The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  Jo hadn’t fallen under the spell of the old SS officer back then, but after spending just an hour in the company of Martin Bormann, she understood a lot better.

  Bormann was a charming host, carrying the conversation and drawing in Baumann and Nagel, and eventually Jo Ann. They discussed literature, music, South American and European politics, and their respective estancias. To her surprise, Bormann spoke fluent English, something he said he’d learned since coming to Argentina, along with Spanish. He insisted they converse in English, for the benefit of their guest. It was all she could do to keep herself from coming under his spell, and now, she wondered whether she had truly succeeded in that.

  They’d finished their meal and Jo was taken back to her room, without any word about what would happen next. She knew it was part of the game, trying to keep her off-balance. She wondered if they would’ve treated her differently if she were a man. Probably. More than once she’d caught Bormann looking at her with eyes that seemed to be undressing her. She remembered from her briefings that he had been considered quite a ladies’ man, taking mistresses even with his wife’s approval, so powerful was his influence.

  Forcing herself to concentrate on her mission, she examined every inch of her room and its adjoining small bathroom, looking for anything that might help her escape. There wasn’t much. Her bed was queen-sized, with a mattress and box spring and a wooden head board that had seen better days. A chest of drawers contained fresh clothing, nondescript white blouses and dark slacks, plain white cotton panties and even some brassieres. One glance told her the bras were too big, but they had underwiring. That fact might prove useful, and she filed it away. The bathroom cabinet contained towels and washcloths, extra toilet paper and soap. The medicine cabinet held a tube of toothpaste, but no toothbrush; she’d been told to request one when needed, and she would have to return it immediately afterward. No tweezers, no shaving materials, and of course no razor blades. She was used to shaving her legs every evening when she bathed, and she was irritated for a moment when she realized she’d have to forego that for a time. Then she angrily shoved that venal thought away. There were more important things to worry about.

  What could she possibly use as a weapon? Well, she could stuff a wet washcloth down someone’s throat, or squirt toothpaste in his eyes, but she doubted those tactics would take her very far. On her second sweep through the bathroom, though, she found something she’d missed the first time: a small paper box containing half a dozen Q-tips. An idea started to tickle the back of her mind. She took three of the Q-tips into the bedroom and slid them between the mattress and box spring of the bed.

  It was four p.m. when the next knock came. Baumann unlocked the door and peeked inside carefully. “Major Geary? Am I disturbing you?”

  Jo had been reading through one of the three German-language novels she’d found on the nightstand. “No.”

  The door opened wider and Baumann stepped into the room. “The Reichsleiter requests your presence in his library.”

  Jo’s senses were on full alert as she was escorted to another part of the house. She thought this might be her only chance, yet something told her it was still too early. She decided to hear him out. She’d know when it was time to move.

  With Nagel in the rear, Baumann led her to a set of double doors, knocked, and opened them. “Herr Reichsleiter, we have brought Major Geary.”

  “Please, show her in.”

  The library was lined on three walls by bookshelves overloaded with old volumes. On the far wall was a large fireplace, with flames dancing in the hearth. A statuette of a bull dominated the mantle. Bormann was sitting in a stuffed chair, a newspaper in his lap, wearing bifocals, which he quickly took off as he set the paper aside and stood. Jo knew she had to observe him, discern his strengths, his weaknesses. He was stocky and probably a powerful man in his day, but he was nearly eighty-two now and certainly couldn’t move very quickly. All she would need was a split-second. And then what? A Luger bullet in her back, probably, but at least the mission would be accomplished.

  Baumann discreetly took a position midway between the Reichsleiter and Jo. Taurus pushed himself out of the chair, knees cracking like gunshots. “Ach,” he said, and gave Jo a sheepish grin. “It is truly hell to get old.” He motioned to an empty chair about ten feet from his. “Please, Major Geary, sit down.”

  Jo could smell the rich leather of the chair, which seemed to mold itself to her as she settled in. A glance told her Nagel was just inside the doorway, Luger still pointed at her.

  “Gentlemen, I would like a few minutes alone with our guest,” Bormann said.

  “Herr Reichsleiter—“

  “It’s all right, Herr Baumann,” Bormann said as he sat back down. Another Luger appeared in his right hand. Jo had been watching him carefully, but didn’t see the move. Wait, he’d had the newspaper in his lap. The gun must’ve been underneath. Still, quite good. He was not a man to be underestimated. “You may wait just outside the doorway. Don’t close them all the way, if it makes you feel better.” Baumann clicked his heels and left the room. Nagel followed, but left the doors about a foot open.

  Bormann switched to English. “Now, Major Geary, I am told you are quite the expert in hand-to-hand combat. I would hate to shoot such a lovely woman, but rest assured I will if you make a threatening move.” He waved the Luger in emphasis. “I’m sure you are quite fast, but you must know my bullet will be faster.”

  “What do you want?”

  “On Wednesday morning, you will be flown back to Buenos Aires. My men will escort you to the American Embassy, and you will be allowed to go inside and make a report to your CIA superiors. I trust they will quickly forward my message to Washington.”

  Jo’s heart started beating a little faster. Could it be possible that he was going to let her go? This had to be a trick somehow. “What message is that?”

  “Quite simply, that the Republic of Germany wishes to have peaceful relations with the United States, and with all nations, but we will tolerate no interference in our internal affairs.”

  “Don’t you mean the Federal Republic?”

  Bormann smiled. “A slight change. By the time you get to your embassy, you see, the Federal Republic will no longer exist. Nor will the German Democratic Republic. The new Republic of Germany will be one united nation, under one flag, one government. A nation that will be prepared to defend itself against aggressors, from any direction.”

  Jo said nothing. Bormann waited a moment and then continued. “My decision to release you will be a sign of my good faith. We have no quarrel with the Americans.”

  “Just the British, this time,” Jo said.

  Bormann laughed, a deep chortle that sent a chill through her. “A means to an end. Of course, we speak of Argentina’s quarrel with the English. One way or another, that will be over quickly. I suspect that my good friend Leopoldo may have bitten off more than he can chew. Still, thanks to our help, he should prevail in this little dispute.” He picked up a glass from the table next to his chair, took a sip of the clear liquid. “You know, the real enemy is Bolshevism. Communism, as you say today. We should have fought them together, us and you Americans.”

  “Oh, please.”

  Bormann slammed the glass down on the table, spilling some of the schnapps. “You think not? Even as we speak, your country has thousands of nuclear weapons targeted on the Soviet Union. The Bolsheviks have thousands of their own targeted on you. Twenty years ago you nearly went to war when that fool Kruschev sent missiles to Cuba. Cooler heads prevailed then, but what of the next time there is a provocation? All of that could have been avoided had your President Roosevelt simply been reasonable.”

  “Your government was a threat to the world. It had to be destroyed.”

  “We offered the world order! Discipline!” Bormann glared at her, his face reddening. “You have no idea how things were. There was chaos in the streets. Money was worthless. People were starving. We changed all that. We rebuilt
a nation virtually overnight, Major. We became strong and proud again. The Führer was ready to lead the world in the battle against the real enemy, Russia.”

  Jo was surprised by how calm she was. Sitting not ten feet from her was a man who had been instrumental in one of history’s most monstrous crimes, a man who could end her life in an instant, yet her ki was at peace. “Your Führer was a madman. Six million Jews could testify to that, if they were still alive.”

  Jo expected that to bring a strong response, but Bormann seemed to calm down. He smiled, and took another sip from his drink. “Ah, yes, the precious Jews. It always comes back to them, doesn’t it? You know, Major Geary, it amuses me to be lectured by an American. Your people, after all, enslaved Africans by the millions. How many, eh? Your country nearly tore itself apart over that. And your own Indians. How many did your people slaughter? Even today, your own native citizens rot on reservations, drinking themselves blind because they have no hope of becoming real Americans. And your Africans, can you honestly say they are equal to whites?”

  “That’s not a fair comparison—“

  “History is written by the winners, Major. Is it not just a matter of perception? What of your own heritage? Part Korean, I understand. What about the Asians in your country? Equal? Your country brought Asians in by the thousands to build your railroads and didn’t care whether they lived or died. When you fought the Japanese you rounded up all your own loyal citizens of Japanese descent and put them in concentration camps, did you not?”

  That was too much for Jo. Her ki gave way to emotion. “None of them were led into gas chambers, you monster!”

  “And I also find it interesting that your country can still lecture us Germans about what we did with our Jews forty years ago, when your own people today are allowed to kill their unborn children. Tell me, Major, how do you justify that, eh? How many millions of your own babies have your people murdered in the last nine years? In the name of what, convenience?”

  Jo forced herself to calm down. “We could argue this for years and not change each other’s minds. I would rather spend the next three days locked in that bedroom.”

  Bormann nodded. “I appreciate intellectual debate as much as the next man. Or woman,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “One last point about the Jews, though. Something I would like you to keep in mind, because unlike me, you are young enough that you will see this day dawn.”

  Still holding the Luger, Bormann rose and walked over to the fireplace. Jo saw him looking at a small photograph of what appeared to be some German soldiers. Bormann turned back to Jo, and his eyes were hard. “After the war you helped the Jews create their own nation, Israel. We all know what has happened since then. Four wars between the Jews and their Muslim neighbors. Tens of thousands dead. Now we understand that the Jews have nuclear weapons. The Muslims know this, and so they make overtures for peace. They still want to destroy the Jews, of course, but from now on they will try different means, more subtle. Not as direct as military action, not as swift. The Muslims know they cannot defeat the Jews in battle, because they know you Americans will back Israel, you will allow her to use the nuclear option if she is pushed too far. At the same time, you make friends with some of the Muslims, the ones who have the oil, because their oil, you want that very much. The Muslim leaders hoard their wealth and treat their people like serfs. Already we see how their resentment of America is building. Their hatred of Israel translates into hatred for America. They consider you one and the same.” He wagged a finger at her. “Mark my words, Captain, your country’s blind support of the Jews will one day lead you into conflict with the Muslims, and that will be a very long and bloody conflict indeed, for there are a great many Muslims. They breed like rabbits and their priests teach them to kill the infidel. Are your people up to it? Will you have the discipline to prevail? I have my doubts. The Americans who fought us forty years ago, they could do it, they were tough and disciplined, but today’s Americans? Tomorrow’s? We shall see.”

  Taurus went back to his chair and tossed down the rest of the schnapps. “You may go now. I will make your visit here as comfortable as possible. You understand, of course, that I cannot allow you some privileges that my guests might normally have.”

  Jo stood up. “I’m not asking for any.”

  He looked at her, and Jo saw the eyes of a man who was quite sane, and quite dangerous. “Tomorrow morning we will talk again.” He smiled, once more the charming host. “I hope that by the time you leave here, we shall have become, shall we say, better acquainted?”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  ***

  HMS Cambridge, southwest Atlantic

  Sunday, April 25th, 1982

  “I have the bogey, Captain!” Sonarman 1st Class David Sanders yelled with something akin to delight. Everyone in the CIC heard him.

  “Very good, Mr. Sanders,” Captain Stone said. “Are you sure it’s the Russian?”

  Sanders’ fingers danced over his computer keyboard. On a monitor screen, jagged lines seemed to match. “Definitely, sir. It’s our friend Ivan, all right.” Soviet submarines had their own definitive sonar signatures, distinct from those of NATO submarines. Royal Navy computer technicians were working on software that would enable sonar operators to fine-tune their readings and identify individual signatures, once a database had been built up. Right now, though, Stone could be sure that this particular boat was the one which had shadowed him all this way south, and that was enough for him.

  “Very good. Send his coordinates to the ASW station. Mr. Bender, you may begin your pursuit when ready.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Lieutenant Philip Bender was the ship’s antisubmarine warfare officer, and would direct the engagement from his station. Stone, Bender and their counterparts on Reliant had already discussed the operation. “Helm, make your course 047. Mr. Fields, increase speed to one-third, please.”

  The destroyer and its companion submarine now began an intricate and hazardous dance. With the Russian boat’s position pinpointed, the British vessels would attempt to outflank the target. Once in position, they would be ready to implement the next phase of the operation, something they hoped Ivan would not find to his liking.

  Captain Mikhail Govanskiy of K-251 was dining with Lieutenant Commander Nevsky in his quarters when there was a rapid knock on his cabin door. Before Govanskiy could give permission, the door opened and a man leaned inside. “I beg your pardon, Comrade Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Boris Myshkin said. His eyes were shining.

  “What is it, Boris?”

  “The English vessels are both moving, sir. They have reversed course and are heading in our direction.”

  The captain wiped his lips with his napkin. He understood his executive officer’s excitement, but he had played with the NATO navies more than a few times. “Indeed. What is their range?”

  “Six kilometers and closing, sir.”

  Govanskiy set his napkin down on the table and took one last sip of his vodka. He noticed the political officer staring at him. “Well, comrades, it appears our Sunday evening will not be a dull one. Boris, bring the boat to general quarters, please. I’ll be at the conn shortly.”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain.” Myshkin nearly slammed to door behind him.

  “What do you intend to do, Captain?” Nevsky asked.

  “I will follow my orders, comrade,” Govanskiy said, rising. “Moscow was quite specific. I am not to fire on the Englishmen unless fired upon.”

  “And if they shoot first?”

  Govanskiy shot the man a glance he normally reserved for imbeciles and fresh-faced officers. Nevsky, he had long ago decided, qualified on both counts, although he made pleasant dinner conversation. “Then I shall sink them, of course. Would you care to join me in the control room?”

  “The Russian is diving,” Sanders said. “Passing one hundred meters.”

  “He’s going for a thermal layer,” Fields said. The ocean was not simply one vast container of water. It was layer
ed, like a cake, with temperature variations, ranging from twenty-five degrees Celsius at the surface in the tropics to ten degrees a kilometer down. If a submarine could get underneath a layer of colder, denser water, into what was termed the “shadow zone”, it could more easily hide from sonar searches. Provided, of course, the sonar doing the searching was above the layer, such as aboard a destroyer on the surface.

  “Reliant is diving as well,” Sanders said. “She is at 150 meters, staying below the Russian.”

  “Good man, Tom,” Stone said. Reliant’s sonar, not having to go from warm water to colder, would be more effective at depth than Cambridge’s. “Active sonar, if you please, Mr. Sanders.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Sanders punched a command into his panel, sending out a powerful pulse of sound toward the position of the Russian submarine at a speed of 1.6 kilometers per second. The men could hear the “ping”, but that was a sound effect added by the computers for their benefit. The men on board the submarine would hear the real thing.