W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound

by Honor Bound(Lit)

  "They're there. I checked. I was at the Guest House before I came here."

  "Then I'm wrong. El Coronel Martin closed his eyes."

  "No. I'm sure he didn't know what he was looking at. It's a new kind of explosive, called C4. You can mold it like putty. What I have looks like pieces of a wooden crate."

  "Apparently, you too are very good at your job."

  "There is no way to get close to the Reine de la Mer. She has floodlights,.50-caliber machine guns, and I think a couple of twenty-millimeter automatic cannon. And even if we somehow could get to her and attach the explosives, I don't think we have enough C4 to do real damage."

  His father looked thoughtful, as if considering the problem.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. I don't have any other options.

  "And that isn't the only problem," Clete went on. "When I tried to explain to the OSS man here, my commanding officer, so to speak..."

  "Mr. Nestor, of the Banco de Boston," his father said. "El Coronel Martin told me who he is."

  Acknowledging that would be admitting he's right, and I don't want to do that. I guess I don't trust him.

  "... when I told him I could see of no way to carry out my orders, I was relieved."

  "Relieved?" his father asked, and his face lit up.

  "He as much as accused me of cowardice."

  "Cowardice?"

  "Cowardice."

  "But you've already proven your courage. In the war in the Pacific, and at the Guest House."

  Clete met his father's eyes and shrugged, then went on:

  "The destroyer may have the ability to communicate with the United States. If it does, then I'll try to go aboard. If they will let me use their radio, I'll try to get in touch with the man who sent me down here and give him my side of the story."

  "And if that is impossible? I believe the radios of warships are put under a seal when they enter our waters."

  "I don't know," Clete said, smiling. "I'm fresh out of clever ideas. I'm determined to have a shot at that damned ship."

  His father nodded, as if he had expected that answer. He pursed his lips for a moment, then asked, "Tell me about the destroyer. For one thing, if your government has a destroyer here, and if they are willing to send an OSS team down here... why doesn't the destroyer sink the Reine de la Mer?'

  "I think they don't want to commit an act of war within your waters."

  "That's splitting hairs!' Frade said. "What's the difference between you destroying this vessel and one of your warships de-stroying it?"

  "None that I can see," Clete said. "I'm going to make that argument again to Colonel Graham when I get in touch with him. If I can get in touch with him."

  "Who is Graham?"

  "Colonel Graham. The officer in overall charge of this mis-sion."

  "He's here?"

  "In Washington. I hope he's in Washington. The last time I saw him, he was on his way to Australia."

  "If he's in Washington, why don't you go there?"

  "How?"

  "The same way you came here. By Pan American. Do you still have your passport? I can arrange for an exit visa."

  "I didn't think about the exit visa, but I called Pan American. They told me they give seats only to Americans who have a priority from the U.S. Embassy. Obviously, they're not going to give me one."

  "I know the Pan American-Grace General Manager. I can get you a seat."

  "I don't think so, Dad."

  "I think so. I own ten percent of the shares in Panagra-Argentina. I'm on the board of directors."

  "What's Panagra-Argentina?"

  "Panagra stands for Pan American-Grace. It's a partnership between Pan American Airways and Grace Shipping. Panagra is in partnership with an Argentine company, Panagra-Argentina, to operate here."

  "Jesus, could you?"

  "It will take a few days, but it can be done."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Because Mr. Trippe and Mr. Grace have told Panagra to give me anything I want. You know who those men are?'' Juan Trippe was President of Pan American Airways, and William R. Grace was President of Grace Shipping Corporation.

  Clete nodded. "Sure. But why did they do that?" he asked, confused. "You can throw a lot of business their way?"

  His father looked at him for a long moment, and Clete sensed that he was debating telling him something. Then he smiled, just a little sadly.

  "I think it would be reasonable to assume that Se¤ores Trippe and Grace have considered that a President of Argentina could, as you put it, 'throw a lot of business their way.' "

  "My God!" Clete asked incredulously, even as he realized his father was telling the truth, "Are you going to be President of Argentina?"

  "That was a strong possibility," el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade said quietly, "before I realized that I must be involved in your affairs."

  "Graham didn't tell me that," Clete said thoughtfully, and then anger swept through him, quickly and bitterly. "But he knew. That sonofabitch knew-of course he knew-and didn't tell me. That devious bastard! He sent me down here to get close to you! It had nothing to do with this goddamned ship!"

  "That outburst becomes you. I can't tell you how happy I am to see that you were unaware of such things," el Coronel said.

  "But I think the ship was an integral part of his plan."

  That surprised Clete. It showed on his face.

  "I don't understand..."

  "Have you considered that it would be in their interest if you had attacked the Reine de la Mer and were killed in the process?"

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "Even if we had remained estranged," Clete's father went on, "you are my son. If the Germans killed you, my honor as well as my heart would demand revenge. I am an influential Argenti-nean. I may perhaps even become President."

  "Goddamn!"

  "They had an officer of the Corps of Marines, who proved his courage in battle..."

  "And they almost hoped I would get killed!"

  "Almost?" his father said, dryly sarcastic, and then went on,

  "... and who could be expected to carry out his orders, regardless of the risk."

  "It's hard for me to believe that Graham would be capable of that kind of scheme," Clete thought aloud. "I liked him. He's the sort of man you instinctively trust. The sonofabitch!"

  "In war, decent men are often forced to do dishonorable things," Frade said. "What went wrong with his plan was he did not take into account your loyalty to your men. You might be willing to give your life, but you would not sacrifice the lives of your men."

  "I thought about flying that goddamned Beechcraft right into the sonofabitch," Clete blurted. "But I didn't think it would be any more effective than the lousy twenty pounds of C4 they gave me."

  "I am very glad you reached that decision, Cletus," his father said.

  Clete looked at him. Tears were running down his father's cheeks. Their eyes met.

  "Would it be a great embarrassment to you if I put my arms around you?" el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade asked.

  "No, Sir," Clete said, his voice breaking. He went to his father and they wrapped their arms around each other.

  Finally, they broke apart.

  "Well," his father said, "at least we know where things stand."

  "Do we? I don't know what the hell to do now. Right now, I am having some very unpatriotic thoughts. If the OSS doesn't really give a damn about the Reine de la Mer, why should I?"

  His father didn't respond for a long moment, but then said, "Because you have been ordered to destroy it. Your admirable concern for your men doesn't change that. So long as the Reine de la Mer is in the Bah¡a Samboromb¢n, you are obliged to do your best to destroy it. Honor requires that you do anything you can-short of suicide-to carry out your orders."

  "You said you would help?"

  "I have a suggestion," Frade said. "I will call el Almirante de Montoya again and tell him that I have changed my mind, and that he should expel you from Argentina."r />
  "What good would that do?"

  "And then I will get you a seat on the Pan American flight to Miami. You will go to Washington and tell this Colonel Graham to his face..."

  "Doing that won't-"

  "Hear me out."

  Clete shrugged.

  "You will tell Colonel Graham that I deduced the real reason he assigned this mission to you, and that I had you expelled to save your life. That has the great benefit of being the truth."

  "I don't want to be expelled."

  "You have no choice in the matter. If you feel that you should, you can tell your Colonel Graham that you are willing to come back secretly to sink the Reine de la Mer-you can be put ashore from a U.S. submarine, or come from Brazil via Uruguay. If you return, you will of course have my assistance."

  El Coronel let that sink in for a moment, and then went on.

  "You have no options, Cletus. Without my assistance, there is no way you can harm the Reine de la Mer. And if, for example, you try to hide yourself in Argentina, el Almirante would learn of it, and there would be nothing I could do for you. El Coronel Martin's men, believe me, would find you in a matter of days. You would then be imprisoned. Possibly for a long time. There are a number of people in this country who would like to hold that sword at my throat-the sword of my son in an Argentine prison."

  "If I came back, you would help me?" Clete asked.

  "I give you my word."

  "Why?"

  "To try to save your life."

  Christ, he's got me. I don't have any other option.

  "I think it would be best for you to stay here at the estancia, until your expulsion can be arranged, and until I can get you on the Pan American flight to Miami." Clete accepted the inevitable.

  "I have to go to Buenos Aires," he said. "I have to explain all this to Ettinger and Pelosi." His father considered that.

  "Very well. I think you'll be safe. Enrico will of course go with you, and Martin's Internal Security people will be watching Uncle Guillermo's house."

  Clete nodded. "I'll be all right."

  "And I will go to the city too. Perhaps we could even have dinner together or..."

  "Why not?" Clete chuckled.

  Now that the decision had been made, he felt an enormous sense of relief. It troubled him.

  "Can you think of anything else?" his father asked.

  No. Not a thing. Oh, yeah!

  Clete smiled. His father looked at him curiously. "Dad, how would you like to loan me thirteen thousand dol-lars?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I need to borrow thirteen thousand dollars," Clete asked. "Will you loan it to me.?"

  "Of course. But why?"

  "It involves a Mi¤a," Clete said.

  "You have become involved with a Mi¤a?" Frade asked, dis-appointment all over his face.

  "One of my men has," Clete said. "And her Argentine boy-friend found out about it, and is being a real bastard to the girl and her family."

  "I thought for a moment..."

  "One of my men, Dad, not me. I can get in enough romantic trouble without paying for it."

  "I never took a Mi¤a," Frade announced righteously. "Never. Not even in the long, lonely years."

  "Before you met Claudia, you mean?"

  His father ignored him. "A man who has to pay a woman is not really a man. I find the custom disgusting."

  "Well, this guy, the Argentine, is apparently a real bastard. He co-signed a mortgage, and when he found out that the girl was seeing one of my officers, he told the bank he would no longer guarantee payment."

  "I am not surprised. A man who would pay for sex..."

  Clete dug in his pocket and came out with the notes he took when Tony came to see him at the hospital.

  "The mortgage is with the Anglo-Argentine Bank. The father's name is Alberghoni."

  "And the man's name?"

  Clete shrugged helplessly.

  "It will be no problem," he said. "Your uncle Humberto is managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank. You and I will go to the library now and have a quiet word with him. And he and I will take personal pleasure in frustrating this man's ungentlemanly behavior. The mortgage will be paid in full by tomor-row."

  "Thank you."

  "It is my pleasure," el Coronel said. "And now, to restore my relationship with Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano, may I suggest we go see her?"

  "Restore your relationship?"

  "Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano told me that unless I made my peace with you before you left today, she would never forgive me. I think she meant it."

  "Your relationship with Claudia is important to you?"

  "Obviously."

  "Then why don't you marry her?"

  "Why I don't marry her is none of your business. How dare you ask a question like that?"

  "Because I'm concerned with your welfare," Clete said.

  "Are you indeed?" el Coronel replied, and marched out of the room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  [ONE]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires

  1330 24 December 1942

  A thunderstorm that threatened most of the way on the drive to Buenos Aires struck minutes before Clete and Enrico arrived at Uncle Guillermo' s house. The rain drummed on the Buick's canvas roof and almost overwhelmed the windshield wipers; the thunder and lightning were as awesome as they were in West Texas.

  Attired in undershorts and Sullivan's boots, Clete lay with his back propped up against the elaborately carved headboard of Granduncle Guillermo's bed. As he watched the lightning flash on the River Plate, he sipped an early Christmas Eve beer, or a pre-luncheon beer, whatever you want to call it.

  He remembered that he also had had a Christmas Eve, pre-luncheon beer the year before, aboard USS Saratoga. It had also been raining heavily, he recalled, a sudden rain squall that had come up quickly, and from which he had found shelter under the wing of one of the F2A-3 Brewster Buffaloes lashed to the Sar-atoga's flight deck.

  Schultz, Second Lieutenant Charles A., USMCR, inevitably called "Dutch," had suddenly appeared beside him, his khakis drenched by the rain. He was clutching something lumpy wrapped in a flight suit to his chest, and happily proclaimed, "Who says there's no Santa Claus?"

  The lumps turned out to be two quart bottles of Budweiser beer, smuggled aboard at Pearl Harbor in defiance of Navy regulations.

  "Merry Christmas, Clete," Dutch had said, handing him one of the bottles. They had pried the tops off on the undercarriage of the Buffalo.

  But it was beer, and even warm, proof that there was indeed a Santa Claus, for those who really believed.

  "Next year," Dutch had said, raising his bottle in a toast, "Cold beer, at home!"

  It didn't turn out that way, did it, Dutch ?

  The next day, Christmas Day, we flew those outdated god-damned Buffaloes off the Saratoga onto Midway Island. And then we flew them against the Japs. A Buffalo was no match against a Zero. Every goddamned one of us was shot down.

  You never will get to go home, will you, Dutch? I got picked up, and you didn't. The Secretary of the Navy regrets to inform YOU THAT YOUR SON, SECOND LIEUTENANT CHARLES A. SCHULTZ, USMCR...

  And the circumstances under which I am "at home" are not quite the ones we had in mind when we had that fantasy, are they, Dutch?

  But this beer is cold, and this is a marvelously comfortable bed with clean sheets, and when, in the inevitable course of human events, I will have to let the beer out, it will be into a porcelain fixture in a marble floored bathroom, not into a foul smelling opening in a stinking compartment labeled, probably with un-intentional humor, "Officer's Head."

  And I am alive, and in one piece, and there is a good deal to be said for that.

  At least, so far, I am alive and in one piece.

  And, in the sense that I am going to have a little Christmas Eve supper with my father, I am home-That little supper will probably consist of no more than eight or nine courses, served on fine china and dissected wi
th monogrammed sterling silver. Last year, it was sort of turkey chop-suey, eaten off a stainless steel tray, with cranberry sauce atop the mashed potatoes. Or was it mashed potatoes dumped over the cranberry sauce?