‘No. The man will be told that Rhinemann made a deal for the designs out of
Peenemilnde. We’ll say Rhinemann brought in the German underground. For
escape routings.’
‘Full of holes! Since when does the underground work for a price? Why would
they go three thousand miles out of their way? or work with Rhinemann?’
‘Because they need him and he needs them. Rhinemann was exiled as a Jew; it
was a mistake. He rivaled Krupp. There are many in German industry still
loyal to him; and he maintains offices in Berne…. Our crisis in
gyroscopics is no secret, we
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know that. Rhinemann would use that knowledge; make deals in Berne.’
‘Why even bring in the underground?’
‘I have my own reasons. They’re not your concern.’ Swanson spoke curtly,
clipping his words. It crossed his mind – fleetingly – that he was getting
overtired again. He had to watch that; his strength was hollow when he was
tired. And now he had to be convincing. He had to make Kendall obey without
question. The important thing was to get Spaulding within reach of Erich
Rhinemann. Rhinemann was the target.
The brigadier watched the filthy man in front of him. It sickened him to
think that such a human slug was so necessary to the moment. Or was it, he
wondered, that he was reduced to using such a man? Using him and then
ordering his execution. It made their worlds closer.
‘All right, Mr. Kendall, I’ll spell it out. . . . The man I’ve picked for
Buenos Aires is one of the best Intelligence agents we’ve got. He’ll bring
those designs back. But I don’t want to take the slightest chance that he
could learn of the diamond transfer. Rhinemann operating alone is suspect;
the inclusion of the German underground puts it above suspicion.’
Swanson had done his homework; everyone spoke of the French and Balkan
undergrounds, but the German underground had worked harder and more
effectively, with greater sacrifice, than all the others combined. The
former man in Lisbon would know that. It would make the Buenos Aires
assignment palatable and legitimate.
‘Wait a minute…. Jesus Christ! Wait a minute.’ Kendall’s disagreeable
expression abruptly changed. It was as if suddenly – with reluctant
enthusiasm – he had found merit in something Swanson said. ‘That could be
a good device.’
:What do you mean, device?’
Just that. You say you’re going to use it for this agent. The underground’s
above suspicion and all that shit…. O.K., let’s go further. You just
spelled out the guarantee we have to give.’
‘What guarantee?’
‘That the shipment of Koening diamonds can get out of Buenos Aires. It’s
going to be the ball-breaker…. Let me ask you a couple of questions. And
give me straight answers.’
The sewer rat, thought Swanson, looking at the excited, disheveled
figure-man. ‘Go ahead.’
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‘This underground. They’ve gotten a lot of people out of Germany, very
important people. I mean everybody knows that.’
‘They’ve- it’s- been very effective.’
‘Does it have any hooks into the German navy?’
‘I imagine so. Allied Central Intelligence would know specifically. . . .
‘
‘But you don’t want to go to them. Or do you?’
‘Out of the question.’
‘But is it possibleT
‘WhatT
‘The German navy, goddamn it! The submarine fleet!’ Kendall was leaning
forward, his eyes now boring into Swanson’s.
‘I would think so. I’m not … not primarily an Intelligence man. The
German underground has an extensive network. I assume it has contacts in
the naval command.’
‘Then it is possible.’
‘Yes, anything’s possible.’ Swanson lowered his voice, turning away from
his own words. ‘This is possible.’
Kendall leaned back in the chair and crushed out his cigarette. He grinned
his unattractive grin and wagged his forefinger at Swanson. ‘Then there’s
your story. Clean as a goddamned whistle and way above any goddamned
suspicion …. While we’re buying those designs, it just so happens that a
German submarine is floating around, ready to surface and bring out one –
even two, if you like – very important defectors. Courtesy of the under-
ground. What better reason for a submarine to surface in hostile waters?
Protected from patrols. . . . Only nobody gets off. Instead, some fresh
cargo gets put on board.’
Swanson tried to assimilate Kendall’s rapidly delivered maneuvers. ‘There’d
be complications …..
‘Wrong! It’s isolated. One has nothing to do with the other! It’s just
talk, anyway.’
Brigadier General Alan Swanson knew when he had met a man more capable in
the field than himself. ‘It’s possible. Radio blackout; Allied Central
instructions.’
Kendall rose from his chair; he spoke softly. ‘Details. I’ll work them out.
. . . And you’ll pay me. Christ, will you pay.’
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13
DECEMBER 27,1943 THE AZORES
The island of Terceira in the Azores, 837 miles due west of Lisbon, was a
familiar stop to the trans-Atlantic pilots flying the southern route to the
United States mainland. As they descended there was always the comfortable
feeling that they would encounter minor traffic to be serviced by efficient
ground crews who allowed them to be rapidly airborne again. Lajes Field was
good duty; those assigned there recognized that and performed well.
Which was why the major in command of the B-17 cargo and personnel carrier
which had a Captain David Spaulding as its single passenger couldn’t
understand the delay. It had begun at descent altitude, fourteen thousand
feet. The Lajes tower had interrupted its approach instructions and ordered
the pilot to enter a holding pattern. The major had objected; there was no
necessity from his point of view. The field was clear. The Lajes tower
radioman agreed with the major but said he was only repeating telephone
instructions from American headquarters in Ponta Delgada on the adjacent
island of Sdo Miguel. Az-Am-HQ gave the orders; apparently it was expecting
someone to meet the plane and that someone hadn’t arrived. The tower would
keep the major posted and, incidentally, was the major carrying some kind
of priority cargo? Just curiosity.
Certainly not. There was no cargo; only a military attach6 named Spaulding
from the Lisbon embassy. One of those god-
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damned diplomatic teaparty boys. The trip was a routine return flight to
Norfolk, and why the hell couldn’t he land?
The tower would keep the major posted.
The B-17 landed at 1300 hours precisely, its holding pattern lasting
twenty-seven minutes.
David got up from the removable seat, held to the deck by clamps, and
stretched. The pilot, an aggressive major who looked roughly thirteen years
old to Spaulding, emerged from the enclosed cockpit and told him a jeep was
outside – or would be outside shortly – to drive the captain off the base.
– ‘I’d like to maintain a decent schedule,’ said the young pilot, addressing
his outranked elder humorlessly. ‘I realize you diplomatic people have a lot
of friends in these social posts, but we’ve got a long lap to fly. Bear it
in mind, please.’
‘I’ll try to keep the polo match down to three chukkers,’ replied David
wearily.
6Yeah, you do that.’ The major turned and walked to the rear of the cabin,
where an air force sergeant had sprung open the cargo hatch used for the
aircraft’s exit. Spaulding followed, wondering who would meet him outside.
‘My name’s Ballantyne, captain,’ said the middle-aged civilian behind the
wheel of the jeep, extending his hand to Spaulding. ‘I’m with
Azores-American. Hop in; we’ll only be a few minutes. We’re driving to the
provost’s house, a few hundred yards beyond the fence.’
David noticed that the guards at the gate did not bother to stop
Ballantyne, they just waved him through. The civilian turned right on the
road paralleling the field and accelerated. In less time than it took to
adequately light a cigarette, the jeep entered the driveway of a one-story
Spanish hacienda and proceeded past the house to what could only be
described as an out-of-place gazebo.
‘Here we are. Come on, captain,’ said Ballantyne getting out, indicating
the screen door of the screened enclosure. ‘My associate, Paul Hollander,
is waiting for us.’
Hollander was another middle-aged civilian. He was nearly bald and wore
steel-rimmed spectacles that gave him an appearance beyond his years. As
with Ballantyne, there was a look of intelligence about him. Both small and
capital L Hollander smiled genuinely.
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‘This is a distinct pleasure, Spaulding. As so many others, I’ve admired
the work of the man in Lisbon.’
Capital I, thought David.
‘Thank you. I’d like to know why I’m not him any longer.’
‘I can’t answer that. Neither can Ballantyne, I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps they thought you deserved a rest,’ offered Ballantyne. ‘Good Lord,
you’ve been there -how long is it now? Three years with no break.’
‘Nearer four,’ answered David. ‘And there were plenty of “breaks”. The
Costa Brava beats the hell out of Palm Beach. I was told that you – I
assume it’s you – have my orders . . . . . I don’t mean to seem impatient