The White Vixen (11 page)

As he washed his hands, he chuckled at the fresh memory of that young pup Baumann, in his office hours before. Threatening the president of Argentina! Who did these Germans think they were, anyhow? They might have been able to intimidate Viola, but Viola was not in the Pink House now, was he?

Scratching his hairy chest, Galtieri flicked off the bathroom light and walked back into the bedroom. If his senses hadn’t been dulled by champagne and sex and then sleep, he might’ve noticed something different in the room, some slight change. He climbed back onto his four-poster bed, drank in the smell of Carlotta’s perfume and the musk of their recent coupling, and rolled onto his side, pulling the covers back up over him. The great man’s head hit the pillow and he was almost asleep when something prompted him to shift his head. That’s when he felt it underneath the pillow, something hard, something that hadn’t been there before.

He reached over to the night stand and switched on the light, then flipped the pillow aside. The light glinted off the blade of the dagger. The polished blade was a good eight inches long, and the wooden handle bore the German eagle clutching a swastika in its talons. With shaking hands, Galtieri turned the dagger over. On the opposite side of the blade, the words
Alles für Deutschland
sent a message that got through loud and clear.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Estancia Valhalla, Argentina

December 1981

It was nearly ten at night when Willy arrived back at the estancia. He’d put in three hours at the Bund’s offices in Buenos Aires after leaving the Pink House, most of that time on the telephone to Pilcaniyeu and selected other important locations. While he doubted Galtieri had the nerve to move against them this early in the game, one could never be sure, and so precautions had to be taken. By six o’clock, he’d managed to convince himself that Condition Yellow was being implemented as quickly and efficiently as possible. He and Heinz had dinner at a nearby restaurant favored by the city’s large German population, finishing around seven-thirty, early by Argentine standards. Then the two old friends had parted, driving their own cars, Willy to his estancia, Heinz to another location in the city, to take care of one other matter.

Willy was surprised to find his father still up. He’d called Dieter, of course, to report on the meeting with the president. Now he found the old man sitting in the library, nursing a glass of schnapps and accompanied by another older man, whom Willy instantly recognized, and a younger man whom he did not. The two men rose as Willy entered the room.

“Ah, son, welcome back,” Dieter said. “We have some overnight guests, old friends of mine who arrived this afternoon.”

“Good evening, Herr Baumann,” the older man said, extending a hand.

Without thinking, Willy came to attention, clicked his heels, and bowed. “Herr Oberst, it is a great honor to meet you.” Almost reverently, he offered his hand. The man, who was in his mid-sixties, smiled self-consciously, but his handshake was firm.

“I am pleased you recognize me, Herr Baumann.”

All his fatigue and tension forgotten, Willy was almost giddy. It was an effort to remain dignified. “What young German boy has not read of your exploits, Herr Oberst? Hans-Ulrich Rudel, the greatest fighter pilot who ever lived!” That last just came out, but it was true. Rudel flew
Luftwaffe
fighters, always the Junkers-87
Panzerjäger
, against the Russians in the last war, and no pilot in any air force had flown more courageously, or more effectively. The statistics flashed through Willy’s mind: nine enemy aircraft shot down, over 150 antiaircraft and artillery positions destroyed, more than 500 tanks, more than 700 trucks, four armored trains. Rudel had even sunk two Soviet warships single-handedly, the battleship
October
Revolution
and the cruiser
Marat.
Shot down himself thirty-two times, he had once escaped on foot from more than forty kilometers behind enemy lines, swimming a frozen river along the way, chased by Russian soldiers anxious to claim the 100,000-ruble reward Stalin had placed on the German’s head. Rudel was the only German soldier ever awarded the Knight’s Cross with Golden Oakleaves, Swords and Diamonds.

“You are too kind, Herr Baumann,” Rudel said with a shy grin, but Willy could tell he enjoyed being recognized. The old ace stepped somewhat awkwardly back to his chair and sat down; Willy recalled that he had once been wounded in the right leg, and now had a partial prosthesis.

Dieter coughed. “Wilhelm, allow me to also introduce Herr Johann Biederbeck, from Munich.”

The younger man stood, clicked his heels and bowed slightly, then offered his hand. “A pleasure, Herr Baumann,” he said with a smile.

“The pleasure is mine, Herr Biederbeck,” Willy replied. “What brings you to Argentina?”

“Some business, some pleasure,” Biederbeck replied casually. The Bavarian accent was noticeable.

Dieter coughed. “Willy, it’s getting late, and we’ll all be retiring soon, but there are a few trifling matters I need to discuss yet with our guests.”

As always, his father’s suggestion was elegantly phrased, but the meaning was clear: time for you to leave us. “Of course, Father,” he said. He bowed slightly to the guests. “Gentlemen, I will see you at breakfast.”

Dieter waited until the door was shut before speaking. “He’s a good boy.”

“I see much of his father in him,” Rudel said with a smile. “He reminds me of a certain young officer I knew on the Russian Front. You must be proud, Dieter.”

“Indeed I am.” The elder Baumann pushed himself to his feet. “May I freshen your schnapps, gentlemen?”

Rudel declined, but the man introduced as Biederbeck accepted. His real name, known to these two men but to nobody else in Argentina, was Johann Becker, and he was a colonel in the ASBw, the
Amt für Sicherheit der Bundeswehr
, Office for Security of the German Armed Forces, the intelligence arm of the West German military. He was the number two officer in the ASBw’s Munich district headquarters. What his commander back in Bavaria did not know was that he was also the Siegfried Bund’s top agent in the southern part of the Federal Republic. Becker was traveling in Argentina with the Biederbeck passport he used, on rare occasions, to travel behind the Iron Curtain.

“How much does your boy know, Dieter?” Becker asked after sipping his refreshed drink.

Dieter settled into his soft chair with an audible grunt. “Not everything,” he said. “CAPRICORN, of course, but nothing about VALKYRIE.”

“Do you intend to tell him?” Rudel asked.

“Not for now. The Reichsleiter has ordered that VALKYRIE remain classified Most Secret. Only the Cabinet members know about it.”

“That is good,” Becker said. “Secrecy is of the utmost importance, for both projects.”

“CAPRICORN must work for the other to succeed,” Rudel said.

“True enough,” Dieter said. “CAPRICORN’s success will be VALKYRIE’s trigger.”

The three men were silent for a moment, engrossed in their own thoughts, considering the possibilities. Rudel was the first to speak again. “Are your pilots properly trained, Dieter? Are you sure they can deliver the weapon?”

Dieter nodded confidently. “If the engineers can complete the weapon on time at Pilcaniyeu, we have more than enough pilots to ensure success.” He gestured at his desk. “I have their service jackets, Hans. You are welcome to examine them tomorrow.” Rudel nodded.

“I have no doubts about our pilots,” Becker said. “Most of them attended OSLw.”
Offizierschule der Luftwaffe
was the West German air force academy in Fürstenfeldbruck. “But about the mission itself: one weapon will be sufficient? Will it have enough yield?”

“We hope to have two, although only one will go on the mission,” Dieter said. “The expected yield will be close to one hundred kilotons.”

Becker nodded. “Yes, I would think that will be sufficient,” he said, “depending on how closely packed the English fleet will be.”

“My experts tell me that an air burst over the center of their formation will be more than adequate,” Dieter said. He sipped his drink, clearly relishing the thought. “Will you be ready to move then, Johann?”

Becker seemed to be examining his own drink carefully. “Yes,” he finally said. “Things are well underway.”

“Will you have enough men to control the situation in Bonn?” Rudel asked. “East Berlin, too?”

“Yes,” Becker said. “The key will be the capture of the American and Soviet tactical nuclear arsenals in the opening hours of the operation. If we seize their weapons, we seize the day.”

“We seize our country back,” Rudel said.

“My one concern,” Dieter said, “is that the Bolsheviks will think it will herald the rise of the Party again. They will go insane if it appears that is happening. Your few small weapons won’t stop them. They will sacrifice thousands of troops to prevent another invasion of their country.” Inwardly, he shuddered at the memory of the how savagely the Russians had fought him forty years ago. So many good young German boys had gone east, and so few had returned.

“I agree with Dieter,” Rudel said. “I did not fly for the Nazis. I flew for Germany.” Dieter raised an eyebrow. Rudel had been a member of the Party during the war, and in the first version of his biography he’d supported Party policies. Before it could be published in Germany and America, it had been re-edited to remove Party references. But Dieter would give the old ace the benefit of the doubt.

“We will make it abundantly clear that National Socialism has no part in the drama,” Becker said. “Brezhnev is old and sick. Andropov is maneuvering to be his successor. They have no strong, decisive leadership. By the time they decide what to do, we will have consolidated our gains and present them with a united, nuclear-armed nation. A nation that renounces National Socialism.” He looked at Dieter. “You must make sure the Reichsleiter does not interfere, my friend.”

“The Reichsleiter will never leave Argentina,” Dieter said. “I am more concerned about what the Bolsheviks will do. VALKYRIE may very well topple Brezhnev.”

“Perhaps, but Andropov is no fool. He will not move against us if he doesn’t perceive us to be a threat to him, and he will still have his buffer states. Poland, Czechoslovakia…”

“We won’t be a threat to him right away,” Rudel said. “But what about later?”

Becker smiled at the old ace. “Later is later, Herr Oberst. Five years from now, ten years, who knows?”

Rudel wasn’t completely reassured. “What about the French? They will not necessarily follow any instructions from the British or Americans to hold back.”

Becker waved a hand dismissively. “We are not concerned about the French. They will not move against us without the British and Americans alongside them. They will posture and complain, as they always do, but we will ignore them. There will be time enough to deal with the French later.”

“You must not align yourselves with the West,” Dieter said. “If the Russians believe you are in league with the NATO countries, they will strike you. It is imperative for you to remain independent from the two blocs.”

“We understand that, old friend,” Becker said. “Like you, I have no love of the Bolsheviks. Eventually they will fall on their own sword. It is inevitable. Already, the Americans are putting pressure on them to match their military buildup. They cannot hope to match the Americans, but they will try, and they will fail, and then they will fall, leaving one nation as the true master of Europe.”

Rudel and Dieter both nodded their understanding. Dieter raised his glass. “Well, gentlemen, one last toast before we retire. To CAPRICORN.”

“To VALKYRIE,” Becker said, raising his.

“To the Fatherland, once again united and strong,” Rudel said.

They drank.

***

Ernesto had his feather duster in hand as he entered the study the next morning, stopping short as he saw the man behind the desk. “I beg your pardon, Herr Oberst,” the butler said, bowing slightly.

Hans-Ulrich Rudel closed the file in front of him and stood up. “Not at all, Ernesto,” the old pilot said with a friendly smile. “I was just finishing up here. Herr Baumann is going to take us on a tour of the estancia. I won’t keep you from your duties.”

“Thank you, Herr Oberst,” Ernesto said. He stepped aside as Rudel limped past him through the doorway and down the hall. Ernesto liked the legendary ace; unlike many of the Germans, especially the older ones, there was no hint of arrogance behind his dignity.

Ernesto went to a side window, which had a view of the driveway that led from the garages behind the main building around to the veranda. A Mercedes SL convertible, with young Wilhelm at the wheel, motored slowly toward the house, raising only a hint of dust from the well-maintained gravel road.

The butler walked back through the hallways to the library, one of his favorite rooms in the mansion. Hundreds of volumes in German, English, Spanish and French crowded the bookshelves. There were several dark leather chairs and couches, with a poker table near one end of the room and a billiard table at the other. The main window looked out through the wide veranda to the front of the building. Dieter Baumann and his two guests were climbing aboard the Mercedes, and in a moment Wilhelm drove them toward the gated entrance to the estancia’s main complex.