Once again he seemed to need rest, for he sat down in the lobby and leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He saw Gregor and Dr. McVeigh enter, speak a moment, and then move toward the lounge. He shrugged a tiny twitch, hoping they did not get too involved, and then bit back a smile as he remembered the imaginary girl who had put lipstick on his face. Let them get involved, he thought, only not too involved. He remained in his pose for a full thirty minutes, after which he came to his feet and made for the elevator, only to have another man, crossing the lobby in a hurry, bump into him and cause him to stumble to the floor. The other man was quick to help him up and brush him off, murmuring profuse apologies as he did so. Ulanov waved the entire matter off as being of no importance, and made his way to the lift. In the lift he smiled at the young operator, as if proud that a bit of air along Hyde Park had prepared him for a good night’s sleep or whatever else might be in store for him. The operator, returning her cab to the lobby, would have wagered it would just be a good night’s sleep.
In the corridor Ulanov now walked with far more control down the main hallway. He nodded somewhat distantly at the floor waiter who was just retreating toward his pantry with a tray and a whiskey bottle, turned into a side corridor, and entered the first room on his right. He quickly closed the door behind him, entered his own room, locking the interconnecting door between his room and Gregor’s, and turned off the tape recorder. From now on he would play himself in making noises to satisfy the curious waiter.
From the pocket of his burberry he withdrew the slim volume the man who had bumped into him had deposited there. From the outside it had all the appearance of one of the newer romances that were being sold at most book stalls. Inside, as Ulanov had strongly suspected, in addition to its few pages it also contained an exceedingly small but clever tape recorder, and a minute amplified pick-up set in the cover which, aimed in the direction of Gregor’s booth, undoubtedly had recorded the conversation without making Newkirk noticeable at all. Ulanov grinned in satisfaction and took the machine into the bathroom; closing the door, and running the water in the tub, he ran the tape back to its beginning and then played it, holding it to his ear to listen. From the sounds that took place before the actual words became intelligible it was apparent that Newkirk had decided to wait until seated in the restaurant before beginning his taping, either because the lounge was too crowded and noisy, or possibly because it would have been inconvenient to pretend to read in its darkened interior.
Ulanov sat down on the toilet seat, reran the tape and played it once again, nodding his head as he listened to Gregor’s argument for Russian possession of the treasure. But nothing he heard gave him any clue at all as to where the treasure was or who was offering it for sale. He wished that Newkirk had been clever enough to tape the conversation Gregor and the girl had had in the lounge. It might have given him a clue. Although he supposed he could get what he wanted from Gregor himself, when he returned, or better yet, in the morning. Gregor was apt to be out late. However, at least he had come into possession of an excellent spy recorder, which was far better than anything the KGB technicians had come up with. Very clever, those Americans. Ulanov only hoped that Newkirk had not been too badly hurt in having his book taken from him.
Now that the tub was almost full, he decided to take a bath, pleased to know the waiter was probably listening to him. He removed his clothes and climbed into the tub, lying back, splashing loudly and humming an old Russian lullaby. His bath completed, he dried himself and put on his pajamas and then climbed noisily into bed. His last thought before he fell asleep was to wonder if the waiter’s tiny microphone could pick up snores …
From a safe telephone in the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, James Newkirk was making his report to Langley, Virginia. He was also nursing a colossal headache.
“They took everything,” he was saying bitterly. “Two thugs. One stopped me and asked for a match, and the other hit me with something. When I came to, a policeman was bending over me; they wanted to take me to a hospital, but I came to the embassy, instead. They got my watch, my wallet, the book—”
“You mean that recorder we flew over to you? That was a prototype; we don’t have another. Its loss will mean a lot of work and trouble! You were told to be careful with it—” Mr. Wilson, in Langley, did not sound pleased.
“I was careful, sir! I mean—” It seemed pointless to argue about it all night, to cry over spilt milk, as it were. How careful can a person be with something beyond holding it tightly in his hands? One would think he had invited the two thugs to knock him unconscious! Or to take his watch and wallet, as well as the recorder. Trying to put the wallet and its contents, or the watch, on his expense account, Newkirk knew, would be a waste of time. Instead of getting sympathy, here he was getting a lecture! It wasn’t right.
At the other end of the line Mr. Wilson also seemed to realize that Newkirk obviously had not gone out of his way to be mugged and lose the recorder. “Well, anyway,” he said abruptly, “what did you learn?”
“Nothing, sir,” Newkirk said unhappily. “I had it all on tape, their entire conversation in the restaurant. I had to sit far enough away from them so as not to look suspicious—”
“I know. That’s why the recorder was developed.” Wilson, in Langley, frowned at the telephone. “Do you think the Russians had anything to do with your getting knocked out and the recorder taken from you?”
“Not unless they have more men here than I think they have. I’m sure there’s only one KGB man here, the one who arrived with Dr. Kovpak. They came in on Aeroflot yesterday afternoon. He’s a white-haired man registered at the hotel as Dr. Sverdlov.”
“White haired?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A stiff crew cut, hair almost pure white? A stocky man in his sixties? Always smoking cigarettes?”
“Yes, sir. That’s him.”
“His name is Ulanov,” Wilson said. “Serge Ulanov. He’s a major in the KGB. A hero in the last war. He’s supposed to be a good man.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m fairly sure he’s the only one from the KGB who’s here.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Wilson said. “I doubt the Russians put too much importance on that conference in London. I’m sure they feel Ulanov can handle it.” From Wilson’s tone it was evident he also did not put a great deal of importance to the matter. He had been having second thoughts since the man from State had left his office, feeling he was probably wasting his time and the time of his men. “What makes you think Ulanov wasn’t involved? He’s supposed to be pretty clever, you know.”
“I’m sure, sir. But I’m also sure he wasn’t involved in this. I had a man in the hallway of his hotel, on his floor, all evening. In fact, he’s still there. He’s been checking this man—Ulanov?—every fifteen minutes. The waiter bit, you know, sir. I just spoke with him before I placed his call to you, sir, and he assured me that this—Ulanov?—hasn’t left his room all evening. He says this—Ulanov?—just took a bath a short while ago, and now he’s asleep.”
“His name really is Ulanov. You needn’t question it,” Wilson said dryly. “What about Kovpak?”
“I don’t know, sir. I left the restaurant and was walking down Curzon Street about a block behind them, and I was just passing Queen Street, when—” Newkirk paused, feeling, quite rightly, that Mr. Wilson in Langley would not be interested in hearing about the mugging twice. “But if it means anything, sir, the two of them—Dr. Kovpak and Dr. McVeigh, that is—seemed to be getting, well, interested in each other.”
“It may mean something to them,” Wilson said coldly, “but it doesn’t mean a thing to us. You’re supposed to be the cultural reporter on your paper, after information about the treasure and who has it, not the Lonely Hearts columnist.” A thought came to Wilson. “You’re sure that really is Dr. Gregor Kovpak? Not a ringer?”
“I’m quite sure, sir. He’s very well known. I’ve seen him before.”
There were several moments of sil
ence as Wilson digested Newkirk’s report. Newkirk might be positive that Ulanov had nothing to do with his mugging that night, but Wilson was far from that sure. Muggers took wallets and watches, of course, but how many muggers would bother taking an innocent-looking book? Unless muggers were a lot more literary in London than they were in Washington, D.C., which Wilson sincerely doubted. And if Ulanov was on to Newkirk, then possibly it might be well to replace Newkirk with someone Ulanov was not on to. But that would take time, and Newkirk was the only one available in the area with the requisite knowledge of archaeology. Besides, the case wasn’t that important in the first place, which was why they had only put a stringer on it in the first place. Even if they found out how Russian security had been breached, undoubtedly the Russians had already changed their security procedures to handle the matter. Wilson knew in their shoes that was what he would have done.
“All right,” he said wearily at last. “Stay with it. Keep an eye on Ulanov and Kovpak. Keep us informed. And,” he added dryly, “try not to get mugged in the future.”
“Sir,” Newkirk said desperately, “I certainly wasn’t trying to get—”
But he was speaking to a dial tone. Wilson had hung up. With a heartfelt sigh Newkirk came to his feet, his head pounding, and prepared to return to the hotel and at least four badly needed aspirin tablets. There were times he wished he was only a reporter for the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gregor Kovpak could not sleep. Through the closed connecting door to Major Ulanov’s room he could hear the faint rasping sounds that indicated that this was not the major’s problem. But it was not the snoring of the major, nor even the endless sounds of traffic in Park Lane below that kept Gregor from sleep, but his thoughts, jumbled and—a rare thing for him—unsure.
It was pointless, he tried to tell himself for the tenth or twentieth time, to think of Ruth McVeigh in any terms other than that she was a fellow scientist he had known and respected through her writings, and who he had been fortunate enough to meet in person at last. But there was no future in thinking beyond that. He had enjoyed the evening with her. Let it go at that. He had more than enjoyed the evening. He could not recall an evening he had ever enjoyed more, certainly not since Natasha had died. Which was something else to put out of his mind. Natasha had been dead eleven years, now. What had made him think of her now? Guilt? But guilt over what? He had done his mourning, and his mourning was over. Besides, there was nothing between Ruth McVeigh and him, nor could there ever be. Think of something else.
Think of your baby dinosaur and how, when it is finally completely reconstructed and on exhibition at the Zoological Museum, next to that mammoth that was found frozen in the Siberian wilds, intact, how you will do a paper on where it was discovered and under what conditions, and be able to speculate on possible solutions the tiny bones point to, possibly resolving conflicting theories that have been riddles of those eon-old times when this world of ours was so much younger. And, hopefully, prove to Alex Pomerenko that a man does not necessarily have to direct his scientific energies in only one direction. And also—hopefully—to put some zoology professor’s nose out of joint. And if, while you’ve been gone, he’s wired up one more bone—!
My heavens, but the girl was beautiful! Beautiful and striking, intelligent, and—well, fascinating. Of course, there was no law that said scientists had to be ugly, or that they could not have a sense of humor, but who would have dreamed, just from reading her papers? And that dress—! But forget the dress and forget the girl inside the dress, and don’t waste time trying to fathom the thoughts inside the lovely head of the girl inside the dress. But what had she been thinking? What was she thinking at this very moment? Certainly nothing like the thoughts he was having. She, undoubtedly, was sound asleep, which is what he should be as well. Except her face kept getting in the way—
Back to the baby dinosaur. Lucky that he had been the one who had found it in the dig; another less-delicate hand might have crushed the fragile bones. And, of course, if someone else had discovered it, the credit would have gone to him. Gregor smiled at the recognition of his own humanness—of course he would have been jealous if an assistant had come across that wonderful find on a dig he was in charge of. But he had been the lucky one. It was all luck, finding a treasure, or running into a girl …
But what kind of luck to see someone you’ll undoubtedly never see again? That’s what is known as hard luck, bad luck. What did the old song say? If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. You lie here and you’re forced to wonder what it will be like not seeing her again. How long to forget last night? A week? A month? A year? Ever?
Back to the baby dinosaur! What could have brought that tiny creature, certainly ugly in our eyes but just as certainly beautiful and cute in the eyes of the mother who hatched him, to the place where it had been found? How had it been separated from its parents at the time of its young death, for no other bones had been found in the area? Had the parents, facing danger, hidden the small creature, only to have death come to the tiny thing from some unknown source? It had hatched live; that much the zoology professor had been able to state. Had the parents, returning after hiding the baby, found him dead? And if so, what had been their reaction? Or did dinosaurs have reactions? Was it just a legend that only the human animal truly feels sorrow at the death of a dear one?
He and Natasha had never had children. If he and Ruth were married, do you suppose they—? What a ridiculous thought! What an absolutely idiotic thought! Good God! One dinner with a girl and he was having her married to him! And raising a family, yet! Still, if he and Ruth were married, of course they were still both young enough to have children. But the fact was he was more than ten years older than she was. Oh, of course ten years wasn’t all that much, but when he was sixty, an old man, she would still just be in her forties, and without a doubt as beautiful and charming as she was now. And when he was eighty—
He rolled over and stared at the shadowy wall. Now, really! Stop thinking about Dr. Ruth McVeigh and think of something else. Be serious about that. You’re not a child. If not baby dinosaurs, or babies of any species, then think about the Schliemann treasure. After all, that is what brought you to London in the first place. Recall the conversation with Ruth—Dr. McVeigh, that is—at dinner last night without thinking of her, particularly. Remember what Ulanov had said about the probable—no, almost certain—destination of the treasure. But precisely how had it gotten from Bad Freienwalde to Langley, Virginia? Ulanov had not mentioned this minor detail, assuming he even knew it, which was doubtful. Ulanov was only interested in how it had been restolen from Langley. Well, that was his field, his job. It would seem more interesting, if equally unimportant, to try and trace its path from one place to another.
Most probably by way of Scandinavia, in some fashion, to England, from which it would be the simplest thing in the world to get it to America and Langley. He closed his eyes and tried to picture in his imagination, the two men. They had left the train at a darkened railway station at Bad Freienwalde in war-torn Germany, had climbed into a black official-looking car, and had disappeared. Well, they couldn’t have disappeared, but where were they going? Where did one go from Bad Freienwalde, anyway? Where could one go from Bad Freienwalde? Where was Bad Freienwalde, as a matter of fact? It was just a name to him, heard from Ulanov, and Gregor, yawning, realized his knowledge of East German geography was sketchy, to say the least. As was his ignorance concerning Danish or Swedish geography. But at least trying to picture these unknown places had the advantage of taking his thoughts from Ruth McVeigh …
But had they? Because there she was, as he handed her down from the railway car at some unknown station—no, it wasn’t unknown, for there was the name, BAD FREIENWALDE, carved in the stone sill above the doorway, and there was the car he was guiding her to, aware as he did so of the warmth of her beside him, and her faint but unforgettable perfume. And of Ulanov in the front seat, wearin
g a chauffeur’s cap, even after he had been specifically told he had not been invited …
He slept, at last.
Ruth McVeigh was tired, and she knew she looked terrible because she hadn’t slept. She was sure the rings under her eyes made her look ten years older than she was, and while that would make her only a year or so younger than Gregor, she would rather he always thought of her as being much younger than that. She sat at the head of the conference table, staring at Gregor’s empty seat, while the delegates filed in and took their places around the table, fiddling with their consoles as if they had never seen them before, filling water glasses, placing cigarettes and matches in position.
Where was he? Didn’t he know how much she wanted to see him, to look at him, to see that same light in his eyes when he looked at her that she knew would be in hers as soon as he walked in? Or the light she hoped would be in his eyes? To see if last night had been real, or if her imagination, through the sleepless night, had added dimensions to it that did not, in reality, exist? Where was he?
She sighed and shook her head, suddenly feeling depressed. Why was she so intent upon hoping he would appear, anyway? What difference did it make? Possibly he knew the utter hopelessness of their ever being anything but friends and had taken off for Leningrad to save both of them the embarrassment of a further meeting. Or at least to save her from making a fool of herself. She had probably done or said something the night before that told him how she was beginning to feel toward him, and to save him from having to—what was the word they had used when they were in school?—jilt her, had simply gone away. Jilt, my God! She was getting positively infantile!
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