he was good. He had welded together the best network in Europe.
Which was why David was confused. And not a little disturbed, for a reason
he tried not to admit: he needed praise.
There were no buildings of consequence, no extraordinary blueprints turned
into more extraordinary edifices. Perhaps there never would be. He would be
a middle-aged engineer when it was over. A middle-aged engineer who had not
practiced his profession in years, not even in the vast army of the United
States, whose Corps of Engineers was the largest construction crew in
history.
He tried not to think about it.
He crossed the border at Mendoso, where the guards knew him as a rich,
irresponsible expatriot avoiding the risks of war. They accepted his
gratuities and waved him over.
The flight from Valenca to the tiny airfield outside Lisbon was hampered by
heavy rains. It was necessary to put down twice – at Agueda and Pombal –
before the final leg. He was met by an embassy vehicle; the driver, a
cryptographer named Marshall, was the only man in the embassy who knew his
real function.
‘Rotton weather, isn,t itr said the code man, settling behind the wheel as
David threw his pack in the back seat. ‘I don’t envy you up in a crate like
that. Not in this rain.’
124
.’Those grass pilots fly so low you could jump down. I woffy more about the
trees.’
‘I’d just worry.’ Marshall started up and drove toward the broken-down
pasture gate that served as the field’s entrance. On the road he switched
on his high beams; it was not yet six o’clock, but the sky was dark,
headlights necessary. ‘I thought you might flatter me and ask why an expert
of my standing was acting as chauffeur. I’ve been here since four. Go on,
ask me. It was a hell of a long wait.’
Spaulding grinned. ‘Jesus, Marsh, I just figured you were trying to get in
my good graces. So I’d take you north on the next trip. Or have I been made
a brigadierT
‘You’ve been made something, David.’ Marshall spoke seriously. ‘I took the
D.C. message myself. It was that high up in the codes: eyes-only, senior
cryp.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Spaulding softly, relieved that he could talk to
someone about the preposterous news of his transfer. ‘What the hell is it
all aboutT
‘I have no idea what they want you for, of course, but I can spell out one
conclusion: they want you yesterday. They’ve covered all avenues of delay.
The orders were to compile a list of your contacts with complete histories
of each: motives, dates, repeats, currency, routings, codes … everything.
Nothing left out. Subsequent order: alert the whole network that you’re out
of strategy.’
‘Out of. . . ‘ David trailed off the words in disbelief. Out of strategy
was a phrase used as often for defectors as it was for transfers. Its
connotation was final, complete breakoff. ‘That’s insane! This is my
network!”
‘Not anymore. They flew a man in from London this morning. I think he’s
Cuban; rich, too. Studied architecture in Berlin before the war. He’s been
holed up in an office studying your files. He’s your replacement…. I
wanted you to know.’
David stared at the windshield, streaked with the harsh Lisbon rain. They
were on the hard-surfaced road that led through the Alfama district, with
its winding, hilly streets below the cathedral towers of the Moorish St.
George and the Gothic S6. The American embassy was in the Baixa, past the
Terreiro do Paqo. Another twenty minutes.
So it was really over, thought Spaulding. They were sending him out. A
Cuban architect was now the man in Lisbon. The
125
feeling of being dispossessed took hold of him again. So much was being
taken away and under such extraordinary conditions. Out ofstrategy…
‘Who signed the orders?’
‘That’s part of the craziness. The use of high codes presumes supreme
authority; no one else has access. But no one signed them, either. No name
other than yours was in the cable.’
‘What am I supposed to doT
‘You get on a plane tomorrow. The flight time will be posted by tonight.
The bird makes one stop. At Lajes Field on Terceira, the Azores. You pick
up your orders there.’
126
12
DECEMBER 26,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.
Swanson reached for the tiny lever on his desk intercom and spoke: ‘Send Mr.
Kendall in.’ He stood up, remaining where he was, waiting for the door to
open. He would not walk around his desk to greet the man; he would not offer
his hand in even a symbol of welcome. He recalled that Walter Kendall had
avoided shaking hands with Craft and Oliver at the Sheraton. The handshake
would not be missed; his avoidance of it, however, might be noted.
Kendall entered; the door closed. Swanson saw that the accountant’s
appearance had changed little since the aftemoon conference he had observed
from the unseen room two days ago. Kendall wore the same suit, conceivably
the same soiled shirt. God knew about his underwear; it wasn’t a pleasant
thought to dwell on. There was the slightest curl on Kendall’s upper lip.
It did not convey anger or even disdain. It was merely the way the man
breathed: mouth and nostrils simultaneously. As an animal might breathe.
‘Come in, Mr. Kendall. Sit down.’
Kendall did so without comment. His eyes locked briefly with Swanson’s but
only briefly.
‘You’re listed on my appointment calendar as being called in to clarify a
specific overrun on a Meridian contract,’ said the general, sitting down
promptly. ‘Not to justify, simply enumerate. As the … outside auditing
firm you can do that.’
127
‘But that’s not why I’m here, is it?’ Kendall reached into his pocket for
a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He squeezed the end before lighting one.
Swanson noted that the accountant’s fingernails were unkempt, ragged,
soiled at the tips. The brigadier began to see – but would not ponder it –
that there was a sickness about Walter Kendall, the surface appearance
merely one manifestation.
‘No, that’s not why you’re here,’ he answered curtly. ‘I want to set up
ground rules so neither of us misunderstands…. So you don’t
misunderstand, primarily.’
‘Ground rules mean a game. What’s the game we’re playing, generalT
‘Perhaps . . . “Clean Uniforms” might be a good name for it. Or how to run
some “Interference in Buenos Aires.” That might strike you as more
inclusive.’
Kendall, who had been gazing at his cigarette, abruptly shifted his eyes to
the general. ‘So Olivet and Craft couldn’t wait. They had to bring their
teacher his big fat apple. I didn’t think you wanted it.’
‘Neither Craft nor Howard Oliver have been in touch with this office – or
with me – in over a week. Since you left for Geneva.’
Kendall paused before speaking. ‘Then your uniform’s pretty goddamned dirty
now…. The Sheraton. I thought that was a little unritzy for Craft; he’s
the Waldorf type…. So you had the place wired. You trapped those
fuckers.’ Kendall’s voice was hoarse, not angry, not loud. ‘Well, you just
remember how I got to where I was going. How I got to Geneva. You got that
on the wire, too.’
‘We accommodated a request of the War Production Board; relative to a
business negotiation with a firm in Geneva. It’s done frequently. However,
we often follow up if there’s reason to think anything prejudicial. . . .
‘HorseshitV
Swanson exhaled an audible breath. ‘That reaction is pointless. I don’t
want to argue with you. The point had been made. I have an . . . edited
spool of wire that could send you straight
to the hangman or the electric chair. Oliver, too Craft might
get off with a life sentence. You ridiculed his doubts; you didn’t
let him talk…. The point, however, has been made.’
Kendall leaned forward and crushed out his cigarette in an
128
ashtray on Swanson’s desk. His sudden fear made him look at the general; he
was searching. ‘But you’re more interested in Buenos Aires than the electric
chair. That’s right, isn’t itT
‘I’m forced to be. As distasteful as it may be to me. As loathsome …..
‘Cut out the horseshit,’ Kendall interrupted sharply; he was no amateur in
such discussions. He knew when to assert himself and his contributions. ‘As
you said, the point’s been made. I think you’re in the barnyard with the
rest of us pigs…. So don’t play Jesus. Your halo smells.’
‘Fair enough. But don’t you forget, I’ve got a dozen different pigsties to
run to. A great big War Department that could get me to Burma or Sicily in
forty-eight hours. You don’t. You’re right out there … in the barnyard.
For everyone to see. And I’ve got a spool of wire that would make you
special. That’s the understanding I want you to have clear in your mind. I
hope it is.,