The Gold of Troy

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  But, in that case, would Newkirk have dropped the matter so quietly after the London conference?

  Ulanov smiled to himself and stared from the car window without being aware of any of the passing scenery. You’ve been seeing too many movies, my friend, he told himself. Try this far more logical scenario and see how it fits: Ruth McVeigh is intrigued by the story Gregor told her in the restaurant the first night they met, the story that was recorded on the small tape-deck taken from Newkirk. She considers trying to trace the treasure, not knowing she is wasting her time. Gregor Kovpak, fully aware that Ruth McVeigh is wasting her time, is simply taking advantage of the opportunity to spend time with the girl, hoping that eventually something romantic might develop between the two. Which would explain why Gregor had said nothing to him in London. He would have been embarrassed to give his true reasons, at his age, for going to East Germany with a much younger woman. It would also explain the secrecy with which Kovpak arranged the air passages to Schönefeld Airport, as well as explaining all those fancy clothes Gregor bought for himself. The poor fool is simply falling in love, Ulanov thought, which in itself is not a particularly smiling matter, since obviously nothing can come of it.

  In which case, Ulanov concluded in his discussion with himself, I am simply on a fool’s errand, practically opening myself to a charge of being a Peeping Serge, and taking up the time of two security cars, two drivers, and a colonel of the East German security forces, not to mention my own time. But at least, he went on to himself, it’s a lovely day, a fine day with ample refreshments, and it’s a Sunday, and what better to do on a lazy Sunday if not to take a drive in the country?

  He drained his bottle of beer, lit a cigarette, bent over to replace the empty bottle in the cooler to keep it from rolling around, and then glanced up at the small buzz that indicated the inter-communication unit was about to produce. He pressed a switch; the colonel’s voice came on the radio speaker. There were no obvious microphones to be held and spoken into, possibly to be observed by passing motorists.

  “Major?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think you have company.”

  “What!” Ulanov picked the cigarette from his lips, listening carefully.

  “When you left Schönefeld, and before I picked you up and followed, another car came out of the airport parking lot and turned after you. Well, that could have been a coincidence, but I’m a suspicious person by nature, so I dropped back and gave him plenty of room. He made the same turn at E-8 and again at E-74—again it might have been someone willing to accept the extra mileage for the convenience of the autobahn, someone going north who simply didn’t want to drive through the city. But when you turned into Route 2 and he followed, I thought that was enough of a coincidence to advise you …”

  Ulanov had not made the mistake of looking over his shoulder, or of adjusting the driver’s rearview mirror to see who might be following him. He had a pretty good idea of who it was, although he wondered how Newkirk—if it were he—had learned so quickly of his flight plans. A leak, most likely, at Aeroflot, Ulanov thought, and filed the idea away for future action. An agent at the Aeroflot London office could easily be convinced to become a double agent, which could be a useful thing. If, of course, he was really being followed, and if his tail was actually Newkirk. He continued to lean back comfortably, glancing from the window as if enjoying the view, while speaking for the benefit of the hidden microphone.

  “What can you see of the car?”

  “It has West Berlin plates. One person in the car. A man.”

  “Is it possible to get close enough to get some sort of a description without being—well, seen?”

  “I can do better than that. I can drop back a bit and use my binoculars. He’ll never know.” There were a few moments of silence, then Colonel Müeller’s voice came on again. “The car is a fairly new Ford, West German make, decent sized, and the man driving seems to be fairly tall. Wearing a dark suit. Heavy head of hair—”

  “Wearing glasses?”

  “I can’t tell …” The colonel thought a moment. “If you could slow down suddenly—as if to avoid a small animal in the road—and then pick up speed again …”

  Ulanov glanced at the driver; the man obediently applied his brakes a moment, and then stepped on the accelerator again.

  “That’s it,” Müeller said into the microphone approvingly. “He put his brakes on, too, even though he’s a good distance behind you. Which proves conclusively that he’s following you. In any event, when he automatically looked into the sideview mirror to be sure nobody was too close to him on that side when he braked, I caught his profile. Yes, he’s wearing glasses.”

  “His name is Newkirk,” Ulanov said, and thought a moment. If Newkirk was following him, was he also merely wasting his time on a pair of love birds? Or was he onto something that he, Ulanov, didn’t even suspect? He turned to his driver. “What’s your rank?”

  “Sergeant, sir. Non-uniformed. Sergeant Wolper.”

  Ulanov nodded and spoke for the benefit of the microphone and Colonel Müeller. “Franz, pass that car—don’t pay any particular attention to it as you do—then pass me and take up following the two ahead. With the bug it should be no problem. Also, you can get closer to them than I could since they don’t know you. When we get to Eberswalde, I’m sure they’re going to turn right and go to Bad Freienwalde.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story,” Ulanov said wearily. “But I’m sure.”

  “And from there?”

  “I have no idea, but from there it might be extremely important not to lose them. Follow them, but discreetly, of course. I’m going to turn left back to E-74 and then head back into Berlin.”

  “Taking your friend Newkirk with you, I gather. By the nose.”

  “Or giving it a good try. Now, Franz, what range do these police communication systems have? The ones we’re using?”

  “Fifteen to twenty miles, depending on the weather. Why?”

  “Because after I take care of friend Newkirk, I will want to get back with you, and you may be a good deal farther away from me than the range of the set. How do I do it?”

  The colonel thought a moment. “Well,” he said slowly, “eventually those two are going to have to stop for the evening”—As he was speaking his car was approaching Ulanov’s Zis. His driver touched the horn in warning and then the car with the colonel was past, swaying a bit as it regained the center of the narrow road, and slowing down a bit. The colonel continued to speak. He had not even glanced in their direction as they had passed—“and when they do, I’ll call and leave a message for you at my office, telling you where we—and they—are. And where we can join up again. Or you call my office and let them know where you’re calling from, and I’ll get in touch. Either way, or both. All right?”

  “Fine.” Ulanov thought a moment and then wrinkled his nose. “Franz, do you have a corporal named Burkhardt on the switchboard there in the evenings? Or nights?”

  “Yes,” the colonel said, mystified. “I think that’s his name. Why?”

  “Then please leave the message with the barman at your club,” Ulanov said scathingly. “I’d like to receive it.” He exchanged good-byes and switched off the set, turning to his husky driver. “Sergeant, when we get to Eberswalde—”

  “I know, sir,” Sergeant Wolper said. “I heard.”

  “I know you heard,” Ulanov said gently. He crushed out his cigarette. “What you didn’t hear is what I’m about to tell you now …”

  For some miles, now, James Newkirk had been aware of the heavy car behind him. For some time, now, he had been wondering if Ulanov had somehow been clever enough to have a second car available in case the major felt he might be followed. But, in general, Newkirk thought this doubtful. The case really wasn’t that important. Still, there was that car behind him which, although he could not recall it leaving the airport after him, still had been with him for some time, now. It would get closer, and then
drop back, although the road, while narrow, was still in good enough condition to permit fairly steady driving. Possibly the man was drunk, Newkirk thought, and then thought that possibly the man was not. He considered slowing down to see what reaction he would get from the car behind, but knew this could mean losing sight of Ulanov’s car ahead. But his dilemma was resolved for him, because suddenly the car behind, its driver apparently deciding he had been dawdling unnecessarily, picked up speed and swept past him. He could see it racing down the road, then passing Ulanov’s car, and finally disappearing in the distance. Newkirk shook his head in disgust with himself. I’m getting nerves, he informed himself with a touch of irritation, and settled back to concentrate on the Zis ahead.

  He slowed down as they approached Eberswalde, and then frowned as the car ahead of him swung to the left into Route 168. Newkirk had studied the area map in great detail at the Schönefeld parking lot, and he knew that Route 168 going west in a mile or so would either take them back on E-74, or, if they crossed it, would have made their entire trip on Route 2 meaningless. Was it possible that Ulanov knew, or at least suspected, that he might be being followed, and was merely taking normal diversionary action before heading for his actual goal? But, how could that be? If Ulanov was trailing Kovpak and the girl, how could he go anywhere except wherever they went? Could it be that they suspected that they were being followed? It was very possible, Newkirk thought. He shrugged and settled down to the business of following the battered Zis.

  He saw the car ahead pause at the entrance to E-74 and then enter the autobahn, heading south. He frowned. Was the car Ulanov was obviously trailing, lost? Although it would seem strange if they were since both Kovpak and the girl must have known exactly where they were going when they left London. Besides, who traveled these days without a road map? He shrugged and followed Ulanov’s car into the E-74, settling back, allowing a car or two to separate him from his quarry, quite sure of his ability to follow another car without getting caught at it.

  They passed the Route 2 turnoff they had taken a short time before, passed the exit to the autobahn that skirted Berlin to connect with the Rostock road, and turned at last into Frankfurter Allee, Route 5, heading west into the heart of Berlin. They had made three-quarters of a giant circle, and Newkirk gave up speculating as to the reasons for the strange maneuver, concentrating instead on keeping the other car in sight, congratulating himself on not permitting the car ahead to lose him. The city of Berlin grew about them as they plunged deeper and deeper into the sprawling metropolis. New apartment houses, like drab siblings, duplicated themselves in monotonous similarity along both sides of the wide road, their lower floors dedicated, Newkirk was sure, to equally drab stores exhibiting dusty samples of inferior goods. At least, he thought, he was spared the sight of the long queues; he knew all stores were closed in Berlin on Sundays. Sunday also saw the cessation of truck traffic, which was welcome on a trailing job, although the number of automobiles increased as they approached the center of the city. Newkirk drew his car closer to that of his quarry, aware that it would be quite easy for Ulanov to evade him in the warren of streets they were passing, but the fact was that the car ahead gave no indication that it was being followed, but continued on a steady pace along the avenue.

  The Frankfurter Allee became the Karl Marx Allee, leading toward the Alexander Platz and the huge television tower that dominated the skyline of Berlin on both sides of the wall. It was beginning to grow dark, and car lights were being lit on automobiles. Newkirk leaned forward and put on his parking lights, aware that while darkness would make it more difficult for him to trail Ulanov, at the same time it would make it even more difficult for Ulanov to discover he was being trailed. Under the pale glow of the street lights set very high above the wide avenue, the traffic continued to move, with Newkirk now allowing only a single car to separate him from the large Zis, and the intervening car was so small that he could almost see over it, or, on occasion, around it. Looming over them as they traveled in their tandem fashion were large office and official buildings, grim in their colorlessness and forbidding in their silence.

  The Zis swung past the huge Stadt Berlin Hotel and turned into the Karl Liebknecht Strasse, continuing its even pace as it entered the Unter den Linden. Newkirk shrugged as he easily kept up. Wherever they were heading had to be fairly close since there was only a mile or so left before they would be at the Brandenburg Tor at the edge of the East Berlin zone. He leaned back, relaxed as he drove, now more sure than ever that he had not been spotted; on an avenue as broad as the Unter den Linden the car ahead might well have attempted to lose itself in the heavier traffic had it been aware of its tail. On the other hand, Newkirk had to remind himself again, Ulanov’s actions were dictated by the car the KGB major was following, and by no other consideration.

  The Zis suddenly turned left into the maze of side streets with their half-demolished buildings that led past the Leipziger Strasse in the direction of Checkpoint Charlie, the double-guarded gateway between East and West Berlin. Newkirk sat a bit more erect, frowning. Was it possible that Kovpak and McVeigh were heading for West Berlin with Ulanov behind them? But in that case, why hadn’t the two archaeologists flown to West Berlin directly? Could it be because Kovpak had no visa for entering West Berlin? But then how could he go through the checkpoint, which was undoubtedly as exigent as the airport in the matter of visas and controls? And did Ulanov have the necessary permissions to also cross into the western zone? For Ruth McVeigh, of course, there would be no problem, any more than there would be for him; after all, they were Americans and the western checkpoint was in the American zone of the divided city. It was odd, Newkirk thought as he followed the car ahead, how most people thought there were no longer war zones in Berlin with the war so many years in the past. But there were, and at Checkpoint Charlie just that morning he had dealt—easily, with his American passport and press credentials—with an American army corporal. A sudden rather disturbing thought came: He could get back into the American zone, into West Berlin, with no trouble—but who would be there for him to trail once he got there? The delay at Checkpoint Charlie was well-known; the Germans, Newkirk thought, delayed things through sheer obstinacy, the Americans through a proper sense of security, but the result was the same. By the time he got through the checkpoint both Ulanov and the two archaeologists would have long since disappeared. It was really quite frustrating! That is, if they were really, actually, going to the checkpoint and into the western zone …

  But, that was exactly where they were going!

  He saw the Zis turn sharply into the entrance of the checkpoint and draw up to the barrier of the East German police. The husky driver leaned from the car window, exhibiting papers of some sort, spoke earnestly to the guard there for several minutes, and then put the car into gear and turned past the high wooden wall that separated the check stations of the two nations both physically and visually. So Ulanov, a KGB agent, had somehow managed to arrange papers, undoubtedly forged, to permit him entry into West Germany! Obviously, the authorities had no notion who the major really was, but he, Newkirk, would handle that lack of information as soon as he was able! Newkirk hurried his car forward, his passport in hand; his eyes were not on the guard who was examining the document with the usual intense curiosity, as if he had never seen one before, but were fixed on the spot where the Zis had disappeared about the wall. He sat in frustrated impatience as the guard checked each entry in the passport and sighed with profound relief when the passport was finally stamped and given back to him. The guard waved him through abruptly. He stepped on the gas and hoped that the American checkpoint would detain Ulanov long enough for him to be able to resume the chase. It would be hell to lose the man now!

  He need not have worried.

  As he swung his car around the wooden wall of the barrier toward the American post, he came very close to running into the Zis, which had been pulled across the narrow roadway, blocking his passage. The driver had obviously been w
aiting for him. He stepped down from the Zis and moved toward him. In the white glare of the floodlights that lit every corner of the restricted area, Newkirk could see Ulanov slide behind the wheel of the Zis and pull the car to one side out of the way of traffic. The driver, in the meantime, was leaning into the window of Newkirk’s car, holding his warrant card in his hand, and Newkirk realized he was still in the East Berlin zone, although he had no fears in that regard since his papers were all in order. He looked up at the sergeant equably, quite sure of his ability to handle any contingencies.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Sergeant Wolper’s face might have been carved from granite. “I am a sergeant in the Volks Polizei. Please step down.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I may have to search you,” the sergeant said. He tilted his head sharply in the direction of the East German barrier, invisible behind the intervening wooden wall. “You failed to declare any DDR currency you might have.”