Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  possible you're being tested.'

  'By whom?'

  'I couldn't answer that. Warn Spaulding; it'll strike him as funny, he was

  on that aircraft. But let my man at Mitchell Field tell him there could be

  a recurrence; to be careful .... He's been there, general. He'll handle

  himself properly . . . . And in the Meantime, may I also suggest you look

  for a replacement.'

  'A replacementT

  'For Spaulding. If there is a recurrence, it could be successful. He'd be

  taken out.'

  'You mean he'd be killed.'

  'Yes.'

  'What kind of world do you people live inT asked Swanson softly.

  'It's complicated,'said Pace.

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  15

  DECEMBER 29,1943 NEW YORK CITY

  Spaulding watched the traffic below from the hotel window overlooking Fifth

  Avenue and Central Park. The Montgomery was one of those small, elegant

  hotels his parents had used while in New York, and there was a pleasant

  sense of nostalgia in his being there again. The old desk clerk had actually

  wept discreet tears while registering him. Spaulding had forgotten -

  fortunately he remembered before his signature was dry - that the old man

  years ago had taken him for walks in the park. Over a quarter of a century

  ago I

  Walks in the park. Governesses. Chauffeurs standing in foyers, prepared to

  whisk his parents away to a train, a concert, a rehearsal. Music critics.

  Record company executives. Endless dinner parties where he'd make his usual

  'appearance' before bed time and be prompted by his father to tell some

  guest at what age Mozart composed the Fortieth; dates and facts he was

  forced to memorize and which he gave not one goddamn about. Arguments.

  Hysterics over an inadequate conductor or a bad performance or a worse

  review.

  Madness.

  And always the figure of Aaron Mandel, soothing, placating -so often

  fatherly to his overbearing father while his mother faded, waiting in a

  secondary status that belied her natural strength.

  And the quiet times. The Sundays - except for concert Sundays - whenhis

  parents would suddenly rememberhisexistence

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  and try to make up in one day the attention they thought they had allocated

  improperly to governesses, chauffeurs and nice, polite hotel managements. At

  these times, the quiet times, he had felt his father's honest yet artificial

  attempts; had wanted to tell him it was all right, he wasn't deprived. They

  didn't have to spend autumn days wandering around zoos and museums; the zoos

  and museums were much better in Europe, anyway. It wasn't necessary that he

  be taken to Coney Island or the beaches of New Jersey in summer. What were

  they, compared to the Lido or Costa del Santiago? But whenever they were in

  America, there was this parental compulsion to fit into a mold labeled 'An

  American Father and Mother.'

  Sad, funny, inconsistent, impossible, really.

  And for some buried reason, he had never come back to this small, elegant

  hotel during the later years. There was rarely a need, of course, but he

  could have made the effort; the management was genuinely fond of the

  Spaulding family. Now it seemed right, somehow. After the years away he

  wanted a secure base in a strangeland, secure at least in memories.

  Spaulding walked away from the window to the bed where the bellboy had

  placed his new suitcase with the new civilian clothes he had purchased at

  Rogers Peet. Everything, including the suitcase. Pace had had the foresight

  to send money with the major who had brought him duplicates of the papers

  destroyed in Terceira. He had to sign for the money, not for the papers;

  that amused him.

  The major who met him at Mitchell Field - on the field - had escorted him

  to the base infirmary, where a bored army doctor pronounced him fit but

  'run down'; had professionally criticized the sutures implanted by the

  British doctor in the Azores but saw no reason to change them; and

  suggested that David take two APCs every four hours and rest.

  Caveat patient.

  The courier-major had played a tune on the Fairfax piano and told him Field

  Division was still analyzing the Lajes sabotage; it could have been aimed

  at him for misdeeds out of Lisbon. He should be careful and report any

  unusual incidents directly to Colonel Pace at Fairfax. Further, Spaulding

  was to commit the name of Brigadier General Alan Swanson, DW. Swanson was

  his source control and would make contact in a matter of days, ten at the

  outside.

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  Why call Pace then? Regarding any 'incidents.' Why not get in touch

  directly with this Swanson? Since he was the SC.

  Pace's instructions, replied the major - until the brigadier took over;

  just simpler that way.

  Or further concealment, thought David, remembering the clouded eyes of Paul

  Hollander, the Az-Am agent in Terceira.

  Something was happening. The source control transferwas being handled in a

  very unorthodox manner. From the unsigned, high-priority codes received in

  Lisbon to the extraordinary command: out of strategy. From the mid-ocean

  delivery of papers from Az-Am agents who said they had to question him

  first, to the strange orders that had him reporting to two civilians in New

  York without prior briefing.

  It was all like a hesitation waltz. it was either very professional or

  terribly amateur; really, he suspected, a combination of both. It would be

  interesting to meet this General Swanson. He had never heard of him.

  He Jay down on the hotel bed. He would rest for an hour and then shower and

  shave and see New York at night for the first time in overthreeyears. See

  what the war had done to a Manhattan evening; it had done little or nothing

  to the daylight hours, from what he'd seen - only the posters. It would be

  good to have a woman tonight. But if it happened, he'd want it to be

  comfortable, without struggle or urgency. A happy coincidence would be just

  right; a likable, really likable interlude. On the other hand, he wasn't

  about to browse through a telephone directory to create one. Three years

  and nine months had passed since he last picked up a telephone in New York

  City. During that time he had learned to be wary of the changes taking

  place over a matter of days, to say nothing of three years and nine months.

  And he recalled pleasantly how the Stateside transfers to the embassy in

  Lisbon often spoke of the easy accessibility of the women back home.

  Especially in Washington and New York, where the numbers and the absence of

  permanency worked in favor of one-night stands. Then he remembered, with a

  touch of amused resignation, that these same reports usually spoke of the

  irresistible magnetism of an officer's uniform, especially captain and

  over.

  He had worn a uniform exactly three times in the past four years: at the

  Mayflower Hotel lounge with Ed Pace, the day he arrived in Portugal and the

  day he left Portugal.

  ,156

  He didn't even own one now.

  His telephone rang and it startled him. Only Fairfax and, he assumed, this

  brigadier,
Swanson, knew where he was. He had called the Montgomery from

  the Mitchell Field infirmary and secured the reservation; the major had

  said to take seventy-two hours. He needed the rest; no one would bother

  him. Now someone was bothering him.

  'HelloT

  'Davidt' It was a girl's voice; low, cultivated at the Plaza. 'David

  Spaulding!'

  'Who is thisT He wondered for a second i f his just-released fantasies were

  playing tricks on reality.

  'Leslie, darling! Leslie Jenner! My God, it must be nearly five years!,

  Spaulding's n-dnd raced. Leslie Jenner was part of the New York scene but

  not the radio world; she was the up-from-college crowd. Meetings under the

  clock at the Biltmore; late nights at LaRue; the cotillions - which he'd

  been invited to, not so much from social bloodlines as for the fact that he

  was the son of the concert Spauldings. Leslie was Miss Porter's, Finch and

  the Junior League.

  Only her name had been changed to something else. She had married a boy

  from Yale. He didn't remember the name.

  'Leslie, this is . . . well, Jesus, a surprise. How did you know I was

  here?' Spaulding wasn't engaging in idle small talk.

  'Nothing happens in New York that I don't know about! I have eyes and ears

  everywhere, darling! A veritable spy network!'

  David Spaulding could feel the blood draining from his face; he didn't like

  the girl's joke. 'I'm serious, Leslie. . . . Only because I, haven't called

  anyone. Not even Aaron. How did you find out?'

  'If you must know, Cindy Bonner - she was Cindy Tottle, married Paul Bonner

  - Cindy was exchanging some dreary Christmas gifts for Paul at Rogers Peet

  and she swore she saw you trying on a suit. Well, you know Cindy! Just too

  shy for words . . .'

  David didn't know Cindy. He couldn't even recall thename, much less a face.

  Leslie Jenner went on as he thought about that.

  1. . . and so she ran to the nearest phone and called me. After all,

  darling, we were a major item I'

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  If a 'major item' described a couple of summer months of weekending at East

  Hampton and bedding the daughter of the house, then David had to agree. But

  he didn't subscribe to the definition; it had been damned transient,

  discreet and bef9re the girl's very social marriage.

  'I'd just as soon you kept that information from your husband.

  'Oh, God, you poor lamb! It's Jenner, darling, not Hawkwood I Didn't even

  keep the name. Damned if I would.'

  That was it, thought David. She'd married a man named Hawkwood: Roger or

  Ralph; something like that. A football player, or was it tennis?

  'I'm sorry. I didn't know.

  'Richard and I called it quits simply centuries ago. It was a disaster. The

  son of a bitch couldn't even keep his hands off my best friends! He's in

  London now; air corps, but very hush-hush, I think. I'm sure the English

  girls are getting their fill of him . . . and I do mean fill! I know!'

  There was a slight stirring in David's groin. Leslie Jenner was proffering

  an invitation.

  "Well, they're allies,' said Spaulding humorously. 'But you didn't tell me,

  how did you find me here?'

  'It took exactly four telephone calls, my lamb. I tried the usual:

  Commodore, Biltmore and the Waldorf; and then I remembered that your dad

  and mum always stopped off at the Montgomery. Very Old World, darling. . .

  . I thought, with reservations simply hell, you might have thought of it.'

  'You'd make a good detective, Leslie.'

  'Only when the object of my detecting is worthwhile, lamb. . We did have

  fun.'

  'Yes, we did,' said Spaulding, his thoughts on an entirely different

  subject. 'And we can't let your memory prowess go to waste. Dinner?'

  'If you hadn't asked, I would have screamed.'

  'Shall I pick you up at your apartment? What's the addressr

  Leslie hesitated a fraction of a moment. 'Let's meet at a restaurant. We'd

  never get out of here.'

  An invitation, indeed.

  David named a small Fifty-first Street cafe he remembered. It was on, Park.

  'At seven thirty? Eight?'

  'Seven thirty's lovely, but not there, darling. It closed simply

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  years ago. Why not the Gallery? It's on Forty-sixth. I'll make reservations;

  they know me.'

  Tine.'

  'You poor lamb, you've been away so long. You don't know anything. I'll

  take you in tow.'

  'I'd like that. Seven thirty, then.,

  'Can't wait. And I promise not to cry.'

  Spaulding replaced the telephone; he was bewildered - on several levels. To

  begin with, a girl didn't call a former lover after nearly four war years

  without asking - especially in these times - where he'd been, how he was;

  at least the length of his stay in town. It wasn't natural, it denied

  curiosity in these curiosity-prone days.

  Another reason was profoundly disturbing.

  The last time his parents had been at the Montgomery was in 1934. And he

  had not returned since then. He'd met the girl in 1936; in October of 1936

  in New Haven at the Yale Bowl. He remembered distinctly.

  Leslie Jenner couldn't possibly know about the Montgomery Hotel. Not as it

  was related to his parents.

  She was lying.

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  16

  DECEMBER 29,1943

  NEW YORK CITY

  The Gallery was exactly as David thought it would be: a lot of deep-red

  velvet with a generous sprinkling of palms in varying shapes and sizes,

  reflecting the soft-yellow pools of light from dozens of wall sconces far

  enough above the tables to make the menus unreadable. The clientele was

  equally predictable: young, rich, deliberately casual; a profusion of

  wrinkled eyebrows and crooked smiles and very bright teeth. The voices rose

  and subsided, words running together, the diction glossy.

  Leslie Jenner was there when he arrived. She ran into his arms in front of

  the cloak room; she held him fiercely, in silence, for several minutes - or

  it seemed like minutes to Spaulding; at any rate, too long a time. When she

  tilted her head back, the tears had formed rivulets on her cheeks. The

  tears were genuine, but there was something - was it the tautness of her

  full mouth? the eyes themselves? - something artificial about the girl. Or

  was it him? The years away from places like the Gallery and girls like

  Leslie Jenner.

  In all other respects she was as he remembered her. Perhaps older,

  certainly more sensual - the unmistakable look of experience. Her dark

  blonde hair was more a light brown now, her wide brown eyes had added

  subtlety to her innate provocativeness, her face was a touch lined but

  still sculptured, aristocratic. And he could feel her body against his; the

  memories were sharpened by it. Lithe, strong, full breasted; a body that

  centered

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  on sex. Shaped by it and for it.

  'God, God, God I Oh, David!' She pressed her Ups against his ear.

  They went to their table; she held his hand firmly, releasing it only to

  light a cigarette, taking it back again. They talked rapidly. He wasn't

  sure she listened, but she nod
ded incessantly and wouldn't take her eyes

  off him. He repeated the simple outlines of his cover: Italy, minor wounds;

  they were letting him out to go back into an essential industry where he'd

  do more good than carrying a rifle. He wasn't sure how long he'd be in New

  York. (He was honest about that, he thought to himselE He had no -idea how

  long he'd be in town; he wished he did know.) He was glad to see her again.

  The dinner was a prelude to bed. They both knew it; neither bothered to

  conceal the excitement of reviving the most pleasant of experiences: young

  sex that was taken in shadows, beyond the reprimands of elders. Enjoyed

  more because it was prohibited, dangerous.

  'Your apartment?'he asked.

  'No, lamb. I share it with my aunt, mum's younger sister. It's very chic

  these days to share an apartment; very patriotic.'

  The reasoning escaped David. 'Then my place,' he said firmly.

  'DavidT Leslie squeezed his hand and paused before speaking. 'Those old

  family retainers who run the Montgomery, they know so many in our crowd.

  For instance, the Allcotts have a suite there, so do the Dewhursts.... I

  have a key to Peggy Webster's place in the Village. Remember Peggy? You

  were at their wedding. Jack Webster? You know Jack. He's in the navy; she

  went out to see him in San Diego. Let's go to Peggy's place.'

  Spaulding watched the girl closely. He hadn't forgotten her odd behavior on

  the telephone, her lie about the old hotel and his parents. Yet it was

  possible that his imagination was overworking - the years in Lisbon made

  one cautious. There could be explanations, memory lapses on his part; but

  now he was as curious as he was stimulated.

  He was very curious. Very stimulated.

  'Peggy's place,'he said.

  If there was anything beyond the sexual objective, it escaped him.

  Their coats off, Leshe made drinks in the kitchen while David

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  bunched newspapers beneath the fireplace grill and watched the kindling

  catch.

  Leslie stood in the kitchen doorway looking down at him separating the

  logs, creating an airflow. She held their drinks and smiled. 'In two days

  it's New Year's Eve. We'll jump and call this ours. Our New Year's. The