Panin regarded Faith without curiosity.
'Miss Steerforth,' he repeated unemotionally.
Faith took the smooth, dry hand he offered her. 'Professor Panin, I'm afraid my father once caused you a great deal of trouble,' she said in a voice equally devoid of emotion. 'But I think it's rather late for an apology.'
The Russian considered her for a moment.
'Miss Steerforth, we are not responsible for our fathers. Mine was a sergeant in the Semenovsky Guards–the Tsar's guards, Miss Steerforth. And after that in the White army. But that was not my business, for I was a babe in arms. So you have nothing for which to apologise.'
He turned back to Audley.
'Major Butler has been instructing me in the finer points of cricket.
I know the theory of the game, but the fascination of a game lies in the finer points, would you not agree?'
'For the spectator, certainly. For the player it's winning that counts.'
'But you played rugby, I believe–and that is a game of brute force played by gentlemen. At least, so I have heard it described.'
'Whoever described it for you obviously never played in Wales, Professor Panin. I might just as well describe yours as a dirty dummy4
hobby for scholars.'
'A dirty hobby?' A note of puzzlement crept into the voice. He hadn't expected to be insulted.
'Archaeology, Professor.' It was comical to see Butler relax.
'Archaeologists at work are indistinguishable from navvies.'
'But an innocent hobby, Dr Audley. Archaeologists are safely sealed off from modern history. Historians are too often tempted to stray from their chosen field, are they not?'
Parry.
'Very true. And also there's always the danger that they'll make inconvenient discoveries.'
Thrust.
Panin nodded. 'And then they discover that the truth is not as indivisible as they thought. Not a clear glass, but a mirror sometimes.'
It was time to stop playing, thought Audley. 'But we're not concerned with history or archaeology, are we! Only indirectly, anyway. I take it as confirmed that you want me to find the Schliemann Collection for you?'
Panin inclined his head. 'I gathered from Brigadier Stocker that our small secret was out. Yes, Dr Audley, my government would be most grateful if you could do that. Then we will jointly restore it to the German Democratic Republic.'
Just like that, as though it was a mislaid umbrella!
'Well, I think we have a fair chance of finding it tomorrow, given a dummy4
little luck.'
Try that for size, Professor.
Panin was unmoved. 'So soon? But I am gratified to hear it. I had feared that it might prove a needle in a hay stack.'
'It certainly might have been easier if you had confided in us from the start–and I mean from the very start.'
The lines deepened around Panin's mouth.
'There was a certain . . . embarrassment about the loss of the collection in the first place, Dr Audley.'
Sir Kenneth Allen had hinted as much. To abstract the collection from G Tower had been the prerogative of the conquerors; to have lost it then so quickly reduced the conquerors to bungling plunderers.
'And then we formed the opinion that it was irretrievably lost,'
Panin continued. 'We believed that there was nothing anyone could do. It was only when I heard of the recovery of the aircraft that I revised my opinion.'
There was a great deal left unsaid there: the whole Russian obsession down the years with ditched Dakotas. A little honest curiosity would not be out of order.
'Professor Panin, we all know of your reputation as an archaeologist,' said Audley slowly, 'but I must admit I find your interest in the collection–and your government's interest–a little curious. Couldn't you have left it to the East Germans? After all, it's not a political matter.'
'There you have put your finger on the truth, Dr Audley. It is
political matter. For me it is a very personal matter. It was I who lost the Schliemann Collection. I lost it in Berlin, and I lost it again here in England.'
He stared lugubriously at the many-stranded necklace which rested on the false swell of Faith's chest.
'There is a German scholar,' he went on, 'a Dr Berve, who argues that there was never a siege of Troy–that Homer's Troy was a village overthrown by an earthquake. But I have handled Schliemann's treasures, and I have never forgotten them. In fact, as I have grown older I have thought of them more often.'
