approximately. . . .'
Spaulding reached down and snapped the switch into the 'off' position.
He got out of the car and went back to the telephone booth.
One step at a time. No blurring, no overlapping - each action defined,
handled with precision.
Now it was the scramble from Fairfax. The deciphered code that would tell
him the name of the man who was having him intercepted; the source
four-zero, whose priority rating allowed him to send such commands from the
transmission core of the intelligence compound.
The agent who walked with impunity in the highest classified
alleyways and killed a man named Ed Pace on New Yea r's Eve.
The Haganah infiltration.
He had been tempted to rip open the yellow envelope the moment the FMF
officer had given it to him in San Telmo, but he had resisted the almost
irresistible temptation. He knew that he would be stunned no matter who it
was - whether known to him or not; and no matter who it was he would have
a name to fit the revenge he planned for the killer of his friend.
Such thoughts were obstructions. Nothing could hinder their swift but
cautious ride to Ocho Calle; nothing could interfere with his thought-out
contact with Heinrich Stoltz.
He withdrew the yellow envelope and slid his finger across the flap.
At first, the name meant nothing.
Lieutenant Colonel Ira Barden.
Nothing.
Then he remembered.
New Year's Eve!
Oh, Christ, did he remember! The rough-talking hardnose who was second in
command at Fairfax. Ed Pace's 'best friend' who had moumed his 'best
friend's' death with army anger;
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who secretly had arranged for David to be flown to the Virginia base and
participate in the wake-investigation; who had used the tragic killing to
enter his 'best friend's' dossier vaults ... only to find nothing.
The man who insisted a Lisbon cryptographer named Marshall had been killed
in the Basque country; who said he would run a check on Franz Altmfiller.
Which, of course, he never did.
The man who tried to convince David that it would be in everyone's interest
if Spaulding would flex the clearance regulations and explain his War
Department assignment.
Which David nearly did. And now wished he had.
Oh, God! Why hadn't Barden trusted him? On the other hand, he could not.
For to do so would have raised specific, unwanted speculations on Pace's
murder.
Ira Barden was no fool. A fanatic, perhaps, but not foolish. He knew the
man from Lisbon would kill him if Pace's death was laid at his feet.
Heed the iesson of Fairfax....
Jesusl thought David. We fight each other, kill each other ... we don't
know our enemies any longer.
For what?
There was now a second reason to call Ballard. A name was not enough; he
needed more than just a name. He would confront Asher Feld.
He picked up the telephone's receiver off the hook, held his coin and
dialed.
Ballard got on the line, no humor in evidence.
'Look, David.' Ballard had not used his first name in conversation before.
Ballard was suppressing a lot of anger. 'I won't pretend to understand how
you people turn your dials, but if you're going to use my set, keep me
infon-ned I'
'A number of people were killed; I wasn't one of them. That was fortunate
but the circumstances prohibited my contacting you. Does that answer your
complaintT
Ballard was silent for several seconds. The silence was not just his
reaction to the news, thought David. There was someone with Bobby. When the
cryp spoke, he was no longer angry; he was hesitant, afraid.
'You're all right?'
'Yes. Lyons is with me.'
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'The FMF were too late. . . .' Ballard seemed to regret his statement. 'I
keep phoning, they keep avoiding. I think their car's lost.'
'Not really. I've got it. . .
10h, Christ!'
'They left one man at Telmo - for observation. There were two others.
They're not hurt; they've disqualified.'
'What the hell does that mean?'
'I haven't got time to explain.... There's an intercept order out for me.
From Fairfax. The embassy's not supposed to know. It's a setup; I can't let
them take me. Not for a while. . .
'Hey, we don't mess with Fairfax,' said Ballard firmly.
'You can this time. I told Jean. There's a security breach in Fairfax. I'm
not it, believe that.... I've got to have time. Maybe as much as
forty-eight hours. I need questions answered. Lyons can help. For God's
sake, trust me!'
'I can trust you but I'm no big deal here.... Wait a minute. Jean's with
me. . . .'
'I thought so,' interrupted Spaulding. It had been David's intention to ask
Ballard for the help he needed. He suddenly realized that Jean could be far
more helpful.
'Talk to her before she scratches the skin off my hand.'
'Before you get off, Bobby.... Could you run a priority check on someone in
Washington? In Fairfax, to be exact?'
'I'd have to have a reason. The subject - an Intelligence subject,
especially Fairfax - would probably find out.'
'I don't give a damn if he does. Say I demanded it. My rating's four-zero;
G-2 has that in the records. I'll take the responsibility.'
'Who is itT
'A lieutenant colonel named Ira Barden. Got it?'
:Yes. Ira Barden. Fairfax.'
Right. Now let me talk to . .
Jean's words spilled over one another, a mixture of fury and love,
desperation and relief.
'Jean,' he said when she had finished a half-dozen questions he couldn't
possibly answer, 'the other night you made a suggestion I refused to take
seriously. I'm taking it seriously now. That mythical David of yours needs
a place to hide out. It can't be the pampas, but any place nearer will
do.... Can you help me? Help us? For God's sakeP
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1
38
He would call Jean later, before daybreak. He and Lyons had to move in
darkness, wherever they were going. Wherever Jean could find them sanctuary.
There would be no codes sent to Washington, no clearance given for the
obscene exchange, no radio or radar blackouts that would immobilize the
fleet. David understood that; it was the simplest, surest way to abort
'Tortugas.'
But it was not enough.
There were the men behind 'Tortugas.' They had to be yanked up from the
dark recesses of their filth and exposed to the sunlight. If there was any
meaning left, if the years of pain and fear and death made any sense at
all, they had to be given to the world in all their obscenity.
The world deserved that. Hundreds of thousands - on both sides - who would
carry the scars of war throughout their lives, deserved it.
They had to understand the meaning of For what.
David accepted his role; he would face the men of 'Tortugas.' But he could
not face them with the testimony of a fanatical Jew. The words of Asher
Feld, leader of the Haganah's Provisional Wing, were no testimony at all.
Fanatics w
ere madmen; the world had seen enough of both, for both were one.
And they were dismissed. Or killed. Or both.
David knew he had no choice.
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When he faced the men of 'Tortugas,' it would not be with the words of
Asher Feld. Or with deceptive codes and manipulations that were subject to
a hundred interpretations.
Deceits. Cover-ups. Removals.
He would face them with what he saw. What he knew, because he had bome
witness. He would present them with the irrefutable. And then he would
destroy them.
To do this - a this - he had to get aboard the trawler in Ocho Calle. The
trawler that would be blown out of the water should it attempt to run the
harbor and rendezvous with a German submarine.
That it ultimately would attempt such a run was inevitable. The fanatic
mind would demand it. Then there would be no evidence of things seen. Sworn
to.
He had to get aboard that trawler now.
He gave his final instructions to Lyons and slid into the warm, oily waters
of the Rfo de la Plata. Lyons would remain in the car -drive it, if
necessary -and, if David did not return, allow ninety minutes to elapse
before going to the FMF base and telling the commanding officer that David
was being held prisoner aboard the trawler. An American agent held
prisoner.
There was logic in the strategy. FMF had priority orders to bring in David;
orders from Fairfax. It would be three thirty in the morning. Fairfax
called for swift, bold action. Especially at three thirty in the morning in
a neutral harbor.
It was the bridge David tried always to create for himself in times of
high-risk infiltration. It was the trade-off; his life for a lesser loss.
The lessons of the north country.
He did not want it to happen that way. There were too many ways to
immobilize him; too many panicked men in Washington and Berlin to let him
survive, perhaps. At best there would be compromise. At worst.... The
collapse of 'Tortugas' was not enough, the indictment was everything.
. His pistol was tight against his head, tied with a strip of his shirt, the
cloth running through his teeth. He breaststroked toward the hull of the
ship, keeping his head out of the water, the firing-pin mechanism of his
weapon as dry as possible. The price was mouthfuls of filthy,
gasoline-polluted water, made further sickening by the touch of a large
conger eel attracted, then repelled, by the moving white flesh.
368
He reached the hull. Waves slapped gently, unceasingly, against the hard
expanse of darkness. He made his way to the stern of the ship, straining
his eyes and his ears for evidence of life.
Nothing but the incessant lapping of water.
There was light from the deck but no movement, no shadows, no voices. Just
the flat, colorless spill of naked bulbs strung on black wires, swaying in
slow motion to the sluggish rhythm of the hull. On the port side of the
ship - the dockside - were two lines looped over the aft and midships
pilings. Rat disks were placed every ten feet or so; the thick manila hemps
were black with grease and oil slick. As he approached, David could see a
single guard sitting in a chair by the huge loading doors, which were shut.
The chair was tilted back against the warehouse wall; two wire-mesh lamps
covered by metal shades were on both sides of the wide doorframe. Spaulding
treaded backward to get a clearer view. The guard was dressed in the
paramilitary clothes of Habichtsnest. He was reading a book; for some
reason that fact struck David as odd.
Suddenly, there were footsteps at the west section of the warehouse dock.
They were slow, steady; there was no attempt to muffle the noise.
The guard looked up from his book. Between the pilings David could see a
second figure come into view. It was another guard wearing the Rhinemann
uniform. He was carrying a leather case, the same radio case carried by the
men - dead men - at 15 Terraza Verde.
The guard in the chair smiled and spoke to the standing sentry. The
language was German.
'I'll trade places, if you wish,' said the man in the chair. 'Get off your
feet for a while.'
'No, thanks,' replied the man with the radio. 'I'd rather walk. Passes the
time quicker.'
'Anything new from LujAnT
'No change. Still a great deal of excitement. I can hear snatches of
yelling now and then. Everybody's giving orders.'
'I wonder what happened in Telmo.'
'Bad trouble is all I know. They've blocked us off; they've sent men to the
foot of Ocho Calle.'
'You heard thatT
'No. I spoke with Geraldo. He and Luis are here. In front of
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the warehouse; in the street.'
'I hope they don't wake up the whores.'
The man with the radio laughed. 'Even Geraldo. can do better than those
dogs.'
'Don't bet good money on that,' replied the guard in the chair.
The guard on foot laughed again and proceeded east on his solitary patrol
around the building. The man in the chair returned to his book.
David sidestroked his way back toward the hull of the trawler.
His arms were getting tired; the foul-smelling waters of the harbor
assaulted his nostrils. And now he had something else to consider: Eugene
Lyons.
Lyons was a quarter of a mile away, diagonally across the water, four
curving blocks from the foot of Ocho CaHe. If Rhinemann's patrols began
cruising the area, they would find the FMF vehicle with Lyons in it. It was
a bridge he hadn't considered. He should have considered it.
But he couldn't think about that now.
He reached the starboard midships and held onto the waterline ledge, giving
the muscles of his arms and shoulders a chance to throb in relief. The
trawler was in the medium-craft classification, no more than seventy or
eighty feet in length, perhaps a thirty-foot midship beam. By normal
standards, and from what David could see as he approached the boat in
darkness, the mid and aft cabins below the wheel shack were about fifteen
and twenty feet long, respectively, with entrances at both ends and two
portholes per cabin on the port and starboard sides. If the Koening
diamonds were on board, it seemed logical that they'd be in the aft cabin,
farthest away from the crew's normal activity. Too, aft cabins had more
room and fewer distractions. And if Asher Feld was right, if two or three
PeenemOnde scientists were microscopically examining the Koening products,
they would be under a pressured schedule and require isolation.
David found his breath coming easier. He'd know soon enough whether and
where the diamonds were or were not. In moments.
He untied the cloth around his head, treading water as he did so, holding
the pistol firn-dy. The shirt piece drifted away; he held onto the line
ledge and looked above. The gunwale was six to seven feet out of the water;
he would need both his hands to claw
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his way up the tiny ridges of the hull.
He spat out what harbor residue was in his mouth and clamped the b
arrel of
the gun between his teeth. The only clothing he wore was his trousers; he
plunged his hands beneath the water, rubbing them against the cloth in an
effort to remove what estuary slick he could.
He gripped the line ledge once again and with his right hand extended,
kicked his body out of the water and reached for the next tiny ridge along
the hull. His fingers grasped the half-inch sprit; he pulled himself up,
slapping his left hand next to his right, pushing his chest into the rough
wood for leverage. His bare feet were near the water's surface, the gunwale
no more than three feet above him now.
Slowly he~raised his knees until the toes of both feet rested on the
waterline ledge. He paused for breath, knowing that his fingers would not
last long on the tiny ridge. He tensed the muscles of his stomach and
pressed his aching toes against the ledge, pushing himself up as high as
possible, whipping out his hands; knowing, again, that if he missed the
gunwale he would plunge back into the water. The splash would raise alarms.
The left hand caught; the right slipped off. But it was enough.
He raised himself to the railing, his chest scraping against the rough,
weathered hull until spots of blood emerged on his skin. He looped his left
arm over the side and removed the pistol from his mouth. He was - as he
hoped he would be - at the midpoint between the fore and aft cabins, the
expanse of wall concealing him from the guards on the loading dock.
He silently rolled over the gunwale onto the narrow deck And took the
necessary crouching steps to the cabin wall. He pressed his back into the
wooden slats and slowly stood up. He inched his way toward the first aft
porthole; the light from within was partially blocked by a primitive
curtain of sorts, pulled back as if parted for the night air. The second
porthole farther down had no such obstruction, but it was only feet from
the edge of.the wall; there was the possibility that a sentry - unseen from
the water - might be on stem watch there. He would see whatever there was
to see in the first window.
His wet cheek against the rotted rubber surrounding the porthole, he looked
inside. The 'curtain' was a heavy sheet of black tarpaulin folded back at
an angle. Beyond, the light was as he had pictured it; a single bulb
Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt Page 45
