Gregor laughed in pure enjoyment. “And now the treasure is in Brazil or Paraguay, and they’re selling it to start up a Nazi party in Bavaria, as if they don’t already have one there.” He shook his head in admiration. “What an imagination!”
“Well, don’t laugh. They might very well be doing just that.” Ruth’s pout changed to a smile. “You see? We’ve made progress already. We know that a German and Petterssen stole the treasure. We know they left Germany from Warnemünde, probably landing somewhere near Gedser, and from there—” She shrugged.
Gregor was considering her with a smile. “We know?”
“Well,” she said, retreating, but not much, “we’re pretty sure, and that’s better than not knowing at all.”
“I suppose so. So that in that case it was a good morning’s work,” Gregor said, and looked at his watch. “Which deserves a good afternoon’s lunch. At which time we can plan our trip in pursuit of the Schliemann gold!” He made it sound very dramatic. Well, Ruth thought, it is! Or it could be …
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From his position in one of the banks of telephone kiosks fronting the entrance to the Green Park Underground station on the park side, James Newkirk had a perfect view across Piccadilly into the Aeroflot ticket office. Beyond the broad windows with their display of small wooden dolls dressed in colorful Russian native costumes, plus, of course, the ever-present model of a Tupelov TU-144 supersonic passenger plane tilted steeply as if in take-off flight, Newkirk could see the three attendants at their counters, two of them busy with customers, one checking something on a sheet of paper. Still Newkirk waited, watching carefully through the heavy traffic, until one certain girl was the only one unoccupied with her telephone. Then he dialed rapidly, listened for the rapid pip-pip-pip and pushed home his ten-pence bit, for he did not wish to be interrupted for a matter of pennies. The telephone was answered at once, the girl’s voice the impersonal tone of strangers on telephones.
“Good morning, Aeroflot, Sonia speaking. May I help you?”
“Good morning,” Newkirk said. Sonia’s air of supercilious superiority had not changed since he had last used her services. She always sounded as if the customer were a nuisance and not even a necessary nuisance at that. As always, Newkirk wondered why Aeroflot put up with her, but then he thought of her beauty and her figure and again as always, thought he knew the answer—and she did speak excellent English. “Does Aeroflot have a direct flight from London to Kuybyshev?”
“I’m afraid not. You have to change in Moscow.”
“I see. Damn! Is there much of a wait?”
“One moment, please. I’ll check.” There was a brief pause. “Several hours is all.”
“Well, that’s not too bad. What equipment flies from Moscow to Kuybyshev?”
“One moment.” There was another pause. “It’s an Illyushin IL-18.”
“That’s a prop job, isn’t it?”
“It has propellers, yes, sir, but it’s an excellent airplane. Are you planning a visit to Kuybyshev?”
“If I have to get there in a prop job, I’ll have to think about it,” Newkirk said, and hung up. And if that conversation was being recorded for any reason whatsoever, he thought with satisfaction, let someone make something of it!
He stepped from the booth and glanced at his wristwatch, and then walked past the Ritz Hotel to cross Piccadilly and strolled leisurely in the direction of Old Bond Street. He would meet Sonia for lunch at a small restaurant in White Lion Yard, and that would not be for another forty-five minutes. As he walked slowly along, pausing every now and then to glance into one shop window or another to waste a bit of time, he thought with what little satisfaction he could muster that at least he was doing something, even if that something probably wouldn’t result in very much. He thought with a touch of dismay of that morning, when everyone had left the meeting and he had been forced to move out with them or look conspicuous as the only one to stay behind with Dr. McVeigh and that man from the Cleveland Museum. And then to miss her when she did come out! And Kovpak hadn’t even come to the meeting. God knows what he might have been up to!
He also recalled that during the free-for-all the conference had become, he had been able to see the white-haired agent, Ulanov, look in his direction with a touch of amusement every now and then. Was it possible that Ulanov knew he had been following McVeigh and Kovpak the night before? Was it possible that, despite all his precautions, Ulanov still might have been involved in the attack on him the night before? It was extremely doubtful—one didn’t want to see conspiracies behind every bush—but an even closer eye would have to be kept on the white-haired man, that was evident.
But today the agent who had covered Ulanov the night before in the guise of a waiter, had been replaced by a plain-looking woman who was also cleaning rooms, with the pleased acquiescence of the regular cleaning woman—equally plain-looking, who not only gained a day’s vacation, but was well paid for it. As soon as that ridiculous conference had finally—and in Newkirk’s mind, deservedly—broken up, Ulanov had moved in the direction of the elevators and up to his room. And, at last word, was still there. Newkirk wished he could ask the Special Branch to put a tap on Ulanov’s phone, but he knew this would really be asking too much, despite the solid relationship between their two organizations. Fortunately, this entire business of the Schliemann collection and how it had been taken from the KGB by some smart operator was of little importance; the Russians had undoubtedly by now changed their security system, so he was probably wasting his time. Still, he had his orders, and he intended to follow them.
He came into New Bond Street, his feet still lagging, and considered with a bit of pride the code he had developed with Sonia of Aeroflot, a code that changed with every use of it, the changes given at the meeting the code had been established to arrange. This particular time the name “Kuybyshev” had meant he wished to meet her for lunch at her usual hour, one o’clock. Had it been impossible for any reason, she would have had difficulty understanding his word “Kuybyshev” and would have asked him to repeat the name. The bit about propeller-driven planes indicated where they would lunch; at a certain small restaurant in White Lion Yard they both knew, where he was always sure his reservation request for a quiet booth in one corner would be properly attended to.
He crossed Maddox Street and turned into Lancaster Court, coming almost at once to White Lion Yard and the restaurant. He had himself ushered to the proper booth and sat down, ordering a whiskey and water for himself and a very cold Finnish vodka for Sonia when she arrived, and then leaned back to wait. He only hoped the information he wished Sonia to obtain for him might be of some help, although he knew he was scraping the bottom of the barrel to even think it might. Still, one had to do something. Thank God for airline computer consoles! he thought fervently. Anyone with the physical strength to punch a few keys could ask any information from the idiot machines he wished, and the stupid computer would simply hand it over without a suspicion in the world. In fact, at the push of a button the accommodating moron of a machine even would forget you ever asked for the information in the first place. If only we could program agents that way, he thought, and then changed it slightly. Enemy agents, of course. We’d also have to be damned careful with our own, naturally.
He looked up as Sonia approached, came to his feet as she slipped into the booth and inspected herself in her compact mirror to make sure she had not changed identity on the cab trip from Piccadilly, and sat down again just as their drinks were served. Sonia did not waste time for any gestures of friendship in the form of lifted or tapped-together glasses, but drank her vodka in one steady gulp, after which she rapped her glass on the table. The waiter appeared at once, took her glass in understanding, and waited.
“We’ll order a bit later,” Newkirk said, and smiled across the table. “How have you been?”
“Rushed,” Sonia said, and looked at the waiter in a manner that sent him hurrying to the bar. She did not expand upon her sta
tement until the waiter had returned and hurriedly set her drink down. Sonia took a healthy sip before paying any attention to Newkirk, or expanding on her theme. “This will have to be a very quick lunch. We’re busy, rushed. The British Airways strike, you know.”
Newkirk grinned. “You people never go on strike, do you?”
Sonia was not amused and her expression showed it.
“We people also do not leave a thousand people stranded, sitting up all night at some airport trying to get anything that flies so that they can get home to a job, most of them without enough money to buy milk for the baby,” she said coldly. Sonia certainly did not consider herself an enemy agent; the thought would have been repugnant. She merely gave information to Newkirk, or whoever appeared with the proper identification, in exchange for money, plus an occasional lunch or dinner, or—if the man were attractive enough, which James Newkirk was not—an occasional romp in bed. The information she gave was certainly innocent enough; she was not in the position of having critical information at her command, and she was positive she would have refused to pass any on if she had. If the CIA or anyone else was foolish enough to pay her sums of money for the innocuous data she passed along, well, let them. She could even manage to feel a bit patriotic, knowing that through her the CIA was helping her country’s economy in a way. She hadn’t asked her boss at Aeroflot for a raise in over a year.
“Sorry,” Newkirk said, not a bit sorry, and finished his whiskey and water, rapping the glass on the table. Sonia took advantage of the hiatus in conversation to finish her vodka and place her glass beside Newkirk’s so the waiter could make no mistake. When the waiter had taken their empty glasses and disappeared in the direction of the bar, Sonia picked up the menu, speaking over its top.
“And what do you want now?”
Newkirk did not make the mistake of lowering his menu or looking in the least conspiratorial as he answered her in conversational tones.
“Two men. Their names are Gregor Kovpak and Serge Ulanov. They arrived in England on Aeroflot from Leningrad a few days ago—”
“I know,” Sonia said, interrupting almost contemptuously. “I’m the one who told you.”
“Exactly,” Newkirk said, not a bit nonplussed. “Now I want to know when they are leaving, if they are leaving together or separately, and where they are going. And if either or both of them will be accompanied, and if so, by whom.”
Sonia thought the request was a foolish one, and her tone indicated it. “They both hold return tickets to Leningrad, with an open date.”
“I’m aware of that,” Newkirk said calmly. “I simply wish to know if they change them, or even if they do return to Leningrad, what day they are booked for. As well as the other information.” Sonia merely nodded, and Newkirk continued in the same conversational tone as the waiter returned with their drinks. “And I think I can safely recommend the beef stroganov in this restaurant.”
“In England?” Sonia asked incredulously, as she raised her glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the mushroom soup to start, then the steak—the big one, not the small one, medium rare—with mashed potatoes, string beans, and a tossed salad. I’ll have a pint of lager with it. I’ll pick my sweet later with the coffee and a liqueur.”
And how she maintains that fabulous figure on a diet like that, Newkirk thought despairingly, is beyond me; as is the question of how I’m going to present the bill for this meal on my expense account without having it appear we had an orgy. He sighed, put down his menu, and asked the waiter for a clear consomme, a cress salad, and small plate of cucumber sandwiches …
Serge Ulanov, his shoes off and a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, reclined on the bed in Gregor Kovpak’s room with his copy of Playboy while he waited for his compatriot to return from wherever he was, most probably with Dr. Ruth McVeigh. Suddenly Ulanov lowered his Playboy and looked up with a frown. Someone was fumbling overlong at the lock of the room, as if trying first one, then another of a set of lock picks. Newkirk? Ulanov wondered, and shook his head. Newkirk was a better agent than that. He would have been sure to get a master key and not been dependent on lock picks before he would have tried to enter. He also would have called the room to be sure it was unoccupied. That inept waiter figure from the night before? Or the maid who obviously was not a maid? No matter. Ulanov slid silently from the bed, placed the Playboy to one side and laid his cigarette in an ashtray. He moved to stand beside the door, his stockinged feet making no sound on the thick carpeting. The sound of the key being inexpertly applied to the lock continued. Enough of this! Ulanov thought, and with a sudden motion flung the door open, and then almost went over backward as Gregor Kovpak, his arms ladened with bundles, nearly fell over him. Kovpak caught his balance and grinned at the major.
“Thanks. I was having trouble opening the door with my arms full.”
“Oh,” Ulanov said, feeling a bit foolish, and went to sit in a chair, retrieving his cigarette and drawing on it deeply as Kovpak unloaded his burden on the bed. Ulanov nodded. “Which reminds me, I also want to do a bit of shopping before we go back. My wife gave me a list as long as your arm. Don’t ever get married.”
“Before we go back …” Kovpak repeated, and rubbed his chin a bit sheepishly. “Well, that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Serge. You see—”
“You’re not going back with me?”
“Well, I—I mean, it’s this way …”
“You’re going to defect,” Ulanov said in his usual humorous manner, but the normal twinkle when he said outrageous things was missing from his eye. “In that case the last person on earth you should confess this to, is a KGB man. I might drug you, wrap you in a rug from one of the fine London shops—my wife always wanted a rug of Scottish wool—and ship you back to the Hermitage in the trunk of a black—”
“—official-looking car, marked as a rare tapestry,” Kovpak finished, and laughed. “No, I’m not going to defect. It’s not just that my little baby dinosaur needs me,” he went on more seriously, “but I think we should start to do something about this auction of the Schliemann treasure. Certainly the Hermitage must bid on it, and bid on it very seriously, and we’ll have to start working on the Cultural Commission for the necessary money.” This was Dr. Kovpak, the eminent archaeologist speaking, and Ulanov knew it. “It would make a perfect addition to our gold collection.”
“I’m glad to hear you won’t be defecting. I’d probably have the devil of a time explaining to your boss how I managed to lose one of his best scientists, and in broad daylight,” Ulanov said, and was surprised at the relief he felt. Paranoia is normal in this business, he thought, but I’m beginning to go overboard. Maybe Gregor is right. Maybe I ought to try to get a job in some engineering plant, although that would probably be a bit difficult at my age. Or maybe writing jokes for Krokodil magazine? I could steal some from Playboy, except they’d never get printed. “So why aren’t you going home with me? If it’s a question of spending a few more days here in London, I don’t blame you. Leningrad is beautiful, but I must admit it lacks the old-world charm of London. I’d be glad to spend a few more days here with you. We can go back next week.”
Kovpak looked uncomfortable. “It isn’t that—”
“You mean, if you must spend a few more days here, you’d rather do it in the company of someone a bit younger or more beautiful than me?” Ulanov grinned. “Someone like—well, Dr. McVeigh?”
Gregor reddened slightly. “That isn’t it, either. It isn’t even staying in London.”
“Ah!” Ulanov looked wise. “A trip, then. To New York? Possibly to visit the Metropolitan Museum? Traveling, possibly, with Dr. McVeigh,” he went on innocently. “Can she get you a visa?”
“And it certainly isn’t a trip to New York. Actually,” Gregor said, feeling that the truth, or at least a part of it, was the best way to end what even he had recognized as a form of interrogation. “I was thinking about a trip to Germany, to East Be
rlin. Possibly to see the Bode Museum at the Staatsliche, since they’ve built up their antiquities section—”
“Possibly to see the Bode?” Ulanov raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you think they’ll let you in?”
“I mean, to see the Bode,” Kovpak said, now thoroughly unhappy with his dissembling, or at least with his failure to do it well.
“I should imagine—” Ulanov paused to crush out his cigarette and light another at once; Kovpak wondered why the major never lit one from the other. But then, Kovpak wondered many things about the stocky major. “I should imagine,” Ulanov repeated, drawing in on the cigarette and then exhaling, speaking about the smoke, “that a visit to the Bode Museum would be good for some of the other visiting curators and directors, those why don’t get to Europe too frequently. People like—well, Dr. Ruth McVeigh, for instance.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we—I mean, she did mention the slight possibility, but there wasn’t anything definite decided …”
“And when do you plan on leaving for East Berlin?”
“I—tomorrow morning, I suppose. We—I mean, I haven’t made any plans, as yet.”
“I see,” Ulanov said, and decided to take poor Gregor off the hook. Poor lad, he thought, you may be a great archaeologist, but you’ve a lot to learn about successful lying. “Well, in that case all I can do is wish you a pleasant journey. Sorry we didn’t get any more information at the conference, but that’s the way it often goes. You have to try. In any event, let me know when you get back to Leningrad; possibly we can arrange lunch together sometime. And our department might even be able to use some influence with the Cultural Commission.” He flicked ash from his cigarette and came to his feet, picking up his magazine, tucking it under his arm. “And if, by chance, you happen to run into Dr. McVeigh at the Bode, please give her my best regards and tell her I’m sorry about what happened at her conference.”
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