The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  Clete looked at her, then back at the Mother Superior, and despite not trusting his voice as his anger rose, went on: “My father decided that what was best for me was my Aunt Martha. And he was right. You have nothing to forgive him for. And as far as abandoning me is concerned, not only did he not marry the woman he loved for the rest of his life, because your country’s absurd rules of inheritance would have kept him from leaving me everything he owned, but he hired people to keep an eye on me. He knew every time I fell off my horse. The shelves in his study at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo are lined with scrapbooks about me, and the walls covered with pictures of me.”

  Clete felt his throat constrict, cleared it, then finished: “And as far as forgiving people is concerned, my father told me he long ago had forgiven my grandfather for what the man had done to him. He said in his shoes he would have done the same thing.”

  Mother Superior looked at him for a long moment.

  “Your mother, may she rest in peace, would be pleased to know you were reunited with your father,” she said finally.

  “Are we through here?” Frade said sharply, and stood.

  “I thought you came here seeking my help,” Mother Superior said.

  “Sit down, darling,” Dorotea ordered softly.

  Father Welner made a Sit down gesture. After a moment, Frade made a face, then slowly sank back in his seat.

  “We have a woman with us who is mentally ill,” Welner began. “She needs not only care but . . . it’s rather delicate, Mother.”

  “Who is she?” Mother Superior asked.

  “I’ll tell you who she is,” Frade said. “And if you let your mouth run, her death will be on your conscience—”

  “Cletus!” Dorotea said warningly.

  “She’s a German, a Nazi, and if the Germans find out where she is, they will do their best to kill her and her husband—and maybe anyone else who gets in their way.”

  “What’s your connection with her?” Mother Superior asked after a very long moment.

  “Aside from telling you I’m an American intelligence officer, that’s none of your goddamn business.”

  “I find it hard to believe the Germans would kill a woman,” Mother Superior said.

  “Why not? They murdered my father, and they sort of liked him.”

  “Your father was murdered by the Germans? I heard he was killed in a robbery attempt.”

  “He was murdered in cold blood at the order of the same bastards who have tried hard to kill me twice, the last time yesterday.”

  He saw the looks on Welner’s and Dorotea’s faces.

  “No, I haven’t lost my mind. Since the Germans know who I am, and Colonel Martín knows what I do for a living, who are we trying to keep it a secret from?”

  “There was another attempt on your life yesterday?” Father Welner said.

  “Three guys in front of the house on Avenida Coronel Díaz,” Clete confirmed. “Rodríguez put two of them down, and I got the third one.” He looked at Mother Superior. “The story in La Nación said the police killed them during a robbery attempt.”

  “You didn’t say anything,” Welner said.

  “Rodríguez?” Mother Superior asked. “Enrico Rodríguez? Is that who you’re talking about? Your father’s—what’s that term?—batman?”

  “I don’t know if he was my father’s batman or not,” Frade said. “But he was one of my father’s two true friends.”

  “Father Welner being the other?” she asked.

  Frade nodded.

  “Are you aware, Cletus,” Mother Superior said, “that Enrico’s sister Marianna took care of you from the day you were born until your mother went to the United States?”

  Frade nodded. “Yes, I am. La Señora Rodríguez de Pellano was my housekeeper in the house across from the Hipódromo on Libertador. She had her throat cut in my kitchen the night the assassins came after me the first time.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Mother Superior said as she crossed herself. Then she added, “Where is Enrico now?”

  “At the estancia with the German woman,” Clete replied.

  “And what precisely is the nature of the German woman’s illness?”

  “She’s crazy,” Frade said.

  “Damn it, Cletus!” Dorotea said in exasperation.

  Clete, unbowed, explained: “Yesterday, she told her sole surviving son that he’s a traitor who will burn in hell for all eternity. Doesn’t that sound a little crazy to you?”

  “Her son is with her?” Mother Superior asked.

  “And her husband,” Welner said.

  “And six of my men, in case the Germans learn where they are and come to kill all three.”

  A moment later, the door to the office opened and a nun—this time a huge one, reminding Clete of The Other Dorotea—stepped inside.

  She had to be waiting outside, and somehow Mother Superior summoned her.

  “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

  “Please ask Sister Mónica to select three very reliable sisters to deal with a woman suffering from mental illness. Ask them to pack enough clothing for three or four days. Bring a van around. Put my medical bag in it. I will drive.”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

  The huge nun left, carefully closing the door behind her.

  “That will take a few minutes,” Mother Superior said. “There’s no reason for everyone to wait for me. I know my way out there. And if you would be so good, Father, to hear my confession while we wait?”

  [THREE]

  Casa Montagna

  Estancia Don Guillermo

  Km 40.4, Provincial Route 60

  Mendoza Province, Argentina

  1915 14 August 1943

  Darkness had fallen, but there was enough light from the headlights for Clete to be able to see the white stone kilometer markers along the road as the resident manager of Estancia Don Guillermo—whose name, if he had ever known it, Clete had forgotten—drove the Lincoln down the macadam road.

  They were now at Km 39.8.

  That means we’re point-six kilometer from where we’ll turn onto Estancia Don Guillermo, and thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers from where they started counting, probably at a marker in the Mendoza town square.

  That’s not saying we’re thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers from the center of town, but that we’re thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers down the road from the marker.

  The way this road weaves, we’re a lot closer as the bird flies than that.

  Why the hell do people say that?

  “As the bird flies” means in a straight line? I’ve never seen a bird fly more than twenty-five yards in a straight line.

  Jesus Christ, it’s odd thoughts time! And that means C. Frade’s tail is really dragging.

  I have every right in the world to have my tail dragging. Not only did I just fly from the States across Central and South America, and then fly down here, I also just threw Tío Juan out of Uncle Willy’s house, had people try to kill me, and—and what else?

  Doesn’t matter what else.

  I have every right to be tired, and I damn sure am.

  What does matter, however, is that when my tail is really dragging, I tend to do really stupid things. Like, for example, being a little less than charming to Mother Superior at the convent and then actually getting ready to walk out of her office.

  If Dorotea and Welner hadn’t stopped me, I think I would have, and that would have really screwed up things.

  Watch it, Little Cletus. You just can’t afford to screw something up.

  Ten seconds later, the Lincoln slowed and turned off the highway. Fifty meters off the road, there was a gate in a wire fence. Beyond the fence, the headlights lit up rows of grapevines as far as he could see.

  There was a Ford Model A pickup truck inside the fence. A man got out of it, walked to the gate, and swung it open. The Lincoln’s lights flashed over the pickup as they drove through the gate, and Frade saw there was a second man standing by the side of the
truck, a Mauser rifle cradled in his arms. This one he recognized. He was one of the peones he’d brought from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

  When they drove past, the man saluted. Clete returned it.

  They drove for a kilometer, perhaps a little more, through endless rows of grapevines. The road suddenly became quite steep—the resident manager had to shift into second gear—and made a winding ascent of a mountainside.

  And then there was a massive wooden gate blocking the road.

  But there’s no fence or anything to the right of the gate.

  Why have a gate if people can just drive around it?

  He looked out his side window and saw why people could not just drive around this gate. Three feet from the side of the car a stone curb marked the side of the road. Beyond the curb there was a precipitous drop-off; he could not see the bottom.

  Well, since there’s a granite mountain on the left and nothing but air on the right.

  I guess that if they don’t open the gate, you either blow it up or you don’t get in.

  The gate swung inward as they approached it.

  There was another Model A pickup with another man holding a rifle just inside the gate, and again Clete recognized him as one of his men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. This one didn’t salute as the Lincoln inched carefully past the Ford.

  The road now was so steep that the estancia manager did not shift out of low.

  They turned a curve and suddenly were on a level plateau perhaps three hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. A low stone wall on three sides suggested—it was too dark to see—a drop-off like the one beside the gate.

  At the far end of the plateau, with what looked like a light in every window—and there were a lot of windows—was the house and its outbuildings.

  The main house was three stories and red-tile-roofed. The third floor had dormer windows, and the roof extended over a verandah whose pillars seemed vine-covered. The Andes Mountains were on the horizon behind it, bathed in moonlight.

  And now we know why they call it Casa Montagna.

  That is indeed a mountain house.

  “It’s beautiful!” Dorotea said from the backseat.

  Enrico Rodríguez, Madison Sawyer, and Gonzalo Delgano were standing on the verandah.

  If they’re waiting for us, they knew we were coming, and that means there’s a telephone at either or both gates.

  Nobody’s going to get in here by surprise.

  “No nuns?” Sawyer greeted them as he waved them into the house.

  Inside the door was a foyer. In the center was a fountain in a circular pool.

  “Classy,” Frade said.

  “This whole place is classy,” Sawyer said. “And that fountain has no pumps. Enrico showed me. It’s fed by a mountain stream. There’s a tank, and that provides the pressure. And after the water goes through the fountain, it’s fed back into the stream and goes down the mountain.”

  “Fascinating,” Frade said.

  Enrico showed him how the fountain works? That means that Enrico knows this place pretty well.

  And never told me about it.

  What the hell else can I own?

  “I don’t suppose that at a vineyard there’s a pump spitting out wine?” Frade said.

  “No, but there’s a very nice bar in there,” Sawyer said, pointing.

  “Why don’t we have a look at that?” Frade said.

  “The nuns should be here any minute,” Dorotea said.

  Translation: Now is not wine time.

  “Where’s Frau Frogger?” Frade asked.

  Sawyer pointed to the left.

  “There’s an apartment there with barred windows and lockable doors. Enrico put her in there. Her husband and son are with her, and one of our guys is sitting in the foyer outside. Stein’s setting up the SIGABA and the Collins.”

  “Well, as soon as I have a glass of wine, I’ll have a look at both,” Frade said.

  Dorotea shook her head in resignation.

  Clete walked through the door that Sawyer had indicated and found himself in a comfortable room, two walls of which were lined with books, one half of a third wall with oil paintings and framed photographs and half with a bar, complete with stools. The fourth wall held French doors that opened onto a rear patio and provided a panoramic view of the Andes.

  Clete went behind the bar and looked through the bottles of wine in a rack on the wall, finally pulling out a Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon. He took a quick look at the label and then a longer look.

  “My God!” he said. “This says one of 2,505, 1917. Nineteen seventeen?”

  “I think it gets better with age, like Kentucky bourbon,” Sawyer said.

  “Either that or we have a bottle of twenty-six-year-old vinegar,” Clete said, and fed the bottle to a huge and ornate cork-pulling device mounted on the wall. He poured some in a glass and sipped.

  “Mother Superior and the nuns will be here any minute,” Dorotea said.

  “So you keep saying,” Clete replied. “Well, don’t worry. I won’t give her any of this twenty-six-year-old vinegar.”

  He poured his glass half full and took a healthy swallow.

  “Terrible, absolutely terrible,” he said. “I don’t think you’d like this at all, Polo.”

  “Why don’t you let me decide for myself?”

  “Because anyone who has volunteered to jump out of a perfectly functioning airplane is obviously incapable of making wise decisions.”

  Sawyer snatched the bottle from him and poured wine into a glass.

  “Nectar of the gods,” Sawyer pronounced a moment later.

  Frade found more glasses under the bar and poured wine for Delgano and Rodríguez.

  “And there’s a whole wall of it,” Frade said, pointing at the wine rack. “I’m starting to like this place.”

  And then his eyes fell on a silver-framed photograph on a table.

  He walked quickly to the table and picked it up.

  “What, honey?” Dorotea asked.

  “My parents’ wedding picture,” he said softly.

  He extended it to her.

  “Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, New Orleans,” Frade said.

  Dorotea examined it and then handed it to Sawyer. It showed the bride, in a long-trained gown, and the groom and the other males in the rather large wedding party in formal morning clothes, standing in front of an altar.

  “Is that Perón?” Sawyer asked.

  “That’s Ol’ Juan Domingo,” Frade said. “The fat Irishman is the cardinal archbishop. Also present are my grandfather, whose uncontrollable joy is evident on his face. And my Uncle Jim and my Aunt Martha, who raised me.” He turned to Enrico. “You were there, too, right?”

  “Sí, Don Cletus.”

  “How come you’re not in the picture?”

  Enrico’s face showed he didn’t like the question; he ignored it.

  “Since they didn’t expect us, Don Cletus,” Enrico said, “there was no food, or not enough, but I have sent to Señor Alvarez’s home for a cook and food for tonight and the morning.”

  Whose home?

  Ah, the resident manager, the guy who was driving the Lincoln.

  Where the hell does he fit in here?

  “I hope that wasn’t an imposition, Señor Alvarez,” Dorotea said politely.

  “How could it be an imposition, señora?” Alvarez asked. “The cook will stay here for as long as necessary. . . .”

  He paused, making the statement a question.

  “We’ll be here—in and out of here—indefinitely,” Clete said. “Chief Pilot Delgano and I will be in and out on a regular basis in connection with South American Airways business, and Mr. Stein and Mr. Sawyer with the wine business. And I brought six men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo with me, who will also be here indefinitely.”

  “There is plenty of room, Don Cletus,” Alvarez said. “There are seventeen rooms in Casa Montagna, in addition to the . . . special suite. And, d
epending how you wish them set up, more than a dozen bedrooms in the outbuildings.”

  “The men I brought with me can stay in the outbuildings,” Frade said. “And I will probably bring another half-dozen.”

  “Don Cletus,” Enrico said. “There are already a half-dozen men here. All from the Húsares. I have spoken to them. . . .”

  Alvarez saw the questioning look on Frade’s face, but he mistook it to mean Frade was wondering why there were a half-dozen old soldiers in a house rarely occupied.

  Alvarez explained: “There are a number of works of art in Casa Montagna, Don Cletus, that el Coronel wanted to make sure were protected, as the house was so rarely used.”

  That, however, wasn’t the question in Clete’s mind. He asked, of Enrico, the one that was: “You knew all about this place, didn’t you?”

  Rodríguez nodded.

  “But you never mentioned it to me. Why?”

  “I knew you would come here eventually. That would be the time to tell you.”

  The telephone rang.

  Enrico went to a small table. There were two telephones on it; one was an ordinary—if, to Clete, old-fashioned—device and the other apparently the Argentine version of the U.S. Army Signal Corps EE-8 field telephone. Enrico picked up the latter, listened, then pushed the butterfly switch and snarled, sergeantlike, something into it, then put the handset back in its leather case.

  “Mother Superior and the nuns are at the lower gate,” he announced.

  Clete asked the question that had popped into his mind when he saw the military field telephone.

  “What’s that military telephone doing in here?”

  “It is connected to the lower and upper gates right now, but there is a field switchboard.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Enrico looked uncomfortable.

  “When el Coronel was leading Operation Blue,” he said finally, making reference to the coup d’état that would have, had he not been assassinated, made el Coronel Frade the president of Argentina, “we needed Casa Montagna.”

  “And is there anything else you’d like to tell me about that?”

  “El Coronel knew this was the logical place for it, but as he did not wish to come here, he sent me to set it up.”