Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

“I can’t imagine where the woman ever got such an odd idea—”

“Oh, I can,” Gregor said cheerfully.

“What?” This time Nordberg’s bewilderment was quite genuine.

“I said, I can,” Kovpak said and took the professor lightly by the arm. “Why don’t you sit down, Professor, and let me explain this entire affair to you? I think I can make you understand.”

He almost lowered a startled Nordberg to the sofa Ruth had so recently abandoned, and then took a chair and pulled it close to the paunchy and puzzled man. Gregor sat down and considered the professor benignly.

“You see, Professor,” he said in a friendly tone which invited the other man to try and understand his point of view, “my disagreement with Dr. McVeigh was not on her facts, nor her conclusions, but on her methods. If I gave you any other impression, I’m sorry.” Nordberg was staring at him half-hypnotized. He was just beginning to realize he had avoided the pendulum only to face the pit. He made a move to rise.

“You came here under false pretenses. I’ll call the police—”

Gregor pushed him down, but did it very gently. “Please, Professor. I’m speaking and it’s not polite to interrupt. When I am finished you can call the police if you still wish to, but in the meantime please do me the kindness of sitting quietly and listening to me, and you needn’t waste time with me trying to think up denials, because quite sincerely I hope for your sake you really do have the treasure.”

“For... for my sake?”

“Exactly.” Gregor beamed at him, as a teacher might smile proudly at a pupil who exhibited quickness in seeing an answer. “You see, I know you have the treasure. I am quite sure, however, that you would never release it on the mere threat of prosecution by the authorities. Why should you? The proof that you have it is tenuous in the extreme, and the treasure is undoubtedly very well hidden, so that discovery of it must certainly be difficult, if not impossible. And Knud Christensen’s story would never be enough, coming from a man shattered by the death of his remaining family, to convince the most sanguine jury. No, I am sure that Dr. McVeigh’s threats did not bother you greatly. However” — Gregor’s smiling face and suddenly raised finger asked the professor to pay even closer attention at this moment — “I believe that under modern and tested methods of interrogation, you would be more than willing to co-operate and tell us exactly where you have this treasure hidden.”

Nordberg’s lips were white. “But I tell you, I don’t have—”

“You don’t have the treasure?” Gregor’s smile disappeared. He looked sad. “That would be a pity. You see, Professor, that’s what I meant before when I said I hoped you had the treasure for your sake, because how can you confess you have it and tell us where it is if you really don’t have it? You will suffer — that is, undergo the interrogation — for nothing, until it is too late, I’m afraid. And we will have wasted our time, although that, of course, would be no concern of yours.”

Nordberg was staring. Sweat was pouring from him. “Are you — are you really Dr. Gregor Kovpak?”

“I am. Would you care to see my Hermitage pass?” Gregor drew out his wallet and offered it to Nordberg, opened at the proper place. “It isn’t a very good picture, but I suppose I’m not the best subject.” He tucked the wallet back into his pocket. “The cut on my cheek, of course, doesn’t help.”

“You — you are a noted scientist and you’re threatening to... to torture me?”

“The word I used was interrogate,” Kovpak said chidingly. “And I certainly wouldn’t conduct the interrogation. I’m a scientist, as you say. I would probably botch the whole thing due to my lack of experience, and lose you before—” He seemed to notice that his words were disturbing the professor and he continued a bit apologetically, as if necessary for the professor’s complete understanding. “There is in Copenhagen at this moment a man from one of our Russian organizations known as the KGB. You’ve heard of it? Then you know. He is trained in this sort of thing. I am not. He could probably make you last for days. I’d be lucky if you didn’t die on me in a matter of hours.” He shrugged humorously at this admission of his own incompetence, and then suddenly changed his entire attitude; his very appearance seemed to change. “This man will do what I tell him, and I will tell him you know where the Schliemann treasure is, and that I want to know. He will get that information from you. I may or may not watch him work. I understand his methods are quite unsavory, and while I do not have a weak stomach, there are limits to everything.”

He came to his feet, towering over the shaken professor.

“I will give you until noon today to decide if it is really necessary to go to such extreme limits. I know someone who wants that treasure, and that person is going to get it. You certainly will not stand in the way. I am at the Plaza Hotel. I shall expect to hear from you by noon. If not, you will be in the hands of the KGB by twelve-thirty, and calling the police will not help you. There is no escape, Professor. There is no escape!”

He walked to the door, turned to give the professor one last cold look, and left, closing the door firmly behind him. That done he hurried down the steps. At the front door of the building he paused to wedge the latch to save time in case he later had to leave and return, and then went down to the basement.

In the apartment he had left a very shaken Arne Nordberg. The professor suddenly shivered. This one was the very devil! Those black unblinking eyes, that black hair, twisted almost like horns! That bandage, obviously hiding a sinister scar! There was no doubt the man meant every word of his threat.

Even if he told them that the treasure was at Lindgren Castle, they would never believe him, especially if the count should deny it. And why should the count not deny it? What did a man in the position of Count Lindgren have to gain by allowing himself to get involved in affairs as sinister as these? It was one thing to expect the count to handle the auction of the treasure merely as an entertainment. It was quite another to expect the count to jeopardize his position even if the alternative was the life of a mere professor of history. And if the count denied the story, as he was bound to, then nobody would believe him, and he would die.

Far better that he accept the hundred thousand dollars and give up the treasure. Certainly the count would not object to that. After all, he was just in it for sport. If he, Nordberg, wanted to give up a fortune to save his own life, certainly his good friend Count Axel Lindgren would only applaud the decision.

Still, the thought of taking a mere hundred thousand dollars when he had had his appetite whetted with thoughts of at least fifteen million, was galling. It was worse than galling, it was sickening! Certainly there had to be some means of avoiding the threatened torture, and to stay with the auction Count Lindgren had planned. There had to be! Only he could not think of it... The thing to do, he suddenly realized, was the same thing he had been clever enough to do when the question of disposing of the treasure first presented itself — ask the advice of Count Lindgren. The count might well come up with an answer where he, himself, could not.

The decision to telephone the count and tell him everything brought a certain calmness to Nordberg. He came to his feet and walked a bit unsteadily to the telephone, raised the receiver, and dialed the familiar number. But before the telephone at the other end had a chance to ring more than twice there was a heavy knock on the apartment door. Nordberg frowned blackly. Who could that be? A neighbor? But Nordberg’s neighbors never bothered him. That devil Kovpak, back so soon with further demands? But what further demands could he possibly make? The heavy knock on the door was repeated. With a muttered curse for making him postpone his call, Nordberg put the receiver back on the hook and walked over to open the door.