The White Vixen (41 page)

Take down the officers first. See how disciplined they are. He aimed carefully and squeezed the Walther’s trigger. The round caught the Argentine commander in the stomach. He grunted and fell to his knees. The soldiers hesitated. One raised his rifle and fired a burst in the direction of Jamison’s tree, just as the agent pulled himself out of the line of fire. Rounds slapped heavily into the trunk just over his head, but a few zipped past. Jamison saw Gasparini take a hit to his left arm, spinning him around and to the ground as his wife screamed in terror. Jamison came around the other side of the tree and squeezed off four quick shots. Men yelled in pain, and more guns opened fire.

Gasparini struggled to his feet and staggered to his wife, managing to pull her up with his good arm, but he had to transfer his gun to his wounded left and wasn’t able to return fire. Jamison quickly ejected the spent clip from his Walther and inserted a fresh one. They’d never make it, he saw. Oscar was beyond the fence, in Chile, hustling the children behind covering trees a few meters away. By the time he could come back and bring his gun to bear, it would be too late.

Jamison made a decision. He made it without hesitation, for if he’d had time to think about it, he might have made a different one. “Run! I’ll cover you!” he shouted to Gasparini, in English. The major knew some English, didn’t he? Gasparini looked back over his shoulder as he half-dragged his wife to the fence, now only a few meters away. Did his eyes convey his thanks? Perhaps they did.

The MI6 agent spun around the tree and ran straight at the startled Argentine troops. The Walther was up and blazing, and his aim was off a bit, but three more of the soldiers fell before the remaining troops overcame their surprise and took aim at the onrushing, screaming European in the tan suit. Jamison saw the flashes from the muzzles but didn’t hear the roar. There was something else in his ears now. Was it music? Yes, music it was, and as six of the bullets thudded into him, the pain blazed through his nervous system and so he couldn’t identify the song. A pity, it was so beautiful. He fell to his knees, the gun dropping to the ground, and as the blackness started to dim his vision he took one last glance backward. Were they through the fence? Yes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Budapest, Hungary

Thursday, April 15th, 1982

The windows of her hotel suite gave Jo Ann a spectacular view of the hills of the western half of Budapest. She knew from her guidebook that the Hungarian capital had been created in 1873 with the unification of hilly, western Buda and flat, eastern Pest. The winding ribbon of the Danube wasn’t too far away, just two blocks to the south with Castle Hill looming on the far side. She’d never been to the Continent, and on another occasion, and accompanied by a certain Royal Marine, she would’ve considered the city to be incredibly romantic. Even a third of a century under the heels of the Russians had not stopped the Hungarians from keeping their identity, with their capital’s unique atmosphere holding at bay the stocky blandness of socialist architecture. Keeping the soldiers at bay was something else again; it seemed to Jo that the Hungarian Army was maintaining a high profile, with Kalashnikov-armed troops on every block. The people ignored the soldiers as they went about their business.

She’d been able to use her German from the airport to the hotel, grateful that she’d not had to learn Magyar, the native language that was renowned for its difficulty. It was proving difficult enough for her to shape her mouth around the sounds of German and Russian, so different and guttural after the ease of English and the sing-song of her Oriental tongues. Hopefully, things would go as well in Buenos Aires.

There was a knock on the door of the bedroom. “Come in,” she said in German.

The door opened and Walter Schröder said, “Would you like to take a walk, my dear?” He looked a bit older than his photograph, grayer at the temples, his eyes weary but alert. He cupped a hand to his ear, the signal to Jo that they had to assume the room was bugged. Jo nodded her understanding.

“An excellent idea,” she said. “Let me get my jacket.” A few minutes later and they were on the sidewalk, her hand inside the crook of his elbow. “The exchange went well, I thought.”

“Yes,” Schröder said. Just as London had arranged, Jo swapped identities with Larisa Kocharian Schröder in a rest room at the airport. Her flight from London arrived a half-hour before the Schröders’ from East Berlin, and she spotted the couple at the baggage carousel next to hers. Taking her small suitcase with her, Jo went to the restroom and locked herself inside a stall. Surprised to find her hands shaking, she waited patiently until the stall next to her was entered. Jo dropped a lipstick tube onto the floor near the wall between the stalls, near enough to be seen by the next-door occupant. At the last second she had remembered to open the tube and extend the lipstick halfway out, the signal that she had not been followed. A similar lipstick dropped to the floor on the other side, also opened halfway. Within sixty seconds, the women exchanged coats, hats, purses and shoes. Leaving her suitcase, Jo left the stall and risked a glance in the mirror to make sure her hair, which had been around her shoulders, was now properly pinned up underneath the hat. The two other women in the restroom ignored her. Heart thumping, she left without ever taking a look back at the real Larisa, who would soon be on her way to freedom, courtesy of MI6.

“The resemblance is truly remarkable,” Schröder said. He patted her hand. “Your German is good. Not excellent, but good.”

“Thank you,” Jo said. “It’s an interesting language.”

“We are an interesting people.” They walked in silence for a while, taking in the sights. They stopped soon at a large café. “The Ruszwurm confectionary,” Schröder said. “Founded in 1827.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Twice,” he said. “Tonight, we shall have a quiet dinner in a nice restaurant I know. Tomorrow night, the symphony at the Zeneakademia. Are you familiar with the work of Bartok?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

“Bela Bartok, one of Hungary’s most famous composers,” Schröder said. “Died some years ago, but still revered here. They celebrated his centennial last year. Tomorrow night we will hear his “Hungarian Sketches, for orchestra”. The conductor is Ervin Lukacs. Truly one of the best in Europe.” He glanced at her. “You do not know classical music?”

“Not as well as I should,” she admitted.

Schröder shook his head. “We have much work to do. The people we meet in Buenos Aires are liable to ask you about it, especially if they hear we attended the symphony in Budapest.” He sighed. “All right, let us begin over lunch.” He led the way into the café.

She hoped the two days until they left for Argentina would pass quickly.

***

Buenos Aires, Argentina

“It took some doing, but I believe my father has finally calmed down,” Heinz Nagel said.

“As has mine,” Willy Baumann said. The files on his desk were starting to blur. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep. No, what he really needed was for this whole business to be over. Once again he longed for the peace of the estancia; he imagined himself out riding with Giselle, a very pleasant image indeed.

The defection of Major Gasparini had thrown the Bund into an uproar. Willy heard the news hours after the family’s escape into Chile, conveyed by a smug BIS colonel named Malín, whose not-too-hidden pleasure at discovering a traitor in the middle of the Bund’s most important project quickly turned to concern when Willy reminded him that the BIS had, after all, allowed an English spy to wander around unmolested and then failed to prevent the defection. A very nervous Lothar Reinke was on the line next, offering his resignation. Willy declined it, and instead ordered the Pilcaniyeu security chief to lock down the facility. The scientists and all other civilians would stay on the premises until further notice.

“My father said the Reichsleiter inquired about an early deployment,” Heinz said. The strain was beginning to show on him as well. “X-1 is scheduled to leave the facility in nine days.”

“We must adhere to the schedule,” Willy said. “There is no other place we can move the weapon without risking it falling into Galtieri’s hands. Pilcaniyeu is the only facility where we can maintain control.”

“There is talk we have lost control there,” Heinz said.

Willy exploded. A file went flying into the wall, papers everywhere. “Damn it, Heinz! You were there with me, you met Gasparini, and you didn’t read the man’s mind any more than I did!”

“We should have anticipated this. After his wife’s arrest, we should have put him on extended leave. He was a prime target to be turned by the English.”

“Reinke said he could not spare him. We’ve been over this already.”

Heinz leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I know.”

“Nine more days, Heinz. That’s all we need. Reinke can maintain tight security that long, can’t he?”

Heinz shrugged his shoulders. “I would think so.” He looked up at his friend. “I am told the Reichsleiter is concerned about an English air attack on the facility.”

“Nonsense! The English can no more bomb Pilcaniyeu than we can bomb Liverpool. And the Chileans will not risk war with us by allowing a commando raid to be staged across the border. The Reichsleiter is worrying like an old woman.”

“Careful, Willy,” Heinz said. “He is not to be underestimated.”

“So you are always telling me,” Willy said. “I am more concerned about our glorious president. I’m sure he suspects what we are working on there. He may even get the idea of striking the English fleet himself and seize the weapons.”

Heinz offered a thin smile. “He knows better than that,” he said. “If he moves against us, he will not live to see the dawn of the next day.”

“He may be willing to take that risk, with such a prize on the line,” Willy said. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. They felt like sandpaper. “Reinforce Pilcaniyeu with a company of Werewolves,” he said.

“Very well,” Heinz said. “I can have a hundred extra men there within twenty-four hours.”

“Assign Schmidt’s unit. Tell him I want to talk to him before he leaves.”

“Consider it done.”

Willy leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Wing 45 will be ready?”

Heinz nodded. “The commanding officer is Major Steinhorst. One of ours. He assures me the pilots will be loyal and carry out our instructions.”

Willy looked at the calendar on his desk. “Nine days, Heinz. We must keep the lid on for nine more days and then we can bring this madness to a conclusion.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Thursday, April 22nd, 1982

Jo Ann found the café right where her contact said it would be and selected a table on the sidewalk. It was a fine day in Buenos Aires, a city she had quickly found to be one of the most beautiful in the world.

She and Walter had arrived in the Argentine capital six days ago, after a flight from Budapest to Madrid and then across the Atlantic on Iberia Airlines. That leg took over twelve hours, all in coach. The long flight and the time change—Buenos Aires was five hours behind Budapest—exhausted them both, and it wasn’t until Saturday that Jo felt human enough to venture outside their suite at the Gran Hotel Colón in the Microcentro district, a block away from the broad and very busy Avenue 9 de Julio. She discovered a city that surprised her with its European architecture and atmosphere, but after a few days of exploration, she had the feeling that try as it might, Buenos Aires could not match the great European capitals it sought so hard to emulate. Perhaps the political turmoil, which never seemed to end in this place, had something to do with that.

During their time in Budapest, she and Walter had come to an understanding. Although posing as his wife, she would not be required to sleep with him, something Jo was prepared to do if absolutely necessary. Her MI6 handlers in England made it clear that she would not be expected to be intimate with her “husband”, and Schröder was perfectly fine with that. In fact, he told her with remarkable dignity, he and Larisa had separate bedrooms at home because of his snoring. On the few occasions they traveled together, they maintained the practice of sleeping apart, despite the added expense. On their first night in Budapest, even with her bedroom door securely closed, the rumbling from Walter’s room convinced Jo that the German wasn’t just being polite.

After another day of rest on Sunday, during which they visited the bustling pedestrian mall on nearby Lavalle Street and went all the way to the Pink House and Plaza de Mayo, Schröder began a series of meetings with Argentine government officials around the city. He made daily visits to the East German embassy, and every evening called for a dinner at a high-end restaurant or, as had happened just last night, at the private home of a corporate executive who was in negotiations to do business with Walter’s government. Jo quickly discovered, somewhat to her irritation, the Argentine custom of dining late in the evening.