“Doctors Kovpak and McVeigh,” he said. “Their rooms do not answer.”
The girl at the desk looked at him blankly a moment and then consulted some cards. Her face cleared as the mystery was solved. “Oh,” she said, looking up. “They both checked out early this morning.”
The colonel leaned forward. “What! Their car is still in the garage!”
“Yes, sir. You see, it’s a rental car, and we’re an authorized agency to accept delivery. They turned it in this morning when they checked out.”
The colonel presented his warrant card; the girl paled slightly. “All right, miss,” the colonel said in his best police manner, “exactly what time did they check out?”
The cards were consulted again. “It was seven-thirty this morning, sir.”
“And how did they leave? By cab?”
“I don’t know, sir. They each had a small bag and they walked out the front door. I mean, we usually have to arrange a taxi for a guest the day before, and they didn’t ask for one. There aren’t many cabs in Rostock, sir, and—”
“Could they have picked one up outside?” Ulanov asked.
“I doubt it, sir. A cab would be here only by appointment, or if he dropped someone off here, and I remember nobody came in when they left. And cabs don’t cruise in this town; gasoline, you know—”
“Then how could they have left? By walking?” the colonel asked sarcastically.
“Most probably by tram, sir. Many people travel to and from the hotel by tram, sir. It’s cheap, and it runs by the bus station and the railroad station is the end of the line. It turns around there—”
Ulanov held up his hand to quiet the girl who seemed to have become compulsive in her talking since seeing the colonel’s warrant card. The major led the colonel to one side. “I imagine checking on the trams is quite a job, but it has to be done. Also the cabs. They might have been lucky and found one. Also the bus station and the railroad station. They might have been recognized—after all, they’re both foreigners.”
“This is a seaport, Major. We have lots of foreigners here, sailors—”
“I doubt that Dr. Ruth McVeigh is ever going to be mistaken for a sailor,” Ulanov said dryly. “In any event, we have to try and find them.”
“But—where do you think they might have gone?”
“I have no idea. Trains and buses go everywhere.” Ulanov frowned. “But in that case, why didn’t they simply drive?” The answer was self-evident. Ulanov looked at the colonel accusingly. “They knew they were being followed, Colonel! They knew their car was under surveillance in the garage!” He considered the colonel coldly. “There is no other explanation.”
Colonel Müeller swallowed. “I’m sorry, Major. I thought we had been most circumspect—”
“Well,” Ulanov said shortly, “there’s no sense in wasting anymore time than has already been wasted. We’re five hours behind them now. Start a check on cabs and trams, and the railroad and bus stations. And check on other car-rental agencies; they might have tried to be cute and merely rented another car. I’ll meet you here at six for your report.”
“Won’t you be coming with me, sir?”
“No,” Ulanov said. He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to get something to eat, and then I’m going to see the matinee at the circus.”
He might as well accomplish at least one of the things he had hoped to do that day, he felt …
Major Ulanov, the usual cigarette in the corner of his lips, was consulting a one-inch map of northern East Germany while Colonel Müeller made his report. The colonel was not happy making his report, but there was nothing else he could do.
“The trams on Monday, especially at that hour, with people going to work, are like sardine tins,” he said dolefully. “You know, of course, that our trams work on the honor system as far as payment for a ride is concerned; you can buy tickets at many places and when you get on the tram you put one into a machine to be punched to show the ticket has been used. The motorman doesn’t see you at all, unless you happen to get on by the front door, and even then he never pays any attention.”
“What you are saying,” Ulanov said without looking up from the map, speaking the words around smoke, “is that wherever they went by tram—if they went by tram—is a total mystery.”
“Yes, sir.” The colonel, of course, held a higher rank in the organization of East German Security than Ulanov held in Russian State Security, but one was KGB and the other was not, and neither organization ever forgot it. “If they took a cab, we haven’t been able to locate it. I think we have reports from all of them. The girl was right; there aren’t very many of them. And I checked the bus station myself. Nobody recalls anyone like them.”
“And the trains?”
The colonel sounded even more despondent. “The railroads are as bad if not worse than the trams on a Monday morning. People coming in from all over after the weekend to go back to work; people who should have gone home the night before all trying to get on trains and get back. You could take a herd of elephants through the Hauptbahnhof here in Rostock between six and eight or nine in the morning, and nobody would notice. In fact, it probably wouldn’t even seem to be more crowded. I’m told you simply cannot move in the station or on the platforms.”
“So nobody saw them, is that it?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”
“And of course there is no record of their having rented another car.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No, sir.”
Ulanov sighed. He studied the map a few more minutes and then tossed it aside, looking up. ‘We’ve lost them, Colonel.”
“I’m sorry, Major.” A question that had been bothering the colonel for some time seemed to be forced from him. “Major, is it—are they—I mean, you never told me—is the case very important?”
“I didn’t think so before, but I’m beginning to now,” Ulanov said somberly, but did not expand upon the answer. He frowned into space as he tried to find a solution to their disappearance in the smoke of his cigarette. Where had they gone? And why? And how had he been so derelict as to let them get away, for although it had been the colonel who was primarily responsible, the colonel had been acting under his orders and the responsibility fell back on his shoulders and he knew it. Should he put out an all-points bulletin on them? On what basis? He’d look a proper fool if they merely gave up the car because it hadn’t been running well, and had taken a train back to Berlin.
A sudden possible answer to the problem came to him, and as he examined it in detail, his frown slowly changed to a faint smile. Why not? After all, despite the occasional failings common to all security operations—as witness Newkirk forgetting the DDR currency regulations in his haste to follow the Zis—the CIA was still far from a helpless giant. He looked up at the colonel, his eyes twinkling.
“There is a man named Newkirk,” Ulanov said, “being held at Volks-Polizei headquarters in Berlin on charges of attempting to smuggle DDR marks into West Germany—”
Now the colonel thought he understood the twinkle. “So that’s how you handled it! Excellent! Is he an enemy agent? How long do you want him held—?”
“What he is,” Ulanov said, answering the first question first, “is a poor, misguided newspaperman, and in thinking about it, I am ashamed of the trouble I have undoubtedly caused him. In my opinion, the German Security Forces, in their vast wisdom, their great humanity, and their exemplary generosity, should let the man go.”
The colonel was puzzled. “But, if you just—”
“Should let the man go,” Ulanov repeated gently, but in a manner that told the colonel he was not being requested to free Mr. Newkirk; he was being instructed. “However,” Ulanov went on evenly, “since Mr. Newkirk has a habit of getting into trouble, for his own good I believe you should keep a rather careful watch over him.” He looked the colonel in the eye. “A very careful watch. One that might contemplate the possibility that Mr. Newkirk and any car he might rent are no
t necessarily Siamese twins …”
Colonel Müeller could take a hint. “Yes, sir. We won’t lose him. But what if—or when—he leaves the Democratic Republic?”
“Then you will advise me at once. Including his destination, if possible.” The major made it sound that if the destination was not included, the colonel once more would have failed in his duty.
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Müeller hesitated. “Will you be coming back to Berlin with us, sir?”
Major Ulanov put out his cigarette and sighed. “I suppose so. Once we get something to eat.” Duty was a difficult decision, he thought. He had hoped to see the Warnemünde docks, not only to see what was so humorous about them—probably nothing, he thought; who could explain the laughter of starry-eyed love birds?—but because he enjoyed the sea and found sea air refreshing. He had also heard that the evening performance of the circus was quite different from the matinee. With another sigh at the exigencies of his job, he led the way into the restaurant.
It was two days before the plan of Major Ulanov bore fruit. He was lying on his bed in his room at the Stadt Berlin Hotel, his ever-present cigarette plastered to his lip, reading the last of his Playboy magazine and disappointed that the fiction and articles did not live up to the promise of the cartoons and photographs, when he received a call from Colonel Müeller. He put down the Playboy and laid aside his cigarette in the interests of clearer speech. “Yes?”
“Newkirk spent a good part of yesterday at the American Embassy,” the colonel reported.
“Explaining to Langley, Virginia, how the idiotic German Democratic Republic police had picked him up for a stupid reason,” Ulanov said calmly, “but were smart enough, at least, to realize one didn’t fool around with newspaper reporters and let him go free in record time.” He reached for his cigarette again.
“I have no idea of what went on in the American Embassy,” Colonel Müeller said honestly. “We have no means of knowing what goes on there.”
Ulanov’s eyebrows raised. “No?” Well, the responsibility for East German security, thank heavens, was not his or his organization’s. “So then what did he do?”
“He spent the day just walking around, browsing in book shops, looking at statues—typical tourist stuff. No contacts with anyone. Ate alone and went to bed early. Then today he returned to the Embassy—”
“To find out if the tentacles of the famed CIA had managed to unearth Kovpak and McVeigh in the meantime.”
“Probably,” the colonel said, “because right after that he went down to the railroad station and bought a ticket to Copenhagen—”
Major Ulanov sat a bit more erect. The CIA had done his work for him in record time. He felt a bit proud of them. “Copenhagen, eh?”
“Yes, sir. The train, you know, goes right through. The railroad cars with destination Copenhagen are put on the ferry at Warnemünde, and—” The colonel suddenly realized that Ulanov was probably not too interested in the mechanics of the trip. “We can arrange a ticket on the same train if you wish; it doesn’t leave until six tomorrow morning. Or we can arrange a plane ticket from Schonefeld to Kastrup Airport in Copenhagen, and you can easily get there before him.”
Ulanov thought a moment, puffing on the cigarette, and then smiled as he removed it from his lips.
“No,” he said. “Get me a ticket on the train for the day after tomorrow.” This time, he said to himself, we’ll let Newkirk do some of the spadework for a change. “And in the meantime, check Copenhagen hotels and find out where Kovpak and the girl are staying.” He hung up and lay back in comfort once again, pleased with himself in getting Newkirk and the CIA to do his work for him. With luck, he felt, the American security organization might eventually also tell him what the case was all about, and what Kovpak and McVeigh were up to …
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DENMARK—July
Count Axel Lindgren had been both surprised and greatly delighted to hear from Ruth McVeigh. In Washington he had done his best to convince Ruth that she should arrange a short vacation from the Smithsonian—or even a long one—and spend it with him in St. Croix, Cannes, or wherever she wished. Nor had he ceased his efforts once Ruth had taken over the directorship of the Metropolitan and moved to New York. His frequent telephone calls had been masterful combinations of charm and salesmanship. Nor had her constant amused refusals deterred him from continuing his efforts until, unfortunately, he had been asked to leave the Danish diplomatic service and he had returned to Lindgren Castle.
Now Ruth McVeigh was here in Copenhagen! Probably, Count Lindgren assumed, on a vacation or a rest after the debacle of the London conference, which in itself had tickled the count’s sense of the absurd. If Ruth McVeigh could have known where the Schliemann treasure actually was at that moment, or who really had it! Or at least who would have it that afternoon when that disgusting Professor Nordberg delivered it.
The count had arranged a small intimate booth for the two of them for lunch at one of his favorite restaurants, the Spinderokken in the Trommesalen. He knew that most visitors to Copenhagen preferred one of the Divan restaurants in the Tivoli Gardens, but the count wanted atmosphere and quiet in addition to good food, not the sound of hurdy-gurdys while he pressed his suit. It had been quite a long time since the count had had a woman of the type that really pleased him, and Ruth McVeigh not only fit that category perfectly, but she was here in Copenhagen. And had called him. It had to mean something.
The count arrived at the restaurant early, in order to advise Sture, the Spinderokken’s maître d’, exactly how chilled he wished the Aalborg Export before the meal, as well as the proper selection and temperature of the wines that were to accompany the meal. Sture listened imperturbably. He had been serving aquavit and wine since the count was a small boy, but one did not argue with Count Lindgren. Especially, as Sture knew well, when the count was quite right in his orders.
“And the flowers!” Lindgren suddenly said, and frowned at Sture. “They haven’t arrived!”
“They are being iced,” Sture said evenly. “They will be sprayed and brought to the table as the lady is being seated.”
“Good.” Count Lindgren sat down and began to study the menu. As he mentally made his selections he recalled that Ruth McVeigh enjoyed her food. A proper meal, here at one of the finest restaurants in Denmark, would be a good method by which to introduce the subject of his own marvelous cook, François. And to suggest a dinner some evening at Lindgren Castle, prepared and served by the talented chef, for François had notions about serving as well as cooking. And later, seated cozily in his den, sated with food and drink, it could be found that it was rather late to return to Copenhagen. And the castle, of course, had more than ample accommodations …
He glanced up as the door opened and Sture moved forward, bending the least amount at the waist professionally. The count came to his feet at once as Ruth entered. He felt a small flush of pleasure; she was even more beautiful than he remembered. He started forward, both hands outstretched; and then paused, his smile tightening a bit. A man had entered behind her, obviously accompanying her, a rather handsome man in a somewhat coarse fashion, the count thought, but somehow slightly familiar. But Count Lindgren had not been a diplomat for nothing. His slight frown was instantly arrested, replaced by a brilliant smile. He took Ruth’s hand, and bending over it, kissed it. Then, straightening up, he looked at the intruder.
“Ruth, it’s a very great pleasure. Who is your friend?”
“Hello, Axel. It’s good to see you again. I want you to meet Dr. Gregor Kovpak. He’ll lunch with us.” She turned to Gregor. “Darling, this is Count Lindgren I’ve been telling you about.”
The two men shook hands, eyeing each other a bit warily. Darling, eh? Lindgren thought, and then dismissed it. Today everyone called everyone else darling; it meant little. Why did she feel it necessary to call me darling in front of this stranger? Gregor thought. Was she advising him that any relationship they had had in the past was no longer operativ
e?
“A pleasure you could join us, Dr. Kovpak,” Lindgren said heartily, and turned to Sture, who was watching with a graven face although the count suspected there was a derisive smile hidden somewhere behind the emotionless eyes. “You will set another place, please, Sture.”
He led the way to the table, waited until Ruth had taken her place in the booth and Gregor had sat down beside her, and then seated himself across from them. He smiled brightly at the two of them; Axel Lindgren was a consummate actor. “Well, this is a real pleasure! I’ve heard much of you and all you’ve done at the Hermitage, Dr. Kovpak, and I’m quite impressed. On your way home to Leningrad after London, I imagine?”
“In a way,” Kovpak said noncommittally, and wondered just how close this handsome but slightly forbidding man had been to Ruth McVeigh.
“It’s an honor to have you as my guest for lunch. And Ruth, of course, is an old friend. A very old, dear, and close friend.”
Ruth McVeigh smiled slightly. She knew Axel Lindgren very well.
“My dear Axel,” she said gently, resolved to put this issue to rest at once. “You and I are old friends and I hope we always will be, but that is all we ever were. Gregor and I are lovers. We are in love.”
“Ah, the honesty of young people these days! May I congratulate you both.” The count’s beaming expression remained, but he suddenly determined that if possible neither the Hermitage nor the Metropolitan would ever see the Schliemann collection if only for the insult to his pride. And then the count mentally chided himself. He was being stupid and he hated stupidity, especially in himself. Nobody had insulted him. And as for Ruth McVeigh, with the money he would soon have, possibly even from one of the two facing him, he could surround himself with women as beautiful, as well as more appreciative. It was foolish to allow emotion to interfere with business. Instead of angling to get Ruth McVeigh in bed, the luncheon should be used for the purpose of eliciting information. After all, he had never had the opportunity to talk the matter over with one, if not two, of the museums who would actually be bidding in the auction, and it should be most interesting. He waited while Sture placed the glistening flowers on the table and withdrew, and then went on. “I’m very glad you called me and that I have this chance to talk with you both,” he said earnestly. “I’ve read about the London conference, of course, but the Danish newspapers were rather vague as to the exact details as to what happened. Possibly one of you could—?”
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