The Rhinemann Exchange (49 page)

“All right,” he said. “I estimate we’ve got about fifteen minutes before all hell breaks loose around here.… I have a few questions. You’re going to give me the answers.”

Spaulding listened in disbelief. The enormity of the charge was so far-reaching it was—in a very real sense—beyond his comprehension.

The man with the hollow eyes was Asher Feld, commander of the Provisional Wing of the Haganah operating within the United States. He did the talking.

“The operation … the exchange of the guidance designs for the industrial diamonds … was first given the name ‘Tortugas’ by the Americans—one American, to be exact. He had decided that the transfer should be made in the Dry Tortugas, but it was patently rejected by Berlin. It was, however, kept as a code name by this man. The misleading association dovetailed with his own panic at being involved. It came—for him and for Fairfax—to mean the activities of the man from Lisbon.

“When the War Department clearances were issued to the Koening company’s New York offices—an Allied requisite—this man coded the clearance as ‘Tortugas.’ If anyone checked, ‘Tortugas’ was a Fairfax operation. It would not be questioned.

“The concept of the negotiation was first created by the Nachrichtendienst. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Nachrich-tendienst, colonel.…”

David did not reply. He could not speak. Feld continued.

“We of the Haganah learned of it in Geneva. We had word of an unusual meeting between an American named Kendall—a financial analyst for a major aircraft company—and a very despised German businessman, a homosexual, who was sent to Switzerland by a leading administrator in the Ministry of Armaments, Unterstaatssekretär
Franz Altmüller.… The Haganah is everywhere, colonel, including the outer offices of the ministry and in the Luftwaffe.…”

David continued to stare at the Jew, so matter of fact in his extraordinary … unbelievable … narrative.

“I think you’ll agree that such a meeting was unusual. It was not difficult to maneuver these two messengers into a situation that gave us a wire recording. It was in an out-of-the-way restaurant and they were amateurs.

“We then knew the basics. The materials and the general location. But not the specific point of transfer. And that was the all-important factor. Buenos Aires is enormous, its harbor more so—stretching for miles. Where in this vast area of land and mountains and water was the transfer to take place?

“Then, of course, came word from Fairfax. The man in Lisbon was being recalled. A most unusual action. But then how well thought out. The finest network specialist in Europe, fluent German and Spanish, an expert in blueprint designs. How logical. Don’t you agree?”

David started to speak, but stopped. Things were being said that triggered flashes of lightning in his mind. And unbelievable cracks of thunder … as unbelievable as the words he was hearing. He could only nod his head. Numbly.

Feld watched him closely. Then spoke.

“In New York I explained to you, albeit briefly, the sabotage at the airfield in Terceira. Zealots. The fact that the man in Lisbon could turn and be a part of the exchange was too much for the hot-tempered Spanish Jews. No one was more relieved than we of the Provisional Wing when you escaped. We assumed your stopover in New York was for the purposes of refining the logistics in Buenos Aires. We proceeded on that assumption.

“Then quite abruptly there was no more time. Reports out of Johannesburg—unforgivably delayed—said that the diamonds had arrived in Buenos Aires. We took the necessary violent measures, including an attempt to kill you. Prevented, I presume, by Rhinemann’s men.” Asher Feld stopped. Then added wearily, “The rest you know.”

No! The rest he did not know! Nor any other part!

Insanity!

Madness!

Everything was nothing! Nothing was everything!

The years! The lives!… The terrible nightmares of fear … the killing! Oh, my God, the killing!

For what?!… Oh, my God! For what?!

“You’re
lying!
” David crashed his hand down on the table. The steel of the pistol cracked against the wood with such force the vibration filled the room. “You’re
lying!
” he cried; he did not shout. “I’m in Buenos Aires to buy gyroscopic designs! To have them authenticated! Confirmed by code so that son of a bitch gets paid in Switzerland! That’s
all. Nothing else! Nothing else at all! Not this!
”

“Yes.…” Asher Feld spoke softly. “It is this.”

David whirled around at nothing. He stretched his neck; the crashing thunder in his head would not stop, the blinding flashes of light in front of his eyes were causing a terrible pain. He saw the bodies on the floor, the blood … the corpses on the sofa, the blood.

Tableau of death.

Death.

His whole shadow world had been ripped out of orbit. A thousand gambles … pains, manipulations, death. And more death … all faded into a meaningless void. The betrayal—if it was a betrayal—was so immense … hundreds of thousands had been sacrificed for absolutely nothing.

He had to stop. He had to think. To concentrate.

He looked at the painfully gaunt Eugene Lyons, his face a sheet of white.

The man’s dying
, thought Spaulding.

Death.

He had to concentrate.

Oh, Christ!
He had to
think.
Start
somewhere. Think.

Concentrate.

Or he would go out of his mind.

He turned to Feld. The Jew’s eyes were compassionate. They might have been something else, but they were not. They were compassionate.

And yet, they were the eyes of a man who killed in calm deliberation.

As he, the man in Lisbon, had killed.

Execution.

For what?

There were questions.
Concentrate on the questions.
Listen.
Find error.
Find error
—if ever error was needed in this world it was
now!

“I don’t believe you,” said David, trying as he had never tried in his life to be convincing.

“I think you do,” replied Feld quietly. “The girl, Leslie Hawkwood, told us you didn’t know. A judgment we found difficult to accept.… I accept it now.”

David had to think for a moment. He did not, at first, recognize the name.
Leslie Hawkwood.
And then, of course, he did instantly. Painfully. “How is she involved with you?” he asked numbly.

“Herold Goldsmith is her uncle. By marriage, of course; she’s not Jewish.”

“Goldsmith? The name … doesn’t mean anything to me.” … 
Concentrate!
He had to concentrate and speak rationally.

“It does to thousands of Jews. He’s the man behind the Baruch and Lehman negotiations. He’s done more to get our people out of the camps than any man in America.… He refused to have anything to do with us until the civilized, compassionate men in Washington, London and the Vatican turned their backs on him. Then he came to us … in fury. He created a hurricane; his niece was swept up in it. She’s overly dramatic, perhaps, but committed, effective. She moves in circles barred to the Jew.”

“
Why
?” … 
Listen!
For God’s sake,
listen.
Be
rational. Concentrate!

Asher Feld paused for a moment, his dark, hollow eyes clouded with quiet hatred. “She met dozens … hundreds, perhaps, of those Herold Goldsmith got out. She saw the photographs, heard the stories. It was enough. She was ready.”

The calm was beginning to return to David. Leslie was the springboard he needed to come back from the madness. There were questions.…

“I can’t reject the premise that Rhinemann bought the designs.…”

“Oh, come!” interrupted Feld. “You were the man in Lisbon. How often did your own agents—your best men—find Peenemünde invulnerable. Has not the German underground itself given up penetration?”

“No one ever gives up. On either side. The German
underground is
part
of this!”
That was the error
, thought David.

“If that were so,” said Feld, gesturing his head toward the dead Germans on the couch, “then those men were members of the underground. You know the Haganah, Lisbon. We don’t kill such men.”

Spaulding stared at the quiet-spoken Jew and knew he told the truth.

“The other evening,” said Spaulding quickly, “on Paraná. I was followed, beaten up … but I saw the IDs. They were Gestapo!”

“They were Haganah,” replied Feld. “The Gestapo is our best cover. If they had been Gestapo that would presume knowledge of your function.… Would they have let you live?”

Spaulding started to object. The Gestapo would not risk killing in a neutral country; not with identification on their persons. Then he realized the absurdity of his logic. Buenos Aires was not Lisbon. Of course, they would kill him. And then he recalled the words of Heinrich Stoltz.

We’ve checked at the highest levels … not the Gestapo … impossible
.…

And the strangely inappropriate apologia:
the racial theories of Rosenberg and Hitler are not shared
 … 
primarily an economic…

A defense of the indefensible offered by a man whose loyalty was purportedly
not
to the Third Reich but to
Erich Rhinemann.
A Jew.

Finally, Bobby Ballard:

 … 
he’s a believer … the real Junker item.
…

“Oh, my God,” said David under his breath.

“You have the advantage, colonel. What is your choice? We’re prepared to die; I say this in no sense heroically, merely as a fact.”

Spaulding stood motionless. He spoke softly, incredulously. “Do you understand the implications? …”

“We’ve understood them,” interrupted Feld, “since that day in Geneva your Walter Kendall met with Johann Dietricht.”

David reacted as though slapped. “Johann … 
Dietricht
?”

“The expendable heir of Dietricht Fabriken.”

“J.D.,” whispered Spaulding, remembering the crumpled yellow pages in Walter Kendall’s New York office. The breasts, the testicles, the swastikas … the obscene, nervous scribblings of an obscene, nervous man. “Johann Dietricht … 
J.D.
”

“Altmüller had him killed. In a way that precluded any …”

“
Why?
” asked David.

“To remove any connection with the Ministry of Armaments, is our thought; any association with the High Command. Dietricht initiated the negotiations to the point where they could be shifted to Buenos Aires. To Rhinemann. With Dietricht’s death the High Command was one more step removed.”

The items raced through David’s mind: Kendall had fled Buenos Aires in panic; something had gone wrong. The accountant would not allow himself to be trapped, to be killed. And he, David, was to kill—or have killed—Erich Rhinemann. Second to the designs, Rhinemann’s death was termed paramount. And with his death, Washington, too, was “one more step removed” from the exchange.

Yet there was Edmund Pace.

Edmund
Pace.

Never.

“A man was killed,” said David. “A Colonel Pace.…”

“In Fairfax,” completed Asher Feld. “A necessary death. He was being used as you are being used. We deal in pragmatics.… Without knowing the consequences—or refusing to admit them to himself—Colonel Pace was engineering ‘Tortugas.’ ”

“You could have
told
him. Not kill him! You could have stopped it! You
bastards!
”

Asher Feld sighed. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the hysteria among your industrialists. Or those of the Reich. He would have been eliminated.… By removing him ourselves, we neutralized Fairfax. And all its considerable facilities.”

There was no point in dwelling on the
necessity
of Pace’s death, thought David. Feld, the pragmatist, was right: Fairfax had been removed from “Tortugas.”

“Then Fairfax doesn’t know.”

“Our man does. But not enough.”

“Who is he? Who’s your man in Fairfax?”

Feld gestured to his silent companion. “He doesn’t know and I won’t tell you. You may kill me but I won’t tell you.”

Spaulding knew the dark-eyed Jew spoke the truth. “If Pace was used … and me. Who’s using us?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“You know this much. You must have … thoughts. Tell me.”

“Whoever gives you orders, I imagine.”

“One man.…”

“We know. He’s not very good, is he? There are others.”

“
Who?
Where does it
stop?
State? The War Department?
The White House? Where
, for Christ’s sake!?”

“Such territories have no meaning in these transactions. They vanish.”

“
Men don’t!
Men don’t vanish!”

“Then look for those who dealt with Koening. In South Africa. Kendall’s men. They created ‘Tortugas.’ ” Asher Feld’s voice grew stronger. “That’s your affair, Colonel Spaulding. We only wish to stop it. We’ll gladly
die
to stop it.”

David looked at the thin-faced, sad-faced man. “It means that much? With what you know, what you believe? Is either side worth it?”

“One must have priorities. Even in lessening descent. If Peenemünde is saved … put back on schedule … the Reich has a bargaining power that is unacceptable to us. Look to Dachau; look to Auschwitz, to Belsen. Unacceptable.”

David walked around the table and stood in front of the Jews. He put his Beretta in his shoulder holster and looked at Asher Feld.

“If you’ve lied to me, I’ll kill you. And then I’ll go back to Lisbon, into the north country, and wipe out every Haganah fanatic in the hills. Those I don’t kill, I’ll expose.… Put on your coats and get out of here. Take a room at the Alvear under the name of … Pace.
E. Pace.
I’ll be in touch.”

“Our weapons?” asked Feld, pulling his light grey overcoat over his shoulders.

“I’ll keep them. I’m sure you can afford others.… And don’t wait for us outside. There’s an FMF vehicle cruising for me.”

“What about ‘Tortugas’?” Asher Feld was pleading.

“I said I’ll be in touch!” shouted Spaulding. “Now, get out of here!… Pick up the Hawkwood girl; she’s around the corner in the Renault. Here are the keys.” David reached in his pocket and threw the keys to Asher Feld’s companion, who caught them effortlessly. “Send her back to California. Tonight, if you can. No later than tomorrow morning. Is that clear?”