A Matter of Honour by Jeffrey Archer Page B

friends and relations,
    They’re a ravenous horde, and they all came
aboard
    At Sloane Square and South
Kensington stations.
    He paid a shilling for a ticket to
Paddington and, installed in a half-empty carriage, once again went over his
plan. When he emerged into the open air at Paddington he checked the street
name and, once he was sure of his bearings, walked out on to Craven Road until
he came to the first available newsagent and then asked the directions for
Craven Terrace.
    “Fourth road on the left, mate,” said the
shopkeeper, not bothering to look up from a pile of Radio Times on which he was pencilling names. Adam thanked him and
a few minutes later found himself standing at the end
of a short drive, looking up at the bold green and yellow sign: The German
Young Men’s Christian Association.
    He opened the gate, walked up the drive and
strode confidently through the front door. He was stopped by a porter standing
in the hallway.
    “Can I help you, guv’nor?”
    Adam put on an exaggerated military accent
and explained that he was looking for a young man called Hans Kramer.
    “Never ‘eard of ‘im, sir,” said the porter,
almost standing to attention when he recognised the regimental tie. He turned
to a book that lay open on the desk. “‘E isn’t registered,” he added, a
Woodbine-stained thumb running down the list of names in front of him. “Why don’t
you try the lounge or the games room?” he suggested, gesturing with the thumb
to a door on the right.
    “Thank you,” said Adam, not dropping the
plummy tones. He walked smartly across the hall and through the swing doors – which,
judging from the lack of paint on the base, looked as
if they had been kicked open more often than they had been pushed. He glanced
around the room. Several students were lounging about reading German papers and
magazines. He wasn’t sure where to start, until he spotted a studious-looking
girl on her own in a corner, poring over a copy of Time magazine. Brezhnev’s face stared
out from the cover. Adam strolled over and took the empty seat beside her. She
glanced sideways at him and couldn’t hide her surprise at his formal dress. He
waited for her to put the paper down before asking, “I wonder if you could
assist me?”
    “How?” enquired the girl, sounding a little
apprehensive.
    “I just need something translated.”
    She looked relieved. “I will see if I can
help. Have you brought something with you?”
    “Yes I have, I hope it isn’t too difficult,”
Adam said. He took the envelope from his inside pocket and extracted the first
paragraph of Goering’s letter.
    Then he put the envelope back in his pocket,
took out a little notebook and waited expectantly. He felt like a cub reporter.
    She read the paragraph over two or three
times, then seemed to hesitate.
    “Is anything wrong?”
    “Not exactly,” she replied, still
concentrating on the words in front of her. “It’s just that it’s a little bit
old-fashioned so that I might not be able to give you the exact sense.”
    Adam breathed a sigh of relief.
    She repeated each sentence slowly, first in
German and then in English as if wanting to feel the meaning as well as just
translating the words.
    “Over the last... past year we have come to
know... each other somewhat. . . no, no,” she said, “quite
well.” Adam wrote each word down as the girl translated them.
    “You have never disguised – perhaps a better
meaning is ‘hidden’ -” she added, “your distaste for the National Socialist
Party.”
    She raised her head and stared at Adam. “It’s
only out of a book,” he assured her. She didn’t look convinced but nevertheless
continued. “But you have at every time... no, at all times, behaved with the
courtesy of an officer and a gentleman.”
    The girl looked up, even more puzzled, as
she had now reached the last word.
    “Is that all?” she asked. “It doesn’t make
sense. There has to be more.”
    “No, that’s it,” said