The Rhinemann Exchange (50 page)

“Yes.… You
will
be in touch?”

“Get out of here,” said Spaulding in exhaustion.

The two Haganah agents rose from their chairs, the younger going to the unconscious third man and lifting him off the floor, onto his shoulders. Asher Feld stood in the front hallway and turned, his gaze resting momentarily on the dead bodies, then over to Spaulding.

“You and I. We must deal in priorities.… The man from Lisbon is an extraordinary man.” He turned to the door and held it open as his companion carried out the third man. He went outside, closing the door behind him.

David turned to Lyons. “Get the designs.”

When the assault on 15 Terraza Verde had begun, Eugene Lyons had done a remarkable thing. It was so simple it had a certain cleanliness to it, thought Spaulding. He had taken the metal container with the designs, opened his bedroom window and dropped the case five feet below into the row of tiger lilies that grew along the side of the house. The window shut, he had then run into his bathroom and locked the door.

All things considered—the shock, the panic, his own acknowledged incapacities—he had taken the least expected action: he had kept his head. He had removed the container, not tried to conceal it; he had transferred it to an
accessible
place, and that was not to be anticipated by the fanatic men who dealt in complicated tactics and convoluted deceits.

David followed Lyons out of the house through the kitchen door and around to the side. He took the container from the physicist’s trembling hands and helped the near-helpless man over the small fence separating the adjacent property. Together they ran behind the next two houses and cautiously edged their way toward the street. Spaulding kept his left hand extended, gripping Lyon’s shoulder, holding him against the wall, prepared to throw him to the ground at the first hint of hostilities.

Yet David was not really expecting hostilities; he was convinced the Haganah had eliminated whatever Rhinemann guards were posted in front, for the obvious reason that Asher Feld had left by the front door. What he did think was possible was a last-extremity attempt by Asher Feld to get the designs. Or the sudden emergence of a Rhinemann vehicle from some near location—a vehicle
whose occupants were unable to raise a radio signal from 15 Terraza Verde.

Each possible; neither really expected.

It was too late and too soon.

What David profoundly hoped he would find, however, was a blue green sedan cruising slowly around the streets. A car with small orange insignias on the bumpers that designated the vehicle as U.S. property. Ballard’s “playground attendants”; the men from the FMF base.

It wasn’t cruising. It was stationary, on the far side of the street, its parking lights on. Three men inside were smoking cigarettes, the glows illuminating the interior. He turned to Lyons.

“Let’s go. Walk slowly, casually. The car’s over there.”

The driver and the man next to him got out of the automobile the moment Spaulding and Lyons reached the curb. They stood awkwardly by the hood, dressed in civilian clothes. David crossed the street, addressing them.

“Get in that goddamned car and get us out of here! And while you’re at it, why don’t you paint bull’s-eyes all over the vehicle? You wouldn’t be any more of a target than you are now!”

“Take it easy, buddy,” replied the driver. “We just got here.” He opened the rear door as Spaulding helped Lyons inside.

“You were supposed to be cruising, not parked like watchdogs!” David climbed in beside Lyons; the man at the far window squeezed over. The driver got behind the wheel, closed his door and started the engine. The third man remained outside. “Get him in here!” barked Spaulding.

“He’ll remain where he is, colonel,” said the man in the back seat next to Lyons. “He stays here.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Colonel Daniel Meehan, Fleet Marine Force, Naval Intelligence. And we want to know what the fuck’s going on.”

The car started up.

“You have no control over this exercise,” said David slowly, deliberately. “And I don’t have time for bruised egos. Get us to the embassy, please.”

“Screw egos! We’d like a little simple clarification! You know what the hell is going on down in our section of
town? This side trip to Telmo’s just a minor inconvenience! I wouldn’t be here except your goddamned name was mentioned by that smart-ass cryp!… 
Jesus!
”

Spaulding leaned forward on the seat, staring at Meehan. “You’d better tell me what’s going on in your section of town. And why my name gets you to Telmo.”

The marine returned the look, glancing once—with obvious distaste—at the ashen Lyons. “Why not? Your friend cleared?”

“He is now. No one more so.”

“We have three cruisers patrolling the Buenos Aires coastal zone plus a destroyer and a carrier somewhere out there.… Five hours ago we get a blue alert: prepare for a radio-radar blackout, all sea and aircraft to hold to, no movement. Forty-five minutes later there’s a scrambler from Fairfax, source four-zero. Intercept one Colonel David Spaulding, also four-zero. He’s to make contact pronto.”

“With Fairfax?”

“
Only
with Fairfax.… So we send a man to your address on Córdoba. He doesn’t find you but he
does
find a weird son of a bitch tearing up your place. He tries to take him and gets laid out.… He gets back to us a couple of hours later with creases in his head and guess who calls? Right on an open-line telephone!”

“Ballard,” answered David quietly. “The embassy cryp.”

“The smart-ass! He makes jokes and tells us to play games out at Telmo! Wait for you to decide to show.” The marine colonel shook his head in disgust.

“You said the blue alert was preparation for radar silence … and radio.”

“And all ships and planes immobilized,” interrupted Meehan. “What the hell’s coming
in
here? The whole goddamned General
Staff? Roosevelt? Churchill? Rin-tin-tin?
And what are
we?
The
enemy!
”

“It’s not what’s coming in, colonel,” said David softly. “It’s what’s going out.… What’s the time of activation?”

“It’s damn loose. Anytime during the next forty-eight hours. How’s that for a tight schedule?”

“Who’s my contact in Virginia?”

“Oh.… Here.” Meehan shifted in his seat, proffering a sealed yellow envelope that was the mark of a scrambled message. David reached across Lyons and took it.

There was the crackling static of a radio from the front seat followed by the single word “Redbird!” out of the speaker. The driver quickly picked up the dashboard microphone.

“Redbird acknowledge,” said the marine.

The static continued but the words were clear. “The Spaulding intercept. Pick him up and bring him in. Four-zero orders from Fairfax. No contact with the embassy.”

“You heard the man,” laughed Meehan. “No embassy tonight colonel.”

David was stunned. He started to object—angrily, furiously; then he stopped.… Fairfax. No Nazi, but Haganah. Asher Feld had said it. The Provisional Wing dealt in practicalities. And the most practical objective during the next forty-eight hours was to immobilize the man with the codes. Washington would not activate a radio-radar blackout without them; and an enemy submarine surfacing to rendezvous with a trawler would be picked up on the screens and blown out of the water. The Koening diamonds—the Peenemünde tools—would be sent to the bottom of the South Atlantic.

Christ! The
irony
, thought David. Fairfax—
someone
at Fairfax—was doing precisely what
should
be done, motivated by concerns Washington—and the aircraft companies—refused to acknowledge! It—they—had other concerns: three-quarters of them were at Spaulding’s feet. High-altitude gyroscopic designs.

David pressed his arm into Lyons’s shoulder. The emaciated scientist continued to stare straight ahead but responded to Spaulding’s touch with a hesitant nudge of his left elbow.

David shook his head and sighed audibly. He held up the yellow envelope and shrugged, placing it into his jacket pocket.

When his hand emerged it held a gun.

“I’m afraid I can’t accept those orders, Colonel Meehan.” Spaulding pointed the automatic at the marine’s head; Lyons leaned back into the seat.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Meehan jerked forward; David clicked the firing pin of the weapon into hair-release.

“Tell your man to drive where I say. I don’t want to kill you, colonel, but I will. It’s a matter of priorities.”

“You’re a goddamned double agent! That’s what Fairfax was onto!”

David sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”

Lyons’s hands trembled as he tightened the knots around Meehan’s wrists. The driver was a mile down the dirt road, bound securely, lying in the border of the tall grass. The area was rarely traveled at night. They were in the hills of Colinas Rojas.

Lyons stepped back and nodded to Spaulding.

“Get in the car.”

Lyons nodded again and started toward the automobile. Meehan rolled over and looked up at David.

“You’re dead, Spaulding. You got a firing squad on your duty sheet. You’re stupid, too. Your Nazi friends are going to lose this war!”

“They’d better,” answered David. “As to executions, there may be a number of them. Right in Washington. That’s what this is all about, colonel.… Someone’ll find you both tomorrow. If you like, you can start inching your way west. Your driver’s a mile or so down the road.… I’m sorry.”

Spaulding gave Meehan a half-felt shrug of apology and ran to the FMF automobile. Lyons sat in the front seat and when the door light spilled over his face, David saw his eyes. Was it possible that in that look there was an attempt to communicate a sense of gratitude? Or approval? There wasn’t time to speculate, so David smiled gently and spoke quietly.

“This has been terrible for you, I know.… But I can’t think what else to do. I don’t know. If you like, I’ll get you back to the embassy. You’ll be safe there.”

David started the car and drove up a steep incline—one of many—in the Colinas Rojas. He would double back on a parallel road and reach the highway within ten or fifteen minutes; he would take Lyons to an outskirts taxi and give the driver instructions to deliver the physicist to the American embassy. It wasn’t really what he wanted to do; but what else was there?

Then the words came from beside him.
Words!
Whispered, muffled, barely audible but clear! From the recesses of a tortured throat.

“I … stay with … you. Together.…”

Spaulding had to grip the wheel harshly for fear of losing control. The shock of the pained speech—and it was a speech for Eugene Lyons—had nearly caused him to drop his hands. He turned and looked at the scientist. In the flashing shadows he saw Lyons return his stare; the lips were set firmly, the eyes steady. Lyons knew exactly what he was doing; what they both were doing—
had
to do.

“All right” said David, trying to remain calm and precise. “I read you clearly. God knows I need all the help I can get. We both do. It strikes me we’ve got two powerful enemies. Berlin
and
Washington.”

“I don’t want any interruptions, Stoltz!” David yelled into the mouthpiece of the telephone in the small booth near Ocho Calle. Lyons was now behind the wheel of the FMF car ten yards away on the street. The motor was running. The scientist hadn’t driven in twelve years but with half-words and gestures he convinced Spaulding he would be capable in an emergency.

“You can’t behave this way!” was the panicked reply.

“I’m Pavlov, you’re the dog! Now shut up and listen! There’s a mess in Terraza Verde, if you don’t know it by now. Your men are dead; so are mine. I’ve got the designs
and
Lyons.… Your nonexistent Gestapo are carrying out a number of executions!”

“
Impossible!
” screamed Stoltz.

“Tell that to the corpses, you incompetent son of a bitch! While you clean up that mess!… I want the rest of those designs, Stoltz. Wait for my call!” David slammed down the receiver and bolted out of the booth to the car. It was time for the radio. After that the envelope from Fairfax. Then Ballard at the embassy. One step at a time.

Spaulding opened the door and slid into the seat beside Lyons. The physicist pointed to the dashboard.

“Again—” was the single, painful word.

“Good,” said Spaulding. “They’re anxious. They’ll listen hard.” David snapped the panel switch and lifted the microphone out of its cradle. He pressed his fingers against the tiny wire speaker with such pressure that the mesh was bent; he covered the instrument with his hand and held it against his jacket as he spoke, moving it in circles so as to further distort the sound.

“Redbird to base … Redbird to base.”

The static began, the voice angry. “Christ, Redbird! We’ve been trying to raise you for damn near two hours! That Ballard keeps calling! Where the hell are you!?”

“Redbird.… Didn’t you get our last transmission?”

“
Transmission?
Shit, man! I can hardly hear this one. Hold on; let me get the CO.”

“Forget it! No sweat You’re fading here again. We’re on Spaulding. We’re following him; he’s in a vehicle … twenty-seven,
twenty-eight miles north.
…” David abruptly stopped talking.

“Redbird! Redbird!… Christ, this frequency’s puke!… Twenty-eight miles north
where?
… I’m not reading you, Redbird! Redbird, acknowledge!”

“… bird, acknowledge,” said David directly into the microphone. “This radio needs maintenance, pal. Repeat. No problems. Will
return to base in approximately.
…”

Spaulding reached down and snapped the switch into the off position.

He got out of the car and went back to the telephone booth.

One step at a time. No blurring, no overlapping—each action defined, handled with precision.

Now it was the scramble from Fairfax. The deciphered code that would tell him the name of the man who was having him intercepted; the source four-zero, whose priority rating allowed him to send such commands from the transmission core of the intelligence compound.