The Gold of Troy

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Vashugin was watching him with narrowed eyes. “So?”

  “So it is very possible that it is not the CIA who is offering the treasure for sale. It is possible that someone else has the treasure and is offering it. And if that is the case, then they must have managed in some fashion to get the treasure from Langley, or from wherever the CIA has been holding it. If there had been a theft of this size from the Smithsonian, for example, I’m sure it would have been impossible to keep it quiet. But from the CIA?” He smiled, a humorless smile. “Exactly as we kept the theft from the bunker quiet. Out of pride, if nothing else.”

  Vashugin was nodding his head slowly. “I see. You are suggesting that someone was able to breach the security of the CIA, is that it?”

  Ulanov shrugged. “It seems to me to be at least a possibility.”

  Berezhkov wrinkled his forehead in thought, and then shook his head, not so much in denial, as in wonder.

  “I’m not so sure. Let’s not underestimate the CIA. When they were the OSS they managed to steal the stuff from under our noses, so to speak. We had taken Berlin and were in the process of organizing it. Then the area was divided into zones. That was the first mistake. Allowing the city itself to be divided was the second mistake. You can see where it’s gotten everyone today. A city belonging to one country inside the borders of another country. Ridiculous!” He shrugged, realizing he was complaining about something he could do nothing about. He also seemed to realize he was getting away from the point. “However, that was the political decision at the time, and as a result there were soldiers from one country, one army, one zone, wandering all over every other zone. And a few days later the treasure is stolen. Who else would the Germans have told about the treasure, or where they had hidden it? The British?” Berezhkov sniffed. “The French? Us?” He sniffed louder. “Never. Only the Americans. And who else could have, or would have, been able to arrange it in those confused days? The forged papers? Everything? The OSS, that’s who.”

  “We’re fairly certain of that,” Vashugin said, seeing in his mind’s eye the ancient investigation, such as it was. “We’re positive the man who forged the papers that released the Schliemann collection from the custody of the officer in charge of the bunker, was Petterssen, the Swedish forger. Our experts studied the forged documents and made careful comparisons with other forgeries known to have been done by Petterssen, and there was no doubt he was responsible. In addition, he answered the description of the man who was one of those who removed the crate at Bad Freienwalde; even though both men were dressed as NKVD—or at least that was what the idiot trainman assumed they were. A black suit, a white shirt, and you’re automatically NKVD!” He laughed, but without humor, looking down at his own neat gray herring-bone tweed, and then to Ulanov’s sport shirt, open at the neck, and then shrugged. “In any event … the guard said Petterssen and the man with him had documents, but of course it would be no trouble to a man of Petterssen’s ability to also forge these documents.”

  Vashugin considered the other two men. His voice was quiet, as if asking them to point out any faults in the logic of the analysis he had presented to his superiors years before after the desultory investigation of the case that had been made.

  “The man with Petterssen said nothing from the time he got on the train in Berlin until the two got off in Bad Freienwalde. But the guard said he looked quite Anglo-Saxon. The trainman was sure—after a bit of interrogation by a pair of rather overefficient NKVD men,” Vashugin added dryly, “that he was undoubtedly American. I believe he was, despite the overenthusiasm of the interrogators. But the important question at the time was, where did Petterssen disappear to? He didn’t go to Denmark or Sweden, because we certainly looked hard enough and long enough for him in those and the other Scandinavian countries. And it wasn’t all that easy for him to get out of Germany in any normal fashion, because he was watched for, and he was easily identifiable. No, there’s no doubt in my mind that Petterssen ended up in Langley, Virginia, where he probably forged Russian rubles or Chinese currency until he died or was retired.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t underestimate the CIA. They did a good job in stealing the Schliemann treasure from us.”

  “They did even better,” Ulanov said dryly. “They also managed to convince the entire world that we have the collection ourselves. Possibly in the basement of the Hermitage here in Leningrad, I expect.” He shook his head, almost in admiration, and crushed out his cigarette. “And I also am not underestimating them. I merely mention it as a possibility. I don’t see any others. I simply cannot see the CIA behind this auction. It wouldn’t be the way they would handle it, any more than we would handle it in this open fashion.”

  “I agree it’s a possibility,” Vashugin said slowly, and suddenly smiled, a broad smile that lit up his face. “That would be something, eh? Someone robbing the vaults at Langley?” He looked around, his smile disappearing. “So? How do we handle the matter? What do we do about this so-called auction? And this meeting next month in London that has attracted so much attention in the western press?”

  Berezhkov looked at Ulanov to make the first suggestion; he was closer to the archaeological field than either of the two colonels. Ulanov shrugged. He had fully expected the responsibility and would have been put out otherwise.

  “To begin with,” he said slowly, “I should think we would want to be able to enter this auction ourselves, whether we were invited to, or not. If only to discover who has the treasure, who is selling it, and—if it isn’t the CIA, and I have a feeling it isn’t—then who it is and how they got their hands on it. And to what extent it reflects on weaknesses in the CIA security system. And how that knowledge can be of use to us.” He paused and then added, “And if it is the CIA, to try and discover why.”

  Berezhkov leaned forward. “And as to the meeting in London?”

  “That I suggest we attend. I’m sure there will be many there who have not been officially invited, and more than the museums asked to bid at the auction. In fact, I know there will be. Turkey, for example, was not asked to bid, but was asked to attend the London meeting. I’ll go and I’ll take along Dr. Gregor Kovpak, of the Hermitage. He’s quite knowledgeable, I hear. And we’ll keep our eyes and ears open and see what we can learn.”

  Vashugin thought it over and nodded.

  “It’s a logical first step, at least,” he said, and came to his feet, indicating the meeting was over.

  Dr. Gregor Kovpak was a tall, well-built, handsome man in his middle forties. His field experience had been detailed in many technical papers published throughout the archaeological world, and his expertise in archaeological matters acknowledged by his fiercest rivals. At the moment Dr. Kovpak was engaged in something far from his true field; he was attempting to produce imitation bones to complete the authentic ones he had discovered in the Ruthenian slopes of the Carpathians while digging for something quite distinct. When assembled, he hoped to have the first skeleton of a baby dinosaur ever found in the Soviet Union. It was not his field, but the doctor felt that by right of discovery he hated to see someone else, even more qualified, complete the job.

  He frowned as the telephone rang, held up his hands to the anthropological professor assisting him to indicate the plaster of Paris that covered them. The professor, rightfully resentful of playing second fiddle to a mere archaeologist, and this on the premises of the Zoological Museum, mind you! held up his own hands, equally covered. With a muttered curse for the interruption, Kovpak wiped his hands on his smock and picked up the telephone with two fingers.

  “Yes?”

  “Gregor?” He recognized the high tones of Alex Pomerenko, the director of the Hermitage Museum, the museum to which he was properly attached. “Are you still fooling around with that zoological thing? Would you drop it and come over to my office? It’s taken me quite a while to even locate you!”

  “No, damn it, I can’t! I’m casting baby dinosaur bones and my hands are full of plaster of Paris!” He glared thr
ough the window at the Hermitage across the river, almost as if he could see its director at the window there.

  “Disregarding the fact that we pay your salary, not the Zoological Museum,” Pomerenko said dryly, “those bones have waited over seventy million years, ever since the Mesozoic Age, so a few minutes won’t hurt. Right now, Gregor. It’s important.”

  The director hung up the telephone to avoid further discussion. Kovpak stared at the receiver a few moments in frustration, considered disregarding the order, and then also hung up, coming to his feet. It would only mean further interruptions, and it was probably better to get the matter over and done with.

  “I’ve got to go over to the Hermitage,” he said to a smiling professor, and stalked over to the sink to wash his hands. He dried them, shrugged his way out of the dirty smock and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And leave everything alone until I get back,” he added direly, and closed the door behind him. Zoologists! he thought blackly; museum directors! and stamped down the steps of the museum and across the Palast Bridge, feeling the wind from the river on his face and beginning to feel better for it. It was hard to really be angry with Alex Pomerenko, especially on a nice spring day. But not too hard …

  He pushed into the door to the New Hermitage, where Alex’s offices were, and climbed the steps of the broad stairway, walking down the long corridor past the many exhibits he had grown to feel a part of, threading his way through the dense crowds that always filled the museum, wondering as he did so what monumental problem on the part of Alex required his attention so urgently. He probably wants to know what I think he should have for lunch, Kovpak thought dourly; Pomerenko was attempting a diet to counteract the effects of having stopped smoking a few weeks before. Or else it would have to be something equally vital, while my poor little baby dinosaur remains there, all in pieces, waiting for me to put him together and give him birth …

  The thought made Kovpak smile, and he was in a better mood by the time he came to Pomerenko’s office and closed the door to the secretary’s cubicle behind him. The secretary smiled and motioned that he could enter without bothering to be announced. It must really be important, Kovpak thought. Alex’s tailor must be in there with a choice of materials for a new suit Alex wants me to help him select. He bit back a grin, his normal good humor restored, ran a hand through his thick curly hair in a vain attempt to straighten it or give it order, and walked in.

  Pomerenko was standing by the window, staring out across the river, obviously passing time until Kovpak arrived. Before the director’s wide desk, seated in comfort, was a stocky man with a strong lined face, and a crew cut of pure white hair. An impressive visitor whoever he is, Kovpak thought, and waited to be introduced. But first Pomerenko walked over and closed the door to the outer office, before returning to his desk.

  “Major Ulanov,” he said, “this is Dr. Gregor Kovpak. Gregor, Major Serge Ulanov.”

  In mufti, Kovpak thought, and therefore not army. Most probably KGB. And what does the State Security Committee want of us poor scientists at the Hermitage? He came forward to shake hands; the major’s handshake was firm and dry. He indicated a chair beside him, waited until Kovpak had been seated, and then took out a package of cigarettes, offering them around. Both men refused, Pomerenko obviously with an effort. Ulanov lit up and came right to the point.

  “Dr. Kovpak,” he said, “what can you tell me of the Schliemann collection?”

  Kovpak frowned, surprised at the question. He was also quite sure that the man facing him knew as much about the Schliemann collection as he did, and most probably a lot more. Still, he was here, presumably to answer questions, not to ask them.

  “Well,” he began, “it was first discovered by Heinrich Schliemann and his wife, Sophie, in Turkey in—”

  Ulanov’s hand came up trailing smoke. “No, no. I’m quite familiar with the details of the discovery, and the subsequent history of the treasure, at least up until 1945. I put it badly. What I meant to ask you is, what is your professional opinion of this auction that is being proposed?”

  “Auction? What auction?” Kovpak looked at Pomerenko. The museum director shrugged.

  “The collection is being offered for auction, Gregor.”

  “What! When did all this take place?”

  “In the last two or three weeks. It’s been widely reported.”

  “And who’s offering it?” He turned to the major in apology. “I’ve been busy with a special project of mine. In fact, I just got back from Uzhgorod on the Czech border a day or so ago. Some bones we found may make us change many of our concepts regarding the life forms of the Mesozoic—” He realized he was straying. “What I’m trying to say is I’m afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to the journals lately.” He glanced at Pomerenko. “Who’s had the collection all this time?”

  It was Major Ulanov who answered. “No one knows. In your opinion, Doctor, who do you think has had it?”

  Kovpak grinned. “I haven’t the faintest. But I can tell you that all my colleagues in the field are convinced that we have it, here at the Hermitage. Either under the sink in my laboratory, or in the desk drawer of my office. And since denial of this idiocy seems pointless, I’ve let them think what they want.” His smile faded as the importance of the major’s question came to him. “Why? Doesn’t anyone know who is offering it?”

  “No,” the major said quietly. “It’s a blind auction. So far,” he added grimly.

  Kovpak frowned. “But you must have some ideas—”

  Ulanov shrugged and leaned over to brush ash from his cigarette. “In our opinion, Doctor, the treasure has been in the hands of the American intelligence ever since the end of the war.”

  “Based on what evidence, Major?”

  “Someday I’ll tell you. But for now, it’s what we believe. However, I, personally, think it is no longer in their hands. I think someone was clever enough to steal it from them, as they stole it from us. And we are extremely interested in learning how it was done. We think you can be of help to us in this regard.”

  Kovpak’s eyebrows went up. “Me? How?”

  “First of all, because of your knowledge in the field. We would like you to read all the news regarding the auction in the journals, speak with friends in other museums, get what information you can. Secondly, there is a meeting to be held in London in a week or so, of directors and curators of many museums around the world. The meeting is to discuss this most unusual auction. Your presence there would not be at all unusual. We would like you to attend.”

  “I’d be very willing, except I’m in the middle of a project—”

  “Gregor!” Pomerenko said threateningly.

  Kovpak sighed. “All right,” he said at last, sadly. At least it would make a zoological professor happy, as well as the director of the museum where he did, after all, work. And London was a very charming city. “But I’m not—” He paused.

  Ulanov smiled, a surprisingly friendly smile from one of such stern features. “An intelligence agent? Well, I am. And I’ll be with you.” He crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet. “Gentlemen, thank you …”

  II

  1945

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BERLIN—April

  “The Schliemann treasurer?” Captain Sudikoff said. “No, I’m quite sure I never heard of it.” He smiled at the elderly sergeant. He was fond of his quartermaster, even if the old boy’s head was up in the clouds half the time. “Should I have?”

  Sergeant Kolenko also smiled. He took a deep breath, bringing himself back from the euphoria the amazing discovery had brought to him. He was aware of the captain’s background and had a profound respect for the younger man despite the other’s lack of university education.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said.

  “And exactly what about this treasure of yours? “What is it?”

  “One of the most valuable collections in the world,” the sergeant said, his voice unconsciously taking th
e tone of a professor at his lectern.

  The captain slid from his hammock and took a seat on the corner of a bench that had been added to his quarters; the sergeant also sat down. The captain was pleased with the interruption. As sleep had avoided him, it had been replaced by a feeling of frustration at the many problems peace would bring to the occupying forces, and particularly to their officers. War, whatever its other faults, was relatively simple, the end clearly understood. Still, while war was also horrifying, the discussions he and his quartermaster had often had on many odd subjects had tended to lessen that horror. The captain had no notion of what Sergeant Kolenko had in mind with all this talk of a treasure of some sort, but the conversation, at least, had the advantage of postponing thoughts of peace and the problems that came with it.

  “Yes?” the captain said in his most encouraging tone.

  The sergeant paused to pack a battered pipe with tobacco. He waited until it was burning to his satisfaction, then he crossed his legs comfortably and began.

  “The Schliemann treasure,” he said, “is supposedly the treasure accumulated by Priam, King of ancient Troy at the time of the war with the Greeks. Homer—” He paused. “You know who Homer was?”

  “We’re not totally ignorant in the provinces,” the captain said dryly, and smiled. “I know who Homer was.”

  “Good,” the sergeant said, not at all abashed by the captain’s response, and once again was the professor. “However, what you may or may not know, was that Homer apparently lived—I say apparently, because there is no definite proof of exactly when he did live—in the eighth century before the modern era, that is, before the birth of Christ. Scholars base this fact on references to Homer and his writings in the seventh century B.C.—Archilochus credits Homer with authorship of the Margites at that time—and the fact that the Greek alphabet is considered to have been invented about the ninth century B.C. The oldest inscriptions found to date written in the Greek alphabet are those that were found on the island of Thera in 1896, and these are thought to date from the eighth, or at most the ninth century before Christ. Since Homer wrote in the Greek alphabet, it is therefore assumed he lived in the eighth century B.C, give or take fifty years.”