The Rhinemann Exchange (40 page)

“
Señor?
Is there a problem?”

“The lady at the booth. Where did she go?!”

“Mrs. Cameron?”

Christ!
thought David, looking at the calm
porteño.
What was happening? The reservation was in
his
name. Jean had indicated that she’d been to the restaurant only once before.

“Yes! Mrs. Cameron! Goddamn you, where is she!?”

“She left a few minutes ago. She took the first taxi at the curb.”

“You
listen
to me.…”

“
Señor
,” interrupted the obsequious Argentine, “there is a gentleman waiting for you outside. He will take care of your bill. He has an account with us.”

Spaulding looked out the large windowpanes in the heavy front door. Through the glass he could see a man standing on the sidewalk. He was dressed in a white Palm Beach suit.

David pushed the door open and approached him.

“You want to see me?”

“I’m merely waiting for you, Herr Spaulding. To escort you. The car should be here in fifteen minutes.”

The green Packard sedan came to a stop across the street, directly in front of the restaurant. The driver’s arm appeared through the open window, an indistinguishable pack of cigarettes in his hand. The man in the white Palm Beach suit gestured politely for Spaulding to accompany him.

As he drew nearer, David could see that the driver was a large man in a black knit, short-sleeved shirt that both revealed and accentuated his muscular arms. There was a stubble of beard, thick eyebrows; he looked like a mean-tempered longshoreman, the rough image intended, Spaulding was sure. The man walking beside him opened the car door and David climbed in.

No one spoke. The car headed south back toward the center of Buenos Aires; then northeast into the Aeroparque district. David was mildly surprised to realize that the driver had entered the wide highway paralleling the river. The same road he had taken that afternoon with Leslie Hawkwood. He wondered whether the route was chosen deliberately, if they expected him to make some remark about the coincidence.

He sat back, giving no indication that he recognized anything.

The Packard accelerated on the wide river road which now swung to the left, following the water into the hills of the northwest. The car did not, however, go up any of the offshoot roads as David had done hours ago. Instead the driver maintained a steady, high speed. A reflecting highway sign was caught momentarily in the glare of the headlights:
Tigre 12 kil.

The traffic was mild; cars rushed past intermittently from the opposite direction; several were overtaken by the
Packard. The driver checked his rear- and side-view mirrors constantly.

In the middle of a long bend in the road, the Packard slowed down. The driver nodded his head to the man in the white Palm Beach suit beside David.

“We will exchange cars now, Herr Spaulding,” said the man, reaching into his jacket, withdrawing a gun.

Ahead of them was a single building, an outskirts restaurant or an inn with a circular drive that curved in front of an entrance and veered off into a large parking area on the side. Spotlights lit the entrance and the lawn in front.

The driver swung in; the man beside Spaulding tapped him.

“Get out here, please. Go directly inside.”

David opened the door. He was surprised to see a uniformed doorman remain by the entrance, making no move toward the Packard. Instead, he crossed rapidly in front of the entrance and started walking on the graveled drive in the direction of the side parking lot. Spaulding opened the front door and stepped into the carpeted foyer of the restaurant; the man in the white suit was at his heels, his gun now in his pocket.

Instead of proceeding toward the entrance of the dining area, the man held David by the arm—politely—and knocked on what appeared to be the door of a small office in the foyer. The door opened and the two of them walked inside.

It was a tiny office but that fact made no impression on Spaulding. What fascinated him were the two men inside. One was dressed in a white Palm Beach suit; the other—and David instantly, involuntarily, had to smile—was in the identical clothes he himself was wearing. A light blue, striped cord jacket and dark trousers. The second man was his own height, the same general build, the same general coloring.

David had no time to observe further. The light in the small office—a desk lamp—was snapped off by the newly appeared white suit. The German who had accompanied Spaulding walked to the single window that looked out on the circular drive. He spoke softly.

“
Schnell. Beeilen Sie sich … Danke.
”

The two men quickly walked to the door and let themselves
out. The German by the window was silhouetted in the filtered light of the front entrance. He beckoned David.

“
Kommen Sie her.
”

He went to the window and stood beside the man. Outside, their two counterparts were on the driveway, talking and gesturing as if in an argument—a mild disagreement, not violent. Both smoked cigarettes, their faces more often covered by their hands than not. Their backs were to the highway beyond.

Then an automobile came from the right, from the direction of the parking lot, and the two men got inside. The car moved slowly to the left, to the entrance of the highway. It paused for several seconds, waiting for an opportune moment in the thinned-out night traffic. Suddenly it lurched forward, crossed to the right of the highway and sped off south, toward the city.

David wasn’t sure why the elaborate ploy was considered necessary; he was about to ask the man beside him. Before he spoke, however, he noticed the smile on the man’s face, inches from his in the window. Spaulding looked out.

About fifty yards away, off the side of the river road, headlights were snapped on. A vehicle, facing north, made a fast U-turn on the wide highway and headed south in a sudden burst of speed.

The German grinned. “
Amerikanische … Kinder.
”

David stepped back. The man crossed to the desk and turned on the lamp.

“That was an interesting exercise,” said Spaulding.

The man looked up. “Simply a—what are your words,
eine Vorsichtsmassnahme
—a …”

“A precaution,” said David.

“
Ja.
That’s right, you speak German.… Come. Herr Rhinemann must not be kept waiting longer than the … 
precautions
require.”

Even in daylight, Spaulding realized, the dirt road would be difficult to find. As it was, with no streetlamps and only the misty illumination of the moon, it seemed as though the Packard had swung off the hard pavement into a black wall of towering overgrowth. Instead, there was the unmistakable sound of dirt beneath the wheels as the car plunged forward, the driver secure in his knowledge of the numerous turns and straightaways. A half mile into the
forest the dirt road suddenly widened and the surface became smooth and hard again.

There was an enormous parking area. Four stone gateposts—wide, medieval in appearance—were spaced equidistant from one another at the far end of the blacktopped field. Above each stone post was a massive floodlamp, the spills intersecting, throwing light over the entire area and into the woods beyond. Between the huge posts was a thick-grilled iron fence, in the center of which was a webbed steel gate, obviously operated electrically.

Men dressed in dark shirts and trousers—quasi-military in cut—stood around, several with dogs on leashes.

Dobermans. Massive, straining at their leather straps, barking viciously.

Commands could be heard from the handlers and the dogs subsided.

The man in the white Palm Beach suit opened the door and got out. He walked to the main gatepost, where a guard appeared at the fence from inside the compound. The two men talked briefly; David could see that beyond the guard stood a dark concrete or stucco enclosure, perhaps twenty feet in length, in which there were small windows with light showing through.

The guard returned to the miniature house; the man in the white suit came back to the Packard.

“We will wait a few minutes,” he said, climbing into the rear seat.

“I thought we were in a hurry.”

“To be here; to let Herr Rhinemann know we have arrived. Not necessarily to be admitted.”

“Accommodating fellow,” said David.

“Herr Rhinemann can be what he likes.”

Ten minutes later the steel-webbed gate swung slowly open and the driver started the engine. The Packard cruised by the gatehouse and the guards; the Dobermans began their rapacious barking once again, only to be silenced by their masters. The road wound uphill, ending in another huge parking area in front of an enormous white mansion with wide marble steps leading to the largest pair of oak doors David had ever seen. Here, too, floodlights covered the whole area. Unlike the outside premises, there was a fountain in the middle of the courtyard, the reflection of the lights bouncing off the spray of the water.

It was as if some extravagant plantation house from the antebellum South had been dismantled stone by stone, board by board, marble block by marble block, and rebuilt deep within an Argentine forest.

An extraordinary sight, and not a little frightening in its massive architectural concept. The construction engineer in David was provoked and stunned at the same time. The materials-logistics must have been staggering; the methods of leveling and transport incredible.

The cost unbelievable.

The German got out of the car and walked around to David’s door. He opened it.

“We’ll leave you now. It’s been a pleasant trip. Go to the door; you’ll be admitted.
Auf Wiedersehen.
”

David got out and stood on the hard surface before the marble steps. The green Packard started off down the winding descent.

Spaulding stood alone for nearly a minute. If he was being watched—and the thought crossed his mind—the observer might think he was an astonished caller overwhelmed by the magnificence in front of him. That judgment would have been partially accurate; his remaining concentration, however, was on the mansion’s more mundane specifics: the windows, the roof, the grounds on both visible sides.

Ingress and egress were matters to be considered constantly; the unexpected was never to be projected as too unlikely.

He walked up the steps and approached the immense, thick wooden doors. There was no knocker, no bell; he hadn’t thought there would be.

He turned and looked down at the floodlit area. Not a person in sight; neither guards nor servants. No one.

Quiet. Even the sounds of the forest seemed subdued. Only the splash of the fountain interrupted the stillness.

Which meant, of course, that there were eyes unseen and whispers unheard, directing their attention on him.

The door opened. Heinrich Stoltz stood in the frame.

“Welcome to Habichtsnest, Herr Spaulding. The Hawk’s Lair; appropriately—if theatrically—named, is it not?”

David stepped inside. The foyer, as might be expected, was enormous; a marble staircase rose beyond a chandelier of several thousand crystal cones. The walls were covered
with gold cloth; Renaissance paintings were hung beneath silver portrait lamps.

“It’s not like any bird’s nest I’ve ever seen.”

“True. However, Habichtsnest, I think, loses something in your translation. Come with me, please. Herr Rhinemann is outside on the river balcony. It’s a pleasant evening.”

They walked underneath the grotesque yet beautiful chandelier, past the marble staircase to an archway at the end of the great hall. It led out to an enormous terrace that stretched the length of the building. There were white wrought-iron tables topped with spotless glass, chairs of varying sizes with brightly colored cushions. A series of large double doors could be seen on both sides of the arch; they presumably led to diverse sections of the huge house.

Bordering the terrace was a stone balustrade, waist high, with statuary and plants on the railing. Beyond the balcony, in the distance, were the waters of the Río Luján. At the left end of the terrace was a small platform, blocked by a gate. Enormously thick wires could be seen above. It was a dock for a cable car, the wires evidently extending down to the river.

David absorbed the splendor, expecting his first view of Rhinemann. There was no one; he walked to the railing and saw that beneath the balcony was another terrace perhaps twenty feet below. A large swimming pool—complete with racing lines in the tile—was illuminated by floodlights under the blue green water. Additional metal tables with sun umbrellas and deck chairs were dotted about the pool and the terrace. And surrounding it all was a manicured lawn that in the various reflections of light looked like the thickest, fullest putting green David had ever seen. Somewhat incongruously, there were the silhouettes of poles and wickets; a croquet course had been imposed on the smooth surface.

“I hope you’ll come out one day and enjoy our simple pleasures, Colonel Spaulding.”

David was startled by the strange, quiet voice. He turned. The figure of a man stood in shadows alongside the arch of the great hall.

Erich Rhinemann had been watching him, of course.

Rhinemann emerged from the darkened area. He was a moderately tall man with greying straight hair combed
rigidly back—partless. He was somewhat stocky for his size—“powerful” would be the descriptive word, but his stomach girth might deny the term. His hands were large, beefy, yet somehow delicate, dwarfing the wineglass held between his fingers.

He came into a sufficient spill of light for David to see his face clearly. Spaulding wasn’t sure why, but the face startled him. It was a broad face; a wide forehead above a wide expanse of lip beneath a rather wide, flat nose. He was deeply tanned, his eyebrows nearly white from the sun. And then David realized why he was startled.

Erich Rhinemann was an aging man. The deeply tanned skin was a cover for the myriad lines the years had given him; his eyes were narrow, surrounded by swollen folds of age; the faultlessly tailored sports jacket and trousers were cut for a much, much younger man.