The White Vixen (14 page)

A lot of ifs. Too many. Something was bound to go wrong. Well, that’s why they had contingency plans, including one that was meant to deal with a government takeover of the Pilcaniyeu facility. Willy had put that particular plan on alert status two weeks earlier, after his meeting with Galtieri, but, fortunately, the president had not made good on his veiled threat to move against the Bund in that direction. Heinz had done his part well.

“You are thinking of things perhaps way too serious for the occasion, my friend,” Heinz said.

Willy had to chuckle at that. “Perhaps,” he said. “But we have important days ahead, Heinz. Very important days.” Heinz was of necessity aware of most of CAPRICORN’s scope. Like Willy, he had been carefully groomed for his position; his father had been head of the Bund’s security arm for nearly thirty years. Over the objections of some of the Bund’s more cautious members,
Brigadeführer
Nagel insisted that his operation use the name
Sicherheitsdienst
. What made these members nervous was the fact that this was the same name used by the security wing of the Nazi Party’s notorious SS. Heinz had once revealed to Willy over a bottle of schnapps that Günther insisted on using the name for that very reason. Knowing Günther’s wartime background, Willy had not been surprised. Still, he rarely referred to the group by its initials, SD, and neither did Heinz.

In a way, the very existence of the Bund SD was a perfect illustration of what Willy often thought of as the conflicting, evolving state of the Bund. Its founding fathers, the Kameraden, meant for the Bund to serve a certain purpose, and it had achieved success, thanks in large part to the iron discipline of those men. They brought that with them from the Fatherland, and also many of its institutions and traditions. Thus, a man like Günther Nagel could take the title of Brigadeführer, the
Waffen-SS
equivalent of brigadier general. Other arms of the Bund, however, if they utilized military ranking at all, stayed away from those used by the SS. Dieter Baumann, for instance, had the ceremonial rank of
Generalmajor
, equal in rank to Brigadeführer. Willy himself had risen to the rank of colonel in the Argentine Army before resigning from the service, and was still referred to by that rank. Heinz made captain before getting out.

By the mid-fifties the Bund had largely achieved what it had set out to do, and then, according to what Dieter told him, came a period of reflection and indecision. Some of the Kameraden were content to retire and enjoy the lives they had built as landowners and businessmen. Others wanted more; they wanted not just to enjoy Argentina, but to run it. Finally, the Reichsleiter himself stepped in and made the decision: the Bund would move forward, and Willy often wondered if the seeds of CAPRICORN had been sown around an argumentative conference table on some estancia in 1956.

But what about tomorrow?
By the time Willy was his father’s age, it would be the twenty-first century, and a third generation of Bund members would be getting ready to take command, just as Willy’s generation was doing now. What would it be then?

Well, a lot of that could very well be determined in the next year. In fact, whether or not the Bund survived into the 1990s, much less a decade later, would likely hinge on what happened in the next twelve months.

“Have you given any thought to what will happen when those important days are done?” Heinz said now, breaking Willy out of his reverie. “Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that CAPRICORN succeeds. One year from now, Willy, what will we be planning for 1983, and the years after that?”

Willy grinned at his friend. “We will be good Germans, Heinz, and do what our superiors tell us to do.”

Heinz smiled, and nodded. “Good Germans, yes. But of course we aren’t Germans, Willy. Never have been. We’re Argentines. We were born here. We are not our fathers.”

“What are you saying, Heinz?” Willy was surprised; he had rarely heard his friend reveal thoughts of a political nature. Heinz had a razor-sharp intelligence underneath his devil-may-care exterior, and Willy had never for a moment doubted his fealty to the Bund. But like his father, Heinz devoted his professional energies toward what was perhaps the most apolitical organ of the Bund. Others would make the decisions, and the SD would make sure they were carried out with the greatest efficiency.

“Well, I have been thinking of what will happen after CAPRICORN. Haven’t you?”

“Some,” Willy admitted. In truth, his thoughts had strayed in that direction more than once lately.

“So, a year from now, Willy, we are toasting a successful 1982. The Argentine flag is flying over the Malvinas, the English have retreated to their islands in disgrace, the Brazilians and the Chileans are afraid of us, even the mighty Americans are cowed by our daring and our strength. What then?”

“We go on from there,” Willy said, not liking where this was going, but intrigued nonetheless.

“Yes, but where? What do you suppose the Reichsleiter has planned, Willy?”

“You know as well as I do, Heinz, I’m not privy to the thinking of the Reichsleiter or the Cabinet. Not even my father tells me about those meetings.” Dieter Baumann filled one of the few seats on the committee that actually ran the Bund. How much influence the Reichsleiter held over it was a matter of speculation. Sometimes Willy thought that it was not very much, that the Reichsleiter, respected as he was by the other Kameraden, was not much more than a figurehead these days. Other times, he wasn’t so sure.

“The men of the Cabinet are old, Willy. Our fathers will not see the next century. We will.”

“I’m not sure where you are going with this, Heinz.”

His friend stared back at Willy with his cobalt-blue eyes. “The next century will be ours, Willy, ours and our childrens’. If CAPRICORN is successful, that can be a springboard to the new century for us. It is up to us to determine how our children will toast us, let us say, on Christmas of 2031. Will they be fat and lazy on their estancias, and say we were the men who humiliated the English, and avenged our fathers, and then went back to making money and raising horses, or will they say something else?”

“Such as…”

Heinz grinned, but it was a different one than his usual one. This one had less gemütlichkeit and more steel behind it, and his eyes were shining now. “Perhaps, on that day fifty years from now, my friend, my son will raise a glass with yours, and they will say, ‘To our fathers, who challenged the world and won for us a continent!’”

In spite of the evening’s warmth, Willy felt a chill.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Virginia

December 1981

Jo was adjusting her uniform Tuesday morning when her father appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Heading out pretty soon?” he asked.

“My appointment with the Congresswoman’s not till three,” Jo said. “I thought I’d head over to the Pentagon this morning, look up some old friends. I might not have time tomorrow.” She checked her watch: six-fifty. Her driver, arranged by the Air Force, wouldn’t arrive for another half-hour. As usual, she was early. Just like her father; Joseph was already well into his workday routine, rising at five, twenty minutes on the stationary bike down in the basement with the morning news on the TV, two newspapers devoured along with his breakfast, out the door by seven. It hadn’t changed in years.

“I have to leave in about fifteen minutes, but could you stop by the den when you’re done here? Just need a minute.”

“Sure, Daddy.”

Joseph Geary’s study was like something out of the fifties, with crowded bookshelves lining three walls and a solid oak desk topped with a blotter and a telephone. At least it wasn’t a rotary phone anymore, she noticed. The room was solid, old-school, just like her father. He was putting some files into his well-worn briefcase when he looked up as Jo entered. A wide grin broke out below the graying mustache. “My, you look sharp,” he said.

She tried to put aside her thought that he looked a lot older than the last time she’d seen him, six months earlier. Well, he was past sixty now, and he had a high-stress job. Being Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA wasn’t an easy posting. “Thank you. What’s up?”

“I have a reception to attend in Georgetown tonight, so I won’t be home till late, and I have to leave early tomorrow morning. I wanted to catch you while I could, before your meeting with the congresswoman today.” He snapped the briefcase shut and came around to the front of the desk. Jo sat casually on the corner, as she had so many times in the past, no matter what home her father’s desk happened to be in, and there’d been a few.

“JoJo, this is pretty close-hold, but our friends in the Hoover Building have been keeping an eye on Congresswoman Chamberlain. To be precise, it’s her chief of staff they’re interested in.”

Jo’s research had mentioned little about the young man who ran Chamberlain’s office. Ethan Blaine was in his late twenties, graduate of the U. of Maryland, and the son of a wealthy Chamberlain supporter. “The FBI doesn’t get involved unless it’s pretty serious, Daddy. Why are they looking at Blaine?”

“I got this from a friend at the Bureau as a heads-up, because the fallout might impact one or two of our areas of concern. Blaine is known as a ladies’ man, so that’s one thing right there you should watch out for.” This brought a smile from Jo, but her father stayed serious. “The important thing, though, is that he’s been seeing a woman the FBI suspects of being an Argentine agent.”

“I’m not sure how I fit into that picture, Daddy. I won’t be spending much time around him.”

Her father looked away briefly, as if he was making a decision, then looked back at her. “I’m told Blaine’s girlfriend is rather new to the game. This is her first overseas assignment, and Blaine is apparently her target. He’s not suspected of giving her any classified material yet, but we would prefer he not get any further involved with her.”

“Why doesn’t the FBI just tell him about her?”

“They don’t want to take the chance she’ll find out her cover is blown. She works out of the Argentine Embassy and met Blaine at an official function a few weeks ago. The Bureau was hoping to steer her toward another man, who is working with them. They felt they might be able to turn her, but not if she keeps seeing Blaine.” He hesitated again, then said, “I didn’t want to involve you in this, JoJo, but when we heard about Chamberlain’s plans to hold these hearings, we thought we might have an opening. All we want you to do is ask Blaine out to dinner tonight, and meet him at a certain restaurant in Georgetown. The Argentine woman will be there. We think when she sees you with Blaine, she’ll react by breaking things off with him. That will allow the FBI to bring their man back into the picture.”

Jo considered it. There really didn’t seem to be any downside, and it wasn’t as if she had never done undercover work. A simple dinner, allow herself to be seen by a certain woman, and that would be it. What could go wrong? “All right, Daddy. I’ll see what I can do.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.” From his inside jacket pocket he produced a card. “Here’s the number and address of the restaurant. On the back is another number. If there’s any trouble, call that number. The code phrase is ‘purple sundown’. That will get an FBI tactical team on the scene within two minutes. But that shouldn’t be necessary.” From another pocket came a photograph of an attractive blonde. “Here she is: Carmen Suarez. Tall, and I’m told she favors short skirts and pumps.”

“Okay,” she said. Something in his briefcase buzzed.

“That’s my driver, calling my pager,” he said. “Give me a hug, honey.”

She embraced him gladly, smelling his so-familiar musky cologne, feeling the warmth of his affection. “I had such a good time last night, Daddy. Thank you.”

“Yeah, it was great.” Her mother had cooked a wonderful dinner, and after the meal they looked through old photo albums as a fire crackled in the hearth. Even though she hadn’t grown up in this house, Jo felt at home here. She would be sorry to leave.

***

The table she’d reserved gave her a view of the entrance. Her dinner companion didn’t seem to mind, as his focus was entirely on JoAnn. “Have you been here before?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve heard good things about the food,” she said, forcing herself to smile. Being here with this man was a real test of her professionalism, not to mention her acting ability. This was her first dinner date with a man since her time with Ian in Hong Kong, and the difference between the two men couldn’t have been more apparent.

It wasn’t that Ethan Blaine wasn’t attractive. He was; tall, well-groomed with wavy dark brown hair, striking green eyes, and sharply dressed. But Jo had seen those eyes on her the moment she walked into Chamberlain’s district office. Blaine was standing at a filing cabinet, pulling a thick file out of a drawer, but that all ended when Jo stepped into the rather small reception area of the office. She was in her Air Force Class-A uniform, which she had never considered to be sexy, yet Blaine evidently thought so. She could almost feel his eyes roving over her. Fortunately, she was on time for her appointment and she’d only had to endure a couple minutes of small talk with Blaine before the secretary ushered her into Chamberlain’s inner office.