The White Vixen (27 page)

When he arrived home, he helped Theresa unpack the groceries and then excused himself. In the small bathroom he pulled the paper from his pocket and unfolded it. His hands were trembling. The message was in Italian:
Tonight, 11pm, The Sardinio. A friend.

The Sardinio was a small
cerveceria,
a café with a full line of beers, which the Gasparinis had sometimes visited. Normally, Antonio Gasparini enjoyed a stroll down the Calle Necochea, an area just beginning to emerge from its notoriety as the red-light district of La Boca. Tonight he was nervous. He had made his first decision in what he felt might be a new direction in his life. He felt guilty leaving Theresa and the children, even for a short time, but he told her he’d met an old Army comrade during his marketing and the man invited him for a drink. It was close enough to the truth. Theresa insisted he go, saying she was tired and would be going to bed early anyway. With a wink he found surprising and very welcome, she told him to wake her when he got home. Maybe things would get back to normal after all.

Gasparini found an empty table in the back and ordered a beer. The restaurant was still nearly full; Argentines had a habit of dining late, even on weeknights. He looked for the man he’d met in the market, but couldn’t spot him. The waitress delivered his Quilmes beer and a
picada
, a plate of munchables. Gasparini took a sip of the beer and some of the popcorn and nuts on the plate. A minute later, a man came up to his table, but not the man from the market. “Major Gasparini?” he asked in Spanish.

“Si,” Antonio answered. “How can I help you?”

“Our mutual friend from the market would like to know if you liked the melon he picked out for you.”

Gasparini made his next decision. “Yes, very much so,” he said. “Please, sit down.”

Donald Travis pulled out a chair and sat. “Thank you,” he said. “That beer looks good.” He signaled the waitress and ordered a Quilmes. “I won’t take up too much of your time,” he said. “I know you have a wife and children at home, and your time with them must be precious.”

“It is,” Gasparini said. He would trust this man a bit further, but he would commit himself to nothing. The man’s accent gave Gasparini an idea who this might be—or at least, whom he might represent—but just in case he was BIS, Gasparini would say or do nothing that could possibly implicate himself.

Travis normally took a lot longer to recruit a prospect, but time was of the essence. “Major, I heard about what happened to your wife. Dreadful business. Deplorable. We want to help.”

“Who are you?” Gasparini asked, taking a sip of beer. His trained eyes flicked around the room. Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. Of course, the man could be wearing a listening device, or carrying a tape recorder.

“Let’s just say I represent people who have a common interest with you in this particular matter. If you are interested in finding out what we can do to help each other, perhaps we can meet tomorrow.”

Gasparini thought it over. He had nothing to lose by taking it a step further, without actually committing himself. If these people were who he thought they were, they wouldn’t have a problem confirming their identities; if this was a BIS setup, they would find out Antonio Gasparini wasn’t the fool as they assumed. He thought of the Turk’s hands on his wife. “Where and when?” he asked.

***

In the end, it was not such a hard choice at all. Two more meetings over the next three days settled the matter, and on the day of his departure, Gasparini packed his bags and put on his uniform, preparing for the arrival of the Air Force car that would take him to the base and his lift south. One last walk with his lovely Theresa that afternoon gave him the time and privacy to explain his decision, and what would happen next. She was quiet, but where he had expected to see fear, he saw only determination. Like him, Theresa’s allegiance to their adopted homeland had vanished, thanks to the Turk.

She had only two questions. “You are sure about these people?”

“Yes,” he said. “The English gentleman showed me very convincing evidence of his identity. As to his promise, well, much of that we shall have to accept on faith.”

For her last question, she stopped their walk and looked him in the eyes. “You are sure this is what you want to do, my husband? It is very dangerous.”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I will no longer serve a nation ruled by thugs. We will do this one thing, and then we shall go back to Italy, and raise our children in a civilized nation.”

No words passed between them for a few fateful heartbeats. If she refused, he didn’t know what he would do. But he knew his Theresa.

“Very well,” she said. “Tell me what I must do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Estancia Valhalla, Argentina

March 21st, 1982

Tobacco smoke hung below the ceiling in a haze. Willy Baumann did not smoke, but three of the men in the room did, and one of them preferred pungent Cuban cigars. He gestured to Ernesto, pointing to the side windows of the library. The butler nodded, finished serving the after-dinner drinks, and discreetly opened the windows enough to allow the smoke to start drifting out.

The butler’s departure left seven men in the room. They’d dined on sumptuous Argentine steak, talked of the weather and crops and horses and business and politics, the typical dinner table conversation of wealthy Argentines, and since no women were dining with them, the subject of the fair sex came up once or twice. Reinhard Schacht told a ribald joke, bringing peals of laughter from everyone, even the younger men, Willy and Heinz. The old Nazi could still spin a tale or two.

Now they had retired to the library, where the real business of the evening would take place. Dieter Baumann quickly assumed command, handing out copies of three different reports. None of the copies would leave the room except in Willy’s hands; he would take them to a special incinerator in one of the outbuildings for burning, with Heinz carefully observing.

“Gentlemen, these reports are the latest information about the status of Project CAPRICORN,” Dieter said. “Referring first to the top document, I can summarize it by saying that Pilcaniyeu has two devices ready for deployment. The second document notes the readiness of Wing 45, the Air Force squadron that will carry out the strike. And finally, a report from our sources in Europe about the status of the English fleet.”

Willy had helped prepare the reports, and so didn’t need to see them again. He watched the other men as they read through the briefing papers. Schacht skimmed them with nods of his head and a few grunts. Foreign Minister Müller peered at them carefully, taking in every word as he puffed on a pipe. Günther Nagel flipped through the papers almost casually, a French cigarette dangling from his lips.

The man whose reaction most interested Willy was taking his time, occasionally sending a smoke ring skyward after a drag on his Montecristo. General Alfonso Sarmiento of the Argentine Army, the Bund’s man inside the junta, appeared to be just another South American tinpot general, swaggering about with a chest full of medals and bellicose attitude. But Sarmiento’s bluster hid an extremely shrewd and clever mind, and his loyalty did not necessarily go to the man in the president’s office. Some years before, he had been approached by the Bund and a deal was struck. Sarmiento would keep the Bund informed of the junta’s thinking, and perhaps try to influence it in certain ways; in exchange, the Bund made sure the general was very well taken care of. So far, it had been a mutually profitable relationship.

Sarmiento’s current position was especially fortuitous, as he was involved in the military planning for the invasion of the Malvinas. He was working closely with Captain Jorge Anaya, the head of the Navy. Dieter had said Sarmiento might have word of the junta’s immediate plans, and Willy found it hard to remain patient.

“Impressive, very impressive,” Sarmiento said at last. “My compliments to you and your people, Señor Baumann. You are quite thorough.”

Dieter nodded at the recognition. “Thank you, mi General,” he replied in Spanish, the language of choice for the evening, in deference to their special guest. “At last, gentlemen,” Dieter said, addressing everyone in the room, “we are ready to initiate Project CAPRICORN. All we require is forty-eight hours’ notice. In that time, a weapon can be shipped to the launch point and Wing 45 can prepare its mission.” He looked back at Sarmiento. “Mi General, do you have any information that might prove useful to us?”

A rather delicately phrased request, Willy thought, considering that the Bund owned Sarmiento lock, stock and barrel. For appearances’ sake, though, it was wise to show proper respect to the general. He was, after all, a member of the junta that supposedly ran this country.

Sarmiento took a deep breath, leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, and steepled his fingers in front of him. The cigar smoldered in a nearby ashtray. He looked around the room dramatically. “Gentlemen, Davidoff’s ship arrived off South Georgia two days ago. His men are ashore as we speak. As for the Malvinas, the date has been set. We launch our fleet on the twenty-eighth of March. Two weeks from today, the Malvinas will be ours.”

There were several audible sighs, and the tension in the room eased a bit. Willy could almost feel it being replaced by the electricity of the announcement. Action, at last. The Malvinas, at last! Argentina’s honor, restored at last! For a few brief moments, he allowed his Argentine blood to rush through him, carrying the import of the historic news. He looked over at Heinz, who grinned at him, eyes bright. Seven days from now…

Willy forced himself to consider the realities of South Georgia first. This operation was one of the Bund’s most delicate projects yet. Constantino Davidoff, a scrap-metal merchant, had been negotiating with the English for over a year to salvage the abandoned whaling station at Leith on South Georgia, some 900 miles to the east of the Malvinas. Davidoff had even contracted with a firm in Scotland to buy the scrap and received permission from the English embassy in Buenos Aires. Their only requirement was that he call on the South Georgia port of Grytviken and get formal authorization from the British Antarctic Survey team stationed there. Davidoff chartered the Argentine naval transport
Bahia Buen Suceso
to take his force of some forty workmen to South Georgia. Only a few people knew that the entire operation was financed by the Bund, and that Davidoff’s workers were actually Argentine marines, who would be ready to move on Grytviken within days after being reinforced by two more naval vessels that were now at sea.

The South Georgia operation had been in the planning stages for years, but the success at the Island of the Penguins gave the junta the confidence to allow Davidoff to proceed, with Anaya’s assistance. Willy had little doubt the operation would work; the English had no troops at Grytviken yet, and he’d received word only yesterday that their ship
Endurance
had set sail from the Malvinas with some two dozen Royal Marines from their small garrison at Stanley. Too little, too late.

Dieter Baumann, German-born and bred, did not have his head anywhere near the clouds. Willy forced himself to remember that Dieter, and the two Kameraden with him, had been part of a struggle so epic that anything the Argentines would do seemed almost trivial by comparison. What was the takeover of a few sparsely populated islands compared with the invasion of Russia? The conquest of France?

“That is very good news, mi General,” Dieter said now. “On behalf of the Bund, I offer my congratulations to the leadership of our nation for its boldness. I am confident we shall be successful.”

“The Malvinas will fall, Señor Baumann,” Sarmiento said. “The English fleet will sail to reclaim them, and then it will be time to raise the curtain on your act of this drama.”

“Considering your date, mi General, we can anticipate the English will sail no later than the tenth of April, probably sooner,” Nagel said. “They have some units at Gibraltar that may deploy early. Most of their capital ships and troop transports are in the North Atlantic or their home waters. Once they assemble, they will require about three weeks to reach the vicinity of the Malvinas.”

“How will we know when they’re in position?” Schacht asked.

“When they are south of the equator, our Air Force will be able to track them with modified Boeing 707s,” Sarmiento said. “Prior to that, though, we will be in the dark.”

Dieter glanced at Willy. “The English Admiralty will know the fleet’s position at all times,” Willy said. “They will have constant radio communication, and the English will have access to the Americans’ spy satellites. We have assets in place in London which will relay the pertinent information to us.”

“Spies, you mean,” Sarmiento said, eyes gleaming. Like all of these military men, he was intrigued by the idea of espionage. The Argentines imagined themselves to be quite adept at it, Willy knew. He also knew they were amateurs compared to the real players in the game. But at least Sarmiento was smart enough to admit it. “My friends, you accomplish things our own Secretariat cannot. My compliments now go to you.” He raised his glass.

Heinz winked at Willy. Within the Bund, especially those connected to the SD, Argentina’s foreign intelligence service was not much more than a joke. The
Secretaria de Intelligencia de
Estado
, or Secretariat of State Intelligence, known by its Spanish acronym of SIDE, did a decent job keeping track of events in neighboring countries; Willy doubted whether the general staffs of Brazil or Chile could get orders to their divisions fast enough to beat the news to Buenos Aires. But compared to professionals like those in the English MI6, the American CIA or especially the Soviet KGB, the men who worked for SIDE had a lot to learn. Fortunately, the Bund’s SD had learned those lessons long ago.