He sat down. A man who had been holding up his hand almost from the beginning of Jacoubs’ statement, came to his feet slowly at Ruth’s nod. He was a tall man, almost painfully thin, with sunken swarthy cheeks, and black hair cut short and combed rigidly back. He was smoking a cigarette and he contemplated it in his twiglike fingers most of the time he spoke, as if drawing some degree of comfort from it. As Jacoubs had done, he spoke in French.
“My name is Suleiman Abbas,” he said, “and I represent the Archaeological Museums of Istanbul. But I am sure I speak for all Turkish museums, as well as for the Turkish government. Let me say at the very beginning that I am quite surprised at this meeting. All of you are aware, I am sure, that the so-called Schliemann treasure was taken from Turkey illegally. The firman—the permit issued by the Turkish government to Schliemann to dig in the Troad—was given him under certain conditions, and I can assure you those conditions did not include the right to steal from the Turkish people. It specifically indicated that all finds were to be presented for examination to a representative of the Turkish government, and that a division, based upon mutual agreement, would be made. But what actually happened? Schliemann, discovering the treasure—or his wife discovering it, if that pleases some of you—sent his workers home for the day, carried the treasure to his home by subterfuge—under his wife’s skirts, the story is—and later smuggled it from Turkey to Greece. I said before the treasure was the ‘so-called’ Schliemann treasure, because it never belonged to Heinrich Schliemann. If you wish to call it the Troy treasure, or the Troad treasure, or the Turkish treasure—or even Priam’s treasure, as some scholars think it to be—very well and good. But it is not and never was the Schliemann treasure.”
He paused to flick ash from his cigarette and resumed speaking, still staring most of the time at the smoke curling from between his thin fingers.
“I am sure that all of you are not only aware of the illegality of Schliemann disregarding his firman and smuggling the treasure to Greece, but you are also aware of the United Nations stand on art treasures, that they belong to the country of origin. Who can deny that Turkey is the country of origin? Who can deny that Schliemann broke the rules of his permit, and then compounded his crime by smuggling the fruits of his find out of the country of Turkey?” For the first time he raised his eyes from the hypnotic wreath of smoke rising from the cigarette to look about the room, almost accusingly. “Many of you have excavated in countries under permits issued by those countries. Those who have are well aware of the rules of the game. How many would have had permits renewed, or extended, had they done what Heinrich Schliemann did? Yet the man is considered a sort of genius when he was, in fact, a mere thief. Even in Greek law, I’m sure”—he looked at Jacoubs, sitting large and silent down the table from him—“a man is not permitted to gain from something he has stolen. And the goods, when recovered, must always be returned to the party from whom they were taken.”
He noticed his cigarette had burned down to the cork tip and crushed it out almost reluctantly. Without this center for his attention his dark brooding eyes moved from one listener to another, demanding their attention, their understanding, their acquiescence.
“You may ask why Turkey never made claim to the treasure before. Well, as a matter of fact, we did. Many times while Heinrich Schliemann was alive. But after his death, with the treasure firmly in the hands of the German government, the matter seemed too difficult to resolve. As Mr. Jacoubs said, quite correctly in fact, one does not go to war—particularly against a stronger power—over a collection of ancient artifacts. Now, however, the situation is completely different. The treasure, it appears, is now in the hands of a person or persons who have no legal claim to it at all.”
He looked at Ruth McVeigh, sitting at the head of the table. His voice was quiet, almost resigned.
“Dr. McVeigh, the Turkish museums will not bid in the farce of this so-called auction. We would expect that nobody would bid, but we are realistic enough to know this will not be the case. I can therefore only say we shall be most humbly and gratefully thankful to the successful bidder, whoever he may be, because he shall have to turn the treasure over to us.”
He nodded toward the head of the table, a brief, short nod, pushed his chair back, and walked slowly but with dignity from the room. There was a moment’s silence at his unexpected departure, and then everyone seemed to want to speak at once. Hands flashed in the air, waving frantically, people stood, calling out, leaning over at last to speak into the console microphones for attention, without waiting for permission to speak. It was bedlam, and the sharp rapping of Ruth McVeigh’s gavel seemed to make little difference. She waited a moment, her gavel pounding furiously but unsuccessfully, and then reached for her purse. She brought out a police whistle, used to handle any indecent approaches, and drew her microphone toward her, turning the volume dial on it to its maximum. She then blew the whistle into the microphone with all her strength. The shrill sound, blasting almost painfully from the wall speakers and echoing loudly from all corners of the confined space, was deafening. People stopped their racket and looked up, as if at an air-raid siren. A lesser blast on the whistle completed the maneuver. People began to settle back, to quiet down. The hands that were raised now were raised quietly, respectfully. Ruth chose to ignore them.
“I think we’ve had enough discussion for today, our opening session,” she said. “We will meet here again tomorrow at ten in the morning. I suggest in the meantime those wishing to speak write their names on a slip of paper. We will draw them from a bowl, lottery style, and they will be given the floor in that order. Thank you.”
She switched off the microphone and automatically looked to where Gregor Kovpak had been sitting, but to her disappointment the chair was empty. She could see the white-haired man who had been seated next to Kovpak just making his way through the door, and she could only assume that Kovpak had preceded him. She was surprised at the depths of her disappointment. It was too bad, she would have liked to meet him. Now it would have to wait until the following day, if he remained for the next session. He might go back to Leningrad, probably feeling it to be pointless listening to speeches he could not understand. She shook her head, surprised and a bit irked with herself for her concern, slid her papers into her briefcase, and turned to find herself facing a smiling Dr. Gregor Kovpak.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Kovpak, Gregor Kovpak, and I just wanted to tell you I thought you handled that near-riot in style. Tell me, have you ever been a policeman?”
His English was excellent, tinged with only the slightest of accents. Ruth also noticed he was tall, taller than she had supposed seeing him seated. He had brown eyes, very white teeth, dark curly hair, and a wonderful smile, she thought. Someone, sometime, she thought, had broken his nose, but it only made him appear more masculine. She suddenly recalled he had asked a question.
“No,” she said with a smile. “I have sat up nights with a weapon protecting a dig, though.”
“As have we all,” Kovpak said fervently. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve read most of your papers, and enjoyed them very much. And finally, I wanted to congratulate you on your recent appointment at the Metropolitan.”
“Thank you,” Ruth said, and was amazed at how relieved she felt that he had not left. She felt that his candor deserved no less than her own. “I already knew who you were. The man next to me recognized you.”
“Tim Rubin? An old friend. But I hope you didn’t believe anything he said about me.”
“I believe very little Tim says. But I did want to meet you. I’m glad you waited. I tried to meet you at the Hermitage the few times I’ve been there, but you always seem to be traveling. And I had no idea you would be here, or I would have seen to it you were seated at the table, with a console.”
Kovpak shrugged lightly. “It was no problem. I speak both German and French, so there was no trouble in that.”
“German and French? And English?”
K
ovpak shrugged a bit embarrassedly, as if he disliked discussing any accomplishments he might have. “I speak German because so much is written in German that affects my work. I speak French, because”—he suddenly smiled, a smile that lit up his face, taking Ruth into his confidence—“because I like the way it sounds.”
Ruth smiled with him. “And the English?”
Kovpak frowned, serious now. “The English because it’s a very important language.” He looked about and then back at Ruth, obviously changing the subject, his expressive face now curious. “What did you think of your meeting?”
Ruth made a face. “Hectic, is what I would call it. I had no idea—!” She looked at him. “What did you think of it?”
“Amusing,” Kovpak said, and laughed. “Very amusing.”
“Amusing?” It was the last answer Ruth McVeigh had expected. “In what way?”
Kovpak looked around. The room was nearly deserted; a few at the press table were putting their notes away, one reporter was painstakingly writing something in his notebook. There were a few groups around the room apparently discussing the speeches that afternoon, but the large majority of the delegates to the conference had vanished. Kovpak looked back at Ruth, smiling.
“It’s a long story, far too long to go into here. Besides, it’s too near the cocktail hour. I know that nobody believes that Russians drink”—he grinned—“but I’m the exception. Why don’t I meet you in the bar in, say”—he consulted his watch—“half an hour? And then we can have dinner together, after that. That will give us plenty of time to talk of many things. Cabbages and kings, and treasures and things, and what I found so amusing in your meeting today.”
Ruth hesitated. Some small recess of her mind reminded her of Tim Rubin’s statement that Dr. Gregor Kovpak was not interested in further entanglements. He probably was still in love with the wife he had lost, she thought, and in any event, why should he possibly be interested in her? Then she had to smile at herself inwardly as she realized how ridiculous that thought was. She had met the man five minutes before, and while it was true the man was attractive, what on earth was so entangling about having a friendly drink and a dinner with a fellow archaeologist? She did it all the time. You’re beginning to have the vapors, my dear, she told herself a bit sternly; doing the feminine bit a bit overmuch. She nodded at Kovpak.
“Half an hour it is. In the bar,” she said, and held out her hand to be shaken in quite masculine fashion. “On second thought,” she said a bit more hurriedly than she would have wanted, “let’s make that an hour, instead.” She wanted time to find that little perfume shop in Shepherd Market before their meeting …
At the press table, James Newkirk remained, writing something in his notebook in his own particular form of shorthand. James Newkirk was a tall heavy-set muscular man wearing glasses, who carried credentials as the cultural reporter for the Paris Herald Tribune, and he worked at the job. However, what he was writing so carefully was intended to be the basis of the report he would transmit to Langley, Virginia, in their conversation late that night.
There was no doubt in Newkirk’s mind that each of the four speakers of that first afternoon session had been quite genuine in his identity, as well as in the personal conviction each carried in his own arguments, but nothing had been said in any of the impassioned speeches to indicate in any way Russian involvement in the auction. Newkirk had seen and recognized Gregor Kovpak. It had been expected that the foremost archaeologist in the Soviet Union would be attending. It had also been expected that he would be accompanied by a KGB man, and Newkirk did not have the slightest doubt that that was the role of the white-haired man at Kovpak’s side.
But the interesting fact was that the noted Russian archaeologist was not seated at the main conference table. That was exceedingly interesting and would make up a large portion of his report. If the Russians were in any way behind the auction, one would think they would have arranged to be at the main table, together with the other bidders. One would think they would do this if only to dissemble. To come here as observers, which is the position one would take if they were, for example, selling the collection and wanted to see the reaction of potential buyers; that was hard to understand. It would be too open. On the other hand, possibly they were merely being subtle, expecting any foreign agent who might be present to think exactly that way. In any event, Newkirk knew it was too early to tell. More data would be required before any conclusion could be reached.
Also quite interesting, he noted in his crabbed shorthand to be included in his report, was the fact that as soon as the meeting ended, Kovpak had immediately made contact with Dr. Ruth McVeigh. There they were at this very moment, at the end of the conference table, speaking as old friends, although when Newkirk had been briefed on Dr. Kovpak and his acquaintances in the west, Ruth McVeigh had not been included. A slip-up in the agency? Possibly, but doubtful. Certainly indicating that surveillance of the two was clearly indicated. Someone would also have to keep an eye on the white-haired man, the KGB man. Newkirk thought of the possible operatives he could summon from the London office, made his choice, and finished his scribbling.
Satisfied that all was under control, and pleased with the results of the first day of the job, James Newkirk came to his feet and innocently followed Ruth McVeigh and Gregor Kovpak from the room as they left, still chatting amicably.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Serge Ulanov was lying on his bed, shoes off, his usual cigarette pasted in one corner of his mouth, dribbling ash on his chest. The major was reading a copy of Playboy, taking advantage of being abroad, when Gregor Kovpak came into the adjoining room. The major put down his magazine, got off the bed, and walked through the open connecting door. He sat down in a chair, pulled over an ashtray, and watched with a touch of interest as Kovpak opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a white shirt, examining it critically. Satisfied at last, Kovpak next went to the closet, took out his only suit and laid it on the bed, then went back to the closet to make a careful selection between the two neckties there. He put the winner on the bed with the other things and began undressing. The major smiled broadly.
“Getting dressed for dinner? With me? I’m flattered.”
Kovpak smiled. “Not with you. I’ve got a date.”
“I figured that out already. The handsome chairperson, I assume? For a confirmed bachelor,” Ulanov said, flicking ash from his cigarette, “you certainly work fast.”
Kovpak laughed. In the few days the two men had been together, he had grown to like the stocky KGB man. “Major, you’ll become an investigator, yet, coming to such accurate conclusions so quickly. Tell me, sir—how do you do it?”
“Practice,” Ulanov said modestly. “Besides, I doubt you’d go for the East German woman, that Elsa Dornbusch. She’s probably old enough to be your mother.”
“Or yours.”
“Or mine,” Ulanov conceded with a smile.
“There was another girl there,” Kovpak pointed out, taking off his shoes. “A very pretty girl from Italy. It could have been her.”
“Except you don’t speak Italian, and she speaks nothing else. I asked,” Ulanov said calmly. “Besides, you couldn’t keep your eyes off the lady at the head of the table.” He studied the end of his burning cigarette a moment and then added quietly, “I wouldn’t get too serious about her if I were you, Gregor.”
“Fortunately, Major,” Kovpak said with a smile, “you’re not me,” and went into the bathroom for his shower. When he came out a few minutes later, toweling himself briskly, he suddenly stopped and frowned at Ulanov. “Incidentally, Major, so there won’t be any misunderstanding later on, may I say that you’re not invited to this dinner date of mine.”
“I’m disappointed but really not surprised,” Ulanov said calmly. “I didn’t expect to be. Besides, I have my own date tonight.”
“At your age? Or is it the effect of the Playboy magazine I saw you reading?” Kovpak laughed. “Which one is it? Your East German mother? Or the I
talian girl?”
“Neither,” Ulanov said quietly, and leaned over to crush out his cigarette. He immediately replaced it with another, lighting it from a match that appeared to come from nowhere. “It’s one of the press reporters. A cultural reporter of a paper over here, and he actually is.” He took his cigarette from his mouth and contemplated its end; satisfied that it was burning to his satisfaction, he replaced it, speaking around the smoke. “Of course he’s also CIA. A stringer, not a regular, but still …”
Kovpak paused in drawing on his socks. “You’re having dinner with a CIA man?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I had a date with a CIA man. I didn’t say he knows about it as yet. And,” he added, drawing deeply on his cigarette, “if I’m properly careful, he won’t know about it at all.” He smiled at Kovpak brightly.
Gregor shook his head in complete non-understanding. “And how do you know he’s actually CIA?”
“The same way he either knows—or at least strongly suspects—that I am KGB,” Ulanov said calmly, as if it made all the sense in the world. “We try to keep track of each other’s agents on a job, at least to the best of our ability. It does no harm and sometimes even helps.”
Kovpak stared at the other man. “If they know you, and you know them—isn’t that a bit ridiculous?”
Ulanov raised his shoulders, smiling. “I suppose it is, in a way. But that’s the way the game is played.”
Gregor shook his head. “Serge,” he said, “tell me something. In the short time we’ve known each other, we’ve talked quite a bit. You’ve demonstrated to me you’ve got a good mind, a good technical mind. Even a sense of humor, which, frankly, surprised me. You were educated as an engineer. What made you become a security man?”
Ulanov laughed. “You mean, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” His laugh faded, and he became serious. “I became a security man because someone has to do the job, and I don’t mind being the one. I agree it would be nice if there was no CIA or KGB—and I’m sure our newspaper reporter friend feels the same way. According to our reports on him, he’s a very nice man. And a very good agent. Of course, he has no sense of humor, but that’s an advantage in our business. But the fact is there is a CIA and a KGB, and the equivalents in every country in the world. And I’m afraid there always will be.”
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