The Rhinemann Exchange (17 page)

“He’s in a related field, sir. One that our people say primes him for crash instructions.”

“What is it?”

“He’s a construction engineer. With considerable experience in mechanical, electrical and metal design. His background includes full responsibility for whole structures—from foundations through the finished productions. He’s a blueprint expert.”

Swanson paused, then nodded noncommittally. “All right. Go on.”

“The most difficult part of your request was to find someone—someone with these technical qualifications—who had practical experience in ‘dispatch.’ You even conceded that.”

“I know.” Swanson felt it was the time to show a little more humanity. Pace looked exhausted; the search had not been easy. “I handed you a tough one. Does your nonmilitary, mobile engineer have any ‘dispatches’ of record?”

“We try to avoid records, because …”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. He’s stationed where it’s unavoidable, I’m sorry to say. Except for the men in Burma and India, he’s had more occasions to use last-extremity solutions than anyone in the field. To our knowledge, he’s never hesitated to implement them.”

Swanson started to speak, then hesitated. He creased his brow above his questioning eyes. “You can’t help but wonder about such men, can you?”

“They’re trained. Like anyone else they do a job … for a purpose. He’s not a killer by nature. Very few of our really good men are.”

“I’ve never understood your work, Ed. Isn’t that strange?”

“Not at all. I couldn’t possibly function in your end of the War Department. Those charts and graphs and civilian double-talkers confuse me.… How does the subject sound to you?”

“You have no alternates?”

“Several. But with each there’s the same negative. Those that have the languages
and
the aeronautical training have no experience in ‘dispatch.’ No records of … extreme prejudice. I worked on the assumption that it was as important as the other factors.”

“Your assumption was correct.… Tell me, do you know him?”

“Very well. I recruited him, I observed every phase of his training. I’ve seen him in the field. He’s a pro.”

“I want one.”

“Then maybe he’s your man. But before I say it, I’d like to ask you a question. I have to ask it, actually; I’ll be asked the same question myself.”

“I hope I can give you an answer.”

“It’s within bounds. It’s not specific.”

“What is it?”

Pace came to the edge of the desk toward Swanson. He leaned his back against it and folded his arms. It was another army signal:
I’m your subordinate but this puts us on equal footing right now—at this moment.

“I said the subject was valuable where he is. That’s not strong enough. He’s
in
valuable, essential. By removing him from his station we jeopardize a very sensitive operation. We can handle it, but the risks are considerable. What I have to know is, does the assignment justify his transfer?”

“Let me put it this way, colonel,” said Swanson, the tone of his voice gentle but strong. “The assignment has no priority equal, with the possible exception of the Manhattan Project. You’ve heard of the Manhattan Project, I assume.”

“I have.” Pace got off his desk. “And the War Department—through your office—will confirm this priority?”

“It will.”

“Then here he is, general.” Pace handed Swanson the file folder. “He’s one of the best we’ve got. He’s our man in Lisbon.… Spaulding. Captain David Spaulding.”

David sped south on the motorcycle along the dirt road paralleling the Minho River. It was the fastest route to the border, just below Ribadavia. Once across he would swing west to an airfield outside Valença. The flight to Lisbon would take another two hours, if the weather held and if an aircraft was available. Valença didn’t expect him for another two days; its planes might all be in use.

His anxiety matched the intensity of the spinning, careening wheels beneath him. It was all so extraordinary; it made no
sense
to him. There was
no one
in
Lisbon
who could issue such orders as he had received from Ortegal!

What had
happened?

He felt suddenly as though a vitally important part of his existence was being threatened. And then he wondered at his own reaction. He had no love for his temporary world; he took no pleasure in the countless manipulations and countermanipulations. In fact, he despised most of his day-to-day activities, was sick of the constant fear, the unending high-risk factors to be evaluated with every decision.

Yet he recognized what bothered him so: he had grown in his work. He had arrived in Lisbon centuries ago, beginning a new life, and he had mastered it. Somehow it signified all the buildings he wanted to build, all the blueprints he wanted to turn into mortar and steel. There was precision and finality in his work; the results were there every day. Often many times every day. Like the hundreds of details in construction specifications, the information came to him and he put it all together and emerged with reality.

And it was this reality that others depended upon.

Now someone wanted him out of Lisbon! Out of Portugal and Spain! Was it as simple as that? Had his reports angered one general too many? Had a strategy session been nullified because he sent back the truth of a supposedly successful operation? Were the London and Washington brass finally annoyed to the point of removing a critical thorn? It was possible; he had been told often enough that the men in the underground rooms in London’s Tower Road had exploded more than once over his assessments. He knew that Washington’s Office of Strategic Services felt he was encroaching on their territory; even G-2, ostensibly his own agency, criticized his involvement with the escape teams.

But beyond the complaints there was one evaluation that overrode them all: he was good. He had welded together the best network in Europe.

Which was why David was confused. And not a little disturbed, for a reason he tried not to admit: he needed praise.

There were no buildings of consequence, no extraordinary blueprints turned into more extraordinary edifices. Perhaps there never would be. He would be a middle-aged engineer when it was over. A middle-aged engineer who had not practiced his profession in years, not even in the vast army of the United States, whose Corps of Engineers was the largest construction crew in history.

He tried not to think about it.

He crossed the border at Mendoso, where the guards knew him as a rich, irresponsible expatriate avoiding the risks of war. They accepted his gratuities and waved him over.

The flight from Valença to the tiny airfield outside Lisbon was hampered by heavy rains. It was necessary to put down twice—at Agueda and Pombal—before the final leg. He was met by an embassy vehicle; the driver, a cryptographer named Marshall, was the only man in the embassy who knew his real function.

“Rotten weather, isn’t it?” said the code man, settling behind the wheel as David threw his pack in the back seat. “I don’t envy you up in a crate like that. Not in this rain.”

“Those grass pilots fly so low you could jump down. I worry more about the trees.”

“I’d just worry.” Marshall started up and drove toward the broken-down pasture gate that served as the field’s entrance. On the road he switched on his high beams; it was not yet six o’clock, but the sky was dark, headlights necessary. “I thought you might flatter me and ask why an expert of my standing was acting as chauffeur. I’ve been here since four. Go on, ask me. It was a hell of a long wait.”

Spaulding grinned. “Jesus, Marsh, I just figured you were trying to get in my good graces. So I’d take you north on the next trip. Or have I been made a brigadier?”

“You’ve been made something, David.” Marshall spoke seriously. “I took the D.C. message myself. It was that high up in the codes: eyes-only, senior cryp.”

“I’m flattered,” said Spaulding softly, relieved that he could talk to someone about the preposterous news of his transfer. “What the hell is it all about?”

“I have no idea what they want you for, of course, but I can spell out one conclusion: they want you yesterday. They’ve covered all avenues of delay. The orders were to compile a list of your contacts with complete histories of each: motives, dates, repeats, currency, routings, codes … everything. Nothing left out. Subsequent order: alert the whole network that you’re out of strategy.”

“
Out of
 …” David trailed off the words in disbelief.
Out of strategy
was a phrase used as often for defectors as it was for transfers. Its connotation was final, complete breakoff. “That’s insane! This is
my network!
”

“Not anymore. They flew a man in from London this morning. I think he’s Cuban; rich, too. Studied architecture in Berlin before the war. He’s been holed up in an office studying your files. He’s your replacement.… I wanted you to know.”

David stared at the windshield, streaked with the harsh Lisbon rain. They were on the hard-surface road that led through the Alfama district, with its winding, hilly streets below the cathedral towers of the Moorish St. George and the Gothic Sé. The American embassy was in the Baixa, past the Terreiro do Paço. Another twenty minutes.

So it was really over, thought Spaulding. They were sending him out. A Cuban architect was now the man in
Lisbon. The feeling of being dispossessed took hold of him again. So much was being taken away and under such extraordinary conditions.
Out of strategy
 …

“Who signed the orders?”

“That’s part of the craziness. The use of high codes presumes supreme authority; no one else has access. But no one signed them, either. No name other than yours was in the cable.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You get on a plane tomorrow. The flight time will be posted by tonight. The bird makes one stop. At Lajes Field on Terceira, the Azores. You pick up your orders there.”

Swanson reached for the tiny lever on his desk intercom and spoke: “Send Mr. Kendall in.” He stood up, remaining where he was, waiting for the door to open. He would not walk around his desk to greet the man; he would not offer his hand in even a symbol of welcome. He recalled that Walter Kendall had avoided shaking hands with Craft and Oliver at the Sheraton. The handshake would not be missed; his avoidance of it, however, might be noted.

Kendall entered; the door closed. Swanson saw that the accountant’s appearance had changed little since the afternoon conference he had observed from the unseen room eleven days ago. Kendall wore the same suit, conceivably the same soiled shirt. God knew about his underwear; it wasn’t a pleasant thought to dwell on. There was the slightest curl on Kendall’s upper lip. It did not convey anger or even disdain. It was merely the way the man breathed: mouth and nostrils simultaneously. As an animal might breathe.

“Come in, Mr. Kendall. Sit down.”

Kendall did so without comment. His eyes locked briefly with Swanson’s but only briefly.

“You’re listed on my appointment calendar as being called in to clarify a specific overrun on a Meridian contract,” said the general, sitting down promptly. “Not to justify, simply enumerate. As the … outside auditing firm you can do that.”

“But that’s not why I’m here, is it?” Kendall reached into his pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He squeezed the end before lighting one. Swanson noted that the accountant’s fingernails were unkempt, ragged, soiled at the tips. The brigadier began to see—but would not
ponder it—that there was a sickness about Walter Kendall, the surface appearance merely one manifestation.

“No, that’s not why you’re here,” he answered curtly. “I want to set up ground rules so neither of us misunderstands.… So
you
don’t misunderstand, primarily.”

“Ground rules mean a game. What’s the game we’re playing, general?”

“Perhaps … ‘Clean Uniforms’ might be a good name for it. Or how to run some ‘Interference in Buenos Aires.’ That might strike you as more inclusive.”

Kendall, who had been gazing at his cigarette, abruptly shifted his eyes to the general. “So Oliver and Craft couldn’t wait. They had to bring their teacher his big fat apple. I didn’t think you wanted it.”

“Neither Craft nor Howard Oliver has been in touch with this office—or with me—in over a week. Since you left for Geneva.”

Kendall paused before speaking. “Then your uniform’s pretty goddamned dirty now.… The Sheraton. I thought that was a little unritzy for Craft; he’s the Waldorf type.… So you had the place
wired.
You trapped those fuckers.” Kendall’s voice was hoarse, not angry, not loud. “Well, you just remember how I got to where I was going. How I got to Geneva. You got that on the wire, too.”

“We accommodated a request of the War Production Board; relative to a business negotiation with a firm in Geneva. It’s done frequently. However, we often follow up if there’s reason to think
anything prejudicial.
…”

“Horseshit!”

Swanson exhaled an audible breath. “That reaction is pointless. I don’t want to argue with you. The
point
has been
made.
I have an … edited spool of wire that could send you straight to the hangman or the electric chair. Oliver, too.… Craft might get off with a life sentence. You ridiculed his doubts; you didn’t let him talk.… The point, however,
has been made.
”

Kendall leaned forward and crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray on Swanson’s desk. His sudden fear made him look at the general; he was searching. “But you’re more interested in Buenos Aires than the electric chair. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“I’m forced to be. As distasteful as it may be to me. As loathsome.…”

“Cut out the horseshit,” Kendall interrupted sharply; he was no amateur in such discussions. He knew when to assert himself and his contributions. “As you said, the point’s been made. I think you’re in the barnyard with the rest of us pigs.… So don’t play Jesus. Your halo smells.”