The Rhinemann Exchange (30 page)

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.

From San Telmo the driver doubled back into the inner city and began the tour from the banks of the Río 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 Fé toward the Palermo. No sight in Buenos Aires was as beautiful as the Palermo.

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
.”

Ambassador Henderson Granville allowed the new attaché 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.… Ramón 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 junta?”

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 goose-stepping 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.”

“What maintains the neutrality?”

“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 picture?”

“A complicated one.”

“I daresay.… We have a maxim here that serves quite well. 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 expected?” 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; you’ve 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.”

“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.…”

“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. I’ll 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 names.”

“Yes, of course.” Granville came around the desk and walked Spaulding to the door. “Chat with my secretary for a few minutes. 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 smiled once more and once more there was no humor conveyed. “Yes, of course. I was sure there was a reason.”

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
here
?”

“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 here?”

“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 man. She generally goes with him to the diplobores.”

“The what?”

“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 waters of the Río 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
man
?” Ballard laughed loud and good-naturedly. “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.”

“Why?”

“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.
Granville?”

“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.

“Well, she’s qualified.”

“What?” David was looking at a rococo-styled corner 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 he’d stuck with it.… Come on, I’ll show you the office Granville assigned you. Maintenance should have it tidied up by now,” Ballard smiled.