The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  They reached the Plaza de Mayo in fifteen minutes, taking a circular route, making sure they were not followed. The Plaza was not deserted. It was, as the prewar travel posters proclaimed, a Western Hemisphere Paris. Like Paris, there were dozens of early stragglers, dressed mainly in expensive clothes. Taxis stopped and started; prostitutes made their last attempts to find profitable beds; the streetlights illuminated the huge fountains; lovers dabbled their hands in the pools.

  The Plaza de Mayo at three thirty in the morning was not a barren, dead place to be. And David was grateful for that.

  Lyons pulled the car up to the telephone booth and Spaulding got out.

  “Whatever it is, you’ve hit the rawest nerve in Buenos Aires.” Granville’s voice was hard and precise. “I must demand that you return to the embassy. For your own protection as well as the good of our diplomatic relations.”

  “You’ll have to be clearer than that, I’m afraid,” replied David.

  Granville was.

  The “one or two” contacts the ambassador felt he could reach in the Grupo were reduced, of course, to one. That man made inquiries as to the trawler in Ocho Calle and subsequently was taken from his home under guard. That was the information Granville gathered from a hysterical wife.

  An hour later the ambassador received word from a GOU liaison that his “friend” had been killed in an automobile accident. The GOU wanted him to have the news. It was most unfortunate.

  When Granville tried reaching the wife, an operator cut in, explaining that the telephone was disconnected.

  “You’ve involved us, Spaulding! We can’t function with Intelligence dead weight around our necks. The situation in Buenos Aires is extremely delicate.”

  “You are involved, sir. A couple of thousand miles away people are shooting at each other.”

  “Shit!” It was just about the most unexpected expletive David thought he could hear from Granville. “Learn your lines of demarcation! We all have jobs to do within the … artificial, if you like, parameters that are set for us! I repeat, sir. Return to the embassy and I’ll expedite your immediate return to the United States. Or if you refuse, take yourself to FMF. That’s beyond my jurisdiction; you will be no part of the embassy!”

  My God! thought David. Artificial parameters. Jurisdictions. Diplomatic niceties. When men were dying, armies destroyed, cities obliterated! And men in high-ceilinged rooms played games with words and attitudes!

  “I can’t go to FMF. But I can give you something to think about. Within forty-eight hours all American ships and aircraft in the coastal zones are entering a radio and radar blackout! Everything grounded, immobilized. That’s straight military holy writ. And I think you’d better find out why! Because I think I know, and if I’m right, your diplomatic wreck is filthier than anything you can imagine! Try a man named Swanson at the War Department. Brigadier Alan Swanson! And tell him I’ve found ‘Tortugas’!”

  David slammed down the receiver with such force that chips of Bakelite fell off the side of the telephone. He wanted to run. Open the door of the suffocating booth and race away.

  But where to? There was nowhere.

  He took several deep breaths and once more dialed the embassy.

  Jean’s voice was soft, filled with anxiety. But she had found a place!

  He and Lyons were to drive due west on Rivadavia to the farthest outskirts of Buenos Aires. At the end of Rivadavia was a road bearing right—it could be spotted by a large statue of the Madonna at its beginning. The road led to the flat grass country, provinciates country. Thirty-six miles beyond the Madonna was another road—on the left—this marked by telephone junction wires converging into a transformer box on top of a double-strapped telephone pole. The road led to a ranch belonging to one Alfonso Quesarro. Señor Quesarro would not be there … under the circumstances. Neither would his wife. But a skeleton staff would be on; the remaining staff quarters would be available for Mrs. Cameron’s unknown friends.

  Jean would obey his orders: she would not leave the embassy.

  And she loved him. Terribly.

  Dawn came up over the grass country. The breezes were warm; David had to remind himself that it was January. The Argentine summer. A member of the skeleton staff of Estancia Quesarro met them several miles down the road past the telephone junction wires, on the property border, and escorted them to the rancheŕia—a cluster of small one-story cottages—near but not adjacent to the main buildings. They were led to an adobe farthest from the other houses; it was on the edge of a fenced grazing area, fields extending as far as the eye could see. The house was the residence of the caporal—the ranch foreman.

  David understood as he looked up at the roof, at the single telephone line. Ranch foremen had to be able to use a telephone.

  Their escort opened the door and stood in the frame, anxious to leave. He touched David’s arm and spoke in a Spanish tempered with pampas Indian.

  “The telephones out here are with operators. The service is poor; not like the city. I am to tell you this, señor.”

  But that information was not what the gaucho was telling him. He was telling him to be careful.

  “I’ll remember,” said Spaulding. “Thank you.”

  The man left quickly and David closed the door. Lyons was standing across the room, in the center of a small monastery arch that led to some sort of sunlit enclosure. The metal case containing the gyroscopic designs was in his right hand; with his left he beckoned David.

  Beyond the arch was a cubicle; in the center, underneath an oblong window overlooking the fields, there was a bed.

  Spaulding undid the top of his trousers and peeled them off.

  He fell with his full weight into the hard mattress and slept.

  40

  It seemed only seconds ago that he had walked through the small arch into the sunlit cubicle.

  He felt the prodding fingers around his wound; he winced as a cold-hot liquid was applied about his waist and the adhesive ripped off.

  He opened his eyes fiercely and saw the figure of a man bent over the bed. Lyons was standing beside him. At the edge of the hard mattress was the universal shape of a medical bag. The man bending over him was a doctor. He spoke in unusually clear English.

  “You’ve slept nearly eight hours. That is the best precription one could give you.… I’m going to suture this in three places; that should do it. There will be a degree of discomfort, but with the tape you’ll be quite mobile.”

  “What time is it?” asked David.

  Lyons looked at his watch. He whispered, and the words were clear. “Two … o’clock.”

  “Thank you for coming out here,” said Spaulding, shifting his weight for the doctor’s instruments.

  “Wait until I’m back at my office in Palermo.” The doctor laughed softly, sardonically. “I’m sure I’m on one of their lists.” He inserted a suture, reassuring David with a tight smile. “I left word I was on a maternity call at an outback ranch.… There.” He tied off the stitch and patted Spaulding’s bare skin. “Two more and we’re finished.”

  “Do you think you’ll be questioned?”

  “No. Not actually. The junta closes its eyes quite often. There’s not an abundance of doctors here.… And amusingly enough, interrogators invariably seek free medical advice. I think it goes with their mentalities.”

  “And I think you’re covering. I think it was dangerous.”

  The doctor held his hands in place as he looked at David. “Jean Cameron is a very special person. If the history of wartime Buenos Aires is written, she’ll be prominently mentioned.” He returned to the sutures without elaboration. David had the feeling that the doctor did not wish to talk further. He was in a hurry.

  Twenty minutes later Spaulding was on his feet, the doctor at the door of the adobe hut. David shook the medical man’s hand. “I’m afraid I can’t pay you,” he said.

  “You already have, colonel. I’m a Jew.”

  Spaulding did not release the doctor�
�s hand. Instead, he held it firmly—not in salutation. “Please explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain. The Jewish community is filled with rumors of an American officer who pits himself against the pig.… Rhinemann the pig.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s enough.” The doctor removed his hand from Spaulding’s and walked out. David closed the door.

  Rhinemann the pig. It was time for Rhinemann.

  The teutonic, guttural voice screamed into the telephone. David could picture the blue-black veins protruding on the surface of the bloated, suntanned skin. He could see the narrow eyes bulging with fury.

  “It was you! It was you!” The accusation was repeated over and over again, as if the repetition might provoke a denial.

  “It was me,” said David without emphasis.

  “You are dead! You are a dead man!”

  David spoke quietly, slowly. With precision. “If I’m dead, no codes are sent to Washington; no radar or radio blackout. The screens will pick up that trawler and the instant a submarine surfaces anywhere near it, it’ll be blown out of the water.”

  Rhinemann was silent. Spaulding heard the German Jew’s rhythmic breathing but said nothing. He let Rhinemann’s thoughts dwell upon the implication. Finally Rhinemann spoke. With equal precision.

  “Then you have something to say to me. Or you would not have telephoned.”

  “That’s right,” agreed David. “I have something to say. I assume you’re taking a broker’s fee. I can’t believe you arranged this exchange for nothing.”

  Rhinemann paused again. He replied cautiously, his breathing heavy, carried over the wire. “No.… It is a transaction. Accommodations must be paid for.”

  “But that payment comes later, doesn’t it?” David kept his words calm, dispassionate. “You’re in no hurry; you’ve got everyone where you want them.… There won’t be any messages radioed out of Switzerland that accounts have been settled. The only message you’ll get—or won’t get—is from a submarine telling you the Koening diamonds have been transferred from the trawler. That’s when I fly out of here with the designs. That’s the signal.” Spaulding laughed a brief, cold, quiet laugh. “It’s very pro, Rhinemann. I congratulate you.”

  The financier’s voice was suddenly low, circumspect. “What’s your point?”

  “It’s also very pro … I’m the only one who can bring about that message from the U-boat. No one else. I have the codes that turn the lights off; that make the radar screens go dark.… But I expect to get paid for it.”

  “I see.…” Rhinemann hesitated, his breathing still audible. “It is a presumptuous demand. Your superiors expect the gyroscopic designs. Should you impede their delivery, your punishment, no doubt, will be execution. Not formally arrived at, of course, but the result will be the same. Surely you know that.”

  David laughed again, and again the laugh was brief—but now good-natured. “You’re way off. Way off. There may be executions, but not mine. Until last night I only knew half the story. Now I know it all.… No, not my execution. On the other hand, you do have a problem. I know that; four years in Lisbon teaches a man some things.”

  “What is my problem?”

  “If the Koening merchandise in Ocho Calle is not delivered, Altmüller will send an undercover battalion into Buenos Aires. You won’t survive it.”

  The silence again. And in that silence was Rhinemann’s acknowledgment that David was right.

  “Then we are allies,” said Rhinemann. “In one night you’ve gone far. You took a dangerous risk and leaped many plateaus. I admire such aggressive ambitions. I’m sure arrangements can be made.”

  “I was sure you’d be sure.”

  “Shall we discuss figures?”

  Again David laughed softly. “Payment from you is like … before last night. Only half the story. Make your half generous. In Switzerland. The second half will be paid in the States. A lifetime of very generous retainers.” David suddenly spoke tersely. “I want names.”

  “I don’t understand.…”

  “Think about it. The men behind this operation. The Americans. Those are the names I want. Not an accountant, not a confused brigadier. The others.… Without those names there’s no deal. No codes.”

  “The man from Lisbon is remarkably without conscience,” said Rhinemann with a touch of respect. “You are … as you Americans say … quite a rotten fellow.”

  “I’ve watched the masters in action. I thought about it.… Why not?”

  Rhinemann obviously had not listened to David’s reply. His tone was abruptly suspicious. “If this … gain of personal wealth is the conclusion you arrived at, why did you do what you did last night? I must tell you that the damage is not irreparable, but why did you?”

  “For the simplest of reasons. I hadn’t thought about it last night. I hadn’t arrived at this conclusion … last night.” God knew, that was the truth, thought David.

  “Yes. I think I understand,” said the financier. “A very human reaction.…”

  “I want the rest of these designs,” broke in Spaulding. “And you want the codes sent out. To stay on schedule, we have thirty-six hours, give or take two or three. I’ll call you at six o’clock. Be ready to move.”

  David hung up. He took a deep breath and realized he was perspiring … and the small concrete house was cool. The breezes from the fields were coming through the windows, billowing the curtains. He looked at Lyons, who sat watching him in a straight-backed wicker chair.

  “How’d I do?” he asked.

  The physicist swallowed and spoke, and it occurred to Spaulding that either he was getting used to Lyons’s strained voice or Lyons’s speech was improving.

  “Very … convincing. Except for the … sweat on your face and the expression … in your eyes.” Lyons smiled; then followed it instantly with a question he took seriously. “Is there a chance … for the remaining blueprints?”

  David held a match to a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, looked up at the gently swaying curtains of an open window, then turned to the physicist. “I think we’d better understand one another, doctor. I don’t give a goddamn about those designs. Perhaps I should, but I don’t. And if the way to get our hands on them is to risk that trawler reaching a U-boat, it’s out of the question. As far as I’m concerned we’re bringing out three-quarters more than what we’ve got. And that’s too goddamn much.… There’s only one thing I want: the names.… I’ve got the evidence; now I want the names.”

  “You want revenge,” said Lyons softly.

  “Yes!… Jesus! Yes, I do!” David crushed out his barely touched cigarette, crossed to the open window and looked out at the fields. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to yell at you. Or maybe I should. You heard Feld; you saw what I brought back from Ocho Calle. You know the whole putrid … obscene thing.”

  “I know … the men who fly those planes … are not responsible.… I know I believe that … Germany must lose this war.”

  “For Christ’s saker!” roared David, whirling from the window. “You’ve seen! You’ve got to understand!”

  “Are you saying … there’s no difference? I don’t believe that.… I don’t think you believe it.”

  “I don’t know what I believe!… No. I do know. I know what I object to; because it leaves no room for belief.… And I know I want those names.”

  “You should have them.… Your questions are great … moral ones. I think they will pain you … for years.” Lyons was finding it difficult to sustain his words now. “I submit only … no matter what has happened … that Asher Feld was right. This war must not be settled … it must be won.”

  Lyons stopped talking and rubbed his throat David walked to a table where Lyons kept a pitcher of water and poured a glass. He carried it over to the spent physicist and handed it to him. It occurred to David, as he acknowledged the gesture of thanks, that it was strange.… Of all men, the emaciated recluse in front of him would profit least from the outcome of the wa
r. Or the shortening of it. Yet Eugene Lyons had been touched by the commitment of Asher Feld. Perhaps, in his pain, Lyons understood the simpler issues that his own anger had distorted.

  Asher Feld. The Alvear Hotel.

  “Listen to me,” said Spaulding. “If there’s a chance … and there may be, we’ll try for the blueprints. There’s a trade-off possible; a dangerous one … not for us, but for your friend, Asher Feld. We’ll see. No promises. The names come first.… It’s a parallel route; until I get the names, Rhinemann has to believe I want the designs as much as he wants the diamonds.… We’ll see.”

  The weak, erratic bell of the country telephone spun out its feeble ring. Spaulding picked it up.

  “It’s Ballard,” said the voice anxiously.

  “Yes, Bobby?”

  “I hope to Christ you’re clean, because there’s a lot of flak to the contrary. I’m going on the assumption that a reasonable guy doesn’t court-martial himself into a long prison term for a few dollars.”

  “A reasonable assumption. What is it? Did you get the information?”

  “First things first. And the first thing is that the Fleet Marine Force wants you dead or alive; the condition is immaterial, and I think they’d prefer you dead.”

  “They found Meehan and the driver—”

  “You bet your ass they did! After they got rolled and stripped to their skivvies by some wandering vagos. They’re mad as hell! They threw out the bullshit about not alerting the embassy that Fairfax wants you picked up. Fairfax’s incidental; they want you. Assault, theft, et cetera.”

  “All right. That’s to be expected.”

  “Expected? Oh, you’re a pistol! I don’t suppose I have to tell you about Granville. You got him burning up my dials! Washington’s preparing a top-level scramble, so I’m chained to my desk till it comes in.”

  “Then he doesn’t know. They’re covering,” said Spaulding, annoyed.

  “The hell he doesn’t! The hell they are! This radio silence; you walked into a High Command defection! An Allied Central project straight from the War Department.”