At the other end of the line Mr. Wilson also seemed to realize that Newkirk obviously had not gone out of his way to be mugged and lose the recorder. “Well, anyway,” he said abruptly, “what did you learn?”
“Nothing, sir,” Newkirk said unhappily. “I had it all on tape, their entire conversation in the restaurant. I had to sit far enough away from them so as not to look suspicious—”
“I know. That’s why the recorder was developed.” Wilson, in Langley, frowned at the telephone. “Do you think the Russians had anything to do with your getting knocked out and the recorder taken from you?”
“Not unless they have more men here than I think they have. I’m sure there’s only one KGB man here, the one who arrived with Dr. Kovpak. They came in on Aeroflot yesterday afternoon. He’s a white-haired man registered at the hotel as Dr. Sverdlov.”
“White haired?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A stiff crew cut, hair almost pure white? A stocky man in his sixties? Always smoking cigarettes?”
“Yes, sir. That’s him.”
“His name is Ulanov,” Wilson said. “Serge Ulanov. He’s a major in the KGB. A hero in the last war. He’s supposed to be a good man.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m fairly sure he’s the only one from the KGB who’s here.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Wilson said. “I doubt the Russians put too much importance on that conference in London. I’m sure they feel Ulanov can handle it.” From Wilson’s tone it was evident he also did not put a great deal of importance to the matter. He had been having second thoughts since the man from State had left his office, feeling he was probably wasting his time and the time of his men. “What makes you think Ulanov wasn’t involved? He’s supposed to be pretty clever, you know.”
“I’m sure, sir. But I’m also sure he wasn’t involved in this. I had a man in the hallway of his hotel, on his floor, all evening. In fact, he’s still there. He’s been checking this man — Ulanov? — every fifteen minutes. The waiter bit, you know, sir. I just spoke with him before I placed his call to you, sir, and he assured me that this — Ulanov? — hasn’t left his room all evening. He says this — Ulanov? — just took a bath a short while ago, and now he’s asleep.”
“His name really is Ulanov. You needn’t question it,” Wilson said dryly. “What about Kovpak?”
“I don’t know, sir. I left the restaurant and was walking down Curzon Street about a block behind them, and I was just passing Queen Street, when—” Newkirk paused, feeling, quite rightly, that Mr. Wilson in Langley would not be interested in hearing about the mugging twice. “But if it means anything, sir, the two of them — Dr. Kovpak and Dr. McVeigh, that is — seemed to be getting, well, interested in each other.”
“It may mean something to them,” Wilson said coldly, “but it doesn’t mean a thing to us. You’re supposed to be the cultural reporter on your paper, after information about the treasure and who has it, not the Lonely Hearts columnist.” A thought came to Wilson. “You’re sure that really is Dr. Gregor Kovpak? Not a ringer?”
“I’m quite sure, sir. He’s very well known. I’ve seen him before.”
There were several moments of silence as Wilson digested Newkirk’s report. Newkirk might be positive that Ulanov had nothing to do with his mugging that night, but Wilson was far from that sure. Muggers took wallets and watches, of course, but how many muggers would bother taking an innocent-looking book? Unless muggers were a lot more literary in London than they were in Washington, D.C., which Wilson sincerely doubted. And if Ulanov was on to Newkirk, then possibly it might be well to replace Newkirk with someone Ulanov was not on to. But that would take time, and Newkirk was the only one available in the area with the requisite knowledge of archaeology. Besides, the case wasn’t that important in the first place, which was why they had only put a stringer on it in the first place. Even if they found out how Russian security had been breached, undoubtedly the Russians had already changed their security procedures to handle the matter. Wilson knew in their shoes that was what he would have done.
“All right,” he said wearily at last. “Stay with it. Keep an eye on Ulanov and Kovpak. Keep us informed. And,” he added dryly, “try not to get mugged in the future.”
“Sir,” Newkirk said desperately, “I certainly wasn’t trying to get—”
But he was speaking to a dial tone. Wilson had hung up. With a heartfelt sigh Newkirk came to his feet, his head pounding, and prepared to return to the hotel and at least four badly needed aspirin tablets. There were times he wished he was only a reporter for the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune.
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...