CHAPTER FIFTEEN

From his position in one of the banks of telephone kiosks fronting the entrance to the Green Park Underground station on the park side, James Newkirk had a perfect view across Piccadilly into the Aeroflot ticket office. Beyond the broad windows with their display of small wooden dolls dressed in colorful Russian native costumes, plus, of course, the ever-present model of a Tupelov TU-144 supersonic passenger plane tilted steeply as if in take-off flight, Newkirk could see the three attendants at their counters, two of them busy with customers, one checking something on a sheet of paper. Still Newkirk waited, watching carefully through the heavy traffic, until one certain girl was the only one unoccupied with her telephone. Then he dialed rapidly, listened for the rapid pip-pip-pip and pushed home his ten-pence bit, for he did not wish to be interrupted for a matter of pennies. The telephone was answered at once, the girl’s voice the impersonal tone of strangers on telephones.

“Good morning, Aeroflot, Sonia speaking. May I help you?”

“Good morning,” Newkirk said. Sonia’s air of supercilious superiority had not changed since he had last used her services. She always sounded as if the customer were a nuisance and not even a necessary nuisance at that. As always, Newkirk wondered why Aeroflot put up with her, but then he thought of her beauty and her figure and again as always, thought he knew the answer—and she did speak excellent English. “Does Aeroflot have a direct flight from London to Kuybyshev?”

“I’m afraid not. You have to change in Moscow.”

“I see. Damn! Is there much of a wait?”

“One moment, please. I’ll check.” There was a brief pause. “Several hours is all.”

“Well, that’s not too bad. What equipment flies from Moscow to Kuybyshev?”

“One moment.” There was another pause. “It’s an Illyushin IL-18.”

“That’s a prop job, isn’t it?”

“It has propellers, yes, sir, but it’s an excellent airplane. Are you planning a visit to Kuybyshev?”

“If I have to get there in a prop job, I’ll have to think about it,” Newkirk said, and hung up. And if that conversation was being recorded for any reason whatsoever, he thought with satisfaction, let someone make something of it!

He stepped from the booth and glanced at his wristwatch, and then walked past the Ritz Hotel to cross Piccadilly and strolled leisurely in the direction of Old Bond Street. He would meet Sonia for lunch at a small restaurant in White Lion Yard, and that would not be for another forty-five minutes. As he walked slowly along, pausing every now and then to glance into one shop window or another to waste a bit of time, he thought with what little satisfaction he could muster that at least he was doing something, even if that something probably wouldn’t result in very much. He thought with a touch of dismay of that morning, when everyone had left the meeting and he had been forced to move out with them or look conspicuous as the only one to stay behind with Dr. McVeigh and that man from the Cleveland Museum. And then to miss her when she did come out! And Kovpak hadn’t even come to the meeting. God knows what he might have been up to!

He also recalled that during the free-for-all the conference had become, he had been able to see the white-haired agent, Ulanov, look in his direction with a touch of amusement every now and then. Was it possible that Ulanov knew he had been following McVeigh and Kovpak the night before? Was it possible that, despite all his precautions, Ulanov still might have been involved in the attack on him the night before? It was extremely doubtful—one didn’t want to see conspiracies behind every bush—but an even closer eye would have to be kept on the white-haired man, that was evident.

But today the agent who had covered Ulanov the night before in the guise of a waiter, had been replaced by a plain-looking woman who was also cleaning rooms, with the pleased acquiescence of the regular cleaning woman—equally plain-looking, who not only gained a day’s vacation, but was well paid for it. As soon as that ridiculous conference had finally—and in Newkirk’s mind, deservedly—broken up, Ulanov had moved in the direction of the elevators and up to his room. And, at last word, was still there. Newkirk wished he could ask the Special Branch to put a tap on Ulanov’s phone, but he knew this would really be asking too much, despite the solid relationship between their two organizations. Fortunately, this entire business of the Schliemann collection and how it had been taken from the KGB by some smart operator was of little importance; the Russians had undoubtedly by now changed their security system, so he was probably wasting his time. Still, he had his orders, and he intended to follow them.

He came into New Bond Street, his feet still lagging, and considered with a bit of pride the code he had developed with Sonia of Aeroflot, a code that changed with every use of it, the changes given at the meeting the code had been established to arrange. This particular time the name “Kuybyshev” had meant he wished to meet her for lunch at her usual hour, one o’clock. Had it been impossible for any reason, she would have had difficulty understanding his word “Kuybyshev” and would have asked him to repeat the name. The bit about propeller-driven planes indicated where they would lunch; at a certain small restaurant in White Lion Yard they both knew, where he was always sure his reservation request for a quiet booth in one corner would be properly attended to.

He crossed Maddox Street and turned into Lancaster Court, coming almost at once to White Lion Yard and the restaurant. He had himself ushered to the proper booth and sat down, ordering a whiskey and water for himself and a very cold Finnish vodka for Sonia when she arrived, and then leaned back to wait. He only hoped the information he wished Sonia to obtain for him might be of some help, although he knew he was scraping the bottom of the barrel to even think it might. Still, one had to do something. Thank God for airline computer consoles! he thought fervently. Anyone with the physical strength to punch a few keys could ask any information from the idiot machines he wished, and the stupid computer would simply hand it over without a suspicion in the world. In fact, at the push of a button the accommodating moron of a machine even would forget you ever asked for the information in the first place. If only we could program agents that way, he thought, and then changed it slightly. Enemy agents, of course. We’d also have to be damned careful with our own, naturally.

He looked up as Sonia approached, came to his feet as she slipped into the booth and inspected herself in her compact mirror to make sure she had not changed identity on the cab trip from Piccadilly, and sat down again just as their drinks were served. Sonia did not waste time for any gestures of friendship in the form of lifted or tapped-together glasses, but drank her vodka in one steady gulp, after which she rapped her glass on the table. The waiter appeared at once, took her glass in understanding, and waited.

“We’ll order a bit later,” Newkirk said, and smiled across the table. “How have you been?”

“Rushed,” Sonia said, and looked at the waiter in a manner that sent him hurrying to the bar. She did not expand upon her statement until the waiter had returned and hurriedly set her drink down. Sonia took a healthy sip before paying any attention to Newkirk, or expanding on her theme. “This will have to be a very quick lunch. We’re busy, rushed. The British Airways strike, you know.”

Newkirk grinned. “You people never go on strike, do you?”

Sonia was not amused and her expression showed it.

“We people also do not leave a thousand people stranded, sitting up all night at some airport trying to get anything that flies so that they can get home to a job, most of them without enough money to buy milk for the baby,” she said coldly. Sonia certainly did not consider herself an enemy agent; the thought would have been repugnant. She merely gave information to Newkirk, or whoever appeared with the proper identification, in exchange for money, plus an occasional lunch or dinner, or—if the man were attractive enough, which James Newkirk was not—an occasional romp in bed. The information she gave was certainly innocent enough; she was not in the position of having critical information at her command, and she was positive she would have refused to pass any on if she had. If the CIA or anyone else was foolish enough to pay her sums of money for the innocuous data she passed along, well, let them. She could even manage to feel a bit patriotic, knowing that through her the CIA was helping her country’s economy in a way. She hadn’t asked her boss at Aeroflot for a raise in over a year.

“Sorry,” Newkirk said, not a bit sorry, and finished his whiskey and water, rapping the glass on the table. Sonia took advantage of the hiatus in conversation to finish her vodka and place her glass beside Newkirk’s so the waiter could make no mistake. When the waiter had taken their empty glasses and disappeared in the direction of the bar, Sonia picked up the menu, speaking over its top.

“And what do you want now?”

Newkirk did not make the mistake of lowering his menu or looking in the least conspiratorial as he answered her in conversational tones.

“Two men. Their names are Gregor Kovpak and Serge Ulanov. They arrived in England on Aeroflot from Leningrad a few days ago—”

“I know,” Sonia said, interrupting almost contemptuously. “I’m the one who told you.”

“Exactly,” Newkirk said, not a bit nonplussed. “Now I want to know when they are leaving, if they are leaving together or separately, and where they are going. And if either or both of them will be accompanied, and if so, by whom.”

Sonia thought the request was a foolish one, and her tone indicated it. “They both hold return tickets to Leningrad, with an open date.”

“I’m aware of that,” Newkirk said calmly. “I simply wish to know if they change them, or even if they do return to Leningrad, what day they are booked for. As well as the other information.” Sonia merely nodded, and Newkirk continued in the same conversational tone as the waiter returned with their drinks. “And I think I can safely recommend the beef stroganov in this restaurant.”

“In England?” Sonia asked incredulously, as she raised her glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the mushroom soup to start, then the steak—the big one, not the small one, medium rare—with mashed potatoes, string beans, and a tossed salad. I’ll have a pint of lager with it. I’ll pick my sweet later with the coffee and a liqueur.”

And how she maintains that fabulous figure on a diet like that, Newkirk thought despairingly, is beyond me; as is the question of how I’m going to present the bill for this meal on my expense account without having it appear we had an orgy. He sighed, put down his menu, and asked the waiter for a clear consomme, a cress salad, and small plate of cucumber sandwiches …

Serge Ulanov, his shoes off and a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, reclined on the bed in Gregor Kovpak’s room with his copy of Playboy while he waited for his compatriot to return from wherever he was, most probably with Dr. Ruth McVeigh. Suddenly Ulanov lowered his Playboy and looked up with a frown. Someone was fumbling overlong at the lock of the room, as if trying first one, then another of a set of lock picks. Newkirk? Ulanov wondered, and shook his head. Newkirk was a better agent than that. He would have been sure to get a master key and not been dependent on lock picks before he would have tried to enter. He also would have called the room to be sure it was unoccupied. That inept waiter figure from the night before? Or the maid who obviously was not a maid? No matter. Ulanov slid silently from the bed, placed the Playboy to one side and laid his cigarette in an ashtray. He moved to stand beside the door, his stockinged feet making no sound on the thick carpeting. The sound of the key being inexpertly applied to the lock continued. Enough of this! Ulanov thought, and with a sudden motion flung the door open, and then almost went over backward as Gregor Kovpak, his arms ladened with bundles, nearly fell over him. Kovpak caught his balance and grinned at the major.

“Thanks. I was having trouble opening the door with my arms full.”

“Oh,” Ulanov said, feeling a bit foolish, and went to sit in a chair, retrieving his cigarette and drawing on it deeply as Kovpak unloaded his burden on the bed. Ulanov nodded. “Which reminds me, I also want to do a bit of shopping before we go back. My wife gave me a list as long as your arm. Don’t ever get married.”

“Before we go back …” Kovpak repeated, and rubbed his chin a bit sheepishly. “Well, that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Serge. You see—”

“You’re not going back with me?”

“Well, I—I mean, it’s this way …”

“You’re going to defect,” Ulanov said in his usual humorous manner, but the normal twinkle when he said outrageous things was missing from his eye. “In that case the last person on earth you should confess this to, is a KGB man. I might drug you, wrap you in a rug from one of the fine London shops—my wife always wanted a rug of Scottish wool—and ship you back to the Hermitage in the trunk of a black—”

“—official-looking car, marked as a rare tapestry,” Kovpak finished, and laughed. “No, I’m not going to defect. It’s not just that my little baby dinosaur needs me,” he went on more seriously, “but I think we should start to do something about this auction of the Schliemann treasure. Certainly the Hermitage must bid on it, and bid on it very seriously, and we’ll have to start working on the Cultural Commission for the necessary money.” This was Dr. Kovpak, the eminent archaeologist speaking, and Ulanov knew it. “It would make a perfect addition to our gold collection.”

“I’m glad to hear you won’t be defecting. I’d probably have the devil of a time explaining to your boss how I managed to lose one of his best scientists, and in broad daylight,” Ulanov said, and was surprised at the relief he felt. Paranoia is normal in this business, he thought, but I’m beginning to go overboard. Maybe Gregor is right. Maybe I ought to try to get a job in some engineering plant, although that would probably be a bit difficult at my age. Or maybe writing jokes for Krokodil magazine? I could steal some from Playboy, except they’d never get printed. “So why aren’t you going home with me? If it’s a question of spending a few more days here in London, I don’t blame you. Leningrad is beautiful, but I must admit it lacks the old-world charm of London. I’d be glad to spend a few more days here with you. We can go back next week.”

Kovpak looked uncomfortable. “It isn’t that—”

“You mean, if you must spend a few more days here, you’d rather do it in the company of someone a bit younger or more beautiful than me?” Ulanov grinned. “Someone like—well, Dr. McVeigh?”

Gregor reddened slightly. “That isn’t it, either. It isn’t even staying in London.”

“Ah!” Ulanov looked wise. “A trip, then. To New York? Possibly to visit the Metropolitan Museum? Traveling, possibly, with Dr. McVeigh,” he went on innocently. “Can she get you a visa?”

“And it certainly isn’t a trip to New York. Actually,” Gregor said, feeling that the truth, or at least a part of it, was the best way to end what even he had recognized as a form of interrogation. “I was thinking about a trip to Germany, to East Berlin. Possibly to see the Bode Museum at the Staatsliche, since they’ve built up their antiquities section—”

“Possibly to see the Bode?” Ulanov raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you think they’ll let you in?”

“I mean, to see the Bode,” Kovpak said, now thoroughly unhappy with his dissembling, or at least with his failure to do it well.

“I should imagine—” Ulanov paused to crush out his cigarette and light another at once; Kovpak wondered why the major never lit one from the other. But then, Kovpak wondered many things about the stocky major. “I should imagine,” Ulanov repeated, drawing in on the cigarette and then exhaling, speaking about the smoke, “that a visit to the Bode Museum would be good for some of the other visiting curators and directors, those why don’t get to Europe too frequently. People like—well, Dr. Ruth McVeigh, for instance.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we—I mean, she did mention the slight possibility, but there wasn’t anything definite decided …”

“And when do you plan on leaving for East Berlin?”

“I—tomorrow morning, I suppose. We—I mean, I haven’t made any plans, as yet.”

“I see,” Ulanov said, and decided to take poor Gregor off the hook. Poor lad, he thought, you may be a great archaeologist, but you’ve a lot to learn about successful lying. “Well, in that case all I can do is wish you a pleasant journey. Sorry we didn’t get any more information at the conference, but that’s the way it often goes. You have to try. In any event, let me know when you get back to Leningrad; possibly we can arrange lunch together sometime. And our department might even be able to use some influence with the Cultural Commission.” He flicked ash from his cigarette and came to his feet, picking up his magazine, tucking it under his arm. “And if, by chance, you happen to run into Dr. McVeigh at the Bode, please give her my best regards and tell her I’m sorry about what happened at her conference.”

He smiled genially, looked at his cigarette, decided it was short enough, and crushed it out. He held out his hand. Gregor shook it firmly. Ulanov gave him a friendly wink and moved in the direction of his own room. He paused, his hand on the knob of the connecting door. “I’ll close this, if you don’t mind. I think I’ll do some shopping and probably eat in my own room. I’m tired. Getting old, you know. And if I’m asleep when you leave in the morning, have a good trip.”

“You, too. And good-bye, Serge.”

Kovpak watched the older man close the door behind him and lock it, and then heaved a sigh of relief. He had thought it would have been much tougher to shake the old boy. The last thing he wanted was to be wet-nursed, or under constant surveillance while traveling with Ruth McVeigh, but apparently that wasn’t going to be a problem, thank heavens! He put such unpleasant thoughts from him and began unwrapping the packages of clothing which he hoped would make him, at least in the eyes of Ruth McVeigh, look less like a peasant and more like a man of the world. He also hoped, of course, that the salesman who had helped him select those springlike colors had been correct when he had assured him the new clothing made him look years younger …

Major Serge Ulanov made his telephone calls from the office of the military attaché at the Russian Embassy, even as he was sure that James Newkirk made his calls to Langley from the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. The major did not know or care whether Newkirk or one of his minions had followed him there or not. Another day and Newkirk would be a thing of the past. Actually, he rather hoped that Newkirk had followed him, for a heavy rain had begun to fall, with ominous mutterings from a bank of even blacker clouds in the west, and it somehow made Ulanov feel better to think of the other man somewhere out in the rain, keeping a sharp eye on the heavy doors of the embassy.

The major’s first call was to an old acquaintance, the manager of Aeroflot Airlines, in London. He spoke in Russian.

“Two people, Alexis,” the major said quietly. “And all of this completely confidential, of course. A Dr. Gregor Kovpak, a Russian national, and a Dr. Ruth McVeigh, carrying an American passport. Of course, they may not be traveling by Aeroflot, but I think it possible since Kovpak already has his return on your line. But in any event, I’m sure your computer can find them. What? Going possibly to East Berlin, but not necessarily. Yes, traveling together. For sometime tomorrow morning, I’m fairly sure. What? Yes, I’ll wait.”

He leaned back and looked at the heavy drapes and ornate furniture of the room the military attaché had given him to use, with the inevitable pictures of heroes of the Revolution on the walls. And he undoubtedly thought he was showing me courtesy, giving me this mausoleum to use, Ulanov thought, and smiled. A little of Playboy art would do wonders in sprucing up the place, he thought, and then brought his attention back to the telephone, frowning in amazement.

“What? What do you mean, Aeroflot doesn’t fly to East Berlin? Why not, for heaven’s sake? You fly to Boston, you fly to Bangkok, you fly to Belfast, and you don’t fly to East Berlin?” Good God! he thought, we let all that nice hard capitalist currency go to other airlines? Typical. “What? But you found the two of them on the computer, anyway? Well, that’s better; you had me frightened there for a moment. What line? Lod? I see. Leaving Heathrow at 11:50 tomorrow, arriving at Schönefeld Airport in East Berlin at 13:25 … Flight 286, nonstop … and with a car rental waiting for them at the airport.… Wait a minute, Alexis, let me think.”

Ulanov frowned at the ceiling of the room while he sorted things out in his mind; then he smiled, a broad smile. He straightened his face as he spoke into the instrument.

“All right, Alexis, this is what I want you to do. The Lod flight was booked through your office, wasn’t it? I thought so. Good. I want you to call Dr. Kovpak and Dr. McVeigh at their hotel—you have it? Good. Call them and inform them that, unfortunately, Flight 286 has been overbooked, but that you, in your infinite wisdom and skill, have managed to book them on a slightly later flight. How much later? Oh, an hour should do, I suppose. Pick out a flight like that and let me know. Oh, and also, of course, make sure there is space on the flight for them. I’ll wait.”

He leaned back again, wishing desperately that the Ambassador didn’t have asthma, and wasn’t so maniacally set against the smoking of tobacco in any form in the embassy rooms. He couldn’t imagine how the others in the place could tolerate such a restriction. Probably spend 90 percent of their time in the toilets, he thought, and smiled at the picture, wondering what would happen to anyone who might want to use the rest rooms for a more legitimate purpose. Probably have to go to the pub around the corner, he thought, and then paid attention as the telephone spoke.

“What? But that leaves only fifteen minutes later! Ah! A connection in Amsterdam, eh? How long? Excellent. What line is it? KLM, and then who? Interflug? Never heard of them, but so long as their planes don’t fall down. And there is space for both of them on the flight? Good! Alexis, you are a genius. What? Well, the computer is a genius, then. No, that’s about it. And thanks for your trouble.” Ulanov was about to hang up and go on to his next call when he suddenly remembered something; he mentally struck himself on the forehead for almost forgetting. “Alexis? Thank heaven I caught you before you hung up and went and sold those two seats to East Berlin on Lod! What? Oh, you can sell one of them, but hold the other one for me. Well, of course. What do you think this whole charade was all about, anyway?”

He hung up, thought a moment, and then placed his second call, a call to a special number in Berlin which he read from a small notebook. Knowing the bureaucracy that exists in all government departments, he hoped not everyone had already gone home. It was almost six o’clock in the evening, and not everyone, he knew, was as dedicated to their job as Serge Ulanov. The thought made him smile as he waited, but his smile disappeared when his call finally went through and he realized his fear had been well-founded, for the man who answered the telephone seemed suspicious of the call and was not inclined to accept it. Ulanov made himself heard above the voice of the international operator, who sensibly retired from the battle, leaving Ulanov on the line.

“This is Major Ulanov,” he said, speaking German and putting all the authority he could muster into his voice. “I’m calling from London. Who am I speaking to?”

“Who do you want to speak to?”

Ulanov bit back his temper. “I placed this call to Colonel Franz Müeller. Is he there?”

“No.” There was a click followed by a dial tone; the man at the other end had obviously disconnected.

Ulanov clenched his jaw and called for the international operator again, repeating the number. After what seemed to the impatient Ulanov to be an unconscionable wait, the telephone rang. The same voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“This is Major Ulanov again,” the major said, making no attempt to disguise the fury in his voice. “Did you hang up on me?”

“You said you wanted Colonel Müeller,” the voice said, attempting to appease this irascible stranger with pure logic. “He isn’t here.”

“Well, you listen to me! And if you hang up again, I promise you you’ll be the sorriest man in all Germany, East or West! I am Major Serge Ulanov of the KGB, and when I call someone in your organization I don’t expect him to hang up on me! And please don’t tell me I wasn’t calling you! And please don’t tell me who is or isn’t there! Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good! Now, who am I speaking to?”

“This is Corporal Burkhardt, sir.” The tone was much more respectful.

“All right, Corporal,” Ulanov said coldly, “listen and listen very carefully! I am arriving at Schönefeld Airport tomorrow early afternoon. Have you got that?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell Colonel—”

“Be quiet! I’m not through. Now, I want to be met with a car—” Ulanov thought a moment and then frowned. “No, make that two cars. I want them to be—”

“Sir?”

“Wait until I finish. I want them both to be—”

“Sir?”

“If you interrupt me once again—!” Ulanov said savagely, and then resigned himself to the fact he was dealing with an idiot. “Well, what is it?”

“Sir, I can’t arrange any cars. That would be the responsibility of the motor pool section, sir. Sir, I don’t even have a car myself. I come to the barracks on a bicycle—”

Ulanov took a deep breath. Obviously speaking with this moron was wasting time. “Where is Colonel Müeller?”

“He’s probably at the club, sir. The Officers’ Club. He often stops there on the way home.” The corporal’s voice became confidential. “Sometimes he stays there quite late, sir. Trouble at home, I think—”

Ulanov gritted his teeth, trying to remember that just moments before he had been in the very best of humor. “Do you have the telephone number of the colonel’s club?”

“Oh, I can connect you directly, sir. It’s in the same building, on the top floor. It used to be in the basement, but there wasn’t any view, so they moved it to the—”

“Corporal!”

“Yes, sir. I thought you wanted to talk, sir,” the corporal said in a properly aggrieved tone. “I’ll connect you right away, sir.”

There was the sound of mingled voices accompanied with static, the usual cacophony when telephone calls are transferred, then a bit of silence—welcome to Ulanov after the corporal—after which a familiar voice came on the line.

“Colonel Müeller here.”

“Colonel? This is Major Serge Ulanov.”

“Major!” Colonel Müeller sounded delighted. “When did you get in?”

“I didn’t get in. I’m in London, but I’ll be in Berlin tomorrow. Listen, I need your help. I get to Schönefeld at 13:25 on Lod flight 286. I want to be met with two cars. I—”

“Two cars?” The colonel chuckled; it was obvious he had been at the club some time. “Have you gotten that fat since I saw you last?”

Ulanov did not smile. “No, I’m quite the same. But I want two cars because I want to be very sure we do not lose the people we will be trailing, and if one car has to be left to trail them on foot, I want another car handy. I want both cars completely nondescript. Nothing official-looking about them, understand? And I’ll want a good driver with each car, and a good man with the driver in the second car.” He thought a moment. “Is it possible to get cars with some sort of telephonic communication between them?”

“Of course. How would I do for the man with the driver in the second car? I assume you’ll be with the driver in the first, and getting away from my desk would be a welcome change.”

“Excellent! Oh, one more thing. The man we will be trailing—at a distance, by the way; we don’t want to pick him up—is named Gregor Kovpak. He’s a Russian. He’s arranged for a car at the airport, a rental. Is it possible—well, to put some sort of a bug on that car?”

“A homing pigeon? Certainly.” The colonel paused and cleared his throat. “Major, this Kovpak—a criminal of some sort? Is he dangerous? Will we be requiring arms of any sort?”

Ulanov laughed. “No, he’s not dangerous; just to secrets buried in the earth for a few thousand years. What you might bring along, though, is a cooler in each car with some bottles of beer and some sandwiches. We may have a long drive.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“All I have is a silly hunch I’d be ashamed to tell you about,” Ulanov said. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and he hung up.

Sonia sipped her vodka and made a face. “The bottle,” she said disdainfully, “says ‘Finlandia’ on it, but the vodka says ‘Made in Great Britain,’ and in somebody’s bathroom, in my opinion.” She pushed the glass away from her with a distasteful grimace. “Get me a plain whiskey, please.”

“Right,” Newkirk said, and made his way through the evening crush to the bar. With a good deal of effort he managed to get the barmaid’s attention and in a burst of genius ordered a triple, with a half-pint of lager for himself. If he had to spend most of the evening running back and forth to the bar, he was never going to get any useful information from Sonia.

He came back and placed the drink before her. If she thought it rather larger than the normal drink she received when buying her own, she made no sign of it. Probably never bought her own in her life, Newkirk thought sourly. Probably thinks a triple whiskey is the normal size.

“Now,” he said, trying not to raise his voice, although otherwise it was almost impossible to be heard. Due to Britain’s licensing law there was less than an hour in which the pub’s customers could build up a glow that had to last until eleven o’clock the next morning, and the calls to the barmaid, plus the exuberant conversation in general, made communication difficult. “What have you been able to learn?”

“You mean, about your friends?” Newkirk nodded, hoping Sonia would come up with something before her triple disappeared; in fact, came up with enough to even justify the expense of the triple. She frowned, and then her face cleared. “Oh, yes. You know? You’re lucky I worked late tonight.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes. They just changed his schedule a little while ago. He’s not going to Leningrad. He’s to leave on the Lod plane for Berlin tomorrow—”

“Berlin? Who’s going to Berlin?”

“This Gregor Kovpak. You wanted to know about him, didn’t you?”

“Berlin?” Newkirk frowned. “Not Leningrad?”

“What did I say? Did I say Leningrad? I said Berlin. Do you have trouble with your ears?”

Newkirk overlooked the obvious effect of the triple on Sonia. His mind was on other things. “What do you mean, was scheduled?”

Sonia glared at him. “Please don’t interrupt! I said he was scheduled to go on that plane, but he was put on another, one that connects in Amsterdam.” She sipped her drink, hiccuped gently, and put her glass down. “I don’t know why, so don’t ask me.”

“Ulanov, too?”

Sonia shook her head. “No, he’s taken one of the seats in the Lod plane.”

Newkirk wrinkled his forehead, trying to digest this odd information. “They aren’t traveling together?”

“I said—!”

“I heard what you said. It was a rhetorical question.” He hurried on before he could be asked to define the term. “They are both—or each, I suppose—traveling alone?”

Sonia giggled. The triple was definitely getting to her. “This Dr. Gregor Kovpak, he must be some sort of a man, huh? He’s traveling with a woman, a Dr. Ruth McVeigh. Or maybe she’s really a doctor, huh? If he doesn’t feel so good, she puts him to bed, huh?” She grinned and then yawned deeply.

Newkirk took a deep breath. He had no idea how much alcohol Sonia had consumed since their lunch, but it must have been a fair amount, because despite her admittedly large capacity, she was beginning to look very sleepy, and he wanted to be sure he had all the information from her, and correct and proper information, before she put her head on the table and dropped off to sleep. Or simply disregarded his questions altogether and screamed at him like a fishwife, which he was also sure she could do.

“Sonia, listen,” he said, hoping the urgency in his voice would keep her awake a few moments longer. “I want to be absolutely certain I’ve understood you correctly. Ulanov goes to Schönefeld in East Berlin on the Lod flight first. Then Kovpak and McVeigh go to the same place, but leave later. Is that right?”

“Not later.” Sonia shook her head and then caught her balance as she almost fell over. Newkirk kicked himself mentally for not having limited her drink to a double, or even a single. “They leave at almost the same time, only the two doctors have to change in Amsterdam, so they’ll arrive in Berlin later. Don’t you understand English?”

Newkirk considered this information. Ulanov had obviously arranged the change in Kovpak’s flight. This had to mean he had arranged it in order to get to Schönefeld earlier. Had he wished to travel with the other two there would have been no problem of having some other passenger bumped to make room for him. Which, in turn, meant he wanted to get there first in order to follow Kovpak and McVeigh when they arrived. Which was certainly interesting! A surveillance by the KGB on one of Russia’s top scientists? Why? Fear that he might defect? But who went to East Germany to defect from Russia? And where did the American, McVeigh, come into the picture? The only reason she would be involved had to mean the entire affair was concerned with the Schliemann treasure. Possibly, when he had been unable to keep an eye on them, they had run into some information—? And Ulanov suspected what it might be, and therefore planned to keep an eye on them without their knowing it. That had to be the answer, and if that was of such interest to the KGB, it had to be of equal interest to the CIA. A thought came.

“Sonia—Sonia! Did Kovpak arrange for a car to rent at Schönefeld?”

“Yes.” She yawned deeply and blinked her eyes, not wanting to fall asleep with part of her drink unconsumed. You never knew what types you were next to in a pub, and many would not be above drinking her drink if she were asleep.

Which simply meant that he, Newkirk, had to get to Schönefeld Airport before any of the others, and with a car. And when Ulanov took off after the two archaeologists, he, James Newkirk, would fall in line—but without being seen—and find out what there was to find out. So the case was far from finished. It looked as if it might just be beginning. Which was a most interesting state of affairs, or at least might prove to be.

“Sonia! Sonia!” He shook her slightly; her eyes popped open, trying to focus. “What time does that Lod flight get into Schönefeld?”

She screwed her eyes shut, trying to recall the schedule. She opened them, smiling brightly, pleased with her extraordinary memory. “Sometime in the afternoon.”

Newkirk sighed. “Is there a flight that could get me there in the morning?”

“No. It’s the earliest.”

Which meant he had to get to West Berlin, to Tegel Airport, in time to get a car and go through Checkpoint Charlie and get down to Schönefeld in time to be waiting when Ulanov’s car passed. He was sure he would not miss that head of white hair.

“Sonia … Sonia! What planes are there to Tegel Airport in West Berlin that would get me there sometime tomorrow morning? Or even late tonight?”

She smiled at him and then frowned as he kept wavering before her. “What did you say?”

“I said, what planes—” He knew he was wasting time. Better to get on the phone to the airlines, or better yet, simply catch a cab to Heathrow and check out there, and take the first plane out, whenever it left. There had to be a lot of flights; it was a popular corridor. And that way he would have an excuse for not calling Langley; they might not think his trailing Ulanov and the two scientists to be as important as he knew it to be. And he had no intention of dropping the case just when it looked as if it were breaking open. He reached out, touching Sonia’s arm. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

She frowned at him as if he had made the most vile suggestion she had heard. “Take your hands off me! And leave this early? The pub doesn’t close for almost an hour.” She was slurring her words, and clutching her glass as if he might try to remove it from her hand. She put her other hand out to hold his untouched lager. “I’m staying right here. You can go wherever you want to go!”

“Look, Sonia—” Newkirk sighed and gave up. After all, he had gotten the information he needed, even if it had been like pulling teeth. He leaned over and spoke into her ear. “I’ll see to it your money is mailed to you at your home. All right?”

“Right …” She leaned back, her eyes closing, her head resting against the cushion that ran along the back of the long bench that covered the pub’s wall. “Right …” Her eyes opened momentarily. “You going to buy me a drink?” Her eyes closed, a faint snore came from her partially opened mouth.

Newkirk shook his head and came to his feet, walking quickly from the pub before someone might notice he had left a sleeping woman behind. It was a pity, he thought a bit savagely, that Langley didn’t appreciate the sacrifices one made in this job, or the people one was forced to deal with, whether one was a regular agent or a lowly stringer …