The White Vixen (7 page)

“
Ach
, but it is a beautiful day,” his father said in his native German. He knew Spanish, of course, even spoke fluently it with a cultivated Buenos Aires accent, but within the family, and the Kameraden, it was always German. How many times during his childhood had Willy been scolded for lapsing into the language of their adopted country? He’d heard “
Sprechen sie
Deutsch!”
too many times to count. “What are you drinking so early in the day?” the old man said now.

“Cognac,” Willy answered. “Would you like some?”

“French goat-piss,” Dieter Baumann spat. “I suppose you left the schnapps inside?”

In spite of himself, the son grinned. “I’m afraid so,” he said. His hand moved to a nearby button. “I can have Ernesto bring you a glass.”

The old man waved it off. “Thank you, no.” He adjusted the threadbare smoking jacket around his bony shoulders and shuffled forward to the railing next to his son. “Yes, a beautiful day,” he said again, hooking his cane on the railing and leaning forward, supported by his hands.

“It will be warm again,” Willy said, looking outward with his father.

“After all these years, I’m still not used to it,” Dieter gruffed. “Summer in the wintertime. Raising a glass and saying ‘
Fröhliche Weihnachten!
’ during a heat wave.” He shook his head, one lock of gray hair coming loose and dropping across his furrowed forehead. Dieter absent-mindedly brushed it back into place with a liver-spotted hand.

How much time does he have left, Willy wondered for the first time today. He was seventy-four now, elderly, and yet still among the youngest of the Bund’s surviving founders. How many of the old men were left now? Dieter knew, certainly. Frail though his body might be, his mind was still as sharp as ever, something that couldn’t be said for many of the Kameraden. Enough of them were still around and sharp enough to be firmly in charge of the Bund, Willy had to remind himself, with a touch of envy. Well, his generation’s time was coming, hopefully soon.

Dieter coughed once, then again. He pulled a brilliantly-white handkerchief from the left sleeve of the smoking jacket and wiped his lips with it. “How are you feeling?” his son asked.

“Like any old man, some days fine, some days like
scheiss
,” Dieter croaked. He coughed again, then barked out a laugh. “If your mother were still here, though, I could muster up enough good days to enjoy myself a bit.”

Willy Baumann looked at his father in surprise. He had never heard him speak of his late wife with such lustiness. And yet, who could blame him? Anna Baumann may have been ten years in the grave by now, but her memory was still clear in the mind of her son, and undoubtedly even more so in that of her husband. She had been a beautiful woman indeed, a cultivated daughter of Argentine high society who nevertheless was called “
meine Feuerballerin”
, my fireball, by Dieter on the few occasions Willy had been witness to real intimacy between husband and wife. He could imagine what had gone on behind closed doors, though, having known a few native
fräuleins
himself.

“So, what is happening?” Dieter asked.

Willy knew that he meant the family business, and not the business they engaged in openly. The cattle, the cement works and power plants, the newspapers and radio stations, all purchased and built up over the years, the companies that made Baumann a name of influence in Argentine politics and high finance, were tended to quite efficiently by Willy now that Dieter was in retirement. So efficiently, in fact, that the family was now one of the richest in the country. No, his father was asking about the family’s real business.

“Alles ist in ordnung,”
he answered. All is in order, a phrase that was particularly pleasing to any German’s ear, no less his father’s. “I spoke with Heinz by telephone an hour ago. He will be meeting with the General tomorrow to discuss the South Georgia question.” The General was Roberto Viola, the current head of the junta that ruled Argentina. Heinz Nagel, a close friend of Willy’s, was the Bund’s chief operative in Buenos Aires and its main contact with the junta.

“What does Heinz think?”

“He believes the general will be agreeable to our timetable,” Willy said carefully. In truth, Heinz was certain that Viola would do exactly as he was told, but as always, Willy wanted to be cautious. They had not gotten this far by being reckless.

Dieter nodded, and Willy could almost hear the gears turning inside. His father had been in this country more than forty years now, and knew its people better than any of the other German expatriates ever would. After all, he’d had the ear of Juan Perón himself, and were it not for his father’s tireless dedication to the cause, Project CAPRICORN never would have happened. And now, after all the years, all the work, all the danger and intrigue, they were so close…

“Make sure to inform the Reichsleiter as soon as you have confirmation from Heinz,” Dieter said firmly.

“Of course,” Willy said, automatically glancing around to see if any servants were present. Only among select members of the Bund was the word “Reichsleiter” even uttered; it appeared nowhere on any correspondence, could be found in no file. The Reichsleiter’s real name was even more of a secret. Dieter knew it, of course, and so did Willy, but beyond the two of them, how many knew the true identity of their leader? Twenty? Thirty? Certainly not many more. It was the Bund’s most coveted secret. If the man’s existence were revealed, the Jews would go mad for revenge. Everyone remembered what had happened to Eichmann.

Even mentioning the man’s title was risky, but Dieter felt secure enough here, on his own estate, with only his son within earshot. Dieter had taught his son early to be very careful in trusting anyone. The Bund’s success, indeed its very survival, depended on its true nature being kept secret from the outside world. Even their Argentine hosts had no real idea, although some of the higher-placed and smarter ones undoubtedly suspected. If any did, though, they wisely kept quiet. The Bund had been active on this continent for nearly four decades, and its reach was long.

“Assuming the g
eneral is as agreeable as Heinz believes he will be,” Dieter said, “when will we move on South Georgia?”

“March,” Willy answered at once. Anticipating his father’s next question, he said, “The Malvinas in April.”

“And the
Englandern
?”

“They have one ship still in these waters, HMS
Endurance,
a destroyer. Their Admiralty is in the process of reducing their fleet and our contact in London predicts the ship will be recalled early in the New Year.”

“The fools,” Dieter said. “The South Georgia occupation will come after that?”

“We will set our date and move then, whether or not the ship is still on station,” Willy said confidently. “The very same ship was on station when we took South Thule in 1976, and the English did nothing.”

“They will do something when the Malvinas fall,” Dieter said, once again using the Argentine name for the islands the English knew as the Falklands.

“Let us hope so,” Willy said. “Sometime around late May, we think.” It was ironic, really. If they waited to seize the islands in late May, just before the onset of the brutal South Atlantic winter, the operation would be a tactical success but a strategic failure. The Argentines were almost fanatically focused on regaining control of the islands they’d lost to the English over a century before, but they weren’t stupid. Capturing the islands just before winter would keep the Royal Navy out of the fight for months, and by then the doves in the British government would have taken over. They would push for a negotiated settlement of the issue. Somehow, the junta had to be persuaded to move early enough to make sure the English would have enough time to send their fleet. That would take some delicate maneuvering on the part of the Bund, but Heinz was confident it could be done. Willy trusted his friend’s instincts, but there was a contingency plan in case the junta decided to wait.   

The old man grunted. “Six months from now,” he said. “I hope I will live to see it.”

Surprising himself, Willy reached out and touched his father’s arm. “You will,” he said, emotion making his voice a bit husky.

Dieter nodded, his lips a thin smile. “You are a good son, Willy. So good that I don’t have to ask you if everything is going well at Pilcaniyeu.”

“We are ahead of schedule there, Father,” Willy said with a touch of pride. The Bund had entrusted the Baumanns with this most vital part of the project, thanks to the family’s experience in the energy industry, not to mention Dieter’s influence within the upper hierarchy and his political contacts back in what was left of the Fatherland. It was said the Reichsleiter himself had anointed the elder Baumann with this responsibility some fifteen years ago.

Dieter nodded again. “When the Union Jack is lowered over the Malvinas, their hag of a prime minister will assemble her fleet and send it south,” he said.

“She will have to,” Willy said, “or her government will fall. Then her successor will do it anyway.”

“She’ll do it,” Dieter said confidently. “She will want to show she has
die Hoden
of a man.” That brought a laugh from his son, knowing from his own reading that Margaret Thatcher’s opponents already suspected she might somehow have had testicles surgically attached.

“When their fleet arrives, we shall be ready, Father, that I can promise you.”

Dieter Baumann looked at his son, and his gray eyes were as hard and cold as Willy had ever seen them. “We had better be,” he said. “Seven million Germans gave their lives in the last war. We must ensure they did not die in vain.”

The shrilling of the telephone interrupted the moment. The two men looked out at the land in silence for a minute, until Ernesto cleared his throat behind them. “Pardon me, Herr
Oberst
,” he said in fluent German, using Willy’s military rank of colonel. “There is an urgent telephone call for you from Buenos Aires.”

“Thank you,” Willy said. He walked quickly past the Argentine butler into the office. Five minutes later, he returned to his father’s side.

“What is it?” the old man asked. He squinted at his son. “What has happened?”

“That was Heinz,” Willy said. “General Viola has suffered a heart attack.”

Dieter slammed his cane on the wooden deck. “Scheiss!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Lamma Island, Hong Kong

November 1981

“You know, I’d be happy to take you to a nicer place.”

Jo Ann smiled across the table at her escort. “This is fine,” she said. “I’ve been told the food here is excellent.”

“Perhaps, but the atmosphere is somewhat…rustic.” Major Ian Masters was possessed of a fine wit, as Jo had already discovered. “The Royal Navy is rather parsimonious, but I can certainly afford something a bit more, shall we say, upscale?”

“Nonsense,” Jo said. “Besides, it’s my treat. You did say I could buy you dinner, remember?”

“Indeed,” he said. “Well, all right, then. At least the view is nice.”

Like most Chinese restaurants in Hong Kong, the Han Lok Yuen was Spartan when it came to its accommodations. The inside dining room had a few tables but little else; out here, on the veranda, there were twice as many tables, and even though they were equipped as sparely as those inside—four plain chairs, white tablecloth, simple settings—the view of this part of Lamma Island and the inner islands was spectacular, especially on this warm evening. The sun was about an hour away from dipping below the hills of Lantau Island to the west. To the northeast was Hong Kong Island, with the lights of Aberdeen beginning to flicker on; the larger city of Hong Kong was hidden from them, on the other side of Victoria Peak, but its lights, and those of Kowloon just across the bay to the north, would provide a sensuous glow on the northern horizon if they stayed past sunset.

The other tables were filling up quickly. Waiters scurried to and fro, speaking English to most of the customers, Chinese to each other. Jo had been right to suggest they arrive early. Their boat had deposited them at the Yung Shue Wan dock, leaving them with a nice fifteen-minute walk to the restaurant. “When we go back, we’ll take a different path,” she said.

“We will?”

“I was told the walk to the Sok Kwo Wan dock is very scenic. It’s also a bit longer. About an hour.”

Masters raised an eyebrow. “If you insist,” he said, but he was smiling.

A waiter appeared at their table and Jo ordered in Chinese: lettuce cups with minced quail, then roasted squab served with fried rice on the side and a pot of strong tea. “I’ll have what the lady is having,” Masters said in English. The boy nodded and rushed away. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, whatever it is,” he said with a wry grin.

“Ian, you said you’ve been in Hong Kong several times. You don’t always eat aboard your ship, do you?”

“No, but it’s not that often a lady offers to buy me dinner ashore,” he said as he spread his cloth napkin on his lap.

“It’s probably not very often you save a lady’s life,” she said with a smile, suppressing the shudder she felt at the memory of being pulled down, down, into the dark and cold water. She hadn’t seen him dive in from his perch on the rope ladder, hadn’t felt his hand grasp her hair and keep her from sinking, long enough for another marine—Sergeant Powers, she’d been told—to pry the arms of Madame Zhi’s nephew from around her shoulders. Masters hauled her to the surface, unconscious by then, while Powers followed with the luckless nephew. Other marines and sailors got her aboard
Cambridge
and a medical corpsman quickly revived her. A half-hour later, she awakened in the ship’s sick bay, and was told the story of her rescue.