When Romanov left Banks thirty minutes later hidden behind a tree with a broken neck he reluctantly admitted that the young pilot officer had been as brave as Valchek—but he couldn’t waste any more time trying to discover in which direction Scott was heading.
Romanov headed west.
The moment Adam heard the siren he came out of his reverie. He checked the little clock on the dashboard. He had only been driving for about an hour and a half. Could the French police be that efficient? The police car was now approaching him fast on his left, but Adam maintained the same speed—except for his heartbeat, which climbed well above the approved limit—until the police car shot past him.
As the kilometers sped by, he began to wonder if it might be wiser to turn off onto a quieter road, but decided, on balance, to risk pushing on to Paris as quickly as possible.
He remained alert for further sirens as he continued to follow the signs to Paris. When he finally reached the outskirts of the city, he proceeded to the boulevard de l’Hôpital and even felt relaxed enough to bite into another apple. In normal circumstances he would have appreciated the magnificent architecture along the banks of the Seine, but today his eyes kept returning to the rearview mirror.
Adam decided he would abandon the vehicle in a large public parking lot; with any luck it could be days before anyone came across it.
He turned down the rue de Rivoli and took in at once the long colorful banners looming up in front of him. He could hardly have picked a better place, as he felt sure it would be packed with foreign cars.
Adam backed the Rover in the farthest corner of the square. He then wolfed down the last piece of cheese and locked the car. He started walking toward the exit but had only gone a few yards when he realized that the strolling holidaymakers were amused by his ill-fitting brown jacket, which he had completely forgotten. He decided to turn back and throw the coat in the trunk. He quickly took it off and folded it in a small square.
He was only a few yards away from the car when he saw the young policeman. He was checking the Rover’s license plate and repeating the letters and numbers into an intercom. Adam inched slowly back, never taking his eyes from the officer. He only needed to manage another six or seven paces before he would be lost in the throng of the crowd.
Five, four, three, two more paces backward, he estimated, as the man continued speaking into the intercom. Just one more pace … “Alors!” hollered the lady on whose foot Adam had stepped.
“I’m so sorry,” said Adam, instinctively in his native language. The policeman immediately looked up and stared at Adam, then shouted something into the intercom and began running toward him.
Adam dropped the brown coat and swung round quickly, nearly knocking the stooping lady over before sprinting off toward the exit. The lot was full of tourists who had come to enjoy the pleasures of the Louvre, and Adam found it hard to pick up any real speed through the dense crowd. By the time he reached the entrance to the car park, he could hear the policeman’s whistle a few paces behind him. He ran across the rue de Rivoli, through an archway and into a large square.
By then another policeman was coming from his right, leaving him with no choice but to run up the steps in front of him. When he reached the top he turned to see at least three other policemen in close pursuit. He threw himself through the swinging door and past a group of Japanese tourists who were surrounding the Rodin statue that stood in the hallway. He charged on past a startled ticket collector and on up the long marble staircase. “Monsieur, monsieur, votre billet?” he heard shouted in his wake.
At the top of the staircase he turned right and ran through the Special “66” Centuries Exhibition: modern—Pollock, Bacon, Hockney—into the impressionist room—Monet, Manet, Courbet—desperately looking for any way out. On into the eighteenth century—Fragonard, Goya, Watteau—but still no sign of an exit. Through the great arch into the seventeenth century—Murillo, Van Dyck, Poussin—as people stopped looking at the pictures and turned their attention to what was causing such a commotion. Adam ran on into the sixteenth century—Raphael, Caravaggio, Michelangelo—suddenly aware that there were only two centuries of paintings to go.
Right or left? He chose right and entered a huge square room. There were three exits. He slowed momentarily to decide which would be his best bet when he became aware that the room was full of Russian icons. He came to a halt at an empty display case: Nous regrettons que cetableau soit soumis à la restauration.
The first policeman had already entered the large room and was only a few paces behind as Adam dashed on toward the farthest exit. There were now only two exits left open for him from which to choose. He swung right, only to see another policeman bearing straight down on him. Left; two more. Ahead, yet another.
Adam came to a halt in the middle of the icon room at the Louvre, his hands raised above his head. He was surrounded by policemen, their guns drawn.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SIR MORRIS PICKED up the phone on his desk.
“An urgent call from Paris, sir,” said his secretary.
“Thank you, Tessa.” He listened carefully as his brain quickly translated the exciting news.
“Merci, merci,” said Sir Morris to his opposite number at the French Foreign Ministry. “We will be back in touch with you as soon as we have made all the necessary arrangements to collect him. But for now, please don’t let him out of your sight.” Sir Morris listened for a few moments. “And if he has any possessions on him, please keep them guarded under lock and key. Thank you once again,” he said before putting the phone down. His secretary took down every word of the conversation in shorthand as she had done for the past fourteen years.
Once the police had snapped the handcuffs on Adam and marched him off to a waiting car, he was surprised how relaxed, almost friendly, they became. He was yanked into the back of the car by the policeman to whom he was attached. He noticed that there was a police car in front of him and yet another behind. Two motorcycle outriders led the little motorcade away. Adam felt more like visiting royalty than a criminal who was wanted for questioning for two murders, two car thefts, and traveling under false identification. Was it possible at last that someone had worked out he was innocent?
When Adam arrived at the Ministry of the Interior, he was immediately ordered to empty all his pockets. One wristwatch, one apple, twenty pounds in travelers’ checks, eight francs, and one British passport in the name of Dudley Hulme. The station inspector asked him politely to strip to his underclothes. It was the second time that day. Once Adam had done so, the inspector carefully checked every pocket of the blazer, even the lining. His expression left Adam in no doubt he hadn’t found what he was looking for.
“Do you have anything else in your possession?” the officer asked in slow, precise English.
Damn silly question, thought Adam. You can see for yourself. “No,” was all he replied. The inspector checked the blazer once again but came across nothing new. “You must get dressed,” he said abruptly.
Adam put back on his shirt, jacket, and trousers, but the inspector kept his tie and shoelaces.
“All your things will be returned to you when you leave,” the inspector explained. Adam nodded as he slipped on his shoes, which flapped uncomfortably when he walked. He was then accompanied to a small cell on the same floor, locked in, and left alone. He looked around the sparsely furnished room. A small wooden table was placed in its center, with two wooden chairs on either side. His eyes checked over a single bed in the corner, which had on it an ancient horsehair mattress. He could not have described the room properly as a cell because there were no bars, even across the one small window. He took off his jacket, hung it over the chair, and lay down on the bed. At least it was an improvement over anything he had slept on for the past two nights, he reflected. Could it have only been two nights since he had slept on the floor of Robin’s hotel room in Geneva?
As the minutes ticked by, he made only one decision. That when the inspector re
turned, he would demand to see a lawyer. “What the hell’s the French for lawyer?” he asked out loud.
When an officer eventually appeared, in what Adam estimated must have been about half an hour, he was carrying a tray laden with hot soup, a roll, and what looked to Adam like a steak with all the trimmings and a plastic cup filled to the brim with red wine. He wondered if they had got the wrong man, or if this was simply his last meal before the guillotine. He followed the officer to the door.
“I demand to speak to a lawyer,” he said emphatically, but the policeman only shrugged.
“Je ne comprends pas l’anglais,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.
Adam settled down to eat the meal that had been set before him, thankful that the French assumed good food should be served whatever the circumstances.
Sir Morris told them his news an hour later and then studied each of them round that table carefully. He would never have called the D4 if he hadn’t felt sure that Adam was at last secure. Matthews continued to show no emotion. Busch was unusually silent while Snell looked almost relaxed for a change. Lawrence was the only one who seemed genuinely pleased.
“Scott is locked up in the Ministry of the Interior off the Place Beauvais,” continued Sir Morris, “and I have already contacted our military attaché at the. embassy … .”
“Colonel Pollard,” interrupted Lawrence.
“Colonel Pollard indeed,” said Sir Morris, “who has been sent over in the ambassador’s car and will bring Scott back to be debriefed at our embassy in Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Sureté rang a few moments ago to confirm that Colonel Pollard had arrived.” Sir Morris turned toward his number two. “You will fly over to Paris tonight and conduct the debriefing yourself.”
“Yes sir,” said Lawrence, looking up at his boss, a smile appearing on his face.
Sir Morris nodded. A cool lot, he considered, as he stared round that table, but the next half hour would surely find out which one of them it was who served two masters.
“Good,” said Lawrence. “Any queries?”
“May we know the full details?” asked Matthews.
Lawrence looked toward his chief who nodded his approval.
After Lawrence had gone over his proposed plan and answered any queries the meeting broke up.
Mentor smiled as Sir Morris left the room; his task had already been completed. So simple when you can read upside-down shorthand.
A black Jaguar bearing diplomatic plates had arrived at police headquarters a few minutes earlier than expected. The traffic had not been as heavy as the colonel had anticipated. The inspector was standing on the steps as Pollard jumped out of the car. The policeman looked at the flapping Union Jack on the hood, and considered the whole exercise was becoming rather melodramatic.
Pollard, a short, thickset man dressed in a dark suit, regimental tie, and carrying a rolled umbrella, looked like so many Englishmen who refuse to acknowledge they could possibly be abroad.
The inspector took Pollard directly through to the little room where Adam had been incarcerated.
“Pollard’s the name, Colonel Pollard. British military attaché stationed here in Paris. Sorry you’ve been put through this ordeal, old fellow, but a lot of paperwork had to be completed to get you out. Bloody red tape.”
“I understand,” said Adam, jumping off the bed and shaking the colonel by the hand. “I was in the army myself.”
“I know. Royal Wessex, wasn’t it?”
Adam nodded, feeling a little more confident.
“Still, the problem’s been sorted out now,” continued the colonel. “The French police have been most cooperative and have agreed to let you accompany me to our embassy.”
Adam looked at the colonel’s tie. “Duke of York’s?”
“What? Certainly not,” said Pollard, his hand fingering his shirt front. “Green Jackets.”
“Yes, of course,” said Adam, pleased to have his mistake picked up.
“Now I think we ought to be cutting along, old fellow. I know you’ll be relieved to hear that they won’t be laying any charges.”
The colonel didn’t know just how relieved Adam did feel.
The inspector led them both back out into the hall where Adam had only to identify and sign for his personal belongings. He put them all in his pocket, except for the watch, which he slipped over his wrist, and his shoelaces, which he quickly inserted and tied. He wasn’t surprised they didn’t return Dudley Hulme’s passport.
“Don’t let’s hang around too long, old fellow,” said the colonel, beginning to sound a little anxious.
“I won’t be a moment,” said Adam. “I’m just as keen to get out of this place as you are.” He checked his laces before following Colonel Pollard and the inspector out to the waiting Jaguar. He noticed for the first time that the colonel had a slight limp. A chauffeur held the door open for him; Adam laughed.
“Something funny, old fellow?” asked the colonel.
“No. It’s just that the last chauffeur who offered to do that for me didn’t look quite as friendly.”
Adam climbed into the back of the Jaguar, and the colonel slipped in beside him.
“Back to the embassy,” said Pollard, and the car moved off briskly.
Adam stared in horror at the flapping Union Jack.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WHEN ADAM AWOKE he was naked.
He tried to look around the room, but he was unable to see what was behind him; his arms, legs, and body were bound tightly by a nylon cord to a chair that had been placed in the middle of the room and that made him all but immobile.
When he looked up from the chair all he could see was Colonel Pollard standing over him. The moment the colonel was satisfied that Adam had regained consciousness he quickly left the room.
Adam turned his head to see all his clothes laid out neatly on a bed at the far side of the cell. He tried to maneuver the chair, but he could barely manage to make it wobble from side to side and after several minutes had advanced only a few inches toward the door. He switched his energies to loosening the cords around his wrists, rubbing them up and down against the wood of the slats, but his arms were bound so tightly that he could only manage the slightest friction.
After struggling ineffectively for several minutes he was interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open. Adam looked up as Romanov strode through. He decided he was no less terrifying at close quarters. He was followed by another man, whom Adam didn’t recognize. The second man was clutching what looked like a cigar box as he took his place somewhere behind Adam. Pollard followed him, carrying a large plastic sheet.
Romanov looked at Adam’s naked body and smiled; enjoying his humiliation, he came to a halt directly in front of the chair.
“My name is Alexander Petrovich Romanov,” he announced with only a slight accent.
“Or Emmanuel Rosenbaum,” said Adam, staring at his adversary closely.
“I am only sorry that we are unable to shake hands,” he added, as he began circling the chair. “But I felt in the circumstances certain precautions were necessary. First I should like to congratulate you on having eluded me for so long, but as you will now realize my source in London can place a call every bit as quickly as yours.”
“Your source?” said Adam.
“Don’t be naive, Captain. You must be painfully aware by now that you’re in no position to be asking questions, only answering them.”
Adam fixed his gaze on a brick in the wall in front of him, making no attempt to follow Romanov’s circumnavigations.
“Pollard,” said Romanov sharply, “put Captain Scott back in the center of the room. He seems to have managed to move at least a foot in his getaway attempt.”
Pollard did as he was bid, first spreading the plastic sheet on the floor, then maneuvering Adam till the chair was on the center of the sheet.
“Thank you,” said Romanov. “I think you have already met our Colonel Pollard,” he continued. “That’s not his real name, of c
ourse, and indeed he’s not a real colonel either, but that’s what he always wanted to be in life, so when the opportunity arose, we happily obliged
“In fact the good colonel did serve in the British Army, but I fear he entered the service of king and country as a private soldier and eighteen years later left, still as a private soldier. And despite an injury to his leg—unfortunately not received from any known enemy of the crown—he was unable to claim a disability pension. Which left him fairly destitute. But as I explained, he always wanted to be a colonel,” continued Romanov. “It was a good attempt of yours, The Duke of York’s?’ but as the colonel had genuinely served with the Green Jackets, it was the one tie he felt safe wearing.”
Adam’s eyes remained fixed on the wall. “Now I confess, our mistake over the Union Jack was lax, but as it is impossible to fly the Russian flag upside down without everyone noticing, it was perhaps understandable. Although in truth Pollard should have spotted it immediately, we must be thankful that you did not until the car doors were safely locked.”
Romanov stopped his endless circling and stared down at the nude body.
“Now I think the time has come for you to be introduced to our Dr. Stravinsky, who has so been looking forward to making your acquaintance because he hasn’t had a lot of work to do lately, and he fears he might be becoming a little rusty.”
Romanov took a pace backward, allowing Stravinsky to come and take his place immediately in front of Adam. The cigar box was still tucked under his arm. Adam stared at the diminutive figure, who seemed to be sizing him up. Stravinsky must have been no taller than five feet and wore an open-necked gray shirt and a badly creased gray suit that made him resemble a junior clerk in a not very successful solicitor’s office. A one-day bristle covered his face, leaving the impression that he hadn’t expected to be working that day. His thin lips suddenly parted in a grin as if he had come to some conclusion.