The White Vixen (10 page)

But being forced to meet Galtieri here was not a good sign. The general was definitely sending a message: the junta’s relationship with the Bund was about to change. Well, that was most likely true. There had been days when the president of Argentina would present himself to the
Bundesführer
at the German’s estate, and come literally with hat in hand. Perón himself had done it with the Reichsleiter back in the forties; rumor had it Perón even offered the Reichsleiter the pleasure of Evita’s company for an evening, an offer that may or may not have been accepted, depending on who was telling the story. Knowing the Reichsleiter’s legendary capacity for women, Willy tended to believe it. While this president, or his successor, would eventually be reminded of who was really running this country, Willy hoped things would be a bit more businesslike this time.

As he waited for his summons, Willy reviewed what he knew about Galtieri. In his fifty-sixth year, a 1949 graduate of the School of the Americas, Galtieri was in command of the Argentine Army’s II Corps upon the junta’s takeover in 1976. He was known as one of the more ruthless members of the high command, and had been personally in charge of one of the government’s most notorious detention centers during the “Dirty War” in the late seventies. As part of the junta’s campaign to eliminate dissent in the country, thousands of Argentines were arrested and imprisoned, most of them tortured, many executed, many others simply made to disappear. Willy had read one particularly chilling account of a female prisoner and her visit with Galtieri: “He asked me, ‘Do you know who I am? Do you know that I have absolute power over you? If I say you live, you live. If I say you die, you die. As it happens, you have the same Christian name as my daughter, and so you live.’”

While Willy was not afraid of Galtieri, or any Argentine alive, he knew this man was not one to be trifled with. This president not only had command of the entire armed forces, but the Gendarmaria, and while that body was not nearly as formidable as Germany’s
Schutzstaffel
, the dreaded SS, it could still cause no end of trouble for the Bund. So, things would have to be handled rather delicately, but firmly. Willy was grateful that Dieter had asked him to handle the meeting. The leadership of the Bund was well aware of the challenges that lay ahead, especially now that the more reliable, and recovering, Viola was out of power.

The door to Galtieri’s office swung open, and the Gendarmaria sergeant snapped to attention.
A man wearing the uniform of an Argentine Army infantry captain stepped out into the secretary’s office, and Willy rose to his feet, automatically straightening his suit with an unobtrusive tug of the jacket.

“
Señor
Baumann,” the captain said with a tinge of distaste, “
el presidente
will see you now.”

“Thank you, Capitan,” Willy said, nodding. He nodded also to the secretary and flashed a smile.
“And to you, señorita.” The captain stepped aside as Willy strode confidently into the presence of the second most powerful man on the continent.

Galtieri’s office was spacious but not ostentatious. The walls were adorned with paintings from Argentine history. Willy recognized one of them, showing Manuel Belgrano at the signing of the country’s Declaration of Independence in 1816. The only portrait was one of Julio Roca, the general who quashed the Indians for good in 1879 and later served twelve years as president. Roca’s victory had opened the pampas for settlement by European immigrants, mostly Italians and Spaniards, and not a few Germans. Galtieri, like most of his countrymen, had the blood of many nationalities flowing through his veins.

The furnishings were sparse. A sitting area to the left contained two stuffed chairs, two sofas and a coffee table. Straight ahead was a fireplace, obviously a relic of an earlier time, topped by an empty mantle. Above it hung the Roca portrait. And to the right was the desk of the president.

Galtieri stood as Willy entered the office. The general was in full Army uniform, the left breast of the jacket sagging with medals and ribbons. Willy guessed it had just been removed from the slightly swinging hanger on the nearby coat tree. Galtieri himself had a leonine head crowned by full white hair, his face tanned and lined. He was about six feet tall, close to Willy’s own height. Galtieri was standing ramrod straight, but not comically so; a military man, comfortable in command. His opinion of Galtieri moved up a notch.

The captain announced him simply as “Señor Wilhelm Baumann”. Willy took three steps to Galtieri’s desk and came to attention, although not as rigidly as if he’d been in uniform, and bowed slightly. “
Mi
presidente, it is an honor and a privilege to be received by you,” Willy said in perfect Spanish Lunfardo, the dialect common in Buenos Aires. 

Galtieri did not offer his hand, but merely nodded and motioned to one of the two chairs facing his desk. “Please be seated, señor,” he said in a baritone voice that was obviously accustomed to command.

Willy had been carefully prepared for this interview. His father, along with two other senior Bund members, had impressed upon him the need to show courtesy and respect, no matter what Galtieri’s attitude. Forty years of dealing with Argentine leaders, military and civilian, provided plenty of experience to draw upon. “He is accustomed to ordering people around,” Dieter said. “They all are. Once they sit behind that desk they are quite full of themselves. They are convinced they will succeed where others have failed, that they will bend this country to their own will. They will fail, of course, and eventually be ousted, and we will still be here. A part of him will know this, and he will fear that knowledge. You can use that, but carefully.”

“What can I do for you, Señor Baumann?” Galtieri asked, sitting back in his chair. In his right hand he gripped a fountain pen, twirling it casually.

Willy offered his most respectful smile. “Mi presidente, I have come to pay my respects to you on behalf of my father, Dieter, and the entire membership of the Siegfried Bund. I bring to you our sincere congratulations upon your accession to the presidency, and our desire to work closely with you to help build a greater Argentina for all of us.”

Galtieri smiled. “You Germans. You are, as the Americans say, full of shit.”

Willy blinked, but didn’t lose his smile. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

The pen kept twirling. “So you come here representing the Siegfried Bund,” the general said. “Dieter Baumann saw fit to send his boy to meet with me, did he?”

Willy’s smile narrowed. “My father sends his regrets that he cannot attend personally. He is not in the best of health.”

“So I have heard,” Galtieri said. “Perhaps if my good friend General Viola were in this chair, Dieter might have been healthy enough. But there are others who might have come, from the Old Guard. Perhaps even your Reichsleiter. But then, he does not travel much, does he?”

He had to be careful. Galtieri may have known all there is to know about the Reichsleiter, but chances were all he knew was what his predecessors knew, which was very little. “I am afraid I do not know—”

“Come, come, señor, let’s not play games. I know all about your beloved leader. We have quite a dossier on him, you know. Did you think such an influential man could live in our country for over thirty years and we would not have a dossier?”

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.