The Rhinemann Exchange (12 page)

Without announcement, the men fell silent. Several sat in armchairs, others leaned against walls or stayed by the coffee table. An elderly man in a heavy tweed jacket stood in front of the fireplace and spoke. He looked at Franz, who remained by himself behind a leather couch.

“There is no reason for lengthy discussions. We believe we have the information you seek. I say ‘believe,’ for we gather information, we do not act upon it. The ministry may not care to act.”

“That would seem inconceivable to me,” said Altmüller.

“Very well. Several questions then. So there is no conflict, no misrepresentation.” The old man paused and lit a thick meerschaum pipe. “You have exhausted all normal Intelligence channels? Through Zürich and Lisbon?”

“We have. And in numerous other locations—occupied, enemy and neutral.”

“I was referring to the acknowledged conduits, Swiss, Scandinavian and Portuguese, primarily.”

“We made no concentrated efforts in the Scandinavian countries. Herr Zangen did not think …”

“No names, please. Except in the area of Intelligence confrontation or public knowledge. Use governmental descriptions, if you like. Not individuals.”

“The Reichsamt of Industry—which has continuous dealings in the Baltic areas—was convinced there was nothing to be gained there. I assume the reasons were geographical. There are no diamonds in the Baltic.”

“Or they’ve been burnt too often,” said a nondescript middle-aged man below Altmüller on the leather sofa. “If you want London and Washington to know what you’re doing before you do it, deal with the Scandinavians.”

“An accurate analysis,” concurred another member of the Nachrichtendienst, this one standing by the coffee table, cup in hand. “I returned from Stockholm last week. We can’t trust even those who publicly endorse us.”

“Those least of all,” said the old man in front of the fireplace, smiling and returning his eyes to Franz. “We gather you’ve made substantial offers? In Swiss currency, of course.”

“Substantial is a modest term for the figures we’ve spoken of,” replied Altmüller. “I’ll be frank. No one will touch us. Those who could, subscribe to Zürich’s judgment that
we shall be defeated. They fear retribution; they even speak of postwar bank deposit reclamations.”

“If such whispers reach the High Command there’ll be a panic.” The statement was made humorously by the Führer’s valet, sitting in an armchair. The spokesman by the fireplace continued.

“So you must eliminate money as an incentive … even extraordinary sums of money.”

“The negotiating teams were not successful. You know that.” Altmüller had to suppress his irritation. Why didn’t they get to the
point?

“And there are no ideologically motivated defectors on the horizon. Certainly none who have access to industrial diamonds.”

“Obviously,
mein Herr.
”

“So you must look for another motive. Another incentive.”

“I fail to see the point of this. I was told …”

“You will,” interrupted the old man, tapping his pipe on the mantel. “You see, we’ve uncovered a panic as great as yours.… The enemy’s panic. We’ve found the most logical motive for all concerned. Each side possesses the other’s solution.”

Franz Altmüller was suddenly afraid. He could not be sure he fully understood the spokesman’s implications. “What are you saying?”

“Peenemünde has perfected a high-altitude directional guidance system, is this correct?”

“Certainly. Indigenous to the basic operation of the rockets.”

“But there’ll be no rockets—or at best, a pitiful few—without shipments of industrial diamonds.”

“Obviously.”

“There are business interests in the United States who face insurmountable …,” the old man paused for precisely one second and continued, “
insurmountable
problems that can only be resolved by the acquisition of functional high-altitude gyroscopes.”

“Are you suggesting …”

“The Nachrichtendienst does not suggest, Herr Unterstaatssekretär. We say what is.” The spokesman removed the meerschaum from his lips. “When the occasion warrants, we transmit concrete information to diverse recipients.
Again, only what is. We did so in Johannesburg. When the man I. G. Farben sent in to purchase diamonds from the Koening mines met with failure, we stepped in and confirmed a long-standing Intelligence probe we knew would be carried back to Washington. Our agents in California had apprised us of the crisis in the aircraft industry. We believe the timing was propitious.”

“I’m not sure I understand.…”

“Unless we’re mistaken, an attempt will be made to reestablish contact with one of the Farben men. We assume contingencies were made for such possibilities.”

“Of course. Geneva. The acknowledged conduits.”

“Then our business with you is concluded, sir. May we wish you a pleasant drive back to Berlin.”

The interior of the Quonset belied its stark outside. To begin with, it was five times larger than the usual Quonset structure, and its metal casing was insulated with a sound-absorbing material that swept seamless down from the high ceiling. The appearance was not so much that of an airplane hangar—as it should have been—as of a huge, windowless shell with substantial walls. All around the immense room were banks of complicated high-frequency radio panels; opposite each panel were glass-enclosed casings with dozens of detailed maps, changeable by the push of a button. Suspended above the maps were delicate, thin steel arms—markers, not unlike polygraph needles—that were manipulated by the radio operators, observed by men holding clipboards. The entire staff was military, army, none below the rank of first lieutenant.

Three-quarters into the building was a floor-to-ceiling wall that obviously was not the end of the structure. There was a single door, centered and closed. The door was made of heavy steel.

Swanson had never been inside this particular building. He had driven down to Field Division, Fairfax, many times—to get briefed on highly classified Intelligence findings, to observe the training of particular insurgence or espionage teams—but for all his brigadier’s rank and regardless of the secrets he carried around in his head, he
had not been cleared for this particular building. Those who were, remained within the two-hundred-acre compound for weeks, months at a time; leaves were rare and taken only in emergency and with escort.

It was fascinating, thought Swanson, who honestly believed he had lost all sense of awe. No elevators, no back staircases, no windows; he could see a washroom door in the left wall and without going inside, knew it was machine-ventilated. And there was only a single entrance. Once inside there was no place for a person to conceal himself for any length of time, or to exit without being checked out and scrutinized. Personal items were left at the entrance; no briefcases, envelopes, papers or materials were removed from the building without signed authorization by Colonel Edmund Pace and with the colonel personally at the side of the individual in question.

If there was ever total security, it was here.

Swanson approached the steel door; his lieutenant escort pushed a button. A small red light flashed above a wall intercom, and the lieutenant spoke.

“General Swanson, colonel.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” were the words that came from the webbed circle below the light. There was a click in the door’s lock and the lieutenant reached for the knob.

Inside, Pace’s office looked like any other Intelligence headquarters—huge maps on the walls, sharp lighting on the maps, lights and maps changeable by pushbuttons on the desk. Teletype machines were equidistant from one another below printed signs designating theaters of operation—all the usual furnishings. Except the furniture itself. It was simple to the point of primitiveness. No easy chairs, no sofas, nothing comfortable. Just plain metal straight-backed chairs, a desk that was more a table than a desk, and a rugless hardwood floor. It was a room for concentrated activity; a man did not relax in such a room.

Edmund Pace, Commander of Field Division, Fairfax, got up from his chair, came around his table and saluted Alan Swanson.

There was one other man in the room, a civilian. Frederic Vandamm, Undersecretary of State.

“General. Good to see you again. The last time was at Mr. Vandamm’s house, if I remember.”

“Yes, it was. How are things here?”

“A little isolated.”

“I’m sure.” Swanson turned to Vandamm. “Mr. Undersecretary? I got back here as soon as I could. I don’t have to tell you how anxious I am. It’s been a difficult month.”

“I’m aware of that,” said the aristocratic Vandamm, smiling a cautious smile, shaking Swanson’s hand perfunctorily. “We’ll get right to it. Colonel Pace, will you brief the general as we discussed?”

“Yes, sir. And then I’ll leave.” Pace spoke noncommittally; it was the military’s way of telegraphing a message to a fellow officer:
be careful.

Pace crossed to a wall map, presented with markings. It was an enlarged, detailed section of Johannesburg, South Africa. Frederic Vandamm sat in a chair in front of the desk; Swanson followed Pace and stood beside him.

“You never know when a probe will get picked up. Or where.” Pace took a wooden pointer from a table and indicated a blue marker on the map. “Or even if the location is important. In this case it
may
be. A week ago a member of the Johannesburg legislature, an attorney and a former director of Koening Mines, Ltd., was contacted by what he believed were two men from the Zürich Staats-Bank. They wanted him to middle-man a negotiation with Koening: simple transaction of Swiss francs for diamonds—on a large scale, with the anticipation that the diamond standard would remain more constant than the gold fluctuations.” Pace turned to Swanson. “So far, so good. With lend-lease, and monetary systems going up in smoke everywhere, there’s a lot of speculation in the diamond market. Postwar killings could be made. When he accepted the contact, you can imagine his shock when he arrived for the meeting and found that one of the ‘Swiss’ was an old friend—a very old and good friend—from the prewar days. A German he’d gone to school with—the Afrikaner’s mother was Austrian; father a Boer. The two men had kept in close touch until thirty-nine. The German worked for I. G. Farben.”

“What was the point of the meeting?” Swanson was impatient.

“I’ll get to that. This background’s important.”

“O.K. Go on.”

“There was no diamond market speculation involved, no transaction with any Zürich bank. It was a simple purchase. The Farben man wanted to buy large shipments of bortz and carbonado.…”

“Industrial diamonds?” interrupted Swanson.

Pace nodded. “He offered a fortune to his old friend if he could pull it off. The Afrikaner refused; but his longstanding friendship with the German kept him from reporting the incident. Until three days ago.” Pace put down the pointer and started for his desk. Swanson understood that the colonel had additional information, written information, that he had to refer to; the general crossed to the chair beside Vandamm and sat down.

“Three days ago,” continued Pace, standing behind the desk, “the Afrikaner was contacted again. This time there was no attempt to conceal identities. The caller said he was German and had information the Allies wanted; had wanted for a long time.”

“The probe?” asked Swanson, whose impatience was carried by his tone of voice.

“Not exactly the probe we expected.… The German said he would come to the Afrikaner’s office, but he protected himself. He told the lawyer that if any attempt was made to hold him, his old friend at I. G. Farben would be executed back in Germany.” Pace picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. He spoke as he leaned across and handed it to Swanson. “This is the information, the report flown in by courier.”

Swanson read the typewritten words below the Military Intelligence letterhead; above the large, stamped
Top Secret. Eyes Only. Fairfax 4–0.

Swanson let the information sink in; he read the statement over several times. He asked a question of Edmund Pace with a single word: “Geneva?”

“The conduit. Neutral channel. Unofficial, of course.”

“What is this … Nachrichtendienst?”

“Intelligence unit. Small, specialized; so rarefied it’s above even the most classified crowds. Sometimes we wonder if it takes sides. It often appears more interested in observing than participating; more concerned with after the war than now. We suspect that it’s a Gehlen operation. But it’s never been wrong. Never misleading.”

“I see.” Swanson held out the paper for Pace.

The colonel did not take it. Instead, he walked around the desk toward the steel door. “I’ll leave you gentlemen. When you’re finished, please signify by pushing the white button on my desk.” He opened the door and left quickly. The heavy steel frame closed into an airtight position; a subsequent click could be heard in the lock housing.

Frederic Vandamm looked at Swanson. “There is your solution, general. Your gyroscope. In Peenemünde. All you have to do is send a man to Geneva. Someone wants to sell it.”

Alan Swanson stared at the paper in his hand.

Altmüller stared at the paper in his hand. It was after midnight, the city in darkness. Berlin had withstood another night of murderous bombardment; it was over now. There would be no further raids until late morning, that was the usual pattern. Still, the black curtains were pulled tight against the windows. As they were everywhere in the ministry.

Speed was everything now. Yet in the swiftness of the planning, mandatory precautions could not be overlooked. The meeting in Geneva with the conduit was only the first step, the prelude, but it had to be handled delicately. Not so much
what
was said but
who
said it. The
what
could be transmitted by anyone with the proper credentials or acknowledged authority. But in the event of Germany’s collapse, that
someone
could not represent the Third Reich. Speer had been adamant.