The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  “True,” Nagel said, “but they abide by its general principles. It is a political issue, mi General. Should the Americans let the English arm their fast-attack submarines in such a way that would circumvent the treaty, the Russians might start putting similar weapons aboard Polish submarines.”

  “The Poles have submarines?” Schacht asked.

  Dieter waved a dismissal at the question. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, mi General, we do not need to worry about an English nuclear response against us.”

  “Their bombers—“

  “Their Vulcan strategic bombers have a limited range,” Nagel said. “They are not like the American B-52s. They will have to fly from their base on Ascension Island. Just to reach the Malvinas, they will require mid-air refueling. To strike our mainland, even with conventional weapons, they would have to stage from a much closer location. There are no such facilities in the English possessions in the Caribbean. To stage out of an American base in Panama would cause too many political problems for them. Even more so if they were to approach any of our neighbors. As to their land-based missiles, they do not have the range to come anywhere near us. They are designed to attack the Soviet Union.”

  “The point is,” Dieter said, “the English will not attack our mainland, even if CAPRICORN succeeds. Such an attack would fall outside the purview of Article 51 of the United Nations Charter, which allows a member state to use military force in self-defense. That is what the English will use to justify their attempt to re-take the Malvinas. Any kind of attack against the Argentine mainland, especially one which would target civilians, would be an escalation that would be unacceptable to the U.N.”

  “Remember, mi General,” Müller said, “CAPRICORN will strike at a strictly military target. No English civilians will be harmed, other than those unfortunate enough to be on board any of those ships. Even the English civilians in the Malvinas will not be harmed. Our troops will be very careful about that, won’t they?”

  “But of course,” Sarmiento said, somewhat mollified. “Those that wish to stay will be allowed to stay. Those that wish to leave for England will be allowed to leave. There are many Argentines who wish to settle there once the islands are firmly in our hands again.”

  Willy had a hard time stifling a laugh. Who would want to go live there? To banish the thought, he said, “Mi General, these possibilities have all been carefully considered. While anything is possible, if you would examine each contingency, you would see that our position really is quite strong.”

  “Precisely,” Dieter said with a grateful nod to his son. “Mi General, when these questions come before the junta, you will be able to argue persuasively against the fear of an English counterattack to CAPRICORN. The political considerations Thatcher must take into account are enormous, much greater than ours. She will be prepared to move against us, but only to a point. She will not cross the nuclear line, even after we have crossed it. Rest assured on that.”

  Sarmiento took a deep breath, brow furrowed in thought. “Very well, my friends. I know these questions will come up when my colleagues learn about CAPRICORN. I hope I will be able to allay their fears.”

  “If not,” Dieter said, “there is a contingency plan.”

  “And that is?”

  Dieter glanced at Schacht. “Mi General,” the Bundesführer said, “in the event the junta leadership disregards your calm advice and begins to panic, cooler heads must be prepared to seize the moment and save the nation from catastrophe.”

  Sarmiento was no fool. “Are you suggesting a…change of leadership might then be called for?”

  Schacht shrugged. “We must be prepared for all contingencies.”

  Dieter jumped in at just the right moment. “If President Galtieri loses his grip, you must be ready to assume command. We will give you our full support. We will have the proper assets in place at the time, just in case.” Willy was aware of that plan, and hoped it wouldn’t have to be implemented. Any kind of coup d’etat was perilous, even in Argentina, where they sometimes seemed as common as the change of seasons. There would be no guarantee that commanders friendly to the Bund would be able to keep their units together and successfully disarm those led by loyalist officers. If a coup failed, it would mean the end of the Bund, and its leaders would find themselves facing firing squads.

  Sarmiento blinked, and then he smiled. “I understand,” he said.

  “Tomorrow, my son and young Nagel will be going to Pilcaniyeu for one final inspection,” Dieter said. “Assuming their report to us is positive, we will initiate the next phase of the operation. In the meantime, the Army and Navy will proceed with the successful seizure of the Malvinas.” He raised his glass. “Gentlemen, to success!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Langley, Virginia

  March 22nd, 1982

  Jo Ann straightened her blue Class-A uniform jacket as she stepped out of the car. The young man in business suit and sunglasses who’d driven her here from the airport was holding the door open for her. “You can leave your luggage in the trunk, Major,” he said politely.

  “Thank you,” she said. “So this is CIA Headquarters. It looks like an ordinary parking garage to me.” The man gave her a thin smile. So much for humor.

  Another man in a suit was waiting for them at an unmarked door. “Major Geary,” he said, “welcome to Langley. Please attach this to your uniform.” He handed her a laminated card with a clip attached to the back. She gave it a look, saw that it was an official guest card, but also had her name, rank and photo prominently displayed. “Right this way,” he said.

  The door led to an elevator, and the man pressed the button for the fourth floor. Nobody else was aboard and the car didn’t stop at any other floors, reinforcing Jo’s first impression that this was the way special guests entered the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency outside Langley, Virginia.

  At one time, her father’s call yesterday would have been a surprise. Before her visit back in December, Joseph had rarely called her, preferring an occasional brief letter. Jo had more regular contact with her mother, usually a weekly letter in Korean and a phone call twice a month. Since the visit, he’d started calling her more often. This was the first time that her father had ever called her on official business, though. “I need you to come to Langley tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve already spoken to your C.O. His office is arranging your flight.”

  “What’s this all about, Daddy?” she asked, knowing the answer in advance.

  “I’ll tell you when you get here,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Jo’s father had always been an imperious presence to her, from the days when she was a little girl all the way through adolescence, college and now into her Air Force career. When she visited her parents, her father always made time to talk to her, but his affection only went so far: a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a warm smile. Behind his eyes, though, Jo could sense a barrier around his innermost feelings. Things had started to change, though. Even with all her accomplishments in the Air Force, Jo sometimes wondered if Joseph was really proud of her. That was nonsense; of course he was proud of her, he’d said so more than once. But her role in helping plug that Pentagon leak was different. For the first time, she had taken part in something her father was involved in, something in his world, and she had proven herself in it.

  They exited the elevator into a well-lit hallway, with smartly dressed people walking with papers or files or briefcases, all in civilian clothes, all intent on where they were going. Her guide led her down the hall to an office suite that appeared to be in a corner of the building.

  A fortyish woman behind a desk looked up and smiled as Jo and her escort entered the suite. “Major Geary, welcome to Langley,” she said, rising and offering her hand. “I’m Phyllis McGreevy, Director Geary’s executive assistant. I’m glad I can finally meet you.”

  “Thank you,” Jo said. It struck her that this woman had probably worked for her father for some time. When was the last tim
e Jo visited this office? With a shock, she realized that she never had. Joseph Geary had been named DDO in 1979. Before that, he served in various overseas postings, interspersed with one or two tours at Langley. Jo couldn’t remember the last time she’d come to see her father at work, but it hadn’t been here. Her cheeks colored a bit with shame.

  McGreevy led the way to an inside door. Jo couldn’t help noticing that she was tall and attractive, her suit conservative but stylish. She felt a pang of jealousy, almost as if she were her mother. Did Umma ever come here? What did she think of the tall and shapely Ms. McGreevy? Jo shoved that thought out of her mind. She had never known a man more honorable than her father.

  The executive assistant knocked on the door and opened it. “Director, your guest is here,” she said. McGreevy stepped aside and bathed Jo with a warm smile. “Enjoy your visit.” Jo nodded to her politely and entered her father’s realm.

  Joseph Geary came around his dark oak desk with a smile that was loving and happy but still somewhat reserved. The bags under his eyes seemed a bit more severe. But he was still her father, he most certainly was, and she came forward gladly to be enveloped in his embrace. “JoJo, it’s so good to see you,” he said. He unwrapped his long arms and held her at their length. “Well, I should be saluting you instead of hugging you. Congratulations on your promotion.” He looked at the ribbon bars on her uniform, peering at the newest. “And a Bronze Star. Well done, young lady. Very well done indeed.”

  “Thank you, Daddy. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her cheek, and he bent to kiss it.

  “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a couch in the small sitting area. She took a quick glance around the office, noticing some familiar photos and mementos, including her Stanford graduation portrait, and another of her and her parents next to a T-33 jet trainer on the day Jo was awarded her pilot’s wings. Otherwise, the office was surprisingly subdued. Wood paneling, a nice credenza, the desk, leather furniture, light brown carpeting. On one wall hung a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, one of her father’s idols. On the credenza was a picture of her father and President Reagan. It was a man’s office, definitely, but Jo suspected that her father didn’t spend a lot of time here. He’d always been a man on the move, and there were probably several other places here at CIA where Joseph Geary spent considerable amounts of time.

  “Well, I have to say that your name keeps popping up around here,” he said. “It appears that little business with the congresswoman’s chief of staff—I should say, former chief of staff, sent more than a few ripples through the Pentagon.”

  “I’ve heard a few rumors,” she said. Several officers had been cashiered or transferred as a result of the investigation, but the brass had managed to keep most of it out of the press.

  “That, and your commendation for the Fonglan Island mission,” he said. “So, when we became aware of some very important things our British friends are involved in, your name came up.”

  That made her hesitate a little. She hadn’t yet told her parents about Ian. “A military operation?”

  “No,” he said. “This is a field op, but not strictly Agency work.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s head down the hall,” he said. “There are a couple people I want you to meet, and then we’ll talk about what’s going on.”

  As they walked together down the hallway, Jo noticed how her father carried himself. “Posture is the currency of leadership,” he’d once told her, and Joseph Geary was a leader. He smiled and nodded to everyone he passed, saying hello to several, using first names. The people returned his greetings with obvious respect and even affection. Jo’s heart filled with pride. Here was a truly honorable man, doing important work for his country. Not for the first time, she prayed she could live up to his example.

  They came to a door that opened into another suite, and then another one into a small conference room. Two men were sitting at the table and stood as Jo and the DDO entered. She thought she recognized one of the men.

  “Gentlemen, my daughter, Major Jo Ann Geary,” Joseph said. She could hear the pride in the voice.

  The older of the two men, a bit heavy-set with white hair and glasses, stepped toward her and offered a hand. “Major Geary, welcome to CIA. I’m Bill Casey, DCI.” The name clicked with the face now. William Casey was Director of Central Intelligence, her father’s boss, and one of the heavyweights in the Reagan Administration. “And may I introduce Sir David Blandford, of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.” Blandford held out a hand, and showed a gold crown on one upper tooth when he smiled.

  “A pleasure,” he said. Blandford was of medium height, a bit heavy around the waist, but splendidly turned out in what Jo assumed was a suit from one of London’s finer tailors. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a thin mustache. “I believe we have a mutual friend, a certain Royal Marines lieutenant colonel.”

  Another relay clicked in Jo’s mind: Ian’s MI6 friend. “I believe we do, Sir David,” she said. She glanced at her father, and could tell from his eyes and hint of a smile that he would have a few questions for her about that over dinner. Perhaps, she thought, he already knew. His business was finding things out, after all.

  Casey motioned everybody to seats around the table. “We should get started,” he said. “Sir David has an early flight back to London tomorrow morning.” He looked at Jo. “Major, we asked you here because your name was mentioned as a possible candidate for a special project we are putting together. I regret to say that I can’t tell you much about it, and will have to ask you to make a choice about participating before you hear all the facts. All I can tell you beforehand is that this involves a matter of national security. It would require that you accept temporarily detached duty from the Air Force for the duration of the mission.”

  “May I ask for how long?”

  “Almost certainly less than six months, perhaps considerably less,” Casey said. “Before we can proceed, I must have an answer from you.”

  She looked at her father, but couldn’t read anything on his face. Looking back at Casey, she said, “If my country needs me, I’m ready to do whatever I can.”

  Casey smiled, as did the Englishman. “Excellent. Major, you will be TDY to the SIS for this mission. Sir David?”

  “Thank you, Director.” Blandford produced a file and set it on the desk before him. Jo could see it was bordered in red and bore the words MOST SECRET. “Major, may I call you Jo Ann?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very good. This is not a military mission, after all. Well. I trust that Colonel Masters has provided you with some background on the current situation in the South Atlantic, has he not?”

  Jo looked at her father. “Ian is a…friend of mine.” Joseph nodded, and she turned back to the MI6 man. “Yes, when we were in Bermuda, he mentioned it.” She didn’t want to say anything about Ascension Island, but undoubtedly these men knew about that, too. They certainly knew about Fonglan and Hong Kong after that. She felt a pang of regret at not telling her parents about Ian before now. It was almost like she was a teenager again, sneaking around with a boy she thought might not rate her father’s approval. Well, she would rectify that later.

  “We have reason to believe that an Argentine attack on the Falkland Islands is imminent,” Blandford said. “There have been the usual diplomatic maneuverings between London and Buenos Aires, and we’ve endeavored to involve the United Nations in the matter. In the meantime, Prime Minister Thatcher has ordered the Firm, as we are known, to find out all we can about Argentina’s intentions. As you might imagine, we have in fact been quite active down there for some time.”

  The MI6 man opened the file. Jo could see the first page was actually a black and white photograph, but she didn’t recognize the subject. “In the course of our various activities in Argentina, we came into possession of some rather interesting information regarding a certain group of men who appear to be working rather diligently behind the scenes, and indeed, have been doing so for many years. Te
ll me, Jo Ann, have you ever heard of the Siegfried Bund?”

  Jo shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Not surprising,” Blandford said. He cleared his throat. “A brief history lesson, then. During most of the Second World War, Argentina remained neutral, even though its neighbor and rival, Brazil, joined the Allies. As Argentina has large ethnic German and Italian populations, sympathy for the Axis cause was high, especially within its military. Britain considered Argentina a vital trading partner, especially for its food, and was satisfied with its neutrality, although your President Roosevelt did not trust the ruling junta and pressured them to formally join the Allies against the Axis. It nearly came to war; in early 1944, Washington broke diplomatic relations with Buenos Aires and for a time considered supporting a Brazilian attack upon Argentina. There was also the possibility, and it surely was difficult to consider, that the Allies might have to seek an armistice with Hitler. To have an Axis partner in South America would have been completely unacceptable, and American troops would have eventually been sent down there to fight. Not a pleasant prospect, but the Argentines eventually gave in and declared war on the Axis in March 1945. They never sent troops into the fight, although there were efforts made to reduce the considerable influence of the country’s ethnic Germans. Efforts we now believe were half-hearted for a very good reason.”

  Blandford shuffled the papers in the file, warming to his subject. “By 1943 it had become clear to many of the Nazi leaders in Germany that the war was probably lost. Their invasion of Russia had been stymied and they were being rolled back in North Africa. They knew there would be no refuge for them in Europe, so they looked to Argentina. They set up not just one, but two organizations to effect the evacuation of Nazi officials from Germany. One was called die Spinne, or ‘the Spider’, designed to operate an escape route through Austria to Italy. The other, perhaps you’ve heard of: Organisation der ehemaligen SS Angehörigen, the Organization of Former SS Members, better known by its acronym, ODESSA. This group brought people out through Spain. Both were designed to get the fugitives to Argentina. In the fall of that year, they sent this man to pave the way.”