A Matter of Honour by Jeffrey Archer Page A

haven’t come up with a single lead. And
why not? Because the only people who have seen the icon since 1917 were
the Hesses and Goering, which leaves me with only one hope if it was not
destroyed when the Grand Duke’s plane crashed,” said Romanov.
    “Namely?” asked Petrova.
    “That while the rest of the world is under
the illusion that the original still hangs in the Winter Palace, it has, for
the past twenty years, been lodged in a Swiss bank waiting for someone to claim
it.”
    “A long shot,” said the researcher.
    “I am quite aware of that,” said Romanov
sharply, “but don’t forget that many Swiss banks have a twenty-five-year rule
before disclosure, some even thirty. One or two even have no deadline at all as
long as enough money has been deposited to cover the housing of the treasure.”
    “Heaven knows how many banks there might be
who fall into that category,” sighed Petrova.
    “Heaven knows,” agreed Romanov, “and so
might you by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And then it will be necessary for
me to pay a visit to the one man in this country who knows everything about
banking.”
    “Am I expected to start straight away,
Comrade Major?” the researcher asked coyly.
    Romanov smiled and looked down into the girl’s
green eyes. Dressed in the dull grey uniform of her trade, no one would have
given her a second look. But in the nude she was quite magnificent. He leaned
over until their lips nearly met.
    “You’ll have to rise very early, Anna, but
for now just turn out the light.”

CHAPTER
FIVE
    It took Adam only a few more minutes before
he had checked over both documents again. He put the original back in the faded
envelope and replaced it in the Bible on his bookshelf. Finally he folded his
duplicated copy of Goering’s letter into three horizontal pieces and cut it
carefully along the folds into strips which he placed in a clean envelope and
left on his bedside table. Adam’s next problem was how to obtain a translation
of the document and Goering’s letter without arousing unnecessary curiosity.
Years of army training had taught him to be cautious when faced with an unknown
situation. He quickly dismissed the German Embassy, the German Tourist Board and
the German Press Agency as all three were too official, and therefore likely to
ask unwanted questions. Once he was dressed he went to the hall and began to
flick through the pages in the London E-K Directory until his finger reached
the column he had been searching for.
    German
Broadcasting
    German
Cultural Institute
    German
Federal Railway
    German
Hospital
    German
Old People’s Home
    His eye passed over ‘German Technical
Translations’ and stopped at a more promising entry. The address was given as
Bayswater House, 35 Craven Terrace, W2 . He checked his
watch.
    Adam left the flat a few minutes before ten,
the three pieces of the letter now safely lodged in the inside pocket of his
blazer. He strolled down Edith Grove and into the King’s Road, enjoying the
morning sun. The street had been transformed from the one he had known as a
young subaltern. Boutiques had taken the place of antiquarian bookshops. Record
shops had replaced the local cobbler, and Dolcis had given way to Mary Quant.
Take a fortnight’s holiday, and you couldn’t be sure anything would still be
there when you returned, he reflected ruefully.
    Crowds of people spilled out from the
pavement on to the road, staring or hoping to be stared at, according to their
age. As Adam passed the first of the record shops he had no choice but to
listen to ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ as it blared into the ears of everyone
within shouting distance.
    By the time Adam reached Sloane Square the
world had almost returned to normal – Peter Jones, W. H. Smith’s and the London
Underground. The words his mother sang so often over the kitchen sink came back
to him every time he walked into the square.
    And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and
cold meat)
    To a party of