The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel by Robert Ludlum
“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.”
“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 Altmüller 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 by the Führer’s trust in you, conveyed through this office. You have spoken to no one of the Geneva trip?”
“No one. The Führer’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.” Altmüller glanced at Dietricht. Their eyes met for, the briefest instant. “The Führer would be upset if he thought. I inconvenienced you.”
“Oh, very well. I suppose it would be easier. And we don’t want the Führer upset.” Dietricht struggled out of the chair as Altmüller rose and walked around the desk.
“Thank you, Herr Dietricht,” said the Unterstaatssekretär, 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 Altmüller.” 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 Altmüller.
The true manipulator.
DECEMBER 15, 1943, 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.
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, the 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 faith?” Kendall smirked and winced and grinned at the Packard executive. “You’re too goddamned much. Good faith!”
“They might not give us the proper designs,” continued Craft. “They could pass off substitutes, worthless substitutes!”
“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 keep 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 goddamned 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 enemy.”
“Which enemy?” 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 wins?” 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 for?”
“What difference does it make?” 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 mines?”
Oliver was deep in thought. He blinked and raised his eyes. “Yes. Koening. New York offices.”
“How did you put it?”
“That it was top secret, War Department approval. The authorization would come from Swanson’s office but even he wasn’t cleared.”
“They bought that?” 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. I 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 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.
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 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 t
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, GERMAN
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.