Nordberg’s face flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Which after all, he thought, was truly deserved since he actually had thought of the idea. “I’ll bring it—” He started, and then he frowned. “Today is Friday; it’s too late to get to the bank today. Then there’s the weekend, and next week is graduation week, with faculty meetings and graduation on Wednesday—”
“Must you attend all the faculty meetings?” Lindgren said softly. “After all, in a short time you will undoubtedly be considering leaving the university—”
“True.” Nordberg suddenly smiled. “You know, I keep forgetting that I’ll be a rich man.” He thought a moment. “Monday I really must be at the university. We clean out our desks then for the summer, and whatever we don’t take, some custodian ends up with. But Tuesday — say late afternoon, I’ll definitely be here. Say, five o’clock?”
“Fine!”
“And thank you, Count — I mean, Axel! Thank you!”
“It is nothing,” Lindgren said modestly, and held out his hand. Nordberg shook it enthusiastically, and then dropped it as if he knew he was delaying the count’s nap. He hurried to the door, anxious to allow his dear friend Axel to get his rest as soon as possible. He closed the door softly behind him, almost as if Count Lindgren had already retired to his bedroom beyond the study and was already asleep.
Lindgren watched the door close quietly behind the dumpy professor, and now wide awake again, sank back into his chair. The professor’s presence had, indeed, begun to wear on him. The count poured himself a brandy and sipped it, staring contemplatively at the small balcony that the professor always favored on his visits. In four days, on Tuesday at five o’clock, the professor would bring the treasure here to Lindgren Castle. The count smiled coldly and lit a cigar, inhaling deeply and enjoying the flavor...
Chapter Seventeen
East Germany — July
It was a beautiful Sunday, the first day of July. The small car that had been furnished to Gregor Kovpak at Schönefeld Airport held a full tank of fuel, purportedly enough to take him from one border to the other of the small country and back again. The car was performing well. As in most of East Germany traffic was light and automobiles were few on the autobahn, and best of all to the mind of the man driving the car was the fact that Ruth McVeigh sat beside him, her lovely face flushed from the wind, looking as if she were enjoying herself. The landscape through which they were driving was pleasant, flat or slightly rolling countryside, neatly plowed fields, and every now and then a herd of dairy cattle lazing in the warm sun, or munching contentedly on grass, paying no attention to the cars that shot past on the autobahn, as if aware of their own more tranquil state, and quite satisfied with it.
A mile or so behind the small car, Major Serge Ulanov relaxed, leaning back comfortably in the seat of the battered Zis, alternately drinking from a bottle of beer, with contentment equal to those of the cows they were passing, and consulting a road map held in his lap. The driver at his side, forbidden alcoholic refreshments even as minor as beer while on duty, glanced over now and then at the drinking man a trifle chidingly, but nothing could have perturbed the major less. When he had been the age of the large young man at his side, he had been happy many times to get water. He had been a partisan, probably fighting this young man’s father, he thought, and put down the partially empty bottle to consult the map again.
From Schönefeld they had taken the short leg of the E-15 autobahn to the E-8, left that after thirteen kilometers to transfer to the E-74 autobahn heading north. Ulanov had to give Kovpak credit for skirting East Berlin in this fashion. The last time he had attempted to drive through the city he had become hopelessly lost, between streets that seemingly went nowhere, and those that dead-ended into the wall. While Ulanov considered the map, he also considered the fact that with the bug on Kovpak’s car transmitting so well, and with the highways on which they found themselves with few intersections, and those only of very minor roads, possibly there had been no need for the two cars. Still, if and when the two people ahead left their car, it was very probable he would require all his forces to keep them adequately covered without their knowing about it. Ulanov still thought he knew their destination, but the autobahn ahead offered several alternatives, and the major saw little point in committing himself to a theory when a matter of a few minutes or a few kilometers could resolve the question.
The driver, staring ahead intently, spoke for the first time since they had left the airport. “They’ve turned, sir. Onto Route 2.”
Ulanov consulted his map. Route 2 was a very minor road, indeed, leaving the E-74 autobahn just before the village of Bernau and passing through Eberswalde and Angermünde to skirt the Polish border and eventually return to the E-74. But at Eberswalde a turn into Route 167 would take them to Bad Freienwalde, which is where Ulanov had been sure the two had been heading all along.
His hunch, then, had been perfectly correct. Kovpak and McVeigh were starting at the last-known point where the treasure had been seen, and were attempting to trace it from there. Then they must have learned something, either from one another, or by combining information, or from some source encountered at the ill-fated conference, or from someone else in London — or it really didn’t matter where or from whom — to indicate to them the route by which the Schliemann treasure had gotten to the United States and Langley, Virginia, all that distant thirty-five years before. Or—
Or? Ulanov frowned and put the “Or” aside for a moment. Whatever the two ahead of him had learned, it had been extremely naughty of Gregor Kovpak not to share that knowledge with him. Certainly a trained KGB agent would have been able to reach far more accurate conclusions than an untrained person such as Kovpak. Besides, not only was he KGB — with Kovpak on an assignment with him — but he had thought they had become friends in the short time of their acquaintance. He put that thought aside for the moment and returned to the big “Or” that had come into his mind a few moments before.
Or what? Was it possible that the two ahead knew something he did not? Was it possible that the theories of Vashugin and himself, as well as the other brains of the KGB as to what had happened to the treasure, were all wrong? Was it possible that the Schliemann treasure had not gone to Langley? Admittedly, the evidence indicating that the treasure had gone there was far from the type of evidence Ulanov liked to have to support a theory. On the other hand, they had seen no evidence to indicate anything contrary to the theory in all these thirty-five years. Still, the major had had enough experience to know that theories often tended to be justified by their creators as a form of self-defense.
It had occurred to Ulanov, since the announcement of the auction, that if Langley had had the treasure, it was odd that they had allowed it to be taken from them so easily. Although, he had to admit to himself, there was nothing to indicate it had been taken easily. It might have been a major attack, which Langley could easily keep secret. It might have been taken — or even freely given — as the result of blackmail, or the kidnapping of a major political or intelligence figure, with the treasure as ransom — something else Langley could easily keep secret. There may have been killings involved; nobody would ever need to know. Which would explain what Newkirk was doing on an unimportant conference such as the one held in London. Suppose, Ulanov thought, his mind now charging along, that someone important had been held captive, or even killed, in the losing of the treasure by Langley. Then, obviously, Newkirk, with a full complement of assistants, would have been given the assignment of tracking down those persons or that person who was responsible, who was now offering the treasure for auction...