Ruth McVeigh forcibly brought herself under control, her memory beginning to work. She stared at the man with narrowed eyes and then nodded. “Mr. Newkirk, weren’t you at that conference in London? At the press table?”
“Exactly.” Newkirk nodded. “I represented the Herald Tribune, Paris edition. As cultural reporter.”
“And now you’re representing the CIA?”
“Precisely. Actually, I represent both.”
Ruth sat down again, a move Newkirk interpreted as victory for his side as he waited for her to confess everything. She contemplated him for several moments, her mind finally beginning to recover from her blind anger, beginning to properly function. Here she was with the Schliemann treasure practically in her hands, and at this particular moment this person appears, a person who claims to be a reporter in one breath, a CIA man in the next, and then claims to be both. Even if he were truly a newspaperman — which Ruth didn’t believe for a moment — any story he might elicit from her under any guise could be the cause of the Metropolitan losing sole ownership of a treasure which, after all, she alone had discovered. True, Gregor had been along, but he would be the first to admit that she was the one who had insisted the treasure was lost at sea. She was the one who insisted upon visiting Gedser, insisted upon the interview with Knud Christensen. It was her treasure, and Gregor knew it.
But this one? She suddenly remembered something else. If she wasn’t mistaken this was the same man who had been sitting at a table near them when she and Gregor had first had dinner together in London. This man had been spying on her for a long time! What this man was, then, was most likely a spy for one of the other museums represented at that conference, trying to learn what he could to be used for the advantage of one of her competitors! And here she had found the Schliemann treasure and this man, this leech, this spy, was still right behind her! And with the guise of a CIA man to give him respectability. That could be a nuisance. He could be exposed, of course, but that would take time, and all she needed was to visit this Professor Nordberg in the morning and the treasure would be in her hands.
Newkirk had been waiting patiently — all good agents had to learn patience to be successful in their work — but it was approaching dinner time and Newkirk was hungry.
“Well, Dr. McVeigh?”
A thought came. “Mr. Newkirk, may I see your warrant card again, please?”
She was getting ready to spill! “Certainly,” Newkirk said courteously — courtesy was always best once a suspect had decided to tell all. He brought out his wallet and handed it over opened to the proper cellophane slot. Ruth took it, extracted the warrant card from its snug little retreat behind its transparent panel as if to examine it better, and then methodically began to tear it into pieces. “Hey!” Newkirk said, outraged. He grabbed at his wallet. “You can’t do that!”
“I just did, Mr. Newkirk.” Ruth tucked the torn pieces into her bodice and smiled at him pleasantly. “And now, if you don’t leave my room at once, I shall call the hotel security staff and ask for assistance.”
Newkirk clenched his jaw and came to his feet. He had never seen a more blatant confession of involvement in some nefarious scheme in his entire life! This had to involve something more important than the minor Schliemann affair upon which he had started. This had to involve international intrigue of some sort, because who practically assaulted a CIA man in the performance of his duty for anything less than a major crime? And involving the Russians and the KGB, as witness the presence of that white-haired Ulanov here at the hotel! He was on to something big! Maybe he ought to thank the woman for tearing up his warrant card. It was as good as admitting complicity in something obviously vastly important. How right Wilson had been to insist that he trail the two! But even Wilson, Newkirk suspected, had no idea of how big the case was. Wilson would undoubtedly place his loss of the warrant card in the same category as the loss of the tape recorder, but that was simply because Wilson as yet did not fully comprehend the magnitude of the affair. But they would as soon as he had the complete story, which would be as soon as either Kovpak or McVeigh attempted to make contact with anyone about anything. She obviously had no idea he had been trailing her before. She would have even less in the future!
He walked to the door and turned to look at the girl with the coolness of an agent who is far from intimidated by a mere loss of warrant card. “We shall meet again, Dr. McVeigh.”
“I hope not,” Ruth said, and watched the door close behind the man. Then she glanced at her watch and hurried into the bathroom to start her tub.
“And what have you been doing since I last saw you, all of an hour ago?” Gregor said, looking at Ruth with admiration over the rim of his cocktail glass.
“Oh, I took a brief nap and then my bath,” she said lightly, and shrugged. “Nothing important.” There was no need to worry her darling Gregor with the fact that there was a spy from some other museum trying to discover their secret. She had proven she could handle amateurs like this Newkirk without any help. “And you?”
“Oh, I read a bit — rested, you know — and then took my shower.” No need to bother his darling Ruth with the fact that he was certain her ploy of using reason on Professor Nordberg would be unsuccessful, and that therefore he had already taken steps to assure proper recovery of the treasure. He raised his glass. “To you, darling.”
“To us,” she corrected.
“To us,” Gregor agreed with a smile.
They clicked their glasses and drank.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Professor Arne Nordberg had already changed his clothes twice, although neither change had in any way improved his appearance. He had, at first, put on his best suit and most colorful shirt and cravat. Then, sweating in the heavy heat of the morning and the stuffy apartment, he had decided that comfort was the order of the day. After all, scientists and academicians, like writers and sportsmen, were known for their disregard for fashion. It added to their bohemian image. But the sweater he had pulled on to complement his slacks was badly frayed, and the slacks themselves still had a food stain on them he had tried to remove without success. In desperation he pulled on the pants of his best suit again, promising himself the finest wardrobe known to man once the money for the treasure was in his hands, and was just pulling on his one clean sports shirt when the doorbell rang. He pressed the button releasing the latch on the street door three floors down, tucked in his shirt, slipped his bare feet into a pair of sneakers, and considered himself in the mirror. Not bad, he thought with a smile; a fitting co-author of a paper with Dr. Gregor Kovpak of the famous Hermitage Museum. My Lord, he thought, winking at his image in the glass, how things had changed in a few months!
He hurried to the door and held it open, listening to his guest coming up the steps, and then frowned slightly as two figures instead of one appeared at the next lower landing, turning the corner to begin the final climb. One of the figures was a woman and as she raised her head to peer up the stairs, Nordberg saw that she was extraordinarily beautiful, and he was glad he had worn the clean shirt and proper pants. His eyes automatically went to the woman’s cleavage, and he felt the familiar stirring in his groin. If this was Kovpak’s woman, lucky Kovpak! God, to sleep with a woman like that, to run his hands at will over that lush body! He wet his lips at the salacious thought, and then suddenly felt a little shock as he recognized her. It was Dr. Ruth McVeigh of the Metropolitan Museum in New York! Her picture had certainly been in the newpapers often enough during that conference in London! All thoughts of sex disappeared, leaving only the frightening fact that here were Dr. Kovpak and Dr. McVeigh, two people vitally interested in the Schliemann treasure. He had a cold feeling that this meeting had nothing to do with dinosaurs, big or small. Nor did history play much part in it. Still, how could anyone possibly connect him with the Schliemann treasure? There was absolutely no way anyone could know! No, it simply had to be a coincidence that Dr. Kovpak wished to speak with him, and that Dr. McVeigh was along. He forced a smile of welcome onto his lips and ushered his guests into the living room of the apartment, for once more interested in the true reason for this strange visit than in the appearance of the shoddy apartment before important people.