The Gold of Troy

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Mr. Ainsley? Would you care to—”

  “I would, indeed. I move that we do not, under any pretext, under any subterfuge such as ‘proxy’ or ‘private collector’ or in any other manner, even faintly consider the acquisition of the Schliemann treasure, authentic or not, by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  The chairman looked down the table, gavel in hand.

  “Do I hear a second?”

  “Second!” It came from most of the board members present.

  “Before we vote on the motion, is there any discussion?”

  “Mr. Chairman!” Ruth McVeigh came to her feet, blaming herself for her previous ill-considered attack on the staid members of the board. Different tactics were needed and she now kept her voice emotionless, under rigid control. It was, she knew, her last chance. “Mr. Chairman, members of the board, I should like to ask your indulgence in one thing. Before you vote on the motion, I should like to pose a question I want each of you to answer honestly. Is the problem here the question of legal ownership of the collection, or is it the matter of the fifteen million dollars?”

  “Both!” someone said. There was a brief laugh from someone and then silence.

  “If, for example,” Ruth McVeigh went on evenly, “it was a matter, say, of one million dollars, or half-a-million dollars, would you be more willing to chance the questions of legal ownership?”

  Dr. Keller raised a hand and was granted the floor.

  “Definitely not,” he said flatly. “Speaking for myself—and I’m sure for the majority here—definitely not. It isn’t a question of the size of the amount. It’s still a question of legality.”

  “Besides,” someone said in a puzzled tone without waiting for permission to speak, “how can we talk of a million dollars, or half a million, if the starting bid was supposed to be fifteen million?” It was one of the few supporters Ruth had in the room and she appreciated his giving her the opportunity to explain.

  “Wait, please.” Ruth was examining the explanation that had come to her and finding it more and more to her liking. Even her tone became more confident. She looked from one face to another down the long table, suddenly sure she could convince them, or at least most of them. “Suppose we were able to get the fifteen leading museums in the world, say, to agree to each put up one million dollars—or thirty museums to each contribute half a million—and the treasure would then be owned jointly by all of us. And suppose those museums were to include the Turkish, the Greek, and German—all the possible claimants to ownership. Suppose they all agreed not only to share the ownership, but also agreed on a period and a schedule for each one to exhibit the treasure?”

  There was silence as this new concept was explored. Then Bob Keller shook his head.

  “The claimants would never agree.”

  “How do we know?” Ruth was looking at him, a faint smile on her lips. “How will we ever know unless we ask them?”

  The chairman cleared his throat. The discussion had taken a distinctly different turn and the looks on the faces of the board members indicated their changed attitudes as well. The chairman looked at the museum’s new director.

  “Exactly what are you suggesting, Ruth?”

  Ruth McVeigh took a deep breath, sure now she would win her point.

  “I’m suggesting that I arrange a meeting of the directors, together with the interested curators, of the leading museums at some central location—say London—where we can discuss the entire matter of the auction in detail. No matter what any individual museum may have been aiming for in the way of a bid—and I assure you I was telling the truth before when I said they were—still, the matter of money has to have been a problem. If we can co-operate, at least the question of finances can be overcome. And, without competition, we can keep the price down to at least the original figure of fifteen million, if not less.”

  She looked around the table. Everyone was watching her evenly, listening to her words carefully. She kept her inward smile from appearing on her lips and continued quietly.

  “As to the question of ownership, if the major claimants can be induced to go along with us, that problem can be solved as well. Possibly we may even discuss paying the share of the major claimants; most of them are precisely the museums with the least ability to finance any bid of any kind. Such a proposition certainly should interest them—to have at least a partial claim to ownership, rather than none as at present. And to be able to exhibit the treasure at least for a limited period, rather than never, as at present.” She sat down.

  There was silence, then a hand was raised. The chairman nodded. “Mr. Ainsley?”

  “Mr. Chairman,” the man said, his voice now more respectful, “I should like to withdraw my last motion and replace it with another. I move that Dr. McVeigh be given instructions by this board to pursue her suggestion, as well as all the necessary resources to do so. I further move that after she has met with these various representatives of these other museums, that she bring the results of her meeting back to the board for consideration.”

  “Second!”

  “Any discussion?” There was silence. “If not, all in favor?”

  “Aye!”

  “Opposed?”

  There was silence. The chairman tapped his gavel and spoke.

  “The motion is carried. I will see Dr. McVeigh tomorrow to make arrangements.” He paused a moment to look down the table, and then went on in a different tone of voice. “As I’m sure we all know, the discussions we have in these board meetings are for the benefit of the Metropolitan Museum and are not to be handed out to the press or other media without the permission of the chairman. It is not that there is any particular secrecy to our meetings”—he smiled—“any more than there is strict attention to Roberts Rules of Order. But our discussion today is a good example of the reason for care in these matters. The negotiations we have authorized our director to undertake could easily be compromised by any undue or premature publicity. There has been enough idle speculation in the press over this auction as it is, and I’m sure there will be more when the London meeting—if that is where the meeting takes place—becomes public, as it undoubtedly will in the very near future. Thank you. If there is no further business, I will entertain a motion to adjourn …”

  Bob Keller was waiting for Ruth in the hallway after the meeting broke up. He smiled at her.

  “Well, congratulations, war horse. You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  Ruth smiled back. “Bob, we’re either going to get the Schliemann treasure, or we’re going to give it a good try. Part of it, at least, if not all of it.”

  Keller shook his head.

  “It won’t even be a try. I didn’t oppose you in there because I think a meeting with the other museums may be a good idea. It may finally convince you of what I’ve been trying to tell you. Nobody will touch the bid under the present ownership arrangements. And certainly the real claimants will dig in their heels at the thought of sharing ownership.”

  “Even at the cost of losing it altogether?”

  “Even at the cost of losing it altogether.”

  Ruth shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “I’ll make you a bet,” Keller said. “Loser buys the other dinner. And to establish my good intentions of paying off if I lose, why don’t we have dinner together tonight as a preliminary?”

  “Good enough.”

  Bob Keller wet his lips and took the plunge. “At my place? I’m a pretty good chef—”

  Ruth McVeigh looked at him and inwardly sighed. It had been a very long time, and Robert Keller was a very attractive man, but she knew he was not the one. Keller recognized the signs and also sighed, but aloud.

  “Ah, well,” he said, and smiled ruefully. “The restaurant of your choice, then. Seven o’clock?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—May

  As the chairman of the board of the Metropolitan Museum had so correctly stated, there had been, indeed, speculation in the pre
ss regarding the mysterious auction of the Schliemann treasure, to the point where it caught the attention of the government. A meeting to discuss some of the possible aspects of the matter was therefore arranged between Frank Mayberry of the State Department, and Thomas Wilson of the CIA. The meeting took place in Wilson’s office in Langley, and Mayberry led off the discussion. He was a tall, thin man, impeccably dressed in dark blue, who spoke softly and slowly, but effectively.

  “I assume, Tom,” he said, “that you’ve been reading about this Schliemann treasure and what the newspapers are pleased to call the ‘Auction of the Ages’? Or is it the ‘Sale of the Century’? Plus the speculations about this meeting that is scheduled for next month in London?”

  “It would be rather difficult to miss,” Wilson said dryly, and shrugged. He was a gray-haired, stocky man in his late fifties. “What’s State’s interest in it?”

  “There are several angles that interest us,” Mayberry said slowly. “For one thing, our United Nations desk is interested in the possibility that there may be some discussion, some attempt, to overturn the UNESCO ruling regarding the ownership of national archaeological treasures. That could open up a tremendous can of worms—”

  “And,” Wilson said, with a faint smile, “I imagine your United Nations desk will decide on what position to take once they know who stands to gain most from any change in the rules?”

  Mayberry laughed delightedly. It transformed his normally stern-looking face into the gleeful gamin expression of a small boy getting away with something.

  “I should certainly hope so.” His laughter faded, his usual almost lugubrious expression returned. “But there is a far more serious problem with the auction of this collection—or at least a potential problem, I suppose I should say.” He paused and frowned at his companion. “Tom, do you honestly believe the Schliemann treasure to be in Russia?”

  Wilson seemed surprised at the question. “Yes. There is every indication it is.”

  “Why do you say that? You’ll undoubtedly tell me something I already know, but I’d like to hear, anyway.”

  “Of course. Well,” Wilson said, leaning back and twisting a paper clip as he spoke, “the OSS investigated after the war, and I was part of that investigation. I was young then, I know, but not so young I didn’t know what was going on. There was supposed to be an agreement between the Allied powers that all art treasures found would be turned over impartially to an Allied Art Treasure Commission for disposition when the war was finally over—” He paused, smiling.

  Mayberry frowned. “What’s the smile for?”

  “It’s because it’s doubtful if any of the Allies carried out the provisions of the agreement one hundred percent—too many officers and enlisted men thought they knew a good, or anyway, a valuable souvenir when they saw one—” His smile faded. “But I should have to say, in general, that the other Allies kept their part of the bargain better than the Russians. The Schliemann treasure, for example, was hidden in a bunker under the Berlin zoo; the Russians took the city, including the zoo, and the treasure hasn’t been seen or heard of since. Also, when the city was divided up into East and West zones, the part of the city where the zoo was located—it was in the Tiergarten, a park area—ended up in the West Zone, and a search for the treasure was made. It was gone. I know. I was one of those who looked.”

  “You never made representations to the Russians?”

  Wilson smiled wryly.

  “Of course we did. They said they didn’t know what we were talking about. Treasure? What treasure? If there had been any treasure it would have been turned over to the Allied Art Commission; that was the agreement between the powers, wasn’t it? They had turned over other finds, hadn’t they?”

  “Had they?”

  “Well—yes, as a matter of fact. But they didn’t turn this one over, and that’s a fact!” He frowned and tossed the twisted paper clip aside. “It’s hard to believe the troops stationed in the bunker before the British moved in there divided the treasure as souvenirs and not one piece has surfaced since. The only conclusion we were able to come to at the time—and nothing has changed since—is that the treasure went to Russia. And is still there.”

  “Then,” Mayberry asked, leaning forward a bit, “you think this auction is being conducted by the Russian government?”

  Wilson shook his head, tapping his fingers restlessly on his desk.

  “That’s the problem! Why would they sell it? A collection far more valuable, just for having it, than any intrinsic value it might have? And if they were going to sell it, why just now? I’m sure,” he went on, smiling faintly, “that they don’t need fifteen or twenty million dollars to balance their budget. They’re probably like us—fifteen or twenty billion wouldn’t do the trick.”

  “Precisely,” Mayberry said seriously. “And that is our interest in the matter. Why are they selling it? And why just now? After having it for well over thirty years?”

  “And those questions bother you?”

  “Of course they bother us. Don’t they bother you?”

  “Not particularly,” Wilson said, and thought a moment. “Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “I suppose the stealing of art treasures isn’t unknown, even in Russia,” Wilson said slowly. “Suppose they had the treasure and recently some enterprising thief simply walked in, packed it up, carried it quietly out of Russia—because if it’s in private hands I’m sure it’s not in the country, not the way packages and letters have been scattered about—and is now offering it for sale.”

  “What then?”

  “Then I’m sure we would be interested,” Wilson said. “Very interested. If Soviet security can be so easily breached—not just by someone stealing what I’m sure was a well-guarded treasure, but by managing to get it out of the country and then blatantly offer it for sale without the Soviet KGB being able to trace the man or his loot—then I should say we would be extremely interested. It would certainly say something about their security arrangements that would definitely be in our interest to know.”

  Mayberry nodded. “Agreed. Then, between us, we seem to have an interest. You’ll do something about it?”

  Wilson sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to. But at least it should be interesting.” He came to his feet, holding out his hand. “We’ll be in touch, Frank.”

  And when his visitor had left, Tom Wilson went back to his chair and reached for his telephone, asking to be connected with Personnel.

  “Vic?” he said into the telephone. “Someone who knows something about archaeology, and preferably someone who is familiar with the Schliemann collection. Sure, I suppose a stringer would be all right for this one. What? I’ll spell it for you, although I would have thought you were sick of seeing it in the papers by now. It’s S—what? S as in Sherlock, C as in Conan Doyle, H as in Holmes, L as in Lestrade—” Both men were members of the Baker Street Irregulars.

  LENINGRAD—May

  A meeting was in progress in the offices of the Soviet State Security Committee, Leningrad branch, in the Zherinskaja Ulica in the Petrogradskaya Storona section of the city. Present were Colonel Ilya Berezhkov, head of the Leningrad section, Major Serge Ulanov of the Scientific section of the KGB, and a visitor from KGB headquarters in Moscow, a rugged, gray-haired man, Colonel Vasily Vashugin, Ulanov’s superior. From the tall windows of the office, the spires of Peter-Paul fortress could be seen sparkling in the bright spring sunshine beyond the open stretches of Lenin Park, with a glimpse of the broad Neva beyond, separating the area from the city’s principal buildings on the south side of the river. At the men’s elbows empty tea cups were being used as ashtrays.

  Vashugin was speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “The question is a very simple one. Why?”

  “The question is a simple one,” Berezhkov said dryly. “It’s the answer that’s so difficult.”

  Vashugin did not smile. Instead he nodded his head vigorously as if in recognition of the basic profundity of the othe
r man’s statement.

  “Exactly! Why is the American OSS—CIA now, of course—after all these years, and after all the secrecy with which they have surrounded their theft of the Schliemann collection, suddenly deciding to put it up for auction? Why now?”

  Ulanov stirred in his chair. He was a stocky man in his early sixties with a shock of short white hair that seemed to stand on end. He crushed out his cigarette and frowned.

  “I wonder …”

  Vashugin stared at him. “You wonder what?”

  “I wonder if it really is the Americans who are offering it for sale? The American CIA, I mean. After all, there are no truly national museums in America. Oh, I know they have the Smithsonian, but that’s not the same thing—”

  Vashugin was looking at him with a frown. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Ulanov lit another cigarette while forming his answer. He tucked it in one corner of his mouth as he spoke; blasts of smoke came out with the words.

  “What I’m driving at is that it was the then OSS who stole the collection—or at least that’s the best conclusion we’ve been able to come to in all the years. Where would they have kept it all these years? Not, I’m sure, at the Smithsonian. In some vault at their Langley headquarters? And if they did, why would they be selling it now?”

  “Exactly the question I’ve been asking,” Vashugin said shortly, quite as if wondering whether Ulanov had been paying attention.

  “I’m sorry, but you apparently still don’t understand the point I’m trying to make,” Ulanov said, a bit stubbornly. “What I’m suggesting is far more important. Suppose—as we’ve supposed all the years since the war—that the OSS stole it from our bunker in Berlin, and that the treasure has been in their possession, the possession of the CIA, now, in Langley, Virginia, ever since. In one of their vaults there.” He paused to shake ash from his cigarette, immediately tucking it back in place. “Now, we can be rather sure that the CIA doesn’t need fifteen or twenty million dollars suddenly—they have an almost unlimited budget.”