“I beg your pardon?”
Count Lindgren’s friendly smile forgave him his lapse. “I merely said, I envy you your composure.”
“My composure?” The professor was confused. Had he missed something while daydreaming of the money?
“Yes,” Lindgren said, and gave Nordberg a look that neatly combined congratulations with a touch of envy. “Here you are with a fortune almost in your hands—an almost assured fortune almost in your hands, you might say—and all of it depending on a very dubious location in a bank. And you sit there as if you didn’t have a care in the world. I tell you,” the count went on, his voice dripping sincerity, “I couldn’t possibly do it. I’d be as nervous as a witch.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nordberg was now thoroughly confused. “Nervous? Dubious location—?”
“You know,” the count said, his tone challenging Nordberg to deny that he knew, “these bank robberies. Getting more and more prevalent. Getting more and more—well, daring? At least more technical—” He paused to take a panatela from the humidor at his elbow, held a match to it, and puffed it into life.
Nordberg frowned, still unsure of the direction the conversation had taken, but knowing it made him profoundly uneasy. He wet his lips. “Bank—bank robberies?”
“And clever, too.” The count nodded at the cleverness of the current crop of bank robbers, giving credit where credit was due. “I’m sure you recall that hotel in New York that was robbed not too many years ago? Somewhere along Central Park South, I believe, or possibly somewhere else? The thieves took the doors off the safe-deposit boxes used for guests’ jewelry, as if they were made of cheese. Cream cheese,” he added, and frowned. “I don’t recall how much money they got away with, but I believe it was nothing like the money you might be able to realize from the auction of the Schliemann treasure.” He dismissed the thought with a shrug. “But, then, I suppose these people must know the chances they take when they leave their money or their jewels in one of those safe-deposit boxes.”
The conversation was becoming profoundly disturbing to Arne Nordberg. “But—I thought safe-deposit boxes were the safest thing there was. Aren’t they?”
The count shrugged delicately, not wishing to put banks in an unenviable position. “I suppose everything is relative. There was that case in Monte Carlo, I believe it was. I’m not sure if that was the place or if it occurred somewhere else, but no matter. You know, of course, that all banks keep a few of their safe-deposit boxes unrented in their vaults, in case some important customer comes in and requires one in a hurry? A killing at the casino, or something like that?”
“I didn’t—but, of course, it makes sense …”
“Yes. Except in this case it didn’t,” the count said conversationally, “because these bandits put a gun under the bank manager’s nose and made him open not only the vault, but one of those empty safe-deposit boxes. A big one. They filled it with explosive, locked the door of the safe-deposit box, left the vault and detonated the charge.” The count did not explain how the bandits managed to detonate the explosive in a locked box, but he was sure it was possible.
Nordberg was watching him with wide eyes. “And what—what happened?”
“It popped all the doors of the safe-deposit boxes all along the entire wall, just like that!” The count snapped his fingers. “The internal pressure, of course. But I’m sure you know more about that than I do, you being a scientist.” He frowned off into space. “And then there was the case—”
Professor Nordberg swallowed. “But—what’s safer? Than safe-deposit boxes, I mean?”
“Many things,” the count said calmly, and shook ash from his cigar with a deft motion. “That’s why I say I admire your composure. I must also admit,” he went on as another unexpected and rather embarrassing thought came to him, “that I’d be in a rather—well, a rather odd position should anything happen to the treasure.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t like that!” Nordberg said hurriedly, and then looked puzzled. “An odd position—?”
“Yes. Oh, not about the monetary value of the treasure. After all, that is your affair. But when I stop to think how I should feel if, after all the trouble I went to—trouble,” he hastened to add, “that I welcomed, as I still do. But, as I say, I cannot help but wonder how I should feel if, after arranging everything as well as I have, if I say so myself, we held the auction only to discover that some thieves had staged a break-in of the boxes you showed me, and removed the treasure. I’d look a proper fool, wouldn’t I?”
“I—I wouldn’t want that—”
“No, I daresay you would not. No good friend would. But I’m undoubtedly exaggerating the entire thing.” The count smiled self-deprecatingly. “In my case I’d be losing a bit of what the Chinese call ‘face,’ plus a few thousand kroner, which I can well afford. But you’d be losing much more, of course, and that would bother me. But I’m sure there’s really no great worry. Banks are robbed every day without their vaults or safe-deposit boxes necessarily being disturbed. I really shouldn’t have even raised the subject.”
“No, no! You were quite right! But—”
Count Lindgren contemplated the pudgy professor in a kindly manner. “Yes?”
“I mean—that is—if there’s a safer place …”
“There are many, and I’m sure you’ll think of one,” the count said, and brought a hand up to stifle a small yawn.
Nordberg recognized that he was being dismissed, but he certainly did not wish to leave with a matter as important as the security of the precious treasure unresolved. “But you said—”
“Yes?”
“You said there were safer places—or safer ways, I don’t remember which.” The professor looked about the richly appointed room, noting the valuable carvings on the shelves, the undoubtedly rare paintings on the wall. “For example, Count—I mean, Axel—how do you keep your things from—well, from being stolen? You talk about a safe-deposit box not being safe. What about your valuables, all right out in the open?” He looked a bit apologetic for pointing out the relative insecurity of the castle. “Your servants—I’m sure they’re dedicated, but would they be in a position to handle a determined and large gang of thieves?”
The count stifled another yawn with a languid hand.
“My case is a bit different,” he said, obviously continuing the conversation out of politeness and nothing more. “I could scarcely live the life I care to live if all the objects of beauty I need to have about me were in safe-deposit boxes. Nor should I sleep very soundly if they were. As you may or may not know, my vault below has many millions of kroners worth of silver plate. It keeps one of the maids busy just polishing it. And on the walls of the castle, as I’m sure you must have noticed, I have paintings worth many times the value of the Schliemann collection.”
“I know. Oh, I know! And”—Nordberg hesitated—“you’ve never been—bothered?”
The count was obviously finding the conversation increasingly tiresome, but out of politeness he continued.
“You mean, robbed? No. In the olden days, the days of my ancestors, the castle was armed, of course. Armored knights and bowmen and men to handle the barrels of hot pitch and the catapults and whatever.” The count bit back a yawn. It was obvious he would rather be taking his afternoon nap than discussing this wearisome subject. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I would find my love of privacy a bit hampered by halbertmen and mace-wielding people and crossbowmen underfoot all the time. Then there was the period when the castle was overrun with servants who were, in actuality, private detectives, and they were even more objectionable, I am sure, than the bowmen.” He shrugged. “Today, of course, it is all done with electronics. You may or may not know it, but you are under observation from the moment you enter the gate. Before Wilten admits you, or anyone else, he has to disconnect one of the most complete alarm systems in Denmark.”
“Alarm systems?”
“Believe me,” Count Lindgren said patronizingly, “if you ent
ered without the system being deactivated, you would find yourself overwhelmed with sirens, bells, whistles, and general bedlam. In addition, the police in Ringsted would be here in moments, guns out, in case you were—as you suggested—a large determined gang of thieves.” It was true, and the count still resented Erik Trosborg having insisted upon the alarm system. Without it the count might have faked a burglary and raised some needed money.
Nordberg glanced around the room, his eyes round with wonder.
“You mean—all the doors and windows?”
“Everything,” the count said wearily. “Sills, stables, kitchens, even curtains, if I’m not mistaken. Plus the main vault itself, which is larger and with thicker walls than the one in your bank, where your rather vulnerable safe-deposit boxes are being guarded.” The count by now could barely keep his eyes open. He came to his feet, biting back a yawn, leaned over to crush out his cigar, and then straightened up. “My dear Arne, I’m sure you will forgive me, but I had a rather long evening last night, and I’m afraid I need a bit of rest. Another party tonight, too, you know.” He shrugged a bit humorously, deprecating the inevitable round of parties a man in his position had to suffer.
“Of course! Of course! I understand,” Nordberg said, and came to his feet hurriedly. He downed the balance of his brandy in a gulp and moved toward the door. There he paused, unable to leave with the issue principally in his mind, unsettled. “Count Lindgren—”
“Axel,” the count said, correcting him in a kindly fashion.
“Axel—I wonder—I mean …” Nordberg was fumbling for words.
“Yes?”
“I know it’s an imposition—”
Eyebrows were raised. “An imposition?”
“I mean, I was wondering …” Suddenly the professor saw an out. “I mean, it would be as much for your benefit as for mine. You wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble you did for nothing, in case—I mean—and I wouldn’t—I mean—” Nordberg stumbled into embarrassed silence.
Count Lindgren frowned in total non-comprehension. “Arne, my dear fellow! What is it? What are you trying to say? Is there something I can do for you? Please be assured that nothing would give me greater pleasure!”
Nordberg relaxed. He should have known that Count Lindgren would not let down a friend in need. “Well, what I thought was—well, I thought that since the castle is so well protected, that—well, that we might keep the treasure here, rather than in the bank. It wouldn’t take up much room,” he added hastily, and suddenly remembered that it would also save him those high monthly rental fees for the boxes. A plus all around!
“Keep the treasure here?” The count frowned and rubbed his chin, staring down at the floor in deep thought. “I hadn’t considered it before. The vault, of course, would be out of the question. It’s loaded with plate and what not, and besides, too many people have access to it. Still—I suppose it might be done. It might be possible. We could keep it here in my study. Nobody comes in here when I’m not here, and the study, of course, enjoys the same protection as everything and everywhere else in the castle.” He thought a moment more and then looked up. “Actually, now that I think about it, it’s rather a good idea. I wouldn’t have thought of it, myself. I must congratulate you, Arne. It’s a brilliant idea.”
Nordberg’s face flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Which after all, he thought, was truly deserved since he actually had thought of the idea. “I’ll bring it—” He started, and then he frowned. “Today is Friday; it’s too late to get to the bank today. Then there’s the weekend, and next week is graduation week, with faculty meetings and graduation on Wednesday—”
“Must you attend all the faculty meetings?” Lindgren said softly. “After all, in a short time you will undoubtedly be considering leaving the university—”
“True.” Nordberg suddenly smiled. “You know, I keep forgetting that I’ll be a rich man.” He thought a moment. “Monday I really must be at the university. We clean out our desks then for the summer, and whatever we don’t take, some custodian ends up with. But Tuesday—say late afternoon, I’ll definitely be here. Say, five o’clock?”
“Fine!”
“And thank you, Count—I mean, Axel! Thank you!”
“It is nothing,” Lindgren said modestly, and held out his hand. Nordberg shook it enthusiastically, and then dropped it as if he knew he was delaying the count’s nap. He hurried to the door, anxious to allow his dear friend Axel to get his rest as soon as possible. He closed the door softly behind him, almost as if Count Lindgren had already retired to his bedroom beyond the study and was already asleep.
Lindgren watched the door close quietly behind the dumpy professor, and now wide awake again, sank back into his chair. The professor’s presence had, indeed, begun to wear on him. The count poured himself a brandy and sipped it, staring contemplatively at the small balcony that the professor always favored on his visits. In four days, on Tuesday at five o’clock, the professor would bring the treasure here to Lindgren Castle. The count smiled coldly and lit a cigar, inhaling deeply and enjoying the flavor …
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EAST GERMANY—July
It was a beautiful Sunday, the first day of July. The small car that had been furnished to Gregor Kovpak at Schönefeld Airport held a full tank of fuel, purportedly enough to take him from one border to the other of the small country and back again. The car was performing well. As in most of East Germany traffic was light and automobiles were few on the autobahn, and best of all to the mind of the man driving the car was the fact that Ruth McVeigh sat beside him, her lovely face flushed from the wind, looking as if she were enjoying herself. The landscape through which they were driving was pleasant, flat or slightly rolling countryside, neatly plowed fields, and every now and then a herd of dairy cattle lazing in the warm sun, or munching contentedly on grass, paying no attention to the cars that shot past on the autobahn, as if aware of their own more tranquil state, and quite satisfied with it.
A mile or so behind the small car, Major Serge Ulanov relaxed, leaning back comfortably in the seat of the battered Zis, alternately drinking from a bottle of beer, with contentment equal to those of the cows they were passing, and consulting a road map held in his lap. The driver at his side, forbidden alcoholic refreshments even as minor as beer while on duty, glanced over now and then at the drinking man a trifle chidingly, but nothing could have perturbed the major less. When he had been the age of the large young man at his side, he had been happy many times to get water. He had been a partisan, probably fighting this young man’s father, he thought, and put down the partially empty bottle to consult the map again.
From Schönefeld they had taken the short leg of the E-15 autobahn to the E-8, left that after thirteen kilometers to transfer to the E-74 autobahn heading north. Ulanov had to give Kovpak credit for skirting East Berlin in this fashion. The last time he had attempted to drive through the city he had become hopelessly lost, between streets that seemingly went nowhere, and those that dead-ended into the wall. While Ulanov considered the map, he also considered the fact that with the bug on Kovpak’s car transmitting so well, and with the highways on which they found themselves with few intersections, and those only of very minor roads, possibly there had been no need for the two cars. Still, if and when the two people ahead left their car, it was very probable he would require all his forces to keep them adequately covered without their knowing about it. Ulanov still thought he knew their destination, but the autobahn ahead offered several alternatives, and the major saw little point in committing himself to a theory when a matter of a few minutes or a few kilometers could resolve the question.
The driver, staring ahead intently, spoke for the first time since they had left the airport. “They’ve turned, sir. Onto Route 2.”
Ulanov consulted his map. Route 2 was a very minor road, indeed, leaving the E-74 autobahn just before the village of Bernau and passing through Eberswalde and Angermünde to skirt the Polish border and eventua
lly return to the E-74. But at Eberswalde a turn into Route 167 would take them to Bad Freienwalde, which is where Ulanov had been sure the two had been heading all along.
His hunch, then, had been perfectly correct. Kovpak and McVeigh were starting at the last-known point where the treasure had been seen, and were attempting to trace it from there. Then they must have learned something, either from one another, or by combining information, or from some source encountered at the ill-fated conference, or from someone else in London—or it really didn’t matter where or from whom—to indicate to them the route by which the Schliemann treasure had gotten to the United States and Langley, Virginia, all that distant thirty-five years before. Or—
Or? Ulanov frowned and put the “Or” aside for a moment. Whatever the two ahead of him had learned, it had been extremely naughty of Gregor Kovpak not to share that knowledge with him. Certainly a trained KGB agent would have been able to reach far more accurate conclusions than an untrained person such as Kovpak. Besides, not only was he KGB—with Kovpak on an assignment with him—but he had thought they had become friends in the short time of their acquaintance. He put that thought aside for the moment and returned to the big “Or” that had come into his mind a few moments before.
Or what? Was it possible that the two ahead knew something he did not? Was it possible that the theories of Vashugin and himself, as well as the other brains of the KGB as to what had happened to the treasure, were all wrong? Was it possible that the Schliemann treasure had not gone to Langley? Admittedly, the evidence indicating that the treasure had gone there was far from the type of evidence Ulanov liked to have to support a theory. On the other hand, they had seen no evidence to indicate anything contrary to the theory in all these thirty-five years. Still, the major had had enough experience to know that theories often tended to be justified by their creators as a form of self-defense.
It had occurred to Ulanov, since the announcement of the auction, that if Langley had had the treasure, it was odd that they had allowed it to be taken from them so easily. Although, he had to admit to himself, there was nothing to indicate it had been taken easily. It might have been a major attack, which Langley could easily keep secret. It might have been taken—or even freely given—as the result of blackmail, or the kidnapping of a major political or intelligence figure, with the treasure as ransom—something else Langley could easily keep secret. There may have been killings involved; nobody would ever need to know. Which would explain what Newkirk was doing on an unimportant conference such as the one held in London. Suppose, Ulanov thought, his mind now charging along, that someone important had been held captive, or even killed, in the losing of the treasure by Langley. Then, obviously, Newkirk, with a full complement of assistants, would have been given the assignment of tracking down those persons or that person who was responsible, who was now offering the treasure for auction …
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