Obstruction.
He slammed his hand on the door panel, preventing the other man from
pulling it open. The man looked up at Spaulding's face, at Spaulding's
eyes.
'Christ, fella. I'll wait for another one,' the man said quickly.
David was embarrassed. What the hell was he doing?
The doubts? The goddamned doubts.
'No, really, I'm terribly sorry.' He mumbled the words, smiling
apologetically. 'You take it. I'm in no hurry.... Sorry again.,
He turned and walked rapidly across the street into the crowds of Sheridan
Square.
He could have had the taxi. That was the important thing.
Jesus! The treadmill never let up.
210
Part Two
22
1944
BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA
The Pan American Clipper left Tampa at eight in the morning, with scheduled
coastline stops at Caracas, Rio Luis, Salvador, and Rio de Janeiro before
the final twelve hundred miles to Buenos Aires. David was listed on the
passenger invoice as Mr. Donald Scanlan of Cincinnati, Ohio; occupation:
mining surveyor. It was a temporary cover for the journey only. 'Donald
Scanlan' would disappear after the Clipper landed at the Aeroparque in
Buenos Aires. The initials were the same as his own for the simple reason
that it was so easy to forget a monogrammed gift or the first letter of a
hastily written signature. Especially if one was preoccupied or tired ... or
afraid.
Swanson had been close to panic when David reached him from the Mitchell
Field Operations Room in New York. As a source control, Swanson was about
as decisive as a bewildered bird dog. Any deviation from Kendall's schedule
- Kendall's instructions, really - was abhorrent to him. And Kendall wasn't
even leaving for Buenos Aires until the following morning.
David had not wasted complicated explanations on the general. As far as he
was concerned, three attempts had been made on his life - at least, they
could be so interpreted - and if the general wanted his 'services' in
Buenos Aires, he'd better get down there while he was still in one piece
and functioning.
Were the attempts - the attacks - related to Buenos Aires? Swanson had
asked the question as though he were afraid to
211
name the Argentine city.
David was honest: there was no way to tell. The answer was in Buenos Aires.
It was reasonable to consider the possibility, but not to assume it.
'That's what Pace said,' had been Swanson's reply. 'Consider, don't
assume.'
'Ed was generally right about such things.'
'He said when you operated in Lisbon, you were often involved in messy
situations in the field.'
'True. I doubt that Ed knew the particulars, though. But he was right in
what he was trying to tell you. There are a lot of people in Portugal and
Spain who'd rather see me dead than alive. Or at least they think they
would. They could never be sure. Standard procedure, general.'
There had been a prolonged pause on the Washington line. Finally, Swanson
had said the words. 'You realize, Spaulding, that we may have to replace
you.'
'Of course. You can do so right now, if you like.' David had been sincere.
He wanted very much to return to Lisbon. To go into the north country. To
Valdero's. To find out about a cryp named Marshall.
'No.... No, everything's too far along. The designs. They're the important
thing. Nothing else matters.'
The remainder of the conversation concerned the details of transportation,
American and Argentine currency, replenishing of a basic wardrobe, and
luggage. Logistics which were not in the general's frame of reference and
for which David took responsibility. The final command - request - was
delivered, not by the general, but by Spaulding.
Fairfax was not to be informed of his whereabouts. Nor was anyone else for
that matter, except the embassy in Buenos Aires; but make every effort to
keep the information from Fairfax.
Why? Did Spaulding think ...
'There's a leak in Fairfax, general. You might pass that on to the White
House cellars.'
'That's impossible!'
'Tell that to Ed Pace's widow.'
David looked out the Clipper window. The pilot, moments ago, had informed
the passengers that they were passing over the huge coastal lake of Mirim
in Uruguay. Soon they'd be over Montevideo, forty minutes from Buenos
Aires.
212
Buenos Aires. The unf~cused picture, the bluffed figures of Leslie Jenner
Hawkwood, the cryptographer Marshall, a man named Franz Altmillier; strange
but committed men on Fiftysecond and Thirty-eighth streets - in a darkened
doorway, in a building after office hours, on a staircase. A man in an
elevator who was so unafraid to die. An enemy who displayed enormous
courage ... or misguided zealousness. A maniac.
The answer to the enigma was in Buenos Aires, less than an hour away. The
city was an hour away, the answer much longer. But no more than three weeks
if his instincts were right. By the time the gyroscopic designs were
delivered.
He would begin slowly, as he always did with a new field problem. Trying
first to melt into the surroundings, absorb his cover; be comfortable,
facile in his relationships. It shouldn't be difficult. His cover was
merely an "tension of Lisbon's: the wealthy trilingual attach6 whose
background, parents, and prewar associations in the fashionable centers of
Europe made him a desirable social buffer for any ambassador's dinner
table. He was an attractive addition to the delicate world of a neutral
capital; and if there were those who thought someone, somewhere, had used
money and influence to secure him such combat-exempt employment, so be it.
It was denied emphatically, but not vehemently; there was a difference.
The 'extension' for Buenos Aires was direct and afforded him top-secret
classification. He was acting as a liaison between New York-London banking
circles and the German ex-patriot Erich Rhinemann. Washington approved, of
course; postwar financing in areas of reconstruction and industrial
rebuilding were going to be international problems. Rhinemann could not be
overlooked, not in the civilized marble halls of Berne and Geneva.
David's thoughts returned to the book on his lap. It was the second of six
volumes Eugene Lyons had chosen for him.
'Donald Scanlan' went through the Aeroparque customs without difficulty.
Even the embassy liaison, who checked in all Americans, seemed unaware of
his identity.
His single suitcase in hand, David walked to the taxi station and stood on
the cement platform looking at the drivers standing beside their vehicles.
He wasn't prepared to assume the name of Spaulding or to be taken directly
to the embassy just yet. He wanted to assure himself that 'Donald Scanlan'
was accepted for
213
what he was - a mining surveyor, nothing more, that there was no unusual
interest in such a man. For if there were, it would point to David
Spaulding, Military Intelligence,
Fairfax and Lisbon graduate.
He selected an obese, pleasant-looking driver in the fourth cab from the
front of the line. There were protests from those in front, but David
pretended not to understand. 'Donald Scanlan' might know a smattering of
Spanish, but certainly not the epithets employed by the disgruntled drivers
cheated out of a fare.
Once inside he settled back and gave instructions to the unctuous driver.
He told the man he had nearly an hour to waste before he was to be met -
the meeting place not mentioned -and asked if the driver would give him a
short tour of the city. The tour would serve two purposes: he could
position himself so that he could constantly check for surveillance, and he
would learn the main points of the city.
I The driver, impressed by David's educated, grammatical Spanish, assumed
the role of tour director and drove out of the airport's winding lanes to
the exit of the huge Parque 3 de Febrero in which the field was centered.
Thirty minutes later David had filled a dozen pages with notes. The city
was like a European insert on the southern continent. It was a strange
mixture of Paris, Rome and middle Spain. The streets were not city streets,
they were boulevards: wide, lined with color. Fountains and statuary
everywhere. The Avenida 9 de Julio might have been a larger Via Veneto or
Saint-Germaindes-Pr6s. The sidewalk cafes, profuse with brightly decorated
awnings and greenery from hundreds of planter boxes, were doing a brisk
summer afternoon business. The fact that it was summer in Argentina was
emphasized for David by the perspiration on his neck and shirt front. The
driver admitted that the day was inordinately warm, in the high seventies.
David asked to be driven - among other places - to a district called San
Telmo. The cab owner nodded appreciatively, as if he had accurately
assessed the rich American. Soon Spaulding understood. San Telmo was as
Kendall had noted: elegant, secluded, beautifully kept old houses and
apartment buildings with wrought-iron balustrades and brilliantly
blossoming flowers lining the spotless streets.
Lyons would be comfortable.
214
From San Tehn6 the driver doubled back into the inner city and began the
tour from the banks of the Rio de la Plata.
The Plaza de Mayo, the Cabildo, the Casa Rosada, Calle Rivadavia. The names
filled David's notebook; these were the streets, the squares, the locations
he would absorb quickly.
La Boca. The waterfront, south of the city; this, the driver said, was no
place for the tourist.
The Calle Florida. Here was the finest shopping area in all South America.
The driver could take his American to several store owners personally known
to him and extraordinary purchases could be made.
Sorry, there was no time. But David wrote in his notebook that traffic was
banned at the borders of the Calle Florida.
The driver then sped out the Avenida Santa R toward the Palermo. No sight
in Buenos Aires was as beautiful as the Palern o.
What interested David more than the beauty was the huge park - or series of
individual parks; the quiet, immense, artificial lake. The acres of
botanical gardens; the enormous zoo complex with rows of cages and
buildings.
Beauty, yes. Secure areas of contact, more so. The Palermo might come in
handy.
An hour had passed; there were no automobiles following the taxi. 'Donald
Scanlan' had not been under surveillance; David Spaulding could emerge.
Quietly.
He instructed the driver to leave him off at the cabstand outside the
entrance to the Palermo zoo. He was to meet his party there. The driver
looked crestfallen. Was there no hotel? No place of residence?
Spaulding did not reply, he simply asked the fare and quickly held out the
amount. No more questions were in order.
David spent an additional fifteen minutes inside the zoo, actually enjoying
it. He bought an ice from a vendor, wandered past the cages of marmosets
and orangutans - finding extraordinary resemblances to friends and enemies
- and when he felt comfortable (as only a field man can feel comfortable),
walked out to the cabstand.
He waited another five minutes while mothers and governesses and children
entered the available taxis. It was his turn.
'The American embassy, por favor.,
215
Ambassador Henderson Granville allowed the new attach6 a half hour. There
would be other days when they could sit and chat at length, but Sundays
were hectic. The rest of Buenos Aires might be at church or at play; the
diplomatic corps was at work. He had two garden parties still to attend -
telephone calls would be made detailing the departures and arrivals of the
German and the Japanese guests; his arrivals and departures would be timed
accordingly. And after the second garden-bore there was dinner at the
Brazilian embassy, Neither German nor Japanese interference was
anticipated. Brazil was close to an open break.
'The Italians, you realize,' said Granville, smiling at David, 'don't count
any longer. Never did really; not down here. They spend most of their time
cornering us in restaurants, or calling from public phones, explaining how
Mussolini ruined the country!
'Not too different from Lisbon.'
'I'm afraid they're the only pleasant similarity.... I won!t bore you with
a tedious account of the upheavals we've experienced here, but a quick
sketch - and emphasis - will help you adjust. You've read up, I assume!
'I haven't had much time. I left Lisbon only a week ago. I know that the
Castillo government was overthrown!
'Last June. Inevitable. . . . Ram6n Castillo was as inept a president as
Argentina ever had, and it's had its share of buffoons. The economy was
disastrous: agriculture and industry came virtually to a halt; his cabinet
never made provisions to fill the beef market void created by the British
struggle, even though the lot of them figured John Bull was finished. He
deserved to be thrown out.... Unfortunately, what came in the front door
-marched in phalanx up the Rivadavia, to be more precise -hardly makes our
lives easier.'
'That's the military council, isn't it? The juntaT
Granville gestured with his delicate hands, the chiseled features of his
aging, aristocratic face formed a sardonic grimace. 'The Grupo de Oficiales
Unidos! As unpleasant a band of goosestepping opportunists as you will meet
... I daresay, anywhere. You know, of course, the entire army was trained
by the Wehrmacht officer corps. Add to that jovial premise the hot Latin
temperament, economic chaos, a neutrality that's enforced but not believed
in, and what have you got? A suspension of the political apparatus; no
checks and balances. A police state rife with corruption!
216
'What maintains the neutralityT
'The infighting, primarily. The GOU - that's what we call it - has more
factions than the '29 Reichstag. They're all jockeying for the power spots.
And naturally, the cold fear of an American fleet and air force right up
the s
treet, so to speak.... The GOU has been reappraising its judgments
during the past five months. The colonels are beginning to wonder about
their mentors' thousand-year crusade; extremely impressed by our supply and
production lines.'
'They should be. We've. .
'And there's another aspect,' interrupted Granville thoughtfully. 'There's
a small, very wealthy community of Jews here. Your Erich Rhinemann, for
example. The GOU isn't prepared to openly advocate the solutions of Julius
Streicher. . . . It's already used Jewish money to keep alive lines of
credit pretty well chewed up by Castillo. The colonels are afraid of
financial manipulations, most military people are. But there's a great deal
of money to be made in this war. The colonels intend to make it. . ~ . Do
I sketch a recognizable pictureT
'A complicated one.'
'I daresay.... We have a maxim here that serves quite wen. Today's friend
will probably be on the Axis payroll tomorrow; conversely, yesterday's
Berlin courier might be for sale next week. Keep your options open and your
opinions private. And publicly ... allow for a touch more flexibility than
might be approved of at another post. It's tolerated.'
'And expectedT asked David.
'Both.'
David lit a cigarette. He wanted to shift the conversation; old Granville
was one of those ambassadors, professorial by nature, who would go on
analyzing the subtleties of his station all day if someone listened. Such
men were usually the best diplomats but not always the most desirable
liaisons in times of active practicality. Henderson Granville was a good
man, though his concerns shone in his eyes, and they were fair concerns.
'I imagine Washington has outlined my purpose here.'
'Yes. I wish I could say I approved. Not of you; you9ve got your
instructions. And I suppose international finance Will continue long after
Herr Hitler has shrieked his last scream.... Perhaps I'm no better than the
GOU. Money matters can be most distasteful.'
217
'These in particular, I gather.'
'Again, yes. Erich Rhinemann is a sworn companion of the wind. A powerful
companion, make no mistake, but totally without conscience; a hurricane's
morality. Unquestionably the least honorable man I've ever met. I think
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