A Matter of Honour by Jeffrey Archer

competition. He eventually
cleared away in the kitchen, made his bed and tidied up behind Lawrence – nine
years of self-discipline wasn’t going to change old habits that quickly – then
he settled down to plan another day.
    He realised he could no longer avoid making
a decision. He sat once again at his desk and began to consider how to get the
official document translated without arousing further suspicion.
    Almost absent-mindedly he removed the Bible
from the bookshelf and extracted the letter he had read the night before. The
final paragraph still puzzled him. He considered Heidi’s translation once
again:
    All that will be required of you is to present
yourself at the address printed on the top right-hand corner of the enclosed
document, with some proof that you are Colonel Gerald Scott. A passport should
prove sufficient. You will then be given a bequest that I have left to you in
the name of Emmanuel Rosenbaum.
    I hope it will bring you good fortune.
    Adam turned his attention to the document.
He was still quite unable to discern what the bequest could possibly be, let
alone whether it was of any value. Adam mused over the fact that such an evil
man could involve himself in an act of kindness hours before he knew he was
going to die – an act that now left him with no choice about his own
involvement.
    Romanov gathered the blankets together and
in one movement hurled them on to the floor to expose
Anna curled up like a child, knees almost touching her exposed breasts. Anna’s
hand groped for a corner’of the sheet to cover her naked body.
    “Breakfast in bed?” she murmured hopefully.
    “Dressed in ten minutes, or no breakfast at
all,” came back the reply. Anna lowered her feet gingerly on to the thick
carpet and waited for the room to stop going round in circles before heading
off towards the bathroom. Romanov heard the shower burst forth its jets. “Ahhh,” came the pitiful cry. Romanov smiled when he
remembered that he had left the indicator locked on dark blue.
    During breakfast in the dining room they
mulled over the approach he intended to take with the bank if Petrova were able
to confirm that the icon was in fact Rublev’s original masterpiece. He kept
looking up from the table and then suddenly, without warning, said, “Let’s go .”
    “Why?” Anna asked, as she bit into another
slice of toast. Romanov rose from the table and without bothering to offer an
explanation strode out of the room and headed straight for the lift. Petrova
caught up with her master only moments before the lift gate closed. “Why?” she
asked again, but Romanov did not speak until they were both back in his suite.
He then threw open the large window that overlooked the railway station.
    “Ah, it’s outside your room,” he said,
looking to his right, and quickly walked through to the adjoining bedroom. He
marched past the dishevelled double bed, jerked open the nearest window, and
climbed outside. Petrova stared down from the seventh floor and felt giddy.
Once Romanov had reached the bottom rung of the fire escape, he ran to a
passing tram. Petrova would never have made it if she hadn’t been lifted bodily
on to the tram by Romanov’s sheer strength.
    “What’s going on?” she asked, still puzzled.
    “I can’t be sure,” said Romanov, looking out
of the back of the tram. “All I do know for certain is what the local CIA agent
looks like.”
    The researcher looked back in the direction
of the hotel, but all she could see was a mass of anonymous people walking up
and down the pavement.
    Romanov remained on the tram for about a
mile before he jumped off and hailed a passing taxi going in the opposite
direction.
    “Bischoffet Cie,” he said as he waited for
his puffing assistant to join him.
    The cab headed back in the direction of the
hotel, winding in and out of the morning traffic, until it came to a halt in
front of a large brown granite building that filled the entire block. Romanov
paid off the