Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  start of many, I hope.'

  'Of many,' he replied, standing up and going to her. He took both glasses,

  not the one extended. 'I'll put them over here.' He carried them to the

  coffee table in front of the small couch that faced the fireplace. He

  turned rapidly, politely to watch her eyes. She wasn't looking at the

  glasses. Or his placement of them.

  Instead, she approached the fire and removed her blouse. She dropped it on

  the floor and turned around, her large breasts accentuated by a tight,

  transparent brassiere that had webbed stitching at the tips.

  'Take off your shirt, David.'

  He did so and came to her. She winced at his bandages and gently touched

  them with her fingers. She pressed herself against him, her pelvis firm

  against his thighs, moving laterally, expertly. He reached around her back

  and undid the hasps of the brassiere; she hunched slightly as he pulled it

  away; then she turned, arching her breasts upward into his flesh. He cupped

  her left breast with his right hand; she reached down, stepping partially

  away, and undid his trousers.

  'The drinks can wait, David. It's New Year's Eve. Ours, anyway.'

  Still holding her breast, he put his lips to her eyes, her ears. She felt

  him and moaned.

  'Here, David,' she said. 'Right here on the floor.' She sank to her knees,

  her skirt pulled up to her thighs, the tops of her stockings visible.

  He lay down beside her and they kissed.

  'I remember,' he whispered with a gentle laugh. 'The first tirqe; the

  cottage by the boathouse. The floor. I remember.'

  'I wondered if you would. I've never forgotten.'

  It was only one forty-five in the morning when he took her home. They had

  made love twice, drunk a great deal of Jack and Peggy Webster's good

  whiskey and spoken of the 'old days' mostly. Leslie had no inhibitions

  regarding her marriage.

  162

  Richard Hawkwood, ex-husband, was simply not a man who could sustain a

  permanent relationship. He was a sexual glutton as long as the sex was

  spread around; not much otherwise. He was also a failure - as much as his

  family would allow - in the business world. Hawkwood was a man brought up to

  enjoy fifty thousand a year with the ability to make, perhaps, six.

  The war was created, she felt, for men like Richard. They would excel in

  it, as her ex-husband had done. He should 'go down in flames' somewhere,

  exiting brilliantly rather than returning to the frustrations of civilian

  inadequacy. Spaulding thought that was harsh; she claimed she was being

  considerate. And they laughed and made love.

  Throughout the evening David kept alert, waiting for her to say something,

  reveal something, ask something unusual. Anything to clarify - if nothing

  else - the reasons behind her earlier lies about finding him. There was

  nothing.

  He asked her again, claiming incredulity that she would remember his

  parents and the Montgomery. She stuck to her infallible memory, adding only

  that 'love makes any search more thorough.'

  She was lying again; he knew that. What they had was not love.

  She left him in the taxi; she didn't want him to come up. Her aunt would be

  asleep; it was better this way.

  They'd meet again tomorrow. At the Websters'. Ten o'clock in the evening;

  she had a dinner date she'd get rid of early. And she'd break her

  engagement for the real New Year's Eve. They'd have the whole day to

  themselves.

  As the doorman let her in and the taxi started up toward Fifth Avenue, he

  thought for the first time that Fairfax had him beginning his assignment at

  Meridian Aircraft the day after tomorrow. New Year's Eve. He expected it

  would be a half-day.

  It was strange. New Year's Eve. Christmas.

  He hadn't even thought about Christmas. He'd remembered to send his

  parents' gifts to Santiago, but he'd done that before his trip to the north

  country. To Basque and Navarre.

  Christmas had no meaning. The Santa Clauses ringing their clinking bells on

  the New York streets, the decorations in the store windows - none had

  meaning for him.

  He was sad about that. He had always enjoyed the holidays.

  David paid the driver, said hello to the Montgomery night

  163

  clerk and took the elevator to his floor. He got off and approached his

  door. Automatically, because his eyes were tired, he flipped his finger

  above the Do Not Disturb sign beneath the lock.

  Then he felt the wood and looked down, punching his cigarette lighter for

  better vision.

  The field thread was gone.

  Second nature and the instructions from Fairfax to stay alert had caused

  him to 'thread' his hotel room. Strands of invisible tan and black silk

  placed in a half-dozen locations, that if missing or broken meant a

  trespasser.

  He carried no weapon and he could not know if anyone was stiff inside.

  He returned to the elevator and pushed the button. He asked the operator if

  he had a passkey; his door wouldn't open. The man did not; he was taken to

  the lobby.

  The night clerk obliged, ordering the elevator operator to remain at the

  desk while he went to the aid of Mr. Spaulding and his difficult lock.

  As the two men walked out of the elevator and down the corridor, Spaulding

  heard the distinct sound of a latch being turned, snapped shut quietly but

  unmistakably. He rapidly turned his head in both directions, up and down

  the corridor, trying to locate the origin of the sound.

  Nothing but closed hotel doors.

  The desk clerk had no trouble opening the door. He had more difficulty

  understanding Mr. Spaulding's arm around his shoulder ushering him into the

  single room with him.

  David looked around quickly. The bathroom and closet doors were open as he

  had left them. There were no other places of concealment. He released the

  desk clerk and tipped him with a five-dollar bill.

  'Thank you very much. I'm embarrassed; I'm afraid I had too much to drink.'

  'Not at all, sir. 77tank you, sir.' The man'left, pulling the door shut

  behind him.

  David rapidly began his thread check. In the closet: his jacket bre"t

  pocket, leafed out, centered.

  No thread.

  The bureau: the first and third drawers, inserted.

  Both threads out of place. The first inside on top of a handkerchief; the

  second, wedged between shirts.

  164

  The bed: laterally placed along the spread in line with* the pattern.

  Nowhere. Nothing.

  He went to his suitcase, which lay on a luggage rack by the window. He

  knelt down and inspected the right lock; the thread had been clamped inside

  the metal hasp up under the tiny hinge. If the suitcase was opened, it had

  to break.

  It was broken, only one half remaining.

  The inside of the suitcase housed a single strand at the rear, crossing the

  elastic flap'three fingers from the left side.

  It was gone.

  David stood up. He crossed to the bedside table and reached underneath for

  the telephone directory. There was no point in delay; what advantage he had

  was i
n surprise. His room had been searched professionally; he was not

  expected to know.

  He would get Leslie Jenner's number, return to her apartment house and find

  a telephone booth near the entrance - with luck, in sight of it. He would

  then call her, tell her some wildly incredible story about anything and ask

  to see her. No mention of the search, nothing of his borne-out suspicions.

  Throw her off completely and listen acutely to her reaction. If she agreed

  to see him, all well and good. If she didn't, he'd keep her apartment under

  surveillance throughout the night, if necessary.

  Leslie Jenner had a story to tell and he'd find out what it was. The man in

  Lisbon had not spent three years in the north provinces without gaining

  expertise.

  There was no Jenner at the address of the apartment building.

  There were six Jenners, listed in Manhattan.

  One by one he gave the hotel switchboard the numbers, and one by one - in

  varying stages of sleep and anger - the replies were the same.

  No Leslie Jenner. None known.

  Spaulding hung up. He'd been sitting on the bed; he got up and walked

  around the room.

  He would go to the apartment building and ask the doorman. It was possible

  the apartment was in the aunt's name but it wasn't plausible. Leslie Jenner

  would put her name and number in the Yellow Pages, if she could; for her

  the telephone was an instrument of existence, not convenience. And if he

  went to the apartment and started asking questions, he would be announcing

  unreasonable concern. He wasn't prepared to do that.

  165

  Who was the girl at Rogers Peet? The one exchanging Christmas gifts.

  Cynthia? Cindy? ... Cindy. Cindy Tuttle ... Tottle. But not Tottle ...

  Bonner. Married to Paul Bonner, exchanging 'dreary gifts for Paul.'

  He crossed to the bed and picked up the telephone directory.

  Paul Bonner was listed: 480 Park Avenue. The address was appropriate. He

  gave the number to the switchboard.

  The voice of a girl more asleep than awake answered.

  'Yes?... Hello?'

  'Mrs. Bonner?'

  'Yes. What is it? This is Mrs. Bonner.'

  'I'm David Spaulding. You saw me this afternoon at Rogers Peet; you were

  exchanging gifts for your husband and I was buying a suit.... Forgive me

  for disturbing you but it's important. I had dinner with Leslie ... Leslie

  Jenner; you called her. I just left her at her apartment; we were to meet

  tomorrow and now I find that I may not be able to. It's foolish but I

  forgot to get her telephone number, and I can't find it in the book. I

  wondered...'

  'Mr. Spaulding.' The girl interrupted him, her tone sharp, no longer

  blurred with sleep. 'If this is a joke, I think it's in bad taste. I do

  remember your name . . . . I did not see you this afternoon and I wasn't

  exchanging . . . I wasn't in Rogers Peet. My husband was killed four months

  ago. In Sicily. . . . I haven't spoken to Leslie Jenner . . . Hawkwood, I

  think now in over a year. She moved to California, Pasadena, I believe. We

  haven't been in touch. Nor is it likely we would be.'

  David heard the, abrupt click of the broken connection.

  166

  17

  DECEMBER 31,1943

  NEW YORK CITY

  It wasthe morning of New Year's Eve.

  His first day of 'employment' for Meridian Aircraft, Blueprint Division.

  He had stayed most of the previous day in his hotel room going out briefly

  for lunch and magazines, dinner through robm service, and finally a

  pointless taxi to Greenwich Village, where he knew he would not find Leslie

  Jehner at ten o , clock.

  He had remained confined for two reasons. The first was a confirmation of

  the Mitchell Field doctor's diagnosis: he was exhausted. The secopd reason

  was equally important. Fairfax was running checks on Leslie Jenner

  Hawkwood, Cindy Tottle Bonner, and a naval officer named Jack or John

  Webster, whose wifewasconveniently in California. David wanted this data

  before progressing further, and Ed Pace had promised to be as thorough as

  forty-eight hours allowed.

  Spaulding had been struck by Cindy Bonner's words concerning Leslie Jenner.

  She nwved to California. Pasadena, I believe....

  And a routine phone call to the Greenwich Village apartment's

  superintendent had confirmed that, indeed, the Websters did live there; the

  husband was in the navy, the wife was visiting him someplace in California.

  The superintendent was holding the mail.

  Someplace in California.

  167

  She moved to California....

  Was there a connection? Or simple coincidence.

  Spaulding looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. The morning of New

  Year's Eve. Tomorrow would be 1944.

  This morning, however, he was to report to one Walter Kendall and one

  Eugene Lyons at Meridian's temporary offices on Thirty-eighth Street.

  Why would one of the largest aircraft companies in the United States have

  'temporary' offices?

  The telephone rang. David reached for it.

  'Spaulding?'

  'Hello, Ed.'

  'I got what I could. It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. To begin

  with, there's no record of a divorce between the Hawkwoods. And he is in

  England. Eighth Air Force, but nothing classified. He's a pilot, Tenth

  Bomber Command down in Surrey.'

  'What about her living in California?'

  'Eighteen months ago she left New York and moved in with an aunt in

  Pasadena. Very rich aunt, married to a man named Goldsmith; he's a banker

  - Social Register, polo set. From what we've learned - and it's sketchy -

  she just likes California.'

  :'O.K. What about this WebsterT

  Checks out. He's a gunner officer on the Saratoga. It pulled into San Diego

  for combat repairs. It's scheduled for sea duty in two weeks, and the date

  holds. Until then there are a lot of forty-eights, seventy-twos; no

  extended leaves, though. The wife Margaret joined her lieutenant a couple

  of days ago. She's at the Greenbrier Hotel.'

  'Anything on the BonnersT

  'Only what you know, except that he was a bona fide hero. Posthumous Silver

  Star, Infantry. Killed on a scout patrol covering an ambush evacuation.

  Sicily invasion.'

  'And that's iff

  'That's it. Obviously they all know each other, but I can't find anything

  to relate to your DW assignment.'

  'But you're not the control, Ed. You said you didn't know what the

  assignment was.' -

  'True. But from the fragments I do know about, I can't find anything.,

  'My room was searched. I'm not mistaken about that.'

  168

  'Maybe the ' ft. Rich soldier in a rich hotel, home from an

  extended tour. Could be someone figured you were carrying a

  lot of back pay, discharge money.'

  'I doubt that. It was too pro.'

  'A lot of pros work those hotels. They wait for guys to start off on an

  alcoholic evening and . . .'

  Spaulding interrupted. 'I want to follow up something.'

  6VVhat?9

  'The Bonner girl said "it wasn't likely" she'd be in touch with Leslie

  Jenner, and she wasn't kid
ding. That's an odd thing to say, isn't it? I'd

  like to know why she said it.'

  'Go ahead. It was your hotel room, not mine. . . . You know what I think?

  And I've thought about it; I've had to.'

  6119ftat?9

  'That New York crowd plays a fast game of musical beds. Now, you didn't

  elaborate, but isn't it logical the lady was in New York for a few days,

  perhaps saw you herself, or knew someone who had, and figured, why not? I

  mean, what the hell, she's headed back to California; probably never see

  you again. . . .'

  'No, it's not logical. She was too complicated; she didn't have to be. She

  was keeping me away from the hotel.'

  'Well, you were there. . . .'

  'I certainly was. You know, it's funny. According to your major at Mitchell

  Field, you think the Azores thing was directed at me. . . .'

  'I said might be,' interjected Pace.

  'And I don't. Yet here I am, convinced the other night was, and you don't.

  Maybe we're both getting tired.'

  'Maybe I'm also concerned for your source control. This Swanson, he's very

  nervous; this isn't his ball park. I don't think he can take many more

  complications.'

  'Then let's not give him any. Not now. I'll know if I should.'

  Spaulding watched the disheveled accountant as he outlined the Buenos Aires

  operation. He had never met anyone quite like Walter Kendall. The man was

  positively unclean. His body odor was only partially disguised by liberal

  doses of bay rum. His shirt collar was dirty, his suit unpressed, and David

  was fascinated to watch the man breathe simultaneously through'his mouth

  and nostrils. The agent in Terceira had said Eugene Lyons was 'odd';

  if this Kendall was'normal,'he couldn't wait to meet the scientist. The Buenos

  Aires operation seemed simple enough, far less complicated than most of the

  Lisbon work. So simple, in fact, that it angered him to think he had been

  removed from Lisbon for it. Had anyone bothered to fill him in a few weeks

  ago, he could have saved Washington a lot of planning, and probably money.

  He had been dealing with the German underground since that organization had

  consolidated its diverse factions and become an effective force. If this

  Erich Rhinemann was capable of buying the designs, removing them from the

  PeenemUnde complex, he -the man in Lisbon - could have gotten them out of