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...