CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gregor Kovpak could not sleep. Through the closed connecting door to Major Ulanov’s room he could hear the faint rasping sounds that indicated that this was not the major’s problem. But it was not the snoring of the major, nor even the endless sounds of traffic in Park Lane below that kept Gregor from sleep, but his thoughts, jumbled and—a rare thing for him—unsure.

It was pointless, he tried to tell himself for the tenth or twentieth time, to think of Ruth McVeigh in any terms other than that she was a fellow scientist he had known and respected through her writings, and who he had been fortunate enough to meet in person at last. But there was no future in thinking beyond that. He had enjoyed the evening with her. Let it go at that. He had more than enjoyed the evening. He could not recall an evening he had ever enjoyed more, certainly not since Natasha had died. Which was something else to put out of his mind. Natasha had been dead eleven years, now. What had made him think of her now? Guilt? But guilt over what? He had done his mourning, and his mourning was over. Besides, there was nothing between Ruth McVeigh and him, nor could there ever be. Think of something else.

Think of your baby dinosaur and how, when it is finally completely reconstructed and on exhibition at the Zoological Museum, next to that mammoth that was found frozen in the Siberian wilds, intact, how you will do a paper on where it was discovered and under what conditions, and be able to speculate on possible solutions the tiny bones point to, possibly resolving conflicting theories that have been riddles of those eon-old times when this world of ours was so much younger. And, hopefully, prove to Alex Pomerenko that a man does not necessarily have to direct his scientific energies in only one direction. And also—hopefully—to put some zoology professor’s nose out of joint. And if, while you’ve been gone, he’s wired up one more bone—!

My heavens, but the girl was beautiful! Beautiful and striking, intelligent, and—well, fascinating. Of course, there was no law that said scientists had to be ugly, or that they could not have a sense of humor, but who would have dreamed, just from reading her papers? And that dress—! But forget the dress and forget the girl inside the dress, and don’t waste time trying to fathom the thoughts inside the lovely head of the girl inside the dress. But what had she been thinking? What was she thinking at this very moment? Certainly nothing like the thoughts he was having. She, undoubtedly, was sound asleep, which is what he should be as well. Except her face kept getting in the way—

Back to the baby dinosaur. Lucky that he had been the one who had found it in the dig; another less-delicate hand might have crushed the fragile bones. And, of course, if someone else had discovered it, the credit would have gone to him. Gregor smiled at the recognition of his own humanness—of course he would have been jealous if an assistant had come across that wonderful find on a dig he was in charge of. But he had been the lucky one. It was all luck, finding a treasure, or running into a girl …

But what kind of luck to see someone you’ll undoubtedly never see again? That’s what is known as hard luck, bad luck. What did the old song say? If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. You lie here and you’re forced to wonder what it will be like not seeing her again. How long to forget last night? A week? A month? A year? Ever?

Back to the baby dinosaur! What could have brought that tiny creature, certainly ugly in our eyes but just as certainly beautiful and cute in the eyes of the mother who hatched him, to the place where it had been found? How had it been separated from its parents at the time of its young death, for no other bones had been found in the area? Had the parents, facing danger, hidden the small creature, only to have death come to the tiny thing from some unknown source? It had hatched live; that much the zoology professor had been able to state. Had the parents, returning after hiding the baby, found him dead? And if so, what had been their reaction? Or did dinosaurs have reactions? Was it just a legend that only the human animal truly feels sorrow at the death of a dear one?

He and Natasha had never had children. If he and Ruth were married, do you suppose they—? What a ridiculous thought! What an absolutely idiotic thought! Good God! One dinner with a girl and he was having her married to him! And raising a family, yet! Still, if he and Ruth were married, of course they were still both young enough to have children. But the fact was he was more than ten years older than she was. Oh, of course ten years wasn’t all that much, but when he was sixty, an old man, she would still just be in her forties, and without a doubt as beautiful and charming as she was now. And when he was eighty—

He rolled over and stared at the shadowy wall. Now, really! Stop thinking about Dr. Ruth McVeigh and think of something else. Be serious about that. You’re not a child. If not baby dinosaurs, or babies of any species, then think about the Schliemann treasure. After all, that is what brought you to London in the first place. Recall the conversation with Ruth—Dr. McVeigh, that is—at dinner last night without thinking of her, particularly. Remember what Ulanov had said about the probable—no, almost certain—destination of the treasure. But precisely how had it gotten from Bad Freienwalde to Langley, Virginia? Ulanov had not mentioned this minor detail, assuming he even knew it, which was doubtful. Ulanov was only interested in how it had been restolen from Langley. Well, that was his field, his job. It would seem more interesting, if equally unimportant, to try and trace its path from one place to another.

Most probably by way of Scandinavia, in some fashion, to England, from which it would be the simplest thing in the world to get it to America and Langley. He closed his eyes and tried to picture in his imagination, the two men. They had left the train at a darkened railway station at Bad Freienwalde in war-torn Germany, had climbed into a black official-looking car, and had disappeared. Well, they couldn’t have disappeared, but where were they going? Where did one go from Bad Freienwalde, anyway? Where could one go from Bad Freienwalde? Where was Bad Freienwalde, as a matter of fact? It was just a name to him, heard from Ulanov, and Gregor, yawning, realized his knowledge of East German geography was sketchy, to say the least. As was his ignorance concerning Danish or Swedish geography. But at least trying to picture these unknown places had the advantage of taking his thoughts from Ruth McVeigh …

But had they? Because there she was, as he handed her down from the railway car at some unknown station—no, it wasn’t unknown, for there was the name, BAD FREIENWALDE, carved in the stone sill above the doorway, and there was the car he was guiding her to, aware as he did so of the warmth of her beside him, and her faint but unforgettable perfume. And of Ulanov in the front seat, wearing a chauffeur’s cap, even after he had been specifically told he had not been invited …

He slept, at last.

Ruth McVeigh was tired, and she knew she looked terrible because she hadn’t slept. She was sure the rings under her eyes made her look ten years older than she was, and while that would make her only a year or so younger than Gregor, she would rather he always thought of her as being much younger than that. She sat at the head of the conference table, staring at Gregor’s empty seat, while the delegates filed in and took their places around the table, fiddling with their consoles as if they had never seen them before, filling water glasses, placing cigarettes and matches in position.

Where was he? Didn’t he know how much she wanted to see him, to look at him, to see that same light in his eyes when he looked at her that she knew would be in hers as soon as he walked in? Or the light she hoped would be in his eyes? To see if last night had been real, or if her imagination, through the sleepless night, had added dimensions to it that did not, in reality, exist? Where was he?

She sighed and shook her head, suddenly feeling depressed. Why was she so intent upon hoping he would appear, anyway? What difference did it make? Possibly he knew the utter hopelessness of their ever being anything but friends and had taken off for Leningrad to save both of them the embarrassment of a further meeting. Or at least to save her from making a fool of herself. She had probably done or said something the night before that told him how she was beginning to feel toward him, and to save him from having to—what was the word they had used when they were in school?—jilt her, had simply gone away. Jilt, my God! She was getting positively infantile!

She looked around the room, her eye quickly jumping the blank space where Gregor had sat the day before, her cheeks red. What was she doing here, anyway? Why had she come? Why had she ever suggested this silly conference to begin with? Bob Keller was right; Gregor was right. The entire conference was pointless, useless. In fact, the entire Schliemann collection was a pointless thing. Who cared who had it, who was selling it, or who bought it? Let them all fight over it, the Germans, the Greeks, the Russians, the Turks, all of them. Let them have their next war over the silly collection. It made as much sense as any of the other things they fought about. Not more sense, but as much. She suddenly shook her head. Was this she, Ruth McVeigh, director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and avid collector, thinking this way? The Schliemann treasure was extremely important, and no thoughts of a mere man should or would be allowed to obscure that fact!

Where was he?

She became aware that the elderly stocky man with the pure-white crew-cut hair had taken his chair next to the empty one Gregor had occupied the day before, and her eyes instantly went to the door to see if Gregor might have followed, but the doorman was already closing the door in a manner that indicated the meeting was closed, ready to begin. The white-haired man seemed to be considering her with a faint air of commiseration, and her cheeks felt on fire. Had Gregor discussed her with this unknown? He was a friend of Gregor’s, that much she knew. Had they talked about her last night when Gregor returned from leaving her at her door? Had they discussed her girlishness, her gaucherie, and laughed together over it? Had Gregor mentioned that low-cut gown and thought of her as a bit pitiable, throwing herself at a man? She felt flushed. The room and all the people in it were suddenly intolerable. She became aware that Tim Rubin had leaned over and was speaking to her. She turned. “What did you say?”

“I said, what’s the matter with you? You look like three days in the city morgue,” Tim said cheerfully. “My old grandmother, a hundred and six the day she was run over by her father on a motorbike, and two weeks after she was buried, looked better than you do right now.” He studied her with concern. “Why don’t you go up to your room and lie down? Let me handle the feeding of the animals? I’ve always wanted to rise to an occasion.”

Ruth shook her head a bit stubbornly. It was her meeting and she was going to conduct it! She just wished that Gregor Kovpak had not chosen to avoid the meeting. “I’ll be all right.” She looked at her wristwatch and came to her feet, rapping the gavel. Slowly the room calmed down. She pulled the microphone toward her and began, looking about the room and trying to avoid the empty chair where Gregor had sat the day before.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I see that no names have been put into the fishbowl as I suggested yesterday. I can only assume that means that none of you wish to speak. Or am I incorrect in that?”

In answer to her question there was a rush of hands held high, a growing murmur of indistinguishable voices. She looked at the delegates, making no attempt to use diplomacy with her words. She felt in the mood to speak a few truths to them.

“I see. In that case I can only assume that you all want to speak, but you do not wish to do so democratically. You all wish to be first. The fishbowl was too chancy for you. Is that the case?” The hands wavered and slowly dropped, although several remained half-raised, as if to get a head start when the chance came. “Well,” Ruth went on, making no attempt to disguise her dislike of them all, although she realized she was being a bit unfair, taking out on the delegates her irritation with Gregor Kovpak, “in that case I shall take advantage of being the chairperson here, and I shall speak first. After that I shall select the speakers as I wish, and if there are any objections to that procedure, those present have only themselves to blame.”

The room had grown quiet under her scathing tones. For a moment she wished Gregor were there, not to see him, but for him to see her and realize she was not a person to tolerate poor manners from anyone, even good-looking archaeologists from the Hermitage! Then she put Gregor from her mind, or, rather, tucked him into a corner temporarily out of sight, and got on with her statement.

“Let me tell you all what was in my mind when I first asked you to attend this meeting. It was something I suggested to my board of directors and which they agreed should be presented to the leading museums of the world. We have already seen, in the discussions of yesterday, the diversity of opinion as to the proper ownership of the Schliemann treasure. I am sure that others here are probably prepared to offer similar arguments, and if we allow this meeting to dissolve into this type of controversy, we will be passing up a great opportunity. And that opportunity? To see that the treasure is purchased at a reasonable price from whoever is offering it for auction, and that this contention among ourselves is eliminated.”

She paused. Her audience was watching her suspiciously. Well, she thought, here’s where we discover if Gregor and Bob Keller were right or wrong. She sipped a bit of water to calm her a trifle before making her statement, and then went on.

“My suggestion is simplicity itself. All the museums who are interested would share the cost of the purchase price, and would also share the exhibition privileges on a basis to be determined. To begin with, this method would reduce the financial burden to each museum, and in the second—”

“No!” It was Dr. Wilhelm Kloster of the Museum Dahlen. He was on his feet, his face red as he screamed into the console. One fleshy fist was pounding on the top of the console. “It cannot be! You are very generous with something that belongs—”

Ruth rapped her gavel for order. The response was quite the opposite. The bedlam seemed to increase with everyone wanting to speak at once, some into their consoles, others on their feet merely shouting toward the head of the table. Ruth fumbled for her purse and her whistle only to remember she had left her purse in her room, bringing only the room key. She looked at Tim Rubin helplessly. He grinned, brought his microphone closer, put a finger bent at the knuckle into his mouth, and produced a whistle fully as loud and sharp as Ruth’s police whistle. “Champ of the block,” he murmured as the noise from the surprised delegates slowly abated to a point where the hammer of Ruth’s gavel could be heard. Slowly the meeting came to order. Ruth stood and waited until the silence was complete.

“There seems to be some objection to my suggestion,” she said with a faint smile. “Let’s take them in order. Dr. Kloster, you can be first. And,” she added warningly, “if there is another outbreak such as we just heard, the meeting will be adjourned permanently. All right, Dr. Kloster.”

Kloster came to his feet, no longer attempting the suavity of the previous day.

“As I said,” Kloster said heavily into the microphone, “our chairperson seems to be extremely generous in giving away something she does not own. The Museum Dahlen has no intention of permitting such misplaced generosity. When we wish to give something that rightfully belongs to us, we shall make that decision, not a bunch of—of—” He threw up his hands in disgust and sat down again. From his chair he said, “If this is what we shall be discussing, there is no sense in the Museum Dahlen even remaining here!”

“So go! Who wants you?” It was Elsa Dornbusch, glaring at him from across the table. She turned to face the chair. “The fascist is right, though! Your suggestion is ridiculous! Do you expect—”

That was as far as she got. The bedlam began again. Tim Rubin put his bent finger in his mouth, preparatory to whistling again, and then removed it. He leaned over, shouting in Ruth’s ear. “It’s hopeless!” An idea suddenly came. He leaned over, searching beneath the table for something and then grinned as he found the electrical outlet connecting the consoles. He pulled it from its socket, and suddenly the booming sounds from the ceiling speakers disappeared. The noise that a moment before had seemed threatening, now merely seemed foolish. The delegates stopped to look at one another, and then with what seemed to be a sudden accord, picked up their papers and briefcases and began to file from the room.

Tim and Ruth watched them go. “Well,” Tim said philosophically, “I suppose it’s what one should expect from museum personnel. Individualists, to the bitter end.”

Ruth took a deep breath. “I should have worded it differently, perhaps. Led up to it more gradually, perhaps …”

“Led up to what more gradually?” Tim snorted. “You said what had to be said. The fact that there wasn’t a wet eye in the crowd wasn’t your fault. Really,” Tim said, a bit chidingly, “you should have anticipated exactly what happened. Those who feel they have legitimate claims see it as a scheme to rob them of their pottage. If the meeting had gone on a little longer I was prepared to enter my claim on the basis that Schliemann changed his name from Heinrich to Henry, and Henry Ford invented the Model-T less than a hundred miles from the Cleveland Museum. But I was afraid our British colleagues might recall that they had Henrys over here in England a bit before Mr. Ford.”

Ruth looked at him. “And what were the motives of the others?”

Tim shrugged. “Most are simply piggish. They want the treasure all for their lonesomes. Sharing is a dirty word. Oh, they’ll loan you one of their exhibits, all right, but they want you to know that it’s Theirs, do you hear, Theirs! And then, of course, there are those—there are always some—who probably thought the suggestion was a gimmick of some sort on the part of the Metropolitan, and since they couldn’t figure out what that gimmick was, it made them all the more suspicious. And that’s why your idea died like a dog, march on, he said.”

Ruth sighed. “Well, at least it’s over.”

“And the Auction Stakes are back in the running.” Tim changed the subject to one that was closer to his interests. “What flight are you taking back? Maybe we can travel together.”

“I’m not going back for a while,” Ruth heard herself say to her own complete amazement. “I—I have some work to do here. I may even take my vacation over here.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in Tim’s voice was evident, instantly replaced by his normal cheerfulness. “Oh, well! We’ll undoubtedly see you when you visit the Cleveland Museum to see the Schliemann collection on exhibit. Assuming,” he added doubtfully, “that the Rockefellers didn’t forget where their money came from. Or the Eatons.”

Ruth smiled.

“Well,” she said, “if you’ll forgive me, I won’t wish you luck on that. But it was good seeing you, and thanks for that finger whistle. It’s something I should have learned when I was younger. And drop in and see me the next time you’re in New York.”

“It’s the only reason I’d come in the first place,” Tim said, trying to sound arch but merely sounding sincere. “You don’t imagine I’d come to see a mummy in your Egyptian Room, do you? I’ve got a mummy, you’ve got a mummy, all God’s chillun—well, enough of that.” He came to his feet. “So long, Ruth. Have fun. I don’t suppose that, well, on your vacation over here you’ll be visiting museums? Busman’s holiday sort of thing? Museums like—well—the Hermitage?”

Ruth felt herself go cold. “I’ve seen the Hermitage,” she said tightly, trying not to sound savage. Damn Tim for reminding her. “And I won’t be going there this trip, thank you.”

“It’s better that way,” Tim said quietly. He held out his hand; she took it. “God bless, Ruth.” He squeezed her hand once and turned, walking quickly away.

Ruth stared after him. Why get upset with Tim Rubin? He was a nice guy, a pal, a friend. One of the men who genuinely liked her. And a very fine curator. But he shouldn’t have mentioned the Hermitage. She looked around the deserted room and came to her feet. Well, Gregor and Bob Keller had been right. She had wasted her time and the time of many other museum notables. And what had she gotten out of it? She had met a man she had instantly felt a deep liking for, and he had not even bothered to try and see her a second time.

She rode the elevator to her floor, walked down to her room, opened the door, and walked in, going to the window to stare out. The meeting had been a disaster, but that was no longer important. What was important was that the Schliemann treasure was still someplace, held by someone. What could have happened to it after it had been taken from that railroad baggage car at that Bad something? According to Gregor—wasn’t it even possible to think of something else without bringing him into it? Still, according to Gregor, the Russian officials had done a poor investigation at the time the treasure was stolen from them because they had other more important things on their minds. Possibly today, someone with the time and effort could find out what had happened to it, now that the turmoil of the war was long past. Certainly the one who was offering the treasure for auction must have done exactly that. And that person, at least, should be able to be traced. He was in the present, not thirty-five years in the past.

How had this unknown been able to do it? He, undoubtedly, had started at the last known place the treasure had been seen, this place called Bad something—she was sure she would recognize the proper name if she saw it or heard it again—wherever that was. And what one person had been able to accomplish, another person should be able to duplicate. And facing this unknown with his illegal treasure, one could undoubtedly also make a deal that would bring one the treasure for a fraction of the fifteen million the unknown was so ridiculously asking for it. And what museum, faced with the treasure actually in their possession, would fail to come up with the required money, despite all the scruples they claimed to possess? Very few, without a doubt.

She stared down into Park Lane with its traffic and Hyde Park beyond, covered with lawn chairs and children playing, barely seeing them. If only Gregor were to help her, she was sure they could dig something up that would lead to some clues as to what had happened to the treasure thirty-five years before. If only Gregor could help her … Forget Gregor Kovpak, she told herself sternly, and if by some odd chance you happen to run into him on some distant day in some distant place, you will simply smile in a friendly manner and shake hands and hope the feeling you are feeling at the moment is dead by then.

That stupid feeling! Who in her right mind would feel this way about a man she met less than twenty-four hours before? It was ridiculous. Oh, admittedly, she thought, I’ve known a lot about him by reputation for a long time; the work he’s done, the papers he’s written, the excavations he’s been connected with, but still … And admittedly he’s attractive, but I’ve known many attractive men and none ever made me feel this way. Bob Keller’s attractive, and a fine man and I like him a lot, and moreover I know him well whereas I don’t know this Dr. Kovpak at all. But Bob Keller never made me feel this way, while Gregor does, and it’s pointless to deny it. Maybe it was the drinks, she thought, and then smiled wryly to herself. No, it hadn’t been the drinks.

This, obviously, was no way to forget Gregor Kovpak. She simply had to concentrate on something else, and the whereabouts of the Schliemann treasure was as good and puzzling a subject as any. I don’t know what made me tell Tim I wasn’t going home right away, she thought, but it appears my subconscious knows me better than I know myself. She picked up her key and marched purposefully toward the door. And my staying here in Europe is not just to delay paying Bob Keller his dinner. In fact, probably I’ve been wrong in not paying more attention to Bob Keller. I’m beginning to realize for the first time how lonely I’ve been, whether I knew it or not. Although with something to occupy my mind I’m sure I’ll get over it. And over Gregor—damn him!

Sir Mortimer Edgerton came from his chair with a bound and hurried across the room, his hands outstretched, a smile of sincere pleasure on his full face.

“Ruth, my dear! What a pleasant surprise.” He took her hands in both of his and then released one in order to put an arm around her shoulders to lead her to a sofa along one wall of his large office overlooking Great Russell Street. He waited until she was seated and then sat beside her, reaching for her hand again. “I was afraid you’d be off to home without dropping by to see us.” His smile faded. “I couldn’t attend the meetings, but Harold Gordon told me what happened. Animals! I’m truly sorry, for your sake.”

Ruth smiled. “Don’t be. I must have been dreaming when I even proposed such a silly idea. But I didn’t come here to be commiserated with, Sir Mortimer. I came here because I want a favor of you.”

“Anything in my power, my dear.” Sir Mortimer made it sound as though he would be greatly disappointed if the favor entailed anything less than slaying dragons. “What can I do for you?”

“My reader’s card has expired and I want another, but I’d just as soon not have to go through the catechism they give you downstairs as to why I don’t get my information some other place.”

Edgerton laughed. “We have to do it, Ruth, or we’d be pushed out of the walls. The reading room of the British library here in the museum is simply too small for all the students or other people who wish to use it. Or even for all the books we have; a goodly number of them are scattered half across England.” He came to his feet and walked to his desk, leaned over and scribbled something on a card. He came back, handing it over. “Here. This will do, and you won’t even have to sit and submit to the terrible photography that goes on downstairs. What subject do you wish to research? We can be having tea while they dig up the books. It takes time, you know, even if they’re here in the building.”

Ruth took the card, tucking it into her purse. She came to her feet.

“Thank you very much, Sir Mortimer,” she said with a smile that thanked him more than her words had. “But I really don’t have time for tea. And I don’t want to use the library, but the map room. But I do appreciate your kindness.”

“Any time, Ruth.” Sir Mortimer ushered Ruth to the door, a fatherly hand under her arm. “I’m glad you stopped in.” He paused and smiled at her, a wise look in his eye. “I gather you’d rather not talk about the Schliemann treasure? Or what the Metropolitan plans to do about this auction?”

Ruth nodded humorously. “You’re quite right. I’d rather not—anymore, I assume, than you would regarding the plans of the British Museum?”

Edgerton laughed. “I suppose we’ll all be glad when this beastly auction is over and done with, and we can all go back to being friends again. Or at least until the possibility of a new major acquisition comes along, I suppose.” He opened the door for her. “Good-bye, Ruth. It was nice seeing you.”

He closed the door behind her, leaving her with two secretaries busily typing. Ruth sighed as she walked through the corridor and into the upper main corridor of the museum. Another nice man, Sir Mortimer, but also another rival for the Schliemann collection. And speaking of the collection, she’d better get on with trying to trace it from that Bad-something place. She knew she was being romantic. She was well aware that it was not only improbable but most likely impossible for her to discover anything new, especially after all the intervening years. But it would be good therapy, and that was what she needed.

She climbed the steps to the landing where the map room was located, and rang the bell. An elderly uniformed guard answered, studied the card she presented with a suspicious eye as not being the standard form, but finally seemed to concede that it might possibly be genuine, and allowed her to enter. He handed back the card.

“Do you know how to use the map room?” he asked, as if anyone with less than a standard reader’s card would most probably not.

“Yes, I had a card here years ago.” She tucked the precious card into her purse and walked into the file room. She located and withdrew the notebook containing listings for maps beginning with the letters GER and began leafing through it. There were maps for every section of Germany from the time, ages back, when the country was merely a loose federation of states and cities, up to the present, including several that had been issued that same year. Ruth located one that was cross-referenced to SCAN, and read the description. It was for northern Germany and southern Scandinavia, and was dated 1945. Precisely what she wanted! A good omen, she thought, and filled out the necessary slip to have the map brought from the files. This done she replaced the notebook and went to the desk, handing her slip to the girl there. The girl started to leave the room and then returned, leafing in a basket on the desk. She nodded as she located a slip there, and looked up.

“I thought that number was familiar,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. That map is in use by that gentleman in the corner.”

Ruth looked across the room and felt a shock, a tingling that seemed to start at her toes and run up her entire body. Gregor Kovpak was at a table in the far corner of the large room, leaning over a large map spread before him, studying it intently, oblivious to anything other than the map. Ruth walked across the room and stood behind him.

“Hello.”

He swung about, his eyes widening in surprise, and then hurriedly came to his feet, smiling, his pleasure at seeing her evident in every facet of his expression. Why, he seems to be as happy to see me as I am to see him, Ruth thought. What an idiot I was this morning!

“I said, hello.”

“I’m sorry. It was such a surprise.” And I’m acting like a dolt, he thought. “What are you doing here? What about your conference?”

“You haven’t heard?” Ruth made a small grimace. “The conference is over. A monumental failure.”

Gregor shook his head and then ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I was afraid it was doomed to be. But”—the act of her presence was still not understood, even though he was very pleased that she was there and not someplace else—“what are you doing here?”

Ruth smiled happily. With Gregor before her, as attractive as she had remembered him, everything was all right with the world. He had not left the city without saying good-bye; he had not avoided the conference that morning for any such stupid reasons she had worked herself up with so needlessly. He was here and that was all that mattered.

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” she said cheerfully. If Gregor thought the treasure could be traced, then maybe there might really be a possibility. “To see where the treasure could have gone to, from that Bad-whatever—wherever that is.”

Gregor nodded, trying to keep the profound admiration he felt for her from becoming apparent. He certainly didn’t want to look gauche, not before this woman. It would be very nice if she was as happy to see him as he was in seeing her, but of course, why should she? To her he was simply a fellow scientist with whom she had had dinner once. And she was a beautiful woman, while he—well, he was a good archaeologist, if he said so himself, but that was about as far as it went. And an old, or at least ageing, archaeologist at that. He suddenly remembered his manners and pulled out a chair.

“Here, sit down.” He sat down beside her. Obviously he couldn’t tell her she was wasting her time, that the treasure was in Langley, Virginia; or at least it had been all these years. Now that she was in front of him, he no longer felt the need to investigate how the treasure had gotten there. Still he didn’t want to waste the opportunity of spending the day with her. “So you’re another detective, eh?” He decided to take a chance, prepared for failure. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you where Bad Freienwalde is, and I’ll even share my map with you, if you’ll have lunch with me.”

I thought you’d never ask, Ruth thought, although if you hadn’t I should have managed it somehow. “It’s a deal,” she said.

“Good.” Gregor leaned over the map, pointing, hiding his pleasure at her acceptance. “Here—that is Bad Freienwalde.”

“Oh.” Ruth sounded disappointed. Gregor looked at her questioningly. “I mean,” she said, explaining, “it’s almost due east of Berlin, a bit to the northeast. If they were planning on taking the treasure to Denmark or Sweden, which seems to me the logical place to go, especially since one of them was Swedish, why would they have arranged for the treasure to be put on a train that let them off in Bad—well, Bad whatever. It’s certainly not the most direct way to the Baltic ports.”

“The treasure ostensibly was on its way to Russia, and the trains that went to Russia did not go by way of the Baltic ports,” Gregor said dryly. “That may have been the reason.”

Ruth looked a bit sheepish. “Chalk one up against the lady detective,” she said with an attempt at lightness, and bent over the map, irritated with herself for being so stupid in front of Gregor, especially when attempting to impress him. “So where do you think they went from Bad-whatever?”

“Bad Freienwalde. Bad is a watering place; actually, a bath, or a place to bathe. Frei-en means to woo, or to court. Walde is a woodland, or forest. So you might call it the Watering Place in the Courting Forest.”

“The courting forest? But I thought frei means free. Why not the Watering Place in the Free Forest?”

“Whichever you prefer.” Gregor laughed. “Possibly the forest in which you are free to court.”

“While bathing.” Ruth also laughed and then found herself flushing at the thoughts that had come to her mind. You’re due for cold showers, girl, she told herself, if you don’t snap out of it.

“I’ll accept that,” Gregor said lightly, and returned to the map. “Now, we have to make some basic assumptions. Let us assume, as you said, that the two men either went to Denmark or Sweden as the first step on going—wherever they eventually ended up.”

Ruth looked up from the map. “You don’t think they stayed there?”

Gregor was scarcely in a position to reveal Ulanov’s theory that the treasure had ended up in Langley, Virginia.

“Look at it this way,” he said in a reasonable tone of voice. “The police in those countries searched for them hard and long, and without success. Remember that while Denmark was in the war, she didn’t suffer the disruption of the countries most actively involved, like Germany or France or Poland or Russia. And Sweden was neutral during the war and suffered nothing. So the police in both those countries, Denmark and Sweden, had a much easier time looking for people than they might have had in Europe proper at that time. And the police came up with no sign of the two. Or of the treasure. Therefore”—he raised his shoulders—“it seems likely they moved on.”

Ruth considered the logic of this a moment, and then nodded.

“I’ll admit it’s a possibility,” she said, “but they still had to get to either Sweden or Denmark before they could move on. And if we’re going to trace them, we have to follow them at least to one or the other of those two countries—”

Gregor’s eyebrows quirked humorously. “We?”

Ruth reddened a bit. “I meant, me. I forgot that you probably have to get back to your baby dinosaur and the Hermitage, but I have my vacation coming, and I think it might be fun trying to trace just exactly where the treasure did end up.”

“And you think you could do it? With the trail, as detective story writers put it, thirty-five years old?”

“Well,” Ruth said defensively, “you thought so, or you wouldn’t be here.” Gregor continued to be silent, not feeling that an explanation for his presence would be helpful. “Besides,” Ruth added, “someone else did it, or there wouldn’t be an auction being held in a few months.”

“It’s true that someone has the treasure,” Gregor admitted, “but he or they undoubtedly had a great stroke of luck to come across it.” He smiled. “I doubt they started their search here in the map room of the British Museum, then went straight off to Bad Freienwalde—not to take a bath or to court anyone, but to discover the next step in the puzzle, and go from there to either Denmark or Sweden, following clues thirty-five years old. Then from whichever Scandinavian country he stopped in temporarily—but where he found a further clue that led him, or them, to wherever the treasure is now, say in Canada or China or Czechoslovakia or—even in the United States.”

Ruth felt herself getting red as he went on.

“You can make all the fun of it you want,” she said tightly, “but I don’t believe that people just stumble on treasures. They search for them, using whatever clues they can get.”

“I didn’t say anyone stumbled on it,” Gregor said calmly. “The way I see it, whoever has the treasure and is offering it for auction, has known where it is for a good many years. And when the opportunity came along for him to get his hands on it—and get away with it—he simply took it.”

Ruth shook her head stubbornly. “You mean, he’s known where it was for thirty-five years, and suddenly some strange opportunity presents itself—I suppose someone forgot to lock the screen door, or left a cellar window open—and he just walked in and picked it up, saying, “Well, well! I think I’ll just auction this off.’ And the ones who were holding it all these years simply shrugged their shoulders and said, ‘Well, that’s how it goes. You win some and you lose some.’ And let it go at that?” Ruth sniffed. “And you think my theory has holes in it!”

“That’s not exactly what I said—”

“It’s close enough. I think,” Ruth said argumentatively, “that he was just smarter than your Russian so-called investigators, and that he did a better job. And as a result he found the treasure. And if he could, then so can we! I mean, so can I!”

“We,” Gregor corrected gently. He must have been mad trying to talk Ruth out of going on her wild-goose chase, when he had a chance to go with her! His first thought had been that it would mean her leaving London earlier than he had hoped, but if they could travel together, even for the short time it took her to realize she was wasting her time, it would be even better. No one else around to take her attention. “I can spare a few days, even a week. And,” he added disingenuously, “you may be right.”

“Except you don’t think so. I wonder what made you change your mind,” Ruth said, but her mind was not on her words but on the fact that they would be traveling together. The thought brought all sorts of possibilities to mind, but she put them away as being too dangerous. All she knew was that she was happier at that moment than she had been for a long, long time. “You really don’t think so,” she repeated vaguely.

“I keep an open mind on important questions like that,” Gregor said lightly and returned his attention to the map. The quest would be a charade, of course, but at least he had to go through the motions as if he were serious. But she hadn’t rejected his offer to accompany her, although all that meant was that she thought she could use his help, not that she was particularly interested in his being along. It was probably that she would feel safer with a man along, and a man as safe as one his age. He sighed and pointed to the map. “Let’s consider the ports they might have left from. Barth or Sassnitz, I would judge. Most likely Sassnitz; it’s the closest point from Trelleborg, in Sweden. Wismar, or Rostock, or Stralsund, the other major possibilities, are larger cities, and at the time of the theft from the bunker, they would have been crowded with sailors and troops, and their docks under closer military observation than a small place like Sassnitz.”

“There’s also that place there, Warnemünde,” Ruth added, pointing. “After all, that’s the closest point to Denmark.”

“It’s a possibility,” Gregor admitted, “but it’s also pretty close to Rostock. They’d be taking quite a chance going there in the hope they might get a boat of some sort.”

Ruth looked at him almost pityingly. He was an attractive man, and affected her like the devil, and there was no doubt he was an eminent scientist, but the dear man could also be rather dense at times.

“They would have planned for the boat at the time they planned the theft, of course,” she said almost patronizingly. “You don’t suppose they planned to steal a boat, do you?”

“Why not?” Gregor said innocently. He was enjoying himself. “They stole the treasure, didn’t they?”

“But they stole the treasure with a good deal of care, didn’t they? They didn’t just walk in with a gun and hold up the bunker. They planned it, down to forging documents and even passes. But you can hardly plan on stealing a boat, especially some time ahead; they don’t stay in one place. And they have crews and they weigh more than a small treasure,” she added dryly. “No, they either bought a boat or rented one. Probably bought it, since I’m sure they didn’t plan on returning it. In any event, in that case they could have left from almost any port, including Warnemünde. And that’s the closest to Denmark.”

“Or Sassnitz. That’s the closest to Sweden.”

“But the farthest from Bad Freienwalde,” Ruth pointed out. “And I don’t imagine they wanted to be driving any farther than they had to. Besides, Denmark is a far better place from which to go farther, if you’re right that they merely stopped over there. From Sweden where could they go? Norway? It’s easier to get to from Denmark. Finland? It’s far too small. They’d never feel safe there. Plus it was under Russian domination. Russia, itself? Obviously they didn’t steal it from the Russians just to go to Russia.”

She was probably right in her involuted reasoning, Gregor thought with amused admiration. The CIA man would have taken Petterssen to the States by way of Denmark, then England, and then Langley, Virginia. And Warnemünde would be the logical place for them to be met with a high-speed cutter from one of the Allied intelligence forces, maybe even from Denmark, itself. Still, he had to make it look as if there was a choice. He wanted his travels with Ruth to last as long as possible before she became discouraged, because he knew—sadly—that at the end of that time he would still be going back to Leningrad, while Ruth would be going back to New York. And without her even knowing how he felt about her, which was undoubtedly just as well. Elderly scientists, he told himself, do not take kindly to being laughed at by beautiful women, even if it were done with kindness, as he was sure it would have been.

He smiled wryly at the thought and returned to the map. “Of course, I suppose a good deal of their decision as to which port to leave from would depend on the state of the roads at the time. I imagine most of them were in pretty bad shape—”

Ruth looked at him, her eyes shining. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of that before? That means that the man who was with Petterssen had to be either a German or a Russian!”

Gregor shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “What? A German or a Russian? Why?”

“Because,” Ruth said, her tone triumphant, proclaiming that the lady detective had scored one over her more weak-minded opponent, “who else would know the state of the roads at that time? Only the Germans who had retreated down them a short time before, or the Russians who had advanced over them! Can you picture a Dane, or another Swede, knowing which roads they might use to get anywhere? Or even an American or a Frenchman? Or any of the other troops who were wandering around Berlin at that time? They had no idea how things were in eastern Germany at that time. They could have found themselves stuck somewhere, very easily. And this was planned, every bit of it. Including the roads they had to travel. And,” she added dryly, pleased with her analysis, “they certainly couldn’t call the Automobile Club and ask them where the detours were.”

It was a good point, Gregor had to concede, and one that Ulanov hadn’t considered, or at least hadn’t mentioned. There was one other solution, however. “But they were picked up at Bad Freienwalde,” Gregor pointed out mildly. “The driver might have been German, but the one with Petterssen—”

“Oh, no!” Ruth said, scotching that argument at once. “The entire thing was planned, the theft, the car, and the boat. Who had access to boats in the Baltic along the German coast at that time? Fishermen, that’s who—German fishermen. And who had access to cars in eastern Germany at that time? Germans, of course—although they would have to steal one. Or Russians.” She paused, her mind racing. “Of course! It was night, you said, and the car looked official. It was the German chauffeur of some Russian official, who was probably asleep at the time, and the chauffeur took the chance of getting away with using the car without being found out, because the man who was paying him, the man with Petterssen, was a former officer of his, and they were both from ODESSA—”

Gregor laughed in pure enjoyment. “And now the treasure is in Brazil or Paraguay, and they’re selling it to start up a Nazi party in Bavaria, as if they don’t already have one there.” He shook his head in admiration. “What an imagination!”

“Well, don’t laugh. They might very well be doing just that.” Ruth’s pout changed to a smile. “You see? We’ve made progress already. We know that a German and Petterssen stole the treasure. We know they left Germany from Warnemünde, probably landing somewhere near Gedser, and from there—” She shrugged.

Gregor was considering her with a smile. “We know?”

“Well,” she said, retreating, but not much, “we’re pretty sure, and that’s better than not knowing at all.”

“I suppose so. So that in that case it was a good morning’s work,” Gregor said, and looked at his watch. “Which deserves a good afternoon’s lunch. At which time we can plan our trip in pursuit of the Schliemann gold!” He made it sound very dramatic. Well, Ruth thought, it is! Or it could be …