For the Wehrmacht officer had seen the man from Lisbon; he could identify
that man as David'Spaulding.
The fact that the execution would be mercifully quick - unlike a death in
partisan hands - was of small comfort to David. He knew that at the instant
he pulled the trigger, the world would spin insanely for a moment or two.
He would be sick to his stomach and want to vomit, his whole being in a
state of revulsion.
But he would not show these things. He would say nothing, indicate nothing
... silence. And so the legend would continue to grow. For that was part of
the treadmill.
The man in Lisbon was a killer.
~62
4
SEPTEMBER 20,1943
MANNHEIM, GERMANY
Wilhelm Zangen brought the handkerchief to his chin, and then to the skin
beneath his nostrils, and finally to the border of his receding hairline.
The sweat was profuse; a rash had formed in the cleft below his lips,
aggravated by the daily necessity to shave and the continuous pressure.
His whole face was stinging, his embarrassment compounded by Franz
Altmfiller's final words:
'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most unathaotive.'
With that objective solicitousness, AltmUller had gotten up from the table
and walked out the door. Slowly, deliberately, his briefcase - the
briefcase containing the reports - held down at arm's length as though it
had been some diseased appendage.
They had been alone. AltmUller had dismissed the group of scientists
without acknowledging any progress whatsoever. He had not even allowed him,
the Reich official of German Industry, to thank them for their
contributions. AltmUller knew that these were the finest scientific minds
in Germany, but he had no understanding of how to handle them. They were
sensitive, they were volatile in their own quiet way; they needed praise
constantly. He had no patience for tact.
And there had been progress.
The Krupp laboratories were convinced that the answer lay in the graphite
experiments. Essen had worked around the clock for
63
nearly a month, its managers undergoing one sleepless night after another.
They had actually produced carbon particles in sealed iron tubes and were
convinced these carbons held all the properties required for precision
tooling. It was merely a question of time; time to create larger particles,
sufficient for tolerance placement within existing machinery.
Frahz Altmilller had listened to the Krupp team without the slightest
indication of enthusiasm, although enthusiasm certainly had been called for
under the circumstances. Instead, when the Krupp spokesman had finished his
summary, AltmW]er had asked one question. Asked it with the most bored
expression imaginable 1
'Have these . . . particles been subjected to the pressures of operational
tooling?'
Of course they hadn't! How could they have been? They had been subjected to
artificial, substitute pressures; it was all that was possible at the
moment.
That answer had been unacceptable; Altmiffler dismissed the most
scientifically creative minds in the Reich without a single sentence of
appreciation, only ill-disguised hostility.
'Gentlemen, you've brought me words. We don't need words, we need diamonds.
We need them, we must have them within weeks. Two months at the outside. I
suggest you return to your laboratories and consider our problem once
again. Good day, gentlemen.'
Altmaller was impossible!
After the scientists had left, AltmUller had become even more abrasive.
'Wilhelm,' he had said with a voice bordering on contempt, 'was this the
nonmilitary solution of which you spoke to the minister of armamentsT
Why hadn't he used Speer's name? Was it necessary to threaten with the use
of titles?
'Of course. Certainly more realistic than that insane march into the
Con-go. The mines at the Bushimaie Riverl Madness!'
'The comparison is odious. I overestimated you; I gave you more credit than
you deserve. You understand, of course, that you failed.' It was not a
question.
'I disagree. The results aren't in yet. You can't make such a judgment.'
'I can and I have V Altmaller had slammed the flat of his hand
64
against the tabletop; a crack of soft flesh against hard wood. An
intolerable insult. 'We have no time! We can't waste weeks while your
laboratory misfits play with their bunsen burners, creating little stones
that could fall apart at the first contact with steel! We need the productV
'You'll have itl' The surface of Zangen's chin became an oily mixture of
sweat and stubble. 'The finest minds in all Germany ate . . . ,
'Are experimenting.' AltmCdler had interrupted quietly, with scornful
emphasis. 'Get us the product. That's my order to you. Our powerful
companies have long histories that go back many years-Certainly one of them
can find an old friend.'
Wilhelm Zangen had blotted his chin; the rash was agonizing. 'We've covered
those areas. Impossible.'
'Cover them again.' Altmaller had pointed an elegant finger at Zangen's
handkerchief. 'Really, Wilhelm, you should see a doctor. It's most
unattractive.'
SEPTEMBER 24,1943
NEW YORK CITY
Jonathan Craft walked up Park Avenue and checked his wristwatch under the
spill of a streetlamp. His long, thin fingers trembled; the last vestige of
too many martinis, which he had stopped drinking twenty-four hours ago in
Ann Arbor. Unfortunately, he had been drunk for the three previous days. He
had not been to the office. The office reminded him of General Alan
Swanson; he could not bear that memory. Now he had to.
It was a quarter to nine; another fifteen minutes and he would walk into
800 Park Avenue, smile at the doorman and go to the elevator. He did not
want to be early, dared not be late. He had been inside the apartment house
exactly seven times, and each occasion had been traumatic for him. Always
for the same reason: he was the bearer of bad news.
But they needed him. He was the impeccable man. His family was old, fine
money; he had been to the right schools, the best
65
cotillions. He had access into areas - social and institutional - the
merchants would never possess. No matter he was stuck in Ann Arbor; it was
a temporary situation, a wartime inconvenience. A sacrifice.
He would be back in New York on the Exchange as soon as the damn thing was
over.
He had to keep these thoughts in mind tonight because in a few minutes he
would have to repeat the words Swanson had screamed at him in his Packard
office. He had written a confidential report of the conversation ... the
unbelievable conversation ... and sent it to Howard Oliver at Meridian.
Ifyou've done what I think you've done, itfalls under the heading of
treasonable acts! And we're at war!
Swanson.
Madness.
He wondered how many would be there, in the apartment. It was always better
if there were quite a few, say a dozen
. Then they argued among themselves;
he was almost forgotten. Except for his information.
He walked around the block, breathing deeply, calming himself ... killing
ten minutes.
Treasonable acts!
And we're at war!
His watch read five minutes to nine. He entered the building, smiled at the
doorman, gave the floor to the elevator operator and, when the brass grill
opened, he walked into the private foyer of the penthouse.
A butler took his overcoat and ushered him across the hall, through the
door and down three steps into the huge sunken living room.
There were only two men in the room. Craft felt an immediate sharp pain in
his stomach. It was an instinctive reaction partly brought on by the fact
that there were only two people for this extremely vital conference, but
mainly caused by the sight of Walter Kendall.
Kendall was a man in shadows, a manipulator of figures who was kept out of
sight. He was fiftyish, medium-sized, with thinning, unwashed hair, a
rasping voice and an undistinguished -shoddy - appearance. His eyes darted
continuously, almost never returning another man's look. It was said his
mind concentrated incessantly on schemes and counterschemes; his whole
66
purpose in life was'apparently to outmaneuver other human beings - friend or
enemy, it made no difference to Kendall, for he did not categorize people
with such labels.
All were vague opponents.
But Walter Kendall was brilliant at what he did. As long as he could be
kept in the background, his manipulations served his clients. And made him
a great deal of money - which he hoarded, attested to by ill-fitting suits
that bagged at the knees and sagged below the buttocks. But he was always
kept out of sight; his presence signified crisis.
Jonathan Craft despised Kendall because he was frightened by him.
The second man was to be expected under the circumstances. He was Howard
Oliver, Meridian Aircraft's obese debater of War Department contracts.
'You're on time,' said Walter Kendall curtly, sitting down in an armchair,
reaching for papers in an open, filthy briefcase at his feet.
'Hello, Jon.' Oliver approached and offered a short, neutral handshake.
'Where are the others?' asked Craft.
'No one wanted to be here,' answered Kendall with a furtive glance at
Oliver. 'Howard has to be, and I'm paid to be. You had one hell of a
meeting with this Swanson.'
'You've read my report?'
'He's read it,' said Oliver, crossing to a copper-topped wheelcart in the
comer on which there were bottles and glasses. 'He's got questions.'
'I made everything perfectly clear .....
'Those aren't the questions,' interrupted Kendall while squeez, ing the tip
of a cigarette before inserting it into his mouth. As he struck a match,
Craft walked to a large velvet chair across from the accountant and sat
down. Oliver had poured himself a whisky and remained standing.
'If you want a drink, Jon, it's over there,' said Oliver.
At the mention of alcohol', Kendall glanced up at him from his papers with
ferret-like eyes. 'No thank you,' Craft replied. 'I'd like to get this over
with as soon as possible.'
'Suit yourself,' Oliver looked at the accountant. 'Ask your questions.'
Kendall, sucking on his cigarette, spoke as the smoke curled
67
around his nostrils. 'This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him
since you saw SwansonT
'No. There was nothing to say; nothing Icould say ... without instructions.
As you know, I spoke with Howard on the phone. He told me to wait; write a
report and do nothing.'
'Craft's the funnel to ATCO,' said Oliver. 'I didn't want him running
scared, trying to smooth things over. It'd look like we were hiding
something.'
'We are,' Kendall removed his cigarette, the ash falling on his trousers.
He continued while slowly shuffling the papers on his lap. 'Let's go over
Spinelli's complaints. As Swanson brought them up.'
The accountant touched briefly, concisely on each point raised. They
covered Spinelli's statements regarding delayed deliveries, pe rsonnel
transfers, blueprint holdups, a dozen other minor grievances. Craft replied
with equal brevity, answering when he could, stating ignorance when he
could not. There was no reason to hide anything.
He had been carrying out instructions, not issuing them.
'Can Spinelli substantiate these charges? And don't kid yourselves, these
are charges, not complaints.'
'What charges?' Oliver spat out the words. 'That guinea bastard's fucked up
everything! Who's he to make charges?'
6Get off it,' said Kendall in his rasping voice. 'Don't play games. Save
them for a congressional committee, unless I can figure something.'
At Kendall's words the sharp pain returned to Craft's stomach. The
prospects of disgrace - even remotely associated - could ruin his life. The
life he expected to lead back in New York. The financial boors, the
merchants, could never understand. 'That's going a little far. . . .'
Kendall looked over at Craft. 'Maybe you didn't hear Swanson. It's not
going far enough. You got the Fortress contracts because your projections
said you could do the job.'
'Just a minute!' yelled Oliver. 'We . . .'
'Screw the legal crap!' countered Kendall, shouting over Oliver's
they say, what they implied. You left the other companies at the gate. They
wouldn't say what you said. Not Douglas, not Boeing, not Lockheed. You were
hungry and you got the meat and now you're not delivering.... So what else
68
is new? Let's go back: can Spinelli substantiater
'Shit,' exploded Oliver, heading for the bar.
'How do you mean ... substantiate?' asked Jonathan Craft, his stomach in
agony.
'Are there any memorandums floating around,' Kendall tapped the pages in
his hand, 'that bear on any of this?' ,
'Well . . .' Craft hesitated; he couldn't stand the pain in his stomach.'
When personnel transfers were expedited, they were put into interoffice. .
. .'
'The answer's yes,' interrupted Oliver in disgust, pouring himself a drink.
'What about financial cutbacks?'
Oliver once again replied. 'We obscured those. Spinelli's requisitions just
got lost in the paper shuffle.'
'Didn't he scream? Didn't he shoot off memos?'
'That's Craft's department,' answered Oliver, drinking most of his whisky
in one swallow. 'Spinelli was his little guinea boy.'
'Well?' Kendall looked at Craft.
'Well ... he sent numerous communications.' Craft leaned forward in the
chair, as much to relieve the pain as to appear confidential. 'I removed
everything from the files,' he said softly.
'Christ,' exploded Kendall quietly. 'I don't give a shit what you removed.
He's got copies. Dates!
'Well, I couldn't say. . . .'
'He didn't type the goddamned things himseo, did he? You didn't take away
the fucking secretaries, too, did you?'
'There's no cal
l to be offensive. . . .,
'Offensivel You're a funny manl Maybe they've got fancy stripes for you in
Leavenworth! The accountant snorted and turned his attention to Howard
Oliver. 'Swanson's got a case; he'll hang you. Nobody has to be a lawyer to
see that. You held back. You figured to use the existing guidance systems!
'Only because the new gyroscopes couldn't be developedl Because that guinea
bastard fell so far behind he couldn't catch UP !,
'Also it saved you a couple of hundred million. . . . You should have
primed the pumps, not cut off the water. You're big ducks in a short
gallery; a blind man could knock you off.'
Oliver put his glass down and spoke slowly. 'We don't pay you for that kind
of judgment, Walter. You'd better have somo. thing else.'
69
Kendall crushed out his mutilated cigarette, his dirty finger. nails
covered with ash. 'I do,' he said. 'You need company; you're in the middle
of a very emotional issue. It'll cost you but you don't have a choice.
You've got to make deals, ring in everybody. Get hold of Sperry Rand, GM,
Chrysler, Lockheed, Douglas, Rolls-Royce, if you have to ... every son of
a bitch with an engineering laboratory. A patriotic crash program. Cross.
reference your data, open up everything you've got.'
'They'll steal us blind!' roared Oliver. 'Millions!'
'Cost you more if you don't ... I'll prepare supplementary financial stats.
I'll pack the sheets with so much ice, it'll take ten years to thaw.
That'll cost you, too.' Kendall smirked, baring soiled teeth.
Howard Oliver stared at the unkempt accountant. 'It's crazy,' he said
quietly. 'We'll be giving away fortunes for something that can't be bought
because it doesn't exist.'
'But you said it did exist. You told Swanson it existed - at least a hell
of a lot more confidently than anybody else. You sold your great industrial
know-how, and when you couldn't deliver, you covered up. Swanson's right.
You're a menace to the war effort. Maybe you should be shot.
Jonathan Craft watched the filthy, grinning bookkeeper with bad teeth and
wanted to vomit. But he was their only hope.
70
5
SEPTEMBER 25,1943
STUTTGART, GERMANY