there had been on the Basle road, and they all
ignored his plea. He feared that the time was fast approaching for him to
return to the hills when a yellow Citroen drew into the side of the road a few
yards ahead of him.
By the time Adam had reached the car the
woman in the passenger seat had already wound down the window.
“Where – are – you – going?” asked Adam,
pronouncing each word slowly and carefully.