The Rhinemann Exchange

by Robert Ludlum

  “That’s preposterous! This is a neutral city. Rhinemann would …”

  “Rhinemann would open the gates and throw the jackals out,” interrupted Spaulding quietly and very calmly. “We’re liabilities, both of us. ‘Tortugas’ could blow up in his postwar face. He’s not going to allow that. Whatever he thinks of the systems, yours or mine, it doesn’t matter. Only one thing matters to him: the cause of Erich Rhinemann.… I thought you knew that. You picked him.”

  Altmüller was breathing steadily, a bit too deeply, thought David. He was imposing a control on himself and he was only barely succeeding.

  “You … have made arrangements to send the codes? From here?”

  The lie was bought. The keystone was now in place.

  “The rules are back in force. Radio and radar silence. No air strikes on surfacing submarines, no interceptions of trawlers … under Paraguayan flags entering the coastal zones. We both win.… Which do you want, jackal?”

  Altmüller turned back to the railing and placed his hands on the marble top. His fingers were rigid against the stone. The tailored folds of his white Palm Beach suit were starchly immobile. He looked down at the river and spoke.

  “The rules of ‘Tortugas’ are reinstated.”

  “I have a telephone call to make,” said David.

  “I expected you would,” replied Rhinemann, looking contemptuously at Franz Altmüller. “I have no stomach for an embassy kidnapping. It serves no one.”

  “Don’t be too harsh,” said Spaulding agreeably. “It got me here in record time.”

  “Make your call.” Rhinemann pointed to a telephone on a table next to the archway. “Your conversation will be amplified, of course.”

  “Of course,” answered David, walking to the phone.

  “Radio room …,” came the words from the unseen speakers.

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Spaulding, military attaché,” said David, interrupting Ballard’s words.

  There was the slightest pause before Ballard replied.

  “Yes, sir, Colonel Spaulding?”

  “I issued a directive of inquiry prior to my conference this afternoon. You may void it now.”

  “Yes, sir.… Very good, sir.”

  “May I speak with the head cryptographer, please? A Mr. Ballard, I believe.”

  “I’m … Ballard, sir.”

  “Sorry,” said David curtly, “I didn’t recognize you, Ballard. Be ready to send out the sealed code schedules I prepared for you. The green envelope; open it and familiarize yourself with the progressions. When I give you the word, I want it transmitted immediately. On a black-drape priority.”

  “What … sir?”

  “My authorization is black drape, Ballard. It’s in the lex, so clear all scrambler channels. You’ll get no flak with that priority. I’ll call you back.”

  “Yes, sir.…”

  David hung up, hoping to Christ that Ballard was as good at his job as David thought he was. Or as good at parlor games as Henderson Granville thought he was.

  “You’re very efficient,” said Rhinemann.

  “I try to be,” said David.

  Ballard stared at the telephone. What was Spaulding trying to tell him? Obviously that Jean was all right; that he and Lyons were all right, too. At least for the time being.

  Be ready to send out the sealed code schedules I prepared.…

  David had not prepared any codes. He had. Spaulding had memorized the progressions, that was true, but only as a contingency.

  What goddamned green envelope?

  There was no envelope, red, blue or green!

  What the hell was that nonsense … black-drape priority?

  What was a black drape? It didn’t make sense!

  But it was a key.

  It’s in the lex.…

  Lex.… Lexicon. The Lexicon of Cryptography!

  Black drape.… He recalled something … something very obscure, way in the past. Black drape was a very old term, long obsolete. But it meant something.

  Ballard got out of his swivel chair and went to the bookshelf on the other side of the small radio room. He had not looked at The Lexicon of Cryptography in years. It was a useless, academic tome.… Obsolete.

  It was on the top shelf with the other useless references and, like the others, had gathered dust.

  He found the term on page 71. It was a single paragraph sandwiched between equally meaningless paragraphs. But it had meaning now.

  “The Black Drape, otherwise known as Schwarztuchchiffre, for it was first employed by the German Imperial Army in 1916, is an entrapment device. It is hazardous for it cannot be repeated in a sector twice. It is a signal to proceed with a code, activating a given set of arrangements with intent to terminate, canceling said arrangements. The termination factor is expressed in minutes, specifically numbered. As a practice, it was abandoned in 1917 for it nullified …”

  Proceed … with intent to terminate.

  Ballard closed the book and returned to his chair in front of the dials.

  Lyons kept turning the pages of the designs back and forth as if double-checking his calculations. Rhinemann called down twice from the balcony, inquiring if there were problems. Twice Lyons turned in his chair and shook his head. Stoltz remained in the deck chair by the pool, smoking cigarettes. Altmüller talked briefly with Rhinemann, the conversation obviously unsatisfactory to both. Altmüller returned to the chair by the glass-topped table and leafed through a Buenos Aires newspaper.

  David and Jean remained at the far end of the terrace, talking quietly. Every once in a while Spaulding let his voice carry across; if Altmüller listened, he heard references to New York, to architectural firms, to vague postwar plans. Lovers’ plans.

  But these references were non sequiturs.

  “At the Alvear Hotel,” said David softly, holding Jean’s hand, “there’s a man registered under the name of E. Pace. E. Pace. His real name is Asher Feld. Identify yourself as the contact from me … and a Fairfax agent named Barden. Ira Barden. Nothing else. Tell him I’m calling his … priorities. In precisely two hours from … the minute you telephone from the embassy.… I mean the minute, Jean, he’ll understand.…”

  Only once did Jean Cameron gasp, an intake of breath that caused David to glare at her and press her hand. She covered her shock with artificial laughter.

  Altmüller looked up from the newspaper. Contempt was in his eyes; beyond the contempt, and also obvious, was his anger.

  Lyons got up from the chair and stretched his emaciated frame. He had spent three hours and ten minutes at the table; he turned and looked up at the balcony. At Spaulding.

  He nodded.

  “Good,” said Rhinemann, crossing to Franz Altmüller. “Well proceed. It will be dark soon; we’ll conclude everything by early morning. No more delay! Stoltz! Kommen Sie her! Bringen Sie die Aktenmappe!”

  Stoltz went to the table and began replacing the pages in the briefcase.

  David took Jean’s arm and guided her toward Rhinemann and Altmüller. The Nazi spoke.

  “The plans comprise four hundred and sixty-odd pages of causal data and progressive equations. No man can retain such information; the absence of any part renders the designs useless. As soon as you contact the cryptographer and relay the codes, Mrs. Cameron and the physicist are free to leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Spaulding. “My agreement was to send the codes when they were back at the embassy. That’s the way it has to be.”

  “Surely,” interjected Rhinemann angrily, “you don’t think I would permit …”

  “No, I don’t,” broke in David. “But I’m not sure what you can control outside the gates of Habichtsnest. This way, I know you’ll try harder.”

  42

  It was an hour and thirty-one minutes before the telephone rang. Nine fifteen exactly. The sun had descended behind the Luján hills; the light along the distant riverbank flickered in the enveloping darkness.

  Rhinemann picked up the receiver, l
istened and nodded to David.

  Spaulding got out of his chair and crossed to the financier, taking the receiver. Rhinemann flicked a switch on the wall. The speakers were activated.

  “We’re here, David.” Jean’s words were amplified on the terrace.

  “Fine,” answered Spaulding. “No problems then?”

  “Not really. After five miles or so I thought Doctor Lyons was going to be sick. They drove so fast.…”

  After … five.…

  Asher … Feld.…

  Jean had done it!

  “But he’s all right now?”

  “He’s resting. It’ll take some time before he feels himself.…”

  Time.

  Jean had given Asher Feld the precise time.

  “All right.…”

  “Genug! Genug!” said Altmüller, standing by the balcony. “That’s enough. You have your proof; they are there. The codes!”

  David looked over at the Nazi. It was an unhurried look, not at all accommodating.

  “Jean?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re in the radio room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me speak to that Ballard fellow.”

  “Here he is.”

  Ballard’s voice was impersonal, efficient. “Colonel Spaulding?”

  “Ballard, have you cleared all scrambler channels?”

  “Yes, sir. Along with your priority. The drape’s confirmed, sir.”

  “Very good. Stand by for my call. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.” David quickly hung up the phone.

  “What are you doing?!” yelled Altmüller furiously. “The codes! Send them!”

  “He’s betraying us!” screamed Stoltz, jumping up from his chair.

  “I think you should explain yourself.” Rhinemann spoke softly, his voice conveying the punishment he intended to inflict.

  “Just last-minute details,” said Spaulding, lighting a cigarette. “Only a few minutes.… Shall we talk alone, Rhinemann?”

  “That is unnecessary. What is it?” asked the financier. “Your method of departure? It’s arranged. You’ll be driven to the Mendarro field with the designs. It’s less than ten minutes from here. You won’t be airborne, however, until we have confirmation of the Koening transfer.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Once the blackout starts I have no protection, that’s the difference.”

  “Ach!” Rhinemann was impatient. “For four hours you’ll have the best protection in the world. I have no stomach for offending the men in Washington!”

  “You see?” said David to Franz Altmüller. “I told you we were liabilities.” He turned back to Rhinemann. “All right. I accept that. You’ve got too much to lose. Detail number one, crossed off. Now detail number two. My payment from you.”

  Rhinemann squinted his eyes. “You are a man of details.… The sum of five hundred thousand American dollars will be transferred to the Banque Louis Quatorze in Zürich. It’s a nonnegotiable figure and a generous one.”

  “Extremely. More than I would have asked for.… What’s my guarantee?”

  “Come, colonel. We’re not salesmen. You know where I live; your abilities are proven. I don’t wish the specter of the man from Lisbon on my personal horizon.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “The money will be deposited, the proper papers held in Zürich for you. At the bank; normal procedures.”

  David crushed out his cigarette. “All right. Zürich.… Now the last detail. Those generous payments I’m going to receive right at home.… The names, please. Write them on a piece of paper.”

  “Are you so sure I possess these names?”

  “It’s the only thing I’m really sure of. It’s the one opportunity you wouldn’t miss.”

  Rhinemann took a small black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote hastily on a page. He tore it out and handed it to Spaulding.

  David read the names:

  Kendall, Walter

  Swanson, A. U.S. Army

  Oliver, H. Meridian Aircraft

  Craft, J. Packard

  “Thank you,” said Spaulding. He put the page in his pocket and reached for the telephone. “Get me the American embassy, please.”

  Ballard read the sequence of the code progressions David had recited to him. They were not perfect but they were not far off, either; Spaulding had confused a vowel equation, but the message was clear.

  And David’s emphasis on the “frequency megacycle of 120 for all subsequent scrambles” was meaningless gibberish. But it, too, was very clear.

  120 minutes.

  Black Drape.

  The original code allowed for thirteen characters:

  CABLE TORTUGAS

  The code Spaulding had recited, however, had fifteen characters.

  Ballard stared at the words.

  DESTROY TORTUGAS

  In two hours.

  David had a final “detail” which none could fault professionally, but all found objectionable. Since there were four hours—more or less—before he’d be driven to the Mendarro airfield, and there were any number of reasons during this period why he might be out of sight of the designs—or Rhinemann might be out of sight of the designs—he insisted that they be placed in a single locked metal case and chained to any permanent structure, the chain held by a new padlock, the keys given to him. Further, he would also hold the keys to the case and thread the hasps. If the designs were tampered with, he’d know it.

  “Your precautions are now obsessive,” said Rhinemann disagreeably. “I should ignore you. The codes have been sent.”

  “Then humor me. I’m a Fairfax four-zero. We might work again.”

  Rhinemann smiled. “That is always the way, is it not? So be it.”

  Rhinemann sent for a chain and a padlock, which he took a minor delight in showing to David in its original box. The ritual was over in several minutes, the metal case chained to the banister of the stairway in the great hall. The four men settled in the huge living room, to the right of the hall, an enormous archway affording a view of the staircase … and the metal briefcase.

  The financier became genial host. He offered brandies; only Spaulding accepted at first, then Heinrich Stoltz followed. Altmüller would not drink.

  A guard, his paramilitary uniform pressed into starched creases, came through the archway.

  “Our operators confirm radio silence, sir. Throughout the entire coastal zone.”

  “Thank you,” said Rhinemann. “Stand by on all frequencies.”

  The guard nodded. He turned and left the room as quickly as he had entered.

  “Your men are efficient,” observed David.

  “They’re paid to be,” answered Rhinemann, looking at his watch. “Now, we wait. Everything progresses and we have merely to wait. I’ll order a buffet. Canapes are hardly filling … and we have the time.”

  “You’re hospitable,” said Spaulding, carrying his brandy to a chair next to Altmüller.

  “And generous. Don’t forget that.”

  “It would be hard to.… I was wondering, however, if I might impose further?” David placed his brandy glass on the side table and gestured at his rumpled, ill-fitting clothes. “These were borrowed from a ranch hand. God knows when they were last washed. Or me.… I’d appreciate a shower, a shave; perhaps a pair of trousers and a shirt, or a sweater.…”

  “I’m sure your army personnel can accommodate you,” said Altmüller, watching David suspiciously.

  “For Christ’s sake, Altmüller, I’m not going anywhere! Except to a shower. The designs are over there!” Spaulding pointed angrily through the archway to the metal case chained to the banister of the stairway. “If you think I’m leaving without that, you’re retarded.”

  The insult infuriated the Nazi; he gripped the arms of his chair, controlling himself. Rhinemann laughed and spoke to Altmüller.

  “The colonel has had a tiresome
few days. His request is minor; and I can assure you he is going nowhere but to the Mendarro airfield.… I wish he were. He’d save me a half million dollars.”

  David responded to Rhinemann’s laugh with one of his own. “A man with that kind of money in Zürich should at least feel clean.” He rose from the chair. “And you’re right about the last few days. I’m bushed. And sore all over. If the bed is soft I’ll grab a nap.” He looked over at Altmüller. “With a battalion of armed guards at the door if it’ll ease the little boy’s concerns.”

  Altmüller shot up, his voice harsh and loud. “Enough!”

  “Oh sit down,” said David. “You look foolish.”

  Rhinemann’s guard brought him a pair of trousers, a lightweight turtleneck sweater and a tan suede jacket. David saw that each was expensive and he knew each would fit. Shaving equipment was in the bathroom; if there was anything else he needed, all he had to do was open the door and ask. The man would be outside in the hall. Actually, there would be two men.

  David understood.

  He told the guard—a porteño—that he would sleep for an hour, then shower and shave for his journey. Would the guard be so considerate as to make sure he was awake by eleven o’clock?

  The guard would do so.

  It was five minutes past ten on David’s watch. Jean had phoned at precisely nine fifteen. Asher Feld had exactly two hours from nine fifteen.

  David had one hour and six minutes.

  Eleven fifteen.

  If Asher Feld really believed in his priorities.

  The room was large, had a high ceiling and two double-casement windows three stories above the ground, and was in the east wing of the house. That was all Spaulding could tell—or wanted to study—while the lights were on.

  He turned them off and went back to the windows. He opened the left casement quietly, peering out from behind the drapes.

  The roof was slate; that wasn’t good. It had a wide gutter; that was better. The gutter led to a drainpipe about twenty feet away. That was satisfactory.

  Directly beneath, on the second floor, were four small balconies that probably led to four bedrooms. The farthest balcony was no more than five feet from the drainpipe. Possibly relevant; probably not.