Free The Rhinemann Exchange by Robert Ludlum Page A

so.
    Spaulding and the two Spaniards came from behind the rock swiftly and slid down the incline, concealed by the foliage, their sounds muffled by the rushing water. In less than half a minute they were within thirty feet of the Wehrmacht men, hidden by fallen tree limbs and overgrowth. David entered the water, hugging the embankment. He was relieved to see that the fourth man—now only fifteen feet in front of him—was having the most difficulty keeping his balance on the slippery rocks. The other three, spaced about ten yards apart, were concentrating on the Frenchmen upstream. Concentrating intently.
    The Nazi saw him; the fear, the bewilderment was in the German’s eyes. The split second he took to assimilate the shock was the time David needed. Covered by the sounds of the water, Spaulding leaped on the man, his knife penetrating the Wehrmacht throat, the head pushed violently under the surface, the blood mingling with the rushing stream.
    There was no time, no second to waste. David released the lifeless form and saw that the two Spaniards were parallel with him on the embankment. The first man, crouched and hidden, gestured toward the lead soldier; the second nodded his head toward the next man. And David knew that the third Wehrmacht soldier was his.
    It took no more than the time necessary for Bergeron and Chivier to reach the south bank. The three soldiers were dispatched, their blood-soaked bodies floating downstream,careening off rocks, filling the waters with streaks of magenta.
    Spaulding signaled the Spaniards to cross the water to the north embankment. The first man pulled himself up beside David, his right hand bloodied from a deep cut across his palm.
    “Are you all right?” whispered Spaulding.
    “The blade slipped. I lost my knife.” The man swore.
    “Get out of the area,” said David. “Get the wound dressed at the Valdero farm.”
    “I can put on a tight bandage. I’ll be fine.”
    The second Spaniard joined them. He winced at the sight of his countryman’s hand, an action Spaulding thought inconsistent for a guerrilla who had just minutes ago plunged a blade into the neck of a man, slicing most of his head off.
    “That looks bad,” he said.
    “You can’t function,” added Spaulding, “and we don’t have time to argue.”
    “I can.…”
    “You
can’t.
” David spoke peremptorily. “Go back to Valdero’s. I’ll see you in a week or two. Get going and stay out of sight!”
    “Very well.” The Spaniard was upset but it was apparent that he would not, could not, disobey the American’s commands. He started to crawl into the woods to the east.
    Spaulding called quietly, just above the rush of the water. “Thank you. Fine work today.”
    The Spaniard grinned and raced into the forest, holding his wrist.
    Just as swiftly, David touched the arm of the second man, beckoning him to follow. They sidestepped their way along the bank upstream. Spaulding stopped by a fallen tree whose trunk dipped down into the ravine waters. He turned and crouched, ordering the Spaniard to do the same. He spoke quietly.
    “I want him alive. I want to question him.”
    “I’ll get him.”
    “No, I will. I just don’t want you to fire. There could be a backup patrol.” Spaulding realized as he whispered that the man couldn’t help but smile. He knew why: his Spanish had the soft lilt of Castilian, a foreigner’s Castilian at that. It was out of place in Basque country.
    As he was out of place, really.
    “As you wish, good friend,” said the man. “Shall I cross farther back and reach Bergeron? He’s probably sick to his stomach by now.”
    “No, not yet. Wait’ll we’re secure over here. He and the old man will just keep walking.” David raised his head over the fallen tree trunk and estimated distances. The German officer was about sixty yards away, hidden in the woods. “I’ll head in there, get behind him. I’ll see if I can spot any signs of another patrol. If I do, I’ll come