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.
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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.
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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 nod
ded 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
Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt Page 19
