The Rhinemann Exchange

by Robert Ludlum

Out on the street, he asked the first man he saw where the nearest pay phone could be found. It was several blocks away, on Rodríguez Peña, in a newspaper store.

  David ran as fast as he could.

  The hotel page found Kendall in the dining room. When he got on the phone he spoke while chewing. Spaulding pictured the man, the doodled obscenities, the animal-like breathing. He controlled himself. Walter Kendall was sick.

  “Lyons is coming in in three days,” Kendall told him.

  “With his nurses. I got him a place in this San Telmo district. A quiet apartment, quiet street. I wired Swanson the address. He’ll give it to the keepers and they’ll get him set up. They’ll be touch with you.”

  “I thought I was to get him settled.”

  “I figured you’d complicate things,” interrupted Kendall.

  “No piss lost. They’ll call you. Or I will. I’ll be here for a while.”

  “I’m glad.… Because so’s the Gestapo.”

  “What?”

  “I said so’s the Gestapo. You figured a little inaccurately, Kendall. Someone is trying to stop you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind!”

  “I’m not.”

  “What happened?”

  So David told him, and for the first time in his brief association with the accountant, he detected fear.

  “There was a break in Rhinemann’s network. It doesn’t mean the designs won’t get here. It does mean we have obstacles—if Rhinemann’s as good as you say. As I read it, Berlin found out the designs were stolen. They know they’re filtering down or across or however Rhinemann’s routing them out of Europe. The High Command got wind of the transactions. The Reichsführers aren’t going to broadcast, they’re going to try and intercept. With as little noise as possible. But you can bet your ass there’s been a slew of executions in Peenemünde.”

  “It’s crazy.…” Kendall could hardly be heard. And then he mumbled something; David could not understand the words.

  “What did you say?”

  “The address in this Telmo. For Lyons. It’s three rooms. Back entrance.” Kendall still kept his voice low, almost indistinct.

  The man was close to panic, thought Spaulding. “I can barely hear you, Kendall.… Now, calm down! I think it’s time I introduced myself to Rhinemann, don’t you?”

  “The Telmo address. It’s Fifteen Terraza Verde … it’s quiet.”

  “Who’s the contact for Rhinemann?”

  “The what?”

  “Rhinemann’s contact.”

  “I don’t know.…”

  “For Christ’s sake, Kendall, you held a five-hour conference with him!”

  “I’ll be in touch.…”

  David heard the click. He was stunned. Kendall had hung up on him. He considered calling again but in Kendall’s state of anxiety it might only make matters worse.

  Goddamned amateurs! What the hell did they expect? Albert Speer himself to get in touch with Washington and lend the army air corps a few designs because he heard they had problems!?

  Jesus!

  David walked angrily out of the telephone booth and the store and into the street.

  Where the goddamned hell was he? Oh, yes, the Scotch. The store was back at Talcahuano, Jean said. Four blocks west. He looked at his watch and, of course, there was no watch.

  Goddamn.

  “I’m sorry I took so long. I got confused. I walked the wrong way for a couple of blocks.” David put the package of Scotch and soda water on the sink. Jean was sitting on the sofa; disturbed about something, he thought. “Did I get the call?”

  “Not the one you expected,” said Jean softly. “Someone else. He said he’d phone you tomorrow.”

  “Oh? Did he leave a name?”

  “Yes, he did.” When she answered, David heard the questioning fear in her voice. “It was Heinrich Stoltz.”

  “Stoltz? Don’t know him.”

  “You should. He’s an undersecretary at the German embassy.… David, what are you doing?”

  27

  “Sorry, señor. Mister Kendall checked out last night. At ten thirty, according to the card.”

  “Did he leave any other address or telephone number here in Buenos Aires?”

  “No, señor. I believe he was going back to the United States. There was a Pan American flight at midnight.”

  “Thank you.” David put down the telephone and reached for his cigarettes.

  It was incredible! Kendall had shot out at the first moment of difficulty.

  Why?

  The telephone rang, startling David.

  “Hello?”

  “Herr Spaulding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heinrich Stoltz. I called last night but you were out.”

  “Yes, I know.… I understand you’re with the German embassy. I hope I don’t have to tell you that I find your contacting me unorthodox. And not a little distasteful.”

  “Oh, come, Herr Spaulding. The man from Lisbon? He finds unorthodoxy?” Stoltz laughed quietly but not insultingly.

  “I am an embassy attaché specializing in economics. Nothing more. If you know anything about me, surely you know that.… Now, I’m late.…”

  “Please,” interrupted Stoltz. “I call from a public telephone. Surely that tells you something.”

  It did, of course.

  “I don’t talk on telephones.”

  “Yours is clean, I checked thoroughly.”

  “If you want to meet, give me a time and an address.… Somewhere in the downtown area. With people around; no outside locations.”

  “There’s a restaurant, Casa Langosta del Mar, several blocks north of the Parque Lezama. It’s out of the way, not outside. There are back rooms. Curtains, no doors; no means of isolation. Only seclusion.”

  “Time?”

  “Half past twelve.”

  “Do you smoke?” asked David sharply.

  “Yes.”

  “Carry a pack of American cigarettes from the moment you get out of the car. In your left hand; the foil off one end of the top, two cigarettes removed.”

  “It’s quite unnecessary. I know who you are. I’ll recognize you.”

  “That’s not my concern. I don’t know you.” David hung up the phone abruptly. As in all such rendezvous, he would arrive at the location early, through a delivery entrance if possible, and position himself as best he could to observe his contact’s arrival. The cigarettes were nothing more than a psychological device: the contact was thrown off balance with the realization that he was an identified mark. A target. A marked contact was reluctant to bring trouble. And if trouble was his intent, he wouldn’t show up.

  Jean Cameron walked down the corridor toward the metal staircase that led to the cellars.

  To the “Caves.”

  The “Caves”—a name given without affection by Foreign Service officers the world over—were those underground rooms housing file cabinets containing dossiers on just about everybody who had the slightest contact with an embassy, known and unknown, friend and adversary. They included exhaustive checks and counterchecks on all embassy personnel; service background, State Department evaluations, progress reports. Nothing was left out if it was obtainable.

  Two signatures were required to gain entrance into the “Caves.” The ambassador’s and that of the senior attaché seeking information.

  It was a regulation that was occasionally bypassed in the interests of haste and emergency. The marine officer of the guard generally could be convinced that an established attaché had to have immediate background material; the marine would list both the names of the embassy man and his subject on the check sheet, then stand in attendance while the file was removed. If there were repercussions, they were the attaché’s responsibility.

  There never were. Violations of this sort guaranteed a post in Uganda. The check sheet was sealed daily and sent only to the ambassador.

  Jean rarely took advantage of her relationship to Hender
son Granville in embassy matters. In truth, the occasion rarely arose, and when it did, the matter was always insignificant.

  It was not insignificant now. And she intended to use fully her status as family, as well as a respected member of the staff. Granville had left for lunch; he would not return for several hours. She had made up her mind to tell the marine guard that her “father-in-law, the ambassador” had asked her to make a discreet inquiry regarding a new transfer.

  Spaulding, David.

  If Henderson wished to call her down for it, she would tell him the truth. She found herself very, very involved with the enigmatic Mr. Spaulding, and if Henderson did not realize it, he was a damn fool.

  The marine officer of the guard was a young lieutenant from the FMF base south of La Boca. The personnel from FMF were sped in civilian clothes through the city to their posts at the embassy; the treaty that permitted the small, limited base did not condone uniformed men outside either territory. These restrictions tended to make the young officers sensitive to the functionary, faceless roles they were forced to play. So it was understandable that when the ambassador’s daughter-in-law called him by name and spoke confidentially of a discreet matter, the marine complied without question.

  Jean stared at David’s file. It was frightening. It was not like any file she had ever seen. There was no dossier; no State Department records, no reports, no evaluations, no listing of post assignments.

  There was only a single page.

  It gave his description by sex, height, weight, coloring and visible markings.

  Beneath this cursory data, separated by a three-line space, was the following:

  War Dept. Transfer. Clandestine Operations. Finance. Tortugas.

  And nothing more.

  “Finding what you need, Mrs. Cameron?” asked the marine lieutenant by the steel-grilled gate.

  “Yes.… Thank you.” Jean slipped David’s thin folder back into place in the cabinet, smiled at the marine, and left.

  She reached the staircase and walked slowly up the steps. She accepted the fact that David was involved with an undercover assignment—accepted it while hating it; loathing the secrecy, the obvious danger. But in a conscious way she had prepared herself, expecting the worst and finding it. She was not at all sure she could handle the knowledge, but she was willing to try. If she could not handle it she’d take what moments of selfish pleasure she could and kiss David Spaulding good-bye. She had made up her mind to that … unconsciously, really. She could not allow herself more pain.

  And there was something else. It was only a dim shadow in a half-lit room but it kept falling across her eyes. It was the word.

  “Tortugas.”

  She had seen it before. Recently. Only days ago.

  It had caught her attention because she’d thought of the Dry Tortugas … and the few times she and Andrew had sailed there from the Keys.

  Where was it? Yes.… Yes, she remembered.

  It had been in a very mechanical paragraph within the context of an area surveillance report on Henderson Granville’s desk. She had read it rather absently one morning … only a few days ago. But she hadn’t read it closely. Area surveillance reports were composed of short, choppy informational sentences devoid of rhythm and color. Written by unimaginative men concerned only with what they could describe briefly, with data.

  It had been down at La Boca.

  Something about the captain of a trawler … and cargo. Cargo that had a lading destination of Tortugas. A violation of coastal limits; said destination rescinded, called an obvious error by the trawler’s captain.

  Yet the lading papers had said Tortugas.

  And David Spaulding’s classified operation—clandestine operation—was coded “Tortugas.”

  And Heinrich Stoltz of the German embassy had called David.

  And Jean Cameron was suddenly afraid.

  Spaulding was convinced that Stoltz was alone. He signaled the German to follow him to the back of the restaurant, to the curtained cubicle David had arranged for with the waiter a half hour ago.

  Stoltz entered carrying the pack of cigarcttes in his left hand. Spaulding circled the round table and sat facing the curtain.

  “Have a seat,” said David, indicating the chair opposite him. Stoltz smiled, realizing that his back would be to the entrance.

  “The man from Lisbon is a cautious man.” The German pulled out the chair and sat down, placing the cigarettes on the table. “I can assure you I’m not armed.”

  “Good. I am.”

  “You are too cautious. The colonels look askance at belligerents carrying weapons in their neutral city. Your embassy should have told you.”

  “I understand they also arrest Americans quicker than they do you fellows.”

  Stoltz shrugged. “Why not? After all, we trained them. You only buy their beef.”

  “There’ll be no lunch, incidentally. I paid the waiter for the table.”

  “I’m sorry. The langosta … the lobster here is excellent. Perhaps a drink?”

  “No drinks. Just talk.”

  Stoltz spoke, his voice flat. “I bring a welcome to Buenos Aires. From Erich Rhinemann.”

  David stared at the man. “You?”

  “Yes. I’m your contact.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “That’s the way of Erich Rhinemann. He pays for allegiances.”

  “I’ll want proof.”

  “By all means. From Rhinemann himself.… Acceptable?”

  Spaulding nodded. “When? Where?”

  “That’s what I’m here to discuss. Rhinemann is as cautious as the man from Lisbon.”

  “I was attached to the diplomatic corps in Portugal. Don’t try to make anything more of it than that.”

  “Unfortunately, I have to speak the truth. Herr Rhinemann is most upset that the men in Washington saw fit to send you as the liaison. Your presence in Buenos Aires could attract attention.”

  David reached for the cigarettes Stoltz had placed on the table. He lit one.… The German was right, of course; Rhinemann was right. The one liability in his having been chosen was the enemy’s probable knowledge of his Lisbon operations. Ed Pace, he was sure, had considered that aspect, discarding it in favor of the overriding assets. Regardless, it was not a subject to discuss with Heinrich Stoltz. The German attaché was still an unproven factor.

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to. I’m in Buenos Aires to transmit preliminary recommendations from New York and London banking circles relative to postwar reconstruction negotiations. You see, we do believe we’ll win. Rhinemann can’t be overlooked in such projected discussions.”

  “The man from Lisbon is most professional.”

  “I wish you’d stop repeating that nonsense.…”

  “And convincing,” interrupted Stoltz. “The cover is one of your better ones. It has more stature than a cowardly American socialite.… Even Herr Kendall agrees with that.”

  David paused before replying. Stoltz was circling in, about to deliver his proof. “Describe Kendall,” he said quietly.

  “In short words?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Stoltz laughed under his breath. “I’d prefer as few as possible. He’s a most unattractive biped. He must be an extraordinary man with figures; there’s no other earthly reason to stay in the same room with him.”

  “Have you stayed in the same room with him?”

  “For hours, unfortunately. With Rhinemann.… Now. May we talk?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your man Lyons will be here the day after tomorrow. We can accomplish everything very quickly. The designs will be delivered in one package, not two as Kendall believes.”

  “Does he believe that?”

  “It’s what he was told.”

  “Why?”

  “Because until late last evening Herr Rhinemann thought it was so. I myself did not know of the change until this morning.”

  “Then why did you call me last
night?”

  “Instructions from Walter Kendall.”

  “Please explain that.”

  “Is it necessary? One has nothing to do with the other. Herr Kendall telephoned me. Apparently he had just spoken with you. He said he was called back to Washington suddenly; that I was to contact you immediately so there’s no break in communications. He was most adamant.”

  “Did Kendall say why he was returning to the States?”

  “No. And I saw no reason to inquire. His work here is finished. He’s of no concern to us. You are the man with the codes, not him.”

  David crushed out his cigarette, staring at the tablecloth.

  “What’s your rank at the embassy?”

  Stoltz smiled. “Third … fourth in command would be a modest appraisal. My loyalty, however, is to the Rhinemann interests. Surely that’s apparent.”

  “I’ll know when I talk to Rhinemann, won’t I?” David looked up at the German. “Why are the Gestapo here in Buenos Aires?”

  “They’re not.… Well, there’s one man; no more than a clerk, really. As all Gestapo he thinks of himself as the personal spokesman for the Reich and overburdens the couriers—who, incidentally, cooperate with us. He is, as you Amerikaner say, a jackass. There is no one else.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I would be the first to know; before the ambassador, I assure you. This game is quite unnecessary, Herr Spaulding.”

  “You’d better set up that meeting with Rhinemann … that’s necessary.”

  “Yes. Certainly.… Which brings us back to Herr Rhinemann’s concerns. Why is the man from Lisbon in Buenos Aires?”

  “I’m afraid he has to be. You said it. I’m cautious. I’m experienced. And I have the codes.”

  “But why you? To remove you from Lisbon is costly. I speak both as an enemy and as an objective neutral, allied with Rhinemann. Is there some side issue of which we’re not aware?”

  “If there is, I’m not aware of it, either,” answered Spaulding, neutralizing Stoltz’s inquisitorial look with one of his own. “Since we’re talking plain, I want to get those designs okayed, send the codes for your goddamned money and get the hell out of here. Since a large share of that financing will come from the government, Washington obviously thinks I’m the best man to see we’re not cheated.”