Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  'There won't be much latitude for deviation. It's cut and dried.'

  'That is important V Swanson spoke harshly; Pace was wasting

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  his time. The man in Buenos Aires had to understand what the bell was going

  on; perhaps more than understand.

  'He's in a related field, sir. One that our people say primes him for crash

  instructions.'

  'What is itT

  'He's a construction engineer. With considerable experience in mechanical,

  electrical and metal design. His background includes full responsibility

  for whole structures - from foundations through the finished productions.

  He's a blueprint expert.'

  Swanson paused, then nodded noncommittally. 'All right. Go on.

  'The most difficult part of your request was to find someone - someone with

  these technical qualifications - who had practical experience in

  "dispatch." You even conceded that.'

  'I know.' Swanson felt it was the time to show a little more humanity. Pace

  looked exhausted; the search had not been easy. 'I handed you a tough one.

  Does your nonmilitary, mobile engineer have any "dispatches" of recordT

  'We try to avoid records, because . .

  'You know what I mean.'

  'Yes. He's stationed where it's unavoidable, I'm sorry to say. Except for

  the men in Burma and India, he's had more occasions to use last-extremity

  solutions than anyone in the field. To our knowledge, he's never hesitated

  to implement them.'

  Swanson started to speak, then hesitated. He creased his brow above his

  questioning eyes. 'You can't help but wonder about such men, can youT

  'They're trained. Like anyone else they do a job for a purpose. He's not a

  killer by nature. Very few of our really good men are.'

  'I've never understood your work, Ed. Isn't that strangeT

  'Not at all. I couldn't possibly function in your end of the War

  Department. Those charts and graphs and civilian double-talkers confuse

  me.... How does the subject sound to youT

  'You have no alternates?'

  'Several. But with each there's the same negative. Those that have the

  languages and the aeronautical training have no experience in "dispatch".

  No records of ... extreme prejudice. I worked on the assumption that it was

  as important as the other fa

  'dors.,

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  'Your assumption was correct.... Tell me, do you know hirnT

  'Very well. I recruited him, I observed every phase of his training. I've

  seen him in the field. He's a pro.'

  'I want one.'

  'Then maybe he's your man. But before I say it, I'd like to ask you a

  question. I have to ask it, actually; I'll be asked the same question

  myself.'

  :1 hope I can give an answer.'

  It's within bounds. It's not specific.'

  'What is itT

  Pace came to the edge of the desk toward Swanson. He leaned his back

  against it and folded his arms. It was another army signal: I'm your

  subordinate but this puts us on equalfooting right now - at this moment.

  'I said the subject was valuable where he is. That's not strong enough.

  He's invaluable, essential. By removing him from his station we jeopardize

  a very sensitive operation. We can handle it, but the risks are

  considerable. What I have to know is, does the assignment justify his

  transferT

  'Let me put it this way, colonel,' said Swanson, the tone of his voice

  gentle but strong. 'The assignment has no priority equal, with the possible

  exception of the Manhattan Project. You've heard of the Manhattan Project,

  I assume.'

  'I have.' Pace got off his desk. 'And the War Department -through your

  office - will confirm this priority?'

  ,it Will.,

  'Then hem he is, general.' Pace handed Swanson the file folder. 'He's one

  of the best we've got. He's our man in Lisbon. ... Spaulding. Captain David

  Spaulding.'

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  11

  DECEMBER 26,1943

  RIBADA VIA, SPAIN

  David sped south on the motorcycle along the dirt road paralleling the Minho

  River. It was the fastest route to the border, just below Ribadavia. Once

  across he would swing west to an airfield outside Valenga. The flight to

  Lisbon would take another two hours, if the weather held and if an aircraft

  was available. Valen4ga didn't expect him for another two days; its planes

  might all be in use.

  His anxiety matched the intensity of the'spinning, careening wheels beneath

  him. It was all so extraordinary; it made no sense to him. There was no one

  in Lisbon who could issue such orders as he had received from Ortegal!

  What had happened?

  He felt suddenly as though a vitally important part of his existence was

  being threatened. And then he wondered at his own reaction.He had no love

  for his temporary world; he took no pleasure in the countless manipulations

  and countermanipulations. In fact, he despised most of his day-to-day

  activities, was sick of the constant fear, the unending high-risk factors

  to be evaluated with every decision.

  Yet he recognized what bothered him so: he had grown in his work. He had

  arrived in Lisbon centuries ago, beginning a new life, and he had mastered

  it. Somehow it signified all the buildings he wanted to build, all the

  blueprints he wanted to turn into mortar and steel. There was precision and

  finality in his work; the

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  results were there every day. Often many times every day. Like the hundreds

  of details in construction specifications, the information came to him and

  he put it all together and emerged with reality.

  And it was this reality that others depended upon.

  Now someone wanted him out of Lisbon! Out of Portugal and Spain! Was it as

  simple as that? Had his reports angered one general too many? Had a

  strategy session been nullified because he sent back the truth of a

  supposedly successful operation? Were the London and Washington brass

  finally annoyed to the point of removing a critical thom? It was possible;

  he had been told often enough that the men in the underground rooms in

  London's Tower Road had exploded more than once over his assessments. He

  knew that Washington's Office of Strategic Services felt he was encroaching

  on their territory; even G-2, ostensibly his own agency, criticized his

  involvement with the escape teams.

  But beyond the complaints there was one evaluation that overrode them all:

  he was good. He had welded together the best network in Europe.

  Which was why David was confused. And not a little disturbed, for a reason

  he tried not to admit: he needed praise.

  There were no buildings of consequence, no extraordinary blueprints turned

  into more extraordinary edifices. Perhaps there never would be. He would be

  a middle-aged engineer when it was over. A middle-aged engineer who had not

  practiced his profession in years, not even in the vast army of the United

  States, whose Corps of Engineers was the largest construction crew in

  history.

  He tried not to think about it.

  He crossed the border at Mendoso, where the guards knew him as a rich,

  irresponsible expatriot
avoiding the risks of war. They accepted his

  gratuities and waved him over.

  The flight from Valenca to the tiny airfield outside Lisbon was hampered by

  heavy rains. It was necessary to put down twice - at Agueda and Pombal -

  before the final leg. He was met by an embassy vehicle; the driver, a

  cryptographer named Marshall, was the only man in the embassy who knew his

  real function.

  'Rotton weather, isn,t itr said the code man, settling behind the wheel as

  David threw his pack in the back seat. 'I don't envy you up in a crate like

  that. Not in this rain.'

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  .'Those grass pilots fly so low you could jump down. I woffy more about the

  trees.'

  'I'd just worry.' Marshall started up and drove toward the broken-down

  pasture gate that served as the field's entrance. On the road he switched

  on his high beams; it was not yet six o'clock, but the sky was dark,

  headlights necessary. 'I thought you might flatter me and ask why an expert

  of my standing was acting as chauffeur. I've been here since four. Go on,

  ask me. It was a hell of a long wait.'

  Spaulding grinned. 'Jesus, Marsh, I just figured you were trying to get in

  my good graces. So I'd take you north on the next trip. Or have I been made

  a brigadierT

  'You've been made something, David.' Marshall spoke seriously. 'I took the

  D.C. message myself. It was that high up in the codes: eyes-only, senior

  cryp.'

  'I'm flattered,' said Spaulding softly, relieved that he could talk to

  someone about the preposterous news of his transfer. 'What the hell is it

  all aboutT

  'I have no idea what they want you for, of course, but I can spell out one

  conclusion: they want you yesterday. They've covered all avenues of delay.

  The orders were to compile a list of your contacts with complete histories

  of each: motives, dates, repeats, currency, routings, codes ... everything.

  Nothing left out. Subsequent order: alert the whole network that you're out

  of strategy.'

  'Out of. . . ' David trailed off the words in disbelief. Out of strategy

  was a phrase used as often for defectors as it was for transfers. Its

  connotation was final, complete breakoff. 'That's insane! This is my

  network!"

  'Not anymore. They flew a man in from London this morning. I think he's

  Cuban; rich, too. Studied architecture in Berlin before the war. He's been

  holed up in an office studying your files. He's your replacement.... I

  wanted you to know.'

  David stared at the windshield, streaked with the harsh Lisbon rain. They

  were on the hard-surfaced road that led through the Alfama district, with

  its winding, hilly streets below the cathedral towers of the Moorish St.

  George and the Gothic S6. The American embassy was in the Baixa, past the

  Terreiro do Paqo. Another twenty minutes.

  So it was really over, thought Spaulding. They were sending him out. A

  Cuban architect was now the man in Lisbon. The

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  feeling of being dispossessed took hold of him again. So much was being

  taken away and under such extraordinary conditions. Out ofstrategy...

  'Who signed the orders?'

  'That's part of the craziness. The use of high codes presumes supreme

  authority; no one else has access. But no one signed them, either. No name

  other than yours was in the cable.'

  'What am I supposed to doT

  'You get on a plane tomorrow. The flight time will be posted by tonight.

  The bird makes one stop. At Lajes Field on Terceira, the Azores. You pick

  up your orders there.'

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  12

  DECEMBER 26,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Swanson reached for the tiny lever on his desk intercom and spoke: 'Send Mr.

  Kendall in.' He stood up, remaining where he was, waiting for the door to

  open. He would not walk around his desk to greet the man; he would not offer

  his hand in even a symbol of welcome. He recalled that Walter Kendall had

  avoided shaking hands with Craft and Oliver at the Sheraton. The handshake

  would not be missed; his avoidance of it, however, might be noted.

  Kendall entered; the door closed. Swanson saw that the accountant's

  appearance had changed little since the aftemoon conference he had observed

  from the unseen room two days ago. Kendall wore the same suit, conceivably

  the same soiled shirt. God knew about his underwear; it wasn't a pleasant

  thought to dwell on. There was the slightest curl on Kendall's upper lip.

  It did not convey anger or even disdain. It was merely the way the man

  breathed: mouth and nostrils simultaneously. As an animal might breathe.

  'Come in, Mr. Kendall. Sit down.'

  Kendall did so without comment. His eyes locked briefly with Swanson's but

  only briefly.

  'You're listed on my appointment calendar as being called in to clarify a

  specific overrun on a Meridian contract,' said the general, sitting down

  promptly. 'Not to justify, simply enumerate. As the ... outside auditing

  firm you can do that.'

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  'But that's not why I'm here, is it?' Kendall reached into his pocket for

  a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He squeezed the end before lighting one.

  Swanson noted that the accountant's fingernails were unkempt, ragged,

  soiled at the tips. The brigadier began to see - but would not ponder it -

  that there was a sickness about Walter Kendall, the surface appearance

  merely one manifestation.

  'No, that's not why you're here,' he answered curtly. 'I want to set up

  ground rules so neither of us misunderstands.... So you don't

  misunderstand, primarily.'

  'Ground rules mean a game. What's the game we're playing, generalT

  'Perhaps . . . "Clean Uniforms" might be a good name for it. Or how to run

  some "Interference in Buenos Aires." That might strike you as more

  inclusive.'

  Kendall, who had been gazing at his cigarette, abruptly shifted his eyes to

  the general. 'So Olivet and Craft couldn't wait. They had to bring their

  teacher his big fat apple. I didn't think you wanted it.'

  'Neither Craft nor Howard Oliver have been in touch with this office - or

  with me - in over a week. Since you left for Geneva.'

  Kendall paused before speaking. 'Then your uniform's pretty goddamned dirty

  now.... The Sheraton. I thought that was a little unritzy for Craft; he's

  the Waldorf type.... So you had the place wired. You trapped those

  fuckers.' Kendall's voice was hoarse, not angry, not loud. 'Well, you just

  remember how I got to where I was going. How I got to Geneva. You got that

  on the wire, too.'

  'We accommodated a request of the War Production Board; relative to a

  business negotiation with a firm in Geneva. It's done frequently. However,

  we often follow up if there's reason to think anything prejudicial. . . .

  'HorseshitV

  Swanson exhaled an audible breath. 'That reaction is pointless. I don't

  want to argue with you. The point had been made. I have an . . . edited

  spool of wire that could send you straight

  to the hangman or the electric chair. Oliver, too Craft might

  get off with a life sentence. You ridiculed his doubts; you didn't

/>   let him talk.... The point, however, has been made.'

  Kendall leaned forward and crushed out his cigarette in an

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  ashtray on Swanson's desk. His sudden fear made him look at the general; he

  was searching. 'But you're more interested in Buenos Aires than the electric

  chair. That's right, isn't itT

  'I'm forced to be. As distasteful as it may be to me. As loathsome .....

  'Cut out the horseshit,' Kendall interrupted sharply; he was no amateur in

  such discussions. He knew when to assert himself and his contributions. 'As

  you said, the point's been made. I think you're in the barnyard with the

  rest of us pigs.... So don't play Jesus. Your halo smells.'

  'Fair enough. But don't you forget, I've got a dozen different pigsties to

  run to. A great big War Department that could get me to Burma or Sicily in

  forty-eight hours. You don't. You're right out there ... in the barnyard.

  For everyone to see. And I've got a spool of wire that would make you

  special. That's the understanding I want you to have clear in your mind. I

  hope it is.,

  Kendall squeezed the tip of a second cigarette and lit the opposite end.

  The smoke drifted over his nostrils; he was about to speak, then stopped,

  staring at the general, his look a mixture of fear and hostility.

  Swanson found himself consciously avoiding Kendall's eyes. To acknowledge

  the man at that moment was to acknowledge the pact. And then he realized

  what would make the pact bearable. It was the answer, his answer; at least

  a surface one. He was amazed it had not occurred to him before this moment.

  Walter Kendall would have to be eliminated.

  As Erich Rhinemann would be eliminated.

  When Buenos Aires was in reach of completion, Kendall's death was

  mandatory.

  And then all specific traces to the government of the United States would

  be covered.

  He wondered briefly if the men in Berlin had the foresight for such abrupt

  decisions. He doubted it.

  He looked up at the filthy - sick - accountant and returned his stare in

  full measure. General Alan Swanson was no longer afraid. Or consumed with

  guilt.

  He was a soldier.

  'Shall we continue, Mr. Kendall?'