The White Vixen (43 page)

“If all goes according to plan, we disembark
Reliant
at 2330 hours Zulu on Monday. That will be 2030 local.” The ship was on Greenwich Mean Time for this mission, even though Argentina was three hours behind. “Starting tonight, by the way, we’re moving our lights-out time back an hour each night. Don’t want any of you lads falling asleep as we get to the sub.”

“Gor’ blimey,” Corporal Garrett said. “Twenty-odd hours on a submarine. Twenty hours too long.”

“’Specially ‘cause the squids don’t use deodorant,” another trooper said, bringing a laugh from the men. While all the men deeply respected Royal Navy sailors, especially submariners, they took pains not to be obvious about it.

“We’ll have to make do,” Ian said, grinning.

“Will we have bashers on board the sub, sir?” Sleeping quarters were of primary concern to an SBS trooper on the verge of beginning an operation. The men were skilled at grabbing shuteye whenever they could, but using something approaching a real bed was a plus.

“I’m told we’ll have some hammocks strung up in the after torpedo room. They should be sufficient provided the boat doesn’t have to go into action.”

“Any sign of the enemy yet, sir?”

“We’ve had one overflight a day of what is probably an Argentine surveillance aircraft,” Ian said.

“Why not shoot the bugger down?” Garrett asked.

“We’re not yet in the exclusion zone,” Hodge said. “And they could be civilian airliners.” Someone snorted at that.

“What about submarines, sir?” Powers asked.

Ian glanced at Hodge, who gave him a slight shrug. “The Argentines have a few German- made Type 209 diesel boats,” he said. “None are expected to be in these waters. However, that possibility cannot be ruled out. What we do know is that we’ve been shadowed off and on by a Soviet boat, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

Although the captain had made no official announcement to the crew about the Russian, word had spread, as it inevitably would. The marines picked up the word before Ascension. “What’s Ivan up to, sir?”

“Hopefully, nothing except keeping an eye on things,” Ian said. “However, the captain tells me he’s not inclined to let the Russian interfere with our mission. He will do what he needs to do in that event.” That brought some worried glances between the men. Taking on the Argentines was one thing. Tangling with the Soviet Navy was another. There had been talk on the voyage about which major powers might be playing on which side. Although the United States and Soviet Union had more or less declared their neutrality, everyone knew that might change once the shooting started.

Ian knew the men were concerned about that, and was about to address it, when the always-prescient Sergeant Powers spoke up. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary, sir.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Saturday, April 24th, 1982

“You look exquisite, my dear,” Schröder said, rising from the divan in the sitting room of their suite.

Jo Ann glided into the room, wearing Larisa’s best evening gown, red silk with an intricate, Russian-inspired pattern sewn in gold thread. It was a bit more conservative than one would see in Paris or New York, but for the wife of a Communist bureaucrat, Jo imagined it was somewhat daring. A gold shawl and handbag completed her ensemble. For accessories, Jo wore a honey amber beaded necklace, which Walter had bought for Larisa on a trip to Estonia, and a matching pair of amber earrings, also from the Baltic. Her only ring was Larisa’s plain gold wedding band, which Jo had found in her luggage, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. That particular discovery brought a lump to Jo’s throat.

“Thank you,” Jo said. Since Marie’s warning two days earlier, Jo’s time with Schröder had been difficult, although she didn’t let on that she knew. Now, she approached him, smiling. He did look rather debonair, although East German men weren’t known for their fashion sense. “You look very handsome tonight, Walter.” She reached up to adjust his tie and then tugged at the lapels of his dark blue suit jacket. “There. All straight.” When her left hand came away from his lapel, it left behind the wireless microphone, carefully attached to the underside of the lapel. No larger than a ten-cent piece and nearly as thin, Jo was confident it wouldn’t be discovered. Tomorrow she would remove it on the pretext of brushing the jacket.

He smiled back at her, but his eyes were different than they usually were. They’d spent over a week together and she hadn’t yet seen him really relax, but tonight he seemed to carry an underlying air of tension. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I’ve been having a bit of indigestion,” he said. “The food here is quite rich.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. She went over a quick mental checklist. The microcassette recorder was in her handbag, but the handgun she’d brought to Buenos Aires, a SIG/Sauer P210, was reluctantly left in her bedroom. She’d trained with the SIG at Fort Monckton and was quite pleased with it, after years of handling standard U.S. military Colts, but it wouldn’t at all do to have the wife of a guest bringing a firearm to the party tonight. “Shall we go?”

“Yes,” Schröder said. “By the way, I was informed that President Galtieri could very well be attending this evening.”

“Really? How exciting!”

“Some fairly prominent members of the German community will be there as well,” Schröder said. “I might have to spend some time in conversation with them. I hope you won’t mind.”

“Not at all, Walter.”

***

It appeared to Jo Ann that the reception hall of the Consulate of the German Democratic Republic had probably been spiffed up within an inch of its life. The main floor of the four-story building on Avenue Pueyrredon—only a block from the British consulate, ironically enough—was the consulate’s public area. The East Germans weren’t known as the most popular hosts on the Buenos Aires party circuit, which was as active as any capital and probably more so than most. They had, however, put on their best face tonight. Not surprising; the Argentines were riding high, with a military victory over a West European power giving them huge prestige among those nations who had long felt they weren’t quite welcome at the table. The Soviets, with their East German proxies, were always right there to give a hearty slap on the back to the little guys, usually followed by an invitation to their table.

Jo had to remember that down here, people didn’t think about geopolitics in an East vs. West way; it was more South vs. North. One of the lecturers at Fort Monckton had stressed the difference. Southern Hemisphere nations looked upon those in the North as the “haves”, and those in the South as the “have-nots”. South Americans felt more of a kindred spirit with Africans than they did with Europeans or North Americans, even though the great majority of South Americans were of European descent.

From what she had seen of the people in Buenos Aires, though, Jo had come to the conclusion that the average Argentine was like the average American or Briton, and probably the average Russian: they just wanted opportunity and security, and otherwise to be left alone. Geopolitics may be endlessly debated in ivory university towers and government offices, but the average man and woman worried about things like jobs and children.

The Argentines in this room, though, were not average. More than half of the men wore military uniforms, glittering with medals and draped with insignia. The women who accompanied the men were just as imperious, lavishly dressed and dripping with jewelry. Jo also recognized American, French and Soviet uniforms, and a few she concluded must be from other South American nations. Waiters circled the room with trays filled with glasses of champagne and plates of hors d’eourves. A string quartet was set up in one corner, playing something Jo thought might be from Mozart.

Walter introduced Jo to the East German ambassador, a stuffy bureaucrat named Schultz, and his even stuffier wife. A number of other consulate officials came and went, and Jo’s German was put to the test constantly. Fortunately, she felt more comfortable in the language every day, and did well with it tonight. “You speak it like a native,” one woman said, when Jo told her she was from Armenia.

“Herr Schröder!”

The hail came from a large, block-shaped man in the uniform of a Soviet Army general, who was making his way over to where Jo and Walter stood chatting with a couple from Austria. “General Maltov,” Walter said to her. “Military attaché to the Soviet Embassy. We met in Moscow last year.”

“I don’t recall the meeting,” Jo said, trying not to tip off the Austrians.

“You stayed home that time, my dear,” Walter said, and Jo breathed a sigh of relief.

Maltov was moving through the crowd like a Red Army tank, a flute of champagne nearly invisible in his large ham of a hand. “Schröder!” He embraced Walter with a large bear hug. “So good to see you, comrade,” the general said in passable German. “And I see you have your beautiful wife. You bring her to Buenos Aires, but not to Moscow, eh?”

“General Yevgeny Maltov, my wife, Larisa.”

The Russian clicked his booted heels and placed a kiss on Jo’s outstretched hand. “You are indeed more beautiful than Walter had described,” he said. “Our fraternal socialist allies in the German Democratic Republic produce lovely women as well as steel and Olympic swimmers.”

Jo smiled. Her first big test. She would have to answer this man in his own language, lest he find out later about Larisa’s heritage and perhaps ask a question or two. “Фактическ, Я от Армении, Генералитет Камрада,” she said in Russian. Actually, Comrade General, I am from Armenia.

Maltov’s eyes widened, and he looked down at Jo’s feet. The shoes, she thought, he’s looking at the shoes, they told me that Russians always check out each other’s shoes. Jo was wearing Polish-made open-toed heels. Black, to contrast with her dress, but she’d painted her toenails red. The general quickly looked back up at Jo, and his smile of surprise broadened. Jo hoped fervently that Maltov wasn’t from Yerevan. “Armenia!” he said, and then, in Russian, “I am from Latvia originally. A town near Riga. There are fine Armenian boys in the Army. They always boast of their women. Now I know why!”

Jo was rapidly running dry with her Russian. To get into a conversation with Maltov would be disastrous. “Excuse me, General,” she said, then to Walter, in German, “Where is the ladies’ room?”

Schröder gestured behind Jo. “Through that door, down the hallway, my dear.”

“Thank you.” To Maltov, she said in Russian, “So nice to meet you, Comrade General. Perhaps we’ll talk later.” Jo fled to the restroom, struggling to maintain her composure. By the time she reached the door she was trembling.

This would not do. She had to get a grip on herself. She went inside, nodded to the two other women standing at the sinks, and went into a stall. Latching the door, she sat down and focused on her breathing. A few seconds later, relying on her inner ki, she was calm.

When she returned to the reception room, Walter was free of the Russian. He was talking with two men in civilian clothes, one man in his seventies, the other much younger and rakishly handsome. There was a resemblance between the two men. Jo took a fresh flute of champagne from a passing waiter and joined them.

Schröder seemed momentarily startled when she touched his elbow, but he recovered quickly. “Ah, my dear,” he said, in German. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my wife, Larisa. My dear, may I present Herr Dieter Baumann, and his son, Wilhelm Baumann, from Buenos Aires.”

The Siegfried Bund operative. The face and name registered with Jo as soon as Walter spoke the words. The elder Baumann clicked his heels, bowed, and kissed her hand much more smoothly than Maltov had done. His son was just as elegant, but there was one difference: his eyes never left Jo’s. She felt a tingling from her hand up to her elbow as his lips touched her skin. “Madame,” he said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, gentlemen,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the younger Baumann and looking back at his father.

“Are you enjoying Buenos Aires?” Dieter Baumann asked politely.

“Very much so,” Jo Ann said. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“I wish I could have seen more of it,” Walter said. “I have had meetings every day.”

“When do you return to Germany?” Dieter asked.

“Tomorrow, unfortunately.”

“A pity. You really must stay longer next time.”

Walter glanced at Jo. “We shall,” he said.

The quartet began to play a waltz. “’The Blue Danube’,” Dieter Baumann said. “Herr Schröder, were I ten years younger, I would ask your lovely wife for this dance.”

“I am a terrible dancer, as Larisa well knows,” Schröder said. “But perhaps your son might enjoy it.”

Wilhelm clicked his heels. “Madame, I would be honored,” he said.

The last time Jo had danced a waltz was at her Academy graduation ball. “I’d love to,” she said, trying to sound sincere.

Baumann led her onto the dance floor and in seconds they were moving smoothly together. “Strauss is always better with a full orchestra,” he said. “But this quartet is good.”