“Back to Geneva.
Something to do with the
German girl and the bank.”
“The girl’s dead and the
bank’s
closed for the weekend. He must be on his way to England.”
“I would like to rent a car which I will be
dropping off at the coast. I haven’t decided which port yet,” he told the girl
behind the counter.
“Bien
sûr, monsieur,”
said the
girl. “Would you be kind enough to fill in the form, and we will also need your
driving licence.” Adam removed all the papers from his inside pocket and passed
over the colonel’s driving licence. He filled in the forms slowly, copying the
signature off the back of the colonel’s Playboy Club card. He handed over the
full amount required in cash hoping it would speed up the transaction.
The girl picked up the cash and counted the
notes carefully before checking the back of the licence against the signature
on the form. Adam was relieved that she hadn’t spotted the disparity in the
dates of birth. He replaced all Albert Tomkins’s documents and the wallet in
his inside jacket pocket, as the girl turned round and removed an ignition key
from a hook on a board behind her.
“It’s a red Citroen, parked on the first
floor,” she told him. “The registration number is stamped on the key ring.”
Adam thanked her and walked quickly up to
the first floor where he handed the key over to an attendant, who drove the car
out of its parking space for him.
When the attendant returned the key, Adam
handed him a ten-franc note. Exactly the same sum as the other man had given
him to let him know if an English-man who fitted Adam’s description tried to
hire a car. What had he promised? Another hundred francs if he phoned within
five minutes of seeing him.
Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev entered the room,
hardly allowing the other four members of the inner quorum of the Defence
Council enough time to stand. Their faces were grim, resolute,
no
different from their public image – unlike Western
politicians.
The General Secretary took his place at the
head of the table and nodded to his colleagues to sit.
The last time the inner quorum of the
Defence Council had been summoned to a meeting at an hour’s notice had been at
the request of Khrushchev, who was hoping to enlist support for his Cuban
adventure. Brezhnev would never forget the moment when his predecessor had
uncontrollably burst into tears because they forced him to order the Soviet
ships to return home. From that moment, Brezhnev knew it could only be a matter
of time before he would succeed Khrushchev as the leader of the Communist
world. On this occasion he had no intention of bursting into tears.
On his right sat Marshal Malinovsky, Minister
of Defence: on his left Andrei Gromyko, the young Foreign Minister. Beside him
sat the Chief of the General Staff, Marshal Zakharov, and, on his left,
Zaborski. Even the seating plan confirmed Brezhnev’s obvious displeasure with
the Chairman of the KGB.
He raised his eyes and stared up at the
massive oil painting of Lenin reviewing an early military parade in Red Square:
a picture no one other than members of the Politburo had seen since it
disappeared from the Tretyakov in 1950.
If only Lenin had realised the icon was a
fake in the first place, Brezhnev reflected... Yet, despite the traditional
Russian pastime of blaming the dead for everything that goes wrong, he knew
that Vladimir Ilyich Lenin was beyond criticism. He would have to find a living
scapegoat.
His eyes rested on Zaborski.
“Your report, Comrade Chairman.”
Zaborski fingered a file in front of him
although he knew the contents almost off by heart. “The plan to locate the Tsar’s
icon was carried out in an exemplary fashion,” he began. “When the Englishman,
Adam Scott, was caught and later... questioned” – they all accepted the
euphemism – “by Comrade Dr Stavinsky in the privacy of our Embassy in Paris,
the Englishman gave no clue as to where we would find the icon. It became obvious
he was a professional agent of the West. After three hours, interrogation was
momentarily suspended. It was during this period that the prisoner managed to
escape.”
“Managed,” interjected Brezhnev.
Just as he had taught his subordinates over
the years, the Chairman of the KGB made no attempt to reply.
“Don’t you realise,” continued the General
Secretary, “that we had within our grasp the opportunity to turn the very land
the Americans use for their early warning system into a base for our short range
missiles? If it had proved possible to retrieve our icon it would also have
been possible to site those very missiles along a border less than a thousand
eight hundred kilometres from Seattle – two thousand kilometres from Chicago.
Not only could we have made the Americans’ early warning system redundant, we
could have greatly improved our ability to detect any enemy missiles while they
were still thousands of kilometres from our nearest border.”
The General Secretary paused to see if the
Chairman of the KGB had any further explanation to offer but Zaborski kept his
eyes fixed on the table in front of him. When Brezhnev began again it was
almost in a whisper:
“And for such a prize we would not have had
to sacrifice one life, one rocket, one tank or even one bullet – because all
this was ours by right. But if we fail to locate the Tsar’s icon in the next
thirty-six hours we will never be given such a chance again. We will have lost
our one opportunity to remove a star from the American flag.”
Foreign Secretary Gromyko waited until he
was certain Brezhnev had completed his statement before he enquired:
“If I may ask, Comrade Chairman, why was
Major Romanov allowed to continue being involved in such a sensitive operation
after it was suspected he had killed” – with this he glanced down at the papers
in front of him – “Researcher Petrova?”
“Because when that situation was drawn to my
attention,” replied Zaborski, at last looking up, “I had only seven days left
to tomorrow’s deadline, and in my judgment there was
no one
who could have taken over Romanov’s place at such short
notice – “
There was a timid knock on the door. All the
faces round the table showed surprise. The Minister of Defence had given
specific orders that no one was to interrupt them.
“Come,” shouted Brezhnev.
The great door inched open and a secretary
appeared in the gap; the thin piece of paper in his hand shook, betraying his
nervousness. The Minister of Defence waved him in as Brezhnev had no intention
of turning around to see who it was. The secretary walked quickly towards them.
As soon as he had deposited the telex on the table he turned, and almost ran
from the room.
Brezhnev slowly unfolded his tortoise-shell
glasses before picking up the missive. Once he had read through the cable, he
looked up at the expectant faces in front of him. “It seems an Englishman left
an icon in the Louvre and picked it back up this morning.”
The blood quickly drained from Zaborski’s
face.
The four ministers round the table all began
talking together, until Brezhnev raised the vast palm of his right hand. There
was immediate silence. “I intend to continue my plans on the assumption that it
will still be us who get to the Englishman first.”
Brezhnev turned towards hi£ Foreign
Minister. “Alert all our Western Ambassadors to be prepared to brief the
Foreign Ministers of the country in which they reside on the full implications
of honouring the amendment to the treaty. Then instruct Anatoly Dobrynin in
Washington to demand an official meeting with the Secretary of State to be
fixed for late Monday. At the same time I want a further meeting arranged
between our Ambassador at the United Nations and U Thant.”
Gromyko nodded as Brezhnev turned his
attention to the Chief of the General Staff. “See that our strategic forces in
all zones are put at a state of readiness to coincide with the timing of the
announcement of our diplomatic initiative.” Malinovsky smiled. The General
Secretary finally turned to the Chairman of the KGB. “Do we still have
advertising space booked in every major newspaper in the West?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary,” replied
Zaborski. “But I cannot be certain they will be willing to print the statement
as you have prepared it.”
“Then pay every one of them in advance,”
said Brezhnev. “Few Western editors will withdraw a full page advertisement
when they already have the money in the bank.”
“But if we then don’t find the icon...”
began the Chairman of the KGB.
“Then your last duty as Chairman of State
Security will be to withdraw all the advertisements,” said the General
Secretary of the Communist Party.
Adam wound down the car window and
immediately the warm summer air flooded in. He had decided to avoid the main
road to Calais in favour of the
Nl
to Boulogne. He
still considered it possible that Romanov would have men watching at every port
on the Channel coast although he doubted if Lawrence or the Americans were
aware he had escaped.
Once he had cleared the outskirts of the
French capital, he was confident that he could average seventy kilometres an
hour the rest of the way. But what he hadn’t anticipated was running into a
hundred or more cyclists, daubed in their various stripes of reds, greens,
blues, blacks and golds, bobbing along ahead of him. As he drifted past them
Adam was able accurately to check that they were averaging 40 miles an hour.
Having followed the build-up for the
forthcoming World Cup in Britain, he was also able to make out the national
colours of France, Germany, Italy and even Portugal. He honked his horn loudly
as he passed a group of four men quite near the front, clad in red, white and
blue T-shirts with the British team van driving just ahead of them. A few
moments later he had overtaken the leaders, and was able to put the car back
into fourth gear.
369
Jeffrey Archer
He switched on the car radio and fiddled
around for some time before he tuned in to the Home Service of the BBC. He
settled back to listen to the news in English for the first time in days. The
usual reports of long strikes, high inflation, and of England’s chances when
the second Test Match at Lord’s resumed after the rest day almost made him feel
he was already back home, and then he nearly swerved off the road and into a
tree.
The news reader reported matter-of-factly
that a young RAF pilot had been found dead in a field off the Auxerre/Dijon
road after his plane had crashed in mysterious circumstances. No more details
were available at the present time. Adam cursed and slammed his fist on the
steering wheel at the thought of Alan Banks becoming another victim of Romanov.
He tapped the icon and cursed again.
“It was foolish of you to contact me, young
man,” said the old banker. “You’re not exactly a hero of the Soviet Union at
the present time.”
“Listen, old man, I don’t have to be a hero
any longer because I may never come back to the Soviet Union.”
“Be warned: Mother Russia has extremely long
finger nails.”
“And because of my grandfather’s foresight,
I can afford to cut them off,” the caller said, touching the gold medallion he
wore beneath his shirt. “I just need to be sure you don’t let them know where I
keep the scissors.”
“Why should I remain silent?” asked
Poskonov.
“Because if I haven’t got
my hands on St George within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll phone again with
the details of how you can hope to collect a larger golden handshake than you
could have expected from your present employers.”
The banker offered no comment.
The Ambassador’s secretary rushed into the
room without knocking. “I told you no interruptions,” shouted Romanov, covering
the mouthpiece with his hand.
“But we’ve located Scott.”
Romanov slammed the phone down. In Moscow,
the
old
Russian banker wound the tape back. Poskonov
smiled and listened to Romanov’s words a second time and came to the conclusion
that Romanov had left him with only one choice. He booked a flight to Geneva.
“Robin?”
“Batman.
Where have you got to?”
“I’m just outside Paris on my way back home,”
Adam said. “Are you sticking to the schedule you outlined on the bus?”
“Sure am. Why, are you still desperate to
spend the night with me?”
“Sure am,” said Adam, mimicking her. “But
when do you get back home?”
“The orchestra is taking the ferry from
Dunkerque at six thirty tonight. Can you join us?”
“No,” said Adam. “I have to -return by
another route. But, Robin, when I reach London can you put me up for the night?”
“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” she
said, and then repeated her address to be sure he had time to write it down. “When
shall I expect you?” she asked.