Free A Matter of Honour by Jeffrey Archer Page B

before settling
down next to Wainwright, who was already filling in the Telegraph crossword.
    Adam soon became bored with flicking through
endless issues of Punch and took a
more careful look at Wainwright. “Do you by any chance speak German?” Adam
asked suddenly, turning to face the other interviewee.
    “German, French, Italian and Spanish,”
Wainwright replied, looking up. “I assumed that was how I managed to get this
far,” he added somewhat smugly.
    “Then perhaps you could translate a
paragraph from a German letter for me?”
    “Delighted, old fellow,” said Adam’s
companion, who proceeded to remove the pair of thick-lensed glasses from his
nose, and waited for Adam to extract the middle paragraph of the letter from
his envelope.
    “Now, let me see,” Wainwright said, taking
the little slip of paper and replacing the glasses. “Quite a
challenge. I say, old fellow, you’re not part of the interviewing team
by any chance?”
    “No, no,” said Adam, smiling. “I’m in
exactly the same position as you – except I don’t speak German, French, Italian
or Spanish.”
    Wainwright seemed to relax. “Now let me see,”
he repeated, as Adam took out the small notebook from his inside pocket.
    “‘During the past year you cannot have
failed to... notice that I have been receiving from one of the guards a
regular, regular... regular supply’,” he said suddenly, “yes, ‘supply of Havana
cigars. One of the few pleasures I have been allocated’ – no, ‘allowed’, better
still ‘permitted’ – ‘despite my... incarceration’. That’s the nearest I can
get,” Wainwright added. “ ‘The cigars themselves have
also served another purpose’,” Wainwright continued, obviously enjoying
himself, “‘as they contained tiny capsules...’”
    “Mr Scott.”
    “Yes,” said Adam, jumping up obediently.
    “The Board will see you now,” said the
receptionist.
    “Do you want me to finish it off while they’re
finishing you off, old chap?” said Wainwright.
    “Thank you,” Adam replied, “if it’s not too
much trouble.”
    “Far easier than the crossword,” Wainwright
added, leaving on one side the little unfilled half-matrix of squares.
    Alex Romanov was not a patient man at the
best of times, and with the General Secretary now ringing up his chief twice a day, these were not the best of times. While he waited for
results of the chairman of Gosbank’s enquiries he re-read the research papers
that had been left on his desk, and checked any new intelligence that had been
sent back by his agents in the field. Romanov resented the scraps of
information the chairman of Gosbank must have been receiving by the hour, but
he made no attempt to pester the old man despite his time problem.
    Then the chairman of the bank called.
    On this occasion Romanov was driven straight
over to the State Bank at Neglinnaya 12 and ushered up to the finely furnished
room without a moment’s delay. Poskonov, dressed in another of those suits with
an even larger check, was standing to greet him at the door.
    “You must have wondered if I had forgotten
you,” were Poskonov’s opening words as he ushered Romanov to the comfortable
chair. “But I wanted to have some positive news to give you rather than waste
your time. You don’t smoke, if I remember correctly,” he added, taking out his
packet of Dunhill cigarettes.
    “No, thank you,” Romanov said, wondering if
the chairman’s doctor realised how much the old man smoked.
    The chairman’s secretary entered the room
and placed two empty glasses, a frosted flask and a plate of caviar in front of
them.
    Romanov waited in silence.
    “I have, over the past two days, managed to
talk to the chairmen of twelve of the banks on your original list,” Poskonov
began, as he poured two vodkas, “but I have avoided making contact with the
remaining two.”
    “Avoided?” repeated Romanov.
    “Patience, Comrade,” said Poskonov, sounding
like a benevolent uncle.