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Now the colonel thought he understood the twinkle. “So that’s how you handled it! Excellent! Is he an enemy agent? How long do you want him held—?”

“What he is,” Ulanov said, answering the first question first, “is a poor, misguided newspaperman, and in thinking about it, I am ashamed of the trouble I have undoubtedly caused him. In my opinion, the German Security Forces, in their vast wisdom, their great humanity, and their exemplary generosity, should let the man go.”

The colonel was puzzled. “But, if you just—”

“Should let the man go,” Ulanov repeated gently, but in a manner that told the colonel he was not being requested to free Mr. Newkirk; he was being instructed. “However,” Ulanov went on evenly, “since Mr. Newkirk has a habit of getting into trouble, for his own good I believe you should keep a rather careful watch over him.” He looked the colonel in the eye. “A very careful watch. One that might contemplate the possibility that Mr. Newkirk and any car he might rent are not necessarily Siamese twins...”

Colonel Müeller could take a hint. “Yes, sir. We won’t lose him. But what if — or when — he leaves the Democratic Republic?”

“Then you will advise me at once. Including his destination, if possible.” The major made it sound that if the destination was not included, the colonel once more would have failed in his duty.

“Yes, sir.” Colonel Müeller hesitated. “Will you be coming back to Berlin with us, sir?”

Major Ulanov put out his cigarette and sighed. “I suppose so. Once we get something to eat.” Duty was a difficult decision, he thought. He had hoped to see the Warnemünde docks, not only to see what was so humorous about them — probably nothing, he thought; who could explain the laughter of starry-eyed love birds? — but because he enjoyed the sea and found sea air refreshing. He had also heard that the evening performance of the circus was quite different from the matinee. With another sigh at the exigencies of his job, he led the way into the restaurant.

It was two days before the plan of Major Ulanov bore fruit. He was lying on his bed in his room at the Stadt Berlin Hotel, his ever-present cigarette plastered to his lip, reading the last of his Playboy magazine and disappointed that the fiction and articles did not live up to the promise of the cartoons and photographs, when he received a call from Colonel Müeller. He put down the Playboy and laid aside his cigarette in the interests of clearer speech. “Yes?”

“Newkirk spent a good part of yesterday at the American Embassy,” the colonel reported.

“Explaining to Langley, Virginia, how the idiotic German Democratic Republic police had picked him up for a stupid reason,” Ulanov said calmly, “but were smart enough, at least, to realize one didn’t fool around with newspaper reporters and let him go free in record time.” He reached for his cigarette again.

“I have no idea of what went on in the American Embassy,” Colonel Müeller said honestly. “We have no means of knowing what goes on there.”

Ulanov’s eyebrows raised. “No?” Well, the responsibility for East German security, thank heavens, was not his or his organization’s. “So then what did he do?”

“He spent the day just walking around, browsing in book shops, looking at statues — typical tourist stuff. No contacts with anyone. Ate alone and went to bed early. Then today he returned to the Embassy—”

“To find out if the tentacles of the famed CIA had managed to unearth Kovpak and McVeigh in the meantime.”

“Probably,” the colonel said, “because right after that he went down to the railroad station and bought a ticket to Copenhagen—”

Major Ulanov sat a bit more erect. The CIA had done his work for him in record time. He felt a bit proud of them. “Copenhagen, eh?”

“Yes, sir. The train, you know, goes right through. The railroad cars with destination Copenhagen are put on the ferry at Warnemünde, and—” The colonel suddenly realized that Ulanov was probably not too interested in the mechanics of the trip. “We can arrange a ticket on the same train if you wish; it doesn’t leave until six tomorrow morning. Or we can arrange a plane ticket from Schonefeld to Kastrup Airport in Copenhagen, and you can easily get there before him.”

Ulanov thought a moment, puffing on the cigarette, and then smiled as he removed it from his lips.

“No,” he said. “Get me a ticket on the train for the day after tomorrow.” This time, he said to himself, we’ll let Newkirk do some of the spadework for a change. “And in the meantime, check Copenhagen hotels and find out where Kovpak and the girl are staying.” He hung up and lay back in comfort once again, pleased with himself in getting Newkirk and the CIA to do his work for him. With luck, he felt, the American security organization might eventually also tell him what the case was all about, and what Kovpak and McVeigh were up to...

Chapter Nineteen

Denmark — July

Count Axel Lindgren had been both surprised and greatly delighted to hear from Ruth McVeigh. In Washington he had done his best to convince Ruth that she should arrange a short vacation from the Smithsonian — or even a long one — and spend it with him in St. Croix, Cannes, or wherever she wished. Nor had he ceased his efforts once Ruth had taken over the directorship of the Metropolitan and moved to New York. His frequent telephone calls had been masterful combinations of charm and salesmanship. Nor had her constant amused refusals deterred him from continuing his efforts until, unfortunately, he had been asked to leave the Danish diplomatic service and he had returned to Lindgren Castle.

Now Ruth McVeigh was here in Copenhagen! Probably, Count Lindgren assumed, on a vacation or a rest after the debacle of the London conference, which in itself had tickled the count’s sense of the absurd. If Ruth McVeigh could have known where the Schliemann treasure actually was at that moment, or who really had it! Or at least who would have it that afternoon when that disgusting Professor Nordberg delivered it.

The count had arranged a small intimate booth for the two of them for lunch at one of his favorite restaurants, the Spinderokken in the Trommesalen. He knew that most visitors to Copenhagen preferred one of the Divan restaurants in the Tivoli Gardens, but the count wanted atmosphere and quiet in addition to good food, not the sound of hurdy-gurdys while he pressed his suit. It had been quite a long time since the count had had a woman of the type that really pleased him, and Ruth McVeigh not only fit that category perfectly, but she was here in Copenhagen. And had called him. It had to mean something.

The count arrived at the restaurant early, in order to advise Sture, the Spinderokken’s maître d’, exactly how chilled he wished the Aalborg Export before the meal, as well as the proper selection and temperature of the wines that were to accompany the meal. Sture listened imperturbably. He had been serving aquavit and wine since the count was a small boy, but one did not argue with Count Lindgren. Especially, as Sture knew well, when the count was quite right in his orders.

“And the flowers!” Lindgren suddenly said, and frowned at Sture. “They haven’t arrived!”

“They are being iced,” Sture said evenly. “They will be sprayed and brought to the table as the lady is being seated.”

“Good.” Count Lindgren sat down and began to study the menu. As he mentally made his selections he recalled that Ruth McVeigh enjoyed her food. A proper meal, here at one of the finest restaurants in Denmark, would be a good method by which to introduce the subject of his own marvelous cook, François. And to suggest a dinner some evening at Lindgren Castle, prepared and served by the talented chef, for François had notions about serving as well as cooking. And later, seated cozily in his den, sated with food and drink, it could be found that it was rather late to return to Copenhagen. And the castle, of course, had more than ample accommodations...