CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

From his corner of the Plaza Hotel, slightly hidden behind some plant although with no idea of trying to make himself invisible, Major Serge Ulanov of the KGB waited glumly for the arrival of his compatriot, Dr. Gregor Kovpak. The plant which partially protected him from view was one Major Ulanov did not recognize, but if it gave him hay fever he would not be surprised. It would be in line with the rest of his day. The major had arrived in Copenhagen that afternoon after a long, uncomfortable train ride from Berlin. He had no idea why he had not flown and preferred not to think about it as it would only make him feel worse. If there was any satisfaction to be gained at all, it was in knowing that Newkirk had suffered equally the day before. In addition, upon reporting to the Russian Embassy in the Bredgade and using their telephone facilities to report to Colonel Vasily Vashugin in Moscow, Major Ulanov had been informed that one week of his annual vacation had already been deducted, and if he were not home in two days at the most, the one week deduction would become two.

“I realize,” Vashugin had said with no attempt to disguise the sarcasm, “that the fate of our country, not to mention the entire planet, rests upon the vital investigation you seem to be conducting in all the most comfortable—not to mention the most expensive—cities of Europe. Your expense account will probably deny us the importation of several thousands of tons of wheat. I don’t exactly know why we began this investigation in the first place, but it was at your instigation, as I recall. We have also had several inquiries from the director of the Hermitage Museum wishing to know when we will be through requiring the services of Dr. Kovpak.”

“What happened, sir—”

“My dear Major Ulanov, when I am finished I will be glad to allow you to explain your complete dereliction of duty in favor of what I believe are called, in the capitalist world, the fleshpots. I, too, in my time, have known the beauty of London, the pleasures of Berlin, the wonderful Danish food. I, too, in my time, have enjoyed the bright lights and the lesser-bright women of some of Europe’s capitals. But at least I had the simple intelligence not to push a good thing to the point where I was receiving an extremely serious reprimand from my superiors!”

“Sir, you don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand?” The sarcasm disappeared instantly. “You don’t understand, Major. I have no idea what kind of game you and this Kovpak are playing—he isn’t related to you, by any chance, is he? Your sister’s son, or something like that? But the two of you better have your last meal at the Tivoli, take your last shopping spree in the Strøget, make your last visit to the Istedgade—yes, I know where it is—and get back home! And when you get here, Major, you better have a better story than you’ve given me to date!”

“Sir, I haven’t had a chance to say a—”

“That will do, Major! You’ve wasted enough time of yours on this so-called investigation of yours without wasting any more of mine. Investigation!” The colonel snorted. “Good day!” Ulanov’s ears still rang from the sound of the telephone receiver being slammed down.

Now, sitting disconsolate in his corner of the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, Major Ulanov lit a cigarette and inhaling deeply reviewed the one-sided conversation. He was forced to admit there was a certain amount of justice in the colonel’s complaint. He had started out to discover why the CIA was about to auction off a certain treasure, or, if the treasure had been stolen from them, how Langley’s security had been breached; but all that seemed to have become lost in the shuffle. True, Newkirk was still around, but that meant little. He, Ulanov, was still around as far as that went, and only God knew why. Certainly Colonel Vashugin didn’t, and the major could hardly blame the colonel for that.

The truth was that he had become distracted by the antics of Ruth McVeigh and Gregor Kovpak, and they were antics simply caused, most likely, by their having stupidly fallen in love. Well, if that were the case, then the thing for him to do was to speak with Kovpak like the uncle Vashugin had accused him of being, and straighten him out. He would tell him his duty as a Soviet citizen, ask him what the devil he had been doing leading the KGB on a merry chase all over Europe, and then get the two of them home as soon as possible. It was evident to Ulanov, sitting quietly, thoughtfully considering the actions of McVeigh and Kovpak over the past week, that they had not necessarily tried to escape him in Rostock. They probably hadn’t known he was within a thousand miles. If they were lovers, which he strongly suspected, they probably wouldn’t have noticed him if they ran into him in one of the Warnow Hotel’s three-passenger-capacity elevators. They had gone to Bad Freienwalde to try to follow the treasure, but then had simply fallen in love and decided to forget the treasure and go to Copenhagen as being a lovely city for lovers. And had driven to Rostock as being on their way. And he, in chasing them like an idiot, had only accomplished laying himself open to a charge of wasting money, being derelict in his duty, and—while it had not been said—probably opening himself up for a demotion. It was not a pleasant prospect.

He shook ash from his cigarette and looked up as the doors of the Plaza were opened by the ornately costumed doorman, but again it was not his quarry. Instead he was not greatly surprised to see James Newkirk come in looking as if he had eaten something sour, and approach the house phones. The room Newkirk requested apparently did not answer, and after a while Newkirk hung up, walked over, and sat down in a chair commanding a view of the lobby and the main entrance from the Bernstorffsgade, looking unhappy. Ulanov frowned. As far as he knew, Newkirk had had no more success on whatever his mission had been than Ulanov had had with his. And if Langley was anything like Moscow, then Newkirk had probably also been reprimanded recently for wasting time and money. In which case he was probably here to reveal himself to Ruth McVeigh, remind her of her duty as an American, and ask her just what the devil she had been up to leading the CIA on a merry chase all over Europe.

On a sudden impulse, Ulanov crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet. He walked over, sitting down in a chair beside Newkirk, smiling at the man in friendly fashion. “Mr. Newkirk?”

Newkirk had been busy with his private thoughts. He looked up, startled, not recognizing Ulanov for a moment, and then reddened as he did. “I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Ulanov,” the major said politely. “We might have met in London during the conference on the Schliemann treasure, but somehow it never happened. I believe we are both in a similar position. We are both following Dr. McVeigh and Dr. Kovpak to discover what they are up to. I, personally, believe they are up to nothing, but have simply fallen in love. However, I could be wrong. It occurred to me that possibly if we were to pool our efforts, we might get further.”

Newkirk was looking at him as if he were insane. “I have no idea at all of what you are talking about,” he said half-angrily. “I happen to be a reporter for the Paris Herald Tribune—”

Ulanov sighed. “I realize that,” he said patiently. “I also realize that I know who and what you are, even as you know who and what I am. I merely said that possibly if we were to join our efforts—”

“I have no idea of what this is all about,” Newkirk said stiffly. “You, sir, are a complete stranger to me. Pool our efforts? I never heard anything as ridiculous in my life!” What did the man take him for, anyway? A complete fool? It was, of course, a devious plot on the part of the KGB, and one that he, Newkirk, was far too intelligent to fall for. He made a motion to rise. “If you’ll pardon me—”

Ulanov detained him with a gesture and came to his feet. “No,” he said quietly. “I’ll go back where I came from. As for my suggestion, of course it was ridiculous. It was mad. I don’t deny it.” He looked at the other man sadly. “I just thought it also might be fruitful.”

He turned and walked back to his seat behind the plant, wondering at the crazy impulse that had led him to approach the CIA man. He sat down with a shrug and lit a cigarette, wondering what his own reaction would have been had Newkirk approached him as he had approached the CIA man. Probably the same, he thought wearily. But at least the matter was out in the open, he thought, puffing steadily. At least he and Newkirk would no longer have to trail each other from a distance. Maybe, he thought with a sudden inner grin, they could even share a car. The concept removed some of his depression and he leaned back, smoking steadily, waiting for Kovpak.

They were driving in their rented car; Gregor’s face had been bandaged by a pharmacist in Praestø and a wrecker had been sent for Count Lindgren’s car. By mutual consent the subject of the accident was not discussed; concentration on Arne Nordberg and the best way to handle the man was a safe antidote to the cold feeling each had when they recalled the sight of that cliff coming nearer, and the sea and the rocks beyond.

“My idea is this,” Ruth said. “We get Nordberg’s address from the phone book, or if it isn’t there, from the university, tonight. Then tomorrow morning early, before he has a chance to wake up completely, we walk in on him and present him with the facts. We tell him we know he has the treasure and can prove it. We tell him he either gives up the treasure without any fuss, in which case the Metropolitan will see to it that he gets an ample reward—nothing like the insane figure he was considering, but a decent sum—or, if he’s inclined to refuse, that we will go to the authorities and he’ll end up in jail. And get nothing.”

They had passed Brandbyestrand and were coming into the southern outskirts of Copenhagen, driving along the Kalveboderne, the inlet from the Køge Bugt leading to the heart of the city. Across the water they could see huge airplanes taking off from Kastrup Airport on Amager, suddenly rising above the apartment buildings like giant cranes frightened from their chimney nests. The planes reminded both Ruth and Gregor that eventually each would be taking one of those planes to his own country, his own home. But first, as they both knew, there was the matter of the Schliemann treasure and their unbelievable discovery of it. Gregor smiled across the car.

“All that simple, eh?” he said lightly. “And you expect that once you hand him that tough ultimatum, he’ll rush to the closet, or under the bed, drag out the treasure and lay it at your feet, and then get down on his knees to thank you from the bottom of his heart for saving him from a life of crime? Is that it?”

“Well,” Ruth said a bit stiffly, “maybe that isn’t the scenario exactly, but it will be very close. He hasn’t a lot of choice, as I see it.” She frowned at Gregor. “What would you do in his shoes?”

“Me?” Gregor shrugged. “I’d say you were crazy and if you didn’t get out of my house in five seconds, I’d call the police.”

“What!”

“That’s what I’d say, and that’s what he’ll say. He’ll deny knowing what you’re talking about. He’ll act completely innocent. And just how are you going to prove he isn’t?”

“And exactly,” Ruth asked sardonically, “how will he explain Knud Christensen?”

“Why does he have to explain Knud Christensen?” Gregor sounded completely serious. He changed his voice slightly, raising it, imitating the unknown professor. “Knud who? Oh, Knud Christensen, my crazy cousin? What? He claims he found a box with a treasure in it? Well, good luck to him, he certainly can use it, if he really did find something, but he suffers delusions, you know. He what? He claims he sold it to me for a thousand kroner? I suppose he has my canceled check to prove it. What? He says I paid cash for it? A thousand kroner? Ma’am, do I look like a person who carries a thousand kroner in cash around with him? And when was I supposed to have done all this? And where? Earlier this year in Gedser? Gedser? I’ve never been in Gedser in my life. Please, Dr. McVeigh! I’m just a poor university professor. You’ve been listening to a sick man. I heard that ever since his two brothers were drowned, he’s been a little—well, strange, to say the least. As I say, I’ve never been in Gedser, but I’m sure there are people there who can confirm that. What? You say if I’ve never been in Gedser, how do I know about his brothers drowning? Well, I happened to hear it from someone in the family. After all, we are related …”

Ruth had been listening to the imitation of the unknown professor with increasing irritation. “If you think my method of getting this Nordberg to confess he’s got the treasure is so terrible,” she said coldly, “just how would the brilliant Gregor Kovpak handle it?”

“Me?” Gregor’s face lost its good humor. “I’d use a completely different approach.”

“Force, I suppose. The masculine—or, rather, the macho—approach to all problems.” Ruth sniffed disdainfully. “Hot needles under the fingernails, or the Iron Maiden—”

Gregor grinned. “That’s us Cossacks!”

“—and if an educated man such as a university professor doesn’t react to reason, what makes you think he’d react to force? And if he would call the police to throw me out after I merely talked to him, who do you think he would call to throw you out after you used muscle? And not just to throw you out of his house, but probably out of the country, as well.” She shook her head decisively. “We’ll try my method.”

“First,” Gregor said calmly.

Ruth looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean, first?”

Gregor shrugged. “I mean, you try your approach first, and when it fails—as it will—then I get a chance to try my approach.”

“I don’t like force!”

“Who likes force?”

Ruth frowned at him. “Then what’s your approach?”

“Ah, that’s a secret! I’m not objecting to your trying your way so why object to my trying mine?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

Gregor’s head swung around; his eyes showed his hurt. “You don’t trust me?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Ruth said hurriedly, and reached across the car to squeeze his hand on the steering wheel. “All right, darling. I’ll try my method and if it doesn’t work, you can try yours. I promise.”

“I accept your promise,” Gregor said, and pulled the car into the area before the front of the Plaza Hotel. While they waited for the doorman to come and take the car to a garage, Gregor turned to Ruth, bringing up a subject that was bothering him. “You know, darling,” he said quietly, “we disagree on many things, but I love you very much. Will you please explain to me why you keep insisting on separate rooms?”

Ruth looked at him tenderly. “I love you, too, darling. We agree on the most important thing of all—how we feel about each other. As for the separate rooms, have we lacked each other in any way?”

“In a way—”

“I don’t believe so. We enjoy each other. Then, afterward, we’re alone to relive the precious moments and appreciate how lucky we are to have anything at all. Besides,” she added with her gamine grin, “this way I don’t need to discover that you snore, or thrash around in your sleep, or hog the covers or the bathroom. This way I get the best of you.”

“And leave the worst to me,” Gregor said glumly, and sighed as he climbed down. He handed the car keys to the doorman and followed Ruth through the door the man was holding open. They crossed the hotel lobby to the bank of self-service elevators and waited until one appeared. Gregor ushered Ruth into the cab and followed her. They rose in silence, each with his own thoughts. Gregor reached for and held Ruth’s hand as they walked down the thickly carpeted corridor to her room. He leaned over, proud and happy to feel possessive after all the years, kissing her. “I’ll see you at six,” he said fondly. “At the bar.”

“Don’t be late,” she said. She squeezed his hand with a strength he hadn’t known she possessed, and then she was gone, her door closing behind her, leaving Gregor standing in the hallway. He stared at the closed door a moment, as if contemplating something, then, his face inscrutable, he walked slowly down the corridor toward his own room.

Major Serge Ulanov watched the two, oblivious to anything except themselves, enter the elevator. He crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet a bit reluctantly. He liked Gregor Kovpak, and he knew the man was bound to be angry with him for needlessly interrupting what obviously was the equivalent of a honeymoon for two people who could never, or would never, marry. In his shoes, Ulanov thought, remembering when he had been courting, I’d probably take me and drop me from the roof, but duty is duty, and while I will undoubtedly lose a friend, I may save my job. He walked to the elevator bank just as James Newkirk also approached. Newkirk waited stiffly, paying no attention to the man at his side. When they entered the first car that appeared, Ulanov pressed the button for his floor and then innocently looked at Newkirk inquiringly, as one accommodating elevator passenger to another.

“Same floor,” Newkirk said brusquely. Ulanov nodded and stepped back.

They rode up in silence, left the elevator together in silence, and walked down the hallway in silence. Newkirk paused before Ruth McVeigh’s door and frowned at Ulanov as if wondering if he were making the same call, but Ulanov continued on without breaking his pace to Kovpak’s room. He paused before the closed door and looked down the hallway. Newkirk had been waiting for Ulanov to arrive. Now both men raised their hands to knock. A farce, Ulanov thought sourly, and waited for Kovpak to open the door. It occurred to him that Gregor could well be in the girl’s room, and he pitied Newkirk if he interrupted anything the two considered important, but even while the thought crossed his mind, the door opened and Kovpak was facing him. Ulanov forgot his prepared speech in light of Kovpak’s appearance. From his place behind the plant in the hotel lobby he had not noticed the condition of Kovpak’s face or clothing. His eyes widened; his eyebrows shot up.

“What on earth happened to you?”

“A car accident,” Gregor said lightly, and waved the matter away as being minor, principally because he did not want to remember it. Then he seemed to realize who was in the room with him. To Ulanov’s complete amazement, rather than show anger, Kovpak smiled at him broadly, and then winced as the movement pulled at the bandage on his cheek. “Serge! Just the man I was wishing I could see, but I never dreamed I would! Maybe if you wish for something hard enough, your wish is answered! This is wonderful!” Gregor suddenly frowned. “But what on earth are you doing here?”

Why Kovpak would have been wishing to see him was one more mystery in an affair whose mysteries did not seem to have any great importance. Ulanov would have preferred to ask after the accident that seemed to have ripped Gregor’s clothes even more than his body, but it was apparent the man didn’t want to talk about it. The white-haired agent decided to get the explanation of his role over with quickly.

“I’ve been following you and the girl,” he said, and walked over to the bed, dropping down on it and fishing out a cigarette. He waited for the explosion. He really didn’t know Kovpak well enough to anticipate his reactions, and Kovpak was not only considerably younger than he was, but twice as husky. And as far as he knew, possibly as well trained in the art of self-defense. But instead of anger, Kovpak exhibited nothing except slight puzzlement.

“Following us? Then you saw the accident?”

“Not following you every minute,” Ulanov said a bit sourly. “Following you from London to East Berlin, to Rostock, to Copenhagen.”

“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!”

He 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 performance 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.

“To us,” Gregor agreed with a smile.

They clicked their glasses and drank.