The White Vixen (40 page)

Jamison took a sideways glance through the doors, confirming that they led past the choir loft to the altar, with a stage-left row of pews to the right. The Gasparinis were still there. The priest concluded the Mass and dismissed the congregation. Gasparini led his family against the flow of departing worshipers, heading for the choir loft, holding his hand out to the man and woman who’d sung a beautiful duet. The Army officer chatted with the singers, introduced his family, and shook hands with them again. Then he herded his wife and children toward the side doors. Jamison looked behind him, back down the hallway, and saw nobody coming. So far, so good.

Gasparini’s eyes brightened as he recognized Jamison. “Señor MacPherson,” he said in Spanish, “It is very good to see you again.”

“And you, Major,” Jamison said. “Please, come with me.”

Two very long minutes later, they had wound their way through the rear of the cathedral and out a back entrance. There was a small park behind the cathedral, and they walked quickly along a path to Costanera Avenue 12 de Octubre. The Chilean’s cab was waiting. “Inside, quickly,” Jamison said, holding open the rear door. The Gasparinis piled in, with eight-year-old Arturo between them and five-year-old Maria on her mother’s lap. Jamison got in the front passenger seat, and Oscar pulled out smartly into the traffic.

“Mama, where are we going?” Arturo asked.

“Just a little trip to see the mountains,” his mother said. Jamison glanced at the boy, then at his father. Gasparini’s eyes betrayed his nervousness. They were like the eyes of every defector Jamison had helped in the past: grim resolve alternating with regret, and always the nerves and fear underneath. It was a hell of a spot to be in.

“We proceed as planned, Señor MacPherson?” Oscar asked.

“Yes,” Jamison said. He had trusted the Chilean to plot the escape route. In Santiago they told him the CNI agent had previously helped four Argentine defectors over the border safely. They hadn’t told him if there’d been any that hadn’t made it over safely.

***

Even though it was Sunday, Colonel Lothar Reinke was at his desk. Two days earlier he had been notified that Project CAPRICORN’s execution phase was underway. The first weapon, code-named X-1, would be shipped from Pilcaniyeu two weeks and a day hence, on the morning of April twenty-sixth. Reinke did not know its destination, but he was told to have X-2 ready for deployment by May fifteenth. That would be pushing things, according to the scientists, but they would do their best. No, Reinke told them, you will do what needs to be done to have X-2 ready on schedule. As a result, Reinke was far from the only person on duty this day.

His second in command, Major Gasparini, had asked leave to spend the weekend in Bariloche with his family, who were visiting him here for the first time. Bearing in mind the major’s wife’s recent…difficulties, Reinke granted the request, requiring his second to report back to the post by eight p.m. There would be no further leave for Gasparini, or any of them, for some time.

Reinke was concerned about Gasparini. The major’s work was beyond reproach, his personal conduct impeccable, especially considering the strain the man had been under in recent weeks. Fortunately, he had told Reinke that his wife seemed to be dealing with her ordeal rather well. The colonel was glad to hear that. The last thing he needed now was to have any of his people distracted by outside concerns.

That was why the phone call he’d received yesterday was so disturbing. Colonel Hernando Malín of the BIS in Buenos Aires was on the other end of the line, inquiring about Major Gasparini’s conduct and, in particular, his whereabouts. Reinke gave Malín a favorable report of the major’s work and told him about Gasparini’s weekend leave in Bariloche. The BIS colonel politely thanked his Army counterpart for the information and hung up.

Was Gasparini under suspicion of some sort? Reinke hadn’t slept well the night before. If BIS suspected an officer of subversive or criminal activity, they might also suspect his superior. Reinke knew that his record was as pure as the driven snow that would be coming out of the Andes in a few weeks, but he also knew that certain members of the current government, and thus certain members of BIS, were not enamored of the men who were Reinke’s patrons. Being a military man, Reinke always sought to steer clear of Argentina’s turbulent politics; unfortunately, since the military was always involved in politics, that proved to be impossible. High ranking officers always had to choose sides, and hope that their side would stay on top. Reinke hoped he had chosen his side well.

He was going over a report from the officer in charge of the mess hall when his telephone rang. Colonel Malín, his aide announced. Reinke ordered the call to be put through.

“Coronel Reinke, good day to you,” Malín said smoothly.

“And to you, Coronel Malín. I see we are both working today. How can I help you?”

“I am calling as a professional courtesy, Coronel. You will recall our conversation yesterday about Mayor Gasparini?”

A chill ran down Reinke’s spine. “Of course.” Reinke checked his watch. “He is due back here in just under eight hours.”

“I must inform you that less than an hour ago, Mayor Gasparini was observed leaving Iglesias Catedral with his family, in the company of an Irish national named Duncan MacPherson. Does that name ring any bells, Coronel?”

“No, it does not.” An Irishman? In Bariloche? Reinke had never met anyone from Ireland, but he knew it was close to England. He also knew that the Irish and English generally did not get along.

“After our conversation yesterday, I took the liberty of placing Mayor Gasparini under surveillance. His name had come up in connection with a security investigation.”

Reinke began to sweat. “And this Irishman, do you know him?”

“In these rather turbulent times, we must keep tabs on Europeans who visit our country,” Malín answered smoothly. “Especially those from the British Isles. So it was that I found it interesting that Mayor Gasparini should know this gentleman. Coronel, my office has obtained a photograph of this man MacPherson. One of my men will be bringing it to your main gate within the hour. He will want to show it to your people. I would appreciate it if you would extend him your full cooperation.”

Reinke forced his hand to hold the telephone steady. “Of course, Coronel. When I see Mayor Gasparini I will question him with regard to this Irishman.”

“Let us hope you have the opportunity to do so, Coronel Reinke. I will be in touch.”

***

Jamison was watching Theresa Gasparini herd her children from the cab to the decrepit-looking station wagon when Oscar motioned the agent aside. “Señor, I believe we were being followed in Bariloche.”

“I picked up your signal, Oscar. Were you able to lose them?”

The Chilean looked back past the farmhouse toward the city, ten kilometers to the east. “I think so, señor. But one never knows for sure. If they were BIS, they can quickly summon help if they truly wish to find us.”

Jamison nodded. “How much further to the border?”

Oscar looked to the west. “About fifty kilometers. The road is a good one, although not as well-traveled as Route 231. We should make good time. When we get to within a few kilometers of Puerto Frias, I will use a side road I am familiar with.” He unfolded a map and held it out so both men could see the route. The longer but more popular trip would’ve been to head east out of Bariloche and curve north along the eastern end of Lago Nahuel Huapi, then take 231 to the northwest through the national park to the border. Popular with the tourists for its magnificent scenery, it was also much longer. Oscar had suggested the shorter route along the south shore of the lake, toward the small town of Puerto Frias at the border.

“The checkpoint there will be hard to pass through if BIS has alerted it,” Jamison pointed out.

“True, señor, which is why we will be taking an alternate route.” He took a pencil from his shirt pocket and touched a point on the map just south of the village. “There is a mountain road here that goes near the border. There is no checkpoint.”

“A fence?”

“Yes, but I doubt if it has not been fortified since my last visit.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

***

Traffic was moderate on the road to Puerto Frias. Despite the political tensions between Argentina and Chile, commercial and private traffic between the two nations remained brisk. Oscar mentioned that this was normal. The politicians might be angry at each other, he explained, but life went on. Many people living on one side of the border had relatives on the other.

“Ten kilometers to the turnoff,” Oscar finally announced after what seemed an interminably long drive. The Gasparinis had been quiet in the back seat of the station wagon. The children were asleep, and Señora Gasparini gazed out the window. Jamison had seen the look before. She was looking at her country for the last time. The British agent knew something about that. Every time he left England, it hit him that this might be his last glimpse of home.

The major, on the other hand, stared straight ahead, with an occasional glance over his shoulder. Jamison admired the man’s discipline. Defectors had been known to crack at the last minute, to insist on being let loose, willing to risk discovery and punishment in order to go home. Not this man, though. His hatred of the regime that so casually brutalized his wife had to be great indeed. Well, that was all right. Hatred was a good motivator, as long as one kept it in perspective.

“Any sign of pursuit?” Jamison asked the driver.

“I don’t think so, unless they are using multiple vehicles.”

“Is BIS that sophisticated?”

The Chilean shrugged. “Sometimes. They are not to be underestimated, señor.”

A few minutes later Oscar turned left, cutting across the eastbound lane. The new road was paved, but just barely. The old wagon bounced over potholes. The dry weather meant that a cloud of dust was kicked up behind the car, adding to Jamison’s unease. He reached inside his jacket to grip the handle of his Walther PPK. Still there. “How long?”

“Thirty minutes, señor, perhaps less, if the road stays good.”

Ten minutes later, without having encountered another vehicle, the mountains began to close in around them. The old wagon’s engine strained as they gained altitude. Just before rounding a curve, Jamison looked back and saw the glint of sunlight off glass. “There’s a car back there,” he said to Oscar, forcing calm into his voice. “Two, maybe three kilometers.”

“Just one?”

“I don’t know,” Jamison said. Gasparini turned around to look, but the wagon had gone around the curve. “How much—“

“Two minutes. Be ready to move.”

Gasparini didn’t need to be told again. He roused the children, who’d been half-awakened by the bumpy ride. “Listen to me,” he said to them. “We are going to stop very soon and you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” Arturo said. “Where are we?”

“We are going on a little adventure,” the major said, smiling. “We might have to run for a bit.”

“Okay.” The boy looked at his father and smiled. His sister grasped her mother closely. Theresa looked close to tears. Her husband touched her arm, but she didn’t look at him.

The road was curving to the left up ahead, and beyond it Jamison saw a thin stand of pines, with a tall wire fence running through it, about a hundred meters from the edge of the road. Oscar was looking closely at the trees. “Can we drive right up to the fence?” Jamison asked.

The Chilean shook his head. “The trees are too close together.” He took the curve, drove another thirty meters and then swung the wheel to the right. The car thumped off into the grass, plowing over small bushes, before Oscar braked to a stop. “On foot from here,” he said.

“Let’s go, then,” Jamison said. He was out the door quickly, looking back down the road. He could hear an engine. “They’re coming!” He drew the Walther. Oscar had a gun out also, and the MI6 agent saw that Gasparini was armed as well. “Oscar, lead the way,” Jamison said. “I’ll cover the rear.” He longed for the feel of a submachine gun, but it had been deemed too risky to bring any over the border.

The little girl began to cry. “I wanna go home!” Her mother shushed her, to no avail. Theresa was crying now. Gasparini supported her as they made their way through the brush behind the Chilean.

They were still thirty meters from the fence when Jamison saw the vehicles, a white sedan with a flashing blue light on the top, followed by two large pickup trucks. The three vehicles pulled to a stop next to the abandoned station wagon. An officer emerged from the sedan, pistol in hand, and started shouting orders. Soldiers leaped from the pickups, rifles at the ready. “Run for it!” Jamison shouted.

Oscar sprinted to the fence, just ahead of the major, who was carrying the little girl and pulling his son by the arm. Theresa was struggling behind him. Fifteen meters from the fence she tripped and fell awkwardly, crying out in pain. The Chilean used his gun to push aside strands of razor wire, finally finding the ones he’d carefully cut and then put back in place on his previous visit. “Here! Quickly, mi Mayor!”

Jamison ducked behind a tree and faced the oncoming Argentines. “Antonio! Save the children!” Theresa screamed through her sobs. The soldiers were fifty meters away now, and Jamison saw the officer aim his pistol. The shot was wild, ripping through the branches over the agent’s head. Jamison looked back, saw Gasparini handing the children one by one through the fence to Oscar, then turned back to the soldiers.