The first choice would be denied him. The brigadier, Swanson, was paranoid
on the subject of the gyroscopic designs. And Rhinemann. There’d be no out
of strategy.
That left the second: the identity of those behind the enigma.
A feeling swept over him, one he had not experienced in several years: the
fear of sudden inadequacy. He was confronted with an extraordinary problem
for which there was no pat – or complicated – solution in the north
country. No unraveling that came with moves or countermoves whose
strategies he had mastered in Basque and Navarre.
He was suddenly in another war. One he was not familiar with; one that
raised doubts about himself.
He saw an unoccupied taxi, its roof light dimly lit, as if embar-
209
rassed to announce its emptiness. He looked up at the street sign; he was on
Sheridan Square – it accounted for the muted sounds of jazz that floated up
from cellars and surged down crowded side streets. The Village was warming
up for another evening.
He raised his hand for the taxi; the driver did not see him. He started
running as the cab proceeded up the street to the comer traffic light.
Suddenly he realized that someone else on the other side of the square was
rushing toward the empty taxi; the man was closer to it than Spaulding, his
right hand was gesturing.
It was now terribly important to David that he reach the car first. He
gathered speed and ran into the street, dodging pedestrians, momentarily
blocked by two automobiles that were bumper to bumper. He spread his hands
from hood to trunk and jumped over into the middle of the street and
continued racing toward his objective.
Objective.
He reached the taxi no more than half a second after the other man.
Goddamn it! It was the obstruction of the two automobiles!
Obstruction.
He slammed his hand on the door panel, preventing the other man from
pulling it open. The man looked up at Spaulding’s face, at Spaulding’s
eyes.
‘Christ, fella. I’ll wait for another one,’ the man said quickly.
David was embarrassed. What the hell was he doing?
The doubts? The goddamned doubts.
‘No, really, I’m terribly sorry.’ He mumbled the words, smiling
apologetically. ‘You take it. I’m in no hurry…. Sorry again.,
He turned and walked rapidly across the street into the crowds of Sheridan
Square.
He could have had the taxi. That was the important thing.
Jesus! The treadmill never let up.
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Part Two
22
1944
BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA
The Pan American Clipper left Tampa at eight in the morning, with scheduled
coastline stops at Caracas, Rio Luis, Salvador, and Rio de Janeiro before
the final twelve hundred miles to Buenos Aires. David was listed on the
passenger invoice as Mr. Donald Scanlan of Cincinnati, Ohio; occupation:
mining surveyor. It was a temporary cover for the journey only. ‘Donald
Scanlan’ would disappear after the Clipper landed at the Aeroparque in
Buenos Aires. The initials were the same as his own for the simple reason
that it was so easy to forget a monogrammed gift or the first letter of a
hastily written signature. Especially if one was preoccupied or tired … or
afraid.
Swanson had been close to panic when David reached him from the Mitchell
Field Operations Room in New York. As a source control, Swanson was about
as decisive as a bewildered bird dog. Any deviation from Kendall’s schedule
– Kendall’s instructions, really – was abhorrent to him. And Kendall wasn’t
even leaving for Buenos Aires until the following morning.
David had not wasted complicated explanations on the general. As far as he
was concerned, three attempts had been made on his life – at least, they
could be so interpreted – and if the general wanted his ‘services’ in
Buenos Aires, he’d better get down there while he was still in one piece
and functioning.
Were the attempts – the attacks – related to Buenos Aires? Swanson had
asked the question as though he were afraid to
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name the Argentine city.
David was honest: there was no way to tell. The answer was in Buenos Aires.
It was reasonable to consider the possibility, but not to assume it.
‘That’s what Pace said,’ had been Swanson’s reply. ‘Consider, don’t
assume.’
‘Ed was generally right about such things.’
‘He said when you operated in Lisbon, you were often involved in messy
situations in the field.’
‘True. I doubt that Ed knew the particulars, though. But he was right in
what he was trying to tell you. There are a lot of people in Portugal and
Spain who’d rather see me dead than alive. Or at least they think they
would. They could never be sure. Standard procedure, general.’
There had been a prolonged pause on the Washington line. Finally, Swanson
had said the words. ‘You realize, Spaulding, that we may have to replace
you.’
‘Of course. You can do so right now, if you like.’ David had been sincere.
He wanted very much to return to Lisbon. To go into the north country. To
Valdero’s. To find out about a cryp named Marshall.
‘No…. No, everything’s too far along. The designs. They’re the important
thing. Nothing else matters.’
The remainder of the conversation concerned the details of transportation,
American and Argentine currency, replenishing of a basic wardrobe, and
luggage. Logistics which were not in the general’s frame of reference and
for which David took responsibility. The final command – request – was
delivered, not by the general, but by Spaulding.
Fairfax was not to be informed of his whereabouts. Nor was anyone else for
that matter, except the embassy in Buenos Aires; but make every effort to
keep the information from Fairfax.
Why? Did Spaulding think …
‘There’s a leak in Fairfax, general. You might pass that on to the White
House cellars.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘Tell that to Ed Pace’s widow.’
David looked out the Clipper window. The pilot, moments ago, had informed
the passengers that they were passing over the huge coastal lake of Mirim
in Uruguay. Soon they’d be over Montevideo, forty minutes from Buenos
Aires.
212
Buenos Aires. The unf~cused picture, the bluffed figures of Leslie Jenner
Hawkwood, the cryptographer Marshall, a man named Franz Altmillier; strange
but committed men on Fiftysecond and Thirty-eighth streets – in a darkened
doorway, in a building after office hours, on a staircase. A man in an
elevator who was so unafraid to die. An enemy who displayed enormous
courage … or misguided zealousness. A maniac.
The answer to the enigma was in Buenos Aires, less than an hour away. The
city was an hour away, the answer much longer. But no more than three weeks
if his instincts were right. By the time the gyroscopic designs were
delivered.
He would begin slowly, as he always did with a new field problem. Trying
first to melt into the surroundings, absorb his cover; be comfortable,
facile in his relationships. It shouldn’t be difficult. His cover was
merely an “tension of Lisbon’s: the wealthy trilingual attach6 whose
background, parents, and prewar associations in the fashionable centers of
Europe made him a desirable social buffer for any ambassador’s dinner
table. He was an attractive addition to the delicate world of a neutral
capital; and if there were those who thought someone, somewhere, had used
money and influence to secure him such combat-exempt employment, so be it.
It was denied emphatically, but not vehemently; there was a difference.
The ‘extension’ for Buenos Aires was direct and afforded him top-secret
classification. He was acting as a liaison between New York-London banking
circles and the German ex-patriot Erich Rhinemann. Washington approved, of
course; postwar financing in areas of reconstruction and industrial
rebuilding were going to be international problems. Rhinemann could not be
overlooked, not in the civilized marble halls of Berne and Geneva.
David’s thoughts returned to the book on his lap. It was the second of six
volumes Eugene Lyons had chosen for him.
‘Donald Scanlan’ went through the Aeroparque customs without difficulty.
Even the embassy liaison, who checked in all Americans, seemed unaware of
his identity.
His single suitcase in hand, David walked to the taxi station and stood on
the cement platform looking at the drivers standing beside their vehicles.
He wasn’t prepared to assume the name of Spaulding or to be taken directly
to the embassy just yet. He wanted to assure himself that ‘Donald Scanlan’
was accepted for
213
what he was – a mining surveyor, nothing more, that there was no unusual
interest in such a man. For if there were, it would point to David
Spaulding, Military Intelligence, Fairfax and Lisbon graduate.
He selected an obese, pleasant-looking driver in the fourth cab from the
front of the line. There were protests from those in front, but David
pretended not to understand. ‘Donald Scanlan’ might know a smattering of
Spanish, but certainly not the epithets employed by the disgruntled drivers
cheated out of a fare.