The Rhinemann Exchange (16 page)

“Is he any good?” 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 with a way to keep his uniform clean after all. Maybe I’ll send him a bill.”

He wants to keep that 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 fiascos. 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.

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 doublelocked 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.”

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.

Altmüller stared at the unbroken seal 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 seal 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, Altmüller 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, Altmüller riveted his attention on the envelope. It was from Erich Rhinemann.

He sliced open the top edge. The letter was written by hand, in Rhinemann’s barely decipherable script.

How delicately unsubtle was Rhinemann!… 
commitment to the Reich … associates in Berne … marked signs of fatigue … to be expected.
…

 … 
a greater monument than the man.
…

Rhinemann spelled out his abilities, his financial power, his “legitimate” concerns and his unequivocal commitment to Germany. By including,
juxtaposing
these factors, he elevated himself above even the Führer. And by so doing,
condemned Hitler—for the greater glory of the Reich. No doubt Rhinemann had photostats made of his letter; Rhinemann would start a very complete file of the Buenos Aires operation. And one day he would use it to maneuver himself to the top of postwar Germany. Perhaps of all Europe. For he would have the weapon to guarantee his acceptance.

In victory
or
defeat. Unswerving devotion or, conversely, blackmail of such proportions the Allies would tremble at the thought of it.

So be it, thought Altmüller. He had no brief with Rhinemann. Rhinemann was an expert at whatever he entered into. He was methodical to the point of excess; conservative in progress—only in the sense of mastering all details before going forward. Above everything, he was boldly imaginative.

Altmüller’s eyes fell on Rhinemann’s words:

I beg you to be more precise in future communications.

Franz smiled. Rhinemann was right. He
had
been obscure. But for a sound reason: he wasn’t sure where he was going; where he was being led, perhaps. He only knew that the crates of carbonado diamonds had to be thoroughly examined, and that would take time. More time than Rhinemann realized if the information he had received from Peenemünde was accurate. According to Peenemünde, it would be a simple matter for the Americans to pack thousands of low-quality bortz that, to the inexperienced eye, would be undetectable. Stones that would crack at the first touch to steel.

If the operation was in the hands of the British, that would be the expected maneuver.

And even the Americans had decent Intelligence manipulators.
If
the Intelligence services were intrinsic to the exchange. Yet Altmüller doubted their active involvement. The Americans were governmentally hypocritical. They would make demands of their industrialists and expect those demands to be met. However, they would close their eyes to the methods; the unsophisticated Puritan streak was given extraordinary lip service in Washington.

Such children. Yet angry, frustrated children were dangerous.

The crates would have to be examined minutely.

In Buenos Aires.

And once accepted, no risks could be taken that the crates would be blown out of the sky or the water. So it seemed logical to ask Rhinemann what avenues of escape were available. For somewhere, somehow, the crates would have to make rendezvous with the most logical method of transportation back to Germany.

Submarine.

Rhinemann would understand; he might even applaud the precision of future communications.

Altmüller got up from his desk and stretched. He walked absently around his office, trying to rid his back of the cramps resulting from sitting too long. He approached the leather armchair in which Johann Dietricht had sat several days ago.

Dietricht was dead. The expendable, misfit messenger had been found in a bloodsoaked bed, the stories of the evening’s debauchery so demeaning that it was decided to bury them and the body without delay.

Altmüller wondered if the Americans had the stomach for such decisions.

He doubted it.

Swanson stood silently in front of the heavy steel door inside the Quonset structure. The security lieutenant was on the wall intercom for only the length of time it took for him to give the general’s name. The lieutenant nodded, replaced the phone, saluted the general for a second time. The heavy steel door clicked and Swanson knew he could enter.

The Fairfax commander was alone, as Swanson had ordered. He was standing to the right of his table-desk, a file folder in his hand. He saluted his superior.

“Good morning, general.”

“Morning. You worked fast; I appreciate it.”

“It may not be everything you want but it’s the best we can come up with.… Sit down, sir. I’ll describe the qualifications. If they meet with your approval, the file’s yours. If not, it’ll go back into the vaults.”

Swanson walked to one of the straight-backed chairs in
front of the colonel’s desk and sat down. He did so with a touch of annoyance. Ed Pace, as so many of his subordinates in Clandestine Operations, functioned as though he were responsible to no one but God; and even He had to be cleared by Fairfax. It struck Swanson that it would be much simpler if Pace simply gave him the file and let him read it for himself.

On the other hand, Fairfax’s indoctrination had at its core the possibility—however remote—that any pair of eyes might be captured by the enemy. A man could be in Washington one week, Anzio or the Solomons the next. There was logic in Pace’s methods; a geographical network of underground agents could be exposed with a single break in the security chain.

Still, it was annoying as hell. Pace seemed to enjoy his role; he was humorless, thought Swanson.

“The subject under consideration is a proven field man. He’s acted as independently as anyone in one of our touchiest locations. Languages: acceptable fluency. Deportment and cover: extremely flexible. He moves about the civilian spectrum facilely, from embassy teacups to bricklayers’ saloons—he’s very mobile and convincing.”

“You’re coming up with a positive print, colonel.”

“If I am, I’m sorry. He’s valuable where he is. But you haven’t heard the rest. You may change your mind.”

“Go on.”

“On the negative side, he’s not army. I don’t mean he’s a civilian—he holds the rank of captain, as a matter of fact, but I don’t think he’s ever used it. What I’m saying is that he’s never operated within a chain of command. He set up the network; he
is
the command. He has been for nearly four years now.”

“Why is that negative?”

“There’s no way to tell how he reacts to discipline. Taking orders.”

“There won’t be much latitude for deviation. It’s cut and dried.”

“Very well.… A second negative; he’s not aeronautical.…”

“That
is
important!” Swanson spoke harshly; Pace was wasting his time. The man in Buenos Aires had to understand what the hell was going on; perhaps more than understand.