The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “I don’t know; I think I did. I think I saw you yesterday and somewhere in the back of my mind I made a decision. Does that sound brazen of me?”

  “If you did, the decision was long overdue.”

  “Yes, I imagine it was.” She lay back, pulling the sheet over her. “I’ve been very selfish. Spoiled and selfish and behaving really quite badly.”

  “Because you haven’t slept around?” It was his turn to roll over and touch her face. He kissed both her eyes, now open; the deep speckles of blue made bluer, deeper, by the late afternoon sun streaming through the blinds. She smiled; her perfect white teeth glistening with the moisture of her mouth, her lips curved in that genuine curve of humor.

  “That’s funny. I must be unpatriotic. I’ve withheld my charms only to deliver them to a noncombatant.”

  “The Visigoths wouldn’t have approved. The warriors came first, I’m told.”

  “Let’s not tell them.” She reached up for his face. “Oh, David, David, David.”

  25

  “I hope I didn’t wake you. I wouldn’t have troubled you but I thought you’d want me to.”

  Ambassador Granville’s voice over the telephone was more solicitous than David expected it to be. He looked at his watch as he replied. It was three minutes of ten in the morning.

  “Oh?… No, sir. I was just getting up. Sorry I overslept.”

  There was a note on the telephone table. It was from Jean.

  “Your friend was in contact with us.”

  “Friend?” David unfolded the note. My Darling—You fell into such a beautiful sleep it would have broken my heart to disturb you. Called a taxi. See you in the morning. At the Bastile. Your ex-regimented phoenix. David smiled, remembering her smile.

  “… the details, I’m sure, aren’t warranted.” Granville had said something and he hadn’t been listening.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador. This must be a poor connection; your voice fades in and out.” All telephones beyond the Atlantic, north, middle and south, were temperamental instruments. An unassailable fact.

  “Or something else, I’m afraid,” said Granville with irritation, obviously referring to the possibility of a telephone tap. “When you get in, please come to see me.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there directly.”

  He picked up Jean’s note and read it again.

  She had said last night that he was complicating her life. But there were no commitments; she’d said that, too.

  What the hell was a commitment? He didn’t want to speculate. He didn’t want to think about the awful discovery—the instant, splendid comfort they both recognized. It wasn’t the time for it.…

  Yet to deny it would be to reject an extraordinary reality. He was trained to deal with reality.

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  His “friend” had been in contact with the embassy.

  Walter Kendall.

  That was another reality. It couldn’t wait.

  He crushed out his cigarette angrily, watching his fingers stab the butt into the metal ashtray.

  Why was he angry?

  He didn’t care to speculate on that, either. He had a job to do. He hoped he had the commitment for it.

  “Jean said you barely made it through dinner. You needed a good night’s sleep; I must say you look better.” The ambassador had come from around his desk to greet him as he entered the large, ornate office. David was a little bewildered. The old diplomat was actually being solicitous, displaying a concern that belied his unconcealed disapproval of two days ago. Or was it his use of the name Jean instead of the forbidding Mrs. Cameron.

  “She was very kind. I couldn’t have found a decent restaurant without her.”

  “I daresay.… I won’t detain you, you’d better get cracking with this Kendall.”

  “You said he’s been in contact.…”

  “Starting last night; early this morning to be accurate. He’s at the Alvear and apparently quite agitated, according to the switchboard. At two thirty this morning he was shouting, demanding to know where you were. Naturally, we don’t give out that information.”

  “I’m grateful. As you said, I needed the sleep; Kendall would have prevented it. Do you have his telephone number? Or shall I get it from the book?”

  “No, right here.” Granville walked to his desk and picked up a sheet of notepaper. David followed and took it from the ambassador’s outstretched hand.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll get on it.” He turned and started for the door, Granville’s voice stopping him.

  “Spaulding?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Cameron would like to see you. Assess your recovery, I daresay. Her office is in the south wing. First door from the entrance, on the right. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’ll find it, sir.”

  “I’m sure you will. See you later in the day.”

  David went out the heavy baroque door, closing it behind him. Was it his imagination or was Granville reluctantly giving an approval to his and Jean’s sudden … alliance? The words were approving, the tone of voice reluctant.

  He walked down the connecting corridor toward the south wing and reached her door. Her name was stamped on a brass plate to the left of the doorframe. He had not noticed it yesterday.

  Mrs. Andrew Cameron.

  So his name had been Andrew. Spaulding hadn’t asked his first name; she hadn’t volunteered it.

  As he looked at the brass plate he found himself experiencing a very strange reaction. He resented Andrew Cameron; resented his life, his death.

  The door was open and he entered. Jean’s secretary was obviously an Argentine. A porteña. The black Spanish hair was pulled back into a bun, her features Latin.

  “Mrs. Cameron, please. David Spaulding.”

  “Please go in. She’s expecting you.” David approached the door and turned the knob.

  She was taken by surprise, he thought. She was at the window looking out at the south lawn, a page of paper in her hand, glasses pushed above her forehead, resting on top of her light brown hair.

  Startled, she removed her glasses from their perch and stood immobile. Slowly, as if studying him first, she smiled.

  He found himself afraid. More than afraid, for a moment. And then she spoke and the sudden anguish left him, replaced by a deeply felt relief.

  “I woke up this morning and reached for you. You weren’t there and I thought I might cry.”

  He walked rapidly to her and they held each other. Neither spoke. The silence, the embrace, the splendid comfort returning.

  “Granville acted like a procurer a little while ago,” he said finally, holding her by the shoulders, looking at her blue speckled eyes that held such intelligent humor.

  “I told you he was lovable. You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “You didn’t tell me we had dinner, though. Or that I could barely get through it.”

  “I was hoping you’d slip; give him more to think about.”

  “I don’t understand him. Or you, maybe.”

  “Henderson has a problem.… Me. He’s not sure how to handle it—me. He’s overprotective because I’ve led him to believe I wanted that protection. I did; it was easier. But a man who’s had three wives and at least twice that many mistresses over the years is no Victorian.… And he knows you’re not going to be here long. As he would put it: do I sketch a reasonable picture?”

  “I daresay,” answered David in Granville’s Anglicized manner.

  “That’s unkind.” Jean laughed. “He probably doesn’t approve of you, which makes his unspoken acceptance very difficult for him.”

  David released her. “I know damned well he doesn’t approve.… Look, I have to make some calls; go out and meet someone.…”

  “Just someone?”

  “A ravishing beauty who’ll introduce me to lots of other ravishing beauties. And between the two of us, I can’t stand him. But I have to see him.… Will you have dinner wi
th me?”

  “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you. I’d planned to. You didn’t have a choice.”

  “You’re right; you’re brazen.”

  “I made that clear. You broke down the regimens; I’m flying up out of my own personal ash heap.… The air feels good.”

  “It was going to happen.… I was here.” He wasn’t sure why he said it but he had to.

  Walter Kendall paced the hotel room as though it were a cage. Spaulding sat on the couch watching him, trying to decide which animal Kendall reminded him of; there were several that came to mind, none pets.

  “You listen to me,” Kendall said. “This is no military operation. You take orders, you don’t give them.”

  “I’m sorry; I think you’re misreading me.” David was tempted to answer Kendall’s anger in kind, but he decided not to.

  “I misread, bullshit! You told Swanson you were in some trouble in New York. That’s your problem, not ours.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “Oh yes I can! You tried to sell that to Swanson and he bought it. You could have involved us!”

  “Now just a minute.” Spaulding felt he could object legitimately—within the boundaries he had mentally staked off for Kendall. “I told Swanson that in my opinion the ‘trouble’ in New York might have been related to Buenos Aires. I didn’t say it was, I said it might have been.”

  “That’s not possible!”

  “How the hell can you be so sure?”

  “Because I am.” Kendall was not only agitated, thought David, he was impatient. “This is a business proposition. The deal’s been made. There’s no one trying to stop it. Stop us.”

  “Hostilities don’t cease because a deal’s been made. If the German command got wind of it they’d blow up Buenos Aires to stop it.”

  “Yeah … well, that’s not possible.”

  “You know that?”

  “We know it.… So don’t go confusing that stupid bastard Swanson. I’ll level with you. This is strictly a money-line negotiation. We could have completed it without any help from Washington, but they insisted—Swanson insisted—that they have a man here. O.K., you’re him. You can be helpful; you can get the papers out and you speak the languages. But that’s all you’ve got to do. Don’t call attention to yourself. We don’t want anyone upset.”

  Grudgingly, David began to understand the subtle clarity of Brigadier General Swanson’s manipulation. Swanson had maneuvered him into a clean position. The killing of Erich Rhinemann—whether he did it himself or whether he bought the assassin—would be totally unexpected. Swanson wasn’t by any means the “stupid bastard” Kendall thought he was. Or that David had considered.

  Swanson was nervous. A neophyte. But he was pretty damned good.

  “All right. My apologies,” said Spaulding, indicating a sincerity he didn’t feel. “Perhaps the New York thing was exaggerated. I made enemies in Portugal, I can’t deny that.… I got out under cover, you know.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no way the people in New York could know I left the city.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as you are that no one’s trying to stop your negotiations.”

  “Yeah.… O.K. Well, everything’s set. I got a schedule.”

  “You’ve seen Rhinemann?”

  “Yesterday. All day.”

  “What about Lyons?” asked David.

  “Swanson’s packing him off at the end of the week. With his nursemaids. Rhinemann figures the designs will be arriving Sunday or Monday.”

  “In steps or all together?”

  “Probably two sets of prints. He’s not sure. It doesn’t make any difference; they’ll be here in full by Tuesday. He guaranteed.”

  “Then we’ve moved up. You estimated three weeks.” David felt a pain in his stomach. He knew it wasn’t related to Walter Kendall or Eugene Lyons or designs for high-altitude gyroscopes. It was Jean Cameron and the simple fact that he’d have only one week with her.

  It disturbed him greatly and he speculated—briefly—on the meaning of this disturbance.

  And then he knew he could not allow himself the indulgence; the two entities had to remain separate, the worlds separate.

  “Rhinemann’s got good control,” said Kendall, more than a hint of respect showing in his voice. “I’m impressed with his methods. Very precise.”

  “If you think that, you don’t need me.” David was buying a few seconds to steer their conversation to another area. His statement was rhetorical.

  “We don’t; that’s what I said. But there’s a lot of money involved and since the War Department—one way or another—is picking up a large share of the tab, Swanson wants his accounts covered. I don’t sweat him on that. It’s business.”

  Spaulding recognized his moment. “Then let’s get to the codes. I haven’t wasted the three days down here. I’ve struck up a friendship of sorts with the embassy cryp.”

  “The what?”

  “The head cryptographer. He’ll send out the codes to Washington; the payment authorization.”

  “Oh.… Yeah, that.” Kendall was squeezing a cigarette, prepared to insert it in his mouth. He was only half-concerned with codes and cryptographers, thought David. They were the wrap-up, the necessary details relegated to others. Or was it an act? wondered Spaulding.

  He’d know in a moment or two.

  “As you pointed out, it’s a great deal of money. So we’ve decided to use a scrambler with code switches every twelve hours. We’ll prepare the cryp schedule tonight and send it out by patrol courier to Washington tomorrow. The master plate will allow for fifteen letters.… Naturally, the prime word will be ‘Tortugas.’ ”

  Spaulding watched the disheveled accountant.

  There was no reaction whatsoever.

  “O.K.… Yeah, O.K.” Kendall sat down in an easy chair. His mind seemed somewhere else.

  “That meets with your approval, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure. Why not? Play any games you like. All I give a shit about is that Geneva radios the confirmation and you fly out of here.”

  “Yes, but I thought the reference had to include the … code factor.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “ ‘Tortugas.’ Hasn’t it got to be ‘Tortugas’?”

  “Why? What’s ‘Tortugas’?”

  The man wasn’t acting. David was sure of that. “Perhaps I misunderstood. I thought ‘Tortugas’ was part of the authorization code.”

  “Christ! You and Swanson! All of you. Military geniuses! Jesus! If it doesn’t sound like Dan Dunn, Secret Agent, it’s not the real McCoy, huh?… Look. When Lyons tells you everything’s in order, just say so. Then drive out to the airport … it’s a small field called Mendarro … and Rhinemann’s men will tell you when you can leave. O.K.? You got that?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it,” said Spaulding. But he wasn’t sure.

  Outside, David walked aimlessly down the Buenos Aires streets. He reached the huge park of the Plaza San Martín, with its fountains, its rows of white gravel paths, its calm disorder.

  He sat down on a slatted bench and tried to define the elusive pieces of the increasingly complex puzzle.

  Walter Kendall hadn’t lied. “Tortugas” meant nothing to him.

  Yet a man in an elevator in New York City had risked his life to learn about “Tortugas.”

  Ira Barden in Fairfax had told him there was only a single word opposite his name in the DW transfer in Ed Pace’s vaults: “Tortugas.”

  There was an obvious answer, perhaps. Ed Pace’s death prohibited any real knowledge, but the probability was genuine.

  Berlin had gotten word of the Peenemünde negotiation—too late to prevent the theft of the designs—and was now committed to stopping the sale. Not only stopping it, but if possible tracing the involvement of everyone concerned. Trapping the entire Rhinemann network.

  If this was the explanation—and what other plausible one existed?
—Pace’s code name, “Tortugas,” had been leaked to Berlin by Fairfax infiltration. That there was a serious breach of security at Fairfax was clear; Pace’s murder was proof.

  His own role could be easily assessed by Berlin, thought David. The man in Lisbon suddenly transferred to Buenos Aires. The expert whose skill was proven in hundreds of espionage transactions, whose own network was the most ruthlessly efficient in southern Europe, did not walk out of his own creation unless his expertise was considered vital someplace else. He’d long ago accepted the fact that Berlin more than suspected him. In a way it was his protection; he’d by no means won every roll of the dice. If the enemy killed him, someone else would take his place. The enemy would have to start all over again. He was a known commodity … accept an existing devil.

  Spaulding considered carefully, minutely, what he might do were he the enemy. What steps would he take at this specific juncture?

  Barring panic or error, the enemy would not kill him. Not now. Because he could not by himself inhibit the delivery of the designs. He could, however, lead his counterparts to the moment and place of delivery.

  What is the location of Tortugas!?

  The desperate … hysterical man in the Montgomery elevator had screamed the question, preferring to die rather than reveal those whose orders he followed. The Nazis reveled in such fanaticism. And so did others, for other reasons.

  He—Spaulding—would therefore be placed under äusserste Überwachung—foolproof surveillance, three- to four-man teams, twenty-four hours a day. That would account for the recruitment of the extraterritorial personnel on the Berlin payroll. Agents who operated outside the borders of Germany, had operated—for profit—for years. The languages and dialects would vary; deep-cover operatives who could move with impunity in neutral capitals because they had no Gestapo or Gehlen or Nachrichtendienst histories.

  The Balkans and the Middle East countries had such personnel for hire. They were expensive; they were among the best. Their only loyality was to the pound sterling and the American dollar.

  Along with this round-the-clock surveillance, Berlin would take extraordinary measures to prevent him from developing his own network in Buenos Aires. That would mean infiltrating the American embassy. Berlin would not overlook that possibility. A great deal of money would be offered.