“Or Sassnitz. That’s the closest to Sweden.”
“But the farthest from Bad Freienwalde,” Ruth pointed out. “And I don’t imagine they wanted to be driving any farther than they had to. Besides, Denmark is a far better place from which to go farther, if you’re right that they merely stopped over there. From Sweden where could they go? Norway? It’s easier to get to from Denmark. Finland? It’s far too small. They’d never feel safe there. Plus it was under Russian domination. Russia, itself? Obviously they didn’t steal it from the Russians just to go to Russia.”
She was probably right in her involuted reasoning, Gregor thought with amused admiration. The CIA man would have taken Petterssen to the States by way of Denmark, then England, and then Langley, Virginia. And Warnemünde would be the logical place for them to be met with a high-speed cutter from one of the Allied intelligence forces, maybe even from Denmark, itself. Still, he had to make it look as if there was a choice. He wanted his travels with Ruth to last as long as possible before she became discouraged, because he knew — sadly — that at the end of that time he would still be going back to Leningrad, while Ruth would be going back to New York. And without her even knowing how he felt about her, which was undoubtedly just as well. Elderly scientists, he told himself, do not take kindly to being laughed at by beautiful women, even if it were done with kindness, as he was sure it would have been.
He smiled wryly at the thought and returned to the map. “Of course, I suppose a good deal of their decision as to which port to leave from would depend on the state of the roads at the time. I imagine most of them were in pretty bad shape—”
Ruth looked at him, her eyes shining. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of that before? That means that the man who was with Petterssen had to be either a German or a Russian!”
Gregor shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “What? A German or a Russian? Why?”
“Because,” Ruth said, her tone triumphant, proclaiming that the lady detective had scored one over her more weak-minded opponent, “who else would know the state of the roads at that time? Only the Germans who had retreated down them a short time before, or the Russians who had advanced over them! Can you picture a Dane, or another Swede, knowing which roads they might use to get anywhere? Or even an American or a Frenchman? Or any of the other troops who were wandering around Berlin at that time? They had no idea how things were in eastern Germany at that time. They could have found themselves stuck somewhere, very easily. And this was planned, every bit of it. Including the roads they had to travel. And,” she added dryly, pleased with her analysis, “they certainly couldn’t call the Automobile Club and ask them where the detours were.”
It was a good point, Gregor had to concede, and one that Ulanov hadn’t considered, or at least hadn’t mentioned. There was one other solution, however. “But they were picked up at Bad Freienwalde,” Gregor pointed out mildly. “The driver might have been German, but the one with Petterssen—”
“Oh, no!” Ruth said, scotching that argument at once. “The entire thing was planned, the theft, the car, and the boat. Who had access to boats in the Baltic along the German coast at that time? Fishermen, that’s who — German fishermen. And who had access to cars in eastern Germany at that time? Germans, of course — although they would have to steal one. Or Russians.” She paused, her mind racing. “Of course! It was night, you said, and the car looked official. It was the German chauffeur of some Russian official, who was probably asleep at the time, and the chauffeur took the chance of getting away with using the car without being found out, because the man who was paying him, the man with Petterssen, was a former officer of his, and they were both from ODESSA—”
Gregor laughed in pure enjoyment. “And now the treasure is in Brazil or Paraguay, and they’re selling it to start up a Nazi party in Bavaria, as if they don’t already have one there.” He shook his head in admiration. “What an imagination!”
“Well, don’t laugh. They might very well be doing just that.” Ruth’s pout changed to a smile. “You see? We’ve made progress already. We know that a German and Petterssen stole the treasure. We know they left Germany from Warnemünde, probably landing somewhere near Gedser, and from there—” She shrugged.
Gregor was considering her with a smile. “We know?”
“Well,” she said, retreating, but not much, “we’re pretty sure, and that’s better than not knowing at all.”
“I suppose so. So that in that case it was a good morning’s work,” Gregor said, and looked at his watch. “Which deserves a good afternoon’s lunch. At which time we can plan our trip in pursuit of the Schliemann gold!” He made it sound very dramatic. Well, Ruth thought, it is! Or it could be...
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 Tupolev 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!