The Rhinemann Exchange: A Novel by Robert Ludlum
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.
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 materials-logistics 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.
Which meant, of course, that there were eyes unseen and whispers unheard, directing their attention on him.
The door opened. Heinrich Stoltz stood in the frame.
“Welcome to Habichtsnest, Herr Spaulding. The Hawk’s Lair; appropriately—if theatrically—named, is it not?”
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.”
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 Río Luján. 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 extending down to the river.
David absorbed the splendor, expecting his first view of Rhinemann. 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.
Rhinemann 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 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 prächtig. 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 the 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 Stoltz before he hung up.”
Rhinemann looked over at an unperturbed Stoltz, 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.”
“If I was followed, you were doing the following.”
“After the fact, colonel; I don’t deny it. Before, we had no reason.”
Rhinemann’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 Botschaftssekretär. 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 attaché. 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 at up 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 expatriate, hardly concealing his irritati
“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?”
“The 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 …?” Rhinemann’s voice rose, his hand 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 they?”
“I assume the designs have been gotten out?”
“They have.”
“En route?”
“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 erroneous information, Herr 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 Pan American Clipper. We spoke subsequently.”
“Apparently he spoke to a lot of people. Is there a point to the change?”
“Schedules may be slowed or accelerated as the necessities dictate.…”
“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, please?” interjected Rhinemann.
“In a moment,” 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 authentic ones will be radioed only when Lyons verifies the designs.”
“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 Vorsichtsmassnahme. 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 be there.”
“Agreed.” David crushed out his cigarette. “Tomorrow evening, the first set of prints. The remaining within twenty-four 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 Córdoba. Good night.”
“Altmüller!” Rhinemann roared. “An idiot! A fool!”
“I don’t understand,” Stoltz said.
“Altmüller.…” 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 Altmüller 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 Altmüller.” 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 railing and looked into the distance. “There is one way to be sure,” he said quietly. “Radio Berlin. I want Altmüller in Buenos Aires. There will be no exchange otherwise.”
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, señor?” said the driver, turning his head slightly, not taking his eyes off the onrushing road. “I’m afraid I cannot do so. Señor Rhinemann’s orders were to bring you to the apartment house on Córdoba. 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 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? Part of the unfocused picture?
No.
“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! he thought. Was there really a connection?
“Señores!”
The driver s
“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.
“Sí.… 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 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.