The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  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!”

  “Señores!” 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 immediate, 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 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 rifle!” 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.

  “Señores! Madre de Jesús!… 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 purpose?”

  “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 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 lit 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.

  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 sprang 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 booms, 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.

  “Eeaagh!” 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 sprang back from the wheel.

  Spaulding leaped forward, trying to reach the wheel, but he couldn’t. The Bentley careened off the road, sideslipping 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 left door, fingers searching for the handle, pushing his weight into the panel so that upon touch, 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 to 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.

  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 Führer.

  The dead man was a Jew.

  32

  It was nearly five o’clock when Spaulding reached his apartment on Córdoba. 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 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 need 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 emerged on the front steps. She was vulnerable, 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 conceal, 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 face?” She traced her fingers over his cheek. “It’s swollen here.”

  “ ‘Tortugas.’ ” He looked into her eyes. “ ‘Tortugas’ happened.”

  “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.”

  “I said you were good, didn’t I?”

  “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 money and lies. That’s the way I think, you see.”

  “Not 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.…”

  “I 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.”

  “Good 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.”