My Dear Altmüller:
To serve the Reich is a privilege I undertake with enthusiasm. I am, of course, grateful for your assurances that my efforts will be made known to my many old friends. I assumed you would do no less under the circumstances.
You will be pleased to know that in the coastal waters from Punta Delgada north to the Caribbean, my ships are honored under the neutrality of the paraguayan flag. This convenience may be of service to you. Further, I have a number of vessels, notably small and medium-sized craft converted with high-performance engines. They are capable of traveling swiftly through the coastal waters, and there are refueling depots, thus enabling considerable distances to be traversed rapidly. Certainly no comparison to the airplane, but then the trips are made in utter secrecy, away from the prying eyes that surround all airfields these days. Even we neutrals must constantly outflank the blockades.
This information should answer the curiously obscure questions you raised.
I beg you to be more precise in future communications. Regardless, you may be assured of my commitment to the Reich.
Along these lines, associates in Berne inform me that your Führer is showing marked signs of fatigue. It was to be expected, was it not?
Remember, my dear Franz, the concept is always a greater monument than the man. In the current situation, the concept came before the man. It is the monument.
I await word from you.
Erich Rhinemann
How delicately unsubtle was Rhinemann!… commitment to the Reich … associates in Berne … marked signs of fatigue … to be expected.…
… a greater monument than the man.…
Rhinemann spelled out his abilities, his financial power, his “legitimate” concerns and his unequivocal commitment to Germany. By including, juxtaposing these factors, he elevated himself above even the Führer. And by so doing, condemned Hitler—for the greater glory of the Reich. No doubt Rhinemann had photostats made of his letter; Rhinemann would start a very complete file of the Buenos Aires operation. And one day he would use it to maneuver himself to the top of postwar Germany. Perhaps of all Europe. For he would have the weapon to guarantee his acceptance.
In victory or defeat. Unswerving devotion or, conversely, blackmail of such proportions the Allies would tremble at the thought of it.
So be it, thought Altmüller. He had no brief with Rhinemann. Rhinemann was an expert at whatever he entered into. He was methodical to the point of excess; conservative in progress—only in the sense of mastering all details before going forward. Above everything, he was boldly imaginative.
Altmüller’s eyes fell on Rhinemann’s words:
I beg you to be more precise in future communications.
Franz smiled. Rhinemann was right. He had been obscure. But for a sound reason: he wasn’t sure where he was going; where he was being led, perhaps. He only knew that the crates of carbonado diamonds had to be thoroughly examined, and that would take time. More time than Rhinemann realized if the information he had received from Peenemünde was accurate. According to Peenemünde, it would be a simple matter for the Americans to pack thousands of low-quality bortz that, to the inexperienced eye, would be undetectable. Stones that would crack at the first touch to steel.
If the operation was in the hands of the British, that would be the expected maneuver.
And even the Americans had decent Intelligence manipulators. If the Intelligence services were intrinsic to the exchange. Yet Altmüller doubted their active involvement. The Americans were governmentally hypocritical. They would make demands of their industrialists and expect those demands to be met. However, they would close their eyes to the methods; the unsophisticated Puritan streak was given extraordinary lip service in Washington.
Such children. Yet angry, frustrated children were dangerous.
The crates would have to be examined minutely.
In Buenos Aires.
And once accepted, no risks could be taken that the crates would be blown out of the sky or the water. So it seemed logical to ask Rhinemann what avenues of escape were available. For somewhere, somehow, the crates would have to make rendezvous with the most logical method of transportation back to Germany.
Submarine.
Rhinemann would understand; he might even applaud the precision of future communications.
Altmüller got up from his desk and stretched. He walked absently around his office, trying to rid his back of the cramps resulting from sitting too long. He approached the leather armchair in which Johann Dietricht had sat several days ago.
Dietricht was dead. The expendable, misfit messenger had been found in a bloodsoaked bed, the stories of the evening’s debauchery so demeaning that it was decided to bury them and the body without delay.
Altmüller wondered if the Americans had the stomach for such decisions.
He doubted it.
DECEMBER 19, 1943, FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
Swanson stood silently in front of the heavy steel door inside the Quonset structure. The security lieutenant was on the wall intercom for only the length of time it took for him to give the general’s name. The lieutenant nodded, replaced the phone, saluted the general for a second time. The heavy steel door clicked and Swanson knew he could enter.
The Fairfax commander was alone, as Swanson had ordered. He was standing to the right of his table-desk, a file folder in his hand. He saluted his superior.
“Good morning, general.”
“Morning. You worked fast; I appreciate it.”
“It may not be everything you want but it’s the best we can come up with.… Sit down, sir. I’ll describe the qualifications. If they meet with your approval, the file’s yours. If not, it’ll go back into the vaults.”
Swanson walked to one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the colonel’s desk and sat down. He did so with a touch of annoyance. Ed Pace, as so many of his subordinates in Clandestine Operations, functioned as though he were responsible to no one but God; and even He had to be cleared by Fairfax. It struck Swanson that it would be much simpler if Pace simply gave him the file and let him read it for himself.
On the other hand, Fairfax’s indoctrination had at its core the possibility—however remote—that any pair of eyes might be captured by the enemy. A man could be in Washington one week, Anzio or the Solomons the next. There was logic in Pace’s methods; a geographical network of underground agents could be exposed with a single break in the security chain.
Still, it was annoying as hell. Pace seemed to enjoy his role; he was humorless, thought Swanson.
“The subject under consideration is a proven field man. He’s acted as independently as anyone in one of our touchiest locations. Languages: acceptable fluency. Deportment and cover: extremely flexible. He moves about the civilian spectrum facilely, from embassy teacups to bricklayers’ saloons—he’s very mobile and convincing.”
“You’re coming up with a positive print, colonel.”
“If I am, I’m sorry. He’s valuable where he is. But you haven’t heard the rest. You may change your mind.”
“Go on.”
“On the negative side, he’s not army. I don’t mean he’s a civilian—he holds the rank of captain, as a matter of fact, but I don’t think he’s ever used it. What I’m saying is that he’s never operated within a chain of command. He set up the network; he is the command. He has been for nearly four years now.”
“Why is that negative?”
“There’s no way to tell how he reacts to discipline. Taking orders.”
“There won’t be much latitude for deviation. It’s cut and dried.”
“Very well.… A second negative; he’s not aeronautical.…”
“That is important!” Swanson spoke harshly; Pace was wasting his time. The man in Buenos Aires had to understand what the hell was going on; perhaps more than understand.
“He’s in a related field, sir. One that our people say primes him for crash instructions.”
“What is
it?”
“He’s a construction engineer. With considerable experience in mechanical, electrical and metal design. His background includes full responsibility for whole structures—from foundations through the finished productions. He’s a blueprint expert.”
Swanson paused, then nodded noncommittally. “All right. Go on.”
“The most difficult part of your request was to find someone—someone with these technical qualifications—who had practical experience in ‘dispatch.’ You even conceded that.”
“I know.” Swanson felt it was the time to show a little more humanity. Pace looked exhausted; the search had not been easy. “I handed you a tough one. Does your nonmilitary, mobile engineer have any ‘dispatches’ of record?”
“We try to avoid records, because …”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. He’s stationed where it’s unavoidable, I’m sorry to say. Except for the men in Burma and India, he’s had more occasions to use last-extremity solutions than anyone in the field. To our knowledge, he’s never hesitated to implement them.”
Swanson started to speak, then hesitated. He creased his brow above his questioning eyes. “You can’t help but wonder about such men, can you?”
“They’re trained. Like anyone else they do a job … for a purpose. He’s not a killer by nature. Very few of our really good men are.”
“I’ve never understood your work, Ed. Isn’t that strange?”
“Not at all. I couldn’t possibly function in your end of the War Department. Those charts and graphs and civilian double-talkers confuse me.… How does the subject sound to you?”
“You have no alternates?”
“Several. But with each there’s the same negative. Those that have the languages and the aeronautical training have no experience in ‘dispatch.’ No records of … extreme prejudice. I worked on the assumption that it was as important as the other factors.”
“Your assumption was correct.… Tell me, do you know him?”
“Very well. I recruited him, I observed every phase of his training. I’ve seen him in the field. He’s a pro.”
“I want one.”
“Then maybe he’s your man. But before I say it, I’d like to ask you a question. I have to ask it, actually; I’ll be asked the same question myself.”
“I hope I can give you an answer.”
“It’s within bounds. It’s not specific.”
“What is it?”
Pace came to the edge of the desk toward Swanson. He leaned his back against it and folded his arms. It was another army signal: I’m your subordinate but this puts us on equal footing right now—at this moment.
“I said the subject was valuable where he is. That’s not strong enough. He’s invaluable, essential. By removing him from his station we jeopardize a very sensitive operation. We can handle it, but the risks are considerable. What I have to know is, does the assignment justify his transfer?”
“Let me put it this way, colonel,” said Swanson, the tone of his voice gentle but strong. “The assignment has no priority equal, with the possible exception of the Manhattan Project. You’ve heard of the Manhattan Project, I assume.”
“I have.” Pace got off his desk. “And the War Department—through your office—will confirm this priority?”
“It will.”
“Then here he is, general.” Pace handed Swanson the file folder. “He’s one of the best we’ve got. He’s our man in Lisbon.… Spaulding. Captain David Spaulding.”
11
DECEMBER 26, 1943, RIBADAVIA, SPAIN
David sped south on the motorcycle along the dirt road paralleling the Minho River. It was the fastest route to the border, just below Ribadavia. Once across he would swing west to an airfield outside Valença. The flight to Lisbon would take another two hours, if the weather held and if an aircraft was available. Valença didn’t expect him for another two days; its planes might all be in use.
His anxiety matched the intensity of the spinning, careening wheels beneath him. It was all so extraordinary; it made no sense to him. There was no one in Lisbon who could issue such orders as he had received from Ortegal!
What had happened?
He felt suddenly as though a vitally important part of his existence was being threatened. And then he wondered at his own reaction. He had no love for his temporary world; he took no pleasure in the countless manipulations and countermanipulations. In fact, he despised most of his day-to-day activities, was sick of the constant fear, the unending high-risk factors to be evaluated with every decision.
Yet he recognized what bothered him so: he had grown in his work. He had arrived in Lisbon centuries ago, beginning a new life, and he had mastered it. Somehow it signified all the buildings he wanted to build, all the blueprints he wanted to turn into mortar and steel. There was precision and finality in his work; the results were there every day. Often many times every day. Like the hundreds of details in construction specifications, the information came to him and he put it all together and emerged with reality.
And it was this reality that others depended upon.
Now someone wanted him out of Lisbon! Out of Portugal and Spain! Was it as simple as that? Had his reports angered one general too many? Had a strategy session been nullified because he sent back the truth of a supposedly successful operation? Were the London and Washington brass finally annoyed to the point of removing a critical thorn? It was possible; he had been told often enough that the men in the underground rooms in London’s Tower Road had exploded more than once over his assessments. He knew that Washington’s Office of Strategic Services felt he was encroaching on their territory; even G-2, ostensibly his own agency, criticized his involvement with the escape teams.
But beyond the complaints there was one evaluation that overrode them all: he was good. He had welded together the best network in Europe.
Which was why David was confused. And not a little disturbed, for a reason he tried not to admit: he needed praise.
There were no buildings of consequence, no extraordinary blueprints turned into more extraordinary edifices. Perhaps there never would be. He would be a middle-aged engineer when it was over. A middle-aged engineer who had not practiced his profession in years, not even in the vast army of the United States, whose Corps of Engineers was the largest construction crew in history.
He tried not to think about it.
He crossed the border at Mendoso, where the guards knew him as a rich, irresponsible expatriate avoiding the risks of war. They accepted his gratuities and waved him over.
The flight from Valença to the tiny airfield outside Lisbon was hampered by heavy rains. It was necessary to put down twice—at Agueda and Pombal—before the final leg. He was met by an embassy vehicle; the driver, a cryptographer named Marshall, was the only man in the embassy who knew his real function.
“Rotten weather, isn’t it?” said the code man, settling behind the wheel as David threw his pack in the back seat. “I don’t envy you up in a crate like that. Not in this rain.”
“Those grass pilots fly so low you could jump down. I worry more about the trees.”
“I’d just worry.” Marshall started up and drove toward the broken-down pasture gate that served as the field’s entrance. On the road he switched on his high beams; it was not yet six o’clock, but the sky was dark, headlights necessary. “I thought you might flatter me and ask why an expert of my standing was acting as chauffeur. I’ve been here since four. Go on, ask me. It was a hell of a long wait.”
Spaulding grinned. “Jesus, Marsh, I just figured you were trying to get in my good graces. So I’d take you north on the next trip. Or have I been made a brigadier?”
“You’ve been made something, David.” Marshall spoke seriously. “I took the D.C. message myself. It was that high up in the codes: eyes-only, senior cryp.”
“I’m flattered,” said Spaulding softly, relieved that he could talk to someone about the preposterous news of his transfe
r. “What the hell is it all about?”
“I have no idea what they want you for, of course, but I can spell out one conclusion: they want you yesterday. They’ve covered all avenues of delay. The orders were to compile a list of your contacts with complete histories of each: motives, dates, repeats, currency, routings, codes … everything. Nothing left out. Subsequent order: alert the whole network that you’re out of strategy.”
“Out of …” David trailed off the words in disbelief. Out of strategy was a phrase used as often for defectors as it was for transfers. Its connotation was final, complete breakoff. “That’s insane! This is my network!”
“Not anymore. They flew a man in from London this morning. I think he’s Cuban; rich, too. Studied architecture in Berlin before the war. He’s been holed up in an office studying your files. He’s your replacement.… I wanted you to know.”
David stared at the windshield, streaked with the harsh Lisbon rain. They were on the hard-surface road that led through the Alfama district, with its winding, hilly streets below the cathedral towers of the Moorish St. George and the Gothic Sé. The American embassy was in the Baixa, past the Terreiro do Paço. Another twenty minutes.
So it was really over, thought Spaulding. They were sending him out. A Cuban architect was now the man in Lisbon. The feeling of being dispossessed took hold of him again. So much was being taken away and under such extraordinary conditions. Out of strategy …
“Who signed the orders?”
“That’s part of the craziness. The use of high codes presumes supreme authority; no one else has access. But no one signed them, either. No name other than yours was in the cable.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You get on a plane tomorrow. The flight time will be posted by tonight. The bird makes one stop. At Lajes Field on Terceira, the Azores. You pick up your orders there.”
12
DECEMBER 26, 1943, WASHINGTON, D.C.