The Rhinemann Exchange by Robert Ludlum Page A

find an old friend.”
    Wilhelm Zangen had blotted his chin; the rash was agonizing. “We’ve covered those areas. Impossible.”
    “Cover them again.” Altmüller 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 previous three 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 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.
    If you’ve done what I think you’ve done, it falls 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 other 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 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 manipulationsserved 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