Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  guard.... I'm sorry you have to fly out tonight. It would be simpler if the

  pilot went alone. But that's not possible.'

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  -it,s what I was sent down here for.'

  'It's a bit more complicated, I'm afraid. You've been through a great deal,

  you've been wounded severely. By all rights, you should be hospitalized....

  But that will have to wait.'

  Oh?' David understood that Feld had something to say that even this

  pragmatic Jew found difficult to put into words. 'You'd better tell me. .

  . .'

  'You'll have to deal with this in your own way, colonel,' interrupted Feld.

  'You see ... the men in Washington do not expect you on that plane. They've

  ordered your execution.'

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  I

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  43

  Brigadier General Alan Swanson, lately of the War Department, had committed

  suicide. Those who knew him said the pressures of his job, the immense

  logistics he was called upon to expedite daily, had become too much for this

  dedicated, patriotic officer. They also served who, far behind the lines,

  primed the machinery of war with all the selfless energy they possessed.

  In Fairfax, Virginia, at the huge, security-conscious compound that held

  the secrets of Allied Central Intelligence, a lieutenant colonel named Ira

  Barden disappeared. Simply disappeared; substance one day, vapor the next.

  With him went a number Of highly classified files from the vaults. What

  bewildered those who knew about them was the information these files

  contained. In the main they were personal dossiers of ranking Nazis

  involved with the concentration camps. Not the sort of inteffigence data a

  defector would steal. Ira Barden's own dossier was pulled and placed in the

  archives. Regrets were sent to his family; Lieutenant Colonel Barden was

  MOA. Missing while on assignment.'Strange, but the family never insisted

  upon an investigation. Which was their right, after all.... Strange.

  A cryptographer in Lisbon, a man named Marshall, was found in the hills of

  the Basque country. He had been wounded in a border skirmish and nursed

  back to health by partisans. The reports of his death had been greatly

  exaggerated as intended. German Intelligence was onto him. For the time

  being, however,

  M

  he was confined to the embassy and returned to duty. He had sent a personal

  message to an old friend he thought might be concerned; to Colonel David

  Spaulding. The message was amusing, in an oddly phrased way. He wanted

  Spaulding to know there were no hard feelings about the colonel's vacation

  in South America. The cryp had taken a vacation, too. There were codes that

  had to be broken - if they could be found. They both should plan better in

  the future; they should get together on vacations. Good friends should

  always do that.

  There was another cryptographer. In Buenos Aires. One Robert Ballard. The

  State Department was very high on Ballard these days. The Buenos Aires

  cryptographer had spotted an enormous error in a scrambler and had taken

  the personal initiative to not only question it, but to refuse to

  authenticate it. Through a series of grave misunderstandings and faulty

  intelligence, an order for the on-sight execution of Colonel Spaulding had

  been issued by the War Department. Code: treason. Defection to the enemy

  while on assignment. It took a great deal of courage on Ballard's part to

  refuse to acknowledge so high priority a command. And State was never

  averse to embarrassing the Department of War.

  The aerophysicist, Eugene Lyons, Ph.D., was flown back to Pasadena. Things

  ... things had happened to Doctor Lyons. He was offered and accepted a

  lucrative, meaningful contract with Sperry Rand's Pacific laboratories, the

  finest in the country. He had entered a Los Angeles hospital for throat

  surgery - prognosis: sixty-forty in his favor, if the will was there.... It

  was. And there was something else about Lyons. On the strength of his

  contract he had secured a bank loan and was building an oddly shaped,

  Mediterranean-style house in a peaceful section of the San Fernando Valley.

  Mrs. Jean Cameron returned to the Eastern Shore of Maryland

  for two days. The State Department, at the personal behest of Ambassador

  Henderson Granville in Buenos Aires, issued a letter of commendation to

  Mrs. Cameron. Although her status was not official, her presence at the

  embassy had been most valuable. She had kept open lines of communication

  with diverse factions within the neutral city; lines of communication often

  jeopardized by diplomatic necessities. Officials at State decided to

  present Mrs. Cameron with the letter in a small ceremony, presided over by

  a prominent undersecretary. State was somewhat

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  surprised to learn that Mrs. Cameron could not be reached at her family

  home on Maryland's Eastern Shore. She was in Washington. At the Shoreharn

  Hotel. The Shoreham was where Colonel David Spaulding was registered....

  More than a coincidence, perhaps, but in no way would it interfere with

  the letter of commendation. Not these days. Not in Washington.

  Colonel David Spaulding looked up at the light brown stone and square

  pillars of the War Department. He pulled at his army overcoat, adjusting

  the heavy cloth over the sling on his arm underneath. It was the last

  time he would wear a uniform or enter this building. He started up the

  steps.

  It was curious, he mused. He had been back for nearly three weeks, and

  every day, every night he had thought about the words he was going to say

  this afternoon. The fury, the revulsion ... the waste. Resentments for

  a lifetime. But life would go on and in some curious way the violent

  emotions had crested. He felt only a weariness now, an exhaustion that

  demanded that he get it over with and return to something of value.

  Somewhere.

  With Jean.

  He knew the men of'Tortugas'could not be reached with words. Words of

  conscience had lost meaning for such men. As they had so often lost

  meaning for him. That, too, was one of their crimes: they had stolen ...

  decency. From so many. For so little.

  Spaulding left his over-coat in the outer office and walked into the

  small conference room. They were there, the men of 'Tortugas.9

  Walter Kendall.

  Howard Oliver.

  Jonathan Craft.

  None got up from the table. All were silent. Each stared at him. The

  looks were mixtures of hate and fear -so often inseparable.

  They were prepared to fight, to protest ... to salvage. They had held

  their discussions, they had arrived at strategies.

  They were so obvious, thought David.

  He stood at the end of the table, reached into his pocket and took out

  a handful of carbonado diamonds. He threw them on the hard surface of the

  table; the tiny nuggets clattered and rolled.

  The men of 'Tortugas' remained silent. They shifted their

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  14L

  eyes to the stones, then back to Spaulding.

  'The Koening transfer,' said David. 'The tools for Peenemfinde. I wanted

  you t
o see them.'

  Howard Oliver exhaled a loud, impatient breath and spoke in practiced

  condescension. 'We have no idea what. . .'

  'I know,' interrupted Spaulding firmly. 'You're busy men. So let's dispense

  with unnecessary conversation; as a matter of fact, there's no reason for

  you to talk at all. Just listen. I'll. be quick. And you'll always know

  where to reach me.'

  David put his right hand into his arm sling and pulled out an envelope. It

  was an ordinary business envelope; sealed, thick. He placed it carefully on

  the table and continued.

  'This is the history of "Tortugas". From Geneva to Buenos Aires. From

  Peenemflnde to a place called Ocho Calle. From Pasadena to a street ...

  Terraza Verde. It's an ugly story. It raises questions I'm not sure should

  be raised right now. Perhaps, ever. For the sake of so much sanity ...

  everywhere.

  'But that's up to you here at this table.... There are several copies of

  this ... this indictment. I won't tell you where and you'll never be able

  to find out. But they exist. And they'll be released in a way that will

  result in simultaneous headlines in New York and London and Berlin. Unless

  you do exactly as I say....

  'Don't protest, Mr. Kendall. It's useless.... This war is won. The killing

  will go on for a while but we've won it. Peenernfinde hasn't been idle;

  they've scoured the earth. A few thousand rockets will be built, a few

  thousand killed. Nowhere near what they conceived of. Or needed. And our

  aircraft will blow up half of Germany; we'll be the victors now. And that9s

  how it should be. What must come after the killing is the healing. And you

  gentlemen will dedicate the rest of your natural lives to it. You will

  sever all connections with your companies; you will sell all your holdings

  above a bare subsistence level - as defined by the national economic

  guidelines - donating the proceeds to charities - anonymously but with

  substantiation. And you will offer your considerable talents to a grateful

  government - in exchange for government salaries.

  'For the rest of your lives you will be skilled government clerks. And that

  is all you'll be.

  'You have sixty days to comply with these demands. Inciden. tally, since

  you ordered ny execution once, you should know

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  that part of our contract is my well-being. And the well-being of those

  close to me, of course.

  'Lastly, because it occurred to me that you might wish to recruit others

  under this contract, the indictment makes it clear that you could not have

  created "Tortugas" alone.... Name who you will. The world is in a sorry

  state, gentlemen. It needs all the help it can get.'

  Spaulding reached down for the envelope, picked it up and dropped it on the

  table. The slap of paper against wood drew all eyes to the spot.

  'Consider everything.' said David.

  The men of 'Tortugas' stared in silence at the envelope. David turned,

  walked to the door and let himself out.

  February in Washington. The air was chilly, the winds were of winter but

  the snows would not come.

  Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding dodged the cars as he crossed Wisconsin

  Avenue to the Shoreharn Hotel. He was unaware that his overcoat was open;

  he was oblivious to the cold.

  It was over! He was finished I There would be scars -deep scars - but with

  time....

  With Jean....

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