The Rhinemann Exchange (43 page)

She removed her arms from around his neck; he released her. She took several steps away from him but she was not retreating.

“I’m not proud of what I did; I’ve never done it before.” She turned and faced him.

“I went down to the ‘Caves’ … without authorization … and read your file. I’m sure it’s the briefest dossier in the history of the diplomatic corps.”

“What did it say?”

She told him.

“So you see, my mythical David of last evening had a distinct basis in reality.”

Spaulding walked to the window overlooking the west lawn of the embassy. The early sun was up, the grass flickered with dew; it brought to mind the manicured lawn seen in the night floodlights below Rhinemann’s terrace. And that memory reminded him of the codes. He turned. “I have to talk to Ballard.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“The not-so-mythical David has work to do. That doesn’t change.”

“I can’t change it, you mean.”

He walked back to her. “No, you can’t.… I wish to God you could; I wish
I
could. I can’t convince myself—to paraphrase a certain girl—that what I’m doing will make that much difference … but I react out of habit, I guess. Maybe ego; maybe it’s as simple as that.”

“I said you were good, didn’t I?”

“Yes. And I am.… Do you know
what
I am?”

“An intelligence officer. An agent. A man who works with other men; in whispers and at night and with a great deal of money and lies. That’s the way I think, you see.”

“Not that. That’s new.… What I
really
am.… I’m a construction engineer. I build buildings and bridges and dams and highways. I once built an extension for a zoo in Mexico; the best open-air enclosure for primates you ever saw. Unfortunately, we spent so much money the Zoological Society couldn’t afford monkeys, but the space is there.”

She laughed softly. “You’re funny.”

“I liked working on the bridges best. To cross a natural obstacle without marring it, without destroying its own purpose.…”

“I never thought of engineers as romantics.”

“
Construction
engineers are. At least, the best ones.… But that’s all long ago. When this mess is over I’ll go back, of course, but I’m not a fool. I know the disadvantages I’ll be faced with.… It’s not the same as a lawyer putting down his books only to pick them up again; the law doesn’t change that much. Or a stockbroker; the market solutions
can’t
change.”

“I’m not sure what you’re driving at.…”

“Technology. It’s the only real, civilized benefit war produces. In construction it’s been revolutionary. In three years whole new techniques have been developed.… I’ve been out of it. My postwar references won’t be the best.”

“Good Lord, you’re sorry for yourself.”

“Christ,
yes!
In one way.… More to the point, I’m angry. Nobody held a gun to my head: I walked into this … this job for all the wrong reasons and without any foresight.… That’s why I have to be good at it.”

“What about us? Are we an ‘us’?”

“I love you,” he said simply. “I know that.”

“After only a week? That’s what I keep asking myself. We’re not children.”

“We’re not children,” he replied. “Children don’t have access to State Department dossiers.” He smiled, then grew serious. “I need your help.”

She glanced at him sharply. “What is it?”

“What do you know about Erich Rhinemann?”

“He’s a despicable man.”

“He’s a Jew.”

“Then he’s a despicable Jew. Race and religion notwithstanding, immaterial.”

“Why is he despicable?”

“Because he uses people. Indiscriminately. Maliciously. He uses his money to corrupt whatever and whomever he can. He buys influence from the junta; that gets him land, government concessions, shipping rights. He forced a number of mining companies out of the Patagonia Basin; he took over a dozen or so oil fields at Comodoro Rivadavia.…”

“What are his politics?”

Jean thought for a second; she leaned back in the chair, looking for an instant at the window, then over to Spaulding. “Himself,” she answered.

“I’ve heard he’s openly pro-Axis.”

“Only because he believed England would fall and terms would be made. He still owns a power base in Germany, I’m told.”

“But he’s a Jew.”

“Temporary handicap. I don’t think he’s an elder at the synagogue. The Jewish community in Buenos Aires has no use for him.”

David stood up. “Maybe that’s it.”

“What?”

“Rhinemann turned his back on the tribe, openly supports the creators of Auschwitz. Maybe they want him killed. Take out his guards first, then go after him.”

“If by ‘they’ you mean the Jews here, I’d have to say no. The Argentine
judíos
tread lightly. The colonels’ legions are awfully close to a goose step; Rhinemann has influence. Of course, nothing stops a fanatic or two.…”

“No.… They may be fanatics, but not one or two. They’re organized; they’ve got backing—considerable amounts, I think.”

“And they’re after Rhinemann? The Jewish community would panic. Frankly, we’d be the first they’d come to.”

David stopped his pacing. The words came back to him again:
there’ll be no negotiations with Altmüller.
A darkened doorway on New York’s Fifty-second Street.

“Have you ever heard the name Altmüller?”

“No. There’s a plain Müller at the German embassy, I think, but that’s like Smith or Jones. No Altmüller.”

“What about Hawkwood? A woman named Leslie Jenner Hawkwood?”

“No again. But if these people are intelligence oriented, there’d be no reason for me to.”

“They’re Intelligence but I didn’t think they were undercover. At least not this Altmüller.”

“What does that mean?”

“His name has been used in a context that assumes recognition. But I can’t find him.”

“Do you want to check the ‘Caves’?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll do it directly with Granville. When do they open?”

“Eight thirty. Henderson’s in his office by quarter to nine.” She saw David hold up his wrist, forgetting he had no watch. She looked at her office clock. “A little over two hours. Remind me to buy you a watch.”

“Thanks.… Ballard. I have to see him. How is he in the early morning? At this hour?”

“I trust that question’s rhetorical.… He’s used to being roused up for code problems. Shall I call him?”

“Please. Can you make coffee here?”

“There’s a hotplate out there.” Jean indicated the door to the anteroom. “Behind my secretary’s chair. Sink’s in the closet.… Never mind, I’ll do it. Let me get Bobby first.”

“I make a fine pot of coffee. You call, I’ll cook. You look like such an executive, I’d hate to interfere.”

He was emptying the grounds into the pot when he heard it. It was a footstep. A single footstep outside in the corridor. A footstep that should have been muffled but wasn’t. A second step would ordinarily follow but didn’t.

Spaulding put the pot on the desk, reached down and removed both his shoes without a sound. He crossed to the closed door and stood by the frame.

There it was again. Steps. Quiet; unnatural.

David opened his jacket, checking his weapon, and put his left hand on the knob. He turned it silently, then quickly opened the door and stepped out.

Fifteen feet away a man walking down the corridor spun around at the noise. The look on his face was one Spaulding had seen many times.

Fright.

“Oh, hello there, you must be the new man. We haven’t met.… The name’s Ellis. Eill Ellis.… I have a beastly conference at seven.” The attaché was not convincing.

“Several of us were going fishing but the weather reports are uncertain. Care to come with us?”

“I’d love to except I have this damned ungodly hour meeting.”

“Yes. That’s what you said. How about coffee?”

“Thanks, old man. I really should bone up on some paperwork.”

“O.K. Sorry.”

“Yes, so am I.… Well, see you later.” The man named Ellis smiled awkwardly, gestured a wave more awkwardly—which David returned—and continued on his way.

Spaulding went back into Jean’s office and closed the door. She was standing by the secretary’s desk.

“Who in heaven’s name were you talking to at this hour?”

“He said his name was Ellis. He said he had a meeting with someone at seven o’clock.… He doesn’t.”

“What?”

“He was lying. What’s Ellis’s department?”

“Import-export clearances.”

“That’s handy.… What about Ballard?”

“He’s on his way. He says you’re a mean man.… What’s ‘handy’ about Ellis?”

Spaulding went to the coffee pot on the desk, picked it up and started for the closet. Jean interrupted his movement, taking the pot from him. “What’s Ellis’s rating?” he asked.

“Excellent. Strictly the syndrome; he wants the Court of St. James’s. You haven’t answered me. What’s ‘handy’?”

“He’s been bought. He’s a funnel. It could be serious or just penny-ante waterfront stuff.”

“Oh?” Jean, perplexed, opened the closet door where there was a washbasin. Suddenly, she stopped. She turned to Spaulding. “David. What does ‘Tortugas’ mean?”

“Oh, Christ, stop kidding.”

“Which means you can’t tell me.”

“Which means I don’t
know.
I wish to heaven I
did.
”

“It’s a code word, isn’t it? That’s what it says in your file.”

“It’s a code I’ve never been told about and I’m the one responsible!”

“Here, fill this; rinse it out first.” Jean handed him the coffee pot and walked rapidly into her office, to the desk. David followed and stood in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Attachés, even undersecretaries, if they have very early appointments, list them with the gate.”

“Ellis?”

Jean nodded and spoke into the telephone; her conversation was brief. She replaced the instrument and looked over at Spaulding. “The first gate pass is listed for nine. Ellis has no meeting at seven thirty.”

“I’m not surprised. Why are you?”

“I wanted to make sure.… You said you didn’t know what ‘Tortugas’ meant. I might be able to tell you.”

David, stunned, took several steps into the office. “
What?
”

“There was a surveillance report from La Boca—that’s Ellis’s district. His department must have cleared it up, given it a clean bill. It was dropped.”

“What was dropped? What are you talking about?”

“A trawler in La Boca. It had cargo with a destination lading that violated coastal patrols … they called it an error. The destination was Tortugas.”

The outer office door suddenly opened and Bobby Ballard walked in.

“
Jesus!
” he said. “The Munchkins go to work early in this wonderful world of Oz!”

The code schedules with Ballard took less than a half hour. David was amazed at the cryptographer’s facile imagination. He developed—on the spot—a geometrical progress of numbers and corresponding letters that would take the best cryps Spaulding knew a week to break.

At maximum, all David needed was ninety-six hours.

Bobby placed Washington’s copy in an official courier’s envelope, sealed it chemically, placed it in a triple-locked pouch and called the FMF base for an officer—captain’s rank or above—to get to the embassy within the hour. The codes would be on a coastal pursuit aircraft by nine; at Andrews Field by late afternoon; delivered to General Alan Swanson’s office in the War Department by armored courier van shortly thereafter.

The confirmation message was simple; Spaulding had given Ballard two words:
Cable Tortugas.

When the code was received in Washington, Swanson woud know that Eugene Lyons had authenticated the guidance designs. He could then radio the bank in Switzerland and payment would be made to Rhinemann’s accounts. By using the name “Tortugas,” David hoped that someone, somewhere, would understand his state of mind. His anger at being left with the full responsibility without all of the facts.

Spaulding was beginning to think that Erich Rhinemann was demanding more than he was entitled to. A possibility that would do him little good.

Rhinemann was to be killed.

And the outlines of a plan were coming into focus that would bring about that necessary death. The act itself might be the simplest part of his assignment.

There was no point in
not
telling Jean and Bobby Ballard about the guidance designs. Kendall had flown out of Buenos Aires—without explanation; David knew he might need assistance at a moment when there was no time to brief those helping him. His cover was superfluous now. He described minutely Rhinemann’s schedule, the function of Eugene Lyons and Heinrich Stoltz’s surfacing as a contact.

Ballard was astonished at Stoltz’s inclusion. “
Stoltz!
That’s a little bit of lightning.… I mean, he’s a
believer.
Not the Hitler fire ’n’ brimstone—he dismisses that, I’m told. But
Germany.
The Versailles motive, the reparations—bled giant, export or die—the whole thing. I figured him for the real Junker item.…”

David did not pay much attention.

The logistics of the morning were clear in Spaulding’s mind and at eight forty-five he began.

His meeting with Henderson Granville was short and cordial. The ambassador was content not to know David’s true purpose in Buenos Aires, as long as there was no diplomatic conflict. Spaulding assured him that to the best of his knowledge there was none; certainly less of a possibility if the ambassador remained outside the hard core of the assignment Granville agreed. On the basis of David’s direct request, he had the “Caves” checked for files on Franz Altmüller and Leslie Jenner Hawkwood.

Nothing.

Spaulding went from Granville’s office back to Jean’s. She had received the incoming passengers manifest from Aeroparque. Eugene Lyons was listed on clipper flight 101, arriving at two in the afternoon. His profession was given as “physicist”; the reason for entry, “industrial conferences.”

David was annoyed with Walter Kendall. Or, he thought, should his annoyance be with the bewildered amateur, Brigadier General Alan Swanson? The least they could have done was term Lyons a “scientist”; “physicist” was stupid. A physicist in Buenos Aires was an open invitation to surveillance—even
Allied
surveillance.