The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  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 will be outside.”

  “That’s a waste of manpower. What good is three-fourths of the merchandise?”

  “Three-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 explain to the doctor’s companions that it will be necessary for us to relieve 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-says?” 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, too?”

  “They’re German. Not Nazis.”

  “Horseshit!” Johnny pushed himself off the wall and stood erect. “I 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 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, doctor?”

  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 attaché. They left the room together. Spaulding smiled 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. I’ll check the embassy’s radio room. You’ll get your confirmation.”

  “Excellent idea.… Then, perhaps, you’ll join me for dinner?”

  David looked at the attaché who sat so confidently, so half-mockingly, beside him. Stoltz’s nervousness had disappeared. “No, Herr Botschaftssekretär. 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 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 dirt-filmed windows. And with two huge warehouses that provided no work, and a trawler at anchor, recently destined for Tortugas.

  The Packard turned the corner 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 Altmüller.… Heed the lesson of Fairfax!

  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 café in the next block,” said Spaulding, pointing to 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?”

  “You’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 mine. 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.?”

  “All wrapped. Came in a couple of hours ago; your codes are cleared. How’s the erector set?”

  “The instructions—three-quarters of them—are in the box. But there are too many playmates.”

  “Terraza Verde?”

  “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 schnell!”

  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 corner, turning left again, now slowing down, walking casually. 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 Casa 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 corner, 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 fool!”

  Leslie Hawkwood was behind the wheel of a small Renault 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! 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.

  “Slowly!” 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?”

  “Who?”

  “Your scientist. This Lyons! We found him!”

  “Leslie, for Christ’s sake, what are you doing?”

  “Stopping you!”

  “Me?”

  “You. Altmüller, Rhinemann. Koening! Those pigs in Washington.… Peenemünde! It’s all over. They won’t trust you anymore. ‘Tortugas’ is finished!”

  The faceless name—Altmüller again. Tortugas.… Koening? Words, names … meaning and no meaning. The tunnels had no light.

  There was no time!

  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 me! 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! 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 scientist; 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 corner; a window was opened on the second floor of a building across the way, music coming from within.