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  THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE

  BY

  ROBERT LUDLUM

  By the same author

  The Scarlatti Inheritance

  The Osterman Weekend

  The Matlock Paper

  The Gemini Contenders

  The Chancellor Manuscript

  The Holcrofit Covenant

  The Matarese Circle

  The Bourne Identity

  The Road to Gando6ro

  The Parsifal Mosaic

  ROBERT LUDLUM

  The Rhinemann

  Exchange

  Toronto Sydney New-york

  Published by Granada Publishing Limited in 1975

  Reprinted 1975, 1976 (twice), 1977 (twice), 1978, 1980,

  1981 (twice), 1982 (twice), 1983

  ISBN 586 04202 4

  First published in Great Britain by

  Hart-Davis, MacGibbon Ltd 1975

  Copyright (9 1974 by Robert Ludlum

  Granada Publishing Limited Frogrnore, St Albans, Herts AL2 2NF and 36

  Golden Square, London WIR 4AH 515 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10022, USA

  117 York Street, Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia 60 International Blvd,

  Rexdale, Ontario, R9W W2, Canada 61 Beach Road, Auckland, New Zealand

  Made and printed in Great Britain by

  Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd

  Bungay, Suffolk

  Set in Linotype Times

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of

  trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated

  without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover

  other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Granada 0

  -Granada Publishing 0

  For Norma and Ed Marcumfor so many things, my thanks

  10

  PREFACE

  MARCH 20,1944

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  'David?'

  The girl came into the room and stood silently for a moment, watching the

  tall army officer as he stared out the hotel window. The March rain fell

  through a March chill, creating pockets of wind and mist over the

  Washington skyline.

  Spaulding turned, aware of her presence, not of her voice. 'I'm sorry. Did

  you say something?' He saw that she held his raincoat. He saw, too, the

  concern in her eyes - and the fear she tried to conceal.

  'It's over,' she said softly.

  'It's over,' he replied. 'Or will be in an hour from now.'

  'Will they all be there?' she asked as, she approached him, holding the

  coat in front of her as though it were a shield.

  'Yes. They have no choice.... I have no choice.' Spaulding's left shoulder

  was encased in bandages under his tunic, the arm in a wide, black sling.

  'Help me on with that, will you? The rain's not going to let up.'

  Jean Cameron unfolded the coat reluctantly and opened it.

  She stopped, her eyes fixed on the collar of his army shirt. Then on the

  lapels of his uniform.

  All the insignia had been removed.

  7

  There were only slight discolorations in the cloth where the emblems had

  been.

  There was no rank, no identifying brass or silver. Not even the gold

  initials of the country he served.

  Had served.

  He saw that she had seen.

  ,res the way I began,' he said quietly. 'No name, no rank, no history. Only

  a number. Followed by a letter. I want them to remember that.'

  The girl stood motionless, gripping the coat. 'They'll kill you, David.'

  Her words were barely audible.

  'That's the one thing they won't do,' he said calmly. 'There'll be no

  assassins, no accidents, no sudden orders flying me out to

  Burma or Dar es Salaam. That's finished They can't know

  what I've done.'

  He smiled gently and touched her face. Her lovely face. She breathed deeply

  and imposed a control on herself he knew she did not feel. She slipped the

  raincoat carefully over his left shoulder as he reached around for the

  right sleeve. She pressed her face briefly against his back; he could feel

  the slight trembling as she spoke.

  'I won't be afraid. I promised you that.'

  He walked out the glass entrance of the Shoreham Hotel and shook his head

  at the doorman under the canopy. He did not want a taxi; he wanted to walk.

  To let the dying fires of rage finally subside and bum themselves out. A

  long walk.

  It would be the last hour of his life that he would wear the uniform.

  The uniform now with no insignia, no identification.

  He would walk through the second set of doors at the War Department and

  give his name to the military police.

  David Spaulding.

  That's all he would say. It would be enough; no one would stop him, none

  would interfere.

  Orders would be left by unnamed commanders - divisional recognition only -

  that would allow him to proceed down the grey corridors to an unmarked

  room.

  Those orders would be at that security desk because another order had been

  given. An order no one could trace. No one comprehended....

  8

  They claimed. In outrage.

  But none with an outrage matching his.

  They knew that, too, the unknown commanders.

  Names meaning nothing to him only months ago would be in the unmarked room.

  Names that now were symbols of an abyss of deceit that so revolted him, he

  honestly believed he had lost his mind.

  Howard Oliver.

  Jonathan Craft.

  Walter Kendall.

  The names were innocuous-sounding in themselves. They could belong to

  untold hundreds of thousands. There was something so.... American about

  them.

  Yet these names, these men, had brought him to the brink of insanity.

  They would be there in the unmarked room, and he would remind them of those

  who were absent.

  Erich Rhinemann. Buenos Aires.

  Alan Swanson. Washington.

  Franz Altmoller. Berlin.

  Other symbols. Other threads....

  The abyss of deceit into which he had been plunged by ... enemies.

  How in God's name had it happened?

  How could it have happened?

  But it did happen. And he had written down the facts as he knew them.

  Written them down and placed ... the docum ' ent in an archive

  case inside a deposit box within a bank vault in Colorado.

  Untraceable. Locked in the earth for a millennium ... for it was better

  that way.

  Unless the men in the unmarked room forced him to do otherwise.

  If they did . . . if they forced him ... the sanities of millions would be

  tested. The revulsion would not acknowledge national boundaries or the

  cause of any global tribe.

  The leaders would become pariahs.

  As he was a pariah now.

  A number followed by a letter.

  He reached the steps of the War Department; the tan stone

  9
>
  pillars did not signify strength to him now. Only the appearance of light

  brown paste.

  No longer substance.

  He walked through the sets of double doors up to the security desk, manned

  by a middle-aged lieutenant colonel flanked by two sergeants.

  'Spaulding, David,'he said quietly.

  'Your I.D. . . .' the lieutenant colonel looked at the shoulders Of the

  raincoat, then at the collar, 'Spaulding. . . .'

  'My name is David Spaulding. My source is Fairfax,' repeated David softly.

  'Check your papers, soldier.'

  The lieutenant colonel's head snapped up in anger, gradually replaced by

  bewilderment as he looked at Spaulding. For David had not spoken harshly,

  or even impolitely. Just factually.

  The sergeant to the left of the lieutenant colonel shoved a page of paper

  in front of the officer without interrupting. The lieutenant colonel looked

  at it.

  He glanced back up at David - briefly - and waved him through.

  As he walked down the grey corridor, his raincoat over his arm, Spaulding

  could feel the eyes on him, scanning the uniform devoid of rank or

  identification. Several salutes were rendered hesitantly.

  None was acknowledged.

  Men turned; others stared from doorways.

  This was the ... officer, their looks were telling him. They'd heard the

  rumors, spoken in whispers, in hushed voices in out-ofthe-way comers. This

  was the man.

  An order had been given....

  The man.

  10

  PROLOGUE

  One

  SEPTEMBER 8,1939

  NEW YORK CITY

  The two army officers, their uniforms creased into steel, their hats

  removed, watched the group of informally dressed men and women through the

  glass partition. The room in which the officers sat was dark.

  A red light flashed; the sounds of an organ thundered out of the two webbed

  boxes at each comer of the glass-fronted, lightless cubicle. There followed

  the distant howling of dogs - large, rapacious dogs - and then a voice -

  deep, clear, forbidding -spoke over the interweaving sounds of the organ

  and the animals.

  Wherever madness exists, wherever the cries of the helpless can be heard,

  there you willfind the tallfigure ofJonathan Tyne - waiting, watching in

  shadows, prepared to do battle with the forces of hell. The seen and the

  unseen....

  Suddently there was a piercing, mind-splitting scream. 'Eeaagh V Inside the

  lighted, inner room an obese woman winked at the short man in thick glasses

  who had been reading

  from a tyWA script and walked away from the microphone, chewing her gum

  rapidly.

  The deep voice continued. Tonight wefind Jonathan Tyne coming to the aid of

  the terror-stricken Lady Ashcroft, whose husband disappeared into the misty

  Scottish moors at precisely midnight three weeks ago. And each night at

  precisely midnight, the howls of unknown dogs bay across the darkened

  fields. They seem to be challenging the very man who now walks stealthily

  into the enveloping mist. Jonathan Tyne. The seeker of evil; the nemesis of

  Lucifer. The champion of the helpless victims of darkness....

  The organ music swelled once more to a crescendo; the sound of the baying

  dogs grew more vicious.

  The older officer, a colonel, glanced at his companion, a first lieutenant.

  The younger man, his eyes betraying his concern, was staring at the group

  of nonchalant actors inside the lighted studio.

  The colonel winced.

  'Interesting, isn't it?' he said.

  'What?'... Oh,yes, sir. Yes, sir; very interesting. Whichoneishe?'

  'The tall fellow over in the comer. The one reading a newspaper.'

  'Does he play Tyne?'

  'Who? Oh, no, lieutenant. He has a small role, I think. In a Spanish

  dialect.'

  'A small role ... in a Spanish dialect.' The lieutenant repeated the

  colonel's words, his voice hesitant, his look bewildered. 'Forgive me, sir,

  I'm confused. I'm not sure what we're doing here; what he's doing here. I

  thought he was a construction engineer.'

  'He is.'

  The organ music subsided to pianissimo; the sound of the howling dogs faded

  away. Now another voice - this one lighter, friendlier, with no

  undercurrent of impending drama - came out of the two webbed boxes.

  Pilgrim. The soap with the scent offlowers in May; the Mayflower soap.

  Pilgrim brings you once again 'The Adventures of Jonathan Tyne.'

  The thick corked door of the dark cubicle opened and a balding man, erect,

  dressed in a conservative business suit, entered. He carried a manila

  envelope in his left hand; he reached over and extended his right hand to

  the colonel. He spoke quietly,

  12

  but not in a whisper. 'Hello, Ed. Nice to see you again. I don't have to

  tell you your call was a surprise.'

  'I guess it was. How are you, Jack? ... Lieutenant, meet Mr. John Ryan;

  formerly Major John N. M. 1. Ryan of Six Corps.'

  The officer rose to his feet.

  'Sit down, lieutenant,' said Ryan, shaking the young man's hand.

  'Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you, sir.'

  Ryan edged his way around the rows of black leather armchairs and sat down

  next to the colonel in front of the glass partition. The organ music once

  more swelled, matching the reintroduced sounds of the howling dogs. Several

  actors and actresses crowded around two microphones, all watching a man

  behind a panel in another glass booth - this one lighted - on the other

  side of the studio.

  'How's JaneTasked Ryan.,'And the childrenT

  'She hates Washington; so does the boy. They'd rather be back in Oahu.

  Cynthia loves it, though. She's eighteen, now; all those D.C. dances.'

  A hand signal was given by the man in the lighted booth across the way. The

  actors began their dialogue.

  Ryan continued. 'How about you? "Washington" looks good on the roster

  sheet.'

  'I suppose it does, but nobody knows I'm there. That won't help me.'

  'OhT

  'G-2.'

  'Yes, I gathered that.'

  'You look as though you're thriving, Jack.'

  Ryan smiled a little awkwardly. 'No sweat. Ten other guys in the agency

  could do what I'm doing ... better. But they don't have the Point on their

  r6sum6s. I'm an agency symbol, strongintegrity version. The clients sort of

  fall in for muster.'

  The colonel laughed. 'Horseshit. You were always good with the beady-bags.

  Even the high brass used to turn the congressmen over to you.'

  'You flatter me. At least I think you're flattering me.'

  'Eeaagh!' The obese actress, still chewing her gum, had screeched into the

  second microphone. She backed away, goosing a thin, effeminate-looking

  actor who was about to speak.

  'There's a lot of screaming, isn't there.' The colonel wasn't

  13

  really asking a question.

  'And dogs barkinj and off-key organ music and a hell of a lot of groaning

  and heavy breathing. "Tyne's" the most popular program we have.'

  'I admit I've listened to it. The whole family has; since we've been back.'

  'You wouldn't believe it if I told you who writes most of
the scripts!

  'What do you meanT

  'A Pulitzer poet. Under another name, of course!

  'That seems strange!

  'Not at all. Survival. We pay. Poetry doesn't.'

  'Is that why he's onr The colonel gestured with a nod of his head toward

  the tall, dark-haired man who had put down the newspaper but still remained

  in the comer of the studio, away from the other actors, leaning against the

  white corked wall.

  'Beats the hell out of me. I mean, I didn't know who he was - that is, I

  knew who he was, but I didn't know anything about him - until you called!

  Ryan handed the colonel the manila envelope. 'Here's a list of the shows

  and the agencies he's worked for. I called around; implied that we were

  considering him for a running lead. The Hammerts use him a lot. . . .

  'The whoT

  'They're packagers. They've got about fifteen programs; daytime serials and

  evening shows. They say he's reliable; no sauce problems. He's used

  exclusively for dialects, it seems. And language fluency when it's called

  for.'

  'German and Spanish.' It was a statement.

  'That's right .... I

  'Only,it's not Spanish, ies Portuguese!

  'Who can tell the difference? You know who his parents are.' Another

  statement, only agreement anticipated.

  'Richard and Margo Spaulding. Concert pianists, very big in England and the

  Continent. Current status: semi-retirement in Costa del Santiago, Portugal!

  'They're American, though, aren't theyT

  'Very. Made sure their son was born here. Sent him to American settlement

  schools wherever they lived. Shipped him back here for his final two years

  in prep school and college.'

  'How come Portugal, thenT

  'Who knows? They had their first successes in Europe and

  14

  decided to stay there. A fact I think we're going to be grateful for. They

  only return here for tours; which aren't very frequent anymore.... Did you

  know that he's a construction engineer?'

  'No, I didn't. That's interesting.'

  'Interesting? Just "interesting"?'

  Ryan smiled; there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. 'Wen, during the

  last six years or so there hasn't been a lot of building, has there? I