The Rhinemann Exchange (59 page)

Nevertheless, it might be necessary.

He was within ten feet now, the Lüger in his left hand, his right free.… A little closer, just a bit closer. Altmüller’s flashlight slowed to a near stop. He had approached the point where he, David, had lain in the grass immobile.

Then Spaulding felt the slight breeze from behind and knew—in a terrible instant of recognition—that it was the moment to move.

The horse’s head yanked up, the wide eyes bulged. The scent of David’s blood-drenched clothing had reached its nostrils.

Spaulding sprang out of the grass, his right hand aimed at Altmüller’s wrist. He clasped his fingers over the barrel of the gun—it was a Colt! a U.S. Army issue Colt .45!—and forced his thumb into the trigger housing. Altmüller whipped around in shock, stunned by the totally unexpected attack. He pulled his arms back and lashed out with his feet. The horse reared high on its hind legs; Spaulding held on, forcing Altmüller’s hand down,
down.
He yanked with every ounce of strength he had and literally ripped Altmüller off of the horse into the grass. He slammed the
Nazi’s wrist into the ground again and again, until flesh hit rock and the Colt sprang loose. As it did so, he crashed his Lüger into Altmüller’s face.

The German fought back. He clawed at Spaulding’s eyes with his free left hand, kicked furiously with his knees and feet at David’s testicles and legs and rocked violently, his shoulders and head pinned by Spaulding’s body. He screamed.

“
You!
You and … 
Rhinemann! Betrayal!
”

The Nazi saw the blood beneath David’s shoulder and tore at the wound, ripping the already torn flesh until Spaulding thought he could not endure the pain.

Altmüller heaved his shoulder up into David’s stomach, and yanked at David’s bleeding arm, sending him sprawling off to the side. The Nazi leaped up on his feet, then threw himself back down on the grass where the Colt .45 had been pried loose. He worked his hands furiously over the ground.

He found the weapon.

Spaulding pulled the hunting knife from the back of his belt and sprang across the short distance that separated him from Altmüller. The Colt’s barrel was coming into level position, the small black opening in front of his eyes.

As the blade entered the flesh, the ear-shattering fire of the heavy revolver exploded at the side of David’s face, burning his skin, but missing its mark.

Spaulding tore the knife downward into Altmüller’s chest and left it there.

The absolute enemy was dead.

David knew there was no instant to lose, or he was lost. There would be other men, other horses … many dogs.

He raced to the bordering pasture fence, over it and into the darkness of the woods. He ran blindly, trying desperately to swing partially to his left, North.

North by northeast.

Escape!

He fell over rocks and fallen branches, then at last penetrated deepening foliage, lashing his arms for a path, any kind of a path. His left shoulder was numb, both a danger and a blessing.

There was no gunfire in the distance now; only darkness and the hum of the night forest and the wild, rhythmic pounding of his chest. The fighting by the stables had
stopped. Rhinemann’s men were free to come after him now.

He had lost blood; how much and how severely he could not tell. Except that his eyes were growing tired, as his body was tired. The branches became heavy, coarse tentacles; the inclines, steep mountains. The slopes were enormous ravines that had to be crossed without ropes. His legs buckled and he had to force them taut again.

The fence! There was the fence!

At the bottom of a small hill, between the trees.

He began running, stumbling, clawing at the ground, pushing forward to the base of the hill.

He was there.
It
was there.

The fence.

Yet he could not touch it. But, perhaps.…

He picked up a dry stick from the ground and lobbed it into the wire.

Sparks and crackling static. To touch the fence meant death.

He looked up at the trees. The sweat from his scalp and forehead stung his eyes, blurring his already blurred vision. There had to be a tree.

A
tree. The
right
tree.

He couldn’t be sure. The darkness played tricks on the leaves, the limbs. There were shadows in the moonlight where substance should be.

There were no limbs! No limbs hanging over the fence whose touch meant oblivion. Rhinemann had severed—on both sides—whatever growths approached the high, linked steel wires!

He ran as best he could to his left—north. The river was perhaps a mile away. Perhaps.

Perhaps the water.

But the river, if he could reach it down the steep inclines barred to horses, would slow him up, would rob him of the time he needed desperately. And Rhinemann would have patrols on the river banks.

Then he saw it.

Perhaps.

A sheared limb several feet above the taut wires, coming to within a few feet of the fence! It was thick, widening into suddenly greater thickness as it joined the trunk. A laborer had taken the means of least resistance and had
angled his chain saw just before the final thickness. He would not be criticized; the limb was too high, too far away, for all practical purposes.

But Spaulding knew it was his last chance. The only one left. And that fact was made indelibly clear to him with the distant sounds of men and dogs. They were coming after him now.

He removed one of the Lügers from his belt and threw it over the fence. One bulging impediment in his belt was enough.

He jumped twice before gripping a gnarled stub; his left arm aching, no longer numb, no longer a blessing. He scraped his legs up the wide trunk until his right hand grasped a higher branch. He struggled against the sharp bolts of pain in his shoulder and stomach and pulled himself up.

The sawed-off limb was just above.

He dug the sides of his shoes into the bark, jabbing them repeatedly to make tiny ridges. He strained his neck, pushing his chin into the calloused wood, and whipped both arms over his head, forcing his left elbow over the limb, pulling maniacally with his right hand. He hugged the amputated limb, pedaling his feet against the tree until the momentum allowed him the force to throw his right leg over it. He pressed his arms downward and thrust himself into a sitting position, his back against the trunk.

He had managed it. Part of it.

He took several deep breaths and tried to focus his sweat-filled, stinging eyes. He looked down at the electrified barbed wire on top of the fence. It was less than four feet below him but nearly three feet in front. From the crest of the ground, about eight. If he was going to clear the wire, he had to twist and jack his body into a lateral vault. And should he be able to do that, he was not at all sure his body could take the punishment of the fall.

But he could hear the dogs and the men clearly now. They had entered the woods beyond the fields. He turned his head and saw dim shafts of light piercing the dense foliage.

The other punishment was death.

There was no point in thinking further. Thoughts were out of place now. Only motion counted.

He reached above with both hands, refusing to acknowledge
the silent screams from his shoulder, grabbed at the thin branches, pulled up his legs until his feet touched the top of the thick limb, and lunged, hurling himself straight out above the taut wires until he could see their blurred image. At that split-instant, he twisted his body violently to the right and down, jackknifing his legs under him.

It was a strange, fleeting sensation: disparate feelings of final desperation and, in a very real sense, clinical objectivity. He had done all he could do. There wasn’t any more.

He hit the earth, absorbing the shock with his right shoulder, rolling forward, his knees tucked under him—rolling, rolling, not permitting the roll to stop; distributing the impact throughout his body.

He was propelled over a tangle of sharp roots and collided with the base of a tree. He grabbed his stomach; the surge of pain told him the wound was open now. He would have to hold it, clutch it … blot it. The cloth of the turtleneck sweater was drenched with sweat and blood—his own and the Doberman’s—and torn in shreds from the scores of falls and stumbles.

But he had made it.

Or nearly.

He was out of the compound. He was free from Habichtsnest.

He looked around and saw the second Lüger on the ground in the moonlight.… The one in his belt would be enough. If it wasn’t, a second wouldn’t help him; he let it stay there.

The highway was no more than half a mile away now. He crawled into the underbrush to catch his spent breath, to temporarily restore what little strength he had left. He would need it for the remainder of his journey.

The dogs were louder now; the shouts of the patrols could be heard no more than several hundred yards away. And suddenly the panic returned. What in God’s name had he been
thinking
of!? What was he
doing!
?

What
was
he doing?

He was lying in the underbrush assuming—
assuming
he was
free!

But
was
he?

There were men with guns and savage—viciously savage—animals within the sound of his voice and the sight of his running body.

Then suddenly he heard the words, the commands, shouted—screamed in anticipation. In rage.

“
Freilassen! Die Hunde freilassen!
”

The dogs were being released! The handlers thought their quarry was cornered! The dogs were unleashed to tear the quarry apart!

He saw the beams of light come over the small hill before he saw the animals. Then the dogs were silhouetted as they streaked over the ridge and down the incline. Five, eight, a dozen racing, monstrous forms stampeding toward the hated object of their nostrils; growing nearer, panicked into wanting, needing the wild conclusion of teeth into flesh.

David was mesmerized—and sickened—by the terrible sight that followed.

The whole area lit up like a flashing diadem; crackling, hissing sounds of electricity filled the air. Dog after dog crashed into the high wire fence. Short fur caught fire; horrible, prolonged, screeching yelps of animal death shattered the night.

In alarm or terror or both, shots were fired from the ridge. Men ran in all directions—some to the dogs and the fence, some to the flanks, most away in retreat.

David crawled out of the brush and started running into the forest.

He
was
free!

The prison that was Habichtsnest confined his pursuers.… but
he
was free!

He held his stomach and ran into the darkness.

The highway was bordered by sand and loose gravel. He stumbled out of the woods and fell on the sharp, tiny stones. His vision blurred; nothing stayed level; his throat was dry, his mouth rancid with the vomit of fear. He realized that he could not get up. He could not stand.

He saw an automobile far in the distance, to his right. West. It was traveling at high speed; the headlights kept flashing. Off … on, off … on. On, on, on … off, off, off, interspersed.

It was a signal!

But he could not stand! He could not rise!

And then he heard his name. Shouted in unison through
open windows, by several voices. In unison! As a chant might be sung!

“… Spaulding, Spaulding, Spaulding.…”

The car was about to pass him! He could not get up!

He reached into his belt and yanked out the Lüger.

He fired it twice, barely possessing the strength to pull the trigger.

With the second shot … all was blackness.

He felt the gentle fingers around his wound, felt the vibrations of the moving automobile.

He opened his eyes.

Asher Feld was looking down at him; his head was in Feld’s lap. The Jew smiled.

“Everything will be answered. Let the doctor sew you up. We must patch you together quickly.”

David raised his head as Feld held his neck. A second man, a young man, was also in the back seat, bending over his stomach; Spaulding’s legs were stretched over the young man’s knees. The man held gauze and pincers in his hands.

“There will be only minor pain,” he said in that same bastardized British accent David had heard so often. “I think you’ve had enough of that. You’re localized.”

“I’m what?”

“Simple Novocain,” replied the doctor. “I’ll retie the stitches here; your arm is filled with an antibiotic—refined in a Jerusalem laboratory, incidentally.” The young man smiled.

“What? Where …”

“There isn’t time,” interrupted Feld quietly, urgently. “We’re on our way to Mendarro. The plane is waiting. There’ll be no interference.”

“You got the designs?”

“Chained to the staircase, Lisbon. We did not expect such accommodation. We thought probably the balcony, perhaps an upper floor. Our invasion was swift, thanks be to God. Rhinemann’s troops came swiftly. Not swiftly enough.… Good work, that staircase. How did you manage it?”

David smiled through the “minor pain.” It was difficult to talk. “Because … no one wanted the blueprints out of his sight. Isn’t that funny?”

“I’m glad you think so. You’ll need that quality.”

“
What?… Jean?
” Spaulding started to rise from the awkward position. Feld restrained his shoulders, the doctor his midsection.

“No, colonel. There are no concerns for Mrs. Cameron or the physicist. They will, no doubt be flown out of Buenos Aires in the morning.… And the coastal blackout will be terminated within minutes. The radar screens will pick up the trawler.…”

David held up his hand, stopping the Jew. He took several breaths in order to speak. “Reach FMF. Tell them the rendezvous is scheduled for approximately … four hours … from the time the trawler left Ocho Calle. Estimate the maximum speed of the trawler … semicircle the diameter … follow that line.”

“Well done,” said Asher Feld. “We’ll get word to them.”

The young doctor had finished. He leaned over and spoke pleasantly.

“All things considered, these patches are as good as you’d get at Bethesda. Better than the job someone did on your right shoulder; that was awful. You can sit up. Easy, now.”