him. His shock caused him to lose his breath. For the briefest of moments
he wondered if his eyes, his senses were playing tricks on him,
transporting his imagination back to Lisbon.
He started after the car, running in the street, dodging automobiles and
the goddamned New Year's Eve revelers.
The brown sedan turned north on Madison Avenue and sped off. He stood in
the street, breathless.
The face in the rear window was that of a man he had worked with in the
most classified operations out of Portugal and Spain.
Marshall. Lisbon's master cryptographer.
I
The taxi driver accepted David's challenge to get him to the Montgomery in
five minutes or less. It took seven, but considering the traffic on Fifth
Avenue, Spaulding gave him five dollars and raced into the lobby.
There were no messages.
He hadn't bothered to thread his door lock; a conscious oversight, he
considered. In addition to the maid service, if he could have offered an
open invitation to those who had searched his room two nights ago, he would
have done so. A recurrence might cause carelessness,-some clues to
identities.
He threw off his coat and went to his dresser, where he kept a bottle of
Scotch. Two clean glasses stood on a silver tray next to the liquor. He'd
take the necessary seconds to pour himself a drink before calling Fairfax.
'A very Happy New Year, , he said slowly as he lifted the glass to his
lips.
He crossed to the bed, picked up the telephone and gave the Virginia number
to the switchboard. The circuits to the Washington area were crowded; it
would take several minutes to get through.
What in God's name did the man mean? Heed the lesson of Fairfax. What the
hell was he talking about? Who was Altmfiller? ... What was the first name?
... Franz. Franz Altmiiller.
Who was he?
So the Lajes Field 'incident' was aimed at him. For Christ's sake, what
for?
And Marshall. It was Marshall in that rear window I He hadn't
187
been mistaken I
'Field Division Headquarters' were the monotoned words from the State of
Virginia, County of Fairfax.
'Colonel Edmund Pace, please.'
There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. David's ears picked
up a tiny rush of air he knew very well.
It was a telephone intercept, usually attached to a wire recorder.
'Who's calling Colonel PaceT
It was David's turn to hesitate. He did so thinking that perhaps he'd
missed the interceptor sound before. It was entirely possible, and Fairfax
was, after all ... well, Fairfax.
'Spaulding. Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding.'
'Can I give the colonel a message, sir? He's in conference.'
'No, you may not. You may and can give me the colonel.'
'I'm sorry, sir.' Fairfax's hesitation was now awkward. 'Let me have a
telephone number .....
'Look, soldier, my name is Spaulding. My clearance is fourzero and this is
a four-zero prioxity call. If those numbers don't mean anything to you, ask
the son of a bitch on your intercept. Now, it's an emergency. Put me
through to Colonel Pace!'
There was a loud double click on the line. A deep, hard voice came over the
wire.
'And this is Colonel Barden, Colonel Spaulding. I'm also four-zero and any
four-zeros will be cleared with this son of a bitch. Now, I'm in no mood
for any rank horseshit. What do you want?'
'I like your directness, colonel,' said David, smiling in spite of his
urgency. 'Put me through to Ed. It's really priority. It concerns Fairfax.'
'I can't put you through, colonel. We don't have any circuits, and I'm not
trying to be funny. Ed Pace is dead. He was shot through the head an hour
ago. Some goddamned son of a bitch killed him right here in the compound.'
M&
20
JANUARY 1, 1944
FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
It was four-thirty in the morning when the army car carrying Spaulding
reached the Fairfax gate.
The guards had been alerted; Spaulding, in civilian clothes, possessing no
papers of authorization, was matched against his file photograph and waved
through. David had been tempted to ask to see the photograph; to the best
of his knowledge, it was four years old. Once inside, the automobile swung
left and headed to the south area of the huge compound. About a half mile
down the gravel road, past rows of metal Quonset huts, the car pulled up in
front of a barracks structure. It was the Fairfax Administration Building.
Two corporals flanked the door. The sergeant Over climbed out of the car
and signaled the noncoms to let Spaulding throughl he was already in front
of them.
David was shown to an office on the second floor. Inside were two men:
Colonel Ira Barden and a doctor named McCleod, a captain. Barden was a
thick, short man with the build of a foptball tackle and close-cropped
black hair. McCleod was stooped, slender, bespectacled - the essence of the
thoughtful academician.
Barden wasted the minimum time with introductions. Completed, he went
immediately to the questions at hand.
'We've doubled patrols everywhere, put men with K-9s all along the fences.
I'd like to think no one could get out. What bothers us is whether someone
got out beforehand.'
189
'How did it happenT
'Pace had a few people over for New Year's. Twelve, to be exact. Four were
from his own Quonset, three from Records, the rest from Administration.
Very subdued ... what the hell, this is Fairfax. As near as we can
determine, he went out his back door at about twenty minutes past midnight.
Carrying out garbage, we think; maybe just to get some air. He didn't come
back. - A guard down the road came to the door, saying he'd heard a shot.
No one else had. At least, not inside.'
'That's unusual. These quarters are hardly soundproof.'
'Someone had turned up the phonograph.'
'I thought it was a subdued party.'
Barden looked hard at Spaulding. His glare was not anger, it was his way of
telegraphing his deep concern. 'That record player was turned up for no
more than thirty seconds. The rifle used -and ballistics confirms this -
was a training weapon, .22 caliber.'
'A sharp crack, no louder,' said David.
'Exactly. The phonograph was a signal!
'Inside. At the party,' added Spaulding.
'Yes.... McCleod here is the base psychiatrist. We've been going over
everyone who was inside .....
'Psychiatrist?' David was confused. It was a security problem, not medical.
'Ed was a hardnose, you know that as well as I do. He trained you.... I
looked you up, Lisbon. It's one angle. We're covering the others!
'Look,' interrupted the doctor, 'you two want to talk, and I've got files
to go over. I'll call you in the morning; later this morning, Ira. Nice to
meet you, Spaulding. Wish it wasn't this way.9
'Agreed,' said Spaulding, shaking the man's hand.
The psychiatrist gathered up the twelve file folders on the colonel's desk
and left.<
br />
The door closed. Barden indicated a chair to Spaulding. David sat down,
rubbing his eyes. 'One hell of a New Yeaes, isn't iff said Barden.
'I've seen better,' Spaulding replied.
'Do you want to go over what happened to youT
'I don't think there's any point. I was stopped; I told you what was said.
Ed Pace was obviously the "Fairfax lesson." It's tied to a brigadier named
Swanson at DW.'
190
'I'm afraid it isn't.'
'It has to be.'
'Negative. Pace wasn't involved with the DW thing. His only tie was
recruiting you; a simple transfer.'
David remembered Ed Pace's words: I'm not cleared ... how does it strike
you? Have you met Swanson? He looked at Barden. 'Then someone thinks he
was. Same motive. Related to the sabotage at Lajes. In the Azores.'
'How?'
'The son of a bitch said so on Fifty-second Streetl Five hours ago....
Look, Pace is dead; that gives you certain latitude under the
circumstances. I want to check Ed's four-zero files. Everything connected
to my transfer.'
'I've already done that. After your call there was no point in waiting for
an inspector general. Ed was about my closest friend. . .
'And?'
'There are no files. Nothing-
'There has to be I There's got to be a record for Lisbon. For me.'
'There is. It states simple transfer to DW. No names. Just a word. A single
word: "Tortugas'.
'What about the papers you prepared? The discharge, the medical record;
Fifth Army, One Hundred and Twelfth Battalion? Italy? Those papers aren't
manufactured without a Fairfax file I'
'This is the first I've heard of them. There's nothing about them in Ed's
vaults.'
'A major - Winston, I think his name is - met me at Mitchell Field. I flew
in from Newfoundland on a coastal patrol. He brought me the papers.'
'He brought you a sealed envelope and gave you verbal instructions. That's
all he knows.'
'Jesust What the hell happened to the so-called Fairfax efficiency?'
'You tell me. And while you're at it, who murdered Ed Pace?'
David looked over at Barden. The word murder hadn't occurred to him. One
didn't commit murder; one killed, yes, that was part of it. But murder? Yet
it was murder.
'I can't tell you that. But I can tell you where to start asking
questions.'
191
'Please do.'
'Raise Lisbon. Find out what happened to a cryptographer named Marsha.,
JANUA R Y 1, 1944
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The news of Pace's murder reached Alan Swanson indirectly; the effect was
numbing.
He had been in Arlington, at a small New Year's Eve dinner party given by
the ranking general of Ordnance when the tele,phone call came. It was an
emergency communication for another guest, a lieutenant general on the
staff of the Joint Chiefs. Swanson had been near the library door when the
man emerged; the staffer had been white, his voice incredulous.
'My God!' he bad said to no one in particular. 'Someone shot Pace over at
Fairfax. He's dead!'
Those few in that small gathering in Arlington comprised the highest
echelons of the military; there was no need for concealing the news; they
would all, sooner or later, be told.
Swanson's hysterical first thoughts were of Buenos Aires. Was there any
possible connection?
He listened as the brigadiers and the two- and three-stars joined in
controlled but excited speculations. He heard the words . . . infiltrators,
hired assassins, double agents. He was stunned by the wild theories ...
advanced rationally ... that one of Pace's undercover agents had to be
behind the murder. Somewhere a defector had been paid to make his way back
to Fairfax; somewhere there was a weak link in a chain of Intelligence that
had been bought.
Pace was not just a crack Intelligence man, he was one of the best in
Allied Central. So much so that he twice had requested that his brigadier
star be officially recorded but not issued, thus protecting his low
profile.
But the profile was not low enough. An extraordinary man like Pace would
have an extraordinary price on his head. From
192
Shanghai to Berne; with Fairfax's rigid security the killing had to have
been planned for months. Conceived as a long-range project, to be executed
internally. There was no other way it could have been accomplished. And
there were currently over five hundred personnel in the compound, including
a rotating force of espionage units-in-training - nationals from many
countries. No security system could be that absolute under the
circumstances. All that was needed was one man to slip through.
Plannedfor months ... a defector who had made his way back to Fairfax ...
a double agent ... a weak Intelligence link paid a fortune. Berne to
Shanghai.
A long-range project!
These were the specific words and terms and judgments that Swanson heard
clearly because he wanted to hear them.
They removed the motive from Buenos Aires. Pace's death had nothing to do
with Buenos Aires because the time element prohibited it.
The Rhinemann exchange had been conceived barely three weeks ago; it was
inconceivable that Pace's murder was related. For it to be so would mean
that he, himself, had broken the silence.
No one else on earth knew of Pace's contribution. And even Pace had known
precious little.
Only fragments.
And all the background papers concerning the man in Lisbon had been removed
from Pace's vault. Only the War Department transfer remained.
A fragment.
Then Alan Swanson thought of something and he marveled at his own cold
sense of the devious. In a way, it was chilling that it could escape the
recesses of his mind. With Edmund Pace's death, not even Fairfax could
piece together the events leading up to Buenos Aires. The government of the
United States was removed one step further.
As if abstractly seeking support, he ventured aloud to the small group of
his peers that he recently had been in communication with Fairfax, with
Pace as a matter of fact, over a minor matter of clearance. It was
insignificant really, but he hoped to Christ ...
He found his support instantly. The lieutenant general from staff, two
brigs and a three-star all volunteered that they, too, had used Pace.
193
Frequently, Obviously more than he did.
'You could save a lot of time dealing directly with Ed,' said the staffer.
'He cut tape and shot you off a clearance right away.'
One step further removed.
Once back in his Washington apartment, Swanson experienced the doubts
again. Doubts and opportunities alike. Pace's murder was potentially a
problem because of the shock waves it would produce. There would be a major
investigation, all avenues explored. On the other hand, the concentration
would be on Fairfax. It would consume Allied Central Intelligence. At least
for a while. He had to move now. Walter Kendall had to get to Buenos Aires
and conc
lude the arrangements with Rhinemann.
The guidance designs from Peenemilnde. Only the designs were important.
But first tonight, this morning. David Spaulding. It was time to give the
former man in Lisbon his assignment.
Swanson picked up the telephone. His hand shook.
The guilt was becoming unbearable.
JANUARY 1, 1944
FAIRFAX VIRGINIA
'Marshall was killed several miles from a place called Valdero's. In the
Basque province. It was an ambush.'
'That's horseshit I Marshall never went into the north country I He wasn't
trained, he wouldn't know what to do V David was out of the chair,
confronting Barden.
'Rules change. You're not the man in Lisbon now.... He went, he was
killed.'
'Source?'
'The ambassador himself.'
'His source?'
'Your normal channels, I assume. He said it was confirmed. Identiflication
was brought back.'
'Meaninglessl'
'What do you want? A body?'
194
'This may surprise you, Barden, but a hand or a finger isn't out of the
question. That's identification.... Any photographs? Close shots, wounds,
the eyes? Even those can be doctored.'
'He didn't indicate any. What the hell's eating you? This is confirmed.'
'ReallyT David stared at Barden.
'For Christ's sake, Spaulding! What the hell is . . . "Tortugas"? If it
killed Ed Pace, I want to know! And I'm going to goddamned well find out!
I don't give a shit about Lisbon cryps!'
The telephone rang on Barden's desk; the colonel looked briefly at it, then
pulled his eyes back to Spaulding.
'Answer it,' said David. 'One of those calls is going to be Casualty. Pace
has a family.... Had.'
'Don't complicate my life any more than you have.' Barden crossed to his
desk. 'Ed was due for an escort leave this Friday. I'm putting off calling
-till morning. . . . YesT The colonel listenedto the phone for several
seconds, then looked at Spaulding. 'It's the trip-line operator in New
York; the one we've got covering you. This General Swanson's been trying io
reach you. He's got him holding now. Do you want him to put the old man
through?'
David remembered Pace's appraisal of the nervous brigadier. 'Do you have to
Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt Page 23