“But why?” Kovpak shrugged. “Never mind. It doesn’t make any difference—”
“It does make a difference,” Ulanov said quietly. “In going from London to Berlin, especially after you told me a story about your motives for the trip that I didn’t believe, you made me suspicious. And particularly when you went to Bad Freienwalde, it seemed to me you were obviously trying to trace the Schliemann treasure. And the treasure and its connection with the CIA is, after all, my assignment. I thought if I followed you, I might learn something. Instead,” he said bitterly, remembering the tongue-lashing he had received that afternoon, “all I got was the worst reprimand of my life for chasing after a love-sick scientist, wasting my time—”
“You weren’t, you know.”
“—and I’ll be lucky if I’m only reduced one grade and not sent back to a desk job decoding messages from our embassies around the world complaining about the quality of the vodka sent them in the diplomatic pouches!”
“I said, you haven’t been wasting your time.”
“At my age, too!” Ulanov went on, unhearing. “I had hoped to retire on a pension in a few years, come up to Peterhof and buy a small dasha, nothing impressive, although to tell the truth not many of them are impressive around there, mostly shacks with flattened gasoline tins to cover the holes in the roof and keep out the rain. I thought I might get in a little fishing in the summer—”
“Serge! Serge!”
“—in the winter maybe—” The man seemed to finally realize he was being addressed. He looked up, the cigarette still unlit, and then remembered to bring out a match and light it. He looked around the room and then back to Kovpak. “I’m sorry. My troubles aren’t your fault. What have you been up to, Gregor?”
Kovpak grinned almost savagely. “Serge, do you know how to tap a telephone?”
“Tap a telephone?” Ulanov looked startled by the change in the conversation. He also looked disappointed. “You’re having trouble so soon? You don’t trust her? I wondered at the separate rooms, but it was no business of mine. But tap a telephone in a hotel—?”
“No, no! Not in a hotel! Not Ruth’s telephone, for heaven’s sake! In a house, or an apartment, I don’t know which yet, but I will, tonight.” He sat down and pulled his chair toward the man on the bed. “Well, can you do it?”
Ulanov frowned. “What is this all about?”
Kovpak took a deep breath. “Serge, we found it!”
“You found what?”
“The treasure! The Schliemann treasure! It was at the bottom of the sea all these years. A man in a town called Gedser found it when he was diving for his brother’s body. He didn’t know what it was, and he sold it to a professor at the university here, a man named Nordberg, for almost nothing.”
Ulanov was staring. “You found the Schliemann treasure?”
“Yes,” Gregor said simply. “We found it.”
“It hasn’t been in Langley all these years?” The major was trying to comprehend the enormity of what Kovpak was saying. If this was true, then Langley could not be the one auctioning off the treasure. It also meant, of course, that their security had never been breached. And to demonstrate one or the other—or neither, by implication—had been his assignment. If what Kovpak was saying was true, and could be proven, he might well wriggle off Vashugin’s hook.
“It hasn’t been anywhere except on the bottom of the sea, I tell you, for the past thirty-five years,” Gregor said a bit impatiently. “And no, we haven’t located it physically, but if you know how to tap a telephone, we soon will!”
Ulanov put aside consideration of his own problems to concentrate on what Kovpak was saying. “I assume it is the professor’s telephone you want to tap. Why?”
Kovpak leaned forward. “Ruth McVeigh is a lovely woman and a brilliant one,” he said, “but she doesn’t know much about university professors in Europe. There is absolutely no way a professor in a university here can possibly finance anything as expensive as this auction. Just getting the packages delivered to the various museums around the world would have cost more than this Professor Nordberg probably earns in a year. And the means of handling the actual auction, as well as the means of guaranteeing the delivery of the treasure to the high bidder, as well as making sure that the payment is received without revealing the identity of the person being paid—well, all of these things cost money. And money, I’m sure, beyond the amount this Professor Nordberg is apt to have.”
Ulanov felt his hopes plummeting. “You mean, then, that this professor does not have the treasure?”
“I mean, I doubt he has it in his possession,” Kovpak said. “I’ve thought about this all afternoon driving back. He must have a confederate, someone with money, and undoubtedly this confederate has the treasure—”
“A confederate?”
“Serge, you aren’t thinking! He had to have someone with enough money to finance this auction. Anyone putting up the money isn’t going to take any chances with the treasure. He’s going to keep it where he can look at it, where he knows where it is.”
Ulanov nodded. “I see. And if we can frighten this Nordberg sufficiently, he’s going to telephone this confederate—”
“If I can frighten him sufficiently,” Kovpak said flatly. “You’re going to be in the basement, or wherever, listening in with your tapping equipment. If you know how to do it,” he added a bit unkindly.
“Tapping a telephone is no great chore,” Ulanov said, waving away the problem. “We have the equipment in the Bredgade, in our—well, let me simply say the equipment is available. And I do know how to do it. I thought everyone did.” He paused. “When will you know where the professor lives?”
Kovpak reached for the telephone directory and began leafing through the pages. He ran a finger down a column and looked up. “Does one need to be a trained KGB man to use a telephone book?”
“In some cities it helps,” Ulanov said with a straight face. “In Rio de Janeiro even that doesn’t help.” He looked over Kovpak’s shoulder. “Nordberg, Arne, Prof. Linnesgade Number 16. That’s near the center, on the Israels Plads. Not far from the university. Those would be apartments.” He smiled and came to his feet, putting out his cigarette. “I’ll go and look the place over now. Tomorrow, unfortunately, their telephones will require some checking. I’ll have a man with me who speaks Danish to answer any silly questions, of which I’m sure we’ll get a ton—” He suddenly frowned. “What if he isn’t home tomorrow?”
“A very reasonable question,” Kovpak said approvingly. He checked the telephone number opposite the address, asked the hotel operator for an outside line, and dialed. He sat waiting stolidly and then suddenly came to life, smiling brightly at the receiver. “Hello? Professor Nordberg? How nice to find you in. My name is Gregor Kovpak, of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. What? You have? That’s very kind of you, I’m sure. What? Oh, the reason for my call, Professor, is that on a recent expedition I ran across some bones which investigation proved to be those of a baby dinosaur, and which I am in the process of—You’ve read of it? That’s extremely kind of you to say, Professor, but the truth is it was a lucky accident. No, I’m not being modest. But to get to the reason for my call, Professor; recently I came across a paper of yours in some journal—what? Oh, on history? I mean, on history, of course! It impressed me greatly, and since I find myself in Copenhagen, and also since my experience with the baby dinosaur bones has made me particularly intrigued, more and more, with the subject of history in general, I wonder if—what? Your field is Medieval Danish history? Now you’re the one who is being modest, Professor. I’m sure your knowledge is far more extensive. And I would really like to discuss the age when those tiny bones were first laid down, with someone with your background. I’m sure it could make a great joint paper, if you might be interested. If you could spare me a few moments … Tomorrow morning would be fine. No, no! I’ll come to you! Hotels are so impersonal. I have your address. Nine o’clock? Excellent!”
H
e hung up and smiled at Ulanov. Ulanov shook his head at the deceit one encountered in one’s fellow man. “You said you’d read one of his papers. How did you know he’d even written one?”
“He’s probably written twenty and had one published,” Kovpak said with a faint smile. “Writing papers keeps professors out of mischief. It also, of course,” he added, thinking about it, “often keeps them out of becoming true scientists.” He glanced at his watch and hurriedly came to his feet. “And now you’ll have to excuse me, Serge. I have to take a quick shower and get into some decent clothes. I have a date.”
And, he said to himself as he closed the door behind Ulanov, if you and Ruth only shared the same room, you could be taking your showers together. Think of the water you’d save … He grinned at the thought and went into the bathroom to start the water.
Mr. James Newkirk had not received the welcome afforded Serge Ulanov by Gregor Kovpak, nor had he expected a great welcome. But James Newkirk knew his duty and fully intended to carry it out, and the fact that the lady who opened the door was frowning at him did not bother him. The lady seemed to be trying to place him in her memory as having seen him before, but then she obviously gave it up as being completely unimportant.
“Yes?” she asked.
“May I come in?”
“Certainly not! What do you want?”
Newkirk reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet, opening it to expose his warrant card. “My name is James Newkirk. I’m with the CIA. I’d like a minute of your time.” He tucked the wallet away and pushed past her into the room. Ruth considered leaving the door open during any interview, but Newkirk had other ideas. He closed the door firmly and motioned toward a chair. “Have a seat, Dr. McVeigh. This may take some time.”
Ruth took a deep breath. She did not appreciate strangers pushing themselves into her room and then closing the door. Still, the warrant card had been quite genuine; her years in Washington had acquainted her with the proper recognizable form of the card. She sat down, not pleased with the interruption. She wanted to take a shower and get dressed for Gregor’s admiration.
“All right,” she said coolly. “What do you want?”
Newkirk sat down opposite her. “Miss—I mean, Dr. McVeigh—what do you know of this man you’ve been traveling with—this Gregor Kovpak?” He raised his hand quickly. “I know his scientific qualifications, his reputation as an archaeologist, but what do you know of him?”
This was an easy question to answer. “What business is that of yours?”
“America is my business, Dr. McVeigh, and your business as well, I assume.” Newkirk was proud of the phrase. He truly had a way with words and properly recognized it. He reminded himself to be sure to include the phrase in his report on this conversation, which unfortunately would have to be remembered since Wilson at Langley had never replaced his lost tape recorder. “Or at least I will assume that America is your business until you give me reason not to believe it.”
Ruth felt her temper rising. “Are you suggesting—?”
Newkirk shrugged delicately. “I’m suggesting nothing, Doctor. The fact is that you are an American citizen traveling with a Russian national. We would like to know the reason for this—well, some might call it a possible treasonable act on your part.”
Ruth suddenly decided she had had enough of this. “Mr. Newkirk, do you have a warrant for my arrest?”
Newkirk smiled coldly, but inside he was triumphant. The woman was losing her temper and that was always good. When people lost their tempers they often said things better left unsaid for their own advantage. “Why, Dr. McVeigh? Do you feel you deserve to be arrested?”
“I feel—I feel you should be put away!” Ruth said, fuming, and came to her feet. “Get out!”
Newkirk was not in the least disturbed. He felt he was finally getting somewhere. An interview of this nature might have saved him a good deal of time had he conducted it earlier. It also might have saved him several days in an East German cell, not to mention several severe reprimands from Langley.
“Dr. McVeigh,” he said quietly, “I am from the CIA and you are, ostensibly, an American. I can have you brought to the American Embassy here in Copenhagen on the suspicion that you are dealing with the enemy, and continue the questioning there, if you prefer.” She was glaring at him, speechless. She’ll reveal something soon, Newkirk thought with satisfaction. She’s about to break! And she has no idea my threat is completely idle, that I have no authority in Denmark to take her to the American Embassy or anywhere else. He looked at her, his eye, he was sure, properly stern. “Well, Doctor?”
Ruth McVeigh forcibly brought herself under control, her memory beginning to work. She stared at the man with narrowed eyes and then nodded. “Mr. Newkirk, weren’t you at that conference in London? At the press table?”
“Exactly.” Newkirk nodded. “I represented the Herald Tribune, Paris edition. As cultural reporter.”
“And now you’re representing the CIA?”
“Precisely. Actually, I represent both.”
Ruth sat down again, a move Newkirk interpreted as victory for his side as he waited for her to confess everything. She contemplated him for several moments, her mind finally beginning to recover from her blind anger, beginning to properly function. Here she was with the Schliemann treasure practically in her hands, and at this particular moment this person appears, a person who claims to be a reporter in one breath, a CIA man in the next, and then claims to be both. Even if he were truly a newspaperman—which Ruth didn’t believe for a moment—any story he might elicit from her under any guise could be the cause of the Metropolitan losing sole ownership of a treasure which, after all, she alone had discovered. True, Gregor had been along, but he would be the first to admit that she was the one who had insisted the treasure was lost at sea. She was the one who insisted upon visiting Gedser, insisted upon the interview with Knud Christensen. It was her treasure, and Gregor knew it.
But this one? She suddenly remembered something else. If she wasn’t mistaken this was the same man who had been sitting at a table near them when she and Gregor had first had dinner together in London. This man had been spying on her for a long time! What this man was, then, was most likely a spy for one of the other museums represented at that conference, trying to learn what he could to be used for the advantage of one of her competitors! And here she had found the Schliemann treasure and this man, this leech, this spy, was still right behind her! And with the guise of a CIA man to give him respectability. That could be a nuisance. He could be exposed, of course, but that would take time, and all she needed was to visit this Professor Nordberg in the morning and the treasure would be in her hands.
Newkirk had been waiting patiently—all good agents had to learn patience to be successful in their work—but it was approaching dinner time and Newkirk was hungry.
“Well, Dr. McVeigh?”
A thought came. “Mr. Newkirk, may I see your warrant card again, please?”
She was getting ready to spill! “Certainly,” Newkirk said courteously—courtesy was always best once a suspect had decided to tell all. He brought out his wallet and handed it over opened to the proper cellophane slot. Ruth took it, extracted the warrant card from its snug little retreat behind its transparent panel as if to examine it better, and then methodically began to tear it into pieces. “Hey!” Newkirk said, outraged. He grabbed at his wallet. “You can’t do that!”
“I just did, Mr. Newkirk.” Ruth tucked the torn pieces into her bodice and smiled at him pleasantly. “And now, if you don’t leave my room at once, I shall call the hotel security staff and ask for assistance.”
Newkirk clenched his jaw and came to his feet. He had never seen a more blatant confession of involvement in some nefarious scheme in his entire life! This had to involve something more important than the minor Schliemann affair upon which he had started. This had to involve international intrigue of some sort, because who practically assaulted a CIA man in the pe
rformance of his duty for anything less than a major crime? And involving the Russians and the KGB, as witness the presence of that white-haired Ulanov here at the hotel! He was on to something big! Maybe he ought to thank the woman for tearing up his warrant card. It was as good as admitting complicity in something obviously vastly important. How right Wilson had been to insist that he trail the two! But even Wilson, Newkirk suspected, had no idea of how big the case was. Wilson would undoubtedly place his loss of the warrant card in the same category as the loss of the tape recorder, but that was simply because Wilson as yet did not fully comprehend the magnitude of the affair. But they would as soon as he had the complete story, which would be as soon as either Kovpak or McVeigh attempted to make contact with anyone about anything. She obviously had no idea he had been trailing her before. She would have even less in the future!
He walked to the door and turned to look at the girl with the coolness of an agent who is far from intimidated by a mere loss of warrant card. “We shall meet again, Dr. McVeigh.”
“I hope not,” Ruth said, and watched the door close behind the man. Then she glanced at her watch and hurried into the bathroom to start her tub.
“And what have you been doing since I last saw you, all of an hour ago?” Gregor said, looking at Ruth with admiration over the rim of his cocktail glass.
“Oh, I took a brief nap and then my bath,” she said lightly, and shrugged. “Nothing important.” There was no need to worry her darling Gregor with the fact that there was a spy from some other museum trying to discover their secret. She had proven she could handle amateurs like this Newkirk without any help. “And you?”
“Oh, I read a bit—rested, you know—and then took my shower.” No need to bother his darling Ruth with the fact that he was certain her ploy of using reason on Professor Nordberg would be unsuccessful, and that therefore he had already taken steps to assure proper recovery of the treasure. He raised his glass. “To you, darling.”
“To us,” she corrected.
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