But still the machine-gun volleys came out of the enveloping vapor.
‘Eeaaghl’the driver screamed. David looked and saw blood flowing out of the
man’s head; the neck was half shot off. The Argentine’s hands sprung back
from the wheel.
Spaulding leaped forward, trying to reach the wheel, but he couldn’t. The
Bentley careened off the road, side-slipping into the tall grass.
The German took his automatic weapon from the opening. He smashed the side
window with the barrel of the rifle and slammed in a second magazine as the
Bentley came to a sharp, jolting stop in the grass.
The pursuing car – a cloud of smoke and spits of fire – was parallel now on
the road. It braked twice, lurched once and locked into position, immobile.
Shots poured from the silhouetted vehicle. The German kicked the Bentley’s
door open and jumped out into the tall grass. David crouched against the
lert door, fingers searching for the handle, pushing his weight into the
panel so that upon touch,
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the door. would fly open and he could thrust himself into cover.
Suddenly the air was filled with the overpowering thunder of the automatic
rifle held steady in a full-firing discharge.
Screams pierced the night; David sprung the door open, and as he leaped out
he could see Rhinemann’s lieutenant rising in the grass. Rising and walking
through the shots, his finger depressing the automatic’s trigger, his whole
body shaking, staggering under the impact of the bullets entering his
flesh.
He fell.
As he did so a second explosion came from the car on the road.
The gas tank burst from under the trunk, sending fire and metal into the
air.
David sprang around the tail of the Bentley, his pistol steady.
The firing stopped. The roar of the flames, the hissing of steam was all
there was.
He looked past the Bentley’s trunk to the carnage on the road.
Then he recognized the automobile. It was the Duesenberg that had come for
Leslie Hawkwood that afternoon.
Two dead bodies could be seen in the rear, rapidly being enveloped by fire.
The driver was arched over the seat, his arms limp, his neck immobile, his
eyes wide in death.
There was a fourth man, splayed out on the ground by the open right door.
The hand moved! Then the head!
He was alive!
Spaulding raced to the flaming Duesenberg: and pulled the half-conscious
man away from the wreckage.
He had seen too many men die to mistake the rapid ebbing of life. There was
no point in trying to stem death; only to use it.
David crouched by the man. ‘Who are you? Why did you want to kill me?’
The man’s eyes – swimming in their sockets – focused on David. A single
headlight flickered from the smoke of the exploded Duesenberg; it was
dying, too.
‘Who are you? Tell me who you are!’
The man would not – or could not – speak. Instead, his lips moved, but not
a whisper.
Spaulding bent down further.
The man died trying to spit in David’s face. The phlegm and blood
intermingled down the man’s chin as his head went limp.
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In the light of the spreading flames, Spaulding pulled the man’s jacket
open.
No identification.
Nor in the trousers.
He ripped at the lining in the coat, tore the shirt to the waist.
Then he stopped. Stunned, curious.
There were marks on the dead man’s stomach. Wounds but not from bullets.
David had seen those marks before.
He could not help himself. He lifted the man by the neck and yanked the
coat off the left shoulder, tearing the shirt at the seams to expose the
arm.
They were there. Deep in the skin. Never to be erased.
The tattooed numbers of a death camp.
Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fhhrer.
The dead man was a Jew.
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32
It was nearly five o’clock when Spaulding reached his apartment on C6rdoba.
He had taken the time to remove what obvious identification he could from
the dead Argentine driver and Rhinemann’s lieutenant. He found tools in the
trunk and unfastened the Bentley’s license plates; moved the dials of the
dashboard clock forward, then smashed it. If nothing else, these details
might slow police procedures – at least a few hours -giving him valuable
time before facing Rhinemann.
Rhinemann would demand that confrontation.
And there was too much to learn, to piece together.
He had walked for nearly an hour back over the two hills -the Colinas Rojas
– to the river highway. He had removed the fragments of window glass from
his face, grateful they were few, the cuts minor. He had carried the
awesome automatic rifle far from the scene of death, removed the chamber
loading clip and smashed the trigger housing until the weapon was
inoperable. Then he threw it into the woods.
A milk truck from the Tigre district picked him up; he told the driver an
outrageous story of alcohol and sex – he’d been expertly rolled and had no
one to blame but himself.
The driver admired the foreigner’s spirit, his acceptance of risk and loss.
The ride was made in laughter.
He knew it was pointless, even frivolous, to attempt sleep. There was too
much to do. Instead he showered and made a
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large pot of coffee.
it was time. Daylight came up from the Atlantic. His head was clear; it was
time to call Jean.
He told the astonished marine night operator on the embassy switchboard
that Mrs. Cameron expected the call; actually he was late, he’d overslept.
Mrs. Cameron had made plans for deep-sea fishing; they were due at La Boca
at six.
‘Hello? . . . Hello.’ Jean’s voice was at first dazed, then surprised.
‘It’s David. I haven’t time to apologize. I’ve got to see you right away.’
‘David? Oh, God! . .
‘I’ll meet you in your office in twenty minutes.’
‘Please. . . .’
‘There’s no time! Twenty minutes. Please, be there…. I ueed you, Jean. I
need you!’
The OD lieutenant at the embassy gate was cooperative, if disagreeable. He
consented to let the inside switchboard ring Mrs. Cameron’s office; if she
came out and personally vouched for him, the marine would let him pass.
Jean ernerged on tho front steps. She was vulnerablo, lovely. She walked
around the driveway path to the gatehouse and saw him. The instant she did
so, she stifled a gasp.
He understood.
The styptic pencil could not eradicate the cuts from the half dozen
splinters of glass he, had removed from his cheeks and forehead. Partially
conc=l, perhaps; nothing much more than that.
They did not speak as they walked down the corridor. Instead, she held his
arm with such force that he shifted to her other side. She had been tugging
at the shoulder not yet healed from the Azores crash.
Inside her office she closed the door and rushed into his arms. She was
trembling.
‘David, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. I was dreadful. I behaved so badly.’
He took her shoulders, holding her back very gently. ‘You were coping with
a problem.’
‘It seems to me I can’t cope anymore. And I always thought I was so good at
it…. What happened to your faceT She traced
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her fingers over his cheek. ‘It’s swollen here.’
‘ “Tortugas.” ‘ He looked into her eyes. ‘ “Tortugas” hap. pened.’
‘Oh, God.’ She whispered the words and buried her head in his chest. ‘I’m
too disjointed; I can’t say what I want to say. Don’t. Please, don’t …
let anything more happen.’
‘Then you’ll have to help me.’
She pulled back. ‘Me? How can I?’
‘Answer my questions…. I’ll know if you’re lying.’
‘Lying? … Don’t joke. I haven’t lied to you.’
He believed her … which didn’t make his purpose any easier. Or clearer.
‘Where did you learn the name “Tortugas”?’
She removed her arms from around his neck; he released her. She took
several steps away from him but she was not retreating.
‘I’m not proud of what I did; I’ve never done it before.’ She turned and
faced him.
‘I went down to the “Caves”.. . without authorization … and read your
file. I’m sure it’s the briefest dossier in the history of the diplomatic
corps.’
‘What did it say?’
She told him.
‘So you see, my mythical David of last evening had a distinct basis in
reality.’
Spaulding walked to the window overlooking the west lawn of the embassy.
The early sun was up, the grass flickered with dew; it brought to mind the
manicured lawn seen in the night floodlights below Rhinemann’s terrace. And
that memory reminded him of the codes. He turned. ‘I have to talk to
Ballard.’
‘Is that all you’re going to say?’
‘The not-so-mythical David has work to do. That doesn’t change.’
‘I can’t change it, you mean.
He walked back to her. ‘No, you can’t…. I wish to God you could; I wish