Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

Ulanov had been listening to this stream of consciousness politely. Now he felt he ought to speed things up. “I don’t know who this Count Lindgren is, other than the fact that you don’t seem to like him,” he said, “but if you believe he’s the one with the treasure, shouldn’t we be on our way to visit him?”

“We certainly should. Let’s go!”

Ulanov slipped off his headset and started to hand it to the blond man. Then he looked at Gregor, his face inscrutable. “Is there any purpose in continuing to monitor his telephone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Ulanov said enigmatically, and gave instructions to the blond man. “Pack up and go home. You can leave Boris in front in case anyone comes and rings the professor’s bell. Nikolai can go back with you. Reports go to the office.” Ulanov turned to Gregor. “Let’s go.”

They climbed the steps, Gregor seething at the thought of Count Lindgren and how close he had come, through his man Wilten, in killing both himself and Ruth. He removed the wedge in the latch and unconsciously glanced up the stairway, almost as if he could see the third-floor apartment. Then without a word he walked quickly out to the car. Ulanov started to say something and then thought better of it. Instead he climbed into the car and lit a cigarette, inhaling blissfully, while studying the other’s expressionless profile. Gregor paid him no mind, studying a map of the small country’s highways a moment, and then putting the car into motion. “We’ll check for Lindgren Castle when we get near Ringsted,” he said evenly. The white-haired major merely nodded.

They passed the ten-year-old yellow Volvo down the street and turned into the Farimagsgade, beginning to work their way south through the city toward the Vestergade and the road west into the open country. Behind them James Newkirk was pleased to see them moving at last. He had sat in his car in the hot morning sun for over an hour, and the breeze brought on as he drove was very welcome. At this point in the chase, Newkirk did not particularly care if the car ahead knew he was following them. He had no idea of what Kovpak and Ulanov had been doing in that apartment building, but there was no doubt something was up and James Newkirk meant to know what that something was. He had picked Ulanov up at the Russian Embassy in the Bredgade early that morning, knowing he would stay there. He had seen him depart with three other men in some sort of a utility truck, and had followed them to this location. Here he had observed Ruth McVeigh and Gregor Kovpak arrive and watched Ruth McVeigh depart alone, leaving the Russians inside. With all the characters of the drama assembled, there was no doubt things were coming to a conclusion, and Newkirk was not to be put off from being in on it.

Kovpak crossed the Pile Allee and entered the Roskildeveg, heading toward Roskilde and the turnoff to Ringsted, when he glanced in the rearview mirror for the fourth or fifth time. He spoke to Ulanov without turning his head.

“We’re being followed!”

“Oh?” Ulanov turned to look over his shoulder and then turned back, spewing smoke from his cigarette. “That’s just Newkirk.” He bit back a yawn. He had slept poorly the night before; he was getting too old for strange beds. And he had had to get up early to place the bug on the professor’s phone. Maybe he ought to ask for retirement — and then he thought that if he had any trouble on this case, any further trouble that is, he might not have to ask for retirement. It was a sad thought.

“Newkirk?” Gregor asked, mystified by the strange name.

“That CIA agent I told you about in London. Don’t pay any attention to him.”

Kovpak swung around, staring at Ulanov in disbelief. “You mean he’s been following us since London?”

“No, no!” The major shook his head, dislodging ash which sprinkled his jacket. “ I’ve been following you. He’s been following me. Then in Germany I lost you but found him. Then when I wanted to find you I let him do it for me. Then I followed him.” He shrugged. “Now he’s following both of us. It isn’t important.”

Kovpak drew a deep breath and shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Ulanov said in a tired tone, agreeing. “It doesn’t.” He flipped his cigarette through the car window and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Try not to use the horn too much. I’m going to take a nap before we get there...”

Count Lindgren was in a foul mood, and the staff was well aware of it. Wilten had somehow gotten himself in the count’s poor graces, and everyone suffered under those circumstances. François, cooking and serving the count’s late breakfast on the terrace of Lindgren Castle, recognized that this was no time to scamp on his skills for any reason, or to make any untoward remarks on any subject. François had outdone himself on the blueberry crêpe. The count was chewing on it as if it were a mere pancake, and the chef was waiting until the precise moment to put the finishing touches on the next dish, an omelette flambé a fine herbes Marseilles . But as he delicately slid the omelette to a warmed plate and carried it proudly toward the table, he saw with dismay that Wilten, a subdued Wilten this morning, was approaching with a telephone, trailing cord behind him. Any delay in eating the omelette , François knew, and the dish would be ruined, and le bon Dieu alone knew what the count’s mood would be then! A difficult man, Frangois thought, and then saw to his dismay that the count was putting down his knife and fork and looking up at Wilten. To the chef it was evident that whatever rift had developed between the master and Wilten had still not been mended. Lindgren was considering Wilten as if the other man were a stranger.

“There is a person at the other end of the line this time, I hope?”

Wilten swallowed. “Yes, sir. It’s... it’s that McVeigh woman...”

Lindgren stared at him a moment and then took the telephone from him, cupping the receiver while he wondered just what Ruth McVeigh might have to say. Would it be about the accident? But she had called the day before, explaining how it had not been Wilten’s fault. Not Wilten’s fault! Lindgren put down the taste of bile that had come to his throat at the thought, and tried to imagine what Ruth could be calling about, and just what he might say in return. Count Lindgren had spent a sleepless night alternately cursing Wilten and his failure and wondering if there was now any way in which to avoid disaster. Certainly two accidents in a row could be as bad as none. He was not dealing with complete idiots. There was, of course, the faint possiblity that they had not traced the treasure to Nordberg; or that if they had, the brainless professor might have had enough of a spurt of intelligence to keep his big mouth shut! Well, there was only one way to find out...

He forced a smile into his voice. “Hello, Ruth! How good to hear from you! How are you?” His voice dropped. “I’m so sorry about yesterday—!”

“No, forget that. Axel, I’m worried!”

“My dear girl, what about?”

“It’s Gregor,” Ruth said. She sounded desperate. “I don’t know where he is. We were at this man’s apartment—”

Axel Lindgren felt a sudden chill. “Whose apartment?”

Ruth might not have heard him; her mind was on her story, “—and Gregor said he wanted to talk to him alone for a few minutes and would I go back to the hotel and wait for him, so I did, but Gregor never came back. I waited almost an hour and then I went back to the apartment, only this time nobody even answered the bell, and I’m afraid Gregor might have used force, and—”