The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  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?”

  “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.”

  “Denn 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 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 Luján.”

  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!”

  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 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 corner 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 warn 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 Fé province, the Río Luján 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. Enormous 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 area.

  Vigía 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 into?”

  She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled as though her life depende
d 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. “I 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 miles away from that Park Avenue apartment. You followed me four thousand miles!… 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 I?” 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 Luján far below in the distance.

  “It’s very beautiful here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.… Did you try to have me killed?”

  “Oh, God!” She whirled on him, spitting out the words. “I tried to save your life! 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 it?”

  “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 life?” 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 insignificant!” 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.”

  “Then you should have no reservations explaining it to me.”

  “I will, I promise you. But I can’t now.… Trust me!”

  “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 learned 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:

  Spaulding, David. Lt. Col. Military Intelligence, U.S. Army. Classification 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 Córdoba roof, the lunch with Jean Cameron at La Boca, the meeting with Kendall at the hotel, the assault on the Avenida Paraná, his telephone call in the store on Rodriguez Peña.

  Everything.

  Even the “lunch” with Heinrich Stoltz at the Langosta del Mar, on the border of Lezama. 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 restaurant. He had not been concerned. His thoughts had been on Heinrich Stoltz and the presence of a Gestapo Stoltz knew nothing about.

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

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

  “That’s not what I asked you.…”

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

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

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

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

  “Why?”

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

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

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

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

  “Get in the car!”

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

  “Get in the car!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  David did so.

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

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

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

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

  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 ‘perhaps.’ That’s it.… This is quite a place, by the way. Reminds me of Lisbon.”

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

  “I knew it was considerable.”

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

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

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

  “It’s … discreet.”

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

  “Which confirmed his designs.”

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

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

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