Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  His eyebrows went up, and she saw it.

  “He left you the ranch, Clete,” Martha said. “Less mineral rights. You get some of those, too, but he wanted you to have the ranch.”

  “Jesus! What about the girls?”

  The girls, both students at Rice University in Houston, were Martha and Jim’s daughters. For all practical purposes, they were Clete’s sisters.

  “He asked them first, and it was all right with them. They don’t want to live out here in the sticks. I get what they call ‘lifetime use.’ It’s all pretty complicated. You better find time when you see your grandfather to have him, or one of his lawyers, explain it to you. There’s a provision in there that if you ‘die without issue,’ it reverts to the girls. Or their ‘issue,’ I forget which. Do we have to talk about this now?”

  Clete shook his head no.

  Then he said, “I’m surprised.”

  “I don’t see why you should be. You weren’t only his nephew. The way things happened, you were the son I could never give him.”

  He looked at her, then back at the tombstone.

  “Seen enough?” Martha asked. “It’s as cold as a witch’s teat out here.”

  “Why, Miss Martha, how you talk!”

  She walked to the pipe-and-chain fence and stepped over the chain, then slipped behind the wheel of a 1940 Cadillac coupe. Clete followed her and got in the passenger side.

  “There should be a bottle in the glove compartment,” Martha said as she started the engine. “I think I’d like a little taste about now.”

  He opened the glove compartment. Inside was a quart of Jack Daniel’s, unopened, a leather-bound flask, and a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver in a holster. He shook the flask, heard it gurgle, unscrewed the top, and handed it to Martha. She put it to her lips and took a healthy swallow, then handed it back to him. He took a healthy swallow.

  “Are you going to have time to go to Houston before you go where you’re going?” Martha asked. “The girls will want to see you.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably. I’ll know for sure when Colonel Graham tells me when he wants me in New Orleans.”

  “What are you going to do in New Orleans?”

  “Except have the Old Man find fault with the way I blink my eyes, you mean?”

  The Old Man was Cletus Marcus Howell, Martha’s father-in-law and Clete’s grandfather.

  “He’s not that bad, Clete.”

  He laughed.

  “You didn’t say what you’re going to do in New Orleans.”

  “Mine not to reason why, Ma’am, mine but to ride into the Valley of Death, or wherever it is. You keep forgetting, Ma’am, that I’m just a lousy first lieutenant, and they don’t bother to tell me a hell of a lot. Just do it.”

  She chuckled.

  He purposefully changed the subject. “Jim’s pistol is in the glove compartment. Did you know that?”

  “That’s my pistol,” Martha said. “His guns are in town. They had to inventory them when they probated the will. You got them, too, of course, except for the .250–3000 Savage. Beth killed her first deer with that, and he thought she should have it.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes down the dirt road—really no more than tracks in the land leading down from the highest spot on the ranch toward the ranch house, which was built in a small valley to get it out of the wind.

  “Your car is in town,” Martha said, breaking the silence, “up on blocks. But if you’re going somewhere where you can have a car, maybe you’d better get it running.”

  “I thought I would go into town anyway, to have a drink at the Petroleum Club. Is somebody at the house?”

  “Juanita’s there. I just hope she doesn’t find out you’re here and didn’t stop by there first to see her.”

  “It was after midnight when I got to Midland,” Clete said.

  “Well, we’ll fix you some lunch, so that you’ll have something in your stomach before you hit the P-Club bar, and you go see Juanita. Before you go to the P-Club.”

  “You don’t want to go with me?”

  “I don’t think I could handle that, not yet, honey,” Martha said.

  “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to either,” Clete said. “But I think I should go.”

  “Just go easy at the bar, honey. All the booze in the world isn’t going to bring him back.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Clete said.

  He turned on the seat to look at her.

  I really love this woman. She is not biologically my mother; but that’s what she is in fact. She took me in when I was eighteen months old and she was for all practical purposes just a bride. I was her husband’s sister’s motherless child, and she still raised me as her own. I must have been four or five before I understood that I had another mother, a dead mother.

  “Martha,” Clete said. “I don’t know if I ever told you before, I don’t know why I didn’t, but I love you.”

  She turned to look at him quickly.

  “Clete, honey, that’s nice. That’s real nice. But you didn’t have to say it. I know.”

  She returned her attention to the road for a moment, then said, “I think I could use another little taste, honey. Or did you drink it all?”

  [THREE]

  The Petroleum Club

  Midland, Texas

  1615 21 October 1942

  The very black, very dignified bartender in the very white jacket handed Clete Howell a Jack Daniel’s and water. He was still feeling the pulls he’d taken in Aunt Martha’s car and really didn’t want the drink; but it occurred to him that if Uncle Jim happened to be peering over the edge of his cloud looking down, he would like to see him having what he himself drank in his club.

  “Were you here when it happened, William?” Clete asked.

  “Yes, Sir, Mr. Clete. I was.”

  Clete looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

  “There’s not much to tell, Mr. Clete,” the bartender said. “He hadn’t been in here long. He was sitting right where you are, with Mr. Dennison. He said he had a headache, that it must be the new hat…”

  “This hat,” Clete said, touching his new Stetson.

  “Yes, Sir. I thought that might be it. And he took it off and laid it on the bar and said he was going to the gentlemen’s, and when he got to the door…I was watching…he just…he just fell down.”

  “Miss Martha told me it was a cerebral hemorrhage,” Clete said.

  “Yes, Sir. Well, Mr. Dennison and I run over there, and Dr. Sayre was out in the lounge with Mrs. Dennison, and he came running, and I went back to the bar to call an ambulance, and I was still on the phone when Dr. Sayre said he was gone.”

  “A good way to go, wouldn’t you say, William?” Clete said.

  “Yes, Sir. I thought about that. What he was talking about to Mr. Dennison was that a hole had come in that morning flowing a thousand barrels. It was a wildcat they put down with their own money. I had a one-twenty-eighth interest in the hole. It was a happy time.”

  “Thank you, William.”

  “We’re going to miss Mr. Jim around here, Mr. Clete, for a long time.”

  “Yeah,” Clete said.

  William went to the end of the bar and picked up a towel and started to polish a whiskey sour glass. The telephone under the bar rang. He picked it up, then returned, carrying the handset on a very long coiled cord to Clete.

  “There’s a gentleman in the lobby asking to see you, Mr. Clete.”

  “You have a name?”

  “No, Sir. He’s on the phone.”

  Clete held out his hand for it.

  “Hello?”

  “Clete, I’m sorry to intrude on your leave, but I have to talk to you.”

  Christ, it’s Colonel Graham. I thought he’d send me a telegram, or call.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Do you think you could possibly squeeze in a few minutes for me in your busy schedule?”

  “Yes, Sir. Of course. I’m just a little surpri
sed you’re here.”

  “I’m an amazing man. I thought you understood that. Would you tell this fellow to let me in, please?”

  “Let me speak to him, Sir.”

  Clete picked up his glass and walked out of the bar into the lounge. It was furnished with tables and red-leather-upholstered captain’s chairs, for ladies and for business conversations. The tables were arranged far enough apart to make it difficult to hear what was said at the adjoining tables.

  He picked out one of the tables and stood beside it until he saw Graham entering the room, then signaled to him with his raised glass.

  Graham was in somewhat mussed civilian clothing, and looked in unabashed curiosity around the room as he walked to Frade.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” Clete said.

  Graham smiled at him. “Howdy, Tex,” he said. “Have you got a cowboy hat to go with that outfit?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. A brand-new Stetson, by the way. A family heirloom, so to speak.”

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Graham asked, and sat down.

  Clete set his glass on the table and sat down across from him.

  Another very black barman in a very white jacket appeared almost immediately.

  “I’ll have whatever Mr. Frade is drinking,” Graham said. He turned and smiled at Frade. “Very nice place,” he said.

  “You have any trouble finding it?”

  “No. I called your aunt from the airport—I’m on my way to California again, and the pilot said he could refuel here just as well as someplace else. So I told him to stop here.”

  “What are you in?” Clete interrupted, in a pilot-Pavlovian reflex.

  “A TBF”—a torpedo bomber—“on its way to San Diego,” Graham said. “Anyway, your aunt Martha said you would either be at her house or here; and she gave me the number. So I called the house and a very nice lady told me I’d just missed you and that you were coming here.”

  “Juanita,” Frade said.

  “We had a nice little chat about you,” Graham said. “You apparently learned your Spanish from her?”

  Frade nodded. “She was my aunt Martha’s nurse when she was a child in East Texas. And then she came out here when my aunt was married and started all over again with me.”

  The waiter delivered Graham’s drink.

  Graham took an appreciative sip, waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right, thank you.”

  “No signs of malaria? Sometimes it shows up…”

  Clete shook his head. “I feel fine. I can’t eat as much as I thought I would when I got home….”

  “The stomach actually shrinks on a diet like you had on Guadalcanal,” Graham said.

  “And I don’t seem to be able to handle as much of this as I used to be able to,” Clete said, holding up his glass.

  “The ideal OSS agent would be a tea-total,” Graham said, smiling. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “I wondered when you were going to get around to that,” Clete said, returning the smile.

  “A number of things have happened,” Graham said. “Is there any reason you couldn’t be in New Orleans on the first of November? That’s ten days, and the first is a Sunday.”

  “No, Sir. No problem. Where do I go in New Orleans?”

  “I know from experience that the chow and the bunks at 3470 St. Charles Avenue are a little better than average,” Graham replied. “Anything against you staying there?”

  It was the address of Cletus Marcus Howell’s mansion.

  “I didn’t know you were familiar with those accommodations, Sir.”

  “Your grandfather was more than hospitable when I went to see him.”

  “I didn’t know you’d been to see him.”

  “And more than cooperative. He’s quite a fellow.”

  Now that he had a moment to think about it, Clete was not surprised that Colonel Graham had gotten along well with the old man. Strong men like other strong men. And if he liked you, the old man could be the personification of Southern charm and hospitality.

  But that raised the question of why Graham had gone to see the old man.

  “I’m on my way to Australia, and I wanted to talk to you before you go to Argentina.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Graham saw the look of surprise on Clete’s face, and decided an explanation would not hurt.

  “There are some people in the Pacific, believe it or not, who are not convinced that the OSS can be useful. One of them happens to be General MacArthur. I’m going down there to try to change his mind.”

  “Really?”

  “We also serve, we who try to charm and reason,” Graham said.

  Clete chuckled.

  “The other two men on your team,” Graham said, turning to the business at hand, “are both soldiers.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “They are Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, who was in the 82nd Airborne, and Staff Sergeant David G. Ettinger, who has been a Special Agent in the Counterintelligence Corps. People in the CIC often don’t wear uniforms; or if they do, they wear them without rank insignia. They’re called ‘Mister.’ Did you know that?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Ettinger is Spanish, and a Jew. Most of his family—they had a German, primarily Berlin, branch—has been murdered by the Nazis. He’s been working with the Immigration and Naturalization Service, trying to make sure that Spanish and German Jewish immigrants and refugees are what they say they are.”

  “Sir?”

  “That they haven’t been sent to the United States by the Abwehr or Sicherheitsdienst—German military intelligence and Secret Service, respectively.”

  “Do they try to do that?” Clete asked, fascinated.

  “Not often, but enough to make it necessary to spend a lot of man-hours on the problem. People who should know tell me Ettinger was very good at what he was doing. Pelosi is from Chicago, and is really knowledgeable about explosives; his family is in the demolitions business. Even Colonel Baxter F. Newton-Haddle seems awed by his expertise.”

  “Sir, I don’t know who Colonel…”

  “Colonel Baxter F. Newton-Haddle is Deputy Director for Training,” Graham explained. “He runs the Country Club, our training center in Virginia. Both Pelosi and Ettinger are there—or were there until this morning, when I sent them on leave.”

  “I don’t know about the ‘Country Club’ either, Sir.”

  “You went through Parris Island as an enlisted man, didn’t you? And before Parris Island, when you were at Texas A and M, you spent a summer at Fort Benning, right?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “So you haven’t missed anything by not going to the Country Club, except Colonel Newton-Haddle’s welcoming speech. During that he customarily brandishes his dagger and tells the incoming class he will turn them into efficient killers…or they’ll die trying.”

  “Really?” Clete smiled.

  “I shouldn’t mock him. He renders a service. But you didn’t need it, so you didn’t go there. Anyway, Ettinger will be in New Orleans on Monday, November two, and Pelosi the following day. They will travel separately, for obvious reasons. And a team will come down from Washington to brief you. Ettinger will go to Buenos Aires, via Miami, on Wednesday, November four. His cover will be a job at the Bank of Boston, where the Buenos Aires station chief is a vice-president.

  “His name is Jasper F. Nestor. We do the best we can to compartmentalize—” Graham interrupted himself. “Can you remember that name? Jasper F. Nestor?”

  “Jasper F. Nestor,” Clete repeated. “Yes, Sir.”

  “As I said, we try to compartmentalize as much as we can. Ettinger obviously has to know who Nestor is, but he has been told, and I’m telling you now, that Pelosi doesn’t have the need to know that name.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Jasper may or may not, it’s his decision, put you in touch with the commanding officer of the team that’s alre
ady down there. But you won’t meet the other members of that team. Get the idea?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Pelosi’s cover, and yours, will be Howell Petroleum. This subject will be gone into in greater detail in New Orleans. But, in shorthand, the Argentines want more Howell Petroleum. The U.S. government wants to make sure they consume that petroleum and don’t sell it to the Germans. Conveniently, on your medical release from the Marine Corps…” He paused, then added: “You did not serve on Guadalcanal, by the way. Your heart murmur was discovered while you were in flight school.”

  “My heart murmur?”

  “Your heart murmur,” Graham confirmed. “Conveniently, anyhow, you were available to go to Buenos Aires to make sure the oil goes where it is supposed to go. You will very visibly occupy yourself with that, by the way. The BIS…you remember what that is?”

  “Bureau of Internal Security.”

  Graham nodded, and continued, “…will certainly be watching you. You and Pelosi will apply for Argentine visas at their consulate in New Orleans, and then fly down there. Pelosi has some other training, how to sink a ship, to go through first. But the sooner we can get you down there, the better.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “It is entirely likely that by the time you reach there, the team already in place will have taken care of the ‘neutral’ replenishment ship. But the Germans will certainly replace it, and that will have to be dealt with. As long as the Germans keep sending ships in, we are going to take them out.”

  “Yes, Sir. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Colonel, I don’t…Colonel, from what you tell me, both Ettinger and Pelosi know how to do this sort of thing. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “I wondered when you would consider that.”

  “I started thinking about it on the train to Chicago,” Clete said. “And I haven’t stopped.”

  “Why you, in other words?”

  Clete nodded. “Because of my father?”

  “Certainly because of your father,” Graham said. “But that’s not the only reason. Clete, by now you must have learned there’s no way to tell beforehand how a man is going to behave in combat.”

  He waited until he saw acceptance of the premise on Clete’s face.