“Hello,” he said. “My name is Kovpak, Gregor Kovpak, and I just wanted to tell you I thought you handled that near-riot in style. Tell me, have you ever been a policeman?”
His English was excellent, tinged with only the slightest of accents. Ruth also noticed he was tall, taller than she had supposed seeing him seated. He had brown eyes, very white teeth, dark curly hair, and a wonderful smile, she thought. Someone, sometime, she thought, had broken his nose, but it only made him appear more masculine. She suddenly recalled he had asked a question.
“No,” she said with a smile. “I have sat up nights with a weapon protecting a dig, though.”
“As have we all,” Kovpak said fervently. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve read most of your papers, and enjoyed them very much. And finally, I wanted to congratulate you on your recent appointment at the Metropolitan.”
“Thank you,” Ruth said, and was amazed at how relieved she felt that he had not left. She felt that his candor deserved no less than her own. “I already knew who you were. The man next to me recognized you.”
“Tim Rubin? An old friend. But I hope you didn’t believe anything he said about me.”
“I believe very little Tim says. But I did want to meet you. I’m glad you waited. I tried to meet you at the Hermitage the few times I’ve been there, but you always seem to be traveling. And I had no idea you would be here, or I would have seen to it you were seated at the table, with a console.”
Kovpak shrugged lightly. “It was no problem. I speak both German and French, so there was no trouble in that.”
“German and French? And English?”
Kovpak shrugged a bit embarrassedly, as if he disliked discussing any accomplishments he might have. “I speak German because so much is written in German that affects my work. I speak French, because” — he suddenly smiled, a smile that lit up his face, taking Ruth into his confidence — “because I like the way it sounds.”
Ruth smiled with him. “And the English?”
Kovpak frowned, serious now. “The English because it’s a very important language.” He looked about and then back at Ruth, obviously changing the subject, his expressive face now curious. “What did you think of your meeting?”
Ruth made a face. “Hectic, is what I would call it. I had no idea—!” She looked at him. “What did you think of it?”
“Amusing,” Kovpak said, and laughed. “Very amusing.”
“Amusing?” It was the last answer Ruth McVeigh had expected. “In what way?”
Kovpak looked around. The room was nearly deserted; a few at the press table were putting their notes away, one reporter was painstakingly writing something in his notebook. There were a few groups around the room apparently discussing the speeches that afternoon, but the large majority of the delegates to the conference had vanished. Kovpak looked back at Ruth, smiling.
“It’s a long story, far too long to go into here. Besides, it’s too near the cocktail hour. I know that nobody believes that Russians drink” — he grinned — “but I’m the exception. Why don’t I meet you in the bar in, say” — he consulted his watch — “half an hour? And then we can have dinner together, after that. That will give us plenty of time to talk of many things. Cabbages and kings, and treasures and things, and what I found so amusing in your meeting today.”
Ruth hesitated. Some small recess of her mind reminded her of Tim Rubin’s statement that Dr. Gregor Kovpak was not interested in further entanglements. He probably was still in love with the wife he had lost, she thought, and in any event, why should he possibly be interested in her? Then she had to smile at herself inwardly as she realized how ridiculous that thought was. She had met the man five minutes before, and while it was true the man was attractive, what on earth was so entangling about having a friendly drink and a dinner with a fellow archaeologist? She did it all the time. You’re beginning to have the vapors, my dear, she told herself a bit sternly; doing the feminine bit a bit overmuch. She nodded at Kovpak.
“Half an hour it is. In the bar,” she said, and held out her hand to be shaken in quite masculine fashion. “On second thought,” she said a bit more hurriedly than she would have wanted, “let’s make that an hour, instead.” She wanted time to find that little perfume shop in Shepherd Market before their meeting...
At the press table, James Newkirk remained, writing something in his notebook in his own particular form of shorthand. James Newkirk was a tall heavy-set muscular man wearing glasses, who carried credentials as the cultural reporter for the Paris Herald Tribune, and he worked at the job. However, what he was writing so carefully was intended to be the basis of the report he would transmit to Langley, Virginia, in their conversation late that night.
There was no doubt in Newkirk’s mind that each of the four speakers of that first afternoon session had been quite genuine in his identity, as well as in the personal conviction each carried in his own arguments, but nothing had been said in any of the impassioned speeches to indicate in any way Russian involvement in the auction. Newkirk had seen and recognized Gregor Kovpak. It had been expected that the foremost archaeologist in the Soviet Union would be attending. It had also been expected that he would be accompanied by a KGB man, and Newkirk did not have the slightest doubt that that was the role of the white-haired man at Kovpak’s side.
But the interesting fact was that the noted Russian archaeologist was not seated at the main conference table. That was exceedingly interesting and would make up a large portion of his report. If the Russians were in any way behind the auction, one would think they would have arranged to be at the main table, together with the other bidders. One would think they would do this if only to dissemble. To come here as observers, which is the position one would take if they were, for example, selling the collection and wanted to see the reaction of potential buyers; that was hard to understand. It would be too open. On the other hand, possibly they were merely being subtle, expecting any foreign agent who might be present to think exactly that way. In any event, Newkirk knew it was too early to tell. More data would be required before any conclusion could be reached.
Also quite interesting, he noted in his crabbed shorthand to be included in his report, was the fact that as soon as the meeting ended, Kovpak had immediately made contact with Dr. Ruth McVeigh. There they were at this very moment, at the end of the conference table, speaking as old friends, although when Newkirk had been briefed on Dr. Kovpak and his acquaintances in the west, Ruth McVeigh had not been included. A slip-up in the agency? Possibly, but doubtful. Certainly indicating that surveillance of the two was clearly indicated. Someone would also have to keep an eye on the white-haired man, the KGB man. Newkirk thought of the possible operatives he could summon from the London office, made his choice, and finished his scribbling.
Satisfied that all was under control, and pleased with the results of the first day of the job, James Newkirk came to his feet and innocently followed Ruth McVeigh and Gregor Kovpak from the room as they left, still chatting amicably.
Chapter Twelve
Serge Ulanov was lying on his bed, shoes off, his usual cigarette pasted in one corner of his mouth, dribbling ash on his chest. The major was reading a copy of Playboy, taking advantage of being abroad, when Gregor Kovpak came into the adjoining room. The major put down his magazine, got off the bed, and walked through the open connecting door. He sat down in a chair, pulled over an ashtray, and watched with a touch of interest as Kovpak opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a white shirt, examining it critically. Satisfied at last, Kovpak next went to the closet, took out his only suit and laid it on the bed, then went back to the closet to make a careful selection between the two neckties there. He put the winner on the bed with the other things and began undressing. The major smiled broadly.