Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  For the Wehrmacht officer had seen the man from Lisbon; he could identify

  that man as David'Spaulding.

  The fact that the execution would be mercifully quick - unlike a death in

  partisan hands - was of small comfort to David. He knew that at the instant

  he pulled the trigger, the world would spin insanely for a moment or two.

  He would be sick to his stomach and want to vomit, his whole being in a

  state of revulsion.

  But he would not show these things. He would say nothing, indicate nothing

  ... silence. And so the legend would continue to grow. For that was part of

  the treadmill.

  The man in Lisbon was a killer.

  ~62

  4

  SEPTEMBER 20,1943

  MANNHEIM, GERMANY

  Wilhelm Zangen brought the handkerchief to his chin, and then to the skin

  beneath his nostrils, and finally to the border of his receding hairline.

  The sweat was profuse; a rash had formed in the cleft below his lips,

  aggravated by the daily necessity to shave and the continuous pressure.

  His whole face was stinging, his embarrassment compounded by Franz

  Altmfiller's final words:

  'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most unathaotive.'

  With that objective solicitousness, AltmUller had gotten up from the table

  and walked out the door. Slowly, deliberately, his briefcase - the

  briefcase containing the reports - held down at arm's length as though it

  had been some diseased appendage.

  They had been alone. AltmUller had dismissed the group of scientists

  without acknowledging any progress whatsoever. He had not even allowed him,

  the Reich official of German Industry, to thank them for their

  contributions. AltmUller knew that these were the finest scientific minds

  in Germany, but he had no understanding of how to handle them. They were

  sensitive, they were volatile in their own quiet way; they needed praise

  constantly. He had no patience for tact.

  And there had been progress.

  The Krupp laboratories were convinced that the answer lay in the graphite

  experiments. Essen had worked around the clock for

  63

  nearly a month, its managers undergoing one sleepless night after another.

  They had actually produced carbon particles in sealed iron tubes and were

  convinced these carbons held all the properties required for precision

  tooling. It was merely a question of time; time to create larger particles,

  sufficient for tolerance placement within existing machinery.

  Frahz Altmilller had listened to the Krupp team without the slightest

  indication of enthusiasm, although enthusiasm certainly had been called for

  under the circumstances. Instead, when the Krupp spokesman had finished his

  summary, AltmW]er had asked one question. Asked it with the most bored

  expression imaginable 1

  'Have these . . . particles been subjected to the pressures of operational

  tooling?'

  Of course they hadn't! How could they have been? They had been subjected to

  artificial, substitute pressures; it was all that was possible at the

  moment.

  That answer had been unacceptable; Altmiffler dismissed the most

  scientifically creative minds in the Reich without a single sentence of

  appreciation, only ill-disguised hostility.

  'Gentlemen, you've brought me words. We don't need words, we need diamonds.

  We need them, we must have them within weeks. Two months at the outside. I

  suggest you return to your laboratories and consider our problem once

  again. Good day, gentlemen.'

  Altmaller was impossible!

  After the scientists had left, AltmUller had become even more abrasive.

  'Wilhelm,' he had said with a voice bordering on contempt, 'was this the

  nonmilitary solution of which you spoke to the minister of armamentsT

  Why hadn't he used Speer's name? Was it necessary to threaten with the use

  of titles?

  'Of course. Certainly more realistic than that insane march into the

  Con-go. The mines at the Bushimaie Riverl Madness!'

  'The comparison is odious. I overestimated you; I gave you more credit than

  you deserve. You understand, of course, that you failed.' It was not a

  question.

  'I disagree. The results aren't in yet. You can't make such a judgment.'

  'I can and I have V Altmaller had slammed the flat of his hand

  64

  against the tabletop; a crack of soft flesh against hard wood. An

  intolerable insult. 'We have no time! We can't waste weeks while your

  laboratory misfits play with their bunsen burners, creating little stones

  that could fall apart at the first contact with steel! We need the productV

  'You'll have itl' The surface of Zangen's chin became an oily mixture of

  sweat and stubble. 'The finest minds in all Germany ate . . . ,

  'Are experimenting.' AltmCdler had interrupted quietly, with scornful

  emphasis. 'Get us the product. That's my order to you. Our powerful

  companies have long histories that go back many years-Certainly one of them

  can find an old friend.'

  Wilhelm Zangen had blotted his chin; the rash was agonizing. 'We've covered

  those areas. Impossible.'

  'Cover them again.' Altmaller had pointed an elegant finger at Zangen's

  handkerchief. 'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most

  unattractive.'

  SEPTEMBER 24,1943

  NEW YORK CITY

  Jonathan Craft walked up Park Avenue and checked his wristwatch under the

  spill of a streetlamp. His long, thin fingers trembled; the last vestige of

  too many martinis, which he had stopped drinking twenty-four hours ago in

  Ann Arbor. Unfortunately, he had been drunk for the three previous days. He

  had not been to the office. The office reminded him of General Alan

  Swanson; he could not bear that memory. Now he had to.

  It was a quarter to nine; another fifteen minutes and he would walk into

  800 Park Avenue, smile at the doorman and go to the elevator. He did not

  want to be early, dared not be late. He had been inside the apartment house

  exactly seven times, and each occasion had been traumatic for him. Always

  for the same reason: he was the bearer of bad news.

  But they needed him. He was the impeccable man. His family was old, fine

  money; he had been to the right schools, the best

  65

  cotillions. He had access into areas - social and institutional - the

  merchants would never possess. No matter he was stuck in Ann Arbor; it was

  a temporary situation, a wartime inconvenience. A sacrifice.

  He would be back in New York on the Exchange as soon as the damn thing was

  over.

  He had to keep these thoughts in mind tonight because in a few minutes he

  would have to repeat the words Swanson had screamed at him in his Packard

  office. He had written a confidential report of the conversation ... the

  unbelievable conversation ... and sent it to Howard Oliver at Meridian.

  Ifyou've done what I think you've done, itfalls under the heading of

  treasonable acts! And we're at war!

  Swanson.

  Madness.

  He wondered how many would be there, in the apartment. It was always better

  if there were quite a few, say a dozen
. Then they argued among themselves;

  he was almost forgotten. Except for his information.

  He walked around the block, breathing deeply, calming himself ... killing

  ten minutes.

  Treasonable acts!

  And we're at war!

  His watch read five minutes to nine. He entered the building, smiled at the

  doorman, gave the floor to the elevator operator and, when the brass grill

  opened, he walked into the private foyer of the penthouse.

  A butler took his overcoat and ushered him across the hall, through the

  door and down three steps into the huge sunken living room.

  There were only two men in the room. Craft felt an immediate sharp pain in

  his stomach. It was an instinctive reaction partly brought on by the fact

  that there were only two people for this extremely vital conference, but

  mainly caused by the sight of Walter Kendall.

  Kendall was a man in shadows, a manipulator of figures who was kept out of

  sight. He was fiftyish, medium-sized, with thinning, unwashed hair, a

  rasping voice and an undistinguished -shoddy - appearance. His eyes darted

  continuously, almost never returning another man's look. It was said his

  mind concentrated incessantly on schemes and counterschemes; his whole

  66

  purpose in life was'apparently to outmaneuver other human beings - friend or

  enemy, it made no difference to Kendall, for he did not categorize people

  with such labels.

  All were vague opponents.

  But Walter Kendall was brilliant at what he did. As long as he could be

  kept in the background, his manipulations served his clients. And made him

  a great deal of money - which he hoarded, attested to by ill-fitting suits

  that bagged at the knees and sagged below the buttocks. But he was always

  kept out of sight; his presence signified crisis.

  Jonathan Craft despised Kendall because he was frightened by him.

  The second man was to be expected under the circumstances. He was Howard

  Oliver, Meridian Aircraft's obese debater of War Department contracts.

  'You're on time,' said Walter Kendall curtly, sitting down in an armchair,

  reaching for papers in an open, filthy briefcase at his feet.

  'Hello, Jon.' Oliver approached and offered a short, neutral handshake.

  'Where are the others?' asked Craft.

  'No one wanted to be here,' answered Kendall with a furtive glance at

  Oliver. 'Howard has to be, and I'm paid to be. You had one hell of a

  meeting with this Swanson.'

  'You've read my report?'

  'He's read it,' said Oliver, crossing to a copper-topped wheelcart in the

  comer on which there were bottles and glasses. 'He's got questions.'

  'I made everything perfectly clear .....

  'Those aren't the questions,' interrupted Kendall while squeez, ing the tip

  of a cigarette before inserting it into his mouth. As he struck a match,

  Craft walked to a large velvet chair across from the accountant and sat

  down. Oliver had poured himself a whisky and remained standing.

  'If you want a drink, Jon, it's over there,' said Oliver.

  At the mention of alcohol', Kendall glanced up at him from his papers with

  ferret-like eyes. 'No thank you,' Craft replied. 'I'd like to get this over

  with as soon as possible.'

  'Suit yourself,' Oliver looked at the accountant. 'Ask your questions.'

  Kendall, sucking on his cigarette, spoke as the smoke curled

  67

  around his nostrils. 'This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him

  since you saw SwansonT

  'No. There was nothing to say; nothing Icould say ... without instructions.

  As you know, I spoke with Howard on the phone. He told me to wait; write a

  report and do nothing.'

  'Craft's the funnel to ATCO,' said Oliver. 'I didn't want him running

  scared, trying to smooth things over. It'd look like we were hiding

  something.'

  'We are,' Kendall removed his cigarette, the ash falling on his trousers.

  He continued while slowly shuffling the papers on his lap. 'Let's go over

  Spinelli's complaints. As Swanson brought them up.'

  The accountant touched briefly, concisely on each point raised. They

  covered Spinelli's statements regarding delayed deliveries, pe rsonnel

  transfers, blueprint holdups, a dozen other minor grievances. Craft replied

  with equal brevity, answering when he could, stating ignorance when he

  could not. There was no reason to hide anything.

  He had been carrying out instructions, not issuing them.

  'Can Spinelli substantiate these charges? And don't kid yourselves, these

  are charges, not complaints.'

  'What charges?' Oliver spat out the words. 'That guinea bastard's fucked up

  everything! Who's he to make charges?'

  6Get off it,' said Kendall in his rasping voice. 'Don't play games. Save

  them for a congressional committee, unless I can figure something.'

  At Kendall's words the sharp pain returned to Craft's stomach. The

  prospects of disgrace - even remotely associated - could ruin his life. The

  life he expected to lead back in New York. The financial boors, the

  merchants, could never understand. 'That's going a little far. . . .'

  Kendall looked over at Craft. 'Maybe you didn't hear Swanson. It's not

  going far enough. You got the Fortress contracts because your projections

  said you could do the job.'

  'Just a minute!' yelled Oliver. 'We . . .'

  'Screw the legal crap!' countered Kendall, shouting over Oliver's

  interruption. 'My firm ... me, I... squared those projections. I know what

  they say, what they implied. You left the other companies at the gate. They

  wouldn't say what you said. Not Douglas, not Boeing, not Lockheed. You were

  hungry and you got the meat and now you're not delivering.... So what else

  68

  is new? Let's go back: can Spinelli substantiater

  'Shit,' exploded Oliver, heading for the bar.

  'How do you mean ... substantiate?' asked Jonathan Craft, his stomach in

  agony.

  'Are there any memorandums floating around,' Kendall tapped the pages in

  his hand, 'that bear on any of this?' ,

  'Well . . .' Craft hesitated; he couldn't stand the pain in his stomach.'

  When personnel transfers were expedited, they were put into interoffice. .

  . .'

  'The answer's yes,' interrupted Oliver in disgust, pouring himself a drink.

  'What about financial cutbacks?'

  Oliver once again replied. 'We obscured those. Spinelli's requisitions just

  got lost in the paper shuffle.'

  'Didn't he scream? Didn't he shoot off memos?'

  'That's Craft's department,' answered Oliver, drinking most of his whisky

  in one swallow. 'Spinelli was his little guinea boy.'

  'Well?' Kendall looked at Craft.

  'Well ... he sent numerous communications.' Craft leaned forward in the

  chair, as much to relieve the pain as to appear confidential. 'I removed

  everything from the files,' he said softly.

  'Christ,' exploded Kendall quietly. 'I don't give a shit what you removed.

  He's got copies. Dates!

  'Well, I couldn't say. . . .'

  'He didn't type the goddamned things himseo, did he? You didn't take away

  the fucking secretaries, too, did you?'

  'There's no cal
l to be offensive. . . .,

  'Offensivel You're a funny manl Maybe they've got fancy stripes for you in

  Leavenworth! The accountant snorted and turned his attention to Howard

  Oliver. 'Swanson's got a case; he'll hang you. Nobody has to be a lawyer to

  see that. You held back. You figured to use the existing guidance systems!

  'Only because the new gyroscopes couldn't be developedl Because that guinea

  bastard fell so far behind he couldn't catch UP !,

  'Also it saved you a couple of hundred million. . . . You should have

  primed the pumps, not cut off the water. You're big ducks in a short

  gallery; a blind man could knock you off.'

  Oliver put his glass down and spoke slowly. 'We don't pay you for that kind

  of judgment, Walter. You'd better have somo. thing else.'

  69

  Kendall crushed out his mutilated cigarette, his dirty finger. nails

  covered with ash. 'I do,' he said. 'You need company; you're in the middle

  of a very emotional issue. It'll cost you but you don't have a choice.

  You've got to make deals, ring in everybody. Get hold of Sperry Rand, GM,

  Chrysler, Lockheed, Douglas, Rolls-Royce, if you have to ... every son of

  a bitch with an engineering laboratory. A patriotic crash program. Cross.

  reference your data, open up everything you've got.'

  'They'll steal us blind!' roared Oliver. 'Millions!'

  'Cost you more if you don't ... I'll prepare supplementary financial stats.

  I'll pack the sheets with so much ice, it'll take ten years to thaw.

  That'll cost you, too.' Kendall smirked, baring soiled teeth.

  Howard Oliver stared at the unkempt accountant. 'It's crazy,' he said

  quietly. 'We'll be giving away fortunes for something that can't be bought

  because it doesn't exist.'

  'But you said it did exist. You told Swanson it existed - at least a hell

  of a lot more confidently than anybody else. You sold your great industrial

  know-how, and when you couldn't deliver, you covered up. Swanson's right.

  You're a menace to the war effort. Maybe you should be shot.

  Jonathan Craft watched the filthy, grinning bookkeeper with bad teeth and

  wanted to vomit. But he was their only hope.

  70

  5

  SEPTEMBER 25,1943

  STUTTGART, GERMANY