Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  men who yell and bark orders and have me followed.... I'm buying from you,

  but I don't have to associate with you. I don't have to have dinner or ride

  in your automobile once our business for the day is over. Do I make myself

  clear?'

  6you're clear. Though somewhat uncivilized. And ungrateful, if you don't

  mind my saying so. We saved your life earlier this evening.'

  'That's your opinion. Not triine. Just let me off, I'll telephone and come

  out with your confirmation.... As you said, there's no point in my lying.

  You go on your way, I'll grab a taxi.'

  Stoltz instructed the driver to pull up at the orange canopy. 'Do as you

  please. And should your plans include Doctor Lyons, be advised we have men

  stationed about the area. Their orders are harsh. Those designs will stay

  where they are.'

  'I'm not paying for three-quarters of the merchandise regardless of what

  there is back home. And I have no intention of walking into that phalanx of

  robots.'

  The Packard drew up to the canopy. Spaulding opened the door quickly,

  slamming it angrily behind him. He walked swiftly into the lighted entrance

  and asked for the telephone.

  'The ambassador has been trying to reach you for the past half-hour or so,'

  said the night operator. 'He says it's urgent. I'm to give you a telephone

  number.' The operator drawled out the digits.

  'Thank you,' David said. 'Now connect me with Mr. Ballard in

  Communications, please.'

  'O'Leary's Saloon,' came the uninterested voice of Bobby Ballard over the

  wire.

  'You're a funny man. I'll laugh next Tuesday.'

  'The "switch" said it was you. You know Granville's trying to find you.'

  'I heard. Where's Jean?'

  'In her room; pining away just like you ordered.'

  'Did you get word from D.C.T

  'All wrapped. Came in a couple of hours ago; your codes are

  340

  cleared, Row'sthe erector setT

  'The instructions - three-quarters of them - are in the box. But there are

  too many playmates.'

  'Terraza VerdeT

  'Around there.'

  'Shall I send out a few FMF playground attendants?'

  'I think I'd feel better,' said Spaulding. 'Tell them to cruise. Nothing

  else. I'll spot them and yell if I need them.'

  'It'll take a half-hour from the base.'

  'Thanks. No parades, please, Bobby.'

  'They'll be so quiet no one'll know but us Munchkins. Take care of

  yourself.'

  Spaulding held down the receiver with his finger, tempted to lift it,

  insert another coin and call Granville.... There wasn't time. He left the

  booth and walked out the restaurant door to the Packard. Stoltz was at the

  window; David saw that a trace of his previous nervousness had returned.

  'You've got your confirmation. Deliver the rest of the goods and enjoy your

  money.... I don't know where you come from, Stoltz, but I'll find out and

  have it bombed off the map. I'll tell the Eighth Air Force to name the raid

  after you.'

  Stoltz seemed relieved at David's surliness - as David thought he might be.

  'The man from Lisbon is complicated. I suppose that's proper for a

  complicated assignment.... We'll call you by noon.' Stoltz turned to the

  driver. 'Los, abfahren, machen Sie schnefil'

  The green Packard roared off down the street. Spaulding waited under the

  canopy to see if it made any turns; should it do so, he would return to the

  cafe and wait.

  It did not; it maintained a straight course. David watched until the

  taillights were infinitesimal red dots. Then he turned and walked as fast

  as he could without calling attention to himself toward Terraza Verde.

  He reached the short block in which he'd seen the man in the light grey

  overcoat and stopped. His concerns made him want to rush on; his instincts

  forced him to wait, to look, to move cautiously.

  The man was not on the block now; he was nowhere to be seen. David reversed

  his direction and walked to the end of the sidewalk. He turned left and

  raced down the street to the next comer, turning left again, now slowing

  down, walking casually.

  341

  He wished to God he knew the area better, knew the buildings behind Lyons's

  white stucco house. Others did; others were positioned in dark recesses he

  knew nothing about.

  Rhinemann's guards. The man in the light grey overcoat; how many more were

  with him?

  He approached the intersection of Terraza Verde and crossed the road

  diagonally, away from the white stucco house. He stayed out of the spill of

  the lamps as best he could and continued down the pavement to the street

  behind the row of houses on Terraza Verde. It was, of course, a block lined

  with other houses; quaint, picturesque, quiet. Spaulding looked up at the

  vertical sign: Terraza Amarilla.

  San Telmo fed upon itself.

  He remained at the far end of the corner under a sculptured tree and looked

  toward the section of the adjacent street where he judged the rear of

  Lyons's house to be. He could barely make out the sloping tiled roof, but

  enough to pinpoint the building behind it - about 150 yards away.

  He also saw Rhinemann's automobile, one of those he'd spotted during the

  long, security-conscious drive from the Can Rosada. It was parked opposite

  a light-bricked Italian townhouse with large gates on both sides. David

  assumed those gates opened to stone paths leading to a wall or a fence

  separating Lyons's back terrace from the rear entrance of the townhouse. It

  had to be something like that; Rhinemann's guards were posted so that

  anyone emerging from those gates was equally in their sightlines.

  And then Spaulding remembered the crackling static of the radios from the

  hallway and the kitchen and the incessant repetition of the German numbers.

  Those who carried the radios had weapons. He reached beneath his jacket to

  his holster and took out the Beretta. He knew the clip was filled; he

  unlatched the safety, shoved the weapon into his belt and started across

  the street toward the automobile.

  Before he reached the opposite comer, he heard a car drive up behind him.

  He had no time to run, no moment to make a decision -good or bad. His hand

  went to his belt; he tried to assume a posture of indifference.

  He heard the voice and was stunned.

  'Get in, you goddamned foolP

  Leslie Hawkwood was behind the wheel of a small Renault

  342

  coupe. She had reached over and unlatched the door. David caught it, his

  attention split between his shock and his concern that Rhinemann's guard -

  or guards - a hundred yards away might hear the noise. There were fewer than

  a dozen pedestrians within the two-block area. Rhinemann's men had to have

  been alerted.

  He jumped into the Renault and with his left hand he grabbed Leslie's right

  leg above the knee, his grip a restraining vise, pressing on the nerve

  lines. He spoke softly but with unmistakable intensity.

  'You back this car up as quietly as you can, and turn left down that

  street.'

  'Let go I Let. .

  'Do as I say or I'll break your kn
eecap off!'

  The Renault was short; there was no need to use the reverse gear. Leslie

  spun the wheel and the car veered into a sharp turn.

  'Slowlyl' commanded Spaulding, his eyes on Rhinemann's car. He could see a

  head turn - two heads. And then they were out of sight.

  David took his hand off the girl's leg; she pulled it up and doubled her

  shoulders down in agony. Spaulding grabbed the wheel and forced the gears

  into neutral. The car came to a stop halfway down the block, at the curb.

  'You bastard! You broke my leg!' Leslie's eyes were filled with tears of

  pain, not sorrow. She was close to fury but she did not shout. And that

  told David something about Leslie he had not known before.

  'I'll break more than a leg if you don't start telling me what you're doing

  here! How many others are there? I saw one; how many more?'

  She snapped her head up, her long hair whipping back, her eyes defiant.

  'Did you think we couldn't find him?'

  'WhoT

  'Your scientist. This Lyons! We found him!'

  'Leslie, for Christ's sake, what are you doing?'

  'Stopping you!'

  'Me?'

  'You. Altmiffler, Rhinemann. Koening! Those pigs in Washington....

  PeenemUnde! It's all over. They won't trust you anymore. "Tortugas" is

  finished!'

  The faceless name - Altiniffier again. Tortugas.... Koening?

  343

  Words, names ... meaning and no meaning. The tunnels had no light.

  There was no time I

  Spaulding reached over and pulled the girl toward him. He clutched the hair

  above her forehead, yanking it taut, and with his other hand he circled his

  fingers high up under her throat, just below the jawbone. He applied

  pressure in swift, harsh spurts, each worse than the last.

  So much, so alien.

  'You want to play this game, you play it out! Now tell mel What's

  happening? Now?'

  She tried to squirm, lashing out her arms, kicking at him; but each time

  she moved he ripped his fingers into her throat. Her eyes widened until the

  sockets were round. He spoke again.

  'Say it, Leslie! I'll have to kill you if you don't. I don't have a choice

  I Not now.... For Christ's sake, don't force me!'

  She slumped; her body went limp but not unconscious. Her head moved up and

  down; she sobbed deep-throated moans. He released her and gently held her

  face. She opened her eyes.

  'Don't touch me! Oh, God, don't touch me!' She could barely whisper, much

  less scream. 'Inside.... We're going inside. Kill the scientists; kill

  Rhinemann's men. . . .'

  Before she finished, Spaulding clenched his fist and hammered a short, hard

  blow into the side of her chin. She slumped, unconscious.

  He'd heard enough. There was no time.

  He stretched her out in the small front seat, removing the ignition keys as

  he did so. He looked for her purse; she had none. He opened the door,

  closed it firmly and looked up and down the street. There were two couples

  halfway down the block; a car was parking at the comer; a window was opened

  on the second floor of a building across the way, music coming from within.

  Except for these - nothing. San Telmo was at peace.

  Spaulding ran to within yards of Terraza Amarilla. He stopped and edged his

  way along an iron fence that bordered the comer, swearing at the spill of

  the streetlamp. He looked through the black grillwork at Rhinemann's car

  less than a hundred yards away. He tried to focus on the front seat, on the

  two heads he'd seen moving minutes ago. There was no movement now, no glow

  of cigarettes, no shifting of shoulders.

  Nothing.

  344

  Yet there was a break in the silhouette of the left window frame; an

  obstruction that filled the lower section of the glass.

  David rounded the sharp angle of the iron fence and walked slowly toward

  the automobile, his hand clamped on the Beretta, his finger steady over the

  trigger. Seventy yards, sixty, forty-five.

  The obstruction did not move.

  Thirty-five, thirty... he pulled the pistol from his belt, prepared to

  fire.

  Nothing.

  He saw it clearly now. The obstruction was a head, sprung back into the

  glass - not resting, but wrenched, twisted from the neck; immobile.

  Dead.

  He raced across the street to the rear of the car and crouched, his Beretta

  level with his shoulders. There was no noise, no rustling from within.

  The block was deserted now. The only sounds were the muffled, blurred hums

  from a hundred lighted windows. A latch could be heard far down the street;

  a small dog barked; the wail of an infant was discernible in the distance.

  David rose and looked through the automobile's rear window.

  He saw the figure of a second man sprawled over the felt top of the front

  seat. The light of the streetlamps illuminated the upper part of the man's

  back and shoulders. The whole area was a mass of blood and slashed cloth.

  Spaulding slipped around the side of the car to the front right door. The

  window was open, the sight within sickening. The man behind the wheel had

  been shot through the side of his head, his companion knifed repeatedly.

  The oblong, leather-cased radio was smashed, lying on the floor beneath the

  dashboard.

  It had to have happened within the past five or six minutes, thought David.

  Leslie Hawkwood had rushed down the street in the Renault to intercept him

  - at the precise moment men with silenced pistols and long-bladed knives

  were heading for Rhinemann's guards.

  The killings complete, the men with knives and pistols must have raced

  across the street into the gates towards Lyons's house. Raced without

  thought of cover or camouflage, knowing the radios were in constant contact

  with those inside 15 Terraza Verde.

  345

  Spaulding opened the car door, rolled up the window, and pulled the

  lifeless form off the top of the seat. He closed the door; the bodies were

  visible, but less so than before. It was no moment for alarms in the street

  if they could be avoided.

  He looked over at the gates across the way on each side of the townhouse.

  The left one was slightly ajar.

  He ran over to it and eased himself through the opening, touching nothing,

  his gun thrust laterally at his side, aiming forward. Beyond the gate was

  a cement passageway that stretched the length of the building to some sort

  of miniature patio bordered by a high brick wall.

  He walked silently, rapidly to the end of the open alley; the patio was a

  combination of slate paths, plots of grass and small flower gardens.

  Alabaster statuary shone in the moonlight; vines crawled up the brick wall.

  He judged the height of the wall: seven feet, perhaps, seven and a half.

  Thickness: eight, ten inches - standard. Construction: new, within several

  years, strong. It was the construction with which he was most concerned. In

  1942 he took a nine-foot wall in San SebastiAn that collapsed under him. A

  month later it was amusing; at the time it nearly killed him.

  He replaced the Beretta in his shoulder holster, locking the safety,

  shoving in the weapon securely. He be
nt down and rubbed his hands in the

  dry dirt at the edge of the cement, absorbing whatever sweat was on them.

  He stood up and raced towards the brick wall.

  Spaulding leaped. Once on top of the wall, he held - silent, prone; his

  hands gripping the sides, his body motionless - a part of the stone. He

  remained immobile, his face towards Lyons's terrace, and waited several

  seconds. The back door to Lyons's flat was closed - no lights were on in

  the kitchen; the shades were drawn over the windows throughout the floor.

  No sounds from within.

  He slid down from the wall, removed his gun and ran to the side of the

  kitchen door, pressing his back against the white stucco. To his

  astonishment he saw that the door was not closed; and then he saw why. At

  the base, barely visible in the darkness of the room beyond, was a section

  of a hand. It had gripped the bottom of the doorframe and been smashed into

  the saddle; the fingers were the fingers of a dead man.

  Spaulding reached over and pressed the door. An inch. Two

  346

  inches. Wood against dead weight; his elbow ached from the pressure.

  Three, four, five inches. A foot.

  Indistinguishable voices could be heard now; faint, male, excited.

  He stepped swiftly in front of the door and pushed violently - as quietly

  as possible - against the fallen body that acted as a huge, soft, dead

  weight against the frame. He stepped over the corpse of Rhinemann's guard,

  noting that the oblong radio had been torn from its leather case, smashed

  on the floor. He closed the door silently.

  The voices came from the sitting room. He edged his way against the wall,

  the Beretta poised, unlatched, ready to fire.

  An open pantry against the opposite side of the room caught his eye. The

  single window, made of mass-produced stained glass, was high in the west

  wall, creating eerie shafts of colored light from the moon. Below, on the

  floor, was Rhinemann's second guard. The method of death he could not tell;

  the body was arched backward - probably a bullet from a small-caliber

  pistol had killed him. A pistol with a silencer attached. It would be very

  quiet. David felt the perspiration rolling down his forehead and over his

  neck.

  How many were there? They'd immobilized a garrison.

  He had no commitment matching those odds.