The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel by Robert Ludlum
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.
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 Sixty-second 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.”
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 corner, waiting for her escort—an 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. “The Christmas gifts for Paul. Leslie …”
“That’s why I’m apologizing. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. 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.”
“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 corner 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 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. Leslie and Paul Bonner had been more than an “item.” They had reached—again, according to Cindy—the stage where the Bonners 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 horns 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.
“What?” 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 say?”
“I wished you a Happy New Year,” said the man. “Needless to say, I’ve been following you. I overtook you several minutes ago.”
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 want?”
“Welcome you home, to begin with. You’ve been away a long time.”
“Thank you.… Now, if you don’t mind …”
“I mind! Don’t move, colonel! Just stand there as if you were 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 it?”
“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 someone?”
“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 Lajes. 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 curb, hiding the pistol under the cloth of his coat. “Heed us, colonel. There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmüller. They are finished!”
“Wait a minute! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Altmüller!”
“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.
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 a man he had worked with in the most classified operations out of Portugal and Spain.
Marshall. Lisbon’s master cryptographer.
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 Altmüller?… What was the first name?… Franz. Franz Altmüller.
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! He hadn’t been mistaken!
“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 Pace?”
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 four-zero and this is a four-zero priority 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.”
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 driver climbed out of the car and signaled the noncoms to let Spaulding through; 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 football 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.”
“How did it happen?”
“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.”
“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 Year’s, isn’t it?” said Barden.
“I’ve seen better,” Spaulding replied.
“Do you want to go over what happened to you?”
“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.”
“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 Street! 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! 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.’ ”
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.
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 Sixty-second 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.”
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 corner, waiting for her escort—an 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. “The Christmas gifts for Paul. Leslie …”
“That’s why I’m apologizing. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. 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.”
“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 corner 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 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. Leslie and Paul Bonner had been more than an “item.” They had reached—again, according to Cindy—the stage where the Bonners 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 horns 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.
“What?” 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 say?”
“I wished you a Happy New Year,” said the man. “Needless to say, I’ve been following you. I overtook you several minutes ago.”
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 want?”
“Welcome you home, to begin with. You’ve been away a long time.”
“Thank you.… Now, if you don’t mind …”
“I mind! Don’t move, colonel! Just stand there as if you were 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 it?”
“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
“All right. Two steps. Now no one can walk between us.… Are you expecting someone?”
“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 Lajes. 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 curb, hiding the pistol under the cloth of his coat. “Heed us, colonel. There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmüller. They are finished!”
“Wait a minute! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Altmüller!”
“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.
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 a man he had worked with in the most classified operations out of Portugal and Spain.
Marshall. Lisbon’s master cryptographer.
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 Altmüller?… What was the first name?… Franz. Franz Altmüller.
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! He hadn’t been mistaken!
“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 Pace?”
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 four-zero and this is a four-zero priority 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.”
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 driver climbed out of the car and signaled the noncoms to let Spaulding through; 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 football 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.”
“How did it happen?”
“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.”
“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 Year’s, isn’t it?” said Barden.
“I’ve seen better,” Spaulding replied.
“Do you want to go over what happened to you?”
“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.”
“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 Street! 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! 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.’ ”