“What about us? Are we an ‘us’?”
“I love you,” he said simply. “I know that.”
“After only a week? That’s what I keep asking myself. We’re not children.”
“We’re not children,” he replied. “Children don’t have access to State Department dossiers.” He smiled, then grew serious. “I need your help.”
She glanced at him sharply. “What is it?”
“What do you know about Erich Rhinemann?”
“He’s a despicable man.”
“He’s a Jew.”
“Then he’s a despicable Jew. Race and religion notwithstanding, immaterial.”
“Why is he despicable?”
“Because he uses people. Indiscriminately. Maliciously. He uses his money to corrupt whatever and whomever he can. He buys influence from the junta; that gets him land, government concessions, shipping rights. He forced a number of mining companies out of the Patagonia Basin; he took over a dozen or so oil fields at Comodoro Rivadavia.…”
“What are his politics?”
Jean thought for a second; she leaned back in the chair, looking for an instant at the window, then over to Spaulding. “Himself,” she answered.
“I’ve heard he’s openly pro-Axis.”
“Only because he believed England would fall and terms would be made. He still owns a power base in Germany, I’m told.”
“But he’s a Jew.”
“Temporary handicap. I don’t think he’s an elder at the synagogue. The Jewish community in Buenos Aires has no use for him.”
David stood up. “Maybe that’s it.”
“What?”
“Rhinemann turned his back on the tribe, openly supports the creators of Auschwitz. Maybe they want him killed. Take out his guards first, then go after him.”
“If by ‘they’ you mean the Jews here, I’d have to say no. The Argentine judíos tread lightly. The colonels’ legions are awfully close to a goose step; Rhinemann has influence. Of course, nothing stops a fanatic or two.…”
“No.… They may be fanatics, but not one or two. They’re organized; they’ve got backing—considerable amounts, I think.”
“And they’re after Rhinemann? The Jewish community would panic. Frankly, we’d be the first they’d come to.”
David stopped his pacing. The words came back to him again: there’ll be no negotiations with Altmüller. A darkened doorway on New York’s Fifty-second Street.
“Have you ever heard the name Altmüller?”
“No. There’s a plain Müller at the German embassy, I think, but that’s like Smith or Jones. No Altmüller.”
“What about Hawkwood? A woman named Leslie Jenner Hawkwood?”
“No again. But if these people are intelligence oriented, there’d be no reason for me to.”
“They’re Intelligence but I didn’t think they were undercover. At least not this Altmüller.”
“What does that mean?”
“His name has been used in a context that assumes recognition. But I can’t find him.”
“Do you want to check the ‘Caves’?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll do it directly with Granville. When do they open?”
“Eight thirty. Henderson’s in his office by quarter to nine.” She saw David hold up his wrist, forgetting he had no watch. She looked at her office clock. “A little over two hours. Remind me to buy you a watch.”
“Thanks.… Ballard. I have to see him. How is he in the early morning? At this hour?”
“I trust that question’s rhetorical.… He’s used to being roused up for code problems. Shall I call him?”
“Please. Can you make coffee here?”
“There’s a hotplate out there.” Jean indicated the door to the anteroom. “Behind my secretary’s chair. Sink’s in the closet.… Never mind, I’ll do it. Let me get Bobby first.”
“I make a fine pot of coffee. You call, I’ll cook. You look like such an executive, I’d hate to interfere.”
He was emptying the grounds into the pot when he heard it. It was a footstep. A single footstep outside in the corridor. A footstep that should have been muffled but wasn’t. A second step would ordinarily follow but didn’t.
Spaulding put the pot on the desk, reached down and removed both his shoes without a sound. He crossed to the closed door and stood by the frame.
There it was again. Steps. Quiet; unnatural.
David opened his jacket, checking his weapon, and put his left hand on the knob. He turned it silently, then quickly opened the door and stepped out.
Fifteen feet away a man walking down the corridor spun around at the noise. The look on his face was one Spaulding had seen many times.
Fright.
“Oh, hello there, you must be the new man. We haven’t met.… The name’s Ellis. Eill Ellis.… I have a beastly conference at seven.” The attaché was not convincing.
“Several of us were going fishing but the weather reports are uncertain. Care to come with us?”
“I’d love to except I have this damned ungodly hour meeting.”
“Yes. That’s what you said. How about coffee?”
“Thanks, old man. I really should bone up on some paperwork.”
“O.K. Sorry.”
“Yes, so am I.… Well, see you later.” The man named Ellis smiled awkwardly, gestured a wave more awkwardly—which David returned—and continued on his way.
Spaulding went back into Jean’s office and closed the door. She was standing by the secretary’s desk.
“Who in heaven’s name were you talking to at this hour?”
“He said his name was Ellis. He said he had a meeting with someone at seven o’clock.… He doesn’t.”
“What?”
“He was lying. What’s Ellis’s department?”
“Import-export clearances.”
“That’s handy.… What about Ballard?”
“He’s on his way. He says you’re a mean man.… What’s ‘handy’ about Ellis?”
Spaulding went to the coffee pot on the desk, picked it up and started for the closet. Jean interrupted his movement, taking the pot from him. “What’s Ellis’s rating?” he asked.
“Excellent. Strictly the syndrome; he wants the Court of St. James’s. You haven’t answered me. What’s ‘handy’?”
“He’s been bought. He’s a funnel. It could be serious or just penny-ante waterfront stuff.”
“Oh?” Jean, perplexed, opened the closet door where there was a washbasin. Suddenly, she stopped. She turned to Spaulding. “David. What does ‘Tortugas’ mean?”
“Oh, Christ, stop kidding.”
“Which means you can’t tell me.”
“Which means I don’t know. I wish to heaven I did.”
“It’s a code word, isn’t it? That’s what it says in your file.”
“It’s a code I’ve never been told about and I’m the one responsible!”
“Here, fill this; rinse it out first.” Jean handed him the coffee pot and walked rapidly into her office, to the desk. David followed and stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Attachés, even undersecretaries, if they have very early appointments, list them with the gate.”
“Ellis?”
Jean nodded and spoke into the telephone; her conversation was brief. She replaced the instrument and looked over at Spaulding. “The first gate pass is listed for nine. Ellis has no meeting at seven thirty.”
“I’m not surprised. Why are you?”
“I wanted to make sure.… You said you didn’t know what ‘Tortugas’ meant. I might be able to tell you.”
David, stunned, took several steps into the office. “What?”
“There was a surveillance report from La Boca—that’s Ellis’s district. His department must have cleared it up, given it a clean bill. It was dropped.”
“What was dropped? What are you talking about?”
“A trawler in La Boca. It had cargo with a de
stination lading that violated coastal patrols … they called it an error. The destination was Tortugas.”
The outer office door suddenly opened and Bobby Ballard walked in.
“Jesus!” he said. “The Munchkins go to work early in this wonderful world of Oz!”
33
The code schedules with Ballard took less than a half hour. David was amazed at the cryptographer’s facile imagination. He developed—on the spot—a geometrical progress of numbers and corresponding letters that would take the best cryps Spaulding knew a week to break.
At maximum, all David needed was ninety-six hours.
Bobby placed Washington’s copy in an official courier’s envelope, sealed it chemically, placed it in a triple-locked pouch and called the FMF base for an officer—captain’s rank or above—to get to the embassy within the hour. The codes would be on a coastal pursuit aircraft by nine; at Andrews Field by late afternoon; delivered to General Alan Swanson’s office in the War Department by armored courier van shortly thereafter.
The confirmation message was simple; Spaulding had given Ballard two words: Cable Tortugas.
When the code was received in Washington, Swanson woud know that Eugene Lyons had authenticated the guidance designs. He could then radio the bank in Switzerland and payment would be made to Rhinemann’s accounts. By using the name “Tortugas,” David hoped that someone, somewhere, would understand his state of mind. His anger at being left with the full responsibility without all of the facts.
Spaulding was beginning to think that Erich Rhinemann was demanding more than he was entitled to. A possibility that would do him little good.
Rhinemann was to be killed.
And the outlines of a plan were coming into focus that would bring about that necessary death. The act itself might be the simplest part of his assignment.
There was no point in not telling Jean and Bobby Ballard about the guidance designs. Kendall had flown out of Buenos Aires—without explanation; David knew he might need assistance at a moment when there was no time to brief those helping him. His cover was superfluous now. He described minutely Rhinemann’s schedule, the function of Eugene Lyons and Heinrich Stoltz’s surfacing as a contact.
Ballard was astonished at Stoltz’s inclusion. “Stoltz! That’s a little bit of lightning.… I mean, he’s a believer. Not the Hitler fire ’n’ brimstone—he dismisses that, I’m told. But Germany. The Versailles motive, the reparations—bled giant, export or die—the whole thing. I figured him for the real Junker item.…”
David did not pay much attention.
The logistics of the morning were clear in Spaulding’s mind and at eight forty-five he began.
His meeting with Henderson Granville was short and cordial. The ambassador was content not to know David’s true purpose in Buenos Aires, as long as there was no diplomatic conflict. Spaulding assured him that to the best of his knowledge there was none; certainly less of a possibility if the ambassador remained outside the hard core of the assignment Granville agreed. On the basis of David’s direct request, he had the “Caves” checked for files on Franz Altmüller and Leslie Jenner Hawkwood.
Nothing.
Spaulding went from Granville’s office back to Jean’s. She had received the incoming passengers manifest from Aeroparque. Eugene Lyons was listed on clipper flight 101, arriving at two in the afternoon. His profession was given as “physicist”; the reason for entry, “industrial conferences.”
David was annoyed with Walter Kendall. Or, he thought, should his annoyance be with the bewildered amateur, Brigadier General Alan Swanson? The least they could have done was term Lyons a “scientist”; “physicist” was stupid. A physicist in Buenos Aires was an open invitation to surveillance—even Allied surveillance.
He walked back to his own isolated, tiny office. To think.
He decided to meet Lyons himself. Walter Kendall had told him that Lyons’s male nurses would settle the mute, sad man in San Telmo. Recalling the two men in question, David had premonitions of disaster. It wasn’t beyond Johnny and Hal—those were the names, weren’t they?—to deliver Lyons to the steps of the German embassy, thinking it was another hospital.
He would meet Pan Am Clipper 101. And proceed to take the three men on a complicated route to San Telmo.
Once he’d settled Lyons, David estimated that he would have about two, possibly three, hours before Rhinemann—or Stoltz—would make contact. Unless Rhinemann was hunting him now, in panic over the killings in the Colinas Rojas. If so, Spaulding had “built his shelter.” His irrefutable alibi.… He hadn’t been there. He’d been dropped off at Córdoba by two in the morning.
Who could dispute him?
So, he would have two or three hours in midafternoon.
La Boca.
Discreetly, Jean had checked naval surveillance at FMF. The discretion came with her utterly routine, bored telephone call to the chief of operations. She had a “loose end” to tie up for a “dead file”; there was no significance, only a bureaucratic matter—someone was always looking for a good rating on the basis of closing out. Would the lieutenant mind filling in?… The trawler erroneously listed for Tortugas was moored by a warehouse complex in Ocho Calle. The error was checked and confirmed by the embassy attaché, Mr. William Ellis, Import-Export Clearance Division.
Ocho Calle.
David would spend an hour or so looking around. It could be a waste of time. What connection would a fishing trawler have with his assignment? There was none that he could see. But there was the name “Tortugas”; there was an attaché named Ellis who crept silently outside closed doors and lied about nonexistent conferences in the early morning.
Ocho Calle was worth looking into.
Afterward, he would stay by his telephone at Córdoba.
“Are you going to take me to lunch?” asked Jean, walking into his office. “Don’t look at your watch; you haven’t got one.”
Spaulding’s hand was in midair, his wrist turned. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“It’s not. It’s only eleven, but you haven’t eaten—probably didn’t sleep, either—and you said you were going to the airport shortly after one.”
“I was right; you’re a corporate executive. Your sense of organization is frightening.”
“Nowhere near yours. We’ll stop at a jewelry store first. I’ve already called. You have a present.”
“I like presents. Let’s go.” Spaulding got out of his chair as the telephone rang. He looked down at it. “Do you know that’s the first time that thing has made a sound?”
“It’s probably for me. I told my secretary I was here.… I don’t think I really had to tell her.”
“Hello?” said David into the phone.
“Spaulding?”
David recognized the polished German of Heinrich Stoltz. His tension carried over the wire. “Isn’t it a little foolish to call me here?”
“I have no choice. Our mutual friend is in a state of extreme anxiety. Everything is jeopardized.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is no time for foolishness! The situation is grave.”
“It’s no time for games, either. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Last night! This morning. What happened?”
“What happened where?”
“Stop it! You were there!”
“Where?”
Stoltz paused; David could hear his breath. The German was in panic, desperately trying to control himself. “The men were killed. We must know what happened!”
“Killed?… You’re crazy. How?”
“I warn you.…”
“Now you cut it out! I’m buying, and don’t you forget it.… I don’t want to be mixed up in any organization problems. Those men dropped me off around one thirty. Incidentally, they met your other boys, the ones covering my apartment. And also incidentally, I don’t like this round-the-clock surveillance!”
Stoltz was blanked—as David expected he wo
uld be. “The others?… What others?”
“Get off it! You know perfectly well.” Spaulding let the inference hang.
“This is all most disturbing.…” Stoltz tried to compose himself.
“I’m sorry,” said David noncommittally.
Exasperated, Stoltz interrupted. “I’ll call you back.”
“Not here. I’ll be out most of the afternoon.… As a matter of fact,” added Spaulding quickly, pleasantly, “I’ll be in one of those sailboats our mutual friend looks down upon so majestically. I’m joining some diplomatic friends almost as rich as he is. Call me after five at Córdoba.”
David hung up instantly, hearing the beginning of Stoltz’s protest. Jean was watching him, fascinated.
“You did that very well,” she said.
“I’ve had more practice than him.”
“Stoltz?”
“Yes. Let’s go into your office.”
“I thought we were going to lunch.”
“We are. Couple of things first.… There’s a rear exit, isn’t there?”
“Several. Back gate.”
“I want to use an embassy vehicle. Any trouble?”
“No, of course not.”
“Your secretary. Could you spare her for a long lunch?”
“You’re sweet. I had the insane idea you were taking me.”
“I am. Could she put her hair up and wear a floppy hat?”
“Any woman can.”
“Good. Get that yellow coat you wore last night. And point out any man around here relatively my size. One that your secretary might enjoy that long lunch with. Preferably wearing dark trousers. He’ll have my jacket.”
“What are you doing?”
“Our friends are good at playing jokes on other people. Let’s see how they take it when one’s played on them.”
Spaulding watched from the third-floor window, concealed by the full-length drapes. He held the binoculars to his eyes. Below, on the front steps, Jean’s secretary—in a wide-brimmed hat and Jean’s yellow coat—walked rapidly down to the curb of the driveway. Following her was one of Ballard’s assistants, a tall man in dark trousers and David’s jacket. Both wore sunglasses. Ballard’s man paused momentarily on the top step, looking at an unfolded road map. His face was covered by the awkward mass of paper. He descended the stairs and together he and the girl climbed into the embassy limousine—an upper-level vehicle with curtains.