The slapping would not stop I He couldn't make it stop! He couldn't stop
the half-destroyed, throatless Lyons from slapping him.
He could only cry. Weep as a child might weep.
And then suddenly he could make him stop. He took his hands from his face
and grabbed Lyons's wrists, prepared, if need be, to break them.
He blinked and stared at the physicist.
Lyons smiled in the shadows. He spoke in his tortured whisper.
'I'm sorry.... You were ... in temporary ... shock. My friend.'
I
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39
An elaborate naval first aid kit was stored in the ftunk of the FMF vehicle.
Lyons filled David's wound with sulfa powder, laid on folded strips of gauze
and pinched the skin together with three-inch adhesive. Since the wound was
a gash, not a puncture, the bleeding stopped; it would hold until they
reached a doctor. Even should the wait be a day or a day and a half, there
would be no serious damage.
Lyons drove.
David watched the emaciated man behind the wheel. He was unsure but
willing; that was the only way to describe him. Every now and then his foot
pressed too hard on the accelerator, and the short bursts of speed
frightened him - then annoyed him. Still, after a few minutes, he seemed to
take a careful delight in manipulating the car around comers.
David knew he had to accomplish three things: reach Henderson Granville,
talk to Jean and drive to that sanctuary he hoped to Christ Jean had found
for them. If a doctor could be brought to him, fine. If not, he would
sleep; he was beyond the point of functioning clearly without rest.
How often in the north country had he sought out isolated eaves in the
hills? How many times had he piled branches and limbs in front of small
openings so his body and mind could restore the balance of objectivity that
might save his life? He had to find such a resting place now.
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And tomorrow he would make the final arrangements with Fjich Rhinemann.
The final pages of the indictment.
'We have to find a telephone,' said David. Lyons nodded as he drove.
David directed the physicist back into the center of Buenos Aires. By his
guess they still had time before the FMF base sent out a search. The orange
insignias on the bumpers would tend to dissuade the BA police from
becon-drig too curious; the Americans were children of the night.
He remembered the telephone booth on the north side of the Casa Rosada. The
telephone booth in which a hired gun from the Unio Corso - sent down from
Rio de Janeiro - had taken his last breath.
They reached the Plaza de Mayo in fifteen minutes, taking a circular route,
making sure they were not followed. The Plaza was not deserted. It was, as
the prewar travel posters proclaimed, a Western Hemisphere Paris. Like
Paris, there were dozens of early stragglers, dressed mainly in expensive
clothes. Taxis stopped and started; prostitutes made their last attempts to
find profitable beds; the streetlights illuminated the huge fountains;
lovers dabbled their hands in the pools.
The Plaza de Mayo at three thirty in the morning was not a barren, dead
place to be. And David was grateful for that.
Lyons puffed the car up to the telephone booth and Spaulding got out.
'Whatever it is, you've hit the rawest nerve in Buenos Aires.' Granville's
voice was hard and precise. 'I must demand that you return to the embassy.
For your own protection as well as the good of our diplomatic relations.'
'You'll have to be clearer than that, I'm afraid,' replied David.
Granville was.
The 'one or two' contacts the ambassador felt he could reach in the Grupo
were reduced, of course, to one. That man made inquiries as to the trawler
in Ocho Calle and subsequently was taken from his home under guard. That
was the information Granville gathered from a hysterical wife.
An hour later the ambassador received word ftom a GOU Haison that
his'friend'had been killed in an automobile accident. The GOU wanted him to
have the news. It was most unfortunate.
When Granville tried reaching the wife, an operator cut in
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explaining that the telephone was disconnected.
'You've involved us, Spauldingl We can't function with Intelligence dead
weight around our necks. The situation in Buenos Aires is extremely
delicate.'
'You are involved, sir. A couple of thousand miles away people are shooting
at each other.'
'Shit V It was just about the most unexpected expletive David thought he
could hear from Granville. 'Learn your lines of demarcation! We all have
jobs to do within the ... artificial, if you like, parameters that are set
for us! I repeat, sir. Return to the embassy and I'll expedite your
immediate return to the United States. Or if you refuse, take yourself to
FMF. 77wt's beyond my jurisdiction; you will be no part of the embassy!'
My God! thought David. Artificial parameters. Jurisdictions. Diplomatic
niceties. When men were dying, am-des destroyed, cities obliterated! And
men in high-ceilinged rooms played games with words and attitudes!
'I can't go to FMF. But I can give you something to think about. Within
forty-eight hours all American ships and aircraft in the coastal zones are
entering a radio and radar blackout! Everything grounded, immobilized.
That's straight military holy writ. And I think you'd better find out why!
Because I think I know, and if I'm right, your diplomatic wreck is filthier
than anything you can imagine! Try a man named Swanson at the War
Department. Brigadier Alan Swanson! And tell him I've found "Tortugas" V
David slammed down the receiver with such force that chips of Bakelite fell
off the side of the telephone. He wanted to run. open the door of the
suffocating booth and race away.
But where to? There was nowhere.
He took several deep breaths and once more dialed the embassy.
Jean's voice was soft, filled with anxiety. But she had found a place!
He and Lyons were to drive due west on Rivadavia to the farthest outskirts
of Buenos Aires. At the end of Rivadavia was a road bearing right - it
could be spotted by a large statue of the Madonna at its beginning. The
road led to the flat grass country, provinciales country. Thirty-six miles
beyond the Madonna was another road - on the left - this marked by
telephone junction wires converging into a transformer box on top of a
double-
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strapped telephone pole. The road led to a ranch belonging to one Alfonzo
Quesarro. Seftor Quesarro would not be there
. under the circumstances. Neither would his wife. But a ;~eleton staff
would be on; the remaining staff quarters would be available for Mrs.
Cameron's unknown friends.
Jean would obey his orders: she would not leave the embassy.
And she loved him. Terribly.
Dawn came up over the grass country. The breezes were warm; David had to
remind himself that it was January. The Argentine summer. A member of the
skeleton staff of Estancia. Quesarro met them several miles down the road
past the telephone junction
wires, on the property border, and escorted
them to the rancherfa - a cluster of small one-storey cottages - near but
not adjacent to the main buildings. They were led to an adobe hut farthest
from the other houses; it was on the edge of a fenced grazing area, fields
extending as far as the eye could see. The house was the residence of the
caporal - the ranch foreman.
David understood as he looked up at the roof, at the single telephone line.
Ranch foremen had to be able to use a telephone.
Their escori opened the door and stood in the frame, anxious to leave. He
touched David's arm and spoke in a Spanish tempered with pampas Indian.
'The telephones out here are with operators. The service is poor; not like
thecity. I am to tell you this, sefior.'
But that information was not what the gaucho was telling him. He was
telling him to be careful.
'I'll rernember,' said Spaulding. 'Thank you.'
The man left quickly and David closed the door. Lyons was standing across
the room, in the center of a small monastery arch that led to some sort of
sunlit enclosure. The metal case containing the gyroscopic designs was in
his right hand; with his left he beckoned David.
Beyond the arch was a cubicle; in the center, underneath an oblong window
overlooking the fields, there was a bed.
Spaulding undid the top of his trousers and peeled them off.
He fell with his full weight into the hard mattress and slept.
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1
40
It seemed only seconds ago that he had walked4hrough the small arch into the
sunlit cubicle.
He felt the prodding fingers around his wound; he winced as a cold-hot
liquid was applied about his waist and the adhesive ripped oft.
He opened his eyes fiercely and saw the figure of a man bent over the bed.
Lyons was standing beside him. At the edge of the hard mattress was the
universal shape of a medical bag. The man bending over him was a doctor. He
spoke in unusually clear English.
'You've slept nearly eight hours. That is the best prescription one could
give you.... I'm going to suture this in three places; that should do it.
There will be a degree of discomfort, but with the tape, you'll be quite
mobile.'
'What time is itT asked David.
Lyons looked at his watch. He whispered, and the words were clear. 'Two ...
o'clock.'
'Thank you for coming out here,' said Spaulding, shifting his weight for
the doctor's instruments.
'Wait until I'm back at my office in Palermo.' The doctor laughed softly,
sardonically. 'I'm sure I'm on one of their lists.' He inserted a suture,
reassuring David with a tight smile. 'I left word I was on a maternity call
at an outback ranch.... There.' He tied off the stitch and patted
Spaulding's bare skin. 'Two
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more and we're finished.'
'Do you think you'll be questioned?'
'No. Not actually. The junta closes its eyes quite often. There's not an
abundance of doctors here.... And amusingly enough, interrogators
invariably seek free medical advice. I think it goes with their
mentalities.'
'And I think you're covering. I think it was dangerous.'
The doctor held his hands in place as he looked at David. 'Jean Cameron is
a very special person. If the history of wartime Buenos Aires is written,
she'll be prominently mentioned.' He returned to the sutures without
elaboration. David had the feeling that the doctor did not wish to talk
further. He was in a hurry.
Twenty minutes later Spaulding was on his feet, the doctor at the door of
the adobe hut. David shook the medical man's hand. 'I'm afraid I can't pay
you,' he said.
'You already have, colonel. I'm a Jew.'
Spaulding did not release the doctor's hand. Instead, he held it fim-Ay -
not in salutation. 'Please explain.'
'There's nothing to explain. The Jewish community is filled with rumors of
an American officer who pits himself against the pig.... Rhinemann the
pig.'
'That's all?'
'It's enough.' The doctor removed his hand from Spaulding's and walked out.
David closed the door.
Rhinemann the pig. It was time for Rhinemann.
The teutonic, guttural voice screamed into the telephone. David could
picture the blue-black veins protruding on the surface of the bloated,
suntanned skin. He could see the narrow eyes bulging with fury.
'It was you! It was you I'Thc accusation was repeated over and over again,
as if the, repetition might provoke a denial.
'It was me,' said David without emphasis.
'You are dead! You are a dead man!'
David spoke quietly, slowly. With precision. 'If I'm dead, no codes are
sent to Washington; no radar or radio blackout. The screens will pick up
that trawler and the instant a submarine surfaces anywhere near it, it'll
be blown out of the water.'
Rhinemann was silent. Spaulding heard the German Jew's rhythmic breathing
but said nothing. He let Rhinemann's thoughts dwell upon the implication.
Finally Rhinemann spoke.
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With equal precision.
'Then you have something to say to me. Or you would not have telephoned.'
'That's right,' agreed David. 'I have something to say. I assume you're
taking a broker's fee. I can't believe you arranged this exchange for
nothing.'
Rhinemann paused again. He replied cautiously, his breathing heavy, carried
over the wire. 'No.... It is a transaction. Accommodations must be paid
for.'
'But that payment comes later, doesn't it?' David kept his words calm,
dispassionate. 'You're in no hurry; you've got everyone where you want
them.... There won't be 4ny messages radioed out of Switzerland that
accounts have been settled. The only message you'll get - or won't get - is
from a submarine telling you the Koening diamonds have been transferred
from the trawler. That's when I fly out of here with the designs. That's
the signal.' Spaulding laughed a brief, cold, quiet laugh. 'It's very pro,
Rhinemann. I congratulate you.'
The financier's voice was suddenly low, circumspect. 'What's your point?'
'It's also very pro . . . I'm the only one who can bring about that message
from the U-boat. No one else. I have the codes that turn the lights off;
that make the radar screens go dark.... But I expect to get paid for it.'
'I see. . . .' Rhinemann hesitated, his breathing still audible. 'It is a
presumptuous demand. Your superiors expect the gyroscopic designs. Should
you impede their delivery, your punishment, no doubt, will be execution.
Not formally arrived at, of course, but the result will be the same. Surely
you know that.'
David laughed again, and again the laugh was brief - but now good-natured.
'You're way off. Way off. There may be executions, but not mine. Until last
night I only knew half the story. Now I know it all... No, not my
execution. On the other hand, you do have a problem. I know that; four
years in Lisbon teaches a man some things!
:What is my problem?'
If the Koening merchandise in Och
o Calle is not delivered, Altmtfller will
send an undercover battalion into Buenos Aires. You won't survive it.'
The silence again. And in that silence was Rhinemann's acknowledgement that
David was right.
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'Then we are allies,' said Rhinemann. 'In one night you've gone far. You
took a dangerous risk and leaped many plateaus. I admire such aggressive
ambitions. I'm sure arrangements can be made.'
'I was sure you'd be sure.'
'Shall we discuss figures?'
Again David laughed softly. 'Payment from you is like ... before last
night. Only half the story. Make your half generous. in Switzerland. The
second half will be paid in the States. A lifetime of very generous
retainers.' David suddenly spoke tersely. 'I want names.'
'I don't understand.
'Think about it. The men behind this operation. The Americans. Those are
the names I want. Not an accountant, not a confused brigadier. The others.
. . . Without those names there's no deal. No codes.'
'The man from Lisbon is remarkably without conscience,' said Rhinemann with
a touch of respect. 'You are ... as you Americans say ... quite a rotten
fellow.'
'I've watched the masters in action. I thought about it.... Why not?'
Rhinemann obviously had not listened to David's reply. His tone was
abruptly suspicious. 'If this ... gain of personal wealth is the conclusion
you arrived at, why did you do what you did last night? I must tell you
that the damage is not irreparable, but why did you?'
'For the simplest of reasons. I hadn't thought about it last night. I
hadn't arrived at this conclusion ... last night.' God knew, that was the
truth, thought David.
'Yes. I think I understand,' said the financier. 'A very human reaction. .
. .'
'I want the rest of these designs,' broke in Spaulding. 'And you want the
codes sent out. To stay on schedule, we have thirty-six hours, give or take
two or three. I'll call you at six o'clock. Be ready to move.'
David hung up. He took a deep breath and realized he was perspiring . . .
and the small concrete house was cool. The breezes from the fields were
coming through the windows, billowing the curtains. He looked at Lyons, who
sat watching him in a straight-backed wicker chair.
Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt Page 47