Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

“Why are we stopping now?”

Wilten’s voice came hollowly over the intercom system. “I’m afraid one of the rear tires is losing pressure, sir. I’m just going to check it now. It will just take a minute, sir.”

“Oh.” Gregor leaned back and watched the heavy-set Wilten get down and move out of sight behind the car. He was about to turn to Ruth and say something when he became aware that the heavy car was beginning to move, to roll down the slope, gaining momentum. Ahead in the near distance he could see the dirt road end in a turn-around guarded only by a low stone wall, and beyond that a sheer drop to the sea. He swung around, staring through the rear window. Wilten was running after the car as fast as his weight would allow, his hands outstretched. He could hear Wilten’s voice, screaming.

“Oh, my God! I forgot the hand brake! Oh, my God!”

Ruth was sitting rigidly, white faced. Gregor tried the door handles; the doors were locked! Ahead, the edge of the cliff was coming closer and closer as the heavy car picked up momentum, the deep ruts of the worn dirt road keeping the wheels locked on their inevitable juggernaut course, the sea below frothing over rocks beneath a sheer drop. Suddenly Gregor leaned back in his seat, raising his two feet, jamming his shoes through the glass that divided the empty front seat from the enclosed rear. A moment later he had forced himself through the shards of broken glass still embedded in the frame, unaware either of the ripping of his clothes or the shredding of his skin as he slithered on his stomach across the seat and under the dashboard, pulling with all his force on the emergency brake. The car responded slowly, as if resenting this interference with its unexpected freedom, swaying from side to side as its great weight seemed determined to overcome the demands of the tightening brake bands. Gregor blanked his mind to the thought of the rapidly approaching cliff, or of Ruth sitting petrified in the rear of the car. He gritted his teeth and pulled on the emergency brake with all his power. The car shuddered under the force of that strength, swayed a bit more, and came to rest with a jarring thud against the stone wall of the turn-around, settling down with one wheel dished under by the impact.

For several seconds Gregor stayed where he was, half under the dashboard, his hands still locked tightly on the emergency brake, trembling, and then he reached up with one shaking hand to open the front car door and roll to the ground just as Wilten came panting up, his face truly white as he considered Count Lindgren’s reaction to the failure of his mission.

“Thank God!” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Count Lindgren will never forgive me! You might have been killed!”

Gregor came to his feet still trembling, and opened the door to the rear of the car. Ruth still sat inside, unable to move. Gregor turned to Wilten, his jaw hard, his eyes narrowed in fury. “The doors didn’t open from inside!”

“Oh, no, sir! They are locked, controlled from the front seat. For safety reasons, sir—” Wilten seemed to realize how foolish that sounded in the circumstances. “I mean... well, sir, the count never opens the door himself. The chauffeur always does that, sir. So when they are locked, the doors are arranged only to be opened from the outside. Count Lindgren often sends his car to take orphans on picnics, sir, and you know children, sir—” He brought out a handkerchief and held it out a bit tentatively toward Gregor. “Your cheek, sir. It’s bleeding.”

People were stopping on the highway, looking down toward the wreck; a farmer was trotting over from his fields alongside the sloping road. Wilten was pleased with his presence of mind in acting the innocent chauffeur, screamingly denouncing himself for his failure to set the hand brake. Let them think him stupid, but never let them suspect the truth. Count Lindgren, unfortunately, would not be that forgiving. It was a thought Wilten preferred not to dwell upon.

Some of the people from the highway were beginning to come down toward the wrecked car. Gregor took a deep breath, bringing himself under control, holding the handkerchief against his cut cheek. It was an accident, but at least it was over and both he and Ruth were alive. He reached into the car for Ruth’s hand, bringing her to stand beside him. Her face was still pale from the fright and the thought of the death they had so narrowly escaped, but her pride in Gregor for his quick thinking that had saved them more than compensated. Gregor studied Wilten’s face. There was no doubt the poor chauffeur was as upset by the affair as he had been himself. Gregor looked at the dished wheel and then back to Wilten.

“And what do we do now?”

Wilten looked at the people coming down the road to see if they could help. “I’m sure one of these people will be happy to give you a lift into Praestø, sir,” he said deferentially. “You can rent a car there. I’m terribly sorry for this, sir. I’ll stay with the car, if you could ask them to send a wrecker...”

“I’m sorry, too,” Gregor said, feeling compunction for the unhappy Wilten. “It was just one of those things, and I’ll tell Count Lindgren that.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Wilten said, although the statement did not make him appear any happier. “Count Lindgren will be very upset about this, sir. Very upset...”

From his corner of the Plaza Hotel, slightly hidden behind some plant although with no idea of trying to make himself invisible, Major Serge Ulanov of the KGB waited glumly for the arrival of his compatriot, Dr. Gregor Kovpak. The plant which partially protected him from view was one Major Ulanov did not recognize, but if it gave him hay fever he would not be surprised. It would be in line with the rest of his day. The major had arrived in Copenhagen that afternoon after a long, uncomfortable train ride from Berlin. He had no idea why he had not flown and preferred not to think about it as it would only make him feel worse. If there was any satisfaction to be gained at all, it was in knowing that Newkirk had suffered equally the day before. In addition, upon reporting to the Russian Embassy in the Bredgade and using their telephone facilities to report to Colonel Vasily Vashugin in Moscow, Major Ulanov had been informed that one week of his annual vacation had already been deducted, and if he were not home in two days at the most, the one week deduction would become two.

“I realize,” Vashugin had said with no attempt to disguise the sarcasm, “that the fate of our country, not to mention the entire planet, rests upon the vital investigation you seem to be conducting in all the most comfortable — not to mention the most expensive — cities of Europe. Your expense account will probably deny us the importation of several thousands of tons of wheat. I don’t exactly know why we began this investigation in the first place, but it was at your instigation, as I recall. We have also had several inquiries from the director of the Hermitage Museum wishing to know when we will be through requiring the services of Dr. Kovpak.”

“What happened, sir—”

“My dear Major Ulanov, when I am finished I will be glad to allow you to explain your complete dereliction of duty in favor of what I believe are called, in the capitalist world, the fleshpots. I, too, in my time, have known the beauty of London, the pleasures of Berlin, the wonderful Danish food. I, too, in my time, have enjoyed the bright lights and the lesser-bright women of some of Europe’s capitals. But at least I had the simple intelligence not to push a good thing to the point where I was receiving an extremely serious reprimand from my superiors!”

“Sir, you don’t understand—”