THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE

BY

ROBERT LUDLUM
 By the same author

 The Scarlatti Inheritance
 The Osterman Weekend
 The Matlock Paper
 The Gemini Contenders
 The Chancellor Manuscript
 The Holcrofit Covenant
 The Matarese Circle
 The Bourne Identity
 The Road to Gando6ro
 The Parsifal Mosaic
   ROBERT LUDLUM

The Rhinemann
Exchange


Toronto Sydney New-york
                                      Published by Granada Publishing Limited in 1975
 Reprinted 1975, 1976 (twice), 1977 (twice), 1978, 1980,
 1981 (twice), 1982 (twice), 1983

 ISBN 586 04202 4

 First published in Great Britain by
 Hart-Davis, MacGibbon Ltd 1975
 Copyright (9 1974 by Robert Ludlum

 Granada Publishing Limited Frogrnore, St Albans, Herts AL2 2NF and 36
 Golden Square, London WIR 4AH 515 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10022, USA
 117 York Street, Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia 60 International Blvd,
 Rexdale, Ontario, R9W W2, Canada 61 Beach Road, Auckland, New Zealand

 Made and printed in Great Britain by
 Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd
 Bungay, Suffolk
 Set in Linotype Times

 This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
 trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated
 without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
 other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
 including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 Granada 0
 -Granada Publishing 0
 For Norma and Ed Marcumfor so many things, my thanks

 10
 PREFACE

      MARCH 20,1944

                  WASHINGTON, D.C.

 'David?'
  The girl came into the room and stood silently for a moment, watching the
  tall army officer as he stared out the hotel window. The March rain fell
  through a March chill, creating pockets of wind and mist over the
  Washington skyline.
  Spaulding turned, aware of her presence, not of her voice. 'I'm sorry. Did
  you say something?' He saw that she held his raincoat. He saw, too, the
  concern in her eyes - and the fear she tried to conceal.
 'It's over,' she said softly.
 'It's over,' he replied. 'Or will be in an hour from now.'
  'Will they all be there?' she asked as, she approached him, holding the
  coat in front of her as though it were a shield.
  'Yes. They have no choice.... I have no choice.' Spaulding's left shoulder
  was encased in bandages under his tunic, the arm in a wide, black sling.
  'Help me on with that, will you? The rain's not going to let up.'
 Jean Cameron unfolded the coat reluctantly and opened it.
  She stopped, her eyes fixed on the collar of his army shirt. Then on the
  lapels of his uniform.
 All the insignia had been removed.

                                  7
  There were only slight discolorations in the cloth where the emblems had
  been.
  There was no rank, no identifying brass or silver. Not even the gold
  initials of the country he served.
 Had served.
 He saw that she had seen.
  ,res the way I began,' he said quietly. 'No name, no rank, no history. Only
  a number. Followed by a letter. I want them to remember that.'
  The girl stood motionless, gripping the coat. 'They'll kill you, David.'
  Her words were barely audible.
  'That's the one thing they won't do,' he said calmly. 'There'll be no
  assassins, no accidents, no sudden orders flying me out to
  Burma or Dar es Salaam. That's finished They can't know
  what I've done.'
  He smiled gently and touched her face. Her lovely face. She breathed deeply
  and imposed a control on herself he knew she did not feel. She slipped the
  raincoat carefully over his left shoulder as he reached around for the
  right sleeve. She pressed her face briefly against his back; he could feel
  the slight trembling as she spoke.
 'I won't be afraid. I promised you that.'

  He walked out the glass entrance of the Shoreham Hotel and shook his head
  at the doorman under the canopy. He did not want a taxi; he wanted to walk.
  To let the dying fires of rage finally subside and bum themselves out. A
  long walk.
  It would be the last hour of his life that he would wear the uniform.
 The uniform now with no insignia, no identification.
  He would walk through the second set of doors at the War Department and
  give his name to the military police.
 David Spaulding.
  That's all he would say. It would be enough; no one would stop him, none
  would interfere.
  Orders would be left by unnamed commanders - divisional recognition only -
  that would allow him to proceed down the grey corridors to an unmarked
  room.
  Those orders would be at that security desk because another order had been
  given. An order no one could trace. No one comprehended....

 8
 They claimed. In outrage.
 But none with an outrage matching his.
 They knew that, too, the unknown commanders.
  Names meaning nothing to him only months ago would be in the unmarked room.
  Names that now were symbols of an abyss of deceit that so revolted him, he
  honestly believed he had lost his mind.
 Howard Oliver.
 Jonathan Craft.
 Walter Kendall.
  The names were innocuous-sounding in themselves. They could belong to
  untold hundreds of thousands. There was something so.... American about
  them.
  Yet these names, these men, had brought him to the brink of insanity.
  They would be there in the unmarked room, and he would remind them of those
  who were absent.
 Erich Rhinemann. Buenos Aires.
 Alan Swanson. Washington.
 Franz Altmoller. Berlin.
 Other symbols. Other threads....
  The abyss of deceit into which he had been plunged by ... enemies.
 How in God's name had it happened?
 How could it have happened?
  But it did happen. And he had written down the facts as he knew them.
  Written them down and placed ... the docum ' ent in an archive
 case inside a deposit box within a bank vault in Colorado.
  Untraceable. Locked in the earth for a millennium ... for it was better
  that way.
  Unless the men in the unmarked room forced him to do otherwise.
  If they did . . . if they forced him ... the sanities of millions would be
  tested. The revulsion would not acknowledge national boundaries or the
  cause of any global tribe.
 The leaders would become pariahs.
 As he was a pariah now.
 A number followed by a letter.

 He reached the steps of the War Department; the tan stone

                                  9
 pillars did not signify strength to him now. Only the appearance of light
 brown paste.
 No longer substance.
  He walked through the sets of double doors up to the security desk, manned
  by a middle-aged lieutenant colonel flanked by two sergeants.
 'Spaulding, David,'he said quietly.
  'Your I.D. . . .' the lieutenant colonel looked at the shoulders Of the
  raincoat, then at the collar, 'Spaulding. . . .'
  'My name is David Spaulding. My source is Fairfax,' repeated David softly.
  'Check your papers, soldier.'
  The lieutenant colonel's head snapped up in anger, gradually replaced by
  bewilderment as he looked at Spaulding. For David had not spoken harshly,
  or even impolitely. Just factually.
  The sergeant to the left of the lieutenant colonel shoved a page of paper
  in front of the officer without interrupting. The lieutenant colonel looked
  at it.
  He glanced back up at David - briefly - and waved him through.
  As he walked down the grey corridor, his raincoat over his arm, Spaulding
  could feel the eyes on him, scanning the uniform devoid of rank or
  identification. Several salutes were rendered hesitantly.
 None was acknowledged.
 Men turned; others stared from doorways.
  This was the ... officer, their looks were telling him. They'd heard the
  rumors, spoken in whispers, in hushed voices in out-ofthe-way comers. This
  was the man.
 An order had been given....
 The man.

 10
 PROLOGUE

            One

      SEPTEMBER 8,1939

                   NEW YORK CITY

 The two army officers, their uniforms creased into steel, their hats
 removed, watched the group of informally dressed men and women through the
 glass partition. The room in which the officers sat was dark.
  A red light flashed; the sounds of an organ thundered out of the two webbed
  boxes at each comer of the glass-fronted, lightless cubicle. There followed
  the distant howling of dogs - large, rapacious dogs - and then a voice -
  deep, clear, forbidding -spoke over the interweaving sounds of the organ
  and the animals.
  Wherever madness exists, wherever the cries of the helpless can be heard,
  there you willfind the tallfigure ofJonathan Tyne - waiting, watching in
  shadows, prepared to do battle with the forces of hell. The seen and the
  unseen....
  Suddently there was a piercing, mind-splitting scream. 'Eeaagh V Inside the
  lighted, inner room an obese woman winked at the short man in thick glasses
  who had been reading
 from a tyWA script and walked away from the microphone, chewing her gum
 rapidly.
  The deep voice continued. Tonight wefind Jonathan Tyne coming to the aid of
  the terror-stricken Lady Ashcroft, whose husband disappeared into the misty
  Scottish moors at precisely midnight three weeks ago. And each night at
  precisely midnight, the howls of unknown dogs bay across the darkened
  fields. They seem to be challenging the very man who now walks stealthily
  into the enveloping mist. Jonathan Tyne. The seeker of evil; the nemesis of
  Lucifer. The champion of the helpless victims of darkness....
  The organ music swelled once more to a crescendo; the sound of the baying
  dogs grew more vicious.
  The older officer, a colonel, glanced at his companion, a first lieutenant.
  The younger man, his eyes betraying his concern, was staring at the group
  of nonchalant actors inside the lighted studio.
 The colonel winced.
 'Interesting, isn't it?' he said.
 'What?'... Oh,yes, sir. Yes, sir; very interesting. Whichoneishe?'
  'The tall fellow over in the comer. The one reading a newspaper.'
 'Does he play Tyne?'
  'Who? Oh, no, lieutenant. He has a small role, I think. In a Spanish
  dialect.'
  'A small role ... in a Spanish dialect.' The lieutenant repeated the
  colonel's words, his voice hesitant, his look bewildered. 'Forgive me, sir,
  I'm confused. I'm not sure what we're doing here; what he's doing here. I
  thought he was a construction engineer.'
 'He is.'
  The organ music subsided to pianissimo; the sound of the howling dogs faded
  away. Now another voice - this one lighter, friendlier, with no
  undercurrent of impending drama - came out of the two webbed boxes.
  Pilgrim. The soap with the scent offlowers in May; the Mayflower soap.
  Pilgrim brings you once again 'The Adventures of Jonathan Tyne.'
  The thick corked door of the dark cubicle opened and a balding man, erect,
  dressed in a conservative business suit, entered. He carried a manila
  envelope in his left hand; he reached over and extended his right hand to
  the colonel. He spoke quietly,

 12
 but not in a whisper. 'Hello, Ed. Nice to see you again. I don't have to
 tell you your call was a surprise.'
  'I guess it was. How are you, Jack? ... Lieutenant, meet Mr. John Ryan;
  formerly Major John N. M. 1. Ryan of Six Corps.'
 The officer rose to his feet.
  'Sit down, lieutenant,' said Ryan, shaking the young man's hand.
 'Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you, sir.'
  Ryan edged his way around the rows of black leather armchairs and sat down
  next to the colonel in front of the glass partition. The organ music once
  more swelled, matching the reintroduced sounds of the howling dogs. Several
  actors and actresses crowded around two microphones, all watching a man
  behind a panel in another glass booth - this one lighted - on the other
  side of the studio.
 'How's JaneTasked Ryan.,'And the childrenT
  'She hates Washington; so does the boy. They'd rather be back in Oahu.
  Cynthia loves it, though. She's eighteen, now; all those D.C. dances.'
  A hand signal was given by the man in the lighted booth across the way. The
  actors began their dialogue.
  Ryan continued. 'How about you? "Washington" looks good on the roster
  sheet.'
  'I suppose it does, but nobody knows I'm there. That won't help me.'
 'OhT
 'G-2.'
 'Yes, I gathered that.'
 'You look as though you're thriving, Jack.'
  Ryan smiled a little awkwardly. 'No sweat. Ten other guys in the agency
  could do what I'm doing ... better. But they don't have the Point on their
  r6sum6s. I'm an agency symbol, strongintegrity version. The clients sort of
  fall in for muster.'
  The colonel laughed. 'Horseshit. You were always good with the beady-bags.
  Even the high brass used to turn the congressmen over to you.'
 'You flatter me. At least I think you're flattering me.'
  'Eeaagh!' The obese actress, still chewing her gum, had screeched into the
  second microphone. She backed away, goosing a thin, effeminate-looking
  actor who was about to speak.
 'There's a lot of screaming, isn't there.' The colonel wasn't

                                 13
 really asking a question.
  'And dogs barkinj and off-key organ music and a hell of a lot of groaning
  and heavy breathing. "Tyne's" the most popular program we have.'
  'I admit I've listened to it. The whole family has; since we've been back.'
  'You wouldn't believe it if I told you who writes most of the scripts!
 'What do you meanT
 'A Pulitzer poet. Under another name, of course!
 'That seems strange!
 'Not at all. Survival. We pay. Poetry doesn't.'
  'Is that why he's onr The colonel gestured with a nod of his head toward
  the tall, dark-haired man who had put down the newspaper but still remained
  in the comer of the studio, away from the other actors, leaning against the
  white corked wall.
  'Beats the hell out of me. I mean, I didn't know who he was - that is, I
  knew who he was, but I didn't know anything about him - until you called!
  Ryan handed the colonel the manila envelope. 'Here's a list of the shows
  and the agencies he's worked for. I called around; implied that we were
  considering him for a running lead. The Hammerts use him a lot. . . .
 'The whoT
  'They're packagers. They've got about fifteen programs; daytime serials and
  evening shows. They say he's reliable; no sauce problems. He's used
  exclusively for dialects, it seems. And language fluency when it's called
  for.'
 'German and Spanish.' It was a statement.
 'That's right .... I
 'Only,it's not Spanish, ies Portuguese!
  'Who can tell the difference? You know who his parents are.' Another
  statement, only agreement anticipated.
  'Richard and Margo Spaulding. Concert pianists, very big in England and the
  Continent. Current status: semi-retirement in Costa del Santiago, Portugal!
 'They're American, though, aren't theyT
  'Very. Made sure their son was born here. Sent him to American settlement
  schools wherever they lived. Shipped him back here for his final two years
  in prep school and college.'
 'How come Portugal, thenT
 'Who knows? They had their first successes in Europe and

 14
 decided to stay there. A fact I think we're going to be grateful for. They
 only return here for tours; which aren't very frequent anymore.... Did you
 know that he's a construction engineer?'
 'No, I didn't. That's interesting.'
 'Interesting? Just "interesting"?'
  Ryan smiled; there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. 'Wen, during the
  last six years or so there hasn't been a lot of building, has there? I
  mean, there's no great call for engineers ... outside of the CCC and the
  NRA.' He lifted his right hand and waved it laterally in front of him,
  encompassing the group of men and women inside the studio. 'Do you know
  what's in there? A trial lawyer whose clients - when he can get a few -
  can't pay him; a Rolls-Royce executive who's been laid off since
  thirty-eight; and a former state senator whose campaign a few years ago not
  only cost him his job but also a lot of potential employers. They think
  he's a Red. Don't fool yourself, Ed. You've got it good. The Depression
  isn't over by a long shot. These people are the lucky ones. They found
  avocations they've turned into careers.... As long as they last.'
 . 'If I do my job, his career won't last any longer than a month from now.'
  'I figured it was something like that. The storm's building, isn't it?
  We'll be in it pretty soon. And I'll be back, too .....
 Where do you want to use him?'
 Usbon.'

  David Spaulding pushed himself away from the white studio wall. He held up
  the pages of his script as he approached the microphone, preparing for his
  cue.
  Pace watched him through the glass partition, wondering how Spaulding's
  voice would sound. He noticed that as Spaulding came closer to the group of
  actors clustered around the microphone, there was a conscious - or it
  seemed conscious - parting of bodies, as if the new participant was in some
  way a stranger. Perhaps it was only normal courtesy, allowing the new per-
  former a chance to position himself, but the colonel didn't think so. There
  were no smiles, no looks, no indications of familiarity as there seemed to
  be among the others.
  No one winked. Even the obese woman who screamed and chewed gum and goosed
  her fellow actors just stood and watched Spaulding, her gum immobile in her
  mouth.

                                 .15
 And then it happened-, a curious moment.
  Spaulding grinned, and the others, even the thin, effeminate man who was in
  the middle of a monologue, responded with bright smiles and nods. The obese
  woman winked.
 A curious moment, thought Colonel Pace.
  Spaulding's voice - mid-deep, incisive, heavily accented -came through the
  webbed boxes. His role was that of a mad doctor and bordered on the comic.
  It would have been comic, thought Pace, except for the authority Spaulding
  gave the writer's words. Pace didn't know anything about acting, but he
  knew when a man was being convincing, Spaulding was convincing.
 That would be necessary in Lisbon.
  In a few minutes Spaulding's role was obviously over. The obese woman
  screamed again; Spaulding retreated to the comer and quietly, making sure
  the pages did not rustle, picked up his folded newspaper. He leaned against
  the wall and withdrew a pencil from his pocket. He appeared to be doing The
  New York Times crossword puzzle.
  Pace couldn't take his eyes off Spaulding. It was important for him to
  observe closely any subject with whom he had to make contact whenever
  possible. Observe the small things: the way a man walked; the way he held
  his head; the steadiness or lack of it in his eyes. The clothes, the watch,
  the cuff links; whether the shoes were shined, if the heels were worn down;
  the quality -or lack of quality - in a man's posture.
  Pace tried to match the human being leaning against the wall, writing on
  the newspaper, with the dossier in his Washington office.
  His name first surfaced from the files of the Army Corps of Engineers.
  David Spaulding had inquired about the possibilities of a commission - not
  volunteered: what would his opportunities be? were , there any challenging
  construction projects? what about the length-of-service commitments? The
  sort of questions thousands of men - skilled men - were asking, knowing
  that the Selective Service Act would become law within a week or two. If
  enlistment meant a shorter commitment and/or the continued practice of
  their professional skills, then better an enlistment than be drafted with
  the mobs.
  Spaulding had filled out all the appropriate forms and had been told the
  army would contact him. That had been six weeks

 16
 ago and no one had done so. Not that the Corps wasn't interested; it was.
 The word from the Roosevelt men was that the draft law would be passed by
 Congress any day now, and the projected expansion of the army camps was so
 enormous, so incredibly massive, that an engineer - especially a
 construction engineer of Spaulding's qualifications - was target material.
 . But those high up in the Corps of Engineers were aware of the search being
 conducted by the Intelligence Division of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the
 War Department.
 Quietly, slowly. No mistakes could be made.
  So they passed along David Spaulding's forms to G-2 and were told in turn
  to stay away from him.
  The man ID was seeking had to have three basic qualifications. Once these
  were established, the rest of the portrait could be microscopically
  scrutinized to see if the whole being possessed the other desirable
  requirements. The three basics were difficult enough in themselves: the
  first was fluency in the Portuguese language; the second, an equal mastery
  of German; the third, sufficient professional experience in structural
  engineering to enable swift and accurate understanding of blueprints,
  photographs - even verbal descriptions - of the widest variety of in-
  dustrial designs. From bridges and factories to warehousing and railroad
  complexes.
  The man in Lisbon would need each of these basic requirements. He would
  employ them throughout the war that was to be; the war that the United
  States inevitably would have to fight.
  The man in Lisbon would be responsible for developing an Intelligence
  network primarily concerned with the destruction of the enemy's
  installations deep within its own territories.
  Certain men - and women - traveled back and forth through hostile
  territories, basing their undefined activities in neutral countries. These
  were the people the man in Lisbon would use ... before others used them.
  These plus those he would train for infiltration. Espionage units. Teams of
  bi- and trilingual agents he would send up through France into the borders
  of Germany. To bring back their observations; eventually to inflict
  destruction themselves.
  The English agreed that such an American was needed in Lisbon. British
  Intelligence admitted its Portuguese weakness-, they had simply been around
  too long, too obviously. And there were current, very serious lapses of
  security in London. MI-5 had

                                 17
 been infiltrated.
 Lisbon would become an American project.
 If such an American could be found.
  David Spaulding's preapplication forms listed the primary requisites. He
  spoke three languages, had spoken them since he was a child. His parents,
  the renowned Richard and Margo Spaulding, maintained three residences: a
  small, elegant Belgravia flat in London; a winter retreat in Germany's
  BadenBaden; and a sprawling oceanside house in the artists' colony of Costa
  del Santiago in Portugal. Spaulding had grown up in these environs. When he
  was sixteen, his father - over the objections of his mother - insisted that
  he complete his secondary education in the United States and enter an
  American university.
  Andover in Massachusetts; Dartmouth in New Hampshire; finally Carnegie
  Institute in Pennsylvania.
  Of course, the Intelligence Division hadn't discovered all of the above
  information from Spaulding's application forms. These supplementary facts.-
  and a great deal more - were revealed by a man named Aaron Mandel in New
  York.
  Pace, his eyes still riveted on the tall, lean man who had put down his
  newspaper and was now watching the actors around the microphones with
  detached amusement, recalled his single meeting with Mandel. Again, he
  matched Mandel's information with the man he saw before him.
  Mandel had been listed on the application under 'References.'
  Power-of-attorney, parents' concert manager. An address was given: a suite
  of rooms in the Chrysler Building. Mandel was a very successful artists'
  representative, a Russian Jew who rivaled Sol Hurok for clients, though not
  as prone to attract attention or as desirous of it.
  'David has been as a son to me,' Mandel told Pace. 'But I must presume you
  know that.'
  'Why must you? I know only what I've read on his application forms. And
  some scattered information; academic records, employment references.' -
 'Let's say I've been expecting you. Or someone like you.'
 'I beg your pardonT
  'Oh, come. David spent a great many years in Germany; you might say he
  almost grew up there.'
  'His application'. . . as a matter of fact his passport information, also
  includes family residences in London and a place called

 18
 Costa del Santiago in Portugal!
 'I said almost. He converses easily in the German language!
 'Also Portuguese, I understand.'
  'Equally so. And its sister tongue, Spanish.... I wasn't aware that a man's
  enlistment in the army engineers called for a full colonel's interest. And
  passport research! Mandel, the flesh creased around his eyes, smiled.
  'I wasn't prepared for you.' The colonel's reply had been stated simply.
  'Most people take this sort of thing as routine. Or they convince
  themselves it's routine ... with a little help.'
  'Most people did not live as Jews in tsarist Kiev.... What do you want from
  me?'
  'To begin with, did you tell Spaulding you expected us? Or someone. . . .'
  'Of course not,' Mandel interrupted gently. 'I told you, he is as a son to
  me. I wouldn't care to give him such ideas.'
 'I'm relieved. Nothing may come of it anyway.'
 'However, you hope it will.'
  'Frankly, yes. But there are questions we need answered. His background
  isn't just unusual, it seems filled with contradictions. To begin with, you
  don't expect the son of well-known musicians ... Imean...'
 'Concert artists! Mandel had supplied the term Pace sought.
  'Yes, concert artists. You don't expect the children of such people to
  become engineers. Or accountants, if you know what I mean. And then - and
  I'm sure you'll understand this - it seems highly illogical that once that
  fact is accepted, the son is an engineer, we find that the major portion of
  his income is currently earned as a ... as a radio performer. The pattern.
  indicates a degree of instability. Perhaps more than a degree.'
  'You suffer from the American mania for consistency. I don't say this
  unkindly. I would be less than adequate as a neurosurgeon; you may play the
  piano quite well, but I doubt that I'd represent you at Covent Garden....
  The questions you raise are easily answered. And, perhaps, the word
  stability can be found at the core.... Have you any idea, any conception,
  of what the world of the concert stage is like? Madness .... David lived in
  this world for nearly twenty years; I suspect . . . no, I don't suspect, I
  know ... he found it quite distasteful ... And so often people overlook
  certain fundamental characteristics of musicianship. Characteristics easily
  inherited. A great musician is often,

                                 19
 in his own way, an exceptional mathematician. Take Bach. A genius at
 mathematics. . . .'
  According to Aaron Mandel, David Spaulding found his future profession
  while in his second year in,college. The solidity, the permanence of
  structural creation combined with the precision of engineering detail were
  at once his answer to and escape from the mercurial world of the 'concert
  stage.' But there were other inherited characteristics equally at work
  inside him. Spaulding had an ego, a sense of independence. He needed
  approval, wanted recognition. And such rewards were not easily come by for
  a junior engineer, just out of graduate school, in a large New York firm
  during the late thirties. There simply wasn't that much'to do; or the
  capital to do it with.
  'He left the New York firm,' Mandel continued, 'to accept a number of
  individual construction projects where he believed the money would grow
  faster, the jobs be his own. He had no ties; he could travel. Several in
  the Midwest, one ... no, two, in Central America; four in Canada, I think.
  He got the first few right out of the newspapers; they led to the others.
  He returned to New York about eighteen months ago. The money didn't really
  grow, as I told him it wouldn't. The projects were not his own; provincial
  ... local interference.'
 'And somehow this led to the radio work?'
  Mandel had laughed and leaned back in his chair. 'As you may know, Colonel
  Pace, I've diversified. The concert stage and a European war - soon to
  reach these shores, as we all realize - do not go well together. These last
  few years my clients have gone into other performing areas, including the
  highly paid radio field. David quickly saw opportunities for himself and I
  agreed. He's done-extremely well, you know.'
 'But he's not at rained professional.'
  'No, he's not. He has something else, however... Think. Most children of
  well-known performers, or leading politicians, or the immensely rich, for
  that matter, have it. It's a public confidence, an assurance, if you will;
  no matter their private hisecurities. After all, they've generally been on
  display since the time they could walk and talk. David certainly has it.
  And he has a good ear; as do both of his parents, obviously. An aural
  memory for musical or linguistic rhythms.... He doesn't act, he reads.
  Almost exclusively in the dialects or the foreign languages he knows
  fluently.

 20
  David Spaulding's excursion into the 'highly paid radio field' was solely
  motivated by money; he was used to living well. At a time when owners of
  engineering companies found it difficult to guarantee themselves a hundred
  dollars a week, Spaulding was earning three or four hundred from his 'radio
  work' alone.
  'As you may have surmised,' said Mandel, 'David's immediate objective is to
  bank sufficient monies to start his own company. Immediate, that is, unless
  otherwise shaped by world or national conditions. He's not blind; anyone
  who can read a newspaper sees that we are being drawn into the war.'
 'Do you think we should beT
 'I'm a Jew. As far as I'm concerned, we're late.'
  'This Spaulding. You've described what seems to me a very resourceful man.'
  'I've described only what you could have found out from any number of
  sources. And you have described the conclusion you have drawn from that
  surface information. It's not the whole picture.' At this point, Pace
  recalled, Mandel had gotten out of his chair, avoiding any eye contact, and
  walked about his office. He was searching for negatives; he was trying to
  find the words that would disqualify 'his son' from the government's
  interests. And Pace had been aware of it. 'What certainly must have struck
  you - from what I've told you - is David's preoccupation with himself, with
  his comforts, if you wish. Now, in a business sense this might be
  applauded; therefore, I disabused you of your concerns for stability.
  However, I would not be candid if I didn't tell you that David is
  abnormally headstrong. He operates - I think - quite poorly under
  authority. In a word, he's a selfish man, not given to discipline. It pains
  me to say this; I love him dearly. . .
  And the more Mandel had talked, the more indelibly did Pace imprint the
  word affirmative on Spaulding's file. Not that he believed for a minute the
  extremes of behavior Mandel suddenly ascribed to David Spaulding - no man
  could function as 'stably' as Spaulding had if it were true. But if it were
  only half true, it was no detriment; it was an asset.
 The last of the requirements.
  For if there were any soldier in the United States Army - in or out of
  uniform - who would be called upon to operate solely on his own, without
  the comfort of the chain of command, without the knowledge that difficult
  decisions could be made by his

                                 21
 superiors, it was the Intelligence officer in Portugal.
 The man in Lisbon.

                   OCTOBER 8,1939

                  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

 There were no names.
 Only numbers and letters.
 Numbers followed by letters.
 Two-Six-B. Tbree-Five-Y. Five-One-C.
 There were no personal histories, no individual backgrounds
  . no references to wives, children, fathers, mothers ... no countries;
  cities, hometowns, schools, universities; there were only bodies and minds
  and separate, specific, reacting intelligences.
  The lQcation was deep in the Virginia hunt country, 220 acres of fields and
  hills and mountain streams. There were sections of dense forest bordering
  stretches of fiat grasslands. Swamps - dangerous with body-sucking earth
  and hostile inhabitants, reptile and insect - were but feet from sudden
  masses of Virginia boulders fronting abrupt inclines.
  The area had been selected with care, with precision. It was bordered by a
  fifteen-foot-high hurricane fence through which a paralyzing - not lethal
  - electrical current flowed continuously; and every twelve feet there was
  a forbidding sign that warned observers that this particular section of the
  land . . . forest, swamp, grassland and hill ... was the exclusive property
  of the United States government. Trespassers were duly informed that entry
  was not only prohibited, it was exceedingly dangerous. Titles and sections
  of the specific laws pertaining to the exclusivity were spelled out along
  with the voltage in the fence.
  The terrain was as diverse as could be found within a reasonable distance
  from Washington. In one way or another - one place or another - it
  conformed remarkably to the topography of the locations projected for those
  training inside the enormous compound.
 The num followed by the letters.

 22
 No names.
  There was a single gate at the center of the north perimeter, reached by a
  back country road. Over the gate, between the opposing guard houses, was a
  metal sign. In block letters it read: FELD DrVISION HEADQUARTERS - FAIRFAX.
 No other description was given, no purpose identified.
  On the front of each guard house were identical signs, duplicates of the
  warnings placed every twelve feet in the fence, proclaiming the
  exclusivity, the laws and the voltage.
 No room for error.
  David Spaulding was assigned an identity - his Fairfax identity. He was
  Two-Five-L.
 No name. Only a number followed by a letter.
 7Wo - Five - L.
  Translation: his training was to be completed by the fifth day of the
  second month. His destination: Lisbon.

  It was incredible. In the space of four months a new way of life - of
  living - was to be absorbed with such totality that it strained acceptance.
 'You probably won't make it,' said Colonel Edmund Pace.
 'I'm not sure I want to,' had been Spaulding's reply.
  But part of the training was motivation. Deep, solid, ingrained beyond
  doubt ... but not beyond the psychological reality as perceived by the
  candidate.
  With Two-Five-L, the United States government did not wave flags and roar
  espousiMs of patriotic causes. Such methods would not be meaningful; the
  candidate had spent his formative years outside the country in a
  sophisticated, international environment. He spoke the language of the
  enemy-to-be; he knew them as people - taxi drivers, grocers, bankers,
  lawyers - and the vast majority of those he knew were not the Germans
  fictionalized by the propaganda machines. Instead - and this was Fairfax's
  legitimate hook - they were goddamned fools being led by psychopathic
  criminals. The leaders were, indeed, fanatics, and the overwhelming
  evidence clearly established their crimes beyond doubt. Those crimes
  included wanton, indiscriminate murder, torture and genocide.
 Beyond doubt.
 Criminals.
 Psychopaths.

                                 23
 Too, there was Adolf Hitler.
  Adolf Hitler killed Jews. By the thousands - soon to be millions if his
  final solutions were read accurately.
  Aaron Mandel was a Jew. His other 'father' was a Jew; the 'father' he loved
  more than the parent. And the goddamned fools tolerated an exclamation
  point after the word Juden!
  David Spaulding could bring himself to hate the goddarnned fools - the taxi
  drivers, the grocers, the bankers, the lawyers -without much compunction
  under the circumstances.
  Beyond this very rational approach, Fairfax utilized a secondary
  psychological 'weapon' that was standard in the compound; for some more
  than others, but it was never absent.
  The trainees at Fairfax had a common gift - or flaw - depending on one's
  approach. None was accepted without it.
 A highly developed sense of competition; a thrust to win.
  There was no question about it; arrogance was not a despised commodity at
  Fairfax.
 I With David Spaulding's psychological profile - a dossier increasingly
 accepted by the Intelligence Division - the Fairfax commanders recognized
 that the candidate-in-training for Lisbon had a soft core which the field
 might harden - undoubtedly would harden if he lived that long - but whatever
 advances could be made in the compound, so much the better. Especially for
 the subject.
  Spaulding was confident, independent, extremely versatile in his
  surroundings ... all to the very good; but Two-Five-L had a weakness. There
  was within his psyche a slowness to take immediate advantage, a hesitancy
  to spring to the kill when the odds were his. Both verbally and physically.
  Colonel Edmund Pace saw this inadequacy by the third week of training.
  Two-Five-L's abstract code of fairness would never do in Lisbon. And
  Colonel Pace knew the answer.
  The mental adjustment would be made through the physical processes.

  'Seizures, Holds and Releases' was the insipid tide of the course. It
  disguised the most arduous physical training at Fairfax: hand-to-hand
  combat. Knife, chain, wire, needle, rope, fingers, knees, elbows ... never
  a gun.
 Reaction, reaction, reaction.
 Except when one initiated the assault.

 24
  Two-Five-L had progressed nicely. He was a large man but possessed the
  quick coordination usually associated with a more compact person. Therefore
  his progress had to be stymied; the man himself humiliated. He would learn
  the practical advantages of the odds.
 From smaller, more arrogant men.
  Colonel Edmund Pace 'borrowed' from the British commando units the best
  they had in uniform. They were flown over by the Bomber Ferry Command;
  three bewildered 'specialists' who were subtly introduced to the Fairfax
  compound and given their instructions.
 'Kick the shit out of Two-Five-L.'
 They did. For many weeks of sessions.
 And then they could not do so with impunity any longer.
  David Spaulding would not accept the humiliation; he was becon-dng as good
  as the 'specialists.'
 The man for Lisbon was progressing.
  Colonel Edmund Pace received the reports in his War Department office.
 Everything was on schedule.
  The weeks became months. Every known portable offensive and defensive
  weapon, every sabotage device, every conceivable method of ingress and
  egress - apparent and covert - was exhaustively studied by the Fairfax
  trainees. Codes and variations became fluent languages; instant
  fabrications second nature. And Two-Five-L continued to advance. Whenever
  there appeared a slackening, harsher instructions were given to the
  'specialists' in 'Seizures, Holds and Releases! The psychological key was
  in the observable, physical humiliation.
 Until it was no longer viable. The commandos were bested.
 Everything on schedule.

 'You may make it after all,' said the colonel.
  'I'm not sure what I've made,' replied David in his first lieutenant's
  uniform, over a drink in the Mayflower Cocktail Lounge. And then he laughed
  quietly. 'I suppose if they gave degrees in Advanced Criminal Activities,
  I'd probably qualify!
  Two-Five-L's training would be completed in ten days. His twenty-four-hour
  pass was an irregularity, but Pace had demanded it. He had to talk with
  Spaulding.
 'Does it bother youT asked Pace.

                                 25
  Spaulding looked across the small table at the colonel. 'If I had time to
  think about it, I'm sure it would. Doesn't it bother you?' 'No ...
  Because I understand the reasons.' 'O.K. Then so do V 'They'll become
  clearer in the field.' 'Sure,' agreed David tersely. Pace watched
  Spaulding closely. As was to be expected, the young man had changed. Gone
  was the slightly soft, slightly pampered grace of inflection and gesture.
  These had been replaced by a tautness, a conciseness of movement and
  speech. The transformation was not complete, but it was well in progress.
  The patina of the professional was beginning to show through. Lisbon
  would harden it further.
 4"k
  Lre you impressed by the fact that Fairfax skips you a rank? It took me
  eighteen months to get that silver bar.'
  'Again, time. I haven't had time to react. I haven't worn a uniform before
  today; I think it's uncomfortable! Spaulding flicked his hand over his
  tunic.
 'Good. Don't get used to it.'
 :That's a strange thing to say . .
 How do you feeff said Pace, interrupting.
  David looked at the colonel. For a moment or two, the grace, the softness
  - even the wry humor - returned. 'I'm not sure. ... As though I'd been
  manufactured on a very fast assembly line. A sort of high-speed treadmill,
  if you know what I mean.'
  ,in some ways that's an accurate description. Except that you brought a lot
  to the factory!
  Spaulding revolved his glass slowly. He stared at the floating cubes, then
  up at Pace. 'I wish I could accept that as a compliment,' he said softly.
  'I don't think I can. I know the people l9ve been training with. They're
  quite a collection!
 'They're highly motivated!
  'The Europeans are as crazy as those they want to fight. They've got their
  reasons; I can't question them. . . .'
  'Well,' interrupted the colonel, 'we don't have that many Americans. Not
  yet.'
 'Those you do are two steps from a penitentiary!
 'They're not army.'
  'I didn't know that,' said Spaulding quickly, adding the obvious with a
  srm*le. 'Naturally.'
 Pace was annoyed with himself. The indiscretion was minor

 26
 but still an indiscretion. 'It's not important. In ten days you'll be
 finished in Virginia. The uniform comes off then. To tell you the truth, it
 was a mistake to issue you one in the first place. We're still new at this
 kind of thing; rules of requisition and supply are hard to change.' Pace
 drank and avoided Spaulding's eyes.
  'I thought I was supposed to be a military attach6 at the embassy. One of
  several.'
  'For the record, yes. They'll build a file on you. But there's a
  difference; it's part of the cover. You're not partial to uniforms. We
  don't think you should wear one. Ever.' Pace put down his glass and looked
  at David. 'You hustled yourself a very safe, very comfortable job because
  of the languages, your residences and your family connections. In a
  nutshell, you ran as fast as you could when you thought there was a chance
  your pretty neck might be in the real army.'
  Spaulding thought for a moment. 'That sounds logical. Why does it bother
  youT
  'Because only one man at the embassy will know the truth. He'll identify
  himself... After a while others may suspect -after a long while. But they
  won't know. Not the ambassador, not the staff... What I'm trying to tell
  you is, you won't be very popular.'
  David laughed quietly. 'I trust you'll rotate me before I'm lynched.'
  Pace's reply was swift and quiet, almost curt. 'Others will be rotated. Not
  you.'
  Spaulding was silent as he responded to the colonel's look. 'I don't
  understand.'
  'I'm not sure I can be clear about it.' Pace put down his drink on the
  small cocktail table. 'You'll have to start slowly, with extreme caution.
  British MI-5 has given us a few names - not many but something to start
  with. You'll have to build up your own network, however. People who will
  maintain contact only with you, no one else. This will entail a great deal
  of traveling. We think you'll gravitate to the north country, across the
  borders into Spain. Basque country ... by and large anti-Falangist. We
  think those areas south of the Pyrenees will become the data and escape
  routes. . . . We're not kidding ourselves: the Maginot won't hold. France
  will fall. . . . '
  'Jesus,' interrupted David softly. 'You've done a lot of projecting.'

                                 27
 'That's almost all we do. It's the reason for Fairfax.'
  Spaulding leaned back in the chair, once more revolving his glass. 'I
  understand about the network; in one form or another it's what the
  compound's training all of us for. This is the first I've heard about the
  north of Spain, the Basque areas. I know that country.'
  'We could be wrong. It's only a theory. You might find the water routes .
  . . Mediterranean, Milaga, or Biscay, or the Portuguese coast ... more
  feasible. That's you for to decide. And develop.'
  'All right. I understand. . . . What's that got to do with rotation?'
  Pace smiled. 'You haven't reached your post. Are you angling for a leave
  already?'
 'You brought it up. Sort of abruptly, I think.'
  'Yes, I did.' The colonel shifted his position in the small chair.
  Spaulding was very quick; he locked in on words and used brief time spans
  to maximize their effectiveness. He would be good in interrogations. Quick,
  harsh inquiries. In the field. 'We've decided that you're to remain in
  Portugal for the duration. Whatever normal and "abnormal" leaves you take
  should be spent in the south. There's a string of colonies along the coast.

  Costa del Santiago among them,' interjected Spaulding under his breath.
  'Retreats for the international rich.'
  'That's right. Develop covers down there. Be seen with your parents. Become
  a fixture.' Pace smiled again; the smile was hesitant. 'I could think of
  worse duty.'
  'You don't know those colonies.... If I read you - as we say in Fairfax -
  Candidate Two-Five-L had better take a good, hard look at the streets of
  Washington and New York because he's not going to see them again for a very
  long time.'
  'We can't risk bringing you back once you've developed a network, assuming
  you do develop one. If, for whatever reason, you flew out of Lisbon to
  Allied territory, there'd be an enemy scramble to microscopically trace
  every movement you made for months. It would jeopardize everything. You're
  safest - our interests are safest - if you remain permanent. The British
  taught us this. Some of their operatives have been local fixtures for
  years.'
 'That's not very comforting.'
 'You're not in MI-5. Your tour is for the duration. The war

 28
 won't last forever.'
  It was Spaulding's turn to smile; the smile of a man caught in a matrix
  he had not defined. 'There's something insane about
  that statement              The war won't last forever
  6Why?'
 'We're not in it yet.'
 'You are,' Pace said.

 29
                     Two

SEPTEMBER 8,1943
PEENEMUNDE, GERMANY

  The man in the pinstriped suit, styled by tailors in Alte Strasse, stared
  in disbelief at the three men across the table. He would have objected
  strenuously had the three laboratory experts not wom the square, red, metal
  insignias on the lapels of their starched white laboratory jackets, badges
  that said these three scientists were permitted to walk through passageways
  forbidden to all but the elite of PeenemUnde. He, too, had such a badge
  attached to his pinstriped lapel; it was a temporary clearance he was not
  sure he wanted.
 Certainly he did not want it now.
  'I can't accept your evaluation,' he said quietly. 'It's preposterous.'
  'Come with us,' replied the scientist in the center, nodding to his
  companion on the right.
 'There's no point procrastinating,' added the third man.
  The four men got out of their chairs and approached the steel door that was
  the single entrance to the room. Each man in succession unclipped his red
  badge and pressed it against a grey plate in the wall. At the instant of
  contact, a small white bulb was lighted, remained so for two seconds and
  then went off,~ a photograph had been taken. The last man - one of the
  Peenemiinde personnel - then opened the door and each went into the hall-
  way.
  Had only three men gone out, or five, or any number not corresponding to
  the photographs, alarms would have been triggered.
  They walked in silence down the long, starched-white corridor, the Berliner
  in front with the scientist who sat between the other two at the table, and
  was obviously the spokesman; his companions were behind.
  They reached a bank of elevators and once more went through the ritual of
  the red tags, the grey plate and the tiny white light

 30
 that went on for precisely two seconds. Below the plate a number was also
 lighted.
 Six.
  From elevator number six there was the sound of a single muted bell as the
  thick steel panel slid open. One by one each man walked inside.
  The elevator descended eight stories, four below the surface of the earth,
  to the deepest levels of Peenemiinde. As the four men emerged into yet
  another white corridor, they were met by a tall man in tight-fitting green
  coveralls, an outsized holster in his wide brown belt. The holster held a
  Uger Sternlicht, a specially designed arm pistol with a telescopic sight.
  As the man's visor cap indicated, such weapons were made for the Gestapo.
  The Gestapo officer obviously recognized the three scientists. He smiled
  perfunctorily and turned his attention to the man in the pinstriped suit.
  He held out his hand, motioning the Berliner to remove the red badge.
  The Berliner did so. The Gestapo man took it, walked over to a telephone on
  the corridor wall and pushed a combination of buttons. He spoke the
  Berliner's name and waited, perhaps ten seconds.
  He replaced the phone and crossed back to the man in the pinstriped suit.
  Gone was the arrogance he had displayed moments ago.
  'I apologize for the delay, Herr Strasser. I should have realized. . . .'
  He gave the Berliner his badge.
  'No need for apologies, Herr Oberleutnant. They would be necessary only if
  you overlooked your duties.'
  'Danke,' said the Gestapo man, gesturing the four men beyond his point of
  security.
  They proceeded towards a set of double doors; clicks could be heard as
  locks were released. Small white bulbs were lighted above the mouldings;
  again photographs were taken of those going through the double doors.
  They turned right into a bisecting corridor - this one not white, but
  instead, brownish black; so dark that Strasser's eyes took several seconds
  to adjust from the pristine brightness of the main halls to the sudden
  night quality of the passageway. Tiny ceiling lights gave what illumination
  there was.
  'You've not been here before,' said the scientist-spokesman to the
  Berliner. 'This hallway was designed by an optics engineer.

                                 31
 it supposedly prepares the eyes for the high-intensity microscope lights.
 Most of us think it was a waste.'
  There was a steel door at the end of the long-dark tunnel. Strasser reached
  for his red metal insignia automatically; the scientist shook his head and
  spoke with a slight wave of his hand.
  'Insufficient light for photographs. The guard inside has been alerted!
  The door opened and the four men entered a large laboratory. Along the
  right wall was a row of stools, each in front of a powerful microscope, all
  the microscopes equidistant from one another on top of a built-in
  workbench. Behind each microscope was a high-intensity light, projected and
  shaded on a goosenecked stem coming out of the immaculate white surface.
  The left wall was a variation of the right. There were no stools, however,
  and fewer microscopes. The work shelf was higher: it was obviously used for
  conferences, where many pairs of eyes peered through the same sets of
  lenses; stools would only interfere, men stood as they conferred over
  magnified particles.
  At the far end of the room was another door, not an entrance. A vault. A
  seven-foot-high, four-foot-wide, heavy steel vault. It was black; the two
  levers and the combination wheel were in glistening silver.
 The spokesman-scientist approached it.
  'We have fifteen minutes before the timer seals the panel and the drawers.
  I've requested closure for a week. I'll need your counterauthorization, of
  course!
 'And you're sure I'll give it, aren't you?'
  'I am.' The scientist spun the wheel right and left for the desired
  locations. 'The numbers change automatically every twenty-four hours,' he
  said as he held the wheel steady at its final mark and reached for the
  silver levers. He pulled the top one down to the accompaniment of a barely
  audible whirring sound, and seconds later, pulled the lower one up.
  The whirring stopped, metallic clicks could be heard and the scientist
  pulled open the thick steel door. He turned to Strasser. 'These are the
  tools for Peenernfinde. See for yourself.'
  Strasser approached the vault. Inside were five rows of removable glass
  trays, top to bottom; each row had a total of one hundred trays, five
  hundred in all.
  The trays that were empty were marked with a white strip across the facing
  glass, the word Auffiallen printed clearly.

 32
  The trays that were full were so designated by strips of black across their
  fronts.
 There were four and a half rows of white trays. Empty.
  Strasser looked closely, pulled open several trays, shut them and stared at
  the Peenemtlnde scientist.
 'This is the sole repository?' he asked quietly.
  'It is. We have six thousand casings completed; God knows how many will go
  in experimentation. Estimate for yourself how much further we can proceed.'
  Strasser held the scientist's eyes with his own. 'Do you realize what
  you're saying?'
  'I do. We'll deliver only a fraction of the required schedules. Nowhere
  near enough. PeenemUnde is a disaster.'

                  SEPTEMBER 9, 1943

                   THE NORTH SEA

  The fleet of B-17 bombers had aborted the primary target of Essen due to
  cloud cover. The squadron commander, over the objections of his fellow
  pilots, ordered the secondary mission into operation: the shipyards north
  of Bremerhaven. No one Eked the Bremerhaven run; Messerschmitt and Stuka
  interceptor wings were devastating. They were called the Luftwaffe suicide
  squads, maniacal young Nazis who'might as easily collide with enemy
  aircraft as fire at them. Not necessarily due to outrageous bravery; often
  it was merely inexperience or worse: poor training.
  Bremerhaven-north was a terrible secondary. When it was a primary
  objective, the Eighth Air Force fighter escorts took the sting out of the
  run; they were not there when Bremerhaven was a secondary.
  The squadron commander, however, was a hardnose. Worse, he was West Point:
  the secondary would not only be hit, it would be hit at an altitude that
  guaranteed maximum accuracy. He did not tolerate the very vocal criticism
  of his second-in-command aboard the flanking aircraft, who made it clear
  that such an altitude was barely logical with fighter escorts; without
  them,

                                 33
 considering the heavy ack-ack fire, it was ridiculous. The squad. ron
 Commander had replied with a terse recital of the new navigational headings
 and termination of radio contact.
  Once they were into the Bremerhaven corridors, the German interceptors came
  from all points; the antiaircraft guns were murderous. And the squadron
  commander took his lead plane directly down into maximum-accuracy altitude
  and was blown out of the sky.
  The second-in-command valued life and the price of aircraft more than his
  West Point superior. He ordered the squadron to scramble altitudes, telling
  his bombardiers to unload on anything below but
  for-God's-sake-release-the-goddamn-weight so all planes could reach their
  maximum heights and reduce antiaircraft and interceptor fire.
  In several instances it was too late. One bomber caught fire and went into
  a spin; only three chutes emerged from it. Two aircraft were riddled so
  badly both planes began immediate desobnts. Pilots and crew bailed out.
  Most of them.
  The remainder kept climbing; the Messersclunitts climbed with them. They
  went higher and still higher, past the safe altitude range. Oxygen masks
  were ordered; not all functioned.
  But in four minutes, what was left of the squadron was in the middle of the
  clear midnight sky, made stunningly clearer by the substratosphere absence
  of air particles. The stars were extraordinary in their flickering
  brightness, the moon more a bombers' moon than ever before.
 Escape was in these regions.
  'Chart man!' said the exhausted, relieved second-in-command into his radio,
  'give us headings! Back to Lakenheath, if you'd be so kind.'
  The reply on the radio soured the moment of relief. It came from an aerial
  gunner aft of navigation. 'He's dead, colonel. Nelson's dead. ,
  There was no time in the air for comment, 'Take it, aircraft three. It's
  your chart.' said the colonel in aircraft two.
  The headings were given. The formation grouped and, as it descended into
  safe altitude with cloud cover above, sped toward the North Sea.
  The rrdnutes reached five, then seven, then twelve. Finally twenty. There
  was relatively little cloud cover below; the coast of England should have
  come into sighting range at least two

 34
minutes ago. A number of pilots were concerned. Several said so. 'Did you give
 accurate headings, aircraft threeT asked the now squadron commander.
 'Affirmative, colonel,' was the radioed answer.
 'Any of you chart men disagree?'
 A variety of negatives was heard from the remaining aircraft.
  'No sweat on the headings, colonel,' came the voice of the captain of
  aircraft five. 'I fault your execution, though.'
 'What the hell are you talking about?'
  'You pointed two-three-niner by my reading. I figured my equipment was shot
  up. . . .'
  Suddenly there were interruptions from every pilot in the decimated
  squadron.
 'I read one-seven. . .
  'My heading was a goddamned two-niner-two. We took a direct hit on.'. . .'
 'Jesusl I had sixer-four. . .
  'Most of our middle took a load. I discounted my reading& totally V
 And then there was silence. All understood.
 Or understood what they could not comprehend.
  'Stay off all frequencies,' said the squadron commander, TI1 try to reach
  base.'
  The cloud cover above broke; not for long, but long enough. The voice over
  the radio was the captain of aircraft three.
  'A quick judgment, colonel, says we're heading due northwest.'
 Silence again.
  After a few moments, the commander spoke. TH reach somebody. Do all your
  gauges read as mine? Fuel for roughly ten to fifteen minutes?'
  'It's been a long haul, colonel,' said aircraft seven. 'No more than that,
  it's for sure.'
  'I figured we'd be circling, if we had to, five minutes ago,' said aircraft
  eight.
 'We're not,' said aircraft four.
  The colonel in aircraft two raised Lakenheath on an emergency frequency.
  'As near as we can determine,' came the strained, agitated, yet controlled
  English voice, 'and by that I mean open lines throughout the coastal
  defense areas - water and land - you're approach-
  
                                 35
 ing the Dunbar sector. That's the Scottish border, colonel. What in blazes
 are you doing there?'
 'For Christ's sake, I don't know! Are there any fields?'
  'Not for your aircraft. Certainly not a formation; perhaps, one or two. .
  . .'
  'I don't want to hear that, you son of a bitch! Give me emergency
  instructions!'
 'We're really quite unprepared. . .
  'Do you read me?l I have what's left of a very chopped-up squadron! We have
  less than six minutes' fuel! Now you give I'
  The silence lasted precisely four seconds. Lakenheath conferred swiftly.
  With finality.
  'We believe you'll sight the coast, probably Scotland. Put your aircraft
  down at sea.... We'll do our best, lads.'
  'We're eleven bombers, Lakenheathl We're not a bunch of ducks!'
  'There isn't time, squadron Leader. . . . The logistics are insurmountable.
  After all, we didn't guide you there. Put down at sea. We'll do our best
  ... Godspeed.'

 36
            Part One

                  SEPTEMBER 10, 1943

                  BERLIN, GERMANY

 Reichsminister of Armaments Albert Speer raced up the steps of the Air
 Ministry on the Tiergarten. He did not feel the harsh, diagonal sheets of
 rain that plummeted down from the grey sky; he did not notice that his
 raincoat - unbuttoned - had fallen away, exposing his tunic and shirt to the
 inundation of the September storm. The pitch of his fury swept everything
 but the immediate crisis out of his mind.
 Insanityl Sheer, unmitigated, unforgivable insanityl
  The industrial reserves of all Germany were about exhausted; but he could
  handle that immense problem. Handle it by properly utilizing the
  manufacturing potential of the occupied countries; reverse the unmanageable
  practices of importing the labor forces. Labor forces? Slaves!
 Productivity disastrous; sabotage continuous, unending.
 What did they expect?
  it was a time for sacrifice I Hitler could not continue to be all things to
  all people! He could not provide outsized Duesenbergs and grand operas and
  populated restaurants; he had to provide, instead, tanks, munitions, ships,
  aircraft! These were the priorities I
  But, the Fahrer could never erase the memory of the 1918 revolution.
  How totally inconsistent! The sole man whose will was shaping history, who
  was close to the preposterous dream of a

                                 37
 thousand-year Reich, was petrified of a long-ago memory of unruly mobs, of
 unsatisfied masses.
  Speer wondered if future historians would record the fact. If they would
  comprehend just how weak Hitler really was when it came to his own
  countrymen. How he buckled in fear when consumer production fell below
  anticipated schedules.
 Insanity I
  But still he, the Reichsminister of Armaments, could control this
  calamitous inconsistency as long as he was convinced it was Just a question
  of time. A few months; perhaps six at the outside.
 For there was PeenemUnde.
 The rockets.
 Everything reduced itself to PeenemOnde!
  PeenemUnde was irresistible. PeenemUnde would cause the collapse of London
  and Washington. Both governments would see the futility of continuing the
  exercise of wholesale annihilation.
  Reasonable men could then sit down and create reasonable treaties.
  Even if it meant the silencing of unreasonable men. Silencing Hitler.
  Speer knew there were others who thought that way, too. The Fahrer was
  manifestly beginning to show unhealthy signs of pressure - fatigue. He now
  surrounded himself with mediocrity - an ill-disguised desire to remain in
  the comfortable company of his intellectual equals. But it went too far
  when the Reich itself was affected. A wine merchant, the foreign minister
  I A third-rate party propagandizer, the n-dnister of eastern affairs I An
  erstwhile fighter pilot, the overseer of the entire economyl
  Even himself. Even the quiet, shy architect; now the minister of armaments.
 All that would change with PeenemUnde.
 Even himself, Thank God!
  But first there had to be PeenemUnde. There could be no question of its
  operational success. For without PeenemUnde, the war was lost.
  And now they were telling him there was a question. A flaw that might well
  be the precursor of Germany's defeat.
  A vacuous-looking corporal opened the door of the cabinet room. Speer
  walked in and saw that the long conference table was about two-thirds
  filled, the chairs in cliquish separation, as
 if the groups were suspect of one another. As, indeed, they were in these
 times of progressively sharpened rivalries within the Reich.
  He walked to the head of the table, where - to his right - sat the only man
  in the room he could trust. Franz AltmUller.
  Altmaller was a forty-two-year-old cynic. Tall, blond, aristocratic; the
  vision of the Third Reich Aryan who did not, for a minute, subscribe to the
  racial nonsense proclaimed by the Third Reich. He did, however, subscribe
  to the theory of acquiring whatever benefits came his way by pretending to
  agree with anyone who might do him some good.
 In public.
 In private, among his very close associates, he told the truth.
 When that truth might also benefit him.
  Speer was not only Altrafiller's associate, he was his friend. Their
  families had been more than neighbors; the two fathers had often gone into
  joint merchandising ventures; the mothers had been school chums.
  Altmflller had taken after his father. He was an extremely capable
  businessman; his expertise was in production administration.
  'Good morning,' said Altmfiller, fficking an imaginary thread off his tunic
  lapel. He wore his party uniform far more often than was necessary,
  preferring to err on the side of the archangel.
  'That seems unlikely,' replied Speer, sitting down rapidly. The groups -
  and they were groups - around the table kept talking among themselves but
  the voices were perceptibly quieter. Eyes kept darting over in Speer's
  direction, then swiftly away; everyone was prepared for immediate silence
  yet none wished to appear apprehensive, guilty.
  Silence would come when either Altmiiller or Speer himself rose from his
  chair to address the gathering. That would be the signal. Not before. To
  render attention before that movement might give the appearance of fear.
  Fear was equivalent to an admission of error. No one at the conference
  table could afford that.
  Altmillier opened a brown manila folder and placed it in front of Speer. It
  was a list of those summoned to the meeting. There were essentially three
  distinct factions with subdivisions within each, and each with its
  spokesman. Speer read the names and unobtrusively - he thought - looked up
  to ascertain the presence

                                 39
 and the location of the three leaders.
  At the far end of the table, resplendent in his general's uniform, his
  tunic a field of decorations going back thirty years, sat Ernst Leeb, Chief
  of the Army Ordnance Office. He was of medium height but excessively
  muscular, a condition he maintained well into his sixties. He smoked his
  cigarette through an ivory holder which he used to cut off his various
  subordinates' conversations at will. In some ways Leeb was a caricature,
  yet still a powerful one. Hitler liked him, as much for his imperious
  military bearing as for his abilities.
  At the midpoint of the table, on the left, sat Albert V6gler, the sharp,
  aggressive general manager of Reich's Industry. V6gler was a stout man, the
  image of a burgomaster; the soft flesh of his face constantly creased into
  a questioning scowl. He laughed a great deal, but his laughter was hard; a
  device, not an enjoyment. He was well suited to his position. V6gler liked
  nothing better than hammering out negotiations between industrial
  adversaries. He was a superb mediator because all parties were usually
  frightened of him.
  Across from V6gler and slightly to the right, toward Altmaller and Speer,
  was Wilhelm Zangen, the Reich official of the German Industrial
  Association. Zangen was thin-lipped, painfully slender, humorless; a
  fleshed-out skeleton happiest over his charts and graphs. A precise man who
  was given to perspiring at the edge of his receding hairline and below the
  nostrils and on his chin when nervous. He was perspiring now, and continu-
  ously brought his handkerchief up to blot the embarrassing moisture.
  Somewhat in contradiction to his appearance, however, Zangen was a
  persuasive debater. For he never argued without the facts.
  They were all persuasive, thought Speer. And if it were not for his anger,
  he knew such men could - probably would - intimidate him. Albert Speer was
  honest in self-assessment; he realized that he had no substantial sense of
  authority. He found it difficult to express his thoughts forthrightly among
  such potentially hostilemen. But nowthe potentially hostile men werein
  adefensive position. He could not allow his anger to cause them to panic,
  to seek only absolution for themselves.
 They needed a remedy. Germany needed a remedy.
 Peenerritinde had to be saved.
 'How would you suggest we begin?' Speer asked Altnitiller,

 40
 shading his voice so no one else at the table could bear him.
  'I don't think it makes a particle of difference. it will take an hour of
  very loud, very boring, very obtuse explanations before we reach anything
  concrete.'
 'I'm not interested in explanations. . .
 'Excuses, then.'
 'Least of all, excuses. I want a solution.'
  'If it's to be found at this table -which, frankly, I doubt -you'll have to
  sit through the excess verbiage. Perhaps something will come of it. Again,
  I doubt it.'
 'Would you care to explain thatT
  AltmOller looked directly into Speer's eyes. 'Ultimately, I'm not sure
  there is a solution. But if there is, I don't think it's at this table. .
  . . Perhaps I'm wrong. Why don't we listen first?'
  'All right. Would you please open with the summary you prepared? I'm afraid
  I'd lose my temper midway through.'
  'May I suggest,' Altmflller whispered, 'that it will be necessary for you
  to lose your temper at some point during this meeting. I don't see how you
  can avoid it.'
 'I understand.'
  Altmiffler pushed back his chair and stood up. Grouping by grouping the
  voices trailed off around the table.
  'Gentlemen. This emergency session was called for reasons of which we
  assume you are aware. At least you should be aware of them. Apparently it
  is only the Reichsminister of Armaments and his staff who were not
  informed; a fact which the Reichsminister and his staff find appalling....
  In short words, the PeenemOnde operation faces a crisis of unparalleled
  severity. In spite of the millions poured into this most vital weaponry
  development, in spite of the assurances consistently offered by your
  respective departments, we now learn that production may be brought to a
  complete halt within a matter of weeks. Several months prior to the
  agreed-upon date for the first operational rockets. That date has never
  been questioned. It has been the keystone for whole military strategies;
  entire armies have been maneuvered to coordinate with it. Germany's victory
  is predicated on it .... But now Peenemiinde is threatened; Germany is
  threatened .... If the projections the Reichsminister's staff have compiled
  - unearthed and compiled - are valid, the Peenemflnde complex will exhaust
  its supply of industrial diamonds in less than ninety days. Without
  industrial diamonds the precision

                                 41
 tooling in Peenemonde cannot continue!

  The babble of voices - excited, guttural, vying for attention -erupted the
  second AltmUller sat down. General Leeb's cigarette holder slashed the air
  in front of him as though it were a saber; Albert V8gler scowled and
  wrinkled his flesh-puffed eyes, placed his bulky hands on the table and
  spoke harshly in a loud monotone; Wilhelm Zangen's handkerchief was working
  furiously around his face and his neck, his high-pitched voice in conflict
  with the more masculine tones around him.
  Franz Altmillier leaned toward Speer. 'You've seen cages of angry ocelots
  in the zoo? The zookeeper can't let them hurl themselves into the bars. I
  suggest you lose your benign temper far earlier than we discussed. Perhaps
  now.'
 'This is not the way.'
 'Don't let them think you are cowed.
  'Nor that I am cowering! Speer interrupted his friend, the slightest trace
  of a smile on his lips. He stood up. 'Gentlemen.'
 The voices trailed off.
  'Herr Altmijller speaks harshly; he does so, I'm sure, because I spoke
  harshly with him. That was this morning, very early this morning. There is
  greater perspective now; it is no time for recriminations. This is not to
  lessen the critical aspects of the situation, for they are great. But anger
  will solve nothing. And we need solutions.... Therefore, I propose to seek
  your assistance - the assistance of the finest industrial and military
  minds in the Reich. First, of course, we need to know the specifics. I
  shall start with Herr V6gler. As manager of Reich's Industry, would you
  give us your estimate?'
  V6gler was upset; he didn't wish to be the first called. 'I'm not sure I
  can be of much enlightenment, Herr Reichsminister. I, too, am subject to
  the reports -given me. They have been optimistic; until the other week
  there was no suggestion of difficulty.'
 'How do you mean, optimistic?' asked Speer.
  'The quantities of bortz and carbonado diamonds were said to be sufficient.
  Beyond this there are the continuing experiments with lithicurn, carbon and
  paraffin. Our intelligence tells us that the Englishman Storey at the
  British Museum reverified the Hannay-Moissan theories. Diamonds were
  produced in this fashion.'
 'Who verified the Englishman?' Franz Altmiffler did not

 4-2
 speak kindly. 'Had it occurred to you that such data was meant to be passedT
  'Such verification is a matter for Intelligence. I am not with
  Intelligence, Herr Altmfiller.'
 'Go on,' said Speer quickly. 'What elseT
  'There is an Anglo-American experiment under the supervision of the
  Bridgemann team. They are subjecting graphite to pressures in excess of six
  million pounds per square inch. So far there is no word of success!
  'Is there word of failureT Altmifller raised his aristocratic
 eyebrows, his tone polite.        I
  'I remind you again, I am not with Intelligence. I have received no word
  whatsoever.'
  'Food for thought, isn't it-,' said Altrafiller, without asking a question.
  'Nevertheless,' interrupted Speer before V6gler could respond, 'you had
  reason to assume that the quantities of bortz and carbonado were
  sufficient. Is that not soT
 'Sufficient. Or at least obtainable, Herr Reichsminister.'
 'How so obtainableT
  'I believe General Leeb might be more knowledgeable on that subject!
  Leeb nearly dropped his ivory cigarette holder. Altmiiller noted his
  surprise and cut in swiftly. 'Why would the army ordnance officer have that
  information, Herr V6gler? I ask merely for my own curiosity!
  'The reports, once more. It is my understanding that the Ordnance Office is
  responsible for evaluating the industrial, agricultural and mineral
  potentials of occupied territories. Or those territories so projected!
  Ernst Leeb was not entirely unprepared. He was unprepared for V6gler's
  insinuations, not for the subject. He turned to an aide, who shuffled
  papers top to bottom as Speer inquired.
  'The Ordnance Office is under enormous pressure these days; as is your
  department, of course, Herr V6gler. I wonder if General Leeb has had the
  time . . .'
  'We made the time,' said Leeb, his sharp military bearing pitted in
  counterpoint to V6gler's burgomaster gruffness. 'When we received word -
  from Herr V6gler's subordinates - that a crisis was imminent - not upon us,
  but imminent - we immediately researched the possibilities for extrication!

                                 43
  Franz Altmillier brought his hand to his mouth to cover an involuntary
  smile. He looked at Speer, who was too annoyed to find any humor in the
  situation.
  'I'm relieved the Ordnance Office is so confident, general,' said Speer.
  TheReichsministerofArmaments had littleconfidence in the military and had
  difficulty disguising it. 'Please, your extrication?'
  'I said possibilities, Herr Speer. To arrive at practical solutions will
  take more time than we've been given.'
 'Very well. Your possibilities?'
  'There is an immediate remedy with historical precedent.' Leeb paused to
  remove his cigarette, crushing it out, aware that everyone around the table
  watched him intently. 'I have taken the liberty of recommending preliminary
  studies to the General Staff. It involves an expeditionary force of less
  than four battalions ... Africa. The diamond mines east of Tanganyika.'
  ' What?'Altmilller leaned forward; he obviously could not help himself.
  'You're not serious.'
  'Please V Speer would not allow his friend to interrupt. If Leeb had even
  conceived of such drastic action, it might have merit. No military man,
  knowing the thin line of combat strength -chewed up on the Eastern Front,
  under murderous assault by the Allies in Italy - could suggest such an
  absurdity unless he had a realistic hope of success. 'Go ahead, general.'
  The Williamson Mines at Mwadui. Between the districts of Tanganyika and
  Zanzibar in the central sector. The mines at Mwadui produce over a million
  carats of the carbonado diamond annually. Intelligence - the intelligence
  that is forwarded regularly to me at my insistence - informs us that there
  are supplies going back several months. Our agents in Dar es Salaam are
  convinced such an incursion would be successful.'
  Franz AltmOller passed a sheet of paper to Speer. On it he had scribbled-
  'He's lost his senses!'
  'What is the historical precedent to which you refer?' asked Speer, holding
  his hand over AltmiWer's paper.
  'All of the districts east of Dar es Salaam rightfully belong to the Third
  Reich, German West Africa. They were taken from the fatherland after the
  Great War. The Fiffirer himself made that clear four years ago.'
  There was silence around the table. An embarrassed silence. The eyes of
  even his aides avoided the old soldier. Finyall Speer spoke quietly.

 44
  'That is justification, not precedent, general. The world cares little for
  our justifications, and although I question the logistics of moving
  battalions halfway around the globe, you may have raised a valid point.
  Where else nearer ... in East Africa, perhaps, can the bortz or the
  carbonado be foundT
  Leeb looked to his aides; Wilhelm Zangen lifted his handkerchief to his
  nostrils and bowed his thin head in the direction of the general. He spoke
  as if exhaling, his high voice irritating.
  'I'll answer you, Herr Reichsminister. And then, I believe, you will see
  how fruitless this discussion is ... Sixty per cent of the world's
  crushing-bortz diamonds are in the Belgian Congo. The two principal
  deposits are in the Kasai and the Bakwanga fields, between the Kanshi and
  the Bushimaie rivers. The district's governor-general is Pierre Ryckmans;
  he is devoted to the Belgian government in exile in London. I can assure
  Leeb that the Congo's allegiances to Belgium are far greater than ours ever
  were in Dar es Salaam.'
  Leeb lit a cigarette angrily. Speer leaned back in his chair and addressed
  Zangen.
  'All right. Sixty per cent crushing-bortz; what of carbonado and the rest
  T
  'French Equatorial: totally allied to de Gaulle's Free French. Gold Coast
  and Sierra Leone: the tightest of British controls. Angola: Portuguese
  domination and their neutrality's inviolate; we know that beyond doubt.
  French West Africa: not only under Free French mandate but with Allied
  forces manning the outposts.... Here, there was only one possibility and we
  lost it a year and a half ago. Vichy abandoned the Ivory Coast.... There is
  no access in Africa, Reichsminister. None of a military nature.'
  'I see.' Speer doodled on top of the paper Altinfiller had passed to him.
  'You are recommending a nonmilitary solution?'
 'There is no other. The question is what.'
  Speer turned to Franz AltmUller. His tall, blond associate was staring at
  them all. Their faces were blank. Baffled.

                                 45
                 2

                  SEPTEMBER 11, 1943

                  WASHINGTON, D.C

 Brigadier General Alan Swanson got out of the taxi and looked up at the huge
 oak door of the Georgetown residence. The ride over the cobblestone streets
 had seemed like a continuous roll of hammering drums.
 Prelude to execution.
  Up those steps, inside that door, somewhere within that fivestory
  brownstone and brick aristocratic home, was a large room. And inside that
  room thousands of executions would be pronounced, unrelated to any around
  the table within that room.
 Prelude to annihilation.
  If the schedules were kept. And it was inconceivable that they would be
  altered.
 Wholesale murder.
  In line with his orders he glanced up and down the street to make sure he
  hadn't been followed. Asinine! CIC had all of them under constant
  surveillance. Which of the pedestrians or slowly moving automobiles had him
  in their sights? It didn't matter; the choice of the meeting place was
  asinine, too. Did they really believe they could keep the crisis a secret?
  Did they think that holding conferences in secluded Georgetown houses would
  help?
 Assesl
  He was oblivious to the rain; it came down steadily, in straight lines. An
  autumn rainstorm in Washington. His raincoat was

 46
 open, the jacket of his uniform damp and wrinkled. He didn't give a damn
 about such things; he couldn't think about them.
  The only thing he could think about was packaged in a metal casing no more
  than seven inches wide, five high, and perhaps a foot long. It was designed
  for those dimensions; it had the appearance of sophisticated technology; it
  was tooled to operate on the fundamental properties of inertia and
  precision.
 And it wasn't functional; it didn't work.
 It faded test after test.
  Ten thousand high-altitude B-17 bomber aircraft were emerging from
  production lines across the country. Without highaltitude, radio-beam
  gyroscopes to guide them, they might as well stay on the ground!
  And without those aircraft, Operation Overlord was in serious jeopardy. The
  invasion of Europe would extract a price so great as to be obscene.
  Yet to send the aircraft up on massive, round-the-clock, night and day
  bombing strikes throughout Germany without the cover of higher altitudes
  was to consign the majority to destruction, their crews to death. Examples
  'were constant reminders . : . whenever the big planes soared too high. The
  labels of pilot error, enemy fire and instrument fatigue were not so. It
  was the higher altitudes.... Only twenty-four hours ago a squadron of
  bombers on the Bremerhaven run had scrambled out of the strike, exacting
  the maximum from their aircraft and regrouped far above oxygen levels. From
  what could be determined, the guidance systems went crazy; the squadron
  ended up in the Dunbar sector near the Scottish border. All but one plane
  crashed into the sea. Three survivors were picked up by coastal patrols.
  Three out of God knows how many that had made it out of Bremerhaven. The
  one aircraft that attempted a ground landing had blown up on the outskirts
  of a town.... No survivors.
  Germany was in the curve of inevitable defeat, but it would not die easily.
  It was ready for counterstrike. The Russian lesson had been learned;
  Hitler's generals were prepared. They realized that ultimately their only
  hope for any surrender other than unconditional lay in their ability to
  make the cost of an Allied victory so high it would stagger imagination and
  sicken the conscience of humanity.
 Accommodation would then be reached.
 And that was unacceptable to the Allies. Unconditional

                                 47
 surrender was now a tripartite policy; the absolute had been so inculcated
 that it dared not be tampered with. The fever of total victory had swept the
 lands; the leaders had shaped that, too. And at this pitch of frenzy, the
 leaders stared into blank walls seeing nothing others could see and said
 heroically that losses would be tolerated.
  Swanson walked up the steps of the Georgetown house. As if on cue, the door
  opened, a major saluted and Swanson was admitted quickly. Inside the
  hallway were four noncommissioned officers in paratroop leggings standing
  at ready-at-ease; Swanson recognized the shoulder patches of the Ranger
  battalions. The War Department had set the scene effectively.
  A sergeant ushered Swanson into a small, brass-grilled elevator. Two
  stories up the elevator stopped and Swanson stepped out into the corridor.
  He recognized the face of the colonel who stood by a closed door at the end
  of the short hallway. He could not recall his name, however. The man worked
  in Clandestine Operations and was never much in evidence. The colonel
  stepped forward, saluting.
 .'General Swanson? Colonel Pace.'
  Swanson nodded his salute, offering his hand instead. 'Oh, yes. Ed Pace,
  rightT
 'Yes, sir.'
  'So they pulled you out of the cellars. I didn't know this was your
  territory.'
  'It's not, sir. Just that I've had occasion to meet the men you're seeing.
  Security clearances.'
  'And with you here they know we're serious.' Swanson smiled.
 'I'm sure we are, but I don't know what we're serious about.'
 'You're lucky. Who's insideT
  'Howard Oliver from Meridian. Jonathan Craft from Packard. And the lab man,
  Spinelli, from ATCO.'
  'They'll make my day; I can't wait. Who's presiding? Christ, there should
  be one person on our side.'
 'Vandamm.'
  Swanson's lips formed a quiet whistle; the colonel nodded in agreement.
  Frederic Vandamm was undersecretary of state and rumored to be Cordell
  Hull's closest associate. If one wanted to reach Roosevelt, the best way
  was through Hull; if that avenue was closed, one pursued Vandamm.

 48
 'That's impressive artillery,' Swanson said.
  'When they saw him, I think he scared the hell out of Craft and Oliver.
  Spinelli's in a perpetual daze. He'd figure Patton for a doorman.'
  'I don't know Spinelli, except by rep. He's supposed to be the best gyro
  man in the labs.... Oliver and Craft I know too well. I wish to hell you
  boys had never cleared them for road maps.'
  'Not much you can do when they own the roads, sir.' The colonel shrugged.
  It was obvious he agreed with Swanson's estimate.
  'I'll give you a clue, Pace. Craft's a social-register flunky. Oliver's the
  bad meat.'
  6He's got a lot of it on him,' replied the colonel, laughing softly.
  Swanson took off his raincoat. 'If you hear gunfire, colonel, it's only me
  fooling around. Walk the other way.'
  'I accept that as an order, general. I'm deaf,' answered Pace as he reached
  for the handle and opened the door swiftly for his superior.
  Swanson walked rapidly into the room. It was a library with the furniture
  pushed back against the walls and a conference table placed in the center.
  At the head of the table sat the whitehaired, aristocratic Frederic
  Vandamm. On his left was the obese, balding Howard Oliver, a sheaf of notes
  in front of him. Opposite Oliver were Craft and a short, dark, bespectacled
  man Swanson assumed was Gian Spinelli.
  The empty chair at the end of the table, facing Vandamm, was obviously for
  him. It was good positioning on Vandamm's part.
  'I'm sorry to be late, Mr. Undersecretary. A staff car would have prevented
  it. A taxi wasn't the easiest thing to find.... GentlemenT
  The trio of corporate men nodded; Craft and Oliver each uttered a muted
  'General.' Spinelli just stared from behind the thick lenses of his
  glasses.
  'I apologize, General Swanson,' said Vandamm in the precise, Anglicized
  speech that bespoke a background of wealth. 'For obvious reasons we did not
  want this conference to take place in a government office, nor, if known,
  did we wish any significance attached to the meeting itself. These
  gentlemen represent War Department gossip, I don't have to tell you that.
  The absence of urgency was desirable. Staff cars speeding through

                                 49
 Washington - don' t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down - have a
 tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?'
  Swanson returned the old gentleman's veiled look. Vandarrun was a smart
  one, he thought. It was an impetuous gamble referring to the taxi, but
  Vandamm had understood. He'd picked it up and used it well, even
  impartially.
  The three corporate men were on notice. At this conference, they were the
  enemy.
 'I've been discreet, Mr. Undersecretary.'
  'I'm sure you have. Sball we get down to points? Mr. Oliver has asked that
  he be permitted to open with a general statement of Meridian Aircraft's
  position.'
  Swanson watched the heavy-jowled Oliver sort out his notes. He disliked
  Oliver intensely; there was a fundamental gluttony about him. He was a
  manipulator; there were so many of them these days. They were everywhere in
  Washington, piling up huge sums of money from the war; proclaiming the
  power of the deal,the price of the deal, the price of the power-which they
  held.
  Oliver's rough voice shot out from his thick lips. 'Thank you. It's our
  feeling at Meridian that the ... assumed gravity of the present situation
  has obscured the real advancements that have been made. The aircraft in
  question has proved beyond doubt its superior capabilities. The new,
  improved Fortress is ready for operational combat; it's merely a question
  of desired altitudes!
  Oliver abruptly stopped and put his obese hands in front of him, over his
  papers. He had finished his statement; Craft nodded in agreement. Both men
  looked noncommittally at Vandamm. Gian Spinelli simply stared at Oliver,
  his brown eyes magnified by his glasses.
  Alan Swanson was astounded. Not necessarily by the brevity of the statement
  but by the ingenuousness of the lie.
  'If that's a position statement, I find it wholly unacceptable. The
  aircraft in question has not proved its capabilities until it's operational
  at the altitudes specified in the government contracts!
 :It's operational.' replied Oliver curtly.
  Operational. Not functional, Mr. Oliver. It is not functional until it can
  be guided from point A to point B at the altitudes called for in the
  specifications.'
  'Specified as "intended maximum," General Swanson,' shot back Oliver,
  smiling an obsequious smile that conveyed anything but courtesy.

 50
  'What the hell does that meanT Swanson looked at Undersecretary Vandamm.
 'Mr. Oliver is concerned with a contractual interpretation.'
 'I'm not.'
  'I have to be,' replied Oliver. 'The War Department has refused payment to
  Meridian Aircraft Corporation. We have a contract. . . .'
 'Take the goddamned contract up with someone else!'
 'Anger won't solve anything.' Vandamm spoke harshly.
  'I'm sorry, Mr. Undersecretary, but I'm not here to discuss contractual
  interpretations.'
  'I'm afraid you'll have to, General Swanson.' Vandamm now spoke calmly.
  'The Disbursement Office has withheld payment to Meridian on your negative
  authorization. You haven't cleared

 'Why should I? The aircraft can't do the job we expected.'
  'It can do the job you contracted for,' said Oliver, moving his thick neck
  from Vandamm to the brigadier general. 'Rest assured, general, our best
  efforts are being poured into the intended maximum guidance system. We're
  expending all our resources. We'll reach a breakthrough, we're convinced of
  that. But until we do, we expect the contracts to be honored. We've met the
  guarantees.'
 'Are you suggesting that we take the aircraft as is?'
  'It's the finest bomber in the air.' Jonathan Craft spoke. His soft, high
  voice was a weak exclamation that floated to a stop. He pressed his
  delicate fingers together in what he believed was emphasis.
  Swanson disregarded Craft and stared at the small face and magnified eyes
  of the ATCO scientist, Gian Spinelli. 'What about the gyros? Can you give
  me an answer, Mr. Spinelli?'
  Howard Oliver intruded bluntly. 'Use the existing systems. Get the aircraft
  into combat.'
 . 'No!' Swanson could not help himself. His was the roar of disgust, let
 Undersecretary Vandamm say what he liked. 'Our strategies call for
 round-the-clock strikes into the deepest regions of Germany. From all points
 - known and unknown. Fields in England, Italy, Greece ... yes, even unlisted
 bases in Turkey and Yugoslavia; carriers in the Mediterranean and, goddamn
 it, the Black Sea! Thousands and thousands of planes crowding the air

                                 51
 corridors for space. We need that extra altitude! We need the guidance
 systems to operate at those altitudes! Anything less is unthinkablel ... I'm
 sorry, Mr. Vandamm. I believe I'm justifiably upset.'
  'I understand,' said the white-haired undersecretary of state. 'That's why
  we're here this afternoon. To look for solutions . . . as well as money.'
  The old gentleman shifted his gaze to Craft. 'Can you add to Mr. Oliver's
  remarks, from Packard's vantage pointT
  Craft disengaged his lean, manicured fingers and took a deep breath through
  his nostrils as if he were about to deliver essential wisdom. The executive
  font of knowledge, thought Alan Swanson, jockeying for a chairman's
  approval.
  'Of course, Mr. Undersecretary. As the major subcontractor for Meridian,
  we've been as disturbed as the general over the lack of guidance results.
  We've spared nothing to accommodate. Mr. Spinelli's presence is proof of
  that. After all, we're the ones who brought in ATCO. . . .' here Craft
  smiled heroically, a touch sadly. 'As we all know, ATCO is the finest - and
  most costly. We've spared nothing.'
  'You brought in ATCO,' said Swanson wearily, 'because your own laboratories
  couldn't do the job. You submitted cost overruns to Meridian which were
  passed on to us. I don't see that you spared a hell of a lot.'
  'Good Lord, generaW exclaimed Craft with very little conviction. 'The thne,
  the negotiations ... time is money, sir; make no mistake about that. I
  could show you. . . .'
  'The general asked me a question. I should like to answer him.'
  The words, spoken with a trace of dialect, came from the tiny scientist,
  who was either dismissing Craft's nonsense, or oblivious to it, or,
  somehow, both.
 'I'd be grateful, Mr. Spinelli.'
  'Our progress has been consistent, steady if you like. Not rapid. The
  problems are great. We believe the distortion of the radio beams beyond
  certain altitudes varies with temperatures and land-mass curvatures. The
  solutions lie in alternating compensations. Our experiments continuously
  narrow that field. ... Our rate of progress would be more rapid were it not
  for constant interferences.'
 Gian Spinelli stopped and shifted his grotesquely magnified

 52
 eyes to Howard Oliver, whose thick neck and jowled face were suddenly
 flushed with anger.
 'You've had no interference from us!'
  'And certainly not from Packard!' chimed in Craft. ~Welve stayed in almost
  daily contact. Our concerns have never flagged!'
  Spinelli turned to Craft. 'Your concerns . . . as those of Meridian ...
  have been exclusively budgetary, as far as I can see.'
  'That's preposterous! Whatever financial inquiries were made, were made at
  the request of the ... contractor's audit division. . . .'
  'And totally necessary!' Oliver could not conceal his fury at the small
  Italian. 'You laboratory ... people don't reconcile! You're children!'
  For the next thirty seconds the three agitated men babbled excitedly in
  counterpoint. Swanson looked over at Vandamm. Their eyes met in
  understanding.
  Oliver was the first to recognize the trap. He held up his hand ... a
  corporate command, thought Swanson.
  'Mr. Undersecretary.' Oliver spoke, stifling the pitch of his anger. 'Don't
  let our squabbling convey the wrong impression. We turn out the products.'
  'You're not turning out this one,' said Swanson. 'I recall vividly the
  projections in your bids for the contract. You had everything turned out
  then.'
  When Oliver looked at him, Alan Swanson instinctively felt he should reach
  for a weapon to protect himself, The Meridian executive was close to
  exploding.
  'We relied on subordinates' evaluations,' said Oliver slowly, with
  hostility. 'I think the military has had its share of staff errors.'
 'Subordinates don't plan major strategies.'
  Vandamm raised his voice. 'Mr. Oliver. Suppose General Swanson were
  convinced it served no purpose withholding funds. What kind of time limits
  could you now guaranteeT
  Oliver looked at Spinelli. 'What would you estimateT he asked coldly.
  Spinelli's large eyes swept the ceiling. 'In candor, I cannot give you an
  answer. We could solve it next week. Or next year.'
  Swanson quickly reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a folded page of
  paper. He spread it out in front of him and spoke swiftly. 'According to
  this memorandum ... our last communication from ATCO ... once the guidance
  system is perfected,

                                 53
 you state you need six weeks of inflight experimentation. The Montana
 Proving Grounds.'
 'That's correct, general. I dictated that myself,' said Spinelli. 'Six weeks
 from next week. Or next year. And assuming the Montana experiments are
 positive, another month to equip the fleets.'
 'Yes.'
  Swanson looked over at Vandamm. 'In light of this, Mr. Undersecretary,
  there's no other course but to alter immediate priorities. Or at least the
  projections. We can't meet the logistics.'
 'Unacceptable, General Swanson. We have to meet them.'
  Swanson stared at the old man. Each knew precisely what the other referred
  to.
 Overlord. The invasion of Europe.
 'We must postpone, sir.'
 'Impossible. That's the word, general!
 Swanson looked at the three men around the table.
 The enemy.
 'We'll be in touch, gentlemen,' he said.

 54
                 3

               SEPTEMBER 12,1943
           THE BA SQ UE HILLS, SPAIN

 David Spaulding waited in the shadows of the thick, gnarled tree on the
 rocky slope above the ravine. It was Basque country and the air was damp and
 cold. The late afternoon sun washed over the hills; his back was to it. He
 had years ago -it seemed a millennium but it wasn't - learned the advantage
 of catching the reflections of the sun off the steel of small weapons. His
 own rifle was dulled with burnt, crushed cork.
 Four.
  Strange, but the number four kept coming to mind as he scanned the
  distance.
 Four.
  Four years and four days ago exactly. And this afternoon's contact was
  scheduled for precisely four o'clock in the afternoon.
  Four years and four days ago he had first seen the creased brown uniforms
  behind the thick glass partition in the radio studio in New York. Four
  years and four days ago since he had walked toward that glass wall to pick
  up his raincoat off the back of a chair and realized that the eyes of the
  older officermere looking at him. Steadily. Coldly. The younger man avoided
  him, as if guilty of intrusion, but not his superior, not the lieutenant
  colonel.
 The lieutenant colonel had been studying him.
 That was the beginning.
 He wondered now -as he watched the ravine for signs of

                                 55
 movement - when it would end. Would he be alive to see it end?
 He intended to be.
  He had called it a treadmill once. Over a drink at the Mayflower in
  Washington. Fairfax had been a treadmill; still, he had not known at the
  time how completely accurate that word would continue to be; a racing
  treadmill that never stopped.
  It slowed down occasionally. The physical and mental pressures demanded
  deceleration at certain recognizable times - recognizable to him. Times
  when he realized he was getting careless : * I or too sure of himself. Or
  too absolute with regard to decisions that took human life.
 Or might take his.
  They were often too easily arrived at. And sometimes that frightened him.
  Profoundly.
  During such times he would take himself away. He would travel south along
  the Portuguese coast where the enclaves of the temporarily inconvenienced
  rich denied the existence of war. Or he would stay in Costa del Santiago -
  with his perplexed parents. Or he would remain within the confines of the
  embassy in Lisbon and engross himself in the meaningless chores of neutral
  diplomacy. A minor military- attach6 who did not wear a uniform. It was not
  expected in the streets; it was inside the 'territory.' He did not wear
  one, however; no one cared. He was not liked very much. He socialized too
  frequently, had too many prewar friends. By and large, he was ignored ...
  with a certain disdain.
  At such times he rested. Forced his mind to go blank; to recharge itself.
  Four years and four days ago such thoughts would have been inconceivable.
  Now they consumed him. When he had the time for such thoughts.
 Which he did not have now.
  There was still no movement in the ravine. Something was wrong. He checked
  his watch; the team from San Sebastiin was too far behind schedule. It was
  an abnormal delay. Only six hours ago the French underground had radioed
  that everything was secure; there were no complications, the team had
  started out.
  The runners from San SebastiAn were bringing out photographs of the German
  airfield installations north of Mont-deMarsan. The strategists in London
  had been screaming for them for months. Those photographs had cost the
  lives of four ...

 56
 again, that goddamned number ... four underground agents.
  If anything, the team should have been early; the runners should have been
  waiting for the man from Lisbon.
  Then he saw it in the distance; perhaps a half a mile away, it was
  difficult to tell. Over the ravine, beyond the opposite slope, from one of
  the miniature hills. A flashing.
  An intermittent but rhythmic flashing. The measured spacing was a mark of
  intent, not accident.
  They were being signaled. He was being signaled by someone who knew his
  methods of operation well; perhaps someone he had trained. It was a
  warning.
  Spaulding slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the strap taut, then
  tighter still so that it became a fixed but flexible appendage to his upper
  body. He felt the hasp of his belt holster; it was in place, the weapon
  secure. He pushed himself away from the trunk of the old tree and, in a
  crouching position, scrambled up the remainder of the rock-hewn slope.
  On the ridge he ran to his left, into the tall grass toward the remains of
  a dying pear orchard. Two men in mud-caked clothes, rifles at their sides,
  were sitting on the ground playing trick knife, passing the time in
  silence. They snapped their heads up, their hands reaching for their guns.
  Spaulding gestured to them to remain on the ground. He approached and spoke
  quietly in Spanish.
 'Do either of you know who's on the team coming inT
  'Bergeron, I think,' said the man on the right. 'And probably Chivier. That
  old man has a way with patrols; forty years he's peddled across the
  border.'
 'Then it's Bergeron,' said Spaulding.
 'What isT asked the second man.
  'We're being signaled. They're late and someone is using whaes left of the
  sun to get our attention.'
  'Perhaps to tell you they're on their way.' The first man put the knife
  back in his scabbard as he spoke.
  'Possible but not likely. We wouldn't go anywhere. Not for a couple of
  hours yet.' Spaulding raised himself partially off the ground and looked
  eastward. 'Come on! We'll head down past the rim of the orchard. We can get
  a cross view there.'
  The three men in single file, separated but within hearing of each other,
  raced across the field below the high ground for nearly four hundred yards.
  Spaulding positioned himself behind

                                 57
 a low rock that jutted over the edge of the ravine. He waited for the other
 two. The waters below were about a hundred feet straight down, he judged.
 The team from San SebastiAn would cross them approximately two hundred yards
 west, through the shallow, narrow passage they always used.
 The two other men arrived within seconds of each other.
  'The old tree where you stood was the mark, wasn't iff asked the first man.
  'Yes,'answered Spaulding, removing his binoculars from a case opposite his
  belt holster. They were powerful, with Zeiss Ikon lenses, the best Germany
  produced. Taken from a dead German .at the Tejo River.
  'Then why come down here? If there's a problem, your line of vision was
  best where you were. It's more direct.'
  'If there's a problem, they'll know that. They'll flank to their left.
  East. To the west the ravine heads away from the mark. Maybe it's nothing.
  Perhaps you were right; they just want us to know they're coming.'
  A little more than two hundred yards away, just west of the shallow
  passage, two men came into view. The Spaniard who knelt on Spaulding's left
  touched the American's shoulder.
 'It's Bergeron and Chivier,' he said quietly.
  Spaulding held up his hand for silence and scanned the area with the
  binoculars. Abruptly he fixed them in one position. With his left hand he
  directed the attention of his subordinates to the spot.
  Below them, perhaps fifty yards, four soldiers in Wehrmacht uniforms were
  struggling with the foliage, approaching the waters of the ravine.
  Spaulding moved his binoculars back to the two Frenchmen, now crossing the
  water. He held the glasses steady against the rock until he could see in
  the woods behind the two men what he knew was there.
  A fifth German, an officer, was half concealed in the tangled mass of weeds
  and low branches. He held a rifle on the two Frenchmen crossing the ravine.
  Spaulding passed the binoculars quickly to the first Spaniard. He
  whispered. 'Behind Chivier.'
 The man looked, then gave the glasses to his countryman.
  Each knew what had to be done; even the methods were clear. It was merely
  a question of timing, precision. From a scabbard

 58
 behind his right hip, Spaulding withdrew a short carbine bayonet, shortened
 further by grinding. His two associates did the same. Each peered over the
 rock at the Wehrmacht men below.
  The four Germans, faced with waters waist high and a current - though not
  excessively strong, nevertheless considerable -strapped their rifles across
  their shoulders laterally and separated in a downstream column. The lead
  man started across, testing the depths as he did so.
  Spaulding and the two Spaniards came from behind the rock swiftly and slid
  down the incline, concealed by the foliage, their sounds muffled by the
  rushing water. In less than half a minute they were within thirty feet of
  the Wehrmacht men, hidden by fallen tree limbs and overgrowth. David
  entered the water, hugging the embankment. He was relieved to see that the
  fourth man - now only fifteen feet in front of him - was having the most
  difficulty keeping his balance on the slippery rocks. The other three,
  spaced about ten yards apart, were concentrating on the Frenchmen upstream.
  Concentrating intently.
  The Nazi saw him; the fear, the bewilderment was in the German's eyes. The
  split second he took to assimilate the shock was the time David needed.
  Covered by the sounds of the water, Spaulding leaped on the man, his knife
  penetrating the Wehrmacht throat, the head pushed violently under the
  surface, the blood mingling with the rushing stream.
  There was no time, no second to waste. David released the lifeless form and
  saw that the two Spaniards were parallel with him on the embankment. The
  first man, crouched and hidden, gestured toward the lead soldier; the
  second nodded his head toward the next man. And David knew that the third
  Wehrmacht soldier was his.
  It took no more than the time necessary for Bergeron and Chivier to reach
  the south bank. The three soldiers were dispatched, their blood-soaked
  bodies floating downstream, careening off rocks, filling the waters with
  streaks of magenta.
  Spaulding signaled the Spaniards to cross the water to the north
  embankment. The first man pulled himself up beside David, his right hand
  bloodied from a deep cut across his palm.
 'Are you all right?"whispered Spaulding.
 'The blade slipped. I lost my knife.' The man swore.
  'Get out of the area,' said David. 'Get the wound dressed at the Valdero
  farm.'

                                 -59
 'I can put on a tight bandage. I'll be fine.'
  The second Spaniard joined them. He winced at the sight of his countryman's
  hand, an action SpauldiVg thought inconsistent for a guerrilla who had just
  minutes ago plunged a blade into the neck of a man, slicing most of his
  head off.
 'That looks bad,' he said.
  'You can't function,'added Spaulding, 'and we don't have time to argue.'
 'I can. . .
  'You can't.' David spoke peremptorily. 'Go back to Valdero's. I'll see you
  in a week or two. Get going and stay out of sightV
  'Very well.' The Spaniard was upset but it was apparent that he would not,
  could not, disobey the American's commands. He started to crawl into the
  woods to the east.
  Spaulding called quietly, just above the rush of the water. 'Thank you.
  Fine work today.'
  The Spaniard grinned and raced into the forest, holding his wrist.
  Just as swiftly, David touched the arm of the second man, beckoning him to
  follow. They sidestepped their way along the bank upstream. Spaulding
  stopped by a fallen tree whose trunk dipped down into the ravine waters. He
  turned and crouched, ordering the Spaniard to do the same. He spoke words
  quietly.
 'I want him alive. I want to question him.'
 'I'll get him.'
  6No, I will. I just don't want you to fire. There could be a backup
  patrol.' Spaulding realized as he whispered that the man couldn't help but
  smile. He knew why: his Spanish had the soft lilt of Castilian, a
  foreigner9s Castilian at that. It was out of place in Basque country.
 As he was out of place, really.
  'As you wish, good friend,' said the man. 'Shall I cross farther back and
  reach Bergeron? He's probably sick to his stomach by now.'
  'No, not yet. Wait'll we're secure over here. He and the old man will just
  keep walking.' David raised his head over the fallen tree trunk and
  estimated distances. The German officer was about sixty yards away, hidden
  in the woods. 'I'll head in there, get behind him. I'll see if I can spot
  any signs of another patrol. If I do, 1911 come back and we'll get out. If
  not, I'll try to grab him....

 60
 If anything goes wrong, if he hears me, he'll probably head for the water.
 Take him.'
  The Spaniard nodded. Spaulding checked the tautness of his rifle strap,
  giving it a last-second hitch. He gave his subordinate a tentative smile
  and saw that the man's hands - huge, calloused -were spread on the ground
  like claws. If the Wehrmacht officer headed this way, he'd never get by
  those hands, thought David.
  He crept swiftly, silently into the woods, his arms and feet working like
  a primitive hunter's, warding off branches, sidestepping rocks and tangled
  foliage.
  In less than three minutes he had gone thirty yards behind the German on
  the Nazi's left flank. He stood immobile and withdrew his binoculars. He
  scanned the forest and the trail. There were no other patrols. He doubled
  back cautiously, blending every movement of his body with his surroundings.
  When he was within ten feet of the German, who was kneeling on the ground,
  David silently unlatched his holster and withdrew his pistol. He spoke
  sharply, though not impolitely, in German.
 'Stay where you are or I'll blow your head off.'
  The Nazi whipped around and awkwardly fumbled for his weapon. Spaulding
  took several rapid steps and kicked it out of his hands. The man started to
  rise, and David brought his heavy leather boot up into the side of the
  German's head. The officer's visor hat fell to the ground; blood poured out
  of the man's temple, spreading throughout the hairline, streaking down
  across his face. He was unconscious.
  Spaulding reached down and tore at the Nazi's tunic. Strapped across the
  Oberleutnant's chest was a traveling pouch. David pulled the steel zipper
  laterally over the waterproofed canvas and found what he was sure he would
  find.
  The photographs of the hidden Luftwaffe installations north of
  Mont-de-Marsan. Along with the photographs were amateurish drawings that
  were, in essence, basic blueprints. At least, schematics. Taken from
  Bergeron, who had then led the German into the trap.
  If he could make sense out of them - along with the photographs - he would
  alert London that sabotage units could inflict the necessary destruction,
  immobilizing the Luftwaffe complex. He would send in the units himself.
  The Allied air strategists were manic when it came to bombing runs. The
  planes dove from the skies, reducing to rubble and

                                 61
 crater everything that was - and was not - a target, taking as much innocent
 life as enemy. If Spaulding could prevent air strikes north of
 Mont-de-Marsan, it might somehow... abstractly make up for the decision he
 now had to face.
  There were no prisoners of war in the Galician hills, no internment centers
  in the Basque country.
  The Wehrmacht lieutenant, who was so ineffectual in his role of the hunter
  . . . who might have had a life in some peaceful German town in a peaceful
  world ... had to die. And he, the man from Lisbon, would be the
  executioner. He would revive the young officer, interrogate him at the
  point of a knife to learn how deeply the Nazis had penetrated the
  underground in San SebastiAn. Then kill him.
  For the Wehrmacht officer had seen the man from Lisbon; he could identify
  that man as David'Spaulding.
  The fact that the execution would be mercifully quick - unlike a death in
  partisan hands - was of small comfort to David. He knew that at the instant
  he pulled the trigger, the world would spin insanely for a moment or two.
  He would be sick to his stomach and want to vomit, his whole being in a
  state of revulsion.
  But he would not show these things. He would say nothing, indicate nothing
  ... silence. And so the legend would continue to grow. For that was part of
  the treadmill.
 The man in Lisbon was a killer.

 ~62
                 4

                SEPTEMBER 20,1943
               MANNHEIM, GERMANY

 Wilhelm Zangen brought the handkerchief to his chin, and then to the skin
 beneath his nostrils, and finally to the border of his receding hairline.
 The sweat was profuse; a rash had formed in the cleft below his lips,
 aggravated by the daily necessity to shave and the continuous pressure.
  His whole face was stinging, his embarrassment compounded by Franz
  Altmfiller's final words:
  'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most unathaotive.'
  With that objective solicitousness, AltmUller had gotten up from the table
  and walked out the door. Slowly, deliberately, his briefcase - the
  briefcase containing the reports - held down at arm's length as though it
  had been some diseased appendage.
  They had been alone. AltmUller had dismissed the group of scientists
  without acknowledging any progress whatsoever. He had not even allowed him,
  the Reich official of German Industry, to thank them for their
  contributions. AltmUller knew that these were the finest scientific minds
  in Germany, but he had no understanding of how to handle them. They were
  sensitive, they were volatile in their own quiet way; they needed praise
  constantly. He had no patience for tact.
 And there had been progress.
  The Krupp laboratories were convinced that the answer lay in the graphite
  experiments. Essen had worked around the clock for

                                 63
 nearly a month, its managers undergoing one sleepless night after another.
 They had actually produced carbon particles in sealed iron tubes and were
 convinced these carbons held all the properties required for precision
 tooling. It was merely a question of time; time to create larger particles,
 sufficient for tolerance placement within existing machinery.
  Frahz Altmilller had listened to the Krupp team without the slightest
  indication of enthusiasm, although enthusiasm certainly had been called for
  under the circumstances. Instead, when the Krupp spokesman had finished his
  summary, AltmW]er had asked one question. Asked it with the most bored
  expression imaginable 1
  'Have these . . . particles been subjected to the pressures of operational
  tooling?'
  Of course they hadn't! How could they have been? They had been subjected to
  artificial, substitute pressures; it was all that was possible at the
  moment.
  That answer had been unacceptable; Altmiffler dismissed the most
  scientifically creative minds in the Reich without a single sentence of
  appreciation, only ill-disguised hostility.
  'Gentlemen, you've brought me words. We don't need words, we need diamonds.
  We need them, we must have them within weeks. Two months at the outside. I
  suggest you return to your laboratories and consider our problem once
  again. Good day, gentlemen.'
 Altmaller was impossible!
  After the scientists had left, AltmUller had become even more abrasive.
  'Wilhelm,' he had said with a voice bordering on contempt, 'was this the
  nonmilitary solution of which you spoke to the minister of armamentsT
  Why hadn't he used Speer's name? Was it necessary to threaten with the use
  of titles?
  'Of course. Certainly more realistic than that insane march into the
  Con-go. The mines at the Bushimaie Riverl Madness!'
  'The comparison is odious. I overestimated you; I gave you more credit than
  you deserve. You understand, of course, that you failed.' It was not a
  question.
  'I disagree. The results aren't in yet. You can't make such a judgment.'
 'I can and I have V Altmaller had slammed the flat of his hand

 64
 against the tabletop; a crack of soft flesh against hard wood. An
 intolerable insult. 'We have no time! We can't waste weeks while your
 laboratory misfits play with their bunsen burners, creating little stones
 that could fall apart at the first contact with steel! We need the productV
  'You'll have itl' The surface of Zangen's chin became an oily mixture of
  sweat and stubble. 'The finest minds in all Germany ate . . . ,
  'Are experimenting.' AltmCdler had interrupted quietly, with scornful
  emphasis. 'Get us the product. That's my order to you. Our powerful
  companies have long histories that go back many years-Certainly one of them
  can find an old friend.'
  Wilhelm Zangen had blotted his chin; the rash was agonizing. 'We've covered
  those areas. Impossible.'
  'Cover them again.' Altmaller had pointed an elegant finger at Zangen's
  handkerchief. 'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most
  unattractive.'

                  SEPTEMBER 24,1943

                   NEW YORK CITY

  Jonathan Craft walked up Park Avenue and checked his wristwatch under the
  spill of a streetlamp. His long, thin fingers trembled; the last vestige of
  too many martinis, which he had stopped drinking twenty-four hours ago in
  Ann Arbor. Unfortunately, he had been drunk for the three previous days. He
  had not been to the office. The office reminded him of General Alan
  Swanson; he could not bear that memory. Now he had to.
  It was a quarter to nine; another fifteen minutes and he would walk into
  800 Park Avenue, smile at the doorman and go to the elevator. He did not
  want to be early, dared not be late. He had been inside the apartment house
  exactly seven times, and each occasion had been traumatic for him. Always
  for the same reason: he was the bearer of bad news.
  But they needed him. He was the impeccable man. His family was old, fine
  money; he had been to the right schools, the best

                                 65
 cotillions. He had access into areas - social and institutional - the
 merchants would never possess. No matter he was stuck in Ann Arbor; it was
 a temporary situation, a wartime inconvenience. A sacrifice.
  He would be back in New York on the Exchange as soon as the damn thing was
  over.
  He had to keep these thoughts in mind tonight because in a few minutes he
  would have to repeat the words Swanson had screamed at him in his Packard
  office. He had written a confidential report of the conversation ... the
  unbelievable conversation ... and sent it to Howard Oliver at Meridian.
  Ifyou've done what I think you've done, itfalls under the heading of
  treasonable acts! And we're at war!
 Swanson.
 Madness.
  He wondered how many would be there, in the apartment. It was always better
  if there were quite a few, say a dozen. Then they argued among themselves;
  he was almost forgotten. Except for his information.
  He walked around the block, breathing deeply, calming himself ... killing
  ten minutes.
 Treasonable acts!
 And we're at war!
  His watch read five minutes to nine. He entered the building, smiled at the
  doorman, gave the floor to the elevator operator and, when the brass grill
  opened, he walked into the private foyer of the penthouse.
  A butler took his overcoat and ushered him across the hall, through the
  door and down three steps into the huge sunken living room.
  There were only two men in the room. Craft felt an immediate sharp pain in
  his stomach. It was an instinctive reaction partly brought on by the fact
  that there were only two people for this extremely vital conference, but
  mainly caused by the sight of Walter Kendall.
  Kendall was a man in shadows, a manipulator of figures who was kept out of
  sight. He was fiftyish, medium-sized, with thinning, unwashed hair, a
  rasping voice and an undistinguished -shoddy - appearance. His eyes darted
  continuously, almost never returning another man's look. It was said his
  mind concentrated incessantly on schemes and counterschemes; his whole

 66
 purpose in life was'apparently to outmaneuver other human beings - friend or
 enemy, it made no difference to Kendall, for he did not categorize people
 with such labels.
 All were vague opponents.
  But Walter Kendall was brilliant at what he did. As long as he could be
  kept in the background, his manipulations served his clients. And made him
  a great deal of money - which he hoarded, attested to by ill-fitting suits
  that bagged at the knees and sagged below the buttocks. But he was always
  kept out of sight; his presence signified crisis.
  Jonathan Craft despised Kendall because he was frightened by him.
  The second man was to be expected under the circumstances. He was Howard
  Oliver, Meridian Aircraft's obese debater of War Department contracts.
  'You're on time,' said Walter Kendall curtly, sitting down in an armchair,
  reaching for papers in an open, filthy briefcase at his feet.
  'Hello, Jon.' Oliver approached and offered a short, neutral handshake.
 'Where are the others?' asked Craft.
  'No one wanted to be here,' answered Kendall with a furtive glance at
  Oliver. 'Howard has to be, and I'm paid to be. You had one hell of a
  meeting with this Swanson.'
 'You've read my report?'
  'He's read it,' said Oliver, crossing to a copper-topped wheelcart in the
  comer on which there were bottles and glasses. 'He's got questions.'
 'I made everything perfectly clear .....
  'Those aren't the questions,' interrupted Kendall while squeez, ing the tip
  of a cigarette before inserting it into his mouth. As he struck a match,
  Craft walked to a large velvet chair across from the accountant and sat
  down. Oliver had poured himself a whisky and remained standing.
 'If you want a drink, Jon, it's over there,' said Oliver.
  At the mention of alcohol', Kendall glanced up at him from his papers with
  ferret-like eyes. 'No thank you,' Craft replied. 'I'd like to get this over
  with as soon as possible.'
  'Suit yourself,' Oliver looked at the accountant. 'Ask your questions.'
 Kendall, sucking on his cigarette, spoke as the smoke curled

                                 67
 around his nostrils. 'This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him
 since you saw SwansonT
  'No. There was nothing to say; nothing Icould say ... without instructions.
  As you know, I spoke with Howard on the phone. He told me to wait; write a
  report and do nothing.'
  'Craft's the funnel to ATCO,' said Oliver. 'I didn't want him running
  scared, trying to smooth things over. It'd look like we were hiding
  something.'
  'We are,' Kendall removed his cigarette, the ash falling on his trousers.
  He continued while slowly shuffling the papers on his lap. 'Let's go over
  Spinelli's complaints. As Swanson brought them up.'
  The accountant touched briefly, concisely on each point raised. They
  covered Spinelli's statements regarding delayed deliveries, pe rsonnel
  transfers, blueprint holdups, a dozen other minor grievances. Craft replied
  with equal brevity, answering when he could, stating ignorance when he
  could not. There was no reason to hide anything.
 He had been carrying out instructions, not issuing them.
  'Can Spinelli substantiate these charges? And don't kid yourselves, these
  are charges, not complaints.'
  'What charges?' Oliver spat out the words. 'That guinea bastard's fucked up
  everything! Who's he to make charges?'
  6Get off it,' said Kendall in his rasping voice. 'Don't play games. Save
  them for a congressional committee, unless I can figure something.'
  At Kendall's words the sharp pain returned to Craft's stomach. The
  prospects of disgrace - even remotely associated - could ruin his life. The
  life he expected to lead back in New York. The financial boors, the
  merchants, could never understand. 'That's going a little far. . . .'
  Kendall looked over at Craft. 'Maybe you didn't hear Swanson. It's not
  going far enough. You got the Fortress contracts because your projections
  said you could do the job.'
 'Just a minute!' yelled Oliver. 'We . . .'
  'Screw the legal crap!' countered Kendall, shouting over Oliver's
  interruption. 'My firm ... me, I... squared those projections. I know what
  they say, what they implied. You left the other companies at the gate. They
  wouldn't say what you said. Not Douglas, not Boeing, not Lockheed. You were
  hungry and you got the meat and now you're not delivering.... So what else

 68
 is new? Let's go back: can Spinelli substantiater
 'Shit,' exploded Oliver, heading for the bar.
  'How do you mean ... substantiate?' asked Jonathan Craft, his stomach in
  agony.
  'Are there any memorandums floating around,' Kendall tapped the pages in
  his hand, 'that bear on any of this?' ,
  'Well . . .' Craft hesitated; he couldn't stand the pain in his stomach.'
  When personnel transfers were expedited, they were put into interoffice. .
  . .'
  'The answer's yes,' interrupted Oliver in disgust, pouring himself a drink.
 'What about financial cutbacks?'
  Oliver once again replied. 'We obscured those. Spinelli's requisitions just
  got lost in the paper shuffle.'
 'Didn't he scream? Didn't he shoot off memos?'
  'That's Craft's department,' answered Oliver, drinking most of his whisky
  in one swallow. 'Spinelli was his little guinea boy.'
 'Well?' Kendall looked at Craft.
  'Well ... he sent numerous communications.' Craft leaned forward in the
  chair, as much to relieve the pain as to appear confidential. 'I removed
  everything from the files,' he said softly.
  'Christ,' exploded Kendall quietly. 'I don't give a shit what you removed.
  He's got copies. Dates!
 'Well, I couldn't say. . . .'
  'He didn't type the goddamned things himseo, did he? You didn't take away
  the fucking secretaries, too, did you?'
 'There's no call to be offensive. . . .,
  'Offensivel You're a funny manl Maybe they've got fancy stripes for you in
  Leavenworth! The accountant snorted and turned his attention to Howard
  Oliver. 'Swanson's got a case; he'll hang you. Nobody has to be a lawyer to
  see that. You held back. You figured to use the existing guidance systems!
  'Only because the new gyroscopes couldn't be developedl Because that guinea
  bastard fell so far behind he couldn't catch UP !,
  'Also it saved you a couple of hundred million. . . . You should have
  primed the pumps, not cut off the water. You're big ducks in a short
  gallery; a blind man could knock you off.'
  Oliver put his glass down and spoke slowly. 'We don't pay you for that kind
  of judgment, Walter. You'd better have somo. thing else.'

                                 69
  Kendall crushed out his mutilated cigarette, his dirty finger. nails
  covered with ash. 'I do,' he said. 'You need company; you're in the middle
  of a very emotional issue. It'll cost you but you don't have a choice.
  You've got to make deals, ring in everybody. Get hold of Sperry Rand, GM,
  Chrysler, Lockheed, Douglas, Rolls-Royce, if you have to ... every son of
  a bitch with an engineering laboratory. A patriotic crash program. Cross.
  reference your data, open up everything you've got.'
 'They'll steal us blind!' roared Oliver. 'Millions!'
  'Cost you more if you don't ... I'll prepare supplementary financial stats.
  I'll pack the sheets with so much ice, it'll take ten years to thaw.
  That'll cost you, too.' Kendall smirked, baring soiled teeth.
  Howard Oliver stared at the unkempt accountant. 'It's crazy,' he said
  quietly. 'We'll be giving away fortunes for something that can't be bought
  because it doesn't exist.'
  'But you said it did exist. You told Swanson it existed - at least a hell
  of a lot more confidently than anybody else. You sold your great industrial
  know-how, and when you couldn't deliver, you covered up. Swanson's right.
  You're a menace to the war effort. Maybe you should be shot.
  Jonathan Craft watched the filthy, grinning bookkeeper with bad teeth and
  wanted to vomit. But he was their only hope.

 70
                 5

                SEPTEMBER 25,1943
               STUTTGART, GERMANY

 Wilhelm. Zangen stood by the window overlooking Stuttgart's Reichssieg
 Platz, holding a handkerchief against his inflamed, perspiring chin. This
 outlying section of the city had been spared the bombing; it was
 residential, even peaceful. The Neckar River could be seen in the distance,
 its waters rolling calmly, oblivious to the destruction that had been
 wrought on the other side of the city.
  Zangen realized he was expected to speak, to answer von Schnitzler, who
  spoke for all of I. G. Farben. The two other men were as anxious to hear
  his words as was von Schnitzler. There was no point in procrastinating. He
  had to carry out Altmiffler's orders.
  'The Krupp laboratories have failed. No matter what Essen says, there is no
  time for experimentation. The Ministry of Armaments has made that clear;
  Altmiffier is resolute. He speaks for Speer.' Zangen turned and looked at
  the three men. 'He holds you responsible.'
  'How can that beT asked von Schnitzler, his guttural lisp pronounced, his
  voice angry. 'How can we be responsible for something we know nothing
  about? It's illogical. Ridiculousl'
 'Would you wish me to convey that judgment to the ministryT
  'I'll convey it myself, thank you,' replied von Schnitzler. 'Farben is not
  involved.'
 'We are all involved,' said Zangen quietly.

                                 71
  'How can our company beT asked Heinrich Krepps, Direktor of Schreibwaren,
  the largest printing complex in Germany. 'Our work with Peenem0nde has been
  practically nothing; and what there was, obscured to the point of
  foolishness. Secrecy is one thing; lying to ourselves, something else
  again. Do not include us, Herr Zangen.'
 :You are included.'
  I reject your conclusion. I've studied our communications with Peenem0nde.'
 'Perhaps you were not cleared for all the facts.'
 'Asinine!'
 'Quite possibly. Nevertheless . . .
  'Such a condition would hardly apply to me, Herr Reich official,' said
  Johann Dietricht, the middle-aged effeminate son of the Dietricht
  Chemikalien empire. Dietricht's family had contributed heavily to Hitler's
  National Socialist coffers; when the father and uncle had died, Johann
  Dietricht was allowed to continue the management - more in name than in
  fact. 'Nothing occurs at Dietricht of which I am unaware. We've had nothing
  to do with Peenemiinde!'
  Johann Dietricht smiled, his fat lips curling, his blinking eyes betraying
  an excess of alcohol, his partially plucked eyebrows his sexual proclivity
  - excess, again. Zangen couldn't stand Dietricht; the man - although no man
  - was a disgrace, his life-style an insult to German industry. Again, felt
  Zangen, there was no point in procrastinating. The information would come
  as no surprise to von Schnitzler and Krepps.
  'There are many aspects of the Dietricht Chemikalien of which you know
  nothing. Your own laboratories have worked consistently with Peenemande in
  the field of chemical detonation.'
 Dietricht blanched; Krepps interrupted.
  'What is your purpose, Herr Reich official? You call us here only to insult
  us? You tell us, directors, that we are not the masters of our own
  companies? I don't know Herr Dietricht so well, but I can assure you that
  von Schnitzler and myself are not puppets.'
  Von Schnitzler had been watching Zangen closely, observing the Reich
  official's use of his handkerchief. Zangen kept blotting his chin
  nervously. 'I presume you have specific information -such as you've just
  delivered to Herr Dietricht - that will con-
  
 72
 firm your statements.'
 'I have.'
  'Then you're saying that isolated operations - within our own factories -
  were withheld from us.'
 'I am.'
  'Then how can we be held responsible? These are insane accusations.'
 'They are made for practical reasons.'
  'Now you're talking in circles!' shouted Dietricht, barely recovered from
  Zangen's insult.
  "I must agree,' said Krepps, as if agreement with the obvious homosexual
  was distasteful, yet mandatory.
  'Come, gentlemen. Must I draw pictures? These are your companies. Farben
  has supplied eighty-three per cent of all chemicals for the rockets;
  Schreibwaren has processed every blueprint; Dietricht, the majority of
  detonating compounds for the casing explosives. We're in a crisis. If we
  don't overcome that crisis, no protestations of ignorance will serve you.
  I might go so far as to say,that there are those in the ministry and
  elsewhere who will deny that anything was withheld. You simply buried your
  collective heads. I'm not even sure myself that such a judgment is in
  error.'
 'Lies!' screamed Dietricht.
 'Absurd!' added Krepps.
  'But obscenely practical,' concluded von Schnitzler slowly, staring at
  Zangen. 'So this is what you're telling us, isn't it? What Altmifller tells
  us. We either employ our resources to find a solution - to come to the aid
  of our industrial Schwachling - or we face equilateral disposition in the
  eyes of the ministry.'
  'And in the eyes of the Fiffirer; the judgment of the Reich itself.'
 'But how?' asked the frightened Johann Dietricht.
  Zangen remembered AltmOller's words precisely. 'Your companies have long
  histories that go back many years. Corporate and individual. From the
  Baltic to the Mediterranean, from New York to Rio de Janeiro, from Saudi
  Arabia to Johannesburg.'
  'And from Shanghai down through Malaysia to the ports in Australia and the
  Tasman Sea,' said von Schnitzler quietly.
 'They don't concern us.'
 'I thought not.'
 'Are you suggesting, Herr Reich official, that the solution for

                                 73
 Peenemlinde lies in our past associations?' Von Schnitzler leaned forward in
 his chair, his hands and eyes on the table.
  'It's a crisis. No avenues can be overlooked. Communications can be
  expedited.'
  'No doubt. What makes you think they'd be exchanged?' continued the head of
  1. G. Farben.
 'Profits,' replied Zangen.
  'Difficult to spend facing a firing squad.' Von Schnitzler shifted his
  large bulk and looked up at the window, his expression pensive.
  'You assume the commission of specific transactions. I refer more to acts
  of omission.'
 'Clarify that, please.' Krepps's eyes remained on the tabletop.,
  'There are perhaps twenty-five acceptable sources for the bortz and
  carbonado diamonds - acceptable in the sense that sufficient quantities can
  be obtained in a single purchase. Africa and South America; one or two
  locations in Central America. These mines are run by companies under fiat
  security conditions: British, American, Free French, Belgian ... you know
  them. Shipments are controlled, destinations cleared.... We are suggesting
  that shipments can be sidetracked, destinations altered in neutral
  territories. By the expedient of omitting normal security precautions. Acts
  of incompetence, if you will; human error, not betrayal.'
  'Extraordinarily profitable rrdstakes,' summed up von Schnitzler.
 'Precisely,' said Wilhelm Zangen.
  'Where do you find such men?' asked Johann Dietricht in his high-pitched
  voice.
 'Everywhere,' replied Heinrich Krepps.
 Zangen blotted his chin with his handkerchief.

 74
                 6

               NOVEMBER 29, 1943
            BASQUE COUNTRY, SPAIN

 Spaulding raced across the foot of the hill until he saw the converging
 limbs of the two trees. They were the mark. He turned right and started up
 the steep incline, counting off an approximate 125 yards; the second mark.
 He turned left and walked slowly around to the west slope, his -body low,
 his eyes darting constantly in all directions; he gripped his pistol firmly.
  On the west slope he looked, for a single rock - one among so many on the
  rock-strewn Galician hill - that had been chipped on its downward side.
  Chipped carefully with three indentations. It was the third and final mark.
  He found it, spotting first the bent reeds of the stiff hill grass. He
  knelt down and looked at his watch: two forty-five.
  He was fifteen minutes early, as he had planned to be. In fifteen minutes
  he would walk down the west slope, directly in front of the chipped rock.
  There he would find a pile of branches. Underneath the branches would be a
  short-walled cave; in that cave - if all went as planned - would be three
  men. One was a member of an infiltration team. The other two were
  Wissenschaftkr - German scientists who had been attached to the Kindorf
  laboratories in the Ruhr Valley. Their defections - escape - had been an
  objective of long planning.
 The obstacles were always the same.
 Gestapo.
 The Gestapo had broken an underground agent and was on to

                                 75
 the Wissenschaftler. But, typical of the SS elite, it kept its knowledge to
 itself, looking for bigger game than two disaffected laboratory men. Gestapo
 Agenten had given the scientists wide latitude; surveillance dismissed,
 laboratory patrols relaxed to the point of inefficiency, routine
 interrogation disregarded.
 Contradictions.
  The Gestapo was neither inefficient nor careless. The SS was setting a
  trap.
  Spaulding's instructions to the, underground had been terse, simple: let
  the trap be sprung. With no quarry in its net.
  Word was leaked that the scientists, granted a weekend leave to Stuttgart,
  were in reality heading due north through underground routing to
  Bremerhaven. There contact was being made with a high-ranking defecting
  German naval officer who had commandeered a small craft and would make a
  dramatic run to the Allies. It was common knowledge that the German navy
  was rife with unrest. It was a recruiting ground for the anti-Hitler
  factions springing up throughout the Reich.
  The word would give everyone something to think about, reasoned Spaulding.
  And the Gestapo would be following two men it assumed were the
  Wissenschaftler from Kindorf, when actually they were two middle-aged
  Wehrmacht security patrols sent on a false surveillance.
 Games and countergames.
 So much, so alien. The expanded interests of the man in Lisbon.
  This afternoon was a concession. Demanded by the German underground. He was
  to make the final contact alone. The underground claimed the man in Lisbon
  had created too many complications; there was too much room for error and
  counterinfiltration. There wasn't, thought David, but if a solo run would
  calm the nervous stomachs of the anti-Reichists, it was little enough to
  grant them.
  He had his own Valdero team a half mile away in the upper hills. Two shots
  and they would come to his help on the fastest horses Castilian money could
  buy.
 It was time. He could start toward the cave for the final contact.
  He slid down the hard surface, his heels digging into the earth and rocks
  of the steep incline until he was above the pile of branches and limbs that
  signified the hideout's opening. He picked up a handful of loose dirt and
  threw it down into the broken foliage.

 76
  The response was as instructed: a momentary thrashing of a stick against
  the piled branches. The fluttering of bird's wings, driven from the bush.
  Spaulding quickly sidestepped his way to the base of the enclosure and
  stood by the camouflage.
  'Alles in Ordnung. Kommen Me,' he said quietly but firmly. 'There isn't
  much traveling time left.'
 'Halt!'was the unexpected shout from the cave.
  David spun around, pressed his back into the hill and raised his Colt. The
  voice from inside spoke again. In English.
 'Are you ... Lisbon?'
  'For God's sake, yes I Don't do that I You'll get. your head shot off!'
  Christ, thought Spaulding, the infiltration team must have used a child, or
  an imbecile, or both as its runner. 'Come on out.'
  'I am with apologies, Lisbon,' said the voice, as the branches were
  separated and the pile dislodged. 'We've had a bad time of it.,
  The runner emerged. He was obviously not anyone David had trained. He was
  short, very muscular, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six; nervous fear
  was in his eyes.
  'In the future,' said Spaulding, 'don't acknowledge signals, then question
  the signaler at the last moment. Unless you intend to kill him. Es ist
  Schwarztuch-chiffire.'
 'Was ist das? Black . . .'
  'Black drape, friend. Before our time. It means ... confirm and terminate.
  Never mind, just don't do it again. Where are the others?'
  'Inside. They are all right; very tired and very afraid, but not injured.'
  The runner turned and pulled off more branches. 'Come out. It's the man
  from Lisbon.'
  The two frightened, middle-aged scientists crawled out of the cave
  cautiously, blinking at the hot, harsh sun. They looked gratefully at
  David; the taller one spoke in halting English.
  . 'This is a . . . minute we have waited for. Our very much thanks.'
  Spaulding smiled. 'Well, we're not out of the woods, yet. Frei. Both terms
  apply. You're brave men. We'll do all we can for you.'
  'There was ... nichts... remaining,' said the shorter laboratory man. 'My
  friend's socialist ... Polilik . . . was unpopular. My late wife was ...
  eine Aidin.'
 'No childrenT

                                 77
 'Nein,' answered the man. 'Gott sel dank.'
  'I have one son,' said the taller scientist coldly. 'Er ist ... Gestapo.'
  There was no more to be said, thought Spaulding. He turned to the runner,
  who was scanning the hill and the forests below. 'I'll take over now. Get
  back to Base Four as soon as you can. We've got a large contingent coming
  in from Koblenz in a few days. We'll need everyone. Get some rest.'
  The runner hesitated; David had seen his expression before ... so often.
  The man was now going to travel alone. No company, pleasant or unpleasant.
  Just alone.
  'That is not my understanding, Lisbon. I am to stay with you. . . .,
 'WhyT interrupted Spaulding.
 'My instructions. . .
 'From whomT
  'From those in San Sebastidn. Herr Bergeron and his men. Weren't you
  informed?'
  David looked at the runner. The man's fear was making him a poor liar,
  thought Spaulding. Or he was something else. Something completely
  unexpected because it was not logical; it was not, at this point, even
  remotely to be considered. Unless . . ..
  David gave the runner's frayed young nerves the benefit of the doubt. A
  benefit, not an exoneration. That would come later.
  'No, I wasn't told,' he said. 'Come on. We'll head to Beta camp. We'll stay
  there until morning.' Spaulding gestured and they started across the foot
  of the slope.
  'I haven't worked this far south,' said the runner, positioning himself
  behind David. 'Don't you travel at night, LisbonT
  'Sometimes,' answered Spaulding, looking back at the scientists, who were
  walking side by side. 'Not if we can help it. The Basque shoot
  indiscriminately at night. They have too many dogs off their leashes at
  night.'
 'I see.'
  'Let's walk single file. Flank our guests,' said David to the runner.
  The four traveled several miles east. Spaulding kept up a rapid pace; the
  middle-aged scientists did not complain but they obviously found the going
  difficult. A number of times David told the others to remain where they
  were while he entered the woods at various sections ofthe forest and
  returned minutes later. Each

 78
 time he did so, the older men rested, grateful for the pauses. The runner
 did not. He appeared frightened - as if the American might not come back.
 Spaulding did not encourage conversation, but after one such disappearance,
 the young German could not restrain himself.
 'What are you doing?' he asked.
  David looked at the Widerstandskdmpfer and smiled. 'Picking up messages.'
 'Messages?'
  'These are drops. Along our route. We establish marks for leaving off
  information we don't want sent by radio. Too dangerous if intercepted.'
  They continued along a narrow path at the edge of the woods until there was
  a break in the Basque forest. It was a grazing field, a lower plateau
  centered beneath the surrounding hills. The Wissenschaftler were perspiring
  heavily, their breaths short, their legs aching.
  'We'll rest here for a while,' said Spaulding, to the obvious relief of the
  older men. 'It's time I made contact anyway.'
 'Wa.t ist los?'asked the young runner. 'Contact?'
  'Zeroing our position,' replied David, taking out a small metal mirror from
  his field jacket. 'The scouts can relax if they know where we are.... If
  you're going to work the north coufitry -what you call south - you'd better
  remember all this.'
 'I shall, I shall.'
  David caught the reflection of the sun on the mirror and beamed it up to a
  northern hill. He made a series of motions with his wrist, and the metal
  plate moved back and forth in rhythn-dc precision.
  Seconds later there was a reply from halfway up the highest hill in the
  north. Flashes of light shafted out of an infinitesimal spot in the
  brackish green distance. Spaulding turned to the others.
  'We're not going to Beta,' he said. 'Falangist patrols are in the area.
  We'll stay here until we're given clearance. You can relax.'

  The heavyset Basque put down the knapsack mirror. His companion still
  focused his binoculars on the field several miles below, where the American
  and his three charges were now seated on the ground.
  'He says they are being followed. We are to take up counterpositions and
  stay out of sight,' said the man with the metal

                                 79
 mirror. 'We go down for the scientists tomorrow night. He will signal us.'
 'What's he going to do?'
  'I don't know. He says to get word to Lisbon. He's going to stay in the
  hills.'
 'He's a cold one,' the Basque said.

                   DECEMBER 2,1943

                  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Alan Swanson sat in the back of the army car trying his best to remain
  calm. He looked out the window; the late morning traffic was slight. The
  immense Washington labor force was at its appointed destinations; machines
  were humming, telephones ringing, men were shouting and whispering and, in
  too many places, having the first drink of the day. The exhilaration that
  was apparent during the first hours of the working day faded as noon
  approached. By eleven thirty a great many people thought the war was dull
  and were bored by their mechanical chores, the unending duplicates,
  triplicates and quadruplicates. They could not understand the necessity of
  painstaking logistics, of disseminating information to innumerable chains
  of command.
  They could not understand because they could not be given whole pictures,
  only fragments, repetitious statistics. Of course they were bored.
  They were weary. As he had been weary fourteen hours ago in Pasadena,
  California.
 Everything had failed.
  Meridian Aircraft had initiated - was forced to initiate - a crash program,
  but the finest scientific minds in the country could not eliminate the
  errors inside the small box that was the guidance system. The tiny,
  whirling spheroid discs would not spin true at maximum altitudes. They were
  erratic; absolute one second, deviant the next.
  The most infinitesimal deviation could result in the midair collision of
  giant aircraft. And with the numbers projected for

 80
 the saturation bombing prior to Overlord - scheduled to commence in less
 than four months - collisions would occur.
 But this morning everything was different.
  Could be different, if there was substance to what he had been told. He
  hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, hardly been able to eat. Upon
  landing at Andrews, he had hurried to his Washington apartment, showered,
  shaved, changed uniforms and called his wife in Scarsdale, where she was
  staying with a sister. He didn't remember the conversation between them;
  the usual endearments were absent, the questions perfunctory. He had no
  time for her.
  The army car entered the Virginia highway and accelerated. They were going
  to Fairfax; they'd be there in twenty minutes or so. In less than a half
  hour he would find out if the impossible was, conversely, entirely
  possible. The news had come as a lastminute stay of execution; the cavalry
  in the distant hills - the sounds of muted bugles signaling reprieve.
  Muted, indeed, thought Swanson as the army car veered off the highway onto
  a back Virginia road. In Fairfax, covering some two hundred acres in the
  middle of the hunt country, was a fenced-off area housing Quonset huts
  beside huge radar screens and radio signal towers that sprang from the
  ground like giant steel malformities. It was the Field Division
  Headquarters of Clandestine Operations; next to the underground rooms at
  the White House, the most sensitive processing location of the Allied
  Intelligence services.
  Late yesterday afternoon, FDHQ-Fairfax had received confirmation of an
  Intelligence probe long since abandoned as negative. It came out of
  Johannesburg, South Africa. It had not been proved out, but there was
  sufficient evidence to believe that it could be.
  High-altitude directional gyroscopes had been perfected. Their designs
  could be had.

 81
                   DECEMBER 2,1943

                  BERLIN, GERMANY

  Altmillier sped out of Berlin on the Spandau highway toward Falkensee in
  the open Duesenberg. It was early in the morning and the air was cold and
  that was good.
  He was so exhilarated that he forgave the theatrically secretive ploys of
  the Nachrichtendienst, code name for a select unit of the espionage service
  known to only a few of the upper-echelon ministers, not to many of the High
  Command itself. A Gehlen specialty.
  For this reason it never held conferences within Berlin proper; always
  outside the city, always in some remote, secluded area or town and even
  then in private surroundings, away from. the potentially curious.
  The location this morning was Falkensee, twenty-odd miles northwest of
  Berlin. The meeting was to take place in a guest house on the estate
  belonging to Gregor Strasser.
  Altiniffler would have flown to Stalingrad itself if what he'd been led to
  believe was true.
  The Nachrichtendienst had found the solution for Peenom0ndel
 The solution was true; it was up to others to expedite it.
  The solution that had eluded teams of 'negotiators' sent to all parts of
  the world to explore - unearth - prewar 'relationships! Capetown, Dar es
  Salaam, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires....
 Failure.
  No company, no individual would touch German negotiations. Germany was in
  the beginning of a death struggle. It would go down to defeat.
  That was the opinion in Zdrich. And what Zilrich held to be true,
  international business did not debate.
 But the Nachrichtendienst had found another truth.
 So he was told.
  The Duesenberg's powerful engine hummed; the car reached high speed; the
  passing autumn foliage blurred.
  The stone gates of Strasser's estate came into view on the left, Webrinacht
  eagles in bronze above each post. He swung into the

 82
 long, winding drive and stopped at the gate guarded by two soldiers and
 snarling shepherd dogs. Altmfiller thrust his papers at the first guard, who
 obviously expected him.
  'Good morning, Herr Unterstaatssekretiir. Please follow the drive to the
  right beyond the main house.'
 'Have the others arrived?'
 'They are waiting, sir.'
  Altmrdler maneuvered the car past the main house, reached the sloping drive
  and slowed down. Beyond the wooded bend was the guest cottage; it looked
  more like a hunting lodge than a residence. Heavy dark-brown beams
  everywhere; a part of the forest.
  In the graveled area were four limousines. He parked and got out, pulling
  his tunic down, checking his lapels for lint. He stood erect and started
  toward the path to the door.
  No names were ever used during a Nachrichtendienst conference; if
  identities were known - and certainly they had to be -they were never
  referred to in a meeting. One simply addressed his peer by looking at him,
  the group by gesture.
  There was no long conference table as AltmUller had expected; no formal
  seating arrangement by some hidden protocol. Instead, a half dozen
  informally dressed men in their fifties and sixties were standing around
  the small room with the high Bavarian ceiling, chatting calmly, drinking
  coffee. AltmWIer was welcomed as 'Herr Unterstaatssekretdr' and told that
  the morning's conference would be short. It would begin with the arrival of
  the final expected member.
  Altmaller accepted a cup of coffee and tried to fall into the casual
  atmosphere. He was unable to do so; he wanted to roar his disapproval and
  demand immediate and serious talk. Couldn't they understand?
  But this was the Nachrichtendienst. One didn't yell; one didn't demand.
  Finally, after what seemed an eternity to his churning stomach, Altmaller
  heard an automobile outside the lodge. A few moments later the door opened;
  he nearly dropped his cup of coffee. The man who entered was known to him
  from the few times he had accompanied Speer to Berchtesgaden. He was the
  F"rees valet, but he had no subservient look of a valet now.
  Without announcement, the men fell silent. Several sat in armchairs, others
  leaned against walls or stayed by the coffee

                                 &3
 table. An elderly man in a heavy tweed jacket stood in front of the
 fireplace and spoke. He looked at Franz, who remained by himself behind a
 leather couch.
  'There is no reason for lengthy discussions. We believe we have the
  information you seek. I say "believe," for we gather information, we do not
  act upon it. The ministry may not care to act.'
 'That would seem inconceivable to me,' said Altrafiller.
  'Very well. Several questions then. So there is no conflict, no
  misrepresentation.' The old man paused and lit a thick meerschaum pipe.
  'You have exhausted all normal Intelligence channels? Through Zihich and
  LisbonT
  'We have. And in numerous other locations - occupied, enemy and neutral.'
  'I was referring to the acknowledged conduits, Swiss, Scandinavian and
  Portuguese, primarily!
  'We made no concentrated efforts in the Scandinavian countries. Herr Zangen
  did not think . . .'
  'No names, please. Except in the area of Intelligence confrontation or
  public knowledge. Use governmental descriptions, if you like. Not
  individuals.'
  'The Reichsamt of Industry - which has continuous dealings in the Baltic
  areas -was convinced there was nothing to be gained there. I assume the
  reasons were geographical. There are no diamonds in the Baltic!
  'Or they've been burnt too often,' said a nondescript middleaged man below
  AltmOller on the leather sofa. 'If you want London and Washington to know
  what you're doing before you do it, deal with the Scandinavians.'
  'An accurate analysis,' concurred another member of the Nachrichtendienst,
  this one standing by the coffee table, cup in hand. 'I returned from
  Stockholm last week. We can't trust even those who publicly endorse us.'
  'Those least of all,' said the old man in front of the fireplace, smiling
  and returning his eyes to Franz. 'We gather you've made substantial offers?
  In Swiss currency, of course.'
  'Substantial is a modest term for the figures we've spoken of,' replied
  Altmfiller. 'I'll be frank. No one will touch us. Those who could,
  subscribe to Zfirich's judgment that we shall be defeated. They fear
  retribution; they even speak of postwar bank deposit reclamations.'

 84
  'If such whispers reach the High Command there'll be a panic.' The
  statement was made humorously by the Fiffirees valet, sitting in an
  armchair. The spokesman by the fireplace continued.
  'So you must eliminate money as an incentive ... even extraordinary sums of
  money.'
  'The negotiating teams were not successful. You know that.' Altmifller had
  to suppress his irritation. Why didn't they get to the point?
  'And there are no ideologically motivated defectors on the horizon.
  Certainly none who have access to industrial diarnonds.'
 'Obviously, mein Herr.'
 'So you must look for another motive. Another incentive.'
 'I fail to see the point of this. I was told . . .'
  'You will,' interrupted the old man, tapping his pipe on the mantel. 'You
  see, we've uncovered a panic as great as yours.
 . . The enemy's panic. We've found the most logical motive for ~l concerned.
 Each side possesses the other's solution!
  Franz Altmilller was suddenly afraid. He could not be sure he fully
  understood the spokesman's implications. 'What are you saying?'
  'Peenemilnde has perfected a high-altitude, directional guidance system, is
  this correct?'
 'Certainly. Indigenous to the basic operation of the rockets.'
  'But there'll be no rockets - or at best, a pitiful few - without shipments
  of industrial diamonds.'
 'Obviously.'
  'There are business interests in the United States who face insurmountable
  . . .,' the old man paused for precisely one second and continued,
  6insurtnountable problems that can only be resolved by the acquisition of
  functional high-altitude gyroscopes.'
 'Are you suggesting . .
  'The Nachrichtendienst does not suggest, Herr Unterstaatssekret4r. We say
  what is.' The spokesman removed the meerschaum from his lips. 'When the
  occasion warrants, we transmit concrete information to diverse recipients.
  Again, only what is. We did so in Johannesburg. When the man I. G. Farben
  sent in to purchase diamonds from the Koeni.ng mines met with failure, we
  stepped in and confirmed a long-standing Intelligence probe we knew would
  be carried back to Washington. Our agents in

                                 85
 California had apprised us of the crisis in the aircraft industry. We
 believe the timing was propitious.'
 'I'm not sure I understand .....
  'Unless we're mistaken, an attempt will be made to reestablish contact with
  one of the Farben men. We assume contingencies were made for such
  possibilities.'
 'Of course. Geneva. The acknowledged conduits.'
  'Then our business with you is concluded, sir. May we wish you a pleasant
  drive back to Berlin.'

                   DECEMBER 2,1943

                  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

  The interior of the Quonset belied its stark outside. To begin with, it was
  five times larger than the usual Quonset structure, and its metal casing
  was insulated with a sound-absorbing material that swept seamless down from
  the high ceiling. The appearance was not so much that of an airplane hangar
  - as it should have been - as of a huge, windowless shell with substantial
  walls. All around the immense room were banks of complicated high-frequency
  radio panels; opposite each panel were glassenclosed casings with dozens of
  detailed maps, changeable by the push of a button. Suspended above the maps
  were delicate, thin steel arms - markers, not unlike polygraph needles -
  that were manipulated by the radio operators, observed by men holding
  clipboards. The entire staff was military, army, none below the rank of
  first lieutenant.
  Three-quarters into the building was a floor-to-ceiling wall that obviously
  was not the end of the structure. There was a single door, centered and
  closed. The door was made of heavy steel.
  Swanson had never been inside this particular building. He had driven down
  to Field Division, Fairfax, many times - to get briefed on highly
  classified Intelligence findings, to observe the training of particular
  insurgence or espionage teams - but for all his brigadier's rank and
  regardless of the secrets he carried around in his head, he had not been
  cleared for this particular

 86
 building. Those who were, remained within the two-hundredacre compound for
 weeks, months at a time; leaves were rare and taken only in emergency and
 with escort.
  It was fascinating, thought Swanson, who honestly believed he had lost all
  sense of awe. No elevators, no back staircases, no windows; he could see a
  washroom door in the left wall and without going inside, knew it was
  machine ventilated. And there was only a single entrance. Once inside there
  was no place for a person to conceal himself for any length of time, or to
  exit without being checked out and scrutinized. Personal items were left at
  the entrance; no briefcases, envelopes, papers or materials were removed
  from the building without signed authorization by Colonel Edmund Pace and
  with the colonel personally at the side of the individual in question.
 If there was ever total security, it was here.
  Swanson approached the steel door; his lieutenant escort pushed a button.
  A small red light flashed above a wan intercom, and the lieutenant spoke.
 'General Swanson, colonel.'
  'Thank you, lieutenant,' were the words that came from the webbed circle
  below the light. There was a click in the door's lock and the lieutenant
  reached for the knob.
  Inside, Pace's office looked like any other Intelligence headquarters -
  huge maps on the walls, sharp lighting on the maps, lights and maps
  changeable by pushbuttons on the desk. Teletype machines were equidistant
  from one another below printed signs designating theaters of operation -
  all the usual furnishings. Except the furniture itself. It was simple to
  the point of primitiveness. No easy chairs, no sofas, nothing comfortable.
  Just plain metal straight-backed chairs, a desk that was more a table than
  a desk, and a rugless hardwood floor. It was a room for concentrated
  activity; a man did not relax in such a room.
  Edmund Pace, Commander of Field Division, Fairfax, got up from his chair,
  came around his table and saluted Alan Swanson.
  There was one other man in the room, a civilian, Frederic Vandamm,
  Undersecretary of State.
  'General. Good to see you again. The last time was at Mr. Vandamm's house,
  if I remember.'
 'Yes, it was. How are things here?'
 'A little isolated.'
 'I'm sure.' Swanson turned to Vandamm. 'Mr. Undersecre-
                                 87
 tary? I got back here as soon as I could. I don't have to tell you how
 anxious I am. It's been a difficult month.'
  'I'm aware of that,' said the aristocratic Vandamm, smiling a cautious
  smile, shaking Swanson's hand perfunctorily. 'We'll get right to it.
  Colonel Pace, will you brief the general as we discussedT
  'Yes, sir. And then I'll leave.' Pace spoke noncommittally; it was the
  military's way of telegraphing a message to a fellow officcr: be carefuL
  Pace crossed to a wall map, present with markings. It was an enlarged,
  detailed section of Johannesburg, South Africa. Frederic Vandamm sat in a
  chair in front of the desk; Swanson followed Pace and stood beside him.
  'You never know when a probe will get picked up. Or where.' Pace took a
  wooden pointer from a table and indicated a blue marker on the map. 'Or
  even if the location is important. In this case it may be. A-week ago a
  member of the Johannesburg legislature, an attorney and a former director
  of Koening Mines, Ltd., was contacted by what he believed were two men from
  the Zdrich Staats-Bank. They wanted him to middle-man a negotiation with
  Koening: simple transaction of Swiss francs for diamonds - on a large
  scale, with the anticipation that the diamond standard would remain more
  constant than the gold fluctuations.' Pace turned to Swanson. 'So far, so
  good. With lendlease, and monetary systems going up in smoke everywhere,
  there's a lot of speculation in the diamond market. Postwar killings could
  be made. When he accepted the contact, you can imagine his shock when he
  arrived for the meeting and found that one of the "Swiss" was an old friend
  - a very old and good friend - from the prewar days. A German he'd gone to
  school with - the Afrikaner's mother was Austrian, father, a Boer. The two
  men had kept in close touch until thirty-nine. The German worked for 1. G.
  Farben.'
 'What was the point of the meeting?' Swanson was impatient.
 'I'll get to that. This background's important.'
 'O.K. Go on.'
  'There was no diamond market speculation involved, no transaction with any
  Zdrich bank. It was a simple purchase. The Farben man wanted to buy large
  shipments of bortz and carbonado....'
 'Industrial diamonds?' interrupted Swanson.

 88
  Pace nodded. 'He offered a fortune to his old friend if he could puff it
  off. The Afrikaner refused; but his long-standing friendship with the
  German kept him from reporting the incident. Until three days ago.' Pace
  put down the pointer and started for his desk. Swanson understood that the
  colonel had additional information, written information, that he had to
  refer to; the general crossed to the chair beside Vandamm and sat down.
  'Three days ago,' continued Pace, standing behind the desk, 'the Afrikaner
  was contacted again. This time there was no attempt to conceal identities.
  The caller said he was German and had information the Allies wanted; had
  wanted for a long time.'
  'The probe?' asked Swanson, whose impatience was carried by his tone of
  voice.
  'Not exactly the probe we expected.... The German said he would come to the
  Afrikaner's office, but he protected himself. He told the lawyer that if
  any attempt was made to hold him, his old friend at L G. Farben would be
  executed back in Germany.' Pace picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.
  He spoke as he leaned across and handed it to Swanson. 'This is the
  information, the report flown in by courier.'
  Swanson read the typewritten words below the Military Intelligence
  letterhead; above the large, stamped Top Secret. Eyes Only. Fairfax 4-0.

  Nov. 28, 1943. Johannesburg: Confirmed by Nachrichtendienst.
  Substratospheric directional gyroscopes perfected.
 All tests positive. Peenernfinde. Subsequent contact: Geneva.
 Johannesburg contingent.

  Swanson let the information sink in; he read the statement over several
  times. He asked a question of Edmund Pace with a single word: 'Geneva?'
 'The conduit. Neutral channel. Unofficial, of course.'
 'What is this ... NachrichtendienstT
  'Intelligence unit. Small, specialized; so rarefied it's above even the
  most classified crowds. Sometimes we wonder if it takes sides. It often
  appears more interested in observing than participating;'more concerned
  with after the war than now. We suspect that it's a Gehlen operation. But
  it's never been wrong. Never misleading.'
 'I see.' Swanson held out the paper for Pace.

                                 89
  The colonel did not take it. Instead, he walked around the desk toward the
  steel door. 'I'll leave you gentlemen. When you're finished, please signify
  by pushing the white button on my desk.' He opened the door and left
  quickly. The heavy steel frame closed into an airtight position; a
  subsequent click could be heard in the lock housing.
  Frederic Vandamm looked at Swanson. 'There is your solution, general. Your
  gyroscope. In Peenemilnde. All you have to do is send a man to Geneva.
  Someone wants to sell it.'
 Alan Swanson stared at the paper in his hand.

 90
                   DECEMBER 4,1943

                  BERLIN, GERMAXY

 Altratiller stared at the paper in his hand. It was after midnight, the city
 in darkness. Berlin had withstood another night of murderous bombardment; it
 was over now. There would be no further raids until late morning, that was
 the usual pattern. Still, the black curtains were pulled tight against the
 windows. As they were everywhere in the ministry.
  Speed was everything now. Yet in the swiftness of the planning, mandatory
  precautions could not be overlooked. The meeting in Geneva with the conduit
  was only the first step, the prelude, but it had to be handled delicately.
  Not so much what was said but who said it. The what could be transmitted by
  anyone with the proper credentials or acknowledged authority. But in the
  event of Germany's collapse, that someone could not represent the Third
  Reich. Speer had been adamant.
  And AltmUller understood: if the war was lost, the label of traitor could
  not be traced to the Reichsministry. Or to those leaders Germany would need
  in defeat. In 1918 after Versailles, there had been mass internal
  recriminations. Polarization ran deep" unchecked, and the nation's paranoia
  over betrayal from within laid the groundwork for the fanaticism of the
  twenties. Germany had not been able to accept defeat, could not tolerate
  the destruction of its identity by traitors.
 Excuses, of course.
 But the prospects of repetition, no matter how remote, were

                                 91
 to be avoided at all costs. Speer was himself fanatic on the sub. ject. The
 Geneva representative was to be a figure isolated from the High Command.
 Someone from the ranks of German industry, in no way associated with the
 rulers of the Third Reich. Someone expendable.
  AltmOller tried to point out the inconsistency of Speer's manipulation:
  high-altitude gyroscopic designs would hardly be given to an expendable
  mediocrity from German business. Peenerritinde was buried - literally
  buried in the earth; its military security measures absolute.
  But Speer would not listen, and Altmfiller suddenly grasped the
  Reichs~rtinister's logic. He was shifting the problem precisely where it
  belonged: to those whose lies and concealments had brought Peenernfinde to
  the brink of disaster. And as with so much in the wartime Reich - the labor
  forces, the death camps, the massacres - Albert Speer conveniently looked
  away. He wanted positive results, but he would not dirty his tunic.
  In this particular case, mused AltmWler, Speer was right. If there were to
  be risks of great disgrace, let German industry take them. Let the German
  businessman assume complete responsibility.
  Geneva was vital only in the sense that it served as an introduction.
  Cautious words would be spoken that could - or could not
 lead to the second stage of the incredible negotiation.
  Stage two was geographical: the location of the exchange, should it
  actually take place.
  For the past week, day and night, Altmaller had done little else but
  concentrate on this. He approached the problem from the enemy's viewpoint
  as well as his own. His worktable. was covered with maps, his desk filled
  with scores of reports detailing the current political climates of every
  neutral territory on earth.
  For the location had to be neutral; there had to be sufficient' safeguards
  each side could investigate and respect. And perhaps most important of all,
  it had to be thousands of miles away ... from either enemy's corridors of
  power.
 Distance.
 Remote.
 Yet possessing means of instant communication.
 South America.
 Buenos Aires.
 An inspired choice, thought Franz AltmillIer. The Americans

 92
 might actually consider it advantageous to them. It was unlikely that they
 would reject it. Buenos Aires had much each enemy considered its own; both
 had enormous influence, yet neither controlled with any real authority.
  The third stage, as he conceived of it, was concerned with the human
  factor, defined by the word Schiedsrichter.
 Referee.
  A man who was capable of overseeing the exchange, powerful enough within
  the neutral territory to engineer the logistics. Someone who had the
  appearance of impartiality ... above an, acceptable to the Americans.
 Buenos Aires had such a man.
 One of Hider's gargantuan errors.
  His name was Erich Rhinemann. A Jew, forced into exile, disgraced by
  Goebbels's insane propaganda machine, his lands and companies expropriated
  by the Reich.
  Those lands and companies he had not converted before the misplaced
  thunderbolts struck. A minor percentage of his holdings, sufficient for the
  manic screams of the anti-Semitic press, but hardly a dent in his immense
  wealth.
  Erich Rhinemann lived in exiled splendor in Buenos Aims, his fortunes
  secure in Swiss banks, his interests expanding throughout South America.
  And what few people knew was that Erich Rhinemann was a more dedicated
  fascist than Hitler's core. He was a supremacist in all things financial
  and military, an elitist with regard to the human condition. He was an
  empire builder who remained strangely - stoically - silent.
 He had reason to be.
  He would be returned to Germany regardless of the outcome of the war. He
  knew it.
  If the Third Reich was victorious, Hitler's asinine edict would be revoked
  - as, indeed, might be the Fiffirer's powers should he continue to
  disintegrate. If Germany went down to defeat - as Mich projected -
  Rhinemann's expertise and Swiss accounts would be needed to rebuild the
  nation.
  But these things were in the future. It was the present that mattered, and
  presently Erich Rhinemann was a Jew, forced into exile by his own
  countrymen, Washington's enemy.
 He would be acceptable to the Americans.
 And he would look after the Reich's interests in Buenos Aires.
 Stages two and three, then, felt Altmfiller, had the ring of

                                 93
 clarity. But they were meaningless without an accord in Geneva. The prelude
 had to be successfully played by the minor instruments.
  What was needed was a man for Geneva. An individual no one could link to
  the leaders of the Reich, but still one who had a certain recognition in
  the market place.
  AltmUller continued to stare at the pages under the desk lamp. His eyes
  were weary, as he was weary, but he knew he could not leave his office or
  sleep until he had made the decision.
  His decision; it was his alone. To be approved by Speer in the morning with
  only a glance. A name. Not discussed; someone instantly acceptable.
  He would never know whether it was the letters in Johannesburg or the
  subconscious process of elimination, but his eyes riveted on one name, and
  he circled it. He recognized immediately that it was, again, an inspired
  choice.
  Johann Dietricht, the bilious heir of Dietricht Fabriken; the unattractive
  homosexual given to alcoholic excess and sudden panic. A completely
  expendable member of the industrial community; even the most cynical would
  be reluctant to consider him a liaison to the High Command.
 An ex pendable mediocrity.
 A messenger.

                  DECEMBER 5,1943

                  WASHINGTON, D.C.

 The bass-toned chimes of the clock on the mantel marked the hour somberly.
 It was six in the morning and Alan Swanson stared out the window at the dark
 buildings that were Washington. His apartment was on the twelfth floor,
 affording a pretty fair view of the capital's skyline, especially from the
 living room, where he now stood in his bathrobe, no slippers on his feet.
  He had been looking at Washington's skyline most of the night ... most of
  the hours of the night for the past three days. God knew what sleep he
  managed was fitful, subject to sudden

 94
 torments and awakenings; and always them was the damp pillow that absorbed
 the constant perspiration that seeped from the pores in the back of his
 neck.
  If his wife were with him, she would insist that he turn himself in to
  Walter Reed for a checkup. She would force the issue with constant
  repetition until he was nagged into submission. But she was not with him;
  he had been adamant. She was to remain with her sister in Scarsdale. The
  natum of his current activities was such that his hours were indeterminate.
  Translation: the army man had no time for his army wife. The army wife
  understood: there was a severe crisis and her husband could not cope with
  even her minor demands and the crisis, too. He did not like her to observe
  him in these situations; he knew she knew that. She would stay in
  Scarsdale.
 Oh, Christ! It was beyond belief!
  None said the words; perhaps no one allowed himself to think them.
  That was it, of course. The few - and there were very few -who had access
  to the data turned their eyes and their minds away from the ultimate
  judgment. They cut off the transaction at midpoint, refusing to acknowledge
  the final half of the bargain. That half was for others to contend with.
  Not them.
 As the wily old aristocrat Frederic Vandamm had done.
  There's your solution, general. Your guidance system. In Peenemande....
  Someone wants to sell it.
 That's all.
 Buy it.
  None wanted to know the price. The price was insignificant ... let others
  concern themselves with details. Under no circumstances - no circumstances
  - were insignificant details to be brought up for discussion! They were
  merely to be expedited.
  Translation: the chain of command depended upon the execution of general
  orders. It did not - repeat, not - require undue elaboration, clarification
  or justification. Specifics were an anathema; they consumed time. And by
  all that was military holy writ, the highest echelons had no time. Goddamn
  it, man, there was a war on! We must tend to the great military issues of
  state I
  The garbage will be sorted out by lesser men ... whose hands may on
  occasion reek with the stench of their lesser duties, but that's what the
  chain of command is all about.
 Buy it I

                                 95
  We have no time. Our eyes are turned. Our minds are occupied elsewhere.
  Carry out the order on your own initiative as a good soldier should who
  understands the chain of command. No one will be inquisitive; it is the
  result that matters. We all know that; the chain of command, old boy.
 Insanity.
  By the strangest coincidence an Intelligence probe is returned by a man in
  Johannesburg through which the purchase of industrial diamonds was sought.
  A purchase for which a fortune in Swiss currency was tendered by Germany's
  1. G. Farben, the armaments giant of the Third Reich.
  PeenemUnde had the guidance system; it could be had. For a price.
 It did not take a major intellect to arrivd at that price.
 Industrial diamonds.
 Insanity.
  For reasons beyond inquiry, Germany desperately needed the diamonds. For
  reasons all too clear, the Allies desperately needed the high-altitude
  guidance system.
  An exchange between enemies at the height of the bitterest war in the
  history of mankind.
 Insanity. Beyond comprehension.
  And so General Alan Swanson removed it from his immediate ... totality.
  The single deep chime of the clock intruded, signifying the quarter hour.
  Here and there throughout the maze of dark concrete outside, lights were
  being turned on in a scattering of tiny windows. A greyish purple slowly
  began to impose itself on the black sky; vague outlines of cloud wisps
  could be discerned above.
 In the higher altitudes.
  Swanson walked away from the window to the couch facing the fireplace and
  sat down. It had been twelve hours ago . . . eleven hours and forty-five
  minutes, to be precise ... when he had taken the first step of removal.
  He had placed ... delegated the insanity where it belonged. To the men who
  had created the crisis; whose lies and manipulations had brought Overlord
  to the precipice of obscenity.
  He had ordered Howard Oliver and Jonathan Craft to be in his apartment at
  six o'clock. Twelve hours and fifteen minutes

 96
 ago. He had telephoned them on the previous day, making it clear that he
 would tolerate no excuses. If transportation were a problem, he would
 resolve it, but they were to be in Washington, in his apartment, by six
 o'clock.
 Exposure was a viable alternative.
  They had arrived at precisely six, as the somber chimes of the mantel clock
  were ringing.- At that moment Swanson knew he was dealing from absolute
  strength. Men like Oliver and Craft -especially Oliver -did not adhere to
  such punctuality unless they were afraid. It certainly was not courtesy. ,
 The transference had been made with utter simplicity.
  There was a telephone number in Geneva, Switzerland. There was a man at
  that number who would respond to a given code phrase and bring together two
  disparate parties, act as an interpreter, if necessary. It was understood
  that the second party - for purposes of definition - had access to a
  perfected high-altitude guidance system. The first party, in turn, should
  have knowledge of ... perhaps access to ... shipments of industrial
  diamonds. The Koening mines of Johannesburg might be a place to start.
 That was all the information they had.
  It was recommended that Mr. Oliver and Mr. Craft act on this information
  immediately.
  If they failed to do so, extremely serious charges involving individual and
  corporate deceit relative to armaments contracts would be levelled by the
  War Department.
  There had been a long period of silence. The implications of his statement
  - with all its ramifications - were accepted gradually by both men.
  Alan Swanson then added the subtle confirmation of their worst projections:
  whoever was chosen to go to Geneva, it could not be anyone known to him. Or
  to any War Department liaison with any of their companies. That was
  paramount.
  The Geneva meeting was exploratory. Whoever went to Switzerland should be
  knowledgeable and, if possible, capable of spotting deception. Obviously a
  man who practiced deception.
  That shouldn't be difficult for them; not in the circles they traveled.
  Surely they knew such a man.
 They did. An accountant named Walter Kendall.
  Swanson looked up at the clock on the mantel. It was twenty minutes past
  six.
 Why did the time go so slowly? On the other hand, why didn't

                                 97
 it stop? Why didn't everything stop but the sunlight? Why did there have to
 be the nights to go through?
  In another hour he would go to his office and quietly make arrangements for
  one Walter Kendall to be flown on neutral routes to Geneva, Switzerland. He
  would bury the orders in a blue pouch along with scores of other transport
  directives and clearances. There would be no signature on the orders, only
  the official stamp of Field Division, Fairfax; standard procedure with
  conduits.
  Oh, Christ! thought Swanson. If there could be control ... without
  participation.
  But he knew that was not possible. Sooner or later he would have to face
  the reality of what he had done.

 98
                 8

                DECEMBER 6,1943
                       '41
                       14,

            BASQUE COUNTRY, SPAIN

 He had been in the north country for eight days. He had not expected it to
 be this long, but Spaulding knew it was necessary : * . an unexpected
 dividend. What had begun as a routine escape involving two defecting
 scientists from the Ruhr Valley had turned into something else.
  The scientists were throwaway bait. Gestapo bait. The runner who had made
  their escape possible out of the Ruhr was not a member of the German
  underground. He was Gestapo.
  It had taken Spaulding three days to be absolutely sure. The Gestapo man
  was one of the best he had ever encountered, but his mistakes fell into a
  pattern: he was not an experienced runner. When David was sure, he knew
  exactly what had to be done.
  For five days he led his 'underground' companion through the hills and
  mountain passes to the east as far as Sierra de Guara, nearly a hundred
  miles from the clandestine escape routes. He entered remote villages and
  held 'conferences' with men he knew were Falangists - but who did not know
  him - and then told the Gestapo man they were partisans. He traveled over
  primitive roads and down the Guayardo River and explained that these routes
  were the avenues of escape.... Contrary to what the Germans believed, the
  routes were to the east, into the Mediterranean, not the Atlantic. This
  confusion was the prime reason for the success of the Pyrenees network. On
  two occasions he sent the Nazi into towns for supplies - both times he
  followed

                                 99
 and observed the Gestapo man entering buildings that had thick telephone
 wires sagging into the roofs.
  The information was being transmitted back to Germany. That was reason
  enough for the investment of five additional days. The German interceptors
  would be tied up for months concentrating on the eastern 'routes'; the
  network to the west would be relatively unencumbered.
  But now the game was coming to an end. It was just as well, thought David;
  he had work to do in Ortegal, on the Biscay coast.
  The small campfire was reduced to embers, the night air cold. Spaulding
  looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He had ordered the 'runner'
  to stay on guard quite far from the camp. site ... out of the glow of the
  fire. In darkness. He had given the Gestapo man enough time and isolation
  to make his move, but the German had not made his move; he had remained at
  his post.
  So be it, thought David. Perhaps the man wasn't as expert as he thought he
  was. Or perhaps the information his own men in the hills had given him was
  not accurate. There was no squad of German soldiers - suspected Alpine
  troops - heading down from the mountain borders to take out the Gestapo
  agent.
 And him.
  He approached the rock on which the German sat. 'Get some rest. I'll take
  over.'
  'Danke,' said the man, getting to his feet. 'First, nature calls; I
  mustrelieve my bowels. I'll take a spade into the field.'
 'Use the woods. Animals graze here. The winds carry.'
 'Of course. You're thorough.'
 'I try to be,' said David.
  The German crossed back toward the fire, to his pack. He removed a camp
  shovel and started for the woods bordering the field. Spaulding watched
  him, now aware that his first impression was the correct one. The Gestapo
  agent was expert. The Nazi had not forgotten that six days ago the two Ruhr
  scientists had disappeared during the night - at a moment of the night when
  he had dozed. David had seen the fury in the German's eyes and knew the
  Nazi was now remembering the incident.
  If Spaulding assessed the current situation accurately, the Gestapo man
  would wait at least an hour into his watch, to be sure he, David, was not
  making contact with unseen partisans in the darkness. Only then would the
  German give the signal that

 100
 would bring the Alpine troops out of the forest. With rifles leveled.
  But the Gestapo man had made a mistake. He had accepted too readily -
  without comment - Spaulding's statement about the field and the wind and
  the suggestion that he relieve himself in the woods.
  They had reached the field during late daylight; it was barren, the grass
  was sour, the slope rocky. Nothing would graze here, not even goats.
 And there was no wind at all. The night air was cold, but dead.
  An experienced runner would have objected, no doubt humorously, and say
  he'd be damned if he'd take a crap in the pitch-black woods. But the
  Gestapo agent could not resist the gratuitous opportunity to make his own
  contact.
  If there was such a contact to be made, thought Spaulding. He would know in
  a few minutes.
  David waited thirty seconds after the man had disappeared into the forest.
  Then he swiftly, silently threw himself to the ground and began rolling his
  body over and over again, away from the rock, at a sharp angle from the
  point where the runner had entered the forest.
  When he had progressed thirty-five to forty feet into the grass, he stood
  up, crouching, and raced to the border of the woods, judging himself to be
  about sixty yards away from the German.
  He entered the dense foliage and noiselessly closed the distance between
  them., He could not see the man but he knew he would soon find him.
  Then he saw it. The German's signal. A match was struck, cupped, and
  extinguished swiftly.
  Another. This one allowed to bum for several seconds, then snuffed out with
  a short spit of breath.
  From deep in the woods came two separate, brief replies. Two matches
  struck. In opposite directions.
  David estimated the distance to be, perhaps, a hundred feet. The German,
  unfamiliar with the Basque forest, stayed close to the edge of the field.
  The men he had signaled were approaching. Spaulding - making no sound that
  disturbed the hum of the woods - crawled closer.
  He heard the voices whispering. Only isolated words were distinguishable.
  But they were enough.
 He made his way rapidly back through the overgrowth to his

                                 101
 original point of entry. He raced to his sentry post, the rock. He removed
 a small flashlight from his field jacket, clamped separated fingers over the
 glass and aimed it southwest. He pressed the switch five times in rapid
 succession. He then replaced the instrument in his pocket and waited.
 It wouldn't be long now.
 It wasn't.
  The German came out of the woods carrying the shovel, smoking a cigarette.
  The night was black, the moon breaking only intermittently through the
  thick cover of clouds; the darkness was nearly total. David got up from the
  rock and signaled the German with a short whistle. He approached him.
 'What is it, LisbonT
 Spaulding spoke quietly. Two words.
 'Heil Hitler.'
  And plunged his short bayonet into the Nazi's stomach, ripping it downward,
  killing the man instantly.
  The body fell to the ground, the face contorted; the only sound was a
  swallow of air, the start of a scream, blocked by rigid fingers thrust into
  the dead man's mouth, yanked downward, as the knife had been, shorting out
  the passage of breath.
  David raced across the grass to the edge of the woods, to the left of his
  previous entry. Nearer, but not much, to the point where the Nazi had
  spoken in whispers to his two confederates. He dove into a cluster of
  winter fem as the moon suddenly broke through the clouds. He remained
  immobile for several seconds, listening for sounds of alarm.
  There were none. The moon was hidden again, the darkness returned. The
  corpse in the field had not been spotted in the brief illumination. And
  that fact revealed to David a very important bit of knowledge.
  Whatever Alpine troops were in the woods, they were not on the edge of the
  woods. Or if they were, they were not concentrating on the field.
 They were waiting. Concentrating in other directions.
 Or just waiting.
  He rose to his knees and scrambled rapidly west through the dense
  underbrush, flexing his body and limbs to every bend in the foliage, making
  sounds compatible to the forest's tones. He reached the point where the
  three men had conferred but minutes ago, feeling no presence, seeing
  nothing.

 102
  He took out a box of waterproof matches from his pocket and removed two. He
  struck the first one, and the instant it flared, he blew it out. He then
  struck the second match and allowed it to bum for a moment or two before he
  extinguished it.
  About forty feet into the woods there was a responding flash of a match.
  Directly north.
  Almost simultaneously came a second response. This one to the west, perhaps
  fifty or sixty feet away.
 No more.
 But enough.
  Spaulding quickly crawled into the forest at an angle. Northeast. He went
  no more than fifteen feet and crouched against the trunk of an ant-ridden
  ceiba tree.
  He waited. And while he waited, he removed a thin, short, flexible coil of
  wire from his field jacket pocket. At each end of the wire was a wooden
  handle, notched for the human hand.
  The German soldier made too much noise for an Alpiner, thought David. He
  was actually hurrying, anxious to accommodate the unexpected command for
  rendezvous. That told Spaulding something else: the Gestapo agent he had
  killed was a demanding man. That meant the remaining troops would stay in
  position, awaiting orders. There would be a minimum of individual
  initiative.
  There was no time to think of them now. The German soldier was passing the
  ceiba tree.
  David sprang up silently, the coil held high with both hands. The loop fell
  over the soldier's helmet, the reverse -pull so swift and brutally sudden
  that the wire sliced into the flesh of the neck with complete finality.
 There was no sound but the expunging of air again.
  David Spaulding had heard that sound so often it no longer mesmerized him.
  As it once had done.
 Silence.
  And then the unmistakable breaking of branches; footsteps crushing the
  ground cover of an unfamiliar path. Rushing, impatient, as the dead man at
  his feet had been impatient.
  Spaulding put the bloody coil of wire back into his pocket and removed the
  shortened carbine bayonet from the scabbard on his belt. He knew there was
  no reason to hurry; the third man would be waiting. Confused, frightened
  perhaps ... but probably not, if he was an Alpiner. The Alpine troops were
  rougher than the

                                 103
 Gestapo. The rumors were that the Alpiners were chosen primarily for streaks
 of sadism. Robots who could live in mountain passes and nurture their
 hostilities in freezing isolation until the order for attack were given.
  There was no question about it, thought David. There was a certain pleasure
  in killing Alpiners.
 The treadmill.
 He edged his way forward, his knife leveled.
  'Wer? ... Wer ist dort?'The figure in darkness whispered in agitation.
  'Hier, mein Soldat,'replied David. His carbine bayonet slashed into the
  German's chest.

  The partisans came down from the hills. There were five men, four Basque
  and one Catalonian. The leader was a Basque, heavyset and blunt.
  'You gave us a wild trip, Lisbon. There were times we thought you were
  loco. Mother of God! We've traveled a hundred mfles.'
  'The Germans will travel many times that, I assure you. What's north?'
  'A string of Alpiners. Perhaps twenty. Every six kilometers, right to the
  border. Shall we let them sit in their wastes?'
  'No,' said Spaulding thoughtfully. 'Kill them.... All but the last three;
  harass them back. They'll confirm what we want the Gestapo to believe.'
 'I don't understand.'
  'You don't have to.' David walked to the dying fire and kicked at the
  coals. He had to get to Ortegal. It was all he could think about.
  Suddenly he realized that the heavyset Basque had followed him. The man
  stood across the diminished campfire; he wanted to say something. He looked
  hard at David and spoke over the glow.
  'We thought you should know now. We learned how the pigs made the contact.
  Eight days ago.'
  'What are you talking abouff Spaulding was irritated. Chains of command in
  the north country were at best a calculated risk. He would get the written
  reports; he did not want conversation. He wanted to sleep, wake up, and get
  to Ortegal. But the Basque seemed hurt; there was no point in that. 'Go on,
  amigo.'
  'We did not tell you before. We thought your anger would cause you to act
  rashly.'

 104
 'How so? Why?'
 'It was Bergeron.'
 'I don't believe that. . .
  'It is so. They took him in San Sebastidn. He did not break easily, but
  they broke him. Ten days of torture ... wires in the genitals, among other
  devices, including hypodermics of the drug. We are told he died spitting at
  them.'
  David looked at the man. He found himself accepting the information without
  feeling. Without feeling. And that lack of feeling warned him ... to be on
  guard. He had trained the man named Bergeron, lived in the hills with him,
  talked for hours on end about things only isolation produces between men.
  Bergeron had fought with him, sacrificed for him. Bergeron was the closest
  friend he had in the north country.
  Two years ago such news would have sent him into furious anger. He would
  have pounded the earth and called for a strike somewhere across the
  borders, demanding that retribution be made.
  A year ago he would have walked away from the bearer of such news and
  demanded a few minutes to be by himself. A brief silence to consider ... by
  himself ... the whole of the man who had given his life, and the memories
  that man conjured up.
 Yet now he felt nothing.
 Nothing at all.
 And it was a terrible feeling to feel nothing at all.
  'Don't make that mistake again,' he said to the Basque. 'Tell me next time.
  I don't act rashly.'

 105
                  DECEMBER 13,1943

                  BERLIN, GERMANY

 Johann Dietricht shifted his immense soft bulk in the leather chair in front
 of Altmillier's desk. It was ten thirty at night and he had not had dinner;
 there had been no time. The Messerschmitt flight from Geneva had been
 cramped, petrifying; and all things considered, Dietricht was in a state of
 aggravated exhaustion. A fact he conveyed a number of times to the
 Unterstaatssekretiir.
  'We appreciate everything you've been through, Herr Dietricht. And the
  extraordinary service you've rendered to your country.' AltmUller spoke
  solicitously. 'Ibis will take only a few minutes longer, and then I'll have
  you driven anywhere you like.1
  'A decent restaurant, if you can find one open at this hour,' said
  Dietricht petulantly.
  'We apologize for rushing you away. Perhaps a pleasant evening; a really
  good meal. Schnapps, good company. Heaven knows you deserve it.... There's
  an inn several miles outside the city. Its patronage is restricted; mostly
  young flight lieutenants, graduates in training. The kitchen is really
  excellent.'
  There was no need for Johann Dietricht to return AltmUller's smiling look;
  he accepted certain things as indigenous to his life-style. He had been
  catered to for years. He was a very important man, and other men were
  invariably trying to please him. As Herr AltmiWer was trying to please him
  now.

 106
  'That might be most relaxing. It's been a dreadful day. Days, really.'
 'Of course, if you've some other. .
  'No, no. I'll accept your recommendation.... Let's get on with it, shall
  we?'
  'Very well. Going back over several points so there's no room for error....
  The American was not upset with regard to Buenos Aires?'
  'He jumped at it. Revolting man; couldn't look you in the eye, but he meant
  what he said. Simply revolting, though. His clothes, even his fingernails.
  Dirty fellow!'
 'Yes, of course. But you couldn't have misinterpreted?'
  'My English is fluent. I undeistand even the nuances. He was very pleased.
  I gathered that it served a dual purpose: far removed - thousands of miles
  away - and in a city nominally controlled by American interests.'
  'Yes, we anticipated that reaction. Did he have the authority to confirm
  it?'
  'Indeed, yes. There was no question. For all his uncouth manner, he's
  obviously highly placed, very decisive. Unquestionably devious, but most
  anxious to make the exchange.'
 'Did you discuss - even peripherally - either's motives?'
  'My word, it was unavoidable! This Kendall was most direct. It was a
  financial matter, pure and simple. There were no other considerations. And
  I believe him totally; he talks only figures. He reduces everything to
  numbers. I doubt he has capacities for anything else. I'm extremely
  perceptive.'
  'We counted on that. And Rhinemann? He, too, was acceptable?'
  'Immaterial. I pointed out the calculated risk we were taking in an effort
  to allay suspicions; that Rhinemann was in forced exile. This Kendall was
  impressed only by Rhinemann's wealth.'
  'And the time element; we must be thoroughly accurate. Let's go over the
  projected dates. It would be disastrous if I made any mistake. As I
  understand you, -the American had graduated estimates of carbonado and
  bortz shipping requirements. . . .'
  'Yes, yes,' broke in Dietricht, as if enlightening a child. 'After all, he
  had no idea of our needs. I settled on the maximum, of course; there was
  not that much difference in terms of time. They must divert shipments from
  points of origin; too great a risk in commandeering existing supplies.'

                                 107
 'I'm not sure I understand that. It could be a ploy.,
  'They're trapped in their own security measures. As of a month ago, every
  repository of industrial diamonds has excessive controls, dozens of
  signatures for every kiloweight. To extract our requirements would be
  massive, lead to exposure.'
  'The inconvenience of the democratic operation. The underlings are given
  responsibility. And once given, difficult to divest. Incredible.'
  'As this Kendall phrased it, there would be too many questions, far too
  many people would be involved. It would be very sensitive. Their security
  is filled with Turks.'
  'We have to accept the condition.' said Altmillier with resignation -his
  own, not for the benefit of Dietricht. 'And the anticipated time for these
  shipment diversions is four to six weeks. It can't be done in less?'
 'Certainly. If we are willing to process the ore ourselves.'
  'Impossible. We could end up with tons of worthless dirt. We must have the
  finished products, of course.'
 'Naturally. I made that clear.'
  'It strikes me as an unnecessary delay. I have to look for inconsistencies,
  Herr Dietricht. And you said this Kendall was devious.'
  'But anxious. I said he was anxious, too. He drew an analogy that lends
  weight to his statements. He said that their problem was no less than that
  of a man entering the national vaults in the state of Kentucky and walking
  out with crates of gold bullion. ... Are we concluded?'
  'Just about. The conduit in Geneva will be given the name of the man in
  Buenos Aires? The man with whom we make contact ?'
  'Yes. In three or four days. Kendall believed it might be a scientist named
  Spinelli. An expert in gyroscopics.'
 'That title could be questioned, I should think. He's Italian?'
 'A citizen, however.'
  'I see. That's to be expected. The designs will be subject to scrutiny, of
  course. What remains now are the checks and counterchecks each of us employ
  up to the moment of the exchange. A ritual dance.'
  'Ach! That's for your people. I'm out of it. I have made the initial and,
  I believe, the most important contribution!
 'There's no question about it. And, I assume, you have abided

 108
 by the Fiffirees trust in you, conveyed through this office. You have spoken
 to no one of the Geneva tripT
  'No one. The FUhrer's trust is not misplaced. He knows that. As my father
  and his brother, my uncle, the Dietricht loyalty and obedience are
  unswerving.'
 'He's mentioned that often. We are finished, mein Herr.'
  'Good! It's been absolutely nerve-wracking! . . . I'll accept your
  recommendation of the restaurant. If you'll make arrangements, I'll
  telephone for my car.'
  'As you wish, but I can easily have my personal driver take you there. As
  I said, it's somewhat restricted; my chauffeur is a young man who knows his
  way around.' Altmillier glanced at Dietricht. Their eyes met for the
  briefest instant. 'The Fikhrer would be upset if he thought I
  inconvenienced you.'
  'Oh, very well. I suppose it would be easier. And we don't want the
  Fiffirer upset.' Dietricht struggled out of the chair as Altmfiller rose
  and walked around the desk.
  'Thank you, Herr Dietricht,' said the Unterstaatssekretir, extending his
  hand. 'When the time comes we will make known your extraordinary
  contribution. You are a hero of the Reich, mein Herr. It is a privilege to
  know you. The adjutant outside will take you down to the car. The chauffeur
  is waiting.'
  'Such a relief! Good evening, Herr Altmfiller.' Johann Dietricht waddled
  toward the door as Franz reached over and pushed a button on his desk.
  In the morning Dietricht would be dead, the circumstances so embarrassing
  no one would care to elaborate on them except in whispers.
 Dietricht, the misfit, would be eliminated.
  And all traces of the Geneva manipulation to the leaders of the Reich
  canceled with him. Buenos Aires was now in the hands of Erich Rhinemann and
  his former brothers in German industry.
 Except for him - for Franz AltmUlIer.
 The true manipulator.

 109
                  DECEMBER 15,1943
                          11
                          114
                  WASHINGTON, D.C.

 Swanson disliked the methods he was forced to employ. They were the
 beginnings, he felt, of an unending string of deceits. And he was not a
 deceitful man. Perhaps better than most at spotting deceitful men, but that
 was due to continuous exposure, not intrinsic characteristics.
  The methods were distasteful: observing men who did not know they were
  being watched and listened to; who spoke without the inhibitions they
  certainly would have experienced had they any idea there were eyes and ears
  and wire recorders eavesdropping. It all belonged to that other world,
  Edmund Pace's world.
  It had been easy enough to manipulate. Army Intelligence had interrogation
  rooms all over Washington. In the most unlikely places. Pace had given him
  a list of locations; he'd chosen one at the Sheraton Hotel. Fourth floor,
  Suite 4-M; two rooms in evidence and a third room that was not. This unseen
  room was behind the wall with openings of unidirectional glass in the two
  rooms of the suite. These observation holes were fronted by impressionist
  paintings hung permanently in the bedroom and the sitting room. Wire
  recorders with plug-in jacks were on shelves beneath the openings within
  the unseen room. Speakers amplified the conversation with minor distortion.
  The only visual obstructions were the light pastel colors of the paintings.
 Not obstructions at all, really.
  Neither had it been difficult to maneuver the three men to this room at the
  Sheraton. Swanson had telephoned Packard's Jonathan Craft and informed him
  that Walter Kendall was due in on an early afternoon flight from Geneva.
  The authoritative general also told the frightened civilian that it was
  possible the military might want to be in telephone communication.
  Therefore he suggested that Craft reserve a room at a busy, commercial
  hotel in the center of town. He recommended the Sheraton.
  Craft was solicitous; he was running for his life. If the War Department
  suggested the Sheraton, then the Sheraton it would be. He had booked it
  without bothering to tell Meridian Aircraft's Howard Oliver.

 110
 The front desk took care of the rest.
  When Walter Kendall had arrived an hour ago, Swanson was struck by the
  accountant's disheveled appearance. It was innate untidiness, not the
  result of traveling. A slovenliness that extended to his gestures, to his
  constantly darting eyes. He was an outsized rodent in the body of a
  medium-sized man. It seemed incongruous that men like Oliver and Craft -
  especially Craft - would associate with a Walter Kendall. Which only
  pointed up Kendall's value, he supposed. Kendall owned a New York auditing
  firm. He was a financial analyst, hired by companies to manipulate
  projections and statistics.
  The accountant had not shaken hands with either man. He had gone straight
  to an easy chair opposite the sofa, sat down, and opened his briefcase. He
  had begun his report succinctly.
 'The son of a bitch was a homo, I swear to Christ!'
  As the hour wore on, Kendall described in minute detail everything that had
  taken place in Geneva. The quantities of bortz and carbonado agreed upon;
  the quality certifications; Buenos Aires; Gian Spinelli, thd gyroscopic
  designs - their certifications and delivery; and the liaison, Erich
  Rhinemann, exiled Jew. Kendall was an authoritative rodent who was not
  awkward in the tunnels of negotiated filth. He was, in fact, very much at
  home.
 'How can we be sure they'll bargain in good faith?'asked Craft.
  'Good faithT Kendall smirked and winced and grinned at the Packard
  executive. 'You're too goddamned much. Good faith V
  'They might not give us the proper designs,' continued Craft. 'They could
  pass off substitutes, worthless substitutesl'
 'He's got a point,' said the jowled Oliver, his lips taut.
  'And we could package crates of cut glass. You think that hasn't crossed
  their minds? ... But they won't and we won't. For the same shit-eating
  reason. Our respective necks are on chopping blocks. We've got a common
  enemy and it's not each other.'
  Oliver, sitting across from Kendall, stared at the accountant. 'Hitler's
  generals there; the War Department here.'
  'That's right. We're both lines of supply. For God, country and a dollar or
  two. And we're both in a lousy position. We don't tell the goddamned
  generals how to fight a war, and they don't tell us how to keel) up
  production. If they screw up strategy or lose a battle, no screams come
  from us. But if we're caught short, if we don't deliver, those fuckers go
  after our necks. It's god-
   damned unfair. This homo Dietricht, he sees it like I do. We have to protect
 ourselves.'
  Craft rose from the couch; it was a nervous action, a gesture of doubt. He
  spoke softly, hesitantly. 'This isn't exactly protecting ourselves in any
  normal fashion. We're dealing with the enerny.'
  'Which enemyT Kendall shuffled papers on his lap; he did not look up at
  Craft. 'But right, again. It's better than "normal." No matter who wins,
  we've each got a little something going when it's over. We agreed on that,
  too.'
  There was silence for several moments. Oliver leaned forward in his chair,
  his eyes still riveted on Kendall. 'That's a dividend, Walter. There could
  be a lot of common sense in that.'
  'A lot,' replied the accountant, allowing a short glance at Oliver. 'We're
  kicking the crap out of their cities, bombing factories right off the map;
  railroads, highways - they're going up in smoke. It'll get worse. There's
  going to be a lot of money made putting it all back together.
  Reconstruction money.'
 'Suppose Germany winsT asked Craft, by the window.
  'Goddamned unlikely,' answered Kendall. 'It's just a question of how much
  damage is done to both sides, and we've got the hardware. The more damage,
  the more it'll cost to repair. That includes England. If you boys are
  smart, you'll be prepared to convert and pick up some of the postwar
  change.'
  'The diamonds. . . .' Craft turned from the window. 'What are they forT
  .What difference does it makeT Kendall separated a page on his lap and
  wrote on it. 'They ran out; their asses are in a sling. Same as yours with
  the guidance system.... By the way, Howard, did you have a preliminary talk
  with the minesT
  Oliver was deep in thought. He blinked and raised his eyes. 'Yes. Koening.
  New York offices.'
 'How did you put itT
  'That it was top secret, War Department approval. The authorization would
  come from Swanson's office but even he wasn't cleared.'
 'They bought thatT The accountant was still writing.
  'I said the money would be up front. They stand to make a few million. We
  met at the Bankers' Club.'
 'They bought it.' A statement.
 'Walter                           continued Oliver, 'you said Spinelli
 before. 1

 112
 don't like it. He's a bad choice.'
  Kendall stopped writing and looked up at the Meridian man. 'I didn't figure
  to tell him anything. Just that we were buying; he was to clear everything
  before we paid, make sure the designs were authentic.'
  'No good. He wouldn't be taken off the project. Not now; too many
  questions. Find somebody else.'
  'I see what you mean.' Kendall put down the pencil. He picked his nose; it
  was a gesture of thought. 'Wait a minute.... There is someone. Right in
  Pasadena. He's a weird son of a bitch, but he could be perfect.' Kendall
  laughed while breathing through his mouth. 'He doesn't even talk; I mean he
  can't talk.'
 'Is he any goodT asked Oliver.
  'He's got problems but he may be better than Spinelli,' replied Kendall,
  writing on a separate piece of paper. 'I'll take care of it.... It'll cost
  you.'
  Oliver shrugged. 'Include it in the overruns, you prick. What's next?'
  'A contact in Buenos Aires. Someone who can deal with Rhinemann, work out
  the details of the transfer.'
  'Who?' asked Craft apprehensively, both hands clasped in front of him.
  The accountant grinned, baring his discolored teeth. 'You volunteering? You
  look like a priest.'
 'Good Lord, no! I was simply...'
 'How much, Kendall?' interrupted Oliver.
  'More than you want to pay but I don't think you've got a choice. I'll pass
  on what I can to Uncle Sam; I'll save you what I can.'
 'You do that.
  'There's a lot of military down in Buenos Aires. Swanson will have to run
  some interference.'
  'He won't touch it,' said Oliver quickly. 'He was specific. He doesn't want
  to hear or see your name again.'
  'I don't give a shit if he does. But this Rhinemann's going to want certain
  guarantees. I can tell you that right now.'
  'Swanson will be upset.' Craft's voice was high and intense. 'We don't want
  him upset.'
  'Upset, shit! He wants to keep that pretty uniform nice and clean.... Tell
  you what, don't push him now. Give me some time; I've got a lot of things
  to figure out. Maybe I'll come up

                                 113
 with a way to keep his uniform clean after all. Maybe I'll send him a bill.'

 He wants to keep Mat pretty uniform nice and clean....
  So devoutly to be wished, Mr. Kendall, thought Swanson as he approached the
  bank of elevators.
  But not possible now. The uniform had to get dirty. The emergence of a man
  named Erich Rhinemann made that necessary.
  Rhinemann was one of Hitler's flascos. Berlin knew it; London and
  Washington knew it. Rhinemann was a man totally committed to power:
  financial, political, military. For him all authority must emanate from a
  single source and he would ultimately settle for nothing less than being at
  the core of that source.
  The fact that he was a Jew was incidental. An inconvenience to end with the
  end of the war.
  When the war was over, Erich Rhinemann would be called back. What might be
  left of German industry would demand it; the world's financial leaders
  would demand it.
  Rhinemann would reenter the international market place with more power than
  ever before.
 Without the Buenos Aires manipulation.
 With it his leverage would be extraordinary.
  His knowledge, his participation in the exchange would provide him with an
  unparalleled weapon to be used against all sides, all governments.
 Especially Washington.
 Erich Rhinemann would have to be eliminated.
 After the exchange.
  And if only for this reason, Washington had to have another man in Buenos
  Aires.

 114
 10

 DECEMBER 16,1943

                  WASHINGTON, D.C.

 It was unusual for the ranking officer of Fairfax to leave the compound for
 any reason, but Colonel Edmund Pace was so ordered.
  Pace stood in front of General Swanson's desk and began to understand.
  Swanson's instructions were brief, but covered more territory than their
  brevity implied. Intelligence files would have, to be culled from dozens of
  double-locked cabinets, a number examined minutely.
  Swanson knew that at first Pace disapproved. The Fairfax commander could
  not conceal his astonishment - at first. The agent in question had to be
  fluent in both German and Spanish. He had to have a working knowledge - not
  expert but certainly more than conversational - of aircraft engineering,
  including metallurgical dynamics and navigational systems. He had to be a
  man capable of sustaining a cover perhaps on the embassy level. That meant
  an individual possessing the necessary graces to function easily in monied
  circles, in the diplomatic arena.
  At this juncture Pace had balked. His knowledge of the Johannesburg probe
  and the Geneva conduit caused him to object. He interrupted Swanson, only
  to be told to hold his remarks until his superior had finished.
  The last qualification of the man for Buenos Aires - and the general
  conceded its inconsistency when included with the previous technical
  qualifications - was that the agent be experienced in 'swift dispatch.'

                                 115
  The man was to be no stranger to killing. Not combat fire with its
  adversaries separated, pitched into frenzy by the sights and sounds of
  battle. But a man who could kill in silence, facing his target. Alone.
  This last qualification mollified Pace. His expression conveyed the fact
  that whatever his superiors were involved in, it was not wholly what he
  suspected it to be - might be. The War Department did not request such a
  man if it intended to keep surface agreements.
  The ranking officer of Fairfax made no comment. It was understood that he,
  alone, would make the file search. He asked for a code, a name to which he
  could refer in any communications.
  Swanson had leaned forward in his chair and stared at the map on his desk.
  The map that had been there for over three hours.
 'Call it "Tortugas,"' he said.

                  DECEMBER 18,1943

                  BERLIN, GERMANY

  Altmiffler stared at the unbroken sea] on the wide, brown manila envelope.
  He moved it under his desk lamp and took a magnifying glass from his top
  drawer. He examined the sea] under the magnification; he was satisfied. It
  had not been tampered with.
  The embassy courier had flown in from Buenos Aires - by way of Senegal and
  Lisbon - and delivered the envelope in person, as instructed. Since the
  courier was based permanently in Argentina, Altmaller did not want him
  carrying back gossip, so he indulged the man in innocuous conversation,
  referring to the communication several times in an offhand, derogatory
  manner. He implied it was a nuisance - a memorandum concerned with embassy
  finances and really belonged at the Finanzministerium, but what could he
  do? The ambassador was reputed to be an old friend of Speer's.
 Now that the courier was gone and the door shut, AltmtWer

 H6
 riveted his attention on the envelope. It was from Erich Rhine. mann.
  He sliced open the top edge. The letter was written by hand, in Rhinemann's
  barely decipherable script.

 My Dear AltmOller:
  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
  highperformance engines. They are capable of traveling swiftly through the
  coastal waters, and there are refueling depots, thus enabling considerable
  distances to be traversed rapidly. Cert-, ainly 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 Fiffirer 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 offatigue ... to be expected...
    a greater monument than the man....

                                 117
  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 Fiffirer. And
  by so doing, condemned Hitlerfor 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 Altmillier. 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.
 Altmiffler'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 PeenemOnde was accurate. According to
  PeenemUnde, 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 Altmillier
  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 un sophisticated Puritan streak was given extraordinary lip
  service in Washington.
 Such children. Yet angry, frustrated children were dangerous.

 118
 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.
  Altmillier 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.
  Altmifller wondered if the Americans had the stomach for such decisions.
 He doubted it.

                   DECEMBER 19,1943

"I
14-1
                  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.'

                                 119
 'Morning. You worked fast; I appreciate it.'
  61t 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 - be'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 negativeT
  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.'
 'That is important V Swanson spoke harshly; Pace was wasting

 120
 his time. The man in Buenos Aires had to understand what the bell 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 itT
  '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 recordT
 '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 youT
  '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 strangeT
  '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 youT
 '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 fa
 'dors.,

                                 121
  'Your assumption was correct.... Tell me, do you know hirnT
  '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.'
 :1 hope I can give an answer.'
 It's within bounds. It's not specific.'
 'What is itT
  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 equalfooting 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
  transferT
  '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 hem 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.'

 122
 11

 DECEMBER 26,1943

                   RIBADA VIA, 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 Valenga. The flight to
 Lisbon would take another two hours, if the weather held and if an aircraft
 was available. Valen4ga 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

                                 121
 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 thom? 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 expatriot avoiding the risks of war. They accepted his
  gratuities and waved him over.

  The flight from Valenca 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.
  'Rotton weather, isn,t itr 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.'

 124
  .'Those grass pilots fly so low you could jump down. I woffy 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 brigadierT
  '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 transfer. 'What the hell is it
  all aboutT
  '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-surfaced road that led through the Alfama district, with
  its winding, hilly streets below the cathedral towers of the Moorish St.
  George and the Gothic S6. The American embassy was in the Baixa, past the
  Terreiro do Paqo. 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

                                 125
 feeling of being dispossessed took hold of him again. So much was being
 taken away and under such extraordinary conditions. Out ofstrategy...
 '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 doT
  '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.'

 126
                 12

                  DECEMBER 26,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.

 Swanson reached for the tiny lever on his desk intercom and spoke: 'Send Mr.
 Kendall in.' He stood up, remaining where he was, waiting for the door to
 open. He would not walk around his desk to greet the man; he would not offer
 his hand in even a symbol of welcome. He recalled that Walter Kendall had
 avoided shaking hands with Craft and Oliver at the Sheraton. The handshake
 would not be missed; his avoidance of it, however, might be noted.
  Kendall entered; the door closed. Swanson saw that the accountant's
  appearance had changed little since the aftemoon conference he had observed
  from the unseen room two days ago. Kendall wore the same suit, conceivably
  the same soiled shirt. God knew about his underwear; it wasn't a pleasant
  thought to dwell on. There was the slightest curl on Kendall's upper lip.
  It did not convey anger or even disdain. It was merely the way the man
  breathed: mouth and nostrils simultaneously. As an animal might breathe.
 'Come in, Mr. Kendall. Sit down.'
  Kendall did so without comment. His eyes locked briefly with Swanson's but
  only briefly.
  'You're listed on my appointment calendar as being called in to clarify a
  specific overrun on a Meridian contract,' said the general, sitting down
  promptly. 'Not to justify, simply enumerate. As the ... outside auditing
  firm you can do that.'

                                 127
  'But that's not why I'm here, is it?' Kendall reached into his pocket for
  a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He squeezed the end before lighting one.
  Swanson noted that the accountant's fingernails were unkempt, ragged,
  soiled at the tips. The brigadier began to see - but would not ponder it -
  that there was a sickness about Walter Kendall, the surface appearance
  merely one manifestation.
  'No, that's not why you're here,' he answered curtly. 'I want to set up
  ground rules so neither of us misunderstands.... So you don't
  misunderstand, primarily.'
  'Ground rules mean a game. What's the game we're playing, generalT
  'Perhaps . . . "Clean Uniforms" might be a good name for it. Or how to run
  some "Interference in Buenos Aires." That might strike you as more
  inclusive.'
  Kendall, who had been gazing at his cigarette, abruptly shifted his eyes to
  the general. 'So Olivet and Craft couldn't wait. They had to bring their
  teacher his big fat apple. I didn't think you wanted it.'
  'Neither Craft nor Howard Oliver have been in touch with this office - or
  with me - in over a week. Since you left for Geneva.'
  Kendall paused before speaking. 'Then your uniform's pretty goddamned dirty
  now.... The Sheraton. I thought that was a little unritzy for Craft; he's
  the Waldorf type.... So you had the place wired. You trapped those
  fuckers.' Kendall's voice was hoarse, not angry, not loud. 'Well, you just
  remember how I got to where I was going. How I got to Geneva. You got that
  on the wire, too.'
  'We accommodated a request of the War Production Board; relative to a
  business negotiation with a firm in Geneva. It's done frequently. However,
  we often follow up if there's reason to think anything prejudicial. . . .
 'HorseshitV
  Swanson exhaled an audible breath. 'That reaction is pointless. I don't
  want to argue with you. The point had been made. I have an . . . edited
  spool of wire that could send you straight
  to the hangman or the electric chair. Oliver, too Craft might
 get off with a life sentence. You ridiculed his doubts; you didn't
 let him talk.... The point, however, has been made.'
 Kendall leaned forward and crushed out his cigarette in an

 128
 ashtray on Swanson's desk. His sudden fear made him look at the general; he
 was searching. 'But you're more interested in Buenos Aires than the electric
 chair. That's right, isn't itT
  'I'm forced to be. As distasteful as it may be to me. As loathsome .....
  'Cut out the horseshit,' Kendall interrupted sharply; he was no amateur in
  such discussions. He knew when to assert himself and his contributions. 'As
  you said, the point's been made. I think you're in the barnyard with the
  rest of us pigs.... So don't play Jesus. Your halo smells.'
  'Fair enough. But don't you forget, I've got a dozen different pigsties to
  run to. A great big War Department that could get me to Burma or Sicily in
  forty-eight hours. You don't. You're right out there ... in the barnyard.
  For everyone to see. And I've got a spool of wire that would make you
  special. That's the understanding I want you to have clear in your mind. I
  hope it is.,
  Kendall squeezed the tip of a second cigarette and lit the opposite end.
  The smoke drifted over his nostrils; he was about to speak, then stopped,
  staring at the general, his look a mixture of fear and hostility.
  Swanson found himself consciously avoiding Kendall's eyes. To acknowledge
  the man at that moment was to acknowledge the pact. And then he realized
  what would make the pact bearable. It was the answer, his answer; at least
  a surface one. He was amazed it had not occurred to him before this moment.
 Walter Kendall would have to be eliminated.
 As Erich Rhinemann would be eliminated.
  When Buenos Aires was in reach of completion, Kendall's death was
  mandatory.
  And then all specific traces to the government of the United States would
  be covered.
  He wondered briefly if the men in Berlin had the foresight for such abrupt
  decisions. He doubted it.
  He looked up at the filthy - sick - accountant and returned his stare in
  full measure. General Alan Swanson was no longer afraid. Or consumed with
  guilt.
 He was a soldier.
 'Shall we continue, Mr. Kendall?'

 ~!The accountant's projections for Buenos Aims were well

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 thought out. Swanson found himself fascinated by Walter Kendall's sense of
 maneuver and countermeasure. The man thought like a sewer rat:
 instinctively, probing sources of smell and light; his strength in his
 suspicions, in his constantly varying estimates of his adversaries. He was
 indeed an animal: predator and evader.
  The Germans' prime concerns could be reduced to three: the quality of the
  bortz and carbonado diamonds; the quantity of the shipment; and finally the
  methods of safe transport to Germany. Unless these factors could be
  guaranteed, there would be no delivery of the gyroscopic designs - the
  guidance system.
  Kendall assumed that the shipment of diamonds would be inspected by a team
  of experts - not one man or even two.
  A team, then, three to five men, would be employed; the length of time
  required might extend to the better part of a week depending upon the
  sophistication of the instruments used. This information he had learned
  from Koening in New York. During this period simultaneous arrangements
  would be agreed to that allowed an aerophysicist to evaluate the gyroscopic
  designs brought from Peenemflnde. If the Nazis were as cautious as Kendall
  assumed they would be, the designs would be delivered in stages, timed to
  the schedule the inspection team considered adequate for its examination of
  the diamonds. The gyroscope scientist would no doubt be fed step-blueprints
  in isolation, with no chance of photostats or duplication until the diamond
  team had completed its work.
  Once both sides were satisfied with the deliveries, Kendall anticipated
  that an ultimate threat would be imposed that guaranteed safe transport to
  the respective destinations. And it was logical that this 'weapon' be
  identical for each party; threat of exposure. Betrayal of cause and
  country.
 Penalties: death.
  The same 'weapon' the general held on him, on Walter Kendall.
 What else was new?
  Did Kendall think it was possible to get the designs and subsequently
  sabotage or reclaim the diamond shipment?
  No. Not as long as it remained a civilian exchange. The -threat of exposure
  was too complete; there was too much proof of contact. Neither crisis could
  be denied and names were known. The taint of collaboration could ruin men
  and corporation&

 130
 'Authenticated' rumors could be circulated easily.
  And if the military moved in, the civilians would move out instantly - the
  responsibility of delivery no longer theirs.
  Swanson should know this; it was precisely the situation he had engineered.
 Swanson knew it.
  Where would the diamonds be inspected? Where was the most advantageous
  location?
  Kendall's reply was succinct: any location that seemed advantageous to one
  side would be rejected by the other. He thought the Germans foresaw this
  accurately and for that reason suggested Buenos Aires. It was on the spool
  of wire. Didn't Swanson listen?
  Powerful men in Argentina were unquestionably, if quietly, pro-Axis, but
  the government's dependency on Allied economics took precedence. The
  neutrality essentially was controlled by the economic factors. Each side,
  therefore, had something: the Germans would find a sympathetic environment,
  but the Americans were capable of exerting a strong enough influence to
  counteract that sympathy - without eliminating it.
  Kendall respected the men in Berlin who centered in on Buenos Aires. They
  understood the necessity of balancing the psychological elements, the need
  to give up, yet still retain spheres of influence. They were good.
  Each side would be extremely cautious; the environment demanded it. Timing
  would be everything.
  Swanson knew how the designs would be gotten out: a string of pursuit
  aircraft flying up the coastal bases under diplomatic cover. This cover
  would extend to the military. Only he would be aware of the operation; no
  one else in the services or, for that matter, in the government would be
  apprised. He would make the arrangements and give them to Kendall at the
  proper time.
  What transport would the Germans arrive at? asked the general.
  'They've got a bigger problem. They recognize it so they'll probably make
  some kind of airtight demands. They could ask for a hostage, but I don't
  think so.'
 'Why noff
  'Who've we got - that's involved - that's not expendable? Christ I If it
  was me, you'd be the first to say, "Shoot the son of a bitch!"' Kendall
  again locked his eyes briefly with Swanson's.

                                 131
 'of course, you wouldn't know what particular safeguards I took; a lot of
 uniforms would be dirty as hell.'
  Swanson recognized Kendall's threat for what it was. He also knew he could
  handle it. It would take some thought, but such consideration could come
  later. It would be no insurmountable hurdle to prepare for Kendall's
  dispatch. The isolation would come first; then an elaborate dossier....
  'Let's concentrate on how they expect to ship out the bortz and carbonado.
  There's no point in going after each other,' said Swanson.
 'We're beyond that, thenT
 'I think we are. i
 'Good. Just don't forget it,' said Kendall.
  'The diamonds will be brought to Buenos Aires. Have those arrangements been
  madeT .
  'They're being made. Delivery date in three, three-and-a-half weeks. Unless
  there's a fuck-up in the South Atlantic. We don't expect any.'
  'The inspection team does its work in Buenos Aires. We send the physicist
  ... who will it be? SpinelliT
  'No. For both our sakes we ruled him out. But you know that. . . .'
 'Yes. Who, then?'
  'Man named Lyons. Eugene Lyons. I'll get you a file on him. You'll sweat
  bullets when you read it, but if there's anyone better than Spinelli, it's
  him. We wouldn't take any chances. He's in New York now.'
  Swanson made a note. 'What about the German transport? Any ideas?'
  'A couple. Neutral cargo plane north to Recife in Brazil, across east to
  Palmas or someplace in Guinea on the African coast. Then straight up to
  Lisbon and out. That's the fastest routing. But they may not want to chance
  the air corridors.'
 'You sound military.'
 'When I do a job, it's thorough.'
 'What else?'
  'I think they'll probably settle for a submarine. Maybe two, for diversion
  purposes. it's slower but the safest.'
  'Subs can't enter Argentine ports. Our southern patrols would blow them out
  of the water. If they put in, they're impounded. We're not going to change
  those rules.'

 132
 'You may have to.'
 'Impossible. There has to be another way.'
 'You may have to find it. Don't forget those clean ulfforms.9
 Swanson looked away. 'What about RhinemarmT
  'What about him? He's on his way back. With his kind of money, even Hitler
  can't freeze him out.'
 'I don't trust him.'
  'You'd be a goddamned fool if you did. But the worst he can do is hold out
  for market concessions - or money - from both sides. So what? He'll
  deliver. Why wouldn't heT
  'I'm sure he'll deliver; that's the one thing I'm positive about. ... Which
  brings me to the main point of this meeting. I want a man in Buenos Aires.
  At the embassy.'
  Kendall absorbed Swanson's statement before replying. He reached for the
  ashtray and put it on the arm of his chair. 'One of your men or one of
  ours? We need someone; we figured you'd have us supply him.'
 'You figured wrong. I've picked him.'
  'That could be dangerous. I tell you this with no charge ... since I
  already said it.'
 'If we move in, the civilian contingent moves outT A question.
 'It makes sense. . . .'
  'Only if the man I send knows about the diamonds. You're to make sure he
  doesn't.' A statement. 'Make very sure, Kendall. Your life depends on it.'
 The accountant watched Swanson closely. 'What's the point?'
  'There are six thousand miles between Buenos Aires and the Meridian
  Aircraft plants. I want that trip made without any mishaps. I want those
  designs brought back by a professional.'
  'You're taking a chance on dirtying up the uniforms, aren't you, generalT
  'No. The man will be told that Rhinemann made a deal for the designs out of
  Peenemilnde. We'll say Rhinemann brought in the German underground. For
  escape routings.'
  'Full of holes! Since when does the underground work for a price? Why would
  they go three thousand miles out of their way? or work with Rhinemann?'
  'Because they need him and he needs them. Rhinemann was exiled as a Jew; it
  was a mistake. He rivaled Krupp. There are many in German industry still
  loyal to him; and he maintains offices in Berne.... Our crisis in
  gyroscopics is no secret, we

                                 133
 know that. Rhinemann would use that knowledge; make deals in Berne.'
 'Why even bring in the underground?'
  'I have my own reasons. They're not your concern.' Swanson spoke curtly,
  clipping his words. It crossed his mind - fleetingly - that he was getting
  overtired again. He had to watch that; his strength was hollow when he was
  tired. And now he had to be convincing. He had to make Kendall obey without
  question. The important thing was to get Spaulding within reach of Erich
  Rhinemann. Rhinemann was the target.
  The brigadier watched the filthy man in front of him. It sickened him to
  think that such a human slug was so necessary to the moment. Or was it, he
  wondered, that he was reduced to using such a man? Using him and then
  ordering his execution. It made their worlds closer.
  'All right, Mr. Kendall, I'll spell it out. . . . The man I've picked for
  Buenos Aires is one of the best Intelligence agents we've got. He'll bring
  those designs back. But I don't want to take the slightest chance that he
  could learn of the diamond transfer. Rhinemann operating alone is suspect;
  the inclusion of the German underground puts it above suspicion.'
  Swanson had done his homework; everyone spoke of the French and Balkan
  undergrounds, but the German underground had worked harder and more
  effectively, with greater sacrifice, than all the others combined. The
  former man in Lisbon would know that. It would make the Buenos Aires
  assignment palatable and legitimate.
  'Wait a minute.... Jesus Christ! Wait a minute.' Kendall's disagreeable
  expression abruptly changed. It was as if suddenly - with reluctant
  enthusiasm - he had found merit in something Swanson said. 'That could be
  a good device.'
 :What do you mean, device?'
  Just that. You say you're going to use it for this agent. The underground's
  above suspicion and all that shit.... O.K., let's go further. You just
  spelled out the guarantee we have to give.'
 'What guarantee?'
  'That the shipment of Koening diamonds can get out of Buenos Aires. It's
  going to be the ball-breaker.... Let me ask you a couple of questions. And
  give me straight answers.'
  The sewer rat, thought Swanson, looking at the excited, disheveled
  figure-man. 'Go ahead.'

 134
  'This underground. They've gotten a lot of people out of Germany, very
  important people. I mean everybody knows that.'
 'They've- it's- been very effective.'
 'Does it have any hooks into the German navy?'
  'I imagine so. Allied Central Intelligence would know specifically. . . .
  '
 'But you don't want to go to them. Or do you?'
 'Out of the question.'
 'But is it possibleT
 'WhatT
  'The German navy, goddamn it! The submarine fleet!' Kendall was leaning
  forward, his eyes now boring into Swanson's.
  'I would think so. I'm not ... not primarily an Intelligence man. The
  German underground has an extensive network. I assume it has contacts in
  the naval command.'
 'Then it is possible.'
  'Yes, anything's possible.' Swanson lowered his voice, turning away from
  his own words. 'This is possible.'
  Kendall leaned back in the chair and crushed out his cigarette. He grinned
  his unattractive grin and wagged his forefinger at Swanson. 'Then there's
  your story. Clean as a goddamned whistle and way above any goddamned
  suspicion .... While we're buying those designs, it just so happens that a
  German submarine is floating around, ready to surface and bring out one -
  even two, if you like - very important defectors. Courtesy of the under-
  ground. What better reason for a submarine to surface in hostile waters?
  Protected from patrols. . . . Only nobody gets off. Instead, some fresh
  cargo gets put on board.'
  Swanson tried to assimilate Kendall's rapidly delivered maneuvers. 'There'd
  be complications .....
  'Wrong! It's isolated. One has nothing to do with the other! It's just
  talk, anyway.'
  Brigadier General Alan Swanson knew when he had met a man more capable in
  the field than himself. 'It's possible. Radio blackout; Allied Central
  instructions.'
  Kendall rose from his chair; he spoke softly. 'Details. I'll work them out.
  . . . And you'll pay me. Christ, will you pay.'

                                 135
                 13

DECEMBER 27,1943 THE AZORES

 The island of Terceira in the Azores, 837 miles due west of Lisbon, was a
 familiar stop to the trans-Atlantic pilots flying the southern route to the
 United States mainland. As they descended there was always the comfortable
 feeling that they would encounter minor traffic to be serviced by efficient
 ground crews who allowed them to be rapidly airborne again. Lajes Field was
 good duty; those assigned there recognized that and performed well.
  Which was why the major in command of the B-17 cargo and personnel carrier
  which had a Captain David Spaulding as its single passenger couldn't
  understand the delay. It had begun at descent altitude, fourteen thousand
  feet. The Lajes tower had interrupted its approach instructions and ordered
  the pilot to enter a holding pattern. The major had objected; there was no
  necessity from his point of view. The field was clear. The Lajes tower
  radioman agreed with the major but said he was only repeating telephone
  instructions from American headquarters in Ponta Delgada on the adjacent
  island of Sdo Miguel. Az-Am-HQ gave the orders; apparently it was expecting
  someone to meet the plane and that someone hadn't arrived. The tower would
  keep the major posted and, incidentally, was the major carrying some kind
  of priority cargo? Just curiosity.
  Certainly not. There was no cargo; only a military attach6 named Spaulding
  from the Lisbon embassy. One of those god-
  
 136
 damned diplomatic teaparty boys. The trip was a routine return flight to
 Norfolk, and why the hell couldn't he land?
 The tower would keep the major posted.

  The B-17 landed at 1300 hours precisely, its holding pattern lasting
  twenty-seven minutes.
  David got up from the removable seat, held to the deck by clamps, and
  stretched. The pilot, an aggressive major who looked roughly thirteen years
  old to Spaulding, emerged from the enclosed cockpit and told him a jeep was
  outside - or would be outside shortly - to drive the captain off the base.
 - 'I'd like to maintain a decent schedule,' said the young pilot, addressing
 his outranked elder humorlessly. 'I realize you diplomatic people have a lot
 of friends in these social posts, but we've got a long lap to fly. Bear it
 in mind, please.'
  'I'll try to keep the polo match down to three chukkers,' replied David
  wearily.
  6Yeah, you do that.' The major turned and walked to the rear of the cabin,
  where an air force sergeant had sprung open the cargo hatch used for the
  aircraft's exit. Spaulding followed, wondering who would meet him outside.
  'My name's Ballantyne, captain,' said the middle-aged civilian behind the
  wheel of the jeep, extending his hand to Spaulding. 'I'm with
  Azores-American. Hop in; we'll only be a few minutes. We're driving to the
  provost's house, a few hundred yards beyond the fence.'
  David noticed that the guards at the gate did not bother to stop
  Ballantyne, they just waved him through. The civilian turned right on the
  road paralleling the field and accelerated. In less time than it took to
  adequately light a cigarette, the jeep entered the driveway of a one-story
  Spanish hacienda and proceeded past the house to what could only be
  described as an out-of-place gazebo.
  'Here we are. Come on, captain,' said Ballantyne getting out, indicating
  the screen door of the screened enclosure. 'My associate, Paul Hollander,
  is waiting for us.'
  Hollander was another middle-aged civilian. He was nearly bald and wore
  steel-rimmed spectacles that gave him an appearance beyond his years. As
  with Ballantyne, there was a look of intelligence about him. Both small and
  capital L Hollander smiled genuinely.

                                 137
  'This is a distinct pleasure, Spaulding. As so many others, I've admired
  the work of the man in Lisbon.'
 Capital I, thought David.
 'Thank you. I'd like to know why I'm not him any longer.'
 'I can't answer that. Neither can Ballantyne, I'm afraid.'
  'Perhaps they thought you deserved a rest,' offered Ballantyne. 'Good Lord,
  you've been there -how long is it now? Three years with no break.'
  'Nearer four,' answered David. 'And there were plenty of "breaks". The
  Costa Brava beats the hell out of Palm Beach. I was told that you - I
  assume it's you - have my orders . . . . . I don't mean to seem impatient
  but there's a nasty teenager with a major's rank flying the plane. He's
  impatient.'
  'Tell him to go to blazes,' laughed the man named Hollander. 'We do have
  your orders and also a little surprise for you: you're a lieutenant
  colonel. Tell the major to get his uniform pressed.'
 'Seems I jumped one.'
  'Not really. You got your majority last year. Apparently yqu don't have
  much use for titles in Lisbon.'
 'Or military associations,' interjected Ballantyne.
  'Neither, actually,' said David. 'At least I wasn't broken. I had
  premonitions of walking guard duty around latrines.'
  'Hardly.' Hollander sat down in one of the four deck chairs, gesturing
  David to do the same. It was his way of indicating that their meeting might
  not be as short as Spaulding had thought. 'If it was a time for parades or
  revelations, I'm sure you'd be honored in the front ranks.'
  'Thanks,' said David, sitting down. 'That removes a very real concern.
  What's this all aboutT
  'Again, we don't have answers, only ex cathedra instructions. We're to ask
  you several questions - only one of which could preclude our delivering
  your orders. Let's get that over with first; I'm sure you'd like to know at
  least where you're going.'Hollander smiled his genuine smile again.
 'I would. Go on.'
  'Since you were relieved of your duties in Lisbon, have you made contact -
  intentional or otherwise - with anyone outside the embassy? I mean by this,
  even the most innocuous good-bye? Or a settling of a bill - a restaurant,
  a store; or a chance run-in with an acquaintance at the airport, or on the
  way to the airport?'
 'No. And I had my luggage sent in diplomatic cartons; no

 138
 suitcases, no traveling gear.'
 'You're thorough,' said Ballantyne, still standing.
  'I've had reason to be. Naturally, I had engagements for the week after I
  returned from the north country. . . .
 'From where?'asked Hollander.
  'Basque and Navarre. Contact points below the border. I always scheduled
  engagements right after; it kept a continuity. Not many, just enough to
  keep in sight. Part of the cover. I had two this week; lunch and
  cocktails.'
 'What about themT Ballantyne sat down next to David.
  'I instructed Marshall - he's the cryp who took my orders -to call each
  just before I was supposed to show up. Say I'd be delayed. That was all.'
 'Not that you wouldn't be thereT Hollander seemed fascinated.
 'No. Just delayed. It fit the cover.'
  'I'll take your word for it,' laughed Hollander. 'You answered
  affirmatively and then some. How does New York strike youT
 'As it always has: pleasantly for limited periods.'
  'I don't know for how long but that's your assignment. And out of uniform,
  colonel.'
 'I lived in New York. I know a lot of people there.'
  'Your new cover is simplicity itself. You've been discharged most honorably
  after service in Italy. Medical reasons, minor wounds.' Hollander took out
  an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it across to
  David. 'It's all here. Terribly simple, papers ... everything.'
  'O.K.,' said David, accepting the envelope. 'I'm a ruptured duck in New
  York. So far, very nice. You couldn't make it the real thing, could youT
 'The papers are simple, I didn't say authentic. Sorry.'
 'So am 1. What happens thenT
  'Someone's very solicitous of you. You have an excellent job; good pay,
  too. With Meridian Aircraft.'
 Weridian?'
 'Blueprint Division.'
 'I thought Meridian was in the Midwest. Illinois or Michigan.'
 'It has a New York office. Or it does now.'
 'Aircraft blueprints, I assume.'
 'I should think so.'
 'Is it counterespionageT
 'We don't know,' answered Ballantyne. 'We weren't given

                                 139
 any data except the names of the two men you'll report to.'
 'They're in the envelope?,
  'No,' said Hollander. 'They're verbal and to be committed. Nothing written
  until you're on the premises.'
  'Oh, Christ, this all sounds like Ed Pace. He loves this kind of nonsense.'
 'Sony, again. It's above Pace.'
  4What? ... I didn't think anything was, except maybe Holy Communion . . .
  . Then how do you report? And to whom?'
  'Priority courier straight through to an address in Washington. No
  department listing, but transmission and priority cleared through Field
  Division, Fairfax.'
  Spaulding emitted a soft, nearly inaudible whistle. 'What are the two
  namesT
  'The first is Lyons. Eugene Lyons. He's an aerophysicist. We're to tell you
  that he's a bit strange, but a goddarnned genius.'
 :In other words, reject the man; accept the genius.'
  Something like that. I suppose you're used to it,' said Ballantyne.
 'Yes,' answered Spaulding. 'And the other?'
  'A man named Kendall.' Hollander crossed his legs. 'Nothing on him; he's
  just a name. Walter Kendall. Have no idea what he does.'

  David pulled the strap across his waist in the removable seat. The 13- 1 Ts
  engines were revving at high speed, sending vibrations through the huge
  fuselage. He looked about in a way he hadn't looked at an airplane before,
  trying to reduce the spans and the plating to some kind of imaginary
  blueprint. If Hollander's description of his assignment was accurate - and
  why shouldn't it be? - he'd be studying aircraft blueprints within a few
  days.
  What struck him as strange were the methods of precaution. In a word, they
  were unreasonable; they went beyond even abnormal concerns for security. It
  would have been a simple matter for him to report to Washington, be
  reassigned, and be given an in-depth briefing. Instead, apparently there
  would be no briefing.
 Why not?
  Was he to accept open-ended orders from two men he'd never met before?
  Without the sanction of recognition - even intro-
  
 140
 duction -from any military authority? What the hell was Ed Pace doing?
 Sorry. . . . It's above Pace.
 Those were the words Hollander had used.
 . . . cleared through Field Division, Fairfax.
 Hollander again.
  Except for the White House itself, David realized that Fairfax was about as
  high up as one could go. But Fairfax was still military. And he wasn't
  being instructed by Fairfax, simply 'cleared.'
  Hollander's remaining 'questions' had not been questions at all, really.
  They had been introduced with interrogatory words: do you, have you, can
  you. But not questions; merely further instructions.
  'Do you have friends in any of the aircraft companies? On the executive
  levelT
  He didn't know, for God's sake. He'd been out of the country so damned long
  he wasn't sure he had any friends, period.
  Regardless, Hollander had said, he was to avoid any such 'friends'- should
  they exist. Report their names to Walter Kendall, if he ran across them.
  'Have you any women in New York who are in the public eye?$.
  What kind of question was that? Silliest goddamned thing he'd ever heard
  of! What the hell did Hollander mean?
  The balding, bespectacled Az-Am agent had clarified succintly. It was
  listed in David's file that he had supplemented his civilian income as a
  radio performer. That meant he knew actresses.
 And actors, Spaulding suggested. And so what?
  Friendships with well-known actresses could lead to newspaper photographs,
  Hollander rejoined. Or speculations in columns; his name in print. That,
  too, was to be avoided.
  David recalled that Jhe did know - knew - several girls who'd done well in
  pictures since he'd left. He'd had a short-lived affair with an actress who
  was currently a major star for Warner Brothers. Reluctantly he agreed with
  Hollander; the agent was right. Such contacts would be avoided.
  'Can you absorb quickly, commit to memory, blueprint specifications
  unrelated to industrial design?'
 Given a breakdown key of correlative symbols and material

                                 141
 factors, the answer was probably yes.
  Then he was to prepare himself - however it was done - for aircraft design.
 That, thought Spaulding, was obvious.
 That, Hollander had said, was all he could tell him.
  The B- 17 taxied to the west extreme of the Lajes runway and turned for
  takeoff. The disagreeable major had made it a point to be standing by the
  cargo hatch looking at his wristwatch when Spaulding returned. David had
  climbed out of the jeep, shaken hands with Ballantyne and held up three
  fingers to the major.
  'The timer lost count during the last chukker,' he said to the pilot. 'You
  know how it is with these striped-pants boys.'
 The major had not been amused.
  The aircraft gathered speed, the ground beneath hammered against the
  landing gear with increasing ferocity. In seconds the plane would be
  airborne. David bent over to pick up an Azores newspaper that Hollander had
  given him and which he'd placed at his feet when strapping himself in.
  Suddenly it happened. An explosion of such force that the removable seat
  flew out of its clamps and jettisoned into the right wall of the plane,
  carrying David, bent over, with it. And he'd never know but often speculate
  on whether that Azores newspaper had saved his life.
  Smoke was everywhere; the aircraft careened off the ground and spun
  laterally. The sound of twisting metal filled the cabin with a continuous,
  unending scream; steel ribs whipped downward from the top and sides of the
  fuselage - snapping, contorted, sprung from their mountings.
  A second explosion blew out the front cabin; sprays of blood and pieces of
  flesh spat against the crumbling, spinning walls. A section of human scalp
  with traces of burnt hairline under the bright, viscous red fluid slapped
  into Spaulding's forearm. Through the smoke David could see the bright
  sunlight streaming through the front section of the careening plane.
 The aircraft had been severed!
  David knew instantly that he had only one chance of survival. The fuel
  tanks were filled to capacity for the long Atlantic flight; they'd go up in
  seconds. He reached for the buckle at his waist and ripped at it with all
  his strength. It was locked; the hurling fall had caused the strap to bunch
  and crowd the housing with

 142
 cloth. He tugged and twisted, the snap sprung and he was free.
  The plane - what was left of it - began a series of thundering convulsions
  signifying the final struggle to come to a halt on the rushing, hilly
  ground beyond the runway. David crashed backward, crawling as best he could
  toward the rear. Once he was forced to stop and hug the deck, his face
  covered by his arms, a jagged piece of metal piercing the back of his right
  shoulder.
  The cargo hatch was blown open; the air force sergeant lay half out of the
  steel frame, dead, his chest ripped open from throat to rib cage.
  David judged the distance to the ground as best his panic would allow and
  hurled himself out of the plane, coiling as he did so for the impact of the
  fall and the necessary roll away from the onrushing tail assembly.
  The earth was hard and filled with rocks, but he was free. He kept rolling,
  rolling, crawling, digging, gripping his bloodied hands into the dry, hard
  soil until the breath in his lungs was exhausted.
  He lay on the ground and heard the screaming sirens far in the distance.
 And then the explosion that filled the air and shook the earth.

  Priority high-frequency radio messages were sent back and forth between the
  operations room of Lajes Airfield and Field Division, Fairfax.
  David Spaulding was to be airlifted out of Terceira on the next flight to
  Newfoundland, leaving in less than an hour. At Newfoundland he would be met
  by a pursuit fighter plane at the air force base and flown directly to
  Mitchell Field, New York. In light of the fact that Lieutenant Colonel
  Spaulding had suffered no major physical disability, there would be no
  change in the orders delivered to him.
  The cause of the B-17 explosions and resultant killings was, without
  question, sabotage. Timed out of Lisbon or set during the refueling process
  at Lajes. An intensive investigation was implemented immediately.
  Hollander and Ballantyne had been with David when he was examined and
  treated by the British army doctor. Bandages around the sutures in his
  right shoulder, the cuts on his hands and forearms cleaned, Spaulding
  pronounced himself shaken but operable. The doctor left after administering
  an intravenous sedative

                                 143
 that would make it possible for David to rest thoroughly on the final legs
 of his trip to New York.
  'I'm sure it will be quite acceptable for you to take a leave for a week or
  so,' said Hollander. 'My God, you're lucky to be among us!'
 'Alive is the word,' added Ballantyne.
 'Am I a mark?' asked Spaulding. 'Was it connected with meT
  'Fairfax doesn't think so,' answered the balding Hollander. 'They think
  it's coincidental sabotage.'
  Spaulding watched the Az-Am agent as he spoke. It seemed to David that
  Hollander hesitated, as if concealing something.
 'Narrow coincidence, isn't it? I was the only passenger'
  'If the enemy can eliminate a large aircraft and a pilot in the bargain,
  well, I imagine he considers that progr~ss. And Lisbon security is rotten.'
 'Not where I've been. Not generally.'
  'Well, perhaps here at Terceira, then.... I'm only telling you what Fairfax
  thinks.'
  There was a knock on the dispensary door and Ballantyne opened it. A first
  lieutenant stood erect and spoke gently, addressing David, obviously aware
  that Spaulding had come very close to death.
  'It's preparation time, sir. We should be airborne in twenty minutes, Can
  I help you with anything?'
  'I haven't got anything, lieutenant. Whatever I had is in that mass of
  burnt rubble in the south forty.'
 'Yes, of course. I'm sorry.'
  'Don't be. Better it than me.... I'll be right with you.' David turned to
  Ballantyne and Hollander, shaking their hands.
  As he said his last good-bye to Hollander, he saw it in the agent's eyes.
 Hollander was hiding something.

  The British naval commander opened the screen door of the gazebo and walked
  in. Paul Hollander rose from the deck chair.
 'Did you bring iff he asked the officer.
  'Yes.' The commander placed his attach6 case on the single wrought-iron
  table and snapped up the hasps. He took out an envelope and handed it to
  the American. 'The photo lab did a rather fine job. Well lighted, front and
  rear views. Almost as good as having the real item.'

 144
  Hollander unwound the string on the envelope's flap and removed a
  photograph. It was an enlargement of a small medallion, a star with six
  points.
 It was the Star of David.
  In the center of the face was the scrolled flow of a Hebrew inscription. On
  the back was the bas-relief of a knife with a streak of lightning
  intersecting the blade.
  'The Hebrew spells out the name of a prophet named Haggai; he's the symbol
  of an organization of Jewish fanatics operating out of Palestine. They call
  themselves the Haganah. Their business, they claim, is vengeance - two
  thousand years' worth. We anticipate quite a bit of trouble from them in
  the years to come; they've made that clear, I'm afraid.'
  'But you say it was welded to the bottom main strut of the rear cabin.'
  'In such a way as to escape damage from all but a direct explosion. Your
  aircraft was blown up by the Haganah.'
  Hollander sat down staring at the photograph. He looked up at the British
  commander. 'Why? For God's sake, why?'
 'I can't answer that.'
  'Neither can Fairfax. I don't think they even want to acknowledge it. They
  want it buried.'

 145
                 14

                  DECEMBER 27,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.

 When the words came over his intercom in the soft, compensating voice of the
 WAC lieutenant who was his secretary, Swanson knew it was no routine
 communication.
  'Fairfax on line one, sir. It's Colonel Pace. He says to interrupt you.'
  Since delivering David Spaulding's file, the Fairfax commander had been
  reluctant to call personally. He hadn't spoken of his reluctance, he simply
  relegated messages to subordinates. And since they all concerned the
  progress of getting Spaulding out of Portugal, Pace's point was clear: he
  would expedite but not personally acknowledge his participation.
  Edmund Pace was still not satisfied with the murky 'highest priority'
  explanations regarding his man in Lisbon. He would follow orders
  once-removed.
  'General, there's a radio emergency from Lajes Field in Terceira,'said Pace
  urgently.
 'What the hell does that mean? WhereT
  'Azores. 7be B-17 carrier with Spaulding on it was sabotaged. Blown up on
  takeoff.'
 'Jesus I'
 'May I suggest you come out here, sirT
 'Is Spaulding deadT
  'Preliminary reports indicate negative, but I don't want to guarantee
  anything. Everything's unclear. I wanted to wait till 1

 146
 had further confirmations but I can't now. An unexpected development.
 Please, come out, general.'
 'On my way. Get the information on Spaulding!'
  Swanson gathered the papers on his desk - the information from Kendall -
  that had -to be clipped together, sealed in a thin metal box and locked in
  a file cabinet with two combinations and a key.
  If there was ever a reason for total security, it was symbolized by those
  papers.
  He spun the two combination wheels, turned the key and then thought for a
  second that he might reverse the process and take the papers with him....
  No, that was unsound. They were safer in the cabinet. A file cabinet
  riveted to the floor was better than a cloth pocket on a man who walked in
  the street and drove in automobiles. A file cabinet could not have
  accidents; was not subject to the frailties of a tired,
  fifty-three-year-old brigadier.
  He saluted the guard on duty at the entrance and walked rapidly down the
  steps to the curb. His driver was waiting, alerted by the WAC secretary,
  whose efficiency overcame her continuous attempts to be more than an
  efficient secretary to him. He knew that one day when the pressures became
  too much, he'd ask her in, lock the door and hump the ass off her on the
  brown leather couch.
  Why was he thinking about his secretary? He didn't give a goddamn about the
  WAC lieutenant who sat so protectively outside his office door.
  He sat back in the seat and removed his hat. He knew why he thought about
  his secretary: it gave him momentary relief. It postponed thoughts about
  the complications that may or may not have exploded on a runway in the
  Azores.
  Oh Christl The thought of rebuilding what he'd managed to put together was
  abhoffent to him. To go back, to reconstruct, to research for the right man
  was impossible. It was difficult enough for him to go over the details as
  they now stood.
 The details supplied by the sewer rat.
 Kendall.
  An enigma. An unattractive puzzle even G-2 couldn't piece together. Swanson
  had run a routine check on him, based on the fact that the accountant was
  privy to Meridian's aircraft contracts; the Intelligence boys and Hoover's
  tight-lipped maniacs had returned virtually nothing but names and dates.
  They'd been

                                 1-47
 instructed not to interview Meridian personnel or anyone connected with ATCO
 or Packard; orders that apparently made their task close to impossible.
  Kendall was forty-six, severely asthmatic and a CPA. He was unmarried, had
  few if any friends and lived two blocks from his firm, which he solely
  owned, in mid-Manhattan.
  The personal evaluations were fairly uniform: Kendall was a disagreeable,
  antisocial individualist who happened to be a brilliant statistician.
  The dossier might have told a desolate story - paternal abandonment, lack
  of privilege, the usual - but it didn't. There was no indication of
  poverty, no record of deprivation or hardship anywhere near that suffered
  by millions, especially during the Depression years.
 No records of depth on anything, for that matter.
 An enigma.
  But there was nothing enigmatic about Walter Kendall's 'details' for Buenos
  Aires. They were clarity itself. Kendall's sense of manipulation had been
  triggered; the challenge stimulated his already primed instincts for
  maneuvering. It was as if he had found the ultimate 'deal' - and indeed,
  thought Swanson, he had.
  The operation was divided into three isolated exercises: the arrival and
  inspection of the diamond shipment; the simultaneous analysis of the
  gyroscopic blueprints, as they, too, arrived; and the submarine transfer.
  The crates of bortz and carbonado from the Koening mines would be secretly
  cordoned off in a warehouse in the Dirsena Norte district of -the Puerto
  Nuevo. The Germans assigned to the warehouse would report only to Erich
  Rhinemarm.
  The aerophysicist, Eugene Lyons, would be billeted in a guarded apartment
  in the San Telmo district, an area roughly equivalent to New York's
  Gramercy Park - rich, secluded, ideal for surveillance. As the
  step-blueprints were delivered, he would report to Spaulding.
  Spaulding would precede Lyons to Buenos Aires and be attached to the
  embassy on whatever pretext Swanson thought feasible. His assignment - as
  Spaulding thought it to be - was to coordinate the purchase of the
  gyroscopic designs, and if their authenticity was confirmed, authorize
  payment. This authorization would be made by a code radioed to Washington
  that sup-
  
 49
posedly cleared a transfer of funds to Rhinemann in Switzerland. Spaulding would
 then stand by at a mutually agreed-upon airfield, prepared to be flown out
 of Argentina. He would be given airborne clearance when Rhinemann received
 word that 'payment' had been made.
  In reality, the code sent by Spaulding was to be a signal for the German
  submarine to surface at a prearranged destination at sea and make
  rendezvous with a small craft carrying the shipment of diamonds. Ocean and
  air patrols would be kept out of the area; if the order was questioned -
  and it was unlikely - the cover story of the underground defectors would be
  employed.
  When the transfer at sea was made, the submarine would radio confirmation
  - Rhinemann's 'payment'. It would dive and start its journey back to German
  . Spaulding would then be cleared y
 for takeoff to the United States.
  These safeguards were the best either side could expect. Kendall was
  convinced he could sell the operation to Erich Rhinemann. He and Rhinemann
  possessed a certain objectivity lacking in the others.
  Swanson did not dispute the similarity; it was another viable reason for
  Kendall's death.
  The accountant would fly to Buenos Aires in a week and make the final
  arrangements with the German "patriot. Rhinemann would be made to
  understand that Spaulding was acting as an experienced courier, a custodian
  for the eccentric Eugene Lyons - a position Kendall admitted was desirable.
  But Spaulding was nothing else. He was not part of the diamond transfer; he
  knew nothing of the submarine. He would provide the codes necessary for the
  transfer, but he'd never know it. There was no way he could learn of it.
 Airtight, ironclad: acceptable.
  Swanson had read and reread Kendall's 'details'; he could not fault them.
  The ferret-like accountant had reduced an enormously complicated
  negotiation to a series of simple procedures and separate motives. In a way
  Kendall had created an extraordinary deception. Each step had a checkpoint,
  each move a countermove.
  And Swanson would add the last deceit: David Spaulding would kill Erich
  Rhinemarm.
  Origin of command: instructions from Allied Central Intelligence. By the
  nature of Rhinemann's involvement, he was too

                                 149
 great a liability to the German underground. The former man in Lisbon could
 employ whatever methods he thought best. Hire the killers, do it himself;
 whatever the situation called for. Just make sure it was done.
  Spaulding would understand. The shadow worldof agents and double agents had
  been his life for the past several years. David Spaulding - if his dossier
  was to be believed - would accept the order for what it was: a reasonable,
  professional solution.
 If Spaulding was alive.
  Oh, Christl What had happened? Where was it? Lapess, Lajes. Some goddamned
  airfield in the Azores! Sabotage. Blown up on takeoff !
 What the hell did it mean?
  The driver swung off the highway onto the back Virginia road. They were
  fifteen minutes from the Fairfax compound; Swanson found himself sucking
  his lower lip between his teeth. He had actually bitten into the soft
  tissue; he could taste a trickle of blood.

  'We have further information,' said Colonel Edmund Pace, standing in front
  of a photograph map frame. The map was the island of Terceira in the
  Azores. 'Spaulding's all right. Shaken up, of course. Minor sutures,
  bruises; nothing broken, though. I tell you he pulled off a miracle. Pilot,
  copilot, a crewman: all dead. Only survivors were Spaulding and a rear
  aerial gunner who probably won't make it.'
 'Is he mobile? Spaulding?'
  'Yes. Hollander and Ballantyne are with him now. I assumed you wanted him
  out. . . .'
 'Jesus, yes,' interrupted Swanson.
  'I got him on a Newfoundland transfer. Unless you want to switch orders, a
  coastal patrol flight will pick him up there and bring him south. Mitchell
  Field.'
 'When will he get in?'
  'Late tonight, weather permitting. Otherwise, early morning. Shall I have
  him flown down here?'
  Swanson hesitated. 'No.... Have a doctor at Mitchell give him a thorough
  going-over. But keep him in New York. If he needs a few days' rest, put him
  up at a hotel. Otherwise, everything remains.'
 'Well                             Pace seemed slightly annoyed with his
 superior.

 150
 'Someone's going to have to see him.'
 .WhyT
  'His papers. Everything we prepared went up with the plane. They're a
  packet of ashes.'
  'Oh. Yes, of course. I didn't think about that.' Swanson walked away from
  Pace to the chair in front of the stark, plain desk. He sat down.
  The colonel watched the brigadier. He was obviously concemed with Swanson's
  lack of focus, his inadequate concentration. 'We can prepare new ones
  easily enough, that's no problem.'
  'Good. Do that, will you? Then have someone meet him at Mitchell and give
  them to him.'
  'O.K. . . . But it's possible you may want to change your mind.' Pace
  crossed to his desk chair but remained standing.
 'Why? About whaff
  'Whatever it is.... The plane was sabotaged, I told you that. If you
  recall, I asked you to come out here because of an unexpected development.'
  Swanson stared up at his subordinate. 'I've had a difficult week. And I've
  told you the gravity of this project. Now, don't play Fairfax games with
  me. I make no claims of expertise in your field. I asked only for
  assistance; ordered it, if you like. Say what you mean without the
  preamble, please.'
  'I've tried to give you that assistance.' Pace's tone was rigidly polite.
  'It's not easy, sir. And I've just bought you twelve hours to consider
  alternatives. That plane was blown up by the Haganah.'
 'The what?'
  Pace explained the Jewish organization operating out of Palestine. He
  watched Swanson closely as he did so.
 'That's insane! It doesn't make sense! How do you know?'
  'The first thing an inspection team does at the site of sabotage is to
  water down, pick over debris, look for evidence that might melt from the
  heat, or bum, if explosives are used. It's a preliminary check and it's
  done fast.... A Haganah medallion was found riveted to the tail assembly.
  They wanted full credit.'
 'Good God I What did you say to the Azores peopleT
  'I bought you a day, general. I instructed Hollander to minimize any
  connection, keep it away from Spaulding. Frankly, to imply coincidence if
  the subject got out of hand. The Haganah

                                 151
 is independent, fanatic. Most Zionist organizations won't touch it. They
 call it a group of savages.'
  'How could it get out of hand?' Swanson was disturbed on another level.
  GI'm sure you're aware that the Azores are under British control. An old
  Portuguese treaty gives them the tight to military installations.'
 'I know that,' said Swanson testily.
 :The British found the medallion.'
 What will they do?'
 :Think about it. Eventually make a report to Allied Central.'
 But you know about it now.'
  'Hollander's a good man. He does favors; gets favors in return.'
  Swanson got out of the chair and walked aimlessly around it. 'What do you
  think, Ed? Was it meant for Spaulding?' he looked at the colonel.
  The expression on Pace's face let Swanson know that Pace was beginning to
  understand his anxiety. Not so much about the project - that was out of
  bounds and he accepted it - but that a fellow officer was forced to deal in
  an area he was out-of-sync with; territory he was not trained to cross. At
  such times a decent army man had sympathy.
  'All I can give you are conjectures, very loose, not even good guesses....
  It could be Spaulding. And even if it was, it doesn't necessarily mean it's
  connected with your project.'
 'Whaff
  'I don't know what Spaulding's field activities have been. Not
  specifically. And the Haganah is filled with psychopaths - deadly variety.
  They're about as rational as Julius Streicher's units. Spaulding may have
  had to kill a Portuguese or Spanish Jew. Or use one in a "cover trap." In
  a Catholic country that's all a Haganah cell would need.... Or it could be
  someone else on the plane. An officer or crewman with an anti-Zionist
  relative, especially a Jewish and-Zionist relative. I'd have to run a
  check. . . . Unless you'd read the book, you couldn't possibly understand
  those kikes.'
  Swanson remained silent for several moments. When he spoke he did so
  acknowledging Pace's attitude. 'Thank you.... But it probably isn't any of
  those things, is it? I mean, Spanish Jews or "cover traps" or some pilot's
  uncle. . . it's Spaulding.'

 152
 'You don't know that. Speculate, sure; don't assume.'
  'I can't understand how.' Swanson sat down again, thinking aloud, really.
  'All things considered . . . ' His thoughts drifted off into silence.
  'May I make a suggestionT Pace went to his chair. It was no time to talk
  down to a bewildered superior.
  'By all means,' said Swanson, looking over at the colonel, his eyes
  conveying gratitude to this hard-nosed, confident Intelligence man.
  'I'm not cleared for your project, let's face it, I don't want to be. It's
  a DW exercise, and that's where it belongs. I said a few minutes ago that
  you should consider alternatives ... maybe you should. But only if you see
  a direct connection. I watched you and you didn't.'
 'Because there isn't any.'
  'You're not involved - and even I don't see how, considering what I do know
  from the probe and Johannesburg -with the concentration camps? Auschwitz?
  BelsenT
 'Not even remotely.'
  Pace leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. 'Those are Haganah concerns.
  Along with the "Spanish Jews" and "cover traps." . . . Don't make any new
  decisions now, general. You'd be making them too fast, without supportive
  cause.'
  'Support. . . .' Swanson looked incredulous. 'A plane was blown up. Men
  were killed!'
  'And a medallion could be planted on a tail assembly by anyone. It's quite
  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.

                                 153
                 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.

 159
 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 nodded 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
  start of many, I hope.'
  'Of many,' he replied, standing up and going to her. He took both glasses,
  not the one extended. 'I'll put them over here.' He carried them to the
  coffee table in front of the small couch that faced the fireplace. He
  turned rapidly, politely to watch her eyes. She wasn't looking at the
  glasses. Or his placement of them.
  Instead, she approached the fire and removed her blouse. She dropped it on
  the floor and turned around, her large breasts accentuated by a tight,
  transparent brassiere that had webbed stitching at the tips.
 'Take off your shirt, David.'
  He did so and came to her. She winced at his bandages and gently touched
  them with her fingers. She pressed herself against him, her pelvis firm
  against his thighs, moving laterally, expertly. He reached around her back
  and undid the hasps of the brassiere; she hunched slightly as he pulled it
  away; then she turned, arching her breasts upward into his flesh. He cupped
  her left breast with his right hand; she reached down, stepping partially
  away, and undid his trousers.
  'The drinks can wait, David. It's New Year's Eve. Ours, anyway.'
  Still holding her breast, he put his lips to her eyes, her ears. She felt
  him and moaned.
  'Here, David,' she said. 'Right here on the floor.' She sank to her knees,
  her skirt pulled up to her thighs, the tops of her stockings visible.
 He lay down beside her and they kissed.
  'I remember,' he whispered with a gentle laugh. 'The first tirqe; the
  cottage by the boathouse. The floor. I remember.'
 'I wondered if you would. I've never forgotten.'

  It was only one forty-five in the morning when he took her home. They had
  made love twice, drunk a great deal of Jack and Peggy Webster's good
  whiskey and spoken of the 'old days' mostly. Leslie had no inhibitions
  regarding her marriage.

 162
 Richard Hawkwood, ex-husband, was simply not a man who could sustain a
 permanent relationship. He was a sexual glutton as long as the sex was
 spread around; not much otherwise. He was also a failure - as much as his
 family would allow - in the business world. Hawkwood was a man brought up to
 enjoy fifty thousand a year with the ability to make, perhaps, six.
  The war was created, she felt, for men like Richard. They would excel in
  it, as her ex-husband had done. He should 'go down in flames' somewhere,
  exiting brilliantly rather than returning to the frustrations of civilian
  inadequacy. Spaulding thought that was harsh; she claimed she was being
  considerate. And they laughed and made love.
  Throughout the evening David kept alert, waiting for her to say something,
  reveal something, ask something unusual. Anything to clarify - if nothing
  else - the reasons behind her earlier lies about finding him. There was
  nothing.
  He asked her again, claiming incredulity that she would remember his
  parents and the Montgomery. She stuck to her infallible memory, adding only
  that 'love makes any search more thorough.'
 She was lying again; he knew that. What they had was not love.
  She left him in the taxi; she didn't want him to come up. Her aunt would be
  asleep; it was better this way.
  They'd meet again tomorrow. At the Websters'. Ten o'clock in the evening;
  she had a dinner date she'd get rid of early. And she'd break her
  engagement for the real New Year's Eve. They'd have the whole day to
  themselves.
  As the doorman let her in and the taxi started up toward Fifth Avenue, he
  thought for the first time that Fairfax had him beginning his assignment at
  Meridian Aircraft the day after tomorrow. New Year's Eve. He expected it
  would be a half-day.
 It was strange. New Year's Eve. Christmas.
  He hadn't even thought about Christmas. He'd remembered to send his
  parents' gifts to Santiago, but he'd done that before his trip to the north
  country. To Basque and Navarre.
  Christmas had no meaning. The Santa Clauses ringing their clinking bells on
  the New York streets, the decorations in the store windows - none had
  meaning for him.
 He was sad about that. He had always enjoyed the holidays.
 David paid the driver, said hello to the Montgomery night

                                 163
 clerk and took the elevator to his floor. He got off and approached his
 door. Automatically, because his eyes were tired, he flipped his finger
 above the Do Not Disturb sign beneath the lock.
  Then he felt the wood and looked down, punching his cigarette lighter for
  better vision.
 The field thread was gone.
  Second nature and the instructions from Fairfax to stay alert had caused
  him to 'thread' his hotel room. Strands of invisible tan and black silk
  placed in a half-dozen locations, that if missing or broken meant a
  trespasser.
  He carried no weapon and he could not know if anyone was stiff inside.
  He returned to the elevator and pushed the button. He asked the operator if
  he had a passkey; his door wouldn't open. The man did not; he was taken to
  the lobby.
  The night clerk obliged, ordering the elevator operator to remain at the
  desk while he went to the aid of Mr. Spaulding and his difficult lock.
  As the two men walked out of the elevator and down the corridor, Spaulding
  heard the distinct sound of a latch being turned, snapped shut quietly but
  unmistakably. He rapidly turned his head in both directions, up and down
  the corridor, trying to locate the origin of the sound.
 Nothing but closed hotel doors.
  The desk clerk had no trouble opening the door. He had more difficulty
  understanding Mr. Spaulding's arm around his shoulder ushering him into the
  single room with him.
  David looked around quickly. The bathroom and closet doors were open as he
  had left them. There were no other places of concealment. He released the
  desk clerk and tipped him with a five-dollar bill.
  'Thank you very much. I'm embarrassed; I'm afraid I had too much to drink.'
  'Not at all, sir. 77tank you, sir.' The man'left, pulling the door shut
  behind him.
  David rapidly began his thread check. In the closet: his jacket bre"t
  pocket, leafed out, centered.
 No thread.
 The bureau: the first and third drawers, inserted.
  Both threads out of place. The first inside on top of a handkerchief; the
  second, wedged between shirts.

 164
  The bed: laterally placed along the spread in line with* the pattern.
 Nowhere. Nothing.
  He went to his suitcase, which lay on a luggage rack by the window. He
  knelt down and inspected the right lock; the thread had been clamped inside
  the metal hasp up under the tiny hinge. If the suitcase was opened, it had
  to break.
 It was broken, only one half remaining.
  The inside of the suitcase housed a single strand at the rear, crossing the
  elastic flap'three fingers from the left side.
 It was gone.
  David stood up. He crossed to the bedside table and reached underneath for
  the telephone directory. There was no point in delay; what advantage he had
  was in surprise. His room had been searched professionally; he was not
  expected to know.
  He would get Leslie Jenner's number, return to her apartment house and find
  a telephone booth near the entrance - with luck, in sight of it. He would
  then call her, tell her some wildly incredible story about anything and ask
  to see her. No mention of the search, nothing of his borne-out suspicions.
  Throw her off completely and listen acutely to her reaction. If she agreed
  to see him, all well and good. If she didn't, he'd keep her apartment under
  surveillance throughout the night, if necessary.
  Leslie Jenner had a story to tell and he'd find out what it was. The man in
  Lisbon had not spent three years in the north provinces without gaining
  expertise.
 There was no Jenner at the address of the apartment building.
 There were six Jenners, listed in Manhattan.
  One by one he gave the hotel switchboard the numbers, and one by one - in
  varying stages of sleep and anger - the replies were the same.
 No Leslie Jenner. None known.
  Spaulding hung up. He'd been sitting on the bed; he got up and walked
  around the room.
  He would go to the apartment building and ask the doorman. It was possible
  the apartment was in the aunt's name but it wasn't plausible. Leslie Jenner
  would put her name and number in the Yellow Pages, if she could; for her
  the telephone was an instrument of existence, not convenience. And if he
  went to the apartment and started asking questions, he would be announcing
  unreasonable concern. He wasn't prepared to do that.

                                 165
  Who was the girl at Rogers Peet? The one exchanging Christmas gifts.
  Cynthia? Cindy? ... Cindy. Cindy Tuttle ... Tottle. But not Tottle ...
  Bonner. Married to Paul Bonner, exchanging 'dreary gifts for Paul.'
 He crossed to the bed and picked up the telephone directory.
  Paul Bonner was listed: 480 Park Avenue. The address was appropriate. He
  gave the number to the switchboard.
 The voice of a girl more asleep than awake answered.
 'Yes?... Hello?'
 'Mrs. Bonner?'
 'Yes. What is it? This is Mrs. Bonner.'
  'I'm David Spaulding. You saw me this afternoon at Rogers Peet; you were
  exchanging gifts for your husband and I was buying a suit.... Forgive me
  for disturbing you but it's important. I had dinner with Leslie ... Leslie
  Jenner; you called her. I just left her at her apartment; we were to meet
  tomorrow and now I find that I may not be able to. It's foolish but I
  forgot to get her telephone number, and I can't find it in the book. I
  wondered...'
  'Mr. Spaulding.' The girl interrupted him, her tone sharp, no longer
  blurred with sleep. 'If this is a joke, I think it's in bad taste. I do
  remember your name . . . . I did not see you this afternoon and I wasn't
  exchanging . . . I wasn't in Rogers Peet. My husband was killed four months
  ago. In Sicily. . . . I haven't spoken to Leslie Jenner . . . Hawkwood, I
  think now in over a year. She moved to California, Pasadena, I believe. We
  haven't been in touch. Nor is it likely we would be.'
 David heard the, abrupt click of the broken connection.

 166
 17

 DECEMBER 31,1943

                   NEW YORK CITY

 It wasthe morning of New Year's Eve.
  His first day of 'employment' for Meridian Aircraft, Blueprint Division.
  He had stayed most of the previous day in his hotel room going out briefly
  for lunch and magazines, dinner through robm service, and finally a
  pointless taxi to Greenwich Village, where he knew he would not find Leslie
  Jehner at ten o , clock.
  He had remained confined for two reasons. The first was a confirmation of
  the Mitchell Field doctor's diagnosis: he was exhausted. The secopd reason
  was equally important. Fairfax was running checks on Leslie Jenner
  Hawkwood, Cindy Tottle Bonner, and a naval officer named Jack or John
  Webster, whose wifewasconveniently in California. David wanted this data
  before progressing further, and Ed Pace had promised to be as thorough as
  forty-eight hours allowed.
  Spaulding had been struck by Cindy Bonner's words concerning Leslie Jenner.
 She nwved to California. Pasadena, I believe....
  And a routine phone call to the Greenwich Village apartment's
  superintendent had confirmed that, indeed, the Websters did live there; the
  husband was in the navy, the wife was visiting him someplace in California.
  The superintendent was holding the mail.
 Someplace in California.

                                 167
 She moved to California....
 Was there a connection? Or simple coincidence.
  Spaulding looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. The morning of New
  Year's Eve. Tomorrow would be 1944.
  This morning, however, he was to report to one Walter Kendall and one
  Eugene Lyons at Meridian's temporary offices on Thirty-eighth Street.
  Why would one of the largest aircraft companies in the United States have
  'temporary' offices?
 The telephone rang. David reached for it.
 'Spaulding?'
 'Hello, Ed.'
  'I got what I could. It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. To begin
  with, there's no record of a divorce between the Hawkwoods. And he is in
  England. Eighth Air Force, but nothing classified. He's a pilot, Tenth
  Bomber Command down in Surrey.'
 'What about her living in California?'
  'Eighteen months ago she left New York and moved in with an aunt in
  Pasadena. Very rich aunt, married to a man named Goldsmith; he's a banker
  - Social Register, polo set. From what we've learned - and it's sketchy -
  she just likes California.'
 :'O.K. What about this WebsterT
  Checks out. He's a gunner officer on the Saratoga. It pulled into San Diego
  for combat repairs. It's scheduled for sea duty in two weeks, and the date
  holds. Until then there are a lot of forty-eights, seventy-twos; no
  extended leaves, though. The wife Margaret joined her lieutenant a couple
  of days ago. She's at the Greenbrier Hotel.'
 'Anything on the BonnersT
  'Only what you know, except that he was a bona fide hero. Posthumous Silver
  Star, Infantry. Killed on a scout patrol covering an ambush evacuation.
  Sicily invasion.'
 'And that's iff
  'That's it. Obviously they all know each other, but I can't find anything
  to relate to your DW assignment.'
  'But you're not the control, Ed. You said you didn't know what the
  assignment was.' -
  'True. But from the fragments I do know about, I can't find anything.,
 'My room was searched. I'm not mistaken about that.'

 168
 'Maybe the ' ft. Rich soldier in a rich hotel, home from an
 extended tour. Could be someone figured you were carrying a
 lot of back pay, discharge money.'
 'I doubt that. It was too pro.'
  'A lot of pros work those hotels. They wait for guys to start off on an
  alcoholic evening and . . .'
 Spaulding interrupted. 'I want to follow up something.'
 6VVhat?9
  'The Bonner girl said "it wasn't likely" she'd be in touch with Leslie
  Jenner, and she wasn't kidding. That's an odd thing to say, isn't it? I'd
  like to know why she said it.'
  'Go ahead. It was your hotel room, not mine. . . . You know what I think?
  And I've thought about it; I've had to.'
 6119ftat?9
  'That New York crowd plays a fast game of musical beds. Now, you didn't
  elaborate, but isn't it logical the lady was in New York for a few days,
  perhaps saw you herself, or knew someone who had, and figured, why not? I
  mean, what the hell, she's headed back to California; probably never see
  you again. . . .'
  'No, it's not logical. She was too complicated; she didn't have to be. She
  was keeping me away from the hotel.'
 'Well, you were there. . . .'
  'I certainly was. You know, it's funny. According to your major at Mitchell
  Field, you think the Azores thing was directed at me. . . .'
 'I said might be,' interjected Pace.
  'And I don't. Yet here I am, convinced the other night was, and you don't.
  Maybe we're both getting tired.'
  'Maybe I'm also concerned for your source control. This Swanson, he's very
  nervous; this isn't his ball park. I don't think he can take many more
  complications.'
 'Then let's not give him any. Not now. I'll know if I should.'

  Spaulding watched the disheveled accountant as he outlined the Buenos Aires
  operation. He had never met anyone quite like Walter Kendall. The man was
  positively unclean. His body odor was only partially disguised by liberal
  doses of bay rum. His shirt collar was dirty, his suit unpressed, and David
  was fascinated to watch the man breathe simultaneously through'his mouth
  and nostrils. The agent in Terceira had said Eugene Lyons was 'odd';
if this Kendall was'normal,'he couldn't wait to meet the scientist. The Buenos
 Aires operation seemed simple enough, far less complicated than most of the
 Lisbon work. So simple, in fact, that it angered him to think he had been
 removed from Lisbon for it. Had anyone bothered to fill him in a few weeks
 ago, he could have saved Washington a lot of planning, and probably money.
 He had been dealing with the German underground since that organization had
 consolidated its diverse factions and become an effective force. If this
 Erich Rhinemann was capable of buying the designs, removing them from the
 PeenemUnde complex, he -the man in Lisbon - could have gotten them out of
 the country. Probably with more security than trying to slip them out of
 North Sea or Channel ports. Those ports were clamped tight, obsessively
 patrolled. Had they not been, much of his own work would have been
 unnecessary. The only really remarkable aspect of the operation was that
 Rhinemann could get blueprints - on anything - related to Peenemdride. That
 was extraordinary. Peencintinde was a concrete and steel vault buried in the
 earth. With the most complex system of safeguards and backups ever, devised.
 It would be easier to get a man out - for any number of invented reasons -
 than to remove a single page of paper.
  Further, PeenemUnde kept its laboratories separate, vital stages
  coordinated by only a handful of elite scientific personnel under Gestapo
  check. In Buenos Aires terms, this meant that Erich Rhinemann was able to
  (1) reach and buy diverse laboratory heads in a systematic order; (2)
  circumvent or buy (impossible) the Gestapo; or (3) enlist the cooperation
  of those handful of scientists who crossed laboratory lines.
  David's experience led him to disqualify the last two possibilities; there
  was too much room for betrayal. Rhinemann must have concentrated on the
  laboratory heads; that was dangerous enough but more feasible.
  As Kendall talked, David decided to keep his conclusions to himself. He
  would ask several questions, one or two of which he really wanted answered,
  but he would not form a partnership with Walter Kendall at this time. It
  was an easy decision to make. Kendall was one of the least likable men he'd
  ever met.
  'Is there any particular reason why the designs have to be delivered in
  stages?' Spaulding asked.
  7hey may not be. But Rhmemann's smuggling them out section by section.
  Everybody's got a schedule; he says it's safer

 170
 that way. From his projections, we figure a period of a week.'
  'All right, that makes sense.... And this Lyons fellow can authenticate
  them?'
  'There's no one better. I'll get to him in a few minutes; there are a
  couple of things you'll have to know. Once in Argentina, he's your
  property.'
 'That sounds ominous.'
  'You can handle him. You'll have help.... The point is, as soon as he's
  cleared those blueprints, you send the codes and Rhinemann gets paid. Not
  before.'
  'I don't understand. Why so complicated? If they check out, why not pay him
  off in Buenos AiresT
 'He doesn't want that money in an Argentine bank.'
 'It must be a bundle.'
 'It is.'
  'From what little I know of this Rhinemann, isn't it unusual for him to be
  working with the German undergroundT
 'He's a Jew.'
  'Don't tell any graduates of Auschwitz. They won't believe you.
  'War makes necessary relationships. Look at us. We're working with the
  Reds. Same thing: common goals, forget the disagreements.'
 'In this case, that's a little cold-blooded.'
 'Their problem, not ours.'
  'I won't pursue it.... One obvious question. Since I'm on my way to Buenos
  Aires, the embassy, why this stop in New York? Wouldn't it have been easier
  to just rotate from Lisbon to Argentina?'
 'A last-minute decision, I'm afraid. Awkward, huhT
 'Not too smooth. Am I on a transfer listT
 'A whatT
  'Foreign Service transfer sheet. State Department. Mlitary attachd.,
 'I don't know. Whyr
  'I'd like to find out if it's common knowledge that I left Lisbon. Or could
  be common knowledge. I didn't think it was supposed to be.'
 'Then it wasn't. Why?'
 'So I know how to behave, that's all.'
 'We thought you should spend a few days getting familiar with

                                 171
 everything. Meet Lyons, me; go over the schedule, What we're after, that
 sort of thing.'
  'Very considerate.'David saw the questioning look on Kendall's face. 'No,
  I mean that. So often we get thrown field problems knowing too little
  background. I've done it to men myselE ... Then this discharge, the combat
  in Italy, they're the cover for my Lisbon activities? For New York only.'
  'Yeah, I guess that's right.' Kendall, who'd been sitting on the edge of
  his desk, got up and walked around to his chair.
 'How far am I to carry iff
  'Carry whatT Kendall avoided looking at David, who was leaning forward on
  an office couch.
  'The cover. The papers mention Fifth Army -that's Clark; Thirty-Fourth
  Division, One Hundred and Twelfth Battalion, et cetera. Should I bone up?
  I don't know much about the Italian Theater. Apparently I got hit beyond
  Salerno; are there circumstancesT
  'That's army stuff. As far as I'm concerned you'll be here five, six days,
  then Swanson will see you and send you down to Buenos Aires.'
  'All right, I'll wait for General Swanson.' David realized there was no
  point in pursuing G-2 rituals with Kendall.... Part professional, part
  amateur. The hesitation waltz.
  'Until you leave you'll spend whatever time you think is necessary with
  Lyons. In his office.'
 'Fine. I'd like to meet him.' David stood up.
  'Sit down, he's not here today. Nobody's here today but the receptionist.
  Till one o'clock. It's New Year's Eve.' Kendall slumped into his chair and
  took out a cigarette, which he squeezed. 'I've got to tell you about
  Lyons.'
 'All right.' David returned to the couch.
  'He's a drunk. He spent four years in jail, in a penitentiary. He can
  hardly talk because his throat got burned out with raw alcohol.... He's
  also the smartest son of a bitch in aerophysics.'
  Spaulding stared at Kendall without replying for several moments. When he
  did speak, he made no attempt to conceal his shock. 'That's kind of a
  contradictory recommendation, isn't it?'
 'I said he's smart.'
  'So are half the lunatics in Bellevue. Can he function? Since he's going to
  be my "property" - as you put it - Id like to know what the hell you've
  given me. And why, not incidentally.'

 172
 'He's the best.'
 That doesn't answer my question. Questions.'
 'You're a soldier. You take orders.'
 'I give them, too. Don't start that way.'
 'All right.... O.K. You're entitled, I guess.'
 'I'd say so.'
  'Eugene Lyons wrote the book on physical aerodynamics; he was the youngest
  full professor at the Massachusetts Institute Of Technology. Maybe he was
  too young; he went downhill fast. Bum marriage, a lot of drinking, a lot of
  debts; the debts did it, they usually do. That and too many brains no one
  wants to pay for.'
 'Did what?'
  'He went out of his skull, a week's bender. When he woke up in a South Side
  Boston hotel room, the girl he was with was dead. He'd beaten her to
  death.... She was a whore so nobody cared too much; still, he did it. They
  called it unpremeditated murder and MIT got him a good lawyer. He served
  four years, got out and nobody would hire him, wouldn't touch him.... That
  was 1936. He gave up; joined the skid row bums. I mean he really joined
  them.' Kendall paused and grinned.
  David was disturbed by the accountant's smile; there was nothing funny in
  the story. 'Obviously he didn't stay there.'It was all he could think to
  say.
  'Did for damn near three years. Got his throat burned out right down on
  Houston Street.'
 'That's very sad.'
  'Best thing that happened to him. in the hospital ward they took his
  history and a doctor got interested. He was shipped off to the goddamned
  CCC, was reasonably rehabilitated, and what with the war coming he got into
  defense work.'
  'Then he's all right now.' Spaulding made the statement positively. Again,
  it was all he could think to say.
  'You don't clean out a man like that overnight. Or in a couple of years....
  He has lapses, falls into the booze barrel now and then. Since working on
  classified stuff he's cooped up with his own personal wardens. For
  instance, here in New York he's got a room at St. Luke's Hospital. He's
  taken back and forth just like your socialite drunks.... In California,
  Lockheed's got him in a garden apartment with male nurses round the clock,
  when he's away from the plants. Actually, he's got it pretty good.'

                                 1-73
 'He must be valuable. That's a lot of trouble .... *
  'I told you,' interrupted Kendall. 'He's the best. He's just got to be
  watched.'
  'What happens when he's on his own? I mean, I've known alcoholics; they can
  slip away, often ingeniously.'
  'That's no problem. He'll get liquor - when he wants it; he'll be ingenious
  about that. But he doesn't go outside by himself. He won't go where there
  are any people, if you know what I mean.
 'I'm not sure I do.'
  'He doesn't talk. The best he can manage is a hoarse whisper; remember, his
  throat was boiled out. He stays away from people. ... Which is fine. When
  he's not drinking - which is most of the time - he's reading and working.
  He'll spend days in a laboratory stone sober and never go outside. It's
  just fine.'
 'How does he communicate? In the lab? In a meeting?'
  'Pad and pencil, a few whispers, his hands. Mostly a pad and pencil. It's
  just numbers, equations, diagrams. That's his language.'
 'His entire language?'
  'That's right.... If you're thinking about holding a conversation with him,
  forget it. He hasn't had a conversation with anyone in ten years.'

 174
                 18

                  DECEMBER 31,1943 NEW YORK CITY

 Spaulding hurried down Madison Avenue to the northeast comer of B. Altman's.
 There was a light snow falling; taxis rushed past the few pedestrians
 signaling in the middle of the block. The better fares were at the
 department store's entrance, carrying last-minute purchases for New Year's
 Eve. People who shopped at Altman's on the afternoon of New Year's Eve were
 prime passengers. Why waste gas on less?
  David found himself walking faster than he had reason to; he wasn't going
  anywhere, to any specific place that required his presence at a specific
  time; he was getting away from Walter Kendall as fast as he could.
  Kendall had finished his briefing on Eugene Lyons with the statement that
  'two hulks' would accompany the scientist to Buenos Aires. There'd be no
  liquor for the hermit-mute with his throat burned out; the male nurses
  carried 'horse pills' at all times. Eugene Lyons, with no drink available,
  would spend hours over the work problems. Why not? He didn't do anything
  else. No conversations, David mused.
  David turned down Kendall's offer of lunch on the pretext of looking up
  family friends. After all, it had been over three years. ... He'd be in the
  office on January 2.
  The truth was that Spaulding just wanted to get away from the man. And
  there was another reason: Leslie Jenner Hawkwood.
 He didn't know where he'd begin, but he had to begin quickly.

                                 175
 He had roughly a week to learn the story behind that incredible evening two
 nights ago. The beginning would include a widow named Bonner, that much he
 knew.
 Perhaps Aaron Mandel could help him.
  He took a dollar bill from his pocket and approached the doorman in front
  of Altman's. A taxi was found in less than a minute.
  The ride uptown was made to the accompanying loquaciousness of the driver,
  who seemed to have an opinion on most any subject. David found the man
  annoying; he wanted to think and it was difficult. Then suddenly he was
  grateful to him.
  'I was gonna catch the New Year's Eve crowds, like up at the Plaza, you
  know what I mean? There's big tips over at those war relief things. But the
  wife said no. She said come home, drink a little wine, pray to God our boy
  gets through the year. Now, I gotta. I mean if anything happened, I'd
  figure it was the tips 1. made New Year's Eve. Superstitions! What the
  hell, the kid's a typist in Fort Dix.'
  David had forgotten the obvious. No, not forgotten; he just hadn't
  considered the possibilities because they did not relate to him. Or he to
  them. He was in New York. On New Year's Eve. And that meant parties,
  dances, charity balls and an infinite variety of war-created celebrations
  in a dozen ballrooms and scores of townhouses.
  Mrs. Paul Bonner would be at one of those places, at one of those parties.
  It had been four months since her husband had been killed. It was
  sufficient mourning under the circumstances, for the times. Friends - other
  women like Leslie Jenner, but of course not Leslie Jenner - would make that
  clear to her. It was the way social Manhattan behaved. And quite
  reasonable, all things considered.
  It shouldn't be too difficult to find out where she was going. And if he
  found her, he'd find others ... it was a place to start.
  He tipped the driver and walked rapidly into the Montgomery lobby.
  'Oh, Mr. Spaulding I' The old desk clerk's voice echoed in the marble
  enclosure. 'There's a message for you.'
  He crossed to the counter. 'Thank you.' He unfolded the paper; Mr. Fairfax
  had telephoned. Would he return the call as soon as possible?
 Ed Pace wanted to reach him.

 176
  The thread was intact under the door lock. He entered his room and went
  directly to the telephone.
  'We got something in on the Hawkwood girl,' Pace said. 'Thought you'd want
  to know.'
  What is it?' Why, oh why, did Pace always start conversations like that?
  Did he expect him to say, no, I don't want to know anything, and hang up?
  'It fits in, I'm afraid, with my opinion of the other night. Your antenna's
  been working overtime.'
  'For Christ's sake, Ed, I'll pin a medal on you whenever you like. What is
  itT
  'She plays around. She's got a wide sex life in the Los Angeles area.
  Discreet but busy. A high-class whore, if I don't offend you.
 :You don't offend me. What's the source?'
  Several brother officers to begin with; navy and air force. Then some of
  the movie people, actors and a couple of studio executives. And the
  social-industrial crowd: Lockheed, Sperry Rand. She's not the most welcome
  guest at the Santa Monica Yacht Club.'
 'Is there a G-2 pattern?'
  'First thing we looked for. Negative. No classified personnel in her bed.
  Just rank: military and civilian. And she is in New York. Careful inquiry
  says she went back to visit her parents for Christmas.'
  'There are no Jenners listed in the phone book who've ever heard of her.'
 'in Bernardsville, New Jersey?'
  'No,' said David wearily. 'Manhattan. You did say New York.'
  'Try Bernardsville. If you want to find her. But don't hand in any expense
  vouchers; you're not on a courier run in the north country.'
 'No. Bernardsville is hunt country.'
 'What?'
  'Very social territory. Stables and stirrup cups.... Thanks, Ed. You just
  saved me a lot of work.'
  'Think nothing of it. All you've had is the conduit center of Allied
  Intelligence solving the problems of your sex life. We try to please our
  employees.'
 11 pron-Ase to re-enlist when it's all over. Thanks again.'

                                 177
 'Dave?'
 'Yes?'
  .Tm not cleared for the Swanson job, so no specifics, but how does it
  strike you?'
  'I'll be damned if I know why you're not cleared. It's a simple purchase
  being handled by some oddbaUs - at least one ... no, two that I know about.
  The one I've met is a winner. It seems to me they've complicated the deal,
  but that's because they're new at it.... We could have done it better.'
 'Have you met Swanson?'
  'Not yet. After the holidays, I'm told. What the hell, we wouldn't want to
  interfere with the brigadier's Christmas vacation. School doesn't start
  until the first week in January.'
  Pace laughed on the other end of the line. 'Happy New Year, Dave.'
 'The same, Ed. And thanks.'
  Spaulding replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch, it was one
  fifteen. He could requisition an army vehicle somewhere, he supposed, or
  borrow a car from Aaron Mandel. Bernardsville was about an hour outside New
  York, west of the Oranges, if he remembered correctly. It might be best to
  take Leslie Jenner by surprise, giving her no chance to run. On the other
  hand, on the premise he had considered before Pace's call, Leslie was
  probably in New York, preparing for the New Year's Eve she'd promised him.
  Somewhere, someplace. In an apartment or a brownstone or a hotel room like
  his own.
  Spaulding wondered for a moment whether Pace had a point. Was he trying to
  find Leslie for reasons quite apart from his suspicions? The lies, the
  search.... It was possible. Why not? But a two- to three-hour drive to west
  Jersey and back would bring him no closer to either objective,
  investigatory or Freudian. If she wasn't there.
  He asked the Montgomery switchboard to get him the number of the Jenner
  residence in Bernardsville, New Jersey. Not to place the call, just get the
  telephone number. And the address. Then he called Aaron Mandel.
  He had postponed it for as long as he could; Aaron would be filled with
  tears and questions and offers of anything under the Manhattan sun and
  moon. Ed Pace told him he had interviewed the old" concert manager four
  years ago before approaching David for Lisbon; that would mean he could
  reasonably avoid any

 178
 lengthy discussions about his work.
  And Aaron might be able to help him, should he need the old man's
  particular kind of assistance. Mandel's New York contacts were damn near
  inexhaustible. David would know more after he reached Bernardsville; and it
  would be less awkward to have made his duty call to Aaron before asking
  favors.
  At first Spaulding thought the old man would have a coronary over the
  telephone. Aaron's voice choked, conveying his shock, his concern ... and
  his love. The questions came faster than David could answer them; his
  mother, his father, his own wellbeing.
  Mandel did not ask him about his work, but neither would he be satisfied
  that David was as healthy as he claimed. Aaron insisted on a meeting, if
  not this evening then certainly tomorrow.
  David agreed. In the morning, late morning. They would have a drink
  together, perhaps a light lunch; welcome the New Year together.
 'God be praised. You are well. You'll come around tomorrowT
 11 promise,' David said.
 'And you've never broken a promise to me.'
 'I won't. Tomorrow. And Aaron . .
 'Yes?'
  'It's possible I may need to find someone tonight. I'm not sure where to
  look but probably among the Social Register crowd. How are your Park Avenue
  connectionsT
  The old man chuckled in the quiet, good-humored, slightly arrogant way
  David remembered so well. 'I'm the only Jew with a Torah stand in St. John
  the Divine. Everybody wants an artist - for nothing, of course. Red Cross,
  green cross; debutantes for war bandages, dances for fancy-sounding French
  medal winners. You name it, Mandel's on the hook for it. I got three
  coloraturas, two pianists and five Broadway baritones making appearances
  for "our boys" tonight. All on the Upper East Side.'
 'I may call you in a little while. Will you still be at the office?'
  'Where else? For soldiers and concert managers, when are the holidaysT
 'You haven't changed.'
 'The main thing is that you're well. . .
 No sooner had David hung up the phone than it rang.
  'I have the telephone number and the address of your party in
  Bernardsville, Mr. Spaulding.'

                                 179
 'May I have them, please?'
  The operator gave him the information and he wrote it down on the
  ever-present stationery next to the phone.
 'Shall I put the call through, sir?'
  David hesitated, then said, 'Yes, please. I'll stay on the line. Ask for a
  Mrs. Hawkwood, please.'
  .Mrs. Hawkwood. Very well, sir. But I can call you back when I have the
  party.'
  'I'd rather stay on an open circuit. . . .' David caught himself, but not
  in time. The blunder was minor but confirmed by the operator. She replied
  in a knowing voice.
  'Of course, Mr. Spaulding. I assume if someone other than Mrs. Hawkwood
  answers, you'll wish to terminate the call?'
 'I'll let you know.'
  The operator, now part of some sexual conspiracy, acted her role with firm
  efficiency. She dialed the outsideoperator and in moments a phone could be
  heard ringing in Bernardsville, New Jersey. A woman answered; it was not
  Leslie.
 'Mrs. Hawkwood, please.'
 'Mrs .... ' The voice on the Bernardsville line seemed hesitant.
  'Mrs. Hawkwood, please. Long distance cafling,9 said the Montgomery
  operator, as if she were from the telephone company, expediting a
  person-to-person call.
 'Mrs. Hawkwood isn't here, operator.'
 'Can you tell me what time she's expected, please?'
  'What time? Good heavens, she's not expected. At least, I didn't think she
  was. . . .'
  Not fazed, the Montgomery employee continued, interrupting politely. 'Do
  you have a number where Mrs. Hawkwood can be reached, please?'
  'Well . . .' The voice in Bernardsville was now bewildered. 'I suppose in
  California. . . .'
  David knew it was time to intercede. 'I'll speak to the party on the line~
  operator.'
  'Very well, sir.' There was a ther-ump sound indicating the switchboard's
  disengagement from the circuit.
 'Mrs. Jenner?'
  'Yes, this is Mrs. Jenner,' answered Bernardsville, obviously relieved with
  the more familiar name.
 'My name is David Spaulding, I'm a friend of Leslie's and
 .' Jesus! He'd forgotten the husband's first name. Captain

 180
 Hawkwood's. I was given this number. . . .'
  'Well, David Spaulding! How are you, dear? This is Madge Jenner, you silly
  boy! Good heavens, it must be eight, ten years ago. How's your father and
  mother? I hear they're living in London. So very brave!'
  Christl thought Spaulding, it never occurred to him that Leslie's mother
  would remember two East Hampton months almost a decade ago. 'Oh, Mrs.
  Jenner.... They're fine. I'm sorry to disturb you. . . .'
  'You could never disturb us, you dear boy. We're just, a couple of old
  stablehands out here. James has doubled our colors; no one wants to keep
  horses anymore.... You thought Leslie was hereT
 'Yes, that's what I was told.'
  'I'm sorry to say she's not. To be quite frank, we rarely hear from her.
  She moved to California, you know.'
 'Yes, with her aunt.'
  'Only half-aunt, dear. My stepsister; we've not gotten along too well, I'm
  afraid. She married a Jew. He calls himself Goldsmith - hardly a disguise
  for Goldberg or Goldstein, is it? We're convinced he's in the black market
  and all that profiteering, if you know what I mean.'
  'Oh? Yes, I see.... Then Leslie didn't come East to visit you for
  ChristmasT
 'Good heavens, no I She barely managed to send us a card . . .

  He was tempted to call Ed Pace in Fairfax; inform the Intelligence head
  that California G-2 had come up with a Bernardsville zero. But there was no
  point. Leslie Jenner Hawkwood was in New York.
 He had to find out why.
  He called Mandel back and gave him two names: Leslie's and Cindy Tottle
  Bonner, widow of Paul Bonner, hero. Without saying so, David indicated that
  his curiosity might well be more professional than personal. Mandel did not
  question; he went to work.
  Spaulding realized that he could easily phone Cindy Bonner, apologize and
  ask to see her. But he couldn't risk her turning him down; which she
  probably would do in light of the crude telephone call he had placed two
  nights ago. There simply wasn't the time. He'd have to see her, trust the
  personal contact.

                                 181
  And even then she might not be able to tell him anything. Yet there were
  certain instincts one developed and came to recognize. Inverted,
  convoluted, irrational.... Atavistic.
  Twenty minutes passed; it was quarter to three. His telephone rang.
 'David?'
 'Aaron.'
  'This Hawkwood lady, there's absolutely nothing. Everyone says she moved to
  California and nobody's heard a word.... Mrs. Paul Bonner: there's a
  private party tonight, on Sixtysecond Street, name of Warfield. Number
  212.'
 :Thanks. I'll wait outside and crash it with my best manners.'
  No need for that. You have an invitation. Personal from the lady of the
  house. Her name's Andrea and she's delighted to entertain the soldier son
  of the famous you-know-who. She also wants a soprano in February, but
  that's my problem.'

 182
                19

DECEMBER 31, 1943 NEW YORK CITY

  The dinner clientele from the Gallery could have moved intact to the
  Warfield brownstone on Sixty-second Street. David mixed easily. The little
  gold emblem in his lapel served its purpose; he was accepted more readily,
  he was also more available. The drinks and buffet were generous, the small
  Negro jazz combo better than good.
  And he found Cindy Bonner in a comer, waiting for her escortan army
  lieutenant -to come back from the bar. She was petite, with reddish hair
  and very light, almost pale skin. Her, posture was Vogue, her body slender,
  supporting very expensive, very subdued clothes. There was a pensive look
  about her; not sad, however. Not the vision of a hero's widow, not heroic
  at all. A rich little girl.
  'I have a sincere apology to make,' he told her. 'I hope you'll accept it.'
  'I can't imagine what for. I don't think we've met.' She smiled but not
  completely, as if his presence triggered a memory she could not define.
  Spaulding saw the look and understood. It was his voice. The voice that
  once had made him a good deal of money.
 'My name is Spaulding. David . .
  'You telephoned the other night,' interrupted the girl, her eyes angry.
  'Tbe Christmas gifts for Paul. Leslie . . .'
 'Thafs why I'm apologizing. It was all a terrible misunder-
                                 183
 standing. Please forgive me. It's not the sort of joke I'd enter into
 willingly; I was as angry as you were.' He spoke calmly, holding her eyes
 with his own. It was sufficient; she blinked, trying to understand, her
 anger fading. She looked briefly at the tiny brass eagle in his lapel, the
 small insignia that could mean just about anything.
 'I think I believe you.'
 'You should. It was sick; I'm not sick.'
  The army lieutenant returned carrying two glasses. He was drunk and
  hostile. Cindy made a short introduction; the lieutenant barely
  acknowledged the civilian in front of him. He wanted to dance; Cindy did
  not. The situation - abruptly created - was about to deteriorate.
  David spoke with a trace of melancholy. 'I served with Mrs. Bonner's
  husband. I'd like to speak with her for just a few minutes. I'll have to
  leave shortly, my wife's waiting for me uptown.'
  The combination of facts - reassurances - bewildered the drunken lieutenant
  as well as mollified him. His gallantry was called; he bowed tipsily and
  walked back toward the bar.
  'Nicely done,' Cindy said. 'If there is a Mrs. Spaulding uptown, it
  wouldn't surprise me. You said you were out with Leslie -that's par for her
  course!
  David looked at the girl. Trust the developed instincts, he thought to
  himself. 'There is no Mrs. Spaulding. But there was a Mrs. Hawkwood the
  other night. I gather you're not very fond of her.'
  'She and my husband were what is politely referred to as "an item." A
  long-standing one. There are some people who say I forced her to move to
  California.'
  6 Then I'll ask the obvious question. Under the circumstances, I wonder why
  she used your name? And then disappeared. She'd know I'd try to reach you.'
 'I think you used the term sick. She's sick.'
 'Or else she was trying to tell me something!

  David left the Warfields' shortly before the New Year arrived. He reached
  the comer of Lexington Avenue and turned south. There was nothing to do but
  walk, think, try to piece together what he had learned; find a pattern that
  made sense.
 He couldn't. Cindy Bonner was a bitter widow; her husband's

 184
 death on the battlefield robbed her of any chance to strike back at Leslie.
 She wanted, according to her, simply to forget. But the hurt had been major.
 IA*Iie and Paul Bonner had been more than an 'item'. They had reached -
 again, according to Cindy - the stage where the Bormers had mutually sued
 for divorce. A confrontation between the two women, however, did not confirm
 Paul Bonner's story; Leslie Jenner Hawkwood had no Intention of divorcing
 her husband.
  It was all a messy, disagreeable Social Register foul-up; Ed Pace's
  'musical beds.'
  Why, then, would Leslie use Cindy's name? It was not only provocative and
  tasteless, it was senseless.
  Midnight arrived as he crossed Fifty-second Street. A few homs blared from
  passing automobiles. In the distance could be heard tower bells and
  whistles; from inside bars came the shrill bleats of noisemakers and a
  cacophony of shouting. Three sailors, their uniforms filthy, were singing
  loudly off key to the amusement of pedestrians.
  He walked west toward the string of cafes between Madison and Fifth. He
  considered stopping in at Shor's or 21 ... in ten minutes or so. Enough
  time for the celebrations to have somewhat subsided.
 'Happy New Year, Colonel Spaulding.'
 The voice was sharp and came from a darkened doorway.
  'WhatT David stopped and looked into the shadows. A tall man in a light
  grey overcoat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, stood immobile.
  'What did you sayT
  'I wished you a Happy New Year,' said the man. 'Needless to say, I've been
  following you. I overtook you several minutes ago.,
 I The voice was lined with an accent, but David couldn't place it. The
 English was British tutored, the origin somewhere in Middle Europe. Perhaps
 the Balkans.
  'I find that a very unusual statement and ... needless to say . . . quite
  disturbing.' Spaulding held his place; he had no weapon and wondered if the
  man recessed in the doorway was, conversely, armed. He couldn't tell. 'What
  do you wantT
  'To welcome you home, to begin with. You've been away a long time.'
 'Thank you.... Now, if you don't mind
 'I mind I Don't move, colonel! Just stand there as if you were

                                 185
 talking with an old friend. Don't back away; I'm holding a .45 leveled at
 your chest.' '
  Several passersby walked around David on the curb side. A couple came out
  of an apartment entrance ten yards to the right of the shadowed doorway;
  they were in a hurry and crossed rapidly between Spaulding and the tall man
  with the unseen gun. David was first tempted to use them, but two
  considerations prevented him. The first was the grave danger to the couple,
  the second, the fact that the man with the gun had something to say. If
  he'd wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now.
 'I won't move.... What is iff
 'Take two steps forward. Just two. No more.'
  David did so. He could see the face better now, but not clearly. It was a
  thin face, gaunt and lined. The eyes were deepset with hollows underneath.
  Tired eyes. The dull finish of the pistol's barrel was the clearest object
  David could distinguish. The man kept shifting his eyes to his left, behind
  Spaulding. He was looking for someone. Waiting.
  'All right. Two steps. Now no one can walk between us. ... Are you
  expecting someoneT
  'I'd heard that the main agent in Lisbon was very controlled. You bear that
  out. Yes, I'm waiting; I'll be picked up shortly.'
 'Am I to go with you?'
  'It won't be necessary. I'm delivering a message, that is all. ... The
  incident at Laies. It is to be regretted, the work of zealots.
  Nevertheless, accept it as a warning. We can't always control deep angers;
  surely you must know that. Fairfax should know it. Fairfax will know it
  before this first day of the New Year is over. Perhaps by now.... There is
  my car. Move to my right, your left.'David did so as the man edged toward
  the sidewalk, hiding the pistol under the cloth of his coat. 'Heed us,
  colonel. There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmfiller. They
  arefinished!'
  'Wait a minute! I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any
  AltmiUler!'
 'Finished! Heed the lesson of Fairfax!'
  A dark brown sedan with bright headlights pulled up to the curb. It
  stopped, the rear door was thrown open, and the tall man raced across the
  sidewalk between the pedestrians and climbed in. The car sped away.
  David rushed to the curb. The least he could do was get the vehicle's
  license number.

 186
 There was none. The rear license plate was missing.
  Instead, above the trunk in the oblong rear window, a face looked back at
  him. His shock caused him to lose his breath. For the briefest of moments
  he wondered if his eyes, his senses were playing tricks on him,
  transporting his imagination back to Lisbon.
  He started after the car, running in the street, dodging automobiles and
  the goddamned New Year's Eve revelers.
  The brown sedan turned north on Madison Avenue and sped off. He stood in
  the street, breathless.
  The face in the rear window was that of a man he had worked with in the
  most classified operations out of Portugal and Spain.
 Marshall. Lisbon's master cryptographer.

   I
  The taxi driver accepted David's challenge to get him to the Montgomery in
  five minutes or less. It took seven, but considering the traffic on Fifth
  Avenue, Spaulding gave him five dollars and raced into the lobby.
 There were no messages.
  He hadn't bothered to thread his door lock; a conscious oversight, he
  considered. In addition to the maid service, if he could have offered an
  open invitation to those who had searched his room two nights ago, he would
  have done so. A recurrence might cause carelessness,-some clues to
  identities.
  He threw off his coat and went to his dresser, where he kept a bottle of
  Scotch. Two clean glasses stood on a silver tray next to the liquor. He'd
  take the necessary seconds to pour himself a drink before calling Fairfax.
  'A very Happy New Year, , he said slowly as he lifted the glass to his
  lips.
  He crossed to the bed, picked up the telephone and gave the Virginia number
  to the switchboard. The circuits to the Washington area were crowded; it
  would take several minutes to get through.
  What in God's name did the man mean? Heed the lesson of Fairfax. What the
  hell was he talking about? Who was Altmfiller? ... What was the first name?
  ... Franz. Franz Altmiiller.
 Who was he?
  So the Lajes Field 'incident' was aimed at him. For Christ's sake, what
  for?
 And Marshall. It was Marshall in that rear window I He hadn't

                                 187
 been mistaken I
  'Field Division Headquarters' were the monotoned words from the State of
  Virginia, County of Fairfax.
 'Colonel Edmund Pace, please.'
  There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. David's ears picked
  up a tiny rush of air he knew very well.
  It was a telephone intercept, usually attached to a wire recorder.
 'Who's calling Colonel PaceT
  It was David's turn to hesitate. He did so thinking that perhaps he'd
  missed the interceptor sound before. It was entirely possible, and Fairfax
  was, after all ... well, Fairfax.
 'Spaulding. Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding.'
 'Can I give the colonel a message, sir? He's in conference.'
 'No, you may not. You may and can give me the colonel.'
  'I'm sorry, sir.' Fairfax's hesitation was now awkward. 'Let me have a
  telephone number .....
  'Look, soldier, my name is Spaulding. My clearance is fourzero and this is
  a four-zero prioxity call. If those numbers don't mean anything to you, ask
  the son of a bitch on your intercept. Now, it's an emergency. Put me
  through to Colonel Pace!'
  There was a loud double click on the line. A deep, hard voice came over the
  wire.
  'And this is Colonel Barden, Colonel Spaulding. I'm also four-zero and any
  four-zeros will be cleared with this son of a bitch. Now, I'm in no mood
  for any rank horseshit. What do you want?'
  'I like your directness, colonel,' said David, smiling in spite of his
  urgency. 'Put me through to Ed. It's really priority. It concerns Fairfax.'
  'I can't put you through, colonel. We don't have any circuits, and I'm not
  trying to be funny. Ed Pace is dead. He was shot through the head an hour
  ago. Some goddamned son of a bitch killed him right here in the compound.'

 M&
 20

  JANUARY 1, 1944

                  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

 It was four-thirty in the morning when the army car carrying Spaulding
 reached the Fairfax gate.
  The guards had been alerted; Spaulding, in civilian clothes, possessing no
  papers of authorization, was matched against his file photograph and waved
  through. David had been tempted to ask to see the photograph; to the best
  of his knowledge, it was four years old. Once inside, the automobile swung
  left and headed to the south area of the huge compound. About a half mile
  down the gravel road, past rows of metal Quonset huts, the car pulled up in
  front of a barracks structure. It was the Fairfax Administration Building.
  Two corporals flanked the door. The sergeant Over climbed out of the car
  and signaled the noncoms to let Spaulding throughl he was already in front
  of them.
  David was shown to an office on the second floor. Inside were two men:
  Colonel Ira Barden and a doctor named McCleod, a captain. Barden was a
  thick, short man with the build of a foptball tackle and close-cropped
  black hair. McCleod was stooped, slender, bespectacled - the essence of the
  thoughtful academician.
  Barden wasted the minimum time with introductions. Completed, he went
  immediately to the questions at hand.
  'We've doubled patrols everywhere, put men with K-9s all along the fences.
  I'd like to think no one could get out. What bothers us is whether someone
  got out beforehand.'

                                 189
 'How did it happenT
  'Pace had a few people over for New Year's. Twelve, to be exact. Four were
  from his own Quonset, three from Records, the rest from Administration.
  Very subdued ... what the hell, this is Fairfax. As near as we can
  determine, he went out his back door at about twenty minutes past midnight.
  Carrying out garbage, we think; maybe just to get some air. He didn't come
  back. - A guard down the road came to the door, saying he'd heard a shot.
  No one else had. At least, not inside.'
 'That's unusual. These quarters are hardly soundproof.'
 'Someone had turned up the phonograph.'
 'I thought it was a subdued party.'
  Barden looked hard at Spaulding. His glare was not anger, it was his way of
  telegraphing his deep concern. 'That record player was turned up for no
  more than thirty seconds. The rifle used -and ballistics confirms this -
  was a training weapon, .22 caliber.'
 'A sharp crack, no louder,' said David.
 'Exactly. The phonograph was a signal!
 'Inside. At the party,' added Spaulding.
  'Yes.... McCleod here is the base psychiatrist. We've been going over
  everyone who was inside .....
  'Psychiatrist?' David was confused. It was a security problem, not medical.
  'Ed was a hardnose, you know that as well as I do. He trained you.... I
  looked you up, Lisbon. It's one angle. We're covering the others!
  'Look,' interrupted the doctor, 'you two want to talk, and I've got files
  to go over. I'll call you in the morning; later this morning, Ira. Nice to
  meet you, Spaulding. Wish it wasn't this way.9
 'Agreed,' said Spaulding, shaking the man's hand.
  The psychiatrist gathered up the twelve file folders on the colonel's desk
  and left.
  The door closed. Barden indicated a chair to Spaulding. David sat down,
  rubbing his eyes. 'One hell of a New Yeaes, isn't iff said Barden.
 'I've seen better,' Spaulding replied.
 'Do you want to go over what happened to youT
  'I don't think there's any point. I was stopped; I told you what was said.
  Ed Pace was obviously the "Fairfax lesson." It's tied to a brigadier named
  Swanson at DW.'

 190
 'I'm afraid it isn't.'
 'It has to be.'
  'Negative. Pace wasn't involved with the DW thing. His only tie was
  recruiting you; a simple transfer.'
  David remembered Ed Pace's words: I'm not cleared ... how does it strike
  you? Have you met Swanson? He looked at Barden. 'Then someone thinks he
  was. Same motive. Related to the sabotage at Lajes. In the Azores.'
 'How?'
  'The son of a bitch said so on Fifty-second Streetl Five hours ago....
  Look, Pace is dead; that gives you certain latitude under the
  circumstances. I want to check Ed's four-zero files. Everything connected
  to my transfer.'
  'I've already done that. After your call there was no point in waiting for
  an inspector general. Ed was about my closest friend. . .
 'And?'
 'There are no files. Nothing-
  'There has to be I There's got to be a record for Lisbon. For me.'
  'There is. It states simple transfer to DW. No names. Just a word. A single
  word: "Tortugas'.
  'What about the papers you prepared? The discharge, the medical record;
  Fifth Army, One Hundred and Twelfth Battalion? Italy? Those papers aren't
  manufactured without a Fairfax file I'
  'This is the first I've heard of them. There's nothing about them in Ed's
  vaults.'
  'A major - Winston, I think his name is - met me at Mitchell Field. I flew
  in from Newfoundland on a coastal patrol. He brought me the papers.'
  'He brought you a sealed envelope and gave you verbal instructions. That's
  all he knows.'
  'Jesust What the hell happened to the so-called Fairfax efficiency?'
 'You tell me. And while you're at it, who murdered Ed Pace?'
  David looked over at Barden. The word murder hadn't occurred to him. One
  didn't commit murder; one killed, yes, that was part of it. But murder? Yet
  it was murder.
  'I can't tell you that. But I can tell you where to start asking
  questions.'

                                 191
 'Please do.'
  'Raise Lisbon. Find out what happened to a cryptographer named Marsha.,

                   JANUA R Y 1, 1944

                  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The news of Pace's murder reached Alan Swanson indirectly; the effect was
  numbing.
  He had been in Arlington, at a small New Year's Eve dinner party given by
  the ranking general of Ordnance when the tele,phone call came. It was an
  emergency communication for another guest, a lieutenant general on the
  staff of the Joint Chiefs. Swanson had been near the library door when the
  man emerged; the staffer had been white, his voice incredulous.
  'My God!' he bad said to no one in particular. 'Someone shot Pace over at
  Fairfax. He's dead!'
  Those few in that small gathering in Arlington comprised the highest
  echelons of the military; there was no need for concealing the news; they
  would all, sooner or later, be told.
  Swanson's hysterical first thoughts were of Buenos Aires. Was there any
  possible connection?
  He listened as the brigadiers and the two- and three-stars joined in
  controlled but excited speculations. He heard the words . . . infiltrators,
  hired assassins, double agents. He was stunned by the wild theories ...
  advanced rationally ... that one of Pace's undercover agents had to be
  behind the murder. Somewhere a defector had been paid to make his way back
  to Fairfax; somewhere there was a weak link in a chain of Intelligence that
  had been bought.
  Pace was not just a crack Intelligence man, he was one of the best in
  Allied Central. So much so that he twice had requested that his brigadier
  star be officially recorded but not issued, thus protecting his low
  profile.
  But the profile was not low enough. An extraordinary man like Pace would
  have an extraordinary price on his head. From

 192
 Shanghai to Berne; with Fairfax's rigid security the killing had to have
 been planned for months. Conceived as a long-range project, to be executed
 internally. There was no other way it could have been accomplished. And
 there were currently over five hundred personnel in the compound, including
 a rotating force of espionage units-in-training - nationals from many
 countries. No security system could be that absolute under the
 circumstances. All that was needed was one man to slip through.
  Plannedfor months ... a defector who had made his way back to Fairfax ...
  a double agent ... a weak Intelligence link paid a fortune. Berne to
  Shanghai.
 A long-range project!
  These were the specific words and terms and judgments that Swanson heard
  clearly because he wanted to hear them.
  They removed the motive from Buenos Aires. Pace's death had nothing to do
  with Buenos Aires because the time element prohibited it.
  The Rhinemann exchange had been conceived barely three weeks ago; it was
  inconceivable that Pace's murder was related. For it to be so would mean
  that he, himself, had broken the silence.
  No one else on earth knew of Pace's contribution. And even Pace had known
  precious little.
 Only fragments.
  And all the background papers concerning the man in Lisbon had been removed
  from Pace's vault. Only the War Department transfer remained.
 A fragment.
  Then Alan Swanson thought of something and he marveled at his own cold
  sense of the devious. In a way, it was chilling that it could escape the
  recesses of his mind. With Edmund Pace's death, not even Fairfax could
  piece together the events leading up to Buenos Aires. The government of the
  United States was removed one step further.
  As if abstractly seeking support, he ventured aloud to the small group of
  his peers that he recently had been in communication with Fairfax, with
  Pace as a matter of fact, over a minor matter of clearance. It was
  insignificant really, but he hoped to Christ ...
  He found his support instantly. The lieutenant general from staff, two
  brigs and a three-star all volunteered that they, too, had used Pace.

                                 193
 Frequently, Obviously more than he did.
  'You could save a lot of time dealing directly with Ed,' said the staffer.
  'He cut tape and shot you off a clearance right away.'
 One step further removed.
  Once back in his Washington apartment, Swanson experienced the doubts
  again. Doubts and opportunities alike. Pace's murder was potentially a
  problem because of the shock waves it would produce. There would be a major
  investigation, all avenues explored. On the other hand, the concentration
  would be on Fairfax. It would consume Allied Central Intelligence. At least
  for a while. He had to move now. Walter Kendall had to get to Buenos Aires
  and conclude the arrangements with Rhinemann.
  The guidance designs from Peenemilnde. Only the designs were important.
  But first tonight, this morning. David Spaulding. It was time to give the
  former man in Lisbon his assignment.
 Swanson picked up the telephone. His hand shook.
 The guilt was becoming unbearable.

                   JANUARY 1, 1944

                  FAIRFAX VIRGINIA

  'Marshall was killed several miles from a place called Valdero's. In the
  Basque province. It was an ambush.'
  'That's horseshit I Marshall never went into the north country I He wasn't
  trained, he wouldn't know what to do V David was out of the chair,
  confronting Barden.
  'Rules change. You're not the man in Lisbon now.... He went, he was
  killed.'
 'Source?'
 'The ambassador himself.'
 'His source?'
  'Your normal channels, I assume. He said it was confirmed. Identiflication
  was brought back.'
 'Meaninglessl'
 'What do you want? A body?'

 194
  'This may surprise you, Barden, but a hand or a finger isn't out of the
  question. That's identification.... Any photographs? Close shots, wounds,
  the eyes? Even those can be doctored.'
  'He didn't indicate any. What the hell's eating you? This is confirmed.'
 'ReallyT David stared at Barden.
  'For Christ's sake, Spaulding! What the hell is . . . "Tortugas"? If it
  killed Ed Pace, I want to know! And I'm going to goddamned well find out!
  I don't give a shit about Lisbon cryps!'
  The telephone rang on Barden's desk; the colonel looked briefly at it, then
  pulled his eyes back to Spaulding.
  'Answer it,' said David. 'One of those calls is going to be Casualty. Pace
  has a family.... Had.'
  'Don't complicate my life any more than you have.' Barden crossed to his
  desk. 'Ed was due for an escort leave this Friday. I'm putting off calling
  -till morning. . . . YesT The colonel listenedto the phone for several
  seconds, then looked at Spaulding. 'It's the trip-line operator in New
  York; the one we've got covering you. This General Swanson's been trying io
  reach you. He's got him holding now. Do you want him to put the old man
  through?'
  David remembered Pace's appraisal of the nervous brigadier. 'Do you have to
  tell him I'm hereT
 'Hell, no.'
 'Then put him through.'
  Barden walked from behind the desk as Spaulding took the phone and repeated
  the phrase 'Yes, sir' a number of times. Finally he replaced the
  instrument. 'Swanson wants me in his office this morning.'
  'I want to know why the hell they ripped you out of Lisbon,' Barden said.
  David sat down in the chair without at first answering. When he spoke he
  tried not to sound military or officious. 'I'm not sure it has anything to
  do with ... anything. I don't want to duck; on the other hand, in a way I
  have to. But I want to keep a couple of options open. Call it instinct, I
  don't know.... There's a man named AltmUller. Franz Altmfiller.... Who he
  is, where he is - I have no idea. German, Swiss, I don't know.... Find out
  what you can on a four-zero basis. Call me at the Hotel Montgomery in New
  York. I'll- be there for at least the rest of the week. Then I go to Buenos
  Aires.'

                                 195
  *1 will if you flex the clearancestell me what the hell is
 going on.'
  ,You won't like it. Because if I do, and if it is connected, it'll mean
  Fairfax has open code lines in Berlin!

                     JANUARY], 1944

                     NEW YORK CITY

  The commercial passenger plane began its descent toward La Guardia Airport.
  David looked at his watch, It was a little past noon. It had all happened
  in twelve hours: Cindy Bonner, the stranger on Fifty-second Street,
  Marshall, Pace's murder, Barden, the news from Valdero's ... and finally
  the awkward conference with the amateur source control, Brigadier General
  Alan Swanson, DW.
 Twelve hours.
  He hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight. He needed sleep to find some kind of
  perspective, to piece together the elusive pattern. Not the one that was
  clear.
 Erich Rhinemann was to be killed.
  Of course he had to be killed. The only surprise for David was the humbling
  manner in which the brigadier had given the order. It didn't require
  elaboration or apology. And it - at last -explained his transfer from
  Lisbon. It filled in the gaping hole of why. He was no gyroscope
  specialist; it hadn't made sense. But now it did. He was a good selection;
  Pace had made a thoroughly professional choice. It was a job for which he
  was suited - in addition to being a bilingual liaison between the mute
  gyroscopic scientist, Eugene Lyons, and Rhinemann's blueprint man.
  That picture was clear; he was relieved to see it come into focus.
 What bothered him was the unfocused picture.
  The embassy's Marshall, the cryp who five days ago picked him up at a
  rain-soaked airfield outside of Lisbon. The man he had seen looking at him
  through the automobile window on Fifty-second Street; the man supposedly
  killed in an ambush in

 196
 the north country, into which he never had ventured. Or would venture.
  Leslie Jenner Hawkwood. The resourceful ex-lover who had lied and kept him
  away from his hotel room, who foolishly used the ploy of Cindy Bonner and
  the exchange of gifts for a dead husband she had stolen. Leslie was not an
  idiot. She was telling him something.
 But what?
  And Pace. Poor, humorless Ed Pace cut down within the most
  security-conscious enclosure in the United States.
  The lesson of Fairfax, predicted with incredible accuracy -nearly to the
  moment - by a tall, sad-eyed man in shadows on Fifty-second Street.
 That ... they were the figures in the unfocused picture.
  David had been harsh with the brigadier. He had demanded - professionally,
  of course - to know the exact date the decision had been reached to
  eliminate Erich Rhinemann. Who had arrived at it? How was the order
  transmitted? Did the general know a cryptographer named Marshall? Had Pace
  ever mentioned him? Had anyone ever mentioned him? And a man named
  AltmOller. Franz AltmWIer. Did that name mean anything?
  The answers were no help. And God knew Swanson wasn't lying. He wasn't pro
  enough to get away with it.
  The names Marshall and Altmaller were unknown to him. The decision to
  execute Rhinemann was made within hours. There was absolutely no way Ed
  Pace could have known; he was not consulted, nor was anyone at Fairfax. It
  was a decision emanating from the cellars of the White House; no one at
  Fairfax or Lisbon could have been involved. For David that absence of
  involvement was the important factor. It meant simply that the whole
  unfocused picture had nothing to do with Erich Rhinemann. And thus, as far
  as could be determined, was unrelated to Buenos Aires. David made the quick
  decision not to confide in the nervous brigadier. Pace had been right: the
  man couldn't take any more complications. He'd use Fairfax, source control
  be damned.
  The plane landed; Spaulding walked into the passenger terminal and looked
  for the signs that read Taxis. He went through the double doors to the
  platform and heard the porters shouting the vadous destinations of the
  unfilled cabs. It was funny. but the shared taxis were the only things that
  caused him to think LA

                                 197
 Guardia Airport knew there was a war going on somewhere.
  Simultaneously he recognized the foolishness of his thoughts. And the
  pretentiousness of them.
  A soldier with no legs was being helped into a cab. Porters and civilians
  were touched, helpful.
 The soldier was drunk. What was left of him, unstable.
  Spaulding shared a taxi with three other men, and they talked of little but
  the latest reports out of Italy. David decided to forget his cover in case
  the inevitable questions came up. He wasn't about to discuss any mythical
  combat in Salerno. But the questions did not arise. And then he saw why.
  The man next to him was blind; the man shifted his weight and the afternoon
  sun caused a reflection in his lapel. It was a tiny metal replica of a
  ribbon: South Pacific.
  David considered again that he was terribly tired. He was about the most
  unobservant agent ever to have been given an operation, he thought.
  He got out of the cab on Fifth Avenue, three blocks north of the
  Montgomery. He had overpaid his share; he hoped the other two men would
  apply it to the blind veteran whose clothes were one hell of a long way
  from Leslie Jenner's Rogers Peet.
 Leslie Jenner ... Hawkwood.
 A cryptographer named Marshall.
 The unfocused picture.
  He had to put it all out of his mind. He had to sleep, forget; let
  everything settle before he thought again. Tomorrow morning he would meet
  Eugene Lyons and begin ... again. He had to be ready for the man who'd
  burned his throat out with raw alcohol and had not had a conversation in
  ten years.
  The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. His was the seventh. He was about
  to tell the elevator operator when he realized the doors were not opening.
  Instead, the operator turned in place. In his hand he gripped a
  short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver. He reached behind him to the lever
  control and pushed it to the left, the enclosed box jerked and edged itself
  up between floors.
  'The lobby lights go out this way, Colonel Spaulding. We may hear buzzers,
  but there's a second elevator used in emergencies. We won't be disturbed.'
  The accent was the same, thought David. British overlay. Middle Europe.
  'I'm glad of that. I mean, Jesus, it's been so long.'

 198
 'I don't find you amusing!
 'Nor 1, you ... obviously!
  'You've been to Fairfax, Virginia. Did you have a pleasant journey?'
  6YOU9ve got an extraordinary pipeline.' Spaulding wasn't only buying time
  with conversation. He and Ira Barden had taken the required precautions.
  Even if the Montgomery switchboard reported everything he said, there was
  no evidence that he had flown to Virginia. The arrangements were made from
  telephone booths, the flight from Mitchell to Andrews under an assumed name
  on a crew sheet. Even the Manhattan number he had left with the Montgomery
  desk had a New York address under constant surveillance. And in the Fairfax
  compound, only the security gate had his name; he had been seen by only
  four, perhaps five men.
  'We have reliable sources of information.... Now you have learned firsthand
  the lesson of Fairfax, noT
  'I've learned that a good man was murdered. I imagine his wife and children
  have been told by now.'
  'There is no murder in war, colonel. A misapplication of the word. And
  don't speak to us. . . .'
 A buzzer interrupted the man. It was short, a polite ring.
 'Who is "us"T asked David.
  'You'll know in time, if you cooperate. If you don't cooperate, it will
  make no difference; you'll be killed.... We don't make idle threats.
  Witness Fairfax.'
 The buzzersounded again. This time prolonged, not quite polite.
 'How am I supposed to cooperate? What aboutT
 'We must know the precise location of Tortugas!
  Spaulding's mind raced back to five o'clock that morning. In Fairfax. Ira
  Barden had said that the name 'Tortugas' was the single word opposite his
  transfer specification. No other data, nothing but the word 'Tortugas.' And
  it had been buried in Pace's 'vaults.' Cabinets kept behind steel doors,
  accessible only to the highest-echelon Intelligence personnel.
  'Tortugas is part of an island complex off the coast of Florida. It's
  usually referred to as the Dry Tortugas. It's on any map.'
 The buzzer again. Now repeated; in short, angry spurts.
 'Don't be foolish, colonel!
  'I'm not being anything. I don't know what you're talking about.'

                                 199
  The man stared at Spaulding. David saw that he was unsure, controlling his
  anger. The elevator buzzer was incessant now; voices could be heard from
  above and below.
 'I'd prefer not to have to kill you but I will. Where is Tortugas?'
  Suddenly a loud male voice, no more than ten feet from the enclosure, on
  the sixth floor, shouted.
 'It's up here I It's stuck! Are you all right up therer
  The man blinked, the shouting had unnerved him. It was the instant David
  was waiting for. He lashed his right hand out in a diagonal thrust and
  gripped the man's forearm, hammering it against the metal door. He slammed
  his body into the man's chest and brought his knee up in a single, crushing
  assault against the groin. The man screamed in agony; Spaulding grabbed the
  arched throat with his left hand and tore at the veins around the larynx.
  He hammered the man twice more in the groin, until the pain was so
  excruciating that no more screams could emerge, only low, wailing moans of
  anguish. The body went limp, the revolver fell to the floor, and the man
  slid downward against the wall.
  Spaulding kicked the weapon away and gripped the man's neck with both
  hands, shaking the head back and forth to keep him conscious.
 'Now, you tell me, you son of a bitch! What is "Tortugas"?'
  The shouting outside the elevator was now deafening. There was a cacophony
  of hysteria brought on by the screams of the battered operator. There were
  cries for the hotel management. For the police.
  The man looked up at David, tears of terrible pain streaming from his eyes.
  'Why not kill me, pig,' he said between ago Wing chokes of breath. '. . .
  You've tried before.'
 I David was bewildered. He'd never seen the man. The north
 country? Basque? Navarre?
  There was no time to think.
  'What is "Tortugas"?'
  'Altmillier, pig. The pig AltmollerThe man fell into
 unconsciousness.
  There was the name again.
  Altmidler.
  Spaulding rose from the unconscious body and grabbed the control lever of
  the elevator. He swung it to the far left, accelerating the speed as fast
  as possible.. There were ten floors in the

 200
 Montgomery; the Panel lights indicated that the first-, third., and
 sixth-floor buttons had been activated. If he could reach the tenth before
 the hysterical voices followed him up the stairs, it was possible that he
 could get out of the elevator, race down the corridor to one of the comers,
 then double back into the crowd which surely would gather around the open
 elevator doors.
 Around the unconscious man on the floor.
  It had to be possible! This was no time for him to be involved with the New
  York police.

  The man was carried away on a stretcher; the questions were brief.
  No, he didn't know the elevator operator. The man had dropped him off at
  hisfloor ten or twelve minutes ago. He'd been in his room and came out when
  he'd heard all the shouting.
 The same as everyone else.
 What was New York coming to?
  David reached his room on seven, closed the door and stared at the bed.
  Christ, he was exhausted I But his mind refused to stop racing.
  He would postpone everything until he had rested, except for two items. He
  had to consider those now. They could not wait for sleep because a
  telephone might ring, or someone might come to his hotel room. And he had
  to make his decisions in advance. Be prepared.
  The first item was that Fairfax no longer could be used as a source. It was
  riddled, infiltrated. He had to function without Fairfax, which, in a way,
  was akin to telling a cripple he had to walk without braces.
 On the other hand, he was no cripple.
  The second item was a man named AltmUller. He had to find a man named Franz
  AltmUller; find out who he was, what he meant to the unfocused picture.
  David lay down on the bed; he didn't have the energy to remove his clothes,
  even his shoes. He brought his arm up to shade his eyes from the afternoon
  sun streaming in the hotel windows. The afternoon sun of the first day of
  the new year, 1944.
  Suddenly, he opened his eyes in the black void of tweed cloth. There was a
  third item. Inextricably bound to the man named Altm(Iller.
 What the hell did 'Tortugas' mean?

                                 201
 21

    JANUARY 2, 1944

                     NEW YORK CITY

 Eugene Lyons sat at a drafting board in the bare office. He was in
 shirtsleeves. There were blueprints strewn about on tables. The bright
 morning sun bouncing off the white walls gave the room the antiseptic
 appearance of a large hospital cubicle.
  And Euge ne Lyons's face and body did nothing to discourage
 such thoughts.
  David had followed Kendall through the door, apprehensive at the
  forthcoming introduction. He would have preferred not knowing anything
  about Lyons.
  The scientist turned on the stool. He was among the thinnest men Spaulding
  had ever seen. The bones were surrounded by flesh, not protected by it.
  Light blue veins were in evidence throughout the hands, arms, neck and
  temples. The skin wasn't old, it was worn out. The eyes were deep-set but
  in no way duU or flat; they were alert and, in their own way, penetrating.
  His straight grey hair was thinned out before its time; he could have been
  any age.within a twenty-year span.
  There was, however, one quality about the man that seemed specific:
  disinterest. He acknowledged the intrusion, obviously knew who David was,
  but made no move to interrupt his concentration.
  Kendall forced the break. 'Eugene, this is Spaulding. You show him where to
  start.'
 And with those words Kendall turned on his heel and went out

 202
 the door, closing it behind him.
  David stood across the room from Lyons. He took the necessary steps and
  extended his hand. He knew exactly what he was going to say.
  'It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Lyons. I'm no expert in your field, but
  I've heard about your work at MIT. I'm lucky to have you spread the wealth,
  even if it's only for a short time.'
  There was a slight, momentary flicker of interest in the eyes. David had
  gambled on a simple greeting that told the emaciated scientist several
  things, among which was the fact that David was aware of Lyons's tragedy in
  Boston - thus, undoubtedly, the rest of his story - and was not inhibited
  by it.
  Lyons's grip was limp; the disinterest quickly returned. Disinterest, not
  necessarily rudeness. On the borderline.
  'I know we haven't much time and 19m a neophyte in gyroscopics,' said
  Spaulding, releasing the hand, backing off to the side of the drafting
  board. 'But I'm told I don't have to recognize much more than pretty basic
  stuff ; be able to verbalize in German the terms and formulas you write out
  for me.'
  David emphasized - with the barest rise in his voice - the words verbalize
  ... you write out for me. He watched Lyons to see if there was any reaction
  to his open acknowledgment of the scientist's vocal problem. He thought he
  detected a small hint of relief.
  Lyons looked up at him. The thin lips flattened slightly against the teeth;
  there was a short extension at the comers of the mouth and the scientist
  nodded. There was even an infinitesimal glint of appreciation in the
  deep-set eyes. He got up from his stool and crossed to the nearest table
  where several books lay on blueprints, He picked up the top volume and
  handed it to Spaulding. The title on the cover was Diagrammatics: Inertia
  and Precession.
 David knew it would be all right.

 It was past six o'clock.
  Kendall had gone; the receptionist had bolted at the stroke of five, asking
  David to close the doors if he was the last person to leave. If not, tell
  one of the others.
 The 'others' were Eugene Lyons and his two male nurses.
  Spaulding met them - the male nurses - briefly in the reception room. Their
  names were Hal and Johnny. Both were large men; the talkative one was Hal,
  the leader was Johnny, an ex-mariw~

                                 203
  'The old guy is on his real good behavior,' said Hal. 'Nothing to worry
  about.'
  'It's time to get him back to St. Luke's,' said Johnny. 'They get pissed
  off if he's too late for the night meal.'
  Together the men went into Lyons's office and brought him out. They were
  polite with the cadaverous physicist, but firm. Eugene Lyons looked
  indifferently at Spaulding, shrugged and walked silently out the door with
  his two keepers.
  David waited until he heard the sound of the elevator in the hallway. Then
  he put down the Diagrammatics volume the physicist had given him on the
  receptionist's desk and crossed to Walter Kendall's office.
  The door was locked, which struck him as strange. Kendall was on his way to
  Buenos Aires, he might not be back for several weeks. Spaulding withdrew a
  small object from his pocket and knelt down. At first glance, the
  instrument in David's hand appeared to be an expensive silver pocket knife,
  the sort so often found at the end of an expensive key chain, especially in
  very expensive men's clubs. It wasn't. It was a locksmith's pick designed
  to give that appearance. It had been made in London's Silver Vaults, a gift
  from an MI-5 counterpart in Lisbon.
  David spun out a tiny cylinder with a flat tip and inserted it into the
  lock housing. In less than thirty seconds the appropriate clicks were heard
  and Spaulding opened the door. He walked in, leaving it ajar.
  Kendall's office had no file cabinets, no closets, no bookshelves; no
  recesses whatsoever other than the desk drawers. David turned on the
  fluorescent reading lamp at the far edge of the blotter and opened the top
  center drawer.
  He had to stifle a genuine laugh. Surrounded by an odd assortment of paper
  clips, toothpicks, loose Lifesavers, and note paper were two pornographic
  magazines. Although marked with dirty fingerprints, both were fairly new.
 Merry Christmas, Walter Kendall, thought David a little sadly.
  The side drawers were empty, at least there was nothing of interest. In the
  bottom drawer lay crumpled yellow pages of note paper, meaningless doodles
  drawn with a hard pencil, piercing the pages.
  He was about to get up and leave when he decided to look once more at the
  incoherent patterns on the crumpled paper. There was nothing else; Kendall
  had locked his office door out

 204
 of reflex, not necessity. And again by reflex, perhaps, he had put the
 yellow pages -not in a wastebasket, which had only the contents of emptied
 ashtrays - but in a drawer. Out of sight.
  David knew he was reaching. There was no choice; he wasn't sure what he was
  looking for, if anything.
  He spread two of the pages on top of the blotter, pressingthe surfaces
  flat.
 Nothing.
  Well, something. Outlines of women's breasts and genitalia. Assorted
  circles and arrows, diagrams: a psychoanalyst's paradise.
  He removed another single page and pressed it out. More circles, arrows,
  breasts. Then to one side, childlike outlines of clouds - billowy, shaded;
  diagonal marks that could be rain or multiple sheets of thin lightning.
 Nothing.
 Another page.
  It caught David's eye. On the bottom of the soiled yellow page, barely
  distinguishable between criss-cross penciling, was the outline of a large
  swastika. He looked at it closely. The swastika had circles at the
  right-hand points of the insignia, circles that spun off as if the artist
  were duplicating the ovals of a Palmer writing exercise. And flowing out of
  these ovals were unmistakable initials. JD. Then Joh D., J Diet.... The
  letters appeared at the end of each oval line. And beyond the final letters
  in each area were elaborately drawn ? ? ?

 David folded the paper carefully and put it in his jacket pocket. There were
 two remaining pages, so he took them out simultaneously. The page to the
 left had only one large, indecipherable scribble - once more circular, now
 angry - and meaningless. But on the second paper, again toward the bottom of
 the page,
 was a series of scroll-like markings that could be interpreted as is and Ds,
 similar in flow to the letters after the swastika points on the second page.
 And opposite the final D was a strange horizontal obelisk, its taper on the
 right. There were lines on the side as though they were edges.... A bullet,
 perhaps, with bore markings. Underneath, on the next line of the paper to
 the left, were the same oval motions that brought to mind the Palmer
 exercise. Only they were firmer here, pressed harder into the yellow paper.

                                 205
 Suddenly David realized what he was staring at.
  Walter Kendall had subconsciously outlined an obscene caricature of an
  erect penis and testicles.
 Happy New Year, Mr. Kendall, thought Spaulding.
  He put the page carefully into his pocket with its partner, returned the
  others and shut the drawer. He switched off the lamp, walked to the open
  door, turning to see if he had left everything as it was, and crossed into
  the reception room. He pulled Kendall's door shut and considered briefly
  whether to lock the tumblers in place.
  It would be pointless to waste the time. The lock was old, simple;
  janitorial personnel in just about any building in New York would have a
  key, and it was more difficult inserting tumblers than releasing them. To
  hell with it.
  A half hour later it occurred to him - in an instant of reflection - that
  this decision probably saved his life. The sixty, or ninety, or
  one-hundred-odd seconds he eliminated from his departure placed him in the
  position of an observer, not a target.
  He put on the Rogers Peet overcoat, turned off the lights, and walked into
  the corridor to the bank of elevators. It was nearly seven, the day after
  New Year's, and the building was practically deserted. A single elevator
  was working. It had passed his floor, ascending to the upper stories, where
  it seemed to linger. He was about to use the stairs -the offices were on
  the third floor, it might be quicker - when he heard rapid, multiple
  footsteps coming up the staircase. The sound was incongruous. Moments ago
  the elevator had been in the lobby; why would two -more than two? -people
  be racing up the stairs at seven at night? There could be a dozen
  reasonable explanations, but his instincts made him consider unreasonable
  ones.
  Silently, he ran to the opposite end of the short floor, where an
  intersecting corridor led to additional offices on the south side of the
  building. He rounded the comer and pressed himself against the wall. Since
  the assault in the Montgomery elevator, he carried a weapon - a small
  Beretta revolver - strapped to his chest, under his clothes. He flipped
  open his overcoat and undid the buttons of his jacket and shirt. Access to
  the pistol would be swift and efficient, should it be necessary.
  It probably wouldn't be, he thought, as he heard the footsteps disappear.
 Then he realized that they had not disappeared, they had

 206
 faded, slomed down to a walk - a quiet, cautious walk. And then he heard the
 voices: whisper-like, indistinguishable. They came from around the edge of
 the wall, in the vicinity of the unmarked Meridian office, no more than
 thirty feet away.
  He inched the flat of his face to the sharp, concrete comer and
  simultaneously reached his right hand under his shirt to the handle of the
  Beretta.
  There were two men with their backs to him, facing the darkened glass of
  the unmarked office door. The shorter of the two put his face against the
  pane, hands to both temples to shut out the light from the corridor. He
  pulled back and looked at his partner, shaking his head negatively.
  The taller man turned slightly, enough for Spaulding to recognize him.
  It was the stranger in the recessed, darkened doorway on Fifty-second
  Street. The tall, sad-eyed man who spoke gently, in bastardized
  British-out-of-the-Balkans, and held him under the barrel of a thick,
  powerful weapon.
  The man reached into his left overcoat pocket and gave a key to his friend.
  With his right hand he removed a pistol from his belt. It was a heavy-duty
  .45, army issue. At close range, David knew it would blow a person into the
  air and off the earth. The man nodded and spoke softly but clearly.
 'He has to be. He didn't leave. I want him.'
  With, these words the shorter man inserted the key and shoved at the door.
  It swung back slowly. Together, both men walked in.
  At that precise moment the elevator grill could be heard opening, its metal
  frames ringing throughout the corridor. David could see the two men in the
  darkened reception room freeze, turn toward the open door and quickly shut
  it.
  'Chee-ryst Almighty!' was the irate shout from the angry elevator operator
  as the grill rang shut with a clamor.
  David knew it was the instant to move. Within seconds one or both men
  inside the deserted Meridian offices would realize that the elevator had
  stopped on the third floor because someone had pushed the button. Someone
  not in evidence, someone they had not met on the stairs. Someone still on
  the floor.
  He spun around the edge of the wall and raced down the co m-dor toward the
  staircase. He didn't look back; he didn't bother to muffle his steps - it
  would have reduced his speed. His only concern was to get down those steps
  and out of the building.

                                 207'
 He leaped down the right-angled staircase to the in-between landing and
 whipped around the comer.
 And then he stopped.
  Below him, leaning against the railing, was the third man. He knew he'd
  heard more than two sets of feet racing up the staircase minutes ago. The
  man was startled, his eyes widened in shocked recognition and his right
  hand jerked backwards toward his coat pocket. Spaulding didn't have to be
  told what he was reaching for.
 ' David sprang off the landing straight down at the man, making contact in
 midair, his hands clawing for the man's throat and right arm. He gripped the
 skin on the neck below the left ear and tore at it, slamming the man's head
 into the concrete wall as he did so. David's heavier body crushed into the
 would-be sentry's chest; he twisted the right arm nearly out of its shoulder
 socket.
  The man screamed and collapsed; the scalp was lacerated, blood flowing out
  of the section of his skull that had crashed into the wall.
  David could hear the sounds of a door being thrown open and men running.
  Above him, of course, one floor above him.
  He freed his entangled legs from the unconscious body and raced down the
  remaining flight of stairs to the lobby. The elevator had, moments ago, let
  out its cargo of passengers; the last few were going out the front
  entrance. If any had heard the prolonged scream from the battered man sixty
  feet away up the staircase, none acknowledged it.
  David rushed into the stragglers, elbowing his way through the wide double
  doors and onto the sidewalk. He turned east and ran as fast as he could.

  He had walked over forty city blocks -some two miles in Basque country, but
  here infinitely less pleasant.
  He had come to several decisions. The problem was how to implement them.
  He could not stay in New York; not without facing risks, palpably
  unacceptable. And he had to get to Buenos Aires at once, before any of
  those hunting him in New York knew he was gone.
 For they were hunting him now; that much was clear.
  It would be suicide to return to the Montgomery. Or for that matter, to the
  unmarked Meridian offices in the morning. He could handle both with
  telephone calls. He would tell the hotel

 2D8
 that he had been suddenly transferred to Pennsylvania; could the Montgomery
 management pack and hold his things? Hed call later about his bill....
  Kendall was on his way to Argentina. It wouldn't make any difference what
  the Meridian office was told.
 Suddenly, he thought of Eugene Lyons.
  He was a little sad about Lyons. Not the man (of course the man, he
  reconsidered quickly, but not the man's affliction, in this instance), but
  the fact that he would have little chance to develop any sense of rapport
  before Buenos Aires. Lyons might take his sudden absence as one more
  rejection in a long series. And the scientist might really need his help in
  Buenos Aires, at least in the area of German translation. David decided
  that he had to have the books Lyons selected for him; he had to have as
  solid a grasp of Lyons's language as was possible.
 And then David realized where his thoughts were leading him.
  For the next few hours the safest places in New York were the Meridian
  offices and St. Luke's Hospital.
  After his visits to both locations he'd get out to Mitchell Field and
  telephone Brigadier General Swanson.
  The answer to the violent enigma of the past seven days - from the Azores
  to a staircase on Thirty-eighth Street and everything in between - was in
  Buenos Aires.
  Swanson did not know it and could not help; Fairfax was infiltrated and
  could not be told. And that told him something.
  He was on his own. A man had two choices in such a dilemma: take himself
  out of strategy, or dig for identities and blow the covers off.
  The first choice would be denied him. The brigadier, Swanson, was paranoid
  on the subject of the gyroscopic designs. And Rhinemann. There'd be no out
  of strategy.
 That left the second: the identity of those behind the enigma.
  A feeling swept over him, one he had not experienced in several years: the
  fear of sudden inadequacy. He was confronted with an extraordinary problem
  for which there was no pat - or complicated - solution in the north
  country. No unraveling that came with moves or countermoves whose
  strategies he had mastered in Basque and Navarre.
  He was suddenly in another war. One he was not familiar with; one that
  raised doubts about himself.
 He saw an unoccupied taxi, its roof light dimly lit, as if embar-
                                 209
 rassed to announce its emptiness. He looked up at the street sign; he was on
 Sheridan Square - it accounted for the muted sounds of jazz that floated up
 from cellars and surged down crowded side streets. The Village was warming
 up for another evening.
  He raised his hand for the taxi; the driver did not see him. He started
  running as the cab proceeded up the street to the comer traffic light.
  Suddenly he realized that someone else on the other side of the square was
  rushing toward the empty taxi; the man was closer to it than Spaulding, his
  right hand was gesturing.
  It was now terribly important to David that he reach the car first. He
  gathered speed and ran into the street, dodging pedestrians, momentarily
  blocked by two automobiles that were bumper to bumper. He spread his hands
  from hood to trunk and jumped over into the middle of the street and
  continued racing toward his objective.
 Objective.
  He reached the taxi no more than half a second after the other man.
 Goddamn it! It was the obstruction of the two automobiles!
 Obstruction.
  He slammed his hand on the door panel, preventing the other man from
  pulling it open. The man looked up at Spaulding's face, at Spaulding's
  eyes.
 'Christ, fella. I'll wait for another one,' the man said quickly.
 David was embarrassed. What the hell was he doing?
 The doubts? The goddamned doubts.
  'No, really, I'm terribly sorry.' He mumbled the words, smiling
  apologetically. 'You take it. I'm in no hurry.... Sorry again.,
  He turned and walked rapidly across the street into the crowds of Sheridan
  Square.
 He could have had the taxi. That was the important thing.
 Jesus! The treadmill never let up.

 210
 Part Two

    22

         1944

           BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

 The Pan American Clipper left Tampa at eight in the morning, with scheduled
 coastline stops at Caracas, Rio Luis, Salvador, and Rio de Janeiro before
 the final twelve hundred miles to Buenos Aires. David was listed on the
 passenger invoice as Mr. Donald Scanlan of Cincinnati, Ohio; occupation:
 mining surveyor. It was a temporary cover for the journey only. 'Donald
 Scanlan' would disappear after the Clipper landed at the Aeroparque in
 Buenos Aires. The initials were the same as his own for the simple reason
 that it was so easy to forget a monogrammed gift or the first letter of a
 hastily written signature. Especially if one was preoccupied or tired ... or
 afraid.
  Swanson had been close to panic when David reached him from the Mitchell
  Field Operations Room in New York. As a source control, Swanson was about
  as decisive as a bewildered bird dog. Any deviation from Kendall's schedule
  - Kendall's instructions, really - was abhorrent to him. And Kendall wasn't
  even leaving for Buenos Aires until the following morning.
  David had not wasted complicated explanations on the general. As far as he
  was concerned, three attempts had been made on his life - at least, they
  could be so interpreted - and if the general wanted his 'services' in
  Buenos Aires, he'd better get down there while he was still in one piece
  and functioning.
  Were the attempts - the attacks - related to Buenos Aires? Swanson had
  asked the question as though he were afraid to

                                 211
 name the Argentine city.
  David was honest: there was no way to tell. The answer was in Buenos Aires.
  It was reasonable to consider the possibility, but not to assume it.
  'That's what Pace said,' had been Swanson's reply. 'Consider, don't
  assume.'
 'Ed was generally right about such things.'
  'He said when you operated in Lisbon, you were often involved in messy
  situations in the field.'
  'True. I doubt that Ed knew the particulars, though. But he was right in
  what he was trying to tell you. There are a lot of people in Portugal and
  Spain who'd rather see me dead than alive. Or at least they think they
  would. They could never be sure. Standard procedure, general.'
  There had been a prolonged pause on the Washington line. Finally, Swanson
  had said the words. 'You realize, Spaulding, that we may have to replace
  you.'
  'Of course. You can do so right now, if you like.' David had been sincere.
  He wanted very much to return to Lisbon. To go into the north country. To
  Valdero's. To find out about a cryp named Marshall.
  'No.... No, everything's too far along. The designs. They're the important
  thing. Nothing else matters.'
  The remainder of the conversation concerned the details of transportation,
  American and Argentine currency, replenishing of a basic wardrobe, and
  luggage. Logistics which were not in the general's frame of reference and
  for which David took responsibility. The final command - request - was
  delivered, not by the general, but by Spaulding.
  Fairfax was not to be informed of his whereabouts. Nor was anyone else for
  that matter, except the embassy in Buenos Aires; but make every effort to
  keep the information from Fairfax.
 Why? Did Spaulding think ...
  'There's a leak in Fairfax, general. You might pass that on to the White
  House cellars.'
 'That's impossible!'
 'Tell that to Ed Pace's widow.'
  David looked out the Clipper window. The pilot, moments ago, had informed
  the passengers that they were passing over the huge coastal lake of Mirim
  in Uruguay. Soon they'd be over Montevideo, forty minutes from Buenos
  Aires.

 212
  Buenos Aires. The unf~cused picture, the bluffed figures of Leslie Jenner
  Hawkwood, the cryptographer Marshall, a man named Franz Altmillier; strange
  but committed men on Fiftysecond and Thirty-eighth streets - in a darkened
  doorway, in a building after office hours, on a staircase. A man in an
  elevator who was so unafraid to die. An enemy who displayed enormous
  courage ... or misguided zealousness. A maniac.
  The answer to the enigma was in Buenos Aires, less than an hour away. The
  city was an hour away, the answer much longer. But no more than three weeks
  if his instincts were right. By the time the gyroscopic designs were
  delivered.
  He would begin slowly, as he always did with a new field problem. Trying
  first to melt into the surroundings, absorb his cover; be comfortable,
  facile in his relationships. It shouldn't be difficult. His cover was
  merely an "tension of Lisbon's: the wealthy trilingual attach6 whose
  background, parents, and prewar associations in the fashionable centers of
  Europe made him a desirable social buffer for any ambassador's dinner
  table. He was an attractive addition to the delicate world of a neutral
  capital; and if there were those who thought someone, somewhere, had used
  money and influence to secure him such combat-exempt employment, so be it.
  It was denied emphatically, but not vehemently; there was a difference.
  The 'extension' for Buenos Aires was direct and afforded him top-secret
  classification. He was acting as a liaison between New York-London banking
  circles and the German ex-patriot Erich Rhinemann. Washington approved, of
  course; postwar financing in areas of reconstruction and industrial
  rebuilding were going to be international problems. Rhinemann could not be
  overlooked, not in the civilized marble halls of Berne and Geneva.
  David's thoughts returned to the book on his lap. It was the second of six
  volumes Eugene Lyons had chosen for him.

  'Donald Scanlan' went through the Aeroparque customs without difficulty.
  Even the embassy liaison, who checked in all Americans, seemed unaware of
  his identity.
  His single suitcase in hand, David walked to the taxi station and stood on
  the cement platform looking at the drivers standing beside their vehicles.
  He wasn't prepared to assume the name of Spaulding or to be taken directly
  to the embassy just yet. He wanted to assure himself that 'Donald Scanlan'
  was accepted for

                                 213
 what he was - a mining surveyor, nothing more, that there was no unusual
 interest in such a man. For if there were, it would point to David
 Spaulding, Military Intelligence, Fairfax and Lisbon graduate.
  He selected an obese, pleasant-looking driver in the fourth cab from the
  front of the line. There were protests from those in front, but David
  pretended not to understand. 'Donald Scanlan' might know a smattering of
  Spanish, but certainly not the epithets employed by the disgruntled drivers
  cheated out of a fare.
  Once inside he settled back and gave instructions to the unctuous driver.
  He told the man he had nearly an hour to waste before he was to be met -
  the meeting place not mentioned -and asked if the driver would give him a
  short tour of the city. The tour would serve two purposes: he could
  position himself so that he could constantly check for surveillance, and he
  would learn the main points of the city.
 I The driver, impressed by David's educated, grammatical Spanish, assumed
 the role of tour director and drove out of the airport's winding lanes to
 the exit of the huge Parque 3 de Febrero in which the field was centered.
  Thirty minutes later David had filled a dozen pages with notes. The city
  was like a European insert on the southern continent. It was a strange
  mixture of Paris, Rome and middle Spain. The streets were not city streets,
  they were boulevards: wide, lined with color. Fountains and statuary
  everywhere. The Avenida 9 de Julio might have been a larger Via Veneto or
  Saint-Germaindes-Pr6s. The sidewalk cafes, profuse with brightly decorated
  awnings and greenery from hundreds of planter boxes, were doing a brisk
  summer afternoon business. The fact that it was summer in Argentina was
  emphasized for David by the perspiration on his neck and shirt front. The
  driver admitted that the day was inordinately warm, in the high seventies.
  David asked to be driven - among other places - to a district called San
  Telmo. The cab owner nodded appreciatively, as if he had accurately
  assessed the rich American. Soon Spaulding understood. San Telmo was as
  Kendall had noted: elegant, secluded, beautifully kept old houses and
  apartment buildings with wrought-iron balustrades and brilliantly
  blossoming flowers lining the spotless streets.
 Lyons would be comfortable.

 214
  From San Tehn6 the driver doubled back into the inner city and began the
  tour from the banks of the Rio de la Plata.
  The Plaza de Mayo, the Cabildo, the Casa Rosada, Calle Rivadavia. The names
  filled David's notebook; these were the streets, the squares, the locations
  he would absorb quickly.
  La Boca. The waterfront, south of the city; this, the driver said, was no
  place for the tourist.
  The Calle Florida. Here was the finest shopping area in all South America.
  The driver could take his American to several store owners personally known
  to him and extraordinary purchases could be made.
  Sorry, there was no time. But David wrote in his notebook that traffic was
  banned at the borders of the Calle Florida.
  The driver then sped out the Avenida Santa R toward the Palermo. No sight
  in Buenos Aires was as beautiful as the Palern o.
  What interested David more than the beauty was the huge park - or series of
  individual parks; the quiet, immense, artificial lake. The acres of
  botanical gardens; the enormous zoo complex with rows of cages and
  buildings.
  Beauty, yes. Secure areas of contact, more so. The Palermo might come in
  handy.
  An hour had passed; there were no automobiles following the taxi. 'Donald
  Scanlan' had not been under surveillance; David Spaulding could emerge.
 Quietly.
  He instructed the driver to leave him off at the cabstand outside the
  entrance to the Palermo zoo. He was to meet his party there. The driver
  looked crestfallen. Was there no hotel? No place of residence?
  Spaulding did not reply, he simply asked the fare and quickly held out the
  amount. No more questions were in order.
  David spent an additional fifteen minutes inside the zoo, actually enjoying
  it. He bought an ice from a vendor, wandered past the cages of marmosets
  and orangutans - finding extraordinary resemblances to friends and enemies
  - and when he felt comfortable (as only a field man can feel comfortable),
  walked out to the cabstand.
  He waited another five minutes while mothers and governesses and children
  entered the available taxis. It was his turn.
 'The American embassy, por favor.,

                                 215
  Ambassador Henderson Granville allowed the new attach6 a half hour. There
  would be other days when they could sit and chat at length, but Sundays
  were hectic. The rest of Buenos Aires might be at church or at play; the
  diplomatic corps was at work. He had two garden parties still to attend -
  telephone calls would be made detailing the departures and arrivals of the
  German and the Japanese guests; his arrivals and departures would be timed
  accordingly. And after the second garden-bore there was dinner at the
  Brazilian embassy, Neither German nor Japanese interference was
  anticipated. Brazil was close to an open break.
  'The Italians, you realize,' said Granville, smiling at David, 'don't count
  any longer. Never did really; not down here. They spend most of their time
  cornering us in restaurants, or calling from public phones, explaining how
  Mussolini ruined the country!
 'Not too different from Lisbon.'
  'I'm afraid they're the only pleasant similarity.... I won!t bore you with
  a tedious account of the upheavals we've experienced here, but a quick
  sketch - and emphasis - will help you adjust. You've read up, I assume!
  'I haven't had much time. I left Lisbon only a week ago. I know that the
  Castillo government was overthrown!
  'Last June. Inevitable. . . . Ram6n Castillo was as inept a president as
  Argentina ever had, and it's had its share of buffoons. The economy was
  disastrous: agriculture and industry came virtually to a halt; his cabinet
  never made provisions to fill the beef market void created by the British
  struggle, even though the lot of them figured John Bull was finished. He
  deserved to be thrown out.... Unfortunately, what came in the front door
  -marched in phalanx up the Rivadavia, to be more precise -hardly makes our
  lives easier.'
 'That's the military council, isn't it? The juntaT
  Granville gestured with his delicate hands, the chiseled features of his
  aging, aristocratic face formed a sardonic grimace. 'The Grupo de Oficiales
  Unidos! As unpleasant a band of goosestepping opportunists as you will meet
  ... I daresay, anywhere. You know, of course, the entire army was trained
  by the Wehrmacht officer corps. Add to that jovial premise the hot Latin
  temperament, economic chaos, a neutrality that's enforced but not believed
  in, and what have you got? A suspension of the political apparatus; no
  checks and balances. A police state rife with corruption!

 216
 'What maintains the neutralityT
  'The infighting, primarily. The GOU - that's what we call it - has more
  factions than the '29 Reichstag. They're all jockeying for the power spots.
  And naturally, the cold fear of an American fleet and air force right up
  the street, so to speak.... The GOU has been reappraising its judgments
  during the past five months. The colonels are beginning to wonder about
  their mentors' thousand-year crusade; extremely impressed by our supply and
  production lines.'
 'They should be. We've. .
  'And there's another aspect,' interrupted Granville thoughtfully. 'There's
  a small, very wealthy community of Jews here. Your Erich Rhinemann, for
  example. The GOU isn't prepared to openly advocate the solutions of Julius
  Streicher. . . . It's already used Jewish money to keep alive lines of
  credit pretty well chewed up by Castillo. The colonels are afraid of
  financial manipulations, most military people are. But there's a great deal
  of money to be made in this war. The colonels intend to make it. . ~ . Do
  I sketch a recognizable pictureT
 'A complicated one.'
  'I daresay.... We have a maxim here that serves quite wen. Today's friend
  will probably be on the Axis payroll tomorrow; conversely, yesterday's
  Berlin courier might be for sale next week. Keep your options open and your
  opinions private. And publicly ... allow for a touch more flexibility than
  might be approved of at another post. It's tolerated.'
 'And expectedT asked David.
 'Both.'
  David lit a cigarette. He wanted to shift the conversation; old Granville
  was one of those ambassadors, professorial by nature, who would go on
  analyzing the subtleties of his station all day if someone listened. Such
  men were usually the best diplomats but not always the most desirable
  liaisons in times of active practicality. Henderson Granville was a good
  man, though his concerns shone in his eyes, and they were fair concerns.
 'I imagine Washington has outlined my purpose here.'
  'Yes. I wish I could say I approved. Not of you; you9ve got your
  instructions. And I suppose international finance Will continue long after
  Herr Hitler has shrieked his last scream.... Perhaps I'm no better than the
  GOU. Money matters can be most distasteful.'

                                217
 'These in particular, I gather.'
  'Again, yes. Erich Rhinemann is a sworn companion of the wind. A powerful
  companion, make no mistake, but totally without conscience; a hurricane's
  morality. Unquestionably the least honorable man I've ever met. I think
  it's criminal that his resources make him acceptable to London and New
  York.'
 'Perhaps necessary is a more appropriate term.'
 'I'm sure that's the rationalization, at any rate.'
 'It's mine.'
  'Of course. Forgive an old man's obsolete limits of necessity. But we have
  no quarrel. You have an assignment. What can I do for you? I understand
  it's very little.'
  'Very little indeed, sir. Just have me- listed on the embassy index; any
  kind of office space will do as long as it has a door and a telephone. And
  I'd like to meet your cryp. I'll have codes to send.'
  'My word, that sounds ominous,' said Granville, smiling without humor.
 'Routine, sir. Washington relay; simple Yes and Nos.'
  'Very well. Our head cryptographer, is named Ballard. Nice fellow; speaks
  seven or eight languages and is an absolute whiz at parlor games. You'll
  meet him directly. What else?'
  'I'd like an apartment 9
  'Yes, we know,' interrupted Granville gently, snatching a brief look at the
  wall clock. 'Mrs. Cameron has scouted one she thinks you'll approve ... ~.
  Of course, Washington gave us no indication of your length of stay. So Mrs.
  Cameron took it for three months.'
  'That's far too long. 1911 straighten it out.... I think that's almost all,
  Mr. Ambassador. I know you're in a hurry.'
 'I'm afraid I am.'
  David got out of his chair, as did Granville. 'Oh, one thing, sir. Would
  this Ballard have an embassy index? I'd like to learn the names here.'
  'There aren't that many,' said Granville, leveling his gaze at David, a
  subtle note of disapproval in his voice. 'Eight or ten would be those you'd
  normally come in contact with. And I can assure you we have our own
  security measures.'
  David accepted the rebuke. 'That wasn't my point, sir. I really do like to
  familiarize myself with the narnes.'
  'Yes, of course! Granville came around the desk and walked Spaulding to the
  door. 'Chat with my secretary for a few minutes.

 218
 I'll get hold of Ballard; he'll show you around!
  'Thank you, sir.' Spaulding extended his hand to Granville, and as he did
  so he realized for the first time how tall the man was.
  'You know,' said the ambassador, releasing David's hand, 'there was a
  question I wanted to ask you, but the answer will have to wait for another
  time. I'm late already.'
 'What was that?'
  'I've been wondering why the boys on Wall Street and the Strand sent you.
  I can't imagine there being a dearth of experienced bankers in New York or
  London, can you?'
 . 'There probably isn't. But then I'm only a liaison carrying messages;
 information best kept private, I gather. I have had experience in those
 areas ... in a neutral country.'
  Granville smile d once more and once more there was no humor conveyed.
  'Yes, of course. I was sure there was a reason.'

 t

 219
 23

 Ballard shared two traits common to most cryptographers, thought David. He
 was a casual cynic and a fount of information. Qualities, Spaulding
 believed, developed over years of deciphering other men's secrets only to
 find the great majority unimportant. He was also cursed with the first name
 of Robert, by itself acceptable but when followed by Ballard, invariably
 reduced to Bobby. Bobby Ballard. It had the ring of a 1920s socialite or the
 name in a cereal box cartoon.
  He was neither. He was a linguist with a mathematical mind and a shock of
  red hair on top of a medium-sized, muscular body; a pleasant man.
  'That's our home,' Ballard was saying. 'You've seen the working sections;
  big, rambling, baroque and goddamned hot this time of year. I hope you're
  smart and have your own apartment.'
 'Don't you? Do you live hereT
  'It's easier. My dials are very inconsiderate, they hum at all hours.
  Better than scrambling down from Chacarita or Telmo. And it's not bad; we
  stay out of each other's way pretty much.'
 'Oh? A lot of you hereT
  'No. They alternate. Six, usually. In the two wings, east and south.
  Granville has the north apartments. Besides him, Jean Cameron and I are the
  only permanents. You'll meet Jean tomorrow, unless we run into her on the
  way out with the old

 220
 man. She generally goes with him to the diplobores.'
 'The whatT
  'Diplo-bores. The old man's word ... contraction. I'm surprised he didn't
  use it with you. He's proud of it. Diplobore is an embassy duty bash.' They
  were in a large empty reception room; Ballard was opening a pair of French
  doors leading out onto a short balcony. In the distance could be seen the
  Nxaters of the Rio de la Plata and the estuary basin of the Puerto Nuevo,
  Buenos Aires' main port. 'Nice view, isn't it?'
  'Certainly is.' David joined the cryptographer on the balcony. 'Does this
  Jean Cameron and the ambassador ... I mean, are they ... ?'
  'Jean and the old manT Ballard laughed loud and goodnaturedly. 'Christ, no!
  ... Come to think of it, I don't know why it strikes me so funny. I suppose
  there're a lot of people who think that. And that's funny.'
 GWhy?t
  'Sad-funny, I guess I should say,' continued Ballard without interruption.
  'The old man and the Cameron family go back to the original Maryland money.
  Eastern Shore yacht clubs, blazer jackets, tennis in the morning - you
  know: diplomat territory. Jean's family was part of it, too. She married
  this Cameron; knew him since they could play doctor together in their
  Abercrombie pup tents. A rich-people romance, childhood sweethearts. They
  got married; the war came; he chucked his law books for a TBF - aircraft
  carrier pilot. He was killed in the Leyte Gulf. That was last year. She
  went a little crazy; maybe more than a little.'
 'So the ... Granville brought her down here?'
 'That's right.'
 'Nice therapy, if you can afford it.'
  'She'd probably agree with that.' Ballard walked back into the reception
  room; Spaulding followed. 'But most people will tell you she pays her dues
  for the treatment. She works damned hard and knows what she's doing. Has
  rotten hours, too; what with the diplobores.'
 'Where's Mrs. GranvilleT
 'No idea. She divorced the old man ten, fifteen years ago.'
  'I still say it's nice work if you can get it.' David was thinking, in an
  offhand way, of several hundred thousand other women whose husbands had
  been killed, living with reminders every day. He dismissed his thoughts;
  they weren't his concerns.

                                 221
 'Well, she's qualified.'
  'WhatT David was looking at a rococo-styled comer pillar in the wall, not
  really listening.
  'Jean spent four years - off and on - down here as a kid. Her father was in
  Foreign Service; probably would have been an ambassador by now if held
  stuck with it.... Come on, I'll show you the office Granville assigned you.
  Maintenance should have it tidied up by now,' Ballard smiled.
  'You've been employing a diversion,'laughed David, following the cryp out
  the door into another hallway.
  'I had to. You've got a room in the back. So far back it's been used for
  storage, I think.'
 'Obviously I made points with Granville.'
  'You sure did. He can't figure you out.... Me? I don't try.' Ballard turned
  left into still another intersecting hallway. 'This is the south wing.
  Offices on the first and second floors; not many, three on each. Apartments
  on the third and fourth. The roof is great for sunbathing, if you like that
  sort of thing.'
 'Depends on the company, I suppose.'
  The two men approached a wide staircase, preparing to veer to the left
  beyond it, when a feminine voice called down from the second landing.
 'Bobby, is that youT
  .It's Jean,' said Ballard. 'Yes,' he called out. 'I'm with Spaulding. Come
  on down and meet the new recruit with enough influence to get his own
  apartment right off.'
 'Wait'll he sees the apartmentV
  Jean Cameron'came into sight from around the comer landing. She was a
  moderately tall woman, slender and dressed in a floorlength cocktail gown
  at once vivid with color yet simple in design. Her light brown hair was
  shoulder length, full and casual. Her face was a combination of striking
  features blended into a soft whole; wide, alive blue eyes; a thin, sharply
  etched nose; lips medium full and set as if in a half-smile. Her very clear
  skin was bronzed by the Argentine sun.
  David saw that Ballard was watching him, anticipating his reaction to the
  girl's loveliness. Ballard's expression was humorously sardonic, and
  Spaulding read the message: Ballard had been to the font and found it empty
  -for those seeking other than a few drops of cool water. Ballard was now a
  friend to the lady; he knew better than to try being anything else.

 222
  Jean Cameron seemed embarrassed by her introduction on the staircase. She
  descended rapidly, her lips parted into one of the most genuine smiles
  David had seen in years. Genuine and totally devoid of innuendo.
  'Welcome,' she said, extending her hand. 'Thank heavens I have a chance to
  apologize,before you walk into that place. You may change your mind and
  move right back here.'
  'It's that bad?' David saw that Jean wasn't quite as young at close range
  as she seemed on the staircase. She was past thirty; comfortably past. And
  she seemed aware of his inspection, the approbation - or lack of it -
  unimportant to her.
  'Oh, it's all right for a limited stay. You can't get anything else on that
  basis, not if you're American. But it's small.'
  Her handshake was firm, almost masculine, thought Spaulding. 'I appreciate
  your taking the trouble. I'm sorry to have caused it.'
  'No one else here could have gotten you anything but a hotel,' said
  Ballard, touching the girl's shoulder; was the contact protective? wondered
  David. 'The portehos trust Mother Cameron. Not the rest of us.'
  'Portefios,' said Jean in response to Spaulding's questioning expression,
  'are the people who live in BA .....
  'And BA - don't tell me - stands for Montevideo,' replied David.
 'Aw, they sent us a bright one,' said Ballard.
  'You'll get used to it,' continued Jean. 'Everyone in the American and
  English settlements calls it BA. Montevideo, of course,' she added,
  smiling. 'I think we see it so often on reports, we just do it
  automatically!
  'Wrong,' interjected Ballard. 'The vowel juxtaposition in "Buenos Aires" is
  uncomfortable for British speech.'
  'That's something else you'll learn during your stay, Mr. Spaulding,' said
  Jean Cameron, looking affectionately at Ballard. 'Be careful offering
  opinions around Bobby. He has a penchant for disagreeing!
  'Never so,' answered the cryp. 'I simply care enough for my fellow
  prisoners to want to enlighten them. Prepare them for the outside when they
  get paroled.'
 I "Well, I've got a temporary pass right now, and if I don't get over to the
 ambassador's office, he'll start on that damned address system.... Welcome
 again, Mr. Spaulding.'

                                 223
 'Please. The names David! ,
 -'Nfine's Jean. Bye,' said the girl, dashing down the hallway, calling back
 to Ballard. 'Bobby? You've got the address and the key? For ... David's
 place?'
 'Yep. Go get irresponsibly drunk, I'll handle everything!
 Jean Cameron disappeared through a door in the right wall.
  'She's very attractive,' said Spaulding, 'and you two are good friends. I
  should apologize for. . .'
  'No, you shouldn't,' interrupted Ballard. 'Nothing to apologize for. You
  formed a quick judgment on isolated facts. I'd've done the same, thought
  the same. Not that you've changed your mind; no reason to, really!
  'She's right. You disagree ... before you know what you're disagreeing to;
  and then you debate your disagreement. And if you go on, you'll probably
  challenge your last position!
 'You know what? I can follow that. Isn't it frightening?'
  'You guys are a separate breed,' said David, chuckling, following Ballard
  beyond the stairs into a smaller corridor.
  'Let's take a quick look at your Siberian cubicle and then head over to
  your other cell. It's on C6rdoba; we're on Corrientes. It's about ten
  minutes from here.'

  David thanked Bobby Ballard once again and shut the apartment door. He had
  pleaded exhaustion from the trip, preceded by too much welcome home in New
  York - and God knew that was the truth - and would Ballard take a raincheck
  for dinner?
  Alone now, he inspected the apartment; it wasn't intolerable at all. It was
  small: a bedroom, a sitting room-kitchen, and a bath. But there was a
  dividend Jean Cameron hadn9t mentioned. The rooms were on the first floor,
  and at the rear was a tiny brickleveled patio surrounded by a tall concrete
  wall, profuse with hanging vines and drooping flowers from immense pots on
  the ledge. In the center of the enclosure was a gnarled fruit-bearing tree
  he could not identify; around the trunk were three ropewebbed chairs that
  had seen better days but looked extremely comfortable. As far as he was
  concerned, the dividend made the dwelling.
  Ballard had pointed out that his section of the Avenida C6rdoba was just
  over the borderline from the commercial area, the 'downtown' complex of
  Buenos Aires. Quasi residential, yet near enough to stores and restaurants
  to be easy for a newcomer.

 -224
  David picked up the telephone; the dial tone was delayed but eventually
  there. He replaced it and walked across the small room to the refrigerator,
  an American Sears Roebuck. He opened it and smiled. The Cameron girl had
  provided - or had somebody provide - several basic items: milk, butter,
  bread, eggs, coffee. Then happily he spotted two bottles of wine: an Orfila
  tinto and a Col6n blanco. He closed the refrigerator and went back into the
  bedroom.
  He unpacked his single suitcase, unwrapping a bottle of Scotch, and
  remembered that he'd have to buy additional clothes in the morning. Ballard
  had offered to go with him to a men's shop in the Calle Florida - if his
  goddamned dials weren't 'humming.' He placed the books Eugene Lyons had
  given him on the bedside table. He had gone through two of them; he was
  beginning to gain confidence in the aerophysicists' language. He would need
  comparable studies * in German to be really secure. He would cruise around
  the bookshops in the German settlement tomorrow; he wasn't looking for
  definitive texts, just enough to understand the terms. It was really a
  minor part of his assignment, he understood that.
  Suddenly, David remembered Walter Kendall. Kendall was either in Buenos
  Aires by now or would be arriving within hours. The accountant had left the
  United States at approximately the same time he had, but Kendall's flight
  from New York was more direct, with far fewer stopovers.
  He wondered whether it would be feasible to go out to the airport and trace
  Kendall. If he hadn't arrived, he could wait for him; if he had, it would
  be simple enough to check the hotels -according to Ballard there were only
  three or four good ones.
  On the other hand, any additional time - more than absolutely essential -
  spent with the manipulating accountant was not a pleasant prospect. Kendall
  would be upset at finding him in Buenos Aires before he'd given the order
  to Swanson. Kendall, no doubt, would demand explanations beyond those David
  wished to give; probably send angry cables to an already strungout
  brigadier general.
  There were no benefits in hunting down Walter Kendall until Kendall
  expected to find him. Only liabilities.
  He had other things to do: the unfocused picture. He could begin that
  search far better alone.
 David walked back into the living room-kitchen carrying the

                                 225
 Scotch and took out a tray of ice from the refrigerator. He made himself a
 drink and looked over at the double doors leading to his miniature patio. He
 would spend a few quiet twilight moments in the January summertime breeze of
 Buenos Aires.
  The sun was fighting its final descent beyond the city; the last orange
  rays were filtering through the thick foliage of the unidentified fruit
  tree. Underneath, David stretched his legs and leaned back in the
  rope-webbed chair. He realized that if he kept his eyes closed for any
  length of time, they would not reopen for a number of hours. He had to
  watch that; long experience in the field had taught him to eat something
  before sleeping. :
  Eating had long since lost its pleasure for him - it was merely a necessity
  directly related to his energy level. He wondered if the pleasure would
  ever come back; whether so much he had put aside would return. Lisbon had
  probably the best accommodations - food, shelter, comfort - of all the
  major cities, excepting New York, on both continents. And now he was on a
  third continent, in a city that boasted undiluted luxury.
  But for him it was the field - as much as was the north country in Spain.
  As much as Basque and Navarre, and the freezing nights in the Galician
  hills or the sweat-prone silences in ravines, waiting for patrols - waiting
  to kill.
 So much. So alien.
  He brought his head forward, took a long drink from the glass and let his
  neck arch back into the frame of the chair. A small bird was chattering
  away in the midsection of the tree, annoyed at his intrusion. It reminded
  David of how he would listen for such birds in the north country. They
  telegraphed the approach of men unseen, often falling into different
  rhythms that he began to identify - or thought he identified - with the
  numbers of the unseen, approaching patrols.
  Then David realized that the small chattering bird was not concerned with
  him. It hopped upward, still screeching its harsh little screech, only
  faster now, more strident.
 There was someone else.
  Through half-closed eyes, David focused above, beyond the foliage. He did
  so without moving any part of his body or head, as if the last moments were
  approaching before sleep took over.
  The apartment house had four stories and a roof that appeared to have a
  gentle slope covered in a terra-cotta tile of sorts -brownish pink in
  color. The windows of the rooms above him

 226
 were mostly open to the breezes off the Rio de la Plata. He could hear
 snatches of subdued conversation, nothing threatening, no loud vibrations.
 It was the Buenos Aires siesta hour, according to Ballard; quite different
 from Rome's afternoon or the Paris lunch. Dinner in BA was very late, by the
 rest of the world's schedule. Ten, ten-thirty, even midnight was not out of
 the question.
  The screeching bird was not bothered by the inhabitants of the C6rdoba
  apartment house; yet still he kept up his strident alarms.
 And then David saw why.
  On the roof, obscured but not hidden by the branches of the fruit tree,
  were the outlines of two men.
  They were crouched, staring downward; staring, he was sure, at him.
  Spaulding judged the position of the main intersecting tree limb and rolled
  his head slightly, as if the long-awaited sleep were upon him, his neck
  resting in exhaustion on his right shoulder, the drink barely held by a
  relaxed hand, millimeters from the brick pavement.
  It helped; he could see better, not well. Enough, however, to make out the
  sharp, straight silhouette of a rifle barrel, the orange sun careening off
  its black steel. It was stationary, in an arrest position under the arm of
  the man on the right. No movement was made to raise it, to aim it; it
  remained immobile, cradled.
  Somehow, it was more ominous that way, thought Spaulding. As though in the
  arms of a killer guard who was sure his prisoner could not possibly vault
  the stockade; there was plenty of time to shoulder and fire.
  David carried through his charade. He raised his hand slightly and let his
  drink fall. The sound of the minor crash 'awakened' him; he shook the
  pretended sleep from his head and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. As he
  did so, he maneuvered his face casually upward. The figures on the roof had
  stepped back on the terracotta tiles. There would be no shots. Not directed
  at him.
  He picked up a few pieces of the glass, rose from the chair and walked into
  the apartment as a tired man does when annoyed with his own carelessness.
  Slowly, with barely controlled irritation.
  Once he crossed the saddle of the door, beneath the sightline of the roof,
  he threw the glass fragments into a wastebasket and walked rapidly into the
  bedroom. He opened the top drawer of the

                                227
 bureau, separated some handkerchiefs and withdrew his revolver. , He clamped
 it inside his belt and picked up his jacket from the chair in which he'd
 thrown it earlier. He put it on, satisfied that it concealed the weapon.
  He crossed out into the living room, to the apartment door, and opened it
  silently.
  The staircase was against the left wall and David swore to himself, cursing
  the architect of this particular Avenida C6rdoba building - or the
  profuseness of lumber in Argentina. The stairs were made of wood, the
  brightly polished wax not concealing the obvious fact that they were
  ancient and probably squeaked like hell.
  He closed his apartment door and approached the staircase, putting his feet
  on the first step.
 It creaked the solid creak of antique shops.
  He had four flights to go; the first three were unimportant. He to6k the
  steps two at a time, discovering that if he hugged the wall, the noise of
  his ascent was minimized.
  Sixty seconds later he faced a closed door marked with a sign - in
  goddamned curlicued Castilian lettering:
 El Techo.
 The roof.
  The door, as the stairs, was old. Decades of seasonal heat and humidity had
  caused the wood to swell about the hinges; the borders were forced into the
  frame.
 It, too, would scream his arrival if he opened it slowly.
  There was no other way: he slipped the weapon out of his belt and took one
  step back on the tiny platform. He judged the frame - the concrete walls -
  surrounding the old wooden door and with an adequate intake of breath, he
  pulled at the handle, yanked the door open and jumped diagonally into the
  right wall, slamming his back against the concrete.
  The two men whirled around, stunned. They were thirty feet from David at
  the edge of the sloping roof. The man with the rifle hesitated, then raised
  the weapon into waist-firing position. Spaulding had his pistol aimed
  directly into the man's chest. However, the man with the gun did not have
  the look of one about to fire at a target; the hesitation was deliberate,
  not the result of panic or indecision.
  The second man shouted in Spanish; David recognized the accent as southern
  Spain, not Argentine. 'Por favor, seflor I'

 228
 . Spaulding replied in English to establish their understanding, or lack of
 it. 'Lower that rifle. Now!'
  The first man did so, holding it by the stock. 'You are in error,' he said
  in halting English. 'There have been . . . how do you say, ladrones . . .
  thieves in the neighborhood.'
  David walked over the metal transom onto the roof, holding his pistol on
  the two men. 'You're not very convincing. Se dan corte, amigos. You're not
  from Buenos Aires.'
  'There are a great many people in this neighborhood who are as we:
  displaced, sehor. This is a community of... not the native born,' said the
  second man.
  'You're telling me you weren't up here for my benefit? You weren't watching
  meT
 'It was coincidental, I assure you,' said the man with the rifle.
  'Es la verdad,' added the other. 'Two habitaciones have been broken into
  during the past week. The police do not help; we are ... extranjeros,
  foreigners to them. We protect ourselves.'
  Spaulding watched the men closely. There was no waver in either man's
  expression, no hint of lies. No essential fear.
  'I'm with the American embassy,' said David curtly. There was no reaction
  from either extranjero. 'I must ask. you for identification.'
 'Qui cosa?'The man with the gun.
 'Papers. Your names.... Certificados.'
  'Por cierlo, en seguida.' The second man reached back into his trousers
  pocket; Spaulding raised the pistol slightly, in warning.
  The man hesitated, now showing his fear. 'Only a registro, sehor. We all
  must carry them.... Please. In my cartera.'
  David held out his left hand as the second man gave him a cheap leather
  wallet. He flipped it open with minor feelings of regret. There was a kind
  of helplessness about the two extranjeros; he'd seen the look thousands of
  times. Franco's Falangistas were experts at provoking it.
  He looked quickly down at the cellophane window of the billfold; it was
  cracked with age.
  Suddenly, the barrel of the rifle came crashing across his right wrist; the
  pain was excruciating. Then his hand was being twisted "pertly inward and
  down; he had no choice but to release the weapon and try to kick it away on
  the sloping roof. To hold it would mean breaking his wrist.
 He did so as his left arm was being hammerlocked - gami

                                 229
 expertly - up over his neck. He lashed his foot out at the unarmed
 extraniero, who had hold of his hand. He caught him in the stomach and as
 the man bent forward, David crossed his weight and kicked again, sending the
 man tumbling down on the tiled incline.
  David fell in the thrust direction of the harnmerlock - downward, to his
  rear - and as the first man countered the position, Spaulding brought his
  right elbow back up, crushing into the man's groin. The arm was released as
  the extraniero tried to regain his balance.
  He wasn't quick enough; Spaulding whipped to his left and brought his knee
  up into the man's throat. The rifle clattered on the tiles and rolled
  downward on the slope. The man sank, blood dribbling from his mouth where
  his teeth had punctured the skin.
 Spaulding heard the sound behind him and turned.
  He was too late. The second extranjero was over him, and David could hear
  the whistling of his own pistol piercing the air above him, crashing down
  into his skull.
 All was black. Void.

  'They described the right attitude but the wrong section of town,' said
  Ballard, sitting across the room from David, who held an ice pack to his
  head. 'The extranjeros are concentrated in the west areas of the La Boca
  district. They've got a hell of a crime rate over them; the policia prefer
  strolling the parks rather than those streets. And the Grupo - the GOU -
  has no love for extranferos.9
  'You're no help,' said Spaulding, shifting the ice pack around in circles
  on the back of his head.
  'Well, they weren't out to kill you. They could have thrown you off or just
  left you on the edge; five to one you'd've rolled over and down four
  flights.'
 11 knew they weren't intent on killing me. . .
 'How?'
  'They could have done that easily before. I think they were waiting for me
  to go out. Id unpacked; they'd have the apartment to themselves.'
 ,what forr
 'To search my things. They have done that before.'
 'Who?'
 'Damned if I know.'

 M
 'Now, who's no helpT
  'Sorry.... Tell me, Bobby, who exactly knew I was flying in? How was it
  handled?'
  'First question: three people. I did, of course; I'm on the dials.
  Granville, obviously. And Jean Cameron; the old man asked her to follow up
  on an apartment ... but you know that. Question two: very confidentially.
  Remember, your orders came through at night. From Washington. Jean was
  playing chess with Granville in his quarters when I brought him the eggs.
 'The whaff interrupted David.
  'The scrambler; it's marked. Washington had your sheet radioed in on a
  scrambler code. That means only myself or my head man can handle it,
  deliver it to the ambassador.'
 1O.K. Then whaff
 'Nothing. I mean nothing you don't know about.'
 'Tell me anyway.'
  Ballard exhaled a long, condescending breath. 'Well, the three of us were
  alone; what the hell, I'd read the scramble and the instructions were clear
  about the apartment. So Granville figured - apparently - that Jean was the
  logical one to scout one up. He told her you were coming in; to do what she
  could on such short notice.' Ballard looked about the room and over at the
  patio doors. 'She didn't do badly, either.'
  'Then that's it; they've got a network fanned out over the city; nothing
  unusual. They keep tabs on unoccupied places: apartments, rooming houses;
  hotels are the easiest.'
 'I'm not sure I follow you,' said Ballard, trying to.
  'We can all be smart as whips, Bobby, but we can't change a couple of
  basics: we have to have a place to sleep and take a bath.'
  'Oh, I follow that, but you can't apply it here. Starting tomorrow you're
  no secret; until then you are. D.C. said you were coming down on your own;
  we had no idea precisely when or how.... Jean didn't get this apartment for
  you. Not in your name.'
  'OhT David was far more concerned than his expression indicated. The two
  extranjeros had to have been on the roof before he arrived. Or, at least,
  within minutes after he did so. 'How did she lease it then? Whose name did
  she use? I didn't want a cover; we didn't ask for one.'
 'Jesus, I thought I talked fast. Sunday is Sunday, Monday is

                                 231
 Monday. Sunday we don't know you; Monday we do. That's what Washington
 spelled out. They wanted no advance notice of your arrival and,
 incidentally, if you decided to stay out of sight, we were to adhere to your
 wishes. I'm sure Granville will ask you what you want to do in the
 morning.... How did Jean lease the place? Knowing her, she probably implied
 the ambassador had a girl on the side, or something. The portehos are very
 simpdtico with that sort of thing; the Paris of South America and all that.
 ... One thing I do know, she wouldn't have used your name. Or any obvious
 cover. She'd use her own first.'
  'Oh, boy,' said Spaulding wearily, removing the ice pack and feeling the
  back of his head. He looked at his fingers. Smudges of blood were apparent.
  'I hope you're not going to play hero with that gash. You should see a
  doctor.'
  'No hero.' David smiled. 'I've got to have some sutures removed, anyway.
  Might as well be tonight, if you can arrange it. ,
 .1 can arrange it. Where did you get the stitches?'
 'I had an accident in the Azores.'
 'Christ, you travel, don't you?'
 'So does something ahead of me.'

 232
 24

 'Mrs. Cameron is here at my request, Spaulding. Come in. I've talked with
 Ballard and the doctor. Stitches taken out and new ones put in; you must
 feel like a pincushion.'
  Granville was behind his baroque desk, reclining comfortably in his
  highbacked chair. Jean Cameron sat on the couch against the left wall; one
  of the chairs in front of the desk was obviously meant for David. He
  decided to wait until Granville said so before sitting down. He remained
  standing; he wasn't sure he liked the ambassador. The office assigned to
  him was, indeed, far back and used for storage.
  'Nothing serious, sir. If it was, I'd say so.' Spaulding nodded to Jean and
  saw her concern. Or, at least, that's what he thought he read in her eyes.
  'You'd be foolish not to. The doctor says the blow to the head fortunately
  fell between concussion areas. Otherwise, you'd be in rather bad shape.'
 'It was delivered by an experienced man.'
  'Yes, I see.... Our doctor didn't think much of the sutures he removed.'
  'That seems to be a general medical opinion. They served their purpose; the
  shoulder's fine. He strapped it.'
 'Yes.... Sit down, sit down.'
 David sat down. 'Thank you, sir.'
 11 gather the two men who attacked you last evening were

                                 233
 provincianos. Not porteflos.'
  Spaulding gave a short, defeated smile and turned to Jean Cameron. 'I got
  to portefios; I guess provincianos means what it says. The country folk?
  Outside the cities!
 'Yes,' said the girl softly. 'The city. BA.'
  'Two entirely different cultures,' continued Granville. 'The provincianos
  are hostile and with much legitimacy. They're really quite exploited; the
  resentments are flaring up. The GOU has done nothing to ease matters, it
  only conscripts them in the lowest ranks.'
 'The provincianos are native to Argentina, though, aren't they?'
  'Certainly. From their point of view, much more so than Buenos Airens,
  porteflos. Less Italian and German blood, to say nothing of Portuguese,
  Balkan and Jewish. There were waves of immigrations, you see. . . ."
  'Then, Mr. Ambassador,' interrupted David, hoping to stem another post
  analysis by the pedagogical diplomat, 'these were not provinclanos. They
  called themselves extranjeros. Displaced persons, I gathered!
  'Extranjero is a rather sarcastic term. Inverse morbidity. As though
  employed by a reservation Indian in our Washington. A foreigner in his own
  native land, you see what I mean?'
  'These men were not from Argentina,' said David quietly, dismissing
  Granville's question. 'Their speech pattern was considerably alien.'
 'Oh? Are you an expert?'
 'Yes, I am. In these matters!
  'I see.' Granville leaned forward. 'Do you ascribe the attack to embassy
  concerns? Allied concerns?'
  'I'm not sure. It's my opinion I was the target. I'd like to know how they
  knew I was here.'
  Jean Cameron spoke from the couch. 'I've gone over everything I said,
  David.' She stopped and paused briefly, aware that the ambassador had shot
  her a look at her use of Spaulding's first name. 'Your place was the fourth
  apartment I checked into. I started at ten in the morning and got there
  around two o'clock. And leased it immediately. I'm sorry to say it was the
  patio that convinced me.'
 David smiled at her.
  6Anyway, I went to a real estate office at Viamonte. Geraldo Baldez is the
  owner; we all know him. He's partisan; has no use

 234
 for Germans. I made it clear that I wanted to rent the apartment for one of
 our people who was living here and who, frankly, found the embassy
 restrictions too limiting. He laughed and said he was sure it was Bobby. I
 didn't disagree.'
 'But it was a short lease,' said David.
  'I used it as an excuse in case you didn't like the apartment. It's a
  standard three-month clause.'
 'Why wouldn't Bobby - or anyone else - get his own placeT
  'Any number of reasons. Also standard ... here.' Jean smiled, a touch
  embarrassed, thought David. 'I know the city better than most; I lived here
  for several years. Also there's a little matter of expense allowance; I'm
  a pretty good bargainer. And men like Bobby have urgent work to do. My
  hours are more flexible; I have the time.'
  'Mrs. Cameron is too modest, Spaulding. She's an enormous asset to our
  small community.'
  'I'm sure she is, sir.... Then you don't think anyone had reason to suspect
  you were finding a place for an incoming attach6.'
  'Absolutely not. It was all done in such a ... lighthearted way, if you
  know what I mean.'
 'What about the owner of the building?' David asked.
  'I never saw him. Most apartments are owned by wealthy people who live in
  the Telmo or Palermo districts. Everything's done through rental agencies.'
  David turned to Granville. 'Have there been any calls for me? MessagesT
  'No. Not that I'm aware of, and I'm sure I would be. You would have been
  contacted, of course.'
 'A man named Kendall. . . .'
  'Kendall?' interrupted the ambassador. 'I know that name. . . . Kendall.
  Yes, Kendall.' Granville riffled through some papers on his desk. 'Here. A
  Walter Kendall came in last night. Ten thirty flight. He's staying at the
  Alvear; that's near the Palermo Park. Fine old hotel.' Granville suddenly
  looked over at Spaulding. 'He's listed on the sheet as an industrial
  economist. Now that's a rather all-inclusive description, isn't it? Would
  he be the banker I referred to yesterday?'
  'He'll make certain arrangements relative to my instructions.' David did
  not conceal his reluctance to go into the matter of Walter Kendall. On the
  other hand, he instinctively found him-
  
                                 235
 self offering a token clarification to Jean Cameron. 'My primary job-here is
 to act as liaison between financial people in New York and London and
 banking interests here in Buenos ... BA.'David smiled; he hoped as genuinely
 as Jean smiled. 'I think it's a little silly. I don't know a debit from an
 asset. But Washington okayed me. The ambassador is worried that I'm too
 inexperienced.'
  Spaulding quickly shifted his gaze to Granville, reminding the old man that
  'banking interests' was the limit of identities. The name of Erich
  Rhinemann was out of bounds.
  'Yes, I admit, I was.... But that9s neither here nor there. What do you
  wish to do about last night? I think we should lodge a formal complaint
  with the police. Not that it will do a d
 bit of good.'
  David fell silent for a few moments, trying to consider the pros and cons
  of Granville's suggestion. 'Would we get press coverage?9
 'Very little, I'd think,' answered Jean.
  'Embassy attach6s usually have money,' said Granville. 'They've been
  robbed. It will be called an attempted robbery. Probably was.' -
  'But the Grupo doesn't like that kind of news. It doesn't fit in with the
  colonels' view of things, and they control the press.' Jean was thinking
  out loud, looking at David. 'They'll play it down.'
  'And if we don't complain -assuming it was not robbery -we're admitting we
  think it was something else. Which I'm not prepared to do,' said Spaulding.
  'Then by all means, a formal complaint will be registered this morning.
  Will you dictate a report of the incident and sign it, pleaseT Obviously,
  Granville wished to terminate the meeting. 'And to be frank with you,
  Spaulding, unless I'm considerably in the dark, I believe it was an attempt
  to rob a newly arrived rich American. I'm told the airport taxi drivers
  have formed a veritable thieves' carnival. Extranieros would be perfectly
  logical participants.'
  David stood up; he was pleased to see that Jean did the same. 'I'll accept
  that, Mr. Ambassador. The years in Lisbon have made me overly ...
  concerned. I'll adjust.'
 11 daresay. Do write up the report.'
 'Yes, sir.'
 41111 ga him a stenographer,' said Jean. 'Bilingual.'

 236
 'Not necessary. I'll dictate it in Spanish.'
  'I forgot! Jean snufled. 'Bobby said they'd sent us a bright one.,

  David supposed it began with that first lunch. Later she told him it was
  before, but he didn't believe her. She claimed it was when he said that BA
  stood for Montevideo; that was silly, it didn't make sense.
  What made sense - and they both recognized it without any attempt to
  verbalize it - was the total relaxation each felt in the other's company.
  It was as simple as that. It was a splendid comfort; the silences never
  awkward, the laughter easy and based in communicated humor, not forced
  response.
  It was remarkable. Made more so, David believed, because neither expected
  it, neither sought it. Both had good and sufficient reasons to avoid any
  relationships other than surface or slightly below. He was an impermanent
  man, hoping only to survive and start somewhere againwithaclear head and
  suppressed memories. That was'important to him. And he knew she still
  mourned a man so deeply she couldn't possibly - without intolerable guilt
  -push that man's face and body and mind behind her.
  She told him partially why herself. Her husband had not been the image of
  the dashing carrier pilot so often depicted by navy public relations. He'd
  had an extraordinary fear - not for himself - but of taking lives. Were it
  not for the abuse he knew would have been directed at his Maryland wife and
  Maryland family, Cameron would have sought conscientious objector status.
  Then, too, perhaps he hadn't the courage of his own convictions.
 Why a pilot?
  Cameron had been flying since he was in his teens. It seemed natural and he
  believed his civilian training might lead to a Stateside instructor's
  berth. He rejected military law; too many of his fellow attorneys had gone
  after it and found themselves in the infantry and on the decks of
  battleships. The military had enough lawyers; they wanted pilots.
  David thought he understood why Jean told him so much about her dead
  husband. There were two reasons. The first was that by doing so openly, she
  was adjusting to what she felt was happening between them; atoning,
  perhaps. The second was less clear but in no way less important. Jean
  Cameron hated the war; hated it for what it had taken away from her. She
  wanted him

                                 237
 to know that.
  Because - David realized - her instincts told her he was very much
  involved. And she would have no part of that involvement; she owed that
  much to Cameron's memory.
  They'd gone to lunch at a restaurant overlooking the waters of the
  Riach6elo Basin near the piers of DArsena Sud. She had suggested it - the
  restaurant and the lunch. She saw that he was still exhausted; what sleep
  he'd managed had been interrupted constantly with pain. She insisted that
  he needed a long, relaxing lunch, then home to bed and a day's
  recuperation.
 She hadn't meant to go with him.
 He hadn't meant for her to.
  'Ballard's a nice guy,' said Spaulding, pouring a clear white Col6n.
 'Bobby's a dear,' she agreed. 'He's a kind person.'
 'He's very fond of you.'
  'And I of him.... What you're speculating on is perfectly natural, and I'm
  sorry to spoil the wilder melody. Is melody right? Granville told me who
  your parents were. I'm impressed!
  'I've refused to read music since the age of eight. But "melody's" fine. I
  just wondered!
  'Bobby gave me a thoroughly professional try, with enormous charm and good
  humor. A better girl would have responded. He had every right to be angry.
  . . . I wanted his company but gave very little in return for it.'
 :He accepted your terms,' said David affirmatively.
 I said he was kind.'
 'There must be ten other fellows here. . .
  'Plus the marine guard,' interjected Jean, feigning a lovely, unmilitary
  salute. 'Don't forget them.'
 'A hundred and ten, then. You're Deanna Durbin!
  'Hardly. The marines rotate off the FMF base south of La Boca; the staff -
  those without wives and kinder - are plagued with the embassy syndrome!
 'What's that?'
  'State Department-eye-tis.... The quivers. You seem to be singularly
  lacking in them.'
 'I don't know whether I am or not. I don't know what they are.'
 'Which tells me something about you, doesn't it?'
 'What does it tell you?'
 'You're not a State Department climber. The "eye-tis"

 238
 syndrome is treading lightly and making damned sure everybody above you -
 especially the ambassador - is happy with your sincerest efforts.'Jean
 grimaced like a boxer puppy, her delicate chin forward, her eyebrows down -
 mocking the words. Spaulding broke out laughing; the girl had captured the
 embassy look and voice with devastating accuracy.
  'Christ, I'm going to put you on the radio.' He laughed again. 'You've
  described the syndrome. I see it, Lord! I see it P
  'But you're not infected by it.' Jean stopped her min-dcry and looked into
  his eyes. 'I watched you with Granville; you were just barely polite. You
  weren1 looking for a fitness report, were youT
  He returned her gaze. 'No, I wasn't.... To answer the question that's
  rattling around that lovely head of yours so loud it vibrates - I'm not a
  Foreign Service career officer. I'm strictly wartime. I do work out of
  embassies on a variety of related assignments for a couple of related
  reasons. I speak four languages and because of those parents that impressed
  you so, I have what is euphemistically described as access to important
  people in goverm-nent, commerce, those areas. Since I'm not a complete
  idiot, I often circulate confidential information among corporations in
  various countries. The market place doesn't stop humn-dng for such
  inconveniences as war. . . . That's my contri. bution. I'm not very proud
  of it, but it's what they handed me.'
  She smiled her genuine smile and reached for his hand. V think you do
  whatever you do very intelligently and well. There aren't many people who
  can say that. And God.knows you can't choose.'
 I "What did you do in the war, daddy?" . . . "Well, son,"
 David tried his own caricature. ' "I went from place to place telling
 friends of the Chase Bank to sell high and buy low and clear a decent profit
 margin." ' He kept her hand in his.
  'And got attacked on Argentine rooftops and ... and what were those
  stitches in your shoulder?'
  'The cargo plane I was on in the Azores made a rotten landing. I think the
  pilot and his whole crew were plastered.'
  'There. See? You live as dangerously as any man at the front. ... If I meet
  that boy you're talking to, I'll tell him that.'
  Their eyes were locked; Jean withdrew her hand, embarrassed. But for
  Spaulding the important thing was that she believed him. She accepted his
  cover extension without question. It

                                 239
 occurred to him that he was at once greatly relieved and yet, in a way,
 quite sorry. He found no professional pride in lying to her successfully.
  'So now you know how I've avoided the State Department syndrome. I'm still
  not sure why it's relevant. What the hen, with .a hundred and ten men and
  marines. . . .'
  'The marines don't count. They have sundry interests down here in La Boca.'
  'Then the staff - those without the "Wives and kinder" - they can't all be
  quivering.'
  'But they do and I've been grateful. They'd like to get to the Court of St.
  James's someday.'
  'Now you're playing mental gymnastics. I'm not following you.'
  'No, I'm not. I wanted to see if Bobby had told you. He hasn't. I said he
  was kind.... He was giving me the chance to tell you myself.'
 'Tell me whatT
  'My husband was Henderson Granville's stepson. They were very close.'

  They left the restaurant shortly past four and walked around the docks of
  the Dixsena Sud waterfront, breathing in the salt air. It seemed to David
  that Jean was enjoying herself in a way she hadn't in too long a time. That
  it was part of the instant comfort between them, he realized, but it went
  further. As if some splendid relief had swept over her. -
  Her loveliness had been evident from those first moments on the staircase,
  but as he thought back on that brief introduction, he knew what the
  difference was. Jean Cameron had been outgoing, good-natured ... welcoming
  charm itself. But there'd been something else: a detachment born of
  self-control. Total control. A patina of authority that had nothing to do
  with her status at the embassy or whatever other benefits derived from her
  marriage to. the ambassador's stepson. It was related solely to her own
  decisions, her own outlook.
  He had seen that detached authority throughout the morning - when she
  introduced him to various embassy employees; when she gave directions to
  her secretary; when she answered her telephone and rendered quick
  instructions.
 Even in the byplay with Bobby Ballard she glided firmly, with

 240
 the assurance of knowing her own pattern. Ballard could shout humorously
 that she could 'get irresponsibly drunk' because by no stretch of the
 imagination would she allow herself to do that.
 Jean kept a tight rein on herself.
 The rein was loosening now.
  Yesterday he had looked at her closely, finding the years; and she was
  completely unconcerned, without vanity. Now, walking along the docks,
  holding his arm, she was pleasantly aware of the looks she received from
  the scores of waterfront Bocamos. Spaulding knew she hoped he was aware of
  those looks.
  'Look, David,' she said excitedly. 'Those boats are going to crash head
  on.'
  Several hundred yards out in the bay, two trawlers were on a collision
  course, both steam whistles filling the air with aggressive warnings, both
  crews shouting at eacb~ other from port and starboard railings.
 'The one on the right will veer.'
  It did. At the last moment, amid dozens of guttural oaths and gestures.
 'How did you know?' she said.
  'Simple right of way; the owner would get clobbered with damages. There'll
  be a brawl on one of these piers pretty soon, though.'
 'lAt's not wait for it. You've had enough of that.'
  They walked out of the dock area into the narrow La Boca streets, teeming
  with small fish markets, profuse with fat merchants in bloodied aprons and
  shouting customers. The afternoon catch was in, the day's labor on the
  water over. The rest was selling and drinking and retelling the
  misadventures of the past twelve hours.
  They reached a miniature square called - for no apparent reason - Plaza
  Ocho Calle; there was no street number eight, no plaza to speak of. A taxi
  hesitantly came to a stop at the comer, let out its fare and started up
  again, blocked by pedestrians unconcerned with such vehicles. David looked
  at Jean and she nodded, smiling. He shouted at the driver.
  Inside the taxi he gave his address. It didn't occur to him to do
  otherwise.
  They rode in silence for several minutes, their shoulders touching, her
  hand underneath his arm.
 'What are you thinking off David asked, seeing the distant

                                 241
 but happy expression on her face.-
  'Oh, the way I pictured you when Henderson read the scram~ ble the other
  night.... Yes, I call him Henderson; I always have.'
  'I can't imagine anyone, even the president, calling him Henderson!
  'You don't know him. Underneath that Racquet Club jacket is lovable
  Henderson.'
 'How did you picture me?'
 Wery differently!
 'From what?'
  'You.... I thought you'd be terribly short, to begin with. An attach6 named
  David Spaulding who's some kind of financial whiz and is going to have
  conferences with the banks and the colonels about money things is short, at
  least fifty years old and has very little hair. He also wears spectacles -
  not glasses - and has a thin nose. Probably has an allergy as well - he
  sneezes a lot and blows his nose all the time. And he speaks in short,
  clipped sentences; very precise and quite disagreeable.'
 'He chases secretaries, too; don't leave that out.'
  'My David Spaulding doesn't chase secretaries. He reads dirty books.'
  David felt a twinge. Throw in an unkempt appearance, a soiled handkerchief
  and replace the spectacles with glasses - worn occasionally - and Jean was
  describing Walter Kendall.
 'Your Spaulding's an unpleasant fellow.'
 'Not the new one,' she said, tightening her grip on his arm.
  The taxi drew up to the curb in front of the entrance on C6rdoba. Jean
  Cameron hesitated, staring momentarily at the apartment house door. David
  spoke softly, without emphasis.
 'Shall I take you to the embassy?'
 She turned to him. 'No.'
 He paid1the driver and they went inside.
  The field thread was invisibly protruding from the knob; he felt it.
  He inserted the key in the lock and instinctively, gently shoul. dered her
  aside as he pushed the door open. The apartment was as he had left it that
  morning; he knew she felt his relief. He hold the door for her. Jean
  entered and looked around.
 'It really isn't so bad, is iff she said.
 'Humble but home.' He left the door open and with a smile,

 342
 a gesture - without words - he asked her to stay where she was. He walked
 rapidly into the bedroom, returned and went through the double doors onto
 his miniature, high-walled patio. He looked up, scanning the windows and the
 roof carefully. He smiled again at her from under the branches of the fruit
 tree. She understood, closed the door and came out to him.
 'You did that very professionally, Mr. Spaulding,'
 'In the best traditions of extreme cowardice, Mrs. Cameron.'
  He realized his mistake the minute he'd made it. It was not the moment to
  use the married 'title. And yet, in some oblique way she seemed grateful
  that he had. She moved again and stood directly in front of him.
 'Mrs. Cameron thanks you.'
  He reached out and held her by the waist. Her arms slowly, haltingly, went
  up to his shoulders; her hands cupped his face and she stared into his
  eyes.
  He did not move. The decision, the first step, had to be hers; he
  understood that.
  She brought her lips to his. The touch was soft and lovely and meant for
  earthbound angels. And then she trembled with an almost uncontrollable
  sense of urgency. Her lips parted and she pressed her body with
  extraordinary strength into his, her arms clutched about his neck.
  She pulled her lips away from his and buried her face into his chest,
  holding him with fierce possession.
  'Don't say anything,' she whispered. 'Don't say anything at all.... Just
  take me.'
  He picked her up silently and carried her into the bedroom. She kept her
  face pressed into his chest, as if she were afraid to see light or even
  him. He lowered her gently onto the bed and closed the door.
  In a few moments they were naked and he pulled the blankets over them. It
  was a moist and beautiful darkness. A splendid comfort.

  'I want to say something,' she said, tracing her finger over his lips, her
  face above his, her breasts innocently on his chest. And smiling her
  genuine smile.
  'I know. You want the other Spaulding. The thin one with spectacles.' He
  kissed her fingers.
 'He disappeared in an explosion of sorts.'

                                 243
 'You're positively descriptive, young lady.'
 'And not so young.... That's what I want to talk about.'
  'A pension. You're angling for Social Security. I'll see what I can do.'
 'Be serious, silly boy.'
 'And not so silly .....
  'There's no commitment, David,' she said, interrupting him. 'I want you to
  know that.... I don't know how else to say it. Everything happened so
  fast.'
  'Everything happened very naturally. Explanations aren't required.'
 'Well, I think some are. I didn't expect to be here.'
  'I didn't expect that you would be. I suppose I hoped, I'll adn-dt that....
  I didn't plan; neither of us did.'
  'I don't know; I think I did. I think I saw you yesterday and somewhere in
  the back of my mind I made a decision. Does that sound brazen of me?'
 'If you did, the decision was long overdue.'
  'Yes, I imagine it was.' She lay back, pulling the sheet over her. 'I've
  been very selfish. Spoiled and selfish and behaving really quite badly.'
  'Because you haven't slept aroundT It was his turn to roll over and touch
  her face. He kissed both her eyes, now open; the deep speckles of blue made
  bluer, deeper, by the late afternoon sun streaming through the blinds. She
  smiled; her perfect white teeth glistening with the moisture of her mouth,
  her lips curved in that genuine curve of humor.
  'That's funny. I must be unpatriotic. I've withheld my charms only to
  deliver them to a noncombatant.'
  The Visigoths wouldn't have approved. The warriors came first, I'm told.'
  'Let's not tell them.' She reached up for his face. 'Oh, David, David,
  David.'

 244
 25

 'I hope I didn't wake you. I wouldn't have troubled you but I thought you'd
 want me to.'
  Ambassador Granville's voice over the telephone was more solicitous than
  David expected it to be. He looked at his watch as he replied. It was three
  minutes of ten in the morning.
 'Oh? ... No, sir. I was just getting up. Sorry I overslept.'
 There was a note on the telephone table. It was from Jean.
 'Your friend was in contact with us.'
  'Friend?' David unfolded the note. My Darling - You fell into such a
  beautiful sleep it would have broken my heart to disturb you. Called a
  taxi. See you in the nwrning. At the Bastille. Your ex-regimented phoenix.
  David smiled, remembering her smile.
  '. . . the details, I'm sure, aren't warranted.' Granville had said
  something and he hadn't been listening.
  'I?m sorry, Mr. Ambassador. This must be a poor connection; your voice
  fades in and out.' All telephones beyond the Atlantic, north, middle and
  south, were temperamental instruments. An unassailable fact.
  'Or something else, I'm afraid,' said Granville with irritation, obviously
  referring to the possibility of a telephone tap. 'When you get in, please
  come to see me.'
 'Yes, sir. I'll be there directly!
 He picked up Jean's note and read it again.
 She had said last night that he was complicating her life. But

                                245
 there were no commitments; she'd said that, too.
  What the hell was a commitment? He didn't want to speculate. He didn't want
  to think about the awful discovery - the instant, splendid comfort they
  both recognized. It wasn't the time for it....
  Yet to deny it would be to reject an extraordinary reality. He was trained
  to deal with reality.
 He didn't want to think about it.
 His 'friend' had been in contact with the embassy.
 Walter Kendall.
 That was another reality. It couldn't wait.
  He crushed out his cigarette angrily, watching his fingers stab the butt
  into the metal ashtray.
 Why was he angry?
  He didn't care to speculate on that, either. He had a job to do. He hoped
  he had the commitment for it.

  'Jean said you barely made it through dinner. You needed a good night's
  sleep; I must say you look better.' The ambassador had come from around his
  desk to greet him as he entered the large, ornate office. David was a
  little bewildered. The old diplomat was actually being solicitous,
  displaying a concern that belied his unconcealed disapproval of two days
  ago. Or was it his use of the name Jean instead of the forbidding Mrs.
  Cameron.
  'She was very kind. I couldn't have found a decent restaurant without her.'
  'I daresay.... I won't detain you, you'd better get cracking with this
  Kendall.'
 'You said he's been in contact. . .
  'Starting last night; early this morning to be accurate. He's at the Alvear
  and apparently quite agitated, according to the switchboard. At two thirty
  this morning he was shouting, demanding to know where you were. Naturally,
  we don't give out that information.'
  'I'm grateful. As you said, I needed the sleep; Kendall would have
  prevented it. Do you have his telephone number? Or shall I get it from the
  book?'
  'No, right here.' Granville walked to his desk and picked up a sheet of
  notepaper. David followed and took it from the ambassadoes outstretched
  hand.
 Mank you, sir. I'll get on it.' He turned and started for the

 246
 door, Granville's voice stopping him.
 'Spaulding?'
 'Yes, sirT
  'I'm sure Mrs. Cameron would like to see you. Assess your recovery, I
  daresay. Her office is in the south wing. First door from the entrance, on
  the right. Do you know where that isT
 'I'll find it, sir.,
 'I'm sure you will. See you later in the day.'
  David went out the heavy baroque door, closing it behind him. Was it his
  imagination or was Granville reluctantly giving an approval to his and
  Jean's sudden ... alliance? The words were approving, the tone of voice
  reluctant.
  He walked down the connecting corridor toward the south wing and reached
  her door. Her name was stamped on a brass plate to the left of the
  doorframe. He had not noticed it yesterday.
 Mrs. 4ndrew Cameron.
  So his name had been Andrew. Spaulding hadn't asked his first name; she
  hadn't volunteered it.
  As he looked at the brass plate he found himself experiencing a very
  strange reaction. He resented Andrew Cameron; zVented his life, his death.
  The door was open and he entered. Jean's secretary was obviously an
  Argentine. A porlefia. The black Spanish hair was pulled back into a bun,
  her features Latin.
 'Mrs. Cameron, please. David Spaulding!
  'Please go in. She's expecting you.'David approached the door and turned
  the knob.
  She was taken by surprise, he thought. She was at the window looking out at
  the south lawn, a page of paper in her hand, glasses pushed above her
  forehead, resting on top of her light brown hair.
  Startled, she removed her glasses from their perch and stood immobile.
  Slowly, as if studying him first, she smiled.
  He found himself afraid. More than afraid, for a moment. And then she spoke
  and the sudden anguish left him, replaced by a deeply felt relief.
  'I woke up this morning and reached for you. You weren't there and I
  thought I might cry.'
  He walked rapidly to her and they held each other. Neither spoke. The
  silence, the embrace, the splendid comfort returning.
 'Granville acted like a procurer a little while ago,' he said

                                 247
 finallk, holding her by the shoulders, looking at her blue speckled eyes
 that held such intelligent humor.
 'I told you he was lovable. You wouldn't believe me.'
  'You didn't tell me we had dinner,, though. Or that I could barely get
  through it.'
 'I was hoping you'd slip; give him more to think about.'
 'I don't understand him. Or you, maybe.'
  'Henderson has a problem.... Me. Hes not sure how to handle it - me. Hes
  overprotective because I've led him to believe I wanted that protection. I
  did; it was easier. But a man who's had three wives and at least twice that
  many mistresses over the years is no Victorian.... And he knows you're not
  going to be here long. As he would put it: do I sketch a reasonable
  picture?'
 'I daresay,' answered David in Granvilles Anglicized manner.
  'That's unkind.' Jean laughed. 'He probably doesn't approve of you, which
  makes his unspoken acceptance very difficult for him.,
  David released her. 'I know damned well he doesn't approve. ... Lpok, I
  have to make some calls; go out and meet someone .....
 'Just someone?'
  'A ravishing beauty who'll introduce me to lots of other ravishing
  beauties. And between the two of us, I can't stand him. But I have to see
  him.... Will you have dinner with me?'
  'Yes, I'll have dinner with you. I'd planned to. You didn't have a choice.'
 'You're right; you're brazen.'
  'I made that clear. You broke down the regimens; I'm flying up out of my
  own personal ash heap.... The air feels good.'
  'It was going to happen.... I was here.' He wasn't sure why he said it but
  he had to.

  Walter Kendall paced the hotel room as though it were a cage. Spaulding sat
  on the couch watching him, trying to decide which animal Kendall reminded
  him of; there were several that came to mind, none pets.
  'You listen to me,' Kendall said. 'Tbis is no military operation. You take
  orders, you don't give them.'
  'I'm sorry; I think you're misreading me.' David was tempted to answer
  Kendall's anger in kind, but he decided not to.

 248
  'I misread, bullshitl You told Swanson you were in some trouble in New
  York. That's your problem, not ours.'
 'You can't be sure of that.'
  'Oh yes I can! You tried to sell that to Swanson and he bought it. You
  could have involved us V
  'Now just a minute.' Spaulding felt he could object legitimately - within
  the boundaries he had mentally staked off for Kendall. 'I told Swanson that
  in my opinion the "trouble" in New York might have been related to Buenos
  Aires. I didn't say it was, I said it might have been.'
 'That's not possible!'
 'How the hell can you be so sureT
  'Because I am.' Kendall was not only agitated, thought David, he was
  impatient. 'This is a business proposition. The deal's been made. There's
  no one trying to stop it. Stop us.'
  'Hostilities don't cease because a deal's been made. if the German command
  got wind of it they'd blow up Buenos Aires to stop it.'
 'Yeah ... well, that's not possible.'
 'You know that?'
  'We know it.... So don't go confusing that stupid bastard, Swanson. I'll
  level with you. This is strictly a money-line negotiation. We could have
  completed it without any help from Washington, but they insisted - Swanson
  insisted - that they have a man here. O.K., you're him. You can be helpful;
  you can get the papers out and you speak the languages. But that's all
  you've got to do. Don't call attention to yourself. We don't want anyone
  upset.'
  Grudgingly, David began to understand the subtle clarity of Brigadier
  General Swanson's manipulation. Swanson had maneuvered him into a clean
  position. The killing of Erich Rhinemann -whether he did it himself or
  whether he bought the assassin - would be totally unexpected. Swanson
  wasn't by any means the 'stupid bastard' Kendall thought he was. Or that
  David had considered.
  Swanson was nervous. A neophyte. But he was pretty damned good.
  'All right. My apologies,'said Spaulding, indicating a sincerity he didn't
  feel. perhaps the New York thing was exaggerated. I made enemies in
  Portugal, I can't deny that.... I got out under cover, you know.'

                                 249
  'rbere's no way the people in New York could know I left the city.'
 'You're sure?'
  'As sure as you are that no one's trying to stop your negotiations.'
 'Yeah.... O.K. Well, everything's set. I got a schedule.'
 'You've seen Rhinemann?'
 'Yesterday. All day.'
 'What about Lyons?' asked David.
  'Swanson's packing him off at the end of the week. With his nursemaids.
  Rhinemann figures the designs will be arriving Sunday or Monday.'
 'In steps or all togetherT
  'Probably two sets of prints. He's not sure. It doesn't make any
  difference; they'll be here in full by Tuesday. He guaranteed.'
  'Then we've moved up. You estimated three weeks.' David felt a pain in his
  stomach. He knew it wasn't related to Walter Kendall or Eugene Lyons or
  designs for high-altitude gyroscopes. It was Jean Cameron and the simple
  fact that he'd have only one week with her.
  It disturbed him greatly and he speculated - briefly - on the meaning of
  this disturbance.
  And then he knew he could not allow himself the indulgence; the two
  entities had to remain separate, the worlds separate.
  'Rhinernann's got good control,' said Kendall, more than a hint of respect
  showing in his voice. 'I'm impressed with his methods. Very precise.'
  'If you think that, you don't need me.' David was buying a few seconds to
  steer their conversation to another area. His statement was rhetorical.
  'We don't, that's what I said. But there's a lot of money involved and
  since the War Department - one way or another -is picking up a large share
  of the tab, Swanson wants his accounts covered. I don't sweat him on that.
  It's business.'
  Spaulding recognized his moment. 'Then let's get to the codes. I haven't
  wasted the three days down here. I've struck up a friendship of sorts with
  the embassy cryp.'
 'The what?'
  'The head cryptographer. He'll send out the codes to Washington; the
  payment authorization.'

 250
  ,oh. . . . Yeah, that.' Kendall was squeezing a cigarette, prepared to
  insert it in his mouth. He was only half-concerned with codes and
  cryptographers, thought David. They were the wrap-up, the necessary details
  relegated to others. Or was it an act? wondered Spaulding.
 He'd know in a moment or two.
  'As you pointed out, it's a great deal of money. So weve decided to use a
  scrambler with code switches every twelve hours. We'll prepare the cryp
  schedule tonight and send it out by patrol courier to Washington tomorrow.
  The master plate will allow for fifteen hours.... Naturally, the prime word
  will be "Tortugas'.
 Spaulding watched the disheveled accountant.
 There was no reaction whatsoever.
  OX.... Yeah, O.K.' Kendall sat down in an easy chair. His mind seemed
  somewhere else.
 'That meets with your approval, doesn't iff
  'Sure. Why not? Play any games you like. All I give a shit about is that
  Geneva radios the confirmation and you fly out of here.9
  'Yes, but I thought the reference had to include the ... code factor.'
 'What the hell are you talking about?'
 "'Tortugas." Hasn't it got to be "Tortugas"?'
 'V*"Y? What's "Tortugas"?'
  The man wasn't acting. David was sure of that. 'Perhaps I misunderstood. I
  thought "Tortugas" was part of the authorization code.'
  'Christl You and Swanson! All of you. Military geniusesl Jesusl If it
  doesn't sound like Dan Dunn, Secret Agent, it's not the real McCoy, huh?
  ... Look. When Lyons tells you everything's in order, just say so. Then
  drive out to the airport ... it's a small field called Mendarro ... and
  Rhinemann's men will tell you when you can leave. O.K.? You got thaff
 'Yes, I've got it,' said Spaulding. But he wasn't sure.

  Outside, David walked aimlessly down the Buenos Aires streets. He reached
  the huge park of the Plaza San Martin, with its fountains, its rows of
  white gravel paths, its-calm disorder.
  He sat down on a slatted bench and tried to define the elusive pieces of
  the increasingly complex puzzle.

                                 251
    I
 Walter Kendall hadn't lied, 'Tortugas' meant nothing to him.
  Yet a man in an elevator in New York City had risked his life to learn
  about 'Tortugas.'
  Ira Barden in Fairfax had told him there was only a single word opposite
  his name in the DW transfer in Ed Pace's vaults: 'Tortugas.'
  There was an obvious answer, perhaps. Ed Pace's death prohibited any real
  knowledge, but the probability was genuine.
  Berlin had gotten word of the PeenemUnde negotiation - too late to prevent
  the theft of the designs - and was now committed to stopping the sale. Not
  only stopping it, but if possible tracing the involvement of everyone
  concerned. Trapping the entire Rhinemann network.
  If this was the explanation - and what other plausible one existed? -
  Pace's code name, 'Tortugas,' had been leaked to Berlin by Fairfax
  infiltration. That there was a serious breach of security at Fairfax was
  clear; Pace's murder was proof.
  His own role could be easily assessed by Berlin, thought David. The man in
  Lisbon suddenly transferred to Buenos Aires. The expert whose skill was
  proven in hundreds of espionage transactions, whose own network was the
  most ruthlessly efficient in southern Europe, did not walk out of his own
  creation unless his expertise was considered vital someplace else. He'd
  long ago accepted the fact that Berlin more than suspected him. In a way it
  was his protection; he'd by no means won every roll of the dice. If the
  enemy killed him, someone else would take his place. The enemy would have
  to start all over again. He was a known commodity ... accept an existing
  devil.
  Spaulding considered carefully, minutely, what he might do were he the
  enemy. What steps would he take at this 'specific juncture?
  Barring panic or error, the enemy would not kill him. Not now. Because he
  could not by himself inhibit the delivery of the designs. He could,
  however, lead his counterparts to the moment and plate of delivery.
 What is the location of Tortugas!?
  The desperate ... hysterical man in the Montgomery elevator had screamed
  the question, preferring to die rather than reveal those whose orders he
  followed. The Nazis reveled in such fanaticism. And so did others, for
  other reasons.
 He - Spaulding - would therefore be placed under dusserste

 252
 Oberwachung - foolproof surveillance, three- to four-man teams, twenty-four
 hours a day. That would account for the recruitment of the extraterritorial
 personnel on the Berlin payroll. Agents who operated outside the borders of
 Germany, had operated -for profit - for years. Ther languages and dialects
 would vary; deep-cover operatives who could move with impunity in neutral
 capitals because they had no Gestapo or Gehlen or Nachrichtendienst
 histories.
  The Balkans and the Middle East countries had such personnel for hire. They
  were expensive; they were among the best. Their only morality was to the
  pound sterling and the American dollar.
  Along with this round-the-clock surveillance, Berlin Would take
  extraordinary measures to prevent him from developing his own network in
  Buenos Aires. That would mean infiltrating the American embassy. Berlin
  would not overlook that possibility. A great deal of money would be
  offered.
 Who at the embassy could be bought?
  To attempt corrupting an individual too highly placed could backfire; give
  him, Spaulding, dangerous information.... Some one not too far up on the
  roster; someone who could gain access to doors and locks and desk-drawer
  vaults. And codes.... A middle-level attach6. A man who'd probably never
  make it to the Court of St. James's anyway; who'd settle for another kind
  of security. Negotiable at a very high price.
 Someone at the embassy would be Spaulding's enemy.
 Finally, Be - rlin would order him killed. Along with numerous
 others, of course. Killed at the moment of delivery; killed after
 the dusserste Oberwachung had extracted everything it could.
  David got up from the slatted green bench and stretched, observing the
  beauty that was the Plaza San Martin park. He wandered beyond the path onto
  the grass, to the edge of a pond whose dark waterg reflected the
  surrounding trees like a black mirror. Two white swans paddled by in
  alabaster obliviousness. A little girl was kneeling by a rock on the tiny
  embankment, separating the petals from a yellow flower.
  He was satisfied that he had adequately analyzed the immediate options of
  his counterparts. Options and probable courses of action. His gut feeling
  was positive - not in the sense of being enthusiastic, merely not negative.
  He had now to evolve his own counterstrategy. He had to bring into play the
  lessons he had learned over the years in

                                 253
 Lisbon. But there was so little time allowed him. And because of this fact,
 he understood that a misstep could be fatal here.
  Nonchalantly - but with no feelings of nonchalance - he looked around at
  the scores of strollers on the paths, on the grass; the rowers and the
  passengers in the small boats on the small dark lake. Which of them were
  the enemy?
  Who were the ones watching him, trying to think what he was thinking?
  He would have to find them - one or two of them anyway -before the next few
  days were over.
 That was the genesis of his counterstrategy.
 Isolate and break.
  David Ht a cigarette and walked over the miniature bridge. He was primed.
  The hunter and the hunted were now one. There was the slightest straining
  throughout his entire body; the hands, the arms, the legs: there was a
  muscular tension, an awareness. He recognized it. He was back in the north
  country.
  And he was good in that jungle. He was the best there was. It was here that
  he built his architectural monuments. his massive structures of concrete
  and steel. In his mind.
 It was all he had sometimes.

 254
 26

 He looked at his watch. It was five thirty; Jean had mid she'd be at his
 apartment around six. He had walked for nearly two hours and now found
 himself at the comer of Viamonte, several blocks from his apartment. He
 crossed the street and walked to a newsstand under a storefront awning,
 where he bought a paper.
  He glanced at the front pages, amused to see that the war news - what there
  was of it - was relegated to the bottom, surrounded by accounts of the
  Grupo de Oficiales' latest benefits to Argentina. He noted that the name of
  a particular colonel, one Juan Per6n, was mentioned in three separate
  subheadlines.
  He folded the paper under his arm and, because he realized he had been
  absently musing, looked once again at his watch.
  It was not a deliberate move on David's part. That is to say, he did not
  calculate the abruptness of his turn; he simply turned because the angle of
  the sun caused a reflection on his wristwatch and he unconsciously shifted
  his body to the right, his left hand extended, covered by his own shadow.
  But his attention was instantly diverted from his watch. Out of the comer
  of his eye he could discern a sudden, sharp break in the sidewalk's human
  traffic. Thirty feet away across the street two men had swiftly turned
  around, colliding with oncoming pedestrians, apologizing, stepping into the
  flow on the curbside.
  The man on the left had not been quick enough; or he was too careless - too
  inexperienced, perhaps - to angle his shoulders, or

                                 255
 hunch them imperceptibly so as to melt into the crowd.
 He stood out and David recognized him.
  He was one of the men from the roof of the C6rdoba apartment. His companion
  David couldn't be sure of, but he way sure of that man. There was even the
  hint of a limp in his gait; David remembered the battering he'd given him.
 He was being followed, then, and that was good.
 His point of departure wasn't as remote as he'd thought.
  He walked another ten yards, into a fairly large group approaching the
  comer of C6rdoba. He sidestepped his way between arms and legs and
  packages, and entered a small jewelry store whose wares were gaudy,
  inexpensive. Inside, several office girls were trying to select a gift for
  a departing secretary. Spaulding smiled at the annoyed proprietor,
  indicating that he could wait, he was in no hurry. The proprietor made a
  gesture of helplessness.
  Spaulding stood by the front window, his body concealed from outside by the
  frame of the door.
  Before a minute was up he saw the two men again. They were still across the
  street; David had to follow their progress through the intermittent gaps in
  the crowd. The two men were talking heatedly, the second man annoyed with
  his limping companion. Both were trying to glance above the heads of the
  surrounding bodies, raising themselves up on their toes, looking foolish,
  amateur.
  David figured they would turn right at the comer and walk east on C6rdoba,
  toward his apartment. They did so and, as the owner of the jewelry store
  protested, Spaulding walked swiftly out into the crowds and ran across the
  Avenida Callao, dodging cars and angry drivers. He had to reach the other
  side, staying out of the sightlines of the two men. He could not use the
  crosswalks or the curbs. It would be too easy, too logical, for the men to
  look backward as men did when trying to spot someone they had lost in
  surveillance.
  David knew his objective now. He had to separate the men and take the one
  with a limp. Take him and force answers.
  If they had any experience, he considered, they would reach his apartment
  and divide, one man cautiously going inside to listen through the door,
  ascertaining the subject's presence, the other remaining outside, far
  enough from the entrance to be unobserved. And common sense would dictate
  that the

 256
 unknown to David would be the one to enter the apartment.
  Spaulding removed his jacket and held up the newspaper - not ftffl but
  folded; not obviously but casually, as if he were uncertain of the meaning
  of some awkwardly phrased headline - and walked with the crowds to the
  north side of C6rdoba. He turned right and maintained a steady, unbroken
  pace east, remaining as far left on the sidewalk as possible.
  His apartment was less than a block and a half away now. He could see the
  two men; intermittently they did look back, but on their own side of the
  street.
 Amateurs. If he taught surveillance, they'd fail his course.
  The men drew nearer to the apartment, their concentration on the entrance.
  David knew it was his moment to move. The only moment of risk, really; the
  few split seconds when one or the other might turn and see him across the
  street, only yards away. But it was a necessary gamble. He had to get
  beyond the apartment entrance. That was the essence of his trap.
  Several lengths ahead was a middle-aged portefia housewife carrying
  groceries, hurrying, obviously anxious to get home. Spaulding came
  alongside and without breaking stride, keeping in step with her, he started
  asking directions in his best, most elegant Castilian, stating among other
  points that he knew this was the right street and he was late. His head was
  tilted from the curb.
  If anyone watched them, the housewife and the shirtsleeved man with a
  jacket under one arm and a newspaper under the other looked like two
  friends hastening to a mutual destination.
  Twenty yards beyond the entrance on the other side, Spaulding left the
  smiling portefia and ducked into a canopied doorway. He pressed himself
  into the wall and looked back across the street. The two men stood by the
  curb and, as he expected, they separated. The unknown man went into his
  apartment house; the man with the limp looked up and down the sidewalk,
  checked oncoming vehicles, and started across C6rdoba to the north side.
  David's side.
  Spaulding knew it would be a matter of seconds before the limping figure
  passed him. Logic, again; common sense. The man would continue east - he
  would not reverse direction - over traversed ground. He would station
  himself at a vantage point from which he could observe those approaching
  the apartment from the west. David's approach.

                                 257
  The man did not see him until David touched him, grabbed his left arm
  around the elbow~ forced the arm into a horizontal position, and clamped
  the man's hand downward so that the slightest force on David's part caused
  an excruciating pain in the man's bent wrist.
  'Just keep walking or III snap your hand off,' said David in English,
  pushing the man to the right of the sidewalk to avoid the few pedestrians
  walking west on C6rdoba.
  The man's face grimaced in pain; David's accelerated walk caused him to
  partially stumble - his limp emphasized - and brought further agony to the
  wrist.
  'You're breaking my arm. You're breaking itt' said the anguished man,
  hurrying his steps to relieve the pressure.
  'Keep up with me or I will,' David spoke calmly, even politely. They
  reached the comer of the Avenida Parani and Spaulding swung left,
  propelling the man with him. There was a wide, recessed doorway of an old
  office building - the type that had few offices remaining within it. David
  spun the man around, keeping the arm locked, and slammed him into the
  wooden wall at the point farthest inside. He released the arm; the
 grabbed for his strained wrist. Spaulding took the moment to ffip open the
 man's jacket, forcing the arms downward, and removed a revolver strapped in
 a large holster above the man's left hip.
 It was a Lfiger. Issued less than a year ago.
  David clamped it inside his belt and pushed a lateral forearm against the
  man's throat, crashing his head into the wood as he searched the pockets of
  the jacket. Inside he found a large rectangular European billfold. He
  slapped it open, removed his forearm from the man's throat, and shoved his
  left shoulder into the man's chest, pinning him unmercifully against the
  wall. With both hands, David removed identification papers.
  A German driver's license; an Autobalm vehicle pass; rationing cards
  countersigned by Oberfiffirers, allowing the owner to utilize them
  throughout the Reich - a privilege granted to upperlevel government
  personnel and above.
 And then he found it.
  An identity pass with a photograph affixed; for the ministries of
  Information, Armaments, Air and Supply.
 Gestapo.
  'You're about the most inept recruit Himinler's turned out,' said David,
  meaning the judgment profoundly, putting the bill-
  
 258
 fold in his back pocket. 'You must have relatives.... Was ist "Tortagas"?'
 Spaulding whispered harshly, suddenly. He removed his shoulder from the
 man's chest and thrust two extended knuckles into the Nazi's breastbone with
 such impact that the German coughed, the sharp blow nearly paralyzing him.
 'Wer ist Altinliller? Was wissen Sie fiber Marshall?' David repeatedly
 hammered the man's ribs with his knuckles, sending shock waves of pain
 throughout the Gestapo agent's rib cage. 'Sprechen Sie! SO/ortl'
  'Neinl Ich weiss nichts!'the man answered between gasps. 'Nein I'
  Spaulding heard it again. The dialect. Nowhere near Berliner; not even a
  mountainized Bavarian. Something else.
 What was it?
 'Noch 'mal! Again I Sprechen Sie I'
  And then the man did something quite out of the ordinary. In his pain, his
  fear, he stopped speaking German. He spoke in English. 'I have not the
  information you want! I follow orders. ... That is all!'
  David shifted his stand to the left, covering the Nazi from the
  intermittent looks they'both received from the passersby on the sidewalk.
  The doorway was deep, however, in shadows; no one stopped. The two men
  could have been acquaintances, one or both perhaps a little drunk.
  Spaulding clenched his right fist, his left elbow against the wall, his
  left hand poised to clamp over the German's mouth. He leaned against the
  slatted wood and brought his fist crashing into the man's stomach with such
  force that the agent lurched forward, held only by David's hand, now
  gripping him by the hairline.
  'I can keep this up until I rupture everything inside you. And when I'm
  finished I'll throw you in a taxi and drop you off at the German embassy
  with a note attached. You'll get it from both sides then, won't you? ...
  Now, tell me what I want to know I' David brought his two bent knuckles up
  into the man's throat, jabbing twice.
 'Stop.... Mein Gott! Stop!'
  'Why don't you yell? You can scream your head off, you know. . ... Of
  course, then I'll have to put you to sleep and let your own people find
  you. Without your credentials, naturally.
  . . Go on I Yell V David knuckled the man once more in the throat. 'Now,
  you start telling me. What's "Tortugas?" Who's

                                 259
 Altmigler? How did you get a cryp named Marshall?,
 'I swear to God I I know nothing V
  David Punched him again. The man collapsed; Spaulding pulled him up against
  the wall, leaning against him, hiding him, really. The Gestapo agent opened
  his lids, his eyes swimming uncontrollably.
 'You've got five seconds. Then I'll rip your throat out.'
 'Nol ... Please I Altmaller .... Armaments .... Peenem(Inde...'
 'What about PeenemOndeT
  'The tooling     Tortugas".
  'What does that meanl?'David showed the man his two bent fingers. The
  recollection of Pam terrified the German. 'What is 66 Tortugas"?'
  Suddenly the German's eyes flickered, trying to focus. Spaulding saw that
  the man was looking above his shoulder. It wasn't a ruse, the Nazi was too
  far gone for strategies.
  And then David felt the presence behind him. It was an unmis-, takeable
  feeling that had been developed over the recent years; it was never false.
 He turned.
  Coming into the dark shadows from the harsh Argentine sunfight was the
  second part of the surveillance team, the man who'd entered his apartment
  building. He was Spaulding's size, a large man and heavily muscular.
  The light and the onrushing figure caused David to wince. He released the
  German, prepared to throw himself onto the opposite wan.
 He couldn't!
  The Gestapo agent - in a last surge of strength - held onto his arms 1
  Held his arms, threw his hands around David's chest and hung his full
  weight on him I
  Spaulding lashed out with his foot at the man attacking, swung his elbows
  back, slamming the German back into the wood.
 It was too late and David knew it.
  He saw the huge hand - the long fingers spread - rushing into his face. It
  was as if a ghoulish film was being played before his eyes in slow motion.
  He felt the fingers clamp into his skin and realized that his head was
  being shoved with great strength into the wall.
 The sensations of divin& crashing, spinning accompanied the

 260
 shock of pain above his neck.

  He shook his head; the first thing that struck him was the stench. It was
  all around him, sickening.
  He was lying in the recessed'doorway, curled up against the wall in a fetal
  position. He was wet, drenched around his face and shirt and in the crotch
  area of his trousers.
 It was cheap whisky. Very cheap and very profuse.
  His shirt had been ripped, collar to waist; one shoe was off, the sock
  removed. His belt was undone, his fly partially unzipped.
 He was the perfect picture of a derelict.
  He rose to a sitting position and remedied as best he could his appearance.
  He looked at his watch.
 Or where his watch had been; it was gone.
  His wallet, too. And money. And whatever else had been in his pockets.
  He stood up. The sun was down, early night had begun; there were not so
  many people on the Avenida Parani now.
  He wondered what time it was. It couldn't be much more than an hour later,
  he supposed.
 He wondered if Jean were still waiting for hirn.

  She removed his clothes, pressed the back of his head with 100 and insisted
  that he take a long, hot shower.
  When he emerged from the bathroom, she fixed him a drink, then sat down
  next to him on the small couch.
  'Henderson will insist on your moving into the embassy; you know that,
  don't youT
 'I can't.'
  'Well, you can't go on being beaten up every day. And don't tell me they
  were thieves. You wouldn't swallow that when Henderson and Bobby both tried
  to tell you that about the men on the roof!'
  'Tbis was different. For God's sake, Jean, I was robbed of everything on
  me!' David spoke sternly. It was important to him that she believe him now.
  And it was entirely possible that he'd find it necessary to avoid her from
  now on. That might be important, too. And terribly painful.
 'People don't rob people and then douse them with whisky!'
  'They do if they want to create sufficient time to get out of the area.
  It's not a new tactic. By the time a mark gets finished

                                 261
 explaining to the police that he's a sober citizen, the hustlers are twenty
 miles away.'
  'I don't believe you, I don't even think you expect me to.' She sat up and
  looked at him.
  'I do expect you to because it's the truth. A man doesn't throw away his
  wallet, his money, his watch . . . in order to impress a girl with the
  validity of a lie. Come on, Jean! I'm very thirsty and my head still
  hurts.'
 She shrugged, obviously realizing it was futile to argue.
  'You're just about out of Scotch, I'm afraid. I'll go buy a bottle for you.
  There's a liquor store on the corner of Talcahuano. It's not far. . . .'
  'No,' he said interrupting, recalling the man with huge hands who'd entered
  his building. 'I will. Lend me some money.'
 'We'll both go,' she responded.
  'Please?. . . Would you mind waiting? I may get a phone call; I'd like the
  person to know I'll be right back.'
 'Who?'
 'A man named Kendall.'
  Out on the street, he asked the first man he saw where the nearest pay
  phone could be found. It was several blocks away, on Rodriguez Peila, in a
  newspaper store.
 David ran as fast as he could.
  The hotel page found Kendall in the dining room. When he got on the phone
  he spoke while chewing. Spaulding pictured the man, the doodled
  obscenities, the animal-like breathing. He controlled himself. Walter
  Kendall was sick.
  'Lyons is coming in in three days,' Kendall told him. 'With his nurses. I
  got him a place in this San Telmo district. A quiet apartment, quiet
  street. I wired Swanson the address. He'll give it to the keepers and
  they'll get him set up. They'll be in touch with you.'
 'I thought I was to get him settled.'
  'I figured you'd complicate things,' interrupted Kendall. 'No piss lost.
  They'll call you. Or I will. I'll be here for a while.'
 'I'm glad.... Because so's the Gestapo.'
 1M01
  'I said so's the Gestapo. You figured a little inaccurately, Kendall.
  Someone is trying to stop you. It doesn't surprise me.'
 'You're out of your fucking mind V
 ,I'm not.,
 'What happened?'

 262
 . So David told him, and for the first time in his brief association Mth the
 accountant, he detected fear.
  'There was a break in Rhinemann's network. It doesn't mean the designs
  won't get here. It does mean we have obstacles - if Rhinemann's as good as
  you say. As I read it, Berlin found out the designs were stolen. They know
  they're filtering down or across or however Rhinemann's routing them out of
  Europe. The High Command got wind of the transactions. The Reichsf0rers
  aren't going to broadcast, they're going to try and intercept. With as
  little noise as possible. But you can bet your ass there's been a slew of
  executions in PeenemOnde.'
  'It's crazy . . . .' Kendall could hardly be heard. And then he mumbled
  something; David could not understand the words.
 'What did you say?'
  'The address in this Telmo. For Lyons. It's three rooms. Back entrance.'
  Kendall still kept his voice low, almost indistinct.
  The man was close to panic, thought Spaulding. 'I can barely hear you,
  Kendall.... Now, calm down I I think it's time I introduced myself to
  Rhinemann, don't you?'
 'The Telmo address. It's Fifteen Terraza Verde ... it's quiet.'
 'Who's the contact for Rhinemann?'
 'The whaff
 'Rhinemann's contact.'
 'I don't know. . . . '
  'For Christ's sake, Kendall, you held a five-hour conference with him!'
 'I'll be in touch. . .
  David heard the click. He was stunned. Kendall had hung up on him. He
  considered calling again but in Kendall's state of anxiety it might only
  make matters worse.
  Goddamned amateurs I What the hell did they expect? Albert Speer himself to
  get in touch with Washington and lend the army air corps a few designs
  because he heard they had problems?
 Jesusl
  David walked angrily out of the telephone booth and the store and into the
  street.
  Where the goddamned hell was he? Oh, yes, the Scotch. The store was back at
  Talcahuano, Jean said. Four blocks west. He looked at his watch and, of
  course, there was no watch.
 Goddamn.

                                 263
  'I'm sorry I took so long. I got confused. I walked the wrong way for a
  couple of blocks.' David put the package of Scotch and soda water on the
  sink. Jean was sitting on the sofa; disturbed about something, he
  thought. 'Did I get the call?'
  'Not the one you expected,' said Jean softly. 'Someone else. He said he'd
  phone you tomorrow.'
 'Oh? Did he leave a name?'
  'Yes, he did.'When she answered, David heard the questioning fear in her
  voice. 'It was Heinrich Stoltz.'
 'Stoltz? Don't know him.'
  'You should. He's an undersecretary at the German embassy. ... David,
  what are you doing?'

 264
 27

 'Sorry, seifor. Mister Kendall checked out last night. At ten thirty,
 according to the card.'
  'Did he leave any other address or telephone number here in Buenos Aires?'
  'No, seftor. I believe he was going back to the United States. There was a
  Pan American flight at midnight.'
  '7rbank you.' David put down the telephone and reached for his cigarettes.
  it was incredible! Kendall had shot out at the first moment of difficulty.
 Why?
 The telephone rang, startling David.
 'Hello?'
 'Herr Spaulding?'
 'Yes.'
 'Heinrich Stoltz. I called last night but you were out.'
  'Yes, I know. . . . I understand you're with the German embassy. I hope I
  don't have to tell you that I find your contacting me unorthodox. And not
  a little distasteful.'
  10h, come, Herr Spaulding. The man from Lisbon? He finds unorthodoxy?'
  Stoltz laughed quietly but not insultingly.
  'I am an embassy attach6 specializing in economics. Nothing more. If you
  know anything about me, surely you know that. Now, I'm late....

                                 265
  'Please,' interrupted Stoltz. 'I call from a public telephone. Surely that
  tells you something.'
 It did, of course.
 'I don't talk on telephones.'
 'Yours is clean, I checked thoroughly.'
  'If you want to meet, give me a time and an address. . . . Somewhere in the
  downtown area. With people around; no outside locations.'
  'There's a restaurant, Casa Langosta del Mar, several blocks north of the
  Parque Lezama. It's out of the way, not outside. There are back rooms.
  Curtains, no doors; no means of isolation. Only seclusion!
 'rime?'
 'Half past twelve!
 'Do you smoke?' asked David sharply.
 'Yes.'
  'Carry a pack of American cigarettes from the moment you get out of the
  car. In your left hand; the foil off one end of the top, two cigarettes
  removed!
  'It's quite unnecessary. I know who you are. Ill recognize you!
  'That's not my concern. I don't know you.' David hung up the phone
  abruptly. As in all such rendezvous, he would arrive at the location early,
  through a delivery entrance if possible, and position himself as best he
  could to observe his contact's arrival. The cigarettes were nothing more
  than a psychological device: the contact was thrown off balance with the
  realization that he was an identified mark. A target. A marked contact was
  reluctant to bring trouble. And if trouble was his intent, he wouldn't show
  up.

  Jean Cameron walked down the corridor toward the metal staircase that led
  to the cellars.
 To the 'Caves.'
  The 'Caves' - a name given without affection by Foreign Service officers
  the world over - were those underground rooms housing file cabinets
  containing dossiers on just about everybody who had the slightest contact
  with an embassy, known and unknown, friend and adversary. They included
  exhaustive checks and counterchecks on all embassy personnel; service back-
  ground, State Department evaluations, progress reports. Nothing

 266
 was left out if it was obtainable.
  Two signatures were required to gain entrance into the 'Caves.' The
  ambassadoes and that of the senior attach6 seeking information.
  It was a regulation that was occasionally bypassed in the interests of
  haste and emergency. The marine officer of the guard generally could be
  convinced that an established attach6 had to have immediate background
  material; the marine would fist both the names of the embassy man and his
  subject on the check sheet, then stand in attendance while the file.was
  removed. If there were repercussions, they were the attach6's
  responsibility.
  There never were. Violations of this sort guaranteed a post in Uganda. The
  check sheet was sealed daily and sent only to the ambassador.
  Jean rarely took advantage of her relationship to Henderson Granville in
  embassy matters. In truth, the occasion rarely arose, and when it did, the
  matter was always insignificant.
  It was not insignificant now. And she intended to use fully her status as
  family, as well as a respected member of the staff. Granville had left for
  lunch; he would not return for several hours. She had made up her mind to
  tell the marine guard that her 'father-in-law, the ambassador' had asked
  her to make a discreet inquiry regarding a new transfer.
 Spaulding, David.
  If Henderson wished to call her down for it, she would ten him the truth.
  She found herself very, very involved with the enigmatic Mr. Spaulding, and
  if Henderson did not realize it, he was a damn fool.
  The marine officer of the guard was a young lieutenant from the FMF base
  south of La Boca. The personnel from FMF were sped in civilian clothes
  through the city to their posts at the embassy; the treaty that permitted
  the small, limited base did not condone uniformed men outside either
  territory. These restrictions tended to make the young officers sensitive
  to the functionary, faceless roles they were forced to play. So it was
  understandable that when the ambassador's daughter-in-law called him by
  name and spoke confidentially of a discreet matter, the marine complied
  without question.
  Jean stared at David's Me. It was frightening. It was not like any file she
  had ever seen. There was no dossier, no State

                                 267
 Department records, no reports, no evaluations, no listing of post
 assignments.
 There was only a single page.
  It gave his description by sex, height, weight, coloring and visible
  markings.
  Beneath this cursory data, separated by a three-line space, was the
  following:

   War Dept. Transfer. Clandestine Operations. Finance.
 TortWas.

 And nothing more.
  'Finding what you need, Mrs. CameronT asked the marine lieutenant by the
  steel-grilled gate.
  'Yes.... Thank you.' Jean slipped David's thin folder back into place in
  the cabinet, smiled at the marine, and left.
  She reached the staircase and walked slowly up the steps. She accepted the
  fact that David was involved with an undercover assignment - accepted it
  while hating it; loathing the secrecy, the obvious danger. But in a
  conscious way she had prepared herself, expecting the worst and finding it.
  She was not at all sure she could handle the knowledge, but she was willing
  to try. If she could not handle it she'd take what moments of selfish
  pleasure she could and kiss David Spaulding good-bye. She had made up her
  mind tb that ... unconsciously, really. She could not allow herself more
  pain.
  And there was something else. It was only a dim shadow in a half-lit room
  but it kept failing across her eyes. It was the word.
 .Tortugas.'
 She had seen it before. Recently. Only days ago.
  It had caught her attention because she'd thought of the Dry Tortugas ...
  and the few times she and Andrew had sailed there from the Keys.
 Where was it? Yes.... Yes, she remembered.
  It had been in a very mechanical paragraph within the context of an area
  surveillance report on Henderson Granville's desk. She had read it rather
  absently one morning ... only a few days ago. But she hadn't read it
  closely. Area surveillance reports were comprised of short, choppy
  informational sentences devoid of rhythm and color. Written by
  unimaginative men concerned only with what they could describe briefly,
  with data.

 268
 It had- been down at La Boca.
  Something about the captain of a trawler ... and cargo. Cargo that had a
  lading destination of Tortugas. A violation of coastal limits; said
  destination rescinded, called an obvious error by the trawlees captain.
 Yet the lading papers had said Tortugas.
  And David Spaulding's classified operation - clan&stine operation - was
  coded 'Tortugas.'
 And Heinrich Stoltz of the German embassy had called David.
 And Joan Cameron was suddenly afraid.

  Spaulding was convinced that Stoltz was alone. He signaled the German to
  follow him to the back of the restaurant, to the curtained cubicle David
  had arranged for with the waiter a half hour,ago.
  Stoltz entered carrying the pack of cigarettes in his left hand. Spaulding
  circled the round table and sat facing the curtain.
  'Have a seat,' said David indicating the chair opposite him. Stoltz smiled,
  realizing that his back would be to the entrance.
  'The man from Lisbon is a cautious man.'Tbe German pulled out the chair and
  sat down, placing the cigarettes on the table.
 'I can assure you I'm not armed!
 'Good. I am.'
  'You are too cautious. The colonels look askance at belligerents carrying
  weapons in their neutral city. Your embassy should have told you.'
  'I understand they also arrest Americans quicker than they do you fellows!
  Stoltz shrugged. 'Why not? After all, we trained them. You only buy their
  beef.'
 'There'll beno lunch, incidentally. Ipaid thewaiter forthe table!
  'I'm sorry. The langosta . . . the lobster here is excellent. Perhaps a
  drink?'
 'No drinks. Just talk.'
  Stoltz spoke, his voice flat. 'I bring a welcome to Buenos Aires. From
  Erich Rhinemann.'
 David stared at the man. 'You?'
 'Yes. I'm your contact!
 'That's interesting!
 `ThaCs the way of Erich Rhinemann. He pays for allegiances.'
 I'll VMnt proof

                                20.
 'By all means. From Rhinemann himself. ... Acceptable?'
 Spaulding nodded. 'When? WhereT
  'That's what I'm here to discuss. Rhinemann is as cautious as the man from
  Lisbon.'
  'I was attached to the diplomatic corps in Portugal. Don't try to make
  anything more of it than that.'
  'Unfortunately, I have to speak the truth-Herr Rhinemann is most upset that
  the men in Washington saw fit to send you as the liaison. Your presence in
  Buenos Aires could attract attention.'
  David reached for the cigarettes Stoltz had placed on the table. He lit
  one.... The German was right, of course; Rhinemann was right. The one
  liability in his having been chosen was the enemy's probable knowledge of
  his Lisbon operations. Ed Pace, he was sure, had considered that aspect,
  discarding it in favor of the overriding assets. Regardless, it was not a
  subject to discuss with Heinrich Stoltz. The German attach6 was stiff an
  unproven factor.
  'I have no idea what you're referring to. I'm in Buenos Aires to transmit
  preliminary recommendations from New York and London banking circles
  relative to postwar reconstruction negotiations. You see, we do believe
  we'll win. Rhinemann can't be overlooked in such projected discussions.'
 'The man from Lisbon is most professional.'
 'I wish you'd stop repeating that nonsense. .
  'And convincing,' interrupted Stoltz. 'The cover is one of your better
  ones. It has more stature than a cowardly American socialite.... Even Herr
  Kendall agrees with that.'
  David paused before replying. Stoltz was circling in, about to deliver his
  proof. 'Describe Kendall,' he said quietly.
 'In short wordsT
 'It doesn't matter.'
  Stoltz laughed under his breath. 'I'd prefer as few as possible. He's a
  most unattractive biped. He must be an extraordinary man with figures;
  there's no other earthly reason to stay in the same room with him.'
 'Have you stayed in the same room with him?'
  'For hours, unfortunately. With Rhinemann.... Now. May we talk?'
 'Go ahead:
  'Your man Lyons will be here the day after tomorrow. We can accomplish
  everything very quickly. The designs will be delivered

 270
 in one package, not two as Kendall believes!
 'Does he believe that?'
 'It's what he was told.'
 1VVhy?1
  'Because until late last evening Herr Rhinemann thought it was so. I myself
  did not know of the change until this morning!
 'Then why did you call me last night?'
 'Instructions from Walter Kendall!
 'Please explain that.'
  'Is it necessary? One has nothing to do with the other. Herr Kendall
  telephoned me. Apparently he had just spoken with you. He said he was
  called back to Washington suddenly; that I was to contact you immediately
  so there's no break in communications. He was most adamant.'
 'Did Kendall say why he was returning to the States?'
  'No. And I saw no reason to inquire. His work here is finished. He's of no
  concern to us. You are the man with the codes, not him.'
  David crushed out his cigarette, staring at the tablecloth. 'What's your
  rank at the embassy?'
  Stoltz smiled. 'Third . . . fourth in command would be a modest appraisal.
  My loyalty, however, is to the Rhinemann interests. Surely that's apparent!
  'I'll know when I talk to Rhinemann, won't I?' David looked up at the
  German. 'Why are the Gestapo here in Buenos Aires?'
  'They're not.... Well, there's one man; no more than a clerk really. As all
  Gestapo he thinks of himself as the personal spokesman for the Reich and
  overburdens the couriers - who, incidentally, cooperate with us. He is, as
  you Amerikaner say, a jackass. There is no one else.'
 'Am you sure?'
  'Of course. I would be the first to know; before the ambassador, I assure
  you. This game is quite unnecessary, Herr Spaulding!
  'You'd better set up that meeting with Rhinemann ... that's necessary!
  'Yes. Certainly.... Which brings us back to Herr Rhinemann's concerns. Why
  is the man from Lisbon in Buenos Aires?'
  'I'm afraid he has to be. You said it. I'm cautious. I'm experienced. And
  I have the codes.'
 'But why you? To remove you from Lisbon is costly. I speak

                                 271
 both as an enemy and as an objective neutral, allied with Rhine. mann. Is
 there some side issue of which we're not aware?'
  'If there is, I'm not aware of it, either,' answered Spaulding,
  neutralizing Stoltz's inquisitorial look with one of his own. 'Since we're
  talking plain, I want to get those designs okayed, send the codes for your
  goddamned money and get the hell out of here. Since a large share of that
  financing will come from the government, Washington obviously thinks I'm
  the best man to see we're not cheated!
 Both men remained silent for several moments. Stoltz spoke.
  'I believe you. You Americans always worry about being cheated, don't you?'
  'Let's talk about Rhinemann. I want the meeting immediately. I won't be
  satisfied that Kendall's arrangements are solid until I hear it from him.
  And I won't organize a code schedule with Washington until I'm satisfied!
 'There's no schedule?'
 'There won't be any until I see Rhinemann.'
  Stoltz breathed deeply. 'You are what they say, a thorough man. You'll see
  Rhinemann.... It will have to be after dark, two transfers of vehicles, his
  residence. He can't take the chance of anyone seeing you together.... Do
  these precautions disturb you?9
  'Not a bit. Without the codes there's no money transferred in Switzerland.
  I think Herr Rhinemann will be most hospitable!
  'Yes, I'm sure. . . . Very well. Our business is concluded. You'll be
  contacted this evening. Will you be at home?'
 'If not, I'll leave word at the embassy switchboard.'
  'Dann auf Wiedersehen, mein Herr.' Stoltz got out of the chair and gave a
  diplomatic nod of his head. 'Heute Abend.'
  'Heute Abend,' replied Spaulding as the German parted the curtain and
  walked out of the cubicle. David saw that Stoltz had left his cigarettes on
  the table; a minor gift or a minor insult. He removed one and found himself
  squeezing the tip as he remembered Kendall doing - incessantly, with every
  cigarette the accountant prepared to smoke. David broke the paper around
  the tobacco and dropped it in the ashtray. Anything reminding him of
  Kendall was distasteful now. He couldn't think about Kendall and his
  sudden, fear-induced departure.
 He had something else to think about.
 Heinrich Stoltz, 'third, fourth in command' at the German

 272
 embassy, was not so highly placed as he believed. The Nazi had not been
 lying - he did not know the Gestapo was in Buenos Aires. And if he didn't
 know, that meant someone wasn't telling him.
  It was ironic, thought David, that he and Erich Rhinemann would be working
  together after all. Before he killed Rhinemann, of course.

  Heinrich Stoltz sat down at his desk and picked up the telephone. He spoke
  in his impeccable academic German.
 'Get me Herr Rhinemann in Lujin.'
  He replaced the phone, leaned back in his chair and smiled. Several moments
  later his buzzer hummed.
  'Herr Rhinemann? ... Heinrich Stoltz.... Yes, yes, everything went
  smoothly. Kendall spoke the truth. This Spaulding knows nothing about
  Koening or the diamonds; his only concerns are the designs. His only threat
  - that of withholding funds. He plays unimpressive games but we need the
  codes. The American fleet patrols could be ordered to seal off the harbor;
  the trawler will have to get out.... Can you imagine? All this Spaulding is
  interested in is not being cheated!'

 273
 28

 At first he thought he was mistaken.... No, that wasn't quite right, he
 considered; that wasn't his first thought. He didn't have a first thought,
 he had only a reaction.
 He was stunned.
 Leslie Hawkwood!
  He saw her from his taxi window talking with a man at the south end of the
  fountain in the Plaza de Mayo. The cab was slowly making its way through
  the traffic around the huge square; he ordered the driver to pull over and
  stop.
  David paid the driver and got out. He was now directly opposite Leslie and
  the man; he could see the blurred figures through the spray of the
  fountain.
  The man handed Leslie an envelope and bowed a European bow. He turned and
  went to the curb, his hand held up for a taxi. One stopped and the man got
  in; the cab entered the flow of traffic and Leslie went to the crosswalk,
  waiting for the pedestrian signal.
  David made his way cautiously around the fountain and dashed to the curb
  just as the crosswalk light flashed.
  He dodged the anxious vehicles, arousing horns and angry shouts, angling
  his path to the left in case she turned around at the commotion. She was at
  least fifty yards ahead of him; she couldn!t spot him, he was sure of that.
 On the boulevard, Leslie headed west toward Avenida 9 de

 274
 Julio. David closed the gap between them but kept himself obscured by the
 crowds. She stopped briefly at several store windows, twice obviously trying
 to make up her mind whether to enter or not.
  So like Leslie; she had always hated to give up the acquisition of
  something new.
  She kept walking, however. Once she looked at her wristwatch; she turned
  north on Julio and checked the numbers of two storefront addresses,
  apparently to determine the directional sequence.
 Leslie Hawkwood had never been to Buenos Aires.
  She continued north at a leisurely pace, taking in the extraordinary color
  and size of the boulevard. She reached the comer of Corrientes, in the
  middle of the theater district, and wandered past the billboards, looking
  at the photographs of the performers.
  Spaulding realized that the American embassy was less than two blocks away
  - between the Avenidas Supacha and Esmeralda. There was no point in wasting
  time.
  She saw him before he spoke. Her eyes widened, her jaw fell, her whole body
  trembled visibly. The blood drained from her suntanned face.
  'You have two alternatives, Leslie,' said Spaulding as he came within a
  foot of her, looking down at her terrified face. 'The embassy is right up
  there; it's United States territory. You'll be arrested as a citizen
  interfering with national security, if not espionage. Or you can come with
  me.... And answer questions. Which will it be?'
  The taxi took them to the airport, where Spaulding rented a car with the
  papers identifying him as 'Donald Scanlan, mining surveyor.' They were the
  sort of identifications he carried when making contact with such men as
  Heinrich Stoltz.
  He had held Leslie by the arm with sufficient pressure to wam her not to
  attempt running; she was his prisoner and he was deadly serious about the
  fact. She said nothing at all during the ride to the airport, she simply
  stared out the window, avoiding his eyes.
  Her only words at the rental counter were, 'Where are we going?'
 His reply was succinct: 'Out of Buenos Aires.'
  He followed the river road north toward the outskirts, into the hills above
  the city. A few miles into the Sante F6 province, the

                                 275
 Rio Lujin curved westward, and he descended the steep inclines onto the
 highway paralleling the water's edge. It was the territory of the Argentine
 rich. Yachts were moored or cruising slowly; sailboats of all classes were
 lazily catching the upriver winds, tacking harmoniously among the tiny green
 islands which sprung out of the water like lush gardens. Private roads
 veered off the highway - now subtly curving west, away from the water.
 Enonnous villas dotted the banks; nothing was without visual effect.
  He saw a road to his left that was the start of a hill. He swung up into
  it, and after a mile there was a break in the bordering forest and a sign
  in front of a flat, graveled area.
 Vigia Tigre.
 A lookout. A courtesy for tourists.
  He drove the car to the front of the parking ground and pulled to a stop,
  next to the railing. It was a weekday; there were no other automobiles.
  Leslie had said nothing throughout the hour's ride. She had smoked
  cigarettes, her hands trembling, her eyes refusing to make contact with
  his. And through experience, David knew the benefits of silence under such
  conditions.
 The girl was close to breaking.
  'All right. Now come the questions.' Spaulding turned in the seat and faced
  her. 'And please believe me, I won't hesitate to run you into military
  arrest if you refuse.'
  She swung her head around and stared at him angrily - yet still in fear.
  'Why didn't you do that an hour ago?'
  'Two reasons,' he answered simply. 'Once the embassy is involved, I'd be
  locked into a chain of command; the decisions wouldn't be mine. I'm too
  curious to lose that control.... And second, old friend, I think you're in
  way the hell over your head. What is it, Leslie? What are you intoT
  She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled as though her life depended
  on the smoke. She closed her eyes briefly and spoke barely above a whisper.
  'I can't tell you. Don't force me to.'
  He sighed. 11 don't think you understand. I'm. an Intelligence officer
  assigned to Clandestine Operations - I'm not telling you anything you don't
  know. You made it possible for my hotel room to be searched; you lied; you
  went into hiding; for all I know, you were responsible for several assaults
  which nearly cost me my life. Now, you turn up in Buenos Aires, four
  thousand

 276
 miles away from that Park Avenue apartment. You followed me four thousand
 miles I ... Why?
 'I can't tell you! I haven't been told what I can tell you!'
  'You haven't been ... Christ! With what I can piece together - and testify
  to - you could spend twenty years in prison!'
  'I'd like to get out of the car. May IT she said softly, snuffing out her
  cigarette in the ashtray.
  'Sure. Go ahead.' David opened his door and rapidly came around the
  automobile. Leslie walked to the railing, the waters of the Rio Lujin far
  below in the distance.
 'It's very beautiful here, isn't it?9
 'Yes.... Did you try to have me killed?'
  'Oh, God!9 She whirled on him, spitting out the words. 'I tried to save
  your life I I'm here because I don't want you killed!'
  It took David a few moments to recover from the girl's statement. Her hair
  had fallen carelessly around her face, her eyes blinking back tears, her
  lips trembling.
 'I think you'd better explain that,' he said in a quiet monotone.
  She turned away from him and looked down at the river, the villas, the
  boats. 'It's like the Riviera, isn't iff
 'Stop it, Leslie!'
  'Why? It's part of it.' She put her hands on the railing. 'It used to be
  all there was. Nothing else mattered. Where next; who next? What a lovely
  party! ... You were part of it.'
  'Not really. You're wrong if you thought that. Just as you're wrong now....
  I won't be put off.'
  'I'm not putting you off.' She gripped the railing harder; it was a
  physical gesture telegraphing her indecision with her words. 'I'm trying to
  tell you something.'
  'That you followed me because you'wanted to save my Ufe?' He asked the
  question with incredulity. 'You were filled with dramatics in New York,
  too, if I recall. You waited, how long was it? Five, six, eight years to
  get me on the boathouse floor again. You're a bitch.'
  'And you're insignificantV She flung the words at him in heat. And then she
  subsided, controlling herself. 'I don't mean you ... you. Just compared to
  everything else. We're all insignificant in that sense.'
 'So the lady has a cause.'
  Leslie stared at him and spoke softly. 'One she believes in very deeply.-
  
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 .'Then you should have no reservations explaining it to me.'
 'I will. I promise you. But I can't now.... Trust meV
  'Certainly,' said David casually. And then he suddenly whipped out his
  hand, grabbing her purse, which hung from her shoulder by a leather strap.
  She started to resist; he looked at her. She stopped and breathed deeply.
  He opened the purse and took out the envelope she had been given at the
  fountain in the Plaza de Mayo. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of a
  bulge at the bottom of the bag, covered by a silk scarf. He held the
  envelope between his fingers and reached down. He separated the scarf from
  the object and pulled out a small Remington revolver. Without saying
  anything, he checked the chamber and the safety and put the weapon in his
  jacket pocket.
 'I've leamed to use it,' said Leslie tentatively.
 'Good for you,' replied Spaulding, opening the envelope.
  'At least you'll see how efficient we are,' she said turning, looking down
  at the river.
  There was no letterhead, no origin of writer or organization. The heading
  on the top of the paper read:

Spaul&ny. David. Lt. Col. Military Intelligence.
U.S. Army. Ciassification 4-0. Fairfax.

  Beneath were five complicated paragraphs detailing every move he had made
  since he was picked up on Saturday afternoon entering the embassy. David
  was pleased to see that 'Donald Scanlan' was not mentioned; he'd gotten
  through the airport and customs undetected.
  Everything else was listed: his apartment, his telephone, his office at the
  embassy, the incident on the C6rdoba roof, the lunch with Jean Cameron at
  La Boca, the meeting with Kendall at the hotel, the assault on the Avenida
  Parani, his telephone call in the store on Rodriguez Pefia.
 Everything.
  Even the 'lunch' with Heinrich Stoltz at the Langosta del Mar, on the
  border of Lezurna. The meeting with Stoltz was estimated to last 'a minimum
  of one hour.'
  It was the explanation for her leisurely pace on the Avenida de Mayo. But
  David had cut the meeting short; there'd been no lunch. He wondered if he
  had been picked up after he'd left the

 278
 restaurant. He had not been concerned. His thoughts had been on Heinrich
 Stoltz and the presence of a Gestapo Stoltz knew nothing about.
 'Your people are very thorough. Now, who are they?'
  'Men . . . and women who have a calling. A purpose. A great calling.'
 'That's not what I asked you. . . .
  There was the sound of an automobile coming up the hill below the parking
  area. Spaulding reached inside his jacket for his pistol. The car came into
  view and proceeded upward, past them. The people in the car were laughing.
  David turned his attention back to Leslie.
  'I asked you to trust me,' said the girl. 'I was on my way to an address on
  that street, the boulevard called Julio. I was to be there at one thirty.
  They'll wonder where I am.'
 'You're not going to answer me, are you?'
  'I'll answer you in one way. I'm here to convince you to get out of Buenos
  Aires.'
 4'Why?.
  'Whatever it is you're doing - and I don't know what it is, they haven't
  told me - it can't happen. We can't let it happen. It's wrong.'
 'Since you don't know what it is, how can you say it's wrong?'
 'Because I've been told. That's enough!'
  'Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Ffihrer,' said David quietly. 'Get in the car!'
  'No. You've got to listen to me! Get out of Buenos Aires! Tell your
  generals it can't be doneV
 'Get in the car I'
  There was the sound of another automobile, this time coming from the
  opposite direction, from above. David put his hand once more under his
  jacket, but then removed it casually. It was the same vehicle with the
  laughing tourists that had passed by moments ago. They were still laughing,
  still gesturing; probably drunk with luncheon wine.
 'You can't take me to the embassy I You can't V
 'If you don't get in the car, you'll just wake up there I Go on.'
  There was the screeching of tires on the gravel. The descending automobile
  had turned abruptly - at the last second - and swung sharply into the
  parking area and come to a stop.
 David looked up and swore to himself, his hand immobile

                                 279
 inside his jacket.
  17wo high-powered rifles protruded from the open windows of the car. They
  were aimed at him.
  The heads of the three filen inside were covered with silk stockings, the
  faces flattened, grotesque beyond the translucent masks. The rifles were
  held by one man next to the driver and by another in the back.
  The man in the rear opened the door, his rifle held steady. He gave his
  command in a calm voice in English.
  'Get in the car, Mrs. Hawkwood. . . . And you, colonel. Remove your weapon
  by the handle - with two fingers.'
 David did so.
  'Walk to the railing,' commanded the man in the back seat, and drop it over
  the side, into the woods.'
  David complied. The man got out of the car to let Leslie climb in. He then
  returned to his seat and closed the door.
  There ' was the gunning of the powerful engine and the sound once more of
  spinning tires over the loose gravel. The car lurched forward out of the
  parking area and sped off down the hill.
  David stood by the railing. He would go over it and find his pistol. There
  was no point in trying to follow the automobile with Leslie Hawkwood and
  three men in stocking masks. His rented car was no match for a Duesenberg.

 280
 29

 The restaurant had been selected by Jean. It was out of the way in the north
 section of the city, beyond Palermo Park, a place for assignation. Telephone
 jacks were in the wall by the booths; waiters could be seen bringing phones
 to and from the secluded tables.
  He was mildly surprised that Jean would know such a restaurant. Or would
  choose it for them.
  'Where did you go this afternoon?' she asked, seeing him looking out over
  the dim room from their booth.
  'A couple of conferences. Very dull. Bankers have a penchant for prolonging
  any meeting way beyond its finish. The Strand or Wall Street, makes no
  difference.' He smiled at her.
  'Yes.... Well, perhaps, they're always looking for ways to extract every
  last dollar.'
  'No "perhal5s." That's it. . . . This is quite a place, by the way. Reminds
  me of Lisbon.'
  'Rome,' she said. 'It's more like Rome. Way out. Via Appia. Did you know
  that the Italians comprise over thirty per cent of the population in Buenos
  AiresT
 'I knew it was considerable.'
 'The Italian hand. . . . That's supposed to mean evil.'
  ,or clever. Not necessarily evil. The"fine Italian hand" is usually
  envied.'
 'Bobby brought me here one night. . . . I think he brings lots

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 of girls here.'
 'It's . . . discreet.'
  'I think he was worried that Henderson might find out be had dishonorable
  designs. And so he brought me here.'
 'Which confirms his designs.'
 'Yes. . . . It's for lovers. But we weren't.'
  'I'm glad you chose it for us. It gives me a nice feeling of security.'
  'Oh, no! Don't look for that. No one's in the market for that this year.
  No. . . . Security's out of the question. And commitments. Those, too. No
  commitments for sale.'She took a cigarette from his open pack; he lit it
  for her. Over the flame he saw her eyes staring at him. Caught, she glanced
  downward, at nothing.
 '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 confldence. But don't speculate. That implies some
 kind of permanence. We must avoid that, mustn% we?'
 'Must we? It seems to be a point with you tonight. It wasn't

 282
 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
  themprovocarios.... So, my David is an agent and being an agent is called
  . . . high-risk something-orother 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

                                 283
 a second part to the question. You get extra points for considering it.'
  'What's the second partT 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 nowT
  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 I' 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 . . .
  woud 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

 294
 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.
  'Seflor Spaulding?' The words shocked him momentarily because they were so
  completely unexpected. A tuxedoed maltre d' was standing bythe 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'D 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 L Something's come up.'
 'Sorry. Twenty minutes. A green Packard automobile.'

                                 285
 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 comer 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'd just stopped.
  He crumpled the napkin in his pocket and raced back across the dining room
  to the front entrance. The maitre d' stood by the door.
 'Seftor? Is there a problemT
 'The lady at the booth. Where did she go?V
 'Mrs. Cameron?'
  Christ! thought David, looking at the calm portefio. 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 .....
  'Sefior,' 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 meT
  'I'm merely waiting for you, Herr Spaulding. To escort you. The car should
  be here in fifteen minutes.'

 286
 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.
  A , s 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

                                 287
 momentarily in the glare of the headlights: 27gre 12 W.
  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 fit 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 arzn - 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. T"he German
  who had accompanied Spaulding walked to the single window that looked out
  on the circular drive. He spoke softly.
 'Schnell. Beeilen Sie sick ... Danke.'
  The two men quickly walked to the door and let themselves out. The German
  by the window was silhouetted in the filtered

 288
 light of the front entrance. He beckoned David.
 Wommen 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 Forsichtsmassnahme
  - a . . .'
 'A precaution,' said David.
  Ua. 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 street lamps 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.

                                 289
  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 in 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.
  it was as if some extravagant plantation house from the antebellum South
  -had been dismantled stone by stone, board by board, marble block by marble
  block, and rebuilt deep within an Argentine forest.

 290
  An extraordinary sight, and not a little frightening in its massive
  architectural concept. The construction engineer in David was provoked and
  stunned at the same time. The materialslogistics must have been staggering;
  the methods of leveling and transport incredible.
 The cost unbelievable.
  The German got out of the car and walked around to David's door. He opened
  it.
  'We'll leave you now. It's been a pleasant trip. Go to the door; you'll be
  admitted. Auf Wiedersehen.'
  David got out and stood on the hard surface before the marble steps. The
  green Packard started off down the winding descent.
  Spaulding stood alone for nearly a minute. If he was being watched - and
  the thought crossed his mind - the observer might think he was an
  astonished caller overwhelmed by the magnificence in front of him. That
  judgment would have been partially accurate; his remaining concentration,
  however, was on the mansion's more mundane specifics: the windows, the
  roof, the grounds on both visible sides.
  Ingress and egress were matters to be considered constantly; the unexpected
  was never to be projected as too unlikely.
  He walked up the steps and approached the immense, thick wooden doors.
  There was no knocker, no bell; he hadn't thought there would be.
  He turned and looked down at the floodlit area. Not a person in sight;
  neither guards nor servants. No one.
  Quiet. Even the sounds of the forest seemed subdued. Only the splash of the
  fountain interrupted the stillness.
 i Which meant, of course, that there were eyes unseen and whispers unheard,
 directing their attention on him.
 The door opened. Heinrich Stolz stood in the frame.
  'Welcome to Habichtsnest, Herr Spaulding. The Hawk's Lair; appropriately -
  if theatrically - named, is it notT
  David stepped inside. The foyer, as might be expected, was enormous; a
  marble staircase rose beyond a chandelier of several thousand crystal
  cones. The walls were covered with gold cloth; Renaissance paintings were
  hung beneath silver portrait lamps.
 'It's not like any bird's nest I've ever seen.'
  'True. However, Habichtsnest, I think, loses something in your translation.
  Come with me, please. Herr Rhinemann is outside on the river balcony. It's
  a pleasant evening.'

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  They walked underneath the grotesque yet beautiful chandelier, past the
  marble staircase to an archway at, the end of the great hall. It led out to
  an enormous terrace that stretched the length of the building. There were
  white wrought-iron tables topped with spotless glass, chairs of varying
  sizes with brightly colored cushions. A series of large double doors could
  be seen on both sides of the arch; they presumably led to diverse sections
  of the huge house.
  Bordering the terrace was a stone balustrade, waist high, with statuary and
  plants on the railing. Beyond the balcony, in the distance, were the waters
  of the Rio LujAn. At the left end of the terrace was a small platform,
  blocked by a gate. Enormously thick wires could be seen above. It was a
  dock for a cable car, the wires evidently "tending down to the river.
  David absorbed the splendor, expecting his first view of Rhinemarm. There
  was no one; he walked to the railing and saw that beneath the balcony was
  another terrace perhaps twenty feet below. A large swimming pool - complete
  with racing lines in the tile - was illuminated by floodlights under the
  blue green water. Additional metal tables with sun umbrellas and deck
  chairs were dotted about the pool and the terrace. And surrounding it all
  was a manicured lawn that in the various reflections of light looked like
  the thickest, fullest putting green David had ever seen. Somewhat
  incongruously, there were the silhouettes of poles and wickets; a croquet
  course had been imposed on the smooth surface.
  'I hope you'll come out one day and enjoy our simple pleasures, Colonel
  Spaulding!
  David was startled by the strange, quiet voice. He turned. The figure of a
  man stood in shadows alongside the arch of the great hall.
 Erich Rhinemann had been watching him, of course.
  Rhinemarm emerged from the darkened area. He was a moderately tall man with
  greying straight hair combed rigidly back -partless. He was somewhat stocky
  for his size -'powerful' would be the descriptive word, but his stomach
  girth might deny the term. His hands were large, beefy, yet somehow
  delicate, dwarfing the wineglass held between his fingers.
  He came into a sufficient spill of light for David to see his face clearly.
  Spaulding wasn't sure why, but the face startled him. It was a broad face;
  a wide forehead above a wide expanse of lip

 292
 beneath a rather wide, flat nose. He was deeply tanned, his eyebrows nearly
 white from the sun. And then David realized why he was startled.
  Erich Rhinemann was an aging man. The deeply tanned skin was a cover for
  the myriad lines the years had given him; his eyes were narrow, surrounded
  by swollen folds of age; the faultlessly tailored sports jacket and
  trousers were cut for a much, much younger man.
  Rhinemann was fighting a battle his wealth could not win for him.
  'Habichtsnest ist prdchtig. Unglaublich,' said David politely but without
  commensurate enthusiasm.
  'You are kind,' replied Rhinemann, extending his hand. 'And also courteous;
  but there is no reason not to speak English.
 . . Come, sit down. May I offer you a drink?' The financier led il~e way to
 the nearest table.
  'Thank you, no,' said David, sitting across from Rhinemann. 'I have urgent
  business in Buenos Aires. A fact I tried to make clear to Stolz before he
  hung up.'
  Rhinemann looked over at an unperturbed Stolz, who was leaning against the
  stone balustrade. 'Was that necessary? Herr Spaulding is not to be so
  treated.'
  'I'm afraid it was necessary, mein Herr. For our American friend's own
  benefit. It was reported to us that he was followed; we were prepared for
  such an occurrence!
 61f I was followed, you were doing the following!
  'After the fact, colonel; I don't deny it. Before, we had no reason.'
  Rhinermann's narrow eyes pivoted to Spaulding. 'This is disturbing. Who
  would have you followed?'
  'May we talk privately?' David said, glancing at Heinrich Stoltz.
  The financier smiled. 'There's nothing in our arrangements that excludes
  the Botschaftssekretdr. He is among my most valued associates in South
  America. Nothing should be withheld!
 'I submit that you won't know unless we speak alone.'
  ,our American colonel is perhaps embarrassed,' interrupted Stoltz, his
  voice laced with invective. 'The man from Lisbon is not considered
  competent by his own government. He's placed under American surveillance.'
 David lit a cigarette; he did not reply to the German attach6.

                                293
 Rhinemann spoke, gesturing with his large, delicate hands.
  'If this is so, there is no cause for exclusion. And obviously, there can
  be no other explanation.'
  'We're buying,' said David with quiet emphasis. 'You're selling.... Stolen
  property.'
  Stoltz was about to speak but Rhinemann held up his hand.
  'What you are implying is not possible. Our arrangements were made in
  complete secrecy; they have been totally successful. And Herr Stoltz is a
  confidant of the High Command. More so than the ambassador.'
  'I don't like repeating myself.' David spoke angrily. 'Especially when I'm
  paying.'
 'Leave us, Heinrich,' said Rhinemann, his eyes on Spaulding.
  Stoltz bowed stiffly and walked rapidly, furiously, through the arch into
  the great hall.
  'Thank you.' David shifted his position in the chair and looked up at
  several small balconies on the second and third stories of the house. He
  wondered how many men were near the windows; watching, prepared to jump if
  he made a false move.
  'We're alone as requested,' said the German expatriot, hardly concealing
  his irritation. 'What is iff
  'Stoltz is marked,' said Spaulding. He paused to see what kind of reaction
  the financier would register at such news. As he might have expected, there
  was none. David continued, thinking perhaps that Rhinemann did not entirely
  understand. 'He's not being given straight information at the embassy. He
  may do better at ours.'
  'Preposterous.' Rhinemann remained immobile, his narrow eyelids half
  squinting, staring at David. 'On what do you base such an opinion?'
  6The Gestapo. Stoltz claims there's no active Gestapo in Buenos Aires. He's
  wrong. It's here. it's active. It's determined to stop you. Stop Us.'.
  Erich Rhinemann's composure cracked - if only infinitesimally. There was
  the slightest, tiny vibration within the rolls of flesh beneath his eyes,
  and his stare - if possible, thought David -was harder than before.
 'Please clarify.'
 'I want questions answered first.'
 'You want questions ... 7' Rhinemann's voice rose, his hand

 294
 gripped the table; the veins were pronounced at his greying temples. He
 paused and continued as before. 'Forgive me. I'm not used to conditions.'
  'I'm sure you're not. On the other hand, I'm not used to dealing with a
  contact like Stoltz who's blind to his own vulnerability. That kind of
  person annoys me ... and worries me.'
 'These questions. What are theyT
 'I assume the designs have been gotten outT
 'They have.'
 'En routeT
 'They arrive tonight.'
  'You're early. Our man won't be here until the day after tomorrow.'
  Now it is you who have been given effoneous information, Heff Colonel. The
  American scientist, Lyons, will be here tomorrow!
  David was silent for several moments. He'd used such a ploy on too many
  others in the past to show surprise.
  'He's expected in San Telmo the day after tomorrow,' David said. 'The
  change is insignificant but that's what Kendall told me.'
  'Before he boarded the Phn American Clipper. We spoke subsequently!
  'Apparently he spoke to a lot of people. Is there a point to the changeT
  'Schedules may be slowed or accelerated as the necessities dictate .... I
 'Or altered to throw someone off balance,' interrupted David.
  'Such is not the case here. There would be no reason. As you phrased it -
  most succinctly - we're selling, you're buying!
  'And, of course, there's no reason why the Gestapo's in Buenos Aires. . .
  .'
 'May we return to that subject, pleaseT interjected -Rhinemann.
  'In a mornent,' answered Spaulding, aware that the German's temper was
  again stretched. 'I need eighteen hours to get my codes to Washington. They
  have to go by courier, under chemical seal.'
  'Stoltz told me. You were foolish. The codes should have been sent. '
  'Eine Vorsichtsmassnahme, mein Herr,'said David. 'Put plainly, I don't know
  who's been bought at our embassy but I'm damned sure someone has. Codes
  have ways of getting sold. The authen-
  
                                 295
 tic ones will be radioed only when Lyons verifies the designs.i
  'Then you must move quickly. You fly out your codes in the morning; I will
  bring the first set of prints to San Telmo tomorrow night.... Eine
  Vorsichismassnahme. You get the remaining set when you have assured us
  Washington is prepared to make payment in Switzerland ... as a result of
  receiving your established code. You won't leave Argentina until I have
  word from Berne. There is a small airfield called Mendarro. Near here. My
  men control it. Your plane will bd there.'
  'Agreed.' David crushed out his cigarette. 'Tomorrow evening, the first set
  of prints. The remaining within twenty-foiir hours.... Now we have a
  schedule. That's all I was interested in.'
  'Gut! And now we will return to this Gestapo business.' Rhinemann leaned
  forward in his chair, the veins in his temples once more causing blue
  rivulets in his sun-drenched skin. 'You said you would clarify!'
 Spaulding did.
  When he was finished, Erich Rhinemann was breathing deeply, steadily.
  Within the rolls of flesh, his narrow eyes were furious but controlled.
  'Thank you. I'm sure there is an explanation. We'll proceed on schedule. .
  . . Now, it has been a long and complicated evening. You will be driven
  back to C6rdoba. Good night.'

 'Altmillierl'Rhinemann roared. 'An idiotl A fooll'
 'I don't understand,' Stoltz said.
  'Altmilller. . . .' Rhinemann's voice subsided but the violence remained.
  He turned to the balcony, addressing the vast darkness and the river below.
  'In his insane attempts to, disassociate the High Command from Buenos Aires
  ... to absolve his precious ministry, he's caught by his own Gestapo!'
  'There is no Gestapo in Buenos Aires, Herr Rhinemann,' said Stoltz firmly.
  'The man from Lisbon lies.'
  Rhinemann turned and looked at the diplomat. His speech was ice. 'I know
  when a man is lying, Herr Stoltz. This Lisbon told the truth; he'd have no
  reason to do otherwise.... So if AltmOller was not caught, he's betrayed
  me. He's sent in the Gestapo, he has no intention of going through with the
  exchange. He'll take the diamonds and destroy the designs. The Jew-haters
  have led me into a trap.'
 'I, myself, am the sole coordinator with Franz Altinaller.'

 296
 Stoltz spoke in his most persuasive tones, nurtured for decades in the
 Foreign Corps. 'You, Herr Rhinemann, arranged for that. You have no cause to
 question me. The men at the warehouse in Ocho Calle have nearly finished.
 The Koening diamonds will be authenticated within a day or two; the courier
 will deliver the designs before the night is over. Everything is as we
 planned. The exchange will be made.'
  Rhinemann turned away again. He put his thick yet delicate hands on the
  rafling and looked into the distance. 'There is one way to be sure,' he
  said quietly. 'Radio Berlin. I want Altmdller in Buenos Aires. There will
  be no exchange otherwise!

 297
 31

 The German in the white Palm Beach suit had changed into the paramilitary
 dress worn by the Rhinemann guards. The driver was not the same one as
 before. He was Argentine.
  The automobile was different, too. It was a Bentley six-seater complete
  with mahogany dashboard, grey felt upholstery, and window curtains. It was
  a vehicle suited to the upper-level British diplomatic service, but not so
  high as to be ambassadorial; just eminently respectable. Another Rhinemann
  touch, David assumed.
  The driver swung the car out onto the dark river highway from the darker
  confines of the hidden dirt road. He pressed the accelerator to the floor
  and the Bentley surged. The German beside Spaulding offered him a
  cigarette; David declined with a shake of his head.
  'You say you wish to be driven to the American embassy, sefior?' said the
  driver, turning his head slightly, not taking his eyes off the onrushing
  road. 'I'm afraid I cannot do so. Sehor Rhinemann's orders were to bring
  you to the apartment house on C6rdoba. Forgive me.'
 'We may not deviate from instructions,' added the German.
 'Hope you never do. We win the wars that way.'
 'The insult is misdirected. I'm completely indifferent.'
  'I forgot. Habichtsnest is neutral.' David ended the conversation by
  shifting in the seat, crossing his legs and staring in silence

 298
 out the window. His only thought was to get to the embassy and to Jean. She
 had used the word 'Tortugas.'
 Again the elusive 'Tortugas'!
 How could she know? Was it conceivable she was part of it?
  'Tortugas' isn't worth it. Jean had said those words. She had pleaded.
  Leslie Hawkwood had pleaded, too. Leslie had traveled four thousand miles
  to plead in defiance. Fanatically so.
 Get out of Buenos Aires, David!
 Was there a connection?
 Oh, Christ I he thought. Was there really a connection?
 'Sefiorsl'
  The driver spoke harshly,jolting David's thoughts. TheGerman instantly -
  instinctively - whipped around in his seat and looked out the rear window.
  His question was two words.
 'How long?'
 'Too long for doubt. Have you watched?'
 'No.'
  'I passed three automobiles. Without pattern. Then I slowed down, into the
  far right lane. He's with us. Moving up.'
 'We're in the Hill Two district, yes?' asked the German.
  'Sl... He's coming up rapidly. It's a powerful car; he'll take us on the
  highway.'
  'Head up into the Colinas Rojas! Take the next road on the right! Any one!'
  commanded Rhinemann's lieutenant, taking his pistol from inside his jacket
  as he spoke.
  The Bentley skidded into a sudden turn, swerving diagonally to the right,
  throwing David and the German into the left section of the back seat. The
  Argentine gunned the engine, starting up a hill, slamming the gears into
  first position, reaching maximum speed in seconds. There was a slight
  leveling off, a connecting, flatter surface before a second hill, and the
  driver used it to race the motor in a higher gear for speed. The car
  pitched forward in a burst of acceleration, as if it were a huge bullet.
  The second hill was steeper but the initial speed helped. They raced
  upward; the driver knew his machine, thought David.
 'There are the lights!' yelled the German. 'They follow!'
  'There are flat stretches ... I think,' said the driver, concentrating on
  the road. 'Beyond this section of hills. There are many side roads; we'll
  try to hide in one. Perhaps they'll pass.'
 'No.' The German was still peering out the rear window. He

                                 299
 checked the magazine of his pistol by touch; satisfied, he locked it in
 place. He then turned from the window and reached under the seat. The
 Bentley was pitching and vibrating on the uphill, back country road, and the
 German swore as he worked his hand furiously behind his legs.
  Spaulding could hear the snap of metal latches. The German slipped the
  pistol into his belt and reached down with his free hand. He pulled up a
  thick-barreled automatic rifle that David recognized as the newest, most
  powerful front-line weapon the Third Reich had developed. The curved
  magazine, rapidly inserted by the German, held over forty rounds of -30
  caliber ammunition.
  Rhinemann's lieutenant spoke. 'Reach your flat stretches. Let them close
  in.'
  David bolted up; he held onto the leather strap across the rear of the
  front seat and braced his left hand against the window frame. He spoke to
  the German harshly.
 'Don't use that! You don't know who they are.'
  The man with the gun glanced briefly at Spaulding, dismissing him with a
  look. 'I know my responsibilities.' He reached over to the right of the
  rear window where there was a small metal ring imbedded in the felt. He
  inserted his forefinger, pulled it up, and yanked it toward him, revealing
  an open-air slot about ten inches wide, perhaps four inches high.
  David looked at the left of the window. There was another ring, another
  opening.
  Rhinemann's car was prepared for emergencies. Clean shots could be fired at
  any automobile pursuing it; the sightlines were clear and there was a
  minimum of awkwardness at high speeds over difficult terrain.
  'Suppose it's American surveillance covering me?' David shouted as the
  German knelt on the seat, about to insert the rifle into the opening.
 'It's not.'
 'You don't know that!'
  'Sehors!' shouted the driver. 'We go down the hill; it's very long, a wide
  bend. I remember it! Below there are high-grass fields. Flat.... Roads.
  Hold on!'
  The Bentley suddenly dipped as if it had sped off the edge of a precipice.
  There was an irnmediate, sustained thrust of speed so abrupt that the
  German with the rifle was thrown back, his body suspended for a fraction of
  a second in midair. He crashed

 300
into the front seat support, his weapon held up to break the fall. David did not
 - could not - hesitate. He grabbed the rifle, gripping his fingers around
 the trigger housing, twisting the stock inward and jerking it out of the
 German's hands. Rhinemann's lieutenant was stunned by Spaulding's action. He
 reached into his belt for his pistol.
  The Bentley was now crashing down the steep incline at an extraordinary
  speed. The wide bend referred to by the Argentine was reached; the car
  entered a long, careening pattern that seemed to be sustaining an
  engineering improbability: propelled by the wheels of a single side, the
  other off the surface of the ground.
  David and the German braced themselves with their backs against opposite
  sides, their legs taut, their feet dug into the felt carpet.
  'Give me that rifleV The German held his pistol on David's chest. David had
  the rifle stock under his arm, his finger on the trigger, the barrel of the
  monster weapon leveled at the German's stomach.
  'You fire, I fire,' he shouted back. 'I might come out of it. You won't.
  You'll be all over the car!'
  Spaulding saw that the driver had panicked. The action in the back seat,
  coupled with the problems of the hill, the speed and the curves created a
  crisis he was not capable of handling.
 'Sefiors! Madre de Jestis! ... You'll kill us!'
  The Bentley briefly struck the rocky shoulder of the road; the jolt was
  staggering. The driver swung back toward the center line. The German spoke.
 'You behave stupidly. Those men are after you, not us"
 'I can't be sure of that. I don't kill people on speculation.'
 'You'll kill us, then? For what purposeT
  'I don't want anyone killed.... Now, put down that gun! We both know the
  odds.'
 The German hesitated.
  There was another jolt; the Bentley had struck a large rock or a fallen
  limb. It was enough to convince Rhinemann's lieutenant. He placed the
  pistol on the seat.
  The two adversaries braced themselves; David's eyes on the German's hand,
  the German's on the rifle.
  'Madre de Dios!' The Argentine's shout conveyed relief, not further panic.
  Gradually the Bentley was slowing down.
 David glanced through the windshield. They were coming out

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 Of the hill's curve; in the distance were flat blankets of fields, miniature
 pampas reflecting the dull moonlight. He reached over and took the German's
 pistol from the seat. It was an unexpected move; Rhinemann's lieutenant was
 annoyed with himself.
  'Get your breath,' said Spaulding to the driver. 'Have a cigarette. And get
  me back to town.'
  'Colonel!' barked the German. 'You may hold the weapons, but there's a car
  back there! If you won't follow my advice, at least let us get off the
  road!'
  'I haven't the time to waste. I didn't tell him to slow down, just to
  relax.'
  The driver entered a level stretch of road and reaccelerated the Bentley.
  While doing so he took David's advice and fit a cigarette. The car was
  steady again.
 - 'Sit back,' ordered Spaulding, placing himself diagonally in the right
 corner, one knee on the floor - the rifle held casually, not carelessly.
  The Argentine spoke in a frightened monotone. 'There are the headlights
  again. They approach faster than I can drive this car.... What would you
  have me do?'
  David considered the options. 'Give them a chance to respond. ... Is there
  enough moon to see the road? With your lights off?'
 'For a while. Not long. I can't remember. . .
 'Flick them on and off! Twice.... Now!'
  The driver did as he was instructed. The effect was strange: the sudden
  darkness, the abrupt illumination - while the Bentley whipped past the tall
  grass on both sides of the road.
  David watched the pursuing vehicle's lights through the rear window. There
  was no response to the signals. He wondered whether they'd been clear,
  whether they conveyed his message of accommodation.
  'Flick them again,' he commanded the driver. 'Hold a couple of beats ...
  seconds. Now!'
  The clicks were heard from the dashboard; the lights remained off for
  three, four seconds. The clicks again; the darkness again.
 And then it happened.
  There was a burst of gunfire from the automobile in pursuit. The glass of
  the rear window was shattered; flying, imbedding itself into skin and
  upholstery. David could feel blood trickling down his cheek; the German
  screamed in pain, grasping his bleeding left hand.

 302
  The Bentley swerved; the driver swung the steering wheel back and forth,
  zigzagging the car in the road's path.
  'There is your reply!'roared Rhinemann's lieutenant, his hand bloodied, his
  eyes a mixture of fury and panic.
 Quickly, David handed the rifle to the German. 'Use it!'
  The German slipped the barrel into the opening; Spaulding Sprung up into
  the seat and reached for the metal ring on the left side of the window,
  pulled it back and brought the pistol up.
  There was another burst from the car behind. It was the volley of a
  submachine gun, scattershot, heavy caliber; spraying the rear of the
  Bentley. Bulges appeared throughout the felt top and sides, several bullets
  shattered the front windshield.
  The German began firing the automatic; David aimed as best he could - the
  swerving, twisting Bentley kept pushing the pursuing car out of sightlines.
  Still he pulled the trigger, hoping only to spray the oncoming tires.
  The roars from the German's weapon were thunderous; repeated crescendos of
  deafening boonu, the shock waves of each discharge filling the small,
  elegant enclosure.
  David could see the explosion the instant it happened. The hood of the
  onrushing automobile was suddenly a mass of smoke and steam.
  But still the machine-gun volleys came out of the enveloping vapor.
  'Eeaaghl'the driver screamed. David looked and saw blood flowing out of the
  man's head; the neck was half shot off. The Argentine's hands sprung back
  from the wheel.
  Spaulding leaped forward, trying to reach the wheel, but he couldn't. The
  Bentley careened off the road, side-slipping into the tall grass.
  The German took his automatic weapon from the opening. He smashed the side
  window with the barrel of the rifle and slammed in a second magazine as the
  Bentley came to a sharp, jolting stop in the grass.
  The pursuing car - a cloud of smoke and spits of fire - was parallel now on
  the road. It braked twice, lurched once and locked into position, immobile.
  Shots poured from the silhouetted vehicle. The German kicked the Bentley's
  door open and jumped out into the tall grass. David crouched against the
  lert door, fingers searching for the handle, pushing his weight into the
  panel so that upon touch,

                                 303
 the door. would fly open and he could thrust himself into cover.
  Suddenly the air was filled with the overpowering thunder of the automatic
  rifle held steady in a full-firing discharge.
  Screams pierced the night; David sprung the door open, and as he leaped out
  he could see Rhinemann's lieutenant rising in the grass. Rising and walking
  through the shots, his finger depressing the automatic's trigger, his whole
  body shaking, staggering under the impact of the bullets entering his
  flesh.
 He fell.
 As he did so a second explosion came from the car on the road.
  The gas tank burst from under the trunk, sending fire and metal into the
  air.
 David sprang around the tail of the Bentley, his pistol steady.
  The firing stopped. The roar of the flames, the hissing of steam was all
  there was.
 He looked past the Bentley's trunk to the carnage on the road.
  Then he recognized the automobile. It was the Duesenberg that had come for
  Leslie Hawkwood that afternoon.
  Two dead bodies could be seen in the rear, rapidly being enveloped by fire.
  The driver was arched over the seat, his arms limp, his neck immobile, his
  eyes wide in death.
  There was a fourth man, splayed out on the ground by the open right door.
 The hand moved! Then the head!
 He was alive!
  Spaulding raced to the flaming Duesenberg: and pulled the half-conscious
  man away from the wreckage.
  He had seen too many men die to mistake the rapid ebbing of life. There was
  no point in trying to stem death; only to use it.
  David crouched by the man. 'Who are you? Why did you want to kill me?'
  The man's eyes - swimming in their sockets - focused on David. A single
  headlight flickered from the smoke of the exploded Duesenberg; it was
  dying, too.
 'Who are you? Tell me who you are!'
  The man would not - or could not - speak. Instead, his lips moved, but not
  a whisper.
 Spaulding bent down further.
  The man died trying to spit in David's face. The phlegm and blood
  intermingled down the man's chin as his head went limp.

 304
  In the light of the spreading flames, Spaulding pulled the man's jacket
  open.
 No identification.
 Nor in the trousers.
 He ripped at the lining in the coat, tore the shirt to the waist.
 Then he stopped. Stunned, curious.
  There were marks on the dead man's stomach. Wounds but not from bullets.
  David had seen those marks before.
  He could not help himself. He lifted the man by the neck and yanked the
  coat off the left shoulder, tearing the shirt at the seams to expose the
  arm.
 They were there. Deep in the skin. Never to be erased.
 The tattooed numbers of a death camp.
 Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fhhrer.
 The dead man was a Jew.

 11

                                     305
 32

 It was nearly five o'clock when Spaulding reached his apartment on C6rdoba.
 He had taken the time to remove what obvious identification he could from
 the dead Argentine driver and Rhinemann's lieutenant. He found tools in the
 trunk and unfastened the Bentley's license plates; moved the dials of the
 dashboard clock forward, then smashed it. If nothing else, these details
 might slow police procedures - at least a few hours -giving him valuable
 time before facing Rhinemann.
 Rhinemann would demand that confrontation.
 And there was too much to learn, to piece together.
  He had walked for nearly an hour back over the two hills -the Colinas Rojas
  - to the river highway. He had removed the fragments of window glass from
  his face, grateful they were few, the cuts minor. He had carried the
  awesome automatic rifle far from the scene of death, removed the chamber
  loading clip and smashed the trigger housing until the weapon was
  inoperable. Then he threw it into the woods.
  A milk truck from the Tigre district picked him up; he told the driver an
  outrageous story of alcohol and sex - he'd been expertly rolled and had no
  one to blame but himself.
  The driver admired the foreigner's spirit, his acceptance of risk and loss.
  The ride was made in laughter.
  He knew it was pointless, even frivolous, to attempt sleep. There was too
  much to do. Instead he showered and made a

 306
 large pot of coffee.
  it was time. Daylight came up from the Atlantic. His head was clear; it was
  time to call Jean.
  He told the astonished marine night operator on the embassy switchboard
  that Mrs. Cameron expected the call; actually he was late, he'd overslept.
  Mrs. Cameron had made plans for deep-sea fishing; they were due at La Boca
  at six.
  'Hello? . . . Hello.' Jean's voice was at first dazed, then surprised.
  'It's David. I haven't time to apologize. I've got to see you right away.'
 'David? Oh, God! . .
 'I'll meet you in your office in twenty minutes.'
 'Please. . . .'
  'There's no time! Twenty minutes. Please, be there.... I ueed you, Jean. I
  need you!'

  The OD lieutenant at the embassy gate was cooperative, if disagreeable. He
  consented to let the inside switchboard ring Mrs. Cameron's office; if she
  came out and personally vouched for him, the marine would let him pass.
  Jean ernerged on tho front steps. She was vulnerablo, lovely. She walked
  around the driveway path to the gatehouse and saw him. The instant she did
  so, she stifled a gasp.
 He understood.
  The styptic pencil could not eradicate the cuts from the half dozen
  splinters of glass he, had removed from his cheeks and forehead. Partially
  conc=l, perhaps; nothing much more than that.
  They did not speak as they walked down the corridor. Instead, she held his
  arm with such force that he shifted to her other side. She had been tugging
  at the shoulder not yet healed from the Azores crash.
  Inside her office she closed the door and rushed into his arms. She was
  trembling.
  'David, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. I was dreadful. I behaved so badly.'
  He took her shoulders, holding her back very gently. 'You were coping with
  a problem.'
  'It seems to me I can't cope anymore. And I always thought I was so good at
  it.... What happened to your faceT She traced

                                 307
 her fingers over his cheek. 'It's swollen here.'
  ' "Tortugas." ' He looked into her eyes. ' "Tortugas" hap. pened.'
  'Oh, God.' She whispered the words and buried her head in his chest. 'I'm
  too disjointed; I can't say what I want to say. Don't. Please, don't ...
  let anything more happen.'
 'Then you'll have to help me.'
 She pulled back. 'Me? How can I?'
 'Answer my questions.... I'll know if you're lying.'
 'Lying? ... Don't joke. I haven't lied to you.'
  He believed her ... which didn't make his purpose any easier. Or clearer.
  'Where did you learn the name "Tortugas"?'
  She removed her arms from around his neck; he released her. She took
  several steps away from him but she was not retreating.
  'I'm not proud of what I did; I've never done it before.' She turned and
  faced him.
  'I went down to the "Caves".. . without authorization ... and read your
  file. I'm sure it's the briefest dossier in the history of the diplomatic
  corps.'
 'What did it say?'
 She told him.
  'So you see, my mythical David of last evening had a distinct basis in
  reality.'
  Spaulding walked to the window overlooking the west lawn of the embassy.
  The early sun was up, the grass flickered with dew; it brought to mind the
  manicured lawn seen in the night floodlights below Rhinemann's terrace. And
  that memory reminded him of the codes. He turned. 'I have to talk to
  Ballard.'
 'Is that all you're going to say?'
  'The not-so-mythical David has work to do. That doesn't change.'
 'I can't change it, you mean.
  He walked back to her. 'No, you can't.... I wish to God you could; I wish
  I could. I can't convince myself - to paraphrase a certain girl - that what
  I'm doing will make that much difference ... but I react out of habit, I
  guess. Maybe ego; maybe it's as
 simple as that.'                      II
 'I said you were good, didn't V'
 :Yes. And I am.... Do you know what I am?'
  An intelligence officer. An agent. A man who works with other men; in
  whispers and at night and with a great deal of

 308
 Money and lies. That's the way I think, you see.'
  6Not that. That's new.... What I really am.... I'm a construction engineer.
  I build buildings and bridges and dams and highways. I once built an
  extension for a zoo in Mexico; the best open-air enclosure for primates you
  ever saw. Unfortunately, we spent so much money the Zoological Society
  couldn't afford monkeys, but the space is there.'
 She laughed softly. 'You're funny.'
  'I liked working on the bridges best. To cross a natural obstacle without
  marring it, without destroying its own purpose. . . .'
 61 never thought of engineers as romantics.'
  'Construction engineers are. At least, the best ones.... But that's all.
  long ago. When this mess is over I'll go back, of course, but I'm not a
  fool. I know the disadvantages I'll be faced with. ... It's not the same as
  a lawyer putting down his books only to pick them up again; the law doesn't
  change that much. Or a stockbroker; the market solutions can't change.'
 'I'm not sure what you're driving at. . . .'
  'Technology. It's the only real, civilized benefit war produces. In
  construction it's been revolutionary. In three years whole new techniques
  have been developed. . . . I've been out of it. My postwar references won't
  be the best.'
 6Good Lord, you're sorry for yourself.'
  'Christ, yes! In one way.... More to the point, I'm angry. Nobody held a
  gun to my head; I walked into this ... this job for all the wrong reasons
  and without any foresight .... That's why I have to be good at it.'
 'What about us? Are we an "us"T
 61 love you,' he said simply. 'I know that.'
  'After only a week? That's what I keep asking myselL 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 itT
 'What do you know about Erich Rhinemann?'
 'He's a despicable man.'
 'He's a JewO9 -
  'Then he's a despicable Jew. Race and religion notwithstanding,
  immaterial.9

                                309
 '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
  judios 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 Altinfiller. A darkened doorway on New York's
  Fifty-second Street.
 'Have you ever heard the name AltmUller?'
  'No. There's a plain Mailer at the German embassy, I think, but that's like
  Smith or Jones. No AltmUller.'
  'What about Hawkwood? A woman named Leslie Jenner Hawkwood?'
 'No, again. But if these people are intelligence oriented,

 310
 there'd be no reason for me to.'
  'They're Intelligence but I didn't think they were undercover. At least not
  this AltmOller.'
 '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 openT
  '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 from 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. Bill Ellis.... I have a beastly conference at seven.' The attach6
  was not convincing.
 'Several of us were going fishing but the weather reports are

                                 311
 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-aqte
  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 responsiblel'
  '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?'
  'Attach6s, even undersecretaries, if they have very early appointments,
  list them with the gate.'

 312
 '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.'
 .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 Ellies 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 destination 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.
  liesus I' he said. 'The Munchkins go to work early in this wonderful world
  of Ozl'

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                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 progression 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 would 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

 314
 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 Stoltzs
  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 AltmiUler 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 terin, Lyons a 'scientist'; 'physicist' was
  stupid. A physicist in Buenos Aires was an open invitation to surveillance
  - even Allied surveillance.

                                 315
 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. Ae'd been dropped off at C6rdoba 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 dosing 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 attach6, 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 attach6 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 C6rdoba.
  '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.'

 316
  '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. Ive 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 soundT
  'It's probably for me. I told my secretary I was here. . . . I don't think
  I really had to tell her.'
 'HelloT said David into the phone.
 'Spaulding?'
  David recognized the polished German of Heinrich Stolz. His tension carried
  over the wire. 'Isn't it a little foolish to call me hereT
  11 have no choice. Our mutual friend is in a state of extreme anxiety.
  Everything is jeopardized.'
 'What are you talking aboutT
 'This is no time for foolishness! The situation is grave.'
  'It's no time for games, either. What the hell are you talking aboutT
 'Last night! This morning. What happenedT
 'What happened whereT
 'Stop it! You were therel
 'WhereT
  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 happenedl'
 'Killed? ... You're crazy. HowT
 'I warn you. . . .'
  'Now you cut it out! I'm buying. And don't 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
  surveillancel'
  Stoltz was blanked - as David expected he would be. 'The others? ... What
  othersT
  'Get off it I You know perfectly well.'Spaulding let the inference hang.

                                317
  'This is all most disturbing.    Stoltz tried to compose
 himself.
 'I'm sorry,' said David noncomn-dttally.
 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 C6rdoba.'
  David hung up instantly, hearing the beginning of Stoltzs 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% 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 lunchT
 :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 areyou doing?'
  Our friends are good at playing jokes on other people. Let's see how they
  take it when one's played on thern.'

  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

 318
 paper. He descended the stairs and together he and the girl climbed into the
 embassy limousine - an upper-level vehicle with curtains.
  Spaulding scanned the Avenida Corrientes in front of the gates. As the
  limousine was passed through, a Mercedes coupe parked on the south side of
  the street pulled away from tho curb and followed it. And then a second
  automobile on the north side made a cautious U-turn and took up its
  position several vehicles behind the Mercedes.
  Satisfied, David put down the binoculars and went out of the room. In the
  corridor he turned left and walked swiftly past doors and around staircases
  toward the rear of the building, until be came to a room that corresponded
  to his observation post in front. Bobby Ballard sat in an armchair by the
  window; he turned around at the sound of David's footsteps, binoculars in
  his hands.
 'Anything?' Spaulding asked.
  'Two,' answered the cryp. 'Parked facing opposite directions. They just
  drove away.'
 'Same up front. They're in radio contact!
 'Thorough, aren't they?'
 'Not as much as they think,' Spaulding said.

  Ballard's sports coat was loose around the midsection and short in the
  -sleeves, but it showed off David's new wristwatch. Jean was pleased about
  that. It was a very fine chronometer.
  The restaurant was small, a virtual hole-in-the-wall on a side street near
  San Martfn. The front door was open; a short awning protected the few
  outside tables from the sun. Their table, however, was inside. Spaulding
  sat facing the entrance, able to see clearly the passersby on the sidewalk.
  But he was not watching them now. He was looking at Jean. And what he saw
  in her face caused him to say the words without thinking.
 'It's going to be over soon. I'm getting out.'
  She took his hand, searching his eyes. She did not reply for several
  moments. It was as if she wanted his words suspended, isolated, thought
  about. 'That's a remarkable thing to say. I'm not sure what it means.'
  'It means I want to spend years and years with you. The rest of my life....
  I don't know any other way to put it.'
  Jean closed her eyes briefly, for the duration of a single breath of
  silence. 'I think you've put it ... very beautifully.'

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  How could he fell her? How could he explain? He had to try. It was so
  damned important. 'Less than a month ago,' he began softly, 'something
  happened in a field. At night, in Spain. By a campfire.... To me. The
  circumstances aren't important, but what happened to me was ... the most
  frightening thing I could imagine. And it had nothing to do with the
  calculated risks in my work; nothing to do with being afraid - and I was
  always afraid, you can bet your life on that.... But I suddenly found I had
  no feeling. No feeling at all. I was given a report that should have shaken
  me up - made me weep, or made me angry, goddamned angry. But I didn't feel
  anything. I was numb. I accepted the news and criticized the man for
  withholding it. I told him not to make that mistake again.... That I did
  not act rashly under any conditions. . . . You see, he rightfully thought
  that I would.' David stopped and put his hand over Jean's. 'What I'm trying
  to tell you is that you've given me back something I thought I'd lost. I
  don't ever want to take the chance of losing it again.'
  'You'll make me cry,' she said quietly, her eyes moist, her lips trembling
  to a smi-le. 'Don't you know girls cry when things like that are said to
  them? ... I'll have to teach you so much.... Oh, Lord,' she whispered.
  'Please, please ... years.'
  David leaned over the small table; their lips touched and as theyheld
  lightly together, he removed his hand from hers and gently ran his fingers
  over the side of her face.
 The tears were there.
  He felt them, too. They would not come for him, but he felt them.
 'I'm going back with you, of course,' she said.
  Her words brought back the reality ... the other reality, the lesser
  one.'Not with me. But soon. I'm going to need a couple of weeks to settle
  things.... And you'll have to transfer your work down here.'
  She looked at him questioningly but did not ask a question. There are ...
  special arrangements for you to take back the blueprints or designs or
  whatever they are.'
 'Yes.'
 'When?'
  'If everything goes as we expect, in a day or two. At the most, three.'
 'Then why do you need a couple of weeksT
 He hesitated before answering. And then he realized he

 320
 wanted to tell her the truth. It was part of the beginning for him. The
 truth. 'There's a breach of security in a place called Fairfax.... 9
 'Fairfax,' she interrupted. 'That was in your Me.'
  'It's an intelligence center in Virginia. Very classified. A man was killed
  there. He was a friend of mine. I purposely withheld information that might
  stop the leaks and, more important, find out who killed him.'
 'For heaven's sake, why?'
  'In a way, I was forced to. The men in Fairfax weren't cleared for the
  information I had; the one man who was, is ineffectual . . . especially in
  something like this. He's not Intelligence oriented; he's a requisition
  general. He buys things.'
 'Like gyroscopic designsT
  'Yes. When I get back I'll force him to clear the data.' David paused and
  then spoke as much to himself as to Jean. 'Actually, I don't give a damn
  whether he does or not. I've got a long accumulated leave coming to me.
  I'll use a week or two of it in Fairfax. There's a German agent walking
  around in that compound with a four-zero rating. He killed a very good
  man.'
 'That frightens me.'
  'It shouldn't.' David smiled, answering her with the truth. 'I have no
  intention of risking those years we talked about. If I have to, I'll
  operate from a maximum security cell.... Don't worry.'
  She nodded. 'I won't. I believe you.... I'll join you in, say, three weeks.
  I owe that to Henderson; there will be a lot of adjustments for him. Also,
  I'll have something done about Ellis.'
  'Don't touch him. We don't know anything yet. If we find out he's on an
  outside payroll he can be valuable right where he is. Reverse conduits are
  jewels. When we uncover one we make sure he's the healthiest man - or woman
  - around.'
  'What kind of a world do you live in?' Jean asked the question with
  concern, not humor.
 'One that you'll help me leave.... After Fairfax, I'm finished.'

  Eugene Lyons edged into the back seat of the taxi between Spaulding and the
  male nurse named Hal. The other attendant, Johnny, sat in front with the
  driver. David gave his instructions in Spanish; the driver started out the
  long, smooth roadway of the Aeroparque.
 David looked at Lyons; it wasn't easy to do so. The proximity

                                 321
 of the sad, emaciated face emphasized,the realization that what he saw was
 self-inflicted. Lyons's eyes were not responding; he was exhausted from the
 flight, suspicious of the new surroundings, annoyed by David's aggressive
 efficiency at hurrying them all out of the terminal.
 'It's good to see you again,' David told him.
  Lyons blinked; Spaulding wasn't sure whether it was a greeting or not.
  'We didn't expect you,' said Johnny from the front seat. 'We expected to
  get the professor set ourselves.'
  'We've got it all written down,' added Hal, leaning forward on Lyons's
  right, taking a number of index cards out of his pocket. 'Look. The
  address. Your telephone number. And the embassy's. And a wallet full of
  Argentine money.'
  Hal pronounced Argentine, 'Argentyne.' David wondered how he could be given
  a course in hypodermic injection; who would read the labels? On the other
  hand, his partner Johnny -less talkative, more knowing somehow-was
  obviously the leader of the two.
  'Well, these things are usually fouled up. Communications break down all
  the time.... Did you have a good flight down, doctor?'
  'It wasn't bad,' answered Hal. 'But bumpy as a son of a bitch over Cuba.'
  'Those were probably heavy air masses coming up from the island,' said
  David, watching Lyons out of the comer of his eye. The physicist responded
  now; a slight glance at Spaulding. And there was humor in the look.
  'Yeah,' replied Hal knowingly, 'that's what the stewardess said.'
 Lyons smiled a thin smile.
  David was about to capitalize on the small breakthrough when he saw a
  disturbing sight in the driver's rear-view mirror - instinctively he'd been
  glancing at the glass.
  It was the narrow grill of an automobile he'd previously spotted, though
  with no alarm. He had seen it twice: on the long curb in the taxi lineup
  and again on the turnout of the front park. Now it was there again, and
  David slowly shifted his position and looked out the taxi's rear window.
  Lyons seemed to sense that Spaulding was concerned; he moved to accommodate
  him.
 The car was a 1937 La Salle, black, with rusted chrome on the

 322
 grillwork and around the headlights. It remained fifty to sixty yards
 behind, but the driver - a blond-haired man - refused to let other vehicles
 come between them. He would accelerate each time his position was
 threatened. The blond-haired man, it appeared, was either inexperienced or
 careless. If he was following them.
  David spoke to the taxi driver in urgent but quiet Spanish. He offered the
  man five dollars over the meter if he would reverse his direction and head
  away from San Telmo for the next several minutes. The porteho was less of
  an amateur than the driver of the La Salle; he understood immediately, with
  one look in his mirror. He nodded silently to Spaulding, made a sudden,
  awkwardly dangerous U-turn, and sped west. He kept the taxi on a fast
  zigzag course, weaving in and around the traffic, then turned abruptly to
  his right and accelerated the car south along the ocean drive. The sight of
  the water reminded David of Ocho Calle.
  He wanted very much to deposit Eugene Lyons in San Telmo and get back to
  Ocho Calle.
 The La Salle was no longer a problem.
  'Christ!' said Hal. 'What the hell was that?' And then he answered his own
  question. 'We were being followed, right?'
 'We weren't sure,' said David.
  Lyons was watching him, his look inexpressive. Johnny spoke from the front
  seat.
  'Does that mean we can expect problems? You had this guy tooling pretty
  hard. Mr. Kendall didn't mention anything about trouble.... Just our job.'
  Johnny did not tum around as he spoke.
 'Would it bother you if there were?'
  Johnny turned to face Spaulding; he was a very serious fellow, thought
  David. 'It depends,' said the male nurse. 'Our job is to watch out for the
  professor. Take care of him. If any trouble interfered with that, I don't
  think I'd like it.'
 'I see. What would you do?'
 'Get him the hell out of here,' answered Johnny simply.
  'Dr. Lyons has a job to do in Buenos Aires. Kendall must have told you
  that.'
  Johnny's eyes leveled with Spaulding's. 'I'll tell you straight, mister.
  That dirty pig can go screw. I never took so much shit from anyone in my
  life.'

                                323
 'Why don't you quiff
  'We don't work for Kendall,' said Johnny, as if the thought was repulsive.
  'We're paid by the Research Center of Meridian Aircraft. That son of a
  bitch isn't even from Meridian. He's a lousy bookkeeper.'
  'You understand, Mr. Spaulding,' said Hal, retreating from his partner's
  aggressiveness. 'We have to do what's best for the professor. That's what
  the Research Center hires us for.'
  .'I understand. I'm in constant touch with Meridian Research. The last
  thing anyone would wish is to harm Dr. Lyons. I can assure you of that.'
  David lied convincingly. He couldn't give assurance because he himself was
  far from sure. His only course with Johnny and Hal was to turn this
  newfound liability into an asset. The key would be Meridian's Research
  Center and his fictional relationship to it; and a common repugnance for
  Kendall.
  The taxi slowed down, turning a comer into a quiet San Telmo street. The
  driver pulled up to a narrow, three-storied, white stucco house with a
  sloping, rust-tiled roof. It was 15 Terraza Verde. The first floor was
  leased to Eugene Lyons and his $assistants.'
 'Here we are.' said Spaulding, opening the door.
  Lyons climbed out after David. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up at
  the quaint, colorful little house on the peaceful street. The trees by the
  curb were sculptured. Everything had a scrubbed look; there was an Old
  World serenity about the area. David had the feeling that Lyons had
  suddenly found something he'd been looking for.
  And then he thought he saw what it was. Eugene Lyons was looking up at a
  lovely resting place. A final resting place. A grave.

 324
 34

 There wasn't the time David thought there would be. He had told Stoltz to
 call him after five at C6rdoba; it was nearly four now.
  The first boats were coming into the piers, whistles blowing, men throwing
  and catching heavy ropes, nets everywhere, hanging out for the late drying
  rays of the sun.
  Ocho Calle was in the DArsena Norte, east of the Retiro freight yards in a
  relatively secluded section of La Boca. Railroad tracks, long out of use,
  were implanted in the streets along the row of warehouses. Ocho Calle was
  not a prime storage or loading area. Its access to the sea channels wasn't
  as cumbersome as the inner units of the La Plata, but the facilities were
  outmoded. It was as if the management couldn't decide whether to sell its
  fair waterfront real estate or put it into good operating order. The
  indecision resulted in virtual abandonment.
  Spaulding was in shirtsleeves; he had left Ballard's tan jacket at Terraza
  Verde. Over his shoulder was a large used net he had bought at an outdoor
  stall. The damn thing was rancid from rotting hemp and dead fish but it
  served its purpose. He could cover his face at will and move easily,
  comfortably among his surroundings - at one with them. David thought that
  should he ever - God forbid! - instruct recruits at Fairfax, he'd stress
  the factor of comfort. Psychological comfort. One could feel it
  immediately; just as swiftly as one felt the discomfort of artificiality.

                                 325
  He followed the sidewalk until it was no more. The final block of Ocho
  Calle was lined on the far side by a few old buildings and fenced-off
  abandoned lots once used for outside storage, now overgrown with tall
  weeds. On the water side were two huge warehouses connected to each other
  by a framed open area. The midships of a trawler could be seen moored
  between the two buildings. The next pier was across a stretch of water at
  least a quarter of a mile away. The Ocho Calle warehouses were secluded
  indeed.
  David stopped. The block was like a miniature peninsula; there were few
  people on it. No side streets, no buildings beyond the row of houses on his
  left, only what appeared to be other lots behind the houses and further
  pilings that were sunk into the earth, holding back the water of a small
  channel.
  The last stretch of Ocho Calle was a peninsula. The ware. houses were not
  only secluded, they were isolated.
  David swung the net off his right shoulder and hoisted it over his left.
  Two seamen walked out of a building; on the second floor a woman opened a
  window and shouted down, berating her husband about the projected hour of
  his return. An old man with dark Indian features sat in a wooden chair on
  a small, dilapidaied stoop in front of a filthy bait store. Inside, through
  the glass stained with salt and dirt, other old men could be seen drinking
  from wine bottles. In the last house, a ]one whore leaned out a first-floor
  window, saw David and opened her blouse, displaying a large, sagging
  breast. She squeezed it several times and pointed the nipple at Spaulding.
 Ocho Calle was the end of a particular section of the earth.
  He walked up to the old Indian, greeted him casually, and went into the
  bait store. The stench was overpowering, a combination of urine and rot.
  There were three men inside, more drunk than sober, nearer seventy than
  sixty.
 . The man behind the planked boards which served as a counter seemed
 startled to see a customer, not really sure what to do. Spaulding took a
 bill from his pocket - to the astonishment of all three surrounding him -
 and spoke in Spanish.
 'Do you have squid?'
  'No. . . . No, no squid. Very little supplies today,' answered the owner,
  his eyes on the bill.
 'What have you got?'
 :Worms. Qog meat, some cat. Cat is very good.'
 Give me a small container.'

 326
  The man stumbled backward, picked up pieces of intestine and wrapped them
  in a dirty newspaper. He put it on the plank next to the money. 'I have no
  change, sehor. . . .'
  'That's all right,' replied Spaulding. 'The money's for you. And keep the
  bait.'
 The man grinned, bewildered. 'Sehor?. .
  'You keep the money. Understand? ... Tell me. Who works over thereT David
  pointed at the barely translucent front window. 'In those big dock housesT
  .
  'Hardly anybody .... A few men come and go ... now and then. A fishing boat
  ... now and then.'
 'Have you been insideT
  'Oh, yes. Three, four years ago, I work inside. Big business, three, four..
  . . five years ago. We all work.' The other two old men nodded, chattering
  old men's chatter.
 'Not now?'
  'No, no.... All closed down. Finished. Nobody goes inside now. The owner is
  a very bad man. Watchmen break heads.'
 'WatchmenT
 'Oh, yes. With guns. Many guns. Very bad.'
 'Do automobiles come hereT
  'Oh, yes. Now and then.... One or two.... They don't give us work.'
  'Thank you. You keep the money. Thank you, again.' David crossed to the
  filthy storefront window, rubbed a small section of the glass and looked
  out at the block-long stretch of warehouse. It appeared deserted except for
  the men on the pier. And then he looked closer at those men.
  At first he wasn't sure; the glass - though rubbed - still had layers of
  film on the outside'pane; it wasn't clear and the men were moving about, in
  and out of the small transparent area.
 Then he was sure. And suddenly very angry.
  The men in the distance on the pier were wearing the same paran-dlitary
  clothes the guards at Rhinemann's gate had worn.
 They were Rhinemann's men.

  The telephone rang at precisely five thirty. The caller was not Stoltz, and
  because it wasn't, David refused to accept the instructions given him. He
  hung up and waited less than two minutes for the phone to ring again.
  'You are most obstinate,' said Erich Rhinemann. 'It is we who should be
  cautious, not you.'

                                327
  'That's a pointless statement. I have no intention of following the
  directions of someone I don't know. I don't expect airtight controls but
  that's too loose.'
  Rhinemann paused. Then he spoke harshly. 'What happened last night?'
  11 told Stoltz exactly what happened to me. I don't know anything else.'
  'I don't believe you.' Rhinemann's voice was tense, sharp. his anger very
  close to the surface.
 'I'm sorry,' said David. 'But that doesn't really concern me.'
 'Neither of those men could have left C6rdobal Impossiblel'
  'They left; take my word for it.... Look, I told Stoltz I don't want to get
  mixed up in your problems. . . .'
 'How do you know you're not ... mixed up?'
  It was, of course, the logical question and Spaulding realized that.
  'Because I'm here in my apartment, talking to you. According to Stoltz, the
  others are dead; that's a condition I intend to avoid. I'm merely
  purchasing some papers from you. Let's concentrate on that.'
 'We'll talk further on this subject,' said Rhinemann.
 'Not now. We have business to transact!
  Again the German Jew paused. 'Do as the man told you. Go to the Casa Rosada
  on the Plaza de Mayo. South gate. If you take a taxi, get off at the Julio
  and walk.'
  'Your men will pick me up when I leave the apartment, I assume!
 'Discreetly. To see if you're followed!
 'Then I'll walk from here. It'll be easier.'
  'Very intelligent. A car will be waiting for you at the Rosada. The same
  automobile that brought you here last evening.'
 'Will you be there?' asked David.
 :Of course not. But we'll meet shortly!
 I take the designs straight to TelmoT
 'If everything is clear, you may.'
 'I'll leave in five minutes. Will your men be ready?'
 Irbey are ready now,' answered Rhinemann. He hung up.
  David strapped the Beretta to his chest and put on his jacket. He went into
  the bathroom, grabbed a towel from the rack and rubbed his shoes, removing
  the Aeroparque and La Boca dirt from the leather. He combed his hair and
  patted talcum powder over the scratches on his face.
 He couldn't help but notice the dark crescents under his eyes.

 128
 He needed sleep badly, but there was no time. For his own sake - survival,
 really - he knew he had to take the time.
 He wondered when it would be.
  He returned to the telephone. He had two calls to make before he left.
  The first was to Jean. To ask her to stay in the embassy; he might have
  reason to call her. At any rate, he would talk to her when he returned. He
  said he would be with Eugene Lyons at Terraza Verde. And that he loved her.
 The second call was to Henderson Granville.
  'I told you I wouldn't involve the embassy or yourself in my work here,
  sir. If that's changed it's only because a man on your staff closed a naval
  surveillance file improperly. I'm afraid it directly affects me.'
  'How do you mean "improperly"? That's a serious implication.' If not a
  chargeable offense.'
  'Yes, sir. And for that reason it's imperative we raise no alarm, keep
  everything very quiet. It's an Intelligence matter.'
 'Who is this man?' asked Granville icily.
  'An attach6 named Ellis. William Ellis - please don't take any action,
  sir.' Spaulding spoke rapidly, emphatically. 'He may have been duped; he
  may not have been. Either way we can't have him alerted.'
  'Very well. I follow you.... Then why have you told me ... if you want no
  action taken?'
  'Not against Ellis, sir. We do need a clarification on the surveillance.'
  David described the warehouses on Ocho Calle and the trawler moored between
  the two buildings.
  Granville interrupted quietly. 'I remember the report. Naval surveillance.
  It was a lading destination . . let me think.'
 'Tortugas,' supplied Spauldini.
  'Yes, that was it. Coastal violations. An error, of course. No fishing boat
  would attempt such a trip. The actual destination was Torygos, a small port
  in northern Uruguay, I think.'
  David thought for a second. Jean hadn't mentioned the switchor similarity
  -of names. 'That may be, sir, but it would be advantageous to know the
  cargo.'
 'It was listed. Farm machinery, I believe.'
 'We don't think so,' said Spaulding.
 'Well, we have no right to inspect cargo. . .
  'Mr. Ambassador?' David cut off the old gentleman. 'Is there anyone in the
  junta we can trust, compktely trust?'

                                 M9
  Granvilles reply was hesitant, cautious; Spaulding understood. 'One. Two,
  perhaps.'
  'I won't ask you their names, sir. I will ask you to request their help.
  With priority security measures. Those warehouses are guarded ... by Erich
  Rhinemann's men.'
  'Rhinemann?' The ambassador's distaste carried over the telephone. That was
  an asset, thought David.
  'We have reason to believe he's aborting a negotiation ortying contraband
  into it. Smuggling, sir. We have to know what that cargo is.' It was all
  David could think to say. A generalization without actual foundation. But
  if men were willing to kill and be killed for 'Tortugas,' perhaps that was
  foundation enough. If Fairfax could list the name on his transfer orders
  without telling him - that was more than enough.
  'I'll do what I can, Spaulding. I can't promise anything, of course.'
 'Yes, sir. I realize. And thank you.'
  The Avenida de Mayo was jammed with traffic, the Plaza worse. At the end of
  the square the pinkish stone of Casa Rosada reflected the orange flood of
  the setting sun. Befitting a capital controlled by soldiers, thought David.
  He crossed the Plaza, stopping at the fountain, recalling yesterday and
  Leslie Jenner Hawkwood. Where was she now? In Buenos Aires; but where? And
  more important, why?
  The answer might lie in the name 'Tortugas' and a trawler in Ocho Calle.
  He circled the fountain twice, then reversed his steps once, testing
  himself, testing Erich Rhinemann. Where were the men watching him? Or were
  they women?
  Were they in cars or taxis or small trucks? Circling as he was circling?
  He spotted one. It wasn't hard to do. The man had seated himself on the
  edge of the fountain's pool, the tail of his jacket in the water. He'd sat
  down too quickly, trying to be inconspicuous.
  David started across the pedestrian walk - the same pedestrian walk he'd
  used following Leslie Hawkwood - and at the first traffic island waited for
  a change of light. Instead of crossing, however, he walked back to the
  fountain. He stepped up his pace and sat down at the pool's edge and
  watched the crosswalk.
  The man with the wet jacket emerged with the next contingent of pedestrians
  and looked anxiously around. Finally he saw Spaulding.

 330
 David waved.
 The man turned and raced back across the street.
  Spaulding ran after him, just making the light. The man did not look back;
  he seemed hell-bent to reach a contact, thought David; to have someone take
  over, perhaps. The man turned left at the Casa Rosada and Spaulding
  followed, keeping himself out of sight.
  The'man reached a comer and to David's surprise he slowed down, then
  stopped and entered a telephone booth.
  It was a curiously amateurish thing to do, mused Spaulding. And it told him
  something about Erich Rhinemann's personnel: they weren't as good as they
  thought they were.
  There was a long blasting of a hom that seemed louder than the normally
  jarring sounds of the Mayo's traffic. The single hom triggered other homs
  and in a few seconds a cacophony of strident honking filled the streets.
  David looked over. It was nothing; an irritated motorist had momentarily
  reached the end of his patience. Everything returned to normal chaos with
  the starting up of the automobiles at the crosswalk.
  And then there was a scream. A woman's scream. And another; and still
  another.
 A crowd gathered around the telephone booth.
  David pushed his way through, yanking arms, pulling shoulders, shoving. He
  reached the edge of the booth and looked inside.
  The man with the wet jacket was slumped awkwardly to the floor of the tiny
  glass enclosure, his legs buckled under him, his arms st ' retched above,
  one hand still gripping the telephone receiver so that the wire was taut.
  His head was sprung back from his neck. Blood was streaming down the back
  of his skull. Spaulding looked up at the walls of the booth. On the street
  side were three distinct holes surrounded by cracked glass.
  He heard the piercing sounds of police whistles and pushed his way back
  through the crowd. He reached the iron fence that surrounded the Casa
  Rosada, turned right and started rapidly around the building to the south
  side.
 To the south gate.
  The Packard was parked in front of the entrance, its motor running. A man
  about his size approached him as David started for the automobile.
 'Colonel Spaulding?'
 'Yes?'
 'If you'll hurry, please?' The man opened the back door and

                                 331
 David climbed in quickly.
  Heinrich Stoltz greeted him. 'You've had a long walk. Sit. The ride will be
  relaxing.'
  'Not now.' David pointed to the panels below the front dashboard. 'Can you
  reach Rhinemann on that thing? Right away?,
 'We're in constant contact. Why?'
 'Get him. Your man.was just killed.'
 'Our manT
 :The one following me. He was shot in a telephone booth.'
  He wasn't our man, colonel. And we shot him,' said Stoltz calmly.
 I What?'
  'The man was known to us. He was a hired killer out of Rio de Janeiro. You
  were his target.'

  Stoltz's explanation was succinct. They'd picked up the killer within
  moments after David left his apartment house. He was a Corsican, deported
  out of Marseilles before the war; a gun for the Unio Corso who had murdered
  one prefect too many under orders from the contrabandistes of southern
  France.
  'We couldn't take a chance with the American who possesses the codes. A
  silencer in heavy traffic you'll agree is adequate.'
  'I don't think he was trying to kill me,' said Spaulding. 'I think you
  moved too soon.'
  'Then he was waiting for you to meet with us. Forgive me, but we couldn't
  permit that. You agreeT
  'No. I could have taken him.' David sat back and brought his hand to his
  forehead, tired and annoyed. 'I was going to take him. Now we both lose.'
  Stoltz looked at David. He spoke cautiously; a question. 'The same? You
  wonder also.'
  'Don't you? ... You still think the Gestapo's not in Buenos Aires?'
  'Impossibk!' Stoltz whispered the words intensely through his teeth.
 'That's what our mutual friend said about your men last night.
  I don't know a goddamned thing about that, but I understand &*y're dead. So
  what's impossibleT
  'The Gestapo can't be involved. We've learned that at the highest levels.'
 'Rhinemann's Jewish, isn't heT David watched Stoltz as he

 332
 asked the unexpected question.
  The Gennan turned and looked at Spaulding. There was a hint of
  embarrassment in his expression. 'He practices no religion; his mother was
  Jewish.... Frankly, it's not pertinent. The racial theories of Rosenberg
  and Hitler are not shared unequivocally; far too much emphasis has been
  placed upon them.... It is -was - primarily an economic question.
  Distribution of banking controls, decentralization of financial
  hierarchies. . . . An unpleasant topic.'
  David was about to reply to the diplomat's evasions when he stopped
  himself. ... Why did Stoltz find it necessary even to attempt a
  rationalization? To offer a weak explanation he himself knew was devoid of
  logic?
  Heinrich Stoltz's loyalty was supposedly to Rhinemann, not the Third Reich.
  Spaulding looked away and said nothing. He was, frankly, confused, but it
  was no time to betray that confusion. Stoltz continued.
 'It's a curious question. Why did you bring it upT
  'A rumor.... I heard it at the embassy.' And that was the truth, thought
  David. 'I gathered that the Jewish community in Buenos Aires was hostile to
  Rhinemann.'
  'Mere speculation. The Jews here are like Jews elsewhere. They keep to
  themselves, have little to do with those outside. Perhaps the ghetto is
  less definable, but it's there. They have no argument with Rhinemann;
  there's no contact, really.'
 'Cross off one speculation,' said Spaulding.
 'There's another,' said Stoltz. 'Your own countrymen.9
  David turned slowly back to the German. 'This is a good game. How did you
  arrive at thaff
  'The purchase of the designs is being made by one aircraft corporation.
  There are five, six major companies in competition for your unending
  government contracts. Whoever possesses the gyroscope designs will have a
  powerful - I might even say irresistible - lever. All other guidance
  systems will be obsolete.'
 'Are you seriousT
  'Most assuredly. We have discussed the situation at length ... in depth. We
  are nearly convinced that this is the logical answer.' Stoltz looked away
  from David and stared to the front. 'There's no other. Those trying to stop
  us are American.'

                                 333
 35

 The green Packard made crisscross patterns over the Buenos Aires
 streets. The route was programmed aimlessness, and Spaulding
 recognized it for what it was: an extremely thorough surveillance
 check. Intermittently, the driver would pick up the microphone
 from beneath the dashboard and recite a prearranged series of
 numbers. The crackling response over the single speaker would
 repeat the numbers and the Packard would make yet another -
 seemingly aimless - turn.        I
  Several times David spotted the corresponding vehicles making the visual
  checks. Rhinemann had a minimum of five automobiles involved. After
  three-quarters of an hour, it was certain beyond doubt that the trip to San
  Telmo was clean.
 The driver spoke to Stoltz.
 'We- are, clear. The others will take up their positions.'
 'Proceed,' said Stoltz.
  They swung northwest; the Packard accelerated toward San Telmo. David knew
  that at least three other cars were behind them; perhaps two in front.
  Rhinemann had set up his own transport column, and that meant the
  gyroscopic designs were in one of the automobiles.
 'Have you got the merchandise?' he asked Stoltz.
  'Part of it,' replied the attach6, leaning forward, pressing a section of
  the felt backing in front of him. A latch sprung; Stoltz reached down and
  pulled out a tray from beneath the seat. Inside

 334
 the concealed drawer was a thin metal box not unlike the containers used in
 libraries to protect rare manuscripts from possible loss by fire. The German
 picked it up, held it in his lap and pushed the drawer back with his foot.
 'We'll be there in a few minutes,' he said.
  The Packard pulled up to the curb in front of the white stucco house in San
  Telmo. Spaulding reached for the door handle but Stoltz touched his arm and
  shook his head. David withdrew his hand; he understood.
  About fifty yards ahead, one of the checkpoint automobiles had parked and
  two men got out. One carried a thin metal container, the other an oblong
  leather case-a radio, They walked back toward the Packard.
  David didn't have to look out the rear window to know what was happening
  behind him, but to confirm his thoughts he did so. Another automobile had
  parked. Two additional men were coming up the sidewalk; one, of course,
  carrying a container, the second, a leather-encased radio.
  The four men met by the door of the Packard. Stoltz nodded to Spaulding; he
  got out of the car and walked around the vehicle, joining Rhinemann's
  contingent. He was about to start up the short path to the front entrance
  when Stoltz spoke through the automobile window.
 'Please wait. Our men are not yet in position. They'll tell us.'
  Static could be heard over the radio beneath the Packard's dashboard. There
  followed a recitation of numbers; the driver picked up his microphone and
  repeated them.
  Heinrich Stoltz nodded and got out of the car. David started toward the
  door.
  Inside, two of Rhinemann's men remained in the hallway; two walked through
  the apartment to the kitchen and a rear door that opened onto a small,
  terraced back yard. Stoltz accompanied David into the living room where
  Eugene Lyons was seated at a large dining table. The table was cleared
  except for two note pads with a half dozen pencils.
  The male nurses, Johnny and Hal, accepted Spaukling's terse commands. They
  stood at opposite ends of the room in front of a couch, in shirtsleeves,
  their pistols strapped in shoulder holsters emphasized by the white cloth
  of their shirts.
  Stoltz had relieved one man of his metal case and told David to take the
  other. Together, Stoltz and Spaulding placed the

                                 335
 three containers on the large table, and Stoltz unlocked them. Lyons made no
 effort to greet his visitors - his intruders - and only the most perfunctory
 salutation came from Stoltz. It was apparent that Kendall had described the
 scientist's afflictions; the German diplomat conducted himself accordingly.
  Stoltz spoke from across the table to the seated Lyons. 'From your left,
  the designs are in order of sequence. We have prepared bilingual keys
  attached to each of the schematics, and wherever processes are described,
  they have been translated verbatim, utilizing English counterpart formulae
  or internationally recognized symbols, and often both.... Not far from
  here, and easily contacted by our automobile radio, is an aeronautical
  physicist from Peenernfinde. He is available for consultation at your
  request.... Finally, you understand that no photographs may be taken.'
  Eugene Lyons picked up a pencil and wrote on a pad. He tore off the page
  and handed it to Spaulding. It read:
 How long do I have? Are these complete?
 David handed the note to Stoltz, who replied.
  'As long as you need, Herr Doktor. . . . There is one last container. It
  will be brought to you later.'
  'Within twenty-four hours,' interrupted Spaulding. 'I insist on that.'
  'When we receive confirmation that the codes have arrived in Washington.'
  'That message is undoubtedly at the embassy now.' David looked at his
  watch. 'I'm sure it is.'
  'If you say it, I believe it,' said Stoltz. 'It would be pointless to lie.
  You won't leave Argentina until we have received word from ...
  Switzerland.'
  Spaulding couldn't define why but there was something questioning about the
  German's statement; a questioning that didn't belong with such a
  pronouncement. David began to think that Stoltz was far more nervous than
  he wanted anyone to realize. 'I'll confirm the codes when we leave.... By
  the way, I also insist the designs remain here. Just as Doctor Lyons has
  checked them.'
  'We anticipated your . . . request. You Americans are so mistrustful. Two
  of our men will also'remain. Others win be outside.'
 'That's a waste of manpower. What good is three-fourths of

 336
 the merchandiseT
 'Tbree-fourths better than you have,' answered the German.
  The next two and a half hours were marked by the scratches of Lyons's
  pencil; the incessant static of the radios from the hallway and the
  kitchen, over which came the incessant, irritating recitation of numbers;
  the pacing of Heinrich Stoltz - his eyes constantly riveting on the pages
  of notes taken by an exhausted Lyons, making sure the scientist did not try
  to pocket or hide them; the yawns of the male nurse, Hal; the silent,
  hostile stares of his partner, Johnny.
  At ten thirty-five, Lyons rose from the chair. He placed the pile of notes
  to his left and wrote on a pad, tearing off the page and handing it to
  Spaulding.
 So far - authentic. I have no questions.
 David handed the note to an anxious Stoltz.
  'Good,' said the German. 'Now, colonel, please "plain to the doctor's
  companions that it will be necessary for us torelieve them of their
  weapons. They will be returned, of course.'
 David spoke to Johnny. ~It's all right. Put them on the table.'
  'It's all right by who-saysT said Johnny, leaning against the wall, making
  no move to comply.
 'I do,' answered Spaulding. 'Nothing will happen.'
  'These fuckers are Nazis! You want to put us in blindfolds, tooT
 'They're German. Not Nazis.'
  'Horseshit!' Johnny pushed himself off the wall and stood erect. 11 don't
  like the way they talk.'
  'Listen to me.' David approached him. 'A great many people have risked
  their lives to bring this thing off. For different reasons. You may not
  like them any more than I do, but we can't louse it up now. Please, do as
  I ask you.'
  Johnny stared angrily at Spaulding. 'I hope to Christ you know what you're
  doing. . . .' He and his partner put down their guns.
  'Thank you, gentlemen,' said Stoltz, walking into the hallway. He spoke
  quietly in German to the two guards. The man with the radio walked rapidly
  through the sitting room into the kitchen; the other picked up the two
  weapons, placing one in his belt, the second in his jacket pocket. He then
  returned to the hallway without speaking.
 Spaulding went to the table, joined by Stoltz. Lyons had

                                 337
 replaced the designs in the manila envelopes; there were three. 'I'd hate to
 think of the money our mutual friend is getting for these,' said David.
 'You wouldn't pay it if they weren't worth it.'
 "I suppose not.... No reason not to put them in one case. Along with the
 notes.~ Spaulding looked over at Lyons, who stood immobile at the end of the
 table. 'Is that all right, doctorT
 Lyons nodded, his sad eyes half closed, his pallor accentuated.
  'As you wish,' said Stoltz. Picking up the envelopes and the notes, he put
  them in the first container, locked it, closed the other two and placed
  them on top of the first, as if he were performing a religious exercise in
  front of an altar.
  Spaulding took several steps toward the two men by the window. 'You've had
  a rough day. Doctor Lyons, too. Turn in and let your guests walk guard
  duty; I think they're on overtime.'
 Hal grinned. Johnny did not.
  'Good evening, doctor. It's been a privilege meeting such a distinguished
  man of science.' Across the room, Stoltz spoke in diplomatic tones, bowing
  a slight diplomatic bow.
  The guard with the radio emerged from the kitchen and nodded to the German
  attach6. They left the room together. Spaulding smfled at Lyons; the
  scientist turned without acknowledging and walked into his bedroom to the
  right of the kitchen door.
  Outside on the sidewalk, Stoltz held the car door for David. 'A very
  strange man, your Doctor Lyons,' he said as Spaulding got into the Packard.
  'He may be, but he's one of the best in his field.... Ask your driver to
  stop at a pay phone. IT check the embassy's radio room. You'll get your
  confirmation.'
 'Excellentidea.... Tben, perhaps, you'll join me for dinner?'
  David looked at the attach6 who sat so confidently, so halfmockingly,
  beside him. Stoltz's nervousness had disappeared. 'No, Heff
  Botschaftssekretir. I have another engagement.'
 'With the lovely Mrs. Cameron, no doubt. I defer.'
  Spaulding did not reply. Instead, he looked out the window in silence.
  The Terraza Verde was peaceful. The streetlamps cast a soft glow on the
  quiet, darkened sidewalks; the sculptured trees in front of the picturesque
  Mediterranean houses were silhouetted against pastel-colored brick and
  stone. In windows beyond flower boxes, the yellow lamps of living rooms and
  bedrooms

 339
 shone invitingly. A man in a business suit, a newspaper under his arm,
 walked up the steps to a door, taking a key from his pocket; a young couple
 were laughing quietly, leaning against a low wrought-iron fence. A little
 girl with a light brown cocker spaniel on a leash was skipping along the
 sidewalk, the dog jumping happily out of step.
 Terraza Verde was a lovely place to live.
  And David thought briefly of another block he'd seen that day. With old men
  who smelled of rot and urine; with a toothless whore who leaned on a filthy
  sill. With cat intestines and dirtfilmed windows. And with two huge
  warehouses that provided no work, and a trawler at anchor, recently
  destined for Tortugas.
  The Packard turned the comer into another street. There were a few more
  lights, less sculptured trees, but the street was very much like Terraza
  Verde. It reminded David of those offshoot streets in Lisbon that
  approached the rich caminos; dotted with expensive shops, convenient for
  wealthy inhabitants a few hundred yards away.
  There were shops here, too; with windows subtly lit, wares tastefully
  displayed.
  Another block; the Packard slowed down at the intersecting street and then
  started across. More shops, less trees, more dogs - these often walked by
  maids. A group of teenagers were crowded around an Italian sportscar.
  And then David saw the overcoat. It was just an overcoat at first; a light
  grey overcoat in a doorway.
 A grey overcoat. A recessed doorway.
  The man was tall and thin. A tall, thin man in a light grey overcoat. In a
  doorway!
 My God! thought David. The man on Fifty-second Street!
  The man was turned sideways, looking down into a dimly lit store window.
  Spaulding could not see them but he could picture the dark, hollow eyes;
  could hear the bastardized English out of somewhere in the Balkans; sense
  the desperation in the man's eyes:
  There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmfiller. . . . Heed the
  lesson of Fairfax I
 He had to get out of the Packard. Quickly!
  He had to go back to Terraza Verde. Without Stoltz. He had to!
 'There's a caf6 in the next block,' said Spaulding, pointing to

                                 339
 an orange canopy with lights underneath, stretching across the sidewalk.
 'Stop there. I'll, call the embassy.'
 'You seem anxious, colonel. It can wait. I believe you.'
  Spaulding turned to the German. 'You want me to spell it out? O.K., I'll do
  that.... I don't like you, Stoltz. And I don't like Rhinemann; I don't like
  men who yell and bark orders and have me followed.... I'm buying from you,
  but I don't have to associate with you. I don't have to have dinner or ride
  in your automobile once our business for the day is over. Do I make myself
  clear?'
  6you're clear. Though somewhat uncivilized. And ungrateful, if you don't
  mind my saying so. We saved your life earlier this evening.'
  'That's your opinion. Not triine. Just let me off, I'll telephone and come
  out with your confirmation.... As you said, there's no point in my lying.
  You go on your way, I'll grab a taxi.'
  Stoltz instructed the driver to pull up at the orange canopy. 'Do as you
  please. And should your plans include Doctor Lyons, be advised we have men
  stationed about the area. Their orders are harsh. Those designs will stay
  where they are.'
  'I'm not paying for three-quarters of the merchandise regardless of what
  there is back home. And I have no intention of walking into that phalanx of
  robots.'
  The Packard drew up to the canopy. Spaulding opened the door quickly,
  slamming it angrily behind him. He walked swiftly into the lighted entrance
  and asked for the telephone.
  'The ambassador has been trying to reach you for the past half-hour or so,'
  said the night operator. 'He says it's urgent. I'm to give you a telephone
  number.' The operator drawled out the digits.
  'Thank you,' David said. 'Now connect me with Mr. Ballard in
  Communications, please.'
  'O'Leary's Saloon,' came the uninterested voice of Bobby Ballard over the
  wire.
 'You're a funny man. I'll laugh next Tuesday.'
  'The "switch" said it was you. You know Granville's trying to find you.'
 'I heard. Where's Jean?'
 'In her room; pining away just like you ordered.'
 'Did you get word from D.C.T
 'All wrapped. Came in a couple of hours ago; your codes are

 340
 cleared, Row'sthe erector setT
  'The instructions - three-quarters of them - are in the box. But there are
  too many playmates.'
 'Terraza VerdeT
 'Around there.'
 'Shall I send out a few FMF playground attendants?'
  'I think I'd feel better,' said Spaulding. 'Tell them to cruise. Nothing
  else. I'll spot them and yell if I need them.'
 'It'll take a half-hour from the base.'
 'Thanks. No parades, please, Bobby.'
  'They'll be so quiet no one'll know but us Munchkins. Take care of
  yourself.'
  Spaulding held down the receiver with his finger, tempted to lift it,
  insert another coin and call Granville.... There wasn't time. He left the
  booth and walked out the restaurant door to the Packard. Stoltz was at the
  window; David saw that a trace of his previous nervousness had returned.
  'You've got your confirmation. Deliver the rest of the goods and enjoy your
  money.... I don't know where you come from, Stoltz, but I'll find out and
  have it bombed off the map. I'll tell the Eighth Air Force to name the raid
  after you.'
  Stoltz seemed relieved at David's surliness - as David thought he might be.
  'The man from Lisbon is complicated. I suppose that's proper for a
  complicated assignment.... We'll call you by noon.' Stoltz turned to the
  driver. 'Los, abfahren, machen Sie schnefil'
  The green Packard roared off down the street. Spaulding waited under the
  canopy to see if it made any turns; should it do so, he would return to the
  cafe and wait.
  It did not; it maintained a straight course. David watched until the
  taillights were infinitesimal red dots. Then he turned and walked as fast
  as he could without calling attention to himself toward Terraza Verde.
  He reached the short block in which he'd seen the man in the light grey
  overcoat and stopped. His concerns made him want to rush on; his instincts
  forced him to wait, to look, to move cautiously.
  The man was not on the block now; he was nowhere to be seen. David reversed
  his direction and walked to the end of the sidewalk. He turned left and
  raced down the street to the next comer, turning left again, now slowing
  down, walking casually.

                                 341
 He wished to God he knew the area better, knew the buildings behind Lyons's
 white stucco house. Others did; others were positioned in dark recesses he
 knew nothing about.
  Rhinemann's guards. The man in the light grey overcoat; how many more were
  with him?
  He approached the intersection of Terraza Verde and crossed the road
  diagonally, away from the white stucco house. He stayed out of the spill of
  the lamps as best he could and continued down the pavement to the street
  behind the row of houses on Terraza Verde. It was, of course, a block lined
  with other houses; quaint, picturesque, quiet. Spaulding looked up at the
  vertical sign: Terraza Amarilla.
 San Telmo fed upon itself.
  He remained at the far end of the corner under a sculptured tree and looked
  toward the section of the adjacent street where he judged the rear of
  Lyons's house to be. He could barely make out the sloping tiled roof, but
  enough to pinpoint the building behind it - about 150 yards away.
  He also saw Rhinemann's automobile, one of those he'd spotted during the
  long, security-conscious drive from the Can Rosada. It was parked opposite
  a light-bricked Italian townhouse with large gates on both sides. David
  assumed those gates opened to stone paths leading to a wall or a fence
  separating Lyons's back terrace from the rear entrance of the townhouse. It
  had to be something like that; Rhinemann's guards were posted so that
  anyone emerging from those gates was equally in their sightlines.
  And then Spaulding remembered the crackling static of the radios from the
  hallway and the kitchen and the incessant repetition of the German numbers.
  Those who carried the radios had weapons. He reached beneath his jacket to
  his holster and took out the Beretta. He knew the clip was filled; he
  unlatched the safety, shoved the weapon into his belt and started across
  the street toward the automobile.
  Before he reached the opposite comer, he heard a car drive up behind him.
  He had no time to run, no moment to make a decision -good or bad. His hand
  went to his belt; he tried to assume a posture of indifference.
 He heard the voice and was stunned.
 'Get in, you goddamned foolP
 Leslie Hawkwood was behind the wheel of a small Renault

 342
 coupe. She had reached over and unlatched the door. David caught it, his
 attention split between his shock and his concern that Rhinemann's guard -
 or guards - a hundred yards away might hear the noise. There were fewer than
 a dozen pedestrians within the two-block area. Rhinemann's men had to have
 been alerted.
  He jumped into the Renault and with his left hand he grabbed Leslie's right
  leg above the knee, his grip a restraining vise, pressing on the nerve
  lines. He spoke softly but with unmistakable intensity.
  'You back this car up as quietly as you can, and turn left down that
  street.'
 'Let go I Let. .
 'Do as I say or I'll break your kneecap off!'
  The Renault was short; there was no need to use the reverse gear. Leslie
  spun the wheel and the car veered into a sharp turn.
  'Slowlyl' commanded Spaulding, his eyes on Rhinemann's car. He could see a
  head turn - two heads. And then they were out of sight.
  David took his hand off the girl's leg; she pulled it up and doubled her
  shoulders down in agony. Spaulding grabbed the wheel and forced the gears
  into neutral. The car came to a stop halfway down the block, at the curb.
  'You bastard! You broke my leg!' Leslie's eyes were filled with tears of
  pain, not sorrow. She was close to fury but she did not shout. And that
  told David something about Leslie he had not known before.
  'I'll break more than a leg if you don't start telling me what you're doing
  here! How many others are there? I saw one; how many more?'
  She snapped her head up, her long hair whipping back, her eyes defiant.
  'Did you think we couldn't find him?'
 'WhoT
 'Your scientist. This Lyons! We found him!'
 'Leslie, for Christ's sake, what are you doing?'
 'Stopping you!'
 'Me?'
  'You. Altmiffler, Rhinemann. Koening! Those pigs in Washington....
  PeenemUnde! It's all over. They won't trust you anymore. "Tortugas" is
  finished!'
 The faceless name - Altiniffier again. Tortugas.... Koening?

                                 343
 Words, names ... meaning and no meaning. The tunnels had no light.
 There was no time I
  Spaulding reached over and pulled the girl toward him. He clutched the hair
  above her forehead, yanking it taut, and with his other hand he circled his
  fingers high up under her throat, just below the jawbone. He applied
  pressure in swift, harsh spurts, each worse than the last.
 So much, so alien.
  'You want to play this game, you play it out! Now tell mel What's
  happening? Now?'
  She tried to squirm, lashing out her arms, kicking at him; but each time
  she moved he ripped his fingers into her throat. Her eyes widened until the
  sockets were round. He spoke again.
  'Say it, Leslie! I'll have to kill you if you don't. I don't have a choice
  I Not now.... For Christ's sake, don't force me!'
  She slumped; her body went limp but not unconscious. Her head moved up and
  down; she sobbed deep-throated moans. He released her and gently held her
  face. She opened her eyes.
  'Don't touch me! Oh, God, don't touch me!' She could barely whisper, much
  less scream. 'Inside.... We're going inside. Kill the scientists; kill
  Rhinemann's men. . . .'
  Before she finished, Spaulding clenched his fist and hammered a short, hard
  blow into the side of her chin. She slumped, unconscious.
 He'd heard enough. There was no time.
  He stretched her out in the small front seat, removing the ignition keys as
  he did so. He looked for her purse; she had none. He opened the door,
  closed it firmly and looked up and down the street. There were two couples
  halfway down the block; a car was parking at the comer; a window was opened
  on the second floor of a building across the way, music coming from within.
 Except for these - nothing. San Telmo was at peace.
  Spaulding ran to within yards of Terraza Amarilla. He stopped and edged his
  way along an iron fence that bordered the comer, swearing at the spill of
  the streetlamp. He looked through the black grillwork at Rhinemann's car
  less than a hundred yards away. He tried to focus on the front seat, on the
  two heads he'd seen moving minutes ago. There was no movement now, no glow
  of cigarettes, no shifting of shoulders.
 Nothing.

 344
  Yet there was a break in the silhouette of the left window frame; an
  obstruction that filled the lower section of the glass.
  David rounded the sharp angle of the iron fence and walked slowly toward
  the automobile, his hand clamped on the Beretta, his finger steady over the
  trigger. Seventy yards, sixty, forty-five.
 The obstruction did not move.
  Thirty-five, thirty... he pulled the pistol from his belt, prepared to
  fire.
 Nothing.
  He saw it clearly now. The obstruction was a head, sprung back into the
  glass - not resting, but wrenched, twisted from the neck; immobile.
 Dead.
  He raced across the street to the rear of the car and crouched, his Beretta
  level with his shoulders. There was no noise, no rustling from within.
  The block was deserted now. The only sounds were the muffled, blurred hums
  from a hundred lighted windows. A latch could be heard far down the street;
  a small dog barked; the wail of an infant was discernible in the distance.
 David rose and looked through the automobile's rear window.
  He saw the figure of a second man sprawled over the felt top of the front
  seat. The light of the streetlamps illuminated the upper part of the man's
  back and shoulders. The whole area was a mass of blood and slashed cloth.
  Spaulding slipped around the side of the car to the front right door. The
  window was open, the sight within sickening. The man behind the wheel had
  been shot through the side of his head, his companion knifed repeatedly.
  The oblong, leather-cased radio was smashed, lying on the floor beneath the
  dashboard.
  It had to have happened within the past five or six minutes, thought David.
  Leslie Hawkwood had rushed down the street in the Renault to intercept him
  - at the precise moment men with silenced pistols and long-bladed knives
  were heading for Rhinemann's guards.
  The killings complete, the men with knives and pistols must have raced
  across the street into the gates towards Lyons's house. Raced without
  thought of cover or camouflage, knowing the radios were in constant contact
  with those inside 15 Terraza Verde.

                                 345
  Spaulding opened the car door, rolled up the window, and pulled the
  lifeless form off the top of the seat. He closed the door; the bodies were
  visible, but less so than before. It was no moment for alarms in the street
  if they could be avoided.
  He looked over at the gates across the way on each side of the townhouse.
  The left one was slightly ajar.
  He ran over to it and eased himself through the opening, touching nothing,
  his gun thrust laterally at his side, aiming forward. Beyond the gate was
  a cement passageway that stretched the length of the building to some sort
  of miniature patio bordered by a high brick wall.
  He walked silently, rapidly to the end of the open alley; the patio was a
  combination of slate paths, plots of grass and small flower gardens.
  Alabaster statuary shone in the moonlight; vines crawled up the brick wall.
  He judged the height of the wall: seven feet, perhaps, seven and a half.
  Thickness: eight, ten inches - standard. Construction: new, within several
  years, strong. It was the construction with which he was most concerned. In
  1942 he took a nine-foot wall in San SebastiAn that collapsed under him. A
  month later it was amusing; at the time it nearly killed him.
  He replaced the Beretta in his shoulder holster, locking the safety,
  shoving in the weapon securely. He bent down and rubbed his hands in the
  dry dirt at the edge of the cement, absorbing whatever sweat was on them.
  He stood up and raced towards the brick wall.
  Spaulding leaped. Once on top of the wall, he held - silent, prone; his
  hands gripping the sides, his body motionless - a part of the stone. He
  remained immobile, his face towards Lyons's terrace, and waited several
  seconds. The back door to Lyons's flat was closed - no lights were on in
  the kitchen; the shades were drawn over the windows throughout the floor.
  No sounds from within.
  He slid down from the wall, removed his gun and ran to the side of the
  kitchen door, pressing his back against the white stucco. To his
  astonishment he saw that the door was not closed; and then he saw why. At
  the base, barely visible in the darkness of the room beyond, was a section
  of a hand. It had gripped the bottom of the doorframe and been smashed into
  the saddle; the fingers were the fingers of a dead man.
 Spaulding reached over and pressed the door. An inch. Two

 346
 inches. Wood against dead weight; his elbow ached from the pressure.
 Three, four, five inches. A foot.
  Indistinguishable voices could be heard now; faint, male, excited.
  He stepped swiftly in front of the door and pushed violently - as quietly
  as possible - against the fallen body that acted as a huge, soft, dead
  weight against the frame. He stepped over the corpse of Rhinemann's guard,
  noting that the oblong radio had been torn from its leather case, smashed
  on the floor. He closed the door silently.
  The voices came from the sitting room. He edged his way against the wall,
  the Beretta poised, unlatched, ready to fire.
  An open pantry against the opposite side of the room caught his eye. The
  single window, made of mass-produced stained glass, was high in the west
  wall, creating eerie shafts of colored light from the moon. Below, on the
  floor, was Rhinemann's second guard. The method of death he could not tell;
  the body was arched backward - probably a bullet from a small-caliber
  pistol had killed him. A pistol with a silencer attached. It would be very
  quiet. David felt the perspiration rolling down his forehead and over his
  neck.
 How many were there? They'd immobilized a garrison.
 He had no commitment matching those odds.
  Yet he had a strange commitment to Lyons. He had commitment enough for him
  at the moment. He dared not think beyond that instant.
  And he was good; he could - should - never forget that. He was the best
  there was.
 If it was important to anyone.
 So much, so alien.
  He pressed his cheek against the molding of the arch and what he saw
  sickened him. The revulsion, perhaps, was increased by the surroundings: a
  well-appointed flat with chairs and couches and tables meant for civilized
  people involved with civilized pursuits.
 Not death.
  The two male nurses - the hostile Johnny, the affable, dense Hal - were
  sprawled across the floor, their arms linked, their heads inches from each
  other. Their combined blood had formed a pool on the parquet surface.
  Johnny's eyes were wide, angry -
  
                                 347
 dead; Hal's face composed, questioning, at rest.
  Behind them were Rhinemann's two other guards, their bodies on the couch
  like slaughtered cattle.
 I hope you know what you're doing!
  Johnny's words vibrated painfully - in screams - in David's brain.
  There were three other men in the room - standing, alive, in the same
  grotesque stocking masks that had beenworn by those in the Duesenberg who
  had cut short the few moments he'd had alone with Leslie Hawkwood high in
  the hills of Lujin.
  The Duesenberg that had exploded in fire in the hills of Colinas Rojas.
  The men were standing - none held weapons - over the spent figure of Eugene
  Lyons - seated gracefully, without fear, at the table. The look in the
  scientist's eyes told the truth, as Spaulding saw it: he welcomed death.
  'You see what's around you!' The man in the light grey overcoat spoke to
  him. 'We will not hesitate further! You're dead! ... Give us the designs!'
 Jesus Christ I thought David. Lyons had hidden the plans!
  'There's no point in carrying on, please believe me,' continued the man in
  the overcoat, the man with the hollow crescents under his eyes Spaulding
  remembered so well. 'You may be spared, but only if you tell us! Now!'
  Lyons did not move; he looked up at the man in the overcoat without
  shifting his head, his eyes calm. They touched David's.
 'Write iff said the man in the light grey overcoat.
 It was the moment to move.
 David spun around the molding, his pistol leveled.
  'Don't reach for guns! Youl' he yelled at the man nearest him. 'Turn
  around!'
  In shock, without thinking, the man obeyed. Spaulding took two steps
  forward and brought the barrel of the Beretta crashing down into the man's
  skull. He collapsed instantly.
  David shouted at the man next to the interrogator in the grey overcoat.
  'Pick up that chair! Now!' He gestured with his pistol to a straight-backed
  chair several feet from the table. 'Now, I said!'
  The man reached over and did as he was told; he was immobilized. Spaulding
  continued. 'You drop it and I'll kill you....

 348
 Doctor Lyons. Take their weapons. You'll find pistols and knives. Quickly,
 please.'
  It all happened so fast. David knew his only hope of avoiding gunfire was
  in the swiftness of the action, the rapid immobilization of one or two men,
  an instant reversal of the odds.
  Lyons got out of the chair and went first to the man in the light grey
  overcoat. It was apparent that the scientist had observed where the man had
  put his pistol. He took it out of the overcoat pocket. He went to the man
  holding the chair and removed an identical gun, then searched the man and
  took a large knife from his jacket and a second, short revolver from a
  shoulder holster. He placed the weapons on the far side of the table and
  walked to the unconscious third man. He rolled him over and removed two
  guns and a switchblade knife.
  'Take off your coats. Now!'Spaulding commanded both men. He took the chair
  from the one next to him and pushed him toward his companion. The men began
  removing their coats when Spaulding suddenly spoke, before either had
  completed their actions. 'Stop right there! Hold it! ... Doctor, please
  bring over two chairs and place them behind them.'
 Lyons did so.
 'Sit down,' said Spaulding to his captives.
  They sat, coats half off their shoulders. David approached them and yanked
  the garments further - down to the elbows.
  The two men in the grotesque stocking masks were seated now, their arins
  locked by their own clothes.
  Standing in front of them, Spaulding reached down and ripped the silk masks
  off their faces. He moved back and leaned against the dining table, his
  pistol in his hand.
  'All right,' he said. 'I estimate we've got about fifteen minutes before
  all hell breaks loose around here.... I have a few questions. You're going
  to give me the answers.'

 349
 36

 Spaulding listened in disbelief. The enormity of the charge was 80
 far-reaching it was - in a very real sense - beyond his comprehension.
  The man with the hollow eyes was Asher Feld, commander of the Provisional
  Wing of the Haganah operating within the United States. He did the talking.
  'The operation ... the exchange of the guidance designs for the industrial
  diamonds ... was first given the name "Tortugas" by the Americans - one
  American, to be exact. He had decided that the transfer should be made in
  the Dry Tortugas, but it was patently rejected by Berlin. It was, however,
  kept as a code name by this man. The misleading association dovetailed with
  his own panic at being involved. It came - for him and for Fairfax - to
  mean the activities of the man from Lisbon.
  'When the War Department clearances were issued to the Koening company's
  New York offices - an Allied requisite - this man coded the clearance as
  'Tortugas.' If anyone checked, 'Tortugas' was a Fairfax operation. It would
  not be questioned.
  'The concept of the negotiation was first created by the Nachrichtendienst.
  I'm sure you've heard of the Nachrichtendienst, colonel. . . .'
 David did not reply, He could not speak. Feld continued.
  'We of the Haganah learned of it in Geneva. We had word of an unusual
  meeting between an American named Kendall -
  
 350
 a financial analyst for a major aircraft company -and a very despised German
 businessman, a homosexual, who was sent to Switzerland by a leading
 administrator in the Ministry of Armaments, Unterstaatssekretir Franz
 AltmOller.... The Haganah is everywhere, colonel, including the outer
 offices of the ministry and in the Luftwaffe. . . .'
  David continued to stare at the Jew, so matter of fact in his extraordinary
  ... unbelieveable ... narrative.
  'I think youll agree that such a meeting was unusual. It was not difficult
  to maneuver these two messengers into a situation that gave us a wire
  recording. It was in an out-of-the-way restaurant and they were amateurs.
  'We then knew the basics. The materials and the general location. But not
  the specific point of transfer. And that was the all-important factor.
  Buenos Aires is enormous, its harbour more so -stretching for miles. Where
  in this vast area of land and mountains and water was the transfer to take
  placeT
  'Then, of course, came word from Fairfax. The man in Lisbon was being
  recalled. A most unusual action. But then how well thought out. The finest
  network specialist in Europe, fluent German and Spanish, an expert in
  blueprint designs. How logical. Don't you agree!'
  David started to speak, but stopped. Things were being said that triggered
  fiashes of lightning in his mind. And unbelievable cracks of thunder . . .
  as unbelievable as the words he was hearing. He could only nod his head.
  Numbly.
 Feld watched him closely. Then spoke.
  'In New York I explained to you, albeit briefly, the sabotage at the
  airfield in Terceira. Zealots. The fact that the man in Lisbon could turn
  and be a part of the exchange was too much for the hot-tempered Spanish
  Jews. No one was more relieved than we of the Provisional Wing when you
  escaped. We assumed your stopover in New York was for the purposes of
  refining the logistics in Buenos Aires. We proceeded on that assumption.
  'Then quite abruptly there was no more time. Reports out of Johannesburg -
  unforgivably delayed - said that the diamonds had arrived in Buenos Aires.
  We took the necessary violent measures, including an attempt to kill you.
  Prevented, I presume, by Rhinemann's men.' Asher Feld stopped. Then added
  wearily, 'The rest you know.'
 No I The rest he did not know! Nor any other part/

                                 351
 Insanityl
 Madnessl
 Everything was nothing I Nothing was everything I
  The Years I The lives I... The terrible nightmares offear ... the killing!
  Oh, my God, the killing!
 For what?! ... 0h, my God! For what?!
  'You're lying!' David crashed his hand down on the table. The steel of the
  pistol cracked against the wood with such force the vibration filled the
  room. 'You're lying!' he cried; he did not shout. 'I'm in Buenos Aires to
  buy gyroscopic designs! To have them authenticated! Confirmed by code so
  that son of a bitch gets paid in Switzerland! That's all. Nothing else!
  Nothing else at aill Not this I'
 'Yes. . . .' Asher Feld spoke softly. 'It is this.'
  David whirled around at nothing. He stretched his neck: the crashing
  thunder in his head would not stop, the blinding flashes of light in front
  of his eyes were causing a terrible pain. He saw the bodies on the floor,
  the blood . the corpses on the sofa, the blood.
 Tableau of death.
 Death.
  His whole shadow world bad been ripped out of orbit. A thousand gambles ...
  pains, manipulations, death. And more death . . . all faded into a
  meaningless void. The betrayal - if it was a betrayal - was so immense ...
  hundreds of thousands had been sacrificed for absolutely nothing.
 He had to stop. He had to think. To concentrate.
  He looked at the painfully gaunt Eugene Lyons, his face a sheet of white.
 The man's dying, thought Spaulding.
 Death.
 He had to concentrate.
 Oh, Christ! He had to think. Start somewhere. Think.
 Concentrate.
 Or he would go out of his mind.
  He turned to Feld. The Jew's eyes were compassionate. They might have been
  something else, but they were not. They were compassionate.
  And yet, they were the eyes of a man who killed in calm deliberation.
 As he, the man in Lisbon, had killed.

 352
 Execution.
 For what?
  There were questions. Concentrate on the questions. Listen. Find error.
  Find error - if error was needed in this world it was nowl
  'I don't believe you,' said David, trying as he had never tried in his life
  to be convincing.
  'I think you do,' replied Feld quietly. 'The girl, Leslie Hawkwood, told us
  you didn't know. A judgment we found difficult to accept.... I accept it
  now.'
  David had to think for a moment. He did not, at first, recognize the name.
  Leslie Hawkwood. And then, of course, he did instantly. Painfully. 'How is
  she involved with youT he asked numbly.
  'Herold Goldsmith is her uncle. By marriage, of course, she's not Jewish.'
  'Goldsmith? The name ... doesn't mean anything to me.' ... Concentrate I He
  had to concentrate and speak rationally.
  'It does to thousands of Jews. He's the man behind the Baruch and Lehman
  negotiations. He's done more to get our people out of the camps than any
  man in America.... He refused to have anything to do with Us until the
  civilized, compassionate men in Washington, London and the Vatican turned
  their backs on him. Then he came to us ... in fury. He created a hurricane,
  his niece was swept up in it. She's overly dramatic, perhaps, but commit-
  ted, effective. She moves in circles barred to the Jew.'
  'Why?'. . . Listen I For God's sake, listen. Be rational. Concentratel
  Asher Feld paused for a moment, his dark, hollow eyes clouded with quiet
  hatred. 'She met dozens . . . hundreds, perhaps, of those Herold Goldsmith
  got out. She saw the photographs, heard the stories. It was enough. She was
  ready.'
  The calm was beginning to return to David. Leslie was the springboard he
  needed to come back from the madness. There were questions....
  'I can't reject the pren-dse that Rhinemarm bought the designs. . . .'
  'Oh, come!' interrupted Feld. 'You were the man in Lisbon. How often did
  your own agents - your best men - find Peenemfinde invulnerable? Has not
  the German underground itself given up penetrationT

                                 353
  'No one ever gives up. On either side. The German underground is part of
  this!' That was the error, thought David.
  'If that were so,' said Feld, gesturing his head toward the dead Germans on
  the couch, 'then those men were members of the underground. You know the
  Haganah, Lisbon. We don't kill such men.'
  Spaulding stared at the quiet-spoken Jew and knew he told the truth.
  'The other evening.' said Spaulding quickly, 'on Parand. I was followed,
  beaten up . . . but I saw the IDs. They were Gestapo V
  'They were Haganah.' replied Feld. 'The Gestapo is our best cover. If they
  had been Gestapo that would presume, knowledge of your function.... Would
  they have let you live?'
  Spaulding started to object. The Gestapo would not risk killing in a
  neutral country; not with identification on their persons. Then he realized
  the absurdity of his logic. Buenos Aires was not Lisbon. Of course, they
  would kill him. And then he recalled the words of Heinrich Stoltz.
  We've checked at the highest levels ... not the Gestapo ... impossible....
  And the strangely inappropriate apologia: the racial theories of Rosenberg
  and Hitler are not shared ... primarily an economic ...
  A defense of the indefensible offered by a man whose loyalty was
  purportedly not to the Third Reich but to Erich Rhinemann. A Jew.
 Finally, Bobby Ballard:
 ... he's a believer ... the real Junker item....
 'Oh, my God,' said David under his breath.
  'You have the advantage, colonel. What is your choice? We're prepared to
  die; I say this in no sense heroically, merely as a fact.'
  Spaulding stood motionless. He spoke softly, incredulously. 'Do you
  understand the implications? . . .'
  .We've understood them,' interrupted Feld, 'since that day in Geneva your
  Walter Kendall met with Johann Dietricht.'
 David reacted as though slapped, 'Johann ... Dietricht?'
 'The expendable heir of Dietricht Fabriken.'
  'J.D.,' whispered Spaulding, remembering the crumpled yellow pages in
  Walter Kendall's New York office. The breasts, the testicles, the swastikas
  ... the obscene, nervous scribbings of an

 354
 obscene, nervous man. 'Johann Dietricht ... J.D.'
 'Altmilller had him killed. In a way that precluded any .
 'Why?'asked David.
  'To remove any connection with the Ministry of Armaments, is our thought;
  any association with the High Command. Dietricht initiated the negotiations
  to the point where they could be shifted to Buenos Aires. To Rhinemarm.
  With Dietricht's death the High Command was one more step removed.'
  The items raced through David's mind: Kendall had fled Buenos Aires in
  panic; something had gone wrong. The accountant would not allow himself to
  be trapped, to be killed. And he, David, was to kill - or have killed -
  Erich Rhinemann. Second to the designs, Rhinemann's death was termed
  paramount. And with his death, Washington, too, was 'one more step removed'
  from the exchange.
 Yet there was Edmund Pace.
 Edmund Pace.
 Never.
 'A man was killed,' said David, 'A Colonel Pace'. . .
  'In Fairfax,' completed Asher Feld. 'A necessary death. He was being used
  as you are being used. We deal in pragmatics. ... Without knowing the
  consequences - or refusing to admit them to himself - Colonel Pace was
  engineering "Tortugas.
  'You could have told him. Not killed him! You could have stopped it! You
  bastards!'
  Asher Feld sighed. 'I'm afraid you don't understand the hysteria among your
  industrialists. Or those of the Reich. He would have been eliminated.... By
  removing him ourselves, we neutralized Fairfax. And all its considerable
  facilities.'
  There was no point in dwelling on the necessity of Pace's death, thought
  David. Feld, the pragmatist, was right: Fairfax had been removed from
  'Tortugas.'
 'Then Fairfax doesn't know.'
 'Our man does. But not enough.'
 'Who is he? Who's your man in FairfaxT
  Feld gestured to his silent companion. 'He doesn't know and I won't tell
  you. You may kill me but I won't tell you.'
  Spaulding knew the dark-eyed Jew spoke the truth. 'If Pace was used ... and
  me. Who's using usT
 'I can't answer that.'
 'You know this much. You must have ... thoughts. Tell me.'

                                355
 'Whoever gives you orders, I imagine.*
 'One man....'
 'We know. He's not very good, is he? There are others.'
  'Who? Where does it stop? State? The War Department? The White House?
  Where, for Christ's sake!?'
  'Such territories have no meaning in these transactions. They vanish.'
 'Men don'tl Men don't vanish!'
  'Then look for those who dealt with Koening. In South Africa. Kendall's
  men. They created "Tortugas." ' Asher Feld's voice grew stronger. 'That's
  your affair, Colonel Spaulding. We only wish to stop it. We'll gladly die
  to stop it.'
  David looked at the thin-faced, sad-faced man. 'It means that much? With
  what you know, what you believe? Is either side worth itT
  'One r-rust have priorities. Even in lessening descent. If Peenem0nde is
  saved ... put back on schedule ... the Reich has a bargaining power that is
  unacceptable to us. Look to Dachau; look to Auschwitz, to Belsen.
  Unacceptable.'
  David walked around the table and stood in front of the Jews. He put his
  Beretta in his shoulder holster and looked at Asher Feld.
  'If you've lied to me, I'll kill you. And then I'll go back to Lisbon, into
  the north country, and wipe out every Haganah fanatic in the hills. Those
  I don't kill, I'll expose.... Put on your coats and get out of here. Take
  a room at the Alvear under the name of ... Pace. E. Pace. I'll be in
  touch.'
  'Our weaponsT asked Feld, pulling his light grey overcoat over his
  shoulders.
  'I'll keep them. I'm sure you can afford others.... And don't wait for us
  outside. There's an FMF vehicle cruising for me.'
 'What about "Tortugas"T Asher Feld was pleading.
  'I said I'll be in touch!' shouted Spaulding. 'Now, get out of here! ...
  Pick up the Hawkwood girl; she's around the comer in the Renault. Here are
  the keys.' David reached in his pocket and threw the keys to Asher Feld's
  companion, who caught them effortlessly. 'Send her back to California.
  Tonight, if you can. No later than tomorrow morning. Is that clear?'
 'Yes.... You will be in touchT
 'Get out of here,' said Spaulding in exhaustion.
 The two Haganah agents rose from their chairs, the younger

 356
 going to the unconscious third man and lifting him off the floor, onto his
 shoulders. Asher Feld stood in the front hallway and turned, his gaze
 resting momentarily on the dead bodies, then over to Spaulding.
  'You and 1. We must deal in priorities.... The man from Lisbon is an
  extraordinary man.' He turned to the door and held it open as his companion
  carried out the third man. He went outside, closing the door behind him.
 David turned to Lyons. 'Get the designs.'

 357
 37

 When the assault on 15 Terraza Verde had begun, Eugene Lyons had done a
 remarkable thing. It was so simple it had a certain cleanliness to it,
 thought Spaulding. He had taken the metal container with the designs, opened
 his bedroom window and dropped the case five feet below into the row of
 tiger lilies that grew along the side of the house. The window shut, he had
 then run into his bathroom and locked the door.
  All things considered - the shock, the panic, his own acknowledged
  incapacities - he had taken the least expected action: he had kept his
  head. He had removed the container, not tried to conceal it; he had
  transferred it to an accessible place, and that was not to be anticipated
  by the fanatic men who dealt in complicated tactics and convoluted deceits.
  David followed Lyons out of the house through the kitchen door and around
  to the side. He took the container from the physicist's trembling hands and
  helped the near-helpless man over the small fence separating the adjacent
  property. Together they ran behind the next two houses and cautiously edged
  their way toward the street. Spaulding kept his left hand extended,
  gripping Lyons's shoulder, holding him against the wall, prepared to throw
  him to the ground at the first hint of hostilities.
  Yet David was not really expecting hostilities; he was convinced the
  Haganah had eliminated whatever Rhinemarm guards were posted in front, for
  the obvious reason that Asher Feld had

 358
 left by the front door. What he did think was possible was a last-extren-dty
 attempt by Asher Feld to get the designs. Or the sudden emergence of a
 Rhinemann vehicle from some near location - a vehicle whose occupants were
 unable to raise a radio signal from 15 Terraza Verde.
 Each possible; neither really expected.
 It was too late and too soon.
  What David profoundly hoped he would find, however, was a blue-green sedan
  cruising slowly around the streets. A car with small orange insignias on
  the bumpers that designated the vehicle as U.S. property. Ballard's
  'playground attendants'; the men from the FMF base.
  It wasn't cruising. It was stationary, on the far side of the street, its
  parking lights on. Three men inside were smoking cigarettes, the glows
  illuminating the interior. He turned to Lyons.
 'Let's go. Walk slowly, casually. The car's over there.'
  The driver and the man next to him got out of the automobile the moment
  Spaulding and Lyons reached the curb. They stood awkwardly by the hood,
  dressed in civilian clothes. David crossed the street, addressing them.
  'Get in that goddamned car and get us out of here! And while you're at it,
  why don't you paint bull's-eyes all over the vehicle? You wouldn't be any
  more of a target than you are now!'
  'Take it easy, buddy,' replied the driver. 'We just got here.' He opened
  the rear door as Spaulding helped Lyons inside.
  'You were supposed to be cruising, not parked like watchdogs!'David climbed
  in beside Lyons; the man at the far window squeezed over. The driver got
  behind the wheel, closed his door and started the engine. The third man
  remained outside. 'Get him in here!' barked Spaulding.
  'He'll remain where he is, colonel,' said the man in the back seat next to
  Lyons. 'He stays here.'
 'Who the hell are youT
  'Colonel Daniel Meehan, Fleet Marine Force, Naval Intelligence. And we want
  to know what the fuck's going on.'
 The car started up.
  'You have no control over this exercise,' said David slowly, deliberately.
  'And I don't have time for bruised egos. Get us to the embassy, please.'
 'Screw egos! We'd like a little simple clarification I You know

                                 359
 what the hell is going on down in our section of town? This side trip to
 Telmo's just a minor inconvenience I I wouldn't be here except your
 goddamned name was mentioned by that smart-ass cryp! ... Jesus!'
  Spaulding leaned forward on the seat, staring at Meehan. 'You'd better tell
  me what's going on in your section of town. And why my name gets you to
  Telmo.'
  The marine returned the look, glancing once - with obvious distaste - at
  the ashen Lyons. 'Why not? Your friend cleared?'
 'He is now. No one more so.'
  'We have three cruisers patrolling the Buenos Aires coastal zone plus a
  destroyer and a carrier somewhere's out there.
  Five hours ago we get a blue alert: prepare for a radio-radar ~1*ackout,
  all sea and aircraft to hold to, no movement. Forty-five minutes later
  there's a scrambler from Fairfax, source four-zero. Intercept one Colonel
  David Spaulding, also four-zero. He's to make contact pronto.'
 'With FairfaxT
  'Only with Fairfax.... So we send a man to your address on C6rdoba. He
  doesn't find you but he does find a weird son of a bitch tearing up your
  place. He tries to take him and gets laid out.... He gets back to us a
  couple of hours later with creases in his head and guess who calls? Right
  on an open-line telephonel'
 'Ballard,' answered David quietly. 'The embassy cryp.'
  'The smart-ass 1 He makes jokes and tells us to play games out at Telmo I
  Wait for you to decide to show.' The marine colonel shook his head in
  disgust.
 'You said the blue alert was preparation for radar silence
 . and radio.'
  'And all ships and planes immobilized,' interrupted Meehan. 'What the
  hell's coming in here? The whole goddamned General Staff'? Roosevelt?
  Churchill? Rin-tin-tin? And what are we? The enemy I I
  'It's not what's coming in, colonel,' said David softly. 'It9s what's going
  out.... What's the time of activationT
  'It's damn loose. Anytime during the next forty-eight hours. How's that for
  a tight scheduleT
 'Who's my contact in Virginia?'
  'Oh.... Here.' Meehan shifted in his seat, proffering a sealed yellow
  envelope that was the mark of a scrambled message.

 360
 David reached across Lyons and took it.
  There was the crackling static of a radio from the front seat followed by
  the single word 'Redbird!' out of the speaker. The driver quickly picked up
  the dashboard microphone.
 'Redbird acknowledge,' said the marine.
  The static continued but the words were clear. 'The Spaulding intercept.
  Pick him up and bring him in. Four-zero orders from Fairfax. No contact
  with the embassy.'
  'You heard the man,'laughed Meehan. 'No embassy tonight, colonel.'
  David was stunned. He started to object - angrily, furiously; then he
  stopped.... Fairfax. No Nazi, but Haganah. Asher Feld had said it. The
  Provisional Wing dealt in practicalities. And the most practical objective
  during the next forty-eight hours was to immobilize the man with the codes.
  Washington would not activate a radio-radar blackout without them; and an
  enemy submarine surfacing to rendezvous with a trawler would be picked up
  on the screens and blown out of the water. The Koening diamonds - the
  Peenerniffide tools - would be sent to the bottom of the South Atlantic.
  Christ I The irony, thought David. Fairfax - sonteone at Fairfax - was
  doing precisely what should be done, motivated by concerns Washington - and
  the aircraft companies - refused to acknowledge! It - they - had other
  concerns: three-quarters of them were at Spaulding's feet. High-altitude
  gyroscopic designs.
  David pressed his arm into Lyons's shoulder. The emaciated scientist
  continued to stare straight ahead but responded to Spaulding's touch with
  a hesitant nudge of his left elbow.
  David shook his head and sighed audibly. He held up the yellow envelope and
  shrugged, placing it into his jacket pocket.
 When his hand emerged it held a gun.
  'I'm afraid I can't accept those orders, Colonel Meehan.' Spaulding pointed
  the automatic at the marine's head; Lyons leaned back into the seat.
  'What the bell are you doing!?' Meehan jerked forward; David clicked the
  firing pin of the weapon into hair-release.
  'Tell your man to drive where I say. I don't want to kill you, colonel, but
  I will. It's a matter of priorities.'
  'You're a goddanmed double agent! That's what Fairfax was onto!'
 David sighed. 'I wish it were that simple.'

                                361
  Lyons's hands trembled as he tightened the knots around Meehan's wrists.
  The driver was a mile down the dirt road, bound securely, lying in the
  border of the tall grass. The area was rarely traveled at night. They were
  in the hills of Colinas Rojas.
 Lyons stepped back and nodded to Spaulding.
 'Get in the car.'
  Lyons nodded again and started toward the automobile. Meehan rolled over
  and looked up at David.
  'You're dead, Spaulding. You got a firing squad on your duty sheet. You're
  stupid, too. Your Nazi friends are going to lose this war I'
  'They'd better,' answered David. 'As to executions, there may be a number
  of them. Right in Washington. That's what this is all about, colonel....
  Someone'll find you both tomorrow. If you like, you can start inching your
  way west. Your driver's a mile or so down the road.... I'm sorry.'
  Spaulding gave Meehan a half-felt shrug of apology and ran to the FMF
  automobile. Lyons sat in the front seat and when the door light spilled
  over his face, David saw his eyes. Wag it possible that in that look there
  was an attempt to communicate a sense of gratitude? Or approval? There
  wasn't time to speculate, so David smiled gently and spoke quietly.
  'This has been terrible for you, I know.... But I can't think what else to
  do. I don't know. If you like, I'll get you back to the embassy. You'll be
  safe there.'
  David started the car and drove up a steep incline - one of many - in the
  Colinas Rojas. He would double back on a parallel road and reach the
  highway within ten or fifteen minutes; he would take Lyons to an outskirts
  taxi and give the driver instructions to deliver the physicist to the
  American embassy. It wasn't really what he wanted to do; but what else was
  there?
  Then the words came from beside him. Wordsl Whispered, muffled, barely
  audible but clear! From the recesses of a tortured throat.
 11 ... stay with . . . you. Together. . .
  Spaulding had to grip the wheel harshly for fear of losing control. The
  shock of the pained speech - and it was a speech for Eugene Lyons - had
  nearly caused him to drop his hands. He turned and looked at the scientist.
  In the flashing shadows he saw Lyons return his stare; the lips were set
  firmly, the eyes steady. Lyons knew exactly what he was doing; what they
  both were

 362
 doing - had to do.
 'All right,' said David, trying to remain calm and precise. 'I
 read you clearly. God knows I need all the help I can get. We
 both do. It strikes me we've got two powerful enemies. Berlin
 and Washington.'                 I

  'I don't want any interruptions, Stoltz I' David yelled into the mouthpiece
  of the telephone in the small booth near Ocho Calle. Lyons was now behind
  the wheel of the FMF car ten yards away on the street. The motor Was
  running. The scientist hadn't driven in twelve years but with half-words
  and gestures he convinced Spaulding he would be capable in an emergency.
 'You can't behave this way!' was the panicked reply.
  'I'm Pavlov, you're the dog! Now shut up and listen I There's a mess in
  Terraza Verde, if you don't know it by now. Your men are dead; so are mine.
  I've got the designs and Lyons.... Your nonexistent Gestapo are carrying
  out a number of executions I'
 'Impossibk1' screamed Stoltz.
  'Tell that to the corpses, you incompetent son of a bitch! While you clean
  up that mess! ... I want the rest of those designs, Stoltz. Wait for my
  calfl' David slammed down the receiver and bolted out of the booth to the
  car. It was time for the radio. After that the envelope from Fairfax. Then
  Ballard at the embassy. One step at a time.
  Spaulding opened the door and slid into the seat beside Lyons. The
  physicist pointed to the dashboard.
 'Again. . .'was the single, painful word.
  'Good,' said Spaulding. 'They're anxious. They'll listen hard.' David
  snapped the panel switch and lifted the microphone out of its cradle. He
  pressed his fingers against the tiny wire speaker with such pressure that
  the mesh was bent; he covered the instrument with his hand and held it
  against his jacket as he spoke, moving it in circles so as to further
  distort the sound.
 'Redbird to base ... Redbird to base.'
  The static began, the voice angry. 'Christ, Redbird! We've been trying to
  raise you for damn near two hours! That Ballard keeps calling! Where the
  hell are you!?'
 'Redbird.... Didn't you get our last transmission?'
  'Transmission? Shit, man! I can hardly hear this one. Hold on; let me get
  the CO.'
 'Forget it I No sweat. You're fading here again. Were on

                                363
 Spaulding. We're following him; he's in a vehicle ... twentyseven,
 twenty-eight miles north. David abruptly stopped talking.
  'Redbird! Redbird I ... Christ, this frequency's puke! ... Twenty-eight
  miles north where? ... I'm not reading you, Redbird! Redbird, acknowledge!'
  '. . . bird, acknowledge,' said David directly into the microphone. 'This
  radio needs maintenance, pal. Repeat. No problems. Will return to base in
  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;

 364
 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.'

                                 365
  '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

 366
 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 were 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.

                                367
  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

                                369
 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

 370
 his way up the tiny ridges of the hull.
  He spat out what harbor residue was in his mouth and clamped the barrel 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
  suspended from the ceiling by a thick

                                 371
 wire - a wire that ran out a port window to a pier outlet. Ship generators
 were not abused while at dock. There was an oddshaped, flat piece of metal
 hanging on the side of the bulb, and at first David was not sure why it was
 there. And then he understood; the sheet of'metal deflected the light of the
 bulb from the rear of the cabin, where he could make out - beyond the fold
 of the tarp - two bunk beds. Men were sleeping; the light remained on but
 they were in relative shadow.
  On the far side of the cabin, butted against the wall, was a long table
  that had the incongruous appearance of a hospital laboratory workbench. It
  was covered by a taut, white, spotless oilcloth and on the cloth,
  equidistant from one another, were four powerful microscopes. Beside each
  instrument was a high-intensity lamp -all the wires leading to a
  twelve-volt utility battery under the table. On the floor in front of the
  microscopes were four high-backed stools - four white, spotless stools
  standing at clinical attention.
  That was the effect, thought David. Clinical. This isolated section of the
  trawler was in counterpoint to the rest of the filthy ship; it was a small,
  clinical island surrounded by rotted sea waste and rat disks.
 And then he saw them. In the corner.
  Five steel crates, each with metal strips joined at the top edges and held
  in place with heavy vault locks. On the front of each crate was the clearly
  stenciled name: KOENING MWES, LTD.
 He'd seen it now. The undeniable, the irrefutable.
 Tortugas.
 The obscene "change funneled through Erich Rhinemann.
 And he was so close, so near possession. The final indictment.
  Within his fear - and he was afraid - furious anger and deep temptation
  converged. They were sufficient to suspend his anxiety, to force him to
  concentrate only on the objective. To believe - knowing the belief was
  false - in some mystical invulnerability, granted for only a few precious
  minutes.
 That was enough.
  He ducked under the first porthole and approached the second. He stood up
  and looked in; the door of the cabin was in his direct line of sight. It
  was a new door, not part of the trawler. It was steel and in the center was
  a bolt at least an inch thick, jammed into a bracket in the frame.
 The Peenemiinde scientists were not only clinically isolated,

 372
 they were in a self-imposed prison.
  That bolt, David realized, was his personal Alpine pass - to be crossed
  without rig.
  He crouched and passed under the porthole to the edge of the cabin wall. He
  remained on his knees and, millimeter by millimetre, the side of his face
  against the wood, looked around the comer.
  The guard was there, of course, standing his harbor watch in the tradition
  of such sentry duty: on deck, the inner line of defense; bored, irritated'
  with his boredom, relaxed in his inactivity yet annoyed by its
  pointlessness.
  But he was not in the paramilitary clothes of Habichtsnest. He was in a
  loose-fitting suit that did little to conceal a powerful -military - body.
  His hair was cut short, Wehrmacht style.
  He was leaning against a large fishing-net winch, smoking a thin cigar,
  blowing the smoke aimlessly into the night air. At his side was an
  automatic rifle, -30 caliber, the shoulder strap unbuckled, curled on the
  deck. The rifle had not been touched for quite some time, the strap had a
  film of moisture on the surface of the leather.
  The strap.... David took the belt from his trousers. He stood up, inched
  back towards the porthole, reached underneath the railing and removed one
  of two gunwale spikes which were clamped against the inner hull for the
  fish nets. He tapped the railing softly twice; then twice again. He heard
  the shuffling of the guard's feet. No forward movement, just a change of
  position.
  He tapped again. Twice. Then twice more. The quietly precise tapping -
  intentional, spaced evenly - was enough to arouse curiosity, insufficient
  to cause alarm.
  He heard the guard's footsteps now. Still relaxed, the forward motion easy,
  not concerned with danger, only curious. A piece of harbour driftwood,
  perhaps, slapping against the hull, caught in the push-pull of the current.
  The guard rounded the comer; Spaulding's belt whipped around his neck,
  instantly lashed taut, choking off the cry.
  David twisted the leather as the guard sank to his knees, the face
  darkening perceptibly in the dim spill of light from the porthole, the lips
  pursed in strangled anguish.
  David did not allow his victim to lose consciousness; he had the Alpine
  pass to cross. rnstead, he wedged his pistol into his trousers, reached
  down to the scabbard on the guard's waist, and

                                 373
 took out the carbine bayonet - a favorite knife of combat men, rarely used
 on the front of any rifle. He held the blade under the guard's eyes and
 whispered.
 'Espaftol or Deutsch?'
  The man stared up in terror. Spaulding twisted the leather tighter; the
  guard choked a cough and struggled to raise two fingers. David whispered
  again, the blade pushing against the skin under the right eyebafl.
 'Deutsch?'
 The man nodded.
  Of course he was German, thought Spaulding. And Nazi. The clothes, the
  hair. PeenemUnde was the Third Reich. Its scientists would be guarded by
  their own. He twisted the blade of the carbine bayonet so that a tiny
  laceration appeared under the eye. The guard's mouth opened in fright.
  'You do exactly what I tell you,' whispered David in German into the
  guard's ear, 'or I'll carve out your sight. Understand?'
 The man, nearly limp, nodded.
  'Get up and call through the porthole. You have an urgent message from ...
  AltmWler, Franz AltmOller! They must open the door and sign for it.... Do
  it! Nowl And remember, this knife is inches from your eyes.'
  The guard, in shock, got up. Spaulding pushed the man's face to the open
  porthole, loosened the belt only slightly, and shifted his position to the
  side of the man and the window, his left hand holding the leather, his
  right the knife.
 'Nowl'whispered David, flicking the blade in half circles.
  At first the guard's voice was strained, artificial. Spaulding moved in
  closer; the guard knew he had only seconds to live if he did not perform.
 He performed.
  There was stirring in the bunk beds within the cabin. Grumbling complaints
  to begin with, ceasing abruptly at the mention of Altmfiller's name.
  A small, middle-aged man got out of the left lower bunk and walked sleepily
  to the steel door. He was in undershorts, nothing else. David propelled the
  guard around the comer of the wall and reached the door at t ' he sound of
  the sliding bolt.
  He slarnmed the guard against the steel panel with the twisted belt; the
  door flung open, David grabbed the knob, preventing it from crashing into
  the bulkhead. He dropped the knife,

 374
 yanked out his pistol, and crashed the barrel into the skull of the small
 scientist.
 - 'Schweigen!' he whispered hoarsely. 'Wenn Anen Ar Leben Lieb ist!'
  The three men in the bunks - older men, one old man - stumbled out of their
  beds, trembling and speechless. The guard, choking still, began to focus
  around him and started to rise. Spaulding took two steps and slashed the
  pistol diagonally across the man's temple, splaying him out on the deck.
  The old man, less afraid than his two companions, stared at David. For
  reasons Spaulding could not explain to himself, he felt ashamed. Violence
  was out of place in this antiseptic cabin.
  'I have no quarrel with you,' he whispered harshly in German. 'You follow
  orders. But don't mistake me, I'll kill you if you make a sound!' He
  pointed to some papers next to a microscope; they were filled with numbers
  and columns. 'You!' He gestured his pistol at the old man. 'Give me those!
  Quickly!'
  The old man trudged haltingly across the cabin to the clinical work area.
  He lifted the papers off the table and handed them to Spaulding, who
  stuffed them into his wet trousers pocket.
  'Thanks.... Now!' He pointed his weapon at the other two. 'Open one of
  those crates! Do it now!'
  'No! ... No! For God's sake!' said the taller of the middleaged scientists,
  his voice low, filled with fear.
  David grabbed the old man standing next to him, He clamped his arm around
  the loose flesh of the old neck and brought his pistol up to the head. He
  thumbed back the firing pin and spoke calmly. 'You will open a crate or I
  will kill this man. When he's dead, I'll turn my pistol on you. Believe me,
  I have no altemative.'
  The shorter man whipped his head around, pleading silently with the taller
  one. The old man in David's grasp was the leader; Spaulding knew that. An
  old ... alter-Anflihrer; always take the German leader.
  The taller PeenemOnde scientist walked - every step in fear -to the far
  comer of the clinical workbench, where there was a neat row of keys on the
  wall. He removed one and hesitantly went to the first steel crate. He bent
  down and inserted the key in the vault lock holding the metal strip around
  the edge; the strip snapped apart in the center.
 'Open the Rd!' commanded Spaulding, his anxiety causing

                                 375
 his whisper to become louder; too loud, he realized.
  The cover of the steel crate was heavy; the German had to lift it with both
  hands, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth betraying the effort
  required. Once at a ninety-degree angle, chains on both sides became taut;
  there was a click of a latch and the cover was locked in place.
  Inside were dozens of identically matched compartments in what appeared to
  be sliding trays - something akin to a large complicated fishing-tackle
  box. Then David understood: the front of the steel case was on hinges;* it
  too could be opened -or lowered, to be exact - allowing the trays to slide
  out.
  In each compartment were two small heavy, paper envelopes, apparently lined
  with layers of soft tissue. There were dozens of envelopes on the top tray
  alone.
  David released the old man, propelling him back toward the bunk beds. He
  waved his pistol at the tall German who had opened the crate, ordering him
  to join the other two. He reached down into the steel crate, picked out a
  small envelope and brought it to his mouth, tearing the edge with his
  teeth. He shook it toward the ground; tiny translucent nuggets spattered
  over the cabin deck.
 The Koening diamonds.
  He watched the German scientists as he crumpled the envelope. They were
  staring at the stones on the floor.
  Why not? thought David. In that cabin was the solution for PeenemUnde. In
  those crates were the tools to rain death on untold thousands . . . as the
  gyroscopic designs for which they were traded would make possible further
  death, further massacre.
  He was about to throw away the envelope in disgust and fill his pockets
  with others when his eyes caught sight of some lettering. He unwrinkled the
  envelope, his pistol steady on the Germans, and looked down. The single
  word:

              ecbt

  True.. Genuine. This envelope, this tray, this steel case had passed
  inspection.
  He reached down and grabbed as many envelopes as his left hand could hold
  and stuffed them into his trousers pocket.

 376
 It was all he needed for the indictment.
 It was everything. It was the meaning.
  There was one thing more he could- do. Of a more immediately practical
  nature. He crossed to the workbench and went down the line of four
  microscopes, crashing the barrel of his pistol up into each lens and down
  into the eyepieces. He looked for a laboratory case, the type which carried
  optical equipment. There had to be one!
  It was on the floor beneath the long table. He kicked it out with his bare
  foot and reached down to open the hasp.
  More slots and trays, only these filled with lenses and small black tubes
  in which to place them.
  He bent down and overturned the case; dozens of circular lenses fell out
  onto the deck. As fast as he could he grabbed the nearest white stool and
  brought it down sideways into the piles of glass.
  The destruction wasn't total, but the damage was enough, perhaps, for
  forty-eight hours.
  He started to get up, his weapon still on the scientists, his ears and eyes
  alert.
  He heard it! He sensed it! And simultandously he understood that if he did
  not spin out of the way he would be dead!
  He threw himself on the floor to the right, the hand above and behind him
  came down, the carbine bayonet slicing the air, aimed for the spot where
  his neck had been less than a second ago.
  He had left the goddamned bayonet on the floorl He had discarded the
  goddamned bayonetl The guard had revived and taken the goddamned bayonetl
  The Nazi's single cry emerged before Spaulding leaped on his kneeling form,
  smashing his skull into the wood floor with such force that blood spewed
  out in tiny bursts throughout the head.
 But the lone cry was enough.
  'Is something wrong?' came a voice from outside, twenty yards away on the
  loading dock. 'Heinrich! Did you call?'
 There was no second, no instant, to throw away on hesitation.
  David ran to the steel door, pulled it open and raced around the comer of
  the wall to the concealed section of the gunwale. As he did so, a guard -
  the sentry an the bow of the trawler -came into view. His rifle was waist
  high and he fired.

                                 377
  Spaulding fired back. But not before he realized he was hit. The Nazi's
  bullet had creased the side of his waist; he could feel the blood oozing
  down into his trousers.
  He threw himself over the railing into the water; screams and shouts
  started from inside the cabin and farther away on the pier.
  He thrashed against the dirty Rio slime and tried to keep his head. Where
  was he? What direction? Where? For Christ's sake, where?
  The shouts were louder now; searchlights were turned on all over the
  trawler, crisscrossing the harbor waters. He could hear men screaming into
  radios as only panicked men can scream. Accusing, helpless.
  Suddenly, David realized there were no boats! No boats were coming out of
  the pier with the searchlights and high-powered rifles that would be his
  undoingl
 No boats I
  And he nearly laughed. The operation at Ocho Calle was so totally secretive
  they had allowed no small craft to put into the deserted area!
  He held his side, going under water as often as he could, as fast as he
  could.
  The trawler and the screaming Rhinemann-Altmiffler guards were receding in
  the harbor mist. Spaulding kept bobbing his head up, hoping to God he was
  going in the right direction.
  He was getting terribly tired, but he would not allow himself to grow weak.
  He could not allow that! Not now I
 He had the 'Tortugas' indictment!
  He saw the pilings not far away. Perhaps two, three hundred yards. They
  were the right pilings, the right piersl They ... it, had to be!
  He felt the waters around him stir and then he saw the snakelike forms of
  the conger eels as they lashed blindly against his body. The blood from his
  wound was attracting them I A horrible mass of slashing giant worms were
  converging!
  He thrashed and kicked and fought down a scream. He pulled at the waters in
  front of him, his hands in constant contact with the ofly snakes of the
  harbor. His eyes were filled with flashing dots and streaks of yellow and
  white; his throat was dry in the water, his forehead pounded.
  When it seemed at last the scream would come, had to come, he felt the hand
  in his hand. He felt his shoulders being lifted,

 378
 heard the guttural cries of his own terrified voice - deep, frightened
 beyond his own endurance. He could look down and see, as his feet kept
 slipping off the ladder, the circles of swarming eels below.
  Eugene Lyons carried him - carried him! - to the FMF automobile. He was
  aware - yet not aware - of the fact that Lyons pushed him gently into the
  back seat.
  And then Lyons climbed in after him, and David understood - yet did not
  understand - that Lyons was slapping him. Hard. Harder.
  Deliberately. Without rhythm but with a great deal of strength.
  The slapping would not stop I He couldn't make it stop! He couldn't stop
  the half-destroyed, throatless Lyons from slapping him.
 He could only cry. Weep as a child might weep.
  And then suddenly he could make him stop. He took his hands from his face
  and grabbed Lyons's wrists, prepared, if need be, to break them.
 He blinked and stared at the physicist.
  Lyons smiled in the shadows. He spoke in his tortured whisper.
  'I'm sorry.... You were ... in temporary ... shock. My friend.'

 I

 379
 39

 An elaborate naval first aid kit was stored in the ftunk of the FMF vehicle.
 Lyons filled David's wound with sulfa powder, laid on folded strips of gauze
 and pinched the skin together with three-inch adhesive. Since the wound was
 a gash, not a puncture, the bleeding stopped; it would hold until they
 reached a doctor. Even should the wait be a day or a day and a half, there
 would be no serious damage.
 Lyons drove.
  David watched the emaciated man behind the wheel. He was unsure but
  willing; that was the only way to describe him. Every now and then his foot
  pressed too hard on the accelerator, and the short bursts of speed
  frightened him - then annoyed him. Still, after a few minutes, he seemed to
  take a careful delight in manipulating the car around comers.
  David knew he had to accomplish three things: reach Henderson Granville,
  talk to Jean and drive to that sanctuary he hoped to Christ Jean had found
  for them. If a doctor could be brought to him, fine. If not, he would
  sleep; he was beyond the point of functioning clearly without rest.
  How often in the north country had he sought out isolated eaves in the
  hills? How many times had he piled branches and limbs in front of small
  openings so his body and mind could restore the balance of objectivity that
  might save his life? He had to find such a resting place now.

 380
  And tomorrow he would make the final arrangements with Fjich Rhinemann.
 The final pages of the indictment.
  'We have to find a telephone,' said David. Lyons nodded as he drove.
  David directed the physicist back into the center of Buenos Aires. By his
  guess they still had time before the FMF base sent out a search. The orange
  insignias on the bumpers would tend to dissuade the BA police from
  becon-drig too curious; the Americans were children of the night.
  He remembered the telephone booth on the north side of the Casa Rosada. The
  telephone booth in which a hired gun from the Unio Corso - sent down from
  Rio de Janeiro - had taken his last breath.
  They reached the Plaza de Mayo in fifteen minutes, taking a circular route,
  making sure they were not followed. The Plaza was not deserted. It was, as
  the prewar travel posters proclaimed, a Western Hemisphere Paris. Like
  Paris, there were dozens of early stragglers, dressed mainly in expensive
  clothes. Taxis stopped and started; prostitutes made their last attempts to
  find profitable beds; the streetlights illuminated the huge fountains;
  lovers dabbled their hands in the pools.
  The Plaza de Mayo at three thirty in the morning was not a barren, dead
  place to be. And David was grateful for that.
  Lyons puffed the car up to the telephone booth and Spaulding got out.
  'Whatever it is, you've hit the rawest nerve in Buenos Aires.' Granville's
  voice was hard and precise. 'I must demand that you return to the embassy.
  For your own protection as well as the good of our diplomatic relations.'
 'You'll have to be clearer than that, I'm afraid,' replied David.
 Granville was.
  The 'one or two' contacts the ambassador felt he could reach in the Grupo
  were reduced, of course, to one. That man made inquiries as to the trawler
  in Ocho Calle and subsequently was taken from his home under guard. That
  was the information Granville gathered from a hysterical wife.
  An hour later the ambassador received word ftom a GOU Haison that
  his'friend'had been killed in an automobile accident. The GOU wanted him to
  have the news. It was most unfortunate.
 When Granville tried reaching the wife, an operator cut in

                                 381
 explaining that the telephone was disconnected.
  'You've involved us, Spauldingl We can't function with Intelligence dead
  weight around our necks. The situation in Buenos Aires is extremely
  delicate.'
  'You are involved, sir. A couple of thousand miles away people are shooting
  at each other.'
  'Shit V It was just about the most unexpected expletive David thought he
  could hear from Granville. 'Learn your lines of demarcation! We all have
  jobs to do within the ... artificial, if you like, parameters that are set
  for us! I repeat, sir. Return to the embassy and I'll expedite your
  immediate return to the United States. Or if you refuse, take yourself to
  FMF. 77wt's beyond my jurisdiction; you will be no part of the embassy!'
  My God! thought David. Artificial parameters. Jurisdictions. Diplomatic
  niceties. When men were dying, am-des destroyed, cities obliterated! And
  men in high-ceilinged rooms played games with words and attitudes!
  'I can't go to FMF. But I can give you something to think about. Within
  forty-eight hours all American ships and aircraft in the coastal zones are
  entering a radio and radar blackout! Everything grounded, immobilized.
  That's straight military holy writ. And I think you'd better find out why!
  Because I think I know, and if I'm right, your diplomatic wreck is filthier
  than anything you can imagine! Try a man named Swanson at the War
  Department. Brigadier Alan Swanson! And tell him I've found "Tortugas" V
  David slammed down the receiver with such force that chips of Bakelite fell
  off the side of the telephone. He wanted to run. open the door of the
  suffocating booth and race away.
 But where to? There was nowhere.
  He took several deep breaths and once more dialed the embassy.
  Jean's voice was soft, filled with anxiety. But she had found a place!
  He and Lyons were to drive due west on Rivadavia to the farthest outskirts
  of Buenos Aires. At the end of Rivadavia was a road bearing right - it
  could be spotted by a large statue of the Madonna at its beginning. The
  road led to the flat grass country, provinciales country. Thirty-six miles
  beyond the Madonna was another road - on the left - this marked by
  telephone junction wires converging into a transformer box on top of a
  double-
  
 382
 strapped telephone pole. The road led to a ranch belonging to one Alfonzo
 Quesarro. Seftor Quesarro would not be there
  . under the circumstances. Neither would his wife. But a ;~eleton staff
  would be on; the remaining staff quarters would be available for Mrs.
  Cameron's unknown friends.
 Jean would obey his orders: she would not leave the embassy.
 And she loved him. Terribly.

  Dawn came up over the grass country. The breezes were warm; David had to
  remind himself that it was January. The Argentine summer. A member of the
  skeleton staff of Estancia. Quesarro met them several miles down the road
  past the telephone junction wires, on the property border, and escorted
  them to the rancherfa - a cluster of small one-storey cottages - near but
  not adjacent to the main buildings. They were led to an adobe hut farthest
  from the other houses; it was on the edge of a fenced grazing area, fields
  extending as far as the eye could see. The house was the residence of the
  caporal - the ranch foreman.
  David understood as he looked up at the roof, at the single telephone line.
  Ranch foremen had to be able to use a telephone.
  Their escori opened the door and stood in the frame, anxious to leave. He
  touched David's arm and spoke in a Spanish tempered with pampas Indian.
  'The telephones out here are with operators. The service is poor; not like
  thecity. I am to tell you this, sefior.'
  But that information was not what the gaucho was telling him. He was
  telling him to be careful.
 'I'll rernember,' said Spaulding. 'Thank you.'
  The man left quickly and David closed the door. Lyons was standing across
  the room, in the center of a small monastery arch that led to some sort of
  sunlit enclosure. The metal case containing the gyroscopic designs was in
  his right hand; with his left he beckoned David.
  Beyond the arch was a cubicle; in the center, underneath an oblong window
  overlooking the fields, there was a bed.
 Spaulding undid the top of his trousers and peeled them off.
 He fell with his full weight into the hard mattress and slept.

                                 393
 1

           40

 It seemed only seconds ago that he had walked4hrough the small arch into the
 sunlit cubicle.
  He felt the prodding fingers around his wound; he winced as a cold-hot
  liquid was applied about his waist and the adhesive ripped oft.
  He opened his eyes fiercely and saw the figure of a man bent over the bed.
  Lyons was standing beside him. At the edge of the hard mattress was the
  universal shape of a medical bag. The man bending over him was a doctor. He
  spoke in unusually clear English.
  'You've slept nearly eight hours. That is the best prescription one could
  give you.... I'm going to suture this in three places; that should do it.
  There will be a degree of discomfort, but with the tape, you'll be quite
  mobile.'
 'What time is itT asked David.
  Lyons looked at his watch. He whispered, and the words were clear. 'Two ...
  o'clock.'
  'Thank you for coming out here,' said Spaulding, shifting his weight for
  the doctor's instruments.
  'Wait until I'm back at my office in Palermo.' The doctor laughed softly,
  sardonically. 'I'm sure I'm on one of their lists.' He inserted a suture,
  reassuring David with a tight smile. 'I left word I was on a maternity call
  at an outback ranch.... There.' He tied off the stitch and patted
  Spaulding's bare skin. 'Two

 384
 more and we're finished.'
 'Do you think you'll be questioned?'
  'No. Not actually. The junta closes its eyes quite often. There's not an
  abundance of doctors here.... And amusingly enough, interrogators
  invariably seek free medical advice. I think it goes with their
  mentalities.'
 'And I think you're covering. I think it was dangerous.'
  The doctor held his hands in place as he looked at David. 'Jean Cameron is
  a very special person. If the history of wartime Buenos Aires is written,
  she'll be prominently mentioned.' He returned to the sutures without
  elaboration. David had the feeling that the doctor did not wish to talk
  further. He was in a hurry.
  Twenty minutes later Spaulding was on his feet, the doctor at the door of
  the adobe hut. David shook the medical man's hand. 'I'm afraid I can't pay
  you,' he said.
 'You already have, colonel. I'm a Jew.'
  Spaulding did not release the doctor's hand. Instead, he held it fim-Ay -
  not in salutation. 'Please explain.'
  'There's nothing to explain. The Jewish community is filled with rumors of
  an American officer who pits himself against the pig.... Rhinemann the
  pig.'
 'That's all?'
  'It's enough.' The doctor removed his hand from Spaulding's and walked out.
  David closed the door.
 Rhinemann the pig. It was time for Rhinemann.

  The teutonic, guttural voice screamed into the telephone. David could
  picture the blue-black veins protruding on the surface of the bloated,
  suntanned skin. He could see the narrow eyes bulging with fury.
  'It was you! It was you I'Thc accusation was repeated over and over again,
  as if the, repetition might provoke a denial.
 'It was me,' said David without emphasis.
 'You are dead! You are a dead man!'
  David spoke quietly, slowly. With precision. 'If I'm dead, no codes are
  sent to Washington; no radar or radio blackout. The screens will pick up
  that trawler and the instant a submarine surfaces anywhere near it, it'll
  be blown out of the water.'
  Rhinemann was silent. Spaulding heard the German Jew's rhythmic breathing
  but said nothing. He let Rhinemann's thoughts dwell upon the implication.
  Finally Rhinemann spoke.

                                385
 With equal precision.
  'Then you have something to say to me. Or you would not have telephoned.'
  'That's right,' agreed David. 'I have something to say. I assume you're
  taking a broker's fee. I can't believe you arranged this exchange for
  nothing.'
  Rhinemann paused again. He replied cautiously, his breathing heavy, carried
  over the wire. 'No.... It is a transaction. Accommodations must be paid
  for.'
  'But that payment comes later, doesn't it?' David kept his words calm,
  dispassionate. 'You're in no hurry; you've got everyone where you want
  them.... There won't be 4ny messages radioed out of Switzerland that
  accounts have been settled. The only message you'll get - or won't get - is
  from a submarine telling you the Koening diamonds have been transferred
  from the trawler. That's when I fly out of here with the designs. That's
  the signal.' Spaulding laughed a brief, cold, quiet laugh. 'It's very pro,
  Rhinemann. I congratulate you.'
  The financier's voice was suddenly low, circumspect. 'What's your point?'
  'It's also very pro . . . I'm the only one who can bring about that message
  from the U-boat. No one else. I have the codes that turn the lights off;
  that make the radar screens go dark.... But I expect to get paid for it.'
  'I see. . . .' Rhinemann hesitated, his breathing still audible. 'It is a
  presumptuous demand. Your superiors expect the gyroscopic designs. Should
  you impede their delivery, your punishment, no doubt, will be execution.
  Not formally arrived at, of course, but the result will be the same. Surely
  you know that.'
  David laughed again, and again the laugh was brief - but now good-natured.
  'You're way off. Way off. There may be executions, but not mine. Until last
  night I only knew half the story. Now I know it all... No, not my
  execution. On the other hand, you do have a problem. I know that; four
  years in Lisbon teaches a man some things!
 :What is my problem?'
  If the Koening merchandise in Ocho Calle is not delivered, Altmtfller will
  send an undercover battalion into Buenos Aires. You won't survive it.'
  The silence again. And in that silence was Rhinemann's acknowledgement that
  David was right.

 386
  'Then we are allies,' said Rhinemann. 'In one night you've gone far. You
  took a dangerous risk and leaped many plateaus. I admire such aggressive
  ambitions. I'm sure arrangements can be made.'
 'I was sure you'd be sure.'
 'Shall we discuss figures?'
  Again David laughed softly. 'Payment from you is like ... before last
  night. Only half the story. Make your half generous. in Switzerland. The
  second half will be paid in the States. A lifetime of very generous
  retainers.' David suddenly spoke tersely. 'I want names.'
 'I don't understand.
  'Think about it. The men behind this operation. The Americans. Those are
  the names I want. Not an accountant, not a confused brigadier. The others.
  . . . Without those names there's no deal. No codes.'
  'The man from Lisbon is remarkably without conscience,' said Rhinemann with
  a touch of respect. 'You are ... as you Americans say ... quite a rotten
  fellow.'
  'I've watched the masters in action. I thought about it.... Why not?'
  Rhinemann obviously had not listened to David's reply. His tone was
  abruptly suspicious. 'If this ... gain of personal wealth is the conclusion
  you arrived at, why did you do what you did last night? I must tell you
  that the damage is not irreparable, but why did you?'
  'For the simplest of reasons. I hadn't thought about it last night. I
  hadn't arrived at this conclusion ... last night.' God knew, that was the
  truth, thought David.
  'Yes. I think I understand,' said the financier. 'A very human reaction. .
  . .'
  'I want the rest of these designs,' broke in Spaulding. 'And you want the
  codes sent out. To stay on schedule, we have thirty-six hours, give or take
  two or three. I'll call you at six o'clock. Be ready to move.'
  David hung up. He took a deep breath and realized he was perspiring . . .
  and the small concrete house was cool. The breezes from the fields were
  coming through the windows, billowing the curtains. He looked at Lyons, who
  sat watching him in a straight-backed wicker chair.
 'How'd I do?'he asked.

                                 387
  Thephysicist swallowed and spoke, and it occurred to Spaulding that either
  he was getting used to Lyons's strained voice or Lyons's speech was
  improving.
  'Very ... convincing. Except for the ... sweat on your face and the
  expression ... in your eyes.' Lyons smiled; then followed it instantly with
  a question he took seriously. 'Is there a chance ... for the remaining
  blueprints?'
  David held a match to a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, looked up at the
  gently swaying curtains of an open window, then turned to the physicist. 'I
  think we'd better understand one another, doctor. I don't give a goddamn
  about those designs. Perhaps I should, but I don't. And if the way to get
  our hands on them is to risk that trawler reaching a U-boat, it's out of
  the question. As far as I'm concerned we're bringing out threequarters more
  than what we've got. And that's too goddarnn much.... There's only one
  thing I want: the names... I've got the evidence; now I want the names.'
 'You want revenge,' said Lyons softly.
  'Yesl . . . Jesusl Yes, I do!' David crushed out his barely touched
  cigarette, crossed to the open window and looked out at the fields. 'I'm
  sorry, I don't mean to yell at you. Or maybe I should. You heard Feld; you
  saw what I brought back from Ocho Calle. You know the whole putrid ...
  obscene thing.'
  'I know ... the men who fly those planes. . are not responsible ... I know
  I believe that ... Germany must lose this war.'
  'For Christ's sake!' roared David, whirling from the window. 'You've seen!
  You've got to understand!'
  'Are you saying ... there's no difference? I don't believe that. ... I
  don't think you believe it.'
  'I don't know what I believe! ... No. I do know. I know what I object to;
  because it leaves no room for belief... And I know I want those names.'
  'You should have them.... Your questions are great ... moral ones. I think
  they will pain you ... for years.' Lyons was finding it difflicult to
  sustain his words now. 'I submit only ... no matter what has happened ...
  that Asher Feld was right. This war must not be settled ... it must be
  won.'
  Lyons stopped talking and rubbed his throat. David walked to a table where
  Lyons kept a pitcher of water and poured a glass. He carried it over to the
  spent physicist and handed it to him. It occurred to David, as he
  acknowledged the gesture of thanks,

 388
 that it was strange.... Of all men, the emaciated recluse in front of him
 would profit least from the outcome of the war. Or the shortening of it. Yet
 Eugene Lyons had been touched by the commitment of Asher Feld. Perhaps, in
 his pain, Lyons understood the simpler issues that his own anger had
 distorted.
 Asher Feld. The Alvea HoteL
  'Listen to me,' said Spaulding. 'If there's a chance . . . and there may
  be, we'll try for the blueprints. There's a trade-off possible; a dangerous
  one ... not for us, but for your friend, Asher Feld. We'll see. No
  promises. The names come first. ... It's a parallel route; until I get the
  names, Rhinemann has to believe I want the designs as much as he wants the
  diamonds. ... We'll sec.'
  The weak, erratic bell of the country telephone spun out its feeble ring.
  Spaulding picked it up.
 'It's Ballard,' said the voice anxiously.
 'Yes, BobbyT
  'I hope to Christ you're clean, because there's a lot of flak to the
  contrary. I'm going on the assumption that a reasonable guy doesn't
  court-martial himself into a long prison term for a few dollars.'
  'A reasonable assumption. What is it? Did you get the informationT
  'First things first. And the first thing is that the Fleet Marine Force
  wants you dead or alive; the condition is immaterial, and I think they'd
  prefer you dead.'
 'They found Meehan and the driver. . .
  'You bet your ass they did! After they got rolled and stripped to their
  skiwies by some wandering vagos. They're mad as helll They threw out the
  bullshit about not alerting the embassy that Fairfax wants you picked up.
  Fairfax's incidental; they want you. Assault, theft, etcetera.'
 'All right. That's to be expected.'
  'Expected? Oh, you're a pistol! I don't suppose I have to tell you about
  Granville. You got him burning up my dials! Washington's preparing a
  top-level scramble, so I'm chained to my desk till it comes in.'
  'Then he doesn't know. They're covering,' said Spaulding, annoyed.
  'The hell he doesn'tt The hell they arel This radio silence; you walked
  into a High Command defection I An Allied Central

                                 389
 project straight from the War Department.'
  'I'll bet it's from the War Department. I can tell you which office.'
  'It's true.... There's a U-boat bringing in a couple of very important
  Berliners. You're out of order; it's not your action. Granville will tell
  you that.'
  'Horseshitl' yelled. David. 'Pure horseshitl Transparent horseshit! Ask any
  network agent in Europe. You couldn't get a Breffinwrke out of any German
  port I No one knows that better than me I'
  'Interesting, ontologically speaking. Transparency isn't a quality one
  associates . . .'
  'No jokes! My humor's strained!' And then suddenly David realized he had no
  cause to yell at the cryp. Ballard's frame of reference was essentially the
  same as it had been eighteen hours ago - with complications, perhaps, but
  not of death and survival. Ballard did not know about the carnage at San
  Tehno or the tools for Peenerntinde in Ocho Calle; and a Haganah that
  reached into the most secret recesses of Military Intelligence. Nor would
  he be told just now. 'I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind.'
  'Sure, sure.' Ballard replied as if he were used to other people's tempers.
  Another trait common to most cryptographers, David reflected. 'Jean said
  you were hurt; fell and cut yourself pretty badly. Did somebody pushT
  'It's all right. The doctor was here. . . . Did you get the information? On
  Ira Barden.'
  'Yeah. . . . I used straight G-2 in Washington. A dossier Teletype request
  over your name. This Barden's going to know about it.'
 'That's O.K. What's it sayT
 'The whole darrm thing?'
 'Whatever seems ... unusual. Fairfax qualifications, probably.'
  'They don't use the name Fairfax. Just high-priority classification....
  He's in the Reserves, not regular army. Family company's in importing.
  Spent a number of years in Europe and the Middle East; speaks five
  languages. . . .'
 'And one of them's Hebrew,' interrupted David quietly.
  'That's right. How did. . .? Never mind. He spent two years at the American
  University in Beirut while his father represented the firm in the
  Mediterranean areas. The company was very big in Middle East textiles.
  Barden transferred to Harvard, then

 390
 transferred again to a small college called Brandeis.... I don't know it. He
 majored in Near East studies, it says here. When he graduated he went into
 the family business until the war.... I guess it was the languages.'
 'Thanks,' said David. 'Bum the Teletype, Bobby.'
  'With pleasure.... When are you coming in? You better get here before the
  FMF finds you. Jean can probably convince old Henderson to cool things
  off.'
 'Pretty soon. How's Jean?'
  'Huh? Fine.... Scared; nervous, I guess. You'll see. She's a strong girl,
  though.'
 'Tell her not to worry.'
 'Tell her yourself.'
 'She's there with you?'
  'No .Ballard drew out the word, telegraphing a note of
 concern that had been absent. 'No, she's not with me. She's on
 her way to see you. . .
 'What?'
  'The nurse. The doctor's nurse. She called about an hour ago. She said you
  wanted to see Jean.' Ballard's voice suddenly became hard and loud. 'What
  the hell's going on, Spaulding?'

 391
 41

 'Surely the, man from Lisbon expected countermeasures. I'm amazed he was so
 derelict.' Heinrich Stoltz conveyed his arrogance over the telephone. 'Mrs.
 Cameron was a flank you took for granted, yes? A summons from a loved one is
 difficult to resist, is it noff
 'Where is she?'
  'She is on her way to Lujin. She will be a guest at Habichtsnest. An
  honored guest, I can assure you. Herr Rhinemann will be immensely pleased;
  I was about to telephone him. I wanted to wait until the interception was
  made.'
  'You're out of line!' David said, trying to keep his voice calm. 'You're
  asking for reprisals in every neutral area. Diplomatic hostages in a
  neutral . . .'
  'A guest,' interrupted the German with relish. 'Hardly a prize; a
  step-daughter-in-law; the husband deceased. With no official status. So
  complicated, these American social rituals.'
 'You know what I mean! You don't need diagrams!'
  'I said she was a guest! Of an eminent financier you yourself were sent to
  contact . . . concerning international economic matters, I believe. A Jew
  expelled from his own country, that country your enemy. I see no cause for
  immediate alarm.... Although, perhaps, you should.'
  There was no reason to procrastinate. Jean was no part of the barFain, no
  part of the indictment. To hell with the indictmentl To hell with a
  meaningless commitment! There was no meaning!
 Only Jean.

 392
 'Call the moves,' said David.
  'I was sure you'd cooperate. What difference does it make to you? Or to me,
  really.... You and I, we take orders. Leave the philosophy to men of great
  affairs. We survive.'
  'That doesn't sound like a true believer. I was told you were a believer.'
  David spoke aimlessly; he needed time, only seconds. To think.
  'Strangely enough, I am. In a world that passed, I'm afraid.
 Only partially in the one that's coming . . . . . The remaining
 designs are at Habichtsnest. You and your aerophysicist win go
 there at once. I wish to conclude our negotiations this evening.'
  'Wait a minute!' David's mind raced over conjectures-his counterpart's
  options. 'That's not the cleanest nest I've been in; the inhabitants leave
  something to be desired.'
 'So do the guests. . . .'
  'Two conditions. One: I see Mrs. Cameron the minute I get there. Two: I
  don't send the codes - if they're to be sent - until she's back at the
  embassy. With Lyons.'
  'We'll discuss these points later. There is one prior condition, however.'
  Stoltz paused. 'Should you not be at Habichsnest this afternoon, you will
  never see Mrs. Cameron. As you last saw her.... Habicht.snest has so many
  diversions; the guests enjoy them so. Unfortunately, there have been some
  frightful accidents in the past. On the river, in the pool ... on
  horseback. . . .'

  The foreman gave them a road map and filled the FMF automobile's gas tank
  with fuel from the ranch pump. Spaulding removed the orange medallions from
  the bumpers and blurred the numbers of the license plates by chipping away
  at the paint until the Is looked like 7s, and 3s like 8s. Then he smashed
  the ornament off the tip of the hood, slapped black paint overi the grill
  and removed all four hubcaps. Finally, he took a sledgehammer and, to the
  amazement of the silent gaucho, he crashed it into the side door panels,
  trunk and roof of the car.
  When he had finished, the automobile from Fleet Marine Force looked like
  any number of back-country wrecks.
  They drove out the road to the primitive highway by the telephone junction
  box and turned east toward Buenos Aires. Spaulding pressed the accelerator;
  the vibrations caused the loose metal to rattle throughout the car. Lyons
  held the unfolded map on his knees; if it was correct, they could reach the
  LujAn

                                 393
 district without traveling the major highways, reducing the chances of
 discovery by the FMF patrols that were surely out by now.
  The goddamned irony of itl thought David. Safety ... safety for Jean, for
  him, too, really ... lay in contact with the same enemy he had fought so
  viciously for over three years. An enemy made an ally by incredible events
  ... treasons taking place in Washington and Berlin.
  What had Stoltz said? Leave the philosophy to men of great affairs.
 Meaning and no meaning at all.

  David nearly missed the half-concealed entrance to Habichtsnest. He was
  approaching it from the opposite direction on the lonely stretch of road he
  had traveled only once, and at night. What caused him to slow down and look
  to his left, spotting the break in the woods, were sets of black tire marks
  on the light surface of the entrance. They had not been there long enough
  to be erased by the hot sun or succeeding traffic. And Spaulding recalled
  the words of the guard on the pier in Ocho Calle.
 ... There is a lot of shouting.
  David could visualize Rhinemann screaming his orders, causing a column of
  racing Bentleys and Packards to come screeching out of the hidden road from
  Habichtsnest on its way to a quiet street in San Telmo.
  And no doubt later - in the predawn hours - other automobiles, more
  sweating, frightened henchmen - racing to the small isolated peninsula that
  was Ocho Calle.
  With a certain professional pride, Spaulding reflected that he had
  interdicted well.
 Both enemies. All enemies.
  A vague plan was coming into focus, but only the outlines. So much depended
  on what faced them at Habichtsnest.
 And the soft-spoken words of hatred uttered by Asher Feld.

  The guards in their paramilitary uniforms leveled their rifles at the
  approaching automobile. Others held dogs that were straining at leashes,
  teeth bared, barking viciously. The man behind the electric gate shouted
  orders to those in front; four guards ran to the car and yanked the smashed
  panels open. Spaulding and Lyons got out; they were pushed against the FMF

 394
 vehicle and searched.
  David kept turning his head, looking at the extended fence beyond both
  sides of the gate. He estimated the height and the tensile strength of the
  links, the points of electrical contact between the thick-poled sections.
  The angles of direction.
 It was part of his plan.

  Jean ran to him from across the terraced balcony. He held her, silently,
  for several moments. It was a brief span of sanity and he was grateful for
  it.
  Rhinemann stood at the railing twenty feet away, Stoltz at his side.
  Rhinemann's narrow eyes stared at David from out of the folds of suntanned
  flesh. The look was one of despised respect, and David knew it.
  There was a third man. A tall, blond-haired man in a white Palm Beach suit
  seated at a glass-topped table. Spaulding did not know him.
  'David, David. What have I done?'Jean would not let him go; he stroked her
  soft brown hair, replying quietly.
 'Saved my life among other things .....
  'The Third Reich has extraordinarily thorough surveillance, Mrs. Cameron,'
  interrupted Stoltz, smiling. 'We keep watch on all Jews. Especially
  professional men. We knew you were friendly with the doctor in Palermo; and
  that the colonel was wounded. It was all quite simple!
  'Does your surveillance of Jews include the man beside you?' asked
  Spaulding in a monotone.
  Stoltz paled slightly, his glance shifting unobtrusively from Rhinemann to
  the blond-haired man in the chair. 'Heff Rhinemann understands my meaning.
  I speak 'pragmatically; of the necessary observation of hostile elements!
  'Yes, I remember,' said David, releasing Jean, putting his arm around her
  shoulders. 'You were very clear yesterday about the regrettable necessity
  of certain practicalities. I'm sorry you missed the lecture, Rhinemann. It
  concerned the concentration of Jewish money.... We're here. Let's get on
  with it.'
  Rhinemann stepped away from the railing. 'We shall. But first, so the ...
  circle is complete, I wish to present to you an acquaintance who has flown
  in from Berlin. By way of neutral passage, of course. I want you to have
  the opportunity of knowing you dealdirectly with him. The exchange is more
  genuine this way.'

                                 395
  Spaulding looked over at the blond-haired man in the white Palm Beach suit.
  Their eyes locked.
  'Franz AltmUller, Ministry of Armaments. Berlin,' said David.
  'Colonel David Spaulding. Fairfax. Late of Portugal. The man in Lisbon,'
  said Altmillier.
  'You are jackals,' added Rhinemann, 'who fight as traitors fight and
  dishonor your houses. I say this to you both. For both to hear. Now, as you
  say, colonel, we shall get on with it.,

  Stoltz took Lyons below to the manicured lawn by the pool. There, at a
  large, round table, a Rhinemann guard stood with a metal attach6 case in
  his hand. Lyons sat down, his back to the balcony; the guard lifted the
  case onto the table.
 'Open it,' commanded Erich Rhinemann from above.
  The guard did so; Lyons took out the plans and spread them on the table.
 Altmaller spoke. 'Remain with him, Stoltz.'
  Stoltz looked up, bewildered. However, he did not speak. He walked to the
  edge of the pool and sat in a deck chair, his eyes fixed on Lyons.
  AltmUller turned to Jean. 'May I have a word with the colonel, please?'
  Jean looked at Spaulding. She took her hand from his and walked to the far
  end of the balcony. Rhinemann remained in the center, staring down at
  Lyons.
  'For both our sakes,' said Altmtlller, 'I think you should tell me what
  happened in San Telmo.'
  David watched the German closely. Altmfiller was not lying; he was not
  trying to trap him. He did not know about the Haganah. About Asher Feld. It
  was Spaulding's only chance.
 'Gestapo.'said David, giving the lie the simplicity of conviction.
  'Impossible!' Altmfiller spat out the word. 'You know that's impossible! I
  am here!'
  'I've dealt with the Gestapo - in various forms - for nearly four years. I
  know the enemy.... Grant me that much credit.'
 'You're wrong! There's no possible way!'
  'You've spent too much time in the ministry, not enough in the field. Do
  you want a professional analysis?'
 'What is iff

 396
 David leaned against the railing. 'You've been had.'
 ' What?'
  'Just as I've been had. By those who employ our considerable talents. In
  Berlin and Washington. There's a remarkable coincidence,too.... They both
  have the same initials.... A.S.'
  Altmifller stared at Spaulding, his blue eyes penetrating, his mouth parted
  slightly - in disbelief. He spoke the name under his breath.
 -Albert Speer. . .
 -Alan Swanson.' countered David softly.
  'It can't be,' said Altmfiller with less conviction than he wished to
  muster. 'He doesn't know. . . .'
  'Don't go into the field without some advanced training. You won't last....
  Why do you think I offered to make a deal with RhinemannT
  Altmaller was listening but not listening. He took his eyes from Spaulding,
  seemingly consumed with the pieces of an incredible puzzle. 'If what you
  say is true - and by no means do I agree - the codes would not be sent, the
  transfer aborted. There would be no radio silence; your fleet cruising,
  radar and aircraft in 6peration. Everything lost!'
  David folded his arms in front of him. It was the moment when the lie would
  either be bought or rejected out of hand. He knew it; he felt as he had
  felt scores of times in the north country when the lie was the keystone.
  'Your side plays rougher than mine. It goes with the New Order. My people
  won't kill me; they just want to make sure I don't know anything. All they
  care about are those designs.... With you it's different. Your people keep
  their options open.'
  David stopped and smiled at Rhinemann, who had turned from his sentry
  position by the balcony and was looking at them. Altmijller kept his eyes
  on Spaulding . . . the inexperienced .runner' being taught, thought David.
 'And in your judgment, what are these optionsT
  'A couple I can think of,' replied Spaulding. 'Immobilize me, force in
  another code man at the last minute, substitute faulty blueprints; or get
  the diamonds out from Ocho Calle some other way than by water - difficult
  with those crates, but not impossible.'
  'Then why should I not let these options be exercised? You tempt me.9
 Spaulding had been glancing up, at nothing. Suddenly he

                                 397
 turned and looked at AltmOller. 'Don't ever go into the field; you won't
 last a day. Stay at your ministry.'
 'What does that meanr
  'Any alternate strategy used, you're dead. You're a liability now. You
  "dealt" with the enemy. Speer knows it, the Gestapo knows it. Your only
  chance is to use what you know. Just like me. Youfor your life; me for a
  great deal of money. Christ knows the aircraft companies will make a pile;
  I deserve some of it.'
  AltmOller took two steps to the railing and stood alongside David, looking
  down at the distant river below. 'It's an so pointless.'
  'Not when you think about it,' said Spaulding. 'Something for nothing never
  is in this business!
  David, staring straight ahead, could feel AltmOller's eyes abruptly on him.
  He could sense the new thought coming into focus in Altmaller's mind.
  'Your generosity may be your undoing, colonel.... We can still have
  something for nothing. And 1, a hero's medal from the Reich. We have you.
  Mrs. Cameron. The physicist's expendable, I'm sure. . . . You will send the
  codes. You were willing to negotiate for money. Surely you'll negotiate for
  your lives.'
  Like Altmaller, David stared straight ahead when he replied. His arms still
  folded, he was irritatingly relaxed, as he knew he had to be. 'Those
  negotiations have been concluded. If Lyons approves the blueprints, I'll
  send the codes when he and Mrs. Cameron are back at the embassy. Not
  before.'
  'You'll send them when I order you to.' Altmifller was finding it difficult
  to keep his voice low. Rhinemarm looked over again but made no move to
  interfere. Spaulding understood. Rhinemann was toying with his jackals.
 'Sorry to disappoint you,' said David.
  'Then extremely unpleasant things will happen. To Mrs. Cameron first.'
  'Give it up.' David sighed. 'Play by the original rules. You haven't a
  chance.'
 'You talk confidently for a man alone.'
  Spaulding pushed himself off the railing and turned, facing the German. He
  spoke barely above a whisper. 'You really are a goddamned fool. You
  wouldn't last an hour in Lisbon.... Do you think I drove in here without
  any backups? Do you think Rhinemann expected me to? ... We men in the field
  are very

 398
 cautious, very cowardly; were not heroic at all. We don't blow up buildings
 if there's a chance we'll still be inside. We won't destroy an enemy bridge
 unless there's another way back to our side.'
 'You are alone. There are no bridges left for you!'
  David looked at Altmilller as if appraising a bad cut of meat, then glanced
  at his watch. 'Your Stolz was a fool. If I don't make a call within fifteen
  minutes, there'll be a lot of busy telephones resulting in God knows how
  many very official automobiles driving out to Lujin. I'm a military attach6
  stationed at the American embassy. I accompanied the ambassador's daughter
  to Lujin. That's enough.'
  'That's preposterous! This is a neutral city. Rhinemann would. . .'
  'Rhinemann would open the gates and throw the jackals out,' interrupted
  Spaulding quietly and very calmly. 'We're liabilities both of us.
  "Tortugas" could blow up in his postwar face. Hes not going to allow that.
  Whatever he thinks of the systems, yours or mine, it doesn't matter. Only
  one thing matters to him: the cause of Erich Rhinemann.... I thought you
  knew that. You picked him.'
  Altmaller was breathing steadily, a bit too deeply, thought David. He was
  imposing a control on himself and he was only barely succeeding.
  'You ... have made arrangements to send the codes? From hereT
 The lie was bought. The keystone was now in place.
  'The rules are back in force. Radio and radar silence. No air strikes on
  surfacing submarines. No interception of trawlers ... under Paraguayan
  flags entering the coastal zones. We both win.... Which do you want,
  jackalT
  AltmUller turned back to the railing and placed his hands on the marble
  top. His fingers were rigid against the stone. The tailored folds of his
  white Palm Beach suit were starchly immobile. He looked down at the river
  and spoke.
 'The rules of "Tortugas" are reinstated.'

 'I have a telephone call to make.' said David.
  'I expected you would,' replied Rhinemann, looking contemptuously at Franz
  AltmUller. 'I have no stomach for an embassy kidnapping. It serves no one.'

                                 399
  'Don't be too harsh,' said Spaulding agreeably. 'It got me here in record
  time.'
  'Make your call.' Rhinemann pointed to a telephone on a table next to the
  archway. 'Your conversation will be amplified, of course.'
 'Of course,' answered David, walking to the phone.
 'Radio room. . . 'came the words from the unseen speakers.
  'This is Lieutenant Colonel Spaulding, military attach6,' said David,
  interrupting Ballard's words.
 There was the slightest pause before Ballard replied.
 'Yes, sir, Colonel Spaulding?'
  'I issued a directive of inquiry prior to my conference this afternoon. You
  may void it now.'
 'Yes, sir.... Very good, sir.'
  'May I speak with the head cryptographer, please? A Mr. Ballard, I believe!
 'I'm ... Ballard, sir.'
  'Sorry,' said David curtly, 'I didn't recognize you, Ballard. Be ready to
  send out the sealed code schedules I prepared for you. The green envelope;
  open it and familiarize yourself with the progressions. When I give you the
  word, I want it transmitted immediately. On a black-drape priority!
 'What ... sirT
  'My authorization is black drape, Ballard. It's in the lex, so clear all
  scrambler channels. You'll get no flak with that priority. 19H call you
  back.'
 Yes, sir. . . .'
  David hung up, hoping to Christ that Ballard was as good at his job as
  David thought he was. Or as good at parlour games as Henderson Granville
  thought he was.
 'You're very efficient,' said Rhinemann.
 'I try to be,' said David.

  Ballard stared at the telephone. What was Spaulding trying to tell him?
  Obviously that Jean was all right; that he and Lyons were all right, too.
  At least for the time being.
 Be ready to send out the sealed code schedules Iprepared...
  David had not prepared any codes. He had. Spaulding had memorized the
  progressions, that was true, but only as a contingency.
 What goddamned green envelope?

 400
 There was no envelope, red, blue or green I
 What the bell was that nonsense ... black-drape priority?
 What was a black drape? It didn't make sense I
 But it was a key.
 It's In the lex....
 Lex.... Lexicon. The Lexicon of Cryptography!
  Black drape.... He recalled something ... something very obscure, way in
  the past. Black drape was a very old term, long obsolete. But it meant
  something.
  Ballard got out of his swivel chair and went to the bookshelf on the other
  side of the small radio room. He had not looked at The Lexicon of
  Cryptography in years. It was a useless, and, academic tome.... Obsolete.
  It was on the top shelf with the other useless reference books and, like
  the others, had gathered dust.
  He found the term on page 71. It was a single paragraph sandwiched between
  equally meaningless paragraphs. But it had meaning now.
  'The Black Drape, otherwise known as Schwarzes Tuch, for it was first
  employed by the German Imperial Army in 1916, is an entrapment device. It
  is hazardous for it cannot be repeated in a sector twice. It is a signal to
  proceed with a code, activating a given set of arrangements with intent to
  terminate, canceling said arrangements. The termination factor is expressed
  in minutes, specifically numbered. As a practice, it was abandoned in 1917
  for it nullified . . .'
 Proceed ... with intent to terminate.
  Ballard closed the book and returned to his chair in front of the dials.

  Lyons kept turning the pages of the designs back and forth as if
  double-checking his calculations. Rhinemann caRed down twice from the
  balcony, inquiring if there were problems. Twice Lyons turned in his chair
  and shook his head. Stoltz remained in the deck chair by the pool, smoking
  cigarettes. AltmWler talked briefly with Rhinemann, the conversation
  obviously unsatisfactory to both. Altindlier returned to the chair by the
  glasstopped table and leafed through a Buenos Aires newspaper.
  David and Jean remained at the far end of the terrace, talking quietly.
  Every once in a while Spaulding let his voice carry across; if AltmQUer
  listened, he heard references to New York,

                                 40.1
 to architectural firms, to vague postwar plans. Lovers' plans.
 But these references were non sequiturs.
  'At the Alvea Hotel,' said David softly, holding Jean's hand, 'there's a
  man registered under the name of E. Pace. E. Pace. His real name is Asher
  Feld. Identify yourself as the contact from me
  . and a Fairfax agent named Barden. Ira Barden. Nothing else. Yeil him I'm
  calling his ... priorities. In precisely two hours from ... the minute you
  telephone from the embassy.... I nwan the mmute, Jean, he'll understand. .
  .
  Only once did Jean Cameron gasp, an intake of breath that caused David to
  glare at her and press her hand. She covered her shock with artificial
  laughter.
  Altmiffler looked up from the newspaper. Contempt was in his eyes; beyond
  the contempt, and also obvious, was his anger.

  Lyons got up from the chair and stretched his emaciated frame. He had spent
  three hours and ten minutes at the table; he turned and looked up at the
  balcony. At Spaulding.
 He nodded.
  'Good,' said Rhinemann, crossing to Franz AltmWer. 'We'll proceed. It will
  be dark soon; we'll conclude everything by early morning. No more delay I
  Stoltz! Kommen Sie her I Bringen Sie &e Aktenmappe!'
  Stoltz went to the table and began replacing the pages in the attach6 case.
  David took Jean's arm and guided her towards Rhinemann and Altmifller. The
  Nazi spoke.
  'The plans comprise four hundred and sixty-odd pages of causal data and
  progressive equations. No man can retain such information; the absence of
  any part renders the designs useless. As soon as you contact the
  cryptographer and relay the codes, Mrs. Cameron and the physicist are free
  to leave.'
  'I'm sorry,' said Spaulding. 'My agreement was to send the codes when they
  were back at the embassy. That's the way it has to be.'
  'Surely,' interjected Rhinemann angrily, 'you don't think I would permit .
  . .'
  'No, I don't,' broke in David. 'But I'm not sure what you can control
  outside the gates of Habichtsnest. This way, I know you'll try harder.'

 402
 42

 It was an hour and thirty-one minutes before the telephone rang. Nine
 fifteen, exactly. The sun had descended behind the Lujin hills; the lights
 along the distant riverbank ffickered in the enveloping darkness.
  Rhinemann picked up the receiver, listened and nodded to David.
  Spaulding got out of his chair and crossed to the financier, taking the
  receiver. Rhinemann flicked a switch on the wall. The speakers were
  activated.
  'We're here, David.' Jean's words were amplified on the terrace.
 Tine,' answered Spaulding. 'No problems thenT
  'Not really. After five miles or so I thought Doctor Lyons was going to be
  sick. They drove so fast. . .
 After ... five ....
 Asher ... Feld ....
 Jean had done it!
 'But he's all right now?'
 'He's resting. It'll take some time before he feels himself. . .
 Time.
 Jean had given Asher Feld the precise time.
 'All right .... I
  'Genug! Genug!'said AltmOller,s tanding by the balcony.'That's enough. You
  have your proof; they are there. The codesl'

                                403
  David looked over at the Nazi. It was an unhurried look, no at all
  accommodating.

 'Yes?'
 'You're in the radio room?'
 'Yes.'
 'Let me speak to that Ballard fellow.'
 'Here he is.'
 Ballard's voice was impersonal, efficient. 'Colonel Spaulding?'
 'Ballard, have you cleared all scrambler channels?'
  'Yes, sir. Along with your priority. The drape's confirmed, sir.'
  'Very good. Stand by for my call. It shouldn't be more than a few minutes.'
  David quickly hung up the phone.
  'What are you doing?l'yelled Altmilller furiously. 'The codesl Send them I'
  'He's betraying usl' screamed Stoltz, jumping up from his chair.
  'I think you should explain yourself.' Rhinemann spoke !oftly, his voice
  conveying the punishment he intended to inflict.
  'Just last-minute details,' said Spaulding, lighting a cigarette. 'Only a
  few minutes.... Shall we talk alone, Rhinemann?'
  'That is unnecessary. What is it?' asked the financier. 'Your method of
  departure? It's arranged. You'll be driven to the Mendarro field with the
  designs. It's less than ten minutes from here. You won't be airborne,
  however, until we have confirmation of the Koening transfer.'
 'How long will that be?'
 'What difference does it make?'
  Once the blackout starts I have no protection, that's the difference.'
  'Ach!'Rhinemann was impatient. 'For four hours you'll have the best
  protection in the world. I have no stomach for offending the men in
  Washington!'
  'You see?' said David to Franz AltmUller. 'I told you we were liabilities.'
  He turned back to Rhinemann. 'All right. I accept that. You've got too much
  to lose. Detail number one, crossed off. Now detail number two. My payment
  from you.'
  Rhinemann squinted his eyes. 'You are a man of details. ... The sum of five
  hundred thousand American dollars will be

 404
 transferred to the Banque Louis Quatorze in Zilrich. It's a nonnegotiable
 figure and a generous one.'
  'Extremely. More than I would have asked for .... What's my
 guarantee?'
  'Come, colonel. We're not salesmen. You know where I live; your abilities
  are proven. I don't wish the specter of the
 from Lisbon on my personal horizon.'
 'You flatter me.'
  'The money will be deposited, the proper papers held in Zftrich for you. At
  the bank; normal procedures.'
  David crushed out his cigarette. 'All right, Zilrich.... Now the last
  detail. Those generous payments I'm going to receive right at home.... The
  names, please. Write them on a piece of paper.'
 'Are you so sure I possess these names?'
  'It's the only thing I'm really sure of. It's the one opportunity you
  wouldn't miss.'
  Rhinemarm took a small black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and
  wrote hastily on a page. He tore it out and handed it to Spaulding.
 David read the names:

           Kendall, Walter
           Swanson, A. U.S. Army
           Oliver, H. Meridian Aircraft
           Craft, J. Packard

  'Thank you,' said Spaulding. He put the page in his pocket and reached for
  the telephone. 'Get me the American embassy, please.,

  Ballard read the sequence of the code progressions David had recited to
  him. ney were not perfect but they were not far off, either; Spaulding had
  confused a vowel equation, but the message was clear.
  And David's emphasis on the 'frequency megacycle of 120 for all subsequent
  scrambles' was meaningless gibberish. But it, too, was very clear.
 120 minutes.
 Black Drape.
 The original code allowed for thirteen characters:

                                405
         CABLE TORTUGAS

  The code Spaulding had recited, however, had fifteen characters.
 Ballard stared at the words.

        DESTROY TORTUGAS.

 In two hours.

  David had a final 'detail' which none could fault professionally, but all
  found objectionable. Since there were four hours -more or less - before
  he'd be driven to the Mendarro airfield, and there were any number of
  reasons during this period why he might be out of sight of the designs - or
  Rhinemann might be out of sight of the designs - he insisted that they be
  placed in a single locked metal case and chained to any permanent
  structure, the chain held by a new padlock, the keys given to him. Further,
  he would also hold the keys to the case and thread the hasps. If the
  designs were tampered with, he'd know it.
  'Your precautions are now obsessive,' said Rhinemann disagreeably. 'I
  should ignore you. The codes have been sent.'
  'Then humor me. I'm a Fairfax four-zero. We might work again.,
 Rhinemann smiled. 'That is always the way, is it not? So be it.'
  Rhinemann sent for a chain and a padlock, which he took a minor delight in
  showing to David in its original box. The ritual was over in several
  minutes, the metal case chained to the banister of the stairway in the
  great hall. The four men settled in the huge living room, to the right of
  the hall, an enormous archway affording a view of the staircase . . . and
  the metal briefcase.
  The financier became genial host. He offered brandies; only Spaulding
  accepted at first, then Heinrich Stoltz followed. Altmaller would not
  drink.
  A guard, his paramilitary uniform pressed into starched creases, came
  through the archway.
  'Our operators confirm radio silence, sir. Throughout the entire coastal
  zone.'
 'Thank you,' said Rhinemann. 'Stand by on all frequencies!
  The guard nodded. He turned and left the room as quickly as he had entered.

 406
 'Your men are efficient,' observed David.
  'They're paid to be,' answered Rhinemann, looking at his watch. 'Now, we
  wait. Everything progresses and we have merely to wait. I'll order a
  buffet. Canaos are hardly filling
 . and we have the time.'
  'You're hospitable,' said Spaulding, carrying his brandy to a chair next to
  Altmillter.
 'And generous. Don't forget that.'
  'It would be hard to.... I was wondering, however, if I might impose
  further?' David placed his brandy glass on the side table and gestured at
  his rumpled, ill-fitting clothes. 'These were borrowed from a ranch hand.
  God knows when they were last washed. Or me.... I'd appreciate a shower, a
  shave; perhaps a pair of trousers and a shirt, or a sweater. . . .'
  'I'm sure your army personnel can accommodate you,' said Altmaller,
  watching David suspiciously.
  'For Christ's sake, AltmUller, I'm not going anywhere I Except to a shower.
  The designs are over therel' Spaulding pointed angrily through the archway
  to the metal case chained to the banister of the stairway. 'If you think
  I'm leaving without that, you're retarded.'
  The insult infuriated the Nazi; he gripped the arms of his chair
  controlling himself. Rhinemann laughed and spoke to Altmaller,
  'The colonel has had a tiresome few days. His request is minor; and I can
  assure you he is going nowhere but to the Mendarro airfield. . . . I wish
  he were. He'd save me a half million dollars.'
  David responded to Rhinemann's laugh with one of his own. 'A man with that
  kind of money in Zihich should at least feel clean.' He rose from the
  chair. 'And you're right about the last few days. I'm bushed. And sore all
  over. If the bed is soft I'll grab a nap.' He looked over at Altmfiller.
  'With a battalion of armed guards at the door if it'll ease the little
  boy's concerns.'
 Altmililer shot up, his voice harsh and loud. 'Enough!'
 'Oh sit down,' said David. 'You look foolish.'

  Rhinemann's guard brought him a pair of trousers, a lightweight turtleneck
  sweater and a tan suede jacket. David saw that each was expensive and he
  knew each would fit. Shaving equipment was in the bathroom; if there was
  anything else he needed,

                                 407
 all he had to do was open the door and ask. The man would be outside in the
 hall. Actually, there would be two men.
 David understood.
  He told the guard - a portefio - that he would sleep for an hour, then
  shower and shave for his journey. Would the guard be so considerate as to
  make sure he was awake by eleven o'clock?
 The guard would do so.
  It was five minutes past ten on David's watch. Jean had phoned at precisely
  nine fifteen. Asher Feld had exactly two hours from nine fifteen.
 David had one hour and five minutes.
 Eleven fifteen.
 If Asher Feld really believed in his priorities.
  The room was large, had a high ceiling and two doublecasement windows three
  stories above the ground, and was in the east wing of the house. That was
  all Spaulding could tell - or wanted to study - while the lights were on.
  He turned them off and went back to the windows. He opened the left
  casement quietly, peering out from behind the drapes.
  The roof was slate; that wasn't good. It had a wide gutter; that was
  better. The gutter led to a drainpipe about twenty feet away. That was
  satisfactory.
  Directly beneath, on the second floor, were four small balconies that
  probably led to four bedrooms. The farthest balcony was no more than five
  feet from the drainpipe. Possibly relevant; probably not.
  Below, the lawn like all the grounds at Habichtsnest: manicured, greenish
  black in the moonlight, full; with white wroughtiron outdoor furniture
  dotted about, and flagstone walks bordered by rows of flowers. Curving away
  from the area beneath his windows was a wide, raked path that disappeared
  into the darkness and the trees. He remembered seeing that path from the
  far right end of the terrace overlooking the pool; he remembered the
  intermittent, unraked hoofprints. The path was for horses; it had to lead
  to stables somewhere beyond the trees.
 That was relevant; relevancy, at this point, being relative.
  And then Spaulding saw the cupped glow of a cigarette behind a latticed
  arbor thirty-odd feet from the perimeter of the wroughtiron furniture.
  Rhinemann may have expressed confidence that he, David, would be on his way
  to Mendarro in a couple of

 408
 hours, but that confidence was backed up by men on watch.
  No surprise; the surprise would have been the absence of such patrols. It
  was one of the reasons he counted on Asher Feld's priorities.
  He let the drapes fall back into place, stepped away from the window and
  went to the canopied bed. He pulled down the blankets and stripped to his
  shorts - coarse underdrawers he had found in the adobe hut to replace his
  own bloodstained ones. He lay down and closed his eyes with no intention of
  sleeping. Instead, he pictured the high, electrified fence down at the gate
  of Habichtsnest. As he had seen it while Rhinemann's guards searched him
  against the battered FMF automobile.
 To the right of the huge gate. To the east.
  The floodlights had thrown sufficient illumination for him to see the
  slightly angling curvature of the fence line as it receded into the woods.
  Not much but definite.
 North by northeast.
  He visualized once again the balcony above the pool. Beyond the railing at
  the far right end of the terrace where he had talked quietly with Jean. He
  concentrated on the area below - in front, to the right.
 North by northeast.
  He saw it clearly. The grounds to the right of the croquet course and the
  tables sloped gently downhill until they were met by the tall trees of the
  surrounding woods. It was into these woods that the bridle path below him
  now entered. And as the ground descended - ultimately a mile down to the
  river banks -he remembered the breaks in the patterns of the far-off
  treetops. Again to the right.
 Fields.
  If there were horses - and there were horses - and stables -and there had
  to be stables - then there were fields. For the animals to graze and race
  off the frustrations of the wooded, confining bridle paths.
  The spaces between the descending trees were carved-out pasture lands,
  there was no other explanation.
 North by northeast.
  He shifted his thoughts to the highway two miles south of the marble steps
  of Habichtsnest, the highway that cut through the outskirts of Lujin toward
  Buenos Aires. He remembered: the road, although high above the river at the
  Habichtsnest inter-
  
                                 409
 section, curved to the left and went downhffl into the Tigre district. He
 tried to recall precisely the first minutes of the nightmare ride in the
 Bentley that ended in smoke and fire and death in the Colinas Rojas. The car
 had swung out of the hidden entrance and for several miles sped east and
 down and slightly north. It finally paralleled the shoreline of the river.
 North by northeast.
  And then he pictured the river below the terraced balcony, dotted with
  white sails and cabin cruisers. It flowed diagonally away ... to the right.
 North by northeast.
 That was his escape.
  Down the bridle path into the protective cover of the dark woods and
  northeast toward the breaks in the trees - the fields. Across the fields,
  always heading to the right - east, and downhill, north. Back into the
  sloping forest, following the line of the river, until he found the
  electrified fence bordering the enormous compound that was Habichtsnest.
  Beyond that fence was the highway to Buenos Aires. And the embassy.
 And Jean.
  David let his body go limp, let the ache of his wound run around in circles
  on his torn skin. He breathed steadily, deeply. He had to remain calm; that
  was the hardest part.

  He looked at his watch -his gift from Jean. It was nearly eleven o'clock.
  He got out of the bed and put on the trousers and the sweater. He slipped
  into his shoes and pulled the laces as tight as he could, until the leather
  pinched his feet, then reached for the pillow and wrapped the soiled shirt
  from the outback ranch around it. He replaced the pillow at the top of the
  bed and pulled the blanket partially over it. He lifted the sheets, bunched
  them, inserted the ranch hand's trousers and let the blankets fall back in
  place.
  He stood up. In the darkness, and with what light would come from the
  hallway, the bed looked sufficiently full at least for his immediate
  purpose.
  He crossed to the door and pressed his back into the wall beside it.
 His watch read one minute to eleven.
 The tapping was loud; the guard was not subtle.

 410
 The door opened.
 'Seftor? ... Seftor?'
 The door opened further.
 'Seftor, it's time. It's eleven o'clock.'
  The juard stood in the frame, looking at the bed. ',tl duerme.' he said
  casually over his shoulder.
 'Sefior Spaulding I'The guard walked into the darkened room.
  The instant the man cleared the door panel, David took a single step and
  with both hands clasped the guard's neck from behind. He crushed his
  fingers into the throat and yanked the man diagonally into him.
  No cry emerged; the guard's windpipe was choked of all air supply. Re went
  down, limp.
  Spaulding closed the door slowly and snapped on the wall switch.
  'Thanks very much,'he said loudly. 'Give me a hand, will you please?. My
  stomach hurts like hell. . . .'
  It was no secret at Habichtsnest that the American had been Wounded.
  David bent over the collapsed guard. He massaged his throat, pinched his
  nostrils, put his lips to the man's mouth and blew air into the damaged
  windpipe.
  The guard responded; conscious but not conscious. In semishock.
  Spaulding removed the man's Lilger from his belt holster and a large
  hunting knife from a scabbard beside it. He put the blade underneath the
  man's jaw and drew blood with the sharp point. He whispered. In Spanish.
  'Understand me! 1 want you to laugh I You start laughing now I If you
  don't, this goes home. Right up through your neckl ... Now. Laugh!'
  The guard's crazed eyes carried his total lack of comprehension. He seemed
  to know only that he was dealing with a maniac. A madman who would kill
  him.
  Feebly at first, then with growing volume and panic, the man laughed.
 Spaulding laughed with him.
  The laughter grew; David kept staring at the guard, gesturing for louder,
  more enthusiastic merriment. The man - perplexed beyond reason and totally
  frightened - roared hysterically.
 Spaulding heard the click of the doorknob two feet from his

                                411
 ear. He crashed the barrel of the Ulger into the guard's head and stood up
 as the second man entered.
  , Qu9pasa, Antonio? Te re-'
  The Lilger's handle smashed into the Argentines skull with such force that
  the guard's expulsion of breath was as loud as his voice as he fell.
  David looked at his watch. It was eight minutes past eleven. Seven minutes
  to go.
  If the man named Asher Feld believed the words he spoke with such
  commitment.
  Spaulding removed the second guard's weapons, putting the additional Miger
  into his belt. He searched both men's pockets, removing whatever paper
  currcncy he could find. And a few coins.
 He had no money whatsoever. He might well need money.
  He ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower to the hottest position
  on the dial. He returned to the hallway door and locked it. Then he turned
  off all lights and went to the left casement window, closing his eyes to
  adjust to the darkness outside. He opened them and blinked several times,
  trying to blur out the white spots of anxiety.
 It was nine minutes past eleven.
  He rubbed his perspiring hands over the expensive turtleneck sweater; he
  took deep breaths and waited.
 The waiting was nearly unendurable.
 Because he could not know.
 And then he heard it I And he knew.
  Two thunderous explosions! So loud, so stunning, so totally without warning
  that he found himself trembling, his breathing stopped.
  There followed bursts of machine-gun fire that ripped through the silent
  night.
  Below him on the ground, men were screanung at one another, racing toward
  the sounds that were filling the perimeter of the compound with growing
  ferocity.
  David watched the hysteria below. There were five guards beneath his
  window, all running now out of their concealed stations. He could see the
  spill of additional floodlights being turned on to his right, in the
  elegant front courtyard of Habichtsnest. He could hear the roar of powerful
  automobile engines and the increasing frequency of panicked commands.

 ~12
  He eased himself out of the casement window, holding onto the sill until
  his feet touched the gutter.
  Both LOgers were in his belt, the knife between his teeth. He could not
  chance a blade next to his body; he could always spit it out if necessary.
  He sidestepped his way along the slate roof The drainpipe was only feet
  away.
  The explosions and the gunfire from the gate increased. David marveled -
  not only at Asher Feld's commitment, but at his logistics. The Haganah
  leader must have brought a small, wellsupplied army into Habichtsnest.
  He lowered his body cautiously against the slate roof; he reached out,
  gripped the gutter on the far side of the drainpipe with his right hand and
  slowly, carefully crouched sideways, inched his feet into a support
  position. He pushed against the outside rim of the gutter, testing its
  strength, and in a quickspringing short jump, he leaped over the side,
  holding the rim with both hands, his feet against the wall, straddling the
  drainpipe.
 He began his descent, hand-below-hand on the pipe.
  Amid the sounds of the gunfire, he suddenly heard loud crashing above him.
  There were shouts in both German and Spanish and the unmistakable smashing
  of wood.
 The room he had just left had been broken into.
  The extreme north second-floor balcony was parallel with him now. He
  reached out with his left hand, gripped the edge, whipped his right hand
  across for support and swung underneath, his body dangling thirty feet
  above the ground but out of sight.
  Men were at the casement windows above. They forced the lead frames open
  without regard to the handles; the glass smashed; metal screeched against
  metal.
  There was another thunderous explosion from the battleground a quarter of
  a mile away in the black-topped field cut out of the forest. A far-off
  weapon caused a detonation in the front courtyard; the spill of floodlight
  suddenly disappeared. Asher Feld was moving up. The crossfire would be
  murderous. Suicidal.
  The shouts above Spaulding receded from the window, and he kicked his feet
  out twice to get sufficient swing to lash his hands once more across and
  around the drainpipe.
 He did so, the blade between his teeth making his jaws ache.
 He slid to the ground, scraping his hands against the weathered

                                 413
 metal, insensitive to the cuts on his palms and fingers.
  He removed the knife from his mouth, a Ulger from his belt and raced along
  the edge of the raked bridle path toward the darkness of the trees. He ran
  into the pitch-black, tree-lined corridor, skirting the trunks, prepared to
  plunge between them at the first sound of nearby shots.
  They came, four in succession, the bullets thumping with terrible finality
  into the surrounding tall shafts o J wood.
  He whipped around a thick trunk and looked toward the house. The man firing
  was alone, standing by the drainpipe. Then a second guard joined him,
  racing from the area of the croquet course, a giant Doberman straining at
  its leash in his hand. The men shouted at one another, each trying to
  assert command, the dog barking savagely.
  As they stood yelling, two bursts of machine-gun fire came from within the
  front courtyard; two more floodlights exploded.
  David saw the men freeze, their concentration shifted to the front. The
  guard with the dog yanked at the straps, forcing the animal back into the
  side of the house. The second man crouched, then rose and started
  sidestepping his way rapidly along the building toward the courtyard,
  ordering his associate to follow.
  And then David saw him. Above. To the right. Through foliage. On the
  terrace overlooking the lawn and the pool.
  Erich Rhinemann had burst through the doors, screaming commands in fury,
  but not in panic. He was marshaling his forces, implementing his defenses
  ... somehow in the pitch of the assault, he was the messianic Caesar
  ordering his battalions to attack, attack, attack. Three men came into view
  behind him; he roared at them and two of the three raced back into
  Habichtsnest. The third man argued; Rhinemann shot him without the
  slightest hesitation. The body collapsed out of David's sight. Then
  Rhinemann ran to the wall, partially obscured by the railing, but not
  entirely. He seemed to be yelling into the wall.
 Screeching into the wall.
  Through the bursts of gunfire, David heard the muted, steady whirring and
  he realized what Rhinemann was doing.
 The cable car from the riverbank was being sent up for him.
 While the battle was engaged, this Caesar would escape the fire.
  Rhinemann the pig. The ultimate manipulator. Corruptor of all things,
  honoring nothing.
 We may work again....

 414
 7hat is always the way, is it not?
  David sprang out of his recessed sanctuary and ran back on the path to the
  point where the gardens and woods joined the lawn below the balcony. He
  raced to a white metal table with the wrought-iron legs - the same table at
  which Lyons had sat, his frail body bent over the blueprints. Rhinemann was
  nowhere in sight
 He had to be there!
  It was suddenly ... inordinately clear to Spaulding that the one meaningful
  aspect of his having been ripped out of Lisbon and transported half a world
  away - through the fire and the pain -was the man above him now, concealed
  on the balcony.
 'Rhinemann! ... Rhinemann! I'm here!'
  The immense figure of the financier came rushing to the railing. In his
  hand was a Sternlicht automatic. Powerful, murderous.
  'You. You are a dead man!' He began firing; David threw himself to the
  ground behind the table, overturning it, erecting a shield. Bullets thumped
  into the earth and ricocheted off the metal. Rhinemann continued screaming.
  'Your tricks are suicide, Lisbon! My.men come from everywhere I Hundredsl
  In minutes I ... Come, Lisbon! Show yourself. You merely move up your death
  I You think I would have let you live? Never! Show yourself! You're deadV
  David understood. The manipulator would not offend the men in Washington,
  but neither would he allow the man from Lisbon to remain on his personal
  horizon. The designs would have gone to Mendarro. Not the man from Lisbon.
 He would have been killed on his way to Mendarro.
 It was so clear.
  David raised his Ulger, he would have only an instant. A diversion, then an
  instant.
 It would be enough....
 The lessons of the north country.
  He reached down and clawed at the ground, gathering chunks of earth and
  lawn with his left hand. When he had a large fistful, he lobbed it into the
  air, to the left of the rim of metal. Black dirt and blades of grass
  floated up, magnified in the dim spills of light and the furious activity
  growing nearer.
  There was a steady burst of fire from the Sternlicht. Spaulding sprang to
  the right of the table and squeezed the trigger of the Luger five times in
  rapid succession.

                                 415
  Erich Rhinemann's face exploded in blood. The Sternlicht fell as his hands
  sprang up in the spasm of death. The immense body snapped backward, then
  forward; then lurched over the railing.
 Rhinemann plummeted down from the balcony.
  David heard the screams of the guards above and raced back to the darkness
  of the bridle path. He ran with all his strength down the twisting black
  corridor, his shoes. sinking intermittently into the soft, raked edges.
 The path abruptly curved. To the left.
 Goddamn it I
  And then he heard the whinnies of frightened horses. His nostrils picked up
  their smells and to his right he saw the onestory structure that housed the
  series of stalls that was the stables. He could hear the bewildered shouts
  of a groom somewhere within trying to calm his charges.
  For a split second, David toyed with an idea, then rejected it. A horse
  would be swift, but possibly unmanageable.
  He ran to the far end of the stables, turned the comer and stopped for
  breath, for a moment of orientation. He thought he knew where he was; he
  tried to picture an aerial -view of the compound.
 The fields I The fields had to be nearby.
  He ran to the opposite end of the one-story structure and saw the pastures
  beyond. As he had visualized, the ground sloped gently downward - north -
  but not so much as to make grazing or running difficult. In the'distance
  past the fields, he could see the wooded hills rise in the moonlight. To
  the right - east.
  Between the slope of the fields and the rise of the hills was the line he
  had to follow. It was the most direct, concealed route to the electrified
  fence.
 North by northeast.
  He sped to the high post-and-rail fence that bordered the pasture, slipped
  through and began racing across the field. The volleys and salvos of
  gunfire continued behind him - in the distance now, but seemingly no less
  brutal. He reached a ridge in the field that gave him a line of sight to
  the river a half mile below. It, too, was bordered by a high post-and-rail,
  used to protect the animals from plummeting down the steeper inclines. He
  could see lights being turned on along the river; the incessant crescendos
  of death were being carried by the summer winds to the elegant communities
  below.

 416
  He spun in shock. A bullet whined above him. It had been aimed at him! He
  had been spotted I
  He threw himself into the pasture grass and scrambled away. There was a
  slight incline and he let himself roll down it, over and over again until
  his body hit the hard wood of a post. He had reached the opposite border of
  the field; beyond, the woods continued.
  He heard the fierce howling of the dogs, and knew it was directed at him.
  On his knees, he could see the outlines of a huge animal streaking toward
  him across the grass. His Ulger was poised, level, but he understood that
  by firing it, he would betray his' position. He shifted the weapon to his
  left hand and pulled the hunting knife out of his belt.
  The black monstrosity leaped through the air, honed by the scent into his
  target of human flesh. Spaulding lashed out his left hand with the Ldger,
  feeling the impact of the hard, muscular fur of the Doberman on his upper
  body, watching the ugly head whip sideways, the bared teeth tearing at the
  loose sweater and into his arm.
  He swung his right hand upward, the knife gripped with all the strength he
  had, into the soft stomach of the animal. Warm blood erupted from the dog's
  lacerated belly; the swallowed sound of a savage roar burst from the
  animal's throat as it died.
David grabbed his arm. The Doberman's teeth had ripped low the shoulder. And the
 wrenching, rolling, twisting movements of his body had broken at least one
 of the stitches in his stomach wound.
 He held onto the rail of the pasture fence and crawled east.
 North by northeast! Not east, goddamn it!
  In his momentary shock, he suddenly realized there was a perceptible
  reduction of the distant gunfire. How many minutes had it not been there?
  The explosions seemed to continue but the small-anns fire was subsiding.
 Considerably.
  There were shouts now; from across the field by the stables. He looked
  between and over the grass. Men were running with flashlights, the beams
  darting about in shafting diagonals. David could hear shouted commands.
  What he saw made him stop all movement and stare incredulously. The
  flashlights of the men across the wide pasture were

                                 417
 focused on a figure coming out of the stable - on horseback! The spill of a
 dozen beams picked up, the glaring reflection of a white Palm Beach suit.
 Franz Altmilller I
 Altm(Wer had chosen the madness he, David, had rejected.
 But, of course, their roles were different.
 Spaulding knew he was the quarry now. Altinfiller, the hunter. There would
 be others following, but AltmWler would not, could not wait. He kicked at
 the animal's flanks and burst through the opened gate.
  Spaulding understood again. Franz Altmflller was a dead an if David lived.
  His only means of survival in Berlin was to produce the corpse of the man
  from Lisbon. The Fairfax agent who had crippled 'Tortugas'; the body of the
  man the patrols and the scientists in Ocho Calle could identify. The man
  the 'Gestapo' had unearthed and provoked.
 So much, so alien.
  Horse and rider came racing across the field. David stayed prone and felt
  the hard earth to the east. He could not stand; Altinfiller held a
  powerful, wide-beamed flashlight. If he rolled under the railing, the tall
  weeds and taller grass beyond might conceal him but just as easily might
  bend, breaking the pattern.
 If... might.
  He knew he was rationalizing. The tall grass would be best; out of sight.
  But also out of strategy. And he knew why that bothered him.
 He wanted to be the hunter. Not the quarry.
 He wanted Altmifller dead.
  Franz Altmftller was not an enemy one left alive. AltmOller was every bit
  as lethal in a tranquil monastery during a time of peace as he was on a
  battlefield in war. He was the absolute enemy; it was in his eyes. Not
  related to the cause of Germany, but from deep within the man's arrogance:
  Altmaller had watched his masterful creation collapse, had seen 'Tortugas'
  destroyed. By another man who had told him he was inferior.
 That, Altmiflier could not tolerate.
 He would be scorned in the aftermath.
 Unacceptable!
  Altnitiller would lie in wait. In Buenos Aires, in New York, in London; no
  matter where. And his first target would be Jean. In a rifle sight, or a
  knife in a crowd, or a concealed pistol at

 418
 night. Altmigler would make him pay. It was in his eyes.
  Spaulding hugged the earth as the galloping horse reached the midpoint of
  the field, plunging forward, directed by the searchfight beam from the
  patrols back at the stables a quarter of a mile away. They were directed at
  the area where the Doberman was last seen.
  Altmaller reined in the animal, slowing it, not stopping it. He scanned the
  ground in front with his beam, approaching cautiously, a gun in his hand,
  holding the straps but prepared to fire.
  Without warning, there was a sudden, deafening explosion from the stables.
  The beams of light that had come from the opposite side of the field were
  no more; men who had started out across the pasture after Altmifller
  stopped and turned back to the panic that was growing furiously at the
  bordering fence. Fires had broken out.
  Altmtlller continued; if he was aware of the alarms behind him he did not
  show it. He kicked his horse and urged it forward.
  The horse halted, snorted; it pranced its front legs awkwardly and
  backstepped in spite of AltmMer's commands. The Nazi was in frenzy; he
  screamed at the animal, but the shouts were in vain. The horse had come
  upon the dead Doberman; the scent of the fresh blood repelled it.
  AltmUller saw the dog in the grass. He swung the light first to the left,
  then to the right, the beam piercing the space above David's head. AltmMer
  made his decision instinctively - or so it seemed to Spaulding. He whipped
  the reins of the horse to his right, toward David. He walked the horse; he
  did not run it.
  Then David saw why. AltmiJJler was following the stains of the Doberman's
  blood in the grass.
  David crawled as fast as he could in front of the spill of Altmiffler's
  slow-moving beam. Once in relative darkness, he turned abruptly to his
  right and ran close to the ground,back toward the center of the field. He
  waited until horse and rider were between him and the bordering
  post-and-rail, then inched his way toward the Nazi. He was tempted to take
  a clean shot with the Lliger, but he knew that had to be the last
  extremity. He had several miles to go over unfamiliar terrain, with a dark
  forest that others knew better. The loud report of heavy-caliber pistol
  shot would force men out of the pandemonium a quarter of a mile away,

                                 419
 Nevertheless, it might be necessary.
  He was within ten feet now, the Lager in his left hand, his right free. .
  . . A little closer, just a bit closer. Altmaller's flashlight slowed to a
  near stop. He had approached the point where he, David, had lain in the
  grass immobile.
  Then Spaulding felt the slight breeze from behind and, knew - in a terrible
  instant of recognition - that it was the moment to move.
  The horse's head yanked up, the wide eyes bulged. The scent of David's
  blood-drenched clothing had reached its nostrils.
  Spaulding sprang out of the grass, his right hand aimed at Altmiiller's
  wrist. He clasped his fingers over the barrel of the gun - it was a Colt!
  a U.S. Army issue Colt .45! - and forced his thumb into the trigger
  housing. Altmtiller whipped around in shock, stunned by the totally
  unexpected attack. He pulled his arms back and lashed out with his feet.
  The horse reared high on its hind legs; Spaulding held on, forcing
  Altmiffler's hand down, down. He yanked with every ounce of strength he had
  and literally ripped Altmdller off the horse into the grass. He slammed the
  Nazi's wrist into the ground again and again, until flesh hit rock and the
  Colt sprang loose. As it did so, he crashed his Lfiger into Altmiffler's
  face.
  The German fought back. He clawed at Spaulding's eyes with his free left
  hand, kicked furiously with his knees and feet at David's testicles and
  legs and rocked violently, his shoulders and head pinned by Spaulding's
  body. He screamed.
 'You! You and ... Rhinemann! Betrayal!'
  The Nazi saw the blood beneath David's shoulder and tore at the wound,
  ripping the already tom flesh until Spaulding thought he could not endure
  the pain.
  AltmOller heaved his shoulder up into David's stomach,'and yanked at
  David's bleeding arm, sending him sprawling off to the side. The Nazi
  leaped up on his feet, then threw himself back down on the grass where the
  Colt .45 had been pried loose. He worked his hands furiously over the
  ground.
 He found the weapon.
  Spaulding pulled the hunting knife from the back of his belt and sprang
  across the short distance that separated him from Altmiffler. The Colt's
  barrel was coming into level position, the small black opening in front of
  his eyes. -
 As the blade entered the flesh, the ear-shattering fire of the

 420
 heavy revolver exploded at the side of David's face, burning his skin, but
 missing its mark.
  Spaulding tore the knife downward into Altmimer's chest and left it there.
 The absolute enemy was dead.
  David knew there was no instant to lose, or he was lost. There would be
  other men, other horses ... many dogs.
  He raced to the bordering pasture fence, over it and into the darkness of
  the woods. He ran blindly, trying desperately to swing partially to his
  left. North.
 North by northeast.
 Escape!
  He fell over rocks and fallen branches, then at last penetrated deepening
  foliage' lashing his arms for a path, any kind of path. His left shoulder
  Z numb, both a danger and a blessing.
  There was no gunfire in the distance now; only darkness and the hum of the
  night forest and the wild, rhythmic pounding of his chest. The fighting by
  the stables had stopped. Rhinemann's men were free to come after him now.
  He had lost blood; how much and how severely he could not tell. Except
  that,his eyes were growing tired, as his body was tired. The branches
  became heavy, coarse tentacles; the inclines, steep mountains. The slopes
  were enormous ravines that had to be crossed without ropes. His legs
  buckled and he had to force them taut again.
 The fencel There was the fence!
 At the bottom of a small hill, between the trees.
  He began running, stumbling, clawing at the ground, pushing forward to the
  base of the hill.
 He was there. It was there.
 The fence.
 Yet he could not touch it. But, perhaps....
  He picked up a dry stick from the ground and lobbed it into the wire.
 Sparks and crackling static. To touch the fence meant death.
  He,looked up at the trees. The sweat from his scalp and forehead stung his
  eyes, blurring his already blurred vision. There had to be a tree.
 A tree. The right tree.
  He couldn't be sure. The darkness played tricks on the leaves, the limbs.
  There were shadows in the moonlight where

                                421
 substance should be.
  There were no limbs I No limbs hanging over the fence whose touch meant
  oblivion. Rhinernann had severed - on both sides -whatever growths
  approached the high, linked steel wires I
  He ran as best he could to his left -north. The liver was Perhaps a mile
  away. Perhaps.
 Perhaps the water.
  But the river, if he could reach it down the steep inclines barred to
  horses, would slow him up, would rob him of the time he needed desperately.
  And Rhinemann would have patrols on the river banks.
 Then he saw it.
 Perhaps.
  A sheared limb several feet above the taut wires, coming to within a few
  feet of the fence I It was thick, widening into suddenly greater thickness
  as it joined the trunk. A laborer had taken the means of least resistance
  and had angled his chain saw just before the final thickness. He would not
  be criticized; the limb was too high, too far away, for all practical
  purposes.
  But Spaulding knew it was his last chance. The only one left. And that fact
  was made indelibly clear to him with the distant sounds of men and dogs.
  They were coming after him now.
  He removed one of the Ulgers from his belt and threw it over the fence. One
  bulging impediment in his belt was enough.
  He jumped twice before gripping a gnarled stub; his left arm aching, no
  longer numb, no longer a blessing. He scraped his legs up the wide trunk
  until his right hand grasped a higher branch. He struggled against the
  sharp bolts of pain in his shoulder and stomach and pulled himself up.
 The sawed-off limb was just above.
  He dug the sides of his shoes into the bark, jabbing them repeatedly to
  make tiny ridges. He strained his neck, pushing his chin into the calloused
  wood, and whipped both arms over his head, forcing his left elbow over the
  limb, pulling maniacally with his right hand. He hugged the amputated limb,
  peddling his feet against the tree until the momentum allowed him the force
  to throw his right leg over it. He pressed his arms downward and thrust
  himself into a sitting position, his back against the trunk.
 He had managed it. Part of it.
  He took several deep breaths and tried to focus his sweatfilled, stinging
  eyes. He looked down at the electrified barbed

 422
 wire on top of the fence. It was less than four feet below him but nearly
 three feet in front. From the crest of the ground, about eight. If he was
 going to clear the wire, he had to twist and jack his body into a lateral
 vault. And should he be able to do that, he was not at all sure his body
 could take the punishment of the fall.
  But he could hear the dogs and the men clearly now. They had entered the
  woods beyond the fields. He turned his head and saw dim shafts of light
  piercing the dense foliage.
 The other punishment was death.
  There was no point in thinking further. Thoughts were out of place now.
  Only motion counted.
  He reached above with both hands, refusing to acknowledge the silent
  screams from his shoulder, grabbed at the thin branches, pulled up his legs
  until his feet touched the top of the thick limb and lunged, hurling
  himself straight out, above the taut wires until he could see their blurred
  image. At that splitinstant, he'twisted his body violently to the right and
  down, jackknifing his legs under him.
  it was a strange, fleeting sensation: disparate feelings of final
  desperation and, in a very real sense, clinical objectivity. He had done
  all he could do. There wasn't any more.
  He hit the earth, absorbing the shock with his right shoulder, rolling
  forward, his knees tucked under him - rolling, rolling, not permitting the
  roll to stop; distributing the impact throughout his body.
  He was propelled over a tangle of sharp roots and collided with the base of
  a tree. He grabbed his stomach; the surge of pain told him the wound was
  open now. He would have to hold it, clutch it . . . blot it. The cloth of
  the turtleneck sweater was
-drenched with sweat and blood - his own and the Doberman's and torn in shreds
 from the scores of falls and stumbles.
 But he had made it.
 Or nearly.
 He was out of the compound. He was free from Habichtsnest.
  He looked around and saw the second Miger on the ground in the
  moonlight.... The one in his belt would be enough. If it wasn't, a second
  wouldn't help him; he let it stay there.
  The highway was no more than half a mile away now. He crawled into the
  underbrush to catch his spent breath, to temporarily restore what little
  strength he had left. He would need it

                                 423
 for the remainder of his journey.
  The dogs were louder now; the shouts of the patrols could be heard no more
  than several hundred yards away. And suddenly the panic returned. What in
  God's name had he been thinking ofl? What was he doingl?
 What was he doing?
  He was lying in the underbrush assuming - assuming he was firee I
 But was he?
  There were men with guns and savage - viciously savage -animals within the
  sound of his voice and the sight of his running body.
  Then suddenly he heard the words, the commands, shouted -screamed in
  anticipation. In rage.
 'Freilassen I Die Hunde freilassen!'
  The dogs were being releasedl The handlers thought their quarry was
  cornered! The dogs were unleashed to tear the quarry apart I
  He saw the beams of light come over the small hill before he saw the
  animals. Then the dogs were silhouetted as they streaked over the ridge and
  down the incline. Five, eight, a dozen racing, monstrous forms stampeding
  toward the hated object of their nostrils; growing nearer, panicked into
  wanting, needing the wild conclusion of teeth into flesh.
  David was mesmerized - and sickened - by the terrible sight that followed.
  The whole area lit up like a flashing diadem; crackling, hissing sounds of
  electricity filled the air. Dog after dog crashed into the high wire fence.
  Short fur caught fire; horrible, prolonged, screeching yelps of animal
  deaths shattered the night.
  In alarm or terror or both, shots were fired from the ridge. Men ran in all
  directions - some to the dogs and the fence, some to the flanks, most away
  in retreat.
  David crawled out of the brush and started running into the forest.
 He was free I
  The prison that was Habichtsnest confined his pursuers ... but he was free
  I
 He held his stomach and ran into the darkness.

 The highway was bordered by sand and loose gravel. He

 424
 stumbled out of the woods and fell on the sharp, tiny stones. His vision
 blurred; nothing stayed level; his throat was dry, his mouth rancid with the
 vomit of fear. He realized that he could not get up. He could not stand.
  He saw an automobile far in the distance, to his right. West. It was
  traveling at high speed; the headlights kept flashing. Off
 . on, off ... on. On, on, on ... off, off, off, interspersed.
 It was a signal!
 But he could not stand! He could not rise I
  And then he heard his name. Shouted in unison through open windows, by
  several voices. In unison I As a chant might be sung I
 '. . . Spaulding, Spaulding, Spaulding. . . .'
 The car was about to pass him! He could not get up!
 He reached into his belt and yanked out the Miger.
  He fired it twice, barely possessing the strength to pull the trigger.
 With the second shot ... all was blackness.

  He felt the gentle fingers around his wound, felt the vibrations of the
  moving automobile.
 He opened his eyes.
  Asher Feld was looking down at him; his head was in Feld's lap. The Jew
  smiled.
  'Everything will be answered. Let the doctor sew you up. We must patch you
  together quickly.'
  David raised his head as Feld held his neck. A second man, a young man, was
  also in the back seat, bending over his stomach; Spaulding's legs were
  stretched over the young man's knees. The man held gauze and pincers in his
  hands.
  'There will be only minor pain,' he said in that same bastardized British
  accent David had heard so often. 'I think you've had enough of that. You're
  localized.'
 'I'm whatT
  'Simple Novocain,' replied the doctor. 'I'll retie the stitches here; your
  arm is filled with an antibiotic - refined in a Jerusalem laboratory,
  incidentally.' The young man smiled.
 'What? Where.. .'
  'There isn't time,' interrupted Feld quietly, urgently. 'We're on our way
  to Mendarro. The plane is waiting. There'll be no interference.'
 'You gqt the designs?'

                                 425
  'Chained to the staircase, Lisbon. We did not expect such accommodation. We
  thought probably the balcony, perhaps an upper floor. Our invasion was
  swift, thanks be to God. Rhinemann's troops came swiftly. Not swiftly
  enough.... Good work, that staircase. How did you manage iff
  David smiled through the 'minor pain.' It was difficult to talk. 'Because
  ... no one wanted the blueprints out of his sight. Isn't that funnyT
 'I'm glad you think so. You'll need that quality.'
  'What?... Jean?'Spaulding started to rise from the awkward position. Feld
  restrained his shoulders, the doctor his midsection.
  'No, colonel. There are no concerns for Mrs.Cameron or the physicist. They
  will, no doubt, be flown out of Buenos Aires in the morning.... And the
  coastal blackout will be terminated within minutes. The radar screens will
  pick up the trawler. . . .'
  David held up his hand, stopping the Jew. He took several breaths in order
  to speak. 'Reach FMF. Tell them the rendezvous is scheduled for
  approximately ... four hours ... from the time the trawler left Ocho Calle.
  Estimate the maximum speed of the trawler ... semicircle the diameter ...
  follow that line.'
 'Well done,' said Asher Feld. 'We'll get word to them.'
  The young doctor had finished. He leaned over and spoke pleasantly.
  'All things considered, these patches are as good as you'd get at Bethesda.
  Better than the job someone did on your right shoulder; that was awful. You
  can sit up. Easy, now.'
  David had forgotten. The British medic in the Azores -centuries ago - had
  taken a lot of criticism from his professional brothers. Misdirected; his
  orders had been to get the American officer out of LaJes Field within the
  hour.
  Spaulding inched his way stiffly into a sitting position, aided gently by
  the two Haganah men.
  'Rhinemann is dead,' he said simply. 'Rhinemann the pig is gone. There'll
  be no more negotiations. Tell your people.'
 'Thank you.' said Asher Feld.
  They drove in silence for several minutes. The searchlights of the small
  airfield could be seen now; they were shafting their beams into the night
  sky.
  Feld spoke. 'The designs are in the aircraft. Our men are standing
  guard.... I'm sorry you have to fly out tonight. It would be simpler if the
  pilot went alone. But that's not possible.'

 426
 -it,s what I was sent down here for.'
  'It's a bit more complicated, I'm afraid. You've been through a great deal,
  you've been wounded severely. By all rights, you should be hospitalized....
  But that will have to wait.'
  Oh?' David understood that Feld had something to say that even this
  pragmatic Jew found difficult to put into words. 'You'd better tell me. .
  . .'
  'You'll have to deal with this in your own way, colonel,' interrupted Feld.
  'You see ... the men in Washington do not expect you on that plane. They've
  ordered your execution.'

 i

 I

 i

                                     427
 43

 Brigadier General Alan Swanson, lately of the War Department, had committed
 suicide. Those who knew him said the pressures of his job, the immense
 logistics he was called upon to expedite daily, had become too much for this
 dedicated, patriotic officer. They also served who, far behind the lines,
 primed the machinery of war with all the selfless energy they possessed.
  In Fairfax, Virginia, at the huge, security-conscious compound that held
  the secrets of Allied Central Intelligence, a lieutenant colonel named Ira
  Barden disappeared. Simply disappeared; substance one day, vapor the next.
  With him went a number Of highly classified files from the vaults. What
  bewildered those who knew about them was the information these files
  contained. In the main they were personal dossiers of ranking Nazis
  involved with the concentration camps. Not the sort of inteffigence data a
  defector would steal. Ira Barden's own dossier was pulled and placed in the
  archives. Regrets were sent to his family; Lieutenant Colonel Barden was
  MOA. Missing while on assignment.'Strange, but the family never insisted
  upon an investigation. Which was their right, after all.... Strange.
  A cryptographer in Lisbon, a man named Marshall, was found in the hills of
  the Basque country. He had been wounded in a border skirmish and nursed
  back to health by partisans. The reports of his death had been greatly
  exaggerated as intended. German Intelligence was onto him. For the time
  being, however,

 M
 he was confined to the embassy and returned to duty. He had sent a personal
 message to an old friend he thought might be concerned; to Colonel David
 Spaulding. The message was amusing, in an oddly phrased way. He wanted
 Spaulding to know there were no hard feelings about the colonel's vacation
 in South America. The cryp had taken a vacation, too. There were codes that
 had to be broken - if they could be found. They both should plan better in
 the future; they should get together on vacations. Good friends should
 always do that.
  There was another cryptographer. In Buenos Aires. One Robert Ballard. The
  State Department was very high on Ballard these days. The Buenos Aires
  cryptographer had spotted an enormous error in a scrambler and had taken
  the personal initiative to not only question it, but to refuse to
  authenticate it. Through a series of grave misunderstandings and faulty
  intelligence, an order for the on-sight execution of Colonel Spaulding had
  been issued by the War Department. Code: treason. Defection to the enemy
  while on assignment. It took a great deal of courage on Ballard's part to
  refuse to acknowledge so high priority a command. And State was never
  averse to embarrassing the Department of War.
  The aerophysicist, Eugene Lyons, Ph.D., was flown back to Pasadena. Things
  ... things had happened to Doctor Lyons. He was offered and accepted a
  lucrative, meaningful contract with Sperry Rand's Pacific laboratories, the
  finest in the country. He had entered a Los Angeles hospital for throat
  surgery - prognosis: sixty-forty in his favor, if the will was there.... It
  was. And there was something else about Lyons. On the strength of his
  contract he had secured a bank loan and was building an oddly shaped,
  Mediterranean-style house in a peaceful section of the San Fernando Valley.
 Mrs. Jean Cameron returned to the Eastern Shore of Maryland
  for two days. The State Department, at the personal behest of Ambassador
  Henderson Granville in Buenos Aires, issued a letter of commendation to
  Mrs. Cameron. Although her status was not official, her presence at the
  embassy had been most valuable. She had kept open lines of communication
  with diverse factions within the neutral city; lines of communication often
  jeopardized by diplomatic necessities. Officials at State decided to
  present Mrs. Cameron with the letter in a small ceremony, presided over by
  a prominent undersecretary. State was somewhat

                                429
   surprised to learn that Mrs. Cameron could not be reached at her family
   home on Maryland's Eastern Shore. She was in Washington. At the Shoreharn
   Hotel. The Shoreham was where Colonel David Spaulding was registered....
   More than a coincidence, perhaps, but in no way would it interfere with
   the letter of commendation. Not these days. Not in Washington.

    Colonel David Spaulding looked up at the light brown stone and square
    pillars of the War Department. He pulled at his army overcoat, adjusting
    the heavy cloth over the sling on his arm underneath. It was the last
    time he would wear a uniform or enter this building. He started up the
    steps.
    It was curious, he mused. He had been back for nearly three weeks, and
    every day, every night he had thought about the words he was going to say
    this afternoon. The fury, the revulsion ... the waste. Resentments for
    a lifetime. But life would go on and in some curious way the violent
    emotions had crested. He felt only a weariness now, an exhaustion that
    demanded that he get it over with and return to something of value.
    Somewhere.
    With Jean.
    He knew the men of'Tortugas'could not be reached with words. Words of
    conscience had lost meaning for such men. As they had so often lost
    meaning for him. That, too, was one of their crimes: they had stolen ...
    decency. From so many. For so little.
    Spaulding left his over-coat in the outer office and walked into the
    small conference room. They were there, the men of 'Tortugas.9
    Walter Kendall.
    Howard Oliver.
    Jonathan Craft.
    None got up from the table. All were silent. Each stared at him. The
    looks were mixtures of hate and fear -so often inseparable.
    They were prepared to fight, to protest ... to salvage. They had held
    their discussions, they had arrived at strategies.
    They were so obvious, thought David.
    He stood at the end of the table, reached into his pocket and took out
    a handful of carbonado diamonds. He threw them on the hard surface of the
    table; the tiny nuggets clattered and rolled.
    The men of 'Tortugas' remained silent. They shifted their

   430

 14L
 eyes to the stones, then back to Spaulding.
  'The Koening transfer,' said David. 'The tools for Peenemfinde. I wanted
  you to see them.'
  Howard Oliver exhaled a loud, impatient breath and spoke in practiced
  condescension. 'We have no idea what. . .'
  'I know,' interrupted Spaulding firmly. 'You're busy men. So let's dispense
  with unnecessary conversation; as a matter of fact, there's no reason for
  you to talk at all. Just listen. I'll. be quick. And you'll always know
  where to reach me.'
  David put his right hand into his arm sling and pulled out an envelope. It
  was an ordinary business envelope; sealed, thick. He placed it carefully on
  the table and continued.
  'This is the history of "Tortugas". From Geneva to Buenos Aires. From
  Peenemflnde to a place called Ocho Calle. From Pasadena to a street ...
  Terraza Verde. It's an ugly story. It raises questions I'm not sure should
  be raised right now. Perhaps, ever. For the sake of so much sanity ...
  everywhere.
  'But that's up to you here at this table.... There are several copies of
  this ... this indictment. I won't tell you where and you'll never be able
  to find out. But they exist. And they'll be released in a way that will
  result in simultaneous headlines in New York and London and Berlin. Unless
  you do exactly as I say....
  'Don't protest, Mr. Kendall. It's useless.... This war is won. The killing
  will go on for a while but we've won it. Peenernfinde hasn't been idle;
  they've scoured the earth. A few thousand rockets will be built, a few
  thousand killed. Nowhere near what they conceived of. Or needed. And our
  aircraft will blow up half of Germany; we'll be the victors now. And that9s
  how it should be. What must come after the killing is the healing. And you
  gentlemen will dedicate the rest of your natural lives to it. You will
  sever all connections with your companies; you will sell all your holdings
  above a bare subsistence level - as defined by the national economic
  guidelines - donating the proceeds to charities - anonymously but with
  substantiation. And you will offer your considerable talents to a grateful
  government - in exchange for government salaries.
  'For the rest of your lives you will be skilled government clerks. And that
  is all you'll be.
  'You have sixty days to comply with these demands. Inciden. tally, since
  you ordered ny execution once, you should know

                                431
 that part of our contract is my well-being. And the well-being of those
 close to me, of course.
  'Lastly, because it occurred to me that you might wish to recruit others
  under this contract, the indictment makes it clear that you could not have
  created "Tortugas" alone.... Name who you will. The world is in a sorry
  state, gentlemen. It needs all the help it can get.'
  Spaulding reached down for the envelope, picked it up and dropped it on the
  table. The slap of paper against wood drew all eyes to the spot.
 'Consider everything.' said David.
  The men of 'Tortugas' stared in silence at the envelope. David turned,
  walked to the door and let himself out.

  February in Washington. The air was chilly, the winds were of winter but
  the snows would not come.
  Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding dodged the cars as he crossed Wisconsin
  Avenue to the Shoreharn Hotel. He was unaware that his overcoat was open;
  he was oblivious to the cold.
  It was over! He was finished I There would be scars -deep scars - but with
  time....
 With Jean....

 432