The White Vixen (42 page)

Jo had anticipated having her days largely free, but instead found herself invited to luncheons with the wives of many of the men Schröder was meeting with. “It is the way they do business here,” he told her. “The men are in charge, but the women wield great influence through their social contacts. If they do not approve of someone’s wife, they will pressure their husbands not to do business with her husband.”

Jo found that interesting. “How do Argentine husbands feel about that?”

Schröder shrugged. “They allow it, to a great degree. In return, the wives generally give their husbands a good deal of latitude in, shall we say, seeking occasional pleasure outside the marriage bed.”

“Ah.” Jo wasn’t sure she would be quite so tolerant.

She found herself liking her companion. Schröder was courtly in the old European way, gently corrected her German when needed, and never asked her personal questions. She could imagine that some men might try to take advantage of this kind of situation, but Walter had not even hinted at desiring intimacy. In fact, on the rare occasions he referred to the real Larisa, he did so with obvious fondness. Jo was beginning to wonder if this polite but rather dull man could really be the double agent MI6 and CIA suspected him to be. She was hoping that the person she was scheduled to meet here at this café would let her know that Walter was in the clear.

Before leaving England, her contact from CIA’s London station gave her careful instructions for communication in Buenos Aires. Each day, she was to call a certain telephone number from a public phone. The call was to be placed anytime between ten a.m. and two p.m. She was never to use the same phone two days in a row. When the person on the other end answered the call, she was to ask, in Spanish, to speak to Señora Menendez, if she had nothing to report. The señora would come on the line and give Jo any instructions that were required. If, on the other hand, she had information that had to be passed to CIA, she was to speak in German and ask for Herr Zastrow. She would then be told of a time and place for a meeting. She also had to write a one-page daily report, on hotel stationery, and leave it each morning in a dead drop, which in this case was on the underside of a vending machine down the hall from her hotel suite.

This was her fourth “working” day in Buenos Aires, and so far she had not asked for Herr Zastrow. She did her best to get information from several of the women she met, women with German husbands, but so far none of them had said anything that even hinted at the existence of a Siegfried Bund. She was frustrated and getting a little bored. Not good traits for a field operative, she knew, but this was her first assignment which involved such a large amount of “soft” work. Today, finally, she had been told to meet a contact and receive instructions. Perhaps something was about to break.

At least the walk to this part of the city, Recoleta, had been invigorating. She left their hotel and walked north on Carlos Rellegrini about a half-mile, past the Brazilian consulate, and then headed northwest on Avenue Alvear. Another half-mile brought her to Ayacucho, and the Alvear Palace Hotel. Along the way she stealthily used the techniques taught to her at the Monk about how to detect and evade a surveillance tail. Without being obvious about it, she crossed the street several times, doubling back a half-block once or twice, ostensibly to check out an interesting store. She used the windows of stores as mirrors to watch who might be behind her, and whenever she emerged from a shop she carefully scanned the sidewalks, her eyes hidden by sunglasses. Once or twice she thought someone looked rather suspicious, but they didn’t stay behind her long. If the Argentine BIS, or anyone else, was indeed following her, they were using multiple tails and being very cautious. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do about that.

She went into the lobby of the Alvear Palace and asked for directions to the nearest ladies’ room. Once inside, she entered the next to last stall and closed and latched the door behind her. Without removing her stylish, French-made slacks—she was using Larisa’s luggage, and had to admit the woman had good taste—she sat on the toilet for thirty long seconds, then rose and flushed it. As the water gurgled, she reached behind the tank and felt for the small device Señora Menendez had told her would be there. It was. The plastic disc-shaped container, the size of a bottle cap, came loose from the ceramic tank without a sound. Prying it open, Jo withdrew the small piece of toilet tissue.
Café de la Paix
was written on it with a blue marker.
L Aya R Qui.
She memorized it and dropped the paper and container into the toilet, where it disappeared with the last of the water from the flushing.

Turning left outside the entrance to the hotel, Jo walked down Ayacucho, crossed Avenue Alvear, and a block later came to another cross street, Quintana. A right turn, and another block later the street ended at RM Ortiz, with a public plaza on the other side, and beyond that, the most incredible cemetery Jo had ever seen. It had to cover half a dozen square blocks, and the mausoleums seemed to outnumber headstones. All of them were large and ornate to varying degrees.

Tearing her gaze away from the cemetery, she looked to her left, then her right. There it was, Café de la Paix. She found an empty table and ordered a mineral water. Five minutes later, as she was perusing the menu, a plain-faced, brown-haired woman approached the table. “Excuse me,” she said in French, “I believe I’m lost. I was told the French consulate is a few blocks away.” She pointed back down RM Ortiz to the southwest.

“I’m sorry,” Jo answered. “That would be the Uruguayan consulate. I don’t know where the French consulate is.” Actually, she did; it was back in the Microcentro district. The contact, however, had now been confirmed.

“Oh dear,” the woman said. “May I sit here and rest for a bit?”

“Of course,” Jo said. “Please join me.”

The woman set her handbag and a folded magazine on the glass-topped table and dropped into a chair, scooting it around to be nearer to Jo. “
Bonjour, Renarde
,” she said, her voice a bit lower. “You can call me Marie. Do you mind continuing in French?”

“
Pas du tout
,” Jo said. Not at all.

“Very good,” Marie said. “I knew the French I learned for Paris would come in handy again. There are a lot of people around here who speak German and English, not to mention Spanish, but few who speak French. So it is a bit safer.” The waiter came, and Jo ordered a Caesar salad. Matching her Spanish, Marie said she would not be dining, but would like a bottle of mineral water. When the waiter departed, the CIA agent turned back to Jo. “I have been asked to pass along a ‘well-done’ for your German. It is remarkably good, for someone with so little training.”

“
Merci
,” Jo said. “I presume, then, that one of the people I’ve met has actually been from your shop?”

“A good assumption,” Marie said. “You passed with flying colors.” The waiter brought her a bottle of mineral water and a glass. Marie took a moment to quench her thirst. “I can’t stay long. As we talk, smile, relax. It is a polite conversation between strangers, no?”

“I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to report anything useful,” Jo said, trying to make it sound as if she were remarking about the weather.

“Nonsense,” Marie said with a smile. “Your information has been welcomed. I know how easy it is to be frustrated in this business, Vixen. You must be patient.”

“But time is of the essence,” Jo said.

“It is a factor, yes,” Marie said. She took another drink of her mineral water. “An opportunity has arisen, though.”

“Yes?”

“Saturday night, you and Schröder will attend a party at the East German consulate. It is on the other side of Cementerio de la Recoleta. Not too far from the British consulate.”

“That’s the cemetery across the street?”

“Yes,” Marie said. “Remember the luncheon you had Tuesday? One of the ladies was the wife of a consular official. She apparently liked you enough to get you on the invitation list. So your work the past few days wasn’t at all in vain.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jo said.

“Schröder will tell you about the invitation tonight. He is at the consulate right now, meeting with his Stasi contact.”

Jo felt a chill. “Is he—“

Marie nodded slightly. “We’re almost certain he is working for the Bund. Some members of the Bund hierarchy will be attending the party. We think they will give Schröder his final instructions for his part in their East German operation. The men are quite close to Eminence. We expect they will discuss him with Schröder. This is your chance to find out what we need to know.”

Jo’s salad arrived, and when the waiter had departed, she asked, “How am I to do that?”

Marie took another drink and set the empty glass on the table. “I’m going to leave now. Inside this magazine is a voice-activated listening device which can be attached to virtually anything. It transmits to a receiver that is also a recording device. There is a cordless earplug for you to listen in. Its range is about a hundred yards, so don’t let him stray too far away.”

Jo nodded. “How will I get the tape to you?”

“When you return to your hotel after the party, slip it to the red-haired doorman. He works for us. The next morning, between eight and nine, call in for further instructions.”

“Our flight to Madrid leaves at four p.m. Sunday,” Jo said.

“You won’t be on it, and neither will Schröder,” Marie said. “Wait for your instructions.”

“I understand.” She hesitated, then voiced the thought that had been trying to get out. “If Schröder is really a double agent, won’t he expose me to the Argentines?”

“There is that possibility,” the CIA agent said. “
We can’t be sure what his game is. If he’d meant to expose you, the Bund would have you already. You should be on your guard. Once you go into that consulate, we can’t provide any assistance to you.”

Marie stood up and picked up her handbag, but left the magazine on the table. “
Bon
chance
,
Renarde
,” she said. Good luck, Vixen.

“Merci. Au revoir.”

***

HMS
Cambridge
, South Atlantic

Friday, April 23rd, 1982

The mess hall had become a regular evening gathering spot for the SBS troopers. Ian’s toughest decision—so far—had been the selection of men for the mission. The seven he had picked were here now, including Hodge, his XO. Colour Sergeant Powers was here, of course, as was Corporal Garrett, the Welsh rifleman.

Ian didn’t feel real good about going into enemy territory with only eight men, but he felt good about the ones who were going. All of them had been Royal Marines for at least four years, with SBS for at least two, and with Ian’s command for at least one. They’d all been on Carpenter’s Island. They knew each other, knew their jobs, and they knew and trusted their commanding officer. As he looked them over now in the mess hall, he could barely suppress a grin of pride. It broke through just a bit, enough for Hodge to notice.

“They’re good lads, aren’t they?” Hodge knew exactly how Ian was feeling.

“Yes, they are,” Ian said. “We’ll have to make sure we bring them home safely.”

Ian checked his wristwatch. Nearly 2100 hours.
“Time for the briefing.”

“All right, lads, let’s have your attention for the colonel,” Hodge announced.

Powers tossed down the cards he held in his hand. “Bloody well lucky for you, mate,” he said to one of the three other men at his table. “Inside straight, I had.”

“You’ll have your chance to prove it, Sergeant,” Ian said. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at him now. He took a moment to scan each of them.

“It’s lights out at 2230,” he began. “We’re up at 0600 for morning P.T. on the deck. I’m told the weather will be acceptable.” That brought a few good-natured groans. “Breakfast at 0730. Weapons check at 0830. At 1000 we meet here to go over the E&RE. Lunch at 1200. At the morning brief I’ll have more info about our afternoon schedule.” It was a challenge every day on this voyage to keep the men busy, but fortunately they were used to the downtime that came with a deployment at sea. They’d all been aboard
Cambridge
on the long trek across the Pacific, and had learned to keep occupied with letters home, books, and marathon card games. Some of them were quite proficient at chess. Garrett, the Welsh corporal, had organized a tournament on the Pacific run that involved half the men on board. Ian lost in the second round, but Garrett hung in until the championship match, when he was beaten by an ensign from Northumberland.

Ian held up a flimsy he’d gotten from the comms officer a short time ago. “Latest word on
Reliant
is that she’s on schedule for the rendezvous. We meet at 2200 hours Sunday night. At 2230 she surfaces and we transfer over to her. If the weather cooperates she’ll be alongside. If not, we’re in the boats.”

“Here’s to the meteorologist,” Powers said, raising his glass of water. That brought nods from most of the men. Nobody wanted to make the transit to the submarine in a small boat battling rough seas.

“When do we go ashore, sir?” one of the men asked.