Free A Matter of Honour by Jeffrey Archer Page A

deposited in their bank? And rather than cause a diplomatic incident – the
one thing every Swiss banker wishes to avoid at any cost – perhaps they would,
in the interests of good relationships, consider checking in their vaults items
that have not been claimed for over twenty years.”
    Romanov looked straight at the old man,
realising why he had survived several purges. “I owe you an apology, Comrade
Poskonov.”
    “No, no, we each have our own little skills.
I am sure I would be as lost in your world as you appear to be in mine. Now, if
you will allow me to contact each of the chairmen on this list and tell them no
more than the truth – a commodity I am always obliged to trade in although I
imagine your counterparts are not so familiar with – namely that I suspect the
Tsar’s icon is in their bank, most of
them will be disinclined to hold on to the masterpiece if they believe in so
doing a crime has been perpetrated against a sovereign state.”
    “I cannot overstress the urgency,” said
Romanov.
    “Just like your grandfather,” Poskonov
repeated. “So be it. If they can be tracked down, I shall speak to every one of
them today. At least that’s one of the advantages of the rest of the world
waking up after us. Be assured I shall be in touch with you the moment I have
any news.”
    “Thank you,” said Romanov, rising to leave. “You
have been most helpful.” He was about to add, as he normally did in such
circumstances, I shall so inform my Chairman, but he checked himself, realising
the old man wouldn’t have given a damn.
    The chairman of Gosbank closed the door
behind him and walked over to the bay window and watched Romanov run down the
steps of the bank to a waiting car. I couldn’t have supplied you with the one
hundred million in gold bullion at this particular time, even if the General Secretary
had ordered me to, he thought to himself. I doubt if I have ten million dollars’
worth of gold left in the vaults at this moment. The General Secretary has
already ordered me to fly every available ounce to the Bank of New York – so
cleverly was his ploy disguised that the CIA had been informed about the
deposit within an hour of its arrival. It’s hard to hide over 700 million
dollars in gold, even in America. I tried to tell him. The chairman watched
Romanov’s car drive away. Of course if, like your grandfather, you read the Washington Post as well as Pravda, you would already have known
this. He returned to his desk and checked the names of the fourteen banks.
    He knew instantly which of the fourteen had
to be phoned.
    Adam stepped out of Tattersalls Tavern on
the corner of Knightsbridge Green and headed past the Hyde Park Hotel towards
the Royal Thames Yacht Club. It seemed a strange place for the Foreign Office
to hold an interview, but so far everything connected with the application had
been somewhat mysterious.
    He arrived a few minutes early and asked the
ex-Royal Marines sergeant on the door where the interviews were taking place.
    “Sixth floor, sir. Take the lift in the corner,” he pointed
ahead of him, “and announce yourself at reception.”
    Adam pressed a button and waited for the
lift. The doors opened immediately and he stepped in. A rather overweight,
bespectacled man of roughly his own age who looked as if he never turned down
the third course of any meal followed him at a more leisurely pace. Adam
touched the sixth button, but neither man spoke on their journey up to the
sixth floor. The large man stepped out of the lift in front of Adam.
    “Wainwright’s the name,” he informed the
girl on the reception desk.
    “Yes, sir,” said the girl, “you’re a little
early, but do have a seat over there.” She gestured towards a chair in the
corner, then her eyes moved on to Adam and she smiled.
    “Scott,” he informed her.
    “Yes, sir,” she repeated. “Could you join
the other gentleman? They will be seeing you next.” Adam went over and picked
up a copy of Punch