The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  Willy fought to keep his composure. Surely, Galtieri was bluffing. He was being courted heavily by the Americans, who had fawned over him during his visit to the United States several months earlier. One of them had even referred to Galtieri as “the Patton of Argentina”, a comparison almost as ludicrous as if he’d been associated with Rommel. No, if Galtieri really knew as much about the Reichsleiter as he claimed, he would have tipped off the Americans as a means of gaining their favor even more. And of course the Americans would have immediately told their great friends the Jews, who would have acted by now. And they hadn’t. Thus, it was bluff and bluster. Willy decided not to call it, for now. Instead, he said, “Mi presidente, I came here today to pay my respects and to reiterate our Bund’s support for your government. It appears that I have not properly communicated that to you, and for that I’m sorry.”

  Galtieri leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Señor, I want you to take a message back to your father for me. I presume he will pass it along to the Reichsleiter.”

  Willy did not break eye contact with the older man. Galtieri’s gaze drilled into him, but Willy summoned up his German discipline and held his own. “What message would you like me to convey, sir?”

  “Just this: I am in this chair to restore Argentina’s honor, its pride. I intend to rule this country for a long time, señor, and before I am done this nation will stand in its proper place in this hemisphere. And I will let no one, no group, and certainly no Siegfried Bund, stand in my way.”

  “Mi presidente, let me once again state that we in the Bund wish only to work together with your government—” Galtieri sighed and leaned backward in his chair, tapping the pen impatiently. Willy continued smoothly. “Our goal is yours: a strong, prosperous and independent Argentina. This is of course our country, too.”

  “I have another appointment, señor. Please be so kind as to convey my message.”

  Willy stood up, as did his host. Galtieri again did not offer a hand. Willy clicked his heels and bowed again. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  “Before you leave, Señor Baumann, could you answer a question for me?”

  “I will do my best, sir.”

  “If I were to nationalize your installation at Pilcaniyeu, what would the Bund’s reaction be?”

  That one gave Willy pause. Pilcaniyeu had to remain under Bund control at all costs. The success of CAPRICORN depended on it. Everything depended on it. Letting the facility fall into the hands of Galtieri and his henchmen would be a disaster. “The facility is private property, as you well know, mi presidente, a status that has been guaranteed by your predecessors for more than a decade now.”

  “My predecessors are not here, señor. I am.”

  “Are you telling me you are considering such a thing, sir?”

  Galtieri’s eyes narrowed. “I am the president, señor. I have many things I must consider for the sake of my country. My soldiers are already providing security there.”

  Willy’s reply was immediate. “For which the Bund is generously compensating the government.” He decided it was time to gamble, to see if the Bund’s status among the Argentine ruling class was truly as high as he’d been told. If not, all was probably lost anyway. He offered a thin smile. “Mi presidente, I trust that once you examine all the, shall we say, rather unique facts surrounding this particular issue, you will decide that maintaining the status quo is in the best interests of your government.”

  Galtieri leaned forward menacingly on his desk. “Is that a threat, señor?”

  Willy’s smile never wavered, although his heart was racing. “I will convey your message to the leadership of the Bund, as you requested, sir. May I ask that you also convey a message from us to your fellow junta members?”

  “And that is?”

  “Pilcaniyeu is not to be touched. If it is, there will be serious consequences. Consequences of the most extreme nature. Good day, sir.” Willy turned on his heel and strode to the door of the office. The infantry captain, who had been standing next to the door all during the interview, stiffened at his approach. Willy saw the captain’s eyes glance toward his master. Willy knew he’d reach for the doorknob or for his sidearm, depending on what gesture he’d receive from Galtieri. Willy paused at the doorway, staring at the captain…who reached for the doorknob.

  Five minutes later, Willy was on the street outside the building, breathing in the hot, somewhat acrid air of Buenos Aires, sucking it in deeply. After a moment, he walked down the block, past the military guards, and crossed the street to where Heinz was leaning on the parked Mercedes. Heinz did not greet him, but simply opened the door to the driver’s side and got in. Willy entered on the passenger side. The engine was running, with its blessed air conditioning, and Heinz quickly turned on the radio, tuning it to a special frequency that was in fact designed to produce a background of white noise to foil any listening devices that might have been planted inside or trained on them from outside.

  “How did it go?” Heinz asked.

  “Not good,” Willy replied. He reached for the portable telephone and punched in a number as Heinz pulled the powerful car out into traffic. Willy heard a male voice on the other end of the line say a single word: “Ja?”

  “This is Oberst Baumann,” Willy replied. “Authentication Friedrich seven-three-nine. Initiate Condition Yellow.”

  “Verstehen,” the voice said. Understood. The line went dead.

  ***

  The clock down the hall chimed two a.m. as Leopoldo Galtieri lurched from his bed to the adjoining bathroom. He had been asleep maybe two hours, and his bladder roused him again. Too much champagne at dinner, although fortunately not enough to prevent him from enjoying the pleasures of his mistress later on. The raven-haired Carlotta, only twenty-two, and what a tigress she was! He had thought of eventually getting someone younger, but he would never stoop to what Perón had done, bedding young teenagers until he was bewitched by the siren Evita. Carlotta would do for the time being. She was gone now, no longer allowed to spend the night. He was the president, and some sense of propriety had to be maintained.

  As he washed his hands, he chuckled at the fresh memory of that young pup Baumann, in his office hours before. Threatening the president of Argentina! Who did these Germans think they were, anyhow? They might have been able to intimidate Viola, but Viola was not in the Pink House now, was he?

  Scratching his hairy chest, Galtieri flicked off the bathroom light and walked back into the bedroom. If his senses hadn’t been dulled by champagne and sex and then sleep, he might’ve noticed something different in the room, some slight change. He climbed back onto his four-poster bed, drank in the smell of Carlotta’s perfume and the musk of their recent coupling, and rolled onto his side, pulling the covers back up over him. The great man’s head hit the pillow and he was almost asleep when something prompted him to shift his head. That’s when he felt it underneath the pillow, something hard, something that hadn’t been there before.

  He reached over to the night stand and switched on the light, then flipped the pillow aside. The light glinted off the blade of the dagger. The polished blade was a good eight inches long, and the wooden handle bore the German eagle clutching a swastika in its talons. With shaking hands, Galtieri turned the dagger over. On the opposite side of the blade, the words Alles für Deutschland sent a message that got through loud and clear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Estancia Valhalla, Argentina

  December 1981

  It was nearly ten at night when Willy arrived back at the estancia. He’d put in three hours at the Bund’s offices in Buenos Aires after leaving the Pink House, most of that time on the telephone to Pilcaniyeu and selected other important locations. While he doubted Galtieri had the nerve to move against them this early in the game, one could never be sure, and so precautions had to be taken. By six o’clock, he’d managed to convince himself that Condition Yellow was being implemented as quickly and efficiently as possible. He and Heinz had dinner at
a nearby restaurant favored by the city’s large German population, finishing around seven-thirty, early by Argentine standards. Then the two old friends had parted, driving their own cars, Willy to his estancia, Heinz to another location in the city, to take care of one other matter.

  Willy was surprised to find his father still up. He’d called Dieter, of course, to report on the meeting with the president. Now he found the old man sitting in the library, nursing a glass of schnapps and accompanied by another older man, whom Willy instantly recognized, and a younger man whom he did not. The two men rose as Willy entered the room.

  “Ah, son, welcome back,” Dieter said. “We have some overnight guests, old friends of mine who arrived this afternoon.”

  “Good evening, Herr Baumann,” the older man said, extending a hand.

  Without thinking, Willy came to attention, clicked his heels, and bowed. “Herr Oberst, it is a great honor to meet you.” Almost reverently, he offered his hand. The man, who was in his mid-sixties, smiled self-consciously, but his handshake was firm.

  “I am pleased you recognize me, Herr Baumann.”

  All his fatigue and tension forgotten, Willy was almost giddy. It was an effort to remain dignified. “What young German boy has not read of your exploits, Herr Oberst? Hans-Ulrich Rudel, the greatest fighter pilot who ever lived!” That last just came out, but it was true. Rudel flew Luftwaffe fighters, always the Junkers-87 Panzerjäger, against the Russians in the last war, and no pilot in any air force had flown more courageously, or more effectively. The statistics flashed through Willy’s mind: nine enemy aircraft shot down, over 150 antiaircraft and artillery positions destroyed, more than 500 tanks, more than 700 trucks, four armored trains. Rudel had even sunk two Soviet warships single-handedly, the battleship October Revolution and the cruiser Marat. Shot down himself thirty-two times, he had once escaped on foot from more than forty kilometers behind enemy lines, swimming a frozen river along the way, chased by Russian soldiers anxious to claim the 100,000-ruble reward Stalin had placed on the German’s head. Rudel was the only German soldier ever awarded the Knight’s Cross with Golden Oakleaves, Swords and Diamonds.

  “You are too kind, Herr Baumann,” Rudel said with a shy grin, but Willy could tell he enjoyed being recognized. The old ace stepped somewhat awkwardly back to his chair and sat down; Willy recalled that he had once been wounded in the right leg, and now had a partial prosthesis.

  Dieter coughed. “Wilhelm, allow me to also introduce Herr Johann Biederbeck, from Munich.”

  The younger man stood, clicked his heels and bowed slightly, then offered his hand. “A pleasure, Herr Baumann,” he said with a smile.

  “The pleasure is mine, Herr Biederbeck,” Willy replied. “What brings you to Argentina?”

  “Some business, some pleasure,” Biederbeck replied casually. The Bavarian accent was noticeable.

  Dieter coughed. “Willy, it’s getting late, and we’ll all be retiring soon, but there are a few trifling matters I need to discuss yet with our guests.”

  As always, his father’s suggestion was elegantly phrased, but the meaning was clear: time for you to leave us. “Of course, Father,” he said. He bowed slightly to the guests. “Gentlemen, I will see you at breakfast.”

  Dieter waited until the door was shut before speaking. “He’s a good boy.”

  “I see much of his father in him,” Rudel said with a smile. “He reminds me of a certain young officer I knew on the Russian Front. You must be proud, Dieter.”

  “Indeed I am.” The elder Baumann pushed himself to his feet. “May I freshen your schnapps, gentlemen?”

  Rudel declined, but the man introduced as Biederbeck accepted. His real name, known to these two men but to nobody else in Argentina, was Johann Becker, and he was a colonel in the ASBw, the Amt für Sicherheit der Bundeswehr, Office for Security of the German Armed Forces, the intelligence arm of the West German military. He was the number two officer in the ASBw’s Munich district headquarters. What his commander back in Bavaria did not know was that he was also the Siegfried Bund’s top agent in the southern part of the Federal Republic. Becker was traveling in Argentina with the Biederbeck passport he used, on rare occasions, to travel behind the Iron Curtain.

  “How much does your boy know, Dieter?” Becker asked after sipping his refreshed drink.

  Dieter settled into his soft chair with an audible grunt. “Not everything,” he said. “CAPRICORN, of course, but nothing about VALKYRIE.”

  “Do you intend to tell him?” Rudel asked.

  “Not for now. The Reichsleiter has ordered that VALKYRIE remain classified Most Secret. Only the Cabinet members know about it.”

  “That is good,” Becker said. “Secrecy is of the utmost importance, for both projects.”

  “CAPRICORN must work for the other to succeed,” Rudel said.

  “True enough,” Dieter said. “CAPRICORN’s success will be VALKYRIE’s trigger.”

  The three men were silent for a moment, engrossed in their own thoughts, considering the possibilities. Rudel was the first to speak again. “Are your pilots properly trained, Dieter? Are you sure they can deliver the weapon?”

  Dieter nodded confidently. “If the engineers can complete the weapon on time at Pilcaniyeu, we have more than enough pilots to ensure success.” He gestured at his desk. “I have their service jackets, Hans. You are welcome to examine them tomorrow.” Rudel nodded.

  “I have no doubts about our pilots,” Becker said. “Most of them attended OSLw.” Offizierschule der Luftwaffe was the West German air force academy in Fürstenfeldbruck. “But about the mission itself: one weapon will be sufficient? Will it have enough yield?”

  “We hope to have two, although only one will go on the mission,” Dieter said. “The expected yield will be close to one hundred kilotons.”

  Becker nodded. “Yes, I would think that will be sufficient,” he said, “depending on how closely packed the English fleet will be.”

  “My experts tell me that an air burst over the center of their formation will be more than adequate,” Dieter said. He sipped his drink, clearly relishing the thought. “Will you be ready to move then, Johann?”

  Becker seemed to be examining his own drink carefully. “Yes,” he finally said. “Things are well underway.”

  “Will you have enough men to control the situation in Bonn?” Rudel asked. “East Berlin, too?”

  “Yes,” Becker said. “The key will be the capture of the American and Soviet tactical nuclear arsenals in the opening hours of the operation. If we seize their weapons, we seize the day.”

  “We seize our country back,” Rudel said.

  “My one concern,” Dieter said, “is that the Bolsheviks will think it will herald the rise of the Party again. They will go insane if it appears that is happening. Your few small weapons won’t stop them. They will sacrifice thousands of troops to prevent another invasion of their country.” Inwardly, he shuddered at the memory of the how savagely the Russians had fought him forty years ago. So many good young German boys had gone east, and so few had returned.

  “I agree with Dieter,” Rudel said. “I did not fly for the Nazis. I flew for Germany.” Dieter raised an eyebrow. Rudel had been a member of the Party during the war, and in the first version of his biography he’d supported Party policies. Before it could be published in Germany and America, it had been re-edited to remove Party references. But Dieter would give the old ace the benefit of the doubt.

  “We will make it abundantly clear that National Socialism has no part in the drama,” Becker said. “Brezhnev is old and sick. Andropov is maneuvering to be his successor. They have no strong, decisive leadership. By the time they decide what to do, we will have consolidated our gains and present them with a united, nuclear-armed nation. A nation that renounces National Socialism.” He looked at Dieter. “You must make sure the Reichsleiter does not interfere, my friend.”

  “The Reichsleiter will never leave Argentina,” Dieter said. “I am more conc
erned about what the Bolsheviks will do. VALKYRIE may very well topple Brezhnev.”

  “Perhaps, but Andropov is no fool. He will not move against us if he doesn’t perceive us to be a threat to him, and he will still have his buffer states. Poland, Czechoslovakia…”

  “We won’t be a threat to him right away,” Rudel said. “But what about later?”

  Becker smiled at the old ace. “Later is later, Herr Oberst. Five years from now, ten years, who knows?”

  Rudel wasn’t completely reassured. “What about the French? They will not necessarily follow any instructions from the British or Americans to hold back.”

  Becker waved a hand dismissively. “We are not concerned about the French. They will not move against us without the British and Americans alongside them. They will posture and complain, as they always do, but we will ignore them. There will be time enough to deal with the French later.”

  “You must not align yourselves with the West,” Dieter said. “If the Russians believe you are in league with the NATO countries, they will strike you. It is imperative for you to remain independent from the two blocs.”

  “We understand that, old friend,” Becker said. “Like you, I have no love of the Bolsheviks. Eventually they will fall on their own sword. It is inevitable. Already, the Americans are putting pressure on them to match their military buildup. They cannot hope to match the Americans, but they will try, and they will fail, and then they will fall, leaving one nation as the true master of Europe.”

  Rudel and Dieter both nodded their understanding. Dieter raised his glass. “Well, gentlemen, one last toast before we retire. To CAPRICORN.”

  “To VALKYRIE,” Becker said, raising his.

  “To the Fatherland, once again united and strong,” Rudel said.

  They drank.