The Rhinemann Exchange (36 page)

Spaulding removed his jacket and held up the newspaper—not full but folded; not obviously but casually, as if he were uncertain of the meaning of some awkwardly phrased headline—and walked with the crowds to the north side of Códoba. He turned right and maintained a steady, unbroken pace east, remaining as far left on the sidewalk as possible.

His apartment was less than a block and a half away now. He could see the two men; intermittently they
did
look back, but on their own side of the street.

Amateurs. If he taught surveillance, they’d fail his course.

The men drew nearer to the apartment, their concentration on the entrance. David knew it was his moment to move. The only moment of risk, really; the few split seconds when one or the other might turn and see him across the street, only yards away. But it was a necessary gamble. He had to get beyond the apartment entrance. That was the essence of his trap.

Several lengths ahead was a middle-aged
porteña
housewife carrying groceries, hurrying, obviously anxious to get home. Spaulding came alongside and without breaking stride, keeping in step with her, he started asking directions in his best, most elegant Castilian, starting among other points that he knew this was the right street and he was late. His head was tilted from the curb.

If anyone watched them, the housewife and the shirt-sleeved man with a jacket under one arm and a newspaper under the other looked like two friends hastening to a mutual destination.

Twenty yards beyond the entrance on the other side, Spaulding left the smiling porteña and ducked into a canopied doorway. He pressed himself into the wall and looked back across the street. The two men stood by the curb and, as he expected, they separated. The unknown man went into his apartment house; the man with the limp looked up and down the sidewalk, checked oncoming vehicles, and started across Córdoba to the north side. David’s side.

Spaulding knew it would be a matter of seconds before
the limping figure passed him. Logic, again; common sense. The man would continue east—he would not reverse direction—over traversed ground. He would station himself at a vantage point from which he could observe those approaching the apartment from the west. David’s approach.

The man did not see him until David touched him, grabbed his left arm around the elbow, forced the arm into a horizontal position, and clamped the man’s hand downward so that the slightest force on David’s part caused an excruciating pain in the man’s bent wrist.

“Just keep walking or I’ll snap your hand off,” said David in English, pushing the man to the right of the sidewalk to avoid the few pedestrians walking west on Córdoba.

The man’s face grimaced in pain; David’s accelerated walk caused him to partially stumble—his limp emphasized—and brought further agony to the wrist.

“You’re breaking my arm. You’re
breaking
it!” said the anguished man, hurrying his steps to relieve the pressure.

“Keep up with me or I will.” David spoke calmly, even politely. They reached the corner of the Avenida Paraná and Spaulding swung left, propelling the man with him. There was a wide, recessed doorway of an old office building—the type that had few offices remaining within it. David spun the man around, keeping the arm locked, and slammed him into the wooden wall at the point farthest inside. He released the arm; the man grabbed for his strained wrist. Spaulding took the moment to flip open the man’s jacket, forcing the arms downward, and removed a revolver strapped in a large holster above the man’s left hip.

It was a Lüger. Issued less than a year ago.

David clamped it inside his belt and pushed a lateral forearm against the man’s throat, crashing his head into the wood as he searched the pockets of the jacket. Inside he found a large rectangular European billfold. He slapped it open, removed his forearm from the man’s throat, and shoved his left shoulder into the man’s chest, pinning him unmercifully against the wall. With both hands, David removed identification papers.

A German driver’s license; an Autobahn vehicle pass;
rationing cards countersigned by Oberführers, allowing the owner to utilize them throughout the Reich—a privilege granted to upper-level government personnel and above.

And then he found it.

An identity pass with a photograph affixed; for the ministries of Information, Armaments, Air and Supply.

Gestapo.

“You’re about the most inept recruit Himmler’s turned out,” said David, meaning the judgment profoundly, putting the billfold in his back pocket. “You must have relatives.…
Was ist ‘Tortugas’
?” Spaulding whispered harshly, suddenly. He removed his shoulder from the man’s chest and thrust two extended knuckles into the Nazi’s breastbone with such impact that the German coughed, the sharp blow nearly paralyzing him. “
Wer ist Altmüller? Was wissen Sie über Marshall?
” David repeatedly hammered the man’s ribs with his knuckles, sending shock waves of pain throughout the Gestapo agent’s rib cage. “
Sprechen Sie! Sofort!
”

“
Nein! Ich weiss nichts!
” the man answered between gasps. “
Nein!
”

Spaulding heard it again. The dialect. Nowhere near
Berliner
; not even a mountainized Bavarian. Something else.

What was it?

“
Noch ’mal!
Again!
Sprechen Sie!
”

And then the man did something quite out of the ordinary. In his pain, his fear, he stopped speaking German. He spoke in English. “I have not the information you want! I follow orders.… That is all!”

David shifted his stand to the left, covering the Nazi from the intermittent looks they both received from the passersby on the sidewalk. The doorway was deep, however, in shadows; no one stopped. The two men could have been acquaintances, one or both perhaps a little drunk.

Spaulding clenched his right fist, his left elbow against the wall, his left hand poised to clamp over the German’s mouth. He leaned against the slatted wood and brought his fist crashing into the man’s stomach with such force that the agent lurched forward, held only by David’s hand, now gripping him by the hairline.

“I can keep this up until I rupture everything inside you. And when I’m finished I’ll throw you in a taxi and drop
you off at the German embassy with a note attached. You’ll get it from both sides then, won’t you?… Now, tell me what I want to know!” David brought his two bent knuckles up into the man’s throat, jabbing twice.

“Stop.…
Mein Gott!
Stop!”

“Why don’t you yell? You can scream your head off, you know.… Of course, then I’ll have to put you to sleep and let your own people find you. Without your credentials, naturally.… Go on! Yell!” David knuckled the man once more in the throat. “Now, you start telling me. What’s ‘Tortugas’? Who’s Altmüller? How did you get a cryp named Marshall?”

“I swear to God! I know nothing!”

David punched him again. The man collapsed; Spaulding pulled him up against the wall, leaning against him, hiding him, really. The Gestapo agent opened his lids, his eyes swimming uncontrollably.

“You’ve got five seconds. Then I’ll rip your throat out.”

“No!… Please! Altmüller.… Armaments.… Peenemünde.…”

“What about Peenemünde?”

“The tooling.… ‘Tortugas.’ ”

“What does that
mean
!?” David showed the man his two bent fingers. The recollection of pain terrified the German. “What is ‘Tortugas’?”

Suddenly the German’s eyes flickered, trying to focus. Spaulding saw that the man was looking above his shoulder. It wasn’t a ruse; the Nazi was too far gone for strategies.

And then David felt the presence behind him. It was an unmistakable feeling that had been developed over the recent years; it was never false.

He turned.

Coming into the dark shadows from the harsh Argentine sunlight was the second part of the surveillance team, the man who’d entered his apartment building. He was Spaulding’s size, a large man and heavily muscular.

The light and the onrushing figure caused David to wince. He released the German, prepared to throw himself onto the opposite wall.

He couldn’t!

The Gestapo agent—in a last surge of strength—held onto his arms!

Held his arms, threw his hands around David’s chest and hung his full weight on him!

Spaulding lashed out with his foot at the man attacking, swung his elbows back, slamming the German back into the wood.

It was too late and David knew it.

He saw the huge hand—the long fingers spread—rushing into his face. It was as if a ghoulish film was being played before his eyes in slow motion. He felt the fingers clamp into his skin and realized that his head was being shoved with great strength into the wall.

The sensations of diving, crashing, spinning accompanied the shock of pain above his neck.

He shook his head; the first thing that struck him was the stench. It was all around him, sickening.

He was lying in the recessed doorway, curled up against the wall in a fetal position. He was wet, drenched around his face and shirt and in the crotch area of his trousers.

It was cheap whisky. Very cheap and very profuse.

His shirt had been ripped, collar to waist; one shoe was off, the sock removed. His belt was undone, his fly partially unzipped.

He was the perfect picture of a derelict.

He rose to a sitting position and remedied as best he could his appearance. He looked at his watch.

Or where his watch had been; it was gone.

His wallet, too. And money. And whatever else had been in his pockets.

He stood up. The sun was down, early night had begun; there were not so many people on the Avenida Paraná now.

He wondered what time it was. It couldn’t be much more than an hour later, he supposed.

He wondered if Jean were still waiting for him.

She removed his clothes, pressed the back of his head with ice and insisted that he take a long, hot shower.

When he emerged from the bathroom, she fixed him a drink, then sat down next to him on the small couch.

“Henderson will insist on your moving into the embassy; you know that, don’t you?”

“I can’t.”

“Well, you can’t go on being beaten up every day. And don’t tell me they were
thieves.
You wouldn’t swallow that when Henderson and Bobby
both
tried to tell you that about the men on the roof!”

“This was different. For God’s
sake
, Jean, I was robbed of everything on me!” David spoke sternly. It was important to him that she believe him now. And it was entirely possible that he’d find it necessary to avoid her from now on. That might be important, too. And terribly painful.

“People don’t rob people and then douse them with whisky!”

“They do if they want to create sufficient time to get out of the area. It’s not a new tactic. By the time a mark gets finished explaining to the police that he’s a sober citizen, the hustlers are twenty miles away.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t even think you expect me to.” She sat up and looked at him.

“I do expect you to because it’s the truth. A man doesn’t throw away his wallet, his money, his watch … in order to impress a girl with the validity of a lie. Come
on
, Jean! I’m very thirsty and my head still hurts.”

She shrugged, obviously realizing it was futile to argue.

“You’re just about out of Scotch, I’m afraid. I’ll go buy a bottle for you. There’s a liquor store on the corner of Talcahuano. It’s not far.…”

“No,” he said, interrupting, recalling the man with huge hands who’d entered his building. “I will. Lend me some money.”

“We’ll both go,” she responded.

“Please?… Would you mind waiting? I may get a phone call; I’d like the person to know I’ll be right back.”

“Who?”

“A man named Kendall.”

Out on the street, he asked the first man he saw where the nearest pay phone could be found. It was several blocks away, on Rodríguez Peña, in a newspaper store.

David ran as fast as he could.

The hotel page found Kendall in the dining room. When he got on the phone he spoke while chewing. Spaulding pictured the man, the doodled obscenities, the animal-like breathing. He controlled himself. Walter Kendall was sick.

“Lyons is coming in in three days,” Kendall told him.

“With his nurses. I got him a place in this San Telmo
district. A quiet apartment, quiet street. I wired Swanson the address. He’ll give it to the keepers and they’ll get him set up. They’ll be touch with you.”

“I thought
I
was to get him settled.”

“I figured you’d complicate things,” interrupted Kendall.

“No piss lost. They’ll call you. Or I will. I’ll be here for a while.”

“I’m glad.… Because so’s the Gestapo.”

“
What?
”

“I said so’s the Gestapo. You figured a little inaccurately, Kendall. Someone is trying to stop you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!”

“I’m not.”

“What happened?”

So David told him, and for the first time in his brief association with the accountant, he detected fear.

“There was a break in Rhinemann’s network. It doesn’t mean the designs won’t get here. It does mean we have obstacles—if Rhinemann’s as good as you say. As I read it, Berlin found out the designs were stolen. They know they’re filtering down or across or however Rhinemann’s routing them out of Europe. The High Command got wind of the transactions. The Reichsführers aren’t going to broadcast, they’re going to try and intercept. With as little noise as possible. But you can bet your ass there’s been a slew of executions in Peenemünde.”

“It’s crazy.…” Kendall could hardly be heard. And then he mumbled something; David could not understand the words.

“What did you say?”

“The address in this Telmo. For Lyons. It’s three rooms. Back entrance.” Kendall still kept his voice low, almost indistinct.

The man was close to panic, thought Spaulding. “I can barely hear you, Kendall.… Now, calm down! I think it’s time I introduced myself to Rhinemann, don’t you?”