“Someone in London believes it, so we must, also,” his superior said. “All of the pilots in question are native Argentines, sons of German immigrants. We think all of their fathers are members of the Bund. The pilots trained not only here but also in West Germany, with the Luftwaffe, for six months as part of an exchange program.”
“What is the connection with the facility down in Pilcaniyeu?” Travis asked. He was persistent, but knew when to stop pushing. While he was on good terms with the chief, he had no desire to offend the man and risk losing this particular posting. A widower, Travis enjoyed Buenos Aires, particularly its beautiful women.
The man on the other side of the desk gave a slight shrug. “Apparently there’s one somewhere,” he said. Travis sensed he was not being told everything the man knew, but of course that was common. Field agents had need-to-know only to their own pay grade. “Let me know when you are next to meet with Jeeves.”
Travis stood up. “I’ll look for his signal on my walk Sunday night.”
The MI6 station chief watched Travis exit the small office. A good man, perhaps a bit too curious, but if the butler found out anything about Pilcaniyeu, the agent would be able to put two and two together. Then he might have to be brought further into the loop. That could prove beneficial, though; the butler wasn’t the only agent the man was running, and the others might be able to provide additional information about this Bund outfit.
The MI6 man reached for a file on his desk. He’d been re-reading it when Travis came to make his report. Now he picked it up again. The first page was the list of the six pilots provided by the helpful gentleman’s gentleman. Various other sources of information had provided fairly complete details of each man’s background. All of them had trained with the West German Luftwaffe, as the man had told Travis. What he had not mentioned was the name of one particular unit each Argentine pilot had worked with while in Germany. It was Jagdstaffel 72, based near Hopsten in northwestern Germany, near the Dutch border. The squadron flew the American F-4 Phantom and was the only Luftwaffe unit tasked to train pilots in the delivery of unconventional munitions, including nuclear weapons.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bermuda
March 1982
Jo Ann wondered if she had a right to feel this good, with the warm sun, the sand, the ocean gently surging into Warwick Long Bay, and Ian beside her, flipping through a soccer magazine. She sat up, sighing with contentment.
“You are allowed to take the top off, you know,” Ian said.
She smiled at him. “I take it off at night for you,” she said. “Why do you want me to take it off now, in public?” Although this wasn’t one of Bermuda’s most popular beaches, there were still a good number of people here today, and Jo had noticed that most of the women were going about without their bikini tops. She had no doubt that Ian had noticed that, too.
“Coward,” he said, rolling back on his stomach and pretending to read the magazine again. Jo knew he was a big fan of Manchester United. This was the fourth day of their vacation here, and it hadn’t taken that long for Jo to discover that British men weren’t too different than their American cousins when it came to football, regardless of the shape of the ball.
Well, what the heck. Jo reached behind her, unsnapped the bra, and peeled it off. Reaching into her beach bag, she found the bottle of sun screen and began applying some to her breasts. She heard a muffled “Hmm” beside her. Something told her that soccer had suddenly lost its hold on her marine.
Done with the sunscreen, she lay back, propping herself on her elbows, and stretched her legs out. She noticed that two men walking nearby glanced at her appreciatively, in spite of the presence of their own topless companions. One of the men smiled at her and winked. She smiled back.
“Well, how does it feel?” Ian said. He was on his side now, the magazine forgotten. Jo glanced over at him. Like most of the men on the beach, he was wearing a Speedo; unlike most of the men, he had the body for it. By the look of his suit, it seemed Ian was enjoying Jo’s altered appearance.
“Probably not as good as it feels for you,” she said playfully. Really, though, she felt almost liberated. This was something she would never do on an American beach, not that there were any that would allow topless women in the first place, as far as she knew.
“You may be right about that,” he said. He rolled another ninety degrees onto his back. Jo saw a couple of passing women giving him the eye. Good for the goose, good for the gander, she supposed. “Where would you like to go for dinner tonight?”
“How about that place down the road from the golf course, the one we saw yesterday?” They’d played nine holes at Belmont Golf Club, not too far from Warwick Bay, and a few kilometers west of the town of Hamilton and their hotel.
“Sounds fine,” Ian said. “You know, I rather like this. Deciding where to go for dinner is the most difficult decision of the day. I could get used to this.”
“Me, too,” Jo said. She laid back, her hand finding Ian’s. The sun felt good on her newly liberated breasts.
Their two-day reunion on Ascension Island had been too brief for them. A week after returning to England, Ian called her with the news that he had arranged for a week’s leave. Could she join him in Bermuda? Jo didn’t need to be asked twice. It took a bit of doing for her to arrange her own leave on such short notice, but the Washington incident was still proving useful for her, and with Colonel Reese’s strong recommendation, her leave was approved.
Ian’s wounds had healed nicely, although his shoulder was still tender and the bright red scar wasn’t the most attractive thing in the world. Jo didn’t care, though. She knew now she was desperately, gloriously in love with this man, and being with him was all that mattered. That he was rounding back into top shape physically was just a pleasant bonus. Very pleasant indeed; she had not even bothered to count the number of times they’d made love since arriving on the island.
In the month since Ascension, Jo had gone about her daily Air Force business with a zest that surprised even Kate, who knew her better than anyone. “You be glowin’, girl,” she said one day at lunch. “That man of yours, he must be somethin’ else.”
“He sure is,” Jo replied with a smile.
When the lights were out in her quarters at night, though, Jo couldn’t help thinking about the future. Where was this relationship going? Where could it possibly go? On the surface of it, there were so many obstacles—both of them in the service, and not just different branches, but different nations. Military romances were difficult enough under the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best. Of course, they could always resign their commissions, or at least one of them could and join the other. Ever practical, sometimes annoyingly so, Jo had begun to think about what she would say if Ian proposed to her. While her heart shouted at her to accept, her brain caused her to hesitate, think it through. Could she give up her Air Force career to marry Ian, move to England? What if he stayed in the Royal Marines? What if—
“You’re thinking again,” he said. Without even knowing it, she’d sat up, bringing her knees to her chest. It hadn’t taken Ian very long to figure that one out. She was in her deep-thought mode. She’d been able to stay out of that so far on the trip, but here it was again.
“Sorry,” she said, relaxing. She lay back down and rolled over to face him. “Ian?”
“Yes, love?” He leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose.
“I was thinking about…about us.”
He kissed her left cheek. “That’s good,” he said. “Are they good thoughts?”
“Yes,” she said. “Some of them are confusing, though.”
He stopped kissing her. “Such as?”
“Well…where are we going with this, Ian?”
He looked at her. “Is this what American men call ‘The Big Talk’?”
She couldn’t suppress her grin. “I suppose it is,” she said. She reached out and touched his face. “I love you, Ian. More than I thought I co
uld ever love a man again.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “You know that I’m positively daft over you,” he murmured. “I can’t stand being away from you.”
She felt her heart starting to beat faster. “I feel the same way.”
“Jo…” With a sigh, he lay back down on the beach towel.
“What’s the matter?” Panic suddenly surged through her. Was he going to break it off? Concede to the obstacles?
“There is something I haven’t told you,” he said.
Oh, boy, here it comes, she thought. Another woman. Maybe he’s married…no, that couldn’t possibly be. Could it?
“Before I left London, I was told that I’m to be promoted to lieutenant colonel,” he said, pronouncing it “lefftenant”, in the very British way. “Apparently some of the higher-ups at Admiralty had high marks for my performance on Carpenter’s Island, regardless of how it turned out.”
This one caught her right out of left field. “Ian, that’s wonderful,” she said. “I told you they’d see what really happened.”
“Captain Stone and some other members of the crew are to receive commendations,” he said. “You know the Argentines have been making political hay out of the whole thing.”
“Yes, I saw it on the news,” she said. Making hay, indeed. There had been jubilant demonstrations in Buenos Aires, bellicose speeches by President Galtieri, and a triumphant parade for the troops who took the island. One odd thing Jo noticed: the officers of that commando force all had German surnames. She meant to ask the Intel folks about that when given the chance, just out of curiosity. Ian had told her about his confrontation with the Argentine commander, Schmidt, but she hadn’t known about the men under his command. Neither, apparently, had Ian, until returning to London.
“We didn’t win the battle for Carpenter’s Island,” Ian said, “but we didn’t really lose, either. The Argies left the island the day after we did. There are apparently some influential people at Admiralty who think that punishing anyone from Cambridge for leaving the island in Argentine hands would make things even worse than they are. The newspapers are already raking the P.M. over the coals for not providing us with any support. Not that there was any to provide,” he added in a wry tone. He sat up, staring out to sea, to the south, as if he were trying to somehow see that wretched little island out there.
“Before I left for this trip, I had a very serious chat with a friend of mine in MI6,” Ian said. “Something’s up, Jo.” He turned to face her again, and his eyes were hard. “A lot of people in the know in London believe the Argentines will move on the Falklands soon. Their success on Carpenter’s just fueled the fire. Taking over a rockpile full of penguins for a day is one thing. Seizing islands settled by British subjects is quite another.”
“That would mean war,” Jo said, unable to keep the chill out of her voice.
“Indeed,” Ian said with a serious nod. “My C.O. told me before leaving that I should enjoy myself here because things might start happening when I returned. He wouldn’t tell me much more. My intelligence friend filled in more of the blanks. The Argentines are getting set up to move on the Falklands, Jo, and when they do, that’s where I’ll be going.”
In spite of the Bermudian sun, a chill ran down her spine. “How soon?” she managed to ask.
“I don’t know,” he said. “My friend thought May at the latest. It’s winter down there in our summer, you know. Once June arrives, the weather will be too foul to conduct naval operations. It will take us at least a month to assemble the fleet and get down there. If the Argentines move just before winter strikes, we may not get down there at all, at least until the fall. Our fall, that is.”
“That would be too late,” she said.
“Quite. By then, they will have consolidated their hold on the islands, and the cost of retaking them might be too high for some in London to stomach.”
“Your Prime Minister wouldn’t allow that, would she?”
He shook his head. “She wouldn’t want to. She’s full of brass, she is, but she might have little choice. Given three or four months to fortify the islands, the Argentines might be judged too entrenched to move them out without a large assault. Very large and very costly. Some in the House of Commons will certainly argue against doing anything.”
Jo the woman was now transformed into Jo the warrior. “Why don’t you just reinforce the islands now?” she asked. “Make it too costly for them to invade.”
“Logical, but not very practical, considering the logistics and the politics,” he said. “No, this will be a situation where we will react, rather than act. If we have time, that is.” He lay back down again, hands behind his head. “That means my lads and I will be going back down there.”
The woman came back, and she lay down next to him, holding him close. “Ian, I’m worried for you,” she said.
“I have a job to do,” he said. “I’m a marine in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. I will go where I’m ordered and do what they tell me to do.” He looked at her. “Just like you would if your president ordered your wing into action somewhere. Just like you did on Fonglan Island.”
“That was before we met,” she said. “That was different, somehow…”
He stroked her hair. “You know that’s not true,” he said gently. “We’re soldiers, Jo, you and me. It’s what we do.”
She took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s what we do.” She tried to imagine what her own reaction would be if some foreign power took over, say, Guam, or some of the Marianas, far-away American-held islands that few Americans on the mainland ever thought about, if they even knew of their existence. Well, it had pretty much happened once, hadn’t it? Jo’s father had answered the call then.
They lay together quietly for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, he stirred. “What say we get back, get ready for dinner?”
“Okay,” she said. Wordlessly, they gathered up their things, and she put her bra back on. But she knew that when they got back to the room, she would be taking it off again, and she would be making love to this man with a passion that she’d never known before.
Jo awoke the next morning to the sound of the surf coming through their partially opened balcony door. She stretched herself out gloriously, still feeling the glow from last night—the wine, the dinner, and the sex. Did anyone have a right to feel this good? The thought occurred to her just as she became aware that Ian wasn’t next to her. Then came an urgent message from somewhere inside, telling her it was time to take care of essential business.
The clock on the nightstand said 7:45, and there was a note from Ian. Out for a quick run. Jo had always joined him for morning P.T., keeping with her routine from back home, but he’d let her sleep in today. Well, that was fine, anything he wanted was fine with her. She decided to hit the shower after answering nature’s call.
Ten minutes later, she was out on the balcony, taking in the ocean view, wearing only the terrycloth robe provided by the hotel, and toweling the last of the water from her hair when she heard the door sliding open behind her. It was Ian, clad in his Royal Marines tank top and shorts. She turned to embrace him, but his expression stopped her.
“What is it?” she asked, fearing the answer.
He held up a yellow sheet of paper. “A wire from my base,” he said, his voice flat. “I have to get back. Today.”
“Oh, no…” They had planned to leave the next day. “Does this mean…?”
He nodded grimly. “He closes with the word ‘Tallyho’. That’s a war signal. It can only mean the Argentines are ready to move.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Buenos Aires
March 1982
The students gathered slowly, tentatively, some of them laughing at jokes that weren’t very funny, but they needed a way to release the tension. Theresa Gasparini felt it, too, and not for the first time she asked herself why she was here on this mild fall day, a day when she should be in her international economics class at the univ
ersity, or at the very least at home with her bambinos. Why was she here, in the Plaza de Mayo, with the intimidating façade of the Casa Rosada staring down at her, a squad of policemen protecting its front entrance, all staring right at her?
She saw reason entering the plaza now, drawn to him by the applause, even a few harried cheers from the knot of students gathered around the makeshift speakers’ platform. Flashing his dazzling smile, Hector Guzmán shook hands as he made his way toward them. He looked younger in person than his newspaper photographs or the film she’d seen on television. Longish brown hair, a thin mustache, moving smoothly toward them in his pinstriped blue suit, Guzmán did not appear to be the leftist rabble-rouser so often denounced by the right-wing, government-approved newspapers. This close, he looked more like the graduate student in political science that he actually was—or had been, until he’d dropped out of school two months ago to devote all his time to the infant anti-war movement.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Beside her, the tall man with the goatee and studious round eyeglasses gave her a smile and then turned his attention back to Guzman. Franco Caciagli, Ph.D., professor of political science at the university, was as much responsible for Theresa’s presence here as anything else. Since beginning his class in January, she had been spellbound by his lectures, inspiring thoughts she never had before, questions she had never considered asking. Professor Caciagli asked her personally to attend this rally. Theresa the woman knew that his interest in her was not entirely academic, but Theresa the student, exploring a world that was opening up more and more to her every day, accepted his invitation. Antonio, watching a report of Guzmán on television just last weekend, had denounced him as a dangerous threat to the country’s stability. Perhaps, she thought with an illicit thrill, her husband’s disapproval was part of her reason for coming here as well.
Guzmán’s movement had stalled in the aftermath of the so-called “great triumph” over the English on the Island of the Penguins, but in recent weeks he’d picked up some steam. The same newspapers that trumpeted praises of the junta were also alarming many people with their incessant drumbeat over the Malvinas. Even novice political science students could see what was coming. War over the Malvinas would be a catastrophe, Professor Caciagli said in class. What if the English refused to back down? The Argentine military was not strong enough to capture and hold the islands against a determined, battle-tested enemy. What if the Americans intervened on behalf of their English allies? What if the Chileans or the Brazilians seized the moment to strike at their old enemy? Theresa’s mind whirled with the possibilities as the debate raged around her in class.
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