Maybe that was why the other expert was coming. But if that was the case, why send the boy?
As a matter of courtesy to me? Highly unlikely. The old man is the antithesis of subtle.
Then the real reason flashed in his mind:
The war. The bloody damned war.' If the boy is twenty-odd, he's liable to be called up for service. Young men are killed in wars. Even Argentineans. And we're not even in this war. Humberto Valdez Duarte's boy was killed-it was in La Naci¢n-at Stalingrad, of all places.
The old man dotes on the boy. The mother is dead and the father a scoundrel. So the boy had been raised by the old man, and an aunt and uncle in Texas.
That's what this is all about. The old man doesn't want him killed in the war. So he's arranged to send him out of the country. He's a powerful man; he's arranged for him to be declared es-sential to Howell Petroleum. Sending him to Buenos Aires will keep him out of sight.
But who is the other fellow, Pelosi, coming with him?
We'll just have to wait and see.
He walked back to his desk, picked up a pen, and scrawled a note to his secretary, asking her (a) to please make reservations for an American gentleman, Se¤or Pelosi, at either the Alvear
Palace or the Plaza, for at least a week, starting November twenty-first (a small suite, to be billed to the SMIPP account); (b) to please remind him to inform his wife that they would be enter-taining the young grandson of Cletus Marcus Howell for an in-definite period beginning November twenty-first; and (c) to please contact Schneider to ask if their meeting tomorrow could be re-scheduled for later in the day; two-thirty or three, if possible, but no earlier than one-thirty.
[FIVE]
Aboard "The Ciudad de Rio de Janeiro"
(Pan American Airlines Flight 171)
1815 21 November 1942
One of the stewards (Clete Frade had serious doubts about his masculinity) came through the cabin, knelt in the aisle by each quartet of seats, and announced they were preparing to land in Buenos Aires. They should be on the ground-or, titter, on the water-in about fifteen minutes.
In fact, Clete's aviator's seat-of-the-pants instincts had already told him they'd been letting down slowly for about fifteen minutes. He had noticed a slight change in the roar of the Martin 156's quadruple thousand-horsepower engines, and a just barely perceptible change in attitude. Without taking it out of Autopilot, the pilot had just touched the trim control, lowering the nose maybe half a degree.
Clete was slept out and bored, so he had been doing his own dead-reckoning navigation since they'd left Rio de Janeiro. He used his Marine Corps-issue Hamilton chronograph and several sheets of the notepaper engraved "In Flight-Pan American Air-ways." Pan American had provided the paper-along with a good deal else-for the comfort of its passengers. He could only guess at the winds aloft, of course, but putting them at zero for his calculations, it was time to arrive in Buenos Aires.
He'd thought quite a bit about the watch, starting with the amusing notion that a diligent Marine Corps supply officer was almost certainly at this very moment trying to run down First Lieutenant Frade, USMCR, to make him either turn it back in or sign the appropriate form so the cost thereof could be deducted from his pay.
He got a strange feeling sitting in the softly upholstered seat of the Martin (every time they landed-first at Caracas, Vene-zuela, and then at Belem and Rio de Janeiro in Brazil-the crisp linen head cloths of the seats were replaced, and the ashtrays emptied) computing time and distance with the same watch he'd used when he had to wonder if he had enough gas to bring his Grumman Wildcat back to Midway or Henderson. Same identical watch, except for the strap. He replaced the old, mold-soaked strap with a new leather band in New Orleans.
It occurred to him that in his new role as a spy/saboteur/secret agent, he probably should put the watch away and wear one more appropriate to an oil industry executive.
That man is obviously a secret agent. You can tell by his watch!
But he had a strange, strong emotional reluctance to take it off. In a sense, the Hamilton and the Half Wellington boots he was wearing were his last connection with VMF-229, with Henderson and Guadalcanal, with the Corps, with Francis Xavier Sullivan. It was a connection he didn't want to break.
From the beginning in the hotel room in Los Angeles, he'd had doubts about the whole OSS operation. These had not only not diminished, they had grown more defined. He found it difficult to believe that the United States of America-faced with the prob-lem that German submarines were being replenished by "neu-tral" freighters in Argentina-could not come up with a better solution than sending a fighter pilot, an immigrant electrical en-gineer, and a none-too-bright Italian boy from Chicago who was allegedly a demolitions expert to deal with it.
If General Frade had been in charge, he would have dispatched several Boeing B-17 bombers to Brazil with orders to bomb any suspicious-looking ship; and if the Argentineans didn't like it, fuck 'em. What were they going to do, declare war on the United States and bomb Miami? If the OSS knew about the ship, they would certainly know where it was. And it shouldn't be too hard to pass that information on to the bomber people.
On the other hand, it was also very true that the B-17s, the only aircraft Clete knew of with range enough to bomb Buenos Aires from a base in Brazil, weren't the invincible flying for-tresses the Army Air Corps was advertising. B-17s had bravely gone out day after day from Midway and Henderson and Espiritu Santo to bomb Japanese ships; and so far as Clete knew, they hadn't been able to hit one of them.
They'd lost a bunch of B-17s-either to Japanese fighters, pilot (or navigator) error, or lousy maintenance. At least some of the Seventeen pilots must have known they were pissing into the wind, but they kept their mouths shut and tried to do what was asked of them, because that was the way things are in a war.
And that's how he felt about blowing up "neutral" freighters in Argentina. He would give it a shot-and for that matter, even try to make friends with his father-because that was what he had been ordered to do. Phony discharge and draft card and ci-vilian clothing aside, he was still a serving Marine Officer. He'd taken an oath to "faithfully execute the orders of those officers appointed him"; and simply because orders like these weren't what he expected to get didn't release him from that oath.
All he could do was hope that "faithfully executing" his orders wasn't going to get himself-and Pelosi and Ettinger-killed in the process. And considering that the sum total of his knowledge about how to be a successful secret agent could be written inside a matchbook with a crayon-despite the mind-numbing, day-and-night, relentless efforts of the mentors in New Orleans-getting killed did not seem an unlikely possibility.
Ettinger seemed both smart and tough. Even telling his mother that he was going to Argentina now seemed less stupid than it did when Clete first heard it and ate him out about it. He had to tell her something, obviously, and in the absence of a furnished cover story-the OSS left things out, forgot things... this was obviously not a comforting thought-the one he came up with was a pretty good one. And someone who had lost his family to Hitler's goons didn't have to be reminded that the Germans were the bad guys.
Pelosi worried him more. Sure he knew his stuff, incredibly.... Lieutenant Greene, the Navy Salvage officer, gave Pelosi practice setting charges on a ship by giving him a to-be-scrapped World War One destroyer to blow up. Greene came back from Mississippi damned near glowing with tales of his expertise. But Pelosi was a Second Lieutenant, a kid, who thought war was like they showed it in Alan Ladd and Errol Flynn movies. Based on his own recent experience in the role, Clete considered himself an expert about the stupidity of second lieutenants. And he was thus afraid that Pelosi would try to do something heroic-an ex-cellent way to get yourself and the people with you killed.
When the opportunity presented itself-the mentors saw to it there was no time for that in New Orleans-he intended to have a long talk with Pelosi on the theme that discretion is often the better part of valor.
&
nbsp; The mentors also ruined his plans to correct what was now a near-terMi¤al case of Lackanookie. Finding a cure for that was the one thing he could reasonably expect to find in Buenos Aires. Three of their mentors had been there. They swore to a man that the women were both lovely and (sometimes) willing.
He remembered clearly very few of the nine million facts about Buenos Aires that they threw at him. But one of those few con-cerned Four Hour Hotels. Four Hour Hotels were set up for the express purpose of catering to unmarried people who wished to spend four hours alone together in a horizontal position without their clothes. That seemed to be a little too good to be true, but he was going to do his best to find out for himself.
Another steward came down the aisle, carrying a tray of glasses and a bottle of champagne wrapped in a napkin.
Clete nudged Pelosi, who was dozing in the seat beside him, waking him, and noting with surprise how his face was astonish-ingly dark with whiskers. Pan American had provided razors, but they both chose not to use them. Since it was unlikely either of them was going to be kissed on board, shaves could wait until they got to Buenos Aires.
Pelosi had a questioning look. And a hint of annoyance, as well.
"Champagne," Clete said.
"What are we celebrating?"
"Our arrival."
"Champagne, gentlemen?" the steward asked as he reached them.
"Thank you ever so much, and you can leave the bottle," Clete said.
The Martin set down into choppy water with a series of crashes. Water sprayed over the windows, so the seaplane was nearly stopped before Clete could look past Pelosi and see outside. The water was dirty. Or at least brown.
The seaplane turned, and the pilot shut down its engines. Punctuated only by the clangs of cooling metal and the lapping of water against the hull, the quiet felt strange. Then a string of boats appeared: The first four were outsize motorboats, with brightly varnished woodwork. And after them, in line, came four work boats, to take off the luggage and cargo. Clete had seen them load mailbags aboard in Miami and in Rio de Janeiro.
He wondered idly if there was other cargo. It must cost a for-tune to ship something air express, if that's what it's called. The bill for our tickets was more than the Marine Corps is paying me by the year as a first lieutenant on flight status.
There was a flurry in the cabin as the passengers-thirty-six of them, thirty-four of them male, he had counted-started getting ready to get off. Pelosi saw them too, and began to get up.
Clete waved him back into his seat, and pointed out the win-dow. The first of the passenger boats was still far from the Martin. No one would be getting off in the next couple of minutes.
Finally, they opened the door, and there was the smell of fresh air. And it was warm. The temperature rose quickly. He was sweating by the time it was their turn to pass through the hatch and step onto what looked like a stubby second wing, and from that down to one of the powerboats.
The ride to shore cooled them off.
It's no hotter here than it was in Miami, Clete decided. Maybe a little more humid.
Just inside the terMi¤al building he spotted a tall, brown-haired man with a massive mustache. The other man spotted him at the same moment.
Enrico Mallin. I know him. I told the old man I didn't remem-ber him, but now that I see him, I do.
I remember something else about you, too, you sonofabitch! You made a pass at-what the hell was her name? Beth Fogarty- when I took old stand-up nipples Beth by the old man's house. What was that, the legendary hot-blooded Latin? If it wears a skirt, have a go at it, even if it's half your age?
Mallin gently but unmistakably pushed a uniformed man- probably customs-aside and walked up to Clete.
"Cletus, my young friend, how good it is to see you again!" he said, shaking Clete's hand and wrapping his arm around his shoulders.
"It's good to see you too, Enrico."
Clete sensed a certain stiffness at that, and realized that Enrico the Horny expected to be called "Mister."
Fuck you, Enrico, Little Cletus has grown up.
"And your friend? Associate?" Mallin asked.
"A little of both, actually," Clete said. "Tony Pelosi, this is Mr. Enrico Mallin."
"Welcome to Argentina," Mallin said as he shook their hands. "I am very pleased to meet you both. Shall we go?"
"What about the luggage?" Clete asked.
"My chauffeur is here with the wagon," Mallin said. "He will take care of the luggage."
"A wagon?" Tony blurted.
"A Ford," Mallin said, smiling condescendingly. "By and large, we have very few horse-drawn wagons on the streets these days."
That was a cheap shot, Enrico. What was that for? To pay me back for not calling you "Mister"?
"We can just walk out of here?" Clete asked. "What about Immigration?"
"Right this way," Mallin said. "We'll need your passports."
He led them to an unmarked door, pushed it open without knocking, and waved them inside ahead of him.
A middle-aged man wearing a better-quality uniform than the man outside gave them a look of indignation-who the hell are you to barge into my office?-but then he noticed Mallin. He stood up, smiled, and offered his hand.
"These are my friends," Mallin said.
"Welcome to Argentina," the man said in heavily accented English, and shook hands with them in turn. "Please, your doc-uments?"
He took a rubber stamp and an ink pad from his desk, very care-fully stamped the passports, signed his name carefully, handed the passports back, and shook hands with each of them again.
"I so very much appreciate your courtesy, Inspector," Mallin said.
"I am happy to be of service, Se¤or Mallin," the inspector said, and bowed them through a door behind his desk. They found themselves in a short corridor, and then came to another door, this one leading to the street, where a dark-green Rolls-Royce convertible and a 1941 Ford Super Deluxe station wagon were parked at the curb.
A short, plump man in gray chauffeur's livery smiled and touched the brim of his cap.
"If you will be so kind as to give Ram6n your baggage checks, he will see to the luggage," Mallin said.
The baggage checks were handed over, and then Mallin opened the passenger door of the Rolls.
"I am so sorry that my home is simply not large enough to receive you both as my guests," he said. "I have taken the liberty to arrange for Se¤or Pelosi accommodations in the Alvear Palace Hotel, which I hope, Se¤or Pelosi, you will find satisfactory until other arrangements can be made. Cletus will stay with us; he's nearly-how do they say it in Texas?-kin."
"Cousin Enrico," Clete said, smiling.
Mallin looked at him, and after a moment, smiled.
Chapter Seven
[ONE]
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2005 21 November 1942
It was a fifteen-minute drive to the hotel-on, so far as Clete was concerned, the wrong side of the road; like the Australians the Argentines drove on the left (and would continue to do so until 1944). Mallin took them through a park, where people in proper equestrian clothing were riding fine-looking horses on bridle paths, and then down wide, tree-lined avenues. A statue of an ornately uniformed man on horseback seemed to stand at every major intersection.
Clete realized immediately that Buenos Aires was not the kind of place he'd expected. He had assumed that Argentina would be something like Mexico, and Buenos Aires something like Mexico City. It was not. It was unlike any city he had ever seen before.
They came to a park in which enormous banyan trees shaded neat walkways, and a moment later pulled off the street into the entrance of a hotel. A polished brass sign read: Alvear Palace Hotel.
A doorman in a top hat and a brass-buttoned linen coat which reached almost to his ankles walked quickly to the car and opened the passenger-side door.
Mallin stepped out of the car and held the seat back forward so that Pelosi could climb out of the backseat.
"I
think you will find the Alvear comfortable, Mr. Pelosi," Mallin said, "and I would suppose that after your long flight, you greatly need a good night's sleep. I apologize again for not being able to take you into my home...."
"This is really something," Pelosi said. "Like the Drake in Chicago."
It looks like the Adolphus, Clete thought, recalling the Dallas landmark. Pre-World War I polished brass and marble elegance.
"I will go in with you," Mallin said, "to make sure that every-thing is satisfactory."
A bellboy (a boy, Clete thought, he's not a day over twelve or thirteen) spun a revolving door for them, and they entered the lobby.
"This is Argentina," Mallin said. "It is unfortunately required to give your passport to the management. I thought perhaps you'd like a coffee, or something stronger..."
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 19
