The White Vixen (16 page)

“Will they arrest him?” In spite of everything, she wasn’t sure she wanted Blaine to go to prison. Getting some information during pillow talk and passing it along to his boss wasn’t necessarily ethical, but she doubted it was illegal, especially if he hadn’t known the information was classified.

“It will depend on what Suarez tells them, probably,” her father said. “If she told him the intel was classified, if he pressed her for it, and then knowingly turned it over to his boss, that won’t be good for him. But we can be pretty sure the good congresswoman will be getting a visit from the Department of Justice, probably quite soon.”

“What do you think will happen with that?”

He sighed. “Politics is everything in this town, JoJo. Chamberlain and the administration have been at odds on a lot of things, not all of them related to military affairs. I’m pretty sure they’ll lean on her pretty hard over this. Blaine might be allowed to quietly resign, but you can be sure Chamberlain will be much less of a thorn in the administration’s side for the foreseeable future. I would say the chances of you being called to testify next week are now virtually nil.”

Jo considered that. It would be welcomed news, if it turned out to be true, but the political angle left her feeling somewhat…dirty. That was a little naïve, she knew, and her father confirmed it, as if he could read her mind. “JoJo, I wouldn’t feel sorry for Chamberlain, or Blaine, for that matter. She’s been playing hardball politics all her career. When you play that game, you’re going to get brushed back every now and then.”

She offered a bit of a smile. “I know, Daddy. It’s just, well, in my line of work, the difference between the good guys and the bad guys is usually pretty easy to tell.”

“Welcome to Washington, honey.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rio Negro Province, Argentina

New Year’s Eve 1981

The voices were old, but their gusto managed to overwhelm the scratchy old recording, following the music coming from the ancient gramophone in the corner of the dining room. For the thirty-sixth time, the New Year’s Eve meeting of the Siegfried Bund Cabinet concluded its dinner with a singing of the “
Horst Wessel Lied”
. Once again, Dieter Baumann heard the nostalgic old sound of the SA chorus and band, and once again he sang along:

Die Fahne hoch, die Reihen fest geschlossen

S.A. marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt

Kam’raden die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen

Marschier’n im Geist in unsern Reihen mit.

“Flag high, ranks closed, the SA marches with silent solid steps. Comrades shot by the red front and reaction march in spirit with us in our ranks.” The second verse always brought a lump to Baumann’s throat, as he remembered the old days, the exciting times in Dusseldorf some fifty years ago now, when he’d been a young man wearing the brown shirt, fired with the spirit of his Leader and his vision of a new, vibrant, strong Germany:

Die Strasse frei den browned Battalionen

Die Strasse frei dem Sturmabteilungsmann.

Es schau’n auf’s Hakenkreuz voll Hoffnung schon Millionen

Der Tag fuer Freiheit und fuer Brot bricht an.

“The street free for the brown battalions, the street free for the Storm Troopers. Millions, full of hope, look up at the Swastika; the day breaks for freedom and for bread.”

They sang the last two verses, some with tears running down their faces, some unable to continue as they choked with emotion. The man at the head of table sang loudest, and when the last verse was sung and the long-lost horns
blared the final fanfare, the right arms of the men around the table shot out automatically in the familiar old salute, not to be done again until next year at this same time and place.

The Bull waited a few moments for his comrades to compose themselves, then raised his glass. “My friends, let us offer a toast to the New Year,” he said in German, the only language spoken in these meetings.

“
Prosit!”
Ten glasses went to ten pairs of lips, vintage liebfraumilch wine was sipped, or tossed back, depending on the degree of thirst. The butler re-filled those glasses that had been emptied.

“To the success of CAPRICORN, and to VALKYRIE,” Günther Nagel said. The others joined him in the toast, and then they sat down again. The Bund SD leader, gray and thin but with sharp blue eyes that belied his seventy-four years, looked across the table at Dieter Baumann. The dinner had been splendid—
krautersteak
for some,
hasenpfeffer
for those with lesser appetites—and it was time for business. “Tell me, Dieter, how goes CAPRICORN?”

The Bundesobergruppenführer returned Nagel’s stare. The fact that Taurus had allowed Nagel to begin the conversation was not lost on Baumann. It bespoke the close ties between them. Baumann and Nagel had been neighbors for thirty-one years, but they were not close friends. Nagel really wasn’t close to anyone, inside the Bund or out. The nature of his work, Baumann thought. “Quite well,” he replied, and then turned his attention to the head of the table. “Herr Reichsleiter, we are on schedule. Pilcaniyeu shall be able to deliver a workable device no later than the middle of March.”

The Bull nodded in satisfaction. To his right sat Ernst Gehlen, the current Bundesführer. Elected to the post by this group of men, the Cabinet, in 1976, his five-year term would expire in a few hours. None too soon, as far as Baumann was concerned. Gehlen suffered a slight stroke in ’79 and had been ineffective in the post since then. The new Bundesführer, Reinhard Schacht, was on the Reichsleiter’s left. It was largely a ceremonial job, anyway. The man at the head of the table had ruled the Bund since its formation in 1946, shortly after his arrival in Argentina, and he would rule it until his death, which might be many years in coming; for a man of eighty-one, Taurus remained remarkably healthy.

It was too bad about Gehlen, really. In the fifties he had been quite useful, especially since his cousin was in charge of the West German intelligence service in those difficult days. From that relationship, VALKYRIE had been born. Schacht would be an efficient administrator, while the Bull continued to make the important decisions. In the months to come, those decisions would be important ones, indeed.

“It is crucial that the details of VALKYRIE remain most secret,” Taurus said now. “It has come to my attention that certain younger members of our organization are getting somewhat, shall we say, restless.”

“How so, Herr Reichsleiter?” Schacht asked.

The flat-faced features of the Bull turned toward the incoming Bundesführer. “Perhaps we should ask our security director.” He looked down the table at Nagel. “Günther?”

“There has been some talk among some of our mid-level officers,” the SD director answered smoothly. “They are anxious to see CAPRICORN succeed. They are fired by their Argentine blood, in many cases, but that same blood limits their vision, and that is good.” He looked back at Baumann. “Dieter’s son is doing a fine job. From everything I can discern his priorities are in proper order.”

Baumann offered a thin smile to his neighbor. “They are,” he said. He turned to the Bull. “Herr Reichsleiter, the young men of the Bund are restless, that is so. But their energies are concentrated on CAPRICORN. They know nothing of VALKYRIE. That is not their concern, but ours. Trust me when I say that we need not worry about them. Your decision to have the execution of CAPRICORN entrusted to them was a wise one.” Actually, Baumann wondered whether or not this was really true, but he did know that the Cabinet had its hands full with VALKYRIE. Why not let the youngsters run with CAPRICORN? He kept a close eye on Willy, and knew that things were going well.

In the past decade, most of the day-to-day operations of the Bund had been turned over to the next generation, the sons of the founders who had escaped the Fatherland in the last dark days of the Reich, or in its chaotic aftermath. Willy had done a particularly fine job, and Dieter was proud of him. Heinz Nagel was virtually running the SD now, but Dieter had no doubt that Günther was aware of everything that his boy was doing, and would step in immediately if need be. The elder Nagel was nothing if not efficient. Ruthlessly so, as many Bund opponents found out in the early years, and again during the Dirty War. The junta had presented the Bund with a marvelous opportunity then, and Nagel did not hesitate to use it, making sure key Argentines who were enemies of the Bund managed to disappear.

The Bull stared at Baumann for another few uncomfortable seconds, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You will keep us informed, Dieter?”

“Of course, Herr Reichsleiter.” Baumann tried hard not to swallow noticeably. Even after all these years, Taurus could still make him uncomfortable. Well, not for very much longer, he hoped.

The Bull turned his attention to another man. “Franz, could you please give us the latest about our friends in Washington and Moscow?”

Franz Müller, the Bund foreign minister, nodded gratefully. Müller was a fussy little man who bore an uncanny, and perhaps unfortunate, resemblance to the late Heinrich Himmler, director of the SS during the Reich years. His title of
Bundesaussenminister
was a bit ostentatious; Müller did not treat directly with foreign governments, of course, but his responsibility was to keep the Cabinet informed about the goings-on in various capitals. Using his cover as the head of one of Argentina’s largest banking conglomerates, Müller traveled widely in the Americas and Europe, even occasionally behind the Iron Curtain. Baumann did not particularly like Müller; he was married, but it was known that he preferred young men, something Baumann could not approve of. But he grudgingly admitted that Müller was good at his job. The light from the overhead chandelier glanced off his round spectacles as the Aussenminister cleared his throat.

“Herr Reichsleiter, gentlemen, I can report to you that our work is going well in the capital cities of our enemies. The new administration in Washington hates the Bolsheviks almost as much as we do. Ronald Reagan will not shed any tears to see the Russians ejected from Central Europe.”

“Reagan will not idly stand by when his own troops are ejected,” Baumann said, unable to contain himself. “The English and the French will not feel very good about it, either.”

Müller gave him a patronizing glance. “The whole point of the plan is to present the occupying powers with a
fait accompli
, is it not? Will the NATO generals order their troops to fire on their brother Germans?”

“They will once they realize the German troops are trying to seize certain weapons,” Nagel said. “The Russians, of course, won’t hesitate to fire on anyone.”

“I would not worry about the English,” Schacht said. “Once CAPRICORN succeeds, they will have so much internal turmoil to deal with, they won’t be able to pay much attention to what is happening on the Continent. As to the French…” He waved a hand dismissively, bringing nods from most of the other men. Without their English and American friends to back them up, the French would cave in, as they had since Napoleon’s day.

“Brezhnev is old and weak,” Gehlen said, without a trace of irony. “There will be an upheaval in his government when VALKYRIE succeeds.”

“That is true, Herr Bundesführer,” Muller said with proper deference. “Andropov will succeed him, but his hands will be tied politically when he finally has consolidated his position. By then our propaganda campaign will have begun telling the world about the new, united and peace-loving Germany.”

“Andropov will not want to begin his rule with the Third World War,” Schacht said. He was a pragmatist, but tended to be a bit overconfident, Baumann knew. Schacht had been one of the last to leave the Fatherland in the final days of the Reich, barely escaping the Russian ring of steel before it closed around Berlin. He’d kept his faith in the Führer a bit too long.

“My latest communications from our operatives in the respective governments all report progress on schedule,” Muller said. “My friends, VALKYRIE will succeed, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

“The success of CAPRICORN is critical, of course,” Nagel said. “VALKYRIE is doomed unless CAPRICORN works. My son Heinz tells me that young Baumann is doing quite well in the plan’s execution.” His eyes twinkled as he looked across the table at his neighbor.

“CAPRICORN is proceeding as planned, gentlemen,” Dieter Baumann said, looking first at Nagel, then at the rest of the men around the table. “You have my word. We will not fail.”

“Good,” the Bull said. “Failure is not an option.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HMS
Cambridge
, Southwest Atlantic

January 1982

Cambridge
had been away from home for a long time and still had a long trip ahead of her. The east-bound crossing of the vast Pacific from Hong Kong was hard duty for her sailors and Royal Marines, though it had been tempered by pleasant stops at some of the islands of Fiji and Tahiti. Like virtually every European male making his first visit, Ian fought to maintain his self-discipline upon encountering the world-class beauty of Polynesian women. Unlike many, if not most, of his predecessors and contemporaries, he succeeded, but it had been touch and go. Memories of Jo Ann kept him on the straight and narrow, and he was one of the few men aboard who was glad when the ship set sail for South America.