The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.… Nothing at all.” She smiled, but only the outlines were there; not the ingenuousness, not the humor. “Did you talk to that man Stoltz?”

  “Good Lord, is that what’s bothering you?… I’m sorry, I suppose I should have said something. Stoltz was selling fleet information; I’m in no position to buy. I told him to get in touch with Naval Intelligence. I made a report to the base commander at FMF this morning. If they want to use him, they will.”

  “Strange he should call you.”

  “That’s what I thought. Apparently German surveillance picked me up the other day and the financial data was on their sheet. That was enough for Stoltz.”

  “He’s a defector?”

  “Or selling bad stuff. It’s FMF’s problem, not mine.”

  “You’re very glib.” She drank her coffee unsteadily.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.… Just that you’re quick. Quick and facile. You must be very good at your work.”

  “And you’re in a godawful mood. Does an excess of gin bring it on?”

  “Oh, you think I’m drunk?”

  “You’re not sober. Not that it matters.” He grinned. “You’re hardly an alcoholic.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But don’t speculate. That implies some kind of permanence. We must avoid that, mustn’t we?”

  “Must we? It seems to be a point with you tonight. It wasn’t a problem I was considering.”

  “You just brushed it aside, I assume. I’m sure you have other, more pressing matters.” In replacing her cup, Jean spilled coffee on the tablecloth. She was obviously annoyed with herself. “I’m doing it badly,” she said after a moment of silence.

  “You’re doing it badly,” he agreed.

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “You’re not here in Buenos Aires to talk to bankers, are you? It’s much more than that. You won’t tell me, I know. And in a few weeks, you’ll be gone … if you’re alive.”

  “You’re letting your imagination take over.” He took her hand; she crushed out her cigarette and put her other hand over his. She gripped him tightly.

  “All right. Let’s say you’re right.” She spoke quietly now; he had to strain to hear her. “I’m making everything up. I’m crazy and I drank too much. Indulge me. Play the game for a minute.”

  “If you want me to … O.K.”

  “It’s hypothetical. My David isn’t a State Department syndromer, you see. He’s an agent. We’ve had a few here; I’ve met them. The colonels call them provocarios.… So, my David is an agent and being an agent is called … high-risk something-or-other because the rules are different. That is, the rules don’t have any meaning.… There aren’t any rules for these people … like my hypothetical David. Do you follow?”

  “I follow,” he replied simply. “I’m not sure what the object is or how a person scores.”

  “We’ll get to that.” She drank the last of her coffee, holding the cup firmly—too firmly; her fingers shook. “The point is, such a man as my … mythical David could be killed or crippled or have his face shot off. That’s a horrible thought, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I imagine that possibility has occurred to several hundred thousand men by now. It’s horrible.”

  “But they’re different. They have armies and uniforms and certain rules. Even in airplanes … their chances are better. And I say this with a certain expertise.”

  He looked at her intently. “Stop.”

  “Oh, not yet. Now, I’m going to tell you how you can score a goal. Why does my hypothetical David do what he does?… No, don’t answer yet.” She stopped and smiled weakly. “But you weren’t about to answer, were you? It doesn’t matter; there’s a second part of the question. You get extra points for considering it.”

  “What’s the second part?” He thought that Jean was recapitulating an argument she had memorized. Her next words proved it.

  “You see, I’ve thought about it over and over again … for this make-believe game … this make-believe agent. He’s in a very unique position: he works alone … or at least with very, very few people. He’s in a strange country and he’s alone.… Do you understand the second part now?”

  David watched her. She had made some abstract connection in her mind without verbalizing it. “No, I don’t.”

  “If David is working alone and in a strange country and has to send codes to Washington … Henderson told me that … that means the people he’s working for have to believe what he tells them. He can tell them anything he wants to.… So now we come back to the question. Knowing all this, why does the mythical David do what he does? He can’t really believe that he’ll influence the outcome of the whole war. He’s only one among millions and millions.”

  “And … if I’m following you … this make-believe man can send word to his superiors that he’s having difficulties.…”

  “He has to stay on in Buenos Aires. For a long time,” she interrupted, holding his hand fiercely.

  “And if they say no, he can always hide out in the pampas.”

  “Don’t make fun of me!” she said intensely.

  “I’m not. I won’t pretend that I can give you logical answers, but I don’t think the man you’re talking about has such a clear field. Tight reins are kept on such men, I believe. Other men could be sent into the area … would be sent, I’m sure. Your strategy is only a short-term gain; the penalties are long and damned stiff.”

  She withdrew her hands slowly, looking away from him. “It’s a gamble that might be worth it, though. I love you very much. I don’t want you hurt and I know there are people trying to hurt you.” She stopped and turned her eyes back to him. “They’re trying to kill you, aren’t they?… One among so many millions … and I keep saying to myself, ‘Not him. Oh, God, not him.’ Don’t you see?… Do we need them? Are those people—whoever they are—so important? To us? Haven’t you done enough?”

  He returned her stare and found himself understanding the profundity of her question. It wasn’t a pleasant realization. … He had done enough. His whole life had been turned around until the alien was an everyday occurrence.

  For what?

  The amateurs? Alan Swanson? Walter Kendall?

  A dead Ed Pace. A corrupt Fairfax.

  One among so many millions.

  “Señor Spaulding?” The words shocked him momentarily because they were so completely unexpected. A tuxedoed maître d’ was standing by the edge of the booth, his voice low.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a telephone call for you.”

  David looked at the discreet man. “Can’t you bring the telephone to the table?”

  “Our sincere apologies. The instrument plug at this booth is not functioning.”

  A lie, of course, Spaulding knew.

  “Very well.” David got out of the booth. He turned to Jean. “I’ll be right back. Have some more coffee.”

  “Suppose I wanted a drink?”

  “Order it.” He started to walk away.

  “David?” She called out enough to be heard; not loudly.

  “Yes.” He turned back; she was staring at him again.

  “ ‘Tortugas’ isn’t worth it,” she said quietly.

  It was as if he’d been hit a furious blow in the stomach. Acid formed in his throat, his breath stopped, his eyes pained him as he looked down at her.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Heinrich Stoltz here,” the voice said.

  “I’ve been expecting your call. I assume the switchboard gave you the number.”

  “It was not necessary to telephone. The arrangements have been made. In twenty minutes a green Packard automobile will be outside the restaurant. A man will have his left arm out the window, holding an open pack of German cigarettes this time. I thought you would appreciate the symbolic repetition.”

  “I’m touched. But you may have to
alter the time and the car.”

  “There can be no changes. Herr Rhinemann is adamant.”

  “So am I. Something’s come up.”

  “Sorry. Twenty minutes. A green Packard automobile.”

  The connection was severed.

  Well, that was Stoltz’s problem, thought David. There was only one thought in mind. To get back to Jean.

  He made his way out of the dimly lit corner and sidled awkwardly past the bar patrons whose stools were blocking the aisle. He was in a hurry; the human and inanimate obstructions were frustrating, annoying. He reached the arch into the dining area and walked rapidly through the tables to the rear booth.

  Jean Cameron was gone. There was a note on the table.

  It was on the back of a cocktail napkin, the words written in the heavy wax of an eyebrow pencil. Written hastily, almost illegibly:

  David. I’m sure you have things to do—

  places to go—and I’m a bore tonight

  Nothing else. As if she just stopped.

  He crumpled the napkin in his pocket and raced back across the dining room to the front entrance. The maiître d’ stood by the door.

  “Señor? Is there a problem?”

  “The lady at the booth. Where did she go?!”

  “Mrs. Cameron?”

  Christ! thought David, looking at the calm porteño. What was happening? The reservation was in his name. Jean had indicated that she’d been to the restaurant only once before.

  “Yes! Mrs. Cameron! Goddamn you, where is she!?”

  “She left a few minutes ago. She took the first taxi at the curb.”

  “You listen to me.…”

  “Señor,” interrupted the obsequious Argentine, “there is a gentleman waiting for you outside. He will take care of your bill. He has an account with us.”

  Spaulding looked out the large windowpanes in the heavy front door. Through the glass he could see a man standing on the sidewalk. He was dressed in a white Palm Beach suit.

  David pushed the door open and approached him.

  “You want to see me?”

  “I’m merely waiting for you, Herr Spaulding. To escort you. The car should be here in fifteen minutes.”

  30

  The green Packard sedan came to a stop across the street, directly in front of the restaurant. The driver’s arm appeared through the open window, an indistinguishable pack of cigarettes in his hand. The man in the white Palm Beach suit gestured politely for Spaulding to accompany him.

  As he drew nearer, David could see that the driver was a large man in a black knit, short-sleeved shirt that both revealed and accentuated his muscular arms. There was a stubble of beard, thick eyebrows; he looked like a mean-tempered longshoreman, the rough image intended, Spaulding was sure. The man walking beside him opened the car door and David climbed in.

  No one spoke. The car headed south back toward the center of Buenos Aires; then northeast into the Aeroparque district. David was mildly surprised to realize that the driver had entered the wide highway paralleling the river. The same road he had taken that afternoon with Leslie Hawkwood. He wondered whether the route was chosen deliberately, if they expected him to make some remark about the coincidence.

  He sat back, giving no indication that he recognized anything.

  The Packard accelerated on the wide river road which now swung to the left, following the water into the hills of the northwest. The car did not, however, go up any of the offshoot roads as David had done hours ago. Instead the driver maintained a steady, high speed. A reflecting highway sign was caught momentarily in the glare of the headlights: Tigre 12 kil.

  The traffic was mild; cars rushed past intermittently from the opposite direction; several were overtaken by the Packard. The driver checked his rear- and side-view mirrors constantly.

  In the middle of a long bend in the road, the Packard slowed down. The driver nodded his head to the man in the white Palm Beach suit beside David.

  “We will exchange cars now, Herr Spaulding,” said the man, reaching into his jacket, withdrawing a gun.

  Ahead of them was a single building, an outskirts restaurant or an inn with a circular drive that curved in front of an entrance and veered off into a large parking area on the side. Spotlights lit the entrance and the lawn in front.

  The driver swung in; the man beside Spaulding tapped him.

  “Get out here, please. Go directly inside.”

  David opened the door. He was surprised to see a uniformed doorman remain by the entrance, making no move toward the Packard. Instead, he crossed rapidly in front of the entrance and started walking on the graveled drive in the direction of the side parking lot. Spaulding opened the front door and stepped into the carpeted foyer of the restaurant; the man in the white suit was at his heels, his gun now in his pocket.

  Instead of proceeding toward the entrance of the dining area, the man held David by the arm—politely—and knocked on what appeared to be the door of a small office in the foyer. The door opened and the two of them walked inside.

  It was a tiny office but that fact made no impression on Spaulding. What fascinated him were the two men inside. One was dressed in a white Palm Beach suit; the other—and David instantly, involuntarily, had to smile—was in the identical clothes he himself was wearing. A light blue, striped cord jacket and dark trousers. The second man was his own height, the same general build, the same general coloring.

  David had no time to observe further. The light in the small office—a desk lamp—was snapped off by the newly appeared white suit. The German who had accompanied Spaulding walked to the single window that looked out on the circular drive. He spoke softly.

  “Schnell. Beeilen Sie sich … Danke.”

  The two men quickly walked to the door and let themselves out. The German by the window was silhouetted in the filtered light of the front entrance. He beckoned David.

  “Kommen Sie her.”

  He went to the window and stood beside the man. Outside, their two counterparts were on the driveway, talking and gesturing as if in an argument—a mild disagreement, not violent. Both smoked cigarettes, their faces more often covered by their hands than not. Their backs were to the highway beyond.

  Then an automobile came from the right, from the direction of the parking lot, and the two men got inside. The car moved slowly to the left, to the entrance of the highway. It paused for several seconds, waiting for an opportune moment in the thinned-out night traffic. Suddenly it lurched forward, crossed to the right of the highway and sped off south, toward the city.

  David wasn’t sure why the elaborate ploy was considered necessary; he was about to ask the man beside him. Before he spoke, however, he noticed the smile on the man’s face, inches from his in the window. Spaulding looked out.

  About fifty yards away, off the side of the river road, headlights were snapped on. A vehicle, facing north, made a fast U-turn on the wide highway and headed south in a sudden burst of speed.

  The German grinned. “Amerikanische … Kinder.”

  David stepped back. The man crossed to the desk and turned on the lamp.

  “That was an interesting exercise,” said Spaulding.

  The man looked up. “Simply a—what are your words, eine Vorsichtsmassnahme—a …”

  “A precaution,” said David.

  “Ja. That’s right, you speak German.… Come. Herr Rhinemann must not be kept waiting longer than the … precautions require.”

  Even in daylight, Spaulding realized, the dirt road would be difficult to find. As it was, with no streetlamps and only the misty illumination of the moon, it seemed as though the Packard had swung off the hard pavement into a black wall of towering overgrowth. Instead, there was the unmistakable sound of dirt beneath the wheels as the car plunged forward, the driver secure in his knowledge of the numerous turns and straightaways. A half mile into the forest the dirt road suddenly widened and the surface became smooth and hard again.

  There was an enormous parking area.
Four stone gateposts—wide, medieval in appearance—were spaced equidistant from one another at the far end of the blacktopped field. Above each stone post was a massive floodlamp, the spills intersecting, throwing light over the entire area and into the woods beyond. Between the huge posts was a thick-grilled iron fence, in the center of which was a webbed steel gate, obviously operated electrically.

  Men dressed in dark shirts and trousers—quasi-military in cut—stood around, several with dogs on leashes.

  Dobermans. Massive, straining at their leather straps, barking viciously.

  Commands could be heard from the handlers and the dogs subsided.

  The man in the white Palm Beach suit opened the door and got out. He walked to the main gatepost, where a guard appeared at the fence from inside the compound. The two men talked briefly; David could see that beyond the guard stood a dark concrete or stucco enclosure, perhaps twenty feet in length, in which there were small windows with light showing through.

  The guard returned to the miniature house; the man in the white suit came back to the Packard.

  “We will wait a few minutes,” he said, climbing into the rear seat.

  “I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “To be here; to let Herr Rhinemann know we have arrived. Not necessarily to be admitted.”

  “Accommodating fellow,” said David.

  “Herr Rhinemann can be what he likes.”

  Ten minutes later the steel-webbed gate swung slowly open and the driver started the engine. The Packard cruised by the gatehouse and the guards; the Dobermans began their rapacious barking once again, only to be silenced by their masters. The road wound uphill, ending in another huge parking area in front of an enormous white mansion with wide marble steps leading to the largest pair of oak doors David had ever seen. Here, too, floodlights covered the whole area. Unlike the outside premises, there was a fountain in the middle of the courtyard, the reflection of the lights bouncing off the spray of the water.