A small red light flashed above a wan intercom, and the lieutenant spoke.
'General Swanson, colonel.'
'Thank you, lieutenant,' were the words that came from the webbed circle
below the light. There was a click in the door's lock and the lieutenant
reached for the knob.
Inside, Pace's office looked like any other Intelligence headquarters -
huge maps on the walls, sharp lighting on the maps, lights and maps
changeable by pushbuttons on the desk. Teletype machines were equidistant
from one another below printed signs designating theaters of operation -
all the usual furnishings. Except the furniture itself. It was simple to
the point of primitiveness. No easy chairs, no sofas, nothing comfortable.
Just plain metal straight-backed chairs, a desk that was more a table than
a desk, and a rugless hardwood floor. It was a room for concentrated
activity; a man did not relax in such a room.
Edmund Pace, Commander of Field Division, Fairfax, got up from his chair,
came around his table and saluted Alan Swanson.
There was one other man in the room, a civilian, Frederic Vandamm,
Undersecretary of State.
'General. Good to see you again. The last time was at Mr. Vandamm's house,
if I remember.'
'Yes, it was. How are things here?'
'A little isolated.'
'I'm sure.' Swanson turned to Vandamm. 'Mr. Undersecre-
87
tary? I got back here as soon as I could. I don't have to tell you how
anxious I am. It's been a difficult month.'
'I'm aware of that,' said the aristocratic Vandamm, smiling a cautious
smile, shaking Swanson's hand perfunctorily. 'We'll get right to it.
Colonel Pace, will you brief the general as we discussedT
'Yes, sir. And then I'll leave.' Pace spoke noncommittally; it was the
military's way of telegraphing a message to a fellow officcr: be carefuL
Pace crossed to a wall map, present with markings. It was an enlarged,
detailed section of Johannesburg, South Africa. Frederic Vandamm sat in a
chair in front of the desk; Swanson followed Pace and stood beside him.
'You never know when a probe will get picked up. Or where.' Pace took a
wooden pointer from a table and indicated a blue marker on the map. 'Or
even if the location is important. In this case it may be. A-week ago a
member of the Johannesburg legislature, an attorney and a former director
of Koening Mines, Ltd., was contacted by what he believed were two men from
the Zdrich Staats-Bank. They wanted him to middle-man a negotiation with
Koening: simple transaction of Swiss francs for diamonds - on a large
scale, with the anticipation that the diamond standard would remain more
constant than the gold fluctuations.' Pace turned to Swanson. 'So far, so
good. With lendlease, and monetary systems going up in smoke everywhere,
there's a lot of speculation in the diamond market. Postwar killings could
be made. When he accepted the contact, you can imagine his shock when he
arrived for the meeting and found that one of the "Swiss" was an old friend
- a very old and good friend - from the prewar days. A German he'd gone to
school with - the Afrikaner's mother was Austrian, father, a Boer. The two
men had kept in close touch until thirty-nine. The German worked for 1. G.
Farben.'
'What was the point of the meeting?' Swanson was impatient.
'I'll get to that. This background's important.'
'O.K. Go on.'
'There was no diamond market speculation involved, no transaction with any
Zdrich bank. It was a simple purchase. The Farben man wanted to buy large
shipments of bortz and carbonado....'
'Industrial diamonds?' interrupted Swanson.
88
Pace nodded. 'He offered a fortune to his old friend if he could puff it
off. The Afrikaner refused; but his long-standing friendship with the
German kept him from reporting the incident. Until three days ago.' Pace
put down the pointer and started for his desk. Swanson understood that the
colonel had additional information, written information, that he had to
refer to; the general crossed to the chair beside Vandamm and sat down.
'Three days ago,' continued Pace, standing behind the desk, 'the Afrikaner
was contacted again. This time there was no attempt to conceal identities.
The caller said he was German and had information the Allies wanted; had
'The probe?' asked Swanson, whose impatience was carried by his tone of
voice.
'Not exactly the probe we expected.... The German said he would come to the
Afrikaner's office, but he protected himself. He told the lawyer that if
any attempt was made to hold him, his old friend at L G. Farben would be
executed back in Germany.' Pace picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.
He spoke as he leaned across and handed it to Swanson. 'This is the
information, the report flown in by courier.'
Swanson read the typewritten words below the Military Intelligence
letterhead; above the large, stamped Top Secret. Eyes Only. Fairfax 4-0.
Nov. 28, 1943. Johannesburg: Confirmed by Nachrichtendienst.
Substratospheric directional gyroscopes perfected.
All tests positive. Peenernfinde. Subsequent contact: Geneva.
Johannesburg contingent.
Swanson let the information sink in; he read the statement over several
times. He asked a question of Edmund Pace with a single word: 'Geneva?'
'The conduit. Neutral channel. Unofficial, of course.'
'What is this ... NachrichtendienstT
'Intelligence unit. Small, specialized; so rarefied it's above even the
most classified crowds. Sometimes we wonder if it takes sides. It often
appears more interested in observing than participating;'more concerned
with after the war than now. We suspect that it's a Gehlen operation. But
it's never been wrong. Never misleading.'
'I see.' Swanson held out the paper for Pace.
89
The colonel did not take it. Instead, he walked around the desk toward the
steel door. 'I'll leave you gentlemen. When you're finished, please signify
by pushing the white button on my desk.' He opened the door and left
quickly. The heavy steel frame closed into an airtight position; a
subsequent click could be heard in the lock housing.
Frederic Vandamm looked at Swanson. 'There is your solution, general. Your
gyroscope. In Peenemilnde. All you have to do is send a man to Geneva.
Someone wants to sell it.'
Alan Swanson stared at the paper in his hand.
90
DECEMBER 4,1943
BERLIN, GERMAXY
Altratiller stared at the paper in his hand. It was after midnight, the city
in darkness. Berlin had withstood another night of murderous bombardment; it
was over now. There would be no further raids until late morning, that was
the usual pattern. Still, the black curtains were pulled tight against the
windows. As they were everywhere in the ministry.
Speed was everything now. Yet in the swiftness of the planning, mandatory
precautions could not be overlooked. The meeting in Geneva with the conduit
was only the first step, the prelude, but it had to be handled delicately
.
Not so much what was said but who said it. The what could be transmitted by
anyone with the proper credentials or acknowledged authority. But in the
event of Germany's collapse, that someone could not represent the Third
Reich. Speer had been adamant.
And AltmUller understood: if the war was lost, the label of traitor could
not be traced to the Reichsministry. Or to those leaders Germany would need
in defeat. In 1918 after Versailles, there had been mass internal
recriminations. Polarization ran deep" unchecked, and the nation's paranoia
over betrayal from within laid the groundwork for the fanaticism of the
twenties. Germany had not been able to accept defeat, could not tolerate
the destruction of its identity by traitors.
Excuses, of course.
But the prospects of repetition, no matter how remote, were
91
to be avoided at all costs. Speer was himself fanatic on the sub. ject. The
Geneva representative was to be a figure isolated from the High Command.
Someone from the ranks of German industry, in no way associated with the
rulers of the Third Reich. Someone expendable.
AltmOller tried to point out the inconsistency of Speer's manipulation:
high-altitude gyroscopic designs would hardly be given to an expendable
mediocrity from German business. Peenerritinde was buried - literally
buried in the earth; its military security measures absolute.
But Speer would not listen, and Altmfiller suddenly grasped the
Reichs~rtinister's logic. He was shifting the problem precisely where it
belonged: to those whose lies and concealments had brought Peenernfinde to
the brink of disaster. And as with so much in the wartime Reich - the labor
forces, the death camps, the massacres - Albert Speer conveniently looked
away. He wanted positive results, but he would not dirty his tunic.
In this particular case, mused AltmWler, Speer was right. If there were to
be risks of great disgrace, let German industry take them. Let the German
businessman assume complete responsibility.
Geneva was vital only in the sense that it served as an introduction.
Cautious words would be spoken that could - or could not
lead to the second stage of the incredible negotiation.
Stage two was geographical: the location of the exchange, should it
actually take place.
For the past week, day and night, Altmaller had done little else but
concentrate on this. He approached the problem from the enemy's viewpoint
as well as his own. His worktable. was covered with maps, his desk filled
with scores of reports detailing the current political climates of every
neutral territory on earth.
For the location had to be neutral; there had to be sufficient' safeguards
each side could investigate and respect. And perhaps most important of all,
it had to be thousands of miles away ... from either enemy's corridors of
power.
Distance.
Remote.
Yet possessing means of instant communication.
South America.
Buenos Aires.
An inspired choice, thought Franz AltmillIer. The Americans
92
might actually consider it advantageous to them. It was unlikely that they
would reject it. Buenos Aires had much each enemy considered its own; both
had enormous influence, yet neither controlled with any real authority.
The third stage, as he conceived of it, was concerned with the human
factor, defined by the word Schiedsrichter.
Referee.
A man who was capable of overseeing the exchange, powerful enough within
the neutral territory to engineer the logistics. Someone who had the
appearance of impartiality ... above an, acceptable to the Americans.
Buenos Aires had such a man.
One of Hider's gargantuan errors.
His name was Erich Rhinemann. A Jew, forced into exile, disgraced by
Goebbels's insane propaganda machine, his lands and companies expropriated
by the Reich.
Those lands and companies he had not converted before the misplaced
thunderbolts struck. A minor percentage of his holdings, sufficient for the
manic screams of the anti-Semitic press, but hardly a dent in his immense
wealth.
Erich Rhinemann lived in exiled splendor in Buenos Aims, his fortunes
secure in Swiss banks, his interests expanding throughout South America.
And what few people knew was that Erich Rhinemann was a more dedicated
fascist than Hitler's core. He was a supremacist in all things financial
and military, an elitist with regard to the human condition. He was an
empire builder who remained strangely - stoically - silent.
He had reason to be.
He would be returned to Germany regardless of the outcome of the war. He
knew it.
If the Third Reich was victorious, Hitler's asinine edict would be revoked
- as, indeed, might be the Fiffirer's powers should he continue to
disintegrate. If Germany went down to defeat - as Mich projected -
Rhinemann's expertise and Swiss accounts would be needed to rebuild the
nation.
But these things were in the future. It was the present that mattered, and
presently Erich Rhinemann was a Jew, forced into exile by his own
countrymen, Washington's enemy.
He would be acceptable to the Americans.
And he would look after the Reich's interests in Buenos Aires.
Stages two and three, then, felt Altmfiller, had the ring of
93
clarity. But they were meaningless without an accord in Geneva. The prelude
had to be successfully played by the minor instruments.
What was needed was a man for Geneva. An individual no one could link to
the leaders of the Reich, but still one who had a certain recognition in
the market place.
AltmUller continued to stare at the pages under the desk lamp. His eyes
were weary, as he was weary, but he knew he could not leave his office or
sleep until he had made the decision.
His decision; it was his alone. To be approved by Speer in the morning with
only a glance. A name. Not discussed; someone instantly acceptable.
He would never know whether it was the letters in Johannesburg or the
subconscious process of elimination, but his eyes riveted on one name, and
he circled it. He recognized immediately that it was, again, an inspired
choice.
Johann Dietricht, the bilious heir of Dietricht Fabriken; the unattractive
homosexual given to alcoholic excess and sudden panic. A completely
expendable member of the industrial community; even the most cynical would
be reluctant to consider him a liaison to the High Command.
An ex pendable mediocrity.
A messenger.
DECEMBER 5,1943
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The bass-toned chimes of the clock on the mantel marked the hour somberly.
It was six in the morning and Alan Swanson stared out the window at the dark
buildings that were Washington. His apartment was on the twelfth floor,
affording a pretty fair view of the capital's skyline, especially from the
living room, where he now stood in his bathrobe, no slippers on his feet.
He had been looking at Washington's skyline m
ost of the night ... most of
the hours of the night for the past three days. God knew what sleep he
managed was fitful, subject to sudden
94
torments and awakenings; and always them was the damp pillow that absorbed
the constant perspiration that seeped from the pores in the back of his
neck.
If his wife were with him, she would insist that he turn himself in to
Walter Reed for a checkup. She would force the issue with constant
repetition until he was nagged into submission. But she was not with him;
he had been adamant. She was to remain with her sister in Scarsdale. The
natum of his current activities was such that his hours were indeterminate.
Translation: the army man had no time for his army wife. The army wife
understood: there was a severe crisis and her husband could not cope with
even her minor demands and the crisis, too. He did not like her to observe
him in these situations; he knew she knew that. She would stay in
Scarsdale.
Oh, Christ! It was beyond belief!
None said the words; perhaps no one allowed himself to think them.
That was it, of course. The few - and there were very few -who had access
to the data turned their eyes and their minds away from the ultimate
judgment. They cut off the transaction at midpoint, refusing to acknowledge
the final half of the bargain. That half was for others to contend with.
Not them.
As the wily old aristocrat Frederic Vandamm had done.
There's your solution, general. Your guidance system. In Peenemande....
Someone wants to sell it.
That's all.
Buy it.
None wanted to know the price. The price was insignificant ... let others
concern themselves with details. Under no circumstances - no circumstances
- were insignificant details to be brought up for discussion! They were
merely to be expedited.
Translation: the chain of command depended upon the execution of general
orders. It did not - repeat, not - require undue elaboration, clarification
or justification. Specifics were an anathema; they consumed time. And by
all that was military holy writ, the highest echelons had no time. Goddamn
it, man, there was a war on! We must tend to the great military issues of