“Gracias, señor.”
They exchanged small talk about the weather in the half-minute it took them to reach the appropriate door. The scientist led Jamison into a cramped room, lined with lockers and smelling of sweat intermingled with various colognes and cigarette smoke. “The side door, mi Capitan,” the scientist said, gesturing. Jamison thanked him again and went into the lavatory. He presumed this was the changing room for the male scientists; Gasparini had told him there were about a dozen women working on the project, and they had their own separate changing room. Jamison entered a stall, closed and latched the door behind him, dropped his drawers and sat down. He waited an appropriate length of time, stood and pulled up his pants, flushed the toilet and left the stall. The lavatory was still empty.
Emerging into the changing room, Jamison saw that he was alone. Moving quickly, he went to a large cabinet he had seen when he first entered the room. Opening it, he caught his first break: it was, as he hoped, a laundry closet, containing freshly-washed towels and, thankfully, a dozen plain white laboratory coats. He quickly took one, closed the cabinet and put the coat on over his service jacket. His cap went into a nearby trash receptacle, hidden underneath some slightly damp paper towels. From an inside pocket of his service jacket he took a pair of eyeglasses and put them on. Another inside pocket produced an identity card similar to those used by the scientists; Gasparini had provided a standard blank ID card upon his first visit to the town sporting house, and a Chilean agent had retrieved it so it could be properly doctored with Jamison’s photograph.
A nearby desk produced a clipboard, into which he inserted some papers he found in a wastebasket. An inside drawer of the desk revealed several pens and pencils, and even a clear plastic pocket protector. His luck was holding. Forty-five seconds after emerging from the loo, Jamison left the changing room by its back door, looking like most of the other scientists he’d seen in the hallways.
He had to control his breathing, force himself to stay calm. The hallway he entered had a few civilians, but no soldiers. He’d found the entryway he was seeking. A dozen paces led him past large rooms containing a myriad of computers and lab equipment, with several men and women busily engaged in their work. Nobody paid him any attention. Jamison picked up a sense of urgency, as if things might be coming to a head soon and there was a deadline that had to be met. He’d seen it often enough in various facilities, at home and abroad. Regardless of nationality, people were the same when dealing with stress in the workplace. They all took on the same tense appearance.
The first radiation sign told him he was getting close. The universal yellow and black triangle needed no explanation, but the door next to the sign had an additional warning: AUTHORIZED LEVEL-3 PERSONNEL ONLY. Jamison hesitated. Gasparini had not told him if personnel accessing more secure levels needed special ID badges. Typically they were different colors. A glance through the door’s window showed a woman coming his way. Jamison bent over a handy water cooler to drink, keeping one eye on the door. An attractive woman with lustrous dark hair flowing over the shoulders of her lab coat emerged, carrying the ubiquitous files. Her ID badge was trimmed in red.
Jamison stood up and turned to the woman, pretending he didn’t see her, and bumped her as he went past. The woman’s files spilled. “I beg your pardon, señora,” Jamison said. “How clumsy of me. Please let me help you.”
The harried woman was already bending over to pick up the scattered papers. “Think nothing of it, señor,” she said. As he was counting on, she was too busy to notice that his was an unfamiliar face. Ordinarily Jamison would have been dismayed to have an attractive woman ignore him, but not this time. He knelt down to help her.
“I believe there’s one more over there,” he said, gesturing over her right shoulder. She turned her head, saw the stray paper and moved to retrieve it, giving Jamison a chance to expertly unclip her ID badge and slip it into his lab coat pocket. The woman grabbed the last paper, stuffed it into a file and flashed a quick smile at Jamison as she stood. “Thank you for your help,” she said.
“Again, my apologies,” the agent said, keeping his eyes averted and hunching over slightly, hoping it would hinder her attempt to identify him. “I must be going myself. Good day, señora.” He walked past her to the door and quickly went inside. Stepping into the first doorway he saw, he quickly took the woman’s ID badge, slipped her card out of it and replaced it with his own.
Time was of the essence now. The woman would eventually discover her ID badge was missing, and she would retrace her steps. If it happened quickly enough, she might recall the collision with the man in the hallway. She might report it to security. It all depended on how soon she acted and how diligent she was. No doubt the scientists here had a heightened sense of security.
Jamison passed a few more labs, this time recognizing some of the apparatus inside. He parted the lab coat enough to expose his button camera and shot a few frames, being as unobtrusive as possible. This was definitely a nuclear weapons facility. Radiation signs were everywhere, although he’d yet to see anyone wearing protective clothing. He looked at the stolen ID badge, and saw a white circle in one corner he’d missed on first glance. A radiation detector. If he were exposed, it would turn color.
He’d seen enough to confirm his own suspicions, but SIS would want a bit more. It was a gamble, but he knew from Gasparini that he must be close to the central warhead assembly area. It would likely be two rooms, a smaller one where the warhead’s components would be assembled, and a larger room where the warheads would be mated with bomb or missile casings and readied for transport. This section was probably capable of being sealed off in the event of radiation leaks. A minute later, he saw a man garbed in a light blue “clean suit” emerging from a doorway. The man stopped to adjust his own ID badge, then proceeded down the hallway and took a right. Jamison knew he was close now. He went into the room the man had emerged from, found it to be a small changing room with racks of the sterile, hooded suits, and quickly found one his size and started climbing into it.
He was starting to perspire, not a good sign. He doffed the lab coat and hung it in an empty locker, retrieved his ID badge, then zipped himself inside the radiation suit and clipped the badge to an exterior pocket. Carrying his clipboard, he made his way back into the hallway and followed the path of the man he’d seen. The suit, he discovered, was designed to include its own oxygen supply; the oxygen tanks were doubtless inside the assembly room. He put on his hood but kept it slightly unfastened to allow for air.
Jamison turned the corner and saw another set of double doors in front of him, with an armed guard, a sergeant. His first instinct was to hesitate, but that might make the guard suspicious. He continued at a brisk pace, intending to go right on through. The guard held up a hand. “A moment, please, señor.”
The agent stared at the guard through the clear plastic visor of the hood. “I’m in a hurry,
sargento
.” It did no good; the guard carefully examined Jamison’s ID badge, then pointed to his hood.
“Please remove your hood, señor.”
With a deep breath, Jamison pulled the hood back. The guard peered at his face, then at the ID badge again. “You are new here, Doctor Concepción?”
“That’s right,” Jamison said, holding up his clipboard as if it held very important papers. “I’m new here, just in from Buenos Aires, and my flight was delayed, and I can’t waste any more time.” He tried a small grin. “You know how they are here.”
The guard smiled knowingly. “Si, señor. You may proceed.”
“Gracias, sargento.” Jamison nodded, put his hood back on and pushed through the doors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Pilcaniyeu, Argentina
March 22nd, 1982
Willy was tired, but there was one more important task to perform before they could finally leave this oddly depressing place and go back to their hotel in Bariloche. Heinz, as usual, appeared to be as fresh as he had been that morning. Willy knew that his friend stayed in shape with a daily regimen of calisthenics, plus he rode horses and swam whenever possible; for Willy, on the other hand, it was all he could do to spend even a half-hour every other day or so in the estancia’s small gymnasium. The paperwork he had to deal with seemed to be growing by the hour.
The numbers in the report he was staring at started to dance around. Willy closed the file and handed it back to the nervous adjutant. “These look fine,” he said, as if he really cared how many pounds of potatoes and corn the mess hall was consuming. The Bund had long ago ensured that Pilcaniyeu would get whatever resources it wanted, including the best food for the staff and guards. Duty here was lonely work, but it was work, and it paid well, and there was something to be said for that in these uncertain times. Willy knew that the Germans stationed here were grateful, at least, especially those few who knew the true meaning of the work being done. While they might not know the ultimate fate of the devices they were making here, they could read the newspapers, and they could think, and their conclusions gave them a sense of pride.
He’d spent the last hour with the base accountants, while Heinz toured the security perimeter with Oberst Reinke and his second in command, Major Gasparini. Willy had made sure to speak to Gasparini, inquiring about the health of his wife. The Italian-born officer replied rather stiffly that she was doing as well as could be expected. If the major knew that the men responsible for rescuing his precious wife from the Turk were standing before him, he didn’t indicate it. Well, what could you expect from Italians, after all?
Willy glanced at his watch. Nearly 1600 hours. He was due to meet Heinz at the entrance to the assembly room in fifteen minutes for the conclusion of the inspection. No harm in getting there early. “Let’s go, Herr Leutnant,” he said to the young security officer who’d been assigned as his aide for the day. Willy put on his high-peaked officer’s cap. He and Heinz had worn their Army uniforms today; they were still reserve officers, after all, subject to recall to active duty in the event of a national emergency, but today they’d chosen to wear their uniforms for effect.
He knew the way, having been here several times before, and a few minutes later he came into view of the guarded double-doors leading to the largest room of the main building. It was here that the warheads, produced in nearby laboratories, would be mated with their bomb casings. Although the scientists repeatedly assured everyone there was no chance of an accidental detonation, this room was avoided by anyone who didn’t have a good reason to be here, as if being on the outer edge of the building would give them any protection if something went seriously wrong. He decided to go ahead and wait for Heinz and Reinke inside.
The large room, almost warehouse-sized, never ceased to impress Willy.
In some ways, this was the most important room in all of South America. The men and women who worked in it seemed to realize that, and kept it meticulously clean and orderly. It was very nearly square, about fifty meters on each side, with a large garage door at the far end where trucks could be brought in. A complicated series of racks and tables took up most of the nearby space. The floor was about five meters below ground level, and Willy and the aide now stood on a metal landing, with elevated walkways leading in both directions along this wall and then down the sides. A stairway led to the floor. No guards were present here, but Willy knew that when the weapons were ready to be loaded onto trucks, the walkway would hold a dozen or more armed men, with orders to shoot anyone who appeared intent on damaging the precious devices.
Many of the workers on the floor were wearing the self-contained clean suits, and those closest to the main array of tables had their hoods on and sealed. Willy could see they were working on a small silver canister, about a quarter-meter long. Nearby, sitting in a yet-to-be-assembled crate, was a longer white cylinder, about three meters in length. At one end were four red fins. The other end was open. A nose cone, its tip also painted red, was on one of the tables.
“You’re early,” Heinz said from behind him. Willy turned and saw the SD officer, along with Reinke and Gasparini.
“I was anxious to have a look at it,” Willy said. He turned back to the assembly area. “I’m surprised at its size. I imagined something larger.”
Reinke stepped forward. “It is truly an amazing device, Herr Oberst,” he said, pride in his voice. He was, after all, the commanding officer of the facility. Reinke was also the only man here who knew the details of CAPRICORN. In his early forties, Reinke had been born in Hannover just before the war. His father, a Panzer commander, died at Normandy, and a few years later his uncle brought Reinke and his family over the ocean to the new land of opportunity. His uncle’s Bund connections helped Reinke get this posting, but he’d proven worthy of the challenge. “It is based on the American B-61 gravity bomb. Our version is as sophisticated as any weapon in the American or Soviet arsenals.”
Willy doubted that, but said, “Not as powerful, though.”
“The yield of this device can be altered depending on the parameters of the mission,” Reinke said. “Anywhere from a third of a kiloton up to perhaps three hundred kilotons, the scientists tell me. While not as powerful as the strategic warheads in the American and Soviet inventories, it is a very respectable tactical weapon.” Willy shook his head slightly, amazed that the man could discuss this infernal thing’s specs as if he were talking about a simple artillery shell. Three hundred kilotons. If he remembered his history, the Americans needed only a twenty-kiloton weapon to destroy Hiroshima.