The Rhinemann Exchange (39 page)

It was the explanation for her leisurely pace on the Avenida de Mayo. But David had cut the meeting short; there’d been no lunch. He wondered if he had been picked up after he’d left the restaurant. He had not been concerned.
His thoughts had been on Heinrich Stoltz and the presence of a Gestapo Stoltz knew nothing about.

“Your people are
very
thorough. Now, who are they?”

“Men … and women who have a calling. A purpose. A
great
calling.”

“That’s not what I asked you.…”

There was the sound of an automobile coming up the hill below the parking area. Spaulding reached inside his jacket for his pistol. The car came into view and proceeded upward, past them. The people in the car were laughing. David turned his attention back to Leslie.

“I asked you to trust me,” said the girl. “I was on my way to an address on that street, the boulevard called Julio. I was to be there at one thirty. They’ll wonder where I am.”

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“I’ll answer you in one way. I’m here to convince you to get out of Buenos Aires.”

“Why?”

“Whatever it is you’re doing—and I don’t
know
what it is, they haven’t told me—it can’t happen. We can’t let it happen. It’s wrong.”

“Since you don’t know what it is, how can you say it’s wrong?”

“Because I’ve been told. That’s enough!”

“
Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer,
” said David quietly.

“Get in the car!”

“No. You’ve got to listen to me! Get out of Buenos Aires! Tell your generals it can’t be done!”

“Get in the car!”

There was the sound of another automobile, this time coming from the opposite direction, from above. David put his hand once more under his jacket, but then removed it casually. It was the same vehicle with the laughing tourists that had passed by moments ago. They were still laughing, still gesturing; probably drunk with luncheon wine.

“You can’t take me to the embassy! You
can’t!
”

“If you don’t get in the car, you’ll just wake up there! Go
on.
”

There was the screeching of tires on the gravel. The descending automobile had turned abruptly—at the last second—and swung sharply into the parking area and come to a stop.

David looked up and swore to himself, his hand immobile inside his jacket.

Two high-powered rifles protruded from the open windows of the car. They were aimed at him.

The heads of the three men inside were covered with silk stockings, the faces flattened, grotesque beyond the translucent masks. The rifles were held by one man next to the driver in the front seat and by another in the back.

The man in the rear opened the door, his rifle held steady. He gave his command in a calm voice. In English.

“Get in the car, Mrs. Hawkwood.… And you, colonel. Remove your weapon by the handle—with two fingers.”

David did so.

“Walk to the railing,” continued the man in the back seat, “and drop it over the side, into the woods.”

David complied. The man got out of the car to let Leslie climb in. He then returned to his seat and closed the door.

There was the gunning of the powerful engine and the sound once more of spinning tires over the loose gravel. The car lurched forward out of the parking area and sped off down the hill.

David stood by the railing. He would go over it and find his pistol. There was no point in trying to follow the automobile with Leslie Hawkwood and three men in stocking masks. His rented car was no match for a Duesenberg.

The restaurant had been selected by Jean. It was out of the way in the north section of the city, beyond Palermo Park, a place for assignation. Telephone jacks were in the wall by the booths; waiters could be seen bringing phones to and from the secluded tables.

He was mildly surprised that Jean would know such a restaurant. Or would choose it for them.

“Where did you go this afternoon?” she asked, seeing him looking out over the dim room from their booth.

“A couple of conferences. Very dull. Bankers have a penchant for prolonging any meeting way beyond its finish. The Strand or Wall Street, makes no difference.” He smiled at her.

“Yes.… Well perhaps they’re always looking for ways to extract every last dollar.”

“No ‘perhaps.’ That’s it.… This is quite a place, by the way. Reminds me of Lisbon.”

“Rome,” she said. “It’s more like Rome. Way out. Via Appia. Did you know that the Italians comprise over thirty per cent of the population in Buenos Aires?”

“I knew it was considerable.”

“The Italian hand.… That’s supposed to mean evil.”

“Or clever. Not necessarily evil. The ‘fine Italian hand’ is usually envied.”

“Bobby brought me here one night.… I think he brings lots of girls here.”

“It’s … discreet.”

“I think he was worried that Henderson might find out he had dishonorable designs. And so he brought me here.”

“Which confirmed his designs.”

“Yes.… It’s for lovers. But we weren’t.”

“I’m glad you chose it for us. It gives me a nice feeling of security.”

“Oh, no! Don’t look for that. No one’s in the market for that this year. No.… Security’s out of the question. And commitments. Those, too. No commitments for sale.” She took a cigarette from his open pack; he lit it for her. Over the flame he saw her eyes staring at him. Caught, she glanced downward, at nothing.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.… Nothing at all.” She smiled, but only the outlines were there; not the ingenuousness, not the humor. “Did you talk to that man Stoltz?”

“Good Lord, is that what’s bothering you?… I’m sorry, I suppose I should have said something. Stoltz was selling fleet information; I’m in no position to buy. I told him to get in touch with Naval Intelligence. I made a report to the base commander at FMF this morning. If they want to use him, they will.”

“Strange he should call you.”

“That’s what I thought. Apparently German surveillance picked me up the other day and the financial data was on their sheet. That was enough for Stoltz.”

“He’s a defector?”

“Or selling bad stuff. It’s FMF’s problem, not mine.”

“You’re very glib.” She drank her coffee unsteadily.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.… Just that you’re quick. Quick and facile. You must be very good at your work.”

“And you’re in a godawful mood. Does an excess of gin bring it on?”

“Oh, you think I’m drunk?”

“You’re not sober. Not that it matters.” He grinned. “You’re hardly an alcoholic.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But don’t speculate. That implies some kind of permanence. We must avoid that, mustn’t we?”

“Must we? It seems to be a point with you tonight. It wasn’t a problem I was considering.”

“You just brushed it aside, I assume. I’m sure you have other, more pressing matters.” In replacing her cup, Jean spilled coffee on the tablecloth. She was obviously annoyed with herself. “I’m doing it badly,” she said after a moment of silence.

“You’re doing it badly,” he agreed.

“I’m frightened.”

“Of what?”

“You’re not here in Buenos Aires to talk to bankers, are you? It’s much more than that. You won’t tell me, I know. And in a few weeks, you’ll be gone … if you’re alive.”

“You’re letting your imagination take over.” He took her hand; she crushed out her cigarette and put her other hand over his. She gripped him tightly.

“All right. Let’s say you’re right.” She spoke quietly now; he had to strain to hear her. “I’m making everything up. I’m crazy and I drank too much. Indulge me. Play the game for a minute.”

“If you want me to … O.K.”

“It’s hypothetical. My David isn’t a State Department syndromer, you see. He’s an agent. We’ve had a few here; I’ve met them. The colonels call them
provocarios.
… So, my David is an agent and being an agent is called … high-risk something-or-other because the rules are different. That is, the rules don’t have any meaning.… There aren’t any rules for these people … like my hypothetical David. Do you follow?”

“I follow,” he replied simply. “I’m not sure what the object is or how a person scores.”

“We’ll get to that.” She drank the last of her coffee, holding the cup firmly—too firmly; her fingers shook. “The point is, such a man as my … mythical David could be killed or crippled or have his face shot off. That’s a horrible thought, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I imagine that possibility has occurred to several hundred thousand men by now. It’s horrible.”

“But they’re different. They have armies and uniforms and certain rules. Even in airplanes … their chances are better. And I say this with a certain expertise.”

He looked at her intently. “Stop.”

“Oh, not yet. Now, I’m going to tell you how you can score a goal. Why does my hypothetical David do what he does?… No, don’t answer yet.” She stopped and smiled weakly. “But you weren’t about to answer, were you? It doesn’t matter; there’s a second part of the question. You get extra points for considering it.”

“What’s the second part?” He thought that Jean was
recapitulating an argument she had memorized. Her next words proved it.

“You see, I’ve thought about it over and over again … for this make-believe game … this make-believe agent. He’s in a very unique position: he works alone … or at least with very,
very
few people. He’s in a strange country and he’s alone.… Do you understand the second part now?”

David watched her. She had made some abstract connection in her mind without verbalizing it. “No, I don’t.”

“If David is working alone and in a strange country and has to send codes to Washington … Henderson told me that … that means the people he’s working for have to believe what he tells them. He can tell them anything he wants to.… So now we come back to the question. Knowing all this, why does the mythical David do what he does? He can’t really believe that he’ll influence the outcome of the whole war. He’s only one among millions and millions.”

“And … if I’m following you … this make-believe man can send word to his superiors that he’s having difficulties.…”

“He has to stay on in Buenos Aires. For a long time,” she interrupted, holding his hand fiercely.

“And if they say no, he can always hide out in the pampas.”

“Don’t make fun of me!” she said intensely.

“I’m not. I won’t pretend that I can give you logical answers, but I don’t think the man you’re talking about has such a clear field. Tight reins are kept on such men, I believe. Other men could be sent into the area … would be sent, I’m sure. Your strategy is only a short-term gain; the penalties are long and damned stiff.”

She withdrew her hands slowly, looking away from him. “It’s a gamble that might be worth it, though. I love you very much. I don’t want you hurt and I know there are people trying to hurt you.” She stopped and turned her eyes back to him. “They’re trying to kill you, aren’t they?… One among so many millions … and I keep saying to myself, ‘Not him. Oh, God, not him.’ Don’t you see?… Do we need them? Are those people—whoever they are—so important? To us? Haven’t you done enough?”

He returned her stare and found himself understanding the profundity of her question. It wasn’t a pleasant realization.
 … He
had
done enough. His whole life had been turned around until the alien was an everyday occurrence.

For what?

The amateurs? Alan Swanson? Walter Kendall?

A dead Ed Pace. A corrupt Fairfax.

One among so many millions.

“Señor Spaulding?” The words shocked him momentarily because they were so completely unexpected. A tuxedoed maître d’ was standing by the edge of the booth, his voice low.

“Yes?”

“There’s a telephone call for you.”

David looked at the discreet man. “Can’t you bring the telephone to the table?”

“Our sincere apologies. The instrument plug at this booth is not functioning.”

A lie, of course, Spaulding knew.

“Very well.” David got out of the booth. He turned to Jean. “I’ll be right back. Have some more coffee.”

“Suppose I wanted a drink?”

“Order it.” He started to walk away.

“David?” She called out enough to be heard; not loudly.

“Yes.” He turned back; she was staring at him again.

“ ‘Tortugas’ isn’t worth it,” she said quietly.

It was as if he’d been hit a furious blow in the stomach. Acid formed in his throat, his breath stopped, his eyes pained him as he looked down at her.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Heinrich Stoltz here,” the voice said.

“I’ve been expecting your call. I assume the switchboard gave you the number.”

“It was not necessary to telephone. The arrangements have been made. In twenty minutes a green Packard automobile will be outside the restaurant. A man will have his left arm out the window, holding an open pack of German cigarettes this time. I thought you would appreciate the symbolic repetition.”

“I’m touched. But you may have to alter the time and the car.”

“There can be no changes. Herr Rhinemann is adamant.”

“So am I. Something’s come up.”

“Sorry. Twenty minutes. A green Packard automobile.”

The connection was severed.

Well, that was Stoltz’s problem, thought David. There was only one thought in mind. To get back to Jean.

He made his way out of the dimly lit corner and sidled awkwardly past the bar patrons whose stools were blocking the aisle. He was in a hurry; the human and inanimate obstructions were frustrating, annoying. He reached the arch into the dining area and walked rapidly through the tables to the rear booth.

Jean Cameron was gone. There was a note on the table.

It was on the back of a cocktail napkin, the words written in the heavy wax of an eyebrow pencil. Written hastily, almost illegibly:

Nothing else. As if she just stopped.

He crumpled the napkin in his pocket and raced back across the dining room to the front entrance. The maiître d’ stood by the door.