The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  Spaulding quickly shifted his gaze to Granville, reminding the old man that “banking interests” was the limit of identities. The name of Erich Rhinemann was out of bounds.

  “Yes, I admit, I was.… But that’s neither here nor there. What do you wish to do about last night? I think we should lodge a formal complaint with the police. Not that it will do a damn bit of good.”

  David fell silent for a few moments, trying to consider the pros and cons of Granville’s suggestion. “Would we get press coverage?”

  “Very little, I’d think,” answered Jean.

  “Embassy attachés usually have money,” said Granville. “They’ve been robbed. It will be called an attempted robbery. Probably was.”

  “But the Grupo doesn’t like that kind of news. It doesn’t fit in with the colonels’ view of things, and they control the press.” Jean was thinking out loud, looking at David. “They’ll play it down.”

  “And if we don’t complain—assuming it was not robbery—we’re admitting we think it was something else. Which I’m not prepared to do,” said Spaulding.

  “Then by all means, a formal complaint will be registered this morning. Will you dictate a report of the incident and sign it, please?” Obviously, Granville wished to terminate the meeting. “And to be frank with you, Spaulding, unless I’m considerably in the dark, I believe it was an attempt to rob a newly arrived rich American. I’m told the airport taxi drivers have formed a veritable thieves’ carnival. Extranjeros would be perfectly logical participants.”

  David stood up; he was pleased to see that Jean did the same. “I’ll accept that, Mr. Ambassador. The years in Lisbon have made me overly … concerned. I’ll adjust.”

  “I daresay. Do write up the report.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get him a stenographer,” said Jean. “Bilingual.”

  “Not necessary. I’ll dictate it in Spanish.”

  “I forgot.” Jean smiled. “Bobby said they’d sent us a bright one.”

  David supposed it began with that first lunch. Later she told him it was before, but he didn’t believe her. She claimed it was when he said that BA stood for Montevideo; that was silly, it didn’t make sense.

  What made sense—and they both recognized it without any attempt to verbalize it—was the total relaxation each felt in the other’s company. It was as simple as that. It was a splendid comfort; the silences never awkward, the laughter easy and based in communicated humor, not forced response.

  It was remarkable. Made more so, David believed, because neither expected it, neither sought it. Both had good and sufficient reasons to avoid any relationships other than surface or slightly below. He was an impermanent man, hoping only to survive and start somewhere again with a clear head and suppressed memories. That was important to him. And he knew she still mourned a man so deeply she couldn’t possibly—without intolerable guilt—push that man’s face and body and mind behind her.

  She told him partially why herself. Her husband had not been the image of the dashing carrier pilot so often depicted by navy public relations. He’d had an extraordinary fear—not for himself—but of taking lives. Were it not for the abuse he knew would have been directed at his Maryland wife and Maryland family, Cameron would have sought conscientious objector status. Then, too, perhaps he hadn’t the courage of his own convictions.

  Why a pilot?

  Cameron had been flying since he was in his teens. It seemed natural and he believed his civilian training might lead to a Stateside instructor’s berth. He rejected military law; too many of his fellow attorneys had gone after it and found themselves in the infantry and on the decks of battleships. The military had enough lawyers; they wanted pilots.

  David thought he understood why Jean told him so much about her dead husband. There were two reasons. The first was that by doing so openly, she was adjusting to what she felt was happening between them; atoning, perhaps. The second was less clear but in no way less important. Jean Cameron hated the war; hated what it had taken away from her. She wanted him to know that.

  Because—David realized—her instincts told her he was very much involved. And she would have no part of that involvement; she owed that much to Cameron’s memory.

  They’d gone to lunch at a restaurant overlooking the waters of the Riachúelo Basin near the piers of Dársena Sud. She had suggested it—the restaurant and the lunch. She saw that he was still exhausted; what sleep he’d managed had been interrupted constantly with pain. She insisted that he needed a long, relaxing lunch, then home to bed and a day’s recuperation.

  She hadn’t meant to go with him.

  He hadn’t meant for her to.

  “Ballard’s a nice guy,” said Spaulding, pouring a clear white Colón.

  “Bobby’s a dear,” she agreed. “He’s a kind person.”

  “He’s very fond of you.”

  “And I of him.… What you’re speculating on is perfectly natural, and I’m sorry to spoil the wilder melody. Is melody right? Granville told me who your parents were. I’m impressed.”

  “I’ve refused to read music since the age of eight. But ‘melody’s’ fine. I just wondered.”

  “Bobby gave me a thoroughly professional try, with enormous charm and good humor. A better girl would have responded. He had every right to be angry.… I wanted his company but gave very little in return for it.”

  “He accepted your terms,” said David affirmatively.

  “I said he was kind.”

  “There must be ten other fellows here.…”

  “Plus the marine guard,” interjected Jean, feigning a lovely, unmilitary salute. “Don’t forget them.”

  “A hundred and ten, then. You’re Deanna Durbin.”

  “Hardly. The marines rotate off the FMF base south of La Boca; the staff—those without wives and kinder—are plagued with the embassy syndrome.”

  “What’s that?”

  “State Department-eye-tis.… The quivers. You seem to be singularly lacking in them.”

  “I don’t know whether I am or not. I don’t know what they are.”

  “Which tells me something about you, doesn’t it?”

  “What does it tell you?”

  “You’re not a State Department climber. The ‘eye-tis’ syndrome is treading lightly and making damned sure everybody above you—especially the ambassador—is happy with your sincerest efforts.” Jean grimaced like a boxer puppy, her delicate chin forward, her eyebrows down—mocking the words. Spaulding broke out laughing; the girl had captured the embassy look and voice with devastating accuracy.

  “Christ, I’m going to put you on the radio.” He laughed again. “You’ve described the syndrome. I see it, Lord! I see it!”

  “But you’re not infected by it.” Jean stopped her mimicry and looked into his eyes. “I watched you with Granville; you were just barely polite. You weren’t looking for a fitness report, were you?”

  He returned her gaze. “No, I wasn’t.… To answer the question that’s rattling around that lovely head of yours so loud it vibrates—I’m not a Foreign Service career officer. I’m strictly wartime. I do work out of embassies on a variety of related assignments for a couple of related reasons. I speak four languages and because of those parents that impressed you so, I have what is euphemistically described as access to important people in government, commerce, those areas. Since I’m not a complete idiot, I often circulate confidential information among corporations in various countries. The market place doesn’t stop humming for such inconveniences as war.… That’s my contribution. I’m not very proud of it, but it’s what they handed me.”

  She smiled her genuine smile and reached for his hand. “I think you do whatever you do very intelligently and well. There aren’t many people who can say that. And God knows you can’t choose.”

  “ ‘What did you do in the war, daddy?’ … ‘Well, son,’ ” David tried his own caricature. “ ‘I went from place to place telling friends of the Chase Bank to
sell high and buy low and clear a decent profit margin.’ ” He kept her hand in his.

  “And got attacked on Argentine rooftops and … and what were those stitches in your shoulder?”

  “The cargo plane I was on in the Azores made a rotten landing. I think the pilot and his whole crew were plastered.”

  “There. See? You live as dangerously as any man at the front.… If I meet that boy you’re talking to, I’ll tell him that.”

  Their eyes were locked; Jean withdrew her hand, embarrassed. But for Spaulding the important thing was that she believed him. She accepted his cover extension without question. It occurred to him that he was at once greatly relieved and yet, in a way, quite sorry. He found no professional pride in lying to her successfully.

  “So now you know how I’ve avoided the State Department syndrome. I’m still not sure why it’s relevant. What the hell, with a hundred and ten men and marines.…”

  “The marines don’t count. They have sundry interests down here in La Boca.”

  “Then the staff—those without the ‘Wives and kinder’—they can’t all be quivering.”

  “But they do and I’ve been grateful. They’d like to get to the Court of St James’s someday.”

  “Now you’re playing mental gymnastics. I’m not following you.”

  “No, I’m not. I wanted to see if Bobby had told you. He hasn’t. I said he was kind.… He was giving me the chance to tell you myself.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “My husband was Henderson Granville’s stepson. They were very close.”

  They left the restaurant shortly past four and walked around the docks of the Dársena Sud waterfront, breathing in the salt air. It seemed to David that Jean was enjoying herself in a way she hadn’t in too long a time. That it was part of the instant comfort between them, he realized, but it went further. As if some splendid relief had swept over her.

  Her loveliness had been evident from those first moments on the staircase, but as he thought back on that brief introduction, he knew what the difference was. Jean Cameron had been outgoing, good-natured … welcoming charm itself. But there’d been something else: a detachment born of self-control. Total control. A patina of authority that had nothing to do with her status at the embassy or whatever other benefits derived from her marriage to the ambassador’s stepson. It was related solely to her own decisions, her own outlook.

  He had seen that detached authority throughout the morning—when she introduced him to various embassy employees; when she gave directions to her secretary; when she answered her telephone and rendered quick instructions.

  Even in the byplay with Bobby Ballard she glided firmly, with the assurance of knowing her own pattern. Ballard could shout humorously that she could “get irresponsibly drunk” because by no stretch of the imagination would she allow herself to do that.

  Jean kept a tight rein on herself.

  The rein was loosening now.

  Yesterday he had looked at her closely, finding the years; and she was completely unconcerned, without vanity. Now, walking along the docks, holding his arm, she was pleasantly aware of the looks she received from the scores of waterfront Bocamos. Spaulding knew she hoped he was aware of those looks.

  “Look, David,” she said excitedly. “Those boats are going to crash head on.”

  Several hundred yards out in the bay, two trawlers were on a collision course, both steam whistles filling the air with aggressive warnings, both crews shouting at each other from port and starboard railings.

  “The one on the right will veer.”

  It did. At the last moment, amid dozens of guttural oaths and gestures.

  “How did you know?” she said.

  “Simple right of way; the owner would get clobbered with damages. There’ll be a brawl on one of these piers pretty soon, though.”

  “Let’s not wait for it. You’ve had enough of that.”

  They walked out of the dock area into the narrow La Boca streets, teeming with small fish markets, profuse with fat merchants in bloodied aprons and shouting customers. The afternoon catch was in, the day’s labor on the water over. The rest was selling and drinking and retelling the misadventures of the past twelve hours.

  They reached a miniature square called—for no apparent reason—Plaza Ocho Calle; there was no street number eight, no plaza to speak of. A taxi hesitantly came to a stop at the corner, let out its fare and started up again, blocked by pedestrians unconcerned with such vehicles. David looked at Jean and she nodded, smiling. He shouted at the driver.

  Inside the taxi he gave his address. It didn’t occur to him to do otherwise.

  They rode in silence for several minutes, their shoulders touching, her hand underneath his arm.

  “What are you thinking of?” David asked, seeing the distant but happy expression on her face.

  “Oh, the way I pictured you when Henderson read the scramble the other night.… Yes, I call him Henderson; I always have.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone, even the president, calling him Henderson.”

  “You don’t know him. Underneath that Racquet Club jacket is lovable Henderson.”

  “How did you picture me?”

  “Very differently.”

  “From what?”

  “You.… I thought you’d be terribly short, to begin with. An attaché named David Spaulding who’s some kind of financial whiz and is going to have conferences with the banks and the colonels about money things is short, at least fifty years old and has very little hair. He also wears spectacles—not glasses—and has a thin nose. Probably has an allergy as well—he sneezes a lot and blows his nose all the time. And he speaks in short, clipped sentences; very precise and quite disagreeable.”

  “He chases secretaries, too; don’t leave that out.”

  “My David Spaulding doesn’t chase secretaries. He reads dirty books.”

  David felt a twinge. Throw in an unkempt appearance, a soiled handkerchief and replace the spectacles with glasses—worn occasionally—and Jean was describing Walter Kendall.

  “Your Spaulding’s an unpleasant fellow.”

  “Not the new one,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm.

  The taxi drew up to the curb in front of the entrance on Córdoba. Jean Cameron hesitated, staring momentarily at the apartment house door. David spoke softly, without emphasis.

  “Shall I take you to the embassy?”

  She turned to him. “No.”

  He paid the driver and they went inside.

  The field thread was invisibly protruding from the knob; he felt it.

  He inserted the key in the lock and instinctively, gently shouldered her aside as he pushed the door open. The apartment was as he had left it that morning; he knew she felt his relief. He held the door for her. Jean entered and looked around.

  “It really isn’t so bad, is it?” she said.

  “Humble but home.” He left the door open and with a smile, a gesture—without words—he asked her to stay where she was. He walked rapidly into the bedroom, returned and went through the double doors onto his miniature, high-walled patio. He looked up, scanning the windows and the roof carefully. He smiled again at her from under the branches of the fruit tree. She understood, closed the door and came out to him.

  “You did that very professionally, Mr. Spaulding.”

  “In the best traditions of extreme cowardice, Mrs. Cameron.”

  He realized his mistake the minute he’d made it. It was not the moment to use the married title. And yet, in some oblique way she seemed grateful that he had. She moved again and stood directly in front of him.

  “Mrs. Cameron thanks you.”

  He reached out and held her by the waist. Her arms slowly, haltingly, went up to his shoulders; her hands cupped his face and she stared into his eyes.

  He did not move. The decision, the first step, had to be hers; he understood that.

  She brought her lips to his. The touch was soft and lovely and meant for ear
thbound angels. And then she trembled with an almost uncontrollable sense of urgency. Her lips parted and she pressed her body with extraordinary strength into his, her arms clutched about his neck.

  She pulled her lips away from his and buried her face into his chest, holding him with fierce possession.

  “Don’t say anything,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything at all.… Just take me.”

  He picked her up silently and carried her into the bedroom. She kept her face pressed into his chest, as if she were afraid to see light or even him. He lowered her gently onto the bed and closed the door.

  In a few moments they were naked and he pulled the blankets over them. It was a moist and beautiful darkness. A splendid comfort.

  “I want to say something,” she said, tracing her finger over his lips, her face above his, her breasts innocently on his chest. And smiling her genuine smile.

  “I know. You want the other Spaulding. The thin one with spectacles.” He kissed her fingers.

  “He disappeared in an explosion of sorts.”

  “You’re positively descriptive, young lady.”

  “And not so young.… That’s what I want to talk about.”

  “A pension. You’re angling for Social Security. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Be serious, silly boy.”

  “And not so silly.…”

  “There’s no commitment, David,” she said, interrupting him. “I want you to know that.… I don’t know how else to say it. Everything happened so fast.”

  “Everything happened very naturally. Explanations aren’t required.”

  “Well, I think some are. I didn’t expect to be here.”

  “I didn’t expect that you would be. I suppose I hoped, I’ll admit that.… I didn’t plan; neither of us did.”