The White Vixen (44 page)

“Yes, they are,” Jo said. There was something about this man, something she hadn’t felt from a man in a long time. A type of magnetism, almost. She worried that her freshly-learned German might not pass muster with this man, but Larisa did not know Spanish. She’d have to risk the German. “What business are you in, Herr Baumann?”

“Please call me Willy,” he said. “My father’s company has several divisions. Some newspapers and radio stations, some construction firms, primarily.”

“And what is your role, if I may ask?”

He smiled. “My father is semi-retired. I find myself doing many different things these days.”

“I see.” She decided to venture a little probe. “Your people seem quite excited about the Malvinas. You must be very proud.”

Did his eyes narrow just a bit? The smile didn’t change, though. “Pride will not carry us through what is to come, I’m afraid.”

“I am told the English fleet is on its way.”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

Could she risk another probe? “There are so many Germans here. Is there still animosity from the last war?”

His smile got a bit thinner. Jo knew she would have to be careful now. “We are Argentines first, Germans second,” he said. “Or Italians, or Spaniards, or whatever.”

They whirled past Schröder and the elder Baumann, engaged in conversation. Jo warned herself not to lose him. “When I married Walter and came to Berlin, I was surprised by how many people still talked of the last war,” she said. “The division of Germany is still such a sore spot for them.”

“I could tell you are not German,” he said with a polite grin. “Eurasian, perhaps?”

“I am from Armenia,” she said, hoping that Baumann didn’t know Russian, or worse yet, Armenian. What would be the chances of that? Dancing an Austrian waltz in Buenos Aires with a German-Argentine who knows Armenian? “I have heard of it,” Baumann said.

“It would be wonderful if Germany could be reunited someday,” she said, trying to sound wistful.

“Perhaps it shall be,” Baumann said. His eyes seemed to drill into hers. Jo caught a break as the waltz ended. They were on the far side of the room now from where they’d left Schröder and Baumann’s father.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” At the main entrance, a man was speaking loudly in German. “The president of Argentina, His Excellency, General Leopoldo Galtieri!”

The quartet swung into something that must have been Argentina’s version of “Hail to the Chief”. Everyone faced the main entrance and burst into applause as President Galtieri, wearing a magnificent uniform, entered the room, an elegantly-gowned lady on his arm. Jo couldn’t help but noticing that the Argentine First Lady wasn’t introduced, unlike her American counterpart would’ve been.

She also noticed that Willy Baumann’s applause was polite but not nearly as enthusiastic as most other guests’. “An impressive personage,” she said, as much to gauge Baumann’s response as to make conversation.

“He knows how to make an appearance,” Baumann said.

Galtieri began to work the room, but with an imperious manner more in common with an old European potentate than a contemporary politician. Jo had to remind herself that this was a politician who wasn’t beholden to the voters for his position. The East German ambassador was first to greet him, and then began to escort the president around the room, introducing him to the other guests. Jo watched people, as many women as men, begin to move into position from other places in the room.

“I should find Walter,” Jo said. “He may be able to meet the president.”

“
Necesito conseguir un poco de aire
,” Baumann said, almost under his breath. Jo knew the Spanish: I need to get some air. Turning to Jo, Baumann smiled and bowed slightly. “Thank you very much for the dance, and the conversation, Frau Schröder,” he said. “I wish you a pleasant journey home tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Herr Baumann—Willy,” she said. With a smile that would have melted almost any other woman, he was gone, working his way through the gathering crowd, heading for a doorway as far away from Galtieri as possible. Well, that was interesting. No love lost there. A personal thing, or political? Her briefing had been short on details about the Siegfried Bund’s relationship to the Argentine leadership. One of the MI6 experts referred to the Bund as a virtual shadow government. Perhaps the new president was trying to shake off the shadow.

Jo looked for Schröder, but he wasn’t where he had been before. Neither was Dieter Baumann. Without trying to be obvious, Jo scanned the room. There—she caught a glimpse of Walter’s distinctive bald spot, disappearing through a doorway. She made her way in that direction, swimming upstream against most of the other guests who were moving toward Galtieri.

Reaching the doorway, Jo saw that it opened onto a short hallway, with a staircase heading down at the other end. Nobody else was about, but she heard a heavy door closing. Moving away from the door, she reached into her handbag and took out the microcassette recorder. The tape was running, so Walter was talking. She unclipped the wireless earplug and put it in her left ear, making sure her hair was swept down over it.

Schröder’s voice came through, tinny but audible. “A beautiful evening.”

“Yes, but winter is coming.” Dieter Baumann’s raspy voice came through, loud and clear. He had to be walking beside Walter, probably on his right, near the lapel that concealed the microphone.

“Your man wishes to meet in the cemetery?”

“Yes,” Baumann said. “Inside was too risky. Too many ears, too many eyes.”

Jo made her decision. She had to follow them.

***

Without her shawl, the evening air was chilly on her bare shoulders. Jo emerged from the main consulate building and saw Schröder and Baumann about seventy yards ahead, walking toward the main gate of the compound. Jo was glad she’d remembered to put her fake East German passport and her Argentine visa in her handbag. She wished now she’d put the SIG inside, too.

The two men passed through the gate and turned left. The compound fronted on Avenue Las Heras, a block away from the southwest boundary of Cementerio de la Recoleta. If Jo remembered her map correctly, they would have to turn right on Calle Azcuenaga to get to the cemetery.

She took her time getting to the consulate gate, paying attention to the idle conversation from her earpiece while trying to appear casual. The East German soldiers flanking the gate looked her over carefully, and she gave them her best smile. “Getting some fresh air,” she said.

There they were, heading up Azcuenaga toward Recoleta. The street was well-lit, like most in Buenos Aires, and a number of people were strolling the sidewalks. Cars jostled for position on the street. Jo headed off in pursuit. Turning up Azcuenaga, she noticed that there seemed to be a number of young, heavily made-up women about. Ahead of her, she saw a man talking to one of them, and then the woman led him to a nearby doorway. Evidently she’d wandered into part of the red light district.

Schröder and Baumann reached the intersection with Calle Vicente Lopez, waited for the green light, and crossed the street. On the other side they turned right and crossed Azcuenaga. Jo ducked into a doorway, letting the shadows envelop her. The two men reached the other side of the street, where the high iron fence of the cemetery loomed. They turned left and began walking alongside the cemetery boundary.

“Hello,” a voice next to her said. Jo turned, but the man was a stranger. Short and middle-aged, with breath that carried more than a hint of beer. “You’re a nice-looking one. Haven’t seen you around here.”

“Excuse me,” she said in Spanish. “I have to go.”

“Wait a minute. You think you’re too good for me?” The man put a pudgy hand on her right shoulder.

Jo didn’t have time to be polite. She reached up with her left hand, grabbed the man’s pinky finger, and twisted it up and over. The man gasped. A little more pressure and she felt tendons snap as the man went down on one knee. “
Santa Maria! Usted perra loca!”

The signal in her ear was fading, and Jo moved quickly down the street to the intersection, thankful that the light was green, and ran across as nimbly as her heels would allow. At the far corner she jaywalked against the light, dodging cars with two other pedestrians, a young couple who’d had too much to drink. Schröder and Baumann had disappeared into the cemetery. When she got to the other side, she picked up the signal again.

The side gate was fifty yards up the street. As she walked briskly toward it, she thought ruefully that she was probably violating every rule of tradecraft that the patient instructors at the Monk had impressed upon her. She was tailing her targets but wasn’t armed, had no backup, and wasn’t exactly dressed to blend in with the crowd. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She was formulating a cover story, just in case.

Jo came to the gate and let herself in. She seemed to recall hearing that the cemetery closed at six p.m., but someone had managed to leave this gate open. Probably not a coincidence.

A cobblestone path led into the cemetery, flanked by small trees and shrubbery. Noise from the street seemed more muted than it should have been, and the light from the streetlamps filtered through the leaves and around the mausoleums like dark yellow stains. Was it suddenly colder, as well? It had to be her imagination.

The path branched off into what she assumed was a grid pattern. Schröder and Baumann were still about seventy yards ahead, and she ducked into the shadow cast by the nearest monument. The men had slowed their pace.

“This is an impressive place,” Schröder was saying.

“Recoleta is unlike any other cemetery in the world,” Baumann said. “A writer once called Argentina a nation of ‘cadaver cultists’. We celebrate the date of a person’s death, not his birth.”

“These crypts must cost a great deal of money.”

“It is cheaper to live extravagantly all your life than it is to be buried in Recoleta, or so the saying goes,” Baumann said. “Most of these mausoleums have several levels, extending underground. The most recently deceased occupies the ground level. See, this one here? The casket is before the altar. A child would be placed on the altar. When the next one in the family dies, this one will go underground. Many famous Argentines are here. Evita Perón is about a hundred meters that way.” Jo saw Baumann gesture ahead and to their left.

“Indeed? I suppose Juan Perón’s monument is enormous.”

Baumann chuckled. “Not really. He’s buried over in Chacarita, across town. A much less pretentious place. No, Evita is here, in the Duarte family plot. You might find it interesting to know that her body was actually stolen once.”

“What?” Jo could tell Schröder’s astonishment was genuine.

“A general opposed to Perón, Aramburu, took the body to Italy and petitioned the Pope to have it kept in Milan, as a way to embarrass Perón’s supporters.”

“You must be joking, Herr Baumann.”

The old man laughed. “I am serious. The Pope refused, and Evita was shipped off to Madrid, where Perón was in exile. Eventually she made it back here. Ah, our friend should be down this way.” They turned left and disappeared around a corner. Jo crept gratefully out from the shadow. Gooseflesh had arisen on her arms and shoulders, and it wasn’t just from the evening chill. Taking off her heels, she flitted barefoot down the path, ready to duck into cover if anybody appeared ahead of her. At the corner where the men had turned, she glanced around a mausoleum and saw them about fifty yards ahead, near a small plaza of some sort. Another man was sitting on a bench.

“Good evening again, Herr General,” Baumann said.

“Gentlemen, what a wonderful place in which to meet,” Maltov answered, also in German.

“Let’s get down to business,” Schröder said. “I don’t want to keep my wife waiting.”

“Certainly not, a beautiful woman like her in a room full of Argentines,” Maltov said with a chuckle.

Jo worked her way closer, but avoided the path, stepping around headstones and hugging the sides of the enormous marble crypts. She got within about thirty yards of the men and dared go no further, but she was confident she couldn’t possibly be spotted by them.

“Herr General, are you ready to move?” Baumann was asking Maltov.

“Yes,” the Soviet general said. “When I receive the signal from Comrade Schröder, my men will take command of the installation’s headquarters and turn it over to your people when they arrive.”

“Can your men be trusted?” Baumann asked.

“They will think it is a drill,” Maltov said. “I have brought none of them into my confidence. They are all Russians, the
officers anyway.” Jo thought back to the party. What had Maltov said, that he was Latvian? The Bund must have recruited him; he obviously was stationed at a critical installation in East Germany, probably a base that housed part of the Soviet tactical nuclear arsenal.

“When Oberst Koch’s brigade arrives, the general’s officers will all be arrested,” Schröder said.
“The general too, of course. A short time later, he will be separated from the rest and will be transported to Berlin.”

“Your family?”

“They will be safe, Comrade Baumann. My son is attending your university in Dresden. I will be in contact with him when your people have the situation in hand. He will know what to do. My wife and daughter will be on holiday in Helsinki. They will be safe.”