The Rhinemann Exchange (46 page)

Granville interrupted quietly. “I remember the report. Naval surveillance. It was a lading destination … let me think.”

“Tortugas,” supplied Spaulding.

“Yes, that was it. Coastal violations. An error, of course. No fishing boat would attempt such a trip. The actual
destination was
Torugos
, a small port in northern Uruguay, I think.”

David thought for a second. Jean hadn’t mentioned the switch—or similarity—of names. “That may be, sir, but it would be advantageous to know the cargo.”

“It was listed. Farm machinery, I believe.”

“We don’t think so,” said Spaulding.

“Well, we have no right to inspect cargo.…”

“Mr. Ambassador?” David cut off the old gentleman. “Is there anyone in the junta we can trust,
completely
trust?”

Granville’s reply was hesitant, cautious; Spaulding understood. “One. Two, perhaps.”

“I won’t ask you their names, sir. I
will
ask you to request their help. With priority security measures. Those warehouses are guarded … by Erich Rhinemann’s men.”

“
Rhinemann?
” The ambassador’s distaste carried over the telephone. That was an asset, thought David.

“We have reason to believe he’s aborting a negotiation or tying contraband into it. Smuggling, sir. We have to know what that cargo is.” It was all David could think to say. A generalization without actual foundation. But if men were willing to kill and be killed for “Tortugas,” perhaps that was foundation enough. If Fairfax could list the name on his transfer orders without telling him—that was
more
than enough.

“I’ll do what I can, Spaulding. I can’t promise anything, of course.”

“Yes, sir. I realize. And thank you.”

The Avenida de Mayo was jammed with traffic, the Plaza worse. At the end of the square the pinkish stone of Casa Rosada reflected the orange flood of the setting sun. Befitting a capital controlled by soldiers, thought David.

He crossed the Plaza, stopping at the fountain, recalling yesterday and Leslie Jenner Hawkwood. Where was she now? In Buenos Aires; but where? And more important, why?

The answer might lie in the name “Tortugas” and a trawler in Ocho Calle.

He circled the fountain twice, then reversed his steps once, testing himself, testing Erich Rhinemann. Where were the men watching him? Or were they women?

Were they in cars or taxis or small trucks? Circling as he was circling?

He spotted one. It wasn’t hard to do. The man had seated himself on the edge of the fountain’s pool, the tail of his jacket in the water. He’d sat down too quickly, trying to be inconspicuous.

David started across the pedestrian walk—the same pedestrian walk he’d used following Leslie Hawkwood—and at the first traffic island waited for a change of light. Instead of crossing, however, he walked back to the fountain. He stepped up his pace and sat down at the pool’s edge and watched the crosswalk.

The man with the wet jacket emerged with the next contingent of pedestrians and looked anxiously around. Finally he saw Spaulding.

David waved.

The man turned and raced back across the street.

Spaulding ran after him, just making the light. The man did not look back; he seemed hell-bent to reach a contact, thought David; to have someone take over, perhaps. The man turned left at the Casa Rosada and Spaulding followed, keeping himself out of sight.

The man reached a corner and to David’s surprise he slowed down, then stopped and entered a telephone booth.

It was a curiously amateurish thing to do, mused Spaulding. And it told him something about Erich Rhinemann’s personnel: they weren’t as good as they thought they were.

There was a long blasting of a horn that seemed louder than the normally jarring sounds of the Mayo’s traffic. The single horn triggered other horns and in a few seconds a cacophony of strident honking filled the streets. David looked over. It was nothing; an irritated motorist had momentarily reached the end of his patience. Everything returned to normal chaos with the starting up of the automobiles at the crosswalk.

And then there was a scream. A woman’s scream. And another; and still another.

A crowd gathered around the telephone booth.

David pushed his way through, yanking arms, pulling shoulders, shoving. He reached the edge of the booth and looked inside.

The man with the wet jacket was slumped awkwardly to the floor of the tiny glass enclosure, his legs buckled under
him, his arms stretched above, one hand still gripping the telephone receiver so that the wire was taut. His head was sprung back from his neck. Blood was streaming down the back of his skull. Spaulding looked up at the walls of the booth. On the street side were three distinct holes surrounded by cracked glass.

He heard the piercing sounds of police whistles and pushed his way back through the crowd. He reached the iron fence that surrounded the Casa Rosada, turned right and started rapidly around the building to the south side.

To the south gate.

The Packard was parked in front of the entrance, its motor running. A man about his size approached him as David started for the automobile.

“Colonel Spaulding?”

“Yes?”

“If you’ll hurry, please?” The man opened the back door and David climbed in quickly.

Heinrich Stoltz greeted him. “You’ve had a long walk. Sit. The ride will be relaxing.”

“Not now.” David pointed to the panels below the front dashboard. “Can you reach Rhinemann on that thing? Right away?”

“We’re in constant contact. Why?”

“Get him. Your man was just killed.”

“Our man?”

“The one following me. He was shot in a telephone booth.”

“He wasn’t our man, colonel. And
we
shot him,” said Stoltz calmly.

“
What?
”

“The man was known to us. He was a hired killer out of Rio de Janeiro. You were his target.”

Stoltz’s explanation was succinct. They’d picked up the killer within moments after David left his apartment house. He was a Corsican, deported out of Marseilles before the war; a gun for the Unio Corso who had murdered one prefect too many under orders from the
contrabandistes
of southern France.

“We couldn’t take a chance with the American who possesses the codes. A silencer in heavy traffic you’ll agree is adequate.”

“I don’t think he was trying to kill me,” said Spaulding. “I think you moved too soon.”

“Then he was waiting for you to meet with
us.
Forgive me, but we couldn’t permit that. You agree?”

“No. I could have taken him.” David sat back and brought his hand to his forehead, tired and annoyed. “I was
going
to take him. Now we both lose.”

Stoltz looked at David. He spoke cautiously; a question. “The same? You wonder also.”

“Don’t you?… You still think the Gestapo’s not in Buenos Aires?”

“
Impossible!
” Stoltz whispered the word intensely through his teeth.

“That’s what our mutual friend said about your men last night.… I don’t know a goddamned thing about that, but I understand they’re dead. So what’s impossible?”

“The Gestapo
can’t
be involved. We’ve learned that at the highest levels.”

“Rhinemann’s Jewish, isn’t he?” David watched Stoltz as he asked the unexpected question.

The German turned and looked at Spaulding. There was a hint of embarrassment in his expression. “He practices no religion; his mother was Jewish.… Frankly, it’s not pertinent. The racial theories of Rosenberg and Hitler are not shared unequivocally; far too much emphasis has been placed upon them.… It is—was—primarily an economic question. Distribution of banking controls, decentralization of financial hierarchies.… An unpleasant topic.”

David was about to reply to the diplomat’s evasions when he stopped himself.… Why did Stoltz find it necessary even to attempt a rationalization? To offer a weak explanation he himself knew was devoid of logic?

Heinrich Stoltz’s loyalty was supposedly to Rhinemann, not the Third Reich.

Spaulding looked away and said nothing. He was, frankly, confused, but it was no time to betray that confusion. Stoltz continued.

“It’s a curious question. Why did you bring it up?”

“A rumor.… I heard it at the embassy.” And that was the truth, thought David. “I gathered that the Jewish community in Buenos Aires was hostile to Rhinemann.”

“Mere speculation. The Jews here are like Jews elsewhere. They keep to themselves, have little to do with
those outside. Perhaps the ghetto is less definable, but it’s there. They have no argument with Rhinemann; there’s no contact, really.”

“Cross off one speculation,” said Spaulding.

“There’s another,” said Stoltz. “Your own countrymen.”

David turned slowly back to the German. “This is a good game. How did you arrive at that?”

“The purchase of the designs is being made by one aircraft corporation. There are five, six major companies in competition for your unending government contracts. Whoever possesses the gyroscope designs will have a powerful—I might even say irresistible—lever. All other guidance systems will be obsolete.”

“Are you serious?”

“Most assuredly. We have discussed the situation at length … in depth. We are nearly convinced that this is the logical answer.” Stoltz looked away from David and stared to the front. “There’s no other. Those trying to stop us are American.”

The green Packard made crisscross patterns over the Buenos Aires streets. The route was programmed aimlessness, and Spaulding recognized it for what it was: an extremely thorough surveillance check. Intermittently, the driver would pick up the microphone from beneath the dashboard and recite a prearranged series of numbers. The crackling response over the single speaker would repeat the numbers and the Packard would make yet another—seemingly aimless—turn.

Several times David spotted the corresponding vehicles making the visual checks. Rhinemann had a minimum of five automobiles involved. After three-quarters of an hour, it was certain beyond doubt that the trip to San Telmo was clean.

The driver spoke to Stoltz.

“We are clear. The others will take up their positions.”

“Proceed,” said Stoltz.

They swung northwest; the Packard accelerated toward San Telmo. David knew that at least three other cars were behind them; perhaps two in front. Rhinemann had set up his own transport column, and that meant the gyroscopic designs were in one of the automobiles.

“Have you got the merchandise?” he asked Stoltz.

“Part of it,” replied the attaché, leaning forward, pressing a section of the felt backing in front of him. A latch sprung; Stoltz reached down and pulled out a tray from beneath the seat. Inside the concealed drawer was a thin metal box not unlike the containers used in libraries to protect rare manuscripts from possible loss by fire. The German picked it up, held it in his lap and pushed the
drawer back with his foot. “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said.

The Packard pulled up to the curb in front of the white stucco house in San Telmo. Spaulding reached for the door handle but Stoltz touched his arm and shook his head. David withdrew his hand; he understood.

About fifty yards ahead, one of the checkpoint automobiles had parked and two men got out. One carried a thin metal container, the other an oblong leather case—a radio. They walked back toward the Packard.

David didn’t have to look out the rear window to know what was happening behind him, but to confirm his thoughts he did so. Another automobile had parked. Two additional men were coming up the sidewalk; one, of course, carrying a container, the second, a leather-encased radio.

The four men met by the door of the Packard. Stoltz nodded to Spaulding; he got out of the car and walked around the vehicle, joining Rhinemann’s contingent. He was about to start up the short path to the front entrance when Stoltz spoke through the automobile window.

“Please wait. Our men are not yet in position. They’ll tell us.”

Static could be heard over the radio beneath the Packard’s dashboard. There followed a recitation of numbers; the driver picked up his microphone and repeated them.

Heinrich Stoltz nodded and got out of the car. David started toward the door.

Inside, two of Rhinemann’s men remained in the hallway; two walked through the apartment to the kitchen and a rear door that opened onto a small, terraced back yard. Stoltz accompanied David into the living room where Eugene Lyons was seated at a large dining table. The table was cleared except for two note pads with a half dozen pencils.

The male nurses, Johnny and Hal, accepted Spaulding’s terse commands. They stood at opposite ends of the room in front of a couch, in shirtsleeves, their pistols strapped in shoulder holsters emphasized by the white cloth of their shirts.

Stoltz had relieved one man of his metal case and told David to take the other. Together, Stoltz and Spaulding placed the three containers on the large table, and Stoltz
unlocked them. Lyons made no effort to greet his visitors—his intruders—and only the most perfunctory salutation came from Stoltz. It was apparent that Kendall had described the scientist’s afflictions; the German diplomat conducted himself accordingly.

Stoltz spoke from across the table to the seated Lyons. “From your left, the designs are in order of sequence. We have prepared bilingual keys attached to each of the schematics, and wherever processes are described, they have been translated verbatim, utilizing English counterpart formulae or internationally recognized symbols, and often both.… Not far from here, and easily contacted by our automobile radio, is an aeronautical physicist from Peenemünde. He is available for consultation at your request.… Finally, you understand that no photographs may be taken.”

Eugene Lyons picked up a pencil and wrote on a pad. He tore off the page and handed it to Spaulding. It read:

How long do I have? Are these complete?

David handed the note to Stoltz, who replied.

“As long as you need,
Herr Doktor.
… There is one last container. It will be brought to you later.”