The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  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?”
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  “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.”

  “Do they know what is to happen?” Schröder asked.

  “Of course not,” Maltov said. “But when I contact them, they will be told where to go. They’ll be on the first available flight to Berlin.”

  “Herr Baumann, I trust your end of the operation here will be successful?” Schröder asked.

  “We will be ready to execute CAPRICORN on the twenty-seventh,” Baumann said. “I am authorized to tell you gentlemen that H-hour is 12 midnight Buenos Aires time. That will be three a.m. Greenwich Mean Time on the twenty-eighth. Four a.m. in Berlin.”

  “Six a.m. in Moscow,” Maltov said. “It would be better if it could be earlier.”

  “The operation has to be carefully timed to avoid a launch during twilight,” Baumann said. “The American spy satellites are not as efficient at night. The earliest we could launch the strike would be ten p.m. local time. Two hours’ flight time to the target, I am told. It is as early as we can make it and ensure optimum security for the strike.”

  “Very well,” Maltov said. “In any event, it will be several hours before Moscow gets a clear picture of what has happened. The same will be true for Washington.”

  “By noon that day, Germany will be in our hands,” Schröder said. “Herr Baumann, what about Taurus?”

  “I will be flying to Bariloche to meet with him on Tuesday,” Baumann said. “I will be monitoring the operation with him from there. My son will be relaying information about CAPRICORN from his office in Buenos Aires. Reports from Germany will come directly to me.”

  “I look forward to meeting the Reichsleiter someday,” Maltov said. “He must—“

  “Code names only,” Baumann hissed. “Even here.”

  Jo had heard enough. She had to get this tape to the American embassy as fast as possible. They must be nearing the end of their meeting; she had to beat Schröder back to the party. As quietly as possible, she began to wind her way toward the side gate of the cemetery, cutting across the grounds, avoiding the paths.

  A few minutes later she emerged onto the path that paralleled the fence. She figured she had about a five minute head start on Schröder, and she could move faster than he could. The key would be staying out of his sight until she got back to the consulate.

  The side gate was fifty feet away when a man stepped out of the shadows. Jo froze in place. The man took two steps into a pool of light from the street.

  “A rather curious place to visit in the evening, Frau Schröder,” Wilhelm Baumann said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Saturday, April 24th, 1982

  “Herr Baumann,” Jo said, allowing herself to appear flustered. Now was the time to think fast. Cover story, stick to the cover story.

  “I saw you leave the compound, and thought perhaps something was wrong.”

  She approached him. “Thank you for your concern, Herr Baumann.”

  “It’s Willy, remember?”

  She got closer. “My husband…” She brought a hand to her mouth, trying not to appear too melodramatic. “I am embarrassed to admit it, but I fear my husband has been seeing another woman.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. There was someone else back in Berlin, and when I found out he swore he would remain faithful to me from now on. But here, in Buenos Aires, I…well, let’s just say I had reason to believe he was not adhering to his word.”

  Baumann took a step closer to her. They were almost touching now, their voices barely above whispers. Jo had put her earpiece back into the recorder, so she didn’t know whether or not Schröder was still talking with the other men, or whether he was heading back to the embassy. “I find it hard to believe that a man would betray a woman as beautiful as you,” Baumann said.

  She looked up at him. “I saw him leave the ballroom and thought he must be going to meet someone. I followed him here. Not the smartest thing in the world, I suppose.”

  “The city can be dangerous for women at night,” Baumann said. “I must say, though, you seemed to handle yourself very well back there on the street, with that man who accosted you.”

  Jo gave him a nervous laugh. “Oh, that. I grew up in a rough neighborhood in Yerevan.” She heard footsteps, back on the main pathway. The one she and Baumann were on, running alongside the perimeter fence, intersected with that path just before the gate. Schröder would walk right past them. They were about fifty feet away.

  “You should really see Recoleta in the daylight,” Baumann said. “At night it can be somewhat disconcerting, no?” He reached out and touched her shoulders. “You are chilled.” His hands felt warm, but his grip was tightening. Jo felt she was about five seconds from a decision that might compromise her mission.

  The footsteps—two sets—were getting closer. “My husband, he’s coming,” she said. She took Baumann by the elbow and pulled him out of the pool of streetlamp light. They would still be visible from the main path, but not clearly. Behind him, she saw two figures walking toward the gate. Reaching up quickly, she pulled Baumann’s face to hers, bringing her lips to his.

  Baumann brought his arms around her, pulling him closer to her. Jo could hear the footsteps passing them, the muttering of one of the men, a chuckle from the other. Then came the creak of the iron gate. She pulled away from the kiss, but remained enclosed in Baumann’s arms. “Thank you, Willy,” Jo said.

  “Not at all,” Baumann said. “May I escort you back to the consulate, Frau Schröder?”

  “That would be kind of you, but I suppose that now you should call me Larisa.”

  When they emerged from the cemetery, Schröder and the elder Baumann were already a block away, across Vicente Lopez and heading down Azcuenaga. Jo knew she would never make it back to the consulate before Schröder, so she began working on a cover.

  They were a block away from the consulate when Baumann broke the silence they’d held since leaving Recoleta. “I would not worry too much about your husband, Frau Schröder—Larisa.”

  “Why is that, Willy?” She was walking with her left hand in the crook of his right elbow, and she felt him tense ever so slightly.

  “You impress me as a woman who can take care of herself.”

  Alarm bells started going off for Jo. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Your willingness to follow him in a strange city, at night, and into a cemetery, of all places. Your obvious ability to defend yourself. There is more to you than you let on, I think.”

  She managed a laugh. “You overestimate me, Willy.”

  They were nearly to the embassy gate now. “Oh, I don’t think so,” Baumann said. “Before I take your leave this evening, I would like to ask you one question.”

  “And what is that?”

  With the gate five meters ahead, he turned to face her. He reached up and touched her face. “Could you do an arithmetic problem for me?”

  “A—what?”

  The light was dim, but his eyes were steel. “Division, for instance. Anything at all.”

  Jo immediately locked onto something her German instructor had told her back at the Monk. Doing mathematical calculations in the foreign language is difficult. During the war, that’s how the Germans would catch many of our people posing as native civilians. Learn one or two, just in case.

  She smiled. “Dreissig geteilt durch zehn ist drei.” Thirty divided by ten is three. “Would you like to hear it in Russian, or Armenian?”

  Baumann’s smile was wry and thin. He tilted her chin upward. “Very good, liebchen. Perhaps you are not as complex as I thought.” He leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly. “It has been a pleasure getting to know you, Larisa. A pity you are leaving tomorrow.”

  “Yes, a pity,” she said. “Good night, Willy.” S
he left him and walked quickly to the consulate gate.

  ***

  Jo didn’t know whether she should be relieved or dismayed when they arrived back at their hotel suite. Fortunately, the handoff with the doorman went smoothly, and Jo assumed the microcassette was on its way to the American embassy. She would make a report to them in the morning, just to be sure. But spending another night here with Schröder didn’t make her feel very comfortable. Well, she had just one more night with him. Tomorrow she would get the order to split up; they were scheduled be on the same flight to Madrid, but Marie had indicated neither would be making the flight. With any luck at all, she’d be flying back to the States, and Schröder would be facing whatever fate was in store for him.

  “Excuse me while I use the bathroom,” Schröder said as they entered their suite. He went off to his bedroom, while Jo took a seat on the couch, pulled off her wrap and slipped out of her shoes. She wasn’t used to spending this much time in high heels. She was massaging her left foot when she heard the toilet flush and then Schröder emerged from his bedroom.

  “Let me take that jacket off,” Jo said, moving toward him. “You look uncomfortable. How about a neck rub?”

  “Some other time, perhaps,” Schröder said. He held out his left hand. “I’ll save you the trouble. I believe this is the transmitter you must have planted earlier?”

  Jo froze, three feet away. Recovering quickly, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Walter.”

  “You must not have been in this business very long, my dear. You’re not a very good liar. A decent actress, though. Your performance with the man back at the cemetery was touching.” Seeing her eyes widen a bit, he barked a laugh. “Your, ah, posterior wasn’t quite out of the light. A man doesn’t soon forget one like yours.” He reached into his right jacket pocket and withdrew a handgun. “Please be so kind as to take a seat on the couch.”

  Jo deliberately avoided looking at the barrel of the gun as it pointed at her. “What’s going on, Walter? We’re supposed to be working together.”