“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 sight!”
“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 quietly.
“I want him alive. I want to question him.”
“I’ll get him.”
“No, 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 foreigner’s 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, I’ll come back and we’ll get out. If not, I’ll try to grab him.… 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 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 Sebastián. 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.
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 Altmüller’s final words:
“Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It’s most unattractive.”
With that objective solicitousness, Altmüller 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. Altmüller 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. Altmüller 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 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.
Franz Altmüller 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, Altmüller had asked one question. Asked it with the most bored expression imaginable!
“Have these … particles been subjected to the pressure 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; Altmüller 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 we
eks. Two months at the outside. I suggest you return to your laboratories and consider our problem once again. Good day, gentlemen.”
Altmüller was impossible!
After the scientists had left, Altmüller 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 armaments?”
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 Congo. The mines at the Bushimaie River! 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!” Altmüller had slammed the flat of his hand 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 product!”
“You’ll have it!” The surface of Zangen’s chin became an oily mixture of sweat and stubble. “The finest minds in all Germany are …”
“Are experimenting.” Altmüller 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.” Altmüller 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 previous three 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 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.
If you’ve done what I think you’ve done, it falls 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 other 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 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 wheel-cart in the corner on which there were bottles and glasses. “He’s got questions.”
“I made everything perfectly clear.…”
“Those aren’t the questions,” interrupted Kendall while squeezing 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 here,” 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 around his nostrils. “This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him since you saw Swanson?”
“No. There was nothing to say; nothing I could 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, personnel 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 do
n’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?”
“Get 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 is new? Let’s go back: can Spinelli substantiate?”
“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?”
The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel Page 7
