Read Online The Rhinemann Exchange by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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cork.
Four.
Strange, but the number
four
kept coming to mind as he scanned the distance.
Four.
Four years and four days ago exactly. And this afternoon’s contract was scheduled for precisely four o’clock in the afternoon.
Four years and four days ago he had first seen the creased brown uniforms behind the thick glass partition in the radio studio in New York. Four years and four days ago since he had walked toward that glass wall to pick up his raincoat off the back of a chair and realized that the eyes of the older officer were looking at him. Steadily. Coldly. The younger man avoided him, as if guilty of intrusion, but not his superior, not the lieutenant colonel.
The lieutenant colonel had been studying him.
That was the beginning.
He wondered now—as he watched the ravine for signs of movement—when it would end. Would he be alive to see it end?
He intended to be.
He had called it a treadmill once. Over a drink at the Mayflower in Washington. Fairfax had
been
a treadmill; still, he had not known at the time how completely accurate that word would continue to be: a racing treadmill that never stopped.
It slowed down occasionally. The physical and mental pressures demanded deceleration at certain recognizable times—recognizable to him. Times when he realized he was getting careless … or too sure of himself. Or too absolute with regard to decisions that took human life.
Or might take his.
They were often too easily arrived at. And sometimes that frightened him. Profoundly.
During such times he would take himself away. He would travel south along the Portuguese coast where the enclaves of the temporarily inconvenienced rich denied the existence of war. Or he would stay in Costa del Santiago—with his perplexed parents. Or he would remain within the confines of the embassy in Lisbon and engross himself in the meaningless chores of neutral diplomacy. A minor military attaché who did not wear a uniform. It was not expected in the streets; it was inside the “territory.” He did not wear one, however; no one cared. He was not liked very much. He socialized too frequently, had too many prewar friends. By and large, he was ignored … with a certain disdain.
At such times he rested. Forced his mind to go blank; to recharge itself.
Four years and four days ago such thoughts would have been inconceivable.
Now they consumed him. When he had the time for such thoughts.
Which he did not have now.
There was still no movement in the ravine. Something was wrong. He checked his watch; the team from San Sebastián was too far behind schedule. It was an abnormal delay. Only six hours ago the French underground had radioed that everything was secure; there were no complications, the team had started out.
The runners from San Sebastián were bringing out photographs of the German airfield installations north of Mont-de-Marsan. The strategists in London had beenscreaming for them for months. Those photographs had cost the lives of four … again, that goddamned number … four underground agents.
If anything, the team should have been early; the runners should have been waiting for the man from Lisbon.
Then he saw it in the distance; perhaps a half a mile away, it was difficult to tell. Over the ravine, beyond the opposite slope, from one of the miniature hills. A flashing.
An intermittent but rhythmic flashing. The measured spacing was a mark of intent, not accident.
They were being signaled.
He
was being signaled by someone who knew his methods of operation well; perhaps someone he had trained. It was a warning.
Spaulding slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the strap taut, then tighter still so that it became a fixed but flexible appendage to his upper body. He felt the hasp of his belt holster; it was in place, the weapon secure. He pushed himself away from the trunk of the old tree and, in a crouching position, scrambled up the remainder of the rock-hewn slope.
On the ridge he ran to
Four.
Strange, but the number
four
kept coming to mind as he scanned the distance.
Four.
Four years and four days ago exactly. And this afternoon’s contract was scheduled for precisely four o’clock in the afternoon.
Four years and four days ago he had first seen the creased brown uniforms behind the thick glass partition in the radio studio in New York. Four years and four days ago since he had walked toward that glass wall to pick up his raincoat off the back of a chair and realized that the eyes of the older officer were looking at him. Steadily. Coldly. The younger man avoided him, as if guilty of intrusion, but not his superior, not the lieutenant colonel.
The lieutenant colonel had been studying him.
That was the beginning.
He wondered now—as he watched the ravine for signs of movement—when it would end. Would he be alive to see it end?
He intended to be.
He had called it a treadmill once. Over a drink at the Mayflower in Washington. Fairfax had
been
a treadmill; still, he had not known at the time how completely accurate that word would continue to be: a racing treadmill that never stopped.
It slowed down occasionally. The physical and mental pressures demanded deceleration at certain recognizable times—recognizable to him. Times when he realized he was getting careless … or too sure of himself. Or too absolute with regard to decisions that took human life.
Or might take his.
They were often too easily arrived at. And sometimes that frightened him. Profoundly.
During such times he would take himself away. He would travel south along the Portuguese coast where the enclaves of the temporarily inconvenienced rich denied the existence of war. Or he would stay in Costa del Santiago—with his perplexed parents. Or he would remain within the confines of the embassy in Lisbon and engross himself in the meaningless chores of neutral diplomacy. A minor military attaché who did not wear a uniform. It was not expected in the streets; it was inside the “territory.” He did not wear one, however; no one cared. He was not liked very much. He socialized too frequently, had too many prewar friends. By and large, he was ignored … with a certain disdain.
At such times he rested. Forced his mind to go blank; to recharge itself.
Four years and four days ago such thoughts would have been inconceivable.
Now they consumed him. When he had the time for such thoughts.
Which he did not have now.
There was still no movement in the ravine. Something was wrong. He checked his watch; the team from San Sebastián was too far behind schedule. It was an abnormal delay. Only six hours ago the French underground had radioed that everything was secure; there were no complications, the team had started out.
The runners from San Sebastián were bringing out photographs of the German airfield installations north of Mont-de-Marsan. The strategists in London had beenscreaming for them for months. Those photographs had cost the lives of four … again, that goddamned number … four underground agents.
If anything, the team should have been early; the runners should have been waiting for the man from Lisbon.
Then he saw it in the distance; perhaps a half a mile away, it was difficult to tell. Over the ravine, beyond the opposite slope, from one of the miniature hills. A flashing.
An intermittent but rhythmic flashing. The measured spacing was a mark of intent, not accident.
They were being signaled.
He
was being signaled by someone who knew his methods of operation well; perhaps someone he had trained. It was a warning.
Spaulding slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the strap taut, then tighter still so that it became a fixed but flexible appendage to his upper body. He felt the hasp of his belt holster; it was in place, the weapon secure. He pushed himself away from the trunk of the old tree and, in a crouching position, scrambled up the remainder of the rock-hewn slope.
On the ridge he ran to
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