With Jean.
He knew the men of «Tortugas» could not be reached with words. Words of conscience had lost meaning for such men. As they had so often lost meaning for him. That, too, was one of their crimes: they had stolen … decency. From so many. For so little.
Spaulding left his overcoat in the outer office and walked into the small conference room. They were there, the men of «Tortugas.»
Walter Kendall.
Howard Oliver.
Jonathan Craft.
None got up from the table. All were silent. Each stared at him. The looks were mixtures of hate and fear—so often inseparable.
They were prepared to fight, to protest … to salvage. They had held their discussions, they had arrived at strategies.
They were so obvious, thought David.
He stood at the end of the table, reached into his pocket and took out a handful of carbonado diamonds. He threw them on the hard surface of the table; the tiny nuggets clattered and rolled.
The men of «Tortugas» remained silent. They shifted their eyes to the stones, then back to Spaulding.
«The Koening transfer,» said David. «The tools for Peenemünde. I wanted you to see them.»
Howard Oliver exhaled a loud, impatient breath and spoke in practiced condescension. «We have no idea what …»
«I know,» interrupted Spaulding firmly. «You’re busy men. So let’s dispense with unnecessary conversation; as a matter of fact, there’s no reason for you to talk at all. Just listen. I’ll be quick. And you’ll always know where to reach me.»
David put his left hand into his arm sling and pulled out an envelope. It was an ordinary business envelope; sealed, thick. He placed it carefully on the table and continued.
«This is the history of ‘Tortugas.’ From Geneva to Buenos Aires. From Peenemünde to a place called Ocho Calle. From Pasadena to a street… Terraza Verde. It’s an ugly story. It raises questions I’m not sure should be raised right now. Perhaps ever. For the sake of so much sanity … everywhere.
«But that’s up to you here at this table… There are several copies of this … this indictment. I won’t tell you where and you’ll never be able to find out. But they exist. And they’ll be released in a way that will result in simultaneous headlines in New York and London and Berlin. Unless you do exactly as I say…
«Don’t protest, Mr. Kendall. It’s useless… This war is won. The killing will go on for a while but we’ve won it. Peenemünde hasn’t been idle; they’ve scoured the earth. A few thousand rockets will be built, a few thousand killed. Nowhere near what they conceived of. Or needed. And our aircraft will blow up half of Germany; we’ll be the victors now. And that’s how it should be. What must come after the killing is the healing. And you gentlemen will dedicate the rest of your natural lives to it. You will sever all connections with your companies; you will sell all your holdings above a bare subsistence level—as defined by the national economic guidelines—donating the proceeds to charities—anonymously but with substantiation. And you will offer your considerable talents to a grateful government—in exchange for government salaries.
«For the rest of your lives you will be skilled government clerks. And that is all you’ll be.
«You have sixty days to comply with these demands. Incidentally, since you ordered my execution once, you should know that part of our contract is my well-being. And the well-being of those close to me, of course.
«Lastly, because it occurred to me that you might wish to recruit others under this contract, the indictment makes it clear that you could not have created ‘Tortugas’ alone… Name who you will. The world is in a sorry state, gentlemen. It needs all the help it can get.»
Spaulding reached down for the envelope, picked it up and dropped it on the table. The slap of paper against wood drew all eyes to the spot.
«Consider everything,» said David.
The men of «Tortugas» stared in silence at the envelope. David turned, walked to the door and let himself out.
March in Washington. The air was chilly, the winds were of winter but the snows would not come.
Lieutenant Colonel David Spaulding dodged the cars as he crossed Wisconsin Avenue to the Shoreham Hotel. He was unaware that his overcoat was open; he was oblivious to the cold.
It was over! He was finished! There would be scars—deep scars—but with time…
With Jean…