“What happened, sir—”
“My dear Major Ulanov, when I am finished I will be glad to allow you to explain your complete dereliction of duty in favor of what I believe are called, in the capitalist world, the fleshpots. I, too, in my time, have known the beauty of London, the pleasures of Berlin, the wonderful Danish food. I, too, in my time, have enjoyed the bright lights and the lesser-bright women of some of Europe’s capitals. But at least I had the simple intelligence not to push a good thing to the point where I was receiving an extremely serious reprimand from my superiors!”
“Sir, you don’t understand—”
“I don’t understand?” The sarcasm disappeared instantly. “You don’t understand, Major. I have no idea what kind of game you and this Kovpak are playing—he isn’t related to you, by any chance, is he? Your sister’s son, or something like that? But the two of you better have your last meal at the Tivoli, take your last shopping spree in the Strøget, make your last visit to the Istedgade—yes, I know where it is—and get back home! And when you get here, Major, you better have a better story than you’ve given me to date!”
“Sir, I haven’t had a chance to say a—”
“That will do, Major! You’ve wasted enough time of yours on this so-called investigation of yours without wasting any more of mine. Investigation!” The colonel snorted. “Good day!” Ulanov’s ears still rang from the sound of the telephone receiver being slammed down.
Now, sitting disconsolate in his corner of the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, Major Ulanov lit a cigarette and inhaling deeply reviewed the one-sided conversation. He was forced to admit there was a certain amount of justice in the colonel’s complaint. He had started out to discover why the CIA was about to auction off a certain treasure, or, if the treasure had been stolen from them, how Langley’s security had been breached; but all that seemed to have become lost in the shuffle. True, Newkirk was still around, but that meant little. He, Ulanov, was still around as far as that went, and only God knew why. Certainly Colonel Vashugin didn’t, and the major could hardly blame the colonel for that.
The truth was that he had become distracted by the antics of Ruth McVeigh and Gregor Kovpak, and they were antics simply caused, most likely, by their having stupidly fallen in love. Well, if that were the case, then the thing for him to do was to speak with Kovpak like the uncle Vashugin had accused him of being, and straighten him out. He would tell him his duty as a Soviet citizen, ask him what the devil he had been doing leading the KGB on a merry chase all over Europe, and then get the two of them home as soon as possible. It was evident to Ulanov, sitting quietly, thoughtfully considering the actions of McVeigh and Kovpak over the past week, that they had not necessarily tried to escape him in Rostock. They probably hadn’t known he was within a thousand miles. If they were lovers, which he strongly suspected, they probably wouldn’t have noticed him if they ran into him in one of the Warnow Hotel’s three-passenger-capacity elevators. They had gone to Bad Freienwalde to try to follow the treasure, but then had simply fallen in love and decided to forget the treasure and go to Copenhagen as being a lovely city for lovers. And had driven to Rostock as being on their way. And he, in chasing them like an idiot, had only accomplished laying himself open to a charge of wasting money, being derelict in his duty, and—while it had not been said—probably opening himself up for a demotion. It was not a pleasant prospect.
He shook ash from his cigarette and looked up as the doors of the Plaza were opened by the ornately costumed doorman, but again it was not his quarry. Instead he was not greatly surprised to see James Newkirk come in looking as if he had eaten something sour, and approach the house phones. The room Newkirk requested apparently did not answer, and after a while Newkirk hung up, walked over, and sat down in a chair commanding a view of the lobby and the main entrance from the Bernstorffsgade, looking unhappy. Ulanov frowned. As far as he knew, Newkirk had had no more success on whatever his mission had been than Ulanov had had with his. And if Langley was anything like Moscow, then Newkirk had probably also been reprimanded recently for wasting time and money. In which case he was probably here to reveal himself to Ruth McVeigh, remind her of her duty as an American, and ask her just what the devil she had been up to leading the CIA on a merry chase all over Europe.
On a sudden impulse, Ulanov crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet. He walked over, sitting down in a chair beside Newkirk, smiling at the man in friendly fashion. “Mr. Newkirk?”
Newkirk had been busy with his private thoughts. He looked up, startled, not recognizing Ulanov for a moment, and then reddened as he did. “I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Ulanov,” the major said politely. “We might have met in London during the conference on the Schliemann treasure, but somehow it never happened. I believe we are both in a similar position. We are both following Dr. McVeigh and Dr. Kovpak to discover what they are up to. I, personally, believe they are up to nothing, but have simply fallen in love. However, I could be wrong. It occurred to me that possibly if we were to pool our efforts, we might get further.”
Newkirk was looking at him as if he were insane. “I have no idea at all of what you are talking about,” he said half-angrily. “I happen to be a reporter for the Paris Herald Tribune—”
Ulanov sighed. “I realize that,” he said patiently. “I also realize that I know who and what you are, even as you know who and what I am. I merely said that possibly if we were to join our efforts—”
“I have no idea of what this is all about,” Newkirk said stiffly. “You, sir, are a complete stranger to me. Pool our efforts? I never heard anything as ridiculous in my life!” What did the man take him for, anyway? A complete fool? It was, of course, a devious plot on the part of the KGB, and one that he, Newkirk, was far too intelligent to fall for. He made a motion to rise. “If you’ll pardon me—”
Ulanov detained him with a gesture and came to his feet. “No,” he said quietly. “I’ll go back where I came from. As for my suggestion, of course it was ridiculous. It was mad. I don’t deny it.” He looked at the other man sadly. “I just thought it also might be fruitful.”
He turned and walked back to his seat behind the plant, wondering at the crazy impulse that had led him to approach the CIA man. He sat down with a shrug and lit a cigarette, wondering what his own reaction would have been had Newkirk approached him as he had approached the CIA man. Probably the same, he thought wearily. But at least the matter was out in the open, he thought, puffing steadily. At least he and Newkirk would no longer have to trail each other from a distance. Maybe, he thought with a sudden inner grin, they could even share a car. The concept removed some of his depression and he leaned back, smoking steadily, waiting for Kovpak.
They were driving in their rented car; Gregor’s face had been bandaged by a pharmacist in Praestø and a wrecker had been sent for Count Lindgren’s car. By mutual consent the subject of the accident was not discussed; concentration on Arne Nordberg and the best way to handle the man was a safe antidote to the cold feeling each had when they recalled the sight of that cliff coming nearer, and the sea and the rocks beyond.
“My idea is this,” Ruth said. “We get Nordberg’s address from the phone book, or if it isn’t there, from the university, tonight. Then tomorrow morning early, before he has a chance to wake up completely, we walk in on him and present him with the facts. We tell him we know he has the treasure and can prove it. We tell him he either gives up the treasure without any fuss, in which case the Metropolitan will see to it that he gets an ample reward—nothing like the insane figure he was considering, but a decent sum—or, if he’s inclined to refuse, that we will go to the authorities and he’ll end up in jail. And get nothing.”
They had passed Brandbyestrand and were coming into the southern outskirts of Copenhagen, driving along the Kalveboderne, the inlet from the Køge Bugt leading to the heart of the city. Across the water they could see huge airplanes taking off from Kastrup Airport on Amager, suddenly rising above th
e apartment buildings like giant cranes frightened from their chimney nests. The planes reminded both Ruth and Gregor that eventually each would be taking one of those planes to his own country, his own home. But first, as they both knew, there was the matter of the Schliemann treasure and their unbelievable discovery of it. Gregor smiled across the car.
“All that simple, eh?” he said lightly. “And you expect that once you hand him that tough ultimatum, he’ll rush to the closet, or under the bed, drag out the treasure and lay it at your feet, and then get down on his knees to thank you from the bottom of his heart for saving him from a life of crime? Is that it?”
“Well,” Ruth said a bit stiffly, “maybe that isn’t the scenario exactly, but it will be very close. He hasn’t a lot of choice, as I see it.” She frowned at Gregor. “What would you do in his shoes?”
“Me?” Gregor shrugged. “I’d say you were crazy and if you didn’t get out of my house in five seconds, I’d call the police.”
“What!”
“That’s what I’d say, and that’s what he’ll say. He’ll deny knowing what you’re talking about. He’ll act completely innocent. And just how are you going to prove he isn’t?”
“And exactly,” Ruth asked sardonically, “how will he explain Knud Christensen?”
“Why does he have to explain Knud Christensen?” Gregor sounded completely serious. He changed his voice slightly, raising it, imitating the unknown professor. “Knud who? Oh, Knud Christensen, my crazy cousin? What? He claims he found a box with a treasure in it? Well, good luck to him, he certainly can use it, if he really did find something, but he suffers delusions, you know. He what? He claims he sold it to me for a thousand kroner? I suppose he has my canceled check to prove it. What? He says I paid cash for it? A thousand kroner? Ma’am, do I look like a person who carries a thousand kroner in cash around with him? And when was I supposed to have done all this? And where? Earlier this year in Gedser? Gedser? I’ve never been in Gedser in my life. Please, Dr. McVeigh! I’m just a poor university professor. You’ve been listening to a sick man. I heard that ever since his two brothers were drowned, he’s been a little—well, strange, to say the least. As I say, I’ve never been in Gedser, but I’m sure there are people there who can confirm that. What? You say if I’ve never been in Gedser, how do I know about his brothers drowning? Well, I happened to hear it from someone in the family. After all, we are related …”
Ruth had been listening to the imitation of the unknown professor with increasing irritation. “If you think my method of getting this Nordberg to confess he’s got the treasure is so terrible,” she said coldly, “just how would the brilliant Gregor Kovpak handle it?”
“Me?” Gregor’s face lost its good humor. “I’d use a completely different approach.”
“Force, I suppose. The masculine—or, rather, the macho—approach to all problems.” Ruth sniffed disdainfully. “Hot needles under the fingernails, or the Iron Maiden—”
Gregor grinned. “That’s us Cossacks!”
“—and if an educated man such as a university professor doesn’t react to reason, what makes you think he’d react to force? And if he would call the police to throw me out after I merely talked to him, who do you think he would call to throw you out after you used muscle? And not just to throw you out of his house, but probably out of the country, as well.” She shook her head decisively. “We’ll try my method.”
“First,” Gregor said calmly.
Ruth looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean, first?”
Gregor shrugged. “I mean, you try your approach first, and when it fails—as it will—then I get a chance to try my approach.”
“I don’t like force!”
“Who likes force?”
Ruth frowned at him. “Then what’s your approach?”
“Ah, that’s a secret! I’m not objecting to your trying your way so why object to my trying mine?”
“Because I don’t trust you.”
Gregor’s head swung around; his eyes showed his hurt. “You don’t trust me?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Ruth said hurriedly, and reached across the car to squeeze his hand on the steering wheel. “All right, darling. I’ll try my method and if it doesn’t work, you can try yours. I promise.”
“I accept your promise,” Gregor said, and pulled the car into the area before the front of the Plaza Hotel. While they waited for the doorman to come and take the car to a garage, Gregor turned to Ruth, bringing up a subject that was bothering him. “You know, darling,” he said quietly, “we disagree on many things, but I love you very much. Will you please explain to me why you keep insisting on separate rooms?”
Ruth looked at him tenderly. “I love you, too, darling. We agree on the most important thing of all—how we feel about each other. As for the separate rooms, have we lacked each other in any way?”
“In a way—”
“I don’t believe so. We enjoy each other. Then, afterward, we’re alone to relive the precious moments and appreciate how lucky we are to have anything at all. Besides,” she added with her gamine grin, “this way I don’t need to discover that you snore, or thrash around in your sleep, or hog the covers or the bathroom. This way I get the best of you.”
“And leave the worst to me,” Gregor said glumly, and sighed as he climbed down. He handed the car keys to the doorman and followed Ruth through the door the man was holding open. They crossed the hotel lobby to the bank of self-service elevators and waited until one appeared. Gregor ushered Ruth into the cab and followed her. They rose in silence, each with his own thoughts. Gregor reached for and held Ruth’s hand as they walked down the thickly carpeted corridor to her room. He leaned over, proud and happy to feel possessive after all the years, kissing her. “I’ll see you at six,” he said fondly. “At the bar.”
“Don’t be late,” she said. She squeezed his hand with a strength he hadn’t known she possessed, and then she was gone, her door closing behind her, leaving Gregor standing in the hallway. He stared at the closed door a moment, as if contemplating something, then, his face inscrutable, he walked slowly down the corridor toward his own room.
Major Serge Ulanov watched the two, oblivious to anything except themselves, enter the elevator. He crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet a bit reluctantly. He liked Gregor Kovpak, and he knew the man was bound to be angry with him for needlessly interrupting what obviously was the equivalent of a honeymoon for two people who could never, or would never, marry. In his shoes, Ulanov thought, remembering when he had been courting, I’d probably take me and drop me from the roof, but duty is duty, and while I will undoubtedly lose a friend, I may save my job. He walked to the elevator bank just as James Newkirk also approached. Newkirk waited stiffly, paying no attention to the man at his side. When they entered the first car that appeared, Ulanov pressed the button for his floor and then innocently looked at Newkirk inquiringly, as one accommodating elevator passenger to another.
“Same floor,” Newkirk said brusquely. Ulanov nodded and stepped back.
They rode up in silence, left the elevator together in silence, and walked down the hallway in silence. Newkirk paused before Ruth McVeigh’s door and frowned at Ulanov as if wondering if he were making the same call, but Ulanov continued on without breaking his pace to Kovpak’s room. He paused before the closed door and looked down the hallway. Newkirk had been waiting for Ulanov to arrive. Now both men raised their hands to knock. A farce, Ulanov thought sourly, and waited for Kovpak to open the door. It occurred to him that Gregor could well be in the girl’s room, and he pitied Newkirk if he interrupted anything the two considered important, but even while the thought crossed his mind, the door opened and Kovpak was facing him. Ulanov forgot his prepared speech in light of Kovpak’s appearance. From his place behind the plant in the hotel lobby he had not noticed the condition of Kovpak’s face or clothing. His eyes widened; his eyebrows shot up.
“What on earth happened to you?”
> “A car accident,” Gregor said lightly, and waved the matter away as being minor, principally because he did not want to remember it. Then he seemed to realize who was in the room with him. To Ulanov’s complete amazement, rather than show anger, Kovpak smiled at him broadly, and then winced as the movement pulled at the bandage on his cheek. “Serge! Just the man I was wishing I could see, but I never dreamed I would! Maybe if you wish for something hard enough, your wish is answered! This is wonderful!” Gregor suddenly frowned. “But what on earth are you doing here?”
Why Kovpak would have been wishing to see him was one more mystery in an affair whose mysteries did not seem to have any great importance. Ulanov would have preferred to ask after the accident that seemed to have ripped Gregor’s clothes even more than his body, but it was apparent the man didn’t want to talk about it. The white-haired agent decided to get the explanation of his role over with quickly.
“I’ve been following you and the girl,” he said, and walked over to the bed, dropping down on it and fishing out a cigarette. He waited for the explosion. He really didn’t know Kovpak well enough to anticipate his reactions, and Kovpak was not only considerably younger than he was, but twice as husky. And as far as he knew, possibly as well trained in the art of self-defense. But instead of anger, Kovpak exhibited nothing except slight puzzlement.
“Following us? Then you saw the accident?”
“Not following you every minute,” Ulanov said a bit sourly. “Following you from London to East Berlin, to Rostock, to Copenhagen.”
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