The Gold of Troy

Chapter One

New York — April

As she did every working day, Dr. Ruth McVeigh spent the hour between nine and ten o’clock in the morning, when the Metropolitan Museum of Art opened to the public, to walk around her newly acquired domain. It was not so much to see that everything was in order — for its nearly six-hundred employees saw to it that it always was — as it was to bask in the heady feeling of achievement, or fulfillment. The vast galleries of the museum with their wealth of rich treasures were the tangible evidence of that. Ruth McVeigh had been the new director of the Metropolitan for two months now, the first woman director in the long history of the museum, and it was more than a sense of power that made her daily inspection trip so rewarding; it was the knowledge that she was fully capable of assuming the responsibility for the vast and complex operation. And that others, in selecting her for the position of director, had recognized that ability.

Ruth McVeigh was a handsome, in fact extremely beautiful, well-built woman in her mid-thirties, whose life had been dedicated to archaeology, learned from her earliest days from her father, the noted archaeologist, James McVeigh. Her childhood had been chiefly spent in exotic and therefore uncomfortable places, with demanding climates and strange tongues. Her earliest schoolhouse had been a shaded bench someplace under an awning, for trees were rare in the places her father and his crews chose to dig; her teacher had been her martyred mother, a woman to whom the arcana of yesterday had come only to mean the suffering of today. And when at last Sarah McVeigh had gone to join the sand that had been her prison for too many years, she left behind a personal failure, for despite her dire warnings and her attempts to teach odium for all things connected with archaeology and excavations, her only child found herself dedicated more and more to the earth and the many things hidden beneath it.

College was a necessary evil, as was graduate school — merely a means of obtaining the degrees vital in these academic years, to advance her in her chosen field. But each day in classroom or library, she felt, was a day stolen from working beside her father in the field. Even her unhappy and soon terminated marriage to one of her professors had been done, consciously or unconsciously, from the desire to wed herself closer to her field by sharing her body with one whose knowledge was greater than her own. It did not work. One of the reasons for the failure of the marriage, other than a surprising lack of passion on the part of her husband, was her early recognition that he was a book scholar, three pages ahead of his class, but many chapters behind her in both perception and experience.

Nor, when her father died — not from any mummy’s curse, but from overwork and a lifetime of self-neglect — did her ambition waver. She spent four years in the field, digging in various Luxor sites with several groups financed by various institutions, spent three more as assistant curator for Egyptian antiquities at the Cleveland Museum, three more as curator for Greek and Roman antiquities at the Smithsonian. Now, at thirty-four years of age, Ruth McVeigh had found her niche. She was director of the Metropolitan Museum. Her ambition went no further. She knew she would be satisfied with the job forever, forever content to walk the huge galleried halls quietly glorying in their contents and her relationship to them, before buckling down each day to her desk full of papers. The job kept her more than amply busy, and more than compensated — she often told herself at night in her large empty bed — for the lack of male companionship in her life.

She came down the high-arched corridors, nodding at the guards neatly suited in their blue uniforms, her eyes subconsciously searching for the slightest sign of vandalism from the previous day’s guests — there had been nearly thirty-thousand visitors the day before by the time she had left for the day — or any exhibit that seemed the least bit out of place. Or even with the faintest mote of dust upon it. I’m getting to be a crotchety old housekeeper type, she said to herself with a wry smile, and moved into the Egyptian galleries last. They were her favorite. Some of the exhibits there had been brought from their age-old hiding places by her father. Her tour now complete, she walked into the huge rotunda of the main entrance just as the doors were about to be opened to the public. She smiled at the eight receptionists at their octagonal station, and was about to pass on toward her second-floor office, when one of the women there called to her.

“Dr. McVeigh—”

She turned. “Yes?”

“There was a package for you, Doctor. It came yesterday, just at closing time. You had already left, and your secretary as well, so I kept it here for you.”

The woman reached under the counter of her station and came up with a flat package roughly five inches square and an inch or so in depth, handing it over. Ruth McVeigh took it, noting that the package had been carefully wrapped in brown paper, bound tightly with twine, and closed by two red seals. Her name appeared to have been machine printed, rather than handwritten or typed. Someone seems to have gone to a lot of trouble, she thought, and turned the package over. There was nothing on the back. She looked up, frowning.

“Did you happen to notice who left this for me?”

The woman looked a bit nonplussed. She shrugged.

“You know how it is at closing, Doctor. Everyone seems to be around here at once, asking questions, wanting folders, or programs. I—” She paused to think. “All I can remember is a hand reaching through the crowd and laying the package down in front of me. When I got a chance I called your office and nobody answered, so I just put it away and held it for you for today. Why? Is it important?”

Ruth McVeigh smiled. “No, of course not. I was just curious.” And any archaeologist who is not curious, she said to herself, ought to be in another profession. Still, sealing a simple package with sealing wax?

“I could ask the guards if they saw anything—” the receptionist said tentatively.

“No, that’s all right.” At closing time, Ruth knew, the guards’ attention was on arms and packages, not on clothing or faces. She smiled again to convince the woman no harm had been done. “Thank you.”

She walked along the corridor leading toward the staircase that led to her office, considering the package as she went. Behind her the museum was beginning to fill with the sounds of another busy day. The strange package, she noticed, was very light, and the outer wrapping appeared to have been carefully glued shut. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble, indeed. Could it be that the contents were so fragile — a rare manuscript, perhaps, a bit of ancient parchment — that prolonged contact with air could damage them? Or that the contents were so valuable that this extreme care in packaging was warranted? But valuable contents simply laid upon a desk with no message, and no address other than just a simple name? The detective in Ruth McVeigh wondered if possibly the watermark of the paper, or an analysis of the sealing wax could give some clue as to the identity of the sender. Then she smiled to herself. You’ve been reading too many mystery stories, my girl! she told herself sternly. Undoubtedly the contents of the package would resolve that problem.

Still, it was doubtful that the package contained anything intended for the museum. Such mail and packages were normally properly addressed and delivered to the museum’s mail room, not to the reception desk. And as for personal mail for her, or any unexpected gift, what could the occasion be? This was April and her birthday was in September, and what other occasion was there for a gift? Or from whom? Most of her friends were off in distant places around the globe, busy with their small hammers, scoops, and brushes. Many had not had a chance even to hear of her new position. And she knew she had not ordered anything from any store, and if she had she would have had it delivered to her home, not her place of work. Besides, no store she knew went in for sealing wax on the corners of their packages.

Of course, it was a puzzle easily enough resolved, and all her prior detective reasoning had probably been wasted. In all probability it was a new sales gimmick, offering her a free copy of a new woman’s magazine for a lifetime subscription or a Florida condominium at a reasonable price at her advanced age. She smiled at the thought as she reached her office. She nodded to Marge, her secretary, and went inside. She sat at her desk, pushed aside the pile of incoming mail awaiting her attention, studied the exterior of the package a few more seconds, and then reached for her letter opener, inserting it carefully at one corner, prying the wax seal loose. One would think I was opening a mummy’s tomb, she thought with an inner grin. The grin faded. Or a letter bomb. It was a disturbing thought and she put it away, instead slitting the paper neatly and folding it back. There was an inner wrapping which she removed with equal care; too many years of being taught to open all things with circumspection prevented her from tearing or even wrinkling the wrappings. She removed the cover.

Inside was another box. For a moment she wondered if possibly one of her practical-joking acquaintances had gone to all this trouble just to send her one of those sets of nesting boxes that ended up containing something quite minute and utterly useless. It would fit in with the type of mentality that would go to the trouble of machine printing her name and sealing the box with paraffin wax. With a sigh she removed the cover of the inner box, but inside, rather than any more boxes, was a translucent envelope through which she could see photographs, and on top of them, clipped to the envelope, was a letter. So at least it was no practical joke, she thought with a touch of relief, and then smiled; it also was no letter bomb. She took the envelope from the box and then noticed one further thing at the bottom of the package, in one corner. It was wrapped in cotton-batting and appeared lumpy. She picked away the cotton and stared at the small ring that was enclosed. With a frown she picked up the letter and read it.

When she was done she stared at the ring for a moment, a deep frown on her face. Then she reached for the telephone, pressing the button for her secretary.

“Marge, would you ask Dr. Keller to come in? And ask Jed Martin to come along, too.”

She replaced the telephone and leaned back in her chair, staring at the letter. Then she opened the envelope and removed the photographs, studying them intently. Could it be that, after all, she was still being the victim of a practical joke? Or of a bomb of a different type? Well, this day, at least, had not started off in its usual manner, and she had a feeling that many of her days would be changed as a result of the strange package; a feeling similar to the one you got when you dug carefully into the earth and encountered the resistance of something and knew, just knew, it was not a stone, but something that could lead to an exciting discovery — although this package with its letter most probably was just a stone. She looked up at a rap on the door; a moment later it opened to admit Dr. Robert Keller and Jed Martin.

Dr. Keller was the director in charge of special projects. He was a large, handsome man in his late forties whose rumpled clothes looked as if they had been slept in. He sat down, crossed his heavy legs carelessly, dug a pipe from one pocket and a sack of tobacco from another, and began filling his pipe with slow, methodical movements while he waited for the subject of the meeting to be broached. Jed Martin, in sharp contrast, was wearing a neat, spotless laboratory jacket over a conservative vest. Jed Martin was the curator of Greek and Roman antiquities. He was thin almost to a point of emaciation, and dapper to the point of being a dandy. He also chose a chair, looking almost as if he would have liked to dust it before offering it to the seat of his neatly pressed trousers. Ruth McVeigh looked at both men appreciatively. Although completely different in temperament as well as appearance, both men shared one faculty; they were both excellent in their fields.

Keller finished tamping his pipe and carefully set a lit kitchen match to the bowl, puffing slowly, his steady gray eyes watching Ruth McVeigh as he waited. Jed Martin, however, was not the type to wait.

“Well, what is it, Ruth?” he asked impatiently, and glanced at his wristwatch in a rather pointed manner. “I’ve a million things to attend to.”

“You may have one more,” Dr. McVeigh said quietly, and picked up the letter. “I want to read you both something. This came inside of a package that was delivered last night, after I left for the day. Together with some photographs I’ll show you later. I just got it this morning. Let me read it to you.”

Jed Martin shrugged and sat back, his small birdlike eyes watching Ruth almost suspiciously, as if she might be using the letter merely as an excuse to waste more of his precious time. Still, he knew that the new director seldom wasted words and never wasted time, neither her own or anyone else’s. Bob Keller’s expression didn’t change in the least. He puffed steadily and watched Ruth McVeigh, liking what he saw.

“This is what the letter says,” Ruth began, and glanced down. She paused to look up a moment. “There is no salutation, and no date. And, for reasons I’m sure you’ll understand when you’ve heard the letter, there is, of course, no signature.” Her eyes went down again as she began to read.

Ruth McVeigh put down the letter and looked at the two men across the desk from her. No muscle moved on Robert Keller’s phlegmatic face, but his eyes looked interested, and momentarily he had stopped puffing on his pipe. Martin, on the other hand, was staring at the director incredulously; he had come to the edge of his chair and was perched there, almost birdlike.

“What absolute and utter rot!” he said, and snorted. “Let me see that!” He took the letter Ruth handed him and read it again, quickly, before tossing it back disdainfully. “The Schliemann treasure! It’s been in the hands of the Russians for donkey’s years! Everyone knows that!” He picked up the photographs, leafed through them quickly, and tossed them beside the letter, sneering. “Someone got hold of Schliemann’s book, simply had some duplicate pieces made up that look like the objects Schliemann had pictures of — probably made them out of tin and painted them with dime-store gold paint — and then took photos of his fakes. With an up-to-date calendar alongside to show the pictures were taken recently. And they expect to get away with it?” He reached over and fished the ring from the box. “And this—” For the first time he hesitated a moment and then frowned. “Well, I expect he did read up enough on the subject to know the rings that Schliemann found were made from gold wire, not from the solid slabs of the stuff in those days...”

“You’ll still check the ring for authenticity?” Dr. McVeigh’s tone made it an order, not a request.

“Oh, of course,” Martin said. “We’ll check it for age, for purity of gold content, for the rare earths that were found in the gold of that day, and everything else. We’ll have it done in our own laboratory, and we’ll send it out for further checks if we have any doubts as to its — well, its un-authenticity, I should say.” He snorted again, eyeing the small ring malevolently, as if it threatened him somehow. “The Schliemann treasure! Really!”

Bob Keller cleared his throat a bit self-consciously. He had gone back to puffing his pipe and was frowning thoughtfully at the ceiling. “You know,” he said slowly in his deep voice, speaking almost as if to himself, “I’ve wondered for years about that gold treasure Schliemann found...”

“Wondered what?” Martin demanded, as if the statement was a challenge to his judgment.

“I’ve simply wondered if the treasure really was in the hands of the Russians,” Keller said quietly, and watched the smoke from his pipe weave its way upward. He sighed and sat more erect, bringing his attention back to the others in the room. ‘What do we actually know about the treasure? What does anyone really know? We know that Heinrich Schliemann and his wife, Sophie, discovered it at what Schliemann was convinced was the original site of Homer’s Troy in June of 1873 — whoever wrote that letter is right about that, at any rate.”

“Which has been no great secret for the past hundred years,” Martin said argumentatively. “Any more than the number of pieces and the troy weight of the stuff. What does that prove? That your letter-writer has an encyclopedia, that’s all.”

“Probably,” Keller said agreeably, and went on. “We also know that Schliemann, over certain objections of his wife, donated the treasure to Germany toward the end of that decade. His wife wanted it to go to Greece, which was her home country, and since she was almost certainly the one who first noticed the treasure, and almost certainly was the one instrumental in getting the treasure from the discovery site to their cottage without anyone’s knowledge — carrying it under her skirts, you see — her word might have carried some weight. But in those days” — he cast a mischievous glance at Ruth McVeigh — “the man in the house was the boss. So the treasure went to Germany, where it remained in some museum or other until the Second World War, when, for safekeeping, it was hidden in a bunker at the Berlin Zoological Station.” He took his pipe from his mouth, examined the bowl as if to be sure he had enough ammunition in the form of tobacco to finish his discourse, and then, satisfied, returned the pipe to his mouth and began puffing again. “And that,” he said, “is all we know.”

“Wait a second!” Martin said, swiftly objecting. “Not quite. We know a lot more. We know, for example, that the Americans foolishly allowed the Russians to capture Berlin, including the bunker under the zoo. And we also know the treasure has never been seen since. Are you suggesting, Bob,” he asked sarcastically, “that there is no connection between those two facts?”

“I’m only saying we don’t know,” Keller pointed out mildly. “If the Russians have had the Schliemann treasure all these years — how many is it? Since 1945? Thirty-four years, over a third of a century — why haven’t they ever exhibited it?”

“Because they have no legal right to it,” Martin said triumphantly. He made it sound as if the statement in itself proved the correctness of all he had said before.

“Besides,” Keller went on, quite as if Martin had not spoken at all, “according to your theory, this person” — he pointed to the letter with the stem of his pipe — “has gone into quite a bit of research in order to attempt this swindle.” He frowned, but his eyes were twinkling. “I don’t care for that word ‘swindle’ — not for something as big as this, something involving a sum as huge as fifteen million dollars. There should be a more expensive title for a ploy that grand. This project, I suppose, would be better. If this person has gone to all this research, not to mention trouble — copies of articles, photographs — then he obviously would also know that the Russians have possession of the real treasure. Right?”

Martin was eyeing him suspiciously. “So?”

“Then how can he hope to take anyone in? If he holds his auction — and he is not trying to sell it to an individual collector, but to a museum — then the whole world will know of it in a short time. Including the Russians. And they could easily prove the man is a swindler — I mean, a project director,” he added with a smile.

“Except I’m sure he has no intention of delivering.”

Keller shook his head decisively. “Then I’m sure he has no hope of collecting. I know those of us in the museum field are thought to be woolly-headed, but we’re really not so stupid as to buy that pig in or out of a poke.”

Martin thought a moment and then smiled craftily.

“Unless,” he said slowly, slyly, “it’s the Russians themselves who are offering the treasure for sale!”

Keller smiled sardonically.

“So now the treasure is suddenly authentic, is that it? Only now it’s the Russians who are peddling it! I suppose you can also come up with a good reason why they would do a thing like that? After all these years of sitting on it?”

Martin shrugged, but there was a gleam in his eye. The more he examined his new theory, the better he liked it.

“That’s simple. Because as I said before, they have no legal right to it. What good is a treasure like the Schliemann gold if you can’t exhibit it? So they probably feel they might as well get some money out of it, at least. And they have to go about it in this anonymous way because otherwise there would be a stink if they sold something they didn’t own.”

Dr. McVeigh had been listening to this exchange quietly. Now she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I seriously doubt if this letter came from the Russians. They’ve been returning tons of material to the East German museums, and this would certainly fall into that category. After all, the legal ownership of material donated to the Kaiser’s government back in 1887 or 1889 is certainly open to a good deal of question, especially when there have been several completely different governments since, including the late unlamented Third Reich. Lawyers would have fun with that one. And also especially since the material was donated by a man whose own legal right to the treasure has been certainly questioned often enough.”

“Overlooking that fact for a moment,” Keller said, “to sell the Schliemann treasure for a mere fifteen or twenty million dollars? I know,” he added, smiling. “A minute ago I described the sum as huge, and now it’s merely mere. But, really, for the Russians to peddle the Schliemann treasure for less than the cost of a medium Illyushin bomber? Or one of those missiles they parade around Red Square at the drop of a hat?”

“Then it’s a fake, a swindle,” Martin said positively, and came to his feet, holding up the ring and reaching for the photographs, “and if you’ll let me get on with it, I’ll prove it!”

“Do that,” Ruth McVeigh said, and pushed the wrapping paper and sealing wax across toward him. “Take these along and see what you can do about finding out where the package came from, at least.” She watched the small man pick them up with an expression of distaste, add it to his other burdens, and dart through the door. Bob Keller knocked the dottle from his pipe, blew through the stem to clear it of the remains of smoke, and tucked it carelessly into one sagging pocket. This ritual completed, he looked across the desk at the museum director and sighed.

“All right, Ruth,” he said quietly. “I recognize that look in your eye. Let’s get down to it. Let’s take it a step at a time. Let’s suppose the letter is genuine, and Jed Martin and his laboratory prove the ring is from the era of Troy. And let’s suppose the best photographic analysis indicates the pictures are genuine.”

“So?”

“So let’s go a bit further. Let’s suppose someone actually has the Schliemann treasure in his hands—”

“The Russians?”

“No, let’s suppose it’s an individual, not the Russian government. And let’s suppose this person, after all these years, has either just discovered the value of what he has been holding—”

“Or just recently came into possession of it.”

“Which could mean, of course, a recent robbery at one of the Russian museums, although you would think we would have heard of something like that. Still,” Keller said, nodding his big head, “I like that idea better. Whoever he or she is, or wherever they got their hands on it, it’s hard to believe a person could have held the treasure all these years and not known what he had, or tried to capitalize on it before. So what do we have? A man or woman, unknown, is offering the Schliemann treasure — the real article, no substitutions — for auction.” He paused and looked at Ruth McVeigh. “Question: Who is going to bid on it?”

Ruth frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say.” Keller shrugged and brought out his pipe, but not to light it, merely to stroke it, as if the feel of the smooth still-warm wood aided him in choosing his words. “I know that we won’t bid on it, and I seriously doubt if any other museum will. In fact, I’m sure they won’t. Jed Martin was right in one thing, at least. Whoever has the treasure, whether it be the Russian government or Joe, the hot-dog man at the corner, the legal ownership of the Schliemann treasure is definitely in doubt.”

“If it’s in doubt—” Ruth began.

“Wait.” Keller held up his hand. His half-humorous smile remained, but his voice was serious. “Look, Ruth. I know your history as a collector, an avid collector. We all are, or at least we’d like to be if the circumstances warranted. We wouldn’t be doing what we do if we weren’t. But this is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and you are its director. We do not, I repeat not, touch anything in the least dubious as to ownership. You know that as well as I do. It’s merely the smell of acquisition battle in your nostrils, my dear war horse, that has made you forget it. Temporarily, I assume, or at least hope.”

Ruth McVeigh smiled.

“Robert Keller, if you are going to tell me that after nearly a hundred years, and after almost that long in the legal possession of another country, the Turkish government will be able to successfully present a case for ownership of the Schliemann treasure just because it originally came from a section of that country that happened to be Turkey—”

“I’m telling you precisely that,” Keller said forcefully, and then weakened his argument a bit by adding, “or if not the Turks, then the Germans, or possibly even the Greeks—”

“Exactly. Which merely means the ownership is not clear.”

Keller ran a hand through his unruly hair in frustration. “Not clear to you because you’re stubborn. If the title is not crystal clear, we won’t touch it. This isn’t the first time we’ve been offered antiquities that we’ve had to refuse. We’ve even bought some and had to return them. Ruth, listen to me! Not only will the board never give you permission to even consider bidding on something like this, but no museum in the world will bid on it. Whoever is offering it to museums is an idiot. To private collectors, possibly, although fifteen million is far more than he’ll ever get from them. But museums? Never. You see—”

He paused as the telephone at Ruth McVeigh’s elbow rang. She shrugged her apology for the interruption and raised the receiver. It was her secretary.

“Dr. McVeigh, I’m sorry to interrupt your conference, but you have an overseas call from Spain. Dr. Armando Lopez is calling. Will you take the call?”

“Of course.” There was a brief wait and then the familiar tones of Dr. Lopez, an old acquaintance if not exactly a friend, of both Ruth McVeigh and her father. Dr. Lopez was the curator of Greek and Roman antiquities at the Museo Arqueológico Nacional in Madrid. He was speaking his usual English, which Ruth McVeigh always referred to as Obscure Florid.

“Ruth, my dear one? How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“At the best. The new position runs itself along well?”

“Very well, thank you.” She looked at Bob Keller and shrugged humorously.

“Good!” There was a brief pause. When Dr. Lopez spoke again his usual profuseness had abated to a degree. “Ruth, my dear one,” he said slowly, “a most unusual affair has lifted its head. By private messenger a package comes after my director with a letter withinside of it together with some photographs and two botónes—”

“Buttons.”

“As you say. They are of oro. They are from — but I dash ahead of myself. This letter—”

“I’m sure I know what it says,” Ruth said to speed the conversation; among his other annoying habits, Dr. Lopez had a tendency to go on and on. “My letter had a ring in it. Purportedly from the Schliemann collection.”

“Ah? This is what I wish to know. But of course they would never overpass such a prestigious museum such as the Metropolitan.” There was the briefest of pauses. “I wonder who more? Possibly you might know?”

“I beg you pardon?”

“I mean, which more museums receive this letter, do you think?”

“You’re the first I’ve heard from, but on the basis of the letter I expect to hear from others.”

“Yes, of this I imagine. Soon we shall know who are involved.”

Ruth frowned at the telephone. “Dr. Lopez, are you convinced of the genuineness of the offer?” She could almost see the indecision on Dr. Lopez’s face as he debated his answer. Then, with a sigh, he obviously decided there was nothing to be lost at this point with the simple truth.

“Our laboratories are checking in deep, of course, but for me, myself, I have no doubts. I know these botónes, my dear one, I know them too well. I did my study in Berlin, you know, and how do you say? I cut my tooth on that collection. Every day, almost, I see it.” There was a slight pause. “So, my dear one, what do you think?”

“Think about what?”

“I mean, my dear friend” — this time Dr. Lopez wished to be very clear — “will the Metropolitan bid?”

“Will the National Museum bid?”

Lopez laughed in what he thought was a delighted manner. “Now we are friends no longer, but now competitors, is that the situation at the moment, my dear one?” His laughter faded, his tone became sad. “There is, most sadly, the question of legal ownership—”

“True,” Ruth said noncommittally. She looked at Bob Keller and winked, a gamine grin on her face. She straightened her expression, almost as if Lopez could see her. “Sad, but true.”

“It forms itself into a complication, there is no doubt. And also, of course, there arises the question of money. Our small museum does not have the funding backlog of the wonderful Metropolitan—”

“The Metropolitan also does not have such funds,” Ruth said, and tried to sound equally sad. “No museum sits around with fifteen or twenty million dollars in its bank account waiting for something to buy.”

“But you are possessed of such wealthy patrons, my dear one!”

“And there are no longer any wealthy Spaniards since Franco?”

There was a pause. “A few, there is doubtless,” Lopez said and sighed. “But with no artistic sense, no responsibility sense, I fear me.” Another slight pause. “Ah, well, I merely only wish to learn if the Metropolitan has been touched on, and I see they are. A shameful pity the question of ownership prevents us all from bidding, is it not? But there it is. It would be a nice acquisition. Well! We must meet someday soon and speak of many things. And please to take good care of yourself, my dear one.”

“I shall do my best. And you do the same.”

There was a final exchange of regards and they both hung up. Bob Keller raised his bushy eyebrows inquisitively. Ruth McVeigh smiled her gamine smile. It made the man across from her realize, not for the first time, what a desirable woman she was, and why he, a very eligible bachelor, had not put in his bid before now.

“That,” Ruth said, “was Dr. Armando Lopez of the National Archaeological Museum in Madrid. They also received a letter and the photographs, plus a sample from the collection. Which he is sure is quite authentic.”

Keller brought his mind back to the business at hand.

“So I gathered from the conversation. I also gather,” Keller said, “from the look on your face while you were talking, that the good doctor is not one of your favorite people. But, more important, did he also tell you that his museum wouldn’t bid on the collection, or rather couldn’t bid because of the legal position involved?”

Ruth McVeigh’s smile became even more mischievous.

“Dr. Armando Lopez is not the most able dissembler in the world,” she said. “But I’m sure he told me, even though he wasn’t aware of the fact, that he will definitely be working day and night to find some way to raise the money, and in one manner or another, not only to bid, but to win the auction and get his grubby little hands on the treasure to keep...”

Chapter Two

London — May

“It’s quite insane, I agree, Maurice,” the director of the British Museum was saying into the telephone. Dr. Harold Gordon, the curator for Greek and Roman antiquities sat beside his desk, listening politely. “Fifteen million dollars merely as a starting bid. That’s over seven million pounds! Not that it really makes any difference, good Lord! With the legal question being what it is, obviously the British Museum has no intention of getting involved in any bidding scheme. Oh, yes, I certainly agree that whoever sent those letters has the real collection in his possession. I think there is no doubt of that. Our laboratories made quite sure of the authenticity of the piece we received, and when you add it to the pieces the others, including yourself, have received, there can be no doubt. Besides, obviously no money would change hands until the authenticity of the entire collection was assured. What? No, no! Of course this doesn’t mean we will be bidding! It would be stupid, and we try not to do stupid things at the British Museum. I do admit, if the title were clear — but of course it isn’t, you see, so that more or less takes care of that, what? What? I quite agree. I’m afraid when this entire affair is over the poor man will still have the collection in his possession — or the poor Russian government, whatever. No museum on earth will get involved, I agree. The man must be mad. Ah, well, I suppose in time we’ll know who he is and how he came to get his hands on the collection, because I just can’t see the Russians being this foolish, although I wouldn’t wager heavily on that either, I assure you. Still, it will make a rather good tale to pass on to students in years to come, to entertain them. And possibly to teach them a lesson about buying — or even selling — something in the archaeological field that does not have proper title. What? Yes, indeed, we really must get together one of these days! I get to Paris so frequently, and you must get to London about as often, I should imagine. Of course, of course! We’ll have to do it soon. And my very best regards to your lovely wife... What? You’re divorced? I’m terribly sorry...”

Sir Mortimer Edgerton did not sound in the least sorry; moreover he thought the ex-madame Dupaul a bore and a monster. When he hung up the receiver and turned to Dr. Gordon, there was a heavy frown on his face.

“That Maurice Dupaul! Saying without the slightest tremor in that squeaky voice of his that the Paris museum has no intention of bidding, when I would wager every penny I possess that his bid will be the first out of the starting gate! Really!” He heaved a sigh. “One can’t trust a soul these days!”

“But—” Dr. Gordon was a bit confused. “We — I mean, the British Museum — won’t be involved in any bidding, will we, Sir Mortimer? As you said, the legality—”

“We? The British Museum? Good God, no!” Sir Mortimer said stiffly, and then added more slowly, “and neither will Dupaul. He’ll do it through some private collector, some individual, and the two of them will gloat over the collection in private! If they get their hands on it, that is. The thought is sickening. Ah, well. I say,” he added, “be a good chap and on your way out ask my secretary to ring through to Sir Isaac. See if possibly he might be free for lunch with me sometime in the next week or so, eh?”

Sir Mortimer, as Dr. Harold Gordon knew full well, could just as easily have rung through to his secretary himself. He wants an accessory, the doctor thought sourly, and walked from the room. And then brightened a bit. It would be nice to be able to gloat over the collection, at Sir Isaac’s and a few other’s expense...

Abu Dhabi — May

Prince ’Umar ibn al-Khoury sat quietly listening to the man seated on a chair slightly lower than his own before the gold-inlaid table that faced them both. At each side of the two, others sat even lower, on cushions, silent, respecting the interview. When at last the man had respectfully finished his statement, Prince ’Umar tented his neatly manicured fingers and stared at the man over them.

“I am afraid it is my ignorance rather than a lack of eloquence on your part,” he said politely, “but the truth is I do not understand all of this. You are asking me to pay a large sum of money, which you estimate may be as much as twenty or more millions of American dollars, not for something you wish for the museum, but” — he shrugged — “exactly for what?” He reached over to the table and picked up the small bead the man had offered for his inspection at the beginning of the interview. “Certainly not for this, or even for a great many hundreds or thousands of these.” He replaced the bead, tenting his fingers again.

“Your Highness,” said the man, undaunted. “It is not the value of the actual gold in the Schliemann collection that is of interest. The entire collection weighs less than nine thousand drams, and even at today’s elevated market the gold, if pure, would be worth less than one million dollars. No, your Highness, it is as a collection, one of the most famous collections in the world, that it must be considered.”

“But I am not a collector,” the prince said, his tone inviting the other man to reason, and untented his fingers long enough to pick up a sweetmeat and convey it to his lips. He wiped his fingers delicately on his robe and folded them in his lap. “And even if I were a collector, you have informed me that at present, at least, the collection may not be shown.” He shrugged. “Of what value is a gold collection that must be hidden?”

The man paused a moment to put his thoughts into words that might convince the prince.

“Your Highness,” he said at last, “the Schliemann collection is much like the oil beneath your Highness’ kingdom. There are those who would say that the oil in the ground is worthless until it is brought to the surface. The Schliemann collection, these people might argue, also has no value until it is brought to the surface, so to speak — until it is exhibited. But this is not true, your Highness. As your Highness knows, the oil in the ground not only has value, it has a value that increases with time. And so it is with the Schliemann treasure, your Highness.”

He paused to see how his argument was being taken, but the prince’s expressionless face gave no indication. Still, the fact that the prince was still listening was a plus, the man felt. He went on, not making the mistake of hurrying his statement, but continuing to maintain the same even cadence.

“Your Highness, the Schliemann collection cannot be acknowledged, cannot be exhibited today, because of foolish rules made by foolish people. But, your Highness, rules change. At one time the oil, even when brought to the surface, had a value that was not proper for your Highness and our people, but today that rule has changed, thanks in major part to the strength and foresight of your Highness. Today that oil has great value. And so it will be with the Schliemann collection, your Highness. The rules of ownership will change. And as it has been said, ownership truly lies with he who possesses. And your Highness will possess.”

Prince ’Umar shrugged slightly and reached for another sweetmeat. “But in reality,” he said quietly, “it will be you and your museum who will possess.”

“Our people will possess,” the man said equally quietly, “for the museum and all it contains is of your Highness and his people. And even as the oil beneath the surface has increased in value while remaining unseen, so shall the Schliemann collection until the day it may be brought forth and exhibited.”

The prince nodded slowly and came to his feet, dusting his fingertips lightly against each other.

“It shall be considered,” he said with quiet dignity, and walked away, followed by his retinue.

New York — May

The meeting in the conference room of the Metropolitan Museum was not going well, and Ruth McVeigh realized that a good part of the fault lay with her own presentation. Her emotional enthusiasm put against the cold businesslike attitudes taken by a large majority of the board members, emerged looking almost gauche. Bob Keller did not like opposing Ruth and felt sorry for the defeat he knew she would face in a short while, but his responsibility in reporting to the board demanded that the full facts regarding the legal aspects of acquisition be presented, and he had done so. Ruth McVeigh, asking for the floor and receiving it, came to her feet in a final attempt to get her point across.

“You all apparently do not understand,” she said, and shook her head at their obtuseness, her impatience with them quite evident. “Or apparently you do not want to understand. You all seem to be under the impression that if we do not bid on this acquisition in some manner — if only under a proxy as I’m sure many museums will bid — that then the treasure will remain where it is, in the hands of a person who was foolish enough to try and sell something that wasn’t rightfully his to a group of museum trustees who were far too brilliant, too intelligent, to be taken in. That thought is probably the most ridiculous I’ve heard in a long time!” There was a shocked sound from someone on the board, but Ruth plowed on, her temper now getting the best of her. “It’s simply stupid! Believe me, the collection will be sold. It will be sold to a museum under one guise or another, and I would not at all be surprised to later find we were the only museum permitted or at least asked to bid, who did not do so. You think I’m wrong in this, and that you all know better. You could not be more mistaken!” She paused for effect. “I know, and I mean I know, at least six museums who will bid, one way or another.”

“And if they do, let them,” someone said disdainfully. “What will they get for their money? A collection they cannot exhibit! A collection they will not even be able to acknowledge!”

Ruth waited until the murmur of voices had eased. “For the time being, perhaps,” she said angrily, “but most likely only for the time being. The question of ownership of this collection is far from being as free from challenge in my mind as it seems to be in yours. I have a strong conviction that anyone, museum or private collector, who gets this collection, will find very good arguments not only for keeping it, but for exhibiting it as well. If it were put up for grabs today,” she said hotly, not caring about her language, “there would be so many arguing their right to it, that in the end it would come to anyone’s right! I still think we should—”

Someone on the board yawned quite audibly. Ruth McVeigh clenched her jaw and glared down the table. The offending member regarded her quite calmly and then turned to face the chairman at the head of the long conference table.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I think we’ve discussed this subject more than amply. Ad nauseum, I should say. I suggest we put it to a motion.”

“Mr. Ainsley? Would you care to—”

“I would, indeed. I move that we do not, under any pretext, under any subterfuge such as ‘proxy’ or ‘private collector’ or in any other manner, even faintly consider the acquisition of the Schliemann treasure, authentic or not, by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

The chairman looked down the table, gavel in hand.

“Do I hear a second?”

“Second!” It came from most of the board members present.

“Before we vote on the motion, is there any discussion?”

“Mr. Chairman!” Ruth McVeigh came to her feet, blaming herself for her previous ill-considered attack on the staid members of the board. Different tactics were needed and she now kept her voice emotionless, under rigid control. It was, she knew, her last chance. “Mr. Chairman, members of the board, I should like to ask your indulgence in one thing. Before you vote on the motion, I should like to pose a question I want each of you to answer honestly. Is the problem here the question of legal ownership of the collection, or is it the matter of the fifteen million dollars?”

“Both!” someone said. There was a brief laugh from someone and then silence.

“If, for example,” Ruth McVeigh went on evenly, “it was a matter, say, of one million dollars, or half-a-million dollars, would you be more willing to chance the questions of legal ownership?”

Dr. Keller raised a hand and was granted the floor.

“Definitely not,” he said flatly. “Speaking for myself — and I’m sure for the majority here — definitely not. It isn’t a question of the size of the amount. It’s still a question of legality.”

“Besides,” someone said in a puzzled tone without waiting for permission to speak, “how can we talk of a million dollars, or half a million, if the starting bid was supposed to be fifteen million?” It was one of the few supporters Ruth had in the room and she appreciated his giving her the opportunity to explain.

“Wait, please.” Ruth was examining the explanation that had come to her and finding it more and more to her liking. Even her tone became more confident. She looked from one face to another down the long table, suddenly sure she could convince them, or at least most of them. “Suppose we were able to get the fifteen leading museums in the world, say, to agree to each put up one million dollars — or thirty museums to each contribute half a million — and the treasure would then be owned jointly by all of us. And suppose those museums were to include the Turkish, the Greek, and German — all the possible claimants to ownership. Suppose they all agreed not only to share the ownership, but also agreed on a period and a schedule for each one to exhibit the treasure?”

There was silence as this new concept was explored. Then Bob Keller shook his head.

“The claimants would never agree.”

“How do we know?” Ruth was looking at him, a faint smile on her lips. “How will we ever know unless we ask them?”

The chairman cleared his throat. The discussion had taken a distinctly different turn and the looks on the faces of the board members indicated their changed attitudes as well. The chairman looked at the museum’s new director.

“Exactly what are you suggesting, Ruth?”

Ruth McVeigh took a deep breath, sure now she would win her point.

“I’m suggesting that I arrange a meeting of the directors, together with the interested curators, of the leading museums at some central location — say London — where we can discuss the entire matter of the auction in detail. No matter what any individual museum may have been aiming for in the way of a bid — and I assure you I was telling the truth before when I said they were — still, the matter of money has to have been a problem. If we can co-operate, at least the question of finances can be overcome. And, without competition, we can keep the price down to at least the original figure of fifteen million, if not less.”

She looked around the table. Everyone was watching her evenly, listening to her words carefully. She kept her inward smile from appearing on her lips and continued quietly.

“As to the question of ownership, if the major claimants can be induced to go along with us, that problem can be solved as well. Possibly we may even discuss paying the share of the major claimants; most of them are precisely the museums with the least ability to finance any bid of any kind. Such a proposition certainly should interest them — to have at least a partial claim to ownership, rather than none as at present. And to be able to exhibit the treasure at least for a limited period, rather than never, as at present.” She sat down.

There was silence, then a hand was raised. The chairman nodded. “Mr. Ainsley?”

“Mr. Chairman,” the man said, his voice now more respectful, “I should like to withdraw my last motion and replace it with another. I move that Dr. McVeigh be given instructions by this board to pursue her suggestion, as well as all the necessary resources to do so. I further move that after she has met with these various representatives of these other museums, that she bring the results of her meeting back to the board for consideration.”

“Second!”

“Any discussion?” There was silence. “If not, all in favor?”

“Aye!”

“Opposed?”

There was silence. The chairman tapped his gavel and spoke.

“The motion is carried. I will see Dr. McVeigh tomorrow to make arrangements.” He paused a moment to look down the table, and then went on in a different tone of voice. “As I’m sure we all know, the discussions we have in these board meetings are for the benefit of the Metropolitan Museum and are not to be handed out to the press or other media without the permission of the chairman. It is not that there is any particular secrecy to our meetings” — he smiled — “any more than there is strict attention to Roberts Rules of Order. But our discussion today is a good example of the reason for care in these matters. The negotiations we have authorized our director to undertake could easily be compromised by any undue or premature publicity. There has been enough idle speculation in the press over this auction as it is, and I’m sure there will be more when the London meeting — if that is where the meeting takes place — becomes public, as it undoubtedly will in the very near future. Thank you. If there is no further business, I will entertain a motion to adjourn...”

Bob Keller was waiting for Ruth in the hallway after the meeting broke up. He smiled at her.

“Well, congratulations, war horse. You don’t give up easily, do you?”

Ruth smiled back. “Bob, we’re either going to get the Schliemann treasure, or we’re going to give it a good try. Part of it, at least, if not all of it.”

Keller shook his head.

“It won’t even be a try. I didn’t oppose you in there because I think a meeting with the other museums may be a good idea. It may finally convince you of what I’ve been trying to tell you. Nobody will touch the bid under the present ownership arrangements. And certainly the real claimants will dig in their heels at the thought of sharing ownership.”

“Even at the cost of losing it altogether?”

“Even at the cost of losing it altogether.”

Ruth shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I’ll make you a bet,” Keller said. “Loser buys the other dinner. And to establish my good intentions of paying off if I lose, why don’t we have dinner together tonight as a preliminary?”

“Good enough.”

Bob Keller wet his lips and took the plunge. “At my place? I’m a pretty good chef—”

Ruth McVeigh looked at him and inwardly sighed. It had been a very long time, and Robert Keller was a very attractive man, but she knew he was not the one. Keller recognized the signs and also sighed, but aloud.

“Ah, well,” he said, and smiled ruefully. “The restaurant of your choice, then. Seven o’clock?”

Chapter Three

Washington, D.C. — May

As the chairman of the board of the Metropolitan Museum had so correctly stated, there had been, indeed, speculation in the press regarding the mysterious auction of the Schliemann treasure, to the point where it caught the attention of the government. A meeting to discuss some of the possible aspects of the matter was therefore arranged between Frank Mayberry of the State Department, and Thomas Wilson of the CIA. The meeting took place in Wilson’s office in Langley, and Mayberry led off the discussion. He was a tall, thin man, impeccably dressed in dark blue, who spoke softly and slowly, but effectively.

“I assume, Tom,” he said, “that you’ve been reading about this Schliemann treasure and what the newspapers are pleased to call the ‘Auction of the Ages’? Or is it the ‘Sale of the Century’? Plus the speculations about this meeting that is scheduled for next month in London?”

“It would be rather difficult to miss,” Wilson said dryly, and shrugged. He was a gray-haired, stocky man in his late fifties. “What’s State’s interest in it?”

“There are several angles that interest us,” Mayberry said slowly. “For one thing, our United Nations desk is interested in the possibility that there may be some discussion, some attempt, to overturn the UNESCO ruling regarding the ownership of national archaeological treasures. That could open up a tremendous can of worms—”

“And,” Wilson said, with a faint smile, “I imagine your United Nations desk will decide on what position to take once they know who stands to gain most from any change in the rules?”

Mayberry laughed delightedly. It transformed his normally stern-looking face into the gleeful gamin expression of a small boy getting away with something.

“I should certainly hope so.” His laughter faded, his usual almost lugubrious expression returned. “But there is a far more serious problem with the auction of this collection — or at least a potential problem, I suppose I should say.” He paused and frowned at his companion. “Tom, do you honestly believe the Schliemann treasure to be in Russia?”

Wilson seemed surprised at the question. “Yes. There is every indication it is.”

“Why do you say that? You’ll undoubtedly tell me something I already know, but I’d like to hear, anyway.”

“Of course. Well,” Wilson said, leaning back and twisting a paper clip as he spoke, “the OSS investigated after the war, and I was part of that investigation. I was young then, I know, but not so young I didn’t know what was going on. There was supposed to be an agreement between the Allied powers that all art treasures found would be turned over impartially to an Allied Art Treasure Commission for disposition when the war was finally over—” He paused, smiling.

Mayberry frowned. “What’s the smile for?”

“It’s because it’s doubtful if any of the Allies carried out the provisions of the agreement one hundred percent — too many officers and enlisted men thought they knew a good, or anyway, a valuable souvenir when they saw one—” His smile faded. “But I should have to say, in general, that the other Allies kept their part of the bargain better than the Russians. The Schliemann treasure, for example, was hidden in a bunker under the Berlin zoo; the Russians took the city, including the zoo, and the treasure hasn’t been seen or heard of since. Also, when the city was divided up into East and West zones, the part of the city where the zoo was located — it was in the Tiergarten, a park area — ended up in the West Zone, and a search for the treasure was made. It was gone. I know. I was one of those who looked.”

“You never made representations to the Russians?”

Wilson smiled wryly.

“Of course we did. They said they didn’t know what we were talking about. Treasure? What treasure? If there had been any treasure it would have been turned over to the Allied Art Commission; that was the agreement between the powers, wasn’t it? They had turned over other finds, hadn’t they?”

“Had they?”

“Well — yes, as a matter of fact. But they didn’t turn this one over, and that’s a fact!” He frowned and tossed the twisted paper clip aside. “It’s hard to believe the troops stationed in the bunker before the British moved in there divided the treasure as souvenirs and not one piece has surfaced since. The only conclusion we were able to come to at the time — and nothing has changed since — is that the treasure went to Russia. And is still there.”

“Then,” Mayberry asked, leaning forward a bit, “you think this auction is being conducted by the Russian government?”

Wilson shook his head, tapping his fingers restlessly on his desk.

“That’s the problem! Why would they sell it? A collection far more valuable, just for having it, than any intrinsic value it might have? And if they were going to sell it, why just now? I’m sure,” he went on, smiling faintly, “that they don’t need fifteen or twenty million dollars to balance their budget. They’re probably like us — fifteen or twenty billion wouldn’t do the trick.”

“Precisely,” Mayberry said seriously. “And that is our interest in the matter. Why are they selling it? And why just now? After having it for well over thirty years?”

“And those questions bother you?”

“Of course they bother us. Don’t they bother you?”

“Not particularly,” Wilson said, and thought a moment. “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“I suppose the stealing of art treasures isn’t unknown, even in Russia,” Wilson said slowly. “Suppose they had the treasure and recently some enterprising thief simply walked in, packed it up, carried it quietly out of Russia — because if it’s in private hands I’m sure it’s not in the country, not the way packages and letters have been scattered about — and is now offering it for sale.”

“What then?”

“Then I’m sure we would be interested,” Wilson said. “Very interested. If Soviet security can be so easily breached — not just by someone stealing what I’m sure was a well-guarded treasure, but by managing to get it out of the country and then blatantly offer it for sale without the Soviet KGB being able to trace the man or his loot — then I should say we would be extremely interested. It would certainly say something about their security arrangements that would definitely be in our interest to know.”

Mayberry nodded. “Agreed. Then, between us, we seem to have an interest. You’ll do something about it?”

Wilson sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to. But at least it should be interesting.” He came to his feet, holding out his hand. “We’ll be in touch, Frank.”

And when his visitor had left, Tom Wilson went back to his chair and reached for his telephone, asking to be connected with Personnel.

“Vic?” he said into the telephone. “Someone who knows something about archaeology, and preferably someone who is familiar with the Schliemann collection. Sure, I suppose a stringer would be all right for this one. What? I’ll spell it for you, although I would have thought you were sick of seeing it in the papers by now. It’s S — what? S as in Sherlock, C as in Conan Doyle, H as in Holmes, L as in Lestrade—” Both men were members of the Baker Street Irregulars.

Leningrad — May

A meeting was in progress in the offices of the Soviet State Security Committee, Leningrad branch, in the Zherinskaja Ulica in the Petrogradskaya Storona section of the city. Present were Colonel Ilya Berezhkov, head of the Leningrad section, Major Serge Ulanov of the Scientific section of the KGB, and a visitor from KGB headquarters in Moscow, a rugged, gray-haired man, Colonel Vasily Vashugin, Ulanov’s superior. From the tall windows of the office, the spires of Peter-Paul fortress could be seen sparkling in the bright spring sunshine beyond the open stretches of Lenin Park, with a glimpse of the broad Neva beyond, separating the area from the city’s principal buildings on the south side of the river. At the men’s elbows empty tea cups were being used as ashtrays.

Vashugin was speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “The question is a very simple one. Why?”

“The question is a simple one,” Berezhkov said dryly. “It’s the answer that’s so difficult.”

Vashugin did not smile. Instead he nodded his head vigorously as if in recognition of the basic profundity of the other man’s statement.

“Exactly! Why is the American OSS — CIA now, of course — after all these years, and after all the secrecy with which they have surrounded their theft of the Schliemann collection, suddenly deciding to put it up for auction? Why now?”

Ulanov stirred in his chair. He was a stocky man in his early sixties with a shock of short white hair that seemed to stand on end. He crushed out his cigarette and frowned.

“I wonder...”

Vashugin stared at him. “You wonder what?”

“I wonder if it really is the Americans who are offering it for sale? The American CIA, I mean. After all, there are no truly national museums in America. Oh, I know they have the Smithsonian, but that’s not the same thing—”

Vashugin was looking at him with a frown. “What’s that got to do with it?”

Ulanov lit another cigarette while forming his answer. He tucked it in one corner of his mouth as he spoke; blasts of smoke came out with the words.

“What I’m driving at is that it was the then OSS who stole the collection — or at least that’s the best conclusion we’ve been able to come to in all the years. Where would they have kept it all these years? Not, I’m sure, at the Smithsonian. In some vault at their Langley headquarters? And if they did, why would they be selling it now?”

“Exactly the question I’ve been asking,” Vashugin said shortly, quite as if wondering whether Ulanov had been paying attention.

“I’m sorry, but you apparently still don’t understand the point I’m trying to make,” Ulanov said, a bit stubbornly. “What I’m suggesting is far more important. Suppose — as we’ve supposed all the years since the war — that the OSS stole it from our bunker in Berlin, and that the treasure has been in their possession, the possession of the CIA, now, in Langley, Virginia, ever since. In one of their vaults there.” He paused to shake ash from his cigarette, immediately tucking it back in place. “Now, we can be rather sure that the CIA doesn’t need fifteen or twenty million dollars suddenly — they have an almost unlimited budget.”

Vashugin was watching him with narrowed eyes. “So?”

“So it is very possible that it is not the CIA who is offering the treasure for sale. It is possible that someone else has the treasure and is offering it. And if that is the case, then they must have managed in some fashion to get the treasure from Langley, or from wherever the CIA has been holding it. If there had been a theft of this size from the Smithsonian, for example, I’m sure it would have been impossible to keep it quiet. But from the CIA?” He smiled, a humorless smile. “Exactly as we kept the theft from the bunker quiet. Out of pride, if nothing else.”

Vashugin was nodding his head slowly. “I see. You are suggesting that someone was able to breach the security of the CIA, is that it?”

Ulanov shrugged. “It seems to me to be at least a possibility.”

Berezhkov wrinkled his forehead in thought, and then shook his head, not so much in denial, as in wonder.

“I’m not so sure. Let’s not underestimate the CIA. When they were the OSS they managed to steal the stuff from under our noses, so to speak. We had taken Berlin and were in the process of organizing it. Then the area was divided into zones. That was the first mistake. Allowing the city itself to be divided was the second mistake. You can see where it’s gotten everyone today. A city belonging to one country inside the borders of another country. Ridiculous!” He shrugged, realizing he was complaining about something he could do nothing about. He also seemed to realize he was getting away from the point. “However, that was the political decision at the time, and as a result there were soldiers from one country, one army, one zone, wandering all over every other zone. And a few days later the treasure is stolen. Who else would the Germans have told about the treasure, or where they had hidden it? The British?” Berezhkov sniffed. “The French? Us?” He sniffed louder. “Never. Only the Americans. And who else could have, or would have, been able to arrange it in those confused days? The forged papers? Everything? The OSS, that’s who.”

“We’re fairly certain of that,” Vashugin said, seeing in his mind’s eye the ancient investigation, such as it was. “We’re positive the man who forged the papers that released the Schliemann collection from the custody of the officer in charge of the bunker, was Petterssen, the Swedish forger. Our experts studied the forged documents and made careful comparisons with other forgeries known to have been done by Petterssen, and there was no doubt he was responsible. In addition, he answered the description of the man who was one of those who removed the crate at Bad Freienwalde; even though both men were dressed as NKVD — or at least that was what the idiot trainman assumed they were. A black suit, a white shirt, and you’re automatically NKVD!” He laughed, but without humor, looking down at his own neat gray herring-bone tweed, and then to Ulanov’s sport shirt, open at the neck, and then shrugged. “In any event... the guard said Petterssen and the man with him had documents, but of course it would be no trouble to a man of Petterssen’s ability to also forge these documents.”

Vashugin considered the other two men. His voice was quiet, as if asking them to point out any faults in the logic of the analysis he had presented to his superiors years before after the desultory investigation of the case that had been made.

“The man with Petterssen said nothing from the time he got on the train in Berlin until the two got off in Bad Freienwalde. But the guard said he looked quite Anglo-Saxon. The trainman was sure — after a bit of interrogation by a pair of rather overefficient NKVD men,” Vashugin added dryly, “that he was undoubtedly American. I believe he was, despite the overenthusiasm of the interrogators. But the important question at the time was, where did Petterssen disappear to? He didn’t go to Denmark or Sweden, because we certainly looked hard enough and long enough for him in those and the other Scandinavian countries. And it wasn’t all that easy for him to get out of Germany in any normal fashion, because he was watched for, and he was easily identifiable. No, there’s no doubt in my mind that Petterssen ended up in Langley, Virginia, where he probably forged Russian rubles or Chinese currency until he died or was retired.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t underestimate the CIA. They did a good job in stealing the Schliemann treasure from us.”

“They did even better,” Ulanov said dryly. “They also managed to convince the entire world that we have the collection ourselves. Possibly in the basement of the Hermitage here in Leningrad, I expect.” He shook his head, almost in admiration, and crushed out his cigarette. “And I also am not underestimating them. I merely mention it as a possibility. I don’t see any others. I simply cannot see the CIA behind this auction. It wouldn’t be the way they would handle it, any more than we would handle it in this open fashion.”

“I agree it’s a possibility,” Vashugin said slowly, and suddenly smiled, a broad smile that lit up his face. “That would be something, eh? Someone robbing the vaults at Langley?” He looked around, his smile disappearing. “So? How do we handle the matter? What do we do about this so-called auction? And this meeting next month in London that has attracted so much attention in the western press?”

Berezhkov looked at Ulanov to make the first suggestion; he was closer to the archaeological field than either of the two colonels. Ulanov shrugged. He had fully expected the responsibility and would have been put out otherwise.

“To begin with,” he said slowly, “I should think we would want to be able to enter this auction ourselves, whether we were invited to, or not. If only to discover who has the treasure, who is selling it, and — if it isn’t the CIA, and I have a feeling it isn’t — then who it is and how they got their hands on it. And to what extent it reflects on weaknesses in the CIA security system. And how that knowledge can be of use to us.” He paused and then added, “And if it is the CIA, to try and discover why.”

Berezhkov leaned forward. “And as to the meeting in London?”

“That I suggest we attend. I’m sure there will be many there who have not been officially invited, and more than the museums asked to bid at the auction. In fact, I know there will be. Turkey, for example, was not asked to bid, but was asked to attend the London meeting. I’ll go and I’ll take along Dr. Gregor Kovpak, of the Hermitage. He’s quite knowledgeable, I hear. And we’ll keep our eyes and ears open and see what we can learn.”

Vashugin thought it over and nodded.

“It’s a logical first step, at least,” he said, and came to his feet, indicating the meeting was over.

Dr. Gregor Kovpak was a tall, well-built, handsome man in his middle forties. His field experience had been detailed in many technical papers published throughout the archaeological world, and his expertise in archaeological matters acknowledged by his fiercest rivals. At the moment Dr. Kovpak was engaged in something far from his true field; he was attempting to produce imitation bones to complete the authentic ones he had discovered in the Ruthenian slopes of the Carpathians while digging for something quite distinct. When assembled, he hoped to have the first skeleton of a baby dinosaur ever found in the Soviet Union. It was not his field, but the doctor felt that by right of discovery he hated to see someone else, even more qualified, complete the job.

He frowned as the telephone rang, held up his hands to the anthropological professor assisting him to indicate the plaster of Paris that covered them. The professor, rightfully resentful of playing second fiddle to a mere archaeologist, and this on the premises of the Zoological Museum, mind you! held up his own hands, equally covered. With a muttered curse for the interruption, Kovpak wiped his hands on his smock and picked up the telephone with two fingers.

“Yes?”

“Gregor?” He recognized the high tones of Alex Pomerenko, the director of the Hermitage Museum, the museum to which he was properly attached. “Are you still fooling around with that zoological thing? Would you drop it and come over to my office? It’s taken me quite a while to even locate you!”

“No, damn it, I can’t! I’m casting baby dinosaur bones and my hands are full of plaster of Paris!” He glared through the window at the Hermitage across the river, almost as if he could see its director at the window there.

“Disregarding the fact that we pay your salary, not the Zoological Museum,” Pomerenko said dryly, “those bones have waited over seventy million years, ever since the Mesozoic Age, so a few minutes won’t hurt. Right now, Gregor. It’s important.”

The director hung up the telephone to avoid further discussion. Kovpak stared at the receiver a few moments in frustration, considered disregarding the order, and then also hung up, coming to his feet. It would only mean further interruptions, and it was probably better to get the matter over and done with.

“I’ve got to go over to the Hermitage,” he said to a smiling professor, and stalked over to the sink to wash his hands. He dried them, shrugged his way out of the dirty smock and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And leave everything alone until I get back,” he added direly, and closed the door behind him. Zoologists! he thought blackly; museum directors! and stamped down the steps of the museum and across the Palast Bridge, feeling the wind from the river on his face and beginning to feel better for it. It was hard to really be angry with Alex Pomerenko, especially on a nice spring day. But not too hard...

He pushed into the door to the New Hermitage, where Alex’s offices were, and climbed the steps of the broad stairway, walking down the long corridor past the many exhibits he had grown to feel a part of, threading his way through the dense crowds that always filled the museum, wondering as he did so what monumental problem on the part of Alex required his attention so urgently. He probably wants to know what I think he should have for lunch, Kovpak thought dourly; Pomerenko was attempting a diet to counteract the effects of having stopped smoking a few weeks before. Or else it would have to be something equally vital, while my poor little baby dinosaur remains there, all in pieces, waiting for me to put him together and give him birth...

The thought made Kovpak smile, and he was in a better mood by the time he came to Pomerenko’s office and closed the door to the secretary’s cubicle behind him. The secretary smiled and motioned that he could enter without bothering to be announced. It must really be important, Kovpak thought. Alex’s tailor must be in there with a choice of materials for a new suit Alex wants me to help him select. He bit back a grin, his normal good humor restored, ran a hand through his thick curly hair in a vain attempt to straighten it or give it order, and walked in.

Pomerenko was standing by the window, staring out across the river, obviously passing time until Kovpak arrived. Before the director’s wide desk, seated in comfort, was a stocky man with a strong lined face, and a crew cut of pure white hair. An impressive visitor whoever he is, Kovpak thought, and waited to be introduced. But first Pomerenko walked over and closed the door to the outer office, before returning to his desk.

“Major Ulanov,” he said, “this is Dr. Gregor Kovpak. Gregor, Major Serge Ulanov.”

In mufti, Kovpak thought, and therefore not army. Most probably KGB. And what does the State Security Committee want of us poor scientists at the Hermitage? He came forward to shake hands; the major’s handshake was firm and dry. He indicated a chair beside him, waited until Kovpak had been seated, and then took out a package of cigarettes, offering them around. Both men refused, Pomerenko obviously with an effort. Ulanov lit up and came right to the point.

“Dr. Kovpak,” he said, “what can you tell me of the Schliemann collection?”

Kovpak frowned, surprised at the question. He was also quite sure that the man facing him knew as much about the Schliemann collection as he did, and most probably a lot more. Still, he was here, presumably to answer questions, not to ask them.

“Well,” he began, “it was first discovered by Heinrich Schliemann and his wife, Sophie, in Turkey in—”

Ulanov’s hand came up trailing smoke. “No, no. I’m quite familiar with the details of the discovery, and the subsequent history of the treasure, at least up until 1945. I put it badly. What I meant to ask you is, what is your professional opinion of this auction that is being proposed?”

“Auction? What auction?” Kovpak looked at Pomerenko. The museum director shrugged.

“The collection is being offered for auction, Gregor.”

“What! When did all this take place?”

“In the last two or three weeks. It’s been widely reported.”

“And who’s offering it?” He turned to the major in apology. “I’ve been busy with a special project of mine. In fact, I just got back from Uzhgorod on the Czech border a day or so ago. Some bones we found may make us change many of our concepts regarding the life forms of the Mesozoic—” He realized he was straying. “What I’m trying to say is I’m afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to the journals lately.” He glanced at Pomerenko. “Who’s had the collection all this time?”

It was Major Ulanov who answered. “No one knows. In your opinion, Doctor, who do you think has had it?”

Kovpak grinned. “I haven’t the faintest. But I can tell you that all my colleagues in the field are convinced that we have it, here at the Hermitage. Either under the sink in my laboratory, or in the desk drawer of my office. And since denial of this idiocy seems pointless, I’ve let them think what they want.” His smile faded as the importance of the major’s question came to him. “Why? Doesn’t anyone know who is offering it?”

“No,” the major said quietly. “It’s a blind auction. So far,” he added grimly.

Kovpak frowned. “But you must have some ideas—”

Ulanov shrugged and leaned over to brush ash from his cigarette. “In our opinion, Doctor, the treasure has been in the hands of the American intelligence ever since the end of the war.”

“Based on what evidence, Major?”

“Someday I’ll tell you. But for now, it’s what we believe. However, I, personally, think it is no longer in their hands. I think someone was clever enough to steal it from them, as they stole it from us. And we are extremely interested in learning how it was done. We think you can be of help to us in this regard.”

Kovpak’s eyebrows went up. “Me? How?”

“First of all, because of your knowledge in the field. We would like you to read all the news regarding the auction in the journals, speak with friends in other museums, get what information you can. Secondly, there is a meeting to be held in London in a week or so, of directors and curators of many museums around the world. The meeting is to discuss this most unusual auction. Your presence there would not be at all unusual. We would like you to attend.”

“I’d be very willing, except I’m in the middle of a project—”

“Gregor!” Pomerenko said threateningly.

Kovpak sighed. “All right,” he said at last, sadly. At least it would make a zoological professor happy, as well as the director of the museum where he did, after all, work. And London was a very charming city. “But I’m not—” He paused.

Ulanov smiled, a surprisingly friendly smile from one of such stern features. “An intelligence agent? Well, I am. And I’ll be with you.” He crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet. “Gentlemen, thank you...”