The Rhinemann Exchange by Robert Ludlum Page B

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 wheel-cart in the corner on which there were bottles and glasses. “He’s got questions.”
    “I made everything perfectly clear.…”
    “Those aren’t the questions,” interrupted Kendall while squeezing 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 here,” 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 around his nostrils. “This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him since you saw Swanson?”
    “No. There was nothing to say; nothing
I
could 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, personnel 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?”
    “Get 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 interruption. “My firm … 
me, I
 … squared those projections. I know what 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 is new? Let’s go back: can Spinelli substantiate?”
    “
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,”