THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE

BY

ROBERT LUDLUM

By the same author

The Scarlatti Inheritance

The Osterman Weekend

The Matlock Paper

The Gemini Contenders

The Chancellor Manuscript

The Holcrofit Covenant

The Matarese Circle

The Bourne Identity

The Road to Gando6ro

The Parsifal Mosaic

    ROBERT LUDLUM

The Rhinemann

Exchange

Toronto Sydney New-york

    Published by Granada Publishing Limited in 1975

Reprinted 1975, 1976 (twice), 1977 (twice), 1978, 1980,

1981 (twice), 1982 (twice), 1983

ISBN 586 04202 4

First published in Great Britain by

Hart-Davis, MacGibbon Ltd 1975

Copyright (9 1974 by Robert Ludlum

Granada Publishing Limited Frogrnore, St Albans, Herts AL2 2NF and 36

Golden Square, London WIR 4AH 515 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10022, USA

117 York Street, Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia 60 International Blvd,

Rexdale, Ontario, R9W W2, Canada 61 Beach Road, Auckland, New Zealand

Made and printed in Great Britain by

Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd

Bungay, Suffolk

Set in Linotype Times

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of

trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated

without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover

other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Granada 0

-Granada Publishing 0

For Norma and Ed Marcumfor so many things, my thanks

10

PREFACE

    MARCH 20,1944

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

'David?'

    The girl came into the room and stood silently for a moment, watching the

    tall army officer as he stared out the hotel window. The March rain fell

    through a March chill, creating pockets of wind and mist over the

    Washington skyline.

    Spaulding turned, aware of her presence, not of her voice. 'I'm sorry. Did

    you say something?' He saw that she held his raincoat. He saw, too, the

    concern in her eyes - and the fear she tried to conceal.

'It's over,' she said softly.

'It's over,' he replied. 'Or will be in an hour from now.'

    'Will they all be there?' she asked as, she approached him, holding the

    coat in front of her as though it were a shield.

    'Yes. They have no choice.... I have no choice.' Spaulding's left shoulder

    was encased in bandages under his tunic, the arm in a wide, black sling.

    'Help me on with that, will you? The rain's not going to let up.'

Jean Cameron unfolded the coat reluctantly and opened it.

    She stopped, her eyes fixed on the collar of his army shirt. Then on the

    lapels of his uniform.

All the insignia had been removed.

    7

    There were only slight discolorations in the cloth where the emblems had

    been.

    There was no rank, no identifying brass or silver. Not even the gold

    initials of the country he served.

Had served.

He saw that she had seen.

    ,res the way I began,' he said quietly. 'No name, no rank, no history. Only

    a number. Followed by a letter. I want them to remember that.'

    The girl stood motionless, gripping the coat. 'They'll kill you, David.'

    Her words were barely audible.

    'That's the one thing they won't do,' he said calmly. 'There'll be no

    assassins, no accidents, no sudden orders flying me out to

    Burma or Dar es Salaam. That's finished They can't know

    what I've done.'

    He smiled gently and touched her face. Her lovely face. She breathed deeply

    and imposed a control on herself he knew she did not feel. She slipped the

    raincoat carefully over his left shoulder as he reached around for the

    right sleeve. She pressed her face briefly against his back; he could feel

    the slight trembling as she spoke.

'I won't be afraid. I promised you that.'

    He walked out the glass entrance of the Shoreham Hotel and shook his head

    at the doorman under the canopy. He did not want a taxi; he wanted to walk.

    To let the dying fires of rage finally subside and bum themselves out. A

    long walk.

    It would be the last hour of his life that he would wear the uniform.

The uniform now with no insignia, no identification.

    He would walk through the second set of doors at the War Department and

    give his name to the military police.

David Spaulding.

    That's all he would say. It would be enough; no one would stop him, none

    would interfere.

    Orders would be left by unnamed commanders - divisional recognition only -

    that would allow him to proceed down the grey corridors to an unmarked

    room.

    Those orders would be at that security desk because another order had been

    given. An order no one could trace. No one comprehended....

8

They claimed. In outrage.

But none with an outrage matching his.

They knew that, too, the unknown commanders.

    Names meaning nothing to him only months ago would be in the unmarked room.

    Names that now were symbols of an abyss of deceit that so revolted him, he

    honestly believed he had lost his mind.

Howard Oliver.

Jonathan Craft.

Walter Kendall.

    The names were innocuous-sounding in themselves. They could belong to

    untold hundreds of thousands. There was something so.... American about

    them.

    Yet these names, these men, had brought him to the brink of insanity.

    They would be there in the unmarked room, and he would remind them of those

    who were absent.

Erich Rhinemann. Buenos Aires.

Alan Swanson. Washington.

Franz Altmoller. Berlin.

Other symbols. Other threads....

    The abyss of deceit into which he had been plunged by ... enemies.

How in God's name had it happened?

How could it have happened?

    But it did happen. And he had written down the facts as he knew them.

    Written them down and placed ... the docum ' ent in an archive

case inside a deposit box within a bank vault in Colorado.

    Untraceable. Locked in the earth for a millennium ... for it was better

    that way.

    Unless the men in the unmarked room forced him to do otherwise.

    If they did . . . if they forced him ... the sanities of millions would be

    tested. The revulsion would not acknowledge national boundaries or the

    cause of any global tribe.

The leaders would become pariahs.

As he was a pariah now.

A number followed by a letter.

He reached the steps of the War Department; the tan stone

    9

pillars did not signify strength to him now. Only the appearance of light

brown paste.

No longer substance.

    He walked through the sets of double doors up to the security desk, manned

    by a middle-aged lieutenant colonel flanked by two sergeants.

'Spaulding, David,'he said quietly.

    'Your I.D. . . .' the lieutenant colonel looked at the shoulders Of the

    raincoat, then at the collar, 'Spaulding. . . .'

    'My name is David Spaulding. My source is Fairfax,' repeated David softly.

    'Check your papers, soldier.'

    The lieutenant colonel's head snapped up in anger, gradually replaced by

    bewilderment as he looked at Spaulding. For David had not spoken harshly,

    or even impolitely. Just factually.

    The sergeant to the left of the lieutenant colonel shoved a page of paper

    in front of the officer without interrupting. The lieutenant colonel looked

    at it.

    He glanced back up at David - briefly - and waved him through.

    As he walked down the grey corridor, his raincoat over his arm, Spaulding

    could feel the eyes on him, scanning the uniform devoid of rank or

    identification. Several salutes were rendered hesitantly.

None was acknowledged.

Men turned; others stared from doorways.

    This was the ... officer, their looks were telling him. They'd heard the

    rumors, spoken in whispers, in hushed voices in out-ofthe-way comers. This

    was the man.

An order had been given....

The man.

10

PROLOGUE

    One

    SEPTEMBER 8,1939

    NEW YORK CITY

The two army officers, their uniforms creased into steel, their hats

removed, watched the group of informally dressed men and women through the

glass partition. The room in which the officers sat was dark.

    A red light flashed; the sounds of an organ thundered out of the two webbed

    boxes at each comer of the glass-fronted, lightless cubicle. There followed

    the distant howling of dogs - large, rapacious dogs - and then a voice -

    deep, clear, forbidding -spoke over the interweaving sounds of the organ

    and the animals.

    Wherever madness exists, wherever the cries of the helpless can be heard,

    there you willfind the tallfigure ofJonathan Tyne - waiting, watching in

    shadows, prepared to do battle with the forces of hell. The seen and the

    unseen....

    Suddently there was a piercing, mind-splitting scream. 'Eeaagh V Inside the

    lighted, inner room an obese woman winked at the short man in thick glasses

    who had been reading

from a tyWA script and walked away from the microphone, chewing her gum

rapidly.

    The deep voice continued. Tonight wefind Jonathan Tyne coming to the aid of

    the terror-stricken Lady Ashcroft, whose husband disappeared into the misty

    Scottish moors at precisely midnight three weeks ago. And each night at

    precisely midnight, the howls of unknown dogs bay across the darkened

    fields. They seem to be challenging the very man who now walks stealthily

    into the enveloping mist. Jonathan Tyne. The seeker of evil; the nemesis of

    Lucifer. The champion of the helpless victims of darkness....

    The organ music swelled once more to a crescendo; the sound of the baying

    dogs grew more vicious.

    The older officer, a colonel, glanced at his companion, a first lieutenant.

    The younger man, his eyes betraying his concern, was staring at the group

    of nonchalant actors inside the lighted studio.

The colonel winced.

'Interesting, isn't it?' he said.

'What?'... Oh,yes, sir. Yes, sir; very interesting. Whichoneishe?'

    'The tall fellow over in the comer. The one reading a newspaper.'

'Does he play Tyne?'

    'Who? Oh, no, lieutenant. He has a small role, I think. In a Spanish

    dialect.'

    'A small role ... in a Spanish dialect.' The lieutenant repeated the

    colonel's words, his voice hesitant, his look bewildered. 'Forgive me, sir,

    I'm confused. I'm not sure what we're doing here; what he's doing here. I

    thought he was a construction engineer.'

'He is.'

    The organ music subsided to pianissimo; the sound of the howling dogs faded

    away. Now another voice - this one lighter, friendlier, with no

    undercurrent of impending drama - came out of the two webbed boxes.

    Pilgrim. The soap with the scent offlowers in May; the Mayflower soap.

    Pilgrim brings you once again 'The Adventures of Jonathan Tyne.'

    The thick corked door of the dark cubicle opened and a balding man, erect,

    dressed in a conservative business suit, entered. He carried a manila

    envelope in his left hand; he reached over and extended his right hand to

    the colonel. He spoke quietly,

12

but not in a whisper. 'Hello, Ed. Nice to see you again. I don't have to

tell you your call was a surprise.'

    'I guess it was. How are you, Jack? ... Lieutenant, meet Mr. John Ryan;

    formerly Major John N. M. 1. Ryan of Six Corps.'

The officer rose to his feet.

    'Sit down, lieutenant,' said Ryan, shaking the young man's hand.

'Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you, sir.'

    Ryan edged his way around the rows of black leather armchairs and sat down

    next to the colonel in front of the glass partition. The organ music once

    more swelled, matching the reintroduced sounds of the howling dogs. Several

    actors and actresses crowded around two microphones, all watching a man

    behind a panel in another glass booth - this one lighted - on the other

    side of the studio.

'How's JaneTasked Ryan.,'And the childrenT

    'She hates Washington; so does the boy. They'd rather be back in Oahu.

    Cynthia loves it, though. She's eighteen, now; all those D.C. dances.'

    A hand signal was given by the man in the lighted booth across the way. The

    actors began their dialogue.

    Ryan continued. 'How about you? "Washington" looks good on the roster

    sheet.'

    'I suppose it does, but nobody knows I'm there. That won't help me.'

'OhT

'G-2.'

'Yes, I gathered that.'

'You look as though you're thriving, Jack.'

    Ryan smiled a little awkwardly. 'No sweat. Ten other guys in the agency

    could do what I'm doing ... better. But they don't have the Point on their

    r6sum6s. I'm an agency symbol, strongintegrity version. The clients sort of

    fall in for muster.'

    The colonel laughed. 'Horseshit. You were always good with the beady-bags.

    Even the high brass used to turn the congressmen over to you.'

'You flatter me. At least I think you're flattering me.'

    'Eeaagh!' The obese actress, still chewing her gum, had screeched into the

    second microphone. She backed away, goosing a thin, effeminate-looking

    actor who was about to speak.

'There's a lot of screaming, isn't there.' The colonel wasn't

    13

really asking a question.

    'And dogs barkinj and off-key organ music and a hell of a lot of groaning

    and heavy breathing. "Tyne's" the most popular program we have.'

    'I admit I've listened to it. The whole family has; since we've been back.'

    'You wouldn't believe it if I told you who writes most of the scripts!

'What do you meanT

'A Pulitzer poet. Under another name, of course!

'That seems strange!

'Not at all. Survival. We pay. Poetry doesn't.'

    'Is that why he's onr The colonel gestured with a nod of his head toward

    the tall, dark-haired man who had put down the newspaper but still remained

    in the comer of the studio, away from the other actors, leaning against the

    white corked wall.

    'Beats the hell out of me. I mean, I didn't know who he was - that is, I

    knew who he was, but I didn't know anything about him - until you called!

    Ryan handed the colonel the manila envelope. 'Here's a list of the shows

    and the agencies he's worked for. I called around; implied that we were

    considering him for a running lead. The Hammerts use him a lot. . . .

'The whoT

    'They're packagers. They've got about fifteen programs; daytime serials and

    evening shows. They say he's reliable; no sauce problems. He's used

    exclusively for dialects, it seems. And language fluency when it's called

    for.'

'German and Spanish.' It was a statement.

'That's right .... I

'Only,it's not Spanish, ies Portuguese!

    'Who can tell the difference? You know who his parents are.' Another

    statement, only agreement anticipated.

    'Richard and Margo Spaulding. Concert pianists, very big in England and the

    Continent. Current status: semi-retirement in Costa del Santiago, Portugal!

'They're American, though, aren't theyT

    'Very. Made sure their son was born here. Sent him to American settlement

    schools wherever they lived. Shipped him back here for his final two years

    in prep school and college.'

'How come Portugal, thenT

'Who knows? They had their first successes in Europe and

14

decided to stay there. A fact I think we're going to be grateful for. They

only return here for tours; which aren't very frequent anymore.... Did you

know that he's a construction engineer?'

'No, I didn't. That's interesting.'

'Interesting? Just "interesting"?'

    Ryan smiled; there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. 'Wen, during the

    last six years or so there hasn't been a lot of building, has there? I

    mean, there's no great call for engineers ... outside of the CCC and the

    NRA.' He lifted his right hand and waved it laterally in front of him,

    encompassing the group of men and women inside the studio. 'Do you know

    what's in there? A trial lawyer whose clients - when he can get a few -

    can't pay him; a Rolls-Royce executive who's been laid off since

    thirty-eight; and a former state senator whose campaign a few years ago not

    only cost him his job but also a lot of potential employers. They think

    he's a Red. Don't fool yourself, Ed. You've got it good. The Depression

    isn't over by a long shot. These people are the lucky ones. They found

    avocations they've turned into careers.... As long as they last.'

. 'If I do my job, his career won't last any longer than a month from now.'

    'I figured it was something like that. The storm's building, isn't it?

    We'll be in it pretty soon. And I'll be back, too .....

Where do you want to use him?'

Usbon.'

    David Spaulding pushed himself away from the white studio wall. He held up

    the pages of his script as he approached the microphone, preparing for his

    cue.

    Pace watched him through the glass partition, wondering how Spaulding's

    voice would sound. He noticed that as Spaulding came closer to the group of

    actors clustered around the microphone, there was a conscious - or it

    seemed conscious - parting of bodies, as if the new participant was in some

    way a stranger. Perhaps it was only normal courtesy, allowing the new per-

    former a chance to position himself, but the colonel didn't think so. There

    were no smiles, no looks, no indications of familiarity as there seemed to

    be among the others.

    No one winked. Even the obese woman who screamed and chewed gum and goosed

    her fellow actors just stood and watched Spaulding, her gum immobile in her

    mouth.

    .15

And then it happened-, a curious moment.

    Spaulding grinned, and the others, even the thin, effeminate man who was in

    the middle of a monologue, responded with bright smiles and nods. The obese

    woman winked.

A curious moment, thought Colonel Pace.

    Spaulding's voice - mid-deep, incisive, heavily accented -came through the

    webbed boxes. His role was that of a mad doctor and bordered on the comic.

    It would have been comic, thought Pace, except for the authority Spaulding

    gave the writer's words. Pace didn't know anything about acting, but he

    knew when a man was being convincing, Spaulding was convincing.

That would be necessary in Lisbon.

    In a few minutes Spaulding's role was obviously over. The obese woman

    screamed again; Spaulding retreated to the comer and quietly, making sure

    the pages did not rustle, picked up his folded newspaper. He leaned against

    the wall and withdrew a pencil from his pocket. He appeared to be doing The

    New York Times crossword puzzle.

    Pace couldn't take his eyes off Spaulding. It was important for him to

    observe closely any subject with whom he had to make contact whenever

    possible. Observe the small things: the way a man walked; the way he held

    his head; the steadiness or lack of it in his eyes. The clothes, the watch,

    the cuff links; whether the shoes were shined, if the heels were worn down;

    the quality -or lack of quality - in a man's posture.

    Pace tried to match the human being leaning against the wall, writing on

    the newspaper, with the dossier in his Washington office.

    His name first surfaced from the files of the Army Corps of Engineers.

    David Spaulding had inquired about the possibilities of a commission - not

    volunteered: what would his opportunities be? were , there any challenging

    construction projects? what about the length-of-service commitments? The

    sort of questions thousands of men - skilled men - were asking, knowing

    that the Selective Service Act would become law within a week or two. If

    enlistment meant a shorter commitment and/or the continued practice of

    their professional skills, then better an enlistment than be drafted with

    the mobs.

    Spaulding had filled out all the appropriate forms and had been told the

    army would contact him. That had been six weeks

16

ago and no one had done so. Not that the Corps wasn't interested; it was.

The word from the Roosevelt men was that the draft law would be passed by

Congress any day now, and the projected expansion of the army camps was so

enormous, so incredibly massive, that an engineer - especially a

construction engineer of Spaulding's qualifications - was target material.

. But those high up in the Corps of Engineers were aware of the search being

conducted by the Intelligence Division of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the

War Department.

Quietly, slowly. No mistakes could be made.

    So they passed along David Spaulding's forms to G-2 and were told in turn

    to stay away from him.

    The man ID was seeking had to have three basic qualifications. Once these

    were established, the rest of the portrait could be microscopically

    scrutinized to see if the whole being possessed the other desirable

    requirements. The three basics were difficult enough in themselves: the

    first was fluency in the Portuguese language; the second, an equal mastery

    of German; the third, sufficient professional experience in structural

    engineering to enable swift and accurate understanding of blueprints,

    photographs - even verbal descriptions - of the widest variety of in-

    dustrial designs. From bridges and factories to warehousing and railroad

    complexes.

    The man in Lisbon would need each of these basic requirements. He would

    employ them throughout the war that was to be; the war that the United

    States inevitably would have to fight.

    The man in Lisbon would be responsible for developing an Intelligence

    network primarily concerned with the destruction of the enemy's

    installations deep within its own territories.

    Certain men - and women - traveled back and forth through hostile

    territories, basing their undefined activities in neutral countries. These

    were the people the man in Lisbon would use ... before others used them.

    These plus those he would train for infiltration. Espionage units. Teams of

    bi- and trilingual agents he would send up through France into the borders

    of Germany. To bring back their observations; eventually to inflict

    destruction themselves.

    The English agreed that such an American was needed in Lisbon. British

    Intelligence admitted its Portuguese weakness-, they had simply been around

    too long, too obviously. And there were current, very serious lapses of

    security in London. MI-5 had

    17

been infiltrated.

Lisbon would become an American project.

If such an American could be found.

    David Spaulding's preapplication forms listed the primary requisites. He

    spoke three languages, had spoken them since he was a child. His parents,

    the renowned Richard and Margo Spaulding, maintained three residences: a

    small, elegant Belgravia flat in London; a winter retreat in Germany's

    BadenBaden; and a sprawling oceanside house in the artists' colony of Costa

    del Santiago in Portugal. Spaulding had grown up in these environs. When he

    was sixteen, his father - over the objections of his mother - insisted that

    he complete his secondary education in the United States and enter an

    American university.

    Andover in Massachusetts; Dartmouth in New Hampshire; finally Carnegie

    Institute in Pennsylvania.

    Of course, the Intelligence Division hadn't discovered all of the above

    information from Spaulding's application forms. These supplementary facts.-

    and a great deal more - were revealed by a man named Aaron Mandel in New

    York.

    Pace, his eyes still riveted on the tall, lean man who had put down his

    newspaper and was now watching the actors around the microphones with

    detached amusement, recalled his single meeting with Mandel. Again, he

    matched Mandel's information with the man he saw before him.

    Mandel had been listed on the application under 'References.'

    Power-of-attorney, parents' concert manager. An address was given: a suite

    of rooms in the Chrysler Building. Mandel was a very successful artists'

    representative, a Russian Jew who rivaled Sol Hurok for clients, though not

    as prone to attract attention or as desirous of it.

    'David has been as a son to me,' Mandel told Pace. 'But I must presume you

    know that.'

    'Why must you? I know only what I've read on his application forms. And

    some scattered information; academic records, employment references.' -

'Let's say I've been expecting you. Or someone like you.'

'I beg your pardonT

    'Oh, come. David spent a great many years in Germany; you might say he

    almost grew up there.'

    'His application'. . . as a matter of fact his passport information, also

    includes family residences in London and a place called

18

Costa del Santiago in Portugal!

'I said almost. He converses easily in the German language!

'Also Portuguese, I understand.'

    'Equally so. And its sister tongue, Spanish.... I wasn't aware that a man's

    enlistment in the army engineers called for a full colonel's interest. And

    passport research! Mandel, the flesh creased around his eyes, smiled.

    'I wasn't prepared for you.' The colonel's reply had been stated simply.

    'Most people take this sort of thing as routine. Or they convince

    themselves it's routine ... with a little help.'

    'Most people did not live as Jews in tsarist Kiev.... What do you want from

    me?'

    'To begin with, did you tell Spaulding you expected us? Or someone. . . .'

    'Of course not,' Mandel interrupted gently. 'I told you, he is as a son to

    me. I wouldn't care to give him such ideas.'

'I'm relieved. Nothing may come of it anyway.'

'However, you hope it will.'

    'Frankly, yes. But there are questions we need answered. His background

    isn't just unusual, it seems filled with contradictions. To begin with, you

    don't expect the son of well-known musicians ... Imean...'

'Concert artists! Mandel had supplied the term Pace sought.

    'Yes, concert artists. You don't expect the children of such people to

    become engineers. Or accountants, if you know what I mean. And then - and

    I'm sure you'll understand this - it seems highly illogical that once that

    fact is accepted, the son is an engineer, we find that the major portion of

    his income is currently earned as a ... as a radio performer. The pattern.

    indicates a degree of instability. Perhaps more than a degree.'

    'You suffer from the American mania for consistency. I don't say this

    unkindly. I would be less than adequate as a neurosurgeon; you may play the

    piano quite well, but I doubt that I'd represent you at Covent Garden....

    The questions you raise are easily answered. And, perhaps, the word

    stability can be found at the core.... Have you any idea, any conception,

    of what the world of the concert stage is like? Madness .... David lived in

    this world for nearly twenty years; I suspect . . . no, I don't suspect, I

    know ... he found it quite distasteful ... And so often people overlook

    certain fundamental characteristics of musicianship. Characteristics easily

    inherited. A great musician is often,

    19

in his own way, an exceptional mathematician. Take Bach. A genius at

mathematics. . . .'

    According to Aaron Mandel, David Spaulding found his future profession

    while in his second year in,college. The solidity, the permanence of

    structural creation combined with the precision of engineering detail were

    at once his answer to and escape from the mercurial world of the 'concert

    stage.' But there were other inherited characteristics equally at work

    inside him. Spaulding had an ego, a sense of independence. He needed

    approval, wanted recognition. And such rewards were not easily come by for

    a junior engineer, just out of graduate school, in a large New York firm

    during the late thirties. There simply wasn't that much'to do; or the

    capital to do it with.

    'He left the New York firm,' Mandel continued, 'to accept a number of

    individual construction projects where he believed the money would grow

    faster, the jobs be his own. He had no ties; he could travel. Several in

    the Midwest, one ... no, two, in Central America; four in Canada, I think.

    He got the first few right out of the newspapers; they led to the others.

    He returned to New York about eighteen months ago. The money didn't really

    grow, as I told him it wouldn't. The projects were not his own; provincial

    ... local interference.'

'And somehow this led to the radio work?'

    Mandel had laughed and leaned back in his chair. 'As you may know, Colonel

    Pace, I've diversified. The concert stage and a European war - soon to

    reach these shores, as we all realize - do not go well together. These last

    few years my clients have gone into other performing areas, including the

    highly paid radio field. David quickly saw opportunities for himself and I

    agreed. He's done-extremely well, you know.'

'But he's not at rained professional.'

    'No, he's not. He has something else, however... Think. Most children of

    well-known performers, or leading politicians, or the immensely rich, for

    that matter, have it. It's a public confidence, an assurance, if you will;

    no matter their private hisecurities. After all, they've generally been on

    display since the time they could walk and talk. David certainly has it.

    And he has a good ear; as do both of his parents, obviously. An aural

    memory for musical or linguistic rhythms.... He doesn't act, he reads.

    Almost exclusively in the dialects or the foreign languages he knows

    fluently.

20

    David Spaulding's excursion into the 'highly paid radio field' was solely

    motivated by money; he was used to living well. At a time when owners of

    engineering companies found it difficult to guarantee themselves a hundred

    dollars a week, Spaulding was earning three or four hundred from his 'radio

    work' alone.

    'As you may have surmised,' said Mandel, 'David's immediate objective is to

    bank sufficient monies to start his own company. Immediate, that is, unless

    otherwise shaped by world or national conditions. He's not blind; anyone

    who can read a newspaper sees that we are being drawn into the war.'

'Do you think we should beT

'I'm a Jew. As far as I'm concerned, we're late.'

    'This Spaulding. You've described what seems to me a very resourceful man.'

    'I've described only what you could have found out from any number of

    sources. And you have described the conclusion you have drawn from that

    surface information. It's not the whole picture.' At this point, Pace

    recalled, Mandel had gotten out of his chair, avoiding any eye contact, and

    walked about his office. He was searching for negatives; he was trying to

    find the words that would disqualify 'his son' from the government's

    interests. And Pace had been aware of it. 'What certainly must have struck

    you - from what I've told you - is David's preoccupation with himself, with

    his comforts, if you wish. Now, in a business sense this might be

    applauded; therefore, I disabused you of your concerns for stability.

    However, I would not be candid if I didn't tell you that David is

    abnormally headstrong. He operates - I think - quite poorly under

    authority. In a word, he's a selfish man, not given to discipline. It pains

    me to say this; I love him dearly. . .

    And the more Mandel had talked, the more indelibly did Pace imprint the

    word affirmative on Spaulding's file. Not that he believed for a minute the

    extremes of behavior Mandel suddenly ascribed to David Spaulding - no man

    could function as 'stably' as Spaulding had if it were true. But if it were

    only half true, it was no detriment; it was an asset.

The last of the requirements.

    For if there were any soldier in the United States Army - in or out of

    uniform - who would be called upon to operate solely on his own, without

    the comfort of the chain of command, without the knowledge that difficult

    decisions could be made by his

    21

superiors, it was the Intelligence officer in Portugal.

The man in Lisbon.

    OCTOBER 8,1939

    FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

There were no names.

Only numbers and letters.

Numbers followed by letters.

Two-Six-B. Tbree-Five-Y. Five-One-C.

There were no personal histories, no individual backgrounds

    . no references to wives, children, fathers, mothers ... no countries;

    cities, hometowns, schools, universities; there were only bodies and minds

    and separate, specific, reacting intelligences.

    The lQcation was deep in the Virginia hunt country, 220 acres of fields and

    hills and mountain streams. There were sections of dense forest bordering

    stretches of fiat grasslands. Swamps - dangerous with body-sucking earth

    and hostile inhabitants, reptile and insect - were but feet from sudden

    masses of Virginia boulders fronting abrupt inclines.

    The area had been selected with care, with precision. It was bordered by a

    fifteen-foot-high hurricane fence through which a paralyzing - not lethal

    - electrical current flowed continuously; and every twelve feet there was

    a forbidding sign that warned observers that this particular section of the

    land . . . forest, swamp, grassland and hill ... was the exclusive property

    of the United States government. Trespassers were duly informed that entry

    was not only prohibited, it was exceedingly dangerous. Titles and sections

    of the specific laws pertaining to the exclusivity were spelled out along

    with the voltage in the fence.

    The terrain was as diverse as could be found within a reasonable distance

    from Washington. In one way or another - one place or another - it

    conformed remarkably to the topography of the locations projected for those

    training inside the enormous compound.

The num followed by the letters.

22

No names.

    There was a single gate at the center of the north perimeter, reached by a

    back country road. Over the gate, between the opposing guard houses, was a

    metal sign. In block letters it read: FELD DrVISION HEADQUARTERS - FAIRFAX.

No other description was given, no purpose identified.

    On the front of each guard house were identical signs, duplicates of the

    warnings placed every twelve feet in the fence, proclaiming the

    exclusivity, the laws and the voltage.

No room for error.

    David Spaulding was assigned an identity - his Fairfax identity. He was

    Two-Five-L.

No name. Only a number followed by a letter.

7Wo - Five - L.

    Translation: his training was to be completed by the fifth day of the

    second month. His destination: Lisbon.

    It was incredible. In the space of four months a new way of life - of

    living - was to be absorbed with such totality that it strained acceptance.

'You probably won't make it,' said Colonel Edmund Pace.

'I'm not sure I want to,' had been Spaulding's reply.

    But part of the training was motivation. Deep, solid, ingrained beyond

    doubt ... but not beyond the psychological reality as perceived by the

    candidate.

    With Two-Five-L, the United States government did not wave flags and roar

    espousiMs of patriotic causes. Such methods would not be meaningful; the

    candidate had spent his formative years outside the country in a

    sophisticated, international environment. He spoke the language of the

    enemy-to-be; he knew them as people - taxi drivers, grocers, bankers,

    lawyers - and the vast majority of those he knew were not the Germans

    fictionalized by the propaganda machines. Instead - and this was Fairfax's

    legitimate hook - they were goddamned fools being led by psychopathic

    criminals. The leaders were, indeed, fanatics, and the overwhelming

    evidence clearly established their crimes beyond doubt. Those crimes

    included wanton, indiscriminate murder, torture and genocide.

Beyond doubt.

Criminals.

Psychopaths.

    23

Too, there was Adolf Hitler.

    Adolf Hitler killed Jews. By the thousands - soon to be millions if his

    final solutions were read accurately.

    Aaron Mandel was a Jew. His other 'father' was a Jew; the 'father' he loved

    more than the parent. And the goddamned fools tolerated an exclamation

    point after the word Juden!

    David Spaulding could bring himself to hate the goddarnned fools - the taxi

    drivers, the grocers, the bankers, the lawyers -without much compunction

    under the circumstances.

    Beyond this very rational approach, Fairfax utilized a secondary

    psychological 'weapon' that was standard in the compound; for some more

    than others, but it was never absent.

    The trainees at Fairfax had a common gift - or flaw - depending on one's

    approach. None was accepted without it.

A highly developed sense of competition; a thrust to win.

    There was no question about it; arrogance was not a despised commodity at

    Fairfax.

I With David Spaulding's psychological profile - a dossier increasingly

accepted by the Intelligence Division - the Fairfax commanders recognized

that the candidate-in-training for Lisbon had a soft core which the field

might harden - undoubtedly would harden if he lived that long - but whatever

advances could be made in the compound, so much the better. Especially for

the subject.

    Spaulding was confident, independent, extremely versatile in his

    surroundings ... all to the very good; but Two-Five-L had a weakness. There

    was within his psyche a slowness to take immediate advantage, a hesitancy

    to spring to the kill when the odds were his. Both verbally and physically.

    Colonel Edmund Pace saw this inadequacy by the third week of training.

    Two-Five-L's abstract code of fairness would never do in Lisbon. And

    Colonel Pace knew the answer.

    The mental adjustment would be made through the physical processes.

    'Seizures, Holds and Releases' was the insipid tide of the course. It

    disguised the most arduous physical training at Fairfax: hand-to-hand

    combat. Knife, chain, wire, needle, rope, fingers, knees, elbows ... never

    a gun.

Reaction, reaction, reaction.

Except when one initiated the assault.

24

    Two-Five-L had progressed nicely. He was a large man but possessed the

    quick coordination usually associated with a more compact person. Therefore

    his progress had to be stymied; the man himself humiliated. He would learn

    the practical advantages of the odds.

From smaller, more arrogant men.

    Colonel Edmund Pace 'borrowed' from the British commando units the best

    they had in uniform. They were flown over by the Bomber Ferry Command;

    three bewildered 'specialists' who were subtly introduced to the Fairfax

    compound and given their instructions.

'Kick the shit out of Two-Five-L.'

They did. For many weeks of sessions.

And then they could not do so with impunity any longer.

    David Spaulding would not accept the humiliation; he was becon-dng as good

    as the 'specialists.'

The man for Lisbon was progressing.

    Colonel Edmund Pace received the reports in his War Department office.

Everything was on schedule.

    The weeks became months. Every known portable offensive and defensive

    weapon, every sabotage device, every conceivable method of ingress and

    egress - apparent and covert - was exhaustively studied by the Fairfax

    trainees. Codes and variations became fluent languages; instant

    fabrications second nature. And Two-Five-L continued to advance. Whenever

    there appeared a slackening, harsher instructions were given to the

    'specialists' in 'Seizures, Holds and Releases! The psychological key was

    in the observable, physical humiliation.

Until it was no longer viable. The commandos were bested.

Everything on schedule.

'You may make it after all,' said the colonel.

    'I'm not sure what I've made,' replied David in his first lieutenant's

    uniform, over a drink in the Mayflower Cocktail Lounge. And then he laughed

    quietly. 'I suppose if they gave degrees in Advanced Criminal Activities,

    I'd probably qualify!

    Two-Five-L's training would be completed in ten days. His twenty-four-hour

    pass was an irregularity, but Pace had demanded it. He had to talk with

    Spaulding.

'Does it bother youT asked Pace.

    25

    Spaulding looked across the small table at the colonel. 'If I had time to

    think about it, I'm sure it would. Doesn't it bother you?' 'No ...

    Because I understand the reasons.' 'O.K. Then so do V 'They'll become

    clearer in the field.' 'Sure,' agreed David tersely. Pace watched

    Spaulding closely. As was to be expected, the young man had changed. Gone

    was the slightly soft, slightly pampered grace of inflection and gesture.

    These had been replaced by a tautness, a conciseness of movement and

    speech. The transformation was not complete, but it was well in progress.

    The patina of the professional was beginning to show through. Lisbon

    would harden it further.

4"k

    Lre you impressed by the fact that Fairfax skips you a rank? It took me

    eighteen months to get that silver bar.'

    'Again, time. I haven't had time to react. I haven't worn a uniform before

    today; I think it's uncomfortable! Spaulding flicked his hand over his

    tunic.

'Good. Don't get used to it.'

:That's a strange thing to say . .

How do you feeff said Pace, interrupting.

    David looked at the colonel. For a moment or two, the grace, the softness

    - even the wry humor - returned. 'I'm not sure. ... As though I'd been

    manufactured on a very fast assembly line. A sort of high-speed treadmill,

    if you know what I mean.'

    ,in some ways that's an accurate description. Except that you brought a lot

    to the factory!

    Spaulding revolved his glass slowly. He stared at the floating cubes, then

    up at Pace. 'I wish I could accept that as a compliment,' he said softly.

    'I don't think I can. I know the people l9ve been training with. They're

    quite a collection!

'They're highly motivated!

    'The Europeans are as crazy as those they want to fight. They've got their

    reasons; I can't question them. . . .'

    'Well,' interrupted the colonel, 'we don't have that many Americans. Not

    yet.'

'Those you do are two steps from a penitentiary!

'They're not army.'

    'I didn't know that,' said Spaulding quickly, adding the obvious with a

    srm*le. 'Naturally.'

Pace was annoyed with himself. The indiscretion was minor

26

but still an indiscretion. 'It's not important. In ten days you'll be

finished in Virginia. The uniform comes off then. To tell you the truth, it

was a mistake to issue you one in the first place. We're still new at this

kind of thing; rules of requisition and supply are hard to change.' Pace

drank and avoided Spaulding's eyes.

    'I thought I was supposed to be a military attach6 at the embassy. One of

    several.'

    'For the record, yes. They'll build a file on you. But there's a

    difference; it's part of the cover. You're not partial to uniforms. We

    don't think you should wear one. Ever.' Pace put down his glass and looked

    at David. 'You hustled yourself a very safe, very comfortable job because

    of the languages, your residences and your family connections. In a

    nutshell, you ran as fast as you could when you thought there was a chance

    your pretty neck might be in the real army.'

    Spaulding thought for a moment. 'That sounds logical. Why does it bother

    youT

    'Because only one man at the embassy will know the truth. He'll identify

    himself... After a while others may suspect -after a long while. But they

    won't know. Not the ambassador, not the staff... What I'm trying to tell

    you is, you won't be very popular.'

    David laughed quietly. 'I trust you'll rotate me before I'm lynched.'

    Pace's reply was swift and quiet, almost curt. 'Others will be rotated. Not

    you.'

    Spaulding was silent as he responded to the colonel's look. 'I don't

    understand.'

    'I'm not sure I can be clear about it.' Pace put down his drink on the

    small cocktail table. 'You'll have to start slowly, with extreme caution.

    British MI-5 has given us a few names - not many but something to start

    with. You'll have to build up your own network, however. People who will

    maintain contact only with you, no one else. This will entail a great deal

    of traveling. We think you'll gravitate to the north country, across the

    borders into Spain. Basque country ... by and large anti-Falangist. We

    think those areas south of the Pyrenees will become the data and escape

    routes. . . . We're not kidding ourselves: the Maginot won't hold. France

    will fall. . . . '

    'Jesus,' interrupted David softly. 'You've done a lot of projecting.'

    27

'That's almost all we do. It's the reason for Fairfax.'

    Spaulding leaned back in the chair, once more revolving his glass. 'I

    understand about the network; in one form or another it's what the

    compound's training all of us for. This is the first I've heard about the

    north of Spain, the Basque areas. I know that country.'

    'We could be wrong. It's only a theory. You might find the water routes .

    . . Mediterranean, Milaga, or Biscay, or the Portuguese coast ... more

    feasible. That's you for to decide. And develop.'

    'All right. I understand. . . . What's that got to do with rotation?'

    Pace smiled. 'You haven't reached your post. Are you angling for a leave

    already?'

'You brought it up. Sort of abruptly, I think.'

    'Yes, I did.' The colonel shifted his position in the small chair.

    Spaulding was very quick; he locked in on words and used brief time spans

    to maximize their effectiveness. He would be good in interrogations. Quick,

    harsh inquiries. In the field. 'We've decided that you're to remain in

    Portugal for the duration. Whatever normal and "abnormal" leaves you take

    should be spent in the south. There's a string of colonies along the coast.

    Costa del Santiago among them,' interjected Spaulding under his breath.

    'Retreats for the international rich.'

    'That's right. Develop covers down there. Be seen with your parents. Become

    a fixture.' Pace smiled again; the smile was hesitant. 'I could think of

    worse duty.'

    'You don't know those colonies.... If I read you - as we say in Fairfax -

    Candidate Two-Five-L had better take a good, hard look at the streets of

    Washington and New York because he's not going to see them again for a very

    long time.'

    'We can't risk bringing you back once you've developed a network, assuming

    you do develop one. If, for whatever reason, you flew out of Lisbon to

    Allied territory, there'd be an enemy scramble to microscopically trace

    every movement you made for months. It would jeopardize everything. You're

    safest - our interests are safest - if you remain permanent. The British

    taught us this. Some of their operatives have been local fixtures for

    years.'

'That's not very comforting.'

'You're not in MI-5. Your tour is for the duration. The war

28

won't last forever.'

    It was Spaulding's turn to smile; the smile of a man caught in a matrix

    he had not defined. 'There's something insane about

    that statement The war won't last forever

    6Why?'

'We're not in it yet.'

'You are,' Pace said.

29

    Two

SEPTEMBER 8,1943

PEENEMUNDE, GERMANY

    The man in the pinstriped suit, styled by tailors in Alte Strasse, stared

    in disbelief at the three men across the table. He would have objected

    strenuously had the three laboratory experts not wom the square, red, metal

    insignias on the lapels of their starched white laboratory jackets, badges

    that said these three scientists were permitted to walk through passageways

    forbidden to all but the elite of PeenemUnde. He, too, had such a badge

    attached to his pinstriped lapel; it was a temporary clearance he was not

    sure he wanted.

Certainly he did not want it now.

    'I can't accept your evaluation,' he said quietly. 'It's preposterous.'

    'Come with us,' replied the scientist in the center, nodding to his

    companion on the right.

'There's no point procrastinating,' added the third man.

    The four men got out of their chairs and approached the steel door that was

    the single entrance to the room. Each man in succession unclipped his red

    badge and pressed it against a grey plate in the wall. At the instant of

    contact, a small white bulb was lighted, remained so for two seconds and

    then went off,~ a photograph had been taken. The last man - one of the

    Peenemiinde personnel - then opened the door and each went into the hall-

    way.

    Had only three men gone out, or five, or any number not corresponding to

    the photographs, alarms would have been triggered.

    They walked in silence down the long, starched-white corridor, the Berliner

    in front with the scientist who sat between the other two at the table, and

    was obviously the spokesman; his companions were behind.

    They reached a bank of elevators and once more went through the ritual of

    the red tags, the grey plate and the tiny white light

30

that went on for precisely two seconds. Below the plate a number was also

lighted.

Six.

    From elevator number six there was the sound of a single muted bell as the

    thick steel panel slid open. One by one each man walked inside.

    The elevator descended eight stories, four below the surface of the earth,

    to the deepest levels of Peenemiinde. As the four men emerged into yet

    another white corridor, they were met by a tall man in tight-fitting green

    coveralls, an outsized holster in his wide brown belt. The holster held a

    Uger Sternlicht, a specially designed arm pistol with a telescopic sight.

    As the man's visor cap indicated, such weapons were made for the Gestapo.

    The Gestapo officer obviously recognized the three scientists. He smiled

    perfunctorily and turned his attention to the man in the pinstriped suit.

    He held out his hand, motioning the Berliner to remove the red badge.

    The Berliner did so. The Gestapo man took it, walked over to a telephone on

    the corridor wall and pushed a combination of buttons. He spoke the

    Berliner's name and waited, perhaps ten seconds.

    He replaced the phone and crossed back to the man in the pinstriped suit.

    Gone was the arrogance he had displayed moments ago.

    'I apologize for the delay, Herr Strasser. I should have realized. . . .'

    He gave the Berliner his badge.

    'No need for apologies, Herr Oberleutnant. They would be necessary only if

    you overlooked your duties.'

    'Danke,' said the Gestapo man, gesturing the four men beyond his point of

    security.

    They proceeded towards a set of double doors; clicks could be heard as

    locks were released. Small white bulbs were lighted above the mouldings;

    again photographs were taken of those going through the double doors.

    They turned right into a bisecting corridor - this one not white, but

    instead, brownish black; so dark that Strasser's eyes took several seconds

    to adjust from the pristine brightness of the main halls to the sudden

    night quality of the passageway. Tiny ceiling lights gave what illumination

    there was.

    'You've not been here before,' said the scientist-spokesman to the

    Berliner. 'This hallway was designed by an optics engineer.

    31

it supposedly prepares the eyes for the high-intensity microscope lights.

Most of us think it was a waste.'

    There was a steel door at the end of the long-dark tunnel. Strasser reached

    for his red metal insignia automatically; the scientist shook his head and

    spoke with a slight wave of his hand.

    'Insufficient light for photographs. The guard inside has been alerted!

    The door opened and the four men entered a large laboratory. Along the

    right wall was a row of stools, each in front of a powerful microscope, all

    the microscopes equidistant from one another on top of a built-in

    workbench. Behind each microscope was a high-intensity light, projected and

    shaded on a goosenecked stem coming out of the immaculate white surface.

    The left wall was a variation of the right. There were no stools, however,

    and fewer microscopes. The work shelf was higher: it was obviously used for

    conferences, where many pairs of eyes peered through the same sets of

    lenses; stools would only interfere, men stood as they conferred over

    magnified particles.

    At the far end of the room was another door, not an entrance. A vault. A

    seven-foot-high, four-foot-wide, heavy steel vault. It was black; the two

    levers and the combination wheel were in glistening silver.

The spokesman-scientist approached it.

    'We have fifteen minutes before the timer seals the panel and the drawers.

    I've requested closure for a week. I'll need your counterauthorization, of

    course!

'And you're sure I'll give it, aren't you?'

    'I am.' The scientist spun the wheel right and left for the desired

    locations. 'The numbers change automatically every twenty-four hours,' he

    said as he held the wheel steady at its final mark and reached for the

    silver levers. He pulled the top one down to the accompaniment of a barely

    audible whirring sound, and seconds later, pulled the lower one up.

    The whirring stopped, metallic clicks could be heard and the scientist

    pulled open the thick steel door. He turned to Strasser. 'These are the

    tools for Peenernfinde. See for yourself.'

    Strasser approached the vault. Inside were five rows of removable glass

    trays, top to bottom; each row had a total of one hundred trays, five

    hundred in all.

    The trays that were empty were marked with a white strip across the facing

    glass, the word Auffiallen printed clearly.

32

    The trays that were full were so designated by strips of black across their

    fronts.

There were four and a half rows of white trays. Empty.

    Strasser looked closely, pulled open several trays, shut them and stared at

    the Peenemtlnde scientist.

'This is the sole repository?' he asked quietly.

    'It is. We have six thousand casings completed; God knows how many will go

    in experimentation. Estimate for yourself how much further we can proceed.'

    Strasser held the scientist's eyes with his own. 'Do you realize what

    you're saying?'

    'I do. We'll deliver only a fraction of the required schedules. Nowhere

    near enough. PeenemUnde is a disaster.'

    SEPTEMBER 9, 1943

    THE NORTH SEA

    The fleet of B-17 bombers had aborted the primary target of Essen due to

    cloud cover. The squadron commander, over the objections of his fellow

    pilots, ordered the secondary mission into operation: the shipyards north

    of Bremerhaven. No one Eked the Bremerhaven run; Messerschmitt and Stuka

    interceptor wings were devastating. They were called the Luftwaffe suicide

    squads, maniacal young Nazis who'might as easily collide with enemy

    aircraft as fire at them. Not necessarily due to outrageous bravery; often

    it was merely inexperience or worse: poor training.

    Bremerhaven-north was a terrible secondary. When it was a primary

    objective, the Eighth Air Force fighter escorts took the sting out of the

    run; they were not there when Bremerhaven was a secondary.

    The squadron commander, however, was a hardnose. Worse, he was West Point:

    the secondary would not only be hit, it would be hit at an altitude that

    guaranteed maximum accuracy. He did not tolerate the very vocal criticism

    of his second-in-command aboard the flanking aircraft, who made it clear

    that such an altitude was barely logical with fighter escorts; without

    them,

    33

considering the heavy ack-ack fire, it was ridiculous. The squad. ron

Commander had replied with a terse recital of the new navigational headings

and termination of radio contact.

    Once they were into the Bremerhaven corridors, the German interceptors came

    from all points; the antiaircraft guns were murderous. And the squadron

    commander took his lead plane directly down into maximum-accuracy altitude

    and was blown out of the sky.

    The second-in-command valued life and the price of aircraft more than his

    West Point superior. He ordered the squadron to scramble altitudes, telling

    his bombardiers to unload on anything below but

    for-God's-sake-release-the-goddamn-weight so all planes could reach their

    maximum heights and reduce antiaircraft and interceptor fire.

    In several instances it was too late. One bomber caught fire and went into

    a spin; only three chutes emerged from it. Two aircraft were riddled so

    badly both planes began immediate desobnts. Pilots and crew bailed out.

    Most of them.

    The remainder kept climbing; the Messersclunitts climbed with them. They

    went higher and still higher, past the safe altitude range. Oxygen masks

    were ordered; not all functioned.

    But in four minutes, what was left of the squadron was in the middle of the

    clear midnight sky, made stunningly clearer by the substratosphere absence

    of air particles. The stars were extraordinary in their flickering

    brightness, the moon more a bombers' moon than ever before.

Escape was in these regions.

    'Chart man!' said the exhausted, relieved second-in-command into his radio,

    'give us headings! Back to Lakenheath, if you'd be so kind.'

    The reply on the radio soured the moment of relief. It came from an aerial

    gunner aft of navigation. 'He's dead, colonel. Nelson's dead. ,

    There was no time in the air for comment, 'Take it, aircraft three. It's

    your chart.' said the colonel in aircraft two.

    The headings were given. The formation grouped and, as it descended into

    safe altitude with cloud cover above, sped toward the North Sea.

    The rrdnutes reached five, then seven, then twelve. Finally twenty. There

    was relatively little cloud cover below; the coast of England should have

    come into sighting range at least two

34

minutes ago. A number of pilots were concerned. Several said so. 'Did you give

accurate headings, aircraft threeT asked the now squadron commander.

'Affirmative, colonel,' was the radioed answer.

'Any of you chart men disagree?'

A variety of negatives was heard from the remaining aircraft.

    'No sweat on the headings, colonel,' came the voice of the captain of

    aircraft five. 'I fault your execution, though.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

    'You pointed two-three-niner by my reading. I figured my equipment was shot

    up. . . .'

    Suddenly there were interruptions from every pilot in the decimated

    squadron.

'I read one-seven. . .

    'My heading was a goddamned two-niner-two. We took a direct hit on.'. . .'

'Jesusl I had sixer-four. . .

    'Most of our middle took a load. I discounted my reading& totally V

And then there was silence. All understood.

Or understood what they could not comprehend.

    'Stay off all frequencies,' said the squadron commander, TI1 try to reach

    base.'

    The cloud cover above broke; not for long, but long enough. The voice over

    the radio was the captain of aircraft three.

    'A quick judgment, colonel, says we're heading due northwest.'

Silence again.

    After a few moments, the commander spoke. TH reach somebody. Do all your

    gauges read as mine? Fuel for roughly ten to fifteen minutes?'

    'It's been a long haul, colonel,' said aircraft seven. 'No more than that,

    it's for sure.'

    'I figured we'd be circling, if we had to, five minutes ago,' said aircraft

    eight.

'We're not,' said aircraft four.

    The colonel in aircraft two raised Lakenheath on an emergency frequency.

    'As near as we can determine,' came the strained, agitated, yet controlled

    English voice, 'and by that I mean open lines throughout the coastal

    defense areas - water and land - you're approach-

    35

ing the Dunbar sector. That's the Scottish border, colonel. What in blazes

are you doing there?'

'For Christ's sake, I don't know! Are there any fields?'

    'Not for your aircraft. Certainly not a formation; perhaps, one or two. .

    . .'

    'I don't want to hear that, you son of a bitch! Give me emergency

    instructions!'

'We're really quite unprepared. . .

    'Do you read me?l I have what's left of a very chopped-up squadron! We have

    less than six minutes' fuel! Now you give I'

    The silence lasted precisely four seconds. Lakenheath conferred swiftly.

    With finality.

    'We believe you'll sight the coast, probably Scotland. Put your aircraft

    down at sea.... We'll do our best, lads.'

    'We're eleven bombers, Lakenheathl We're not a bunch of ducks!'

    'There isn't time, squadron Leader. . . . The logistics are insurmountable.

    After all, we didn't guide you there. Put down at sea. We'll do our best

    ... Godspeed.'

36

    Part One

    SEPTEMBER 10, 1943

    BERLIN, GERMANY

Reichsminister of Armaments Albert Speer raced up the steps of the Air

Ministry on the Tiergarten. He did not feel the harsh, diagonal sheets of

rain that plummeted down from the grey sky; he did not notice that his

raincoat - unbuttoned - had fallen away, exposing his tunic and shirt to the

inundation of the September storm. The pitch of his fury swept everything

but the immediate crisis out of his mind.

Insanityl Sheer, unmitigated, unforgivable insanityl

    The industrial reserves of all Germany were about exhausted; but he could

    handle that immense problem. Handle it by properly utilizing the

    manufacturing potential of the occupied countries; reverse the unmanageable

    practices of importing the labor forces. Labor forces? Slaves!

Productivity disastrous; sabotage continuous, unending.

What did they expect?

    it was a time for sacrifice I Hitler could not continue to be all things to

    all people! He could not provide outsized Duesenbergs and grand operas and

    populated restaurants; he had to provide, instead, tanks, munitions, ships,

    aircraft! These were the priorities I

    But, the Fahrer could never erase the memory of the 1918 revolution.

    How totally inconsistent! The sole man whose will was shaping history, who

    was close to the preposterous dream of a

    37

thousand-year Reich, was petrified of a long-ago memory of unruly mobs, of

unsatisfied masses.

    Speer wondered if future historians would record the fact. If they would

    comprehend just how weak Hitler really was when it came to his own

    countrymen. How he buckled in fear when consumer production fell below

    anticipated schedules.

Insanity I

    But still he, the Reichsminister of Armaments, could control this

    calamitous inconsistency as long as he was convinced it was Just a question

    of time. A few months; perhaps six at the outside.

For there was PeenemUnde.

The rockets.

Everything reduced itself to PeenemOnde!

    PeenemUnde was irresistible. PeenemUnde would cause the collapse of London

    and Washington. Both governments would see the futility of continuing the

    exercise of wholesale annihilation.

    Reasonable men could then sit down and create reasonable treaties.

    Even if it meant the silencing of unreasonable men. Silencing Hitler.

    Speer knew there were others who thought that way, too. The Fahrer was

    manifestly beginning to show unhealthy signs of pressure - fatigue. He now

    surrounded himself with mediocrity - an ill-disguised desire to remain in

    the comfortable company of his intellectual equals. But it went too far

    when the Reich itself was affected. A wine merchant, the foreign minister

    I A third-rate party propagandizer, the n-dnister of eastern affairs I An

    erstwhile fighter pilot, the overseer of the entire economyl

    Even himself. Even the quiet, shy architect; now the minister of armaments.

All that would change with PeenemUnde.

Even himself, Thank God!

    But first there had to be PeenemUnde. There could be no question of its

    operational success. For without PeenemUnde, the war was lost.

    And now they were telling him there was a question. A flaw that might well

    be the precursor of Germany's defeat.

    A vacuous-looking corporal opened the door of the cabinet room. Speer

    walked in and saw that the long conference table was about two-thirds

    filled, the chairs in cliquish separation, as

if the groups were suspect of one another. As, indeed, they were in these

times of progressively sharpened rivalries within the Reich.

    He walked to the head of the table, where - to his right - sat the only man

    in the room he could trust. Franz AltmUller.

    Altmaller was a forty-two-year-old cynic. Tall, blond, aristocratic; the

    vision of the Third Reich Aryan who did not, for a minute, subscribe to the

    racial nonsense proclaimed by the Third Reich. He did, however, subscribe

    to the theory of acquiring whatever benefits came his way by pretending to

    agree with anyone who might do him some good.

In public.

In private, among his very close associates, he told the truth.

When that truth might also benefit him.

    Speer was not only Altrafiller's associate, he was his friend. Their

    families had been more than neighbors; the two fathers had often gone into

    joint merchandising ventures; the mothers had been school chums.

    Altmflller had taken after his father. He was an extremely capable

    businessman; his expertise was in production administration.

    'Good morning,' said Altmfiller, fficking an imaginary thread off his tunic

    lapel. He wore his party uniform far more often than was necessary,

    preferring to err on the side of the archangel.

    'That seems unlikely,' replied Speer, sitting down rapidly. The groups -

    and they were groups - around the table kept talking among themselves but

    the voices were perceptibly quieter. Eyes kept darting over in Speer's

    direction, then swiftly away; everyone was prepared for immediate silence

    yet none wished to appear apprehensive, guilty.

    Silence would come when either Altmiiller or Speer himself rose from his

    chair to address the gathering. That would be the signal. Not before. To

    render attention before that movement might give the appearance of fear.

    Fear was equivalent to an admission of error. No one at the conference

    table could afford that.

    Altmillier opened a brown manila folder and placed it in front of Speer. It

    was a list of those summoned to the meeting. There were essentially three

    distinct factions with subdivisions within each, and each with its

    spokesman. Speer read the names and unobtrusively - he thought - looked up

    to ascertain the presence

    39

and the location of the three leaders.

    At the far end of the table, resplendent in his general's uniform, his

    tunic a field of decorations going back thirty years, sat Ernst Leeb, Chief

    of the Army Ordnance Office. He was of medium height but excessively

    muscular, a condition he maintained well into his sixties. He smoked his

    cigarette through an ivory holder which he used to cut off his various

    subordinates' conversations at will. In some ways Leeb was a caricature,

    yet still a powerful one. Hitler liked him, as much for his imperious

    military bearing as for his abilities.

    At the midpoint of the table, on the left, sat Albert V6gler, the sharp,

    aggressive general manager of Reich's Industry. V6gler was a stout man, the

    image of a burgomaster; the soft flesh of his face constantly creased into

    a questioning scowl. He laughed a great deal, but his laughter was hard; a

    device, not an enjoyment. He was well suited to his position. V6gler liked

    nothing better than hammering out negotiations between industrial

    adversaries. He was a superb mediator because all parties were usually

    frightened of him.

    Across from V6gler and slightly to the right, toward Altmaller and Speer,

    was Wilhelm Zangen, the Reich official of the German Industrial

    Association. Zangen was thin-lipped, painfully slender, humorless; a

    fleshed-out skeleton happiest over his charts and graphs. A precise man who

    was given to perspiring at the edge of his receding hairline and below the

    nostrils and on his chin when nervous. He was perspiring now, and continu-

    ously brought his handkerchief up to blot the embarrassing moisture.

    Somewhat in contradiction to his appearance, however, Zangen was a

    persuasive debater. For he never argued without the facts.

    They were all persuasive, thought Speer. And if it were not for his anger,

    he knew such men could - probably would - intimidate him. Albert Speer was

    honest in self-assessment; he realized that he had no substantial sense of

    authority. He found it difficult to express his thoughts forthrightly among

    such potentially hostilemen. But nowthe potentially hostile men werein

    adefensive position. He could not allow his anger to cause them to panic,

    to seek only absolution for themselves.

They needed a remedy. Germany needed a remedy.

Peenerritinde had to be saved.

'How would you suggest we begin?' Speer asked Altnitiller,

40

shading his voice so no one else at the table could bear him.

    'I don't think it makes a particle of difference. it will take an hour of

    very loud, very boring, very obtuse explanations before we reach anything

    concrete.'

'I'm not interested in explanations. . .

'Excuses, then.'

'Least of all, excuses. I want a solution.'

    'If it's to be found at this table -which, frankly, I doubt -you'll have to

    sit through the excess verbiage. Perhaps something will come of it. Again,

    I doubt it.'

'Would you care to explain thatT

    AltmOller looked directly into Speer's eyes. 'Ultimately, I'm not sure

    there is a solution. But if there is, I don't think it's at this table. .

    . . Perhaps I'm wrong. Why don't we listen first?'

    'All right. Would you please open with the summary you prepared? I'm afraid

    I'd lose my temper midway through.'

    'May I suggest,' Altmflller whispered, 'that it will be necessary for you

    to lose your temper at some point during this meeting. I don't see how you

    can avoid it.'

'I understand.'

    Altmiffler pushed back his chair and stood up. Grouping by grouping the

    voices trailed off around the table.

    'Gentlemen. This emergency session was called for reasons of which we

    assume you are aware. At least you should be aware of them. Apparently it

    is only the Reichsminister of Armaments and his staff who were not

    informed; a fact which the Reichsminister and his staff find appalling....

    In short words, the PeenemOnde operation faces a crisis of unparalleled

    severity. In spite of the millions poured into this most vital weaponry

    development, in spite of the assurances consistently offered by your

    respective departments, we now learn that production may be brought to a

    complete halt within a matter of weeks. Several months prior to the

    agreed-upon date for the first operational rockets. That date has never

    been questioned. It has been the keystone for whole military strategies;

    entire armies have been maneuvered to coordinate with it. Germany's victory

    is predicated on it .... But now Peenemiinde is threatened; Germany is

    threatened .... If the projections the Reichsminister's staff have compiled

    - unearthed and compiled - are valid, the Peenemflnde complex will exhaust

    its supply of industrial diamonds in less than ninety days. Without

    industrial diamonds the precision

    41

tooling in Peenemonde cannot continue!

    The babble of voices - excited, guttural, vying for attention -erupted the

    second AltmUller sat down. General Leeb's cigarette holder slashed the air

    in front of him as though it were a saber; Albert V8gler scowled and

    wrinkled his flesh-puffed eyes, placed his bulky hands on the table and

    spoke harshly in a loud monotone; Wilhelm Zangen's handkerchief was working

    furiously around his face and his neck, his high-pitched voice in conflict

    with the more masculine tones around him.

    Franz Altmillier leaned toward Speer. 'You've seen cages of angry ocelots

    in the zoo? The zookeeper can't let them hurl themselves into the bars. I

    suggest you lose your benign temper far earlier than we discussed. Perhaps

    now.'

'This is not the way.'

'Don't let them think you are cowed.

    'Nor that I am cowering! Speer interrupted his friend, the slightest trace

    of a smile on his lips. He stood up. 'Gentlemen.'

The voices trailed off.

    'Herr Altmijller speaks harshly; he does so, I'm sure, because I spoke

    harshly with him. That was this morning, very early this morning. There is

    greater perspective now; it is no time for recriminations. This is not to

    lessen the critical aspects of the situation, for they are great. But anger

    will solve nothing. And we need solutions.... Therefore, I propose to seek

    your assistance - the assistance of the finest industrial and military

    minds in the Reich. First, of course, we need to know the specifics. I

    shall start with Herr V6gler. As manager of Reich's Industry, would you

    give us your estimate?'

    V6gler was upset; he didn't wish to be the first called. 'I'm not sure I

    can be of much enlightenment, Herr Reichsminister. I, too, am subject to

    the reports -given me. They have been optimistic; until the other week

    there was no suggestion of difficulty.'

'How do you mean, optimistic?' asked Speer.

    'The quantities of bortz and carbonado diamonds were said to be sufficient.

    Beyond this there are the continuing experiments with lithicurn, carbon and

    paraffin. Our intelligence tells us that the Englishman Storey at the

    British Museum reverified the Hannay-Moissan theories. Diamonds were

    produced in this fashion.'

'Who verified the Englishman?' Franz Altmiffler did not

4-2

speak kindly. 'Had it occurred to you that such data was meant to be passedT

    'Such verification is a matter for Intelligence. I am not with

    Intelligence, Herr Altmfiller.'

'Go on,' said Speer quickly. 'What elseT

    'There is an Anglo-American experiment under the supervision of the

    Bridgemann team. They are subjecting graphite to pressures in excess of six

    million pounds per square inch. So far there is no word of success!

    'Is there word of failureT Altmifller raised his aristocratic

eyebrows, his tone polite. I

    'I remind you again, I am not with Intelligence. I have received no word

    whatsoever.'

    'Food for thought, isn't it-,' said Altrafiller, without asking a question.

    'Nevertheless,' interrupted Speer before V6gler could respond, 'you had

    reason to assume that the quantities of bortz and carbonado were

    sufficient. Is that not soT

'Sufficient. Or at least obtainable, Herr Reichsminister.'

'How so obtainableT

    'I believe General Leeb might be more knowledgeable on that subject!

    Leeb nearly dropped his ivory cigarette holder. Altmiiller noted his

    surprise and cut in swiftly. 'Why would the army ordnance officer have that

    information, Herr V6gler? I ask merely for my own curiosity!

    'The reports, once more. It is my understanding that the Ordnance Office is

    responsible for evaluating the industrial, agricultural and mineral

    potentials of occupied territories. Or those territories so projected!

    Ernst Leeb was not entirely unprepared. He was unprepared for V6gler's

    insinuations, not for the subject. He turned to an aide, who shuffled

    papers top to bottom as Speer inquired.

    'The Ordnance Office is under enormous pressure these days; as is your

    department, of course, Herr V6gler. I wonder if General Leeb has had the

    time . . .'

    'We made the time,' said Leeb, his sharp military bearing pitted in

    counterpoint to V6gler's burgomaster gruffness. 'When we received word -

    from Herr V6gler's subordinates - that a crisis was imminent - not upon us,

    but imminent - we immediately researched the possibilities for extrication!

    43

    Franz Altmillier brought his hand to his mouth to cover an involuntary

    smile. He looked at Speer, who was too annoyed to find any humor in the

    situation.

    'I'm relieved the Ordnance Office is so confident, general,' said Speer.

    TheReichsministerofArmaments had littleconfidence in the military and had

    difficulty disguising it. 'Please, your extrication?'

    'I said possibilities, Herr Speer. To arrive at practical solutions will

    take more time than we've been given.'

'Very well. Your possibilities?'

    'There is an immediate remedy with historical precedent.' Leeb paused to

    remove his cigarette, crushing it out, aware that everyone around the table

    watched him intently. 'I have taken the liberty of recommending preliminary

    studies to the General Staff. It involves an expeditionary force of less

    than four battalions ... Africa. The diamond mines east of Tanganyika.'

    ' What?'Altmilller leaned forward; he obviously could not help himself.

    'You're not serious.'

    'Please V Speer would not allow his friend to interrupt. If Leeb had even

    conceived of such drastic action, it might have merit. No military man,

    knowing the thin line of combat strength -chewed up on the Eastern Front,

    under murderous assault by the Allies in Italy - could suggest such an

    absurdity unless he had a realistic hope of success. 'Go ahead, general.'

    The Williamson Mines at Mwadui. Between the districts of Tanganyika and

    Zanzibar in the central sector. The mines at Mwadui produce over a million

    carats of the carbonado diamond annually. Intelligence - the intelligence

    that is forwarded regularly to me at my insistence - informs us that there

    are supplies going back several months. Our agents in Dar es Salaam are

    convinced such an incursion would be successful.'

    Franz AltmOller passed a sheet of paper to Speer. On it he had scribbled-

    'He's lost his senses!'

    'What is the historical precedent to which you refer?' asked Speer, holding

    his hand over AltmiWer's paper.

    'All of the districts east of Dar es Salaam rightfully belong to the Third

    Reich, German West Africa. They were taken from the fatherland after the

    Great War. The Fiffirer himself made that clear four years ago.'

    There was silence around the table. An embarrassed silence. The eyes of

    even his aides avoided the old soldier. Finyall Speer spoke quietly.

44

    'That is justification, not precedent, general. The world cares little for

    our justifications, and although I question the logistics of moving

    battalions halfway around the globe, you may have raised a valid point.

    Where else nearer ... in East Africa, perhaps, can the bortz or the

    carbonado be foundT

    Leeb looked to his aides; Wilhelm Zangen lifted his handkerchief to his

    nostrils and bowed his thin head in the direction of the general. He spoke

    as if exhaling, his high voice irritating.

    'I'll answer you, Herr Reichsminister. And then, I believe, you will see

    how fruitless this discussion is ... Sixty per cent of the world's

    crushing-bortz diamonds are in the Belgian Congo. The two principal

    deposits are in the Kasai and the Bakwanga fields, between the Kanshi and

    the Bushimaie rivers. The district's governor-general is Pierre Ryckmans;

    he is devoted to the Belgian government in exile in London. I can assure

    Leeb that the Congo's allegiances to Belgium are far greater than ours ever

    were in Dar es Salaam.'

    Leeb lit a cigarette angrily. Speer leaned back in his chair and addressed

    Zangen.

    'All right. Sixty per cent crushing-bortz; what of carbonado and the rest

    T

    'French Equatorial: totally allied to de Gaulle's Free French. Gold Coast

    and Sierra Leone: the tightest of British controls. Angola: Portuguese

    domination and their neutrality's inviolate; we know that beyond doubt.

    French West Africa: not only under Free French mandate but with Allied

    forces manning the outposts.... Here, there was only one possibility and we

    lost it a year and a half ago. Vichy abandoned the Ivory Coast.... There is

    no access in Africa, Reichsminister. None of a military nature.'

    'I see.' Speer doodled on top of the paper Altinfiller had passed to him.

    'You are recommending a nonmilitary solution?'

'There is no other. The question is what.'

    Speer turned to Franz AltmUller. His tall, blond associate was staring at

    them all. Their faces were blank. Baffled.

    45

    2

    SEPTEMBER 11, 1943

    WASHINGTON, D.C

Brigadier General Alan Swanson got out of the taxi and looked up at the huge

oak door of the Georgetown residence. The ride over the cobblestone streets

had seemed like a continuous roll of hammering drums.

Prelude to execution.

    Up those steps, inside that door, somewhere within that fivestory

    brownstone and brick aristocratic home, was a large room. And inside that

    room thousands of executions would be pronounced, unrelated to any around

    the table within that room.

Prelude to annihilation.

    If the schedules were kept. And it was inconceivable that they would be

    altered.

Wholesale murder.

    In line with his orders he glanced up and down the street to make sure he

    hadn't been followed. Asinine! CIC had all of them under constant

    surveillance. Which of the pedestrians or slowly moving automobiles had him

    in their sights? It didn't matter; the choice of the meeting place was

    asinine, too. Did they really believe they could keep the crisis a secret?

    Did they think that holding conferences in secluded Georgetown houses would

    help?

Assesl

    He was oblivious to the rain; it came down steadily, in straight lines. An

    autumn rainstorm in Washington. His raincoat was

46

open, the jacket of his uniform damp and wrinkled. He didn't give a damn

about such things; he couldn't think about them.

    The only thing he could think about was packaged in a metal casing no more

    than seven inches wide, five high, and perhaps a foot long. It was designed

    for those dimensions; it had the appearance of sophisticated technology; it

    was tooled to operate on the fundamental properties of inertia and

    precision.

And it wasn't functional; it didn't work.

It faded test after test.

    Ten thousand high-altitude B-17 bomber aircraft were emerging from

    production lines across the country. Without highaltitude, radio-beam

    gyroscopes to guide them, they might as well stay on the ground!

    And without those aircraft, Operation Overlord was in serious jeopardy. The

    invasion of Europe would extract a price so great as to be obscene.

    Yet to send the aircraft up on massive, round-the-clock, night and day

    bombing strikes throughout Germany without the cover of higher altitudes

    was to consign the majority to destruction, their crews to death. Examples

    'were constant reminders . : . whenever the big planes soared too high. The

    labels of pilot error, enemy fire and instrument fatigue were not so. It

    was the higher altitudes.... Only twenty-four hours ago a squadron of

    bombers on the Bremerhaven run had scrambled out of the strike, exacting

    the maximum from their aircraft and regrouped far above oxygen levels. From

    what could be determined, the guidance systems went crazy; the squadron

    ended up in the Dunbar sector near the Scottish border. All but one plane

    crashed into the sea. Three survivors were picked up by coastal patrols.

    Three out of God knows how many that had made it out of Bremerhaven. The

    one aircraft that attempted a ground landing had blown up on the outskirts

    of a town.... No survivors.

    Germany was in the curve of inevitable defeat, but it would not die easily.

    It was ready for counterstrike. The Russian lesson had been learned;

    Hitler's generals were prepared. They realized that ultimately their only

    hope for any surrender other than unconditional lay in their ability to

    make the cost of an Allied victory so high it would stagger imagination and

    sicken the conscience of humanity.

Accommodation would then be reached.

And that was unacceptable to the Allies. Unconditional

    47

surrender was now a tripartite policy; the absolute had been so inculcated

that it dared not be tampered with. The fever of total victory had swept the

lands; the leaders had shaped that, too. And at this pitch of frenzy, the

leaders stared into blank walls seeing nothing others could see and said

heroically that losses would be tolerated.

    Swanson walked up the steps of the Georgetown house. As if on cue, the door

    opened, a major saluted and Swanson was admitted quickly. Inside the

    hallway were four noncommissioned officers in paratroop leggings standing

    at ready-at-ease; Swanson recognized the shoulder patches of the Ranger

    battalions. The War Department had set the scene effectively.

    A sergeant ushered Swanson into a small, brass-grilled elevator. Two

    stories up the elevator stopped and Swanson stepped out into the corridor.

    He recognized the face of the colonel who stood by a closed door at the end

    of the short hallway. He could not recall his name, however. The man worked

    in Clandestine Operations and was never much in evidence. The colonel

    stepped forward, saluting.

.'General Swanson? Colonel Pace.'

    Swanson nodded his salute, offering his hand instead. 'Oh, yes. Ed Pace,

    rightT

'Yes, sir.'

    'So they pulled you out of the cellars. I didn't know this was your

    territory.'

    'It's not, sir. Just that I've had occasion to meet the men you're seeing.

    Security clearances.'

    'And with you here they know we're serious.' Swanson smiled.

'I'm sure we are, but I don't know what we're serious about.'

'You're lucky. Who's insideT

    'Howard Oliver from Meridian. Jonathan Craft from Packard. And the lab man,

    Spinelli, from ATCO.'

    'They'll make my day; I can't wait. Who's presiding? Christ, there should

    be one person on our side.'

'Vandamm.'

    Swanson's lips formed a quiet whistle; the colonel nodded in agreement.

    Frederic Vandamm was undersecretary of state and rumored to be Cordell

    Hull's closest associate. If one wanted to reach Roosevelt, the best way

    was through Hull; if that avenue was closed, one pursued Vandamm.

48

'That's impressive artillery,' Swanson said.

    'When they saw him, I think he scared the hell out of Craft and Oliver.

    Spinelli's in a perpetual daze. He'd figure Patton for a doorman.'

    'I don't know Spinelli, except by rep. He's supposed to be the best gyro

    man in the labs.... Oliver and Craft I know too well. I wish to hell you

    boys had never cleared them for road maps.'

    'Not much you can do when they own the roads, sir.' The colonel shrugged.

    It was obvious he agreed with Swanson's estimate.

    'I'll give you a clue, Pace. Craft's a social-register flunky. Oliver's the

    bad meat.'

    6He's got a lot of it on him,' replied the colonel, laughing softly.

    Swanson took off his raincoat. 'If you hear gunfire, colonel, it's only me

    fooling around. Walk the other way.'

    'I accept that as an order, general. I'm deaf,' answered Pace as he reached

    for the handle and opened the door swiftly for his superior.

    Swanson walked rapidly into the room. It was a library with the furniture

    pushed back against the walls and a conference table placed in the center.

    At the head of the table sat the whitehaired, aristocratic Frederic

    Vandamm. On his left was the obese, balding Howard Oliver, a sheaf of notes

    in front of him. Opposite Oliver were Craft and a short, dark, bespectacled

    man Swanson assumed was Gian Spinelli.

    The empty chair at the end of the table, facing Vandamm, was obviously for

    him. It was good positioning on Vandamm's part.

    'I'm sorry to be late, Mr. Undersecretary. A staff car would have prevented

    it. A taxi wasn't the easiest thing to find.... GentlemenT

    The trio of corporate men nodded; Craft and Oliver each uttered a muted

    'General.' Spinelli just stared from behind the thick lenses of his

    glasses.

    'I apologize, General Swanson,' said Vandamm in the precise, Anglicized

    speech that bespoke a background of wealth. 'For obvious reasons we did not

    want this conference to take place in a government office, nor, if known,

    did we wish any significance attached to the meeting itself. These

    gentlemen represent War Department gossip, I don't have to tell you that.

    The absence of urgency was desirable. Staff cars speeding through

    49

Washington - don' t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down - have a

tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?'

    Swanson returned the old gentleman's veiled look. Vandarrun was a smart

    one, he thought. It was an impetuous gamble referring to the taxi, but

    Vandamm had understood. He'd picked it up and used it well, even

    impartially.

    The three corporate men were on notice. At this conference, they were the

    enemy.

'I've been discreet, Mr. Undersecretary.'

    'I'm sure you have. Sball we get down to points? Mr. Oliver has asked that

    he be permitted to open with a general statement of Meridian Aircraft's

    position.'

    Swanson watched the heavy-jowled Oliver sort out his notes. He disliked

    Oliver intensely; there was a fundamental gluttony about him. He was a

    manipulator; there were so many of them these days. They were everywhere in

    Washington, piling up huge sums of money from the war; proclaiming the

    power of the deal,the price of the deal, the price of the power-which they

    held.

    Oliver's rough voice shot out from his thick lips. 'Thank you. It's our

    feeling at Meridian that the ... assumed gravity of the present situation

    has obscured the real advancements that have been made. The aircraft in

    question has proved beyond doubt its superior capabilities. The new,

    improved Fortress is ready for operational combat; it's merely a question

    of desired altitudes!

    Oliver abruptly stopped and put his obese hands in front of him, over his

    papers. He had finished his statement; Craft nodded in agreement. Both men

    looked noncommittally at Vandamm. Gian Spinelli simply stared at Oliver,

    his brown eyes magnified by his glasses.

    Alan Swanson was astounded. Not necessarily by the brevity of the statement

    but by the ingenuousness of the lie.

    'If that's a position statement, I find it wholly unacceptable. The

    aircraft in question has not proved its capabilities until it's operational

    at the altitudes specified in the government contracts!

:It's operational.' replied Oliver curtly.

    Operational. Not functional, Mr. Oliver. It is not functional until it can

    be guided from point A to point B at the altitudes called for in the

    specifications.'

    'Specified as "intended maximum," General Swanson,' shot back Oliver,

    smiling an obsequious smile that conveyed anything but courtesy.

50

    'What the hell does that meanT Swanson looked at Undersecretary Vandamm.

'Mr. Oliver is concerned with a contractual interpretation.'

'I'm not.'

    'I have to be,' replied Oliver. 'The War Department has refused payment to

    Meridian Aircraft Corporation. We have a contract. . . .'

'Take the goddamned contract up with someone else!'

'Anger won't solve anything.' Vandamm spoke harshly.

    'I'm sorry, Mr. Undersecretary, but I'm not here to discuss contractual

    interpretations.'

    'I'm afraid you'll have to, General Swanson.' Vandamm now spoke calmly.

    'The Disbursement Office has withheld payment to Meridian on your negative

    authorization. You haven't cleared

'Why should I? The aircraft can't do the job we expected.'

    'It can do the job you contracted for,' said Oliver, moving his thick neck

    from Vandamm to the brigadier general. 'Rest assured, general, our best

    efforts are being poured into the intended maximum guidance system. We're

    expending all our resources. We'll reach a breakthrough, we're convinced of

    that. But until we do, we expect the contracts to be honored. We've met the

    guarantees.'

'Are you suggesting that we take the aircraft as is?'

    'It's the finest bomber in the air.' Jonathan Craft spoke. His soft, high

    voice was a weak exclamation that floated to a stop. He pressed his

    delicate fingers together in what he believed was emphasis.

    Swanson disregarded Craft and stared at the small face and magnified eyes

    of the ATCO scientist, Gian Spinelli. 'What about the gyros? Can you give

    me an answer, Mr. Spinelli?'

    Howard Oliver intruded bluntly. 'Use the existing systems. Get the aircraft

    into combat.'

. 'No!' Swanson could not help himself. His was the roar of disgust, let

Undersecretary Vandamm say what he liked. 'Our strategies call for

round-the-clock strikes into the deepest regions of Germany. From all points

- known and unknown. Fields in England, Italy, Greece ... yes, even unlisted

bases in Turkey and Yugoslavia; carriers in the Mediterranean and, goddamn

it, the Black Sea! Thousands and thousands of planes crowding the air

    51

corridors for space. We need that extra altitude! We need the guidance

systems to operate at those altitudes! Anything less is unthinkablel ... I'm

sorry, Mr. Vandamm. I believe I'm justifiably upset.'

    'I understand,' said the white-haired undersecretary of state. 'That's why

    we're here this afternoon. To look for solutions . . . as well as money.'

    The old gentleman shifted his gaze to Craft. 'Can you add to Mr. Oliver's

    remarks, from Packard's vantage pointT

    Craft disengaged his lean, manicured fingers and took a deep breath through

    his nostrils as if he were about to deliver essential wisdom. The executive

    font of knowledge, thought Alan Swanson, jockeying for a chairman's

    approval.

    'Of course, Mr. Undersecretary. As the major subcontractor for Meridian,

    we've been as disturbed as the general over the lack of guidance results.

    We've spared nothing to accommodate. Mr. Spinelli's presence is proof of

    that. After all, we're the ones who brought in ATCO. . . .' here Craft

    smiled heroically, a touch sadly. 'As we all know, ATCO is the finest - and

    most costly. We've spared nothing.'

    'You brought in ATCO,' said Swanson wearily, 'because your own laboratories

    couldn't do the job. You submitted cost overruns to Meridian which were

    passed on to us. I don't see that you spared a hell of a lot.'

    'Good Lord, generaW exclaimed Craft with very little conviction. 'The thne,

    the negotiations ... time is money, sir; make no mistake about that. I

    could show you. . . .'

    'The general asked me a question. I should like to answer him.'

    The words, spoken with a trace of dialect, came from the tiny scientist,

    who was either dismissing Craft's nonsense, or oblivious to it, or,

    somehow, both.

'I'd be grateful, Mr. Spinelli.'

    'Our progress has been consistent, steady if you like. Not rapid. The

    problems are great. We believe the distortion of the radio beams beyond

    certain altitudes varies with temperatures and land-mass curvatures. The

    solutions lie in alternating compensations. Our experiments continuously

    narrow that field. ... Our rate of progress would be more rapid were it not

    for constant interferences.'

Gian Spinelli stopped and shifted his grotesquely magnified

52

eyes to Howard Oliver, whose thick neck and jowled face were suddenly

flushed with anger.

'You've had no interference from us!'

    'And certainly not from Packard!' chimed in Craft. ~Welve stayed in almost

    daily contact. Our concerns have never flagged!'

    Spinelli turned to Craft. 'Your concerns . . . as those of Meridian ...

    have been exclusively budgetary, as far as I can see.'

    'That's preposterous! Whatever financial inquiries were made, were made at

    the request of the ... contractor's audit division. . . .'

    'And totally necessary!' Oliver could not conceal his fury at the small

    Italian. 'You laboratory ... people don't reconcile! You're children!'

    For the next thirty seconds the three agitated men babbled excitedly in

    counterpoint. Swanson looked over at Vandamm. Their eyes met in

    understanding.

    Oliver was the first to recognize the trap. He held up his hand ... a

    corporate command, thought Swanson.

    'Mr. Undersecretary.' Oliver spoke, stifling the pitch of his anger. 'Don't

    let our squabbling convey the wrong impression. We turn out the products.'

    'You're not turning out this one,' said Swanson. 'I recall vividly the

    projections in your bids for the contract. You had everything turned out

    then.'

    When Oliver looked at him, Alan Swanson instinctively felt he should reach

    for a weapon to protect himself, The Meridian executive was close to

    exploding.

    'We relied on subordinates' evaluations,' said Oliver slowly, with

    hostility. 'I think the military has had its share of staff errors.'

'Subordinates don't plan major strategies.'

    Vandamm raised his voice. 'Mr. Oliver. Suppose General Swanson were

    convinced it served no purpose withholding funds. What kind of time limits

    could you now guaranteeT

    Oliver looked at Spinelli. 'What would you estimateT he asked coldly.

    Spinelli's large eyes swept the ceiling. 'In candor, I cannot give you an

    answer. We could solve it next week. Or next year.'

    Swanson quickly reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a folded page of

    paper. He spread it out in front of him and spoke swiftly. 'According to

    this memorandum ... our last communication from ATCO ... once the guidance

    system is perfected,

    53

you state you need six weeks of inflight experimentation. The Montana

Proving Grounds.'

'That's correct, general. I dictated that myself,' said Spinelli. 'Six weeks

from next week. Or next year. And assuming the Montana experiments are

positive, another month to equip the fleets.'

'Yes.'

    Swanson looked over at Vandamm. 'In light of this, Mr. Undersecretary,

    there's no other course but to alter immediate priorities. Or at least the

    projections. We can't meet the logistics.'

'Unacceptable, General Swanson. We have to meet them.'

    Swanson stared at the old man. Each knew precisely what the other referred

    to.

Overlord. The invasion of Europe.

'We must postpone, sir.'

'Impossible. That's the word, general!

Swanson looked at the three men around the table.

The enemy.

'We'll be in touch, gentlemen,' he said.

54

    3

    SEPTEMBER 12,1943

    THE BA SQ UE HILLS, SPAIN

David Spaulding waited in the shadows of the thick, gnarled tree on the

rocky slope above the ravine. It was Basque country and the air was damp and

cold. The late afternoon sun washed over the hills; his back was to it. He

had years ago -it seemed a millennium but it wasn't - learned the advantage

of catching the reflections of the sun off the steel of small weapons. His

own rifle was dulled with burnt, crushed cork.

Four.

    Strange, but the number four kept coming to mind as he scanned the

    distance.

Four.

    Four years and four days ago exactly. And this afternoon's contact was

    scheduled for precisely four o'clock in the afternoon.

    Four years and four days ago he had first seen the creased brown uniforms

    behind the thick glass partition in the radio studio in New York. Four

    years and four days ago since he had walked toward that glass wall to pick

    up his raincoat off the back of a chair and realized that the eyes of the

    older officermere looking at him. Steadily. Coldly. The younger man avoided

    him, as if guilty of intrusion, but not his superior, not the lieutenant

    colonel.

The lieutenant colonel had been studying him.

That was the beginning.

He wondered now -as he watched the ravine for signs of

    55

movement - when it would end. Would he be alive to see it end?

He intended to be.

    He had called it a treadmill once. Over a drink at the Mayflower in

    Washington. Fairfax had been a treadmill; still, he had not known at the

    time how completely accurate that word would continue to be; a racing

    treadmill that never stopped.

    It slowed down occasionally. The physical and mental pressures demanded

    deceleration at certain recognizable times - recognizable to him. Times

    when he realized he was getting careless : * I or too sure of himself. Or

    too absolute with regard to decisions that took human life.

Or might take his.

    They were often too easily arrived at. And sometimes that frightened him.

    Profoundly.

    During such times he would take himself away. He would travel south along

    the Portuguese coast where the enclaves of the temporarily inconvenienced

    rich denied the existence of war. Or he would stay in Costa del Santiago -

    with his perplexed parents. Or he would remain within the confines of the

    embassy in Lisbon and engross himself in the meaningless chores of neutral

    diplomacy. A minor military- attach6 who did not wear a uniform. It was not

    expected in the streets; it was inside the 'territory.' He did not wear

    one, however; no one cared. He was not liked very much. He socialized too

    frequently, had too many prewar friends. By and large, he was ignored ...

    with a certain disdain.

    At such times he rested. Forced his mind to go blank; to recharge itself.

    Four years and four days ago such thoughts would have been inconceivable.

    Now they consumed him. When he had the time for such thoughts.

Which he did not have now.

    There was still no movement in the ravine. Something was wrong. He checked

    his watch; the team from San Sebastiin was too far behind schedule. It was

    an abnormal delay. Only six hours ago the French underground had radioed

    that everything was secure; there were no complications, the team had

    started out.

    The runners from San SebastiAn were bringing out photographs of the German

    airfield installations north of Mont-deMarsan. The strategists in London

    had been screaming for them for months. Those photographs had cost the

    lives of four ...

56

again, that goddamned number ... four underground agents.

    If anything, the team should have been early; the runners should have been

    waiting for the man from Lisbon.

    Then he saw it in the distance; perhaps a half a mile away, it was

    difficult to tell. Over the ravine, beyond the opposite slope, from one of

    the miniature hills. A flashing.

    An intermittent but rhythmic flashing. The measured spacing was a mark of

    intent, not accident.

    They were being signaled. He was being signaled by someone who knew his

    methods of operation well; perhaps someone he had trained. It was a

    warning.

    Spaulding slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the strap taut, then

    tighter still so that it became a fixed but flexible appendage to his upper

    body. He felt the hasp of his belt holster; it was in place, the weapon

    secure. He pushed himself away from the trunk of the old tree and, in a

    crouching position, scrambled up the remainder of the rock-hewn slope.

    On the ridge he ran to his left, into the tall grass toward the remains of

    a dying pear orchard. Two men in mud-caked clothes, rifles at their sides,

    were sitting on the ground playing trick knife, passing the time in

    silence. They snapped their heads up, their hands reaching for their guns.

    Spaulding gestured to them to remain on the ground. He approached and spoke

    quietly in Spanish.

'Do either of you know who's on the team coming inT

    'Bergeron, I think,' said the man on the right. 'And probably Chivier. That

    old man has a way with patrols; forty years he's peddled across the

    border.'

'Then it's Bergeron,' said Spaulding.

'What isT asked the second man.

    'We're being signaled. They're late and someone is using whaes left of the

    sun to get our attention.'

    'Perhaps to tell you they're on their way.' The first man put the knife

    back in his scabbard as he spoke.

    'Possible but not likely. We wouldn't go anywhere. Not for a couple of

    hours yet.' Spaulding raised himself partially off the ground and looked

    eastward. 'Come on! We'll head down past the rim of the orchard. We can get

    a cross view there.'

    The three men in single file, separated but within hearing of each other,

    raced across the field below the high ground for nearly four hundred yards.

    Spaulding positioned himself behind

    57

a low rock that jutted over the edge of the ravine. He waited for the other

two. The waters below were about a hundred feet straight down, he judged.

The team from San SebastiAn would cross them approximately two hundred yards

west, through the shallow, narrow passage they always used.

The two other men arrived within seconds of each other.

    'The old tree where you stood was the mark, wasn't iff asked the first man.

    'Yes,'answered Spaulding, removing his binoculars from a case opposite his

    belt holster. They were powerful, with Zeiss Ikon lenses, the best Germany

    produced. Taken from a dead German .at the Tejo River.

    'Then why come down here? If there's a problem, your line of vision was

    best where you were. It's more direct.'

    'If there's a problem, they'll know that. They'll flank to their left.

    East. To the west the ravine heads away from the mark. Maybe it's nothing.

    Perhaps you were right; they just want us to know they're coming.'

    A little more than two hundred yards away, just west of the shallow

    passage, two men came into view. The Spaniard who knelt on Spaulding's left

    touched the American's shoulder.

'It's Bergeron and Chivier,' he said quietly.

    Spaulding held up his hand for silence and scanned the area with the

    binoculars. Abruptly he fixed them in one position. With his left hand he

    directed the attention of his subordinates to the spot.

    Below them, perhaps fifty yards, four soldiers in Wehrmacht uniforms were

    struggling with the foliage, approaching the waters of the ravine.

    Spaulding moved his binoculars back to the two Frenchmen, now crossing the

    water. He held the glasses steady against the rock until he could see in

    the woods behind the two men what he knew was there.

    A fifth German, an officer, was half concealed in the tangled mass of weeds

    and low branches. He held a rifle on the two Frenchmen crossing the ravine.

    Spaulding passed the binoculars quickly to the first Spaniard. He

    whispered. 'Behind Chivier.'

The man looked, then gave the glasses to his countryman.

    Each knew what had to be done; even the methods were clear. It was merely

    a question of timing, precision. From a scabbard

58

behind his right hip, Spaulding withdrew a short carbine bayonet, shortened

further by grinding. His two associates did the same. Each peered over the

rock at the Wehrmacht men below.

    The four Germans, faced with waters waist high and a current - though not

    excessively strong, nevertheless considerable -strapped their rifles across

    their shoulders laterally and separated in a downstream column. The lead

    man started across, testing the depths as he did so.

    Spaulding and the two Spaniards came from behind the rock swiftly and slid

    down the incline, concealed by the foliage, their sounds muffled by the

    rushing water. In less than half a minute they were within thirty feet of

    the Wehrmacht men, hidden by fallen tree limbs and overgrowth. David

    entered the water, hugging the embankment. He was relieved to see that the

    fourth man - now only fifteen feet in front of him - was having the most

    difficulty keeping his balance on the slippery rocks. The other three,

    spaced about ten yards apart, were concentrating on the Frenchmen upstream.

    Concentrating intently.

    The Nazi saw him; the fear, the bewilderment was in the German's eyes. The

    split second he took to assimilate the shock was the time David needed.

    Covered by the sounds of the water, Spaulding leaped on the man, his knife

    penetrating the Wehrmacht throat, the head pushed violently under the

    surface, the blood mingling with the rushing stream.

    There was no time, no second to waste. David released the lifeless form and

    saw that the two Spaniards were parallel with him on the embankment. The

    first man, crouched and hidden, gestured toward the lead soldier; the

    second nodded his head toward the next man. And David knew that the third

    Wehrmacht soldier was his.

    It took no more than the time necessary for Bergeron and Chivier to reach

    the south bank. The three soldiers were dispatched, their blood-soaked

    bodies floating downstream, careening off rocks, filling the waters with

    streaks of magenta.

    Spaulding signaled the Spaniards to cross the water to the north

    embankment. The first man pulled himself up beside David, his right hand

    bloodied from a deep cut across his palm.

'Are you all right?"whispered Spaulding.

'The blade slipped. I lost my knife.' The man swore.

    'Get out of the area,' said David. 'Get the wound dressed at the Valdero

    farm.'

    -59

'I can put on a tight bandage. I'll be fine.'

    The second Spaniard joined them. He winced at the sight of his countryman's

    hand, an action SpauldiVg thought inconsistent for a guerrilla who had just

    minutes ago plunged a blade into the neck of a man, slicing most of his

    head off.

'That looks bad,' he said.

    'You can't function,'added Spaulding, 'and we don't have time to argue.'

'I can. . .

    'You can't.' David spoke peremptorily. 'Go back to Valdero's. I'll see you

    in a week or two. Get going and stay out of sightV

    'Very well.' The Spaniard was upset but it was apparent that he would not,

    could not, disobey the American's commands. He started to crawl into the

    woods to the east.

    Spaulding called quietly, just above the rush of the water. 'Thank you.

    Fine work today.'

    The Spaniard grinned and raced into the forest, holding his wrist.

    Just as swiftly, David touched the arm of the second man, beckoning him to

    follow. They sidestepped their way along the bank upstream. Spaulding

    stopped by a fallen tree whose trunk dipped down into the ravine waters. He

    turned and crouched, ordering the Spaniard to do the same. He spoke words

    quietly.

'I want him alive. I want to question him.'

'I'll get him.'

    6No, I will. I just don't want you to fire. There could be a backup

    patrol.' Spaulding realized as he whispered that the man couldn't help but

    smile. He knew why: his Spanish had the soft lilt of Castilian, a

    foreigner9s Castilian at that. It was out of place in Basque country.

As he was out of place, really.

    'As you wish, good friend,' said the man. 'Shall I cross farther back and

    reach Bergeron? He's probably sick to his stomach by now.'

    'No, not yet. Wait'll we're secure over here. He and the old man will just

    keep walking.' David raised his head over the fallen tree trunk and

    estimated distances. The German officer was about sixty yards away, hidden

    in the woods. 'I'll head in there, get behind him. I'll see if I can spot

    any signs of another patrol. If I do, 1911 come back and we'll get out. If

    not, I'll try to grab him....

60

If anything goes wrong, if he hears me, he'll probably head for the water.

Take him.'

    The Spaniard nodded. Spaulding checked the tautness of his rifle strap,

    giving it a last-second hitch. He gave his subordinate a tentative smile

    and saw that the man's hands - huge, calloused -were spread on the ground

    like claws. If the Wehrmacht officer headed this way, he'd never get by

    those hands, thought David.

    He crept swiftly, silently into the woods, his arms and feet working like

    a primitive hunter's, warding off branches, sidestepping rocks and tangled

    foliage.

    In less than three minutes he had gone thirty yards behind the German on

    the Nazi's left flank. He stood immobile and withdrew his binoculars. He

    scanned the forest and the trail. There were no other patrols. He doubled

    back cautiously, blending every movement of his body with his surroundings.

    When he was within ten feet of the German, who was kneeling on the ground,

    David silently unlatched his holster and withdrew his pistol. He spoke

    sharply, though not impolitely, in German.

'Stay where you are or I'll blow your head off.'

    The Nazi whipped around and awkwardly fumbled for his weapon. Spaulding

    took several rapid steps and kicked it out of his hands. The man started to

    rise, and David brought his heavy leather boot up into the side of the

    German's head. The officer's visor hat fell to the ground; blood poured out

    of the man's temple, spreading throughout the hairline, streaking down

    across his face. He was unconscious.

    Spaulding reached down and tore at the Nazi's tunic. Strapped across the

    Oberleutnant's chest was a traveling pouch. David pulled the steel zipper

    laterally over the waterproofed canvas and found what he was sure he would

    find.

    The photographs of the hidden Luftwaffe installations north of

    Mont-de-Marsan. Along with the photographs were amateurish drawings that

    were, in essence, basic blueprints. At least, schematics. Taken from

    Bergeron, who had then led the German into the trap.

    If he could make sense out of them - along with the photographs - he would

    alert London that sabotage units could inflict the necessary destruction,

    immobilizing the Luftwaffe complex. He would send in the units himself.

    The Allied air strategists were manic when it came to bombing runs. The

    planes dove from the skies, reducing to rubble and

    61

crater everything that was - and was not - a target, taking as much innocent

life as enemy. If Spaulding could prevent air strikes north of

Mont-de-Marsan, it might somehow... abstractly make up for the decision he

now had to face.

    There were no prisoners of war in the Galician hills, no internment centers

    in the Basque country.

    The Wehrmacht lieutenant, who was so ineffectual in his role of the hunter

    . . . who might have had a life in some peaceful German town in a peaceful

    world ... had to die. And he, the man from Lisbon, would be the

    executioner. He would revive the young officer, interrogate him at the

    point of a knife to learn how deeply the Nazis had penetrated the

    underground in San SebastiAn. Then kill him.

    For the Wehrmacht officer had seen the man from Lisbon; he could identify

    that man as David'Spaulding.

    The fact that the execution would be mercifully quick - unlike a death in

    partisan hands - was of small comfort to David. He knew that at the instant

    he pulled the trigger, the world would spin insanely for a moment or two.

    He would be sick to his stomach and want to vomit, his whole being in a

    state of revulsion.

    But he would not show these things. He would say nothing, indicate nothing

    ... silence. And so the legend would continue to grow. For that was part of

    the treadmill.

The man in Lisbon was a killer.

~62

    4

    SEPTEMBER 20,1943

    MANNHEIM, GERMANY

Wilhelm Zangen brought the handkerchief to his chin, and then to the skin

beneath his nostrils, and finally to the border of his receding hairline.

The sweat was profuse; a rash had formed in the cleft below his lips,

aggravated by the daily necessity to shave and the continuous pressure.

    His whole face was stinging, his embarrassment compounded by Franz

    Altmfiller's final words:

    'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most unathaotive.'

    With that objective solicitousness, AltmUller had gotten up from the table

    and walked out the door. Slowly, deliberately, his briefcase - the

    briefcase containing the reports - held down at arm's length as though it

    had been some diseased appendage.

    They had been alone. AltmUller had dismissed the group of scientists

    without acknowledging any progress whatsoever. He had not even allowed him,

    the Reich official of German Industry, to thank them for their

    contributions. AltmUller knew that these were the finest scientific minds

    in Germany, but he had no understanding of how to handle them. They were

    sensitive, they were volatile in their own quiet way; they needed praise

    constantly. He had no patience for tact.

And there had been progress.

    The Krupp laboratories were convinced that the answer lay in the graphite

    experiments. Essen had worked around the clock for

    63

nearly a month, its managers undergoing one sleepless night after another.

They had actually produced carbon particles in sealed iron tubes and were

convinced these carbons held all the properties required for precision

tooling. It was merely a question of time; time to create larger particles,

sufficient for tolerance placement within existing machinery.

    Frahz Altmilller had listened to the Krupp team without the slightest

    indication of enthusiasm, although enthusiasm certainly had been called for

    under the circumstances. Instead, when the Krupp spokesman had finished his

    summary, AltmW]er had asked one question. Asked it with the most bored

    expression imaginable 1

    'Have these . . . particles been subjected to the pressures of operational

    tooling?'

    Of course they hadn't! How could they have been? They had been subjected to

    artificial, substitute pressures; it was all that was possible at the

    moment.

    That answer had been unacceptable; Altmiffler dismissed the most

    scientifically creative minds in the Reich without a single sentence of

    appreciation, only ill-disguised hostility.

    'Gentlemen, you've brought me words. We don't need words, we need diamonds.

    We need them, we must have them within weeks. Two months at the outside. I

    suggest you return to your laboratories and consider our problem once

    again. Good day, gentlemen.'

Altmaller was impossible!

    After the scientists had left, AltmUller had become even more abrasive.

    'Wilhelm,' he had said with a voice bordering on contempt, 'was this the

    nonmilitary solution of which you spoke to the minister of armamentsT

    Why hadn't he used Speer's name? Was it necessary to threaten with the use

    of titles?

    'Of course. Certainly more realistic than that insane march into the

    Con-go. The mines at the Bushimaie Riverl Madness!'

    'The comparison is odious. I overestimated you; I gave you more credit than

    you deserve. You understand, of course, that you failed.' It was not a

    question.

    'I disagree. The results aren't in yet. You can't make such a judgment.'

'I can and I have V Altmaller had slammed the flat of his hand

64

against the tabletop; a crack of soft flesh against hard wood. An

intolerable insult. 'We have no time! We can't waste weeks while your

laboratory misfits play with their bunsen burners, creating little stones

that could fall apart at the first contact with steel! We need the productV

    'You'll have itl' The surface of Zangen's chin became an oily mixture of

    sweat and stubble. 'The finest minds in all Germany ate . . . ,

    'Are experimenting.' AltmCdler had interrupted quietly, with scornful

    emphasis. 'Get us the product. That's my order to you. Our powerful

    companies have long histories that go back many years-Certainly one of them

    can find an old friend.'

    Wilhelm Zangen had blotted his chin; the rash was agonizing. 'We've covered

    those areas. Impossible.'

    'Cover them again.' Altmaller had pointed an elegant finger at Zangen's

    handkerchief. 'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most

    unattractive.'

    SEPTEMBER 24,1943

    NEW YORK CITY

    Jonathan Craft walked up Park Avenue and checked his wristwatch under the

    spill of a streetlamp. His long, thin fingers trembled; the last vestige of

    too many martinis, which he had stopped drinking twenty-four hours ago in

    Ann Arbor. Unfortunately, he had been drunk for the three previous days. He

    had not been to the office. The office reminded him of General Alan

    Swanson; he could not bear that memory. Now he had to.

    It was a quarter to nine; another fifteen minutes and he would walk into

    800 Park Avenue, smile at the doorman and go to the elevator. He did not

    want to be early, dared not be late. He had been inside the apartment house

    exactly seven times, and each occasion had been traumatic for him. Always

    for the same reason: he was the bearer of bad news.

    But they needed him. He was the impeccable man. His family was old, fine

    money; he had been to the right schools, the best

    65

cotillions. He had access into areas - social and institutional - the

merchants would never possess. No matter he was stuck in Ann Arbor; it was

a temporary situation, a wartime inconvenience. A sacrifice.

    He would be back in New York on the Exchange as soon as the damn thing was

    over.

    He had to keep these thoughts in mind tonight because in a few minutes he

    would have to repeat the words Swanson had screamed at him in his Packard

    office. He had written a confidential report of the conversation ... the

    unbelievable conversation ... and sent it to Howard Oliver at Meridian.

    Ifyou've done what I think you've done, itfalls under the heading of

    treasonable acts! And we're at war!

Swanson.

Madness.

    He wondered how many would be there, in the apartment. It was always better

    if there were quite a few, say a dozen. Then they argued among themselves;

    he was almost forgotten. Except for his information.

    He walked around the block, breathing deeply, calming himself ... killing

    ten minutes.

Treasonable acts!

And we're at war!

    His watch read five minutes to nine. He entered the building, smiled at the

    doorman, gave the floor to the elevator operator and, when the brass grill

    opened, he walked into the private foyer of the penthouse.

    A butler took his overcoat and ushered him across the hall, through the

    door and down three steps into the huge sunken living room.

    There were only two men in the room. Craft felt an immediate sharp pain in

    his stomach. It was an instinctive reaction partly brought on by the fact

    that there were only two people for this extremely vital conference, but

    mainly caused by the sight of Walter Kendall.

    Kendall was a man in shadows, a manipulator of figures who was kept out of

    sight. He was fiftyish, medium-sized, with thinning, unwashed hair, a

    rasping voice and an undistinguished -shoddy - appearance. His eyes darted

    continuously, almost never returning another man's look. It was said his

    mind concentrated incessantly on schemes and counterschemes; his whole

66

purpose in life was'apparently to outmaneuver other human beings - friend or

enemy, it made no difference to Kendall, for he did not categorize people

with such labels.

All were vague opponents.

    But Walter Kendall was brilliant at what he did. As long as he could be

    kept in the background, his manipulations served his clients. And made him

    a great deal of money - which he hoarded, attested to by ill-fitting suits

    that bagged at the knees and sagged below the buttocks. But he was always

    kept out of sight; his presence signified crisis.

    Jonathan Craft despised Kendall because he was frightened by him.

    The second man was to be expected under the circumstances. He was Howard

    Oliver, Meridian Aircraft's obese debater of War Department contracts.

    'You're on time,' said Walter Kendall curtly, sitting down in an armchair,

    reaching for papers in an open, filthy briefcase at his feet.

    'Hello, Jon.' Oliver approached and offered a short, neutral handshake.

'Where are the others?' asked Craft.

    'No one wanted to be here,' answered Kendall with a furtive glance at

    Oliver. 'Howard has to be, and I'm paid to be. You had one hell of a

    meeting with this Swanson.'

'You've read my report?'

    'He's read it,' said Oliver, crossing to a copper-topped wheelcart in the

    comer on which there were bottles and glasses. 'He's got questions.'

'I made everything perfectly clear .....

    'Those aren't the questions,' interrupted Kendall while squeez, ing the tip

    of a cigarette before inserting it into his mouth. As he struck a match,

    Craft walked to a large velvet chair across from the accountant and sat

    down. Oliver had poured himself a whisky and remained standing.

'If you want a drink, Jon, it's over there,' said Oliver.

    At the mention of alcohol', Kendall glanced up at him from his papers with

    ferret-like eyes. 'No thank you,' Craft replied. 'I'd like to get this over

    with as soon as possible.'

    'Suit yourself,' Oliver looked at the accountant. 'Ask your questions.'

Kendall, sucking on his cigarette, spoke as the smoke curled

    67

around his nostrils. 'This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him

since you saw SwansonT

    'No. There was nothing to say; nothing Icould say ... without instructions.

    As you know, I spoke with Howard on the phone. He told me to wait; write a

    report and do nothing.'

    'Craft's the funnel to ATCO,' said Oliver. 'I didn't want him running

    scared, trying to smooth things over. It'd look like we were hiding

    something.'

    'We are,' Kendall removed his cigarette, the ash falling on his trousers.

    He continued while slowly shuffling the papers on his lap. 'Let's go over

    Spinelli's complaints. As Swanson brought them up.'

    The accountant touched briefly, concisely on each point raised. They

    covered Spinelli's statements regarding delayed deliveries, pe rsonnel

    transfers, blueprint holdups, a dozen other minor grievances. Craft replied

    with equal brevity, answering when he could, stating ignorance when he

    could not. There was no reason to hide anything.

He had been carrying out instructions, not issuing them.

    'Can Spinelli substantiate these charges? And don't kid yourselves, these

    are charges, not complaints.'

    'What charges?' Oliver spat out the words. 'That guinea bastard's fucked up

    everything! Who's he to make charges?'

    6Get off it,' said Kendall in his rasping voice. 'Don't play games. Save

    them for a congressional committee, unless I can figure something.'

    At Kendall's words the sharp pain returned to Craft's stomach. The

    prospects of disgrace - even remotely associated - could ruin his life. The

    life he expected to lead back in New York. The financial boors, the

    merchants, could never understand. 'That's going a little far. . . .'

    Kendall looked over at Craft. 'Maybe you didn't hear Swanson. It's not

    going far enough. You got the Fortress contracts because your projections

    said you could do the job.'

'Just a minute!' yelled Oliver. 'We . . .'

    'Screw the legal crap!' countered Kendall, shouting over Oliver's

    interruption. 'My firm ... me, I... squared those projections. I know what

    they say, what they implied. You left the other companies at the gate. They

    wouldn't say what you said. Not Douglas, not Boeing, not Lockheed. You were

    hungry and you got the meat and now you're not delivering.... So what else

68

is new? Let's go back: can Spinelli substantiater

'Shit,' exploded Oliver, heading for the bar.

    'How do you mean ... substantiate?' asked Jonathan Craft, his stomach in

    agony.

    'Are there any memorandums floating around,' Kendall tapped the pages in

    his hand, 'that bear on any of this?' ,

    'Well . . .' Craft hesitated; he couldn't stand the pain in his stomach.'

    When personnel transfers were expedited, they were put into interoffice. .

    . .'

    'The answer's yes,' interrupted Oliver in disgust, pouring himself a drink.

'What about financial cutbacks?'

    Oliver once again replied. 'We obscured those. Spinelli's requisitions just

    got lost in the paper shuffle.'

'Didn't he scream? Didn't he shoot off memos?'

    'That's Craft's department,' answered Oliver, drinking most of his whisky

    in one swallow. 'Spinelli was his little guinea boy.'

'Well?' Kendall looked at Craft.

    'Well ... he sent numerous communications.' Craft leaned forward in the

    chair, as much to relieve the pain as to appear confidential. 'I removed

    everything from the files,' he said softly.

    'Christ,' exploded Kendall quietly. 'I don't give a shit what you removed.

    He's got copies. Dates!

'Well, I couldn't say. . . .'

    'He didn't type the goddamned things himseo, did he? You didn't take away

    the fucking secretaries, too, did you?'

'There's no call to be offensive. . . .,

    'Offensivel You're a funny manl Maybe they've got fancy stripes for you in

    Leavenworth! The accountant snorted and turned his attention to Howard

    Oliver. 'Swanson's got a case; he'll hang you. Nobody has to be a lawyer to

    see that. You held back. You figured to use the existing guidance systems!

    'Only because the new gyroscopes couldn't be developedl Because that guinea

    bastard fell so far behind he couldn't catch UP !,

    'Also it saved you a couple of hundred million. . . . You should have

    primed the pumps, not cut off the water. You're big ducks in a short

    gallery; a blind man could knock you off.'

    Oliver put his glass down and spoke slowly. 'We don't pay you for that kind

    of judgment, Walter. You'd better have somo. thing else.'

    69

    Kendall crushed out his mutilated cigarette, his dirty finger. nails

    covered with ash. 'I do,' he said. 'You need company; you're in the middle

    of a very emotional issue. It'll cost you but you don't have a choice.

    You've got to make deals, ring in everybody. Get hold of Sperry Rand, GM,

    Chrysler, Lockheed, Douglas, Rolls-Royce, if you have to ... every son of

    a bitch with an engineering laboratory. A patriotic crash program. Cross.

    reference your data, open up everything you've got.'

'They'll steal us blind!' roared Oliver. 'Millions!'

    'Cost you more if you don't ... I'll prepare supplementary financial stats.

    I'll pack the sheets with so much ice, it'll take ten years to thaw.

    That'll cost you, too.' Kendall smirked, baring soiled teeth.

    Howard Oliver stared at the unkempt accountant. 'It's crazy,' he said

    quietly. 'We'll be giving away fortunes for something that can't be bought

    because it doesn't exist.'

    'But you said it did exist. You told Swanson it existed - at least a hell

    of a lot more confidently than anybody else. You sold your great industrial

    know-how, and when you couldn't deliver, you covered up. Swanson's right.

    You're a menace to the war effort. Maybe you should be shot.

    Jonathan Craft watched the filthy, grinning bookkeeper with bad teeth and

    wanted to vomit. But he was their only hope.

70

    5

    SEPTEMBER 25,1943

    STUTTGART, GERMANY

Wilhelm. Zangen stood by the window overlooking Stuttgart's Reichssieg

Platz, holding a handkerchief against his inflamed, perspiring chin. This

outlying section of the city had been spared the bombing; it was

residential, even peaceful. The Neckar River could be seen in the distance,

its waters rolling calmly, oblivious to the destruction that had been

wrought on the other side of the city.

    Zangen realized he was expected to speak, to answer von Schnitzler, who

    spoke for all of I. G. Farben. The two other men were as anxious to hear

    his words as was von Schnitzler. There was no point in procrastinating. He

    had to carry out Altmiffler's orders.

    'The Krupp laboratories have failed. No matter what Essen says, there is no

    time for experimentation. The Ministry of Armaments has made that clear;

    Altmiffier is resolute. He speaks for Speer.' Zangen turned and looked at

    the three men. 'He holds you responsible.'

    'How can that beT asked von Schnitzler, his guttural lisp pronounced, his

    voice angry. 'How can we be responsible for something we know nothing

    about? It's illogical. Ridiculousl'

'Would you wish me to convey that judgment to the ministryT

    'I'll convey it myself, thank you,' replied von Schnitzler. 'Farben is not

    involved.'

'We are all involved,' said Zangen quietly.

    71

    'How can our company beT asked Heinrich Krepps, Direktor of Schreibwaren,

    the largest printing complex in Germany. 'Our work with Peenem0nde has been

    practically nothing; and what there was, obscured to the point of

    foolishness. Secrecy is one thing; lying to ourselves, something else

    again. Do not include us, Herr Zangen.'

:You are included.'

    I reject your conclusion. I've studied our communications with Peenem0nde.'

'Perhaps you were not cleared for all the facts.'

'Asinine!'

'Quite possibly. Nevertheless . . .

    'Such a condition would hardly apply to me, Herr Reich official,' said

    Johann Dietricht, the middle-aged effeminate son of the Dietricht

    Chemikalien empire. Dietricht's family had contributed heavily to Hitler's

    National Socialist coffers; when the father and uncle had died, Johann

    Dietricht was allowed to continue the management - more in name than in

    fact. 'Nothing occurs at Dietricht of which I am unaware. We've had nothing

    to do with Peenemiinde!'

    Johann Dietricht smiled, his fat lips curling, his blinking eyes betraying

    an excess of alcohol, his partially plucked eyebrows his sexual proclivity

    - excess, again. Zangen couldn't stand Dietricht; the man - although no man

    - was a disgrace, his life-style an insult to German industry. Again, felt

    Zangen, there was no point in procrastinating. The information would come

    as no surprise to von Schnitzler and Krepps.

    'There are many aspects of the Dietricht Chemikalien of which you know

    nothing. Your own laboratories have worked consistently with Peenemande in

    the field of chemical detonation.'

Dietricht blanched; Krepps interrupted.

    'What is your purpose, Herr Reich official? You call us here only to insult

    us? You tell us, directors, that we are not the masters of our own

    companies? I don't know Herr Dietricht so well, but I can assure you that

    von Schnitzler and myself are not puppets.'

    Von Schnitzler had been watching Zangen closely, observing the Reich

    official's use of his handkerchief. Zangen kept blotting his chin

    nervously. 'I presume you have specific information -such as you've just

    delivered to Herr Dietricht - that will con-

72

firm your statements.'

'I have.'

    'Then you're saying that isolated operations - within our own factories -

    were withheld from us.'

'I am.'

    'Then how can we be held responsible? These are insane accusations.'

'They are made for practical reasons.'

    'Now you're talking in circles!' shouted Dietricht, barely recovered from

    Zangen's insult.

    "I must agree,' said Krepps, as if agreement with the obvious homosexual

    was distasteful, yet mandatory.

    'Come, gentlemen. Must I draw pictures? These are your companies. Farben

    has supplied eighty-three per cent of all chemicals for the rockets;

    Schreibwaren has processed every blueprint; Dietricht, the majority of

    detonating compounds for the casing explosives. We're in a crisis. If we

    don't overcome that crisis, no protestations of ignorance will serve you.

    I might go so far as to say,that there are those in the ministry and

    elsewhere who will deny that anything was withheld. You simply buried your

    collective heads. I'm not even sure myself that such a judgment is in

    error.'

'Lies!' screamed Dietricht.

'Absurd!' added Krepps.

    'But obscenely practical,' concluded von Schnitzler slowly, staring at

    Zangen. 'So this is what you're telling us, isn't it? What Altmifller tells

    us. We either employ our resources to find a solution - to come to the aid

    of our industrial Schwachling - or we face equilateral disposition in the

    eyes of the ministry.'

    'And in the eyes of the Fiffirer; the judgment of the Reich itself.'

'But how?' asked the frightened Johann Dietricht.

    Zangen remembered AltmOller's words precisely. 'Your companies have long

    histories that go back many years. Corporate and individual. From the

    Baltic to the Mediterranean, from New York to Rio de Janeiro, from Saudi

    Arabia to Johannesburg.'

    'And from Shanghai down through Malaysia to the ports in Australia and the

    Tasman Sea,' said von Schnitzler quietly.

'They don't concern us.'

'I thought not.'

'Are you suggesting, Herr Reich official, that the solution for

    73

Peenemlinde lies in our past associations?' Von Schnitzler leaned forward in

his chair, his hands and eyes on the table.

    'It's a crisis. No avenues can be overlooked. Communications can be

    expedited.'

    'No doubt. What makes you think they'd be exchanged?' continued the head of

    1. G. Farben.

'Profits,' replied Zangen.

    'Difficult to spend facing a firing squad.' Von Schnitzler shifted his

    large bulk and looked up at the window, his expression pensive.

    'You assume the commission of specific transactions. I refer more to acts

    of omission.'

'Clarify that, please.' Krepps's eyes remained on the tabletop.,

    'There are perhaps twenty-five acceptable sources for the bortz and

    carbonado diamonds - acceptable in the sense that sufficient quantities can

    be obtained in a single purchase. Africa and South America; one or two

    locations in Central America. These mines are run by companies under fiat

    security conditions: British, American, Free French, Belgian ... you know

    them. Shipments are controlled, destinations cleared.... We are suggesting

    that shipments can be sidetracked, destinations altered in neutral

    territories. By the expedient of omitting normal security precautions. Acts

    of incompetence, if you will; human error, not betrayal.'

    'Extraordinarily profitable rrdstakes,' summed up von Schnitzler.

'Precisely,' said Wilhelm Zangen.

    'Where do you find such men?' asked Johann Dietricht in his high-pitched

    voice.

'Everywhere,' replied Heinrich Krepps.

Zangen blotted his chin with his handkerchief.

74

    6

    NOVEMBER 29, 1943

    BASQUE COUNTRY, SPAIN

Spaulding raced across the foot of the hill until he saw the converging

limbs of the two trees. They were the mark. He turned right and started up

the steep incline, counting off an approximate 125 yards; the second mark.

He turned left and walked slowly around to the west slope, his -body low,

his eyes darting constantly in all directions; he gripped his pistol firmly.

    On the west slope he looked, for a single rock - one among so many on the

    rock-strewn Galician hill - that had been chipped on its downward side.

    Chipped carefully with three indentations. It was the third and final mark.

    He found it, spotting first the bent reeds of the stiff hill grass. He

    knelt down and looked at his watch: two forty-five.

    He was fifteen minutes early, as he had planned to be. In fifteen minutes

    he would walk down the west slope, directly in front of the chipped rock.

    There he would find a pile of branches. Underneath the branches would be a

    short-walled cave; in that cave - if all went as planned - would be three

    men. One was a member of an infiltration team. The other two were

    Wissenschaftkr - German scientists who had been attached to the Kindorf

    laboratories in the Ruhr Valley. Their defections - escape - had been an

    objective of long planning.

The obstacles were always the same.

Gestapo.

The Gestapo had broken an underground agent and was on to

    75

the Wissenschaftler. But, typical of the SS elite, it kept its knowledge to

itself, looking for bigger game than two disaffected laboratory men. Gestapo

Agenten had given the scientists wide latitude; surveillance dismissed,

laboratory patrols relaxed to the point of inefficiency, routine

interrogation disregarded.

Contradictions.

    The Gestapo was neither inefficient nor careless. The SS was setting a

    trap.

    Spaulding's instructions to the, underground had been terse, simple: let

    the trap be sprung. With no quarry in its net.

    Word was leaked that the scientists, granted a weekend leave to Stuttgart,

    were in reality heading due north through underground routing to

    Bremerhaven. There contact was being made with a high-ranking defecting

    German naval officer who had commandeered a small craft and would make a

    dramatic run to the Allies. It was common knowledge that the German navy

    was rife with unrest. It was a recruiting ground for the anti-Hitler

    factions springing up throughout the Reich.

    The word would give everyone something to think about, reasoned Spaulding.

    And the Gestapo would be following two men it assumed were the

    Wissenschaftler from Kindorf, when actually they were two middle-aged

    Wehrmacht security patrols sent on a false surveillance.

Games and countergames.

So much, so alien. The expanded interests of the man in Lisbon.

    This afternoon was a concession. Demanded by the German underground. He was

    to make the final contact alone. The underground claimed the man in Lisbon

    had created too many complications; there was too much room for error and

    counterinfiltration. There wasn't, thought David, but if a solo run would

    calm the nervous stomachs of the anti-Reichists, it was little enough to

    grant them.

    He had his own Valdero team a half mile away in the upper hills. Two shots

    and they would come to his help on the fastest horses Castilian money could

    buy.

It was time. He could start toward the cave for the final contact.

    He slid down the hard surface, his heels digging into the earth and rocks

    of the steep incline until he was above the pile of branches and limbs that

    signified the hideout's opening. He picked up a handful of loose dirt and

    threw it down into the broken foliage.

76

    The response was as instructed: a momentary thrashing of a stick against

    the piled branches. The fluttering of bird's wings, driven from the bush.

    Spaulding quickly sidestepped his way to the base of the enclosure and

    stood by the camouflage.

    'Alles in Ordnung. Kommen Me,' he said quietly but firmly. 'There isn't

    much traveling time left.'

'Halt!'was the unexpected shout from the cave.

    David spun around, pressed his back into the hill and raised his Colt. The

    voice from inside spoke again. In English.

'Are you ... Lisbon?'

    'For God's sake, yes I Don't do that I You'll get. your head shot off!'

    Christ, thought Spaulding, the infiltration team must have used a child, or

    an imbecile, or both as its runner. 'Come on out.'

    'I am with apologies, Lisbon,' said the voice, as the branches were

    separated and the pile dislodged. 'We've had a bad time of it.,

    The runner emerged. He was obviously not anyone David had trained. He was

    short, very muscular, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six; nervous fear

    was in his eyes.

    'In the future,' said Spaulding, 'don't acknowledge signals, then question

    the signaler at the last moment. Unless you intend to kill him. Es ist

    Schwarztuch-chiffire.'

'Was ist das? Black . . .'

    'Black drape, friend. Before our time. It means ... confirm and terminate.

    Never mind, just don't do it again. Where are the others?'

    'Inside. They are all right; very tired and very afraid, but not injured.'

    The runner turned and pulled off more branches. 'Come out. It's the man

    from Lisbon.'

    The two frightened, middle-aged scientists crawled out of the cave

    cautiously, blinking at the hot, harsh sun. They looked gratefully at

    David; the taller one spoke in halting English.

    . 'This is a . . . minute we have waited for. Our very much thanks.'

    Spaulding smiled. 'Well, we're not out of the woods, yet. Frei. Both terms

    apply. You're brave men. We'll do all we can for you.'

    'There was ... nichts... remaining,' said the shorter laboratory man. 'My

    friend's socialist ... Polilik . . . was unpopular. My late wife was ...

    eine Aidin.'

'No childrenT

    77

'Nein,' answered the man. 'Gott sel dank.'

    'I have one son,' said the taller scientist coldly. 'Er ist ... Gestapo.'

    There was no more to be said, thought Spaulding. He turned to the runner,

    who was scanning the hill and the forests below. 'I'll take over now. Get

    back to Base Four as soon as you can. We've got a large contingent coming

    in from Koblenz in a few days. We'll need everyone. Get some rest.'

    The runner hesitated; David had seen his expression before ... so often.

    The man was now going to travel alone. No company, pleasant or unpleasant.

    Just alone.

    'That is not my understanding, Lisbon. I am to stay with you. . . .,

'WhyT interrupted Spaulding.

'My instructions. . .

'From whomT

    'From those in San Sebastidn. Herr Bergeron and his men. Weren't you

    informed?'

    David looked at the runner. The man's fear was making him a poor liar,

    thought Spaulding. Or he was something else. Something completely

    unexpected because it was not logical; it was not, at this point, even

    remotely to be considered. Unless . . ..

    David gave the runner's frayed young nerves the benefit of the doubt. A

    benefit, not an exoneration. That would come later.

    'No, I wasn't told,' he said. 'Come on. We'll head to Beta camp. We'll stay

    there until morning.' Spaulding gestured and they started across the foot

    of the slope.

    'I haven't worked this far south,' said the runner, positioning himself

    behind David. 'Don't you travel at night, LisbonT

    'Sometimes,' answered Spaulding, looking back at the scientists, who were

    walking side by side. 'Not if we can help it. The Basque shoot

    indiscriminately at night. They have too many dogs off their leashes at

    night.'

'I see.'

    'Let's walk single file. Flank our guests,' said David to the runner.

    The four traveled several miles east. Spaulding kept up a rapid pace; the

    middle-aged scientists did not complain but they obviously found the going

    difficult. A number of times David told the others to remain where they

    were while he entered the woods at various sections ofthe forest and

    returned minutes later. Each

78

time he did so, the older men rested, grateful for the pauses. The runner

did not. He appeared frightened - as if the American might not come back.

Spaulding did not encourage conversation, but after one such disappearance,

the young German could not restrain himself.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

    David looked at the Widerstandskdmpfer and smiled. 'Picking up messages.'

'Messages?'

    'These are drops. Along our route. We establish marks for leaving off

    information we don't want sent by radio. Too dangerous if intercepted.'

    They continued along a narrow path at the edge of the woods until there was

    a break in the Basque forest. It was a grazing field, a lower plateau

    centered beneath the surrounding hills. The Wissenschaftler were perspiring

    heavily, their breaths short, their legs aching.

    'We'll rest here for a while,' said Spaulding, to the obvious relief of the

    older men. 'It's time I made contact anyway.'

'Wa.t ist los?'asked the young runner. 'Contact?'

    'Zeroing our position,' replied David, taking out a small metal mirror from

    his field jacket. 'The scouts can relax if they know where we are.... If

    you're going to work the north coufitry -what you call south - you'd better

    remember all this.'

'I shall, I shall.'

    David caught the reflection of the sun on the mirror and beamed it up to a

    northern hill. He made a series of motions with his wrist, and the metal

    plate moved back and forth in rhythn-dc precision.

    Seconds later there was a reply from halfway up the highest hill in the

    north. Flashes of light shafted out of an infinitesimal spot in the

    brackish green distance. Spaulding turned to the others.

    'We're not going to Beta,' he said. 'Falangist patrols are in the area.

    We'll stay here until we're given clearance. You can relax.'

    The heavyset Basque put down the knapsack mirror. His companion still

    focused his binoculars on the field several miles below, where the American

    and his three charges were now seated on the ground.

    'He says they are being followed. We are to take up counterpositions and

    stay out of sight,' said the man with the metal

    79

mirror. 'We go down for the scientists tomorrow night. He will signal us.'

'What's he going to do?'

    'I don't know. He says to get word to Lisbon. He's going to stay in the

    hills.'

'He's a cold one,' the Basque said.

    DECEMBER 2,1943

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

    Alan Swanson sat in the back of the army car trying his best to remain

    calm. He looked out the window; the late morning traffic was slight. The

    immense Washington labor force was at its appointed destinations; machines

    were humming, telephones ringing, men were shouting and whispering and, in

    too many places, having the first drink of the day. The exhilaration that

    was apparent during the first hours of the working day faded as noon

    approached. By eleven thirty a great many people thought the war was dull

    and were bored by their mechanical chores, the unending duplicates,

    triplicates and quadruplicates. They could not understand the necessity of

    painstaking logistics, of disseminating information to innumerable chains

    of command.

    They could not understand because they could not be given whole pictures,

    only fragments, repetitious statistics. Of course they were bored.

    They were weary. As he had been weary fourteen hours ago in Pasadena,

    California.

Everything had failed.

    Meridian Aircraft had initiated - was forced to initiate - a crash program,

    but the finest scientific minds in the country could not eliminate the

    errors inside the small box that was the guidance system. The tiny,

    whirling spheroid discs would not spin true at maximum altitudes. They were

    erratic; absolute one second, deviant the next.

    The most infinitesimal deviation could result in the midair collision of

    giant aircraft. And with the numbers projected for

80

the saturation bombing prior to Overlord - scheduled to commence in less

than four months - collisions would occur.

But this morning everything was different.

    Could be different, if there was substance to what he had been told. He

    hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, hardly been able to eat. Upon

    landing at Andrews, he had hurried to his Washington apartment, showered,

    shaved, changed uniforms and called his wife in Scarsdale, where she was

    staying with a sister. He didn't remember the conversation between them;

    the usual endearments were absent, the questions perfunctory. He had no

    time for her.

    The army car entered the Virginia highway and accelerated. They were going

    to Fairfax; they'd be there in twenty minutes or so. In less than a half

    hour he would find out if the impossible was, conversely, entirely

    possible. The news had come as a lastminute stay of execution; the cavalry

    in the distant hills - the sounds of muted bugles signaling reprieve.

    Muted, indeed, thought Swanson as the army car veered off the highway onto

    a back Virginia road. In Fairfax, covering some two hundred acres in the

    middle of the hunt country, was a fenced-off area housing Quonset huts

    beside huge radar screens and radio signal towers that sprang from the

    ground like giant steel malformities. It was the Field Division

    Headquarters of Clandestine Operations; next to the underground rooms at

    the White House, the most sensitive processing location of the Allied

    Intelligence services.

    Late yesterday afternoon, FDHQ-Fairfax had received confirmation of an

    Intelligence probe long since abandoned as negative. It came out of

    Johannesburg, South Africa. It had not been proved out, but there was

    sufficient evidence to believe that it could be.

    High-altitude directional gyroscopes had been perfected. Their designs

    could be had.

81

    DECEMBER 2,1943

    BERLIN, GERMANY

    Altmillier sped out of Berlin on the Spandau highway toward Falkensee in

    the open Duesenberg. It was early in the morning and the air was cold and

    that was good.

    He was so exhilarated that he forgave the theatrically secretive ploys of

    the Nachrichtendienst, code name for a select unit of the espionage service

    known to only a few of the upper-echelon ministers, not to many of the High

    Command itself. A Gehlen specialty.

    For this reason it never held conferences within Berlin proper; always

    outside the city, always in some remote, secluded area or town and even

    then in private surroundings, away from. the potentially curious.

    The location this morning was Falkensee, twenty-odd miles northwest of

    Berlin. The meeting was to take place in a guest house on the estate

    belonging to Gregor Strasser.

    Altiniffler would have flown to Stalingrad itself if what he'd been led to

    believe was true.

    The Nachrichtendienst had found the solution for Peenom0ndel

The solution was true; it was up to others to expedite it.

    The solution that had eluded teams of 'negotiators' sent to all parts of

    the world to explore - unearth - prewar 'relationships! Capetown, Dar es

    Salaam, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires....

Failure.

    No company, no individual would touch German negotiations. Germany was in

    the beginning of a death struggle. It would go down to defeat.

    That was the opinion in Zdrich. And what Zilrich held to be true,

    international business did not debate.

But the Nachrichtendienst had found another truth.

So he was told.

    The Duesenberg's powerful engine hummed; the car reached high speed; the

    passing autumn foliage blurred.

    The stone gates of Strasser's estate came into view on the left, Webrinacht

    eagles in bronze above each post. He swung into the

82

long, winding drive and stopped at the gate guarded by two soldiers and

snarling shepherd dogs. Altmfiller thrust his papers at the first guard, who

obviously expected him.

    'Good morning, Herr Unterstaatssekretiir. Please follow the drive to the

    right beyond the main house.'

'Have the others arrived?'

'They are waiting, sir.'

    Altmrdler maneuvered the car past the main house, reached the sloping drive

    and slowed down. Beyond the wooded bend was the guest cottage; it looked

    more like a hunting lodge than a residence. Heavy dark-brown beams

    everywhere; a part of the forest.

    In the graveled area were four limousines. He parked and got out, pulling

    his tunic down, checking his lapels for lint. He stood erect and started

    toward the path to the door.

    No names were ever used during a Nachrichtendienst conference; if

    identities were known - and certainly they had to be -they were never

    referred to in a meeting. One simply addressed his peer by looking at him,

    the group by gesture.

    There was no long conference table as AltmUller had expected; no formal

    seating arrangement by some hidden protocol. Instead, a half dozen

    informally dressed men in their fifties and sixties were standing around

    the small room with the high Bavarian ceiling, chatting calmly, drinking

    coffee. AltmWIer was welcomed as 'Herr Unterstaatssekretdr' and told that

    the morning's conference would be short. It would begin with the arrival of

    the final expected member.

    Altmaller accepted a cup of coffee and tried to fall into the casual

    atmosphere. He was unable to do so; he wanted to roar his disapproval and

    demand immediate and serious talk. Couldn't they understand?

    But this was the Nachrichtendienst. One didn't yell; one didn't demand.

    Finally, after what seemed an eternity to his churning stomach, Altmaller

    heard an automobile outside the lodge. A few moments later the door opened;

    he nearly dropped his cup of coffee. The man who entered was known to him

    from the few times he had accompanied Speer to Berchtesgaden. He was the

    F"rees valet, but he had no subservient look of a valet now.

    Without announcement, the men fell silent. Several sat in armchairs, others

    leaned against walls or stayed by the coffee

    &3

table. An elderly man in a heavy tweed jacket stood in front of the

fireplace and spoke. He looked at Franz, who remained by himself behind a

leather couch.

    'There is no reason for lengthy discussions. We believe we have the

    information you seek. I say "believe," for we gather information, we do not

    act upon it. The ministry may not care to act.'

'That would seem inconceivable to me,' said Altrafiller.

    'Very well. Several questions then. So there is no conflict, no

    misrepresentation.' The old man paused and lit a thick meerschaum pipe.

    'You have exhausted all normal Intelligence channels? Through Zihich and

    LisbonT

    'We have. And in numerous other locations - occupied, enemy and neutral.'

    'I was referring to the acknowledged conduits, Swiss, Scandinavian and

    Portuguese, primarily!

    'We made no concentrated efforts in the Scandinavian countries. Herr Zangen

    did not think . . .'

    'No names, please. Except in the area of Intelligence confrontation or

    public knowledge. Use governmental descriptions, if you like. Not

    individuals.'

    'The Reichsamt of Industry - which has continuous dealings in the Baltic

    areas -was convinced there was nothing to be gained there. I assume the

    reasons were geographical. There are no diamonds in the Baltic!

    'Or they've been burnt too often,' said a nondescript middleaged man below

    AltmOller on the leather sofa. 'If you want London and Washington to know

    what you're doing before you do it, deal with the Scandinavians.'

    'An accurate analysis,' concurred another member of the Nachrichtendienst,

    this one standing by the coffee table, cup in hand. 'I returned from

    Stockholm last week. We can't trust even those who publicly endorse us.'

    'Those least of all,' said the old man in front of the fireplace, smiling

    and returning his eyes to Franz. 'We gather you've made substantial offers?

    In Swiss currency, of course.'

    'Substantial is a modest term for the figures we've spoken of,' replied

    Altmfiller. 'I'll be frank. No one will touch us. Those who could,

    subscribe to Zfirich's judgment that we shall be defeated. They fear

    retribution; they even speak of postwar bank deposit reclamations.'

84

    'If such whispers reach the High Command there'll be a panic.' The

    statement was made humorously by the Fiffirees valet, sitting in an

    armchair. The spokesman by the fireplace continued.

    'So you must eliminate money as an incentive ... even extraordinary sums of

    money.'

    'The negotiating teams were not successful. You know that.' Altmifller had

    to suppress his irritation. Why didn't they get to the point?

    'And there are no ideologically motivated defectors on the horizon.

    Certainly none who have access to industrial diarnonds.'

'Obviously, mein Herr.'

'So you must look for another motive. Another incentive.'

'I fail to see the point of this. I was told . . .'

    'You will,' interrupted the old man, tapping his pipe on the mantel. 'You

    see, we've uncovered a panic as great as yours.

. . The enemy's panic. We've found the most logical motive for ~l concerned.

Each side possesses the other's solution!

    Franz Altmilller was suddenly afraid. He could not be sure he fully

    understood the spokesman's implications. 'What are you saying?'

    'Peenemilnde has perfected a high-altitude, directional guidance system, is

    this correct?'

'Certainly. Indigenous to the basic operation of the rockets.'

    'But there'll be no rockets - or at best, a pitiful few - without shipments

    of industrial diamonds.'

'Obviously.'

    'There are business interests in the United States who face insurmountable

    . . .,' the old man paused for precisely one second and continued,

    6insurtnountable problems that can only be resolved by the acquisition of

    functional high-altitude gyroscopes.'

'Are you suggesting . .

    'The Nachrichtendienst does not suggest, Herr Unterstaatssekret4r. We say

    what is.' The spokesman removed the meerschaum from his lips. 'When the

    occasion warrants, we transmit concrete information to diverse recipients.

    Again, only what is. We did so in Johannesburg. When the man I. G. Farben

    sent in to purchase diamonds from the Koeni.ng mines met with failure, we

    stepped in and confirmed a long-standing Intelligence probe we knew would

    be carried back to Washington. Our agents in

    85

California had apprised us of the crisis in the aircraft industry. We

believe the timing was propitious.'

'I'm not sure I understand .....

    'Unless we're mistaken, an attempt will be made to reestablish contact with

    one of the Farben men. We assume contingencies were made for such

    possibilities.'

'Of course. Geneva. The acknowledged conduits.'

    'Then our business with you is concluded, sir. May we wish you a pleasant

    drive back to Berlin.'

    DECEMBER 2,1943

    FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

    The interior of the Quonset belied its stark outside. To begin with, it was

    five times larger than the usual Quonset structure, and its metal casing

    was insulated with a sound-absorbing material that swept seamless down from

    the high ceiling. The appearance was not so much that of an airplane hangar

    - as it should have been - as of a huge, windowless shell with substantial

    walls. All around the immense room were banks of complicated high-frequency

    radio panels; opposite each panel were glassenclosed casings with dozens of

    detailed maps, changeable by the push of a button. Suspended above the maps

    were delicate, thin steel arms - markers, not unlike polygraph needles -

    that were manipulated by the radio operators, observed by men holding

    clipboards. The entire staff was military, army, none below the rank of

    first lieutenant.

    Three-quarters into the building was a floor-to-ceiling wall that obviously

    was not the end of the structure. There was a single door, centered and

    closed. The door was made of heavy steel.

    Swanson had never been inside this particular building. He had driven down

    to Field Division, Fairfax, many times - to get briefed on highly

    classified Intelligence findings, to observe the training of particular

    insurgence or espionage teams - but for all his brigadier's rank and

    regardless of the secrets he carried around in his head, he had not been

    cleared for this particular

86

building. Those who were, remained within the two-hundredacre compound for

weeks, months at a time; leaves were rare and taken only in emergency and

with escort.

    It was fascinating, thought Swanson, who honestly believed he had lost all

    sense of awe. No elevators, no back staircases, no windows; he could see a

    washroom door in the left wall and without going inside, knew it was

    machine ventilated. And there was only a single entrance. Once inside there

    was no place for a person to conceal himself for any length of time, or to

    exit without being checked out and scrutinized. Personal items were left at

    the entrance; no briefcases, envelopes, papers or materials were removed

    from the building without signed authorization by Colonel Edmund Pace and

    with the colonel personally at the side of the individual in question.

If there was ever total security, it was here.

    Swanson approached the steel door; his lieutenant escort pushed a button.

    A small red light flashed above a wan intercom, and the lieutenant spoke.

'General Swanson, colonel.'

    'Thank you, lieutenant,' were the words that came from the webbed circle

    below the light. There was a click in the door's lock and the lieutenant

    reached for the knob.

    Inside, Pace's office looked like any other Intelligence headquarters -

    huge maps on the walls, sharp lighting on the maps, lights and maps

    changeable by pushbuttons on the desk. Teletype machines were equidistant

    from one another below printed signs designating theaters of operation -

    all the usual furnishings. Except the furniture itself. It was simple to

    the point of primitiveness. No easy chairs, no sofas, nothing comfortable.

    Just plain metal straight-backed chairs, a desk that was more a table than

    a desk, and a rugless hardwood floor. It was a room for concentrated

    activity; a man did not relax in such a room.

    Edmund Pace, Commander of Field Division, Fairfax, got up from his chair,

    came around his table and saluted Alan Swanson.

    There was one other man in the room, a civilian, Frederic Vandamm,

    Undersecretary of State.

    'General. Good to see you again. The last time was at Mr. Vandamm's house,

    if I remember.'

'Yes, it was. How are things here?'

'A little isolated.'

'I'm sure.' Swanson turned to Vandamm. 'Mr. Undersecre-

    87

tary? I got back here as soon as I could. I don't have to tell you how

anxious I am. It's been a difficult month.'

    'I'm aware of that,' said the aristocratic Vandamm, smiling a cautious

    smile, shaking Swanson's hand perfunctorily. 'We'll get right to it.

    Colonel Pace, will you brief the general as we discussedT

    'Yes, sir. And then I'll leave.' Pace spoke noncommittally; it was the

    military's way of telegraphing a message to a fellow officcr: be carefuL

    Pace crossed to a wall map, present with markings. It was an enlarged,

    detailed section of Johannesburg, South Africa. Frederic Vandamm sat in a

    chair in front of the desk; Swanson followed Pace and stood beside him.

    'You never know when a probe will get picked up. Or where.' Pace took a

    wooden pointer from a table and indicated a blue marker on the map. 'Or

    even if the location is important. In this case it may be. A-week ago a

    member of the Johannesburg legislature, an attorney and a former director

    of Koening Mines, Ltd., was contacted by what he believed were two men from

    the Zdrich Staats-Bank. They wanted him to middle-man a negotiation with

    Koening: simple transaction of Swiss francs for diamonds - on a large

    scale, with the anticipation that the diamond standard would remain more

    constant than the gold fluctuations.' Pace turned to Swanson. 'So far, so

    good. With lendlease, and monetary systems going up in smoke everywhere,

    there's a lot of speculation in the diamond market. Postwar killings could

    be made. When he accepted the contact, you can imagine his shock when he

    arrived for the meeting and found that one of the "Swiss" was an old friend

    - a very old and good friend - from the prewar days. A German he'd gone to

    school with - the Afrikaner's mother was Austrian, father, a Boer. The two

    men had kept in close touch until thirty-nine. The German worked for 1. G.

    Farben.'

'What was the point of the meeting?' Swanson was impatient.

'I'll get to that. This background's important.'

'O.K. Go on.'

    'There was no diamond market speculation involved, no transaction with any

    Zdrich bank. It was a simple purchase. The Farben man wanted to buy large

    shipments of bortz and carbonado....'

'Industrial diamonds?' interrupted Swanson.

88

    Pace nodded. 'He offered a fortune to his old friend if he could puff it

    off. The Afrikaner refused; but his long-standing friendship with the

    German kept him from reporting the incident. Until three days ago.' Pace

    put down the pointer and started for his desk. Swanson understood that the

    colonel had additional information, written information, that he had to

    refer to; the general crossed to the chair beside Vandamm and sat down.

    'Three days ago,' continued Pace, standing behind the desk, 'the Afrikaner

    was contacted again. This time there was no attempt to conceal identities.

    The caller said he was German and had information the Allies wanted; had

    wanted for a long time.'

    'The probe?' asked Swanson, whose impatience was carried by his tone of

    voice.

    'Not exactly the probe we expected.... The German said he would come to the

    Afrikaner's office, but he protected himself. He told the lawyer that if

    any attempt was made to hold him, his old friend at L G. Farben would be

    executed back in Germany.' Pace picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

    He spoke as he leaned across and handed it to Swanson. 'This is the

    information, the report flown in by courier.'

    Swanson read the typewritten words below the Military Intelligence

    letterhead; above the large, stamped Top Secret. Eyes Only. Fairfax 4-0.

    Nov. 28, 1943. Johannesburg: Confirmed by Nachrichtendienst.

    Substratospheric directional gyroscopes perfected.

All tests positive. Peenernfinde. Subsequent contact: Geneva.

Johannesburg contingent.

    Swanson let the information sink in; he read the statement over several

    times. He asked a question of Edmund Pace with a single word: 'Geneva?'

'The conduit. Neutral channel. Unofficial, of course.'

'What is this ... NachrichtendienstT

    'Intelligence unit. Small, specialized; so rarefied it's above even the

    most classified crowds. Sometimes we wonder if it takes sides. It often

    appears more interested in observing than participating;'more concerned

    with after the war than now. We suspect that it's a Gehlen operation. But

    it's never been wrong. Never misleading.'

'I see.' Swanson held out the paper for Pace.

    89

    The colonel did not take it. Instead, he walked around the desk toward the

    steel door. 'I'll leave you gentlemen. When you're finished, please signify

    by pushing the white button on my desk.' He opened the door and left

    quickly. The heavy steel frame closed into an airtight position; a

    subsequent click could be heard in the lock housing.

    Frederic Vandamm looked at Swanson. 'There is your solution, general. Your

    gyroscope. In Peenemilnde. All you have to do is send a man to Geneva.

    Someone wants to sell it.'

Alan Swanson stared at the paper in his hand.

90

    DECEMBER 4,1943

    BERLIN, GERMAXY

Altratiller stared at the paper in his hand. It was after midnight, the city

in darkness. Berlin had withstood another night of murderous bombardment; it

was over now. There would be no further raids until late morning, that was

the usual pattern. Still, the black curtains were pulled tight against the

windows. As they were everywhere in the ministry.

    Speed was everything now. Yet in the swiftness of the planning, mandatory

    precautions could not be overlooked. The meeting in Geneva with the conduit

    was only the first step, the prelude, but it had to be handled delicately.

    Not so much what was said but who said it. The what could be transmitted by

    anyone with the proper credentials or acknowledged authority. But in the

    event of Germany's collapse, that someone could not represent the Third

    Reich. Speer had been adamant.

    And AltmUller understood: if the war was lost, the label of traitor could

    not be traced to the Reichsministry. Or to those leaders Germany would need

    in defeat. In 1918 after Versailles, there had been mass internal

    recriminations. Polarization ran deep" unchecked, and the nation's paranoia

    over betrayal from within laid the groundwork for the fanaticism of the

    twenties. Germany had not been able to accept defeat, could not tolerate

    the destruction of its identity by traitors.

Excuses, of course.

But the prospects of repetition, no matter how remote, were

    91

to be avoided at all costs. Speer was himself fanatic on the sub. ject. The

Geneva representative was to be a figure isolated from the High Command.

Someone from the ranks of German industry, in no way associated with the

rulers of the Third Reich. Someone expendable.

    AltmOller tried to point out the inconsistency of Speer's manipulation:

    high-altitude gyroscopic designs would hardly be given to an expendable

    mediocrity from German business. Peenerritinde was buried - literally

    buried in the earth; its military security measures absolute.

    But Speer would not listen, and Altmfiller suddenly grasped the

    Reichs~rtinister's logic. He was shifting the problem precisely where it

    belonged: to those whose lies and concealments had brought Peenernfinde to

    the brink of disaster. And as with so much in the wartime Reich - the labor

    forces, the death camps, the massacres - Albert Speer conveniently looked

    away. He wanted positive results, but he would not dirty his tunic.

    In this particular case, mused AltmWler, Speer was right. If there were to

    be risks of great disgrace, let German industry take them. Let the German

    businessman assume complete responsibility.

    Geneva was vital only in the sense that it served as an introduction.

    Cautious words would be spoken that could - or could not

lead to the second stage of the incredible negotiation.

    Stage two was geographical: the location of the exchange, should it

    actually take place.

    For the past week, day and night, Altmaller had done little else but

    concentrate on this. He approached the problem from the enemy's viewpoint

    as well as his own. His worktable. was covered with maps, his desk filled

    with scores of reports detailing the current political climates of every

    neutral territory on earth.

    For the location had to be neutral; there had to be sufficient' safeguards

    each side could investigate and respect. And perhaps most important of all,

    it had to be thousands of miles away ... from either enemy's corridors of

    power.

Distance.

Remote.

Yet possessing means of instant communication.

South America.

Buenos Aires.

An inspired choice, thought Franz AltmillIer. The Americans

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might actually consider it advantageous to them. It was unlikely that they

would reject it. Buenos Aires had much each enemy considered its own; both

had enormous influence, yet neither controlled with any real authority.

    The third stage, as he conceived of it, was concerned with the human

    factor, defined by the word Schiedsrichter.

Referee.

    A man who was capable of overseeing the exchange, powerful enough within

    the neutral territory to engineer the logistics. Someone who had the

    appearance of impartiality ... above an, acceptable to the Americans.

Buenos Aires had such a man.

One of Hider's gargantuan errors.

    His name was Erich Rhinemann. A Jew, forced into exile, disgraced by

    Goebbels's insane propaganda machine, his lands and companies expropriated

    by the Reich.

    Those lands and companies he had not converted before the misplaced

    thunderbolts struck. A minor percentage of his holdings, sufficient for the

    manic screams of the anti-Semitic press, but hardly a dent in his immense

    wealth.

    Erich Rhinemann lived in exiled splendor in Buenos Aims, his fortunes

    secure in Swiss banks, his interests expanding throughout South America.

    And what few people knew was that Erich Rhinemann was a more dedicated

    fascist than Hitler's core. He was a supremacist in all things financial

    and military, an elitist with regard to the human condition. He was an

    empire builder who remained strangely - stoically - silent.

He had reason to be.

    He would be returned to Germany regardless of the outcome of the war. He

    knew it.

    If the Third Reich was victorious, Hitler's asinine edict would be revoked

    - as, indeed, might be the Fiffirer's powers should he continue to

    disintegrate. If Germany went down to defeat - as Mich projected -

    Rhinemann's expertise and Swiss accounts would be needed to rebuild the

    nation.

    But these things were in the future. It was the present that mattered, and

    presently Erich Rhinemann was a Jew, forced into exile by his own

    countrymen, Washington's enemy.

He would be acceptable to the Americans.

And he would look after the Reich's interests in Buenos Aires.

Stages two and three, then, felt Altmfiller, had the ring of

    93

clarity. But they were meaningless without an accord in Geneva. The prelude

had to be successfully played by the minor instruments.

    What was needed was a man for Geneva. An individual no one could link to

    the leaders of the Reich, but still one who had a certain recognition in

    the market place.

    AltmUller continued to stare at the pages under the desk lamp. His eyes

    were weary, as he was weary, but he knew he could not leave his office or

    sleep until he had made the decision.

    His decision; it was his alone. To be approved by Speer in the morning with

    only a glance. A name. Not discussed; someone instantly acceptable.

    He would never know whether it was the letters in Johannesburg or the

    subconscious process of elimination, but his eyes riveted on one name, and

    he circled it. He recognized immediately that it was, again, an inspired

    choice.

    Johann Dietricht, the bilious heir of Dietricht Fabriken; the unattractive

    homosexual given to alcoholic excess and sudden panic. A completely

    expendable member of the industrial community; even the most cynical would

    be reluctant to consider him a liaison to the High Command.

An ex pendable mediocrity.

A messenger.

    DECEMBER 5,1943

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

The bass-toned chimes of the clock on the mantel marked the hour somberly.

It was six in the morning and Alan Swanson stared out the window at the dark

buildings that were Washington. His apartment was on the twelfth floor,

affording a pretty fair view of the capital's skyline, especially from the

living room, where he now stood in his bathrobe, no slippers on his feet.

    He had been looking at Washington's skyline most of the night ... most of

    the hours of the night for the past three days. God knew what sleep he

    managed was fitful, subject to sudden

94

torments and awakenings; and always them was the damp pillow that absorbed

the constant perspiration that seeped from the pores in the back of his

neck.

    If his wife were with him, she would insist that he turn himself in to

    Walter Reed for a checkup. She would force the issue with constant

    repetition until he was nagged into submission. But she was not with him;

    he had been adamant. She was to remain with her sister in Scarsdale. The

    natum of his current activities was such that his hours were indeterminate.

    Translation: the army man had no time for his army wife. The army wife

    understood: there was a severe crisis and her husband could not cope with

    even her minor demands and the crisis, too. He did not like her to observe

    him in these situations; he knew she knew that. She would stay in

    Scarsdale.

Oh, Christ! It was beyond belief!

    None said the words; perhaps no one allowed himself to think them.

    That was it, of course. The few - and there were very few -who had access

    to the data turned their eyes and their minds away from the ultimate

    judgment. They cut off the transaction at midpoint, refusing to acknowledge

    the final half of the bargain. That half was for others to contend with.

    Not them.

As the wily old aristocrat Frederic Vandamm had done.

    There's your solution, general. Your guidance system. In Peenemande....

    Someone wants to sell it.

That's all.

Buy it.

    None wanted to know the price. The price was insignificant ... let others

    concern themselves with details. Under no circumstances - no circumstances

    - were insignificant details to be brought up for discussion! They were

    merely to be expedited.

    Translation: the chain of command depended upon the execution of general

    orders. It did not - repeat, not - require undue elaboration, clarification

    or justification. Specifics were an anathema; they consumed time. And by

    all that was military holy writ, the highest echelons had no time. Goddamn

    it, man, there was a war on! We must tend to the great military issues of

    state I

    The garbage will be sorted out by lesser men ... whose hands may on

    occasion reek with the stench of their lesser duties, but that's what the

    chain of command is all about.

Buy it I

    95

    We have no time. Our eyes are turned. Our minds are occupied elsewhere.

    Carry out the order on your own initiative as a good soldier should who

    understands the chain of command. No one will be inquisitive; it is the

    result that matters. We all know that; the chain of command, old boy.

Insanity.

    By the strangest coincidence an Intelligence probe is returned by a man in

    Johannesburg through which the purchase of industrial diamonds was sought.

    A purchase for which a fortune in Swiss currency was tendered by Germany's

    1. G. Farben, the armaments giant of the Third Reich.

    PeenemUnde had the guidance system; it could be had. For a price.

It did not take a major intellect to arrivd at that price.

Industrial diamonds.

Insanity.

    For reasons beyond inquiry, Germany desperately needed the diamonds. For

    reasons all too clear, the Allies desperately needed the high-altitude

    guidance system.

    An exchange between enemies at the height of the bitterest war in the

    history of mankind.

Insanity. Beyond comprehension.

    And so General Alan Swanson removed it from his immediate ... totality.

    The single deep chime of the clock intruded, signifying the quarter hour.

    Here and there throughout the maze of dark concrete outside, lights were

    being turned on in a scattering of tiny windows. A greyish purple slowly

    began to impose itself on the black sky; vague outlines of cloud wisps

    could be discerned above.

In the higher altitudes.

    Swanson walked away from the window to the couch facing the fireplace and

    sat down. It had been twelve hours ago . . . eleven hours and forty-five

    minutes, to be precise ... when he had taken the first step of removal.

    He had placed ... delegated the insanity where it belonged. To the men who

    had created the crisis; whose lies and manipulations had brought Overlord

    to the precipice of obscenity.

    He had ordered Howard Oliver and Jonathan Craft to be in his apartment at

    six o'clock. Twelve hours and fifteen minutes

96

ago. He had telephoned them on the previous day, making it clear that he

would tolerate no excuses. If transportation were a problem, he would

resolve it, but they were to be in Washington, in his apartment, by six

o'clock.

Exposure was a viable alternative.

    They had arrived at precisely six, as the somber chimes of the mantel clock

    were ringing.- At that moment Swanson knew he was dealing from absolute

    strength. Men like Oliver and Craft -especially Oliver -did not adhere to

    such punctuality unless they were afraid. It certainly was not courtesy. ,

The transference had been made with utter simplicity.

    There was a telephone number in Geneva, Switzerland. There was a man at

    that number who would respond to a given code phrase and bring together two

    disparate parties, act as an interpreter, if necessary. It was understood

    that the second party - for purposes of definition - had access to a

    perfected high-altitude guidance system. The first party, in turn, should

    have knowledge of ... perhaps access to ... shipments of industrial

    diamonds. The Koening mines of Johannesburg might be a place to start.

That was all the information they had.

    It was recommended that Mr. Oliver and Mr. Craft act on this information

    immediately.

    If they failed to do so, extremely serious charges involving individual and

    corporate deceit relative to armaments contracts would be levelled by the

    War Department.

    There had been a long period of silence. The implications of his statement

    - with all its ramifications - were accepted gradually by both men.

    Alan Swanson then added the subtle confirmation of their worst projections:

    whoever was chosen to go to Geneva, it could not be anyone known to him. Or

    to any War Department liaison with any of their companies. That was

    paramount.

    The Geneva meeting was exploratory. Whoever went to Switzerland should be

    knowledgeable and, if possible, capable of spotting deception. Obviously a

    man who practiced deception.

    That shouldn't be difficult for them; not in the circles they traveled.

    Surely they knew such a man.

They did. An accountant named Walter Kendall.

    Swanson looked up at the clock on the mantel. It was twenty minutes past

    six.

Why did the time go so slowly? On the other hand, why didn't

    97

it stop? Why didn't everything stop but the sunlight? Why did there have to

be the nights to go through?

    In another hour he would go to his office and quietly make arrangements for

    one Walter Kendall to be flown on neutral routes to Geneva, Switzerland. He

    would bury the orders in a blue pouch along with scores of other transport

    directives and clearances. There would be no signature on the orders, only

    the official stamp of Field Division, Fairfax; standard procedure with

    conduits.

    Oh, Christ! thought Swanson. If there could be control ... without

    participation.

    But he knew that was not possible. Sooner or later he would have to face

    the reality of what he had done.

98

    8

    DECEMBER 6,1943

    '41

    14,

    BASQUE COUNTRY, SPAIN

He had been in the north country for eight days. He had not expected it to

be this long, but Spaulding knew it was necessary : * . an unexpected

dividend. What had begun as a routine escape involving two defecting

scientists from the Ruhr Valley had turned into something else.

    The scientists were throwaway bait. Gestapo bait. The runner who had made

    their escape possible out of the Ruhr was not a member of the German

    underground. He was Gestapo.

    It had taken Spaulding three days to be absolutely sure. The Gestapo man

    was one of the best he had ever encountered, but his mistakes fell into a

    pattern: he was not an experienced runner. When David was sure, he knew

    exactly what had to be done.

    For five days he led his 'underground' companion through the hills and

    mountain passes to the east as far as Sierra de Guara, nearly a hundred

    miles from the clandestine escape routes. He entered remote villages and

    held 'conferences' with men he knew were Falangists - but who did not know

    him - and then told the Gestapo man they were partisans. He traveled over

    primitive roads and down the Guayardo River and explained that these routes

    were the avenues of escape.... Contrary to what the Germans believed, the

    routes were to the east, into the Mediterranean, not the Atlantic. This

    confusion was the prime reason for the success of the Pyrenees network. On

    two occasions he sent the Nazi into towns for supplies - both times he

    followed

    99

and observed the Gestapo man entering buildings that had thick telephone

wires sagging into the roofs.

    The information was being transmitted back to Germany. That was reason

    enough for the investment of five additional days. The German interceptors

    would be tied up for months concentrating on the eastern 'routes'; the

    network to the west would be relatively unencumbered.

    But now the game was coming to an end. It was just as well, thought David;

    he had work to do in Ortegal, on the Biscay coast.

    The small campfire was reduced to embers, the night air cold. Spaulding

    looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He had ordered the 'runner'

    to stay on guard quite far from the camp. site ... out of the glow of the

    fire. In darkness. He had given the Gestapo man enough time and isolation

    to make his move, but the German had not made his move; he had remained at

    his post.

    So be it, thought David. Perhaps the man wasn't as expert as he thought he

    was. Or perhaps the information his own men in the hills had given him was

    not accurate. There was no squad of German soldiers - suspected Alpine

    troops - heading down from the mountain borders to take out the Gestapo

    agent.

And him.

    He approached the rock on which the German sat. 'Get some rest. I'll take

    over.'

    'Danke,' said the man, getting to his feet. 'First, nature calls; I

    mustrelieve my bowels. I'll take a spade into the field.'

'Use the woods. Animals graze here. The winds carry.'

'Of course. You're thorough.'

'I try to be,' said David.

    The German crossed back toward the fire, to his pack. He removed a camp

    shovel and started for the woods bordering the field. Spaulding watched

    him, now aware that his first impression was the correct one. The Gestapo

    agent was expert. The Nazi had not forgotten that six days ago the two Ruhr

    scientists had disappeared during the night - at a moment of the night when

    he had dozed. David had seen the fury in the German's eyes and knew the

    Nazi was now remembering the incident.

    If Spaulding assessed the current situation accurately, the Gestapo man

    would wait at least an hour into his watch, to be sure he, David, was not

    making contact with unseen partisans in the darkness. Only then would the

    German give the signal that

100

would bring the Alpine troops out of the forest. With rifles leveled.

    But the Gestapo man had made a mistake. He had accepted too readily -

    without comment - Spaulding's statement about the field and the wind and

    the suggestion that he relieve himself in the woods.

    They had reached the field during late daylight; it was barren, the grass

    was sour, the slope rocky. Nothing would graze here, not even goats.

And there was no wind at all. The night air was cold, but dead.

    An experienced runner would have objected, no doubt humorously, and say

    he'd be damned if he'd take a crap in the pitch-black woods. But the

    Gestapo agent could not resist the gratuitous opportunity to make his own

    contact.

    If there was such a contact to be made, thought Spaulding. He would know in

    a few minutes.

    David waited thirty seconds after the man had disappeared into the forest.

    Then he swiftly, silently threw himself to the ground and began rolling his

    body over and over again, away from the rock, at a sharp angle from the

    point where the runner had entered the forest.

    When he had progressed thirty-five to forty feet into the grass, he stood

    up, crouching, and raced to the border of the woods, judging himself to be

    about sixty yards away from the German.

    He entered the dense foliage and noiselessly closed the distance between

    them., He could not see the man but he knew he would soon find him.

    Then he saw it. The German's signal. A match was struck, cupped, and

    extinguished swiftly.

    Another. This one allowed to bum for several seconds, then snuffed out with

    a short spit of breath.

    From deep in the woods came two separate, brief replies. Two matches

    struck. In opposite directions.

    David estimated the distance to be, perhaps, a hundred feet. The German,

    unfamiliar with the Basque forest, stayed close to the edge of the field.

    The men he had signaled were approaching. Spaulding - making no sound that

    disturbed the hum of the woods - crawled closer.

    He heard the voices whispering. Only isolated words were distinguishable.

    But they were enough.

He made his way rapidly back through the overgrowth to his

    101

original point of entry. He raced to his sentry post, the rock. He removed

a small flashlight from his field jacket, clamped separated fingers over the

glass and aimed it southwest. He pressed the switch five times in rapid

succession. He then replaced the instrument in his pocket and waited.

It wouldn't be long now.

It wasn't.

    The German came out of the woods carrying the shovel, smoking a cigarette.

    The night was black, the moon breaking only intermittently through the

    thick cover of clouds; the darkness was nearly total. David got up from the

    rock and signaled the German with a short whistle. He approached him.

'What is it, LisbonT

Spaulding spoke quietly. Two words.

'Heil Hitler.'

    And plunged his short bayonet into the Nazi's stomach, ripping it downward,

    killing the man instantly.

    The body fell to the ground, the face contorted; the only sound was a

    swallow of air, the start of a scream, blocked by rigid fingers thrust into

    the dead man's mouth, yanked downward, as the knife had been, shorting out

    the passage of breath.

    David raced across the grass to the edge of the woods, to the left of his

    previous entry. Nearer, but not much, to the point where the Nazi had

    spoken in whispers to his two confederates. He dove into a cluster of

    winter fem as the moon suddenly broke through the clouds. He remained

    immobile for several seconds, listening for sounds of alarm.

    There were none. The moon was hidden again, the darkness returned. The

    corpse in the field had not been spotted in the brief illumination. And

    that fact revealed to David a very important bit of knowledge.

    Whatever Alpine troops were in the woods, they were not on the edge of the

    woods. Or if they were, they were not concentrating on the field.

They were waiting. Concentrating in other directions.

Or just waiting.

    He rose to his knees and scrambled rapidly west through the dense

    underbrush, flexing his body and limbs to every bend in the foliage, making

    sounds compatible to the forest's tones. He reached the point where the

    three men had conferred but minutes ago, feeling no presence, seeing

    nothing.

102

    He took out a box of waterproof matches from his pocket and removed two. He

    struck the first one, and the instant it flared, he blew it out. He then

    struck the second match and allowed it to bum for a moment or two before he

    extinguished it.

    About forty feet into the woods there was a responding flash of a match.

    Directly north.

    Almost simultaneously came a second response. This one to the west, perhaps

    fifty or sixty feet away.

No more.

But enough.

    Spaulding quickly crawled into the forest at an angle. Northeast. He went

    no more than fifteen feet and crouched against the trunk of an ant-ridden

    ceiba tree.

    He waited. And while he waited, he removed a thin, short, flexible coil of

    wire from his field jacket pocket. At each end of the wire was a wooden

    handle, notched for the human hand.

    The German soldier made too much noise for an Alpiner, thought David. He

    was actually hurrying, anxious to accommodate the unexpected command for

    rendezvous. That told Spaulding something else: the Gestapo agent he had

    killed was a demanding man. That meant the remaining troops would stay in

    position, awaiting orders. There would be a minimum of individual

    initiative.

    There was no time to think of them now. The German soldier was passing the

    ceiba tree.

    David sprang up silently, the coil held high with both hands. The loop fell

    over the soldier's helmet, the reverse -pull so swift and brutally sudden

    that the wire sliced into the flesh of the neck with complete finality.

There was no sound but the expunging of air again.

    David Spaulding had heard that sound so often it no longer mesmerized him.

    As it once had done.

Silence.

    And then the unmistakable breaking of branches; footsteps crushing the

    ground cover of an unfamiliar path. Rushing, impatient, as the dead man at

    his feet had been impatient.

    Spaulding put the bloody coil of wire back into his pocket and removed the

    shortened carbine bayonet from the scabbard on his belt. He knew there was

    no reason to hurry; the third man would be waiting. Confused, frightened

    perhaps ... but probably not, if he was an Alpiner. The Alpine troops were

    rougher than the

    103

Gestapo. The rumors were that the Alpiners were chosen primarily for streaks

of sadism. Robots who could live in mountain passes and nurture their

hostilities in freezing isolation until the order for attack were given.

    There was no question about it, thought David. There was a certain pleasure

    in killing Alpiners.

The treadmill.

He edged his way forward, his knife leveled.

    'Wer? ... Wer ist dort?'The figure in darkness whispered in agitation.

    'Hier, mein Soldat,'replied David. His carbine bayonet slashed into the

    German's chest.

    The partisans came down from the hills. There were five men, four Basque

    and one Catalonian. The leader was a Basque, heavyset and blunt.

    'You gave us a wild trip, Lisbon. There were times we thought you were

    loco. Mother of God! We've traveled a hundred mfles.'

    'The Germans will travel many times that, I assure you. What's north?'

    'A string of Alpiners. Perhaps twenty. Every six kilometers, right to the

    border. Shall we let them sit in their wastes?'

    'No,' said Spaulding thoughtfully. 'Kill them.... All but the last three;

    harass them back. They'll confirm what we want the Gestapo to believe.'

'I don't understand.'

    'You don't have to.' David walked to the dying fire and kicked at the

    coals. He had to get to Ortegal. It was all he could think about.

    Suddenly he realized that the heavyset Basque had followed him. The man

    stood across the diminished campfire; he wanted to say something. He looked

    hard at David and spoke over the glow.

    'We thought you should know now. We learned how the pigs made the contact.

    Eight days ago.'

    'What are you talking abouff Spaulding was irritated. Chains of command in

    the north country were at best a calculated risk. He would get the written

    reports; he did not want conversation. He wanted to sleep, wake up, and get

    to Ortegal. But the Basque seemed hurt; there was no point in that. 'Go on,

    amigo.'

    'We did not tell you before. We thought your anger would cause you to act

    rashly.'

104

'How so? Why?'

'It was Bergeron.'

'I don't believe that. . .

    'It is so. They took him in San Sebastidn. He did not break easily, but

    they broke him. Ten days of torture ... wires in the genitals, among other

    devices, including hypodermics of the drug. We are told he died spitting at

    them.'

    David looked at the man. He found himself accepting the information without

    feeling. Without feeling. And that lack of feeling warned him ... to be on

    guard. He had trained the man named Bergeron, lived in the hills with him,

    talked for hours on end about things only isolation produces between men.

    Bergeron had fought with him, sacrificed for him. Bergeron was the closest

    friend he had in the north country.

    Two years ago such news would have sent him into furious anger. He would

    have pounded the earth and called for a strike somewhere across the

    borders, demanding that retribution be made.

    A year ago he would have walked away from the bearer of such news and

    demanded a few minutes to be by himself. A brief silence to consider ... by

    himself ... the whole of the man who had given his life, and the memories

    that man conjured up.

Yet now he felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

And it was a terrible feeling to feel nothing at all.

    'Don't make that mistake again,' he said to the Basque. 'Tell me next time.

    I don't act rashly.'

105

    DECEMBER 13,1943

    BERLIN, GERMANY

Johann Dietricht shifted his immense soft bulk in the leather chair in front

of Altmillier's desk. It was ten thirty at night and he had not had dinner;

there had been no time. The Messerschmitt flight from Geneva had been

cramped, petrifying; and all things considered, Dietricht was in a state of

aggravated exhaustion. A fact he conveyed a number of times to the

Unterstaatssekretiir.

    'We appreciate everything you've been through, Herr Dietricht. And the

    extraordinary service you've rendered to your country.' AltmUller spoke

    solicitously. 'Ibis will take only a few minutes longer, and then I'll have

    you driven anywhere you like.1

    'A decent restaurant, if you can find one open at this hour,' said

    Dietricht petulantly.

    'We apologize for rushing you away. Perhaps a pleasant evening; a really

    good meal. Schnapps, good company. Heaven knows you deserve it.... There's

    an inn several miles outside the city. Its patronage is restricted; mostly

    young flight lieutenants, graduates in training. The kitchen is really

    excellent.'

    There was no need for Johann Dietricht to return AltmUller's smiling look;

    he accepted certain things as indigenous to his life-style. He had been

    catered to for years. He was a very important man, and other men were

    invariably trying to please him. As Herr AltmiWer was trying to please him

    now.

106

    'That might be most relaxing. It's been a dreadful day. Days, really.'

'Of course, if you've some other. .

    'No, no. I'll accept your recommendation.... Let's get on with it, shall

    we?'

    'Very well. Going back over several points so there's no room for error....

    The American was not upset with regard to Buenos Aires?'

    'He jumped at it. Revolting man; couldn't look you in the eye, but he meant

    what he said. Simply revolting, though. His clothes, even his fingernails.

    Dirty fellow!'

'Yes, of course. But you couldn't have misinterpreted?'

    'My English is fluent. I undeistand even the nuances. He was very pleased.

    I gathered that it served a dual purpose: far removed - thousands of miles

    away - and in a city nominally controlled by American interests.'

    'Yes, we anticipated that reaction. Did he have the authority to confirm

    it?'

    'Indeed, yes. There was no question. For all his uncouth manner, he's

    obviously highly placed, very decisive. Unquestionably devious, but most

    anxious to make the exchange.'

'Did you discuss - even peripherally - either's motives?'

    'My word, it was unavoidable! This Kendall was most direct. It was a

    financial matter, pure and simple. There were no other considerations. And

    I believe him totally; he talks only figures. He reduces everything to

    numbers. I doubt he has capacities for anything else. I'm extremely

    perceptive.'

    'We counted on that. And Rhinemann? He, too, was acceptable?'

    'Immaterial. I pointed out the calculated risk we were taking in an effort

    to allay suspicions; that Rhinemann was in forced exile. This Kendall was

    impressed only by Rhinemann's wealth.'

    'And the time element; we must be thoroughly accurate. Let's go over the

    projected dates. It would be disastrous if I made any mistake. As I

    understand you, -the American had graduated estimates of carbonado and

    bortz shipping requirements. . . .'

    'Yes, yes,' broke in Dietricht, as if enlightening a child. 'After all, he

    had no idea of our needs. I settled on the maximum, of course; there was

    not that much difference in terms of time. They must divert shipments from

    points of origin; too great a risk in commandeering existing supplies.'

    107

'I'm not sure I understand that. It could be a ploy.,

    'They're trapped in their own security measures. As of a month ago, every

    repository of industrial diamonds has excessive controls, dozens of

    signatures for every kiloweight. To extract our requirements would be

    massive, lead to exposure.'

    'The inconvenience of the democratic operation. The underlings are given

    responsibility. And once given, difficult to divest. Incredible.'

    'As this Kendall phrased it, there would be too many questions, far too

    many people would be involved. It would be very sensitive. Their security

    is filled with Turks.'

    'We have to accept the condition.' said Altmillier with resignation -his

    own, not for the benefit of Dietricht. 'And the anticipated time for these

    shipment diversions is four to six weeks. It can't be done in less?'

'Certainly. If we are willing to process the ore ourselves.'

    'Impossible. We could end up with tons of worthless dirt. We must have the

    finished products, of course.'

'Naturally. I made that clear.'

    'It strikes me as an unnecessary delay. I have to look for inconsistencies,

    Herr Dietricht. And you said this Kendall was devious.'

    'But anxious. I said he was anxious, too. He drew an analogy that lends

    weight to his statements. He said that their problem was no less than that

    of a man entering the national vaults in the state of Kentucky and walking

    out with crates of gold bullion. ... Are we concluded?'

    'Just about. The conduit in Geneva will be given the name of the man in

    Buenos Aires? The man with whom we make contact ?'

    'Yes. In three or four days. Kendall believed it might be a scientist named

    Spinelli. An expert in gyroscopics.'

'That title could be questioned, I should think. He's Italian?'

'A citizen, however.'

    'I see. That's to be expected. The designs will be subject to scrutiny, of

    course. What remains now are the checks and counterchecks each of us employ

    up to the moment of the exchange. A ritual dance.'

    'Ach! That's for your people. I'm out of it. I have made the initial and,

    I believe, the most important contribution!

'There's no question about it. And, I assume, you have abided

108

by the Fiffirees trust in you, conveyed through this office. You have spoken

to no one of the Geneva tripT

    'No one. The FUhrer's trust is not misplaced. He knows that. As my father

    and his brother, my uncle, the Dietricht loyalty and obedience are

    unswerving.'

'He's mentioned that often. We are finished, mein Herr.'

    'Good! It's been absolutely nerve-wracking! . . . I'll accept your

    recommendation of the restaurant. If you'll make arrangements, I'll

    telephone for my car.'

    'As you wish, but I can easily have my personal driver take you there. As

    I said, it's somewhat restricted; my chauffeur is a young man who knows his

    way around.' Altmillier glanced at Dietricht. Their eyes met for the

    briefest instant. 'The Fikhrer would be upset if he thought I

    inconvenienced you.'

    'Oh, very well. I suppose it would be easier. And we don't want the

    Fiffirer upset.' Dietricht struggled out of the chair as Altmfiller rose

    and walked around the desk.

    'Thank you, Herr Dietricht,' said the Unterstaatssekretir, extending his

    hand. 'When the time comes we will make known your extraordinary

    contribution. You are a hero of the Reich, mein Herr. It is a privilege to

    know you. The adjutant outside will take you down to the car. The chauffeur

    is waiting.'

    'Such a relief! Good evening, Herr Altmfiller.' Johann Dietricht waddled

    toward the door as Franz reached over and pushed a button on his desk.

    In the morning Dietricht would be dead, the circumstances so embarrassing

    no one would care to elaborate on them except in whispers.

Dietricht, the misfit, would be eliminated.

    And all traces of the Geneva manipulation to the leaders of the Reich

    canceled with him. Buenos Aires was now in the hands of Erich Rhinemann and

    his former brothers in German industry.

Except for him - for Franz AltmUlIer.

The true manipulator.

109

    DECEMBER 15,1943

    11

    114

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

Swanson disliked the methods he was forced to employ. They were the

beginnings, he felt, of an unending string of deceits. And he was not a

deceitful man. Perhaps better than most at spotting deceitful men, but that

was due to continuous exposure, not intrinsic characteristics.

    The methods were distasteful: observing men who did not know they were

    being watched and listened to; who spoke without the inhibitions they

    certainly would have experienced had they any idea there were eyes and ears

    and wire recorders eavesdropping. It all belonged to that other world,

    Edmund Pace's world.

    It had been easy enough to manipulate. Army Intelligence had interrogation

    rooms all over Washington. In the most unlikely places. Pace had given him

    a list of locations; he'd chosen one at the Sheraton Hotel. Fourth floor,

    Suite 4-M; two rooms in evidence and a third room that was not. This unseen

    room was behind the wall with openings of unidirectional glass in the two

    rooms of the suite. These observation holes were fronted by impressionist

    paintings hung permanently in the bedroom and the sitting room. Wire

    recorders with plug-in jacks were on shelves beneath the openings within

    the unseen room. Speakers amplified the conversation with minor distortion.

    The only visual obstructions were the light pastel colors of the paintings.

Not obstructions at all, really.

    Neither had it been difficult to maneuver the three men to this room at the

    Sheraton. Swanson had telephoned Packard's Jonathan Craft and informed him

    that Walter Kendall was due in on an early afternoon flight from Geneva.

    The authoritative general also told the frightened civilian that it was

    possible the military might want to be in telephone communication.

    Therefore he suggested that Craft reserve a room at a busy, commercial

    hotel in the center of town. He recommended the Sheraton.

    Craft was solicitous; he was running for his life. If the War Department

    suggested the Sheraton, then the Sheraton it would be. He had booked it

    without bothering to tell Meridian Aircraft's Howard Oliver.

110

The front desk took care of the rest.

    When Walter Kendall had arrived an hour ago, Swanson was struck by the

    accountant's disheveled appearance. It was innate untidiness, not the

    result of traveling. A slovenliness that extended to his gestures, to his

    constantly darting eyes. He was an outsized rodent in the body of a

    medium-sized man. It seemed incongruous that men like Oliver and Craft -

    especially Craft - would associate with a Walter Kendall. Which only

    pointed up Kendall's value, he supposed. Kendall owned a New York auditing

    firm. He was a financial analyst, hired by companies to manipulate

    projections and statistics.

    The accountant had not shaken hands with either man. He had gone straight

    to an easy chair opposite the sofa, sat down, and opened his briefcase. He

    had begun his report succinctly.

'The son of a bitch was a homo, I swear to Christ!'

    As the hour wore on, Kendall described in minute detail everything that had

    taken place in Geneva. The quantities of bortz and carbonado agreed upon;

    the quality certifications; Buenos Aires; Gian Spinelli, thd gyroscopic

    designs - their certifications and delivery; and the liaison, Erich

    Rhinemann, exiled Jew. Kendall was an authoritative rodent who was not

    awkward in the tunnels of negotiated filth. He was, in fact, very much at

    home.

'How can we be sure they'll bargain in good faith?'asked Craft.

    'Good faithT Kendall smirked and winced and grinned at the Packard

    executive. 'You're too goddamned much. Good faith V

    'They might not give us the proper designs,' continued Craft. 'They could

    pass off substitutes, worthless substitutesl'

'He's got a point,' said the jowled Oliver, his lips taut.

    'And we could package crates of cut glass. You think that hasn't crossed

    their minds? ... But they won't and we won't. For the same shit-eating

    reason. Our respective necks are on chopping blocks. We've got a common

    enemy and it's not each other.'

    Oliver, sitting across from Kendall, stared at the accountant. 'Hitler's

    generals there; the War Department here.'

    'That's right. We're both lines of supply. For God, country and a dollar or

    two. And we're both in a lousy position. We don't tell the goddamned

    generals how to fight a war, and they don't tell us how to keel) up

    production. If they screw up strategy or lose a battle, no screams come

    from us. But if we're caught short, if we don't deliver, those fuckers go

    after our necks. It's god-

    damned unfair. This homo Dietricht, he sees it like I do. We have to protect

ourselves.'

    Craft rose from the couch; it was a nervous action, a gesture of doubt. He

    spoke softly, hesitantly. 'This isn't exactly protecting ourselves in any

    normal fashion. We're dealing with the enerny.'

    'Which enemyT Kendall shuffled papers on his lap; he did not look up at

    Craft. 'But right, again. It's better than "normal." No matter who wins,

    we've each got a little something going when it's over. We agreed on that,

    too.'

    There was silence for several moments. Oliver leaned forward in his chair,

    his eyes still riveted on Kendall. 'That's a dividend, Walter. There could

    be a lot of common sense in that.'

    'A lot,' replied the accountant, allowing a short glance at Oliver. 'We're

    kicking the crap out of their cities, bombing factories right off the map;

    railroads, highways - they're going up in smoke. It'll get worse. There's

    going to be a lot of money made putting it all back together.

    Reconstruction money.'

'Suppose Germany winsT asked Craft, by the window.

    'Goddamned unlikely,' answered Kendall. 'It's just a question of how much

    damage is done to both sides, and we've got the hardware. The more damage,

    the more it'll cost to repair. That includes England. If you boys are

    smart, you'll be prepared to convert and pick up some of the postwar

    change.'

    'The diamonds. . . .' Craft turned from the window. 'What are they forT

    .What difference does it makeT Kendall separated a page on his lap and

    wrote on it. 'They ran out; their asses are in a sling. Same as yours with

    the guidance system.... By the way, Howard, did you have a preliminary talk

    with the minesT

    Oliver was deep in thought. He blinked and raised his eyes. 'Yes. Koening.

    New York offices.'

'How did you put itT

    'That it was top secret, War Department approval. The authorization would

    come from Swanson's office but even he wasn't cleared.'

'They bought thatT The accountant was still writing.

    'I said the money would be up front. They stand to make a few million. We

    met at the Bankers' Club.'

'They bought it.' A statement.

'Walter continued Oliver, 'you said Spinelli

before. 1

112

don't like it. He's a bad choice.'

    Kendall stopped writing and looked up at the Meridian man. 'I didn't figure

    to tell him anything. Just that we were buying; he was to clear everything

    before we paid, make sure the designs were authentic.'

    'No good. He wouldn't be taken off the project. Not now; too many

    questions. Find somebody else.'

    'I see what you mean.' Kendall put down the pencil. He picked his nose; it

    was a gesture of thought. 'Wait a minute.... There is someone. Right in

    Pasadena. He's a weird son of a bitch, but he could be perfect.' Kendall

    laughed while breathing through his mouth. 'He doesn't even talk; I mean he

    can't talk.'

'Is he any goodT asked Oliver.

    'He's got problems but he may be better than Spinelli,' replied Kendall,

    writing on a separate piece of paper. 'I'll take care of it.... It'll cost

    you.'

    Oliver shrugged. 'Include it in the overruns, you prick. What's next?'

    'A contact in Buenos Aires. Someone who can deal with Rhinemann, work out

    the details of the transfer.'

    'Who?' asked Craft apprehensively, both hands clasped in front of him.

    The accountant grinned, baring his discolored teeth. 'You volunteering? You

    look like a priest.'

'Good Lord, no! I was simply...'

'How much, Kendall?' interrupted Oliver.

    'More than you want to pay but I don't think you've got a choice. I'll pass

    on what I can to Uncle Sam; I'll save you what I can.'

'You do that.

    'There's a lot of military down in Buenos Aires. Swanson will have to run

    some interference.'

    'He won't touch it,' said Oliver quickly. 'He was specific. He doesn't want

    to hear or see your name again.'

    'I don't give a shit if he does. But this Rhinemann's going to want certain

    guarantees. I can tell you that right now.'

    'Swanson will be upset.' Craft's voice was high and intense. 'We don't want

    him upset.'

    'Upset, shit! He wants to keep that pretty uniform nice and clean.... Tell

    you what, don't push him now. Give me some time; I've got a lot of things

    to figure out. Maybe I'll come up

    113

with a way to keep his uniform clean after all. Maybe I'll send him a bill.'

He wants to keep Mat pretty uniform nice and clean....

    So devoutly to be wished, Mr. Kendall, thought Swanson as he approached the

    bank of elevators.

    But not possible now. The uniform had to get dirty. The emergence of a man

    named Erich Rhinemann made that necessary.

    Rhinemann was one of Hitler's flascos. Berlin knew it; London and

    Washington knew it. Rhinemann was a man totally committed to power:

    financial, political, military. For him all authority must emanate from a

    single source and he would ultimately settle for nothing less than being at

    the core of that source.

    The fact that he was a Jew was incidental. An inconvenience to end with the

    end of the war.

    When the war was over, Erich Rhinemann would be called back. What might be

    left of German industry would demand it; the world's financial leaders

    would demand it.

    Rhinemann would reenter the international market place with more power than

    ever before.

Without the Buenos Aires manipulation.

With it his leverage would be extraordinary.

    His knowledge, his participation in the exchange would provide him with an

    unparalleled weapon to be used against all sides, all governments.

Especially Washington.

Erich Rhinemann would have to be eliminated.

After the exchange.

    And if only for this reason, Washington had to have another man in Buenos

    Aires.

114

10

DECEMBER 16,1943

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was unusual for the ranking officer of Fairfax to leave the compound for

any reason, but Colonel Edmund Pace was so ordered.

    Pace stood in front of General Swanson's desk and began to understand.

    Swanson's instructions were brief, but covered more territory than their

    brevity implied. Intelligence files would have, to be culled from dozens of

    double-locked cabinets, a number examined minutely.

    Swanson knew that at first Pace disapproved. The Fairfax commander could

    not conceal his astonishment - at first. The agent in question had to be

    fluent in both German and Spanish. He had to have a working knowledge - not

    expert but certainly more than conversational - of aircraft engineering,

    including metallurgical dynamics and navigational systems. He had to be a

    man capable of sustaining a cover perhaps on the embassy level. That meant

    an individual possessing the necessary graces to function easily in monied

    circles, in the diplomatic arena.

    At this juncture Pace had balked. His knowledge of the Johannesburg probe

    and the Geneva conduit caused him to object. He interrupted Swanson, only

    to be told to hold his remarks until his superior had finished.

    The last qualification of the man for Buenos Aires - and the general

    conceded its inconsistency when included with the previous technical

    qualifications - was that the agent be experienced in 'swift dispatch.'

    115

    The man was to be no stranger to killing. Not combat fire with its

    adversaries separated, pitched into frenzy by the sights and sounds of

    battle. But a man who could kill in silence, facing his target. Alone.

    This last qualification mollified Pace. His expression conveyed the fact

    that whatever his superiors were involved in, it was not wholly what he

    suspected it to be - might be. The War Department did not request such a

    man if it intended to keep surface agreements.

    The ranking officer of Fairfax made no comment. It was understood that he,

    alone, would make the file search. He asked for a code, a name to which he

    could refer in any communications.

    Swanson had leaned forward in his chair and stared at the map on his desk.

    The map that had been there for over three hours.

'Call it "Tortugas,"' he said.

    DECEMBER 18,1943

    BERLIN, GERMANY

    Altmiffler stared at the unbroken sea] on the wide, brown manila envelope.

    He moved it under his desk lamp and took a magnifying glass from his top

    drawer. He examined the sea] under the magnification; he was satisfied. It

    had not been tampered with.

    The embassy courier had flown in from Buenos Aires - by way of Senegal and

    Lisbon - and delivered the envelope in person, as instructed. Since the

    courier was based permanently in Argentina, Altmaller did not want him

    carrying back gossip, so he indulged the man in innocuous conversation,

    referring to the communication several times in an offhand, derogatory

    manner. He implied it was a nuisance - a memorandum concerned with embassy

    finances and really belonged at the Finanzministerium, but what could he

    do? The ambassador was reputed to be an old friend of Speer's.

Now that the courier was gone and the door shut, AltmtWer

H6

riveted his attention on the envelope. It was from Erich Rhine. mann.

    He sliced open the top edge. The letter was written by hand, in Rhinemann's

    barely decipherable script.

My Dear AltmOller:

    To serve the Reich is a privilege I undertake with enthusiasm. I am, of

    course, grateful for your assurances that my efforts will be made known to

    my many old friends. I assumed you' would do no less under the

    circumstances.

    You will be pleased to know that in the coastal waters from Punta Delgada

    north to the Caribbean, my ships are honored under the neutrality of the

    Paraguayan flag. This convenience may be of service to you. Further, I have

    a number of vessels, notably small and medium-sized craft converted with

    highperformance engines. They are capable of traveling swiftly through the

    coastal waters, and there are refueling depots, thus enabling considerable

    distances to be traversed rapidly. Cert-, ainly no comparison to the

    airplane, but then the trips are made in utter secrecy, away from the

    prying eyes that surround all airfields these days. Even we neutrals must

    constantly outflank the blockades.

    This information should answer the curiously obscure questions you raised.

    I beg you to be more precise in future communications. Regardless, you may

    be assured of my commitment to the Reich.

    Along these lines, associates in Berne inform me that your Fiffirer is

    showing marked signs of fatigue. It was to be expected, was it not?

    Remember, my dear Franz, the concept is always a greater monument than the

    man. In the current situation, the concept came before the man. It is the

    monument.

    I await word from you.

    Erich Rhinemann

    How delicately unsubtle was Rhinemann! . . . commitment to the Reich ...

    associates in Berne ... marked signs offatigue ... to be expected...

    a greater monument than the man....

    117

    Rhinemann spelled out his abilities, his financial power, his 'legitimate'

    concerns and his unequivocal commitment to Germany. By including,

    juxtaposing these factors, he elevated himself above even the Fiffirer. And

    by so doing, condemned Hitlerfor the greater glory of the Reich. No doubt

    Rhinemann had photostats made of his letter: Rhinemann would start a very

    complete file of the Buenos Aires operation. And one day he would use it to

    maneuver himself to the top of postwar Germany. Perhaps of all Europe. For

    he would have the weapon to guarantee his acceptance.

    In victory or defeat. Unswerving devotion or, conversely, blackmail of such

    proportions the Allies would tremble at the thought of it.

    So be it, thought Altmillier. He had no brief with Rhinemann. Rhinemann was

    an expert at whatever he entered into. He was methodical to the point of

    excess; conservative in progress - only in the sense of mastering all

    details before going forward. Above everything, he was boldly imaginative.

Altmiffler's eyes fell on Rhinemann's words:

I beg you to be more precise in future communications.

    Franz smiled. Rhinemann was right. He had been obscure But for a sound

    reason: he wasn't sure where he was going; where he was being led, perhaps.

    He only knew that the crates of carbonado diamonds had to be thoroughly

    examined, and that would take time. More time than Rhinemann realized if

    the information he had received from PeenemOnde was accurate. According to

    PeenemUnde, it would be a simple matter for the Americans to pack thousands

    of low-quality bortz that, to the inexperienced eye, would be undetectable.

    Stones that would crack at the first touch to steel.

    If the operation was in the hands of the British, that would be the

    expected maneuver.

    And even the Americans had decent Intelligence manipulators. If the

    Intelligence services were intrinsic to the exchange. Yet Altmillier

    doubted their active involvement. The Americans were governmentally

    hypocritical. They would make demands of their industrialists and expect

    those demands to be met. However, they would close their eyes to the

    methods; the un sophisticated Puritan streak was given extraordinary lip

    service in Washington.

Such children. Yet angry, frustrated children were dangerous.

118

The crates would have to be examined minutely.

In Buenos Aires.

    And once accepted, no risks could be taken that the crates would be blown

    out of the sky or the water. So it seemed logical to ask Rhinemann what

    avenues of escape were available. For somewhere, somehow, the crates would

    have to make rendezvous with the most logical method of transportation,

    back to Germany.

Submarine.

    Rhinemann would understand; he might even applaud the precision of future

    communications.

    Altmillier got up from his desk and stretched. He walked absently around

    his office, trying to rid his back of the cramps resulting from sitting too

    long. He approached the leather armchair in which Johann Dietricht had sat

    several days ago.

    Dietricht was dead. The expendable, misfit messenger had been found in a

    bloodsoaked bed, the stories of the evening's debauchery so demeaning that

    it was decided to bury them and the body without delay.

    Altmifller wondered if the Americans had the stomach for such decisions.

He doubted it.

    DECEMBER 19,1943

"I

14-1

    FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

    Swanson stood silently in front of the heavy steel door inside the Quonset

    structure. The security lieutenant was on the wall intercom for only the

    length of time it took for him to give the

-general's name. The lieutenant nodded, replaced the phone, saluted the

general for a second time. The heavy steel door clicked and Swanson knew he

could enter.

    The Fairfax commander was alone, as Swanson had ordered. He was standing to

    the right of his table-desk, a file folder in his hand. He saluted his

    superior.

'Good morning, general.'

    119

'Morning. You worked fast; I appreciate it.'

    61t may not be everything you want but it's the best we can come up

    with.... Sit down, sir. I'll describe the qualifications. If they meet with

    your approval, the file's yours. If not, it'll go back into the vaults.'

    Swanson walked to one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the

    colonel's desk and sat down. He did so with a touch of annoyance. Ed Pace,

    as so many of his subordinates in Clandestine Operations, functioned as

    though he were responsible to no one but God; and even He had to be cleared

    by Fairfax. It struck Swanson that it would be much simpler if Pace simply

    gave him the file and let him read it for himself.

    On the other hand, Fairfax's indoctrination had at its core the possibility

    - however remote - that any pair of eyes might be captured by the enemy. A

    man could be in Washington one week, Anzio or the Solomons the next. There

    was logic in Pace's methods; a geographical network of underground agents

    could be exposed with a single break in the security chain.

    Still, it was annoying as hell. Pace seemed to enjoy his role; he was

    humorless, thought Swanson.

    'The subject under consideration is a proven field man. He's acted as

    independently as anyone in one of our touchiest locations. Languages:

    acceptable fluency. Deportment and cover: extremely flexible. He moves

    about the civilian spectrum facilely, from embassy teacups to bricklayers'

    saloons - be's very mobile and convincing.'

:You're coming up with a positive print, colonel.'

    If I am, I'm sorry. He's valuable where he is. But you haven't heard the

    rest. You may change your mind.'

'Go on.'

    'On the negative side, he's not army. I don't mean he's a civilian - he

    holds the rank of captain, as a matter of fact, but I don't think he's ever

    used it. What I'm saying is that he's never operated within a chain of

    command. He set up the network; he is the command. He has been for nearly

    four years now.'

:Why is that negativeT

    There's no way to tell how he reacts to discipline. Taking orders.'

    'There won't be much latitude for deviation. It's cut and dried.'

'That is important V Swanson spoke harshly; Pace was wasting

120

his time. The man in Buenos Aires had to understand what the bell was going

on; perhaps more than understand.

    'He's in a related field, sir. One that our people say primes him for crash

    instructions.'

'What is itT

    '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 recordT

'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 youT

    '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 strangeT

    '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 youT

'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 fa

'dors.,

    121

    'Your assumption was correct.... Tell me, do you know hirnT

    '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.'

:1 hope I can give an answer.'

It's within bounds. It's not specific.'

'What is itT

    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 equalfooting right now - at this moment.

    'I said the subject was valuable where he is. That's not strong enough.

    He's invaluable, 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

    transferT

    '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 hem 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.'

122

11

DECEMBER 26,1943

    RIBADA VIA, SPAIN

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 Valenga. The flight to

Lisbon would take another two hours, if the weather held and if an aircraft

was available. Valen4ga 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

    121

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 thom? 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 expatriot avoiding the risks of war. They accepted his

    gratuities and waved him over.

    The flight from Valenca 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.

    'Rotton weather, isn,t itr 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.'

124

    .'Those grass pilots fly so low you could jump down. I woffy 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 brigadierT

    '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 aboutT

    '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-surfaced road that led through the Alfama district, with

    its winding, hilly streets below the cathedral towers of the Moorish St.

    George and the Gothic S6. The American embassy was in the Baixa, past the

    Terreiro do Paqo. 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

    125

feeling of being dispossessed took hold of him again. So much was being

taken away and under such extraordinary conditions. Out ofstrategy...

'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 doT

    '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.'

126

    12

    DECEMBER 26,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.

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 aftemoon conference he had observed

    from the unseen room two 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.'

    127

    '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, generalT

    '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 Olivet 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 have 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. . . .

'HorseshitV

    Swanson exhaled an audible breath. 'That reaction is pointless. I don't

    want to argue with you. The point had 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

128

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 itT

    '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.'

    'Fair enough. But don't you forget, I've got a dozen different pigsties to

    run to. A great big War Department that could get me to Burma or Sicily in

    forty-eight hours. You don't. You're right out there ... in the barnyard.

    For everyone to see. And I've got a spool of wire that would make you

    special. That's the understanding I want you to have clear in your mind. I

    hope it is.,

    Kendall squeezed the tip of a second cigarette and lit the opposite end.

    The smoke drifted over his nostrils; he was about to speak, then stopped,

    staring at the general, his look a mixture of fear and hostility.

    Swanson found himself consciously avoiding Kendall's eyes. To acknowledge

    the man at that moment was to acknowledge the pact. And then he realized

    what would make the pact bearable. It was the answer, his answer; at least

    a surface one. He was amazed it had not occurred to him before this moment.

Walter Kendall would have to be eliminated.

As Erich Rhinemann would be eliminated.

    When Buenos Aires was in reach of completion, Kendall's death was

    mandatory.

    And then all specific traces to the government of the United States would

    be covered.

    He wondered briefly if the men in Berlin had the foresight for such abrupt

    decisions. He doubted it.

    He looked up at the filthy - sick - accountant and returned his stare in

    full measure. General Alan Swanson was no longer afraid. Or consumed with

    guilt.

He was a soldier.

'Shall we continue, Mr. Kendall?'

~!The accountant's projections for Buenos Aims were well

    129

thought out. Swanson found himself fascinated by Walter Kendall's sense of

maneuver and countermeasure. The man thought like a sewer rat:

instinctively, probing sources of smell and light; his strength in his

suspicions, in his constantly varying estimates of his adversaries. He was

indeed an animal: predator and evader.

    The Germans' prime concerns could be reduced to three: the quality of the

    bortz and carbonado diamonds; the quantity of the shipment; and finally the

    methods of safe transport to Germany. Unless these factors could be

    guaranteed, there would be no delivery of the gyroscopic designs - the

    guidance system.

    Kendall assumed that the shipment of diamonds would be inspected by a team

    of experts - not one man or even two.

    A team, then, three to five men, would be employed; the length of time

    required might extend to the better part of a week depending upon the

    sophistication of the instruments used. This information he had learned

    from Koening in New York. During this period simultaneous arrangements

    would be agreed to that allowed an aerophysicist to evaluate the gyroscopic

    designs brought from Peenemflnde. If the Nazis were as cautious as Kendall

    assumed they would be, the designs would be delivered in stages, timed to

    the schedule the inspection team considered adequate for its examination of

    the diamonds. The gyroscope scientist would no doubt be fed step-blueprints

    in isolation, with no chance of photostats or duplication until the diamond

    team had completed its work.

    Once both sides were satisfied with the deliveries, Kendall anticipated

    that an ultimate threat would be imposed that guaranteed safe transport to

    the respective destinations. And it was logical that this 'weapon' be

    identical for each party; threat of exposure. Betrayal of cause and

    country.

Penalties: death.

    The same 'weapon' the general held on him, on Walter Kendall.

What else was new?

    Did Kendall think it was possible to get the designs and subsequently

    sabotage or reclaim the diamond shipment?

    No. Not as long as it remained a civilian exchange. The -threat of exposure

    was too complete; there was too much proof of contact. Neither crisis could

    be denied and names were known. The taint of collaboration could ruin men

    and corporation&

130

'Authenticated' rumors could be circulated easily.

    And if the military moved in, the civilians would move out instantly - the

    responsibility of delivery no longer theirs.

    Swanson should know this; it was precisely the situation he had engineered.

Swanson knew it.

    Where would the diamonds be inspected? Where was the most advantageous

    location?

    Kendall's reply was succinct: any location that seemed advantageous to one

    side would be rejected by the other. He thought the Germans foresaw this

    accurately and for that reason suggested Buenos Aires. It was on the spool

    of wire. Didn't Swanson listen?

    Powerful men in Argentina were unquestionably, if quietly, pro-Axis, but

    the government's dependency on Allied economics took precedence. The

    neutrality essentially was controlled by the economic factors. Each side,

    therefore, had something: the Germans would find a sympathetic environment,

    but the Americans were capable of exerting a strong enough influence to

    counteract that sympathy - without eliminating it.

    Kendall respected the men in Berlin who centered in on Buenos Aires. They

    understood the necessity of balancing the psychological elements, the need

    to give up, yet still retain spheres of influence. They were good.

    Each side would be extremely cautious; the environment demanded it. Timing

    would be everything.

    Swanson knew how the designs would be gotten out: a string of pursuit

    aircraft flying up the coastal bases under diplomatic cover. This cover

    would extend to the military. Only he would be aware of the operation; no

    one else in the services or, for that matter, in the government would be

    apprised. He would make the arrangements and give them to Kendall at the

    proper time.

    What transport would the Germans arrive at? asked the general.

    'They've got a bigger problem. They recognize it so they'll probably make

    some kind of airtight demands. They could ask for a hostage, but I don't

    think so.'

'Why noff

    'Who've we got - that's involved - that's not expendable? Christ I If it

    was me, you'd be the first to say, "Shoot the son of a bitch!"' Kendall

    again locked his eyes briefly with Swanson's.

    131

'of course, you wouldn't know what particular safeguards I took; a lot of

uniforms would be dirty as hell.'

    Swanson recognized Kendall's threat for what it was. He also knew he could

    handle it. It would take some thought, but such consideration could come

    later. It would be no insurmountable hurdle to prepare for Kendall's

    dispatch. The isolation would come first; then an elaborate dossier....

    'Let's concentrate on how they expect to ship out the bortz and carbonado.

    There's no point in going after each other,' said Swanson.

'We're beyond that, thenT

'I think we are. i

'Good. Just don't forget it,' said Kendall.

    'The diamonds will be brought to Buenos Aires. Have those arrangements been

    madeT .

    'They're being made. Delivery date in three, three-and-a-half weeks. Unless

    there's a fuck-up in the South Atlantic. We don't expect any.'

    'The inspection team does its work in Buenos Aires. We send the physicist

    ... who will it be? SpinelliT

    'No. For both our sakes we ruled him out. But you know that. . . .'

'Yes. Who, then?'

    'Man named Lyons. Eugene Lyons. I'll get you a file on him. You'll sweat

    bullets when you read it, but if there's anyone better than Spinelli, it's

    him. We wouldn't take any chances. He's in New York now.'

    Swanson made a note. 'What about the German transport? Any ideas?'

    'A couple. Neutral cargo plane north to Recife in Brazil, across east to

    Palmas or someplace in Guinea on the African coast. Then straight up to

    Lisbon and out. That's the fastest routing. But they may not want to chance

    the air corridors.'

'You sound military.'

'When I do a job, it's thorough.'

'What else?'

    'I think they'll probably settle for a submarine. Maybe two, for diversion

    purposes. it's slower but the safest.'

    'Subs can't enter Argentine ports. Our southern patrols would blow them out

    of the water. If they put in, they're impounded. We're not going to change

    those rules.'

132

'You may have to.'

'Impossible. There has to be another way.'

'You may have to find it. Don't forget those clean ulfforms.9

Swanson looked away. 'What about RhinemarmT

    'What about him? He's on his way back. With his kind of money, even Hitler

    can't freeze him out.'

'I don't trust him.'

    'You'd be a goddamned fool if you did. But the worst he can do is hold out

    for market concessions - or money - from both sides. So what? He'll

    deliver. Why wouldn't heT

    'I'm sure he'll deliver; that's the one thing I'm positive about. ... Which

    brings me to the main point of this meeting. I want a man in Buenos Aires.

    At the embassy.'

    Kendall absorbed Swanson's statement before replying. He reached for the

    ashtray and put it on the arm of his chair. 'One of your men or one of

    ours? We need someone; we figured you'd have us supply him.'

'You figured wrong. I've picked him.'

    'That could be dangerous. I tell you this with no charge ... since I

    already said it.'

'If we move in, the civilian contingent moves outT A question.

'It makes sense. . . .'

    'Only if the man I send knows about the diamonds. You're to make sure he

    doesn't.' A statement. 'Make very sure, Kendall. Your life depends on it.'

The accountant watched Swanson closely. 'What's the point?'

    'There are six thousand miles between Buenos Aires and the Meridian

    Aircraft plants. I want that trip made without any mishaps. I want those

    designs brought back by a professional.'

    'You're taking a chance on dirtying up the uniforms, aren't you, generalT

    'No. The man will be told that Rhinemann made a deal for the designs out of

    Peenemilnde. We'll say Rhinemann brought in the German underground. For

    escape routings.'

    'Full of holes! Since when does the underground work for a price? Why would

    they go three thousand miles out of their way? or work with Rhinemann?'

    'Because they need him and he needs them. Rhinemann was exiled as a Jew; it

    was a mistake. He rivaled Krupp. There are many in German industry still

    loyal to him; and he maintains offices in Berne.... Our crisis in

    gyroscopics is no secret, we

    133

know that. Rhinemann would use that knowledge; make deals in Berne.'

'Why even bring in the underground?'

    'I have my own reasons. They're not your concern.' Swanson spoke curtly,

    clipping his words. It crossed his mind - fleetingly - that he was getting

    overtired again. He had to watch that; his strength was hollow when he was

    tired. And now he had to be convincing. He had to make Kendall obey without

    question. The important thing was to get Spaulding within reach of Erich

    Rhinemann. Rhinemann was the target.

    The brigadier watched the filthy man in front of him. It sickened him to

    think that such a human slug was so necessary to the moment. Or was it, he

    wondered, that he was reduced to using such a man? Using him and then

    ordering his execution. It made their worlds closer.

    'All right, Mr. Kendall, I'll spell it out. . . . The man I've picked for

    Buenos Aires is one of the best Intelligence agents we've got. He'll bring

    those designs back. But I don't want to take the slightest chance that he

    could learn of the diamond transfer. Rhinemann operating alone is suspect;

    the inclusion of the German underground puts it above suspicion.'

    Swanson had done his homework; everyone spoke of the French and Balkan

    undergrounds, but the German underground had worked harder and more

    effectively, with greater sacrifice, than all the others combined. The

    former man in Lisbon would know that. It would make the Buenos Aires

    assignment palatable and legitimate.

    'Wait a minute.... Jesus Christ! Wait a minute.' Kendall's disagreeable

    expression abruptly changed. It was as if suddenly - with reluctant

    enthusiasm - he had found merit in something Swanson said. 'That could be

    a good device.'

:What do you mean, device?'

    Just that. You say you're going to use it for this agent. The underground's

    above suspicion and all that shit.... O.K., let's go further. You just

    spelled out the guarantee we have to give.'

'What guarantee?'

    'That the shipment of Koening diamonds can get out of Buenos Aires. It's

    going to be the ball-breaker.... Let me ask you a couple of questions. And

    give me straight answers.'

    The sewer rat, thought Swanson, looking at the excited, disheveled

    figure-man. 'Go ahead.'

134

    'This underground. They've gotten a lot of people out of Germany, very

    important people. I mean everybody knows that.'

'They've- it's- been very effective.'

'Does it have any hooks into the German navy?'

    'I imagine so. Allied Central Intelligence would know specifically. . . .

    '

'But you don't want to go to them. Or do you?'

'Out of the question.'

'But is it possibleT

'WhatT

    'The German navy, goddamn it! The submarine fleet!' Kendall was leaning

    forward, his eyes now boring into Swanson's.

    'I would think so. I'm not ... not primarily an Intelligence man. The

    German underground has an extensive network. I assume it has contacts in

    the naval command.'

'Then it is possible.'

    'Yes, anything's possible.' Swanson lowered his voice, turning away from

    his own words. 'This is possible.'

    Kendall leaned back in the chair and crushed out his cigarette. He grinned

    his unattractive grin and wagged his forefinger at Swanson. 'Then there's

    your story. Clean as a goddamned whistle and way above any goddamned

    suspicion .... While we're buying those designs, it just so happens that a

    German submarine is floating around, ready to surface and bring out one -

    even two, if you like - very important defectors. Courtesy of the under-

    ground. What better reason for a submarine to surface in hostile waters?

    Protected from patrols. . . . Only nobody gets off. Instead, some fresh

    cargo gets put on board.'

    Swanson tried to assimilate Kendall's rapidly delivered maneuvers. 'There'd

    be complications .....

    'Wrong! It's isolated. One has nothing to do with the other! It's just

    talk, anyway.'

    Brigadier General Alan Swanson knew when he had met a man more capable in

    the field than himself. 'It's possible. Radio blackout; Allied Central

    instructions.'

    Kendall rose from his chair; he spoke softly. 'Details. I'll work them out.

    . . . And you'll pay me. Christ, will you pay.'

    135

    13

DECEMBER 27,1943 THE AZORES

The island of Terceira in the Azores, 837 miles due west of Lisbon, was a

familiar stop to the trans-Atlantic pilots flying the southern route to the

United States mainland. As they descended there was always the comfortable

feeling that they would encounter minor traffic to be serviced by efficient

ground crews who allowed them to be rapidly airborne again. Lajes Field was

good duty; those assigned there recognized that and performed well.

    Which was why the major in command of the B-17 cargo and personnel carrier

    which had a Captain David Spaulding as its single passenger couldn't

    understand the delay. It had begun at descent altitude, fourteen thousand

    feet. The Lajes tower had interrupted its approach instructions and ordered

    the pilot to enter a holding pattern. The major had objected; there was no

    necessity from his point of view. The field was clear. The Lajes tower

    radioman agreed with the major but said he was only repeating telephone

    instructions from American headquarters in Ponta Delgada on the adjacent

    island of Sdo Miguel. Az-Am-HQ gave the orders; apparently it was expecting

    someone to meet the plane and that someone hadn't arrived. The tower would

    keep the major posted and, incidentally, was the major carrying some kind

    of priority cargo? Just curiosity.

    Certainly not. There was no cargo; only a military attach6 named Spaulding

    from the Lisbon embassy. One of those god-

136

damned diplomatic teaparty boys. The trip was a routine return flight to

Norfolk, and why the hell couldn't he land?

The tower would keep the major posted.

    The B-17 landed at 1300 hours precisely, its holding pattern lasting

    twenty-seven minutes.

    David got up from the removable seat, held to the deck by clamps, and

    stretched. The pilot, an aggressive major who looked roughly thirteen years

    old to Spaulding, emerged from the enclosed cockpit and told him a jeep was

    outside - or would be outside shortly - to drive the captain off the base.

- 'I'd like to maintain a decent schedule,' said the young pilot, addressing

his outranked elder humorlessly. 'I realize you diplomatic people have a lot

of friends in these social posts, but we've got a long lap to fly. Bear it

in mind, please.'

    'I'll try to keep the polo match down to three chukkers,' replied David

    wearily.

    6Yeah, you do that.' The major turned and walked to the rear of the cabin,

    where an air force sergeant had sprung open the cargo hatch used for the

    aircraft's exit. Spaulding followed, wondering who would meet him outside.

    'My name's Ballantyne, captain,' said the middle-aged civilian behind the

    wheel of the jeep, extending his hand to Spaulding. 'I'm with

    Azores-American. Hop in; we'll only be a few minutes. We're driving to the

    provost's house, a few hundred yards beyond the fence.'

    David noticed that the guards at the gate did not bother to stop

    Ballantyne, they just waved him through. The civilian turned right on the

    road paralleling the field and accelerated. In less time than it took to

    adequately light a cigarette, the jeep entered the driveway of a one-story

    Spanish hacienda and proceeded past the house to what could only be

    described as an out-of-place gazebo.

    'Here we are. Come on, captain,' said Ballantyne getting out, indicating

    the screen door of the screened enclosure. 'My associate, Paul Hollander,

    is waiting for us.'

    Hollander was another middle-aged civilian. He was nearly bald and wore

    steel-rimmed spectacles that gave him an appearance beyond his years. As

    with Ballantyne, there was a look of intelligence about him. Both small and

    capital L Hollander smiled genuinely.

    137

    'This is a distinct pleasure, Spaulding. As so many others, I've admired

    the work of the man in Lisbon.'

Capital I, thought David.

'Thank you. I'd like to know why I'm not him any longer.'

'I can't answer that. Neither can Ballantyne, I'm afraid.'

    'Perhaps they thought you deserved a rest,' offered Ballantyne. 'Good Lord,

    you've been there -how long is it now? Three years with no break.'

    'Nearer four,' answered David. 'And there were plenty of "breaks". The

    Costa Brava beats the hell out of Palm Beach. I was told that you - I

    assume it's you - have my orders . . . . . I don't mean to seem impatient

    but there's a nasty teenager with a major's rank flying the plane. He's

    impatient.'

    'Tell him to go to blazes,' laughed the man named Hollander. 'We do have

    your orders and also a little surprise for you: you're a lieutenant

    colonel. Tell the major to get his uniform pressed.'

'Seems I jumped one.'

    'Not really. You got your majority last year. Apparently yqu don't have

    much use for titles in Lisbon.'

'Or military associations,' interjected Ballantyne.

    'Neither, actually,' said David. 'At least I wasn't broken. I had

    premonitions of walking guard duty around latrines.'

    'Hardly.' Hollander sat down in one of the four deck chairs, gesturing

    David to do the same. It was his way of indicating that their meeting might

    not be as short as Spaulding had thought. 'If it was a time for parades or

    revelations, I'm sure you'd be honored in the front ranks.'

    'Thanks,' said David, sitting down. 'That removes a very real concern.

    What's this all aboutT

    'Again, we don't have answers, only ex cathedra instructions. We're to ask

    you several questions - only one of which could preclude our delivering

    your orders. Let's get that over with first; I'm sure you'd like to know at

    least where you're going.'Hollander smiled his genuine smile again.

'I would. Go on.'

    'Since you were relieved of your duties in Lisbon, have you made contact -

    intentional or otherwise - with anyone outside the embassy? I mean by this,

    even the most innocuous good-bye? Or a settling of a bill - a restaurant,

    a store; or a chance run-in with an acquaintance at the airport, or on the

    way to the airport?'

'No. And I had my luggage sent in diplomatic cartons; no

138

suitcases, no traveling gear.'

'You're thorough,' said Ballantyne, still standing.

    'I've had reason to be. Naturally, I had engagements for the week after I

    returned from the north country. . . .

'From where?'asked Hollander.

    'Basque and Navarre. Contact points below the border. I always scheduled

    engagements right after; it kept a continuity. Not many, just enough to

    keep in sight. Part of the cover. I had two this week; lunch and

    cocktails.'

'What about themT Ballantyne sat down next to David.

    'I instructed Marshall - he's the cryp who took my orders -to call each

    just before I was supposed to show up. Say I'd be delayed. That was all.'

'Not that you wouldn't be thereT Hollander seemed fascinated.

'No. Just delayed. It fit the cover.'

    'I'll take your word for it,' laughed Hollander. 'You answered

    affirmatively and then some. How does New York strike youT

'As it always has: pleasantly for limited periods.'

    'I don't know for how long but that's your assignment. And out of uniform,

    colonel.'

'I lived in New York. I know a lot of people there.'

    'Your new cover is simplicity itself. You've been discharged most honorably

    after service in Italy. Medical reasons, minor wounds.' Hollander took out

    an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it across to

    David. 'It's all here. Terribly simple, papers ... everything.'

    'O.K.,' said David, accepting the envelope. 'I'm a ruptured duck in New

    York. So far, very nice. You couldn't make it the real thing, could youT

'The papers are simple, I didn't say authentic. Sorry.'

'So am 1. What happens thenT

    'Someone's very solicitous of you. You have an excellent job; good pay,

    too. With Meridian Aircraft.'

Weridian?'

'Blueprint Division.'

'I thought Meridian was in the Midwest. Illinois or Michigan.'

'It has a New York office. Or it does now.'

'Aircraft blueprints, I assume.'

'I should think so.'

'Is it counterespionageT

'We don't know,' answered Ballantyne. 'We weren't given

    139

any data except the names of the two men you'll report to.'

'They're in the envelope?,

    'No,' said Hollander. 'They're verbal and to be committed. Nothing written

    until you're on the premises.'

    'Oh, Christ, this all sounds like Ed Pace. He loves this kind of nonsense.'

'Sony, again. It's above Pace.'

    4What? ... I didn't think anything was, except maybe Holy Communion . . .

    . Then how do you report? And to whom?'

    'Priority courier straight through to an address in Washington. No

    department listing, but transmission and priority cleared through Field

    Division, Fairfax.'

    Spaulding emitted a soft, nearly inaudible whistle. 'What are the two

    namesT

    'The first is Lyons. Eugene Lyons. He's an aerophysicist. We're to tell you

    that he's a bit strange, but a goddarnned genius.'

:In other words, reject the man; accept the genius.'

    Something like that. I suppose you're used to it,' said Ballantyne.

'Yes,' answered Spaulding. 'And the other?'

    'A man named Kendall.' Hollander crossed his legs. 'Nothing on him; he's

    just a name. Walter Kendall. Have no idea what he does.'

    David pulled the strap across his waist in the removable seat. The 13- 1 Ts

    engines were revving at high speed, sending vibrations through the huge

    fuselage. He looked about in a way he hadn't looked at an airplane before,

    trying to reduce the spans and the plating to some kind of imaginary

    blueprint. If Hollander's description of his assignment was accurate - and

    why shouldn't it be? - he'd be studying aircraft blueprints within a few

    days.

    What struck him as strange were the methods of precaution. In a word, they

    were unreasonable; they went beyond even abnormal concerns for security. It

    would have been a simple matter for him to report to Washington, be

    reassigned, and be given an in-depth briefing. Instead, apparently there

    would be no briefing.

Why not?

    Was he to accept open-ended orders from two men he'd never met before?

    Without the sanction of recognition - even intro-

140

duction -from any military authority? What the hell was Ed Pace doing?

Sorry. . . . It's above Pace.

Those were the words Hollander had used.

. . . cleared through Field Division, Fairfax.

Hollander again.

    Except for the White House itself, David realized that Fairfax was about as

    high up as one could go. But Fairfax was still military. And he wasn't

    being instructed by Fairfax, simply 'cleared.'

    Hollander's remaining 'questions' had not been questions at all, really.

    They had been introduced with interrogatory words: do you, have you, can

    you. But not questions; merely further instructions.

    'Do you have friends in any of the aircraft companies? On the executive

    levelT

    He didn't know, for God's sake. He'd been out of the country so damned long

    he wasn't sure he had any friends, period.

    Regardless, Hollander had said, he was to avoid any such 'friends'- should

    they exist. Report their names to Walter Kendall, if he ran across them.

    'Have you any women in New York who are in the public eye?$.

    What kind of question was that? Silliest goddamned thing he'd ever heard

    of! What the hell did Hollander mean?

    The balding, bespectacled Az-Am agent had clarified succintly. It was

    listed in David's file that he had supplemented his civilian income as a

    radio performer. That meant he knew actresses.

And actors, Spaulding suggested. And so what?

    Friendships with well-known actresses could lead to newspaper photographs,

    Hollander rejoined. Or speculations in columns; his name in print. That,

    too, was to be avoided.

    David recalled that Jhe did know - knew - several girls who'd done well in

    pictures since he'd left. He'd had a short-lived affair with an actress who

    was currently a major star for Warner Brothers. Reluctantly he agreed with

    Hollander; the agent was right. Such contacts would be avoided.

    'Can you absorb quickly, commit to memory, blueprint specifications

    unrelated to industrial design?'

Given a breakdown key of correlative symbols and material

    141

factors, the answer was probably yes.

    Then he was to prepare himself - however it was done - for aircraft design.

That, thought Spaulding, was obvious.

That, Hollander had said, was all he could tell him.

    The B- 17 taxied to the west extreme of the Lajes runway and turned for

    takeoff. The disagreeable major had made it a point to be standing by the

    cargo hatch looking at his wristwatch when Spaulding returned. David had

    climbed out of the jeep, shaken hands with Ballantyne and held up three

    fingers to the major.

    'The timer lost count during the last chukker,' he said to the pilot. 'You

    know how it is with these striped-pants boys.'

The major had not been amused.

    The aircraft gathered speed, the ground beneath hammered against the

    landing gear with increasing ferocity. In seconds the plane would be

    airborne. David bent over to pick up an Azores newspaper that Hollander had

    given him and which he'd placed at his feet when strapping himself in.

    Suddenly it happened. An explosion of such force that the removable seat

    flew out of its clamps and jettisoned into the right wall of the plane,

    carrying David, bent over, with it. And he'd never know but often speculate

    on whether that Azores newspaper had saved his life.

    Smoke was everywhere; the aircraft careened off the ground and spun

    laterally. The sound of twisting metal filled the cabin with a continuous,

    unending scream; steel ribs whipped downward from the top and sides of the

    fuselage - snapping, contorted, sprung from their mountings.

    A second explosion blew out the front cabin; sprays of blood and pieces of

    flesh spat against the crumbling, spinning walls. A section of human scalp

    with traces of burnt hairline under the bright, viscous red fluid slapped

    into Spaulding's forearm. Through the smoke David could see the bright

    sunlight streaming through the front section of the careening plane.

The aircraft had been severed!

    David knew instantly that he had only one chance of survival. The fuel

    tanks were filled to capacity for the long Atlantic flight; they'd go up in

    seconds. He reached for the buckle at his waist and ripped at it with all

    his strength. It was locked; the hurling fall had caused the strap to bunch

    and crowd the housing with

142

cloth. He tugged and twisted, the snap sprung and he was free.

    The plane - what was left of it - began a series of thundering convulsions

    signifying the final struggle to come to a halt on the rushing, hilly

    ground beyond the runway. David crashed backward, crawling as best he could

    toward the rear. Once he was forced to stop and hug the deck, his face

    covered by his arms, a jagged piece of metal piercing the back of his right

    shoulder.

    The cargo hatch was blown open; the air force sergeant lay half out of the

    steel frame, dead, his chest ripped open from throat to rib cage.

    David judged the distance to the ground as best his panic would allow and

    hurled himself out of the plane, coiling as he did so for the impact of the

    fall and the necessary roll away from the onrushing tail assembly.

    The earth was hard and filled with rocks, but he was free. He kept rolling,

    rolling, crawling, digging, gripping his bloodied hands into the dry, hard

    soil until the breath in his lungs was exhausted.

    He lay on the ground and heard the screaming sirens far in the distance.

And then the explosion that filled the air and shook the earth.

    Priority high-frequency radio messages were sent back and forth between the

    operations room of Lajes Airfield and Field Division, Fairfax.

    David Spaulding was to be airlifted out of Terceira on the next flight to

    Newfoundland, leaving in less than an hour. At Newfoundland he would be met

    by a pursuit fighter plane at the air force base and flown directly to

    Mitchell Field, New York. In light of the fact that Lieutenant Colonel

    Spaulding had suffered no major physical disability, there would be no

    change in the orders delivered to him.

    The cause of the B-17 explosions and resultant killings was, without

    question, sabotage. Timed out of Lisbon or set during the refueling process

    at Lajes. An intensive investigation was implemented immediately.

    Hollander and Ballantyne had been with David when he was examined and

    treated by the British army doctor. Bandages around the sutures in his

    right shoulder, the cuts on his hands and forearms cleaned, Spaulding

    pronounced himself shaken but operable. The doctor left after administering

    an intravenous sedative

    143

that would make it possible for David to rest thoroughly on the final legs

of his trip to New York.

    'I'm sure it will be quite acceptable for you to take a leave for a week or

    so,' said Hollander. 'My God, you're lucky to be among us!'

'Alive is the word,' added Ballantyne.

'Am I a mark?' asked Spaulding. 'Was it connected with meT

    'Fairfax doesn't think so,' answered the balding Hollander. 'They think

    it's coincidental sabotage.'

    Spaulding watched the Az-Am agent as he spoke. It seemed to David that

    Hollander hesitated, as if concealing something.

'Narrow coincidence, isn't it? I was the only passenger'

    'If the enemy can eliminate a large aircraft and a pilot in the bargain,

    well, I imagine he considers that progr~ss. And Lisbon security is rotten.'

'Not where I've been. Not generally.'

    'Well, perhaps here at Terceira, then.... I'm only telling you what Fairfax

    thinks.'

    There was a knock on the dispensary door and Ballantyne opened it. A first

    lieutenant stood erect and spoke gently, addressing David, obviously aware

    that Spaulding had come very close to death.

    'It's preparation time, sir. We should be airborne in twenty minutes, Can

    I help you with anything?'

    'I haven't got anything, lieutenant. Whatever I had is in that mass of

    burnt rubble in the south forty.'

'Yes, of course. I'm sorry.'

    'Don't be. Better it than me.... I'll be right with you.' David turned to

    Ballantyne and Hollander, shaking their hands.

    As he said his last good-bye to Hollander, he saw it in the agent's eyes.

Hollander was hiding something.

    The British naval commander opened the screen door of the gazebo and walked

    in. Paul Hollander rose from the deck chair.

'Did you bring iff he asked the officer.

    'Yes.' The commander placed his attach6 case on the single wrought-iron

    table and snapped up the hasps. He took out an envelope and handed it to

    the American. 'The photo lab did a rather fine job. Well lighted, front and

    rear views. Almost as good as having the real item.'

144

    Hollander unwound the string on the envelope's flap and removed a

    photograph. It was an enlargement of a small medallion, a star with six

    points.

It was the Star of David.

    In the center of the face was the scrolled flow of a Hebrew inscription. On

    the back was the bas-relief of a knife with a streak of lightning

    intersecting the blade.

    'The Hebrew spells out the name of a prophet named Haggai; he's the symbol

    of an organization of Jewish fanatics operating out of Palestine. They call

    themselves the Haganah. Their business, they claim, is vengeance - two

    thousand years' worth. We anticipate quite a bit of trouble from them in

    the years to come; they've made that clear, I'm afraid.'

    'But you say it was welded to the bottom main strut of the rear cabin.'

    'In such a way as to escape damage from all but a direct explosion. Your

    aircraft was blown up by the Haganah.'

    Hollander sat down staring at the photograph. He looked up at the British

    commander. 'Why? For God's sake, why?'

'I can't answer that.'

    'Neither can Fairfax. I don't think they even want to acknowledge it. They

    want it buried.'

145

    14

    DECEMBER 27,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.

When the words came over his intercom in the soft, compensating voice of the

WAC lieutenant who was his secretary, Swanson knew it was no routine

communication.

    'Fairfax on line one, sir. It's Colonel Pace. He says to interrupt you.'

    Since delivering David Spaulding's file, the Fairfax commander had been

    reluctant to call personally. He hadn't spoken of his reluctance, he simply

    relegated messages to subordinates. And since they all concerned the

    progress of getting Spaulding out of Portugal, Pace's point was clear: he

    would expedite but not personally acknowledge his participation.

    Edmund Pace was still not satisfied with the murky 'highest priority'

    explanations regarding his man in Lisbon. He would follow orders

    once-removed.

    'General, there's a radio emergency from Lajes Field in Terceira,'said Pace

    urgently.

'What the hell does that mean? WhereT

    'Azores. 7be B-17 carrier with Spaulding on it was sabotaged. Blown up on

    takeoff.'

'Jesus I'

'May I suggest you come out here, sirT

'Is Spaulding deadT

    'Preliminary reports indicate negative, but I don't want to guarantee

    anything. Everything's unclear. I wanted to wait till 1

146

had further confirmations but I can't now. An unexpected development.

Please, come out, general.'

'On my way. Get the information on Spaulding!'

    Swanson gathered the papers on his desk - the information from Kendall -

    that had -to be clipped together, sealed in a thin metal box and locked in

    a file cabinet with two combinations and a key.

    If there was ever a reason for total security, it was symbolized by those

    papers.

    He spun the two combination wheels, turned the key and then thought for a

    second that he might reverse the process and take the papers with him....

    No, that was unsound. They were safer in the cabinet. A file cabinet

    riveted to the floor was better than a cloth pocket on a man who walked in

    the street and drove in automobiles. A file cabinet could not have

    accidents; was not subject to the frailties of a tired,

    fifty-three-year-old brigadier.

    He saluted the guard on duty at the entrance and walked rapidly down the

    steps to the curb. His driver was waiting, alerted by the WAC secretary,

    whose efficiency overcame her continuous attempts to be more than an

    efficient secretary to him. He knew that one day when the pressures became

    too much, he'd ask her in, lock the door and hump the ass off her on the

    brown leather couch.

    Why was he thinking about his secretary? He didn't give a goddamn about the

    WAC lieutenant who sat so protectively outside his office door.

    He sat back in the seat and removed his hat. He knew why he thought about

    his secretary: it gave him momentary relief. It postponed thoughts about

    the complications that may or may not have exploded on a runway in the

    Azores.

    Oh Christl The thought of rebuilding what he'd managed to put together was

    abhoffent to him. To go back, to reconstruct, to research for the right man

    was impossible. It was difficult enough for him to go over the details as

    they now stood.

The details supplied by the sewer rat.

Kendall.

    An enigma. An unattractive puzzle even G-2 couldn't piece together. Swanson

    had run a routine check on him, based on the fact that the accountant was

    privy to Meridian's aircraft contracts; the Intelligence boys and Hoover's

    tight-lipped maniacs had returned virtually nothing but names and dates.

    They'd been

    1-47

instructed not to interview Meridian personnel or anyone connected with ATCO

or Packard; orders that apparently made their task close to impossible.

    Kendall was forty-six, severely asthmatic and a CPA. He was unmarried, had

    few if any friends and lived two blocks from his firm, which he solely

    owned, in mid-Manhattan.

    The personal evaluations were fairly uniform: Kendall was a disagreeable,

    antisocial individualist who happened to be a brilliant statistician.

    The dossier might have told a desolate story - paternal abandonment, lack

    of privilege, the usual - but it didn't. There was no indication of

    poverty, no record of deprivation or hardship anywhere near that suffered

    by millions, especially during the Depression years.

No records of depth on anything, for that matter.

An enigma.

    But there was nothing enigmatic about Walter Kendall's 'details' for Buenos

    Aires. They were clarity itself. Kendall's sense of manipulation had been

    triggered; the challenge stimulated his already primed instincts for

    maneuvering. It was as if he had found the ultimate 'deal' - and indeed,

    thought Swanson, he had.

    The operation was divided into three isolated exercises: the arrival and

    inspection of the diamond shipment; the simultaneous analysis of the

    gyroscopic blueprints, as they, too, arrived; and the submarine transfer.

    The crates of bortz and carbonado from the Koening mines would be secretly

    cordoned off in a warehouse in the Dirsena Norte district of -the Puerto

    Nuevo. The Germans assigned to the warehouse would report only to Erich

    Rhinemarm.

    The aerophysicist, Eugene Lyons, would be billeted in a guarded apartment

    in the San Telmo district, an area roughly equivalent to New York's

    Gramercy Park - rich, secluded, ideal for surveillance. As the

    step-blueprints were delivered, he would report to Spaulding.

    Spaulding would precede Lyons to Buenos Aires and be attached to the

    embassy on whatever pretext Swanson thought feasible. His assignment - as

    Spaulding thought it to be - was to coordinate the purchase of the

    gyroscopic designs, and if their authenticity was confirmed, authorize

    payment. This authorization would be made by a code radioed to Washington

    that sup-

49

posedly cleared a transfer of funds to Rhinemann in Switzerland. Spaulding would

then stand by at a mutually agreed-upon airfield, prepared to be flown out

of Argentina. He would be given airborne clearance when Rhinemann received

word that 'payment' had been made.

    In reality, the code sent by Spaulding was to be a signal for the German

    submarine to surface at a prearranged destination at sea and make

    rendezvous with a small craft carrying the shipment of diamonds. Ocean and

    air patrols would be kept out of the area; if the order was questioned -

    and it was unlikely - the cover story of the underground defectors would be

    employed.

    When the transfer at sea was made, the submarine would radio confirmation

    - Rhinemann's 'payment'. It would dive and start its journey back to German

    . Spaulding would then be cleared y

for takeoff to the United States.

    These safeguards were the best either side could expect. Kendall was

    convinced he could sell the operation to Erich Rhinemann. He and Rhinemann

    possessed a certain objectivity lacking in the others.

    Swanson did not dispute the similarity; it was another viable reason for

    Kendall's death.

    The accountant would fly to Buenos Aires in a week and make the final

    arrangements with the German "patriot. Rhinemann would be made to

    understand that Spaulding was acting as an experienced courier, a custodian

    for the eccentric Eugene Lyons - a position Kendall admitted was desirable.

    But Spaulding was nothing else. He was not part of the diamond transfer; he

    knew nothing of the submarine. He would provide the codes necessary for the

    transfer, but he'd never know it. There was no way he could learn of it.

Airtight, ironclad: acceptable.

    Swanson had read and reread Kendall's 'details'; he could not fault them.

    The ferret-like accountant had reduced an enormously complicated

    negotiation to a series of simple procedures and separate motives. In a way

    Kendall had created an extraordinary deception. Each step had a checkpoint,

    each move a countermove.

    And Swanson would add the last deceit: David Spaulding would kill Erich

    Rhinemarm.

    Origin of command: instructions from Allied Central Intelligence. By the

    nature of Rhinemann's involvement, he was too

    149

great a liability to the German underground. The former man in Lisbon could

employ whatever methods he thought best. Hire the killers, do it himself;

whatever the situation called for. Just make sure it was done.

    Spaulding would understand. The shadow worldof agents and double agents had

    been his life for the past several years. David Spaulding - if his dossier

    was to be believed - would accept the order for what it was: a reasonable,

    professional solution.

If Spaulding was alive.

    Oh, Christl What had happened? Where was it? Lapess, Lajes. Some goddamned

    airfield in the Azores! Sabotage. Blown up on takeoff !

What the hell did it mean?

    The driver swung off the highway onto the back Virginia road. They were

    fifteen minutes from the Fairfax compound; Swanson found himself sucking

    his lower lip between his teeth. He had actually bitten into the soft

    tissue; he could taste a trickle of blood.

    'We have further information,' said Colonel Edmund Pace, standing in front

    of a photograph map frame. The map was the island of Terceira in the

    Azores. 'Spaulding's all right. Shaken up, of course. Minor sutures,

    bruises; nothing broken, though. I tell you he pulled off a miracle. Pilot,

    copilot, a crewman: all dead. Only survivors were Spaulding and a rear

    aerial gunner who probably won't make it.'

'Is he mobile? Spaulding?'

    'Yes. Hollander and Ballantyne are with him now. I assumed you wanted him

    out. . . .'

'Jesus, yes,' interrupted Swanson.

    'I got him on a Newfoundland transfer. Unless you want to switch orders, a

    coastal patrol flight will pick him up there and bring him south. Mitchell

    Field.'

'When will he get in?'

    'Late tonight, weather permitting. Otherwise, early morning. Shall I have

    him flown down here?'

    Swanson hesitated. 'No.... Have a doctor at Mitchell give him a thorough

    going-over. But keep him in New York. If he needs a few days' rest, put him

    up at a hotel. Otherwise, everything remains.'

'Well Pace seemed slightly annoyed with his

superior.

150

'Someone's going to have to see him.'

.WhyT

    'His papers. Everything we prepared went up with the plane. They're a

    packet of ashes.'

    'Oh. Yes, of course. I didn't think about that.' Swanson walked away from

    Pace to the chair in front of the stark, plain desk. He sat down.

    The colonel watched the brigadier. He was obviously concemed with Swanson's

    lack of focus, his inadequate concentration. 'We can prepare new ones

    easily enough, that's no problem.'

    'Good. Do that, will you? Then have someone meet him at Mitchell and give

    them to him.'

    'O.K. . . . But it's possible you may want to change your mind.' Pace

    crossed to his desk chair but remained standing.

'Why? About whaff

    'Whatever it is.... The plane was sabotaged, I told you that. If you

    recall, I asked you to come out here because of an unexpected development.'

    Swanson stared up at his subordinate. 'I've had a difficult week. And I've

    told you the gravity of this project. Now, don't play Fairfax games with

    me. I make no claims of expertise in your field. I asked only for

    assistance; ordered it, if you like. Say what you mean without the

    preamble, please.'

    'I've tried to give you that assistance.' Pace's tone was rigidly polite.

    'It's not easy, sir. And I've just bought you twelve hours to consider

    alternatives. That plane was blown up by the Haganah.'

'The what?'

    Pace explained the Jewish organization operating out of Palestine. He

    watched Swanson closely as he did so.

'That's insane! It doesn't make sense! How do you know?'

    'The first thing an inspection team does at the site of sabotage is to

    water down, pick over debris, look for evidence that might melt from the

    heat, or bum, if explosives are used. It's a preliminary check and it's

    done fast.... A Haganah medallion was found riveted to the tail assembly.

    They wanted full credit.'

'Good God I What did you say to the Azores peopleT

    'I bought you a day, general. I instructed Hollander to minimize any

    connection, keep it away from Spaulding. Frankly, to imply coincidence if

    the subject got out of hand. The Haganah

    151

is independent, fanatic. Most Zionist organizations won't touch it. They

call it a group of savages.'

    'How could it get out of hand?' Swanson was disturbed on another level.

    GI'm sure you're aware that the Azores are under British control. An old

    Portuguese treaty gives them the tight to military installations.'

'I know that,' said Swanson testily.

:The British found the medallion.'

What will they do?'

:Think about it. Eventually make a report to Allied Central.'

But you know about it now.'

    'Hollander's a good man. He does favors; gets favors in return.'

    Swanson got out of the chair and walked aimlessly around it. 'What do you

    think, Ed? Was it meant for Spaulding?' he looked at the colonel.

    The expression on Pace's face let Swanson know that Pace was beginning to

    understand his anxiety. Not so much about the project - that was out of

    bounds and he accepted it - but that a fellow officer was forced to deal in

    an area he was out-of-sync with; territory he was not trained to cross. At

    such times a decent army man had sympathy.

    'All I can give you are conjectures, very loose, not even good guesses....

    It could be Spaulding. And even if it was, it doesn't necessarily mean it's

    connected with your project.'

'Whaff

    'I don't know what Spaulding's field activities have been. Not

    specifically. And the Haganah is filled with psychopaths - deadly variety.

    They're about as rational as Julius Streicher's units. Spaulding may have

    had to kill a Portuguese or Spanish Jew. Or use one in a "cover trap." In

    a Catholic country that's all a Haganah cell would need.... Or it could be

    someone else on the plane. An officer or crewman with an anti-Zionist

    relative, especially a Jewish and-Zionist relative. I'd have to run a

    check. . . . Unless you'd read the book, you couldn't possibly understand

    those kikes.'

    Swanson remained silent for several moments. When he spoke he did so

    acknowledging Pace's attitude. 'Thank you.... But it probably isn't any of

    those things, is it? I mean, Spanish Jews or "cover traps" or some pilot's

    uncle. . . it's Spaulding.'

152

'You don't know that. Speculate, sure; don't assume.'

    'I can't understand how.' Swanson sat down again, thinking aloud, really.

    'All things considered . . . ' His thoughts drifted off into silence.

    'May I make a suggestionT Pace went to his chair. It was no time to talk

    down to a bewildered superior.

    'By all means,' said Swanson, looking over at the colonel, his eyes

    conveying gratitude to this hard-nosed, confident Intelligence man.

    'I'm not cleared for your project, let's face it, I don't want to be. It's

    a DW exercise, and that's where it belongs. I said a few minutes ago that

    you should consider alternatives ... maybe you should. But only if you see

    a direct connection. I watched you and you didn't.'

'Because there isn't any.'

    'You're not involved - and even I don't see how, considering what I do know

    from the probe and Johannesburg -with the concentration camps? Auschwitz?

    BelsenT

'Not even remotely.'

    Pace leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. 'Those are Haganah concerns.

    Along with the "Spanish Jews" and "cover traps." . . . Don't make any new

    decisions now, general. You'd be making them too fast, without supportive

    cause.'

    'Support. . . .' Swanson looked incredulous. 'A plane was blown up. Men

    were killed!'

    'And a medallion could be planted on a tail assembly by anyone. It's quite

    possible you're being tested.'

'By whom?'

    'I couldn't answer that. Warn Spaulding; it'll strike him as funny, he was

    on that aircraft. But let my man at Mitchell Field tell him there could be

    a recurrence; to be careful .... He's been there, general. He'll handle

    himself properly . . . . And in the Meantime, may I also suggest you look

    for a replacement.'

'A replacementT

    'For Spaulding. If there is a recurrence, it could be successful. He'd be

    taken out.'

'You mean he'd be killed.'

'Yes.'

    'What kind of world do you people live inT asked Swanson softly.

'It's complicated,'said Pace.

    153

    15

    DECEMBER 29,1943 NEW YORK CITY

Spaulding watched the traffic below from the hotel window overlooking Fifth

Avenue and Central Park. The Montgomery was one of those small, elegant

hotels his parents had used while in New York, and there was a pleasant

sense of nostalgia in his being there again. The old desk clerk had actually

wept discreet tears while registering him. Spaulding had forgotten -

fortunately he remembered before his signature was dry - that the old man

years ago had taken him for walks in the park. Over a quarter of a century

ago I

    Walks in the park. Governesses. Chauffeurs standing in foyers, prepared to

    whisk his parents away to a train, a concert, a rehearsal. Music critics.

    Record company executives. Endless dinner parties where he'd make his usual

    'appearance' before bed time and be prompted by his father to tell some

    guest at what age Mozart composed the Fortieth; dates and facts he was

    forced to memorize and which he gave not one goddamn about. Arguments.

    Hysterics over an inadequate conductor or a bad performance or a worse

    review.

Madness.

    And always the figure of Aaron Mandel, soothing, placating -so often

    fatherly to his overbearing father while his mother faded, waiting in a

    secondary status that belied her natural strength.

    And the quiet times. The Sundays - except for concert Sundays - whenhis

    parents would suddenly rememberhisexistence

154

and try to make up in one day the attention they thought they had allocated

improperly to governesses, chauffeurs and nice, polite hotel managements. At

these times, the quiet times, he had felt his father's honest yet artificial

attempts; had wanted to tell him it was all right, he wasn't deprived. They

didn't have to spend autumn days wandering around zoos and museums; the zoos

and museums were much better in Europe, anyway. It wasn't necessary that he

be taken to Coney Island or the beaches of New Jersey in summer. What were

they, compared to the Lido or Costa del Santiago? But whenever they were in

America, there was this parental compulsion to fit into a mold labeled 'An

American Father and Mother.'

Sad, funny, inconsistent, impossible, really.

    And for some buried reason, he had never come back to this small, elegant

    hotel during the later years. There was rarely a need, of course, but he

    could have made the effort; the management was genuinely fond of the

    Spaulding family. Now it seemed right, somehow. After the years away he

    wanted a secure base in a strangeland, secure at least in memories.

    Spaulding walked away from the window to the bed where the bellboy had

    placed his new suitcase with the new civilian clothes he had purchased at

    Rogers Peet. Everything, including the suitcase. Pace had had the foresight

    to send money with the major who had brought him duplicates of the papers

    destroyed in Terceira. He had to sign for the money, not for the papers;

    that amused him.

    The major who met him at Mitchell Field - on the field - had escorted him

    to the base infirmary, where a bored army doctor pronounced him fit but

    'run down'; had professionally criticized the sutures implanted by the

    British doctor in the Azores but saw no reason to change them; and

    suggested that David take two APCs every four hours and rest.

Caveat patient.

    The courier-major had played a tune on the Fairfax piano and told him Field

    Division was still analyzing the Lajes sabotage; it could have been aimed

    at him for misdeeds out of Lisbon. He should be careful and report any

    unusual incidents directly to Colonel Pace at Fairfax. Further, Spaulding

    was to commit the name of Brigadier General Alan Swanson, DW. Swanson was

    his source control and would make contact in a matter of days, ten at the

    outside.

    155

    Why call Pace then? Regarding any 'incidents.' Why not get in touch

    directly with this Swanson? Since he was the SC.

    Pace's instructions, replied the major - until the brigadier took over;

    just simpler that way.

    Or further concealment, thought David, remembering the clouded eyes of Paul

    Hollander, the Az-Am agent in Terceira.

    Something was happening. The source control transferwas being handled in a

    very unorthodox manner. From the unsigned, high-priority codes received in

    Lisbon to the extraordinary command: out of strategy. From the mid-ocean

    delivery of papers from Az-Am agents who said they had to question him

    first, to the strange orders that had him reporting to two civilians in New

    York without prior briefing.

    It was all like a hesitation waltz. it was either very professional or

    terribly amateur; really, he suspected, a combination of both. It would be

    interesting to meet this General Swanson. He had never heard of him.

    He Jay down on the hotel bed. He would rest for an hour and then shower and

    shave and see New York at night for the first time in overthreeyears. See

    what the war had done to a Manhattan evening; it had done little or nothing

    to the daylight hours, from what he'd seen - only the posters. It would be

    good to have a woman tonight. But if it happened, he'd want it to be

    comfortable, without struggle or urgency. A happy coincidence would be just

    right; a likable, really likable interlude. On the other hand, he wasn't

    about to browse through a telephone directory to create one. Three years

    and nine months had passed since he last picked up a telephone in New York

    City. During that time he had learned to be wary of the changes taking

    place over a matter of days, to say nothing of three years and nine months.

    And he recalled pleasantly how the Stateside transfers to the embassy in

    Lisbon often spoke of the easy accessibility of the women back home.

    Especially in Washington and New York, where the numbers and the absence of

    permanency worked in favor of one-night stands. Then he remembered, with a

    touch of amused resignation, that these same reports usually spoke of the

    irresistible magnetism of an officer's uniform, especially captain and

    over.

    He had worn a uniform exactly three times in the past four years: at the

    Mayflower Hotel lounge with Ed Pace, the day he arrived in Portugal and the

    day he left Portugal.

,156

He didn't even own one now.

    His telephone rang and it startled him. Only Fairfax and, he assumed, this

    brigadier, Swanson, knew where he was. He had called the Montgomery from

    the Mitchell Field infirmary and secured the reservation; the major had

    said to take seventy-two hours. He needed the rest; no one would bother

    him. Now someone was bothering him.

'HelloT

    'Davidt' It was a girl's voice; low, cultivated at the Plaza. 'David

    Spaulding!'

    'Who is thisT He wondered for a second i f his just-released fantasies were

    playing tricks on reality.

    'Leslie, darling! Leslie Jenner! My God, it must be nearly five years!,

    Spaulding's n-dnd raced. Leslie Jenner was part of the New York scene but

    not the radio world; she was the up-from-college crowd. Meetings under the

    clock at the Biltmore; late nights at LaRue; the cotillions - which he'd

    been invited to, not so much from social bloodlines as for the fact that he

    was the son of the concert Spauldings. Leslie was Miss Porter's, Finch and

    the Junior League.

    Only her name had been changed to something else. She had married a boy

    from Yale. He didn't remember the name.

    'Leslie, this is . . . well, Jesus, a surprise. How did you know I was

    here?' Spaulding wasn't engaging in idle small talk.

    'Nothing happens in New York that I don't know about! I have eyes and ears

    everywhere, darling! A veritable spy network!'

    David Spaulding could feel the blood draining from his face; he didn't like

    the girl's joke. 'I'm serious, Leslie. . . . Only because I, haven't called

    anyone. Not even Aaron. How did you find out?'

    'If you must know, Cindy Bonner - she was Cindy Tottle, married Paul Bonner

    - Cindy was exchanging some dreary Christmas gifts for Paul at Rogers Peet

    and she swore she saw you trying on a suit. Well, you know Cindy! Just too

    shy for words . . .'

    David didn't know Cindy. He couldn't even recall thename, much less a face.

    Leslie Jenner went on as he thought about that.

    1. . . and so she ran to the nearest phone and called me. After all,

    darling, we were a major item I'

    157

    If a 'major item' described a couple of summer months of weekending at East

    Hampton and bedding the daughter of the house, then David had to agree. But

    he didn't subscribe to the definition; it had been damned transient,

    discreet and bef9re the girl's very social marriage.

    'I'd just as soon you kept that information from your husband.

    'Oh, God, you poor lamb! It's Jenner, darling, not Hawkwood I Didn't even

    keep the name. Damned if I would.'

    That was it, thought David. She'd married a man named Hawkwood: Roger or

    Ralph; something like that. A football player, or was it tennis?

'I'm sorry. I didn't know.

    'Richard and I called it quits simply centuries ago. It was a disaster. The

    son of a bitch couldn't even keep his hands off my best friends! He's in

    London now; air corps, but very hush-hush, I think. I'm sure the English

    girls are getting their fill of him . . . and I do mean fill! I know!'

    There was a slight stirring in David's groin. Leslie Jenner was proffering

    an invitation.

    "Well, they're allies,' said Spaulding humorously. 'But you didn't tell me,

    how did you find me here?'

    'It took exactly four telephone calls, my lamb. I tried the usual:

    Commodore, Biltmore and the Waldorf; and then I remembered that your dad

    and mum always stopped off at the Montgomery. Very Old World, darling. . .

    . I thought, with reservations simply hell, you might have thought of it.'

'You'd make a good detective, Leslie.'

'Only when the object of my detecting is worthwhile, lamb. . We did have

fun.'

    'Yes, we did,' said Spaulding, his thoughts on an entirely different

    subject. 'And we can't let your memory prowess go to waste. Dinner?'

'If you hadn't asked, I would have screamed.'

'Shall I pick you up at your apartment? What's the addressr

    Leslie hesitated a fraction of a moment. 'Let's meet at a restaurant. We'd

    never get out of here.'

An invitation, indeed.

    David named a small Fifty-first Street cafe he remembered. It was on, Park.

    'At seven thirty? Eight?'

'Seven thirty's lovely, but not there, darling. It closed simply

158

years ago. Why not the Gallery? It's on Forty-sixth. I'll make reservations;

they know me.'

Tine.'

    'You poor lamb, you've been away so long. You don't know anything. I'll

    take you in tow.'

'I'd like that. Seven thirty, then.,

'Can't wait. And I promise not to cry.'

    Spaulding replaced the telephone; he was bewildered - on several levels. To

    begin with, a girl didn't call a former lover after nearly four war years

    without asking - especially in these times - where he'd been, how he was;

    at least the length of his stay in town. It wasn't natural, it denied

    curiosity in these curiosity-prone days.

Another reason was profoundly disturbing.

    The last time his parents had been at the Montgomery was in 1934. And he

    had not returned since then. He'd met the girl in 1936; in October of 1936

    in New Haven at the Yale Bowl. He remembered distinctly.

    Leslie Jenner couldn't possibly know about the Montgomery Hotel. Not as it

    was related to his parents.

She was lying.

159

16

DECEMBER 29,1943

    NEW YORK CITY

The Gallery was exactly as David thought it would be: a lot of deep-red

velvet with a generous sprinkling of palms in varying shapes and sizes,

reflecting the soft-yellow pools of light from dozens of wall sconces far

enough above the tables to make the menus unreadable. The clientele was

equally predictable: young, rich, deliberately casual; a profusion of

wrinkled eyebrows and crooked smiles and very bright teeth. The voices rose

and subsided, words running together, the diction glossy.

    Leslie Jenner was there when he arrived. She ran into his arms in front of

    the cloak room; she held him fiercely, in silence, for several minutes - or

    it seemed like minutes to Spaulding; at any rate, too long a time. When she

    tilted her head back, the tears had formed rivulets on her cheeks. The

    tears were genuine, but there was something - was it the tautness of her

    full mouth? the eyes themselves? - something artificial about the girl. Or

    was it him? The years away from places like the Gallery and girls like

    Leslie Jenner.

    In all other respects she was as he remembered her. Perhaps older,

    certainly more sensual - the unmistakable look of experience. Her dark

    blonde hair was more a light brown now, her wide brown eyes had added

    subtlety to her innate provocativeness, her face was a touch lined but

    still sculptured, aristocratic. And he could feel her body against his; the

    memories were sharpened by it. Lithe, strong, full breasted; a body that

    centered

160

on sex. Shaped by it and for it.

    'God, God, God I Oh, David!' She pressed her Ups against his ear.

    They went to their table; she held his hand firmly, releasing it only to

    light a cigarette, taking it back again. They talked rapidly. He wasn't

    sure she listened, but she nodded incessantly and wouldn't take her eyes

    off him. He repeated the simple outlines of his cover: Italy, minor wounds;

    they were letting him out to go back into an essential industry where he'd

    do more good than carrying a rifle. He wasn't sure how long he'd be in New

    York. (He was honest about that, he thought to himselE He had no -idea how

    long he'd be in town; he wished he did know.) He was glad to see her again.

    The dinner was a prelude to bed. They both knew it; neither bothered to

    conceal the excitement of reviving the most pleasant of experiences: young

    sex that was taken in shadows, beyond the reprimands of elders. Enjoyed

    more because it was prohibited, dangerous.

'Your apartment?'he asked.

    'No, lamb. I share it with my aunt, mum's younger sister. It's very chic

    these days to share an apartment; very patriotic.'

The reasoning escaped David. 'Then my place,' he said firmly.

    'DavidT Leslie squeezed his hand and paused before speaking. 'Those old

    family retainers who run the Montgomery, they know so many in our crowd.

    For instance, the Allcotts have a suite there, so do the Dewhursts.... I

    have a key to Peggy Webster's place in the Village. Remember Peggy? You

    were at their wedding. Jack Webster? You know Jack. He's in the navy; she

    went out to see him in San Diego. Let's go to Peggy's place.'

    Spaulding watched the girl closely. He hadn't forgotten her odd behavior on

    the telephone, her lie about the old hotel and his parents. Yet it was

    possible that his imagination was overworking - the years in Lisbon made

    one cautious. There could be explanations, memory lapses on his part; but

    now he was as curious as he was stimulated.

He was very curious. Very stimulated.

'Peggy's place,'he said.

    If there was anything beyond the sexual objective, it escaped him.

Their coats off, Leshe made drinks in the kitchen while David

    161

bunched newspapers beneath the fireplace grill and watched the kindling

catch.

    Leslie stood in the kitchen doorway looking down at him separating the

    logs, creating an airflow. She held their drinks and smiled. 'In two days

    it's New Year's Eve. We'll jump and call this ours. Our New Year's. The

    start of many, I hope.'

    'Of many,' he replied, standing up and going to her. He took both glasses,

    not the one extended. 'I'll put them over here.' He carried them to the

    coffee table in front of the small couch that faced the fireplace. He

    turned rapidly, politely to watch her eyes. She wasn't looking at the

    glasses. Or his placement of them.

    Instead, she approached the fire and removed her blouse. She dropped it on

    the floor and turned around, her large breasts accentuated by a tight,

    transparent brassiere that had webbed stitching at the tips.

'Take off your shirt, David.'

    He did so and came to her. She winced at his bandages and gently touched

    them with her fingers. She pressed herself against him, her pelvis firm

    against his thighs, moving laterally, expertly. He reached around her back

    and undid the hasps of the brassiere; she hunched slightly as he pulled it

    away; then she turned, arching her breasts upward into his flesh. He cupped

    her left breast with his right hand; she reached down, stepping partially

    away, and undid his trousers.

    'The drinks can wait, David. It's New Year's Eve. Ours, anyway.'

    Still holding her breast, he put his lips to her eyes, her ears. She felt

    him and moaned.

    'Here, David,' she said. 'Right here on the floor.' She sank to her knees,

    her skirt pulled up to her thighs, the tops of her stockings visible.

He lay down beside her and they kissed.

    'I remember,' he whispered with a gentle laugh. 'The first tirqe; the

    cottage by the boathouse. The floor. I remember.'

'I wondered if you would. I've never forgotten.'

    It was only one forty-five in the morning when he took her home. They had

    made love twice, drunk a great deal of Jack and Peggy Webster's good

    whiskey and spoken of the 'old days' mostly. Leslie had no inhibitions

    regarding her marriage.

162

Richard Hawkwood, ex-husband, was simply not a man who could sustain a

permanent relationship. He was a sexual glutton as long as the sex was

spread around; not much otherwise. He was also a failure - as much as his

family would allow - in the business world. Hawkwood was a man brought up to

enjoy fifty thousand a year with the ability to make, perhaps, six.

    The war was created, she felt, for men like Richard. They would excel in

    it, as her ex-husband had done. He should 'go down in flames' somewhere,

    exiting brilliantly rather than returning to the frustrations of civilian

    inadequacy. Spaulding thought that was harsh; she claimed she was being

    considerate. And they laughed and made love.

    Throughout the evening David kept alert, waiting for her to say something,

    reveal something, ask something unusual. Anything to clarify - if nothing

    else - the reasons behind her earlier lies about finding him. There was

    nothing.

    He asked her again, claiming incredulity that she would remember his

    parents and the Montgomery. She stuck to her infallible memory, adding only

    that 'love makes any search more thorough.'

She was lying again; he knew that. What they had was not love.

    She left him in the taxi; she didn't want him to come up. Her aunt would be

    asleep; it was better this way.

    They'd meet again tomorrow. At the Websters'. Ten o'clock in the evening;

    she had a dinner date she'd get rid of early. And she'd break her

    engagement for the real New Year's Eve. They'd have the whole day to

    themselves.

    As the doorman let her in and the taxi started up toward Fifth Avenue, he

    thought for the first time that Fairfax had him beginning his assignment at

    Meridian Aircraft the day after tomorrow. New Year's Eve. He expected it

    would be a half-day.

It was strange. New Year's Eve. Christmas.

    He hadn't even thought about Christmas. He'd remembered to send his

    parents' gifts to Santiago, but he'd done that before his trip to the north

    country. To Basque and Navarre.

    Christmas had no meaning. The Santa Clauses ringing their clinking bells on

    the New York streets, the decorations in the store windows - none had

    meaning for him.

He was sad about that. He had always enjoyed the holidays.

David paid the driver, said hello to the Montgomery night

    163

clerk and took the elevator to his floor. He got off and approached his

door. Automatically, because his eyes were tired, he flipped his finger

above the Do Not Disturb sign beneath the lock.

    Then he felt the wood and looked down, punching his cigarette lighter for

    better vision.

The field thread was gone.

    Second nature and the instructions from Fairfax to stay alert had caused

    him to 'thread' his hotel room. Strands of invisible tan and black silk

    placed in a half-dozen locations, that if missing or broken meant a

    trespasser.

    He carried no weapon and he could not know if anyone was stiff inside.

    He returned to the elevator and pushed the button. He asked the operator if

    he had a passkey; his door wouldn't open. The man did not; he was taken to

    the lobby.

    The night clerk obliged, ordering the elevator operator to remain at the

    desk while he went to the aid of Mr. Spaulding and his difficult lock.

    As the two men walked out of the elevator and down the corridor, Spaulding

    heard the distinct sound of a latch being turned, snapped shut quietly but

    unmistakably. He rapidly turned his head in both directions, up and down

    the corridor, trying to locate the origin of the sound.

Nothing but closed hotel doors.

    The desk clerk had no trouble opening the door. He had more difficulty

    understanding Mr. Spaulding's arm around his shoulder ushering him into the

    single room with him.

    David looked around quickly. The bathroom and closet doors were open as he

    had left them. There were no other places of concealment. He released the

    desk clerk and tipped him with a five-dollar bill.

    'Thank you very much. I'm embarrassed; I'm afraid I had too much to drink.'

    'Not at all, sir. 77tank you, sir.' The man'left, pulling the door shut

    behind him.

    David rapidly began his thread check. In the closet: his jacket bre"t

    pocket, leafed out, centered.

No thread.

The bureau: the first and third drawers, inserted.

    Both threads out of place. The first inside on top of a handkerchief; the

    second, wedged between shirts.

164

    The bed: laterally placed along the spread in line with* the pattern.

Nowhere. Nothing.

    He went to his suitcase, which lay on a luggage rack by the window. He

    knelt down and inspected the right lock; the thread had been clamped inside

    the metal hasp up under the tiny hinge. If the suitcase was opened, it had

    to break.

It was broken, only one half remaining.

    The inside of the suitcase housed a single strand at the rear, crossing the

    elastic flap'three fingers from the left side.

It was gone.

    David stood up. He crossed to the bedside table and reached underneath for

    the telephone directory. There was no point in delay; what advantage he had

    was in surprise. His room had been searched professionally; he was not

    expected to know.

    He would get Leslie Jenner's number, return to her apartment house and find

    a telephone booth near the entrance - with luck, in sight of it. He would

    then call her, tell her some wildly incredible story about anything and ask

    to see her. No mention of the search, nothing of his borne-out suspicions.

    Throw her off completely and listen acutely to her reaction. If she agreed

    to see him, all well and good. If she didn't, he'd keep her apartment under

    surveillance throughout the night, if necessary.

    Leslie Jenner had a story to tell and he'd find out what it was. The man in

    Lisbon had not spent three years in the north provinces without gaining

    expertise.

There was no Jenner at the address of the apartment building.

There were six Jenners, listed in Manhattan.

    One by one he gave the hotel switchboard the numbers, and one by one - in

    varying stages of sleep and anger - the replies were the same.

No Leslie Jenner. None known.

    Spaulding hung up. He'd been sitting on the bed; he got up and walked

    around the room.

    He would go to the apartment building and ask the doorman. It was possible

    the apartment was in the aunt's name but it wasn't plausible. Leslie Jenner

    would put her name and number in the Yellow Pages, if she could; for her

    the telephone was an instrument of existence, not convenience. And if he

    went to the apartment and started asking questions, he would be announcing

    unreasonable concern. He wasn't prepared to do that.

    165

    Who was the girl at Rogers Peet? The one exchanging Christmas gifts.

    Cynthia? Cindy? ... Cindy. Cindy Tuttle ... Tottle. But not Tottle ...

    Bonner. Married to Paul Bonner, exchanging 'dreary gifts for Paul.'

He crossed to the bed and picked up the telephone directory.

    Paul Bonner was listed: 480 Park Avenue. The address was appropriate. He

    gave the number to the switchboard.

The voice of a girl more asleep than awake answered.

'Yes?... Hello?'

'Mrs. Bonner?'

'Yes. What is it? This is Mrs. Bonner.'

    'I'm David Spaulding. You saw me this afternoon at Rogers Peet; you were

    exchanging gifts for your husband and I was buying a suit.... Forgive me

    for disturbing you but it's important. I had dinner with Leslie ... Leslie

    Jenner; you called her. I just left her at her apartment; we were to meet

    tomorrow and now I find that I may not be able to. It's foolish but I

    forgot to get her telephone number, and I can't find it in the book. I

    wondered...'

    'Mr. Spaulding.' The girl interrupted him, her tone sharp, no longer

    blurred with sleep. 'If this is a joke, I think it's in bad taste. I do

    remember your name . . . . I did not see you this afternoon and I wasn't

    exchanging . . . I wasn't in Rogers Peet. My husband was killed four months

    ago. In Sicily. . . . I haven't spoken to Leslie Jenner . . . Hawkwood, I

    think now in over a year. She moved to California, Pasadena, I believe. We

    haven't been in touch. Nor is it likely we would be.'

David heard the, abrupt click of the broken connection.

166

17

DECEMBER 31,1943

    NEW YORK CITY

It wasthe morning of New Year's Eve.

    His first day of 'employment' for Meridian Aircraft, Blueprint Division.

    He had stayed most of the previous day in his hotel room going out briefly

    for lunch and magazines, dinner through robm service, and finally a

    pointless taxi to Greenwich Village, where he knew he would not find Leslie

    Jehner at ten o , clock.

    He had remained confined for two reasons. The first was a confirmation of

    the Mitchell Field doctor's diagnosis: he was exhausted. The secopd reason

    was equally important. Fairfax was running checks on Leslie Jenner

    Hawkwood, Cindy Tottle Bonner, and a naval officer named Jack or John

    Webster, whose wifewasconveniently in California. David wanted this data

    before progressing further, and Ed Pace had promised to be as thorough as

    forty-eight hours allowed.

    Spaulding had been struck by Cindy Bonner's words concerning Leslie Jenner.

She nwved to California. Pasadena, I believe....

    And a routine phone call to the Greenwich Village apartment's

    superintendent had confirmed that, indeed, the Websters did live there; the

    husband was in the navy, the wife was visiting him someplace in California.

    The superintendent was holding the mail.

Someplace in California.

    167

She moved to California....

Was there a connection? Or simple coincidence.

    Spaulding looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. The morning of New

    Year's Eve. Tomorrow would be 1944.

    This morning, however, he was to report to one Walter Kendall and one

    Eugene Lyons at Meridian's temporary offices on Thirty-eighth Street.

    Why would one of the largest aircraft companies in the United States have

    'temporary' offices?

The telephone rang. David reached for it.

'Spaulding?'

'Hello, Ed.'

    'I got what I could. It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. To begin

    with, there's no record of a divorce between the Hawkwoods. And he is in

    England. Eighth Air Force, but nothing classified. He's a pilot, Tenth

    Bomber Command down in Surrey.'

'What about her living in California?'

    'Eighteen months ago she left New York and moved in with an aunt in

    Pasadena. Very rich aunt, married to a man named Goldsmith; he's a banker

    - Social Register, polo set. From what we've learned - and it's sketchy -

    she just likes California.'

:'O.K. What about this WebsterT

    Checks out. He's a gunner officer on the Saratoga. It pulled into San Diego

    for combat repairs. It's scheduled for sea duty in two weeks, and the date

    holds. Until then there are a lot of forty-eights, seventy-twos; no

    extended leaves, though. The wife Margaret joined her lieutenant a couple

    of days ago. She's at the Greenbrier Hotel.'

'Anything on the BonnersT

    'Only what you know, except that he was a bona fide hero. Posthumous Silver

    Star, Infantry. Killed on a scout patrol covering an ambush evacuation.

    Sicily invasion.'

'And that's iff

    'That's it. Obviously they all know each other, but I can't find anything

    to relate to your DW assignment.'

    'But you're not the control, Ed. You said you didn't know what the

    assignment was.' -

    'True. But from the fragments I do know about, I can't find anything.,

'My room was searched. I'm not mistaken about that.'

168

'Maybe the ' ft. Rich soldier in a rich hotel, home from an

extended tour. Could be someone figured you were carrying a

lot of back pay, discharge money.'

'I doubt that. It was too pro.'

    'A lot of pros work those hotels. They wait for guys to start off on an

    alcoholic evening and . . .'

Spaulding interrupted. 'I want to follow up something.'

6VVhat?9

    'The Bonner girl said "it wasn't likely" she'd be in touch with Leslie

    Jenner, and she wasn't kidding. That's an odd thing to say, isn't it? I'd

    like to know why she said it.'

    'Go ahead. It was your hotel room, not mine. . . . You know what I think?

    And I've thought about it; I've had to.'

6119ftat?9

    'That New York crowd plays a fast game of musical beds. Now, you didn't

    elaborate, but isn't it logical the lady was in New York for a few days,

    perhaps saw you herself, or knew someone who had, and figured, why not? I

    mean, what the hell, she's headed back to California; probably never see

    you again. . . .'

    'No, it's not logical. She was too complicated; she didn't have to be. She

    was keeping me away from the hotel.'

'Well, you were there. . . .'

    'I certainly was. You know, it's funny. According to your major at Mitchell

    Field, you think the Azores thing was directed at me. . . .'

'I said might be,' interjected Pace.

    'And I don't. Yet here I am, convinced the other night was, and you don't.

    Maybe we're both getting tired.'

    'Maybe I'm also concerned for your source control. This Swanson, he's very

    nervous; this isn't his ball park. I don't think he can take many more

    complications.'

'Then let's not give him any. Not now. I'll know if I should.'

    Spaulding watched the disheveled accountant as he outlined the Buenos Aires

    operation. He had never met anyone quite like Walter Kendall. The man was

    positively unclean. His body odor was only partially disguised by liberal

    doses of bay rum. His shirt collar was dirty, his suit unpressed, and David

    was fascinated to watch the man breathe simultaneously through'his mouth

    and nostrils. The agent in Terceira had said Eugene Lyons was 'odd';

if this Kendall was'normal,'he couldn't wait to meet the scientist. The Buenos

Aires operation seemed simple enough, far less complicated than most of the

Lisbon work. So simple, in fact, that it angered him to think he had been

removed from Lisbon for it. Had anyone bothered to fill him in a few weeks

ago, he could have saved Washington a lot of planning, and probably money.

He had been dealing with the German underground since that organization had

consolidated its diverse factions and become an effective force. If this

Erich Rhinemann was capable of buying the designs, removing them from the

PeenemUnde complex, he -the man in Lisbon - could have gotten them out of

the country. Probably with more security than trying to slip them out of

North Sea or Channel ports. Those ports were clamped tight, obsessively

patrolled. Had they not been, much of his own work would have been

unnecessary. The only really remarkable aspect of the operation was that

Rhinemann could get blueprints - on anything - related to Peenemdride. That

was extraordinary. Peencintinde was a concrete and steel vault buried in the

earth. With the most complex system of safeguards and backups ever, devised.

It would be easier to get a man out - for any number of invented reasons -

than to remove a single page of paper.

    Further, PeenemUnde kept its laboratories separate, vital stages

    coordinated by only a handful of elite scientific personnel under Gestapo

    check. In Buenos Aires terms, this meant that Erich Rhinemann was able to

    (1) reach and buy diverse laboratory heads in a systematic order; (2)

    circumvent or buy (impossible) the Gestapo; or (3) enlist the cooperation

    of those handful of scientists who crossed laboratory lines.

    David's experience led him to disqualify the last two possibilities; there

    was too much room for betrayal. Rhinemann must have concentrated on the

    laboratory heads; that was dangerous enough but more feasible.

    As Kendall talked, David decided to keep his conclusions to himself. He

    would ask several questions, one or two of which he really wanted answered,

    but he would not form a partnership with Walter Kendall at this time. It

    was an easy decision to make. Kendall was one of the least likable men he'd

    ever met.

    'Is there any particular reason why the designs have to be delivered in

    stages?' Spaulding asked.

    7hey may not be. But Rhmemann's smuggling them out section by section.

    Everybody's got a schedule; he says it's safer

170

that way. From his projections, we figure a period of a week.'

    'All right, that makes sense.... And this Lyons fellow can authenticate

    them?'

    'There's no one better. I'll get to him in a few minutes; there are a

    couple of things you'll have to know. Once in Argentina, he's your

    property.'

'That sounds ominous.'

    'You can handle him. You'll have help.... The point is, as soon as he's

    cleared those blueprints, you send the codes and Rhinemann gets paid. Not

    before.'

    'I don't understand. Why so complicated? If they check out, why not pay him

    off in Buenos AiresT

'He doesn't want that money in an Argentine bank.'

'It must be a bundle.'

'It is.'

    'From what little I know of this Rhinemann, isn't it unusual for him to be

    working with the German undergroundT

'He's a Jew.'

    'Don't tell any graduates of Auschwitz. They won't believe you.

    'War makes necessary relationships. Look at us. We're working with the

    Reds. Same thing: common goals, forget the disagreements.'

'In this case, that's a little cold-blooded.'

'Their problem, not ours.'

    'I won't pursue it.... One obvious question. Since I'm on my way to Buenos

    Aires, the embassy, why this stop in New York? Wouldn't it have been easier

    to just rotate from Lisbon to Argentina?'

'A last-minute decision, I'm afraid. Awkward, huhT

'Not too smooth. Am I on a transfer listT

'A whatT

    'Foreign Service transfer sheet. State Department. Mlitary attachd.,

'I don't know. Whyr

    'I'd like to find out if it's common knowledge that I left Lisbon. Or could

    be common knowledge. I didn't think it was supposed to be.'

'Then it wasn't. Why?'

'So I know how to behave, that's all.'

'We thought you should spend a few days getting familiar with

    171

everything. Meet Lyons, me; go over the schedule, What we're after, that

sort of thing.'

    'Very considerate.'David saw the questioning look on Kendall's face. 'No,

    I mean that. So often we get thrown field problems knowing too little

    background. I've done it to men myselE ... Then this discharge, the combat

    in Italy, they're the cover for my Lisbon activities? For New York only.'

    'Yeah, I guess that's right.' Kendall, who'd been sitting on the edge of

    his desk, got up and walked around to his chair.

'How far am I to carry iff

    'Carry whatT Kendall avoided looking at David, who was leaning forward on

    an office couch.

    'The cover. The papers mention Fifth Army -that's Clark; Thirty-Fourth

    Division, One Hundred and Twelfth Battalion, et cetera. Should I bone up?

    I don't know much about the Italian Theater. Apparently I got hit beyond

    Salerno; are there circumstancesT

    'That's army stuff. As far as I'm concerned you'll be here five, six days,

    then Swanson will see you and send you down to Buenos Aires.'

    'All right, I'll wait for General Swanson.' David realized there was no

    point in pursuing G-2 rituals with Kendall.... Part professional, part

    amateur. The hesitation waltz.

    'Until you leave you'll spend whatever time you think is necessary with

    Lyons. In his office.'

'Fine. I'd like to meet him.' David stood up.

    'Sit down, he's not here today. Nobody's here today but the receptionist.

    Till one o'clock. It's New Year's Eve.' Kendall slumped into his chair and

    took out a cigarette, which he squeezed. 'I've got to tell you about

    Lyons.'

'All right.' David returned to the couch.

    'He's a drunk. He spent four years in jail, in a penitentiary. He can

    hardly talk because his throat got burned out with raw alcohol.... He's

    also the smartest son of a bitch in aerophysics.'

    Spaulding stared at Kendall without replying for several moments. When he

    did speak, he made no attempt to conceal his shock. 'That's kind of a

    contradictory recommendation, isn't it?'

'I said he's smart.'

    'So are half the lunatics in Bellevue. Can he function? Since he's going to

    be my "property" - as you put it - Id like to know what the hell you've

    given me. And why, not incidentally.'

172

'He's the best.'

That doesn't answer my question. Questions.'

'You're a soldier. You take orders.'

'I give them, too. Don't start that way.'

'All right.... O.K. You're entitled, I guess.'

'I'd say so.'

    'Eugene Lyons wrote the book on physical aerodynamics; he was the youngest

    full professor at the Massachusetts Institute Of Technology. Maybe he was

    too young; he went downhill fast. Bum marriage, a lot of drinking, a lot of

    debts; the debts did it, they usually do. That and too many brains no one

    wants to pay for.'

'Did what?'

    'He went out of his skull, a week's bender. When he woke up in a South Side

    Boston hotel room, the girl he was with was dead. He'd beaten her to

    death.... She was a whore so nobody cared too much; still, he did it. They

    called it unpremeditated murder and MIT got him a good lawyer. He served

    four years, got out and nobody would hire him, wouldn't touch him.... That

    was 1936. He gave up; joined the skid row bums. I mean he really joined

    them.' Kendall paused and grinned.

    David was disturbed by the accountant's smile; there was nothing funny in

    the story. 'Obviously he didn't stay there.'It was all he could think to

    say.

    'Did for damn near three years. Got his throat burned out right down on

    Houston Street.'

'That's very sad.'

    'Best thing that happened to him. in the hospital ward they took his

    history and a doctor got interested. He was shipped off to the goddamned

    CCC, was reasonably rehabilitated, and what with the war coming he got into

    defense work.'

    'Then he's all right now.' Spaulding made the statement positively. Again,

    it was all he could think to say.

    'You don't clean out a man like that overnight. Or in a couple of years....

    He has lapses, falls into the booze barrel now and then. Since working on

    classified stuff he's cooped up with his own personal wardens. For

    instance, here in New York he's got a room at St. Luke's Hospital. He's

    taken back and forth just like your socialite drunks.... In California,

    Lockheed's got him in a garden apartment with male nurses round the clock,

    when he's away from the plants. Actually, he's got it pretty good.'

    1-73

'He must be valuable. That's a lot of trouble .... *

    'I told you,' interrupted Kendall. 'He's the best. He's just got to be

    watched.'

    'What happens when he's on his own? I mean, I've known alcoholics; they can

    slip away, often ingeniously.'

    'That's no problem. He'll get liquor - when he wants it; he'll be ingenious

    about that. But he doesn't go outside by himself. He won't go where there

    are any people, if you know what I mean.

'I'm not sure I do.'

    'He doesn't talk. The best he can manage is a hoarse whisper; remember, his

    throat was boiled out. He stays away from people. ... Which is fine. When

    he's not drinking - which is most of the time - he's reading and working.

    He'll spend days in a laboratory stone sober and never go outside. It's

    just fine.'

'How does he communicate? In the lab? In a meeting?'

    'Pad and pencil, a few whispers, his hands. Mostly a pad and pencil. It's

    just numbers, equations, diagrams. That's his language.'

'His entire language?'

    'That's right.... If you're thinking about holding a conversation with him,

    forget it. He hasn't had a conversation with anyone in ten years.'

174

    18

    DECEMBER 31,1943 NEW YORK CITY

Spaulding hurried down Madison Avenue to the northeast comer of B. Altman's.

There was a light snow falling; taxis rushed past the few pedestrians

signaling in the middle of the block. The better fares were at the

department store's entrance, carrying last-minute purchases for New Year's

Eve. People who shopped at Altman's on the afternoon of New Year's Eve were

prime passengers. Why waste gas on less?

    David found himself walking faster than he had reason to; he wasn't going

    anywhere, to any specific place that required his presence at a specific

    time; he was getting away from Walter Kendall as fast as he could.

    Kendall had finished his briefing on Eugene Lyons with the statement that

    'two hulks' would accompany the scientist to Buenos Aires. There'd be no

    liquor for the hermit-mute with his throat burned out; the male nurses

    carried 'horse pills' at all times. Eugene Lyons, with no drink available,

    would spend hours over the work problems. Why not? He didn't do anything

    else. No conversations, David mused.

    David turned down Kendall's offer of lunch on the pretext of looking up

    family friends. After all, it had been over three years. ... He'd be in the

    office on January 2.

    The truth was that Spaulding just wanted to get away from the man. And

    there was another reason: Leslie Jenner Hawkwood.

He didn't know where he'd begin, but he had to begin quickly.

    175

He had roughly a week to learn the story behind that incredible evening two

nights ago. The beginning would include a widow named Bonner, that much he

knew.

Perhaps Aaron Mandel could help him.

    He took a dollar bill from his pocket and approached the doorman in front

    of Altman's. A taxi was found in less than a minute.

    The ride uptown was made to the accompanying loquaciousness of the driver,

    who seemed to have an opinion on most any subject. David found the man

    annoying; he wanted to think and it was difficult. Then suddenly he was

    grateful to him.

    'I was gonna catch the New Year's Eve crowds, like up at the Plaza, you

    know what I mean? There's big tips over at those war relief things. But the

    wife said no. She said come home, drink a little wine, pray to God our boy

    gets through the year. Now, I gotta. I mean if anything happened, I'd

    figure it was the tips 1. made New Year's Eve. Superstitions! What the

    hell, the kid's a typist in Fort Dix.'

    David had forgotten the obvious. No, not forgotten; he just hadn't

    considered the possibilities because they did not relate to him. Or he to

    them. He was in New York. On New Year's Eve. And that meant parties,

    dances, charity balls and an infinite variety of war-created celebrations

    in a dozen ballrooms and scores of townhouses.

    Mrs. Paul Bonner would be at one of those places, at one of those parties.

    It had been four months since her husband had been killed. It was

    sufficient mourning under the circumstances, for the times. Friends - other

    women like Leslie Jenner, but of course not Leslie Jenner - would make that

    clear to her. It was the way social Manhattan behaved. And quite

    reasonable, all things considered.

    It shouldn't be too difficult to find out where she was going. And if he

    found her, he'd find others ... it was a place to start.

    He tipped the driver and walked rapidly into the Montgomery lobby.

    'Oh, Mr. Spaulding I' The old desk clerk's voice echoed in the marble

    enclosure. 'There's a message for you.'

    He crossed to the counter. 'Thank you.' He unfolded the paper; Mr. Fairfax

    had telephoned. Would he return the call as soon as possible?

Ed Pace wanted to reach him.

176

    The thread was intact under the door lock. He entered his room and went

    directly to the telephone.

    'We got something in on the Hawkwood girl,' Pace said. 'Thought you'd want

    to know.'

    What is it?' Why, oh why, did Pace always start conversations like that?

    Did he expect him to say, no, I don't want to know anything, and hang up?

    'It fits in, I'm afraid, with my opinion of the other night. Your antenna's

    been working overtime.'

    'For Christ's sake, Ed, I'll pin a medal on you whenever you like. What is

    itT

    'She plays around. She's got a wide sex life in the Los Angeles area.

    Discreet but busy. A high-class whore, if I don't offend you.

:You don't offend me. What's the source?'

    Several brother officers to begin with; navy and air force. Then some of

    the movie people, actors and a couple of studio executives. And the

    social-industrial crowd: Lockheed, Sperry Rand. She's not the most welcome

    guest at the Santa Monica Yacht Club.'

'Is there a G-2 pattern?'

    'First thing we looked for. Negative. No classified personnel in her bed.

    Just rank: military and civilian. And she is in New York. Careful inquiry

    says she went back to visit her parents for Christmas.'

    'There are no Jenners listed in the phone book who've ever heard of her.'

'in Bernardsville, New Jersey?'

    'No,' said David wearily. 'Manhattan. You did say New York.'

    'Try Bernardsville. If you want to find her. But don't hand in any expense

    vouchers; you're not on a courier run in the north country.'

'No. Bernardsville is hunt country.'

'What?'

    'Very social territory. Stables and stirrup cups.... Thanks, Ed. You just

    saved me a lot of work.'

    'Think nothing of it. All you've had is the conduit center of Allied

    Intelligence solving the problems of your sex life. We try to please our

    employees.'

11 pron-Ase to re-enlist when it's all over. Thanks again.'

    177

'Dave?'

'Yes?'

    .Tm not cleared for the Swanson job, so no specifics, but how does it

    strike you?'

    'I'll be damned if I know why you're not cleared. It's a simple purchase

    being handled by some oddbaUs - at least one ... no, two that I know about.

    The one I've met is a winner. It seems to me they've complicated the deal,

    but that's because they're new at it.... We could have done it better.'

'Have you met Swanson?'

    'Not yet. After the holidays, I'm told. What the hell, we wouldn't want to

    interfere with the brigadier's Christmas vacation. School doesn't start

    until the first week in January.'

    Pace laughed on the other end of the line. 'Happy New Year, Dave.'

'The same, Ed. And thanks.'

    Spaulding replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch, it was one

    fifteen. He could requisition an army vehicle somewhere, he supposed, or

    borrow a car from Aaron Mandel. Bernardsville was about an hour outside New

    York, west of the Oranges, if he remembered correctly. It might be best to

    take Leslie Jenner by surprise, giving her no chance to run. On the other

    hand, on the premise he had considered before Pace's call, Leslie was

    probably in New York, preparing for the New Year's Eve she'd promised him.

    Somewhere, someplace. In an apartment or a brownstone or a hotel room like

    his own.

    Spaulding wondered for a moment whether Pace had a point. Was he trying to

    find Leslie for reasons quite apart from his suspicions? The lies, the

    search.... It was possible. Why not? But a two- to three-hour drive to west

    Jersey and back would bring him no closer to either objective,

    investigatory or Freudian. If she wasn't there.

    He asked the Montgomery switchboard to get him the number of the Jenner

    residence in Bernardsville, New Jersey. Not to place the call, just get the

    telephone number. And the address. Then he called Aaron Mandel.

    He had postponed it for as long as he could; Aaron would be filled with

    tears and questions and offers of anything under the Manhattan sun and

    moon. Ed Pace told him he had interviewed the old" concert manager four

    years ago before approaching David for Lisbon; that would mean he could

    reasonably avoid any

178

lengthy discussions about his work.

    And Aaron might be able to help him, should he need the old man's

    particular kind of assistance. Mandel's New York contacts were damn near

    inexhaustible. David would know more after he reached Bernardsville; and it

    would be less awkward to have made his duty call to Aaron before asking

    favors.

    At first Spaulding thought the old man would have a coronary over the

    telephone. Aaron's voice choked, conveying his shock, his concern ... and

    his love. The questions came faster than David could answer them; his

    mother, his father, his own wellbeing.

    Mandel did not ask him about his work, but neither would he be satisfied

    that David was as healthy as he claimed. Aaron insisted on a meeting, if

    not this evening then certainly tomorrow.

    David agreed. In the morning, late morning. They would have a drink

    together, perhaps a light lunch; welcome the New Year together.

'God be praised. You are well. You'll come around tomorrowT

11 promise,' David said.

'And you've never broken a promise to me.'

'I won't. Tomorrow. And Aaron . .

'Yes?'

    'It's possible I may need to find someone tonight. I'm not sure where to

    look but probably among the Social Register crowd. How are your Park Avenue

    connectionsT

    The old man chuckled in the quiet, good-humored, slightly arrogant way

    David remembered so well. 'I'm the only Jew with a Torah stand in St. John

    the Divine. Everybody wants an artist - for nothing, of course. Red Cross,

    green cross; debutantes for war bandages, dances for fancy-sounding French

    medal winners. You name it, Mandel's on the hook for it. I got three

    coloraturas, two pianists and five Broadway baritones making appearances

    for "our boys" tonight. All on the Upper East Side.'

'I may call you in a little while. Will you still be at the office?'

    'Where else? For soldiers and concert managers, when are the holidaysT

'You haven't changed.'

'The main thing is that you're well. . .

No sooner had David hung up the phone than it rang.

    'I have the telephone number and the address of your party in

    Bernardsville, Mr. Spaulding.'

    179

'May I have them, please?'

    The operator gave him the information and he wrote it down on the

    ever-present stationery next to the phone.

'Shall I put the call through, sir?'

    David hesitated, then said, 'Yes, please. I'll stay on the line. Ask for a

    Mrs. Hawkwood, please.'

    .Mrs. Hawkwood. Very well, sir. But I can call you back when I have the

    party.'

    'I'd rather stay on an open circuit. . . .' David caught himself, but not

    in time. The blunder was minor but confirmed by the operator. She replied

    in a knowing voice.

    'Of course, Mr. Spaulding. I assume if someone other than Mrs. Hawkwood

    answers, you'll wish to terminate the call?'

'I'll let you know.'

    The operator, now part of some sexual conspiracy, acted her role with firm

    efficiency. She dialed the outsideoperator and in moments a phone could be

    heard ringing in Bernardsville, New Jersey. A woman answered; it was not

    Leslie.

'Mrs. Hawkwood, please.'

'Mrs .... ' The voice on the Bernardsville line seemed hesitant.

    'Mrs. Hawkwood, please. Long distance cafling,9 said the Montgomery

    operator, as if she were from the telephone company, expediting a

    person-to-person call.

'Mrs. Hawkwood isn't here, operator.'

'Can you tell me what time she's expected, please?'

    'What time? Good heavens, she's not expected. At least, I didn't think she

    was. . . .'

    Not fazed, the Montgomery employee continued, interrupting politely. 'Do

    you have a number where Mrs. Hawkwood can be reached, please?'

    'Well . . .' The voice in Bernardsville was now bewildered. 'I suppose in

    California. . . .'

    David knew it was time to intercede. 'I'll speak to the party on the line~

    operator.'

    'Very well, sir.' There was a ther-ump sound indicating the switchboard's

    disengagement from the circuit.

'Mrs. Jenner?'

    'Yes, this is Mrs. Jenner,' answered Bernardsville, obviously relieved with

    the more familiar name.

'My name is David Spaulding, I'm a friend of Leslie's and

.' Jesus! He'd forgotten the husband's first name. Captain

180

Hawkwood's. I was given this number. . . .'

    'Well, David Spaulding! How are you, dear? This is Madge Jenner, you silly

    boy! Good heavens, it must be eight, ten years ago. How's your father and

    mother? I hear they're living in London. So very brave!'

    Christl thought Spaulding, it never occurred to him that Leslie's mother

    would remember two East Hampton months almost a decade ago. 'Oh, Mrs.

    Jenner.... They're fine. I'm sorry to disturb you. . . .'

    'You could never disturb us, you dear boy. We're just, a couple of old

    stablehands out here. James has doubled our colors; no one wants to keep

    horses anymore.... You thought Leslie was hereT

'Yes, that's what I was told.'

    'I'm sorry to say she's not. To be quite frank, we rarely hear from her.

    She moved to California, you know.'

'Yes, with her aunt.'

    'Only half-aunt, dear. My stepsister; we've not gotten along too well, I'm

    afraid. She married a Jew. He calls himself Goldsmith - hardly a disguise

    for Goldberg or Goldstein, is it? We're convinced he's in the black market

    and all that profiteering, if you know what I mean.'

    'Oh? Yes, I see.... Then Leslie didn't come East to visit you for

    ChristmasT

'Good heavens, no I She barely managed to send us a card . . .

    He was tempted to call Ed Pace in Fairfax; inform the Intelligence head

    that California G-2 had come up with a Bernardsville zero. But there was no

    point. Leslie Jenner Hawkwood was in New York.

He had to find out why.

    He called Mandel back and gave him two names: Leslie's and Cindy Tottle

    Bonner, widow of Paul Bonner, hero. Without saying so, David indicated that

    his curiosity might well be more professional than personal. Mandel did not

    question; he went to work.

    Spaulding realized that he could easily phone Cindy Bonner, apologize and

    ask to see her. But he couldn't risk her turning him down; which she

    probably would do in light of the crude telephone call he had placed two

    nights ago. There simply wasn't the time. He'd have to see her, trust the

    personal contact.

    181

    And even then she might not be able to tell him anything. Yet there were

    certain instincts one developed and came to recognize. Inverted,

    convoluted, irrational.... Atavistic.

    Twenty minutes passed; it was quarter to three. His telephone rang.

'David?'

'Aaron.'

    'This Hawkwood lady, there's absolutely nothing. Everyone says she moved to

    California and nobody's heard a word.... Mrs. Paul Bonner: there's a

    private party tonight, on Sixtysecond Street, name of Warfield. Number

    212.'

:Thanks. I'll wait outside and crash it with my best manners.'

    No need for that. You have an invitation. Personal from the lady of the

    house. Her name's Andrea and she's delighted to entertain the soldier son

    of the famous you-know-who. She also wants a soprano in February, but

    that's my problem.'

182

    19

DECEMBER 31, 1943 NEW YORK CITY

    The dinner clientele from the Gallery could have moved intact to the

    Warfield brownstone on Sixty-second Street. David mixed easily. The little

    gold emblem in his lapel served its purpose; he was accepted more readily,

    he was also more available. The drinks and buffet were generous, the small

    Negro jazz combo better than good.

    And he found Cindy Bonner in a comer, waiting for her escortan army

    lieutenant -to come back from the bar. She was petite, with reddish hair

    and very light, almost pale skin. Her, posture was Vogue, her body slender,

    supporting very expensive, very subdued clothes. There was a pensive look

    about her; not sad, however. Not the vision of a hero's widow, not heroic

    at all. A rich little girl.

    'I have a sincere apology to make,' he told her. 'I hope you'll accept it.'

    'I can't imagine what for. I don't think we've met.' She smiled but not

    completely, as if his presence triggered a memory she could not define.

    Spaulding saw the look and understood. It was his voice. The voice that

    once had made him a good deal of money.

'My name is Spaulding. David . .

    'You telephoned the other night,' interrupted the girl, her eyes angry.

    'Tbe Christmas gifts for Paul. Leslie . . .'

'Thafs why I'm apologizing. It was all a terrible misunder-

    183

standing. Please forgive me. It's not the sort of joke I'd enter into

willingly; I was as angry as you were.' He spoke calmly, holding her eyes

with his own. It was sufficient; she blinked, trying to understand, her

anger fading. She looked briefly at the tiny brass eagle in his lapel, the

small insignia that could mean just about anything.

'I think I believe you.'

'You should. It was sick; I'm not sick.'

    The army lieutenant returned carrying two glasses. He was drunk and

    hostile. Cindy made a short introduction; the lieutenant barely

    acknowledged the civilian in front of him. He wanted to dance; Cindy did

    not. The situation - abruptly created - was about to deteriorate.

    David spoke with a trace of melancholy. 'I served with Mrs. Bonner's

    husband. I'd like to speak with her for just a few minutes. I'll have to

    leave shortly, my wife's waiting for me uptown.'

    The combination of facts - reassurances - bewildered the drunken lieutenant

    as well as mollified him. His gallantry was called; he bowed tipsily and

    walked back toward the bar.

    'Nicely done,' Cindy said. 'If there is a Mrs. Spaulding uptown, it

    wouldn't surprise me. You said you were out with Leslie -that's par for her

    course!

    David looked at the girl. Trust the developed instincts, he thought to

    himself. 'There is no Mrs. Spaulding. But there was a Mrs. Hawkwood the

    other night. I gather you're not very fond of her.'

    'She and my husband were what is politely referred to as "an item." A

    long-standing one. There are some people who say I forced her to move to

    California.'

    6 Then I'll ask the obvious question. Under the circumstances, I wonder why

    she used your name? And then disappeared. She'd know I'd try to reach you.'

'I think you used the term sick. She's sick.'

'Or else she was trying to tell me something!

    David left the Warfields' shortly before the New Year arrived. He reached

    the comer of Lexington Avenue and turned south. There was nothing to do but

    walk, think, try to piece together what he had learned; find a pattern that

    made sense.

He couldn't. Cindy Bonner was a bitter widow; her husband's

184

death on the battlefield robbed her of any chance to strike back at Leslie.

She wanted, according to her, simply to forget. But the hurt had been major.

IA*Iie and Paul Bonner had been more than an 'item'. They had reached -

again, according to Cindy - the stage where the Bormers had mutually sued

for divorce. A confrontation between the two women, however, did not confirm

Paul Bonner's story; Leslie Jenner Hawkwood had no Intention of divorcing

her husband.

    It was all a messy, disagreeable Social Register foul-up; Ed Pace's

    'musical beds.'

    Why, then, would Leslie use Cindy's name? It was not only provocative and

    tasteless, it was senseless.

    Midnight arrived as he crossed Fifty-second Street. A few homs blared from

    passing automobiles. In the distance could be heard tower bells and

    whistles; from inside bars came the shrill bleats of noisemakers and a

    cacophony of shouting. Three sailors, their uniforms filthy, were singing

    loudly off key to the amusement of pedestrians.

    He walked west toward the string of cafes between Madison and Fifth. He

    considered stopping in at Shor's or 21 ... in ten minutes or so. Enough

    time for the celebrations to have somewhat subsided.

'Happy New Year, Colonel Spaulding.'

The voice was sharp and came from a darkened doorway.

    'WhatT David stopped and looked into the shadows. A tall man in a light

    grey overcoat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, stood immobile.

    'What did you sayT

    'I wished you a Happy New Year,' said the man. 'Needless to say, I've been

    following you. I overtook you several minutes ago.,

I The voice was lined with an accent, but David couldn't place it. The

English was British tutored, the origin somewhere in Middle Europe. Perhaps

the Balkans.

    'I find that a very unusual statement and ... needless to say . . . quite

    disturbing.' Spaulding held his place; he had no weapon and wondered if the

    man recessed in the doorway was, conversely, armed. He couldn't tell. 'What

    do you wantT

    'To welcome you home, to begin with. You've been away a long time.'

'Thank you.... Now, if you don't mind

'I mind I Don't move, colonel! Just stand there as if you were

    185

talking with an old friend. Don't back away; I'm holding a .45 leveled at

your chest.' '

    Several passersby walked around David on the curb side. A couple came out

    of an apartment entrance ten yards to the right of the shadowed doorway;

    they were in a hurry and crossed rapidly between Spaulding and the tall man

    with the unseen gun. David was first tempted to use them, but two

    considerations prevented him. The first was the grave danger to the couple,

    the second, the fact that the man with the gun had something to say. If

    he'd wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now.

'I won't move.... What is iff

'Take two steps forward. Just two. No more.'

    David did so. He could see the face better now, but not clearly. It was a

    thin face, gaunt and lined. The eyes were deepset with hollows underneath.

    Tired eyes. The dull finish of the pistol's barrel was the clearest object

    David could distinguish. The man kept shifting his eyes to his left, behind

    Spaulding. He was looking for someone. Waiting.

    'All right. Two steps. Now no one can walk between us. ... Are you

    expecting someoneT

    'I'd heard that the main agent in Lisbon was very controlled. You bear that

    out. Yes, I'm waiting; I'll be picked up shortly.'

'Am I to go with you?'

    'It won't be necessary. I'm delivering a message, that is all. ... The

    incident at Laies. It is to be regretted, the work of zealots.

    Nevertheless, accept it as a warning. We can't always control deep angers;

    surely you must know that. Fairfax should know it. Fairfax will know it

    before this first day of the New Year is over. Perhaps by now.... There is

    my car. Move to my right, your left.'David did so as the man edged toward

    the sidewalk, hiding the pistol under the cloth of his coat. 'Heed us,

    colonel. There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmfiller. They

    arefinished!'

    'Wait a minute! I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any

    AltmiUler!'

'Finished! Heed the lesson of Fairfax!'

    A dark brown sedan with bright headlights pulled up to the curb. It

    stopped, the rear door was thrown open, and the tall man raced across the

    sidewalk between the pedestrians and climbed in. The car sped away.

    David rushed to the curb. The least he could do was get the vehicle's

    license number.

186

There was none. The rear license plate was missing.

    Instead, above the trunk in the oblong rear window, a face looked back at

    him. His shock caused him to lose his breath. For the briefest of moments

    he wondered if his eyes, his senses were playing tricks on him,

    transporting his imagination back to Lisbon.

    He started after the car, running in the street, dodging automobiles and

    the goddamned New Year's Eve revelers.

    The brown sedan turned north on Madison Avenue and sped off. He stood in

    the street, breathless.

    The face in the rear window was that of a man he had worked with in the

    most classified operations out of Portugal and Spain.

Marshall. Lisbon's master cryptographer.

    I

    The taxi driver accepted David's challenge to get him to the Montgomery in

    five minutes or less. It took seven, but considering the traffic on Fifth

    Avenue, Spaulding gave him five dollars and raced into the lobby.

There were no messages.

    He hadn't bothered to thread his door lock; a conscious oversight, he

    considered. In addition to the maid service, if he could have offered an

    open invitation to those who had searched his room two nights ago, he would

    have done so. A recurrence might cause carelessness,-some clues to

    identities.

    He threw off his coat and went to his dresser, where he kept a bottle of

    Scotch. Two clean glasses stood on a silver tray next to the liquor. He'd

    take the necessary seconds to pour himself a drink before calling Fairfax.

    'A very Happy New Year, , he said slowly as he lifted the glass to his

    lips.

    He crossed to the bed, picked up the telephone and gave the Virginia number

    to the switchboard. The circuits to the Washington area were crowded; it

    would take several minutes to get through.

    What in God's name did the man mean? Heed the lesson of Fairfax. What the

    hell was he talking about? Who was Altmfiller? ... What was the first name?

    ... Franz. Franz Altmiiller.

Who was he?

    So the Lajes Field 'incident' was aimed at him. For Christ's sake, what

    for?

And Marshall. It was Marshall in that rear window I He hadn't

    187

been mistaken I

    'Field Division Headquarters' were the monotoned words from the State of

    Virginia, County of Fairfax.

'Colonel Edmund Pace, please.'

    There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. David's ears picked

    up a tiny rush of air he knew very well.

    It was a telephone intercept, usually attached to a wire recorder.

'Who's calling Colonel PaceT

    It was David's turn to hesitate. He did so thinking that perhaps he'd

    missed the interceptor sound before. It was entirely possible, and Fairfax

    was, after all ... well, Fairfax.

'Spaulding. Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding.'

'Can I give the colonel a message, sir? He's in conference.'

'No, you may not. You may and can give me the colonel.'

    'I'm sorry, sir.' Fairfax's hesitation was now awkward. 'Let me have a

    telephone number .....

    'Look, soldier, my name is Spaulding. My clearance is fourzero and this is

    a four-zero prioxity call. If those numbers don't mean anything to you, ask

    the son of a bitch on your intercept. Now, it's an emergency. Put me

    through to Colonel Pace!'

    There was a loud double click on the line. A deep, hard voice came over the

    wire.

    'And this is Colonel Barden, Colonel Spaulding. I'm also four-zero and any

    four-zeros will be cleared with this son of a bitch. Now, I'm in no mood

    for any rank horseshit. What do you want?'

    'I like your directness, colonel,' said David, smiling in spite of his

    urgency. 'Put me through to Ed. It's really priority. It concerns Fairfax.'

    'I can't put you through, colonel. We don't have any circuits, and I'm not

    trying to be funny. Ed Pace is dead. He was shot through the head an hour

    ago. Some goddamned son of a bitch killed him right here in the compound.'

M&

20

    JANUARY 1, 1944

    FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

It was four-thirty in the morning when the army car carrying Spaulding

reached the Fairfax gate.

    The guards had been alerted; Spaulding, in civilian clothes, possessing no

    papers of authorization, was matched against his file photograph and waved

    through. David had been tempted to ask to see the photograph; to the best

    of his knowledge, it was four years old. Once inside, the automobile swung

    left and headed to the south area of the huge compound. About a half mile

    down the gravel road, past rows of metal Quonset huts, the car pulled up in

    front of a barracks structure. It was the Fairfax Administration Building.

    Two corporals flanked the door. The sergeant Over climbed out of the car

    and signaled the noncoms to let Spaulding throughl he was already in front

    of them.

    David was shown to an office on the second floor. Inside were two men:

    Colonel Ira Barden and a doctor named McCleod, a captain. Barden was a

    thick, short man with the build of a foptball tackle and close-cropped

    black hair. McCleod was stooped, slender, bespectacled - the essence of the

    thoughtful academician.

    Barden wasted the minimum time with introductions. Completed, he went

    immediately to the questions at hand.

    'We've doubled patrols everywhere, put men with K-9s all along the fences.

    I'd like to think no one could get out. What bothers us is whether someone

    got out beforehand.'

    189

'How did it happenT

    'Pace had a few people over for New Year's. Twelve, to be exact. Four were

    from his own Quonset, three from Records, the rest from Administration.

    Very subdued ... what the hell, this is Fairfax. As near as we can

    determine, he went out his back door at about twenty minutes past midnight.

    Carrying out garbage, we think; maybe just to get some air. He didn't come

    back. - A guard down the road came to the door, saying he'd heard a shot.

    No one else had. At least, not inside.'

'That's unusual. These quarters are hardly soundproof.'

'Someone had turned up the phonograph.'

'I thought it was a subdued party.'

    Barden looked hard at Spaulding. His glare was not anger, it was his way of

    telegraphing his deep concern. 'That record player was turned up for no

    more than thirty seconds. The rifle used -and ballistics confirms this -

    was a training weapon, .22 caliber.'

'A sharp crack, no louder,' said David.

'Exactly. The phonograph was a signal!

'Inside. At the party,' added Spaulding.

    'Yes.... McCleod here is the base psychiatrist. We've been going over

    everyone who was inside .....

    'Psychiatrist?' David was confused. It was a security problem, not medical.

    'Ed was a hardnose, you know that as well as I do. He trained you.... I

    looked you up, Lisbon. It's one angle. We're covering the others!

    'Look,' interrupted the doctor, 'you two want to talk, and I've got files

    to go over. I'll call you in the morning; later this morning, Ira. Nice to

    meet you, Spaulding. Wish it wasn't this way.9

'Agreed,' said Spaulding, shaking the man's hand.

    The psychiatrist gathered up the twelve file folders on the colonel's desk

    and left.

    The door closed. Barden indicated a chair to Spaulding. David sat down,

    rubbing his eyes. 'One hell of a New Yeaes, isn't iff said Barden.

'I've seen better,' Spaulding replied.

'Do you want to go over what happened to youT

    'I don't think there's any point. I was stopped; I told you what was said.

    Ed Pace was obviously the "Fairfax lesson." It's tied to a brigadier named

    Swanson at DW.'

190

'I'm afraid it isn't.'

'It has to be.'

    'Negative. Pace wasn't involved with the DW thing. His only tie was

    recruiting you; a simple transfer.'

    David remembered Ed Pace's words: I'm not cleared ... how does it strike

    you? Have you met Swanson? He looked at Barden. 'Then someone thinks he

    was. Same motive. Related to the sabotage at Lajes. In the Azores.'

'How?'

    'The son of a bitch said so on Fifty-second Streetl Five hours ago....

    Look, Pace is dead; that gives you certain latitude under the

    circumstances. I want to check Ed's four-zero files. Everything connected

    to my transfer.'

    'I've already done that. After your call there was no point in waiting for

    an inspector general. Ed was about my closest friend. . .

'And?'

'There are no files. Nothing-

    'There has to be I There's got to be a record for Lisbon. For me.'

    'There is. It states simple transfer to DW. No names. Just a word. A single

    word: "Tortugas'.

    'What about the papers you prepared? The discharge, the medical record;

    Fifth Army, One Hundred and Twelfth Battalion? Italy? Those papers aren't

    manufactured without a Fairfax file I'

    'This is the first I've heard of them. There's nothing about them in Ed's

    vaults.'

    'A major - Winston, I think his name is - met me at Mitchell Field. I flew

    in from Newfoundland on a coastal patrol. He brought me the papers.'

    'He brought you a sealed envelope and gave you verbal instructions. That's

    all he knows.'

    'Jesust What the hell happened to the so-called Fairfax efficiency?'

'You tell me. And while you're at it, who murdered Ed Pace?'

    David looked over at Barden. The word murder hadn't occurred to him. One

    didn't commit murder; one killed, yes, that was part of it. But murder? Yet

    it was murder.

    'I can't tell you that. But I can tell you where to start asking

    questions.'

    191

'Please do.'

    'Raise Lisbon. Find out what happened to a cryptographer named Marsha.,

    JANUA R Y 1, 1944

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

    The news of Pace's murder reached Alan Swanson indirectly; the effect was

    numbing.

    He had been in Arlington, at a small New Year's Eve dinner party given by

    the ranking general of Ordnance when the tele,phone call came. It was an

    emergency communication for another guest, a lieutenant general on the

    staff of the Joint Chiefs. Swanson had been near the library door when the

    man emerged; the staffer had been white, his voice incredulous.

    'My God!' he bad said to no one in particular. 'Someone shot Pace over at

    Fairfax. He's dead!'

    Those few in that small gathering in Arlington comprised the highest

    echelons of the military; there was no need for concealing the news; they

    would all, sooner or later, be told.

    Swanson's hysterical first thoughts were of Buenos Aires. Was there any

    possible connection?

    He listened as the brigadiers and the two- and three-stars joined in

    controlled but excited speculations. He heard the words . . . infiltrators,

    hired assassins, double agents. He was stunned by the wild theories ...

    advanced rationally ... that one of Pace's undercover agents had to be

    behind the murder. Somewhere a defector had been paid to make his way back

    to Fairfax; somewhere there was a weak link in a chain of Intelligence that

    had been bought.

    Pace was not just a crack Intelligence man, he was one of the best in

    Allied Central. So much so that he twice had requested that his brigadier

    star be officially recorded but not issued, thus protecting his low

    profile.

    But the profile was not low enough. An extraordinary man like Pace would

    have an extraordinary price on his head. From

192

Shanghai to Berne; with Fairfax's rigid security the killing had to have

been planned for months. Conceived as a long-range project, to be executed

internally. There was no other way it could have been accomplished. And

there were currently over five hundred personnel in the compound, including

a rotating force of espionage units-in-training - nationals from many

countries. No security system could be that absolute under the

circumstances. All that was needed was one man to slip through.

    Plannedfor months ... a defector who had made his way back to Fairfax ...

    a double agent ... a weak Intelligence link paid a fortune. Berne to

    Shanghai.

A long-range project!

    These were the specific words and terms and judgments that Swanson heard

    clearly because he wanted to hear them.

    They removed the motive from Buenos Aires. Pace's death had nothing to do

    with Buenos Aires because the time element prohibited it.

    The Rhinemann exchange had been conceived barely three weeks ago; it was

    inconceivable that Pace's murder was related. For it to be so would mean

    that he, himself, had broken the silence.

    No one else on earth knew of Pace's contribution. And even Pace had known

    precious little.

Only fragments.

    And all the background papers concerning the man in Lisbon had been removed

    from Pace's vault. Only the War Department transfer remained.

A fragment.

    Then Alan Swanson thought of something and he marveled at his own cold

    sense of the devious. In a way, it was chilling that it could escape the

    recesses of his mind. With Edmund Pace's death, not even Fairfax could

    piece together the events leading up to Buenos Aires. The government of the

    United States was removed one step further.

    As if abstractly seeking support, he ventured aloud to the small group of

    his peers that he recently had been in communication with Fairfax, with

    Pace as a matter of fact, over a minor matter of clearance. It was

    insignificant really, but he hoped to Christ ...

    He found his support instantly. The lieutenant general from staff, two

    brigs and a three-star all volunteered that they, too, had used Pace.

    193

Frequently, Obviously more than he did.

    'You could save a lot of time dealing directly with Ed,' said the staffer.

    'He cut tape and shot you off a clearance right away.'

One step further removed.

    Once back in his Washington apartment, Swanson experienced the doubts

    again. Doubts and opportunities alike. Pace's murder was potentially a

    problem because of the shock waves it would produce. There would be a major

    investigation, all avenues explored. On the other hand, the concentration

    would be on Fairfax. It would consume Allied Central Intelligence. At least

    for a while. He had to move now. Walter Kendall had to get to Buenos Aires

    and conclude the arrangements with Rhinemann.

    The guidance designs from Peenemilnde. Only the designs were important.

    But first tonight, this morning. David Spaulding. It was time to give the

    former man in Lisbon his assignment.

Swanson picked up the telephone. His hand shook.

The guilt was becoming unbearable.

    JANUARY 1, 1944

    FAIRFAX VIRGINIA

    'Marshall was killed several miles from a place called Valdero's. In the

    Basque province. It was an ambush.'

    'That's horseshit I Marshall never went into the north country I He wasn't

    trained, he wouldn't know what to do V David was out of the chair,

    confronting Barden.

    'Rules change. You're not the man in Lisbon now.... He went, he was

    killed.'

'Source?'

'The ambassador himself.'

'His source?'

    'Your normal channels, I assume. He said it was confirmed. Identiflication

    was brought back.'

'Meaninglessl'

'What do you want? A body?'

194

    'This may surprise you, Barden, but a hand or a finger isn't out of the

    question. That's identification.... Any photographs? Close shots, wounds,

    the eyes? Even those can be doctored.'

    'He didn't indicate any. What the hell's eating you? This is confirmed.'

'ReallyT David stared at Barden.

    'For Christ's sake, Spaulding! What the hell is . . . "Tortugas"? If it

    killed Ed Pace, I want to know! And I'm going to goddamned well find out!

    I don't give a shit about Lisbon cryps!'

    The telephone rang on Barden's desk; the colonel looked briefly at it, then

    pulled his eyes back to Spaulding.

    'Answer it,' said David. 'One of those calls is going to be Casualty. Pace

    has a family.... Had.'

    'Don't complicate my life any more than you have.' Barden crossed to his

    desk. 'Ed was due for an escort leave this Friday. I'm putting off calling

    -till morning. . . . YesT The colonel listenedto the phone for several

    seconds, then looked at Spaulding. 'It's the trip-line operator in New

    York; the one we've got covering you. This General Swanson's been trying io

    reach you. He's got him holding now. Do you want him to put the old man

    through?'

    David remembered Pace's appraisal of the nervous brigadier. 'Do you have to

    tell him I'm hereT

'Hell, no.'

'Then put him through.'

    Barden walked from behind the desk as Spaulding took the phone and repeated

    the phrase 'Yes, sir' a number of times. Finally he replaced the

    instrument. 'Swanson wants me in his office this morning.'

    'I want to know why the hell they ripped you out of Lisbon,' Barden said.

    David sat down in the chair without at first answering. When he spoke he

    tried not to sound military or officious. 'I'm not sure it has anything to

    do with ... anything. I don't want to duck; on the other hand, in a way I

    have to. But I want to keep a couple of options open. Call it instinct, I

    don't know.... There's a man named AltmUller. Franz Altmfiller.... Who he

    is, where he is - I have no idea. German, Swiss, I don't know.... Find out

    what you can on a four-zero basis. Call me at the Hotel Montgomery in New

    York. I'll- be there for at least the rest of the week. Then I go to Buenos

    Aires.'

    195

    *1 will if you flex the clearancestell me what the hell is

going on.'

    ,You won't like it. Because if I do, and if it is connected, it'll mean

    Fairfax has open code lines in Berlin!

    JANUARY], 1944

    NEW YORK CITY

    The commercial passenger plane began its descent toward La Guardia Airport.

    David looked at his watch, It was a little past noon. It had all happened

    in twelve hours: Cindy Bonner, the stranger on Fifty-second Street,

    Marshall, Pace's murder, Barden, the news from Valdero's ... and finally

    the awkward conference with the amateur source control, Brigadier General

    Alan Swanson, DW.

Twelve hours.

    He hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight. He needed sleep to find some kind of

    perspective, to piece together the elusive pattern. Not the one that was

    clear.

Erich Rhinemann was to be killed.

    Of course he had to be killed. The only surprise for David was the humbling

    manner in which the brigadier had given the order. It didn't require

    elaboration or apology. And it - at last -explained his transfer from

    Lisbon. It filled in the gaping hole of why. He was no gyroscope

    specialist; it hadn't made sense. But now it did. He was a good selection;

    Pace had made a thoroughly professional choice. It was a job for which he

    was suited - in addition to being a bilingual liaison between the mute

    gyroscopic scientist, Eugene Lyons, and Rhinemann's blueprint man.

    That picture was clear; he was relieved to see it come into focus.

What bothered him was the unfocused picture.

    The embassy's Marshall, the cryp who five days ago picked him up at a

    rain-soaked airfield outside of Lisbon. The man he had seen looking at him

    through the automobile window on Fifty-second Street; the man supposedly

    killed in an ambush in

196

the north country, into which he never had ventured. Or would venture.

    Leslie Jenner Hawkwood. The resourceful ex-lover who had lied and kept him

    away from his hotel room, who foolishly used the ploy of Cindy Bonner and

    the exchange of gifts for a dead husband she had stolen. Leslie was not an

    idiot. She was telling him something.

But what?

    And Pace. Poor, humorless Ed Pace cut down within the most

    security-conscious enclosure in the United States.

    The lesson of Fairfax, predicted with incredible accuracy -nearly to the

    moment - by a tall, sad-eyed man in shadows on Fifty-second Street.

That ... they were the figures in the unfocused picture.

    David had been harsh with the brigadier. He had demanded - professionally,

    of course - to know the exact date the decision had been reached to

    eliminate Erich Rhinemann. Who had arrived at it? How was the order

    transmitted? Did the general know a cryptographer named Marshall? Had Pace

    ever mentioned him? Had anyone ever mentioned him? And a man named

    AltmOller. Franz AltmWIer. Did that name mean anything?

    The answers were no help. And God knew Swanson wasn't lying. He wasn't pro

    enough to get away with it.

    The names Marshall and Altmaller were unknown to him. The decision to

    execute Rhinemann was made within hours. There was absolutely no way Ed

    Pace could have known; he was not consulted, nor was anyone at Fairfax. It

    was a decision emanating from the cellars of the White House; no one at

    Fairfax or Lisbon could have been involved. For David that absence of

    involvement was the important factor. It meant simply that the whole

    unfocused picture had nothing to do with Erich Rhinemann. And thus, as far

    as could be determined, was unrelated to Buenos Aires. David made the quick

    decision not to confide in the nervous brigadier. Pace had been right: the

    man couldn't take any more complications. He'd use Fairfax, source control

    be damned.

    The plane landed; Spaulding walked into the passenger terminal and looked

    for the signs that read Taxis. He went through the double doors to the

    platform and heard the porters shouting the vadous destinations of the

    unfilled cabs. It was funny. but the shared taxis were the only things that

    caused him to think LA

    197

Guardia Airport knew there was a war going on somewhere.

    Simultaneously he recognized the foolishness of his thoughts. And the

    pretentiousness of them.

    A soldier with no legs was being helped into a cab. Porters and civilians

    were touched, helpful.

The soldier was drunk. What was left of him, unstable.

    Spaulding shared a taxi with three other men, and they talked of little but

    the latest reports out of Italy. David decided to forget his cover in case

    the inevitable questions came up. He wasn't about to discuss any mythical

    combat in Salerno. But the questions did not arise. And then he saw why.

    The man next to him was blind; the man shifted his weight and the afternoon

    sun caused a reflection in his lapel. It was a tiny metal replica of a

    ribbon: South Pacific.

    David considered again that he was terribly tired. He was about the most

    unobservant agent ever to have been given an operation, he thought.

    He got out of the cab on Fifth Avenue, three blocks north of the

    Montgomery. He had overpaid his share; he hoped the other two men would

    apply it to the blind veteran whose clothes were one hell of a long way

    from Leslie Jenner's Rogers Peet.

Leslie Jenner ... Hawkwood.

A cryptographer named Marshall.

The unfocused picture.

    He had to put it all out of his mind. He had to sleep, forget; let

    everything settle before he thought again. Tomorrow morning he would meet

    Eugene Lyons and begin ... again. He had to be ready for the man who'd

    burned his throat out with raw alcohol and had not had a conversation in

    ten years.

    The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. His was the seventh. He was about

    to tell the elevator operator when he realized the doors were not opening.

    Instead, the operator turned in place. In his hand he gripped a

    short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver. He reached behind him to the lever

    control and pushed it to the left, the enclosed box jerked and edged itself

    up between floors.

    'The lobby lights go out this way, Colonel Spaulding. We may hear buzzers,

    but there's a second elevator used in emergencies. We won't be disturbed.'

    The accent was the same, thought David. British overlay. Middle Europe.

    'I'm glad of that. I mean, Jesus, it's been so long.'

198

'I don't find you amusing!

'Nor 1, you ... obviously!

    'You've been to Fairfax, Virginia. Did you have a pleasant journey?'

    6YOU9ve got an extraordinary pipeline.' Spaulding wasn't only buying time

    with conversation. He and Ira Barden had taken the required precautions.

    Even if the Montgomery switchboard reported everything he said, there was

    no evidence that he had flown to Virginia. The arrangements were made from

    telephone booths, the flight from Mitchell to Andrews under an assumed name

    on a crew sheet. Even the Manhattan number he had left with the Montgomery

    desk had a New York address under constant surveillance. And in the Fairfax

    compound, only the security gate had his name; he had been seen by only

    four, perhaps five men.

    'We have reliable sources of information.... Now you have learned firsthand

    the lesson of Fairfax, noT

    'I've learned that a good man was murdered. I imagine his wife and children

    have been told by now.'

    'There is no murder in war, colonel. A misapplication of the word. And

    don't speak to us. . . .'

A buzzer interrupted the man. It was short, a polite ring.

'Who is "us"T asked David.

    'You'll know in time, if you cooperate. If you don't cooperate, it will

    make no difference; you'll be killed.... We don't make idle threats.

    Witness Fairfax.'

The buzzersounded again. This time prolonged, not quite polite.

'How am I supposed to cooperate? What aboutT

'We must know the precise location of Tortugas!

    Spaulding's mind raced back to five o'clock that morning. In Fairfax. Ira

    Barden had said that the name 'Tortugas' was the single word opposite his

    transfer specification. No other data, nothing but the word 'Tortugas.' And

    it had been buried in Pace's 'vaults.' Cabinets kept behind steel doors,

    accessible only to the highest-echelon Intelligence personnel.

    'Tortugas is part of an island complex off the coast of Florida. It's

    usually referred to as the Dry Tortugas. It's on any map.'

The buzzer again. Now repeated; in short, angry spurts.

'Don't be foolish, colonel!

    'I'm not being anything. I don't know what you're talking about.'

    199

    The man stared at Spaulding. David saw that he was unsure, controlling his

    anger. The elevator buzzer was incessant now; voices could be heard from

    above and below.

'I'd prefer not to have to kill you but I will. Where is Tortugas?'

    Suddenly a loud male voice, no more than ten feet from the enclosure, on

    the sixth floor, shouted.

'It's up here I It's stuck! Are you all right up therer

    The man blinked, the shouting had unnerved him. It was the instant David

    was waiting for. He lashed his right hand out in a diagonal thrust and

    gripped the man's forearm, hammering it against the metal door. He slammed

    his body into the man's chest and brought his knee up in a single, crushing

    assault against the groin. The man screamed in agony; Spaulding grabbed the

    arched throat with his left hand and tore at the veins around the larynx.

    He hammered the man twice more in the groin, until the pain was so

    excruciating that no more screams could emerge, only low, wailing moans of

    anguish. The body went limp, the revolver fell to the floor, and the man

    slid downward against the wall.

    Spaulding kicked the weapon away and gripped the man's neck with both

    hands, shaking the head back and forth to keep him conscious.

'Now, you tell me, you son of a bitch! What is "Tortugas"?'

    The shouting outside the elevator was now deafening. There was a cacophony

    of hysteria brought on by the screams of the battered operator. There were

    cries for the hotel management. For the police.

    The man looked up at David, tears of terrible pain streaming from his eyes.

    'Why not kill me, pig,' he said between ago Wing chokes of breath. '. . .

    You've tried before.'

I David was bewildered. He'd never seen the man. The north

country? Basque? Navarre?

    There was no time to think.

    'What is "Tortugas"?'

    'Altmillier, pig. The pig AltmollerThe man fell into

unconsciousness.

    There was the name again.

    Altmidler.

    Spaulding rose from the unconscious body and grabbed the control lever of

    the elevator. He swung it to the far left, accelerating the speed as fast

    as possible.. There were ten floors in the

200

Montgomery; the Panel lights indicated that the first-, third., and

sixth-floor buttons had been activated. If he could reach the tenth before

the hysterical voices followed him up the stairs, it was possible that he

could get out of the elevator, race down the corridor to one of the comers,

then double back into the crowd which surely would gather around the open

elevator doors.

Around the unconscious man on the floor.

    It had to be possible! This was no time for him to be involved with the New

    York police.

    The man was carried away on a stretcher; the questions were brief.

    No, he didn't know the elevator operator. The man had dropped him off at

    hisfloor ten or twelve minutes ago. He'd been in his room and came out when

    he'd heard all the shouting.

The same as everyone else.

What was New York coming to?

    David reached his room on seven, closed the door and stared at the bed.

    Christ, he was exhausted I But his mind refused to stop racing.

    He would postpone everything until he had rested, except for two items. He

    had to consider those now. They could not wait for sleep because a

    telephone might ring, or someone might come to his hotel room. And he had

    to make his decisions in advance. Be prepared.

    The first item was that Fairfax no longer could be used as a source. It was

    riddled, infiltrated. He had to function without Fairfax, which, in a way,

    was akin to telling a cripple he had to walk without braces.

On the other hand, he was no cripple.

    The second item was a man named AltmUller. He had to find a man named Franz

    AltmUller; find out who he was, what he meant to the unfocused picture.

    David lay down on the bed; he didn't have the energy to remove his clothes,

    even his shoes. He brought his arm up to shade his eyes from the afternoon

    sun streaming in the hotel windows. The afternoon sun of the first day of

    the new year, 1944.

    Suddenly, he opened his eyes in the black void of tweed cloth. There was a

    third item. Inextricably bound to the man named Altm(Iller.

What the hell did 'Tortugas' mean?

    201

21

    JANUARY 2, 1944

    NEW YORK CITY

Eugene Lyons sat at a drafting board in the bare office. He was in

shirtsleeves. There were blueprints strewn about on tables. The bright

morning sun bouncing off the white walls gave the room the antiseptic

appearance of a large hospital cubicle.

    And Euge ne Lyons's face and body did nothing to discourage

such thoughts.

    David had followed Kendall through the door, apprehensive at the

    forthcoming introduction. He would have preferred not knowing anything

    about Lyons.

    The scientist turned on the stool. He was among the thinnest men Spaulding

    had ever seen. The bones were surrounded by flesh, not protected by it.

    Light blue veins were in evidence throughout the hands, arms, neck and

    temples. The skin wasn't old, it was worn out. The eyes were deep-set but

    in no way duU or flat; they were alert and, in their own way, penetrating.

    His straight grey hair was thinned out before its time; he could have been

    any age.within a twenty-year span.

    There was, however, one quality about the man that seemed specific:

    disinterest. He acknowledged the intrusion, obviously knew who David was,

    but made no move to interrupt his concentration.

    Kendall forced the break. 'Eugene, this is Spaulding. You show him where to

    start.'

And with those words Kendall turned on his heel and went out

202

the door, closing it behind him.

    David stood across the room from Lyons. He took the necessary steps and

    extended his hand. He knew exactly what he was going to say.

    'It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Lyons. I'm no expert in your field, but

    I've heard about your work at MIT. I'm lucky to have you spread the wealth,

    even if it's only for a short time.'

    There was a slight, momentary flicker of interest in the eyes. David had

    gambled on a simple greeting that told the emaciated scientist several

    things, among which was the fact that David was aware of Lyons's tragedy in

    Boston - thus, undoubtedly, the rest of his story - and was not inhibited

    by it.

    Lyons's grip was limp; the disinterest quickly returned. Disinterest, not

    necessarily rudeness. On the borderline.

    'I know we haven't much time and 19m a neophyte in gyroscopics,' said

    Spaulding, releasing the hand, backing off to the side of the drafting

    board. 'But I'm told I don't have to recognize much more than pretty basic

    stuff ; be able to verbalize in German the terms and formulas you write out

    for me.'

    David emphasized - with the barest rise in his voice - the words verbalize

    ... you write out for me. He watched Lyons to see if there was any reaction

    to his open acknowledgment of the scientist's vocal problem. He thought he

    detected a small hint of relief.

    Lyons looked up at him. The thin lips flattened slightly against the teeth;

    there was a short extension at the comers of the mouth and the scientist

    nodded. There was even an infinitesimal glint of appreciation in the

    deep-set eyes. He got up from his stool and crossed to the nearest table

    where several books lay on blueprints, He picked up the top volume and

    handed it to Spaulding. The title on the cover was Diagrammatics: Inertia

    and Precession.

David knew it would be all right.

It was past six o'clock.

    Kendall had gone; the receptionist had bolted at the stroke of five, asking

    David to close the doors if he was the last person to leave. If not, tell

    one of the others.

The 'others' were Eugene Lyons and his two male nurses.

    Spaulding met them - the male nurses - briefly in the reception room. Their

    names were Hal and Johnny. Both were large men; the talkative one was Hal,

    the leader was Johnny, an ex-mariw~

    203

    'The old guy is on his real good behavior,' said Hal. 'Nothing to worry

    about.'

    'It's time to get him back to St. Luke's,' said Johnny. 'They get pissed

    off if he's too late for the night meal.'

    Together the men went into Lyons's office and brought him out. They were

    polite with the cadaverous physicist, but firm. Eugene Lyons looked

    indifferently at Spaulding, shrugged and walked silently out the door with

    his two keepers.

    David waited until he heard the sound of the elevator in the hallway. Then

    he put down the Diagrammatics volume the physicist had given him on the

    receptionist's desk and crossed to Walter Kendall's office.

    The door was locked, which struck him as strange. Kendall was on his way to

    Buenos Aires, he might not be back for several weeks. Spaulding withdrew a

    small object from his pocket and knelt down. At first glance, the

    instrument in David's hand appeared to be an expensive silver pocket knife,

    the sort so often found at the end of an expensive key chain, especially in

    very expensive men's clubs. It wasn't. It was a locksmith's pick designed

    to give that appearance. It had been made in London's Silver Vaults, a gift

    from an MI-5 counterpart in Lisbon.

    David spun out a tiny cylinder with a flat tip and inserted it into the

    lock housing. In less than thirty seconds the appropriate clicks were heard

    and Spaulding opened the door. He walked in, leaving it ajar.

    Kendall's office had no file cabinets, no closets, no bookshelves; no

    recesses whatsoever other than the desk drawers. David turned on the

    fluorescent reading lamp at the far edge of the blotter and opened the top

    center drawer.

    He had to stifle a genuine laugh. Surrounded by an odd assortment of paper

    clips, toothpicks, loose Lifesavers, and note paper were two pornographic

    magazines. Although marked with dirty fingerprints, both were fairly new.

Merry Christmas, Walter Kendall, thought David a little sadly.

    The side drawers were empty, at least there was nothing of interest. In the

    bottom drawer lay crumpled yellow pages of note paper, meaningless doodles

    drawn with a hard pencil, piercing the pages.

    He was about to get up and leave when he decided to look once more at the

    incoherent patterns on the crumpled paper. There was nothing else; Kendall

    had locked his office door out

204

of reflex, not necessity. And again by reflex, perhaps, he had put the

yellow pages -not in a wastebasket, which had only the contents of emptied

ashtrays - but in a drawer. Out of sight.

    David knew he was reaching. There was no choice; he wasn't sure what he was

    looking for, if anything.

    He spread two of the pages on top of the blotter, pressingthe surfaces

    flat.

Nothing.

    Well, something. Outlines of women's breasts and genitalia. Assorted

    circles and arrows, diagrams: a psychoanalyst's paradise.

    He removed another single page and pressed it out. More circles, arrows,

    breasts. Then to one side, childlike outlines of clouds - billowy, shaded;

    diagonal marks that could be rain or multiple sheets of thin lightning.

Nothing.

Another page.

    It caught David's eye. On the bottom of the soiled yellow page, barely

    distinguishable between criss-cross penciling, was the outline of a large

    swastika. He looked at it closely. The swastika had circles at the

    right-hand points of the insignia, circles that spun off as if the artist

    were duplicating the ovals of a Palmer writing exercise. And flowing out of

    these ovals were unmistakable initials. JD. Then Joh D., J Diet.... The

    letters appeared at the end of each oval line. And beyond the final letters

    in each area were elaborately drawn ? ? ?

David folded the paper carefully and put it in his jacket pocket. There were

two remaining pages, so he took them out simultaneously. The page to the

left had only one large, indecipherable scribble - once more circular, now

angry - and meaningless. But on the second paper, again toward the bottom of

the page,

was a series of scroll-like markings that could be interpreted as is and Ds,

similar in flow to the letters after the swastika points on the second page.

And opposite the final D was a strange horizontal obelisk, its taper on the

right. There were lines on the side as though they were edges.... A bullet,

perhaps, with bore markings. Underneath, on the next line of the paper to

the left, were the same oval motions that brought to mind the Palmer

exercise. Only they were firmer here, pressed harder into the yellow paper.

    205

Suddenly David realized what he was staring at.

    Walter Kendall had subconsciously outlined an obscene caricature of an

    erect penis and testicles.

Happy New Year, Mr. Kendall, thought Spaulding.

    He put the page carefully into his pocket with its partner, returned the

    others and shut the drawer. He switched off the lamp, walked to the open

    door, turning to see if he had left everything as it was, and crossed into

    the reception room. He pulled Kendall's door shut and considered briefly

    whether to lock the tumblers in place.

    It would be pointless to waste the time. The lock was old, simple;

    janitorial personnel in just about any building in New York would have a

    key, and it was more difficult inserting tumblers than releasing them. To

    hell with it.

    A half hour later it occurred to him - in an instant of reflection - that

    this decision probably saved his life. The sixty, or ninety, or

    one-hundred-odd seconds he eliminated from his departure placed him in the

    position of an observer, not a target.

    He put on the Rogers Peet overcoat, turned off the lights, and walked into

    the corridor to the bank of elevators. It was nearly seven, the day after

    New Year's, and the building was practically deserted. A single elevator

    was working. It had passed his floor, ascending to the upper stories, where

    it seemed to linger. He was about to use the stairs -the offices were on

    the third floor, it might be quicker - when he heard rapid, multiple

    footsteps coming up the staircase. The sound was incongruous. Moments ago

    the elevator had been in the lobby; why would two -more than two? -people

    be racing up the stairs at seven at night? There could be a dozen

    reasonable explanations, but his instincts made him consider unreasonable

    ones.

    Silently, he ran to the opposite end of the short floor, where an

    intersecting corridor led to additional offices on the south side of the

    building. He rounded the comer and pressed himself against the wall. Since

    the assault in the Montgomery elevator, he carried a weapon - a small

    Beretta revolver - strapped to his chest, under his clothes. He flipped

    open his overcoat and undid the buttons of his jacket and shirt. Access to

    the pistol would be swift and efficient, should it be necessary.

    It probably wouldn't be, he thought, as he heard the footsteps disappear.

Then he realized that they had not disappeared, they had

206

faded, slomed down to a walk - a quiet, cautious walk. And then he heard the

voices: whisper-like, indistinguishable. They came from around the edge of

the wall, in the vicinity of the unmarked Meridian office, no more than

thirty feet away.

    He inched the flat of his face to the sharp, concrete comer and

    simultaneously reached his right hand under his shirt to the handle of the

    Beretta.

    There were two men with their backs to him, facing the darkened glass of

    the unmarked office door. The shorter of the two put his face against the

    pane, hands to both temples to shut out the light from the corridor. He

    pulled back and looked at his partner, shaking his head negatively.

    The taller man turned slightly, enough for Spaulding to recognize him.

    It was the stranger in the recessed, darkened doorway on Fifty-second

    Street. The tall, sad-eyed man who spoke gently, in bastardized

    British-out-of-the-Balkans, and held him under the barrel of a thick,

    powerful weapon.

    The man reached into his left overcoat pocket and gave a key to his friend.

    With his right hand he removed a pistol from his belt. It was a heavy-duty

    .45, army issue. At close range, David knew it would blow a person into the

    air and off the earth. The man nodded and spoke softly but clearly.

'He has to be. He didn't leave. I want him.'

    With, these words the shorter man inserted the key and shoved at the door.

    It swung back slowly. Together, both men walked in.

    At that precise moment the elevator grill could be heard opening, its metal

    frames ringing throughout the corridor. David could see the two men in the

    darkened reception room freeze, turn toward the open door and quickly shut

    it.

    'Chee-ryst Almighty!' was the irate shout from the angry elevator operator

    as the grill rang shut with a clamor.

    David knew it was the instant to move. Within seconds one or both men

    inside the deserted Meridian offices would realize that the elevator had

    stopped on the third floor because someone had pushed the button. Someone

    not in evidence, someone they had not met on the stairs. Someone still on

    the floor.

    He spun around the edge of the wall and raced down the co m-dor toward the

    staircase. He didn't look back; he didn't bother to muffle his steps - it

    would have reduced his speed. His only concern was to get down those steps

    and out of the building.

    207'

He leaped down the right-angled staircase to the in-between landing and

whipped around the comer.

And then he stopped.

    Below him, leaning against the railing, was the third man. He knew he'd

    heard more than two sets of feet racing up the staircase minutes ago. The

    man was startled, his eyes widened in shocked recognition and his right

    hand jerked backwards toward his coat pocket. Spaulding didn't have to be

    told what he was reaching for.

' David sprang off the landing straight down at the man, making contact in

midair, his hands clawing for the man's throat and right arm. He gripped the

skin on the neck below the left ear and tore at it, slamming the man's head

into the concrete wall as he did so. David's heavier body crushed into the

would-be sentry's chest; he twisted the right arm nearly out of its shoulder

socket.

    The man screamed and collapsed; the scalp was lacerated, blood flowing out

    of the section of his skull that had crashed into the wall.

    David could hear the sounds of a door being thrown open and men running.

    Above him, of course, one floor above him.

    He freed his entangled legs from the unconscious body and raced down the

    remaining flight of stairs to the lobby. The elevator had, moments ago, let

    out its cargo of passengers; the last few were going out the front

    entrance. If any had heard the prolonged scream from the battered man sixty

    feet away up the staircase, none acknowledged it.

    David rushed into the stragglers, elbowing his way through the wide double

    doors and onto the sidewalk. He turned east and ran as fast as he could.

    He had walked over forty city blocks -some two miles in Basque country, but

    here infinitely less pleasant.

    He had come to several decisions. The problem was how to implement them.

    He could not stay in New York; not without facing risks, palpably

    unacceptable. And he had to get to Buenos Aires at once, before any of

    those hunting him in New York knew he was gone.

For they were hunting him now; that much was clear.

    It would be suicide to return to the Montgomery. Or for that matter, to the

    unmarked Meridian offices in the morning. He could handle both with

    telephone calls. He would tell the hotel

2D8

that he had been suddenly transferred to Pennsylvania; could the Montgomery

management pack and hold his things? Hed call later about his bill....

    Kendall was on his way to Argentina. It wouldn't make any difference what

    the Meridian office was told.

Suddenly, he thought of Eugene Lyons.

    He was a little sad about Lyons. Not the man (of course the man, he

    reconsidered quickly, but not the man's affliction, in this instance), but

    the fact that he would have little chance to develop any sense of rapport

    before Buenos Aires. Lyons might take his sudden absence as one more

    rejection in a long series. And the scientist might really need his help in

    Buenos Aires, at least in the area of German translation. David decided

    that he had to have the books Lyons selected for him; he had to have as

    solid a grasp of Lyons's language as was possible.

And then David realized where his thoughts were leading him.

    For the next few hours the safest places in New York were the Meridian

    offices and St. Luke's Hospital.

    After his visits to both locations he'd get out to Mitchell Field and

    telephone Brigadier General Swanson.

    The answer to the violent enigma of the past seven days - from the Azores

    to a staircase on Thirty-eighth Street and everything in between - was in

    Buenos Aires.

    Swanson did not know it and could not help; Fairfax was infiltrated and

    could not be told. And that told him something.

    He was on his own. A man had two choices in such a dilemma: take himself

    out of strategy, or dig for identities and blow the covers off.

    The first choice would be denied him. The brigadier, Swanson, was paranoid

    on the subject of the gyroscopic designs. And Rhinemann. There'd be no out

    of strategy.

That left the second: the identity of those behind the enigma.

    A feeling swept over him, one he had not experienced in several years: the

    fear of sudden inadequacy. He was confronted with an extraordinary problem

    for which there was no pat - or complicated - solution in the north

    country. No unraveling that came with moves or countermoves whose

    strategies he had mastered in Basque and Navarre.

    He was suddenly in another war. One he was not familiar with; one that

    raised doubts about himself.

He saw an unoccupied taxi, its roof light dimly lit, as if embar-

    209

rassed to announce its emptiness. He looked up at the street sign; he was on

Sheridan Square - it accounted for the muted sounds of jazz that floated up

from cellars and surged down crowded side streets. The Village was warming

up for another evening.

    He raised his hand for the taxi; the driver did not see him. He started

    running as the cab proceeded up the street to the comer traffic light.

    Suddenly he realized that someone else on the other side of the square was

    rushing toward the empty taxi; the man was closer to it than Spaulding, his

    right hand was gesturing.

    It was now terribly important to David that he reach the car first. He

    gathered speed and ran into the street, dodging pedestrians, momentarily

    blocked by two automobiles that were bumper to bumper. He spread his hands

    from hood to trunk and jumped over into the middle of the street and

    continued racing toward his objective.

Objective.

    He reached the taxi no more than half a second after the other man.

Goddamn it! It was the obstruction of the two automobiles!

Obstruction.

    He slammed his hand on the door panel, preventing the other man from

    pulling it open. The man looked up at Spaulding's face, at Spaulding's

    eyes.

'Christ, fella. I'll wait for another one,' the man said quickly.

David was embarrassed. What the hell was he doing?

The doubts? The goddamned doubts.

    'No, really, I'm terribly sorry.' He mumbled the words, smiling

    apologetically. 'You take it. I'm in no hurry.... Sorry again.,

    He turned and walked rapidly across the street into the crowds of Sheridan

    Square.

He could have had the taxi. That was the important thing.

Jesus! The treadmill never let up.

210

Part Two

    22

    1944

    BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

The Pan American Clipper left Tampa at eight in the morning, with scheduled

coastline stops at Caracas, Rio Luis, Salvador, and Rio de Janeiro before

the final twelve hundred miles to Buenos Aires. David was listed on the

passenger invoice as Mr. Donald Scanlan of Cincinnati, Ohio; occupation:

mining surveyor. It was a temporary cover for the journey only. 'Donald

Scanlan' would disappear after the Clipper landed at the Aeroparque in

Buenos Aires. The initials were the same as his own for the simple reason

that it was so easy to forget a monogrammed gift or the first letter of a

hastily written signature. Especially if one was preoccupied or tired ... or

afraid.

    Swanson had been close to panic when David reached him from the Mitchell

    Field Operations Room in New York. As a source control, Swanson was about

    as decisive as a bewildered bird dog. Any deviation from Kendall's schedule

    - Kendall's instructions, really - was abhorrent to him. And Kendall wasn't

    even leaving for Buenos Aires until the following morning.

    David had not wasted complicated explanations on the general. As far as he

    was concerned, three attempts had been made on his life - at least, they

    could be so interpreted - and if the general wanted his 'services' in

    Buenos Aires, he'd better get down there while he was still in one piece

    and functioning.

    Were the attempts - the attacks - related to Buenos Aires? Swanson had

    asked the question as though he were afraid to

    211

name the Argentine city.

    David was honest: there was no way to tell. The answer was in Buenos Aires.

    It was reasonable to consider the possibility, but not to assume it.

    'That's what Pace said,' had been Swanson's reply. 'Consider, don't

    assume.'

'Ed was generally right about such things.'

    'He said when you operated in Lisbon, you were often involved in messy

    situations in the field.'

    'True. I doubt that Ed knew the particulars, though. But he was right in

    what he was trying to tell you. There are a lot of people in Portugal and

    Spain who'd rather see me dead than alive. Or at least they think they

    would. They could never be sure. Standard procedure, general.'

    There had been a prolonged pause on the Washington line. Finally, Swanson

    had said the words. 'You realize, Spaulding, that we may have to replace

    you.'

    'Of course. You can do so right now, if you like.' David had been sincere.

    He wanted very much to return to Lisbon. To go into the north country. To

    Valdero's. To find out about a cryp named Marshall.

    'No.... No, everything's too far along. The designs. They're the important

    thing. Nothing else matters.'

    The remainder of the conversation concerned the details of transportation,

    American and Argentine currency, replenishing of a basic wardrobe, and

    luggage. Logistics which were not in the general's frame of reference and

    for which David took responsibility. The final command - request - was

    delivered, not by the general, but by Spaulding.

    Fairfax was not to be informed of his whereabouts. Nor was anyone else for

    that matter, except the embassy in Buenos Aires; but make every effort to

    keep the information from Fairfax.

Why? Did Spaulding think ...

    'There's a leak in Fairfax, general. You might pass that on to the White

    House cellars.'

'That's impossible!'

'Tell that to Ed Pace's widow.'

    David looked out the Clipper window. The pilot, moments ago, had informed

    the passengers that they were passing over the huge coastal lake of Mirim

    in Uruguay. Soon they'd be over Montevideo, forty minutes from Buenos

    Aires.

212

    Buenos Aires. The unf~cused picture, the bluffed figures of Leslie Jenner

    Hawkwood, the cryptographer Marshall, a man named Franz Altmillier; strange

    but committed men on Fiftysecond and Thirty-eighth streets - in a darkened

    doorway, in a building after office hours, on a staircase. A man in an

    elevator who was so unafraid to die. An enemy who displayed enormous

    courage ... or misguided zealousness. A maniac.

    The answer to the enigma was in Buenos Aires, less than an hour away. The

    city was an hour away, the answer much longer. But no more than three weeks

    if his instincts were right. By the time the gyroscopic designs were

    delivered.

    He would begin slowly, as he always did with a new field problem. Trying

    first to melt into the surroundings, absorb his cover; be comfortable,

    facile in his relationships. It shouldn't be difficult. His cover was

    merely an "tension of Lisbon's: the wealthy trilingual attach6 whose

    background, parents, and prewar associations in the fashionable centers of

    Europe made him a desirable social buffer for any ambassador's dinner

    table. He was an attractive addition to the delicate world of a neutral

    capital; and if there were those who thought someone, somewhere, had used

    money and influence to secure him such combat-exempt employment, so be it.

    It was denied emphatically, but not vehemently; there was a difference.

    The 'extension' for Buenos Aires was direct and afforded him top-secret

    classification. He was acting as a liaison between New York-London banking

    circles and the German ex-patriot Erich Rhinemann. Washington approved, of

    course; postwar financing in areas of reconstruction and industrial

    rebuilding were going to be international problems. Rhinemann could not be

    overlooked, not in the civilized marble halls of Berne and Geneva.

    David's thoughts returned to the book on his lap. It was the second of six

    volumes Eugene Lyons had chosen for him.

    'Donald Scanlan' went through the Aeroparque customs without difficulty.

    Even the embassy liaison, who checked in all Americans, seemed unaware of

    his identity.

    His single suitcase in hand, David walked to the taxi station and stood on

    the cement platform looking at the drivers standing beside their vehicles.

    He wasn't prepared to assume the name of Spaulding or to be taken directly

    to the embassy just yet. He wanted to assure himself that 'Donald Scanlan'

    was accepted for

    213

what he was - a mining surveyor, nothing more, that there was no unusual

interest in such a man. For if there were, it would point to David

Spaulding, Military Intelligence, Fairfax and Lisbon graduate.

    He selected an obese, pleasant-looking driver in the fourth cab from the

    front of the line. There were protests from those in front, but David

    pretended not to understand. 'Donald Scanlan' might know a smattering of

    Spanish, but certainly not the epithets employed by the disgruntled drivers

    cheated out of a fare.

    Once inside he settled back and gave instructions to the unctuous driver.

    He told the man he had nearly an hour to waste before he was to be met -

    the meeting place not mentioned -and asked if the driver would give him a

    short tour of the city. The tour would serve two purposes: he could

    position himself so that he could constantly check for surveillance, and he

    would learn the main points of the city.

I The driver, impressed by David's educated, grammatical Spanish, assumed

the role of tour director and drove out of the airport's winding lanes to

the exit of the huge Parque 3 de Febrero in which the field was centered.

    Thirty minutes later David had filled a dozen pages with notes. The city

    was like a European insert on the southern continent. It was a strange

    mixture of Paris, Rome and middle Spain. The streets were not city streets,

    they were boulevards: wide, lined with color. Fountains and statuary

    everywhere. The Avenida 9 de Julio might have been a larger Via Veneto or

    Saint-Germaindes-Pr6s. The sidewalk cafes, profuse with brightly decorated

    awnings and greenery from hundreds of planter boxes, were doing a brisk

    summer afternoon business. The fact that it was summer in Argentina was

    emphasized for David by the perspiration on his neck and shirt front. The

    driver admitted that the day was inordinately warm, in the high seventies.

    David asked to be driven - among other places - to a district called San

    Telmo. The cab owner nodded appreciatively, as if he had accurately

    assessed the rich American. Soon Spaulding understood. San Telmo was as

    Kendall had noted: elegant, secluded, beautifully kept old houses and

    apartment buildings with wrought-iron balustrades and brilliantly

    blossoming flowers lining the spotless streets.

Lyons would be comfortable.

214

    From San Tehn6 the driver doubled back into the inner city and began the

    tour from the banks of the Rio de la Plata.

    The Plaza de Mayo, the Cabildo, the Casa Rosada, Calle Rivadavia. The names

    filled David's notebook; these were the streets, the squares, the locations

    he would absorb quickly.

    La Boca. The waterfront, south of the city; this, the driver said, was no

    place for the tourist.

    The Calle Florida. Here was the finest shopping area in all South America.

    The driver could take his American to several store owners personally known

    to him and extraordinary purchases could be made.

    Sorry, there was no time. But David wrote in his notebook that traffic was

    banned at the borders of the Calle Florida.

    The driver then sped out the Avenida Santa R toward the Palermo. No sight

    in Buenos Aires was as beautiful as the Palern o.

    What interested David more than the beauty was the huge park - or series of

    individual parks; the quiet, immense, artificial lake. The acres of

    botanical gardens; the enormous zoo complex with rows of cages and

    buildings.

    Beauty, yes. Secure areas of contact, more so. The Palermo might come in

    handy.

    An hour had passed; there were no automobiles following the taxi. 'Donald

    Scanlan' had not been under surveillance; David Spaulding could emerge.

Quietly.

    He instructed the driver to leave him off at the cabstand outside the

    entrance to the Palermo zoo. He was to meet his party there. The driver

    looked crestfallen. Was there no hotel? No place of residence?

    Spaulding did not reply, he simply asked the fare and quickly held out the

    amount. No more questions were in order.

    David spent an additional fifteen minutes inside the zoo, actually enjoying

    it. He bought an ice from a vendor, wandered past the cages of marmosets

    and orangutans - finding extraordinary resemblances to friends and enemies

    - and when he felt comfortable (as only a field man can feel comfortable),

    walked out to the cabstand.

    He waited another five minutes while mothers and governesses and children

    entered the available taxis. It was his turn.

'The American embassy, por favor.,

    215

    Ambassador Henderson Granville allowed the new attach6 a half hour. There

    would be other days when they could sit and chat at length, but Sundays

    were hectic. The rest of Buenos Aires might be at church or at play; the

    diplomatic corps was at work. He had two garden parties still to attend -

    telephone calls would be made detailing the departures and arrivals of the

    German and the Japanese guests; his arrivals and departures would be timed

    accordingly. And after the second garden-bore there was dinner at the

    Brazilian embassy, Neither German nor Japanese interference was

    anticipated. Brazil was close to an open break.

    'The Italians, you realize,' said Granville, smiling at David, 'don't count

    any longer. Never did really; not down here. They spend most of their time

    cornering us in restaurants, or calling from public phones, explaining how

    Mussolini ruined the country!

'Not too different from Lisbon.'

    'I'm afraid they're the only pleasant similarity.... I won!t bore you with

    a tedious account of the upheavals we've experienced here, but a quick

    sketch - and emphasis - will help you adjust. You've read up, I assume!

    'I haven't had much time. I left Lisbon only a week ago. I know that the

    Castillo government was overthrown!

    'Last June. Inevitable. . . . Ram6n Castillo was as inept a president as

    Argentina ever had, and it's had its share of buffoons. The economy was

    disastrous: agriculture and industry came virtually to a halt; his cabinet

    never made provisions to fill the beef market void created by the British

    struggle, even though the lot of them figured John Bull was finished. He

    deserved to be thrown out.... Unfortunately, what came in the front door

    -marched in phalanx up the Rivadavia, to be more precise -hardly makes our

    lives easier.'

'That's the military council, isn't it? The juntaT

    Granville gestured with his delicate hands, the chiseled features of his

    aging, aristocratic face formed a sardonic grimace. 'The Grupo de Oficiales

    Unidos! As unpleasant a band of goosestepping opportunists as you will meet

    ... I daresay, anywhere. You know, of course, the entire army was trained

    by the Wehrmacht officer corps. Add to that jovial premise the hot Latin

    temperament, economic chaos, a neutrality that's enforced but not believed

    in, and what have you got? A suspension of the political apparatus; no

    checks and balances. A police state rife with corruption!

216

'What maintains the neutralityT

    'The infighting, primarily. The GOU - that's what we call it - has more

    factions than the '29 Reichstag. They're all jockeying for the power spots.

    And naturally, the cold fear of an American fleet and air force right up

    the street, so to speak.... The GOU has been reappraising its judgments

    during the past five months. The colonels are beginning to wonder about

    their mentors' thousand-year crusade; extremely impressed by our supply and

    production lines.'

'They should be. We've. .

    'And there's another aspect,' interrupted Granville thoughtfully. 'There's

    a small, very wealthy community of Jews here. Your Erich Rhinemann, for

    example. The GOU isn't prepared to openly advocate the solutions of Julius

    Streicher. . . . It's already used Jewish money to keep alive lines of

    credit pretty well chewed up by Castillo. The colonels are afraid of

    financial manipulations, most military people are. But there's a great deal

    of money to be made in this war. The colonels intend to make it. . ~ . Do

    I sketch a recognizable pictureT

'A complicated one.'

    'I daresay.... We have a maxim here that serves quite wen. Today's friend

    will probably be on the Axis payroll tomorrow; conversely, yesterday's

    Berlin courier might be for sale next week. Keep your options open and your

    opinions private. And publicly ... allow for a touch more flexibility than

    might be approved of at another post. It's tolerated.'

'And expectedT asked David.

'Both.'

    David lit a cigarette. He wanted to shift the conversation; old Granville

    was one of those ambassadors, professorial by nature, who would go on

    analyzing the subtleties of his station all day if someone listened. Such

    men were usually the best diplomats but not always the most desirable

    liaisons in times of active practicality. Henderson Granville was a good

    man, though his concerns shone in his eyes, and they were fair concerns.

'I imagine Washington has outlined my purpose here.'

    'Yes. I wish I could say I approved. Not of you; you9ve got your

    instructions. And I suppose international finance Will continue long after

    Herr Hitler has shrieked his last scream.... Perhaps I'm no better than the

    GOU. Money matters can be most distasteful.'

    217

'These in particular, I gather.'

    'Again, yes. Erich Rhinemann is a sworn companion of the wind. A powerful

    companion, make no mistake, but totally without conscience; a hurricane's

    morality. Unquestionably the least honorable man I've ever met. I think

    it's criminal that his resources make him acceptable to London and New

    York.'

'Perhaps necessary is a more appropriate term.'

'I'm sure that's the rationalization, at any rate.'

'It's mine.'

    'Of course. Forgive an old man's obsolete limits of necessity. But we have

    no quarrel. You have an assignment. What can I do for you? I understand

    it's very little.'

    'Very little indeed, sir. Just have me- listed on the embassy index; any

    kind of office space will do as long as it has a door and a telephone. And

    I'd like to meet your cryp. I'll have codes to send.'

    'My word, that sounds ominous,' said Granville, smiling without humor.

'Routine, sir. Washington relay; simple Yes and Nos.'

    'Very well. Our head cryptographer, is named Ballard. Nice fellow; speaks

    seven or eight languages and is an absolute whiz at parlor games. You'll

    meet him directly. What else?'

    'I'd like an apartment 9

    'Yes, we know,' interrupted Granville gently, snatching a brief look at the

    wall clock. 'Mrs. Cameron has scouted one she thinks you'll approve ... ~.

    Of course, Washington gave us no indication of your length of stay. So Mrs.

    Cameron took it for three months.'

    'That's far too long. 1911 straighten it out.... I think that's almost all,

    Mr. Ambassador. I know you're in a hurry.'

'I'm afraid I am.'

    David got out of his chair, as did Granville. 'Oh, one thing, sir. Would

    this Ballard have an embassy index? I'd like to learn the names here.'

    'There aren't that many,' said Granville, leveling his gaze at David, a

    subtle note of disapproval in his voice. 'Eight or ten would be those you'd

    normally come in contact with. And I can assure you we have our own

    security measures.'

    David accepted the rebuke. 'That wasn't my point, sir. I really do like to

    familiarize myself with the narnes.'

    'Yes, of course! Granville came around the desk and walked Spaulding to the

    door. 'Chat with my secretary for a few minutes.

218

I'll get hold of Ballard; he'll show you around!

    'Thank you, sir.' Spaulding extended his hand to Granville, and as he did

    so he realized for the first time how tall the man was.

    'You know,' said the ambassador, releasing David's hand, 'there was a

    question I wanted to ask you, but the answer will have to wait for another

    time. I'm late already.'

'What was that?'

    'I've been wondering why the boys on Wall Street and the Strand sent you.

    I can't imagine there being a dearth of experienced bankers in New York or

    London, can you?'

. 'There probably isn't. But then I'm only a liaison carrying messages;

information best kept private, I gather. I have had experience in those

areas ... in a neutral country.'

    Granville smile d once more and once more there was no humor conveyed.

    'Yes, of course. I was sure there was a reason.'

t

219

23

Ballard shared two traits common to most cryptographers, thought David. He

was a casual cynic and a fount of information. Qualities, Spaulding

believed, developed over years of deciphering other men's secrets only to

find the great majority unimportant. He was also cursed with the first name

of Robert, by itself acceptable but when followed by Ballard, invariably

reduced to Bobby. Bobby Ballard. It had the ring of a 1920s socialite or the

name in a cereal box cartoon.

    He was neither. He was a linguist with a mathematical mind and a shock of

    red hair on top of a medium-sized, muscular body; a pleasant man.

    'That's our home,' Ballard was saying. 'You've seen the working sections;

    big, rambling, baroque and goddamned hot this time of year. I hope you're

    smart and have your own apartment.'

'Don't you? Do you live hereT

    'It's easier. My dials are very inconsiderate, they hum at all hours.

    Better than scrambling down from Chacarita or Telmo. And it's not bad; we

    stay out of each other's way pretty much.'

'Oh? A lot of you hereT

    'No. They alternate. Six, usually. In the two wings, east and south.

    Granville has the north apartments. Besides him, Jean Cameron and I are the

    only permanents. You'll meet Jean tomorrow, unless we run into her on the

    way out with the old

220

man. She generally goes with him to the diplobores.'

'The whatT

    'Diplo-bores. The old man's word ... contraction. I'm surprised he didn't

    use it with you. He's proud of it. Diplobore is an embassy duty bash.' They

    were in a large empty reception room; Ballard was opening a pair of French

    doors leading out onto a short balcony. In the distance could be seen the

    Nxaters of the Rio de la Plata and the estuary basin of the Puerto Nuevo,

    Buenos Aires' main port. 'Nice view, isn't it?'

    'Certainly is.' David joined the cryptographer on the balcony. 'Does this

    Jean Cameron and the ambassador ... I mean, are they ... ?'

    'Jean and the old manT Ballard laughed loud and goodnaturedly. 'Christ, no!

    ... Come to think of it, I don't know why it strikes me so funny. I suppose

    there're a lot of people who think that. And that's funny.'

GWhy?t

    'Sad-funny, I guess I should say,' continued Ballard without interruption.

    'The old man and the Cameron family go back to the original Maryland money.

    Eastern Shore yacht clubs, blazer jackets, tennis in the morning - you

    know: diplomat territory. Jean's family was part of it, too. She married

    this Cameron; knew him since they could play doctor together in their

    Abercrombie pup tents. A rich-people romance, childhood sweethearts. They

    got married; the war came; he chucked his law books for a TBF - aircraft

    carrier pilot. He was killed in the Leyte Gulf. That was last year. She

    went a little crazy; maybe more than a little.'

'So the ... Granville brought her down here?'

'That's right.'

'Nice therapy, if you can afford it.'

    'She'd probably agree with that.' Ballard walked back into the reception

    room; Spaulding followed. 'But most people will tell you she pays her dues

    for the treatment. She works damned hard and knows what she's doing. Has

    rotten hours, too; what with the diplobores.'

'Where's Mrs. GranvilleT

'No idea. She divorced the old man ten, fifteen years ago.'

    'I still say it's nice work if you can get it.' David was thinking, in an

    offhand way, of several hundred thousand other women whose husbands had

    been killed, living with reminders every day. He dismissed his thoughts;

    they weren't his concerns.

    221

'Well, she's qualified.'

    'WhatT David was looking at a rococo-styled comer pillar in the wall, not

    really listening.

    'Jean spent four years - off and on - down here as a kid. Her father was in

    Foreign Service; probably would have been an ambassador by now if held

    stuck with it.... Come on, I'll show you the office Granville assigned you.

    Maintenance should have it tidied up by now,' Ballard smiled.

    'You've been employing a diversion,'laughed David, following the cryp out

    the door into another hallway.

    'I had to. You've got a room in the back. So far back it's been used for

    storage, I think.'

'Obviously I made points with Granville.'

    'You sure did. He can't figure you out.... Me? I don't try.' Ballard turned

    left into still another intersecting hallway. 'This is the south wing.

    Offices on the first and second floors; not many, three on each. Apartments

    on the third and fourth. The roof is great for sunbathing, if you like that

    sort of thing.'

'Depends on the company, I suppose.'

    The two men approached a wide staircase, preparing to veer to the left

    beyond it, when a feminine voice called down from the second landing.

'Bobby, is that youT

    .It's Jean,' said Ballard. 'Yes,' he called out. 'I'm with Spaulding. Come

    on down and meet the new recruit with enough influence to get his own

    apartment right off.'

'Wait'll he sees the apartmentV

    Jean Cameron'came into sight from around the comer landing. She was a

    moderately tall woman, slender and dressed in a floorlength cocktail gown

    at once vivid with color yet simple in design. Her light brown hair was

    shoulder length, full and casual. Her face was a combination of striking

    features blended into a soft whole; wide, alive blue eyes; a thin, sharply

    etched nose; lips medium full and set as if in a half-smile. Her very clear

    skin was bronzed by the Argentine sun.

    David saw that Ballard was watching him, anticipating his reaction to the

    girl's loveliness. Ballard's expression was humorously sardonic, and

    Spaulding read the message: Ballard had been to the font and found it empty

    -for those seeking other than a few drops of cool water. Ballard was now a

    friend to the lady; he knew better than to try being anything else.

222

    Jean Cameron seemed embarrassed by her introduction on the staircase. She

    descended rapidly, her lips parted into one of the most genuine smiles

    David had seen in years. Genuine and totally devoid of innuendo.

    'Welcome,' she said, extending her hand. 'Thank heavens I have a chance to

    apologize,before you walk into that place. You may change your mind and

    move right back here.'

    'It's that bad?' David saw that Jean wasn't quite as young at close range

    as she seemed on the staircase. She was past thirty; comfortably past. And

    she seemed aware of his inspection, the approbation - or lack of it -

    unimportant to her.

    'Oh, it's all right for a limited stay. You can't get anything else on that

    basis, not if you're American. But it's small.'

    Her handshake was firm, almost masculine, thought Spaulding. 'I appreciate

    your taking the trouble. I'm sorry to have caused it.'

    'No one else here could have gotten you anything but a hotel,' said

    Ballard, touching the girl's shoulder; was the contact protective? wondered

    David. 'The portehos trust Mother Cameron. Not the rest of us.'

    'Portefios,' said Jean in response to Spaulding's questioning expression,

    'are the people who live in BA .....

    'And BA - don't tell me - stands for Montevideo,' replied David.

'Aw, they sent us a bright one,' said Ballard.

    'You'll get used to it,' continued Jean. 'Everyone in the American and

    English settlements calls it BA. Montevideo, of course,' she added,

    smiling. 'I think we see it so often on reports, we just do it

    automatically!

    'Wrong,' interjected Ballard. 'The vowel juxtaposition in "Buenos Aires" is

    uncomfortable for British speech.'

    'That's something else you'll learn during your stay, Mr. Spaulding,' said

    Jean Cameron, looking affectionately at Ballard. 'Be careful offering

    opinions around Bobby. He has a penchant for disagreeing!

    'Never so,' answered the cryp. 'I simply care enough for my fellow

    prisoners to want to enlighten them. Prepare them for the outside when they

    get paroled.'

I "Well, I've got a temporary pass right now, and if I don't get over to the

ambassador's office, he'll start on that damned address system.... Welcome

again, Mr. Spaulding.'

    223

'Please. The names David! ,

-'Nfine's Jean. Bye,' said the girl, dashing down the hallway, calling back

to Ballard. 'Bobby? You've got the address and the key? For ... David's

place?'

'Yep. Go get irresponsibly drunk, I'll handle everything!

Jean Cameron disappeared through a door in the right wall.

    'She's very attractive,' said Spaulding, 'and you two are good friends. I

    should apologize for. . .'

    'No, you shouldn't,' interrupted Ballard. 'Nothing to apologize for. You

    formed a quick judgment on isolated facts. I'd've done the same, thought

    the same. Not that you've changed your mind; no reason to, really!

    'She's right. You disagree ... before you know what you're disagreeing to;

    and then you debate your disagreement. And if you go on, you'll probably

    challenge your last position!

'You know what? I can follow that. Isn't it frightening?'

    'You guys are a separate breed,' said David, chuckling, following Ballard

    beyond the stairs into a smaller corridor.

    'Let's take a quick look at your Siberian cubicle and then head over to

    your other cell. It's on C6rdoba; we're on Corrientes. It's about ten

    minutes from here.'

    David thanked Bobby Ballard once again and shut the apartment door. He had

    pleaded exhaustion from the trip, preceded by too much welcome home in New

    York - and God knew that was the truth - and would Ballard take a raincheck

    for dinner?

    Alone now, he inspected the apartment; it wasn't intolerable at all. It was

    small: a bedroom, a sitting room-kitchen, and a bath. But there was a

    dividend Jean Cameron hadn9t mentioned. The rooms were on the first floor,

    and at the rear was a tiny brickleveled patio surrounded by a tall concrete

    wall, profuse with hanging vines and drooping flowers from immense pots on

    the ledge. In the center of the enclosure was a gnarled fruit-bearing tree

    he could not identify; around the trunk were three ropewebbed chairs that

    had seen better days but looked extremely comfortable. As far as he was

    concerned, the dividend made the dwelling.

    Ballard had pointed out that his section of the Avenida C6rdoba was just

    over the borderline from the commercial area, the 'downtown' complex of

    Buenos Aires. Quasi residential, yet near enough to stores and restaurants

    to be easy for a newcomer.

-224

    David picked up the telephone; the dial tone was delayed but eventually

    there. He replaced it and walked across the small room to the refrigerator,

    an American Sears Roebuck. He opened it and smiled. The Cameron girl had

    provided - or had somebody provide - several basic items: milk, butter,

    bread, eggs, coffee. Then happily he spotted two bottles of wine: an Orfila

    tinto and a Col6n blanco. He closed the refrigerator and went back into the

    bedroom.

    He unpacked his single suitcase, unwrapping a bottle of Scotch, and

    remembered that he'd have to buy additional clothes in the morning. Ballard

    had offered to go with him to a men's shop in the Calle Florida - if his

    goddamned dials weren't 'humming.' He placed the books Eugene Lyons had

    given him on the bedside table. He had gone through two of them; he was

    beginning to gain confidence in the aerophysicists' language. He would need

    comparable studies * in German to be really secure. He would cruise around

    the bookshops in the German settlement tomorrow; he wasn't looking for

    definitive texts, just enough to understand the terms. It was really a

    minor part of his assignment, he understood that.

    Suddenly, David remembered Walter Kendall. Kendall was either in Buenos

    Aires by now or would be arriving within hours. The accountant had left the

    United States at approximately the same time he had, but Kendall's flight

    from New York was more direct, with far fewer stopovers.

    He wondered whether it would be feasible to go out to the airport and trace

    Kendall. If he hadn't arrived, he could wait for him; if he had, it would

    be simple enough to check the hotels -according to Ballard there were only

    three or four good ones.

    On the other hand, any additional time - more than absolutely essential -

    spent with the manipulating accountant was not a pleasant prospect. Kendall

    would be upset at finding him in Buenos Aires before he'd given the order

    to Swanson. Kendall, no doubt, would demand explanations beyond those David

    wished to give; probably send angry cables to an already strungout

    brigadier general.

    There were no benefits in hunting down Walter Kendall until Kendall

    expected to find him. Only liabilities.

    He had other things to do: the unfocused picture. He could begin that

    search far better alone.

David walked back into the living room-kitchen carrying the

    225

Scotch and took out a tray of ice from the refrigerator. He made himself a

drink and looked over at the double doors leading to his miniature patio. He

would spend a few quiet twilight moments in the January summertime breeze of

Buenos Aires.

    The sun was fighting its final descent beyond the city; the last orange

    rays were filtering through the thick foliage of the unidentified fruit

    tree. Underneath, David stretched his legs and leaned back in the

    rope-webbed chair. He realized that if he kept his eyes closed for any

    length of time, they would not reopen for a number of hours. He had to

    watch that; long experience in the field had taught him to eat something

    before sleeping. :

    Eating had long since lost its pleasure for him - it was merely a necessity

    directly related to his energy level. He wondered if the pleasure would

    ever come back; whether so much he had put aside would return. Lisbon had

    probably the best accommodations - food, shelter, comfort - of all the

    major cities, excepting New York, on both continents. And now he was on a

    third continent, in a city that boasted undiluted luxury.

    But for him it was the field - as much as was the north country in Spain.

    As much as Basque and Navarre, and the freezing nights in the Galician

    hills or the sweat-prone silences in ravines, waiting for patrols - waiting

    to kill.

So much. So alien.

    He brought his head forward, took a long drink from the glass and let his

    neck arch back into the frame of the chair. A small bird was chattering

    away in the midsection of the tree, annoyed at his intrusion. It reminded

    David of how he would listen for such birds in the north country. They

    telegraphed the approach of men unseen, often falling into different

    rhythms that he began to identify - or thought he identified - with the

    numbers of the unseen, approaching patrols.

    Then David realized that the small chattering bird was not concerned with

    him. It hopped upward, still screeching its harsh little screech, only

    faster now, more strident.

There was someone else.

    Through half-closed eyes, David focused above, beyond the foliage. He did

    so without moving any part of his body or head, as if the last moments were

    approaching before sleep took over.

    The apartment house had four stories and a roof that appeared to have a

    gentle slope covered in a terra-cotta tile of sorts -brownish pink in

    color. The windows of the rooms above him

226

were mostly open to the breezes off the Rio de la Plata. He could hear

snatches of subdued conversation, nothing threatening, no loud vibrations.

It was the Buenos Aires siesta hour, according to Ballard; quite different

from Rome's afternoon or the Paris lunch. Dinner in BA was very late, by the

rest of the world's schedule. Ten, ten-thirty, even midnight was not out of

the question.

    The screeching bird was not bothered by the inhabitants of the C6rdoba

    apartment house; yet still he kept up his strident alarms.

And then David saw why.

    On the roof, obscured but not hidden by the branches of the fruit tree,

    were the outlines of two men.

    They were crouched, staring downward; staring, he was sure, at him.

    Spaulding judged the position of the main intersecting tree limb and rolled

    his head slightly, as if the long-awaited sleep were upon him, his neck

    resting in exhaustion on his right shoulder, the drink barely held by a

    relaxed hand, millimeters from the brick pavement.

    It helped; he could see better, not well. Enough, however, to make out the

    sharp, straight silhouette of a rifle barrel, the orange sun careening off

    its black steel. It was stationary, in an arrest position under the arm of

    the man on the right. No movement was made to raise it, to aim it; it

    remained immobile, cradled.

    Somehow, it was more ominous that way, thought Spaulding. As though in the

    arms of a killer guard who was sure his prisoner could not possibly vault

    the stockade; there was plenty of time to shoulder and fire.

    David carried through his charade. He raised his hand slightly and let his

    drink fall. The sound of the minor crash 'awakened' him; he shook the

    pretended sleep from his head and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. As he

    did so, he maneuvered his face casually upward. The figures on the roof had

    stepped back on the terracotta tiles. There would be no shots. Not directed

    at him.

    He picked up a few pieces of the glass, rose from the chair and walked into

    the apartment as a tired man does when annoyed with his own carelessness.

    Slowly, with barely controlled irritation.

    Once he crossed the saddle of the door, beneath the sightline of the roof,

    he threw the glass fragments into a wastebasket and walked rapidly into the

    bedroom. He opened the top drawer of the

    227

bureau, separated some handkerchiefs and withdrew his revolver. , He clamped

it inside his belt and picked up his jacket from the chair in which he'd

thrown it earlier. He put it on, satisfied that it concealed the weapon.

    He crossed out into the living room, to the apartment door, and opened it

    silently.

    The staircase was against the left wall and David swore to himself, cursing

    the architect of this particular Avenida C6rdoba building - or the

    profuseness of lumber in Argentina. The stairs were made of wood, the

    brightly polished wax not concealing the obvious fact that they were

    ancient and probably squeaked like hell.

    He closed his apartment door and approached the staircase, putting his feet

    on the first step.

It creaked the solid creak of antique shops.

    He had four flights to go; the first three were unimportant. He to6k the

    steps two at a time, discovering that if he hugged the wall, the noise of

    his ascent was minimized.

    Sixty seconds later he faced a closed door marked with a sign - in

    goddamned curlicued Castilian lettering:

El Techo.

The roof.

    The door, as the stairs, was old. Decades of seasonal heat and humidity had

    caused the wood to swell about the hinges; the borders were forced into the

    frame.

It, too, would scream his arrival if he opened it slowly.

    There was no other way: he slipped the weapon out of his belt and took one

    step back on the tiny platform. He judged the frame - the concrete walls -

    surrounding the old wooden door and with an adequate intake of breath, he

    pulled at the handle, yanked the door open and jumped diagonally into the

    right wall, slamming his back against the concrete.

    The two men whirled around, stunned. They were thirty feet from David at

    the edge of the sloping roof. The man with the rifle hesitated, then raised

    the weapon into waist-firing position. Spaulding had his pistol aimed

    directly into the man's chest. However, the man with the gun did not have

    the look of one about to fire at a target; the hesitation was deliberate,

    not the result of panic or indecision.

    The second man shouted in Spanish; David recognized the accent as southern

    Spain, not Argentine. 'Por favor, seflor I'

228

. Spaulding replied in English to establish their understanding, or lack of

it. 'Lower that rifle. Now!'

    The first man did so, holding it by the stock. 'You are in error,' he said

    in halting English. 'There have been . . . how do you say, ladrones . . .

    thieves in the neighborhood.'

    David walked over the metal transom onto the roof, holding his pistol on

    the two men. 'You're not very convincing. Se dan corte, amigos. You're not

    from Buenos Aires.'

    'There are a great many people in this neighborhood who are as we:

    displaced, sehor. This is a community of... not the native born,' said the

    second man.

    'You're telling me you weren't up here for my benefit? You weren't watching

    meT

'It was coincidental, I assure you,' said the man with the rifle.

    'Es la verdad,' added the other. 'Two habitaciones have been broken into

    during the past week. The police do not help; we are ... extranjeros,

    foreigners to them. We protect ourselves.'

    Spaulding watched the men closely. There was no waver in either man's

    expression, no hint of lies. No essential fear.

    'I'm with the American embassy,' said David curtly. There was no reaction

    from either extranjero. 'I must ask. you for identification.'

'Qui cosa?'The man with the gun.

'Papers. Your names.... Certificados.'

    'Por cierlo, en seguida.' The second man reached back into his trousers

    pocket; Spaulding raised the pistol slightly, in warning.

    The man hesitated, now showing his fear. 'Only a registro, sehor. We all

    must carry them.... Please. In my cartera.'

    David held out his left hand as the second man gave him a cheap leather

    wallet. He flipped it open with minor feelings of regret. There was a kind

    of helplessness about the two extranjeros; he'd seen the look thousands of

    times. Franco's Falangistas were experts at provoking it.

    He looked quickly down at the cellophane window of the billfold; it was

    cracked with age.

    Suddenly, the barrel of the rifle came crashing across his right wrist; the

    pain was excruciating. Then his hand was being twisted "pertly inward and

    down; he had no choice but to release the weapon and try to kick it away on

    the sloping roof. To hold it would mean breaking his wrist.

He did so as his left arm was being hammerlocked - gami

    229

expertly - up over his neck. He lashed his foot out at the unarmed

extraniero, who had hold of his hand. He caught him in the stomach and as

the man bent forward, David crossed his weight and kicked again, sending the

man tumbling down on the tiled incline.

    David fell in the thrust direction of the harnmerlock - downward, to his

    rear - and as the first man countered the position, Spaulding brought his

    right elbow back up, crushing into the man's groin. The arm was released as

    the extraniero tried to regain his balance.

    He wasn't quick enough; Spaulding whipped to his left and brought his knee

    up into the man's throat. The rifle clattered on the tiles and rolled

    downward on the slope. The man sank, blood dribbling from his mouth where

    his teeth had punctured the skin.

Spaulding heard the sound behind him and turned.

    He was too late. The second extranjero was over him, and David could hear

    the whistling of his own pistol piercing the air above him, crashing down

    into his skull.

All was black. Void.

    'They described the right attitude but the wrong section of town,' said

    Ballard, sitting across the room from David, who held an ice pack to his

    head. 'The extranjeros are concentrated in the west areas of the La Boca

    district. They've got a hell of a crime rate over them; the policia prefer

    strolling the parks rather than those streets. And the Grupo - the GOU -

    has no love for extranferos.9

    'You're no help,' said Spaulding, shifting the ice pack around in circles

    on the back of his head.

    'Well, they weren't out to kill you. They could have thrown you off or just

    left you on the edge; five to one you'd've rolled over and down four

    flights.'

11 knew they weren't intent on killing me. . .

'How?'

    'They could have done that easily before. I think they were waiting for me

    to go out. Id unpacked; they'd have the apartment to themselves.'

,what forr

'To search my things. They have done that before.'

'Who?'

'Damned if I know.'

M

'Now, who's no helpT

    'Sorry.... Tell me, Bobby, who exactly knew I was flying in? How was it

    handled?'

    'First question: three people. I did, of course; I'm on the dials.

    Granville, obviously. And Jean Cameron; the old man asked her to follow up

    on an apartment ... but you know that. Question two: very confidentially.

    Remember, your orders came through at night. From Washington. Jean was

    playing chess with Granville in his quarters when I brought him the eggs.

'The whaff interrupted David.

    'The scrambler; it's marked. Washington had your sheet radioed in on a

    scrambler code. That means only myself or my head man can handle it,

    deliver it to the ambassador.'

1O.K. Then whaff

'Nothing. I mean nothing you don't know about.'

'Tell me anyway.'

    Ballard exhaled a long, condescending breath. 'Well, the three of us were

    alone; what the hell, I'd read the scramble and the instructions were clear

    about the apartment. So Granville figured - apparently - that Jean was the

    logical one to scout one up. He told her you were coming in; to do what she

    could on such short notice.' Ballard looked about the room and over at the

    patio doors. 'She didn't do badly, either.'

    'Then that's it; they've got a network fanned out over the city; nothing

    unusual. They keep tabs on unoccupied places: apartments, rooming houses;

    hotels are the easiest.'

'I'm not sure I follow you,' said Ballard, trying to.

    'We can all be smart as whips, Bobby, but we can't change a couple of

    basics: we have to have a place to sleep and take a bath.'

    'Oh, I follow that, but you can't apply it here. Starting tomorrow you're

    no secret; until then you are. D.C. said you were coming down on your own;

    we had no idea precisely when or how.... Jean didn't get this apartment for

    you. Not in your name.'

    'OhT David was far more concerned than his expression indicated. The two

    extranjeros had to have been on the roof before he arrived. Or, at least,

    within minutes after he did so. 'How did she lease it then? Whose name did

    she use? I didn't want a cover; we didn't ask for one.'

'Jesus, I thought I talked fast. Sunday is Sunday, Monday is

    231

Monday. Sunday we don't know you; Monday we do. That's what Washington

spelled out. They wanted no advance notice of your arrival and,

incidentally, if you decided to stay out of sight, we were to adhere to your

wishes. I'm sure Granville will ask you what you want to do in the

morning.... How did Jean lease the place? Knowing her, she probably implied

the ambassador had a girl on the side, or something. The portehos are very

simpdtico with that sort of thing; the Paris of South America and all that.

... One thing I do know, she wouldn't have used your name. Or any obvious

cover. She'd use her own first.'

    'Oh, boy,' said Spaulding wearily, removing the ice pack and feeling the

    back of his head. He looked at his fingers. Smudges of blood were apparent.

    'I hope you're not going to play hero with that gash. You should see a

    doctor.'

    'No hero.' David smiled. 'I've got to have some sutures removed, anyway.

    Might as well be tonight, if you can arrange it. ,

.1 can arrange it. Where did you get the stitches?'

'I had an accident in the Azores.'

'Christ, you travel, don't you?'

'So does something ahead of me.'

232

24

'Mrs. Cameron is here at my request, Spaulding. Come in. I've talked with

Ballard and the doctor. Stitches taken out and new ones put in; you must

feel like a pincushion.'

    Granville was behind his baroque desk, reclining comfortably in his

    highbacked chair. Jean Cameron sat on the couch against the left wall; one

    of the chairs in front of the desk was obviously meant for David. He

    decided to wait until Granville said so before sitting down. He remained

    standing; he wasn't sure he liked the ambassador. The office assigned to

    him was, indeed, far back and used for storage.

    'Nothing serious, sir. If it was, I'd say so.' Spaulding nodded to Jean and

    saw her concern. Or, at least, that's what he thought he read in her eyes.

    'You'd be foolish not to. The doctor says the blow to the head fortunately

    fell between concussion areas. Otherwise, you'd be in rather bad shape.'

'It was delivered by an experienced man.'

    'Yes, I see.... Our doctor didn't think much of the sutures he removed.'

    'That seems to be a general medical opinion. They served their purpose; the

    shoulder's fine. He strapped it.'

'Yes.... Sit down, sit down.'

David sat down. 'Thank you, sir.'

11 gather the two men who attacked you last evening were

    233

provincianos. Not porteflos.'

    Spaulding gave a short, defeated smile and turned to Jean Cameron. 'I got

    to portefios; I guess provincianos means what it says. The country folk?

    Outside the cities!

'Yes,' said the girl softly. 'The city. BA.'

    'Two entirely different cultures,' continued Granville. 'The provincianos

    are hostile and with much legitimacy. They're really quite exploited; the

    resentments are flaring up. The GOU has done nothing to ease matters, it

    only conscripts them in the lowest ranks.'

'The provincianos are native to Argentina, though, aren't they?'

    'Certainly. From their point of view, much more so than Buenos Airens,

    porteflos. Less Italian and German blood, to say nothing of Portuguese,

    Balkan and Jewish. There were waves of immigrations, you see. . . ."

    'Then, Mr. Ambassador,' interrupted David, hoping to stem another post

    analysis by the pedagogical diplomat, 'these were not provinclanos. They

    called themselves extranjeros. Displaced persons, I gathered!

    'Extranjero is a rather sarcastic term. Inverse morbidity. As though

    employed by a reservation Indian in our Washington. A foreigner in his own

    native land, you see what I mean?'

    'These men were not from Argentina,' said David quietly, dismissing

    Granville's question. 'Their speech pattern was considerably alien.'

'Oh? Are you an expert?'

'Yes, I am. In these matters!

    'I see.' Granville leaned forward. 'Do you ascribe the attack to embassy

    concerns? Allied concerns?'

    'I'm not sure. It's my opinion I was the target. I'd like to know how they

    knew I was here.'

    Jean Cameron spoke from the couch. 'I've gone over everything I said,

    David.' She stopped and paused briefly, aware that the ambassador had shot

    her a look at her use of Spaulding's first name. 'Your place was the fourth

    apartment I checked into. I started at ten in the morning and got there

    around two o'clock. And leased it immediately. I'm sorry to say it was the

    patio that convinced me.'

David smiled at her.

    6Anyway, I went to a real estate office at Viamonte. Geraldo Baldez is the

    owner; we all know him. He's partisan; has no use

234

for Germans. I made it clear that I wanted to rent the apartment for one of

our people who was living here and who, frankly, found the embassy

restrictions too limiting. He laughed and said he was sure it was Bobby. I

didn't disagree.'

'But it was a short lease,' said David.

    'I used it as an excuse in case you didn't like the apartment. It's a

    standard three-month clause.'

'Why wouldn't Bobby - or anyone else - get his own placeT

    'Any number of reasons. Also standard ... here.' Jean smiled, a touch

    embarrassed, thought David. 'I know the city better than most; I lived here

    for several years. Also there's a little matter of expense allowance; I'm

    a pretty good bargainer. And men like Bobby have urgent work to do. My

    hours are more flexible; I have the time.'

    'Mrs. Cameron is too modest, Spaulding. She's an enormous asset to our

    small community.'

    'I'm sure she is, sir.... Then you don't think anyone had reason to suspect

    you were finding a place for an incoming attach6.'

    'Absolutely not. It was all done in such a ... lighthearted way, if you

    know what I mean.'

'What about the owner of the building?' David asked.

    'I never saw him. Most apartments are owned by wealthy people who live in

    the Telmo or Palermo districts. Everything's done through rental agencies.'

    David turned to Granville. 'Have there been any calls for me? MessagesT

    'No. Not that I'm aware of, and I'm sure I would be. You would have been

    contacted, of course.'

'A man named Kendall. . . .'

    'Kendall?' interrupted the ambassador. 'I know that name. . . . Kendall.

    Yes, Kendall.' Granville riffled through some papers on his desk. 'Here. A

    Walter Kendall came in last night. Ten thirty flight. He's staying at the

    Alvear; that's near the Palermo Park. Fine old hotel.' Granville suddenly

    looked over at Spaulding. 'He's listed on the sheet as an industrial

    economist. Now that's a rather all-inclusive description, isn't it? Would

    he be the banker I referred to yesterday?'

    'He'll make certain arrangements relative to my instructions.' David did

    not conceal his reluctance to go into the matter of Walter Kendall. On the

    other hand, he instinctively found him-

    235

self offering a token clarification to Jean Cameron. 'My primary job-here is

to act as liaison between financial people in New York and London and

banking interests here in Buenos ... BA.'David smiled; he hoped as genuinely

as Jean smiled. 'I think it's a little silly. I don't know a debit from an

asset. But Washington okayed me. The ambassador is worried that I'm too

inexperienced.'

    Spaulding quickly shifted his gaze to Granville, reminding the old man that

    'banking interests' was the limit of identities. The name of Erich

    Rhinemann was out of bounds.

    'Yes, I admit, I was.... But that9s neither here nor there. What do you

    wish to do about last night? I think we should lodge a formal complaint

    with the police. Not that it will do a d

bit of good.'

    David fell silent for a few moments, trying to consider the pros and cons

    of Granville's suggestion. 'Would we get press coverage?9

'Very little, I'd think,' answered Jean.

    'Embassy attach6s usually have money,' said Granville. 'They've been

    robbed. It will be called an attempted robbery. Probably was.' -

    'But the Grupo doesn't like that kind of news. It doesn't fit in with the

    colonels' view of things, and they control the press.' Jean was thinking

    out loud, looking at David. 'They'll play it down.'

    'And if we don't complain -assuming it was not robbery -we're admitting we

    think it was something else. Which I'm not prepared to do,' said Spaulding.

    'Then by all means, a formal complaint will be registered this morning.

    Will you dictate a report of the incident and sign it, pleaseT Obviously,

    Granville wished to terminate the meeting. 'And to be frank with you,

    Spaulding, unless I'm considerably in the dark, I believe it was an attempt

    to rob a newly arrived rich American. I'm told the airport taxi drivers

    have formed a veritable thieves' carnival. Extranieros would be perfectly

    logical participants.'

    David stood up; he was pleased to see that Jean did the same. 'I'll accept

    that, Mr. Ambassador. The years in Lisbon have made me overly ...

    concerned. I'll adjust.'

11 daresay. Do write up the report.'

'Yes, sir.'

41111 ga him a stenographer,' said Jean. 'Bilingual.'

236

'Not necessary. I'll dictate it in Spanish.'

    'I forgot! Jean snufled. 'Bobby said they'd sent us a bright one.,

    David supposed it began with that first lunch. Later she told him it was

    before, but he didn't believe her. She claimed it was when he said that BA

    stood for Montevideo; that was silly, it didn't make sense.

    What made sense - and they both recognized it without any attempt to

    verbalize it - was the total relaxation each felt in the other's company.

    It was as simple as that. It was a splendid comfort; the silences never

    awkward, the laughter easy and based in communicated humor, not forced

    response.

    It was remarkable. Made more so, David believed, because neither expected

    it, neither sought it. Both had good and sufficient reasons to avoid any

    relationships other than surface or slightly below. He was an impermanent

    man, hoping only to survive and start somewhere againwithaclear head and

    suppressed memories. That was'important to him. And he knew she still

    mourned a man so deeply she couldn't possibly - without intolerable guilt

    -push that man's face and body and mind behind her.

    She told him partially why herself. Her husband had not been the image of

    the dashing carrier pilot so often depicted by navy public relations. He'd

    had an extraordinary fear - not for himself - but of taking lives. Were it

    not for the abuse he knew would have been directed at his Maryland wife and

    Maryland family, Cameron would have sought conscientious objector status.

    Then, too, perhaps he hadn't the courage of his own convictions.

Why a pilot?

    Cameron had been flying since he was in his teens. It seemed natural and he

    believed his civilian training might lead to a Stateside instructor's

    berth. He rejected military law; too many of his fellow attorneys had gone

    after it and found themselves in the infantry and on the decks of

    battleships. The military had enough lawyers; they wanted pilots.

    David thought he understood why Jean told him so much about her dead

    husband. There were two reasons. The first was that by doing so openly, she

    was adjusting to what she felt was happening between them; atoning,

    perhaps. The second was less clear but in no way less important. Jean

    Cameron hated the war; hated it for what it had taken away from her. She

    wanted him

    237

to know that.

    Because - David realized - her instincts told her he was very much

    involved. And she would have no part of that involvement; she owed that

    much to Cameron's memory.

    They'd gone to lunch at a restaurant overlooking the waters of the

    Riach6elo Basin near the piers of DArsena Sud. She had suggested it - the

    restaurant and the lunch. She saw that he was still exhausted; what sleep

    he'd managed had been interrupted constantly with pain. She insisted that

    he needed a long, relaxing lunch, then home to bed and a day's

    recuperation.

She hadn't meant to go with him.

He hadn't meant for her to.

    'Ballard's a nice guy,' said Spaulding, pouring a clear white Col6n.

'Bobby's a dear,' she agreed. 'He's a kind person.'

'He's very fond of you.'

    'And I of him.... What you're speculating on is perfectly natural, and I'm

    sorry to spoil the wilder melody. Is melody right? Granville told me who

    your parents were. I'm impressed!

    'I've refused to read music since the age of eight. But "melody's" fine. I

    just wondered!

    'Bobby gave me a thoroughly professional try, with enormous charm and good

    humor. A better girl would have responded. He had every right to be angry.

    . . . I wanted his company but gave very little in return for it.'

:He accepted your terms,' said David affirmatively.

I said he was kind.'

'There must be ten other fellows here. . .

    'Plus the marine guard,' interjected Jean, feigning a lovely, unmilitary

    salute. 'Don't forget them.'

'A hundred and ten, then. You're Deanna Durbin!

    'Hardly. The marines rotate off the FMF base south of La Boca; the staff -

    those without wives and kinder - are plagued with the embassy syndrome!

'What's that?'

    'State Department-eye-tis.... The quivers. You seem to be singularly

    lacking in them.'

'I don't know whether I am or not. I don't know what they are.'

'Which tells me something about you, doesn't it?'

'What does it tell you?'

'You're not a State Department climber. The "eye-tis"

238

syndrome is treading lightly and making damned sure everybody above you -

especially the ambassador - is happy with your sincerest efforts.'Jean

grimaced like a boxer puppy, her delicate chin forward, her eyebrows down -

mocking the words. Spaulding broke out laughing; the girl had captured the

embassy look and voice with devastating accuracy.

    'Christ, I'm going to put you on the radio.' He laughed again. 'You've

    described the syndrome. I see it, Lord! I see it P

    'But you're not infected by it.' Jean stopped her min-dcry and looked into

    his eyes. 'I watched you with Granville; you were just barely polite. You

    weren1 looking for a fitness report, were youT

    He returned her gaze. 'No, I wasn't.... To answer the question that's

    rattling around that lovely head of yours so loud it vibrates - I'm not a

    Foreign Service career officer. I'm strictly wartime. I do work out of

    embassies on a variety of related assignments for a couple of related

    reasons. I speak four languages and because of those parents that impressed

    you so, I have what is euphemistically described as access to important

    people in goverm-nent, commerce, those areas. Since I'm not a complete

    idiot, I often circulate confidential information among corporations in

    various countries. The market place doesn't stop humn-dng for such

    inconveniences as war. . . . That's my contri. bution. I'm not very proud

    of it, but it's what they handed me.'

    She smiled her genuine smile and reached for his hand. V think you do

    whatever you do very intelligently and well. There aren't many people who

    can say that. And God.knows you can't choose.'

I "What did you do in the war, daddy?" . . . "Well, son,"

David tried his own caricature. ' "I went from place to place telling

friends of the Chase Bank to sell high and buy low and clear a decent profit

margin." ' He kept her hand in his.

    'And got attacked on Argentine rooftops and ... and what were those

    stitches in your shoulder?'

    'The cargo plane I was on in the Azores made a rotten landing. I think the

    pilot and his whole crew were plastered.'

    'There. See? You live as dangerously as any man at the front. ... If I meet

    that boy you're talking to, I'll tell him that.'

    Their eyes were locked; Jean withdrew her hand, embarrassed. But for

    Spaulding the important thing was that she believed him. She accepted his

    cover extension without question. It

    239

occurred to him that he was at once greatly relieved and yet, in a way,

quite sorry. He found no professional pride in lying to her successfully.

    'So now you know how I've avoided the State Department syndrome. I'm still

    not sure why it's relevant. What the hen, with .a hundred and ten men and

    marines. . . .'

    'The marines don't count. They have sundry interests down here in La Boca.'

    'Then the staff - those without the "Wives and kinder" - they can't all be

    quivering.'

    'But they do and I've been grateful. They'd like to get to the Court of St.

    James's someday.'

    'Now you're playing mental gymnastics. I'm not following you.'

    'No, I'm not. I wanted to see if Bobby had told you. He hasn't. I said he

    was kind.... He was giving me the chance to tell you myself.'

'Tell me whatT

    'My husband was Henderson Granville's stepson. They were very close.'

    They left the restaurant shortly past four and walked around the docks of

    the Dixsena Sud waterfront, breathing in the salt air. It seemed to David

    that Jean was enjoying herself in a way she hadn't in too long a time. That

    it was part of the instant comfort between them, he realized, but it went

    further. As if some splendid relief had swept over her. -

    Her loveliness had been evident from those first moments on the staircase,

    but as he thought back on that brief introduction, he knew what the

    difference was. Jean Cameron had been outgoing, good-natured ... welcoming

    charm itself. But there'd been something else: a detachment born of

    self-control. Total control. A patina of authority that had nothing to do

    with her status at the embassy or whatever other benefits derived from her

    marriage to. the ambassador's stepson. It was related solely to her own

    decisions, her own outlook.

    He had seen that detached authority throughout the morning - when she

    introduced him to various embassy employees; when she gave directions to

    her secretary; when she answered her telephone and rendered quick

    instructions.

Even in the byplay with Bobby Ballard she glided firmly, with

240

the assurance of knowing her own pattern. Ballard could shout humorously

that she could 'get irresponsibly drunk' because by no stretch of the

imagination would she allow herself to do that.

Jean kept a tight rein on herself.

The rein was loosening now.

    Yesterday he had looked at her closely, finding the years; and she was

    completely unconcerned, without vanity. Now, walking along the docks,

    holding his arm, she was pleasantly aware of the looks she received from

    the scores of waterfront Bocamos. Spaulding knew she hoped he was aware of

    those looks.

    'Look, David,' she said excitedly. 'Those boats are going to crash head

    on.'

    Several hundred yards out in the bay, two trawlers were on a collision

    course, both steam whistles filling the air with aggressive warnings, both

    crews shouting at eacb~ other from port and starboard railings.

'The one on the right will veer.'

    It did. At the last moment, amid dozens of guttural oaths and gestures.

'How did you know?' she said.

    'Simple right of way; the owner would get clobbered with damages. There'll

    be a brawl on one of these piers pretty soon, though.'

'lAt's not wait for it. You've had enough of that.'

    They walked out of the dock area into the narrow La Boca streets, teeming

    with small fish markets, profuse with fat merchants in bloodied aprons and

    shouting customers. The afternoon catch was in, the day's labor on the

    water over. The rest was selling and drinking and retelling the

    misadventures of the past twelve hours.

    They reached a miniature square called - for no apparent reason - Plaza

    Ocho Calle; there was no street number eight, no plaza to speak of. A taxi

    hesitantly came to a stop at the comer, let out its fare and started up

    again, blocked by pedestrians unconcerned with such vehicles. David looked

    at Jean and she nodded, smiling. He shouted at the driver.

    Inside the taxi he gave his address. It didn't occur to him to do

    otherwise.

    They rode in silence for several minutes, their shoulders touching, her

    hand underneath his arm.

'What are you thinking off David asked, seeing the distant

    241

but happy expression on her face.-

    'Oh, the way I pictured you when Henderson read the scram~ ble the other

    night.... Yes, I call him Henderson; I always have.'

    'I can't imagine anyone, even the president, calling him Henderson!

    'You don't know him. Underneath that Racquet Club jacket is lovable

    Henderson.'

'How did you picture me?'

Wery differently!

'From what?'

    'You.... I thought you'd be terribly short, to begin with. An attach6 named

    David Spaulding who's some kind of financial whiz and is going to have

    conferences with the banks and the colonels about money things is short, at

    least fifty years old and has very little hair. He also wears spectacles -

    not glasses - and has a thin nose. Probably has an allergy as well - he

    sneezes a lot and blows his nose all the time. And he speaks in short,

    clipped sentences; very precise and quite disagreeable.'

'He chases secretaries, too; don't leave that out.'

    'My David Spaulding doesn't chase secretaries. He reads dirty books.'

    David felt a twinge. Throw in an unkempt appearance, a soiled handkerchief

    and replace the spectacles with glasses - worn occasionally - and Jean was

    describing Walter Kendall.

'Your Spaulding's an unpleasant fellow.'

'Not the new one,' she said, tightening her grip on his arm.

    The taxi drew up to the curb in front of the entrance on C6rdoba. Jean

    Cameron hesitated, staring momentarily at the apartment house door. David

    spoke softly, without emphasis.

'Shall I take you to the embassy?'

She turned to him. 'No.'

He paid1the driver and they went inside.

    The field thread was invisibly protruding from the knob; he felt it.

    He inserted the key in the lock and instinctively, gently shoul. dered her

    aside as he pushed the door open. The apartment was as he had left it that

    morning; he knew she felt his relief. He hold the door for her. Jean

    entered and looked around.

'It really isn't so bad, is iff she said.

'Humble but home.' He left the door open and with a smile,

342

a gesture - without words - he asked her to stay where she was. He walked

rapidly into the bedroom, returned and went through the double doors onto

his miniature, high-walled patio. He looked up, scanning the windows and the

roof carefully. He smiled again at her from under the branches of the fruit

tree. She understood, closed the door and came out to him.

'You did that very professionally, Mr. Spaulding,'

'In the best traditions of extreme cowardice, Mrs. Cameron.'

    He realized his mistake the minute he'd made it. It was not the moment to

    use the married 'title. And yet, in some oblique way she seemed grateful

    that he had. She moved again and stood directly in front of him.

'Mrs. Cameron thanks you.'

    He reached out and held her by the waist. Her arms slowly, haltingly, went

    up to his shoulders; her hands cupped his face and she stared into his

    eyes.

    He did not move. The decision, the first step, had to be hers; he

    understood that.

    She brought her lips to his. The touch was soft and lovely and meant for

    earthbound angels. And then she trembled with an almost uncontrollable

    sense of urgency. Her lips parted and she pressed her body with

    extraordinary strength into his, her arms clutched about his neck.

    She pulled her lips away from his and buried her face into his chest,

    holding him with fierce possession.

    'Don't say anything,' she whispered. 'Don't say anything at all.... Just

    take me.'

    He picked her up silently and carried her into the bedroom. She kept her

    face pressed into his chest, as if she were afraid to see light or even

    him. He lowered her gently onto the bed and closed the door.

    In a few moments they were naked and he pulled the blankets over them. It

    was a moist and beautiful darkness. A splendid comfort.

    'I want to say something,' she said, tracing her finger over his lips, her

    face above his, her breasts innocently on his chest. And smiling her

    genuine smile.

    'I know. You want the other Spaulding. The thin one with spectacles.' He

    kissed her fingers.

'He disappeared in an explosion of sorts.'

    243

'You're positively descriptive, young lady.'

'And not so young.... That's what I want to talk about.'

    'A pension. You're angling for Social Security. I'll see what I can do.'

'Be serious, silly boy.'

'And not so silly .....

    'There's no commitment, David,' she said, interrupting him. 'I want you to

    know that.... I don't know how else to say it. Everything happened so

    fast.'

    'Everything happened very naturally. Explanations aren't required.'

'Well, I think some are. I didn't expect to be here.'

    'I didn't expect that you would be. I suppose I hoped, I'll adn-dt that....

    I didn't plan; neither of us did.'

    'I don't know; I think I did. I think I saw you yesterday and somewhere in

    the back of my mind I made a decision. Does that sound brazen of me?'

'If you did, the decision was long overdue.'

    'Yes, I imagine it was.' She lay back, pulling the sheet over her. 'I've

    been very selfish. Spoiled and selfish and behaving really quite badly.'

    'Because you haven't slept aroundT It was his turn to roll over and touch

    her face. He kissed both her eyes, now open; the deep speckles of blue made

    bluer, deeper, by the late afternoon sun streaming through the blinds. She

    smiled; her perfect white teeth glistening with the moisture of her mouth,

    her lips curved in that genuine curve of humor.

    'That's funny. I must be unpatriotic. I've withheld my charms only to

    deliver them to a noncombatant.'

    The Visigoths wouldn't have approved. The warriors came first, I'm told.'

    'Let's not tell them.' She reached up for his face. 'Oh, David, David,

    David.'

244

25

'I hope I didn't wake you. I wouldn't have troubled you but I thought you'd

want me to.'

    Ambassador Granville's voice over the telephone was more solicitous than

    David expected it to be. He looked at his watch as he replied. It was three

    minutes of ten in the morning.

'Oh? ... No, sir. I was just getting up. Sorry I overslept.'

There was a note on the telephone table. It was from Jean.

'Your friend was in contact with us.'

    'Friend?' David unfolded the note. My Darling - You fell into such a

    beautiful sleep it would have broken my heart to disturb you. Called a

    taxi. See you in the nwrning. At the Bastille. Your ex-regimented phoenix.

    David smiled, remembering her smile.

    '. . . the details, I'm sure, aren't warranted.' Granville had said

    something and he hadn't been listening.

    'I?m sorry, Mr. Ambassador. This must be a poor connection; your voice

    fades in and out.' All telephones beyond the Atlantic, north, middle and

    south, were temperamental instruments. An unassailable fact.

    'Or something else, I'm afraid,' said Granville with irritation, obviously

    referring to the possibility of a telephone tap. 'When you get in, please

    come to see me.'

'Yes, sir. I'll be there directly!

He picked up Jean's note and read it again.

She had said last night that he was complicating her life. But

    245

there were no commitments; she'd said that, too.

    What the hell was a commitment? He didn't want to speculate. He didn't want

    to think about the awful discovery - the instant, splendid comfort they

    both recognized. It wasn't the time for it....

    Yet to deny it would be to reject an extraordinary reality. He was trained

    to deal with reality.

He didn't want to think about it.

His 'friend' had been in contact with the embassy.

Walter Kendall.

That was another reality. It couldn't wait.

    He crushed out his cigarette angrily, watching his fingers stab the butt

    into the metal ashtray.

Why was he angry?

    He didn't care to speculate on that, either. He had a job to do. He hoped

    he had the commitment for it.

    'Jean said you barely made it through dinner. You needed a good night's

    sleep; I must say you look better.' The ambassador had come from around his

    desk to greet him as he entered the large, ornate office. David was a

    little bewildered. The old diplomat was actually being solicitous,

    displaying a concern that belied his unconcealed disapproval of two days

    ago. Or was it his use of the name Jean instead of the forbidding Mrs.

    Cameron.

    'She was very kind. I couldn't have found a decent restaurant without her.'

    'I daresay.... I won't detain you, you'd better get cracking with this

    Kendall.'

'You said he's been in contact. . .

    'Starting last night; early this morning to be accurate. He's at the Alvear

    and apparently quite agitated, according to the switchboard. At two thirty

    this morning he was shouting, demanding to know where you were. Naturally,

    we don't give out that information.'

    'I'm grateful. As you said, I needed the sleep; Kendall would have

    prevented it. Do you have his telephone number? Or shall I get it from the

    book?'

    'No, right here.' Granville walked to his desk and picked up a sheet of

    notepaper. David followed and took it from the ambassadoes outstretched

    hand.

Mank you, sir. I'll get on it.' He turned and started for the

246

door, Granville's voice stopping him.

'Spaulding?'

'Yes, sirT

    'I'm sure Mrs. Cameron would like to see you. Assess your recovery, I

    daresay. Her office is in the south wing. First door from the entrance, on

    the right. Do you know where that isT

'I'll find it, sir.,

'I'm sure you will. See you later in the day.'

    David went out the heavy baroque door, closing it behind him. Was it his

    imagination or was Granville reluctantly giving an approval to his and

    Jean's sudden ... alliance? The words were approving, the tone of voice

    reluctant.

    He walked down the connecting corridor toward the south wing and reached

    her door. Her name was stamped on a brass plate to the left of the

    doorframe. He had not noticed it yesterday.

Mrs. 4ndrew Cameron.

    So his name had been Andrew. Spaulding hadn't asked his first name; she

    hadn't volunteered it.

    As he looked at the brass plate he found himself experiencing a very

    strange reaction. He resented Andrew Cameron; zVented his life, his death.

    The door was open and he entered. Jean's secretary was obviously an

    Argentine. A porlefia. The black Spanish hair was pulled back into a bun,

    her features Latin.

'Mrs. Cameron, please. David Spaulding!

    'Please go in. She's expecting you.'David approached the door and turned

    the knob.

    She was taken by surprise, he thought. She was at the window looking out at

    the south lawn, a page of paper in her hand, glasses pushed above her

    forehead, resting on top of her light brown hair.

    Startled, she removed her glasses from their perch and stood immobile.

    Slowly, as if studying him first, she smiled.

    He found himself afraid. More than afraid, for a moment. And then she spoke

    and the sudden anguish left him, replaced by a deeply felt relief.

    'I woke up this morning and reached for you. You weren't there and I

    thought I might cry.'

    He walked rapidly to her and they held each other. Neither spoke. The

    silence, the embrace, the splendid comfort returning.

'Granville acted like a procurer a little while ago,' he said

    247

finallk, holding her by the shoulders, looking at her blue speckled eyes

that held such intelligent humor.

'I told you he was lovable. You wouldn't believe me.'

    'You didn't tell me we had dinner,, though. Or that I could barely get

    through it.'

'I was hoping you'd slip; give him more to think about.'

'I don't understand him. Or you, maybe.'

    'Henderson has a problem.... Me. Hes not sure how to handle it - me. Hes

    overprotective because I've led him to believe I wanted that protection. I

    did; it was easier. But a man who's had three wives and at least twice that

    many mistresses over the years is no Victorian.... And he knows you're not

    going to be here long. As he would put it: do I sketch a reasonable

    picture?'

'I daresay,' answered David in Granvilles Anglicized manner.

    'That's unkind.' Jean laughed. 'He probably doesn't approve of you, which

    makes his unspoken acceptance very difficult for him.,

    David released her. 'I know damned well he doesn't approve. ... Lpok, I

    have to make some calls; go out and meet someone .....

'Just someone?'

    'A ravishing beauty who'll introduce me to lots of other ravishing

    beauties. And between the two of us, I can't stand him. But I have to see

    him.... Will you have dinner with me?'

    'Yes, I'll have dinner with you. I'd planned to. You didn't have a choice.'

'You're right; you're brazen.'

    'I made that clear. You broke down the regimens; I'm flying up out of my

    own personal ash heap.... The air feels good.'

    'It was going to happen.... I was here.' He wasn't sure why he said it but

    he had to.

    Walter Kendall paced the hotel room as though it were a cage. Spaulding sat

    on the couch watching him, trying to decide which animal Kendall reminded

    him of; there were several that came to mind, none pets.

    'You listen to me,' Kendall said. 'Tbis is no military operation. You take

    orders, you don't give them.'

    'I'm sorry; I think you're misreading me.' David was tempted to answer

    Kendall's anger in kind, but he decided not to.

248

    'I misread, bullshitl You told Swanson you were in some trouble in New

    York. That's your problem, not ours.'

'You can't be sure of that.'

    'Oh yes I can! You tried to sell that to Swanson and he bought it. You

    could have involved us V

    'Now just a minute.' Spaulding felt he could object legitimately - within

    the boundaries he had mentally staked off for Kendall. 'I told Swanson that

    in my opinion the "trouble" in New York might have been related to Buenos

    Aires. I didn't say it was, I said it might have been.'

'That's not possible!'

'How the hell can you be so sureT

    'Because I am.' Kendall was not only agitated, thought David, he was

    impatient. 'This is a business proposition. The deal's been made. There's

    no one trying to stop it. Stop us.'

    'Hostilities don't cease because a deal's been made. if the German command

    got wind of it they'd blow up Buenos Aires to stop it.'

'Yeah ... well, that's not possible.'

'You know that?'

    'We know it.... So don't go confusing that stupid bastard, Swanson. I'll

    level with you. This is strictly a money-line negotiation. We could have

    completed it without any help from Washington, but they insisted - Swanson

    insisted - that they have a man here. O.K., you're him. You can be helpful;

    you can get the papers out and you speak the languages. But that's all

    you've got to do. Don't call attention to yourself. We don't want anyone

    upset.'

    Grudgingly, David began to understand the subtle clarity of Brigadier

    General Swanson's manipulation. Swanson had maneuvered him into a clean

    position. The killing of Erich Rhinemann -whether he did it himself or

    whether he bought the assassin - would be totally unexpected. Swanson

    wasn't by any means the 'stupid bastard' Kendall thought he was. Or that

    David had considered.

    Swanson was nervous. A neophyte. But he was pretty damned good.

    'All right. My apologies,'said Spaulding, indicating a sincerity he didn't

    feel. perhaps the New York thing was exaggerated. I made enemies in

    Portugal, I can't deny that.... I got out under cover, you know.'

    249

    'rbere's no way the people in New York could know I left the city.'

'You're sure?'

    'As sure as you are that no one's trying to stop your negotiations.'

'Yeah.... O.K. Well, everything's set. I got a schedule.'

'You've seen Rhinemann?'

'Yesterday. All day.'

'What about Lyons?' asked David.

    'Swanson's packing him off at the end of the week. With his nursemaids.

    Rhinemann figures the designs will be arriving Sunday or Monday.'

'In steps or all togetherT

    'Probably two sets of prints. He's not sure. It doesn't make any

    difference; they'll be here in full by Tuesday. He guaranteed.'

    'Then we've moved up. You estimated three weeks.' David felt a pain in his

    stomach. He knew it wasn't related to Walter Kendall or Eugene Lyons or

    designs for high-altitude gyroscopes. It was Jean Cameron and the simple

    fact that he'd have only one week with her.

    It disturbed him greatly and he speculated - briefly - on the meaning of

    this disturbance.

    And then he knew he could not allow himself the indulgence; the two

    entities had to remain separate, the worlds separate.

    'Rhinernann's got good control,' said Kendall, more than a hint of respect

    showing in his voice. 'I'm impressed with his methods. Very precise.'

    'If you think that, you don't need me.' David was buying a few seconds to

    steer their conversation to another area. His statement was rhetorical.

    'We don't, that's what I said. But there's a lot of money involved and

    since the War Department - one way or another -is picking up a large share

    of the tab, Swanson wants his accounts covered. I don't sweat him on that.

    It's business.'

    Spaulding recognized his moment. 'Then let's get to the codes. I haven't

    wasted the three days down here. I've struck up a friendship of sorts with

    the embassy cryp.'

'The what?'

    'The head cryptographer. He'll send out the codes to Washington; the

    payment authorization.'

250

    ,oh. . . . Yeah, that.' Kendall was squeezing a cigarette, prepared to

    insert it in his mouth. He was only half-concerned with codes and

    cryptographers, thought David. They were the wrap-up, the necessary details

    relegated to others. Or was it an act? wondered Spaulding.

He'd know in a moment or two.

    'As you pointed out, it's a great deal of money. So weve decided to use a

    scrambler with code switches every twelve hours. We'll prepare the cryp

    schedule tonight and send it out by patrol courier to Washington tomorrow.

    The master plate will allow for fifteen hours.... Naturally, the prime word

    will be "Tortugas'.

Spaulding watched the disheveled accountant.

There was no reaction whatsoever.

    OX.... Yeah, O.K.' Kendall sat down in an easy chair. His mind seemed

    somewhere else.

'That meets with your approval, doesn't iff

    'Sure. Why not? Play any games you like. All I give a shit about is that

    Geneva radios the confirmation and you fly out of here.9

    'Yes, but I thought the reference had to include the ... code factor.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

"'Tortugas." Hasn't it got to be "Tortugas"?'

'V*"Y? What's "Tortugas"?'

    The man wasn't acting. David was sure of that. 'Perhaps I misunderstood. I

    thought "Tortugas" was part of the authorization code.'

    'Christl You and Swanson! All of you. Military geniusesl Jesusl If it

    doesn't sound like Dan Dunn, Secret Agent, it's not the real McCoy, huh?

    ... Look. When Lyons tells you everything's in order, just say so. Then

    drive out to the airport ... it's a small field called Mendarro ... and

    Rhinemann's men will tell you when you can leave. O.K.? You got thaff

'Yes, I've got it,' said Spaulding. But he wasn't sure.

    Outside, David walked aimlessly down the Buenos Aires streets. He reached

    the huge park of the Plaza San Martin, with its fountains, its rows of

    white gravel paths, its-calm disorder.

    He sat down on a slatted bench and tried to define the elusive pieces of

    the increasingly complex puzzle.

    251

    I

Walter Kendall hadn't lied, 'Tortugas' meant nothing to him.

    Yet a man in an elevator in New York City had risked his life to learn

    about 'Tortugas.'

    Ira Barden in Fairfax had told him there was only a single word opposite

    his name in the DW transfer in Ed Pace's vaults: 'Tortugas.'

    There was an obvious answer, perhaps. Ed Pace's death prohibited any real

    knowledge, but the probability was genuine.

    Berlin had gotten word of the PeenemUnde negotiation - too late to prevent

    the theft of the designs - and was now committed to stopping the sale. Not

    only stopping it, but if possible tracing the involvement of everyone

    concerned. Trapping the entire Rhinemann network.

    If this was the explanation - and what other plausible one existed? -

    Pace's code name, 'Tortugas,' had been leaked to Berlin by Fairfax

    infiltration. That there was a serious breach of security at Fairfax was

    clear; Pace's murder was proof.

    His own role could be easily assessed by Berlin, thought David. The man in

    Lisbon suddenly transferred to Buenos Aires. The expert whose skill was

    proven in hundreds of espionage transactions, whose own network was the

    most ruthlessly efficient in southern Europe, did not walk out of his own

    creation unless his expertise was considered vital someplace else. He'd

    long ago accepted the fact that Berlin more than suspected him. In a way it

    was his protection; he'd by no means won every roll of the dice. If the

    enemy killed him, someone else would take his place. The enemy would have

    to start all over again. He was a known commodity ... accept an existing

    devil.

    Spaulding considered carefully, minutely, what he might do were he the

    enemy. What steps would he take at this 'specific juncture?

    Barring panic or error, the enemy would not kill him. Not now. Because he

    could not by himself inhibit the delivery of the designs. He could,

    however, lead his counterparts to the moment and plate of delivery.

What is the location of Tortugas!?

    The desperate ... hysterical man in the Montgomery elevator had screamed

    the question, preferring to die rather than reveal those whose orders he

    followed. The Nazis reveled in such fanaticism. And so did others, for

    other reasons.

He - Spaulding - would therefore be placed under dusserste

252

Oberwachung - foolproof surveillance, three- to four-man teams, twenty-four

hours a day. That would account for the recruitment of the extraterritorial

personnel on the Berlin payroll. Agents who operated outside the borders of

Germany, had operated -for profit - for years. Ther languages and dialects

would vary; deep-cover operatives who could move with impunity in neutral

capitals because they had no Gestapo or Gehlen or Nachrichtendienst

histories.

    The Balkans and the Middle East countries had such personnel for hire. They

    were expensive; they were among the best. Their only morality was to the

    pound sterling and the American dollar.

    Along with this round-the-clock surveillance, Berlin Would take

    extraordinary measures to prevent him from developing his own network in

    Buenos Aires. That would mean infiltrating the American embassy. Berlin

    would not overlook that possibility. A great deal of money would be

    offered.

Who at the embassy could be bought?

    To attempt corrupting an individual too highly placed could backfire; give

    him, Spaulding, dangerous information.... Some one not too far up on the

    roster; someone who could gain access to doors and locks and desk-drawer

    vaults. And codes.... A middle-level attach6. A man who'd probably never

    make it to the Court of St. James's anyway; who'd settle for another kind

    of security. Negotiable at a very high price.

Someone at the embassy would be Spaulding's enemy.

Finally, Be - rlin would order him killed. Along with numerous

others, of course. Killed at the moment of delivery; killed after

the dusserste Oberwachung had extracted everything it could.

    David got up from the slatted green bench and stretched, observing the

    beauty that was the Plaza San Martin park. He wandered beyond the path onto

    the grass, to the edge of a pond whose dark waterg reflected the

    surrounding trees like a black mirror. Two white swans paddled by in

    alabaster obliviousness. A little girl was kneeling by a rock on the tiny

    embankment, separating the petals from a yellow flower.

    He was satisfied that he had adequately analyzed the immediate options of

    his counterparts. Options and probable courses of action. His gut feeling

    was positive - not in the sense of being enthusiastic, merely not negative.

    He had now to evolve his own counterstrategy. He had to bring into play the

    lessons he had learned over the years in

    253

Lisbon. But there was so little time allowed him. And because of this fact,

he understood that a misstep could be fatal here.

    Nonchalantly - but with no feelings of nonchalance - he looked around at

    the scores of strollers on the paths, on the grass; the rowers and the

    passengers in the small boats on the small dark lake. Which of them were

    the enemy?

    Who were the ones watching him, trying to think what he was thinking?

    He would have to find them - one or two of them anyway -before the next few

    days were over.

That was the genesis of his counterstrategy.

Isolate and break.

    David Ht a cigarette and walked over the miniature bridge. He was primed.

    The hunter and the hunted were now one. There was the slightest straining

    throughout his entire body; the hands, the arms, the legs: there was a

    muscular tension, an awareness. He recognized it. He was back in the north

    country.

    And he was good in that jungle. He was the best there was. It was here that

    he built his architectural monuments. his massive structures of concrete

    and steel. In his mind.

It was all he had sometimes.

254

26

He looked at his watch. It was five thirty; Jean had mid she'd be at his

apartment around six. He had walked for nearly two hours and now found

himself at the comer of Viamonte, several blocks from his apartment. He

crossed the street and walked to a newsstand under a storefront awning,

where he bought a paper.

    He glanced at the front pages, amused to see that the war news - what there

    was of it - was relegated to the bottom, surrounded by accounts of the

    Grupo de Oficiales' latest benefits to Argentina. He noted that the name of

    a particular colonel, one Juan Per6n, was mentioned in three separate

    subheadlines.

    He folded the paper under his arm and, because he realized he had been

    absently musing, looked once again at his watch.

    It was not a deliberate move on David's part. That is to say, he did not

    calculate the abruptness of his turn; he simply turned because the angle of

    the sun caused a reflection on his wristwatch and he unconsciously shifted

    his body to the right, his left hand extended, covered by his own shadow.

    But his attention was instantly diverted from his watch. Out of the comer

    of his eye he could discern a sudden, sharp break in the sidewalk's human

    traffic. Thirty feet away across the street two men had swiftly turned

    around, colliding with oncoming pedestrians, apologizing, stepping into the

    flow on the curbside.

    The man on the left had not been quick enough; or he was too careless - too

    inexperienced, perhaps - to angle his shoulders, or

    255

hunch them imperceptibly so as to melt into the crowd.

He stood out and David recognized him.

    He was one of the men from the roof of the C6rdoba apartment. His companion

    David couldn't be sure of, but he way sure of that man. There was even the

    hint of a limp in his gait; David remembered the battering he'd given him.

He was being followed, then, and that was good.

His point of departure wasn't as remote as he'd thought.

    He walked another ten yards, into a fairly large group approaching the

    comer of C6rdoba. He sidestepped his way between arms and legs and

    packages, and entered a small jewelry store whose wares were gaudy,

    inexpensive. Inside, several office girls were trying to select a gift for

    a departing secretary. Spaulding smiled at the annoyed proprietor,

    indicating that he could wait, he was in no hurry. The proprietor made a

    gesture of helplessness.

    Spaulding stood by the front window, his body concealed from outside by the

    frame of the door.

    Before a minute was up he saw the two men again. They were still across the

    street; David had to follow their progress through the intermittent gaps in

    the crowd. The two men were talking heatedly, the second man annoyed with

    his limping companion. Both were trying to glance above the heads of the

    surrounding bodies, raising themselves up on their toes, looking foolish,

    amateur.

    David figured they would turn right at the comer and walk east on C6rdoba,

    toward his apartment. They did so and, as the owner of the jewelry store

    protested, Spaulding walked swiftly out into the crowds and ran across the

    Avenida Callao, dodging cars and angry drivers. He had to reach the other

    side, staying out of the sightlines of the two men. He could not use the

    crosswalks or the curbs. It would be too easy, too logical, for the men to

    look backward as men did when trying to spot someone they had lost in

    surveillance.

    David knew his objective now. He had to separate the men and take the one

    with a limp. Take him and force answers.

    If they had any experience, he considered, they would reach his apartment

    and divide, one man cautiously going inside to listen through the door,

    ascertaining the subject's presence, the other remaining outside, far

    enough from the entrance to be unobserved. And common sense would dictate

    that the

256

unknown to David would be the one to enter the apartment.

    Spaulding removed his jacket and held up the newspaper - not ftffl but

    folded; not obviously but casually, as if he were uncertain of the meaning

    of some awkwardly phrased headline - and walked with the crowds to the

    north side of C6rdoba. He turned right and maintained a steady, unbroken

    pace east, remaining as far left on the sidewalk as possible.

    His apartment was less than a block and a half away now. He could see the

    two men; intermittently they did look back, but on their own side of the

    street.

Amateurs. If he taught surveillance, they'd fail his course.

    The men drew nearer to the apartment, their concentration on the entrance.

    David knew it was his moment to move. The only moment of risk, really; the

    few split seconds when one or the other might turn and see him across the

    street, only yards away. But it was a necessary gamble. He had to get

    beyond the apartment entrance. That was the essence of his trap.

    Several lengths ahead was a middle-aged portefia housewife carrying

    groceries, hurrying, obviously anxious to get home. Spaulding came

    alongside and without breaking stride, keeping in step with her, he started

    asking directions in his best, most elegant Castilian, stating among other

    points that he knew this was the right street and he was late. His head was

    tilted from the curb.

    If anyone watched them, the housewife and the shirtsleeved man with a

    jacket under one arm and a newspaper under the other looked like two

    friends hastening to a mutual destination.

    Twenty yards beyond the entrance on the other side, Spaulding left the

    smiling portefia and ducked into a canopied doorway. He pressed himself

    into the wall and looked back across the street. The two men stood by the

    curb and, as he expected, they separated. The unknown man went into his

    apartment house; the man with the limp looked up and down the sidewalk,

    checked oncoming vehicles, and started across C6rdoba to the north side.

    David's side.

    Spaulding knew it would be a matter of seconds before the limping figure

    passed him. Logic, again; common sense. The man would continue east - he

    would not reverse direction - over traversed ground. He would station

    himself at a vantage point from which he could observe those approaching

    the apartment from the west. David's approach.

    257

    The man did not see him until David touched him, grabbed his left arm

    around the elbow~ forced the arm into a horizontal position, and clamped

    the man's hand downward so that the slightest force on David's part caused

    an excruciating pain in the man's bent wrist.

    'Just keep walking or III snap your hand off,' said David in English,

    pushing the man to the right of the sidewalk to avoid the few pedestrians

    walking west on C6rdoba.

    The man's face grimaced in pain; David's accelerated walk caused him to

    partially stumble - his limp emphasized - and brought further agony to the

    wrist.

    'You're breaking my arm. You're breaking itt' said the anguished man,

    hurrying his steps to relieve the pressure.

    'Keep up with me or I will,' David spoke calmly, even politely. They

    reached the comer of the Avenida Parani and Spaulding swung left,

    propelling the man with him. There was a wide, recessed doorway of an old

    office building - the type that had few offices remaining within it. David

    spun the man around, keeping the arm locked, and slammed him into the

    wooden wall at the point farthest inside. He released the arm; the

grabbed for his strained wrist. Spaulding took the moment to ffip open the

man's jacket, forcing the arms downward, and removed a revolver strapped in

a large holster above the man's left hip.

It was a Lfiger. Issued less than a year ago.

    David clamped it inside his belt and pushed a lateral forearm against the

    man's throat, crashing his head into the wood as he searched the pockets of

    the jacket. Inside he found a large rectangular European billfold. He

    slapped it open, removed his forearm from the man's throat, and shoved his

    left shoulder into the man's chest, pinning him unmercifully against the

    wall. With both hands, David removed identification papers.

    A German driver's license; an Autobalm vehicle pass; rationing cards

    countersigned by Oberfiffirers, allowing the owner to utilize them

    throughout the Reich - a privilege granted to upperlevel government

    personnel and above.

And then he found it.

    An identity pass with a photograph affixed; for the ministries of

    Information, Armaments, Air and Supply.

Gestapo.

    'You're about the most inept recruit Himinler's turned out,' said David,

    meaning the judgment profoundly, putting the bill-

258

fold in his back pocket. 'You must have relatives.... Was ist "Tortagas"?'

Spaulding whispered harshly, suddenly. He removed his shoulder from the

man's chest and thrust two extended knuckles into the Nazi's breastbone with

such impact that the German coughed, the sharp blow nearly paralyzing him.

'Wer ist Altinliller? Was wissen Sie fiber Marshall?' David repeatedly

hammered the man's ribs with his knuckles, sending shock waves of pain

throughout the Gestapo agent's rib cage. 'Sprechen Sie! SO/ortl'

    'Neinl Ich weiss nichts!'the man answered between gasps. 'Nein I'

    Spaulding heard it again. The dialect. Nowhere near Berliner; not even a

    mountainized Bavarian. Something else.

What was it?

'Noch 'mal! Again I Sprechen Sie I'

    And then the man did something quite out of the ordinary. In his pain, his

    fear, he stopped speaking German. He spoke in English. 'I have not the

    information you want! I follow orders. ... That is all!'

    David shifted his stand to the left, covering the Nazi from the

    intermittent looks they'both received from the passersby on the sidewalk.

    The doorway was deep, however, in shadows; no one stopped. The two men

    could have been acquaintances, one or both perhaps a little drunk.

    Spaulding clenched his right fist, his left elbow against the wall, his

    left hand poised to clamp over the German's mouth. He leaned against the

    slatted wood and brought his fist crashing into the man's stomach with such

    force that the agent lurched forward, held only by David's hand, now

    gripping him by the hairline.

    'I can keep this up until I rupture everything inside you. And when I'm

    finished I'll throw you in a taxi and drop you off at the German embassy

    with a note attached. You'll get it from both sides then, won't you? ...

    Now, tell me what I want to know I' David brought his two bent knuckles up

    into the man's throat, jabbing twice.

'Stop.... Mein Gott! Stop!'

    'Why don't you yell? You can scream your head off, you know. . ... Of

    course, then I'll have to put you to sleep and let your own people find

    you. Without your credentials, naturally.

    . . Go on I Yell V David knuckled the man once more in the throat. 'Now,

    you start telling me. What's "Tortugas?" Who's

    259

Altmigler? How did you get a cryp named Marshall?,

'I swear to God I I know nothing V

    David Punched him again. The man collapsed; Spaulding pulled him up against

    the wall, leaning against him, hiding him, really. The Gestapo agent opened

    his lids, his eyes swimming uncontrollably.

'You've got five seconds. Then I'll rip your throat out.'

'Nol ... Please I Altmaller .... Armaments .... Peenem(Inde...'

'What about PeenemOndeT

    'The tooling Tortugas".

    'What does that meanl?'David showed the man his two bent fingers. The

    recollection of Pam terrified the German. 'What is 66 Tortugas"?'

    Suddenly the German's eyes flickered, trying to focus. Spaulding saw that

    the man was looking above his shoulder. It wasn't a ruse, the Nazi was too

    far gone for strategies.

    And then David felt the presence behind him. It was an unmis-, takeable

    feeling that had been developed over the recent years; it was never false.

He turned.

    Coming into the dark shadows from the harsh Argentine sunfight was the

    second part of the surveillance team, the man who'd entered his apartment

    building. He was Spaulding's size, a large man and heavily muscular.

    The light and the onrushing figure caused David to wince. He released the

    German, prepared to throw himself onto the opposite wan.

He couldn't!

    The Gestapo agent - in a last surge of strength - held onto his arms 1

    Held his arms, threw his hands around David's chest and hung his full

    weight on him I

    Spaulding lashed out with his foot at the man attacking, swung his elbows

    back, slamming the German back into the wood.

It was too late and David knew it.

    He saw the huge hand - the long fingers spread - rushing into his face. It

    was as if a ghoulish film was being played before his eyes in slow motion.

    He felt the fingers clamp into his skin and realized that his head was

    being shoved with great strength into the wall.

The sensations of divin& crashing, spinning accompanied the

260

shock of pain above his neck.

    He shook his head; the first thing that struck him was the stench. It was

    all around him, sickening.

    He was lying in the recessed'doorway, curled up against the wall in a fetal

    position. He was wet, drenched around his face and shirt and in the crotch

    area of his trousers.

It was cheap whisky. Very cheap and very profuse.

    His shirt had been ripped, collar to waist; one shoe was off, the sock

    removed. His belt was undone, his fly partially unzipped.

He was the perfect picture of a derelict.

    He rose to a sitting position and remedied as best he could his appearance.

    He looked at his watch.

Or where his watch had been; it was gone.

    His wallet, too. And money. And whatever else had been in his pockets.

    He stood up. The sun was down, early night had begun; there were not so

    many people on the Avenida Parani now.

    He wondered what time it was. It couldn't be much more than an hour later,

    he supposed.

He wondered if Jean were still waiting for hirn.

    She removed his clothes, pressed the back of his head with 100 and insisted

    that he take a long, hot shower.

    When he emerged from the bathroom, she fixed him a drink, then sat down

    next to him on the small couch.

    'Henderson will insist on your moving into the embassy; you know that,

    don't youT

'I can't.'

    'Well, you can't go on being beaten up every day. And don't tell me they

    were thieves. You wouldn't swallow that when Henderson and Bobby both tried

    to tell you that about the men on the roof!'

    'Tbis was different. For God's sake, Jean, I was robbed of everything on

    me!' David spoke sternly. It was important to him that she believe him now.

    And it was entirely possible that he'd find it necessary to avoid her from

    now on. That might be important, too. And terribly painful.

'People don't rob people and then douse them with whisky!'

    'They do if they want to create sufficient time to get out of the area.

    It's not a new tactic. By the time a mark gets finished

    261

explaining to the police that he's a sober citizen, the hustlers are twenty

miles away.'

    'I don't believe you, I don't even think you expect me to.' She sat up and

    looked at him.

    'I do expect you to because it's the truth. A man doesn't throw away his

    wallet, his money, his watch . . . in order to impress a girl with the

    validity of a lie. Come on, Jean! I'm very thirsty and my head still

    hurts.'

She shrugged, obviously realizing it was futile to argue.

    'You're just about out of Scotch, I'm afraid. I'll go buy a bottle for you.

    There's a liquor store on the corner of Talcahuano. It's not far. . . .'

    'No,' he said interrupting, recalling the man with huge hands who'd entered

    his building. 'I will. Lend me some money.'

'We'll both go,' she responded.

    'Please?. . . Would you mind waiting? I may get a phone call; I'd like the

    person to know I'll be right back.'

'Who?'

'A man named Kendall.'

    Out on the street, he asked the first man he saw where the nearest pay

    phone could be found. It was several blocks away, on Rodriguez Peila, in a

    newspaper store.

David ran as fast as he could.

    The hotel page found Kendall in the dining room. When he got on the phone

    he spoke while chewing. Spaulding pictured the man, the doodled

    obscenities, the animal-like breathing. He controlled himself. Walter

    Kendall was sick.

    'Lyons is coming in in three days,' Kendall told him. 'With his nurses. I

    got him a place in this San Telmo district. A quiet apartment, quiet

    street. I wired Swanson the address. He'll give it to the keepers and

    they'll get him set up. They'll be in touch with you.'

'I thought I was to get him settled.'

    'I figured you'd complicate things,' interrupted Kendall. 'No piss lost.

    They'll call you. Or I will. I'll be here for a while.'

'I'm glad.... Because so's the Gestapo.'

1M01

    'I said so's the Gestapo. You figured a little inaccurately, Kendall.

    Someone is trying to stop you. It doesn't surprise me.'

'You're out of your fucking mind V

,I'm not.,

'What happened?'

262

. So David told him, and for the first time in his brief association Mth the

accountant, he detected fear.

    'There was a break in Rhinemann's network. It doesn't mean the designs

    won't get here. It does mean we have obstacles - if Rhinemann's as good as

    you say. As I read it, Berlin found out the designs were stolen. They know

    they're filtering down or across or however Rhinemann's routing them out of

    Europe. The High Command got wind of the transactions. The Reichsf0rers

    aren't going to broadcast, they're going to try and intercept. With as

    little noise as possible. But you can bet your ass there's been a slew of

    executions in PeenemOnde.'

    'It's crazy . . . .' Kendall could hardly be heard. And then he mumbled

    something; David could not understand the words.

'What did you say?'

    'The address in this Telmo. For Lyons. It's three rooms. Back entrance.'

    Kendall still kept his voice low, almost indistinct.

    The man was close to panic, thought Spaulding. 'I can barely hear you,

    Kendall.... Now, calm down I I think it's time I introduced myself to

    Rhinemann, don't you?'

'The Telmo address. It's Fifteen Terraza Verde ... it's quiet.'

'Who's the contact for Rhinemann?'

'The whaff

'Rhinemann's contact.'

'I don't know. . . . '

    'For Christ's sake, Kendall, you held a five-hour conference with him!'

'I'll be in touch. . .

    David heard the click. He was stunned. Kendall had hung up on him. He

    considered calling again but in Kendall's state of anxiety it might only

    make matters worse.

    Goddamned amateurs I What the hell did they expect? Albert Speer himself to

    get in touch with Washington and lend the army air corps a few designs

    because he heard they had problems?

Jesusl

    David walked angrily out of the telephone booth and the store and into the

    street.

    Where the goddamned hell was he? Oh, yes, the Scotch. The store was back at

    Talcahuano, Jean said. Four blocks west. He looked at his watch and, of

    course, there was no watch.

Goddamn.

    263

    'I'm sorry I took so long. I got confused. I walked the wrong way for a

    couple of blocks.' David put the package of Scotch and soda water on the

    sink. Jean was sitting on the sofa; disturbed about something, he

    thought. 'Did I get the call?'

    'Not the one you expected,' said Jean softly. 'Someone else. He said he'd

    phone you tomorrow.'

'Oh? Did he leave a name?'

    'Yes, he did.'When she answered, David heard the questioning fear in her

    voice. 'It was Heinrich Stoltz.'

'Stoltz? Don't know him.'

    'You should. He's an undersecretary at the German embassy. ... David,

    what are you doing?'

264

27

'Sorry, seifor. Mister Kendall checked out last night. At ten thirty,

according to the card.'

    'Did he leave any other address or telephone number here in Buenos Aires?'

    'No, seftor. I believe he was going back to the United States. There was a

    Pan American flight at midnight.'

    '7rbank you.' David put down the telephone and reached for his cigarettes.

    it was incredible! Kendall had shot out at the first moment of difficulty.

Why?

The telephone rang, startling David.

'Hello?'

'Herr Spaulding?'

'Yes.'

'Heinrich Stoltz. I called last night but you were out.'

    'Yes, I know. . . . I understand you're with the German embassy. I hope I

    don't have to tell you that I find your contacting me unorthodox. And not

    a little distasteful.'

    10h, come, Herr Spaulding. The man from Lisbon? He finds unorthodoxy?'

    Stoltz laughed quietly but not insultingly.

    'I am an embassy attach6 specializing in economics. Nothing more. If you

    know anything about me, surely you know that. Now, I'm late....

    265

    'Please,' interrupted Stoltz. 'I call from a public telephone. Surely that

    tells you something.'

It did, of course.

'I don't talk on telephones.'

'Yours is clean, I checked thoroughly.'

    'If you want to meet, give me a time and an address. . . . Somewhere in the

    downtown area. With people around; no outside locations.'

    'There's a restaurant, Casa Langosta del Mar, several blocks north of the

    Parque Lezama. It's out of the way, not outside. There are back rooms.

    Curtains, no doors; no means of isolation. Only seclusion!

'rime?'

'Half past twelve!

'Do you smoke?' asked David sharply.

'Yes.'

    'Carry a pack of American cigarettes from the moment you get out of the

    car. In your left hand; the foil off one end of the top, two cigarettes

    removed!

    'It's quite unnecessary. I know who you are. Ill recognize you!

    'That's not my concern. I don't know you.' David hung up the phone

    abruptly. As in all such rendezvous, he would arrive at the location early,

    through a delivery entrance if possible, and position himself as best he

    could to observe his contact's arrival. The cigarettes were nothing more

    than a psychological device: the contact was thrown off balance with the

    realization that he was an identified mark. A target. A marked contact was

    reluctant to bring trouble. And if trouble was his intent, he wouldn't show

    up.

    Jean Cameron walked down the corridor toward the metal staircase that led

    to the cellars.

To the 'Caves.'

    The 'Caves' - a name given without affection by Foreign Service officers

    the world over - were those underground rooms housing file cabinets

    containing dossiers on just about everybody who had the slightest contact

    with an embassy, known and unknown, friend and adversary. They included

    exhaustive checks and counterchecks on all embassy personnel; service back-

    ground, State Department evaluations, progress reports. Nothing

266

was left out if it was obtainable.

    Two signatures were required to gain entrance into the 'Caves.' The

    ambassadoes and that of the senior attach6 seeking information.

    It was a regulation that was occasionally bypassed in the interests of

    haste and emergency. The marine officer of the guard generally could be

    convinced that an established attach6 had to have immediate background

    material; the marine would fist both the names of the embassy man and his

    subject on the check sheet, then stand in attendance while the file.was

    removed. If there were repercussions, they were the attach6's

    responsibility.

    There never were. Violations of this sort guaranteed a post in Uganda. The

    check sheet was sealed daily and sent only to the ambassador.

    Jean rarely took advantage of her relationship to Henderson Granville in

    embassy matters. In truth, the occasion rarely arose, and when it did, the

    matter was always insignificant.

    It was not insignificant now. And she intended to use fully her status as

    family, as well as a respected member of the staff. Granville had left for

    lunch; he would not return for several hours. She had made up her mind to

    tell the marine guard that her 'father-in-law, the ambassador' had asked

    her to make a discreet inquiry regarding a new transfer.

Spaulding, David.

    If Henderson wished to call her down for it, she would ten him the truth.

    She found herself very, very involved with the enigmatic Mr. Spaulding, and

    if Henderson did not realize it, he was a damn fool.

    The marine officer of the guard was a young lieutenant from the FMF base

    south of La Boca. The personnel from FMF were sped in civilian clothes

    through the city to their posts at the embassy; the treaty that permitted

    the small, limited base did not condone uniformed men outside either

    territory. These restrictions tended to make the young officers sensitive

    to the functionary, faceless roles they were forced to play. So it was

    understandable that when the ambassador's daughter-in-law called him by

    name and spoke confidentially of a discreet matter, the marine complied

    without question.

    Jean stared at David's Me. It was frightening. It was not like any file she

    had ever seen. There was no dossier, no State

    267

Department records, no reports, no evaluations, no listing of post

assignments.

There was only a single page.

    It gave his description by sex, height, weight, coloring and visible

    markings.

    Beneath this cursory data, separated by a three-line space, was the

    following:

    War Dept. Transfer. Clandestine Operations. Finance.

TortWas.

And nothing more.

    'Finding what you need, Mrs. CameronT asked the marine lieutenant by the

    steel-grilled gate.

    'Yes.... Thank you.' Jean slipped David's thin folder back into place in

    the cabinet, smiled at the marine, and left.

    She reached the staircase and walked slowly up the steps. She accepted the

    fact that David was involved with an undercover assignment - accepted it

    while hating it; loathing the secrecy, the obvious danger. But in a

    conscious way she had prepared herself, expecting the worst and finding it.

    She was not at all sure she could handle the knowledge, but she was willing

    to try. If she could not handle it she'd take what moments of selfish

    pleasure she could and kiss David Spaulding good-bye. She had made up her

    mind tb that ... unconsciously, really. She could not allow herself more

    pain.

    And there was something else. It was only a dim shadow in a half-lit room

    but it kept failing across her eyes. It was the word.

.Tortugas.'

She had seen it before. Recently. Only days ago.

    It had caught her attention because she'd thought of the Dry Tortugas ...

    and the few times she and Andrew had sailed there from the Keys.

Where was it? Yes.... Yes, she remembered.

    It had been in a very mechanical paragraph within the context of an area

    surveillance report on Henderson Granville's desk. She had read it rather

    absently one morning ... only a few days ago. But she hadn't read it

    closely. Area surveillance reports were comprised of short, choppy

    informational sentences devoid of rhythm and color. Written by

    unimaginative men concerned only with what they could describe briefly,

    with data.

268

It had- been down at La Boca.

    Something about the captain of a trawler ... and cargo. Cargo that had a

    lading destination of Tortugas. A violation of coastal limits; said

    destination rescinded, called an obvious error by the trawlees captain.

Yet the lading papers had said Tortugas.

    And David Spaulding's classified operation - clan&stine operation - was

    coded 'Tortugas.'

And Heinrich Stoltz of the German embassy had called David.

And Joan Cameron was suddenly afraid.

    Spaulding was convinced that Stoltz was alone. He signaled the German to

    follow him to the back of the restaurant, to the curtained cubicle David

    had arranged for with the waiter a half hour,ago.

    Stoltz entered carrying the pack of cigarettes in his left hand. Spaulding

    circled the round table and sat facing the curtain.

    'Have a seat,' said David indicating the chair opposite him. Stoltz smiled,

    realizing that his back would be to the entrance.

    'The man from Lisbon is a cautious man.'Tbe German pulled out the chair and

    sat down, placing the cigarettes on the table.

'I can assure you I'm not armed!

'Good. I am.'

    'You are too cautious. The colonels look askance at belligerents carrying

    weapons in their neutral city. Your embassy should have told you.'

    'I understand they also arrest Americans quicker than they do you fellows!

    Stoltz shrugged. 'Why not? After all, we trained them. You only buy their

    beef.'

'There'll beno lunch, incidentally. Ipaid thewaiter forthe table!

    'I'm sorry. The langosta . . . the lobster here is excellent. Perhaps a

    drink?'

'No drinks. Just talk.'

    Stoltz spoke, his voice flat. 'I bring a welcome to Buenos Aires. From

    Erich Rhinemann.'

David stared at the man. 'You?'

'Yes. I'm your contact!

'That's interesting!

`ThaCs the way of Erich Rhinemann. He pays for allegiances.'

I'll VMnt proof

    20.

'By all means. From Rhinemann himself. ... Acceptable?'

Spaulding nodded. 'When? WhereT

    'That's what I'm here to discuss. Rhinemann is as cautious as the man from

    Lisbon.'

    'I was attached to the diplomatic corps in Portugal. Don't try to make

    anything more of it than that.'

    'Unfortunately, I have to speak the truth-Herr Rhinemann is most upset that

    the men in Washington saw fit to send you as the liaison. Your presence in

    Buenos Aires could attract attention.'

    David reached for the cigarettes Stoltz had placed on the table. He lit

    one.... The German was right, of course; Rhinemann was right. The one

    liability in his having been chosen was the enemy's probable knowledge of

    his Lisbon operations. Ed Pace, he was sure, had considered that aspect,

    discarding it in favor of the overriding assets. Regardless, it was not a

    subject to discuss with Heinrich Stoltz. The German attach6 was stiff an

    unproven factor.

    'I have no idea what you're referring to. I'm in Buenos Aires to transmit

    preliminary recommendations from New York and London banking circles

    relative to postwar reconstruction negotiations. You see, we do believe

    we'll win. Rhinemann can't be overlooked in such projected discussions.'

'The man from Lisbon is most professional.'

'I wish you'd stop repeating that nonsense. .

    'And convincing,' interrupted Stoltz. 'The cover is one of your better

    ones. It has more stature than a cowardly American socialite.... Even Herr

    Kendall agrees with that.'

    David paused before replying. Stoltz was circling in, about to deliver his

    proof. 'Describe Kendall,' he said quietly.

'In short wordsT

'It doesn't matter.'

    Stoltz laughed under his breath. 'I'd prefer as few as possible. He's a

    most unattractive biped. He must be an extraordinary man with figures;

    there's no other earthly reason to stay in the same room with him.'

'Have you stayed in the same room with him?'

    'For hours, unfortunately. With Rhinemann.... Now. May we talk?'

'Go ahead:

    'Your man Lyons will be here the day after tomorrow. We can accomplish

    everything very quickly. The designs will be delivered

270

in one package, not two as Kendall believes!

'Does he believe that?'

'It's what he was told.'

1VVhy?1

    'Because until late last evening Herr Rhinemann thought it was so. I myself

    did not know of the change until this morning!

'Then why did you call me last night?'

'Instructions from Walter Kendall!

'Please explain that.'

    'Is it necessary? One has nothing to do with the other. Herr Kendall

    telephoned me. Apparently he had just spoken with you. He said he was

    called back to Washington suddenly; that I was to contact you immediately

    so there's no break in communications. He was most adamant.'

'Did Kendall say why he was returning to the States?'

    'No. And I saw no reason to inquire. His work here is finished. He's of no

    concern to us. You are the man with the codes, not him.'

    David crushed out his cigarette, staring at the tablecloth. 'What's your

    rank at the embassy?'

    Stoltz smiled. 'Third . . . fourth in command would be a modest appraisal.

    My loyalty, however, is to the Rhinemann interests. Surely that's apparent!

    'I'll know when I talk to Rhinemann, won't I?' David looked up at the

    German. 'Why are the Gestapo here in Buenos Aires?'

    'They're not.... Well, there's one man; no more than a clerk really. As all

    Gestapo he thinks of himself as the personal spokesman for the Reich and

    overburdens the couriers - who, incidentally, cooperate with us. He is, as

    you Amerikaner say, a jackass. There is no one else.'

'Am you sure?'

    'Of course. I would be the first to know; before the ambassador, I assure

    you. This game is quite unnecessary, Herr Spaulding!

    'You'd better set up that meeting with Rhinemann ... that's necessary!

    'Yes. Certainly.... Which brings us back to Herr Rhinemann's concerns. Why

    is the man from Lisbon in Buenos Aires?'

    'I'm afraid he has to be. You said it. I'm cautious. I'm experienced. And

    I have the codes.'

'But why you? To remove you from Lisbon is costly. I speak

    271

both as an enemy and as an objective neutral, allied with Rhine. mann. Is

there some side issue of which we're not aware?'

    'If there is, I'm not aware of it, either,' answered Spaulding,

    neutralizing Stoltz's inquisitorial look with one of his own. 'Since we're

    talking plain, I want to get those designs okayed, send the codes for your

    goddamned money and get the hell out of here. Since a large share of that

    financing will come from the government, Washington obviously thinks I'm

    the best man to see we're not cheated!

Both men remained silent for several moments. Stoltz spoke.

    'I believe you. You Americans always worry about being cheated, don't you?'

    'Let's talk about Rhinemann. I want the meeting immediately. I won't be

    satisfied that Kendall's arrangements are solid until I hear it from him.

    And I won't organize a code schedule with Washington until I'm satisfied!

'There's no schedule?'

'There won't be any until I see Rhinemann.'

    Stoltz breathed deeply. 'You are what they say, a thorough man. You'll see

    Rhinemann.... It will have to be after dark, two transfers of vehicles, his

    residence. He can't take the chance of anyone seeing you together.... Do

    these precautions disturb you?9

    'Not a bit. Without the codes there's no money transferred in Switzerland.

    I think Herr Rhinemann will be most hospitable!

    'Yes, I'm sure. . . . Very well. Our business is concluded. You'll be

    contacted this evening. Will you be at home?'

'If not, I'll leave word at the embassy switchboard.'

    'Dann auf Wiedersehen, mein Herr.' Stoltz got out of the chair and gave a

    diplomatic nod of his head. 'Heute Abend.'

    'Heute Abend,' replied Spaulding as the German parted the curtain and

    walked out of the cubicle. David saw that Stoltz had left his cigarettes on

    the table; a minor gift or a minor insult. He removed one and found himself

    squeezing the tip as he remembered Kendall doing - incessantly, with every

    cigarette the accountant prepared to smoke. David broke the paper around

    the tobacco and dropped it in the ashtray. Anything reminding him of

    Kendall was distasteful now. He couldn't think about Kendall and his

    sudden, fear-induced departure.

He had something else to think about.

Heinrich Stoltz, 'third, fourth in command' at the German

272

embassy, was not so highly placed as he believed. The Nazi had not been

lying - he did not know the Gestapo was in Buenos Aires. And if he didn't

know, that meant someone wasn't telling him.

    It was ironic, thought David, that he and Erich Rhinemann would be working

    together after all. Before he killed Rhinemann, of course.

    Heinrich Stoltz sat down at his desk and picked up the telephone. He spoke

    in his impeccable academic German.

'Get me Herr Rhinemann in Lujin.'

    He replaced the phone, leaned back in his chair and smiled. Several moments

    later his buzzer hummed.

    'Herr Rhinemann? ... Heinrich Stoltz.... Yes, yes, everything went

    smoothly. Kendall spoke the truth. This Spaulding knows nothing about

    Koening or the diamonds; his only concerns are the designs. His only threat

    - that of withholding funds. He plays unimpressive games but we need the

    codes. The American fleet patrols could be ordered to seal off the harbor;

    the trawler will have to get out.... Can you imagine? All this Spaulding is

    interested in is not being cheated!'

273

28

At first he thought he was mistaken.... No, that wasn't quite right, he

considered; that wasn't his first thought. He didn't have a first thought,

he had only a reaction.

He was stunned.

Leslie Hawkwood!

    He saw her from his taxi window talking with a man at the south end of the

    fountain in the Plaza de Mayo. The cab was slowly making its way through

    the traffic around the huge square; he ordered the driver to pull over and

    stop.

    David paid the driver and got out. He was now directly opposite Leslie and

    the man; he could see the blurred figures through the spray of the

    fountain.

    The man handed Leslie an envelope and bowed a European bow. He turned and

    went to the curb, his hand held up for a taxi. One stopped and the man got

    in; the cab entered the flow of traffic and Leslie went to the crosswalk,

    waiting for the pedestrian signal.

    David made his way cautiously around the fountain and dashed to the curb

    just as the crosswalk light flashed.

    He dodged the anxious vehicles, arousing horns and angry shouts, angling

    his path to the left in case she turned around at the commotion. She was at

    least fifty yards ahead of him; she couldn!t spot him, he was sure of that.

On the boulevard, Leslie headed west toward Avenida 9 de

274

Julio. David closed the gap between them but kept himself obscured by the

crowds. She stopped briefly at several store windows, twice obviously trying

to make up her mind whether to enter or not.

    So like Leslie; she had always hated to give up the acquisition of

    something new.

    She kept walking, however. Once she looked at her wristwatch; she turned

    north on Julio and checked the numbers of two storefront addresses,

    apparently to determine the directional sequence.

Leslie Hawkwood had never been to Buenos Aires.

    She continued north at a leisurely pace, taking in the extraordinary color

    and size of the boulevard. She reached the comer of Corrientes, in the

    middle of the theater district, and wandered past the billboards, looking

    at the photographs of the performers.

    Spaulding realized that the American embassy was less than two blocks away

    - between the Avenidas Supacha and Esmeralda. There was no point in wasting

    time.

    She saw him before he spoke. Her eyes widened, her jaw fell, her whole body

    trembled visibly. The blood drained from her suntanned face.

    'You have two alternatives, Leslie,' said Spaulding as he came within a

    foot of her, looking down at her terrified face. 'The embassy is right up

    there; it's United States territory. You'll be arrested as a citizen

    interfering with national security, if not espionage. Or you can come with

    me.... And answer questions. Which will it be?'

    The taxi took them to the airport, where Spaulding rented a car with the

    papers identifying him as 'Donald Scanlan, mining surveyor.' They were the

    sort of identifications he carried when making contact with such men as

    Heinrich Stoltz.

    He had held Leslie by the arm with sufficient pressure to wam her not to

    attempt running; she was his prisoner and he was deadly serious about the

    fact. She said nothing at all during the ride to the airport, she simply

    stared out the window, avoiding his eyes.

    Her only words at the rental counter were, 'Where are we going?'

His reply was succinct: 'Out of Buenos Aires.'

    He followed the river road north toward the outskirts, into the hills above

    the city. A few miles into the Sante F6 province, the

    275

Rio Lujin curved westward, and he descended the steep inclines onto the

highway paralleling the water's edge. It was the territory of the Argentine

rich. Yachts were moored or cruising slowly; sailboats of all classes were

lazily catching the upriver winds, tacking harmoniously among the tiny green

islands which sprung out of the water like lush gardens. Private roads

veered off the highway - now subtly curving west, away from the water.

Enonnous villas dotted the banks; nothing was without visual effect.

    He saw a road to his left that was the start of a hill. He swung up into

    it, and after a mile there was a break in the bordering forest and a sign

    in front of a flat, graveled area.

Vigia Tigre.

A lookout. A courtesy for tourists.

    He drove the car to the front of the parking ground and pulled to a stop,

    next to the railing. It was a weekday; there were no other automobiles.

    Leslie had said nothing throughout the hour's ride. She had smoked

    cigarettes, her hands trembling, her eyes refusing to make contact with

    his. And through experience, David knew the benefits of silence under such

    conditions.

The girl was close to breaking.

    'All right. Now come the questions.' Spaulding turned in the seat and faced

    her. 'And please believe me, I won't hesitate to run you into military

    arrest if you refuse.'

    She swung her head around and stared at him angrily - yet still in fear.

    'Why didn't you do that an hour ago?'

    'Two reasons,' he answered simply. 'Once the embassy is involved, I'd be

    locked into a chain of command; the decisions wouldn't be mine. I'm too

    curious to lose that control.... And second, old friend, I think you're in

    way the hell over your head. What is it, Leslie? What are you intoT

    She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled as though her life depended

    on the smoke. She closed her eyes briefly and spoke barely above a whisper.

    'I can't tell you. Don't force me to.'

    He sighed. 11 don't think you understand. I'm. an Intelligence officer

    assigned to Clandestine Operations - I'm not telling you anything you don't

    know. You made it possible for my hotel room to be searched; you lied; you

    went into hiding; for all I know, you were responsible for several assaults

    which nearly cost me my life. Now, you turn up in Buenos Aires, four

    thousand

276

miles away from that Park Avenue apartment. You followed me four thousand

miles I ... Why?

'I can't tell you! I haven't been told what I can tell you!'

    'You haven't been ... Christ! With what I can piece together - and testify

    to - you could spend twenty years in prison!'

    'I'd like to get out of the car. May IT she said softly, snuffing out her

    cigarette in the ashtray.

    'Sure. Go ahead.' David opened his door and rapidly came around the

    automobile. Leslie walked to the railing, the waters of the Rio Lujin far

    below in the distance.

'It's very beautiful here, isn't it?9

'Yes.... Did you try to have me killed?'

    'Oh, God!9 She whirled on him, spitting out the words. 'I tried to save

    your life I I'm here because I don't want you killed!'

    It took David a few moments to recover from the girl's statement. Her hair

    had fallen carelessly around her face, her eyes blinking back tears, her

    lips trembling.

'I think you'd better explain that,' he said in a quiet monotone.

    She turned away from him and looked down at the river, the villas, the

    boats. 'It's like the Riviera, isn't iff

'Stop it, Leslie!'

    'Why? It's part of it.' She put her hands on the railing. 'It used to be

    all there was. Nothing else mattered. Where next; who next? What a lovely

    party! ... You were part of it.'

    'Not really. You're wrong if you thought that. Just as you're wrong now....

    I won't be put off.'

    'I'm not putting you off.' She gripped the railing harder; it was a

    physical gesture telegraphing her indecision with her words. 'I'm trying to

    tell you something.'

    'That you followed me because you'wanted to save my Ufe?' He asked the

    question with incredulity. 'You were filled with dramatics in New York,

    too, if I recall. You waited, how long was it? Five, six, eight years to

    get me on the boathouse floor again. You're a bitch.'

    'And you're insignificantV She flung the words at him in heat. And then she

    subsided, controlling herself. 'I don't mean you ... you. Just compared to

    everything else. We're all insignificant in that sense.'

'So the lady has a cause.'

    Leslie stared at him and spoke softly. 'One she believes in very deeply.-

    277

.'Then you should have no reservations explaining it to me.'

'I will. I promise you. But I can't now.... Trust meV

    'Certainly,' said David casually. And then he suddenly whipped out his

    hand, grabbing her purse, which hung from her shoulder by a leather strap.

    She started to resist; he looked at her. She stopped and breathed deeply.

    He opened the purse and took out the envelope she had been given at the

    fountain in the Plaza de Mayo. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of a

    bulge at the bottom of the bag, covered by a silk scarf. He held the

    envelope between his fingers and reached down. He separated the scarf from

    the object and pulled out a small Remington revolver. Without saying

    anything, he checked the chamber and the safety and put the weapon in his

    jacket pocket.

'I've leamed to use it,' said Leslie tentatively.

'Good for you,' replied Spaulding, opening the envelope.

    'At least you'll see how efficient we are,' she said turning, looking down

    at the river.

    There was no letterhead, no origin of writer or organization. The heading

    on the top of the paper read:

Spaul&ny. David. Lt. Col. Military Intelligence.

U.S. Army. Ciassification 4-0. Fairfax.

    Beneath were five complicated paragraphs detailing every move he had made

    since he was picked up on Saturday afternoon entering the embassy. David

    was pleased to see that 'Donald Scanlan' was not mentioned; he'd gotten

    through the airport and customs undetected.

    Everything else was listed: his apartment, his telephone, his office at the

    embassy, the incident on the C6rdoba roof, the lunch with Jean Cameron at

    La Boca, the meeting with Kendall at the hotel, the assault on the Avenida

    Parani, his telephone call in the store on Rodriguez Pefia.

Everything.

    Even the 'lunch' with Heinrich Stoltz at the Langosta del Mar, on the

    border of Lezurna. The meeting with Stoltz was estimated to last 'a minimum

    of one hour.'

    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

278

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.'

4'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 Ffihrer,' 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 doneV

'Get in the car I'

    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 I You can't V

'If you don't get in the car, you'll just wake up there I 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

    279

inside his jacket.

    17wo high-powered rifles protruded from the open windows of the car. They

    were aimed at him.

    The heads of the three filen 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 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,' commanded 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.

280

29

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 "perhal5s." 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

    AiresT

'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

    281

of girls here.'

'It's . . . discreet.'

    'I think he was worried that Henderson might find out be had dishonorable

    designs. And so he brought me here.'

'Which confirms 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 confldence. But don't speculate. That implies some

kind of permanence. We must avoid that, mustn% we?'

'Must we? It seems to be a point with you tonight. It wasn't

282

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

    themprovocarios.... So, my David is an agent and being an agent is called

    . . . high-risk something-orother 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

    283

a second part to the question. You get extra points for considering it.'

    'What's the second partT 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 nowT

    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 I' 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 . . .

    woud 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

294

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.

    'Seflor Spaulding?' The words shocked him momentarily because they were so

    completely unexpected. A tuxedoed maltre d' was standing bythe 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'D 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 L Something's come up.'

'Sorry. Twenty minutes. A green Packard automobile.'

    285

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 comer 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:

    David. I'm sure you have things to do -places to go - and I'm a

    bore tonight

Nothing else. As if she'd just stopped.

    He crumpled the napkin in his pocket and raced back across the dining room

    to the front entrance. The maitre d' stood by the door.

'Seftor? Is there a problemT

'The lady at the booth. Where did she go?V

'Mrs. Cameron?'

    Christ! thought David, looking at the calm portefio. 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 .....

    'Sefior,' 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 meT

    'I'm merely waiting for you, Herr Spaulding. To escort you. The car should

    be here in fifteen minutes.'

286

30

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.

    A , s 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

    287

momentarily in the glare of the headlights: 27gre 12 W.

    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 fit 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 arzn - 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. T"he German

    who had accompanied Spaulding walked to the single window that looked out

    on the circular drive. He spoke softly.

'Schnell. Beeilen Sie sick ... Danke.'

    The two men quickly walked to the door and let themselves out. The German

    by the window was silhouetted in the filtered

288

light of the front entrance. He beckoned David.

Wommen 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 Forsichtsmassnahme

    - a . . .'

'A precaution,' said David.

    Ua. 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 street lamps 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.

    289

    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 in 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.

290

    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 materialslogistics 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.

i Which meant, of course, that there were eyes unseen and whispers unheard,

directing their attention on him.

The door opened. Heinrich Stolz stood in the frame.

    'Welcome to Habichtsnest, Herr Spaulding. The Hawk's Lair; appropriately -

    if theatrically - named, is it notT

    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.'

    291

    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 Rio LujAn. 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 "tending down to the river.

    David absorbed the splendor, expecting his first view of Rhinemarm. 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.

    Rhinemarm 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

292

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.

    Rhinemann was fighting a battle his wealth could not win for him.

    'Habichtsnest ist prdchtig. Unglaublich,' said David politely but without

    commensurate enthusiasm.

    'You are kind,' replied Rhinemann, extending his hand. 'And also courteous;

    but there is no reason not to speak English.

. . Come, sit down. May I offer you a drink?' The financier led il~e way to

the nearest table.

    'Thank you, no,' said David, sitting across from Rhinemann. 'I have urgent

    business in Buenos Aires. A fact I tried to make clear to Stolz before he

    hung up.'

    Rhinemann looked over at an unperturbed Stolz, who was leaning against the

    stone balustrade. 'Was that necessary? Herr Spaulding is not to be so

    treated.'

    'I'm afraid it was necessary, mein Herr. For our American friend's own

    benefit. It was reported to us that he was followed; we were prepared for

    such an occurrence!

61f I was followed, you were doing the following!

    'After the fact, colonel; I don't deny it. Before, we had no reason.'

    Rhinermann's narrow eyes pivoted to Spaulding. 'This is disturbing. Who

    would have you followed?'

    'May we talk privately?' David said, glancing at Heinrich Stoltz.

    The financier smiled. 'There's nothing in our arrangements that excludes

    the Botschaftssekretdr. He is among my most valued associates in South

    America. Nothing should be withheld!

'I submit that you won't know unless we speak alone.'

    ,our American colonel is perhaps embarrassed,' interrupted Stoltz, his

    voice laced with invective. 'The man from Lisbon is not considered

    competent by his own government. He's placed under American surveillance.'

David lit a cigarette; he did not reply to the German attach6.

    293

Rhinemann spoke, gesturing with his large, delicate hands.

    'If this is so, there is no cause for exclusion. And obviously, there can

    be no other explanation.'

    'We're buying,' said David with quiet emphasis. 'You're selling.... Stolen

    property.'

    Stoltz was about to speak but Rhinemann held up his hand.

    'What you are implying is not possible. Our arrangements were made in

    complete secrecy; they have been totally successful. And Herr Stoltz is a

    confidant of the High Command. More so than the ambassador.'

    'I don't like repeating myself.' David spoke angrily. 'Especially when I'm

    paying.'

'Leave us, Heinrich,' said Rhinemann, his eyes on Spaulding.

    Stoltz bowed stiffly and walked rapidly, furiously, through the arch into

    the great hall.

    'Thank you.' David shifted his position in the chair and looked up at

    several small balconies on the second and third stories of the house. He

    wondered how many men were near the windows; watching, prepared to jump if

    he made a false move.

    'We're alone as requested,' said the German expatriot, hardly concealing

    his irritation. 'What is iff

    'Stoltz is marked,' said Spaulding. He paused to see what kind of reaction

    the financier would register at such news. As he might have expected, there

    was none. David continued, thinking perhaps that Rhinemann did not entirely

    understand. 'He's not being given straight information at the embassy. He

    may do better at ours.'

    'Preposterous.' Rhinemann remained immobile, his narrow eyelids half

    squinting, staring at David. 'On what do you base such an opinion?'

    6The Gestapo. Stoltz claims there's no active Gestapo in Buenos Aires. He's

    wrong. It's here. it's active. It's determined to stop you. Stop Us.'.

    Erich Rhinemann's composure cracked - if only infinitesimally. There was

    the slightest, tiny vibration within the rolls of flesh beneath his eyes,

    and his stare - if possible, thought David -was harder than before.

'Please clarify.'

'I want questions answered first.'

'You want questions ... 7' Rhinemann's voice rose, his hand

294

gripped the table; the veins were pronounced at his greying temples. He

paused and continued as before. 'Forgive me. I'm not used to conditions.'

    'I'm sure you're not. On the other hand, I'm not used to dealing with a

    contact like Stoltz who's blind to his own vulnerability. That kind of

    person annoys me ... and worries me.'

'These questions. What are theyT

'I assume the designs have been gotten outT

'They have.'

'En routeT

'They arrive tonight.'

    'You're early. Our man won't be here until the day after tomorrow.'

    Now it is you who have been given effoneous information, Heff Colonel. The

    American scientist, Lyons, will be here tomorrow!

    David was silent for several moments. He'd used such a ploy on too many

    others in the past to show surprise.

    'He's expected in San Telmo the day after tomorrow,' David said. 'The

    change is insignificant but that's what Kendall told me.'

    'Before he boarded the Phn American Clipper. We spoke subsequently!

    'Apparently he spoke to a lot of people. Is there a point to the changeT

    'Schedules may be slowed or accelerated as the necessities dictate .... I

'Or altered to throw someone off balance,' interrupted David.

    'Such is not the case here. There would be no reason. As you phrased it -

    most succinctly - we're selling, you're buying!

    'And, of course, there's no reason why the Gestapo's in Buenos Aires. . .

    .'

'May we return to that subject, pleaseT interjected -Rhinemann.

    'In a mornent,' answered Spaulding, aware that the German's temper was

    again stretched. 'I need eighteen hours to get my codes to Washington. They

    have to go by courier, under chemical seal.'

    'Stoltz told me. You were foolish. The codes should have been sent. '

    'Eine Vorsichtsmassnahme, mein Herr,'said David. 'Put plainly, I don't know

    who's been bought at our embassy but I'm damned sure someone has. Codes

    have ways of getting sold. The authen-

    295

tic ones will be radioed only when Lyons verifies the designs.i

    'Then you must move quickly. You fly out your codes in the morning; I will

    bring the first set of prints to San Telmo tomorrow night.... Eine

    Vorsichismassnahme. You get the remaining set when you have assured us

    Washington is prepared to make payment in Switzerland ... as a result of

    receiving your established code. You won't leave Argentina until I have

    word from Berne. There is a small airfield called Mendarro. Near here. My

    men control it. Your plane will bd there.'

    'Agreed.' David crushed out his cigarette. 'Tomorrow evening, the first set

    of prints. The remaining within twenty-foiir hours.... Now we have a

    schedule. That's all I was interested in.'

    'Gut! And now we will return to this Gestapo business.' Rhinemann leaned

    forward in his chair, the veins in his temples once more causing blue

    rivulets in his sun-drenched skin. 'You said you would clarify!'

Spaulding did.

    When he was finished, Erich Rhinemann was breathing deeply, steadily.

    Within the rolls of flesh, his narrow eyes were furious but controlled.

    'Thank you. I'm sure there is an explanation. We'll proceed on schedule. .

    . . Now, it has been a long and complicated evening. You will be driven

    back to C6rdoba. Good night.'

'Altmillierl'Rhinemann roared. 'An idiotl A fooll'

'I don't understand,' Stoltz said.

    'Altmilller. . . .' Rhinemann's voice subsided but the violence remained.

    He turned to the balcony, addressing the vast darkness and the river below.

    'In his insane attempts to, disassociate the High Command from Buenos Aires

    ... to absolve his precious ministry, he's caught by his own Gestapo!'

    'There is no Gestapo in Buenos Aires, Herr Rhinemann,' said Stoltz firmly.

    'The man from Lisbon lies.'

    Rhinemann turned and looked at the diplomat. His speech was ice. 'I know

    when a man is lying, Herr Stoltz. This Lisbon told the truth; he'd have no

    reason to do otherwise.... So if AltmOller was not caught, he's betrayed

    me. He's sent in the Gestapo, he has no intention of going through with the

    exchange. He'll take the diamonds and destroy the designs. The Jew-haters

    have led me into a trap.'

'I, myself, am the sole coordinator with Franz Altinaller.'

296

Stoltz spoke in his most persuasive tones, nurtured for decades in the

Foreign Corps. 'You, Herr Rhinemann, arranged for that. You have no cause to

question me. The men at the warehouse in Ocho Calle have nearly finished.

The Koening diamonds will be authenticated within a day or two; the courier

will deliver the designs before the night is over. Everything is as we

planned. The exchange will be made.'

    Rhinemann turned away again. He put his thick yet delicate hands on the

    rafling and looked into the distance. 'There is one way to be sure,' he

    said quietly. 'Radio Berlin. I want Altmdller in Buenos Aires. There will

    be no exchange otherwise!

297

31

The German in the white Palm Beach suit had changed into the paramilitary

dress worn by the Rhinemann guards. The driver was not the same one as

before. He was Argentine.

    The automobile was different, too. It was a Bentley six-seater complete

    with mahogany dashboard, grey felt upholstery, and window curtains. It was

    a vehicle suited to the upper-level British diplomatic service, but not so

    high as to be ambassadorial; just eminently respectable. Another Rhinemann

    touch, David assumed.

    The driver swung the car out onto the dark river highway from the darker

    confines of the hidden dirt road. He pressed the accelerator to the floor

    and the Bentley surged. The German beside Spaulding offered him a

    cigarette; David declined with a shake of his head.

    'You say you wish to be driven to the American embassy, sefior?' said the

    driver, turning his head slightly, not taking his eyes off the onrushing

    road. 'I'm afraid I cannot do so. Sehor Rhinemann's orders were to bring

    you to the apartment house on C6rdoba. Forgive me.'

'We may not deviate from instructions,' added the German.

'Hope you never do. We win the wars that way.'

'The insult is misdirected. I'm completely indifferent.'

    'I forgot. Habichtsnest is neutral.' David ended the conversation by

    shifting in the seat, crossing his legs and staring in silence

298

out the window. His only thought was to get to the embassy and to Jean. She

had used the word 'Tortugas.'

Again the elusive 'Tortugas'!

How could she know? Was it conceivable she was part of it?

    'Tortugas' isn't worth it. Jean had said those words. She had pleaded.

    Leslie Hawkwood had pleaded, too. Leslie had traveled four thousand miles

    to plead in defiance. Fanatically so.

Get out of Buenos Aires, David!

Was there a connection?

Oh, Christ I he thought. Was there really a connection?

'Sefiorsl'

    The driver spoke harshly,jolting David's thoughts. TheGerman instantly -

    instinctively - whipped around in his seat and looked out the rear window.

    His question was two words.

'How long?'

'Too long for doubt. Have you watched?'

'No.'

    'I passed three automobiles. Without pattern. Then I slowed down, into the

    far right lane. He's with us. Moving up.'

'We're in the Hill Two district, yes?' asked the German.

    'Sl... He's coming up rapidly. It's a powerful car; he'll take us on the

    highway.'

    'Head up into the Colinas Rojas! Take the next road on the right! Any one!'

    commanded Rhinemann's lieutenant, taking his pistol from inside his jacket

    as he spoke.

    The Bentley skidded into a sudden turn, swerving diagonally to the right,

    throwing David and the German into the left section of the back seat. The

    Argentine gunned the engine, starting up a hill, slamming the gears into

    first position, reaching maximum speed in seconds. There was a slight

    leveling off, a connecting, flatter surface before a second hill, and the

    driver used it to race the motor in a higher gear for speed. The car

    pitched forward in a burst of acceleration, as if it were a huge bullet.

    The second hill was steeper but the initial speed helped. They raced

    upward; the driver knew his machine, thought David.

'There are the lights!' yelled the German. 'They follow!'

    'There are flat stretches ... I think,' said the driver, concentrating on

    the road. 'Beyond this section of hills. There are many side roads; we'll

    try to hide in one. Perhaps they'll pass.'

'No.' The German was still peering out the rear window. He

    299

checked the magazine of his pistol by touch; satisfied, he locked it in

place. He then turned from the window and reached under the seat. The

Bentley was pitching and vibrating on the uphill, back country road, and the

German swore as he worked his hand furiously behind his legs.

    Spaulding could hear the snap of metal latches. The German slipped the

    pistol into his belt and reached down with his free hand. He pulled up a

    thick-barreled automatic rifle that David recognized as the newest, most

    powerful front-line weapon the Third Reich had developed. The curved

    magazine, rapidly inserted by the German, held over forty rounds of -30

    caliber ammunition.

    Rhinemann's lieutenant spoke. 'Reach your flat stretches. Let them close

    in.'

    David bolted up; he held onto the leather strap across the rear of the

    front seat and braced his left hand against the window frame. He spoke to

    the German harshly.

'Don't use that! You don't know who they are.'

    The man with the gun glanced briefly at Spaulding, dismissing him with a

    look. 'I know my responsibilities.' He reached over to the right of the

    rear window where there was a small metal ring imbedded in the felt. He

    inserted his forefinger, pulled it up, and yanked it toward him, revealing

    an open-air slot about ten inches wide, perhaps four inches high.

    David looked at the left of the window. There was another ring, another

    opening.

    Rhinemann's car was prepared for emergencies. Clean shots could be fired at

    any automobile pursuing it; the sightlines were clear and there was a

    minimum of awkwardness at high speeds over difficult terrain.

    'Suppose it's American surveillance covering me?' David shouted as the

    German knelt on the seat, about to insert the rifle into the opening.

'It's not.'

'You don't know that!'

    'Sehors!' shouted the driver. 'We go down the hill; it's very long, a wide

    bend. I remember it! Below there are high-grass fields. Flat.... Roads.

    Hold on!'

    The Bentley suddenly dipped as if it had sped off the edge of a precipice.

    There was an irnmediate, sustained thrust of speed so abrupt that the

    German with the rifle was thrown back, his body suspended for a fraction of

    a second in midair. He crashed

300

into the front seat support, his weapon held up to break the fall. David did not

- could not - hesitate. He grabbed the rifle, gripping his fingers around

the trigger housing, twisting the stock inward and jerking it out of the

German's hands. Rhinemann's lieutenant was stunned by Spaulding's action. He

reached into his belt for his pistol.

    The Bentley was now crashing down the steep incline at an extraordinary

    speed. The wide bend referred to by the Argentine was reached; the car

    entered a long, careening pattern that seemed to be sustaining an

    engineering improbability: propelled by the wheels of a single side, the

    other off the surface of the ground.

    David and the German braced themselves with their backs against opposite

    sides, their legs taut, their feet dug into the felt carpet.

    'Give me that rifleV The German held his pistol on David's chest. David had

    the rifle stock under his arm, his finger on the trigger, the barrel of the

    monster weapon leveled at the German's stomach.

    'You fire, I fire,' he shouted back. 'I might come out of it. You won't.

    You'll be all over the car!'

    Spaulding saw that the driver had panicked. The action in the back seat,

    coupled with the problems of the hill, the speed and the curves created a

    crisis he was not capable of handling.

'Sefiors! Madre de Jestis! ... You'll kill us!'

    The Bentley briefly struck the rocky shoulder of the road; the jolt was

    staggering. The driver swung back toward the center line. The German spoke.

'You behave stupidly. Those men are after you, not us"

'I can't be sure of that. I don't kill people on speculation.'

'You'll kill us, then? For what purposeT

    'I don't want anyone killed.... Now, put down that gun! We both know the

    odds.'

The German hesitated.

    There was another jolt; the Bentley had struck a large rock or a fallen

    limb. It was enough to convince Rhinemann's lieutenant. He placed the

    pistol on the seat.

    The two adversaries braced themselves; David's eyes on the German's hand,

    the German's on the rifle.

    'Madre de Dios!' The Argentine's shout conveyed relief, not further panic.

    Gradually the Bentley was slowing down.

David glanced through the windshield. They were coming out

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Of the hill's curve; in the distance were flat blankets of fields, miniature

pampas reflecting the dull moonlight. He reached over and took the German's

pistol from the seat. It was an unexpected move; Rhinemann's lieutenant was

annoyed with himself.

    'Get your breath,' said Spaulding to the driver. 'Have a cigarette. And get

    me back to town.'

    'Colonel!' barked the German. 'You may hold the weapons, but there's a car

    back there! If you won't follow my advice, at least let us get off the

    road!'

    'I haven't the time to waste. I didn't tell him to slow down, just to

    relax.'

    The driver entered a level stretch of road and reaccelerated the Bentley.

    While doing so he took David's advice and fit a cigarette. The car was

    steady again.

- 'Sit back,' ordered Spaulding, placing himself diagonally in the right

corner, one knee on the floor - the rifle held casually, not carelessly.

    The Argentine spoke in a frightened monotone. 'There are the headlights

    again. They approach faster than I can drive this car.... What would you

    have me do?'

    David considered the options. 'Give them a chance to respond. ... Is there

    enough moon to see the road? With your lights off?'

'For a while. Not long. I can't remember. . .

'Flick them on and off! Twice.... Now!'

    The driver did as he was instructed. The effect was strange: the sudden

    darkness, the abrupt illumination - while the Bentley whipped past the tall

    grass on both sides of the road.

    David watched the pursuing vehicle's lights through the rear window. There

    was no response to the signals. He wondered whether they'd been clear,

    whether they conveyed his message of accommodation.

    'Flick them again,' he commanded the driver. 'Hold a couple of beats ...

    seconds. Now!'

    The clicks were heard from the dashboard; the lights remained off for

    three, four seconds. The clicks again; the darkness again.

And then it happened.

    There was a burst of gunfire from the automobile in pursuit. The glass of

    the rear window was shattered; flying, imbedding itself into skin and

    upholstery. David could feel blood trickling down his cheek; the German

    screamed in pain, grasping his bleeding left hand.

302

    The Bentley swerved; the driver swung the steering wheel back and forth,

    zigzagging the car in the road's path.

    'There is your reply!'roared Rhinemann's lieutenant, his hand bloodied, his

    eyes a mixture of fury and panic.

Quickly, David handed the rifle to the German. 'Use it!'

    The German slipped the barrel into the opening; Spaulding Sprung up into

    the seat and reached for the metal ring on the left side of the window,

    pulled it back and brought the pistol up.

    There was another burst from the car behind. It was the volley of a

    submachine gun, scattershot, heavy caliber; spraying the rear of the

    Bentley. Bulges appeared throughout the felt top and sides, several bullets

    shattered the front windshield.

    The German began firing the automatic; David aimed as best he could - the

    swerving, twisting Bentley kept pushing the pursuing car out of sightlines.

    Still he pulled the trigger, hoping only to spray the oncoming tires.

    The roars from the German's weapon were thunderous; repeated crescendos of

    deafening boonu, the shock waves of each discharge filling the small,

    elegant enclosure.

    David could see the explosion the instant it happened. The hood of the

    onrushing automobile was suddenly a mass of smoke and steam.

    But still the machine-gun volleys came out of the enveloping vapor.

    'Eeaaghl'the driver screamed. David looked and saw blood flowing out of the

    man's head; the neck was half shot off. The Argentine's hands sprung back

    from the wheel.

    Spaulding leaped forward, trying to reach the wheel, but he couldn't. The

    Bentley careened off the road, side-slipping into the tall grass.

    The German took his automatic weapon from the opening. He smashed the side

    window with the barrel of the rifle and slammed in a second magazine as the

    Bentley came to a sharp, jolting stop in the grass.

    The pursuing car - a cloud of smoke and spits of fire - was parallel now on

    the road. It braked twice, lurched once and locked into position, immobile.

    Shots poured from the silhouetted vehicle. The German kicked the Bentley's

    door open and jumped out into the tall grass. David crouched against the

    lert door, fingers searching for the handle, pushing his weight into the

    panel so that upon touch,

    303

the door. would fly open and he could thrust himself into cover.

    Suddenly the air was filled with the overpowering thunder of the automatic

    rifle held steady in a full-firing discharge.

    Screams pierced the night; David sprung the door open, and as he leaped out

    he could see Rhinemann's lieutenant rising in the grass. Rising and walking

    through the shots, his finger depressing the automatic's trigger, his whole

    body shaking, staggering under the impact of the bullets entering his

    flesh.

He fell.

As he did so a second explosion came from the car on the road.

    The gas tank burst from under the trunk, sending fire and metal into the

    air.

David sprang around the tail of the Bentley, his pistol steady.

    The firing stopped. The roar of the flames, the hissing of steam was all

    there was.

He looked past the Bentley's trunk to the carnage on the road.

    Then he recognized the automobile. It was the Duesenberg that had come for

    Leslie Hawkwood that afternoon.

    Two dead bodies could be seen in the rear, rapidly being enveloped by fire.

    The driver was arched over the seat, his arms limp, his neck immobile, his

    eyes wide in death.

    There was a fourth man, splayed out on the ground by the open right door.

The hand moved! Then the head!

He was alive!

    Spaulding raced to the flaming Duesenberg: and pulled the half-conscious

    man away from the wreckage.

    He had seen too many men die to mistake the rapid ebbing of life. There was

    no point in trying to stem death; only to use it.

    David crouched by the man. 'Who are you? Why did you want to kill me?'

    The man's eyes - swimming in their sockets - focused on David. A single

    headlight flickered from the smoke of the exploded Duesenberg; it was

    dying, too.

'Who are you? Tell me who you are!'

    The man would not - or could not - speak. Instead, his lips moved, but not

    a whisper.

Spaulding bent down further.

    The man died trying to spit in David's face. The phlegm and blood

    intermingled down the man's chin as his head went limp.

304

    In the light of the spreading flames, Spaulding pulled the man's jacket

    open.

No identification.

Nor in the trousers.

He ripped at the lining in the coat, tore the shirt to the waist.

Then he stopped. Stunned, curious.

    There were marks on the dead man's stomach. Wounds but not from bullets.

    David had seen those marks before.

    He could not help himself. He lifted the man by the neck and yanked the

    coat off the left shoulder, tearing the shirt at the seams to expose the

    arm.

They were there. Deep in the skin. Never to be erased.

The tattooed numbers of a death camp.

Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fhhrer.

The dead man was a Jew.

11

    305

32

It was nearly five o'clock when Spaulding reached his apartment on C6rdoba.

He had taken the time to remove what obvious identification he could from

the dead Argentine driver and Rhinemann's lieutenant. He found tools in the

trunk and unfastened the Bentley's license plates; moved the dials of the

dashboard clock forward, then smashed it. If nothing else, these details

might slow police procedures - at least a few hours -giving him valuable

time before facing Rhinemann.

Rhinemann would demand that confrontation.

And there was too much to learn, to piece together.

    He had walked for nearly an hour back over the two hills -the Colinas Rojas

    - to the river highway. He had removed the fragments of window glass from

    his face, grateful they were few, the cuts minor. He had carried the

    awesome automatic rifle far from the scene of death, removed the chamber

    loading clip and smashed the trigger housing until the weapon was

    inoperable. Then he threw it into the woods.

    A milk truck from the Tigre district picked him up; he told the driver an

    outrageous story of alcohol and sex - he'd been expertly rolled and had no

    one to blame but himself.

    The driver admired the foreigner's spirit, his acceptance of risk and loss.

    The ride was made in laughter.

    He knew it was pointless, even frivolous, to attempt sleep. There was too

    much to do. Instead he showered and made a

306

large pot of coffee.

    it was time. Daylight came up from the Atlantic. His head was clear; it was

    time to call Jean.

    He told the astonished marine night operator on the embassy switchboard

    that Mrs. Cameron expected the call; actually he was late, he'd overslept.

    Mrs. Cameron had made plans for deep-sea fishing; they were due at La Boca

    at six.

    'Hello? . . . Hello.' Jean's voice was at first dazed, then surprised.

    'It's David. I haven't time to apologize. I've got to see you right away.'

'David? Oh, God! . .

'I'll meet you in your office in twenty minutes.'

'Please. . . .'

    'There's no time! Twenty minutes. Please, be there.... I ueed you, Jean. I

    need you!'

    The OD lieutenant at the embassy gate was cooperative, if disagreeable. He

    consented to let the inside switchboard ring Mrs. Cameron's office; if she

    came out and personally vouched for him, the marine would let him pass.

    Jean ernerged on tho front steps. She was vulnerablo, lovely. She walked

    around the driveway path to the gatehouse and saw him. The instant she did

    so, she stifled a gasp.

He understood.

    The styptic pencil could not eradicate the cuts from the half dozen

    splinters of glass he, had removed from his cheeks and forehead. Partially

    conc=l, perhaps; nothing much more than that.

    They did not speak as they walked down the corridor. Instead, she held his

    arm with such force that he shifted to her other side. She had been tugging

    at the shoulder not yet healed from the Azores crash.

    Inside her office she closed the door and rushed into his arms. She was

    trembling.

    'David, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. I was dreadful. I behaved so badly.'

    He took her shoulders, holding her back very gently. 'You were coping with

    a problem.'

    'It seems to me I can't cope anymore. And I always thought I was so good at

    it.... What happened to your faceT She traced

    307

her fingers over his cheek. 'It's swollen here.'

    ' "Tortugas." ' He looked into her eyes. ' "Tortugas" hap. pened.'

    'Oh, God.' She whispered the words and buried her head in his chest. 'I'm

    too disjointed; I can't say what I want to say. Don't. Please, don't ...

    let anything more happen.'

'Then you'll have to help me.'

She pulled back. 'Me? How can I?'

'Answer my questions.... I'll know if you're lying.'

'Lying? ... Don't joke. I haven't lied to you.'

    He believed her ... which didn't make his purpose any easier. Or clearer.

    'Where did you learn the name "Tortugas"?'

    She removed her arms from around his neck; he released her. She took

    several steps away from him but she was not retreating.

    'I'm not proud of what I did; I've never done it before.' She turned and

    faced him.

    'I went down to the "Caves".. . without authorization ... and read your

    file. I'm sure it's the briefest dossier in the history of the diplomatic

    corps.'

'What did it say?'

She told him.

    'So you see, my mythical David of last evening had a distinct basis in

    reality.'

    Spaulding walked to the window overlooking the west lawn of the embassy.

    The early sun was up, the grass flickered with dew; it brought to mind the

    manicured lawn seen in the night floodlights below Rhinemann's terrace. And

    that memory reminded him of the codes. He turned. 'I have to talk to

    Ballard.'

'Is that all you're going to say?'

    'The not-so-mythical David has work to do. That doesn't change.'

'I can't change it, you mean.

    He walked back to her. 'No, you can't.... I wish to God you could; I wish

    I could. I can't convince myself - to paraphrase a certain girl - that what

    I'm doing will make that much difference ... but I react out of habit, I

    guess. Maybe ego; maybe it's as

simple as that.' II

'I said you were good, didn't V'

:Yes. And I am.... Do you know what I am?'

    An intelligence officer. An agent. A man who works with other men; in

    whispers and at night and with a great deal of

308

Money and lies. That's the way I think, you see.'

    6Not that. That's new.... What I really am.... I'm a construction engineer.

    I build buildings and bridges and dams and highways. I once built an

    extension for a zoo in Mexico; the best open-air enclosure for primates you

    ever saw. Unfortunately, we spent so much money the Zoological Society

    couldn't afford monkeys, but the space is there.'

She laughed softly. 'You're funny.'

    'I liked working on the bridges best. To cross a natural obstacle without

    marring it, without destroying its own purpose. . . .'

61 never thought of engineers as romantics.'

    'Construction engineers are. At least, the best ones.... But that's all.

    long ago. When this mess is over I'll go back, of course, but I'm not a

    fool. I know the disadvantages I'll be faced with. ... It's not the same as

    a lawyer putting down his books only to pick them up again; the law doesn't

    change that much. Or a stockbroker; the market solutions can't change.'

'I'm not sure what you're driving at. . . .'

    'Technology. It's the only real, civilized benefit war produces. In

    construction it's been revolutionary. In three years whole new techniques

    have been developed. . . . I've been out of it. My postwar references won't

    be the best.'

6Good Lord, you're sorry for yourself.'

    'Christ, yes! In one way.... More to the point, I'm angry. Nobody held a

    gun to my head; I walked into this ... this job for all the wrong reasons

    and without any foresight .... That's why I have to be good at it.'

'What about us? Are we an "us"T

61 love you,' he said simply. 'I know that.'

    'After only a week? That's what I keep asking myselL We're not children.'

    'We're not children,' he replied. 'Children don't have access to State

    Department dossiers.' He smiled, then grew serious. 'I need your help.'

She glanced at him sharply. 'What is itT

'What do you know about Erich Rhinemann?'

'He's a despicable man.'

'He's a JewO9 -

    'Then he's a despicable Jew. Race and religion notwithstanding,

    immaterial.9

    309

'Why is he despicable?'

    'Because he uses people. Indiscriminately. Maliciously. He uses his money

    to corrupt whatever and whomever he can. He buys influence from the junta;

    that gets him land, government concessions, shipping rights. He forced a

    number of mining companies out of the Patagonia Basin; he took over a dozen

    or so oil fields at Comodoro Rivadavia. .

'What are his politics?'

    Jean thought for a second; she leaned back in the chair, looking for an

    instant at the window, then over to Spaulding. 'Himself,'she answered.

'I've heard he's openly pro-Axis.'

    'Only because he believed England would fall and terms would be made. He

    still owns a power base in Germany, I'm told!

'But he's a Jew.'

    'Temporary handicap. I don't think he's an elder at the synagogue. The

    Jewish community in Buenos Aires has no use for him.,

David stood up. 'Maybe that's it.'

'What?'

    ,Rhinemann turned his back on the tribe, openly supports the creators of

    Auschwitz. Maybe they want him killed. Take out his guards first, then go

    after him.'

    'If by "they" you mean the Jews here, I'd have to say no. The Argentine

    judios tread lightly. The colonels' legions are awfully close to a goose

    step; Rhinemann has influence. Of course, nothing stops a fanatic or two.

    . . .'

    'No.... They may be fanatics, but not one or two. They're organized;

    they've got backing - considerable amounts, I think.'

    'And they're after Rhinemann? The Jewish community would panic. Frankly,

    we'd be the first they'd come to.'

    David stopped his pacing. The words came back to him again; there'll be no

    negotiations with Altinfiller. A darkened doorway on New York's

    Fifty-second Street.

'Have you ever heard the name AltmUller?'

    'No. There's a plain Mailer at the German embassy, I think, but that's like

    Smith or Jones. No AltmUller.'

    'What about Hawkwood? A woman named Leslie Jenner Hawkwood?'

'No, again. But if these people are intelligence oriented,

310

there'd be no reason for me to.'

    'They're Intelligence but I didn't think they were undercover. At least not

    this AltmOller.'

'What does that mean?'

    'His name has been used in a context that assumes recognition. But I can't

    find him.'

'Do you want to check the "Caves"?' she asked.

'Yes. I'll do it directly with Granville. When do they openT

    'Eight thirty. Henderson's in his office by quarter to nine.' She saw David

    hold up his wrist, forgetting he had no watch. She looked at her office

    clock. 'A little over two hours. Remind me to buy you a watch.'

    'Thanks.... Ballard. I have to see him. How is he in the early morning? At

    this hour?'

    'I trust that question's rhetorical. . . . He's used to being roused up for

    code problems. Shall I call him?'

'Please. Can you make coffee here?'

    'There's a hotplate out there.' Jean indicated the door to the anteroom.

    'Behind my secretary's chair. Sink's in the closet. ... Never mind. I'll do

    it. Let me get Bobby first.'

    'I make a fine pot of coffee. You call, I'll cook. You look like such an

    executive, I'd hate to interfere.'

    He was emptying the grounds from the pot when he heard it. It was a

    footstep. A single footstep outside in the corridor. A footstep that should

    have been muffled but wasn't. A second step would ordinarily follow but

    didn't.

    Spaulding put the pot on the desk, reached down and removed both his shoes

    without a sound. He crossed to the closed door and stood by the frame.

There it was again. Steps. Quiet; unnatural.

    David opened his jacket, checking his weapon, and put his left hand on the

    knob. He turned it silently, then quickly opened the door and stepped out.

    Fifteen feet away a man walking down the corridor spun around at the noise.

    The look on his face was one Spaulding had seen many times.

Fright.

    'Oh, hello there, you must be the new man. We haven't met. ... The name's

    Ellis. Bill Ellis.... I have a beastly conference at seven.' The attach6

    was not convincing.

'Several of us were going fishing but the weather reports are

    311

uncertain. Care to come with us?'

'I'd love to except I have this damned ungodly hour meeting.'

Yes. That's what you said. How about coffee?'

'Thanks, old man. I really should bone up on some paperwork.'

'O.K. Sorry.'

    'Yes, so am I.... Well, see you later.' The man named Ellis smiled

    awkwardly, gestured a wave more awkwardly - which David returned - and

    continued on his way.

    Spaulding went back into Jean's office and closed the door. She was

    standing by the secretary's desk.

'Who in heaven's name were you talking to at this hour?'

    'He said his name was Ellis. He said he had a meeting with someone at seven

    o'clock.... He doesn't.'

'What?'

'He was lying. What's Ellis's department?'

'Import-export clearances.'

'That's handy.... What about Ballard?'

    'He's on his way. He says you're a mean man.... What's "handy" about

    Ellis?'

    Spaulding went to the coffee pot on the desk, picked it up and started for

    the closet. Jean interrupted his movement, taking the pot from him. 'What's

    Ellis's rating?' he asked.

    'Excellent. Strictly the syndrome; he wants the Court of St. James's. You

    haven't answered me. What's "handy"?'

    'He's been bought. He's a funnel. It could be serious or just penny-aqte

    waterfront stuff.'

    'Oh?' Jean, perplexed, opened the closet door where there was a washbasin.

    Suddenly, she stopped. She turned to Spaulding. 'David. What does

    "Tortugas" mean?'

'Oh, Christ, stop kidding.'

'Which means you can't tell me.'

'Which means I don't know. I wish to heaven I did!

'It's a code word, isn't it? That's what it says in your file.'

    'It's a code I've never been told about and I'm the one responsiblel'

    'Here, fill this; rinse it out first.' Jean handed him the coffee pot and

    walked rapidly into her office, to the desk. David followed and stood in

    the doorway.

'What are you doing?'

    'Attach6s, even undersecretaries, if they have very early appointments,

    list them with the gate.'

312

'Ellis?'

    Jean nodded and spoke into the telephone; her conversation was brief. She

    replaced the instrument and looked over at Spaulding. 'The first gate pass

    is listed for nine. Ellis has no meeting at seven.'

.I'm not surprised. Why are you?'

    'I wanted to make sure.... You said you didn't know what "Tortugas" meant.

    I might be able to tell you.'

David, stunned, took several steps into the office. 'What?'

    'There was a surveillance report from La Boca - that's Ellies district. His

    department must have cleared it up, given it a clean bill. It was dropped.'

'What was dropped? What are you talking about?'

    'A trawler in La Boca. It had cargo with a destination lading that violated

    coastal patrols . . . they called it an error. The destination was

    Tortugas.'

    The outer office door suddenly opened and Bobby Ballard walked in.

    liesus I' he said. 'The Munchkins go to work early in this wonderful world

    of Ozl'

313

    33

The code schedules with Ballard took less than a half hour. David was amazed

at the cryptographer's facile imagination. He developed - on the spot - a

geometrical progression of numbers and corresponding letters that would take

the best cryps Spaulding knew a week to break.

At maximum, all David needed was ninety-six hours.

    Bobby placed Washington's copy in an official courier's envelope, sealed it

    chemically, placed it in a triple-locked pouch and called the FMF base for

    an officer - captain's rank or above - to get to the embassy within the

    hour. The codes would be on a coastal pursuit aircraft by nine; at Andrews

    Field by late afternoon; delivered to General Alan Swanson's office in the

    War Department by armored courier van shortly thereafter.

    The confirmation message was simple; Spaulding had given Ballard two words:

    Cable Tortugas.

    When the code was received in Washington, Swanson would know that Eugene

    Lyons had authenticated the guidance designs. He could then radio the bank

    in Switzerland and payment would be made to Rhinemann's accounts. By using

    the name'Tortugas,' David hoped that someone, somewhere, would understand

    his state of mind. His anger at being left with the full responsibility

    without all of the facts.

Spaulding was beginning to think that Erich Rhinemann was

314

demanding more than he was entitled to. A possibility that would do him

little good.

Rhinemann was to be killed.

    And the outlines of a plan were coming into focus that would bring about

    that necessary death. The act itself might be the simplest- part of his

    assignment.

    There was no point in not telling Jean and Bobby Ballard about the guidance

    designs. Kendall had flown out of Buenos Aires -without explanation; David

    knew he might need assistance at a moment when there was no time to brief

    those helping him. His cover was superfluous now. He described minutely

    Rhinemann's schedule, the function of Eugene Lyons and Heinrich Stoltzs

    surfacing as a contact.

    Ballard was astonished at Stoltz's inclusion. 'Stoltz! That's a little bit

    of lightning.... I mean, he's a believer. Not the Hitler fire 'n' brimstone

    - he dismisses that, I'm told. But Germany. The Versailles motive, the

    reparations - bled giant, export or die - the whole thing. I figured him

    for the real Junker item.

David did not pay much attention.

    The logistics of the morning were clear in Spaulding's mind and at eight

    forty-five he began.

    His meeting with Henderson Granville was short and cordial. The ambassador

    was content not to know David's true purpose in Buenos Aires, as long as

    there was no diplomatic conflict. Spaulding assured him that to the best of

    his knowledge there was none; certainly less of a possibility if the

    ambassador remained outside the hard core of the assignment. Granville

    agreed. On the basis of David's direct request, he had the 'Caves' checked

    for files on Franz AltmiUler and Leslie Jenner Hawkwood.

Nothing.

    Spaulding went from Granville's office back to Jean's. She had received the

    incoming passengers manifest from Aeroparque. Eugene Lyons was listed on

    clipper flight 101, arriving at two in the afternoon. His profession was

    given as 'physicist'; the reason for entry, 'industrial conferences.'

    David was annoyed with Walter Kendall. Or, he thought, should his annoyance

    be with the bewildered amateur, Brigadier General Alan Swanson? The least

    they could have done was terin, Lyons a 'scientist'; 'physicist' was

    stupid. A physicist in Buenos Aires was an open invitation to surveillance

    - even Allied surveillance.

    315

He walked back to his own isolated, tiny office. To think.

    He decided to meet Lyons himself. Walter Kendall had told him that Lyons's

    male nurses would settle the mute, sad man in San Telmo. Recalling the two

    men in question, David had premonitions of disaster. It wasn't beyond

    Johnny and Hal -those were the names, weren't they? - to deliver Lyons to

    the steps of the German embassy, thinking it was another hospital.

    He would meet Pan Am Clipper 101. And proceed to take the three men on a

    complicated route to San Telmo.

    Once he'd settled Lyons, David estimated that he would have about two,

    possibly three, hours before Rhinemann - or Stoltz -would make contact,

    Unless Rhinemann was hunting him now, in panic over the killings in the

    Colinas Rojas. If so, Spaulding had 'built his shelter.' His irrefutable

    alibi.... He hadn't been there. Ae'd been dropped off at C6rdoba by two in

    the morning.

Who could dispute him?

So, he would have two or three hours in midafternoon.

La Boca.

    Discreetly, Jean had checked naval surveillance at FMF. The discretion came

    with her utterly routine, bored telephone call to the chief of operations.

    She had a 'loose end' to tie up for a 'dead file'; there was no

    significance, only a bureaucratic matter -someone was always looking for'a

    good rating on the basis of dosing out. Would the lieutenant mind filling

    in? ... The trawler erroneously listed for Tortugas was moored by a

    warehouse complex in Ocho Calle. The error was checked and confirmed by the

    embassy attach6, Mr. William Ellis, Import-Export Clearance Division.

Ocho Calle.

    David would spend an hour or so looking around. It could be a waste of

    time. What connection would a fishing trawler have with his assignment?

    There was none that he could see. But there was the name 'Tortugas'; there

    was an attach6 named Ellis who crept silently outside closed doors and lied

    about nonexistent conferences in the early morning.

Ocho Calle was worth looking into.

Afterward, he would stay by his telephone at C6rdoba.

    'Are you going to take me to lunch?' asked Jean, walking into his office.

    'Don't look at your watch; you haven't got one.'

    Spaulding's hand was in midair, his wrist turned. 'I didn't realize it was

    so late.'

316

    'It's not. It's only eleven, but you haven't eaten -probably didn't sleep,

    either - and you said you were going to the airport shortly after one.'

    'I was right; you're a corporate executive. Your sense of organization is

    frightening.'

    'Nowhere near yours. We'll stop at a jewelry store first. Ive already

    called. You have a present.'

    'I like presents. Let's go.' Spaulding got out of his chair as the

    telephone rang. He looked down at it. 'Do you know that's the first time

    that thing has made a soundT

    'It's probably for me. I told my secretary I was here. . . . I don't think

    I really had to tell her.'

'HelloT said David into the phone.

'Spaulding?'

    David recognized the polished German of Heinrich Stolz. His tension carried

    over the wire. 'Isn't it a little foolish to call me hereT

    11 have no choice. Our mutual friend is in a state of extreme anxiety.

    Everything is jeopardized.'

'What are you talking aboutT

'This is no time for foolishness! The situation is grave.'

    'It's no time for games, either. What the hell are you talking aboutT

'Last night! This morning. What happenedT

'What happened whereT

'Stop it! You were therel

'WhereT

    Stoltz paused; David could hear his breath. The German was in panic,

    desperately trying to control himself. 'The men were killed. We must know

    what happenedl'

'Killed? ... You're crazy. HowT

'I warn you. . . .'

    'Now you cut it out! I'm buying. And don't forget it.... I don't want to be

    mixed up in any organization problems. Those men dropped me off around one

    thirty. Incidentally, they met your other boys, the ones covering my

    apartment. And also incidentally, I don't like this round-the-clock

    surveillancel'

    Stoltz was blanked - as David expected he would be. 'The others? ... What

    othersT

    'Get off it I You know perfectly well.'Spaulding let the inference hang.

    317

    'This is all most disturbing. Stoltz tried to compose

himself.

'I'm sorry,' said David noncomn-dttally.

Exasperated, Stoltz interrupted. 'I'll call you back.'

    'Not here. I'll be out most of the afternoon.... As a matter of fact,'

    added Spaulding quickly, pleasantly, 'I'll be in one of those sailboats our

    mutual friend looks down upon so majestically. I'm joining some diplomatic

    friends almost as rich as he is. Call me after five at C6rdoba.'

    David hung up instantly, hearing the beginning of Stoltzs protest. Jean was

    watching him, fascinated.

'You did that very well,' she said.

'I've had more practice than him.'

'Stoltz?,

'Yes. Let's go into your office.'

'I thought we were going to lunch.'

    'We are. Couple of things first.... There's a rear exit, isn% there?'

'Several. Back gate.'

'I want to use an embassy vehicle. Any trouble?'

'No, of course not.'

'Your secretary. Could you spare her for a long lunchT

:You're sweet. I had the insane idea you were taking me.'

I am. Could she put her hair up and wear a floppy hat?'

'Any woman can.'

    'Good. Get that yellow coat you wore last night. And point out any man

    around here relatively my size. One that your secretary might enjoy that

    long lunch with. Preferably wearing dark trousers. He'll have my jacket.'

:What areyou doing?'

    Our friends are good at playing jokes on other people. Let's see how they

    take it when one's played on thern.'

    Spaulding watched from the third-floor window, concealed by the full-length

    drapes. He held the binoculars to his eyes. Below, on the front steps,

    Jean's secretary - in a wide-brimmed hat and Jean's yellow coat -walked

    rapidly down to the curb of the driveway. Following her was one of

    Ballard's assistants, a tall man in dark trousers and David's jacket. Both

    wore sunglasses. Ballard's man paused momentarily on the top step, looking

    at an unfolded road map. His face was covered by the awkward mass of

318

paper. He descended the stairs and together he and the girl climbed into the

embassy limousine - an upper-level vehicle with curtains.

    Spaulding scanned the Avenida Corrientes in front of the gates. As the

    limousine was passed through, a Mercedes coupe parked on the south side of

    the street pulled away from tho curb and followed it. And then a second

    automobile on the north side made a cautious U-turn and took up its

    position several vehicles behind the Mercedes.

    Satisfied, David put down the binoculars and went out of the room. In the

    corridor he turned left and walked swiftly past doors and around staircases

    toward the rear of the building, until be came to a room that corresponded

    to his observation post in front. Bobby Ballard sat in an armchair by the

    window; he turned around at the sound of David's footsteps, binoculars in

    his hands.

'Anything?' Spaulding asked.

    'Two,' answered the cryp. 'Parked facing opposite directions. They just

    drove away.'

'Same up front. They're in radio contact!

'Thorough, aren't they?'

'Not as much as they think,' Spaulding said.

    Ballard's sports coat was loose around the midsection and short in the

    -sleeves, but it showed off David's new wristwatch. Jean was pleased about

    that. It was a very fine chronometer.

    The restaurant was small, a virtual hole-in-the-wall on a side street near

    San Martfn. The front door was open; a short awning protected the few

    outside tables from the sun. Their table, however, was inside. Spaulding

    sat facing the entrance, able to see clearly the passersby on the sidewalk.

    But he was not watching them now. He was looking at Jean. And what he saw

    in her face caused him to say the words without thinking.

'It's going to be over soon. I'm getting out.'

    She took his hand, searching his eyes. She did not reply for several

    moments. It was as if she wanted his words suspended, isolated, thought

    about. 'That's a remarkable thing to say. I'm not sure what it means.'

    'It means I want to spend years and years with you. The rest of my life....

    I don't know any other way to put it.'

    Jean closed her eyes briefly, for the duration of a single breath of

    silence. 'I think you've put it ... very beautifully.'

    319

    How could he fell her? How could he explain? He had to try. It was so

    damned important. 'Less than a month ago,' he began softly, 'something

    happened in a field. At night, in Spain. By a campfire.... To me. The

    circumstances aren't important, but what happened to me was ... the most

    frightening thing I could imagine. And it had nothing to do with the

    calculated risks in my work; nothing to do with being afraid - and I was

    always afraid, you can bet your life on that.... But I suddenly found I had

    no feeling. No feeling at all. I was given a report that should have shaken

    me up - made me weep, or made me angry, goddamned angry. But I didn't feel

    anything. I was numb. I accepted the news and criticized the man for

    withholding it. I told him not to make that mistake again.... That I did

    not act rashly under any conditions. . . . You see, he rightfully thought

    that I would.' David stopped and put his hand over Jean's. 'What I'm trying

    to tell you is that you've given me back something I thought I'd lost. I

    don't ever want to take the chance of losing it again.'

    'You'll make me cry,' she said quietly, her eyes moist, her lips trembling

    to a smi-le. 'Don't you know girls cry when things like that are said to

    them? ... I'll have to teach you so much.... Oh, Lord,' she whispered.

    'Please, please ... years.'

    David leaned over the small table; their lips touched and as theyheld

    lightly together, he removed his hand from hers and gently ran his fingers

    over the side of her face.

The tears were there.

    He felt them, too. They would not come for him, but he felt them.

'I'm going back with you, of course,' she said.

    Her words brought back the reality ... the other reality, the lesser

    one.'Not with me. But soon. I'm going to need a couple of weeks to settle

    things.... And you'll have to transfer your work down here.'

    She looked at him questioningly but did not ask a question. There are ...

    special arrangements for you to take back the blueprints or designs or

    whatever they are.'

'Yes.'

'When?'

    'If everything goes as we expect, in a day or two. At the most, three.'

'Then why do you need a couple of weeksT

He hesitated before answering. And then he realized he

320

wanted to tell her the truth. It was part of the beginning for him. The

truth. 'There's a breach of security in a place called Fairfax.... 9

'Fairfax,' she interrupted. 'That was in your Me.'

    'It's an intelligence center in Virginia. Very classified. A man was killed

    there. He was a friend of mine. I purposely withheld information that might

    stop the leaks and, more important, find out who killed him.'

'For heaven's sake, why?'

    'In a way, I was forced to. The men in Fairfax weren't cleared for the

    information I had; the one man who was, is ineffectual . . . especially in

    something like this. He's not Intelligence oriented; he's a requisition

    general. He buys things.'

'Like gyroscopic designsT

    'Yes. When I get back I'll force him to clear the data.' David paused and

    then spoke as much to himself as to Jean. 'Actually, I don't give a damn

    whether he does or not. I've got a long accumulated leave coming to me.

    I'll use a week or two of it in Fairfax. There's a German agent walking

    around in that compound with a four-zero rating. He killed a very good

    man.'

'That frightens me.'

    'It shouldn't.' David smiled, answering her with the truth. 'I have no

    intention of risking those years we talked about. If I have to, I'll

    operate from a maximum security cell.... Don't worry.'

    She nodded. 'I won't. I believe you.... I'll join you in, say, three weeks.

    I owe that to Henderson; there will be a lot of adjustments for him. Also,

    I'll have something done about Ellis.'

    'Don't touch him. We don't know anything yet. If we find out he's on an

    outside payroll he can be valuable right where he is. Reverse conduits are

    jewels. When we uncover one we make sure he's the healthiest man - or woman

    - around.'

    'What kind of a world do you live in?' Jean asked the question with

    concern, not humor.

'One that you'll help me leave.... After Fairfax, I'm finished.'

    Eugene Lyons edged into the back seat of the taxi between Spaulding and the

    male nurse named Hal. The other attendant, Johnny, sat in front with the

    driver. David gave his instructions in Spanish; the driver started out the

    long, smooth roadway of the Aeroparque.

David looked at Lyons; it wasn't easy to do so. The proximity

    321

of the sad, emaciated face emphasized,the realization that what he saw was

self-inflicted. Lyons's eyes were not responding; he was exhausted from the

flight, suspicious of the new surroundings, annoyed by David's aggressive

efficiency at hurrying them all out of the terminal.

'It's good to see you again,' David told him.

    Lyons blinked; Spaulding wasn't sure whether it was a greeting or not.

    'We didn't expect you,' said Johnny from the front seat. 'We expected to

    get the professor set ourselves.'

    'We've got it all written down,' added Hal, leaning forward on Lyons's

    right, taking a number of index cards out of his pocket. 'Look. The

    address. Your telephone number. And the embassy's. And a wallet full of

    Argentine money.'

    Hal pronounced Argentine, 'Argentyne.' David wondered how he could be given

    a course in hypodermic injection; who would read the labels? On the other

    hand, his partner Johnny -less talkative, more knowing somehow-was

    obviously the leader of the two.

    'Well, these things are usually fouled up. Communications break down all

    the time.... Did you have a good flight down, doctor?'

    'It wasn't bad,' answered Hal. 'But bumpy as a son of a bitch over Cuba.'

    'Those were probably heavy air masses coming up from the island,' said

    David, watching Lyons out of the comer of his eye. The physicist responded

    now; a slight glance at Spaulding. And there was humor in the look.

    'Yeah,' replied Hal knowingly, 'that's what the stewardess said.'

Lyons smiled a thin smile.

    David was about to capitalize on the small breakthrough when he saw a

    disturbing sight in the driver's rear-view mirror - instinctively he'd been

    glancing at the glass.

    It was the narrow grill of an automobile he'd previously spotted, though

    with no alarm. He had seen it twice: on the long curb in the taxi lineup

    and again on the turnout of the front park. Now it was there again, and

    David slowly shifted his position and looked out the taxi's rear window.

    Lyons seemed to sense that Spaulding was concerned; he moved to accommodate

    him.

The car was a 1937 La Salle, black, with rusted chrome on the

322

grillwork and around the headlights. It remained fifty to sixty yards

behind, but the driver - a blond-haired man - refused to let other vehicles

come between them. He would accelerate each time his position was

threatened. The blond-haired man, it appeared, was either inexperienced or

careless. If he was following them.

    David spoke to the taxi driver in urgent but quiet Spanish. He offered the

    man five dollars over the meter if he would reverse his direction and head

    away from San Telmo for the next several minutes. The porteho was less of

    an amateur than the driver of the La Salle; he understood immediately, with

    one look in his mirror. He nodded silently to Spaulding, made a sudden,

    awkwardly dangerous U-turn, and sped west. He kept the taxi on a fast

    zigzag course, weaving in and around the traffic, then turned abruptly to

    his right and accelerated the car south along the ocean drive. The sight of

    the water reminded David of Ocho Calle.

    He wanted very much to deposit Eugene Lyons in San Telmo and get back to

    Ocho Calle.

The La Salle was no longer a problem.

    'Christ!' said Hal. 'What the hell was that?' And then he answered his own

    question. 'We were being followed, right?'

'We weren't sure,' said David.

    Lyons was watching him, his look inexpressive. Johnny spoke from the front

    seat.

    'Does that mean we can expect problems? You had this guy tooling pretty

    hard. Mr. Kendall didn't mention anything about trouble.... Just our job.'

    Johnny did not tum around as he spoke.

'Would it bother you if there were?'

    Johnny turned to face Spaulding; he was a very serious fellow, thought

    David. 'It depends,' said the male nurse. 'Our job is to watch out for the

    professor. Take care of him. If any trouble interfered with that, I don't

    think I'd like it.'

'I see. What would you do?'

'Get him the hell out of here,' answered Johnny simply.

    'Dr. Lyons has a job to do in Buenos Aires. Kendall must have told you

    that.'

    Johnny's eyes leveled with Spaulding's. 'I'll tell you straight, mister.

    That dirty pig can go screw. I never took so much shit from anyone in my

    life.'

    323

'Why don't you quiff

    'We don't work for Kendall,' said Johnny, as if the thought was repulsive.

    'We're paid by the Research Center of Meridian Aircraft. That son of a

    bitch isn't even from Meridian. He's a lousy bookkeeper.'

    'You understand, Mr. Spaulding,' said Hal, retreating from his partner's

    aggressiveness. 'We have to do what's best for the professor. That's what

    the Research Center hires us for.'

    .'I understand. I'm in constant touch with Meridian Research. The last

    thing anyone would wish is to harm Dr. Lyons. I can assure you of that.'

    David lied convincingly. He couldn't give assurance because he himself was

    far from sure. His only course with Johnny and Hal was to turn this

    newfound liability into an asset. The key would be Meridian's Research

    Center and his fictional relationship to it; and a common repugnance for

    Kendall.

    The taxi slowed down, turning a comer into a quiet San Telmo street. The

    driver pulled up to a narrow, three-storied, white stucco house with a

    sloping, rust-tiled roof. It was 15 Terraza Verde. The first floor was

    leased to Eugene Lyons and his $assistants.'

'Here we are.' said Spaulding, opening the door.

    Lyons climbed out after David. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up at

    the quaint, colorful little house on the peaceful street. The trees by the

    curb were sculptured. Everything had a scrubbed look; there was an Old

    World serenity about the area. David had the feeling that Lyons had

    suddenly found something he'd been looking for.

    And then he thought he saw what it was. Eugene Lyons was looking up at a

    lovely resting place. A final resting place. A grave.

324

34

There wasn't the time David thought there would be. He had told Stoltz to

call him after five at C6rdoba; it was nearly four now.

    The first boats were coming into the piers, whistles blowing, men throwing

    and catching heavy ropes, nets everywhere, hanging out for the late drying

    rays of the sun.

    Ocho Calle was in the DArsena Norte, east of the Retiro freight yards in a

    relatively secluded section of La Boca. Railroad tracks, long out of use,

    were implanted in the streets along the row of warehouses. Ocho Calle was

    not a prime storage or loading area. Its access to the sea channels wasn't

    as cumbersome as the inner units of the La Plata, but the facilities were

    outmoded. It was as if the management couldn't decide whether to sell its

    fair waterfront real estate or put it into good operating order. The

    indecision resulted in virtual abandonment.

    Spaulding was in shirtsleeves; he had left Ballard's tan jacket at Terraza

    Verde. Over his shoulder was a large used net he had bought at an outdoor

    stall. The damn thing was rancid from rotting hemp and dead fish but it

    served its purpose. He could cover his face at will and move easily,

    comfortably among his surroundings - at one with them. David thought that

    should he ever - God forbid! - instruct recruits at Fairfax, he'd stress

    the factor of comfort. Psychological comfort. One could feel it

    immediately; just as swiftly as one felt the discomfort of artificiality.

    325

    He followed the sidewalk until it was no more. The final block of Ocho

    Calle was lined on the far side by a few old buildings and fenced-off

    abandoned lots once used for outside storage, now overgrown with tall

    weeds. On the water side were two huge warehouses connected to each other

    by a framed open area. The midships of a trawler could be seen moored

    between the two buildings. The next pier was across a stretch of water at

    least a quarter of a mile away. The Ocho Calle warehouses were secluded

    indeed.

    David stopped. The block was like a miniature peninsula; there were few

    people on it. No side streets, no buildings beyond the row of houses on his

    left, only what appeared to be other lots behind the houses and further

    pilings that were sunk into the earth, holding back the water of a small

    channel.

    The last stretch of Ocho Calle was a peninsula. The ware. houses were not

    only secluded, they were isolated.

    David swung the net off his right shoulder and hoisted it over his left.

    Two seamen walked out of a building; on the second floor a woman opened a

    window and shouted down, berating her husband about the projected hour of

    his return. An old man with dark Indian features sat in a wooden chair on

    a small, dilapidaied stoop in front of a filthy bait store. Inside, through

    the glass stained with salt and dirt, other old men could be seen drinking

    from wine bottles. In the last house, a ]one whore leaned out a first-floor

    window, saw David and opened her blouse, displaying a large, sagging

    breast. She squeezed it several times and pointed the nipple at Spaulding.

Ocho Calle was the end of a particular section of the earth.

    He walked up to the old Indian, greeted him casually, and went into the

    bait store. The stench was overpowering, a combination of urine and rot.

    There were three men inside, more drunk than sober, nearer seventy than

    sixty.

. The man behind the planked boards which served as a counter seemed

startled to see a customer, not really sure what to do. Spaulding took a

bill from his pocket - to the astonishment of all three surrounding him -

and spoke in Spanish.

'Do you have squid?'

    'No. . . . No, no squid. Very little supplies today,' answered the owner,

    his eyes on the bill.

'What have you got?'

:Worms. Qog meat, some cat. Cat is very good.'

Give me a small container.'

326

    The man stumbled backward, picked up pieces of intestine and wrapped them

    in a dirty newspaper. He put it on the plank next to the money. 'I have no

    change, sehor. . . .'

    'That's all right,' replied Spaulding. 'The money's for you. And keep the

    bait.'

The man grinned, bewildered. 'Sehor?. .

    'You keep the money. Understand? ... Tell me. Who works over thereT David

    pointed at the barely translucent front window. 'In those big dock housesT

    .

    'Hardly anybody .... A few men come and go ... now and then. A fishing boat

    ... now and then.'

'Have you been insideT

    'Oh, yes. Three, four years ago, I work inside. Big business, three, four..

    . . five years ago. We all work.' The other two old men nodded, chattering

    old men's chatter.

'Not now?'

    'No, no.... All closed down. Finished. Nobody goes inside now. The owner is

    a very bad man. Watchmen break heads.'

'WatchmenT

'Oh, yes. With guns. Many guns. Very bad.'

'Do automobiles come hereT

    'Oh, yes. Now and then.... One or two.... They don't give us work.'

    'Thank you. You keep the money. Thank you, again.' David crossed to the

    filthy storefront window, rubbed a small section of the glass and looked

    out at the block-long stretch of warehouse. It appeared deserted except for

    the men on the pier. And then he looked closer at those men.

    At first he wasn't sure; the glass - though rubbed - still had layers of

    film on the outside'pane; it wasn't clear and the men were moving about, in

    and out of the small transparent area.

Then he was sure. And suddenly very angry.

    The men in the distance on the pier were wearing the same paran-dlitary

    clothes the guards at Rhinemann's gate had worn.

They were Rhinemann's men.

    The telephone rang at precisely five thirty. The caller was not Stoltz, and

    because it wasn't, David refused to accept the instructions given him. He

    hung up and waited less than two minutes for the phone to ring again.

    'You are most obstinate,' said Erich Rhinemann. 'It is we who should be

    cautious, not you.'

    327

    'That's a pointless statement. I have no intention of following the

    directions of someone I don't know. I don't expect airtight controls but

    that's too loose.'

    Rhinemann paused. Then he spoke harshly. 'What happened last night?'

    11 told Stoltz exactly what happened to me. I don't know anything else.'

    'I don't believe you.' Rhinemann's voice was tense, sharp. his anger very

    close to the surface.

'I'm sorry,' said David. 'But that doesn't really concern me.'

'Neither of those men could have left C6rdobal Impossiblel'

    'They left; take my word for it.... Look, I told Stoltz I don't want to get

    mixed up in your problems. . . .'

'How do you know you're not ... mixed up?'

    It was, of course, the logical question and Spaulding realized that.

    'Because I'm here in my apartment, talking to you. According to Stoltz, the

    others are dead; that's a condition I intend to avoid. I'm merely

    purchasing some papers from you. Let's concentrate on that.'

'We'll talk further on this subject,' said Rhinemann.

'Not now. We have business to transact!

    Again the German Jew paused. 'Do as the man told you. Go to the Casa Rosada

    on the Plaza de Mayo. South gate. If you take a taxi, get off at the Julio

    and walk.'

    'Your men will pick me up when I leave the apartment, I assume!

'Discreetly. To see if you're followed!

'Then I'll walk from here. It'll be easier.'

    'Very intelligent. A car will be waiting for you at the Rosada. The same

    automobile that brought you here last evening.'

'Will you be there?' asked David.

:Of course not. But we'll meet shortly!

I take the designs straight to TelmoT

'If everything is clear, you may.'

'I'll leave in five minutes. Will your men be ready?'

Irbey are ready now,' answered Rhinemann. He hung up.

    David strapped the Beretta to his chest and put on his jacket. He went into

    the bathroom, grabbed a towel from the rack and rubbed his shoes, removing

    the Aeroparque and La Boca dirt from the leather. He combed his hair and

    patted talcum powder over the scratches on his face.

He couldn't help but notice the dark crescents under his eyes.

128

He needed sleep badly, but there was no time. For his own sake - survival,

really - he knew he had to take the time.

He wondered when it would be.

    He returned to the telephone. He had two calls to make before he left.

    The first was to Jean. To ask her to stay in the embassy; he might have

    reason to call her. At any rate, he would talk to her when he returned. He

    said he would be with Eugene Lyons at Terraza Verde. And that he loved her.

The second call was to Henderson Granville.

    'I told you I wouldn't involve the embassy or yourself in my work here,

    sir. If that's changed it's only because a man on your staff closed a naval

    surveillance file improperly. I'm afraid it directly affects me.'

    'How do you mean "improperly"? That's a serious implication.' If not a

    chargeable offense.'

    'Yes, sir. And for that reason it's imperative we raise no alarm, keep

    everything very quiet. It's an Intelligence matter.'

'Who is this man?' asked Granville icily.

    'An attach6 named Ellis. William Ellis - please don't take any action,

    sir.' Spaulding spoke rapidly, emphatically. 'He may have been duped; he

    may not have been. Either way we can't have him alerted.'

    'Very well. I follow you.... Then why have you told me ... if you want no

    action taken?'

    'Not against Ellis, sir. We do need a clarification on the surveillance.'

    David described the warehouses on Ocho Calle and the trawler moored between

    the two buildings.

    Granville interrupted quietly. 'I remember the report. Naval surveillance.

    It was a lading destination . . let me think.'

'Tortugas,' supplied Spauldini.

    'Yes, that was it. Coastal violations. An error, of course. No fishing boat

    would attempt such a trip. The actual destination was Torygos, a small port

    in northern Uruguay, I think.'

    David thought for a second. Jean hadn't mentioned the switchor similarity

    -of names. 'That may be, sir, but it would be advantageous to know the

    cargo.'

'It was listed. Farm machinery, I believe.'

'We don't think so,' said Spaulding.

'Well, we have no right to inspect cargo. . .

    'Mr. Ambassador?' David cut off the old gentleman. 'Is there anyone in the

    junta we can trust, compktely trust?'

    M9

    Granvilles reply was hesitant, cautious; Spaulding understood. 'One. Two,

    perhaps.'

    'I won't ask you their names, sir. I will ask you to request their help.

    With priority security measures. Those warehouses are guarded ... by Erich

    Rhinemann's men.'

    'Rhinemann?' The ambassador's distaste carried over the telephone. That was

    an asset, thought David.

    'We have reason to believe he's aborting a negotiation ortying contraband

    into it. Smuggling, sir. We have to know what that cargo is.' It was all

    David could think to say. A generalization without actual foundation. But

    if men were willing to kill and be killed for 'Tortugas,' perhaps that was

    foundation enough. If Fairfax could list the name on his transfer orders

    without telling him - that was more than enough.

    'I'll do what I can, Spaulding. I can't promise anything, of course.'

'Yes, sir. I realize. And thank you.'

    The Avenida de Mayo was jammed with traffic, the Plaza worse. At the end of

    the square the pinkish stone of Casa Rosada reflected the orange flood of

    the setting sun. Befitting a capital controlled by soldiers, thought David.

    He crossed the Plaza, stopping at the fountain, recalling yesterday and

    Leslie Jenner Hawkwood. Where was she now? In Buenos Aires; but where? And

    more important, why?

    The answer might lie in the name 'Tortugas' and a trawler in Ocho Calle.

    He circled the fountain twice, then reversed his steps once, testing

    himself, testing Erich Rhinemann. Where were the men watching him? Or were

    they women?

    Were they in cars or taxis or small trucks? Circling as he was circling?

    He spotted one. It wasn't hard to do. The man had seated himself on the

    edge of the fountain's pool, the tail of his jacket in the water. He'd sat

    down too quickly, trying to be inconspicuous.

    David started across the pedestrian walk - the same pedestrian walk he'd

    used following Leslie Hawkwood - and at the first traffic island waited for

    a change of light. Instead of crossing, however, he walked back to the

    fountain. He stepped up his pace and sat down at the pool's edge and

    watched the crosswalk.

    The man with the wet jacket emerged with the next contingent of pedestrians

    and looked anxiously around. Finally he saw Spaulding.

330

David waved.

The man turned and raced back across the street.

    Spaulding ran after him, just making the light. The man did not look back;

    he seemed hell-bent to reach a contact, thought David; to have someone take

    over, perhaps. The man turned left at the Casa Rosada and Spaulding

    followed, keeping himself out of sight.

    The'man reached a comer and to David's surprise he slowed down, then

    stopped and entered a telephone booth.

    It was a curiously amateurish thing to do, mused Spaulding. And it told him

    something about Erich Rhinemann's personnel: they weren't as good as they

    thought they were.

    There was a long blasting of a hom that seemed louder than the normally

    jarring sounds of the Mayo's traffic. The single hom triggered other homs

    and in a few seconds a cacophony of strident honking filled the streets.

    David looked over. It was nothing; an irritated motorist had momentarily

    reached the end of his patience. Everything returned to normal chaos with

    the starting up of the automobiles at the crosswalk.

    And then there was a scream. A woman's scream. And another; and still

    another.

A crowd gathered around the telephone booth.

    David pushed his way through, yanking arms, pulling shoulders, shoving. He

    reached the edge of the booth and looked inside.

    The man with the wet jacket was slumped awkwardly to the floor of the tiny

    glass enclosure, his legs buckled under him, his arms st ' retched above,

    one hand still gripping the telephone receiver so that the wire was taut.

    His head was sprung back from his neck. Blood was streaming down the back

    of his skull. Spaulding looked up at the walls of the booth. On the street

    side were three distinct holes surrounded by cracked glass.

    He heard the piercing sounds of police whistles and pushed his way back

    through the crowd. He reached the iron fence that surrounded the Casa

    Rosada, turned right and started rapidly around the building to the south

    side.

To the south gate.

    The Packard was parked in front of the entrance, its motor running. A man

    about his size approached him as David started for the automobile.

'Colonel Spaulding?'

'Yes?'

'If you'll hurry, please?' The man opened the back door and

    331

David climbed in quickly.

    Heinrich Stoltz greeted him. 'You've had a long walk. Sit. The ride will be

    relaxing.'

    'Not now.' David pointed to the panels below the front dashboard. 'Can you

    reach Rhinemann on that thing? Right away?,

'We're in constant contact. Why?'

'Get him. Your man.was just killed.'

'Our manT

:The one following me. He was shot in a telephone booth.'

    He wasn't our man, colonel. And we shot him,' said Stoltz calmly.

I What?'

    'The man was known to us. He was a hired killer out of Rio de Janeiro. You

    were his target.'

    Stoltz's explanation was succinct. They'd picked up the killer within

    moments after David left his apartment house. He was a Corsican, deported

    out of Marseilles before the war; a gun for the Unio Corso who had murdered

    one prefect too many under orders from the contrabandistes of southern

    France.

    'We couldn't take a chance with the American who possesses the codes. A

    silencer in heavy traffic you'll agree is adequate.'

    'I don't think he was trying to kill me,' said Spaulding. 'I think you

    moved too soon.'

    'Then he was waiting for you to meet with us. Forgive me, but we couldn't

    permit that. You agreeT

    'No. I could have taken him.' David sat back and brought his hand to his

    forehead, tired and annoyed. 'I was going to take him. Now we both lose.'

    Stoltz looked at David. He spoke cautiously; a question. 'The same? You

    wonder also.'

    'Don't you? ... You still think the Gestapo's not in Buenos Aires?'

    'Impossibk!' Stoltz whispered the words intensely through his teeth.

'That's what our mutual friend said about your men last night.

    I don't know a goddamned thing about that, but I understand &*y're dead. So

    what's impossibleT

    'The Gestapo can't be involved. We've learned that at the highest levels.'

'Rhinemann's Jewish, isn't heT David watched Stoltz as he

332

asked the unexpected question.

    The Gennan turned and looked at Spaulding. There was a hint of

    embarrassment in his expression. 'He practices no religion; his mother was

    Jewish.... Frankly, it's not pertinent. The racial theories of Rosenberg

    and Hitler are not shared unequivocally; far too much emphasis has been

    placed upon them.... It is -was - primarily an economic question.

    Distribution of banking controls, decentralization of financial

    hierarchies. . . . An unpleasant topic.'

    David was about to reply to the diplomat's evasions when he stopped

    himself. ... Why did Stoltz find it necessary even to attempt a

    rationalization? To offer a weak explanation he himself knew was devoid of

    logic?

    Heinrich Stoltz's loyalty was supposedly to Rhinemann, not the Third Reich.

    Spaulding looked away and said nothing. He was, frankly, confused, but it

    was no time to betray that confusion. Stoltz continued.

'It's a curious question. Why did you bring it upT

    'A rumor.... I heard it at the embassy.' And that was the truth, thought

    David. 'I gathered that the Jewish community in Buenos Aires was hostile to

    Rhinemann.'

    'Mere speculation. The Jews here are like Jews elsewhere. They keep to

    themselves, have little to do with those outside. Perhaps the ghetto is

    less definable, but it's there. They have no argument with Rhinemann;

    there's no contact, really.'

'Cross off one speculation,' said Spaulding.

'There's another,' said Stoltz. 'Your own countrymen.9

    David turned slowly back to the German. 'This is a good game. How did you

    arrive at thaff

    'The purchase of the designs is being made by one aircraft corporation.

    There are five, six major companies in competition for your unending

    government contracts. Whoever possesses the gyroscope designs will have a

    powerful - I might even say irresistible - lever. All other guidance

    systems will be obsolete.'

'Are you seriousT

    'Most assuredly. We have discussed the situation at length ... in depth. We

    are nearly convinced that this is the logical answer.' Stoltz looked away

    from David and stared to the front. 'There's no other. Those trying to stop

    us are American.'

    333

35

The green Packard made crisscross patterns over the Buenos Aires

streets. The route was programmed aimlessness, and Spaulding

recognized it for what it was: an extremely thorough surveillance

check. Intermittently, the driver would pick up the microphone

from beneath the dashboard and recite a prearranged series of

numbers. The crackling response over the single speaker would

repeat the numbers and the Packard would make yet another -

seemingly aimless - turn. I

    Several times David spotted the corresponding vehicles making the visual

    checks. Rhinemann had a minimum of five automobiles involved. After

    three-quarters of an hour, it was certain beyond doubt that the trip to San

    Telmo was clean.

The driver spoke to Stoltz.

'We- are, clear. The others will take up their positions.'

'Proceed,' said Stoltz.

    They swung northwest; the Packard accelerated toward San Telmo. David knew

    that at least three other cars were behind them; perhaps two in front.

    Rhinemann had set up his own transport column, and that meant the

    gyroscopic designs were in one of the automobiles.

'Have you got the merchandise?' he asked Stoltz.

    'Part of it,' replied the attach6, leaning forward, pressing a section of

    the felt backing in front of him. A latch sprung; Stoltz reached down and

    pulled out a tray from beneath the seat. Inside

334

the concealed drawer was a thin metal box not unlike the containers used in

libraries to protect rare manuscripts from possible loss by fire. The German

picked it up, held it in his lap and pushed the drawer back with his foot.

'We'll be there in a few minutes,' he said.

    The Packard pulled up to the curb in front of the white stucco house in San

    Telmo. Spaulding reached for the door handle but Stoltz touched his arm and

    shook his head. David withdrew his hand; he understood.

    About fifty yards ahead, one of the checkpoint automobiles had parked and

    two men got out. One carried a thin metal container, the other an oblong

    leather case-a radio, They walked back toward the Packard.

    David didn't have to look out the rear window to know what was happening

    behind him, but to confirm his thoughts he did so. Another automobile had

    parked. Two additional men were coming up the sidewalk; one, of course,

    carrying a container, the second, a leather-encased radio.

    The four men met by the door of the Packard. Stoltz nodded to Spaulding; he

    got out of the car and walked around the vehicle, joining Rhinemann's

    contingent. He was about to start up the short path to the front entrance

    when Stoltz spoke through the automobile window.

'Please wait. Our men are not yet in position. They'll tell us.'

    Static could be heard over the radio beneath the Packard's dashboard. There

    followed a recitation of numbers; the driver picked up his microphone and

    repeated them.

    Heinrich Stoltz nodded and got out of the car. David started toward the

    door.

    Inside, two of Rhinemann's men remained in the hallway; two walked through

    the apartment to the kitchen and a rear door that opened onto a small,

    terraced back yard. Stoltz accompanied David into the living room where

    Eugene Lyons was seated at a large dining table. The table was cleared

    except for two note pads with a half dozen pencils.

    The male nurses, Johnny and Hal, accepted Spaukling's terse commands. They

    stood at opposite ends of the room in front of a couch, in shirtsleeves,

    their pistols strapped in shoulder holsters emphasized by the white cloth

    of their shirts.

    Stoltz had relieved one man of his metal case and told David to take the

    other. Together, Stoltz and Spaulding placed the

    335

three containers on the large table, and Stoltz unlocked them. Lyons made no

effort to greet his visitors - his intruders - and only the most perfunctory

salutation came from Stoltz. It was apparent that Kendall had described the

scientist's afflictions; the German diplomat conducted himself accordingly.

    Stoltz spoke from across the table to the seated Lyons. 'From your left,

    the designs are in order of sequence. We have prepared bilingual keys

    attached to each of the schematics, and wherever processes are described,

    they have been translated verbatim, utilizing English counterpart formulae

    or internationally recognized symbols, and often both.... Not far from

    here, and easily contacted by our automobile radio, is an aeronautical

    physicist from Peenernfinde. He is available for consultation at your

    request.... Finally, you understand that no photographs may be taken.'

    Eugene Lyons picked up a pencil and wrote on a pad. He tore off the page

    and handed it to Spaulding. It read:

How long do I have? Are these complete?

David handed the note to Stoltz, who replied.

    'As long as you need, Herr Doktor. . . . There is one last container. It

    will be brought to you later.'

    'Within twenty-four hours,' interrupted Spaulding. 'I insist on that.'

    'When we receive confirmation that the codes have arrived in Washington.'

    'That message is undoubtedly at the embassy now.' David looked at his

    watch. 'I'm sure it is.'

    'If you say it, I believe it,' said Stoltz. 'It would be pointless to lie.

    You won't leave Argentina until we have received word from ...

    Switzerland.'

    Spaulding couldn't define why but there was something questioning about the

    German's statement; a questioning that didn't belong with such a

    pronouncement. David began to think that Stoltz was far more nervous than

    he wanted anyone to realize. 'I'll confirm the codes when we leave.... By

    the way, I also insist the designs remain here. Just as Doctor Lyons has

    checked them.'

    'We anticipated your . . . request. You Americans are so mistrustful. Two

    of our men will also'remain. Others win be outside.'

'That's a waste of manpower. What good is three-fourths of

336

the merchandiseT

'Tbree-fourths better than you have,' answered the German.

    The next two and a half hours were marked by the scratches of Lyons's

    pencil; the incessant static of the radios from the hallway and the

    kitchen, over which came the incessant, irritating recitation of numbers;

    the pacing of Heinrich Stoltz - his eyes constantly riveting on the pages

    of notes taken by an exhausted Lyons, making sure the scientist did not try

    to pocket or hide them; the yawns of the male nurse, Hal; the silent,

    hostile stares of his partner, Johnny.

    At ten thirty-five, Lyons rose from the chair. He placed the pile of notes

    to his left and wrote on a pad, tearing off the page and handing it to

    Spaulding.

So far - authentic. I have no questions.

David handed the note to an anxious Stoltz.

    'Good,' said the German. 'Now, colonel, please "plain to the doctor's

    companions that it will be necessary for us torelieve them of their

    weapons. They will be returned, of course.'

David spoke to Johnny. ~It's all right. Put them on the table.'

    'It's all right by who-saysT said Johnny, leaning against the wall, making

    no move to comply.

'I do,' answered Spaulding. 'Nothing will happen.'

    'These fuckers are Nazis! You want to put us in blindfolds, tooT

'They're German. Not Nazis.'

    'Horseshit!' Johnny pushed himself off the wall and stood erect. 11 don't

    like the way they talk.'

    'Listen to me.' David approached him. 'A great many people have risked

    their lives to bring this thing off. For different reasons. You may not

    like them any more than I do, but we can't louse it up now. Please, do as

    I ask you.'

    Johnny stared angrily at Spaulding. 'I hope to Christ you know what you're

    doing. . . .' He and his partner put down their guns.

    'Thank you, gentlemen,' said Stoltz, walking into the hallway. He spoke

    quietly in German to the two guards. The man with the radio walked rapidly

    through the sitting room into the kitchen; the other picked up the two

    weapons, placing one in his belt, the second in his jacket pocket. He then

    returned to the hallway without speaking.

Spaulding went to the table, joined by Stoltz. Lyons had

    337

replaced the designs in the manila envelopes; there were three. 'I'd hate to

think of the money our mutual friend is getting for these,' said David.

'You wouldn't pay it if they weren't worth it.'

"I suppose not.... No reason not to put them in one case. Along with the

notes.~ Spaulding looked over at Lyons, who stood immobile at the end of the

table. 'Is that all right, doctorT

Lyons nodded, his sad eyes half closed, his pallor accentuated.

    'As you wish,' said Stoltz. Picking up the envelopes and the notes, he put

    them in the first container, locked it, closed the other two and placed

    them on top of the first, as if he were performing a religious exercise in

    front of an altar.

    Spaulding took several steps toward the two men by the window. 'You've had

    a rough day. Doctor Lyons, too. Turn in and let your guests walk guard

    duty; I think they're on overtime.'

Hal grinned. Johnny did not.

    'Good evening, doctor. It's been a privilege meeting such a distinguished

    man of science.' Across the room, Stoltz spoke in diplomatic tones, bowing

    a slight diplomatic bow.

    The guard with the radio emerged from the kitchen and nodded to the German

    attach6. They left the room together. Spaulding smfled at Lyons; the

    scientist turned without acknowledging and walked into his bedroom to the

    right of the kitchen door.

    Outside on the sidewalk, Stoltz held the car door for David. 'A very

    strange man, your Doctor Lyons,' he said as Spaulding got into the Packard.

    'He may be, but he's one of the best in his field.... Ask your driver to

    stop at a pay phone. IT check the embassy's radio room. You'll get your

    confirmation.'

'Excellentidea.... Tben, perhaps, you'll join me for dinner?'

    David looked at the attach6 who sat so confidently, so halfmockingly,

    beside him. Stoltz's nervousness had disappeared. 'No, Heff

    Botschaftssekretir. I have another engagement.'

'With the lovely Mrs. Cameron, no doubt. I defer.'

    Spaulding did not reply. Instead, he looked out the window in silence.

    The Terraza Verde was peaceful. The streetlamps cast a soft glow on the

    quiet, darkened sidewalks; the sculptured trees in front of the picturesque

    Mediterranean houses were silhouetted against pastel-colored brick and

    stone. In windows beyond flower boxes, the yellow lamps of living rooms and

    bedrooms

339

shone invitingly. A man in a business suit, a newspaper under his arm,

walked up the steps to a door, taking a key from his pocket; a young couple

were laughing quietly, leaning against a low wrought-iron fence. A little

girl with a light brown cocker spaniel on a leash was skipping along the

sidewalk, the dog jumping happily out of step.

Terraza Verde was a lovely place to live.

    And David thought briefly of another block he'd seen that day. With old men

    who smelled of rot and urine; with a toothless whore who leaned on a filthy

    sill. With cat intestines and dirtfilmed windows. And with two huge

    warehouses that provided no work, and a trawler at anchor, recently

    destined for Tortugas.

    The Packard turned the comer into another street. There were a few more

    lights, less sculptured trees, but the street was very much like Terraza

    Verde. It reminded David of those offshoot streets in Lisbon that

    approached the rich caminos; dotted with expensive shops, convenient for

    wealthy inhabitants a few hundred yards away.

    There were shops here, too; with windows subtly lit, wares tastefully

    displayed.

    Another block; the Packard slowed down at the intersecting street and then

    started across. More shops, less trees, more dogs - these often walked by

    maids. A group of teenagers were crowded around an Italian sportscar.

    And then David saw the overcoat. It was just an overcoat at first; a light

    grey overcoat in a doorway.

A grey overcoat. A recessed doorway.

    The man was tall and thin. A tall, thin man in a light grey overcoat. In a

    doorway!

My God! thought David. The man on Fifty-second Street!

    The man was turned sideways, looking down into a dimly lit store window.

    Spaulding could not see them but he could picture the dark, hollow eyes;

    could hear the bastardized English out of somewhere in the Balkans; sense

    the desperation in the man's eyes:

    There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmfiller. . . . Heed the

    lesson of Fairfax I

He had to get out of the Packard. Quickly!

    He had to go back to Terraza Verde. Without Stoltz. He had to!

'There's a caf6 in the next block,' said Spaulding, pointing to

    339

an orange canopy with lights underneath, stretching across the sidewalk.

'Stop there. I'll, call the embassy.'

'You seem anxious, colonel. It can wait. I believe you.'

    Spaulding turned to the German. 'You want me to spell it out? O.K., I'll do

    that.... I don't like you, Stoltz. And I don't like Rhinemann; I don't like

    men who yell and bark orders and have me followed.... I'm buying from you,

    but I don't have to associate with you. I don't have to have dinner or ride

    in your automobile once our business for the day is over. Do I make myself

    clear?'

    6you're clear. Though somewhat uncivilized. And ungrateful, if you don't

    mind my saying so. We saved your life earlier this evening.'

    'That's your opinion. Not triine. Just let me off, I'll telephone and come

    out with your confirmation.... As you said, there's no point in my lying.

    You go on your way, I'll grab a taxi.'

    Stoltz instructed the driver to pull up at the orange canopy. 'Do as you

    please. And should your plans include Doctor Lyons, be advised we have men

    stationed about the area. Their orders are harsh. Those designs will stay

    where they are.'

    'I'm not paying for three-quarters of the merchandise regardless of what

    there is back home. And I have no intention of walking into that phalanx of

    robots.'

    The Packard drew up to the canopy. Spaulding opened the door quickly,

    slamming it angrily behind him. He walked swiftly into the lighted entrance

    and asked for the telephone.

    'The ambassador has been trying to reach you for the past half-hour or so,'

    said the night operator. 'He says it's urgent. I'm to give you a telephone

    number.' The operator drawled out the digits.

    'Thank you,' David said. 'Now connect me with Mr. Ballard in

    Communications, please.'

    'O'Leary's Saloon,' came the uninterested voice of Bobby Ballard over the

    wire.

'You're a funny man. I'll laugh next Tuesday.'

    'The "switch" said it was you. You know Granville's trying to find you.'

'I heard. Where's Jean?'

'In her room; pining away just like you ordered.'

'Did you get word from D.C.T

'All wrapped. Came in a couple of hours ago; your codes are

340

cleared, Row'sthe erector setT

    'The instructions - three-quarters of them - are in the box. But there are

    too many playmates.'

'Terraza VerdeT

'Around there.'

'Shall I send out a few FMF playground attendants?'

    'I think I'd feel better,' said Spaulding. 'Tell them to cruise. Nothing

    else. I'll spot them and yell if I need them.'

'It'll take a half-hour from the base.'

'Thanks. No parades, please, Bobby.'

    'They'll be so quiet no one'll know but us Munchkins. Take care of

    yourself.'

    Spaulding held down the receiver with his finger, tempted to lift it,

    insert another coin and call Granville.... There wasn't time. He left the

    booth and walked out the restaurant door to the Packard. Stoltz was at the

    window; David saw that a trace of his previous nervousness had returned.

    'You've got your confirmation. Deliver the rest of the goods and enjoy your

    money.... I don't know where you come from, Stoltz, but I'll find out and

    have it bombed off the map. I'll tell the Eighth Air Force to name the raid

    after you.'

    Stoltz seemed relieved at David's surliness - as David thought he might be.

    'The man from Lisbon is complicated. I suppose that's proper for a

    complicated assignment.... We'll call you by noon.' Stoltz turned to the

    driver. 'Los, abfahren, machen Sie schnefil'

    The green Packard roared off down the street. Spaulding waited under the

    canopy to see if it made any turns; should it do so, he would return to the

    cafe and wait.

    It did not; it maintained a straight course. David watched until the

    taillights were infinitesimal red dots. Then he turned and walked as fast

    as he could without calling attention to himself toward Terraza Verde.

    He reached the short block in which he'd seen the man in the light grey

    overcoat and stopped. His concerns made him want to rush on; his instincts

    forced him to wait, to look, to move cautiously.

    The man was not on the block now; he was nowhere to be seen. David reversed

    his direction and walked to the end of the sidewalk. He turned left and

    raced down the street to the next comer, turning left again, now slowing

    down, walking casually.

    341

He wished to God he knew the area better, knew the buildings behind Lyons's

white stucco house. Others did; others were positioned in dark recesses he

knew nothing about.

    Rhinemann's guards. The man in the light grey overcoat; how many more were

    with him?

    He approached the intersection of Terraza Verde and crossed the road

    diagonally, away from the white stucco house. He stayed out of the spill of

    the lamps as best he could and continued down the pavement to the street

    behind the row of houses on Terraza Verde. It was, of course, a block lined

    with other houses; quaint, picturesque, quiet. Spaulding looked up at the

    vertical sign: Terraza Amarilla.

San Telmo fed upon itself.

    He remained at the far end of the corner under a sculptured tree and looked

    toward the section of the adjacent street where he judged the rear of

    Lyons's house to be. He could barely make out the sloping tiled roof, but

    enough to pinpoint the building behind it - about 150 yards away.

    He also saw Rhinemann's automobile, one of those he'd spotted during the

    long, security-conscious drive from the Can Rosada. It was parked opposite

    a light-bricked Italian townhouse with large gates on both sides. David

    assumed those gates opened to stone paths leading to a wall or a fence

    separating Lyons's back terrace from the rear entrance of the townhouse. It

    had to be something like that; Rhinemann's guards were posted so that

    anyone emerging from those gates was equally in their sightlines.

    And then Spaulding remembered the crackling static of the radios from the

    hallway and the kitchen and the incessant repetition of the German numbers.

    Those who carried the radios had weapons. He reached beneath his jacket to

    his holster and took out the Beretta. He knew the clip was filled; he

    unlatched the safety, shoved the weapon into his belt and started across

    the street toward the automobile.

    Before he reached the opposite comer, he heard a car drive up behind him.

    He had no time to run, no moment to make a decision -good or bad. His hand

    went to his belt; he tried to assume a posture of indifference.

He heard the voice and was stunned.

'Get in, you goddamned foolP

Leslie Hawkwood was behind the wheel of a small Renault

342

coupe. She had reached over and unlatched the door. David caught it, his

attention split between his shock and his concern that Rhinemann's guard -

or guards - a hundred yards away might hear the noise. There were fewer than

a dozen pedestrians within the two-block area. Rhinemann's men had to have

been alerted.

    He jumped into the Renault and with his left hand he grabbed Leslie's right

    leg above the knee, his grip a restraining vise, pressing on the nerve

    lines. He spoke softly but with unmistakable intensity.

    'You back this car up as quietly as you can, and turn left down that

    street.'

'Let go I Let. .

'Do as I say or I'll break your kneecap off!'

    The Renault was short; there was no need to use the reverse gear. Leslie

    spun the wheel and the car veered into a sharp turn.

    'Slowlyl' commanded Spaulding, his eyes on Rhinemann's car. He could see a

    head turn - two heads. And then they were out of sight.

    David took his hand off the girl's leg; she pulled it up and doubled her

    shoulders down in agony. Spaulding grabbed the wheel and forced the gears

    into neutral. The car came to a stop halfway down the block, at the curb.

    'You bastard! You broke my leg!' Leslie's eyes were filled with tears of

    pain, not sorrow. She was close to fury but she did not shout. And that

    told David something about Leslie he had not known before.

    'I'll break more than a leg if you don't start telling me what you're doing

    here! How many others are there? I saw one; how many more?'

    She snapped her head up, her long hair whipping back, her eyes defiant.

    'Did you think we couldn't find him?'

'WhoT

'Your scientist. This Lyons! We found him!'

'Leslie, for Christ's sake, what are you doing?'

'Stopping you!'

'Me?'

    'You. Altmiffler, Rhinemann. Koening! Those pigs in Washington....

    PeenemUnde! It's all over. They won't trust you anymore. "Tortugas" is

    finished!'

The faceless name - Altiniffier again. Tortugas.... Koening?

    343

Words, names ... meaning and no meaning. The tunnels had no light.

There was no time I

    Spaulding reached over and pulled the girl toward him. He clutched the hair

    above her forehead, yanking it taut, and with his other hand he circled his

    fingers high up under her throat, just below the jawbone. He applied

    pressure in swift, harsh spurts, each worse than the last.

So much, so alien.

    'You want to play this game, you play it out! Now tell mel What's

    happening? Now?'

    She tried to squirm, lashing out her arms, kicking at him; but each time

    she moved he ripped his fingers into her throat. Her eyes widened until the

    sockets were round. He spoke again.

    'Say it, Leslie! I'll have to kill you if you don't. I don't have a choice

    I Not now.... For Christ's sake, don't force me!'

    She slumped; her body went limp but not unconscious. Her head moved up and

    down; she sobbed deep-throated moans. He released her and gently held her

    face. She opened her eyes.

    'Don't touch me! Oh, God, don't touch me!' She could barely whisper, much

    less scream. 'Inside.... We're going inside. Kill the scientists; kill

    Rhinemann's men. . . .'

    Before she finished, Spaulding clenched his fist and hammered a short, hard

    blow into the side of her chin. She slumped, unconscious.

He'd heard enough. There was no time.

    He stretched her out in the small front seat, removing the ignition keys as

    he did so. He looked for her purse; she had none. He opened the door,

    closed it firmly and looked up and down the street. There were two couples

    halfway down the block; a car was parking at the comer; a window was opened

    on the second floor of a building across the way, music coming from within.

Except for these - nothing. San Telmo was at peace.

    Spaulding ran to within yards of Terraza Amarilla. He stopped and edged his

    way along an iron fence that bordered the comer, swearing at the spill of

    the streetlamp. He looked through the black grillwork at Rhinemann's car

    less than a hundred yards away. He tried to focus on the front seat, on the

    two heads he'd seen moving minutes ago. There was no movement now, no glow

    of cigarettes, no shifting of shoulders.

Nothing.

344

    Yet there was a break in the silhouette of the left window frame; an

    obstruction that filled the lower section of the glass.

    David rounded the sharp angle of the iron fence and walked slowly toward

    the automobile, his hand clamped on the Beretta, his finger steady over the

    trigger. Seventy yards, sixty, forty-five.

The obstruction did not move.

    Thirty-five, thirty... he pulled the pistol from his belt, prepared to

    fire.

Nothing.

    He saw it clearly now. The obstruction was a head, sprung back into the

    glass - not resting, but wrenched, twisted from the neck; immobile.

Dead.

    He raced across the street to the rear of the car and crouched, his Beretta

    level with his shoulders. There was no noise, no rustling from within.

    The block was deserted now. The only sounds were the muffled, blurred hums

    from a hundred lighted windows. A latch could be heard far down the street;

    a small dog barked; the wail of an infant was discernible in the distance.

David rose and looked through the automobile's rear window.

    He saw the figure of a second man sprawled over the felt top of the front

    seat. The light of the streetlamps illuminated the upper part of the man's

    back and shoulders. The whole area was a mass of blood and slashed cloth.

    Spaulding slipped around the side of the car to the front right door. The

    window was open, the sight within sickening. The man behind the wheel had

    been shot through the side of his head, his companion knifed repeatedly.

    The oblong, leather-cased radio was smashed, lying on the floor beneath the

    dashboard.

    It had to have happened within the past five or six minutes, thought David.

    Leslie Hawkwood had rushed down the street in the Renault to intercept him

    - at the precise moment men with silenced pistols and long-bladed knives

    were heading for Rhinemann's guards.

    The killings complete, the men with knives and pistols must have raced

    across the street into the gates towards Lyons's house. Raced without

    thought of cover or camouflage, knowing the radios were in constant contact

    with those inside 15 Terraza Verde.

    345

    Spaulding opened the car door, rolled up the window, and pulled the

    lifeless form off the top of the seat. He closed the door; the bodies were

    visible, but less so than before. It was no moment for alarms in the street

    if they could be avoided.

    He looked over at the gates across the way on each side of the townhouse.

    The left one was slightly ajar.

    He ran over to it and eased himself through the opening, touching nothing,

    his gun thrust laterally at his side, aiming forward. Beyond the gate was

    a cement passageway that stretched the length of the building to some sort

    of miniature patio bordered by a high brick wall.

    He walked silently, rapidly to the end of the open alley; the patio was a

    combination of slate paths, plots of grass and small flower gardens.

    Alabaster statuary shone in the moonlight; vines crawled up the brick wall.

    He judged the height of the wall: seven feet, perhaps, seven and a half.

    Thickness: eight, ten inches - standard. Construction: new, within several

    years, strong. It was the construction with which he was most concerned. In

    1942 he took a nine-foot wall in San SebastiAn that collapsed under him. A

    month later it was amusing; at the time it nearly killed him.

    He replaced the Beretta in his shoulder holster, locking the safety,

    shoving in the weapon securely. He bent down and rubbed his hands in the

    dry dirt at the edge of the cement, absorbing whatever sweat was on them.

    He stood up and raced towards the brick wall.

    Spaulding leaped. Once on top of the wall, he held - silent, prone; his

    hands gripping the sides, his body motionless - a part of the stone. He

    remained immobile, his face towards Lyons's terrace, and waited several

    seconds. The back door to Lyons's flat was closed - no lights were on in

    the kitchen; the shades were drawn over the windows throughout the floor.

    No sounds from within.

    He slid down from the wall, removed his gun and ran to the side of the

    kitchen door, pressing his back against the white stucco. To his

    astonishment he saw that the door was not closed; and then he saw why. At

    the base, barely visible in the darkness of the room beyond, was a section

    of a hand. It had gripped the bottom of the doorframe and been smashed into

    the saddle; the fingers were the fingers of a dead man.

Spaulding reached over and pressed the door. An inch. Two

346

inches. Wood against dead weight; his elbow ached from the pressure.

Three, four, five inches. A foot.

    Indistinguishable voices could be heard now; faint, male, excited.

    He stepped swiftly in front of the door and pushed violently - as quietly

    as possible - against the fallen body that acted as a huge, soft, dead

    weight against the frame. He stepped over the corpse of Rhinemann's guard,

    noting that the oblong radio had been torn from its leather case, smashed

    on the floor. He closed the door silently.

    The voices came from the sitting room. He edged his way against the wall,

    the Beretta poised, unlatched, ready to fire.

    An open pantry against the opposite side of the room caught his eye. The

    single window, made of mass-produced stained glass, was high in the west

    wall, creating eerie shafts of colored light from the moon. Below, on the

    floor, was Rhinemann's second guard. The method of death he could not tell;

    the body was arched backward - probably a bullet from a small-caliber

    pistol had killed him. A pistol with a silencer attached. It would be very

    quiet. David felt the perspiration rolling down his forehead and over his

    neck.

How many were there? They'd immobilized a garrison.

He had no commitment matching those odds.

    Yet he had a strange commitment to Lyons. He had commitment enough for him

    at the moment. He dared not think beyond that instant.

    And he was good; he could - should - never forget that. He was the best

    there was.

If it was important to anyone.

So much, so alien.

    He pressed his cheek against the molding of the arch and what he saw

    sickened him. The revulsion, perhaps, was increased by the surroundings: a

    well-appointed flat with chairs and couches and tables meant for civilized

    people involved with civilized pursuits.

Not death.

    The two male nurses - the hostile Johnny, the affable, dense Hal - were

    sprawled across the floor, their arms linked, their heads inches from each

    other. Their combined blood had formed a pool on the parquet surface.

    Johnny's eyes were wide, angry -

    347

dead; Hal's face composed, questioning, at rest.

    Behind them were Rhinemann's two other guards, their bodies on the couch

    like slaughtered cattle.

I hope you know what you're doing!

    Johnny's words vibrated painfully - in screams - in David's brain.

    There were three other men in the room - standing, alive, in the same

    grotesque stocking masks that had beenworn by those in the Duesenberg who

    had cut short the few moments he'd had alone with Leslie Hawkwood high in

    the hills of Lujin.

    The Duesenberg that had exploded in fire in the hills of Colinas Rojas.

    The men were standing - none held weapons - over the spent figure of Eugene

    Lyons - seated gracefully, without fear, at the table. The look in the

    scientist's eyes told the truth, as Spaulding saw it: he welcomed death.

    'You see what's around you!' The man in the light grey overcoat spoke to

    him. 'We will not hesitate further! You're dead! ... Give us the designs!'

Jesus Christ I thought David. Lyons had hidden the plans!

    'There's no point in carrying on, please believe me,' continued the man in

    the overcoat, the man with the hollow crescents under his eyes Spaulding

    remembered so well. 'You may be spared, but only if you tell us! Now!'

    Lyons did not move; he looked up at the man in the overcoat without

    shifting his head, his eyes calm. They touched David's.

'Write iff said the man in the light grey overcoat.

It was the moment to move.

David spun around the molding, his pistol leveled.

    'Don't reach for guns! Youl' he yelled at the man nearest him. 'Turn

    around!'

    In shock, without thinking, the man obeyed. Spaulding took two steps

    forward and brought the barrel of the Beretta crashing down into the man's

    skull. He collapsed instantly.

    David shouted at the man next to the interrogator in the grey overcoat.

    'Pick up that chair! Now!' He gestured with his pistol to a straight-backed

    chair several feet from the table. 'Now, I said!'

    The man reached over and did as he was told; he was immobilized. Spaulding

    continued. 'You drop it and I'll kill you....

348

Doctor Lyons. Take their weapons. You'll find pistols and knives. Quickly,

please.'

    It all happened so fast. David knew his only hope of avoiding gunfire was

    in the swiftness of the action, the rapid immobilization of one or two men,

    an instant reversal of the odds.

    Lyons got out of the chair and went first to the man in the light grey

    overcoat. It was apparent that the scientist had observed where the man had

    put his pistol. He took it out of the overcoat pocket. He went to the man

    holding the chair and removed an identical gun, then searched the man and

    took a large knife from his jacket and a second, short revolver from a

    shoulder holster. He placed the weapons on the far side of the table and

    walked to the unconscious third man. He rolled him over and removed two

    guns and a switchblade knife.

    'Take off your coats. Now!'Spaulding commanded both men. He took the chair

    from the one next to him and pushed him toward his companion. The men began

    removing their coats when Spaulding suddenly spoke, before either had

    completed their actions. 'Stop right there! Hold it! ... Doctor, please

    bring over two chairs and place them behind them.'

Lyons did so.

'Sit down,' said Spaulding to his captives.

    They sat, coats half off their shoulders. David approached them and yanked

    the garments further - down to the elbows.

    The two men in the grotesque stocking masks were seated now, their arins

    locked by their own clothes.

    Standing in front of them, Spaulding reached down and ripped the silk masks

    off their faces. He moved back and leaned against the dining table, his

    pistol in his hand.

    'All right,' he said. 'I estimate we've got about fifteen minutes before

    all hell breaks loose around here.... I have a few questions. You're going

    to give me the answers.'

349

36

Spaulding listened in disbelief. The enormity of the charge was 80

far-reaching it was - in a very real sense - beyond his comprehension.

    The man with the hollow eyes was Asher Feld, commander of the Provisional

    Wing of the Haganah operating within the United States. He did the talking.

    'The operation ... the exchange of the guidance designs for the industrial

    diamonds ... was first given the name "Tortugas" by the Americans - one

    American, to be exact. He had decided that the transfer should be made in

    the Dry Tortugas, but it was patently rejected by Berlin. It was, however,

    kept as a code name by this man. The misleading association dovetailed with

    his own panic at being involved. It came - for him and for Fairfax - to

    mean the activities of the man from Lisbon.

    'When the War Department clearances were issued to the Koening company's

    New York offices - an Allied requisite - this man coded the clearance as

    'Tortugas.' If anyone checked, 'Tortugas' was a Fairfax operation. It would

    not be questioned.

    'The concept of the negotiation was first created by the Nachrichtendienst.

    I'm sure you've heard of the Nachrichtendienst, colonel. . . .'

David did not reply, He could not speak. Feld continued.

    'We of the Haganah learned of it in Geneva. We had word of an unusual

    meeting between an American named Kendall -

350

a financial analyst for a major aircraft company -and a very despised German

businessman, a homosexual, who was sent to Switzerland by a leading

administrator in the Ministry of Armaments, Unterstaatssekretir Franz

AltmOller.... The Haganah is everywhere, colonel, including the outer

offices of the ministry and in the Luftwaffe. . . .'

    David continued to stare at the Jew, so matter of fact in his extraordinary

    ... unbelieveable ... narrative.

    'I think youll agree that such a meeting was unusual. It was not difficult

    to maneuver these two messengers into a situation that gave us a wire

    recording. It was in an out-of-the-way restaurant and they were amateurs.

    'We then knew the basics. The materials and the general location. But not

    the specific point of transfer. And that was the all-important factor.

    Buenos Aires is enormous, its harbour more so -stretching for miles. Where

    in this vast area of land and mountains and water was the transfer to take

    placeT

    'Then, of course, came word from Fairfax. The man in Lisbon was being

    recalled. A most unusual action. But then how well thought out. The finest

    network specialist in Europe, fluent German and Spanish, an expert in

    blueprint designs. How logical. Don't you agree!'

    David started to speak, but stopped. Things were being said that triggered

    fiashes of lightning in his mind. And unbelievable cracks of thunder . . .

    as unbelievable as the words he was hearing. He could only nod his head.

    Numbly.

Feld watched him closely. Then spoke.

    'In New York I explained to you, albeit briefly, the sabotage at the

    airfield in Terceira. Zealots. The fact that the man in Lisbon could turn

    and be a part of the exchange was too much for the hot-tempered Spanish

    Jews. No one was more relieved than we of the Provisional Wing when you

    escaped. We assumed your stopover in New York was for the purposes of

    refining the logistics in Buenos Aires. We proceeded on that assumption.

    'Then quite abruptly there was no more time. Reports out of Johannesburg -

    unforgivably delayed - said that the diamonds had arrived in Buenos Aires.

    We took the necessary violent measures, including an attempt to kill you.

    Prevented, I presume, by Rhinemann's men.' Asher Feld stopped. Then added

    wearily, 'The rest you know.'

No I The rest he did not know! Nor any other part/

    351

Insanityl

Madnessl

Everything was nothing I Nothing was everything I

    The Years I The lives I... The terrible nightmares offear ... the killing!

    Oh, my God, the killing!

For what?! ... 0h, my God! For what?!

    'You're lying!' David crashed his hand down on the table. The steel of the

    pistol cracked against the wood with such force the vibration filled the

    room. 'You're lying!' he cried; he did not shout. 'I'm in Buenos Aires to

    buy gyroscopic designs! To have them authenticated! Confirmed by code so

    that son of a bitch gets paid in Switzerland! That's all. Nothing else!

    Nothing else at aill Not this I'

'Yes. . . .' Asher Feld spoke softly. 'It is this.'

    David whirled around at nothing. He stretched his neck: the crashing

    thunder in his head would not stop, the blinding flashes of light in front

    of his eyes were causing a terrible pain. He saw the bodies on the floor,

    the blood . the corpses on the sofa, the blood.

Tableau of death.

Death.

    His whole shadow world bad been ripped out of orbit. A thousand gambles ...

    pains, manipulations, death. And more death . . . all faded into a

    meaningless void. The betrayal - if it was a betrayal - was so immense ...

    hundreds of thousands had been sacrificed for absolutely nothing.

He had to stop. He had to think. To concentrate.

    He looked at the painfully gaunt Eugene Lyons, his face a sheet of white.

The man's dying, thought Spaulding.

Death.

He had to concentrate.

Oh, Christ! He had to think. Start somewhere. Think.

Concentrate.

Or he would go out of his mind.

    He turned to Feld. The Jew's eyes were compassionate. They might have been

    something else, but they were not. They were compassionate.

    And yet, they were the eyes of a man who killed in calm deliberation.

As he, the man in Lisbon, had killed.

352

Execution.

For what?

    There were questions. Concentrate on the questions. Listen. Find error.

    Find error - if error was needed in this world it was nowl

    'I don't believe you,' said David, trying as he had never tried in his life

    to be convincing.

    'I think you do,' replied Feld quietly. 'The girl, Leslie Hawkwood, told us

    you didn't know. A judgment we found difficult to accept.... I accept it

    now.'

    David had to think for a moment. He did not, at first, recognize the name.

    Leslie Hawkwood. And then, of course, he did instantly. Painfully. 'How is

    she involved with youT he asked numbly.

    'Herold Goldsmith is her uncle. By marriage, of course, she's not Jewish.'

    'Goldsmith? The name ... doesn't mean anything to me.' ... Concentrate I He

    had to concentrate and speak rationally.

    'It does to thousands of Jews. He's the man behind the Baruch and Lehman

    negotiations. He's done more to get our people out of the camps than any

    man in America.... He refused to have anything to do with Us until the

    civilized, compassionate men in Washington, London and the Vatican turned

    their backs on him. Then he came to us ... in fury. He created a hurricane,

    his niece was swept up in it. She's overly dramatic, perhaps, but commit-

    ted, effective. She moves in circles barred to the Jew.'

    'Why?'. . . Listen I For God's sake, listen. Be rational. Concentratel

    Asher Feld paused for a moment, his dark, hollow eyes clouded with quiet

    hatred. 'She met dozens . . . hundreds, perhaps, of those Herold Goldsmith

    got out. She saw the photographs, heard the stories. It was enough. She was

    ready.'

    The calm was beginning to return to David. Leslie was the springboard he

    needed to come back from the madness. There were questions....

    'I can't reject the pren-dse that Rhinemarm bought the designs. . . .'

    'Oh, come!' interrupted Feld. 'You were the man in Lisbon. How often did

    your own agents - your best men - find Peenemfinde invulnerable? Has not

    the German underground itself given up penetrationT

    353

    'No one ever gives up. On either side. The German underground is part of

    this!' That was the error, thought David.

    'If that were so,' said Feld, gesturing his head toward the dead Germans on

    the couch, 'then those men were members of the underground. You know the

    Haganah, Lisbon. We don't kill such men.'

    Spaulding stared at the quiet-spoken Jew and knew he told the truth.

    'The other evening.' said Spaulding quickly, 'on Parand. I was followed,

    beaten up . . . but I saw the IDs. They were Gestapo V

    'They were Haganah.' replied Feld. 'The Gestapo is our best cover. If they

    had been Gestapo that would presume, knowledge of your function.... Would

    they have let you live?'

    Spaulding started to object. The Gestapo would not risk killing in a

    neutral country; not with identification on their persons. Then he realized

    the absurdity of his logic. Buenos Aires was not Lisbon. Of course, they

    would kill him. And then he recalled the words of Heinrich Stoltz.

    We've checked at the highest levels ... not the Gestapo ... impossible....

    And the strangely inappropriate apologia: the racial theories of Rosenberg

    and Hitler are not shared ... primarily an economic ...

    A defense of the indefensible offered by a man whose loyalty was

    purportedly not to the Third Reich but to Erich Rhinemann. A Jew.

Finally, Bobby Ballard:

... he's a believer ... the real Junker item....

'Oh, my God,' said David under his breath.

    'You have the advantage, colonel. What is your choice? We're prepared to

    die; I say this in no sense heroically, merely as a fact.'

    Spaulding stood motionless. He spoke softly, incredulously. 'Do you

    understand the implications? . . .'

    .We've understood them,' interrupted Feld, 'since that day in Geneva your

    Walter Kendall met with Johann Dietricht.'

David reacted as though slapped, 'Johann ... Dietricht?'

'The expendable heir of Dietricht Fabriken.'

    'J.D.,' whispered Spaulding, remembering the crumpled yellow pages in

    Walter Kendall's New York office. The breasts, the testicles, the swastikas

    ... the obscene, nervous scribbings of an

354

obscene, nervous man. 'Johann Dietricht ... J.D.'

'Altmilller had him killed. In a way that precluded any .

'Why?'asked David.

    'To remove any connection with the Ministry of Armaments, is our thought;

    any association with the High Command. Dietricht initiated the negotiations

    to the point where they could be shifted to Buenos Aires. To Rhinemarm.

    With Dietricht's death the High Command was one more step removed.'

    The items raced through David's mind: Kendall had fled Buenos Aires in

    panic; something had gone wrong. The accountant would not allow himself to

    be trapped, to be killed. And he, David, was to kill - or have killed -

    Erich Rhinemann. Second to the designs, Rhinemann's death was termed

    paramount. And with his death, Washington, too, was 'one more step removed'

    from the exchange.

Yet there was Edmund Pace.

Edmund Pace.

Never.

'A man was killed,' said David, 'A Colonel Pace'. . .

    'In Fairfax,' completed Asher Feld. 'A necessary death. He was being used

    as you are being used. We deal in pragmatics. ... Without knowing the

    consequences - or refusing to admit them to himself - Colonel Pace was

    engineering "Tortugas.

    'You could have told him. Not killed him! You could have stopped it! You

    bastards!'

    Asher Feld sighed. 'I'm afraid you don't understand the hysteria among your

    industrialists. Or those of the Reich. He would have been eliminated.... By

    removing him ourselves, we neutralized Fairfax. And all its considerable

    facilities.'

    There was no point in dwelling on the necessity of Pace's death, thought

    David. Feld, the pragmatist, was right: Fairfax had been removed from

    'Tortugas.'

'Then Fairfax doesn't know.'

'Our man does. But not enough.'

'Who is he? Who's your man in FairfaxT

    Feld gestured to his silent companion. 'He doesn't know and I won't tell

    you. You may kill me but I won't tell you.'

    Spaulding knew the dark-eyed Jew spoke the truth. 'If Pace was used ... and

    me. Who's using usT

'I can't answer that.'

'You know this much. You must have ... thoughts. Tell me.'

    355

'Whoever gives you orders, I imagine.*

'One man....'

'We know. He's not very good, is he? There are others.'

    'Who? Where does it stop? State? The War Department? The White House?

    Where, for Christ's sake!?'

    'Such territories have no meaning in these transactions. They vanish.'

'Men don'tl Men don't vanish!'

    'Then look for those who dealt with Koening. In South Africa. Kendall's

    men. They created "Tortugas." ' Asher Feld's voice grew stronger. 'That's

    your affair, Colonel Spaulding. We only wish to stop it. We'll gladly die

    to stop it.'

    David looked at the thin-faced, sad-faced man. 'It means that much? With

    what you know, what you believe? Is either side worth itT

    'One r-rust have priorities. Even in lessening descent. If Peenem0nde is

    saved ... put back on schedule ... the Reich has a bargaining power that is

    unacceptable to us. Look to Dachau; look to Auschwitz, to Belsen.

    Unacceptable.'

    David walked around the table and stood in front of the Jews. He put his

    Beretta in his shoulder holster and looked at Asher Feld.

    'If you've lied to me, I'll kill you. And then I'll go back to Lisbon, into

    the north country, and wipe out every Haganah fanatic in the hills. Those

    I don't kill, I'll expose.... Put on your coats and get out of here. Take

    a room at the Alvear under the name of ... Pace. E. Pace. I'll be in

    touch.'

    'Our weaponsT asked Feld, pulling his light grey overcoat over his

    shoulders.

    'I'll keep them. I'm sure you can afford others.... And don't wait for us

    outside. There's an FMF vehicle cruising for me.'

'What about "Tortugas"T Asher Feld was pleading.

    'I said I'll be in touch!' shouted Spaulding. 'Now, get out of here! ...

    Pick up the Hawkwood girl; she's around the comer in the Renault. Here are

    the keys.' David reached in his pocket and threw the keys to Asher Feld's

    companion, who caught them effortlessly. 'Send her back to California.

    Tonight, if you can. No later than tomorrow morning. Is that clear?'

'Yes.... You will be in touchT

'Get out of here,' said Spaulding in exhaustion.

The two Haganah agents rose from their chairs, the younger

356

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 1. 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.'

357

37

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 Lyons'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 Rhinemarm guards were posted in front, for

    the obvious reason that Asher Feld had

358

left by the front door. What he did think was possible was a last-extren-dty

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 youT

    '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 I You know

    359

what the hell is going on down in our section of town? This side trip to

Telmo's just a minor inconvenience I 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's out there.

    Five hours ago we get a blue alert: prepare for a radio-radar ~1*ackout,

    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 FairfaxT

    'Only with Fairfax.... So we send a man to your address on C6rdoba. 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 telephonel'

'Ballard,' answered David quietly. 'The embassy cryp.'

    'The smart-ass 1 He makes jokes and tells us to play games out at Telmo I

    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 I I

    'It's not what's coming in, colonel,' said David softly. 'It9s what's going

    out.... What's the time of activationT

    'It's damn loose. Anytime during the next forty-eight hours. How's that for

    a tight scheduleT

'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.

360

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

    Peenerniffide tools - would be sent to the bottom of the South Atlantic.

    Christ I The irony, thought David. Fairfax - sonteone 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 bell 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 goddanmed double agent! That's what Fairfax was onto!'

David sighed. 'I wish it were that simple.'

    361

    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 I'

    '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. Wag 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. Wordsl Whispered, muffled, barely

    audible but clear! From the recesses of a tortured throat.

11 ... 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

362

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

    'I don't want any interruptions, Stoltz I' 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 I 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 I'

'Impossibk1' 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

    calfl' 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 I No sweat. You're fading here again. Were on

    363

Spaulding. We're following him; he's in a vehicle ... twentyseven,

twenty-eight miles north. David abruptly stopped talking.

    'Redbird! Redbird I ... 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.

The agent who walked with impunity in the highest classified

alleyways and killed a man named Ed Pace on New Yea r's Eve.

The Haganah infiltration.

    He had been tempted to rip open the yellow envelope the moment the FMF

    officer had given it to him in San Telmo, but he had resisted the almost

    irresistible temptation. He knew that he would be stunned no matter who it

    was - whether known to him or not; and no matter who it was he would have

    a name to fit the revenge he planned for the killer of his friend.

    Such thoughts were obstructions. Nothing could hinder their swift but

    cautious ride to Ocho Calle; nothing could interfere with his thought-out

    contact with Heinrich Stoltz.

    He withdrew the yellow envelope and slid his finger across the flap.

At first, the name meant nothing.

Lieutenant Colonel Ira Barden.

Nothing.

Then he remembered.

New Year's Eve!

    Oh, Christ, did he remember! The rough-talking hardnose who was second in

    command at Fairfax. Ed Pace's 'best friend' who had moumed his 'best

    friend's' death with army anger;

364

who secretly had arranged for David to be flown to the Virginia base and

participate in the wake-investigation; who had used the tragic killing to

enter his 'best friend's' dossier vaults ... only to find nothing.

    The man who insisted a Lisbon cryptographer named Marshall had been killed

    in the Basque country; who said he would run a check on Franz Altmfiller.

Which, of course, he never did.

    The man who tried to convince David that it would be in everyone's interest

    if Spaulding would flex the clearance regulations and explain his War

    Department assignment.

Which David nearly did. And now wished he had.

    Oh, God! Why hadn't Barden trusted him? On the other hand, he could not.

    For to do so would have raised specific, unwanted speculations on Pace's

    murder.

    Ira Barden was no fool. A fanatic, perhaps, but not foolish. He knew the

    man from Lisbon would kill him if Pace's death was laid at his feet.

Heed the iesson of Fairfax....

    Jesusl thought David. We fight each other, kill each other ... we don't

    know our enemies any longer.

For what?

    There was now a second reason to call Ballard. A name was not enough; he

    needed more than just a name. He would confront Asher Feld.

    He picked up the telephone's receiver off the hook, held his coin and

    dialed.

Ballard got on the line, no humor in evidence.

    'Look, David.' Ballard had not used his first name in conversation before.

    Ballard was suppressing a lot of anger. 'I won't pretend to understand how

    you people turn your dials, but if you're going to use my set, keep me

    infon-ned I'

    'A number of people were killed; I wasn't one of them. That was fortunate

    but the circumstances prohibited my contacting you. Does that answer your

    complaintT

    Ballard was silent for several seconds. The silence was not just his

    reaction to the news, thought David. There was someone with Bobby. When the

    cryp spoke, he was no longer angry; he was hesitant, afraid.

'You're all right?'

'Yes. Lyons is with me.'

    365

    'The FMF were too late. . . .' Ballard seemed to regret his statement. 'I

    keep phoning, they keep avoiding. I think their car's lost.'

'Not really. I've got it. . .

10h, Christ!'

    'They left one man at Telmo - for observation. There were two others.

    They're not hurt; they've disqualified.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

    'I haven't got time to explain.... There's an intercept order out for me.

    From Fairfax. The embassy's not supposed to know. It's a setup; I can't let

    them take me. Not for a while. . .

'Hey, we don't mess with Fairfax,' said Ballard firmly.

    'You can this time. I told Jean. There's a security breach in Fairfax. I'm

    not it, believe that.... I've got to have time. Maybe as much as

    forty-eight hours. I need questions answered. Lyons can help. For God's

    sake, trust me!'

    'I can trust you but I'm no big deal here.... Wait a minute. Jean's with

    me. . . .'

    'I thought so,' interrupted Spaulding. It had been David's intention to ask

    Ballard for the help he needed. He suddenly realized that Jean could be far

    more helpful.

'Talk to her before she scratches the skin off my hand.'

    'Before you get off, Bobby.... Could you run a priority check on someone in

    Washington? In Fairfax, to be exact?'

    'I'd have to have a reason. The subject - an Intelligence subject,

    especially Fairfax - would probably find out.'

    'I don't give a damn if he does. Say I demanded it. My rating's four-zero;

    G-2 has that in the records. I'll take the responsibility.'

'Who is itT

'A lieutenant colonel named Ira Barden. Got it?'

:Yes. Ira Barden. Fairfax.'

Right. Now let me talk to . .

    Jean's words spilled over one another, a mixture of fury and love,

    desperation and relief.

    'Jean,' he said when she had finished a half-dozen questions he couldn't

    possibly answer, 'the other night you made a suggestion I refused to take

    seriously. I'm taking it seriously now. That mythical David of yours needs

    a place to hide out. It can't be the pampas, but any place nearer will

    do.... Can you help me? Help us? For God's sakeP

366

1

    38

He would call Jean later, before daybreak. He and Lyons had to move in

darkness, wherever they were going. Wherever Jean could find them sanctuary.

    There would be no codes sent to Washington, no clearance given for the

    obscene exchange, no radio or radar blackouts that would immobilize the

    fleet. David understood that; it was the simplest, surest way to abort

    'Tortugas.'

But it was not enough.

    There were the men behind 'Tortugas.' They had to be yanked up from the

    dark recesses of their filth and exposed to the sunlight. If there was any

    meaning left, if the years of pain and fear and death made any sense at

    all, they had to be given to the world in all their obscenity.

    The world deserved that. Hundreds of thousands - on both sides - who would

    carry the scars of war throughout their lives, deserved it.

They had to understand the meaning of For what.

    David accepted his role; he would face the men of 'Tortugas.' But he could

    not face them with the testimony of a fanatical Jew. The words of Asher

    Feld, leader of the Haganah's Provisional Wing, were no testimony at all.

    Fanatics were madmen; the world had seen enough of both, for both were one.

    And they were dismissed. Or killed. Or both.

David knew he had no choice.

    367

    When he faced the men of 'Tortugas,' it would not be with the words of

    Asher Feld. Or with deceptive codes and manipulations that were subject to

    a hundred interpretations.

Deceits. Cover-ups. Removals.

    He would face them with what he saw. What he knew, because he had bome

    witness. He would present them with the irrefutable. And then he would

    destroy them.

    To do this - a this - he had to get aboard the trawler in Ocho Calle. The

    trawler that would be blown out of the water should it attempt to run the

    harbor and rendezvous with a German submarine.

    That it ultimately would attempt such a run was inevitable. The fanatic

    mind would demand it. Then there would be no evidence of things seen. Sworn

    to.

He had to get aboard that trawler now.

    He gave his final instructions to Lyons and slid into the warm, oily waters

    of the Rfo de la Plata. Lyons would remain in the car -drive it, if

    necessary -and, if David did not return, allow ninety minutes to elapse

    before going to the FMF base and telling the commanding officer that David

    was being held prisoner aboard the trawler. An American agent held

    prisoner.

    There was logic in the strategy. FMF had priority orders to bring in David;

    orders from Fairfax. It would be three thirty in the morning. Fairfax

    called for swift, bold action. Especially at three thirty in the morning in

    a neutral harbor.

    It was the bridge David tried always to create for himself in times of

    high-risk infiltration. It was the trade-off; his life for a lesser loss.

    The lessons of the north country.

    He did not want it to happen that way. There were too many ways to

    immobilize him; too many panicked men in Washington and Berlin to let him

    survive, perhaps. At best there would be compromise. At worst.... The

    collapse of 'Tortugas' was not enough, the indictment was everything.

. His pistol was tight against his head, tied with a strip of his shirt, the

cloth running through his teeth. He breaststroked toward the hull of the

ship, keeping his head out of the water, the firing-pin mechanism of his

weapon as dry as possible. The price was mouthfuls of filthy,

gasoline-polluted water, made further sickening by the touch of a large

conger eel attracted, then repelled, by the moving white flesh.

368

    He reached the hull. Waves slapped gently, unceasingly, against the hard

    expanse of darkness. He made his way to the stern of the ship, straining

    his eyes and his ears for evidence of life.

Nothing but the incessant lapping of water.

    There was light from the deck but no movement, no shadows, no voices. Just

    the flat, colorless spill of naked bulbs strung on black wires, swaying in

    slow motion to the sluggish rhythm of the hull. On the port side of the

    ship - the dockside - were two lines looped over the aft and midships

    pilings. Rat disks were placed every ten feet or so; the thick manila hemps

    were black with grease and oil slick. As he approached, David could see a

    single guard sitting in a chair by the huge loading doors, which were shut.

    The chair was tilted back against the warehouse wall; two wire-mesh lamps

    covered by metal shades were on both sides of the wide doorframe. Spaulding

    treaded backward to get a clearer view. The guard was dressed in the

    paramilitary clothes of Habichtsnest. He was reading a book; for some

    reason that fact struck David as odd.

    Suddenly, there were footsteps at the west section of the warehouse dock.

    They were slow, steady; there was no attempt to muffle the noise.

    The guard looked up from his book. Between the pilings David could see a

    second figure come into view. It was another guard wearing the Rhinemann

    uniform. He was carrying a leather case, the same radio case carried by the

    men - dead men - at 15 Terraza Verde.

    The guard in the chair smiled and spoke to the standing sentry. The

    language was German.

    'I'll trade places, if you wish,' said the man in the chair. 'Get off your

    feet for a while.'

    'No, thanks,' replied the man with the radio. 'I'd rather walk. Passes the

    time quicker.'

'Anything new from LujAnT

    'No change. Still a great deal of excitement. I can hear snatches of

    yelling now and then. Everybody's giving orders.'

'I wonder what happened in Telmo.'

    'Bad trouble is all I know. They've blocked us off; they've sent men to the

    foot of Ocho Calle.'

'You heard thatT

'No. I spoke with Geraldo. He and Luis are here. In front of

    369

the warehouse; in the street.'

'I hope they don't wake up the whores.'

    The man with the radio laughed. 'Even Geraldo. can do better than those

    dogs.'

    'Don't bet good money on that,' replied the guard in the chair.

    The guard on foot laughed again and proceeded east on his solitary patrol

    around the building. The man in the chair returned to his book.

David sidestroked his way back toward the hull of the trawler.

    His arms were getting tired; the foul-smelling waters of the harbor

    assaulted his nostrils. And now he had something else to consider: Eugene

    Lyons.

    Lyons was a quarter of a mile away, diagonally across the water, four

    curving blocks from the foot of Ocho CaHe. If Rhinemann's patrols began

    cruising the area, they would find the FMF vehicle with Lyons in it. It was

    a bridge he hadn't considered. He should have considered it.

But he couldn't think about that now.

    He reached the starboard midships and held onto the waterline ledge, giving

    the muscles of his arms and shoulders a chance to throb in relief. The

    trawler was in the medium-craft classification, no more than seventy or

    eighty feet in length, perhaps a thirty-foot midship beam. By normal

    standards, and from what David could see as he approached the boat in

    darkness, the mid and aft cabins below the wheel shack were about fifteen

    and twenty feet long, respectively, with entrances at both ends and two

    portholes per cabin on the port and starboard sides. If the Koening

    diamonds were on board, it seemed logical that they'd be in the aft cabin,

    farthest away from the crew's normal activity. Too, aft cabins had more

    room and fewer distractions. And if Asher Feld was right, if two or three

    PeenemOnde scientists were microscopically examining the Koening products,

    they would be under a pressured schedule and require isolation.

    David found his breath coming easier. He'd know soon enough whether and

    where the diamonds were or were not. In moments.

    He untied the cloth around his head, treading water as he did so, holding

    the pistol firn-dy. The shirt piece drifted away; he held onto the line

    ledge and looked above. The gunwale was six to seven feet out of the water;

    he would need both his hands to claw

370

his way up the tiny ridges of the hull.

    He spat out what harbor residue was in his mouth and clamped the barrel of

    the gun between his teeth. The only clothing he wore was his trousers; he

    plunged his hands beneath the water, rubbing them against the cloth in an

    effort to remove what estuary slick he could.

    He gripped the line ledge once again and with his right hand extended,

    kicked his body out of the water and reached for the next tiny ridge along

    the hull. His fingers grasped the half-inch sprit; he pulled himself up,

    slapping his left hand next to his right, pushing his chest into the rough

    wood for leverage. His bare feet were near the water's surface, the gunwale

    no more than three feet above him now.

    Slowly he~raised his knees until the toes of both feet rested on the

    waterline ledge. He paused for breath, knowing that his fingers would not

    last long on the tiny ridge. He tensed the muscles of his stomach and

    pressed his aching toes against the ledge, pushing himself up as high as

    possible, whipping out his hands; knowing, again, that if he missed the

    gunwale he would plunge back into the water. The splash would raise alarms.

The left hand caught; the right slipped off. But it was enough.

    He raised himself to the railing, his chest scraping against the rough,

    weathered hull until spots of blood emerged on his skin. He looped his left

    arm over the side and removed the pistol from his mouth. He was - as he

    hoped he would be - at the midpoint between the fore and aft cabins, the

    expanse of wall concealing him from the guards on the loading dock.

    He silently rolled over the gunwale onto the narrow deck And took the

    necessary crouching steps to the cabin wall. He pressed his back into the

    wooden slats and slowly stood up. He inched his way toward the first aft

    porthole; the light from within was partially blocked by a primitive

    curtain of sorts, pulled back as if parted for the night air. The second

    porthole farther down had no such obstruction, but it was only feet from

    the edge of.the wall; there was the possibility that a sentry - unseen from

    the water - might be on stem watch there. He would see whatever there was

    to see in the first window.

    His wet cheek against the rotted rubber surrounding the porthole, he looked

    inside. The 'curtain' was a heavy sheet of black tarpaulin folded back at

    an angle. Beyond, the light was as he had pictured it; a single bulb

    suspended from the ceiling by a thick

    371

wire - a wire that ran out a port window to a pier outlet. Ship generators

were not abused while at dock. There was an oddshaped, flat piece of metal

hanging on the side of the bulb, and at first David was not sure why it was

there. And then he understood; the sheet of'metal deflected the light of the

bulb from the rear of the cabin, where he could make out - beyond the fold

of the tarp - two bunk beds. Men were sleeping; the light remained on but

they were in relative shadow.

    On the far side of the cabin, butted against the wall, was a long table

    that had the incongruous appearance of a hospital laboratory workbench. It

    was covered by a taut, white, spotless oilcloth and on the cloth,

    equidistant from one another, were four powerful microscopes. Beside each

    instrument was a high-intensity lamp -all the wires leading to a

    twelve-volt utility battery under the table. On the floor in front of the

    microscopes were four high-backed stools - four white, spotless stools

    standing at clinical attention.

    That was the effect, thought David. Clinical. This isolated section of the

    trawler was in counterpoint to the rest of the filthy ship; it was a small,

    clinical island surrounded by rotted sea waste and rat disks.

And then he saw them. In the corner.

    Five steel crates, each with metal strips joined at the top edges and held

    in place with heavy vault locks. On the front of each crate was the clearly

    stenciled name: KOENING MWES, LTD.

He'd seen it now. The undeniable, the irrefutable.

Tortugas.

The obscene "change funneled through Erich Rhinemann.

And he was so close, so near possession. The final indictment.

    Within his fear - and he was afraid - furious anger and deep temptation

    converged. They were sufficient to suspend his anxiety, to force him to

    concentrate only on the objective. To believe - knowing the belief was

    false - in some mystical invulnerability, granted for only a few precious

    minutes.

That was enough.

    He ducked under the first porthole and approached the second. He stood up

    and looked in; the door of the cabin was in his direct line of sight. It

    was a new door, not part of the trawler. It was steel and in the center was

    a bolt at least an inch thick, jammed into a bracket in the frame.

The Peenemiinde scientists were not only clinically isolated,

372

they were in a self-imposed prison.

    That bolt, David realized, was his personal Alpine pass - to be crossed

    without rig.

    He crouched and passed under the porthole to the edge of the cabin wall. He

    remained on his knees and, millimeter by millimetre, the side of his face

    against the wood, looked around the comer.

    The guard was there, of course, standing his harbor watch in the tradition

    of such sentry duty: on deck, the inner line of defense; bored, irritated'

    with his boredom, relaxed in his inactivity yet annoyed by its

    pointlessness.

    But he was not in the paramilitary clothes of Habichtsnest. He was in a

    loose-fitting suit that did little to conceal a powerful -military - body.

    His hair was cut short, Wehrmacht style.

    He was leaning against a large fishing-net winch, smoking a thin cigar,

    blowing the smoke aimlessly into the night air. At his side was an

    automatic rifle, -30 caliber, the shoulder strap unbuckled, curled on the

    deck. The rifle had not been touched for quite some time, the strap had a

    film of moisture on the surface of the leather.

    The strap.... David took the belt from his trousers. He stood up, inched

    back towards the porthole, reached underneath the railing and removed one

    of two gunwale spikes which were clamped against the inner hull for the

    fish nets. He tapped the railing softly twice; then twice again. He heard

    the shuffling of the guard's feet. No forward movement, just a change of

    position.

    He tapped again. Twice. Then twice more. The quietly precise tapping -

    intentional, spaced evenly - was enough to arouse curiosity, insufficient

    to cause alarm.

    He heard the guard's footsteps now. Still relaxed, the forward motion easy,

    not concerned with danger, only curious. A piece of harbour driftwood,

    perhaps, slapping against the hull, caught in the push-pull of the current.

    The guard rounded the comer; Spaulding's belt whipped around his neck,

    instantly lashed taut, choking off the cry.

    David twisted the leather as the guard sank to his knees, the face

    darkening perceptibly in the dim spill of light from the porthole, the lips

    pursed in strangled anguish.

    David did not allow his victim to lose consciousness; he had the Alpine

    pass to cross. rnstead, he wedged his pistol into his trousers, reached

    down to the scabbard on the guard's waist, and

    373

took out the carbine bayonet - a favorite knife of combat men, rarely used

on the front of any rifle. He held the blade under the guard's eyes and

whispered.

'Espaftol or Deutsch?'

    The man stared up in terror. Spaulding twisted the leather tighter; the

    guard choked a cough and struggled to raise two fingers. David whispered

    again, the blade pushing against the skin under the right eyebafl.

'Deutsch?'

The man nodded.

    Of course he was German, thought Spaulding. And Nazi. The clothes, the

    hair. PeenemUnde was the Third Reich. Its scientists would be guarded by

    their own. He twisted the blade of the carbine bayonet so that a tiny

    laceration appeared under the eye. The guard's mouth opened in fright.

    'You do exactly what I tell you,' whispered David in German into the

    guard's ear, 'or I'll carve out your sight. Understand?'

The man, nearly limp, nodded.

    'Get up and call through the porthole. You have an urgent message from ...

    AltmWler, Franz AltmOller! They must open the door and sign for it.... Do

    it! Nowl And remember, this knife is inches from your eyes.'

    The guard, in shock, got up. Spaulding pushed the man's face to the open

    porthole, loosened the belt only slightly, and shifted his position to the

    side of the man and the window, his left hand holding the leather, his

    right the knife.

'Nowl'whispered David, flicking the blade in half circles.

    At first the guard's voice was strained, artificial. Spaulding moved in

    closer; the guard knew he had only seconds to live if he did not perform.

He performed.

    There was stirring in the bunk beds within the cabin. Grumbling complaints

    to begin with, ceasing abruptly at the mention of Altmfiller's name.

    A small, middle-aged man got out of the left lower bunk and walked sleepily

    to the steel door. He was in undershorts, nothing else. David propelled the

    guard around the comer of the wall and reached the door at t ' he sound of

    the sliding bolt.

    He slarnmed the guard against the steel panel with the twisted belt; the

    door flung open, David grabbed the knob, preventing it from crashing into

    the bulkhead. He dropped the knife,

374

yanked out his pistol, and crashed the barrel into the skull of the small

scientist.

- 'Schweigen!' he whispered hoarsely. 'Wenn Anen Ar Leben Lieb ist!'

    The three men in the bunks - older men, one old man - stumbled out of their

    beds, trembling and speechless. The guard, choking still, began to focus

    around him and started to rise. Spaulding took two steps and slashed the

    pistol diagonally across the man's temple, splaying him out on the deck.

    The old man, less afraid than his two companions, stared at David. For

    reasons Spaulding could not explain to himself, he felt ashamed. Violence

    was out of place in this antiseptic cabin.

    'I have no quarrel with you,' he whispered harshly in German. 'You follow

    orders. But don't mistake me, I'll kill you if you make a sound!' He

    pointed to some papers next to a microscope; they were filled with numbers

    and columns. 'You!' He gestured his pistol at the old man. 'Give me those!

    Quickly!'

    The old man trudged haltingly across the cabin to the clinical work area.

    He lifted the papers off the table and handed them to Spaulding, who

    stuffed them into his wet trousers pocket.

    'Thanks.... Now!' He pointed his weapon at the other two. 'Open one of

    those crates! Do it now!'

    'No! ... No! For God's sake!' said the taller of the middleaged scientists,

    his voice low, filled with fear.

    David grabbed the old man standing next to him, He clamped his arm around

    the loose flesh of the old neck and brought his pistol up to the head. He

    thumbed back the firing pin and spoke calmly. 'You will open a crate or I

    will kill this man. When he's dead, I'll turn my pistol on you. Believe me,

    I have no altemative.'

    The shorter man whipped his head around, pleading silently with the taller

    one. The old man in David's grasp was the leader; Spaulding knew that. An

    old ... alter-Anflihrer; always take the German leader.

    The taller PeenemOnde scientist walked - every step in fear -to the far

    comer of the clinical workbench, where there was a neat row of keys on the

    wall. He removed one and hesitantly went to the first steel crate. He bent

    down and inserted the key in the vault lock holding the metal strip around

    the edge; the strip snapped apart in the center.

'Open the Rd!' commanded Spaulding, his anxiety causing

    375

his whisper to become louder; too loud, he realized.

    The cover of the steel crate was heavy; the German had to lift it with both

    hands, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth betraying the effort

    required. Once at a ninety-degree angle, chains on both sides became taut;

    there was a click of a latch and the cover was locked in place.

    Inside were dozens of identically matched compartments in what appeared to

    be sliding trays - something akin to a large complicated fishing-tackle

    box. Then David understood: the front of the steel case was on hinges;* it

    too could be opened -or lowered, to be exact - allowing the trays to slide

    out.

    In each compartment were two small heavy, paper envelopes, apparently lined

    with layers of soft tissue. There were dozens of envelopes on the top tray

    alone.

    David released the old man, propelling him back toward the bunk beds. He

    waved his pistol at the tall German who had opened the crate, ordering him

    to join the other two. He reached down into the steel crate, picked out a

    small envelope and brought it to his mouth, tearing the edge with his

    teeth. He shook it toward the ground; tiny translucent nuggets spattered

    over the cabin deck.

The Koening diamonds.

    He watched the German scientists as he crumpled the envelope. They were

    staring at the stones on the floor.

    Why not? thought David. In that cabin was the solution for PeenemUnde. In

    those crates were the tools to rain death on untold thousands . . . as the

    gyroscopic designs for which they were traded would make possible further

    death, further massacre.

    He was about to throw away the envelope in disgust and fill his pockets

    with others when his eyes caught sight of some lettering. He unwrinkled the

    envelope, his pistol steady on the Germans, and looked down. The single

    word:

    ecbt

    True.. Genuine. This envelope, this tray, this steel case had passed

    inspection.

    He reached down and grabbed as many envelopes as his left hand could hold

    and stuffed them into his trousers pocket.

376

It was all he needed for the indictment.

It was everything. It was the meaning.

    There was one thing more he could- do. Of a more immediately practical

    nature. He crossed to the workbench and went down the line of four

    microscopes, crashing the barrel of his pistol up into each lens and down

    into the eyepieces. He looked for a laboratory case, the type which carried

    optical equipment. There had to be one!

    It was on the floor beneath the long table. He kicked it out with his bare

    foot and reached down to open the hasp.

    More slots and trays, only these filled with lenses and small black tubes

    in which to place them.

    He bent down and overturned the case; dozens of circular lenses fell out

    onto the deck. As fast as he could he grabbed the nearest white stool and

    brought it down sideways into the piles of glass.

    The destruction wasn't total, but the damage was enough, perhaps, for

    forty-eight hours.

    He started to get up, his weapon still on the scientists, his ears and eyes

    alert.

    He heard it! He sensed it! And simultandously he understood that if he did

    not spin out of the way he would be dead!

    He threw himself on the floor to the right, the hand above and behind him

    came down, the carbine bayonet slicing the air, aimed for the spot where

    his neck had been less than a second ago.

    He had left the goddamned bayonet on the floorl He had discarded the

    goddamned bayonetl The guard had revived and taken the goddamned bayonetl

    The Nazi's single cry emerged before Spaulding leaped on his kneeling form,

    smashing his skull into the wood floor with such force that blood spewed

    out in tiny bursts throughout the head.

But the lone cry was enough.

    'Is something wrong?' came a voice from outside, twenty yards away on the

    loading dock. 'Heinrich! Did you call?'

There was no second, no instant, to throw away on hesitation.

    David ran to the steel door, pulled it open and raced around the comer of

    the wall to the concealed section of the gunwale. As he did so, a guard -

    the sentry an the bow of the trawler -came into view. His rifle was waist

    high and he fired.

    377

    Spaulding fired back. But not before he realized he was hit. The Nazi's

    bullet had creased the side of his waist; he could feel the blood oozing

    down into his trousers.

    He threw himself over the railing into the water; screams and shouts

    started from inside the cabin and farther away on the pier.

    He thrashed against the dirty Rio slime and tried to keep his head. Where

    was he? What direction? Where? For Christ's sake, where?

    The shouts were louder now; searchlights were turned on all over the

    trawler, crisscrossing the harbor waters. He could hear men screaming into

    radios as only panicked men can scream. Accusing, helpless.

    Suddenly, David realized there were no boats! No boats were coming out of

    the pier with the searchlights and high-powered rifles that would be his

    undoingl

No boats I

    And he nearly laughed. The operation at Ocho Calle was so totally secretive

    they had allowed no small craft to put into the deserted area!

    He held his side, going under water as often as he could, as fast as he

    could.

    The trawler and the screaming Rhinemann-Altmiffler guards were receding in

    the harbor mist. Spaulding kept bobbing his head up, hoping to God he was

    going in the right direction.

    He was getting terribly tired, but he would not allow himself to grow weak.

    He could not allow that! Not now I

He had the 'Tortugas' indictment!

    He saw the pilings not far away. Perhaps two, three hundred yards. They

    were the right pilings, the right piersl They ... it, had to be!

    He felt the waters around him stir and then he saw the snakelike forms of

    the conger eels as they lashed blindly against his body. The blood from his

    wound was attracting them I A horrible mass of slashing giant worms were

    converging!

    He thrashed and kicked and fought down a scream. He pulled at the waters in

    front of him, his hands in constant contact with the ofly snakes of the

    harbor. His eyes were filled with flashing dots and streaks of yellow and

    white; his throat was dry in the water, his forehead pounded.

    When it seemed at last the scream would come, had to come, he felt the hand

    in his hand. He felt his shoulders being lifted,

378

heard the guttural cries of his own terrified voice - deep, frightened

beyond his own endurance. He could look down and see, as his feet kept

slipping off the ladder, the circles of swarming eels below.

    Eugene Lyons carried him - carried him! - to the FMF automobile. He was

    aware - yet not aware - of the fact that Lyons pushed him gently into the

    back seat.

    And then Lyons climbed in after him, and David understood - yet did not

    understand - that Lyons was slapping him. Hard. Harder.

    Deliberately. Without rhythm but with a great deal of strength.

    The slapping would not stop I He couldn't make it stop! He couldn't stop

    the half-destroyed, throatless Lyons from slapping him.

He could only cry. Weep as a child might weep.

    And then suddenly he could make him stop. He took his hands from his face

    and grabbed Lyons's wrists, prepared, if need be, to break them.

He blinked and stared at the physicist.

    Lyons smiled in the shadows. He spoke in his tortured whisper.

    'I'm sorry.... You were ... in temporary ... shock. My friend.'

I

379

39

An elaborate naval first aid kit was stored in the ftunk of the FMF vehicle.

Lyons filled David's wound with sulfa powder, laid on folded strips of gauze

and pinched the skin together with three-inch adhesive. Since the wound was

a gash, not a puncture, the bleeding stopped; it would hold until they

reached a doctor. Even should the wait be a day or a day and a half, there

would be no serious damage.

Lyons drove.

    David watched the emaciated man behind the wheel. He was unsure but

    willing; that was the only way to describe him. Every now and then his foot

    pressed too hard on the accelerator, and the short bursts of speed

    frightened him - then annoyed him. Still, after a few minutes, he seemed to

    take a careful delight in manipulating the car around comers.

    David knew he had to accomplish three things: reach Henderson Granville,

    talk to Jean and drive to that sanctuary he hoped to Christ Jean had found

    for them. If a doctor could be brought to him, fine. If not, he would

    sleep; he was beyond the point of functioning clearly without rest.

    How often in the north country had he sought out isolated eaves in the

    hills? How many times had he piled branches and limbs in front of small

    openings so his body and mind could restore the balance of objectivity that

    might save his life? He had to find such a resting place now.

380

    And tomorrow he would make the final arrangements with Fjich Rhinemann.

The final pages of the indictment.

    'We have to find a telephone,' said David. Lyons nodded as he drove.

    David directed the physicist back into the center of Buenos Aires. By his

    guess they still had time before the FMF base sent out a search. The orange

    insignias on the bumpers would tend to dissuade the BA police from

    becon-drig too curious; the Americans were children of the night.

    He remembered the telephone booth on the north side of the Casa Rosada. The

    telephone booth in which a hired gun from the Unio Corso - sent down from

    Rio de Janeiro - had taken his last breath.

    They reached the Plaza de Mayo in fifteen minutes, taking a circular route,

    making sure they were not followed. The Plaza was not deserted. It was, as

    the prewar travel posters proclaimed, a Western Hemisphere Paris. Like

    Paris, there were dozens of early stragglers, dressed mainly in expensive

    clothes. Taxis stopped and started; prostitutes made their last attempts to

    find profitable beds; the streetlights illuminated the huge fountains;

    lovers dabbled their hands in the pools.

    The Plaza de Mayo at three thirty in the morning was not a barren, dead

    place to be. And David was grateful for that.

    Lyons puffed the car up to the telephone booth and Spaulding got out.

    'Whatever it is, you've hit the rawest nerve in Buenos Aires.' Granville's

    voice was hard and precise. 'I must demand that you return to the embassy.

    For your own protection as well as the good of our diplomatic relations.'

'You'll have to be clearer than that, I'm afraid,' replied David.

Granville was.

    The 'one or two' contacts the ambassador felt he could reach in the Grupo

    were reduced, of course, to one. That man made inquiries as to the trawler

    in Ocho Calle and subsequently was taken from his home under guard. That

    was the information Granville gathered from a hysterical wife.

    An hour later the ambassador received word ftom a GOU Haison that

    his'friend'had been killed in an automobile accident. The GOU wanted him to

    have the news. It was most unfortunate.

When Granville tried reaching the wife, an operator cut in

    381

explaining that the telephone was disconnected.

    'You've involved us, Spauldingl We can't function with Intelligence dead

    weight around our necks. The situation in Buenos Aires is extremely

    delicate.'

    'You are involved, sir. A couple of thousand miles away people are shooting

    at each other.'

    'Shit V It was just about the most unexpected expletive David thought he

    could hear from Granville. 'Learn your lines of demarcation! We all have

    jobs to do within the ... artificial, if you like, parameters that are set

    for us! I repeat, sir. Return to the embassy and I'll expedite your

    immediate return to the United States. Or if you refuse, take yourself to

    FMF. 77wt's beyond my jurisdiction; you will be no part of the embassy!'

    My God! thought David. Artificial parameters. Jurisdictions. Diplomatic

    niceties. When men were dying, am-des destroyed, cities obliterated! And

    men in high-ceilinged rooms played games with words and attitudes!

    'I can't go to FMF. But I can give you something to think about. Within

    forty-eight hours all American ships and aircraft in the coastal zones are

    entering a radio and radar blackout! Everything grounded, immobilized.

    That's straight military holy writ. And I think you'd better find out why!

    Because I think I know, and if I'm right, your diplomatic wreck is filthier

    than anything you can imagine! Try a man named Swanson at the War

    Department. Brigadier Alan Swanson! And tell him I've found "Tortugas" V

    David slammed down the receiver with such force that chips of Bakelite fell

    off the side of the telephone. He wanted to run. open the door of the

    suffocating booth and race away.

But where to? There was nowhere.

    He took several deep breaths and once more dialed the embassy.

    Jean's voice was soft, filled with anxiety. But she had found a place!

    He and Lyons were to drive due west on Rivadavia to the farthest outskirts

    of Buenos Aires. At the end of Rivadavia was a road bearing right - it

    could be spotted by a large statue of the Madonna at its beginning. The

    road led to the flat grass country, provinciales country. Thirty-six miles

    beyond the Madonna was another road - on the left - this marked by

    telephone junction wires converging into a transformer box on top of a

    double-

382

strapped telephone pole. The road led to a ranch belonging to one Alfonzo

Quesarro. Seftor Quesarro would not be there

    . under the circumstances. Neither would his wife. But a ;~eleton staff

    would be on; the remaining staff quarters would be available for Mrs.

    Cameron's unknown friends.

Jean would obey his orders: she would not leave the embassy.

And she loved him. Terribly.

    Dawn came up over the grass country. The breezes were warm; David had to

    remind himself that it was January. The Argentine summer. A member of the

    skeleton staff of Estancia. Quesarro met them several miles down the road

    past the telephone junction wires, on the property border, and escorted

    them to the rancherfa - a cluster of small one-storey cottages - near but

    not adjacent to the main buildings. They were led to an adobe hut farthest

    from the other houses; it was on the edge of a fenced grazing area, fields

    extending as far as the eye could see. The house was the residence of the

    caporal - the ranch foreman.

    David understood as he looked up at the roof, at the single telephone line.

    Ranch foremen had to be able to use a telephone.

    Their escori opened the door and stood in the frame, anxious to leave. He

    touched David's arm and spoke in a Spanish tempered with pampas Indian.

    'The telephones out here are with operators. The service is poor; not like

    thecity. I am to tell you this, sefior.'

    But that information was not what the gaucho was telling him. He was

    telling him to be careful.

'I'll rernember,' said Spaulding. 'Thank you.'

    The man left quickly and David closed the door. Lyons was standing across

    the room, in the center of a small monastery arch that led to some sort of

    sunlit enclosure. The metal case containing the gyroscopic designs was in

    his right hand; with his left he beckoned David.

    Beyond the arch was a cubicle; in the center, underneath an oblong window

    overlooking the fields, there was a bed.

Spaulding undid the top of his trousers and peeled them off.

He fell with his full weight into the hard mattress and slept.

    393

1

    40

It seemed only seconds ago that he had walked4hrough the small arch into the

sunlit cubicle.

    He felt the prodding fingers around his wound; he winced as a cold-hot

    liquid was applied about his waist and the adhesive ripped oft.

    He opened his eyes fiercely and saw the figure of a man bent over the bed.

    Lyons was standing beside him. At the edge of the hard mattress was the

    universal shape of a medical bag. The man bending over him was a doctor. He

    spoke in unusually clear English.

    'You've slept nearly eight hours. That is the best prescription one could

    give you.... I'm going to suture this in three places; that should do it.

    There will be a degree of discomfort, but with the tape, you'll be quite

    mobile.'

'What time is itT asked David.

    Lyons looked at his watch. He whispered, and the words were clear. 'Two ...

    o'clock.'

    'Thank you for coming out here,' said Spaulding, shifting his weight for

    the doctor's instruments.

    'Wait until I'm back at my office in Palermo.' The doctor laughed softly,

    sardonically. 'I'm sure I'm on one of their lists.' He inserted a suture,

    reassuring David with a tight smile. 'I left word I was on a maternity call

    at an outback ranch.... There.' He tied off the stitch and patted

    Spaulding's bare skin. 'Two

384

more and we're finished.'

'Do you think you'll be questioned?'

    'No. Not actually. The junta closes its eyes quite often. There's not an

    abundance of doctors here.... And amusingly enough, interrogators

    invariably seek free medical advice. I think it goes with their

    mentalities.'

'And I think you're covering. I think it was dangerous.'

    The doctor held his hands in place as he looked at David. 'Jean Cameron is

    a very special person. If the history of wartime Buenos Aires is written,

    she'll be prominently mentioned.' He returned to the sutures without

    elaboration. David had the feeling that the doctor did not wish to talk

    further. He was in a hurry.

    Twenty minutes later Spaulding was on his feet, the doctor at the door of

    the adobe hut. David shook the medical man's hand. 'I'm afraid I can't pay

    you,' he said.

'You already have, colonel. I'm a Jew.'

    Spaulding did not release the doctor's hand. Instead, he held it fim-Ay -

    not in salutation. 'Please explain.'

    'There's nothing to explain. The Jewish community is filled with rumors of

    an American officer who pits himself against the pig.... Rhinemann the

    pig.'

'That's all?'

    'It's enough.' The doctor removed his hand from Spaulding's and walked out.

    David closed the door.

Rhinemann the pig. It was time for Rhinemann.

    The teutonic, guttural voice screamed into the telephone. David could

    picture the blue-black veins protruding on the surface of the bloated,

    suntanned skin. He could see the narrow eyes bulging with fury.

    'It was you! It was you I'Thc accusation was repeated over and over again,

    as if the, repetition might provoke a denial.

'It was me,' said David without emphasis.

'You are dead! You are a dead man!'

    David spoke quietly, slowly. With precision. 'If I'm dead, no codes are

    sent to Washington; no radar or radio blackout. The screens will pick up

    that trawler and the instant a submarine surfaces anywhere near it, it'll

    be blown out of the water.'

    Rhinemann was silent. Spaulding heard the German Jew's rhythmic breathing

    but said nothing. He let Rhinemann's thoughts dwell upon the implication.

    Finally Rhinemann spoke.

    385

With equal precision.

    'Then you have something to say to me. Or you would not have telephoned.'

    'That's right,' agreed David. 'I have something to say. I assume you're

    taking a broker's fee. I can't believe you arranged this exchange for

    nothing.'

    Rhinemann paused again. He replied cautiously, his breathing heavy, carried

    over the wire. 'No.... It is a transaction. Accommodations must be paid

    for.'

    'But that payment comes later, doesn't it?' David kept his words calm,

    dispassionate. 'You're in no hurry; you've got everyone where you want

    them.... There won't be 4ny messages radioed out of Switzerland that

    accounts have been settled. The only message you'll get - or won't get - is

    from a submarine telling you the Koening diamonds have been transferred

    from the trawler. That's when I fly out of here with the designs. That's

    the signal.' Spaulding laughed a brief, cold, quiet laugh. 'It's very pro,

    Rhinemann. I congratulate you.'

    The financier's voice was suddenly low, circumspect. 'What's your point?'

    'It's also very pro . . . I'm the only one who can bring about that message

    from the U-boat. No one else. I have the codes that turn the lights off;

    that make the radar screens go dark.... But I expect to get paid for it.'

    'I see. . . .' Rhinemann hesitated, his breathing still audible. 'It is a

    presumptuous demand. Your superiors expect the gyroscopic designs. Should

    you impede their delivery, your punishment, no doubt, will be execution.

    Not formally arrived at, of course, but the result will be the same. Surely

    you know that.'

    David laughed again, and again the laugh was brief - but now good-natured.

    'You're way off. Way off. There may be executions, but not mine. Until last

    night I only knew half the story. Now I know it all... No, not my

    execution. On the other hand, you do have a problem. I know that; four

    years in Lisbon teaches a man some things!

:What is my problem?'

    If the Koening merchandise in Ocho Calle is not delivered, Altmtfller will

    send an undercover battalion into Buenos Aires. You won't survive it.'

    The silence again. And in that silence was Rhinemann's acknowledgement that

    David was right.

386

    'Then we are allies,' said Rhinemann. 'In one night you've gone far. You

    took a dangerous risk and leaped many plateaus. I admire such aggressive

    ambitions. I'm sure arrangements can be made.'

'I was sure you'd be sure.'

'Shall we discuss figures?'

    Again David laughed softly. 'Payment from you is like ... before last

    night. Only half the story. Make your half generous. in Switzerland. The

    second half will be paid in the States. A lifetime of very generous

    retainers.' David suddenly spoke tersely. 'I want names.'

'I don't understand.

    'Think about it. The men behind this operation. The Americans. Those are

    the names I want. Not an accountant, not a confused brigadier. The others.

    . . . Without those names there's no deal. No codes.'

    'The man from Lisbon is remarkably without conscience,' said Rhinemann with

    a touch of respect. 'You are ... as you Americans say ... quite a rotten

    fellow.'

    'I've watched the masters in action. I thought about it.... Why not?'

    Rhinemann obviously had not listened to David's reply. His tone was

    abruptly suspicious. 'If this ... gain of personal wealth is the conclusion

    you arrived at, why did you do what you did last night? I must tell you

    that the damage is not irreparable, but why did you?'

    'For the simplest of reasons. I hadn't thought about it last night. I

    hadn't arrived at this conclusion ... last night.' God knew, that was the

    truth, thought David.

    'Yes. I think I understand,' said the financier. 'A very human reaction. .

    . .'

    'I want the rest of these designs,' broke in Spaulding. 'And you want the

    codes sent out. To stay on schedule, we have thirty-six hours, give or take

    two or three. I'll call you at six o'clock. Be ready to move.'

    David hung up. He took a deep breath and realized he was perspiring . . .

    and the small concrete house was cool. The breezes from the fields were

    coming through the windows, billowing the curtains. He looked at Lyons, who

    sat watching him in a straight-backed wicker chair.

'How'd I do?'he asked.

    387

    Thephysicist swallowed and spoke, and it occurred to Spaulding that either

    he was getting used to Lyons's strained voice or Lyons's speech was

    improving.

    'Very ... convincing. Except for the ... sweat on your face and the

    expression ... in your eyes.' Lyons smiled; then followed it instantly with

    a question he took seriously. 'Is there a chance ... for the remaining

    blueprints?'

    David held a match to a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, looked up at the

    gently swaying curtains of an open window, then turned to the physicist. 'I

    think we'd better understand one another, doctor. I don't give a goddamn

    about those designs. Perhaps I should, but I don't. And if the way to get

    our hands on them is to risk that trawler reaching a U-boat, it's out of

    the question. As far as I'm concerned we're bringing out threequarters more

    than what we've got. And that's too goddarnn much.... There's only one

    thing I want: the names... I've got the evidence; now I want the names.'

'You want revenge,' said Lyons softly.

    'Yesl . . . Jesusl Yes, I do!' David crushed out his barely touched

    cigarette, crossed to the open window and looked out at the fields. 'I'm

    sorry, I don't mean to yell at you. Or maybe I should. You heard Feld; you

    saw what I brought back from Ocho Calle. You know the whole putrid ...

    obscene thing.'

    'I know ... the men who fly those planes. . are not responsible ... I know

    I believe that ... Germany must lose this war.'

    'For Christ's sake!' roared David, whirling from the window. 'You've seen!

    You've got to understand!'

    'Are you saying ... there's no difference? I don't believe that. ... I

    don't think you believe it.'

    'I don't know what I believe! ... No. I do know. I know what I object to;

    because it leaves no room for belief... And I know I want those names.'

    'You should have them.... Your questions are great ... moral ones. I think

    they will pain you ... for years.' Lyons was finding it difflicult to

    sustain his words now. 'I submit only ... no matter what has happened ...

    that Asher Feld was right. This war must not be settled ... it must be

    won.'

    Lyons stopped talking and rubbed his throat. David walked to a table where

    Lyons kept a pitcher of water and poured a glass. He carried it over to the

    spent physicist and handed it to him. It occurred to David, as he

    acknowledged the gesture of thanks,

388

that it was strange.... Of all men, the emaciated recluse in front of him

would profit least from the outcome of the war. Or the shortening of it. Yet

Eugene Lyons had been touched by the commitment of Asher Feld. Perhaps, in

his pain, Lyons understood the simpler issues that his own anger had

distorted.

Asher Feld. The Alvea HoteL

    'Listen to me,' said Spaulding. 'If there's a chance . . . and there may

    be, we'll try for the blueprints. There's a trade-off possible; a dangerous

    one ... not for us, but for your friend, Asher Feld. We'll see. No

    promises. The names come first. ... It's a parallel route; until I get the

    names, Rhinemann has to believe I want the designs as much as he wants the

    diamonds. ... We'll sec.'

    The weak, erratic bell of the country telephone spun out its feeble ring.

    Spaulding picked it up.

'It's Ballard,' said the voice anxiously.

'Yes, BobbyT

    'I hope to Christ you're clean, because there's a lot of flak to the

    contrary. I'm going on the assumption that a reasonable guy doesn't

    court-martial himself into a long prison term for a few dollars.'

    'A reasonable assumption. What is it? Did you get the informationT

    'First things first. And the first thing is that the Fleet Marine Force

    wants you dead or alive; the condition is immaterial, and I think they'd

    prefer you dead.'

'They found Meehan and the driver. . .

    'You bet your ass they did! After they got rolled and stripped to their

    skiwies by some wandering vagos. They're mad as helll They threw out the

    bullshit about not alerting the embassy that Fairfax wants you picked up.

    Fairfax's incidental; they want you. Assault, theft, etcetera.'

'All right. That's to be expected.'

    'Expected? Oh, you're a pistol! I don't suppose I have to tell you about

    Granville. You got him burning up my dials! Washington's preparing a

    top-level scramble, so I'm chained to my desk till it comes in.'

    'Then he doesn't know. They're covering,' said Spaulding, annoyed.

    'The hell he doesn'tt The hell they arel This radio silence; you walked

    into a High Command defection I An Allied Central

    389

project straight from the War Department.'

    'I'll bet it's from the War Department. I can tell you which office.'

    'It's true.... There's a U-boat bringing in a couple of very important

    Berliners. You're out of order; it's not your action. Granville will tell

    you that.'

    'Horseshitl' yelled. David. 'Pure horseshitl Transparent horseshit! Ask any

    network agent in Europe. You couldn't get a Breffinwrke out of any German

    port I No one knows that better than me I'

    'Interesting, ontologically speaking. Transparency isn't a quality one

    associates . . .'

    'No jokes! My humor's strained!' And then suddenly David realized he had no

    cause to yell at the cryp. Ballard's frame of reference was essentially the

    same as it had been eighteen hours ago - with complications, perhaps, but

    not of death and survival. Ballard did not know about the carnage at San

    Tehno or the tools for Peenerntinde in Ocho Calle; and a Haganah that

    reached into the most secret recesses of Military Intelligence. Nor would

    he be told just now. 'I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind.'

    'Sure, sure.' Ballard replied as if he were used to other people's tempers.

    Another trait common to most cryptographers, David reflected. 'Jean said

    you were hurt; fell and cut yourself pretty badly. Did somebody pushT

    'It's all right. The doctor was here. . . . Did you get the information? On

    Ira Barden.'

    'Yeah. . . . I used straight G-2 in Washington. A dossier Teletype request

    over your name. This Barden's going to know about it.'

'That's O.K. What's it sayT

'The whole darrm thing?'

'Whatever seems ... unusual. Fairfax qualifications, probably.'

    'They don't use the name Fairfax. Just high-priority classification....

    He's in the Reserves, not regular army. Family company's in importing.

    Spent a number of years in Europe and the Middle East; speaks five

    languages. . . .'

'And one of them's Hebrew,' interrupted David quietly.

    'That's right. How did. . .? Never mind. He spent two years at the American

    University in Beirut while his father represented the firm in the

    Mediterranean areas. The company was very big in Middle East textiles.

    Barden transferred to Harvard, then

390

transferred again to a small college called Brandeis.... I don't know it. He

majored in Near East studies, it says here. When he graduated he went into

the family business until the war.... I guess it was the languages.'

'Thanks,' said David. 'Bum the Teletype, Bobby.'

    'With pleasure.... When are you coming in? You better get here before the

    FMF finds you. Jean can probably convince old Henderson to cool things

    off.'

'Pretty soon. How's Jean?'

    'Huh? Fine.... Scared; nervous, I guess. You'll see. She's a strong girl,

    though.'

'Tell her not to worry.'

'Tell her yourself.'

'She's there with you?'

    'No .Ballard drew out the word, telegraphing a note of

concern that had been absent. 'No, she's not with me. She's on

her way to see you. . .

'What?'

    'The nurse. The doctor's nurse. She called about an hour ago. She said you

    wanted to see Jean.' Ballard's voice suddenly became hard and loud. 'What

    the hell's going on, Spaulding?'

391

41

'Surely the, man from Lisbon expected countermeasures. I'm amazed he was so

derelict.' Heinrich Stoltz conveyed his arrogance over the telephone. 'Mrs.

Cameron was a flank you took for granted, yes? A summons from a loved one is

difficult to resist, is it noff

'Where is she?'

    'She is on her way to Lujin. She will be a guest at Habichtsnest. An

    honored guest, I can assure you. Herr Rhinemann will be immensely pleased;

    I was about to telephone him. I wanted to wait until the interception was

    made.'

    'You're out of line!' David said, trying to keep his voice calm. 'You're

    asking for reprisals in every neutral area. Diplomatic hostages in a

    neutral . . .'

    'A guest,' interrupted the German with relish. 'Hardly a prize; a

    step-daughter-in-law; the husband deceased. With no official status. So

    complicated, these American social rituals.'

'You know what I mean! You don't need diagrams!'

    'I said she was a guest! Of an eminent financier you yourself were sent to

    contact . . . concerning international economic matters, I believe. A Jew

    expelled from his own country, that country your enemy. I see no cause for

    immediate alarm.... Although, perhaps, you should.'

    There was no reason to procrastinate. Jean was no part of the barFain, no

    part of the indictment. To hell with the indictmentl To hell with a

    meaningless commitment! There was no meaning!

Only Jean.

392

'Call the moves,' said David.

    'I was sure you'd cooperate. What difference does it make to you? Or to me,

    really.... You and I, we take orders. Leave the philosophy to men of great

    affairs. We survive.'

    'That doesn't sound like a true believer. I was told you were a believer.'

    David spoke aimlessly; he needed time, only seconds. To think.

    'Strangely enough, I am. In a world that passed, I'm afraid.

Only partially in the one that's coming . . . . . The remaining

designs are at Habichtsnest. You and your aerophysicist win go

there at once. I wish to conclude our negotiations this evening.'

    'Wait a minute!' David's mind raced over conjectures-his counterpart's

    options. 'That's not the cleanest nest I've been in; the inhabitants leave

    something to be desired.'

'So do the guests. . . .'

    'Two conditions. One: I see Mrs. Cameron the minute I get there. Two: I

    don't send the codes - if they're to be sent - until she's back at the

    embassy. With Lyons.'

    'We'll discuss these points later. There is one prior condition, however.'

    Stoltz paused. 'Should you not be at Habichsnest this afternoon, you will

    never see Mrs. Cameron. As you last saw her.... Habicht.snest has so many

    diversions; the guests enjoy them so. Unfortunately, there have been some

    frightful accidents in the past. On the river, in the pool ... on

    horseback. . . .'

    The foreman gave them a road map and filled the FMF automobile's gas tank

    with fuel from the ranch pump. Spaulding removed the orange medallions from

    the bumpers and blurred the numbers of the license plates by chipping away

    at the paint until the Is looked like 7s, and 3s like 8s. Then he smashed

    the ornament off the tip of the hood, slapped black paint overi the grill

    and removed all four hubcaps. Finally, he took a sledgehammer and, to the

    amazement of the silent gaucho, he crashed it into the side door panels,

    trunk and roof of the car.

    When he had finished, the automobile from Fleet Marine Force looked like

    any number of back-country wrecks.

    They drove out the road to the primitive highway by the telephone junction

    box and turned east toward Buenos Aires. Spaulding pressed the accelerator;

    the vibrations caused the loose metal to rattle throughout the car. Lyons

    held the unfolded map on his knees; if it was correct, they could reach the

    LujAn

    393

district without traveling the major highways, reducing the chances of

discovery by the FMF patrols that were surely out by now.

    The goddamned irony of itl thought David. Safety ... safety for Jean, for

    him, too, really ... lay in contact with the same enemy he had fought so

    viciously for over three years. An enemy made an ally by incredible events

    ... treasons taking place in Washington and Berlin.

    What had Stoltz said? Leave the philosophy to men of great affairs.

Meaning and no meaning at all.

    David nearly missed the half-concealed entrance to Habichtsnest. He was

    approaching it from the opposite direction on the lonely stretch of road he

    had traveled only once, and at night. What caused him to slow down and look

    to his left, spotting the break in the woods, were sets of black tire marks

    on the light surface of the entrance. They had not been there long enough

    to be erased by the hot sun or succeeding traffic. And Spaulding recalled

    the words of the guard on the pier in Ocho Calle.

... There is a lot of shouting.

    David could visualize Rhinemann screaming his orders, causing a column of

    racing Bentleys and Packards to come screeching out of the hidden road from

    Habichtsnest on its way to a quiet street in San Telmo.

    And no doubt later - in the predawn hours - other automobiles, more

    sweating, frightened henchmen - racing to the small isolated peninsula that

    was Ocho Calle.

    With a certain professional pride, Spaulding reflected that he had

    interdicted well.

Both enemies. All enemies.

    A vague plan was coming into focus, but only the outlines. So much depended

    on what faced them at Habichtsnest.

And the soft-spoken words of hatred uttered by Asher Feld.

    The guards in their paramilitary uniforms leveled their rifles at the

    approaching automobile. Others held dogs that were straining at leashes,

    teeth bared, barking viciously. The man behind the electric gate shouted

    orders to those in front; four guards ran to the car and yanked the smashed

    panels open. Spaulding and Lyons got out; they were pushed against the FMF

394

vehicle and searched.

    David kept turning his head, looking at the extended fence beyond both

    sides of the gate. He estimated the height and the tensile strength of the

    links, the points of electrical contact between the thick-poled sections.

    The angles of direction.

It was part of his plan.

    Jean ran to him from across the terraced balcony. He held her, silently,

    for several moments. It was a brief span of sanity and he was grateful for

    it.

    Rhinemann stood at the railing twenty feet away, Stoltz at his side.

    Rhinemann's narrow eyes stared at David from out of the folds of suntanned

    flesh. The look was one of despised respect, and David knew it.

    There was a third man. A tall, blond-haired man in a white Palm Beach suit

    seated at a glass-topped table. Spaulding did not know him.

    'David, David. What have I done?'Jean would not let him go; he stroked her

    soft brown hair, replying quietly.

'Saved my life among other things .....

    'The Third Reich has extraordinarily thorough surveillance, Mrs. Cameron,'

    interrupted Stoltz, smiling. 'We keep watch on all Jews. Especially

    professional men. We knew you were friendly with the doctor in Palermo; and

    that the colonel was wounded. It was all quite simple!

    'Does your surveillance of Jews include the man beside you?' asked

    Spaulding in a monotone.

    Stoltz paled slightly, his glance shifting unobtrusively from Rhinemann to

    the blond-haired man in the chair. 'Heff Rhinemann understands my meaning.

    I speak 'pragmatically; of the necessary observation of hostile elements!

    'Yes, I remember,' said David, releasing Jean, putting his arm around her

    shoulders. 'You were very clear yesterday about the regrettable necessity

    of certain practicalities. I'm sorry you missed the lecture, Rhinemann. It

    concerned the concentration of Jewish money.... We're here. Let's get on

    with it.'

    Rhinemann stepped away from the railing. 'We shall. But first, so the ...

    circle is complete, I wish to present to you an acquaintance who has flown

    in from Berlin. By way of neutral passage, of course. I want you to have

    the opportunity of knowing you dealdirectly with him. The exchange is more

    genuine this way.'

    395

    Spaulding looked over at the blond-haired man in the white Palm Beach suit.

    Their eyes locked.

    'Franz AltmUller, Ministry of Armaments. Berlin,' said David.

    'Colonel David Spaulding. Fairfax. Late of Portugal. The man in Lisbon,'

    said Altmillier.

    'You are jackals,' added Rhinemann, 'who fight as traitors fight and

    dishonor your houses. I say this to you both. For both to hear. Now, as you

    say, colonel, we shall get on with it.,

    Stoltz took Lyons below to the manicured lawn by the pool. There, at a

    large, round table, a Rhinemann guard stood with a metal attach6 case in

    his hand. Lyons sat down, his back to the balcony; the guard lifted the

    case onto the table.

'Open it,' commanded Erich Rhinemann from above.

    The guard did so; Lyons took out the plans and spread them on the table.

Altmaller spoke. 'Remain with him, Stoltz.'

    Stoltz looked up, bewildered. However, he did not speak. He walked to the

    edge of the pool and sat in a deck chair, his eyes fixed on Lyons.

    AltmUller turned to Jean. 'May I have a word with the colonel, please?'

    Jean looked at Spaulding. She took her hand from his and walked to the far

    end of the balcony. Rhinemann remained in the center, staring down at

    Lyons.

    'For both our sakes,' said Altmtlller, 'I think you should tell me what

    happened in San Telmo.'

    David watched the German closely. Altmfiller was not lying; he was not

    trying to trap him. He did not know about the Haganah. About Asher Feld. It

    was Spaulding's only chance.

'Gestapo.'said David, giving the lie the simplicity of conviction.

    'Impossible!' Altmfiller spat out the word. 'You know that's impossible! I

    am here!'

    'I've dealt with the Gestapo - in various forms - for nearly four years. I

    know the enemy.... Grant me that much credit.'

'You're wrong! There's no possible way!'

    'You've spent too much time in the ministry, not enough in the field. Do

    you want a professional analysis?'

'What is iff

396

David leaned against the railing. 'You've been had.'

' What?'

    'Just as I've been had. By those who employ our considerable talents. In

    Berlin and Washington. There's a remarkable coincidence,too.... They both

    have the same initials.... A.S.'

    Altmifller stared at Spaulding, his blue eyes penetrating, his mouth parted

    slightly - in disbelief. He spoke the name under his breath.

-Albert Speer. . .

-Alan Swanson.' countered David softly.

    'It can't be,' said Altmfiller with less conviction than he wished to

    muster. 'He doesn't know. . . .'

    'Don't go into the field without some advanced training. You won't last....

    Why do you think I offered to make a deal with RhinemannT

    Altmaller was listening but not listening. He took his eyes from Spaulding,

    seemingly consumed with the pieces of an incredible puzzle. 'If what you

    say is true - and by no means do I agree - the codes would not be sent, the

    transfer aborted. There would be no radio silence; your fleet cruising,

    radar and aircraft in 6peration. Everything lost!'

    David folded his arms in front of him. It was the moment when the lie would

    either be bought or rejected out of hand. He knew it; he felt as he had

    felt scores of times in the north country when the lie was the keystone.

    'Your side plays rougher than mine. It goes with the New Order. My people

    won't kill me; they just want to make sure I don't know anything. All they

    care about are those designs.... With you it's different. Your people keep

    their options open.'

    David stopped and smiled at Rhinemann, who had turned from his sentry

    position by the balcony and was looking at them. Altmijller kept his eyes

    on Spaulding . . . the inexperienced .runner' being taught, thought David.

'And in your judgment, what are these optionsT

    'A couple I can think of,' replied Spaulding. 'Immobilize me, force in

    another code man at the last minute, substitute faulty blueprints; or get

    the diamonds out from Ocho Calle some other way than by water - difficult

    with those crates, but not impossible.'

    'Then why should I not let these options be exercised? You tempt me.9

Spaulding had been glancing up, at nothing. Suddenly he

    397

turned and looked at AltmOller. 'Don't ever go into the field; you won't

last a day. Stay at your ministry.'

'What does that meanr

    'Any alternate strategy used, you're dead. You're a liability now. You

    "dealt" with the enemy. Speer knows it, the Gestapo knows it. Your only

    chance is to use what you know. Just like me. Youfor your life; me for a

    great deal of money. Christ knows the aircraft companies will make a pile;

    I deserve some of it.'

    AltmOller took two steps to the railing and stood alongside David, looking

    down at the distant river below. 'It's an so pointless.'

    'Not when you think about it,' said Spaulding. 'Something for nothing never

    is in this business!

    David, staring straight ahead, could feel AltmOller's eyes abruptly on him.

    He could sense the new thought coming into focus in Altmaller's mind.

    'Your generosity may be your undoing, colonel.... We can still have

    something for nothing. And 1, a hero's medal from the Reich. We have you.

    Mrs. Cameron. The physicist's expendable, I'm sure. . . . You will send the

    codes. You were willing to negotiate for money. Surely you'll negotiate for

    your lives.'

    Like Altmaller, David stared straight ahead when he replied. His arms still

    folded, he was irritatingly relaxed, as he knew he had to be. 'Those

    negotiations have been concluded. If Lyons approves the blueprints, I'll

    send the codes when he and Mrs. Cameron are back at the embassy. Not

    before.'

    'You'll send them when I order you to.' Altmifller was finding it difficult

    to keep his voice low. Rhinemarm looked over again but made no move to

    interfere. Spaulding understood. Rhinemann was toying with his jackals.

'Sorry to disappoint you,' said David.

    'Then extremely unpleasant things will happen. To Mrs. Cameron first.'

    'Give it up.' David sighed. 'Play by the original rules. You haven't a

    chance.'

'You talk confidently for a man alone.'

    Spaulding pushed himself off the railing and turned, facing the German. He

    spoke barely above a whisper. 'You really are a goddamned fool. You

    wouldn't last an hour in Lisbon.... Do you think I drove in here without

    any backups? Do you think Rhinemann expected me to? ... We men in the field

    are very

398

cautious, very cowardly; were not heroic at all. We don't blow up buildings

if there's a chance we'll still be inside. We won't destroy an enemy bridge

unless there's another way back to our side.'

'You are alone. There are no bridges left for you!'

    David looked at Altmilller as if appraising a bad cut of meat, then glanced

    at his watch. 'Your Stolz was a fool. If I don't make a call within fifteen

    minutes, there'll be a lot of busy telephones resulting in God knows how

    many very official automobiles driving out to Lujin. I'm a military attach6

    stationed at the American embassy. I accompanied the ambassador's daughter

    to Lujin. That's enough.'

    'That's preposterous! This is a neutral city. Rhinemann would. . .'

    'Rhinemann would open the gates and throw the jackals out,' interrupted

    Spaulding quietly and very calmly. 'We're liabilities both of us.

    "Tortugas" could blow up in his postwar face. Hes not going to allow that.

    Whatever he thinks of the systems, yours or mine, it doesn't matter. Only

    one thing matters to him: the cause of Erich Rhinemann.... I thought you

    knew that. You picked him.'

    Altmaller was breathing steadily, a bit too deeply, thought David. He was

    imposing a control on himself and he was only barely succeeding.

    'You ... have made arrangements to send the codes? From hereT

The lie was bought. The keystone was now in place.

    'The rules are back in force. Radio and radar silence. No air strikes on

    surfacing submarines. No interception of trawlers ... under Paraguayan

    flags entering the coastal zones. We both win.... Which do you want,

    jackalT

    AltmUller turned back to the railing and placed his hands on the marble

    top. His fingers were rigid against the stone. The tailored folds of his

    white Palm Beach suit were starchly immobile. He looked down at the river

    and spoke.

'The rules of "Tortugas" are reinstated.'

'I have a telephone call to make.' said David.

    'I expected you would,' replied Rhinemann, looking contemptuously at Franz

    AltmUller. 'I have no stomach for an embassy kidnapping. It serves no one.'

    399

    'Don't be too harsh,' said Spaulding agreeably. 'It got me here in record

    time.'

    'Make your call.' Rhinemann pointed to a telephone on a table next to the

    archway. 'Your conversation will be amplified, of course.'

'Of course,' answered David, walking to the phone.

'Radio room. . . 'came the words from the unseen speakers.

    'This is Lieutenant Colonel Spaulding, military attach6,' said David,

    interrupting Ballard's words.

There was the slightest pause before Ballard replied.

'Yes, sir, Colonel Spaulding?'

    'I issued a directive of inquiry prior to my conference this afternoon. You

    may void it now.'

'Yes, sir.... Very good, sir.'

    'May I speak with the head cryptographer, please? A Mr. Ballard, I believe!

'I'm ... Ballard, sir.'

    'Sorry,' said David curtly, 'I didn't recognize you, Ballard. Be ready to

    send out the sealed code schedules I prepared for you. The green envelope;

    open it and familiarize yourself with the progressions. When I give you the

    word, I want it transmitted immediately. On a black-drape priority!

'What ... sirT

    'My authorization is black drape, Ballard. It's in the lex, so clear all

    scrambler channels. You'll get no flak with that priority. 19H call you

    back.'

Yes, sir. . . .'

    David hung up, hoping to Christ that Ballard was as good at his job as

    David thought he was. Or as good at parlour games as Henderson Granville

    thought he was.

'You're very efficient,' said Rhinemann.

'I try to be,' said David.

    Ballard stared at the telephone. What was Spaulding trying to tell him?

    Obviously that Jean was all right; that he and Lyons were all right, too.

    At least for the time being.

Be ready to send out the sealed code schedules Iprepared...

    David had not prepared any codes. He had. Spaulding had memorized the

    progressions, that was true, but only as a contingency.

What goddamned green envelope?

400

There was no envelope, red, blue or green I

What the bell was that nonsense ... black-drape priority?

What was a black drape? It didn't make sense I

But it was a key.

It's In the lex....

Lex.... Lexicon. The Lexicon of Cryptography!

    Black drape.... He recalled something ... something very obscure, way in

    the past. Black drape was a very old term, long obsolete. But it meant

    something.

    Ballard got out of his swivel chair and went to the bookshelf on the other

    side of the small radio room. He had not looked at The Lexicon of

    Cryptography in years. It was a useless, and, academic tome.... Obsolete.

    It was on the top shelf with the other useless reference books and, like

    the others, had gathered dust.

    He found the term on page 71. It was a single paragraph sandwiched between

    equally meaningless paragraphs. But it had meaning now.

    'The Black Drape, otherwise known as Schwarzes Tuch, for it was first

    employed by the German Imperial Army in 1916, is an entrapment device. It

    is hazardous for it cannot be repeated in a sector twice. It is a signal to

    proceed with a code, activating a given set of arrangements with intent to

    terminate, canceling said arrangements. The termination factor is expressed

    in minutes, specifically numbered. As a practice, it was abandoned in 1917

    for it nullified . . .'

Proceed ... with intent to terminate.

    Ballard closed the book and returned to his chair in front of the dials.

    Lyons kept turning the pages of the designs back and forth as if

    double-checking his calculations. Rhinemann caRed down twice from the

    balcony, inquiring if there were problems. Twice Lyons turned in his chair

    and shook his head. Stoltz remained in the deck chair by the pool, smoking

    cigarettes. AltmWler talked briefly with Rhinemann, the conversation

    obviously unsatisfactory to both. Altindlier returned to the chair by the

    glasstopped table and leafed through a Buenos Aires newspaper.

    David and Jean remained at the far end of the terrace, talking quietly.

    Every once in a while Spaulding let his voice carry across; if AltmQUer

    listened, he heard references to New York,

    40.1

to architectural firms, to vague postwar plans. Lovers' plans.

But these references were non sequiturs.

    'At the Alvea Hotel,' said David softly, holding Jean's hand, 'there's a

    man registered under the name of E. Pace. E. Pace. His real name is Asher

    Feld. Identify yourself as the contact from me

    . and a Fairfax agent named Barden. Ira Barden. Nothing else. Yeil him I'm

    calling his ... priorities. In precisely two hours from ... the minute you

    telephone from the embassy.... I nwan the mmute, Jean, he'll understand. .

    .

    Only once did Jean Cameron gasp, an intake of breath that caused David to

    glare at her and press her hand. She covered her shock with artificial

    laughter.

    Altmiffler looked up from the newspaper. Contempt was in his eyes; beyond

    the contempt, and also obvious, was his anger.

    Lyons got up from the chair and stretched his emaciated frame. He had spent

    three hours and ten minutes at the table; he turned and looked up at the

    balcony. At Spaulding.

He nodded.

    'Good,' said Rhinemann, crossing to Franz AltmWer. 'We'll proceed. It will

    be dark soon; we'll conclude everything by early morning. No more delay I

    Stoltz! Kommen Sie her I Bringen Sie &e Aktenmappe!'

    Stoltz went to the table and began replacing the pages in the attach6 case.

    David took Jean's arm and guided her towards Rhinemann and Altmifller. The

    Nazi spoke.

    'The plans comprise four hundred and sixty-odd pages of causal data and

    progressive equations. No man can retain such information; the absence of

    any part renders the designs useless. As soon as you contact the

    cryptographer and relay the codes, Mrs. Cameron and the physicist are free

    to leave.'

    'I'm sorry,' said Spaulding. 'My agreement was to send the codes when they

    were back at the embassy. That's the way it has to be.'

    'Surely,' interjected Rhinemann angrily, 'you don't think I would permit .

    . .'

    'No, I don't,' broke in David. 'But I'm not sure what you can control

    outside the gates of Habichtsnest. This way, I know you'll try harder.'

402

42

It was an hour and thirty-one minutes before the telephone rang. Nine

fifteen, exactly. The sun had descended behind the Lujin hills; the lights

along the distant riverbank ffickered in the enveloping darkness.

    Rhinemann picked up the receiver, listened and nodded to David.

    Spaulding got out of his chair and crossed to the financier, taking the

    receiver. Rhinemann flicked a switch on the wall. The speakers were

    activated.

    'We're here, David.' Jean's words were amplified on the terrace.

Tine,' answered Spaulding. 'No problems thenT

    'Not really. After five miles or so I thought Doctor Lyons was going to be

    sick. They drove so fast. . .

After ... five ....

Asher ... Feld ....

Jean had done it!

'But he's all right now?'

'He's resting. It'll take some time before he feels himself. . .

Time.

Jean had given Asher Feld the precise time.

'All right .... I

    'Genug! Genug!'said AltmOller,s tanding by the balcony.'That's enough. You

    have your proof; they are there. The codesl'

    403

    David looked over at the Nazi. It was an unhurried look, no at all

    accommodating.

'Yes?'

'You're in the radio room?'

'Yes.'

'Let me speak to that Ballard fellow.'

'Here he is.'

Ballard's voice was impersonal, efficient. 'Colonel Spaulding?'

'Ballard, have you cleared all scrambler channels?'

    'Yes, sir. Along with your priority. The drape's confirmed, sir.'

    'Very good. Stand by for my call. It shouldn't be more than a few minutes.'

    David quickly hung up the phone.

    'What are you doing?l'yelled Altmilller furiously. 'The codesl Send them I'

    'He's betraying usl' screamed Stoltz, jumping up from his chair.

    'I think you should explain yourself.' Rhinemann spoke !oftly, his voice

    conveying the punishment he intended to inflict.

    'Just last-minute details,' said Spaulding, lighting a cigarette. 'Only a

    few minutes.... Shall we talk alone, Rhinemann?'

    'That is unnecessary. What is it?' asked the financier. 'Your method of

    departure? It's arranged. You'll be driven to the Mendarro field with the

    designs. It's less than ten minutes from here. You won't be airborne,

    however, until we have confirmation of the Koening transfer.'

'How long will that be?'

'What difference does it make?'

    Once the blackout starts I have no protection, that's the difference.'

    'Ach!'Rhinemann was impatient. 'For four hours you'll have the best

    protection in the world. I have no stomach for offending the men in

    Washington!'

    'You see?' said David to Franz AltmUller. 'I told you we were liabilities.'

    He turned back to Rhinemann. 'All right. I accept that. You've got too much

    to lose. Detail number one, crossed off. Now detail number two. My payment

    from you.'

    Rhinemann squinted his eyes. 'You are a man of details. ... The sum of five

    hundred thousand American dollars will be

404

transferred to the Banque Louis Quatorze in Zilrich. It's a nonnegotiable

figure and a generous one.'

    'Extremely. More than I would have asked for .... What's my

guarantee?'

    'Come, colonel. We're not salesmen. You know where I live; your abilities

    are proven. I don't wish the specter of the

from Lisbon on my personal horizon.'

'You flatter me.'

    'The money will be deposited, the proper papers held in Zftrich for you. At

    the bank; normal procedures.'

    David crushed out his cigarette. 'All right, Zilrich.... Now the last

    detail. Those generous payments I'm going to receive right at home.... The

    names, please. Write them on a piece of paper.'

'Are you so sure I possess these names?'

    'It's the only thing I'm really sure of. It's the one opportunity you

    wouldn't miss.'

    Rhinemarm took a small black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and

    wrote hastily on a page. He tore it out and handed it to Spaulding.

David read the names:

    Kendall, Walter

    Swanson, A. U.S. Army

    Oliver, H. Meridian Aircraft

    Craft, J. Packard

    'Thank you,' said Spaulding. He put the page in his pocket and reached for

    the telephone. 'Get me the American embassy, please.,

    Ballard read the sequence of the code progressions David had recited to

    him. ney were not perfect but they were not far off, either; Spaulding had

    confused a vowel equation, but the message was clear.

    And David's emphasis on the 'frequency megacycle of 120 for all subsequent

    scrambles' was meaningless gibberish. But it, too, was very clear.

120 minutes.

Black Drape.

The original code allowed for thirteen characters:

    405

    CABLE TORTUGAS

    The code Spaulding had recited, however, had fifteen characters.

Ballard stared at the words.

    DESTROY TORTUGAS.

In two hours.

    David had a final 'detail' which none could fault professionally, but all

    found objectionable. Since there were four hours -more or less - before

    he'd be driven to the Mendarro airfield, and there were any number of

    reasons during this period why he might be out of sight of the designs - or

    Rhinemann might be out of sight of the designs - he insisted that they be

    placed in a single locked metal case and chained to any permanent

    structure, the chain held by a new padlock, the keys given to him. Further,

    he would also hold the keys to the case and thread the hasps. If the

    designs were tampered with, he'd know it.

    'Your precautions are now obsessive,' said Rhinemann disagreeably. 'I

    should ignore you. The codes have been sent.'

    'Then humor me. I'm a Fairfax four-zero. We might work again.,

Rhinemann smiled. 'That is always the way, is it not? So be it.'

    Rhinemann sent for a chain and a padlock, which he took a minor delight in

    showing to David in its original box. The ritual was over in several

    minutes, the metal case chained to the banister of the stairway in the

    great hall. The four men settled in the huge living room, to the right of

    the hall, an enormous archway affording a view of the staircase . . . and

    the metal briefcase.

    The financier became genial host. He offered brandies; only Spaulding

    accepted at first, then Heinrich Stoltz followed. Altmaller would not

    drink.

    A guard, his paramilitary uniform pressed into starched creases, came

    through the archway.

    'Our operators confirm radio silence, sir. Throughout the entire coastal

    zone.'

'Thank you,' said Rhinemann. 'Stand by on all frequencies!

    The guard nodded. He turned and left the room as quickly as he had entered.

406

'Your men are efficient,' observed David.

    'They're paid to be,' answered Rhinemann, looking at his watch. 'Now, we

    wait. Everything progresses and we have merely to wait. I'll order a

    buffet. Canaos are hardly filling

. and we have the time.'

    'You're hospitable,' said Spaulding, carrying his brandy to a chair next to

    Altmillter.

'And generous. Don't forget that.'

    'It would be hard to.... I was wondering, however, if I might impose

    further?' David placed his brandy glass on the side table and gestured at

    his rumpled, ill-fitting clothes. 'These were borrowed from a ranch hand.

    God knows when they were last washed. Or me.... I'd appreciate a shower, a

    shave; perhaps a pair of trousers and a shirt, or a sweater. . . .'

    'I'm sure your army personnel can accommodate you,' said Altmaller,

    watching David suspiciously.

    'For Christ's sake, AltmUller, I'm not going anywhere I Except to a shower.

    The designs are over therel' Spaulding pointed angrily through the archway

    to the metal case chained to the banister of the stairway. 'If you think

    I'm leaving without that, you're retarded.'

    The insult infuriated the Nazi; he gripped the arms of his chair

    controlling himself. Rhinemann laughed and spoke to Altmaller,

    'The colonel has had a tiresome few days. His request is minor; and I can

    assure you he is going nowhere but to the Mendarro airfield. . . . I wish

    he were. He'd save me a half million dollars.'

    David responded to Rhinemann's laugh with one of his own. 'A man with that

    kind of money in Zihich should at least feel clean.' He rose from the

    chair. 'And you're right about the last few days. I'm bushed. And sore all

    over. If the bed is soft I'll grab a nap.' He looked over at Altmfiller.

    'With a battalion of armed guards at the door if it'll ease the little

    boy's concerns.'

Altmililer shot up, his voice harsh and loud. 'Enough!'

'Oh sit down,' said David. 'You look foolish.'

    Rhinemann's guard brought him a pair of trousers, a lightweight turtleneck

    sweater and a tan suede jacket. David saw that each was expensive and he

    knew each would fit. Shaving equipment was in the bathroom; if there was

    anything else he needed,

    407

all he had to do was open the door and ask. The man would be outside in the

hall. Actually, there would be two men.

David understood.

    He told the guard - a portefio - that he would sleep for an hour, then

    shower and shave for his journey. Would the guard be so considerate as to

    make sure he was awake by eleven o'clock?

The guard would do so.

    It was five minutes past ten on David's watch. Jean had phoned at precisely

    nine fifteen. Asher Feld had exactly two hours from nine fifteen.

David had one hour and five minutes.

Eleven fifteen.

If Asher Feld really believed in his priorities.

    The room was large, had a high ceiling and two doublecasement windows three

    stories above the ground, and was in the east wing of the house. That was

    all Spaulding could tell - or wanted to study - while the lights were on.

    He turned them off and went back to the windows. He opened the left

    casement quietly, peering out from behind the drapes.

    The roof was slate; that wasn't good. It had a wide gutter; that was

    better. The gutter led to a drainpipe about twenty feet away. That was

    satisfactory.

    Directly beneath, on the second floor, were four small balconies that

    probably led to four bedrooms. The farthest balcony was no more than five

    feet from the drainpipe. Possibly relevant; probably not.

    Below, the lawn like all the grounds at Habichtsnest: manicured, greenish

    black in the moonlight, full; with white wroughtiron outdoor furniture

    dotted about, and flagstone walks bordered by rows of flowers. Curving away

    from the area beneath his windows was a wide, raked path that disappeared

    into the darkness and the trees. He remembered seeing that path from the

    far right end of the terrace overlooking the pool; he remembered the

    intermittent, unraked hoofprints. The path was for horses; it had to lead

    to stables somewhere beyond the trees.

That was relevant; relevancy, at this point, being relative.

    And then Spaulding saw the cupped glow of a cigarette behind a latticed

    arbor thirty-odd feet from the perimeter of the wroughtiron furniture.

    Rhinemann may have expressed confidence that he, David, would be on his way

    to Mendarro in a couple of

408

hours, but that confidence was backed up by men on watch.

    No surprise; the surprise would have been the absence of such patrols. It

    was one of the reasons he counted on Asher Feld's priorities.

    He let the drapes fall back into place, stepped away from the window and

    went to the canopied bed. He pulled down the blankets and stripped to his

    shorts - coarse underdrawers he had found in the adobe hut to replace his

    own bloodstained ones. He lay down and closed his eyes with no intention of

    sleeping. Instead, he pictured the high, electrified fence down at the gate

    of Habichtsnest. As he had seen it while Rhinemann's guards searched him

    against the battered FMF automobile.

To the right of the huge gate. To the east.

    The floodlights had thrown sufficient illumination for him to see the

    slightly angling curvature of the fence line as it receded into the woods.

    Not much but definite.

North by northeast.

    He visualized once again the balcony above the pool. Beyond the railing at

    the far right end of the terrace where he had talked quietly with Jean. He

    concentrated on the area below - in front, to the right.

North by northeast.

    He saw it clearly. The grounds to the right of the croquet course and the

    tables sloped gently downhill until they were met by the tall trees of the

    surrounding woods. It was into these woods that the bridle path below him

    now entered. And as the ground descended - ultimately a mile down to the

    river banks -he remembered the breaks in the patterns of the far-off

    treetops. Again to the right.

Fields.

    If there were horses - and there were horses - and stables -and there had

    to be stables - then there were fields. For the animals to graze and race

    off the frustrations of the wooded, confining bridle paths.

    The spaces between the descending trees were carved-out pasture lands,

    there was no other explanation.

North by northeast.

    He shifted his thoughts to the highway two miles south of the marble steps

    of Habichtsnest, the highway that cut through the outskirts of Lujin toward

    Buenos Aires. He remembered: the road, although high above the river at the

    Habichtsnest inter-

    409

section, curved to the left and went downhffl into the Tigre district. He

tried to recall precisely the first minutes of the nightmare ride in the

Bentley that ended in smoke and fire and death in the Colinas Rojas. The car

had swung out of the hidden entrance and for several miles sped east and

down and slightly north. It finally paralleled the shoreline of the river.

North by northeast.

    And then he pictured the river below the terraced balcony, dotted with

    white sails and cabin cruisers. It flowed diagonally away ... to the right.

North by northeast.

That was his escape.

    Down the bridle path into the protective cover of the dark woods and

    northeast toward the breaks in the trees - the fields. Across the fields,

    always heading to the right - east, and downhill, north. Back into the

    sloping forest, following the line of the river, until he found the

    electrified fence bordering the enormous compound that was Habichtsnest.

    Beyond that fence was the highway to Buenos Aires. And the embassy.

And Jean.

    David let his body go limp, let the ache of his wound run around in circles

    on his torn skin. He breathed steadily, deeply. He had to remain calm; that

    was the hardest part.

    He looked at his watch -his gift from Jean. It was nearly eleven o'clock.

    He got out of the bed and put on the trousers and the sweater. He slipped

    into his shoes and pulled the laces as tight as he could, until the leather

    pinched his feet, then reached for the pillow and wrapped the soiled shirt

    from the outback ranch around it. He replaced the pillow at the top of the

    bed and pulled the blanket partially over it. He lifted the sheets, bunched

    them, inserted the ranch hand's trousers and let the blankets fall back in

    place.

    He stood up. In the darkness, and with what light would come from the

    hallway, the bed looked sufficiently full at least for his immediate

    purpose.

    He crossed to the door and pressed his back into the wall beside it.

His watch read one minute to eleven.

The tapping was loud; the guard was not subtle.

410

The door opened.

'Seftor? ... Seftor?'

The door opened further.

'Seftor, it's time. It's eleven o'clock.'

    The juard stood in the frame, looking at the bed. ',tl duerme.' he said

    casually over his shoulder.

'Sefior Spaulding I'The guard walked into the darkened room.

    The instant the man cleared the door panel, David took a single step and

    with both hands clasped the guard's neck from behind. He crushed his

    fingers into the throat and yanked the man diagonally into him.

    No cry emerged; the guard's windpipe was choked of all air supply. Re went

    down, limp.

    Spaulding closed the door slowly and snapped on the wall switch.

    'Thanks very much,'he said loudly. 'Give me a hand, will you please?. My

    stomach hurts like hell. . . .'

    It was no secret at Habichtsnest that the American had been Wounded.

    David bent over the collapsed guard. He massaged his throat, pinched his

    nostrils, put his lips to the man's mouth and blew air into the damaged

    windpipe.

    The guard responded; conscious but not conscious. In semishock.

    Spaulding removed the man's Lilger from his belt holster and a large

    hunting knife from a scabbard beside it. He put the blade underneath the

    man's jaw and drew blood with the sharp point. He whispered. In Spanish.

    'Understand me! 1 want you to laugh I You start laughing now I If you

    don't, this goes home. Right up through your neckl ... Now. Laugh!'

    The guard's crazed eyes carried his total lack of comprehension. He seemed

    to know only that he was dealing with a maniac. A madman who would kill

    him.

    Feebly at first, then with growing volume and panic, the man laughed.

Spaulding laughed with him.

    The laughter grew; David kept staring at the guard, gesturing for louder,

    more enthusiastic merriment. The man - perplexed beyond reason and totally

    frightened - roared hysterically.

Spaulding heard the click of the doorknob two feet from his

    411

ear. He crashed the barrel of the Ulger into the guard's head and stood up

as the second man entered.

    , Qu9pasa, Antonio? Te re-'

    The Lilger's handle smashed into the Argentines skull with such force that

    the guard's expulsion of breath was as loud as his voice as he fell.

    David looked at his watch. It was eight minutes past eleven. Seven minutes

    to go.

    If the man named Asher Feld believed the words he spoke with such

    commitment.

    Spaulding removed the second guard's weapons, putting the additional Miger

    into his belt. He searched both men's pockets, removing whatever paper

    currcncy he could find. And a few coins.

He had no money whatsoever. He might well need money.

    He ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower to the hottest position

    on the dial. He returned to the hallway door and locked it. Then he turned

    off all lights and went to the left casement window, closing his eyes to

    adjust to the darkness outside. He opened them and blinked several times,

    trying to blur out the white spots of anxiety.

It was nine minutes past eleven.

    He rubbed his perspiring hands over the expensive turtleneck sweater; he

    took deep breaths and waited.

The waiting was nearly unendurable.

Because he could not know.

And then he heard it I And he knew.

    Two thunderous explosions! So loud, so stunning, so totally without warning

    that he found himself trembling, his breathing stopped.

    There followed bursts of machine-gun fire that ripped through the silent

    night.

    Below him on the ground, men were screanung at one another, racing toward

    the sounds that were filling the perimeter of the compound with growing

    ferocity.

    David watched the hysteria below. There were five guards beneath his

    window, all running now out of their concealed stations. He could see the

    spill of additional floodlights being turned on to his right, in the

    elegant front courtyard of Habichtsnest. He could hear the roar of powerful

    automobile engines and the increasing frequency of panicked commands.

~12

    He eased himself out of the casement window, holding onto the sill until

    his feet touched the gutter.

    Both LOgers were in his belt, the knife between his teeth. He could not

    chance a blade next to his body; he could always spit it out if necessary.

    He sidestepped his way along the slate roof The drainpipe was only feet

    away.

    The explosions and the gunfire from the gate increased. David marveled -

    not only at Asher Feld's commitment, but at his logistics. The Haganah

    leader must have brought a small, wellsupplied army into Habichtsnest.

    He lowered his body cautiously against the slate roof; he reached out,

    gripped the gutter on the far side of the drainpipe with his right hand and

    slowly, carefully crouched sideways, inched his feet into a support

    position. He pushed against the outside rim of the gutter, testing its

    strength, and in a quickspringing short jump, he leaped over the side,

    holding the rim with both hands, his feet against the wall, straddling the

    drainpipe.

He began his descent, hand-below-hand on the pipe.

    Amid the sounds of the gunfire, he suddenly heard loud crashing above him.

    There were shouts in both German and Spanish and the unmistakable smashing

    of wood.

The room he had just left had been broken into.

    The extreme north second-floor balcony was parallel with him now. He

    reached out with his left hand, gripped the edge, whipped his right hand

    across for support and swung underneath, his body dangling thirty feet

    above the ground but out of sight.

    Men were at the casement windows above. They forced the lead frames open

    without regard to the handles; the glass smashed; metal screeched against

    metal.

    There was another thunderous explosion from the battleground a quarter of

    a mile away in the black-topped field cut out of the forest. A far-off

    weapon caused a detonation in the front courtyard; the spill of floodlight

    suddenly disappeared. Asher Feld was moving up. The crossfire would be

    murderous. Suicidal.

    The shouts above Spaulding receded from the window, and he kicked his feet

    out twice to get sufficient swing to lash his hands once more across and

    around the drainpipe.

He did so, the blade between his teeth making his jaws ache.

He slid to the ground, scraping his hands against the weathered

    413

metal, insensitive to the cuts on his palms and fingers.

    He removed the knife from his mouth, a Ulger from his belt and raced along

    the edge of the raked bridle path toward the darkness of the trees. He ran

    into the pitch-black, tree-lined corridor, skirting the trunks, prepared to

    plunge between them at the first sound of nearby shots.

    They came, four in succession, the bullets thumping with terrible finality

    into the surrounding tall shafts o J wood.

    He whipped around a thick trunk and looked toward the house. The man firing

    was alone, standing by the drainpipe. Then a second guard joined him,

    racing from the area of the croquet course, a giant Doberman straining at

    its leash in his hand. The men shouted at one another, each trying to

    assert command, the dog barking savagely.

    As they stood yelling, two bursts of machine-gun fire came from within the

    front courtyard; two more floodlights exploded.

    David saw the men freeze, their concentration shifted to the front. The

    guard with the dog yanked at the straps, forcing the animal back into the

    side of the house. The second man crouched, then rose and started

    sidestepping his way rapidly along the building toward the courtyard,

    ordering his associate to follow.

    And then David saw him. Above. To the right. Through foliage. On the

    terrace overlooking the lawn and the pool.

    Erich Rhinemann had burst through the doors, screaming commands in fury,

    but not in panic. He was marshaling his forces, implementing his defenses

    ... somehow in the pitch of the assault, he was the messianic Caesar

    ordering his battalions to attack, attack, attack. Three men came into view

    behind him; he roared at them and two of the three raced back into

    Habichtsnest. The third man argued; Rhinemann shot him without the

    slightest hesitation. The body collapsed out of David's sight. Then

    Rhinemann ran to the wall, partially obscured by the railing, but not

    entirely. He seemed to be yelling into the wall.

Screeching into the wall.

    Through the bursts of gunfire, David heard the muted, steady whirring and

    he realized what Rhinemann was doing.

The cable car from the riverbank was being sent up for him.

While the battle was engaged, this Caesar would escape the fire.

    Rhinemann the pig. The ultimate manipulator. Corruptor of all things,

    honoring nothing.

We may work again....

414

7hat is always the way, is it not?

    David sprang out of his recessed sanctuary and ran back on the path to the

    point where the gardens and woods joined the lawn below the balcony. He

    raced to a white metal table with the wrought-iron legs - the same table at

    which Lyons had sat, his frail body bent over the blueprints. Rhinemann was

    nowhere in sight

He had to be there!

    It was suddenly ... inordinately clear to Spaulding that the one meaningful

    aspect of his having been ripped out of Lisbon and transported half a world

    away - through the fire and the pain -was the man above him now, concealed

    on the balcony.

'Rhinemann! ... Rhinemann! I'm here!'

    The immense figure of the financier came rushing to the railing. In his

    hand was a Sternlicht automatic. Powerful, murderous.

    'You. You are a dead man!' He began firing; David threw himself to the

    ground behind the table, overturning it, erecting a shield. Bullets thumped

    into the earth and ricocheted off the metal. Rhinemann continued screaming.

    'Your tricks are suicide, Lisbon! My.men come from everywhere I Hundredsl

    In minutes I ... Come, Lisbon! Show yourself. You merely move up your death

    I You think I would have let you live? Never! Show yourself! You're deadV

    David understood. The manipulator would not offend the men in Washington,

    but neither would he allow the man from Lisbon to remain on his personal

    horizon. The designs would have gone to Mendarro. Not the man from Lisbon.

He would have been killed on his way to Mendarro.

It was so clear.

    David raised his Ulger, he would have only an instant. A diversion, then an

    instant.

It would be enough....

The lessons of the north country.

    He reached down and clawed at the ground, gathering chunks of earth and

    lawn with his left hand. When he had a large fistful, he lobbed it into the

    air, to the left of the rim of metal. Black dirt and blades of grass

    floated up, magnified in the dim spills of light and the furious activity

    growing nearer.

    There was a steady burst of fire from the Sternlicht. Spaulding sprang to

    the right of the table and squeezed the trigger of the Luger five times in

    rapid succession.

    415

    Erich Rhinemann's face exploded in blood. The Sternlicht fell as his hands

    sprang up in the spasm of death. The immense body snapped backward, then

    forward; then lurched over the railing.

Rhinemann plummeted down from the balcony.

    David heard the screams of the guards above and raced back to the darkness

    of the bridle path. He ran with all his strength down the twisting black

    corridor, his shoes. sinking intermittently into the soft, raked edges.

The path abruptly curved. To the left.

Goddamn it I

    And then he heard the whinnies of frightened horses. His nostrils picked up

    their smells and to his right he saw the onestory structure that housed the

    series of stalls that was the stables. He could hear the bewildered shouts

    of a groom somewhere within trying to calm his charges.

    For a split second, David toyed with an idea, then rejected it. A horse

    would be swift, but possibly unmanageable.

    He ran to the far end of the stables, turned the comer and stopped for

    breath, for a moment of orientation. He thought he knew where he was; he

    tried to picture an aerial -view of the compound.

The fields I The fields had to be nearby.

    He ran to the opposite end of the one-story structure and saw the pastures

    beyond. As he had visualized, the ground sloped gently downward - north -

    but not so much as to make grazing or running difficult. In the'distance

    past the fields, he could see the wooded hills rise in the moonlight. To

    the right - east.

    Between the slope of the fields and the rise of the hills was the line he

    had to follow. It was the most direct, concealed route to the electrified

    fence.

North by northeast.

    He sped to the high post-and-rail fence that bordered the pasture, slipped

    through and began racing across the field. The volleys and salvos of

    gunfire continued behind him - in the distance now, but seemingly no less

    brutal. He reached a ridge in the field that gave him a line of sight to

    the river a half mile below. It, too, was bordered by a high post-and-rail,

    used to protect the animals from plummeting down the steeper inclines. He

    could see lights being turned on along the river; the incessant crescendos

    of death were being carried by the summer winds to the elegant communities

    below.

416

    He spun in shock. A bullet whined above him. It had been aimed at him! He

    had been spotted I

    He threw himself into the pasture grass and scrambled away. There was a

    slight incline and he let himself roll down it, over and over again until

    his body hit the hard wood of a post. He had reached the opposite border of

    the field; beyond, the woods continued.

    He heard the fierce howling of the dogs, and knew it was directed at him.

    On his knees, he could see the outlines of a huge animal streaking toward

    him across the grass. His Ulger was poised, level, but he understood that

    by firing it, he would betray his' position. He shifted the weapon to his

    left hand and pulled the hunting knife out of his belt.

    The black monstrosity leaped through the air, honed by the scent into his

    target of human flesh. Spaulding lashed out his left hand with the Ldger,

    feeling the impact of the hard, muscular fur of the Doberman on his upper

    body, watching the ugly head whip sideways, the bared teeth tearing at the

    loose sweater and into his arm.

    He swung his right hand upward, the knife gripped with all the strength he

    had, into the soft stomach of the animal. Warm blood erupted from the dog's

    lacerated belly; the swallowed sound of a savage roar burst from the

    animal's throat as it died.

David grabbed his arm. The Doberman's teeth had ripped low the shoulder. And the

wrenching, rolling, twisting movements of his body had broken at least one

of the stitches in his stomach wound.

He held onto the rail of the pasture fence and crawled east.

North by northeast! Not east, goddamn it!

    In his momentary shock, he suddenly realized there was a perceptible

    reduction of the distant gunfire. How many minutes had it not been there?

    The explosions seemed to continue but the small-anns fire was subsiding.

Considerably.

    There were shouts now; from across the field by the stables. He looked

    between and over the grass. Men were running with flashlights, the beams

    darting about in shafting diagonals. David could hear shouted commands.

    What he saw made him stop all movement and stare incredulously. The

    flashlights of the men across the wide pasture were

    417

focused on a figure coming out of the stable - on horseback! The spill of a

dozen beams picked up, the glaring reflection of a white Palm Beach suit.

Franz Altmilller I

Altm(Wer had chosen the madness he, David, had rejected.

But, of course, their roles were different.

Spaulding knew he was the quarry now. Altinfiller, the hunter. There would

be others following, but AltmWler would not, could not wait. He kicked at

the animal's flanks and burst through the opened gate.

    Spaulding understood again. Franz Altmflller was a dead an if David lived.

    His only means of survival in Berlin was to produce the corpse of the man

    from Lisbon. The Fairfax agent who had crippled 'Tortugas'; the body of the

    man the patrols and the scientists in Ocho Calle could identify. The man

    the 'Gestapo' had unearthed and provoked.

So much, so alien.

    Horse and rider came racing across the field. David stayed prone and felt

    the hard earth to the east. He could not stand; Altinfiller held a

    powerful, wide-beamed flashlight. If he rolled under the railing, the tall

    weeds and taller grass beyond might conceal him but just as easily might

    bend, breaking the pattern.

If... might.

    He knew he was rationalizing. The tall grass would be best; out of sight.

    But also out of strategy. And he knew why that bothered him.

He wanted to be the hunter. Not the quarry.

He wanted Altmifller dead.

    Franz Altmftller was not an enemy one left alive. AltmOller was every bit

    as lethal in a tranquil monastery during a time of peace as he was on a

    battlefield in war. He was the absolute enemy; it was in his eyes. Not

    related to the cause of Germany, but from deep within the man's arrogance:

    Altmaller had watched his masterful creation collapse, had seen 'Tortugas'

    destroyed. By another man who had told him he was inferior.

That, Altmiflier could not tolerate.

He would be scorned in the aftermath.

Unacceptable!

    Altnitiller would lie in wait. In Buenos Aires, in New York, in London; no

    matter where. And his first target would be Jean. In a rifle sight, or a

    knife in a crowd, or a concealed pistol at

418

night. Altmigler would make him pay. It was in his eyes.

    Spaulding hugged the earth as the galloping horse reached the midpoint of

    the field, plunging forward, directed by the searchfight beam from the

    patrols back at the stables a quarter of a mile away. They were directed at

    the area where the Doberman was last seen.

    Altmaller reined in the animal, slowing it, not stopping it. He scanned the

    ground in front with his beam, approaching cautiously, a gun in his hand,

    holding the straps but prepared to fire.

    Without warning, there was a sudden, deafening explosion from the stables.

    The beams of light that had come from the opposite side of the field were

    no more; men who had started out across the pasture after Altmifller

    stopped and turned back to the panic that was growing furiously at the

    bordering fence. Fires had broken out.

    Altmtlller continued; if he was aware of the alarms behind him he did not

    show it. He kicked his horse and urged it forward.

    The horse halted, snorted; it pranced its front legs awkwardly and

    backstepped in spite of AltmMer's commands. The Nazi was in frenzy; he

    screamed at the animal, but the shouts were in vain. The horse had come

    upon the dead Doberman; the scent of the fresh blood repelled it.

    AltmUller saw the dog in the grass. He swung the light first to the left,

    then to the right, the beam piercing the space above David's head. AltmMer

    made his decision instinctively - or so it seemed to Spaulding. He whipped

    the reins of the horse to his right, toward David. He walked the horse; he

    did not run it.

    Then David saw why. AltmiJJler was following the stains of the Doberman's

    blood in the grass.

    David crawled as fast as he could in front of the spill of Altmiffler's

    slow-moving beam. Once in relative darkness, he turned abruptly to his

    right and ran close to the ground,back toward the center of the field. He

    waited until horse and rider were between him and the bordering

    post-and-rail, then inched his way toward the Nazi. He was tempted to take

    a clean shot with the Lliger, but he knew that had to be the last

    extremity. He had several miles to go over unfamiliar terrain, with a dark

    forest that others knew better. The loud report of heavy-caliber pistol

    shot would force men out of the pandemonium a quarter of a mile away,

    419

Nevertheless, it might be necessary.

    He was within ten feet now, the Lager in his left hand, his right free. .

    . . A little closer, just a bit closer. Altmaller'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 Altmiiller'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. Altmtiller 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

    Altmiffler's hand down, down. He yanked with every ounce of strength he had

    and literally ripped Altmdller off 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 Lfiger into Altmiffler'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 tom flesh until Spaulding thought he could not endure

    the pain.

    AltmOller 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 Altmiffler. 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

420

heavy revolver exploded at the side of David's face, burning his skin, but

missing its mark.

    Spaulding tore the knife downward into Altmimer'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 path. His left shoulder

    Z 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 fencel 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

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substance should be.

    There were no limbs I No limbs hanging over the fence whose touch meant

    oblivion. Rhinernann had severed - on both sides -whatever growths

    approached the high, linked steel wires I

    He ran as best he could to his left -north. The liver 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 I 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 Ulgers 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,

    peddling 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 sweatfilled, stinging

    eyes. He looked down at the electrified barbed

422

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 splitinstant, 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 Miger 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

    423

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 ofl? What was he doingl?

What was he doing?

    He was lying in the underbrush assuming - assuming he was firee I

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 I Die Hunde freilassen!'

    The dogs were being releasedl The handlers thought their quarry was

    cornered! The dogs were unleashed to tear the quarry apart I

    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

    deaths 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 I

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

    I

He held his stomach and ran into the darkness.

The highway was bordered by sand and loose gravel. He

424

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 I

    And then he heard his name. Shouted in unison through open windows, by

    several voices. In unison I As a chant might be sung I

'. . . Spaulding, Spaulding, Spaulding. . . .'

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

He reached into his belt and yanked out the Miger.

    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 whatT

    '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 gqt the designs?'

    425

    '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 iff

    David smiled through the 'minor pain.' It was difficult to talk. 'Because

    ... no one wanted the blueprints out of his sight. Isn't that funnyT

'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.'

    David had forgotten. The British medic in the Azores -centuries ago - had

    taken a lot of criticism from his professional brothers. Misdirected; his

    orders had been to get the American officer out of LaJes Field within the

    hour.

    Spaulding inched his way stiffly into a sitting position, aided gently by

    the two Haganah men.

    'Rhinemann is dead,' he said simply. 'Rhinemann the pig is gone. There'll

    be no more negotiations. Tell your people.'

'Thank you.' said Asher Feld.

    They drove in silence for several minutes. The searchlights of the small

    airfield could be seen now; they were shafting their beams into the night

    sky.

    Feld spoke. 'The designs are in the aircraft. Our men are standing

    guard.... I'm sorry you have to fly out tonight. It would be simpler if the

    pilot went alone. But that's not possible.'

426

-it,s what I was sent down here for.'

    'It's a bit more complicated, I'm afraid. You've been through a great deal,

    you've been wounded severely. By all rights, you should be hospitalized....

    But that will have to wait.'

    Oh?' David understood that Feld had something to say that even this

    pragmatic Jew found difficult to put into words. 'You'd better tell me. .

    . .'

    'You'll have to deal with this in your own way, colonel,' interrupted Feld.

    'You see ... the men in Washington do not expect you on that plane. They've

    ordered your execution.'

i

I

i

    427

43

Brigadier General Alan Swanson, lately of the War Department, had committed

suicide. Those who knew him said the pressures of his job, the immense

logistics he was called upon to expedite daily, had become too much for this

dedicated, patriotic officer. They also served who, far behind the lines,

primed the machinery of war with all the selfless energy they possessed.

    In Fairfax, Virginia, at the huge, security-conscious compound that held

    the secrets of Allied Central Intelligence, a lieutenant colonel named Ira

    Barden disappeared. Simply disappeared; substance one day, vapor the next.

    With him went a number Of highly classified files from the vaults. What

    bewildered those who knew about them was the information these files

    contained. In the main they were personal dossiers of ranking Nazis

    involved with the concentration camps. Not the sort of inteffigence data a

    defector would steal. Ira Barden's own dossier was pulled and placed in the

    archives. Regrets were sent to his family; Lieutenant Colonel Barden was

    MOA. Missing while on assignment.'Strange, but the family never insisted

    upon an investigation. Which was their right, after all.... Strange.

    A cryptographer in Lisbon, a man named Marshall, was found in the hills of

    the Basque country. He had been wounded in a border skirmish and nursed

    back to health by partisans. The reports of his death had been greatly

    exaggerated as intended. German Intelligence was onto him. For the time

    being, however,

M

he was confined to the embassy and returned to duty. He had sent a personal

message to an old friend he thought might be concerned; to Colonel David

Spaulding. The message was amusing, in an oddly phrased way. He wanted

Spaulding to know there were no hard feelings about the colonel's vacation

in South America. The cryp had taken a vacation, too. There were codes that

had to be broken - if they could be found. They both should plan better in

the future; they should get together on vacations. Good friends should

always do that.

    There was another cryptographer. In Buenos Aires. One Robert Ballard. The

    State Department was very high on Ballard these days. The Buenos Aires

    cryptographer had spotted an enormous error in a scrambler and had taken

    the personal initiative to not only question it, but to refuse to

    authenticate it. Through a series of grave misunderstandings and faulty

    intelligence, an order for the on-sight execution of Colonel Spaulding had

    been issued by the War Department. Code: treason. Defection to the enemy

    while on assignment. It took a great deal of courage on Ballard's part to

    refuse to acknowledge so high priority a command. And State was never

    averse to embarrassing the Department of War.

    The aerophysicist, Eugene Lyons, Ph.D., was flown back to Pasadena. Things

    ... things had happened to Doctor Lyons. He was offered and accepted a

    lucrative, meaningful contract with Sperry Rand's Pacific laboratories, the

    finest in the country. He had entered a Los Angeles hospital for throat

    surgery - prognosis: sixty-forty in his favor, if the will was there.... It

    was. And there was something else about Lyons. On the strength of his

    contract he had secured a bank loan and was building an oddly shaped,

    Mediterranean-style house in a peaceful section of the San Fernando Valley.

Mrs. Jean Cameron returned to the Eastern Shore of Maryland

    for two days. The State Department, at the personal behest of Ambassador

    Henderson Granville in Buenos Aires, issued a letter of commendation to

    Mrs. Cameron. Although her status was not official, her presence at the

    embassy had been most valuable. She had kept open lines of communication

    with diverse factions within the neutral city; lines of communication often

    jeopardized by diplomatic necessities. Officials at State decided to

    present Mrs. Cameron with the letter in a small ceremony, presided over by

    a prominent undersecretary. State was somewhat

    429

    surprised to learn that Mrs. Cameron could not be reached at her family

    home on Maryland's Eastern Shore. She was in Washington. At the Shoreharn

    Hotel. The Shoreham was where Colonel David Spaulding was registered....

    More than a coincidence, perhaps, but in no way would it interfere with

    the letter of commendation. Not these days. Not in Washington.

    Colonel David Spaulding looked up at the light brown stone and square

    pillars of the War Department. He pulled at his army overcoat, adjusting

    the heavy cloth over the sling on his arm underneath. It was the last

    time he would wear a uniform or enter this building. He started up the

    steps.

    It was curious, he mused. He had been back for nearly three weeks, and

    every day, every night he had thought about the words he was going to say

    this afternoon. The fury, the revulsion ... the waste. Resentments for

    a lifetime. But life would go on and in some curious way the violent

    emotions had crested. He felt only a weariness now, an exhaustion that

    demanded that he get it over with and return to something of value.

    Somewhere.

    With Jean.

    He knew the men of'Tortugas'could not be reached with words. Words of

    conscience had lost meaning for such men. As they had so often lost

    meaning for him. That, too, was one of their crimes: they had stolen ...

    decency. From so many. For so little.

    Spaulding left his over-coat in the outer office and walked into the

    small conference room. They were there, the men of 'Tortugas.9

    Walter Kendall.

    Howard Oliver.

    Jonathan Craft.

    None got up from the table. All were silent. Each stared at him. The

    looks were mixtures of hate and fear -so often inseparable.

    They were prepared to fight, to protest ... to salvage. They had held

    their discussions, they had arrived at strategies.

    They were so obvious, thought David.

    He stood at the end of the table, reached into his pocket and took out

    a handful of carbonado diamonds. He threw them on the hard surface of the

    table; the tiny nuggets clattered and rolled.

    The men of 'Tortugas' remained silent. They shifted their

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eyes to the stones, then back to Spaulding.

    'The Koening transfer,' said David. 'The tools for Peenemfinde. I wanted

    you to see them.'

    Howard Oliver exhaled a loud, impatient breath and spoke in practiced

    condescension. 'We have no idea what. . .'

    'I know,' interrupted Spaulding firmly. 'You're busy men. So let's dispense

    with unnecessary conversation; as a matter of fact, there's no reason for

    you to talk at all. Just listen. I'll. be quick. And you'll always know

    where to reach me.'

    David put his right hand into his arm sling and pulled out an envelope. It

    was an ordinary business envelope; sealed, thick. He placed it carefully on

    the table and continued.

    'This is the history of "Tortugas". From Geneva to Buenos Aires. From

    Peenemflnde to a place called Ocho Calle. From Pasadena to a street ...

    Terraza Verde. It's an ugly story. It raises questions I'm not sure should

    be raised right now. Perhaps, ever. For the sake of so much sanity ...

    everywhere.

    'But that's up to you here at this table.... There are several copies of

    this ... this indictment. I won't tell you where and you'll never be able

    to find out. But they exist. And they'll be released in a way that will

    result in simultaneous headlines in New York and London and Berlin. Unless

    you do exactly as I say....

    'Don't protest, Mr. Kendall. It's useless.... This war is won. The killing

    will go on for a while but we've won it. Peenernfinde hasn't been idle;

    they've scoured the earth. A few thousand rockets will be built, a few

    thousand killed. Nowhere near what they conceived of. Or needed. And our

    aircraft will blow up half of Germany; we'll be the victors now. And that9s

    how it should be. What must come after the killing is the healing. And you

    gentlemen will dedicate the rest of your natural lives to it. You will

    sever all connections with your companies; you will sell all your holdings

    above a bare subsistence level - as defined by the national economic

    guidelines - donating the proceeds to charities - anonymously but with

    substantiation. And you will offer your considerable talents to a grateful

    government - in exchange for government salaries.

    'For the rest of your lives you will be skilled government clerks. And that

    is all you'll be.

    'You have sixty days to comply with these demands. Inciden. tally, since

    you ordered ny execution once, you should know

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that part of our contract is my well-being. And the well-being of those

close to me, of course.

    'Lastly, because it occurred to me that you might wish to recruit others

    under this contract, the indictment makes it clear that you could not have

    created "Tortugas" alone.... Name who you will. The world is in a sorry

    state, gentlemen. It needs all the help it can get.'

    Spaulding reached down for the envelope, picked it up and dropped it on the

    table. The slap of paper against wood drew all eyes to the spot.

'Consider everything.' said David.

    The men of 'Tortugas' stared in silence at the envelope. David turned,

    walked to the door and let himself out.

    February in Washington. The air was chilly, the winds were of winter but

    the snows would not come.

    Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding dodged the cars as he crossed Wisconsin

    Avenue to the Shoreharn Hotel. He was unaware that his overcoat was open;

    he was oblivious to the cold.

    It was over! He was finished I There would be scars -deep scars - but with

    time....

With Jean....

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