Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  They drove out of town, east, across a long, narrow two-lane bridge set on pilings. Tony saw signs saying they were on U.S. Highway 98.

  Chief Norton turned around and looked at him.

  “Adams said you know something about explosives, Pelosi. That right?”

  I’ve probably forgotten more about explosives than you ever knew, pal!

  “I know a little bit about explosives,” Pelosi replied.

  “You ever use explosives to cut steel?”

  Not more than five or six hundred times.

  “A couple of times.”

  “I generally found when I’m teaching somebody who has a little experience with explosives that the best way is to get him to forget what he thinks he knows and let me start from scratch. Think you could handle that?”

  “Why not?”

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve done this,” Chief Norton said. “Usually we have a lot more time, a couple of days more, anyway.”

  [THREE]

  The Consulate of the Republic of Argentina

  Suite 1103

  The Bank of New Orleans Building

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  0900 10 November 1942

  “Buenos días,” Clete said to the redhead in the office of the Argentine Consulate.

  “Good morning,” the redhead said in English. “Can I help you?”

  She’s not an Argentinean, Clete Frade realized, which surprised him. He’d assumed that anyone who worked in the Argentine Consulate would be an Argentinean. But when he considered that, he realized there was no reason that should be so. It was obviously cheaper to hire a local than bring someone up from Argentina. It reminded him that what he knew about consulates and embassies—and for that matter, Argentina—could be written inside a matchbook with a grease pencil.

  “I’ve come to apply for visas,” he said, and smiled at her. He set his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the forms and handed them to her.

  “There’s two applications,” she said.

  “Well, the sad truth is that my friend, who’s going with me, right now thinks he’s about to die,” Clete said with a smile. “He was out on Bourbon Street all night, and most of the morning, too. I hoped he wouldn’t have to come himself.”

  “I’ll have to ask Señor Galle about that,” she said. “Which one is he?”

  “Pelosi,” Clete said. “I’m Frade.”

  She examined Pelosi’s visa application carefully.

  “Seems to be all right,” she said. “Do you have his passport?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Clete said, and handed it to her.

  “I’ll have to ask Señor Galle about it,” the redhead said.

  She went farther into the office, and a minute or so later a well-dressed, smiling man in his late thirties or early forties came into the outer room.

  “Good morning,” he said. His English was very faintly accented. “Miss O’Rourke gives me to believe that Bourbon Street has claimed yet another victim. My name is Galle.”

  He offered his hand.

  “Frade,” Clete said, taking it. “Clete Frade.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Galle said, looking at him carefully.

  That look, Clete thought, went beyond idle curiosity.

  “May I ask why you’re traveling to Argentina?” Galle asked as he picked up the visa applications.

  “It’s on the application, Señor,” Clete said, switching to Spanish. “Our company is opening an office in Buenos Aires.”

  “And your company is?” Galle asked, in English.

  “Howell Petroleum,” Clete said. “Actually a subsidiary. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela).”

  “Oh, yes. I know them,” Galle said. “And I see that your name is Howell. Is there a connection?”

  “My grandfather founded the company.”

  “I’m not always this inquisitive,” Galle said. “But we’re co-operating with your government in a rather delicate area. It would seem that your government has discovered that a number of young men have decided they would much rather enjoy the delights of Buenos Aires than those of, say, Fort Benning.”

  “Really?”

  “Our policy is that we inform young men of a certain age that while we would be pleased to grant them a visa to visit Argentina, there will be a delay of a week or so while we confer with your Department of Justice. A number of young men, upon hearing that, have decided to change their travel plans.”

  “Both Mr. Pelosi and I have done our service,” Clete said.

  “You would not be offended if I asked to see your discharge papers?” Galle asked.

  “Right here in my briefcase,” Clete said. “Mine and Señor Pelosi’s. And I do have my brand-new draft card, which shows my classification. Medically discharged.”

  “That should do it,” Galle said, finally switching to Spanish himself. “You speak Spanish very well, Señor.”

  “Thank you,” Clete said.

  After carefully examining the discharge documents and Clete’s draft card, Galle handed them back to him with a smile.

  “No offense, Señor Frade?”

  “Absolutely none. I hope you catch a couple of draft dodgers.”

  Galle bent over the desk and scrawled an initial on one of the visa applications—Clete could not see which one—and then started to do the same thing on the other.

  “Oh, this is interesting,” Galle said, straightening and looking directly at Clete. “You’re an Argentinean, Mr. Frade.”

  “No,” Clete said. “I was born there, but I’m an American citizen. My mother was an American.”

  “Under our laws, you’re an Argentinean; citizenship comes with birth in Argentina.”

  “Is that going to pose any problem?” Clete asked.

  “No. But it’s probably fortunate that you have done your military service. You were a Marine, I see?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We have, as you do, compulsory military service,” Galle said. “And we, like you, have our share of young men who would rather not serve their country. If you hadn’t done your service, then perhaps it could have been awkward. But since you have, I’m sure there will be no problem. But may I suggest you take your discharge documents with you? You’ll probably never need them, but if the question came up somehow…”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Clete said. “I will. And I’ll tell Pelosi.”

  Galle put his initials on Clete’s application and then on Pelosi’s.

  “Now, if you would be so kind as to give Miss O’Rourke twenty dollars—visas are ten dollars each—I think we can finish this up.”

  Clete handed the redhead the money. She opened a drawer in her desk and took from it a small metal box. It was unlocked. She put the money in a tray, then removed the tray. From the bottom of the box she took a rubber stamp and a stamp pad, and with great care stamped each of the passports. As she finished she handed them to Galle, who signed the visas with a flourish.

  Then he returned the passports to Clete.

  “Have a nice voyage. When did you say you were leaving?”

  “In the next several days. Whenever we can get seats on Pan American.”

  “One final bit of advice,” Galle said. “Take summer clothing. Our seasons are reversed, you know. It is now summer in Buenos Aires, and sometimes the weather, the humidity, you understand, is not very pleasant.”

  “Thank you,” Clete said, putting out his hand. “Thank you for your courtesy and the advice.”

  “Have a good time in Buenos Aires,” Galle said. “I wish I was going with you. You’re not married, I gather?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “I think what I miss most, here, are the women of Buenos Aires,” Galle said, smiled, added, “Bon voyage,” and walked away.

  Thirty minutes later, Galle left his office, walked out of the business district and across Canal Street into the Vieux Carré, then went on to a building on St. Peter’s Street. He let himself into a small apartment
which he had rented at an exorbitant price under a name that was not his own. The landlord believed he was a Mexican-American named López from San Antonio who visited New Orleans frequently on business—and to see a woman. Once a month, at least, Galle took pains to see that the landlord noticed him entering the apartment with a woman.

  Galle doubted that the FBI or the New Orleans police were even aware of the apartment. And if they were, he doubted that they either tapped the telephone or intercepted his mail. To make sure, however, he sent mail to the apartment. When it arrived, he saw no indication that it was tampered with.

  He had the operator connect him, station-to-station, with a number in Silver Spring, Maryland. He doubted the FBI knew of the existence of that apartment or that telephone number either, and he thought the odds were remote indeed that they had tapped that line.

  He gave the woman who answered the names of Cletus Howell Frade and Anthony J. Pelosi, and asked her to inform the appropriate functionary that he had just issued visas for their residence in Argentina and that in his judgment they should be watched on their arrival to make sure they were indeed in Buenos Aires to open a local office of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela). As an after-thought, he asked the woman to add that Cletus Howell Frade had been born in Argentina, and that the security forces might be interested to learn who were his relatives, if any, in Argentina.

  [FOUR]

  Office of the Managing Director

  Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos

  Petrolíferos

  21st Floor, Edificio Kavanagh

  Calle Florida 1065

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  0930 18 November 1942

  Enrico Mallín, the Managing Director of SMIPP (pronounced “smeep”), was six feet two inches tall, weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds, had a full head of dark-brown hair, a full, immaculately trimmed mustache, and was forty-two years old. He was educated at the Belgrano Day School, operated by two English expatriate brothers named Green; the University of Buenos Aires; and the London School of Economics. After that, he embarked on what he referred to as “postgraduate schooling” in the United States. In 1938 he spent six months in Louisiana, Oklahoma, and Texas learning what he could about the operation of the American petroleum industry. There was no question in his mind that the Americans knew more about doing business imaginatively, efficiently, and profitably than anyone else, including the Dutch Shell people and British Petroleum, who were supposed to be the best in the world.

  He spent a month actually working as a roughneck on a rig in East Texas, and wound up in Tulsa, learning something about seismological data. Argentina wasn’t quite ready to develop its own production…. Although there was certainly oil in the country, it was not now economically feasible to search for it, much less produce it. But someday these things would change, and when they did, Mallín would be ready.

  He also returned from the United States with a number of “barbaric Yankee habits,” as his wife (née Pamela Holworth-Talley, whom he met at the Victoria & Albert Hall in London when she was nineteen and he was twenty-two) only half jokingly referred to them. In the States, for instance, he acquired a taste for sour-mash bourbon whiskey, jalapeño peppers, chili con carne (which he insisted on not only making himself, but forcing upon civilized people), and the really outrageous habit of rising in the middle of the night to go to work.

  In the middle of the night—which, so far as Pamela was concerned, was somewhere between five-thirty and quarter to six in the morning—Enrico (whom Pamela called “Henry”) would rise quietly from their bed in the master’s suite of the large, Italian-style mansion on the corner of Calle Arcos and Virrey del Piño in Belgrano. He would then have a quick shower and a shave, dress, back his Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe out of the garage, exchange an early-morning wave with the policeman on guard at the Mexican Ambassador’s house across the street, and drive downtown to the Edificio Kavanagh. The Kavanagh Building, built in 1937 (in the style now called Art Deco), was in 1942 Buenos Aires’ first and only skyscraper.

  Sometimes, if he was hungry, or for other good reasons, he would drive the drop-head Rolls into the courtyard of the apartment building at 2910 Avenue Canning in Palermo, where he maintained an apartment (4D; two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a kitchen with a nice view of the gardens) for Teresa, his twenty-one-year-old mistress. Teresa could be counted on to provide him with coffee or whatever else he needed. But most of the time he drove directly downtown to the Edificio Kavanagh.

  There he would turn into the driveway to the underground parking garage, sound the horn, and wait until the uniformed attendant emerged from his cubicle and opened the gate. He would roll down the window and hand the attendant a coin. The attendant would touch the brim of his cap, smile, and murmur, “Gracias, Señor Mallín.”

  Enrico would have much preferred to deal with the attendant on a monthly basis. That way he would find the gate already open when he arrived, and his secretary could deliver an envelope to the attendant once a month. The arrangement would save him at least a minute a day, but this was Argentina.

  He would then park the Rolls in space number one of the seven reserved near the elevator for employees of Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos, enter the elevator, exchange greetings with the operator, and ride to the twenty-first floor. Although office hours did not begin until nine, and the first employees would not begin to arrive until half past eight, once he reached his offices, one of the ornately carved mahogany double doors would be open, waiting for him.

  The night man worked for Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos, not for the Edificio Kavanagh. He could be counted on to have the door open in anticipation of Mallín’s arrival. He could also be counted on to have a kettle of water simmering in the small kitchen in Señor Mallín’s private office, and to have checked with the Communications Department to make sure that all communications Señor Mallín would possibly be interested in were neatly laid out on the conference table in Señor Mallín’s office.

  Enrico would brew his own tea (Hornyman’s Special) in a china teapot, remove his jacket and loosen his tie while he was waiting for it to steep, and then begin his day by reading the material from the Communications Department.

  Very little of this was addressed to him personally. And very little of what he read required any action on his part. He made the odd note now and again to query one of his Division Chiefs, but the basic purpose of his spending an hour or two reading the communications was simply to get an idea of what was going on.

  One piece of wisdom he brought home from America—an insight that was ignored at the London School of Economics—was the leadership philosophy he acquired from a marvelous curmudgeonly character of an American oilman, Cletus Marcus Howell. Howell told him—actually proclaimed—that if you have to look over the shoulder of the people you’ve hired to make sure they do what you tell them to do, you’ve hired the wrong people.

  The philosophy was simplistic, of course, but in practice it worked. And in the case of Cletus Marcus Howell, in that wonderful American expression, he put his money where his mouth was in his relationship with Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos. SMIPP had represented both Howell Petroleum and Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) in Argentina for many years. There were twice-annual visits (annual now, because of the war) by Howell’s accountants to have a look at the books. But aside from that, Howell (or his people) rarely asked questions and never offered any criticism of the way Mallín was running things.

  They offered, of course, constructive suggestions, but these were precisely that: both constructive and suggestions. Generally speaking, when other SMIPP clients offered “constructive suggestions,” they were actually criticizing. And “suggestions” was a euphemism for orders.

  Over the years, Mallín had taken more care handling the Howell accounts than any others, simply because he knew he had a free rein, and it would have been terribly awkward and embarra
ssing if he was caught doing something unwise. Or stupid. Mallín took a little private pleasure in knowing that in his case, Cletus Marcus Howell was sure he had hired the right man.

  Mallín almost casually glanced at the material laid out on his conference table, then poured himself a cup of tea, adding sugar and lemon. He then went to the window and slowly sipped it, gazing out at the boats on the River Plate as he did. As long as the office was his (he inherited it, so to speak, on his father’s death three years before), the view fascinated, almost hypnotized, him. He privately acknowledged that looking out the window was one of the reasons he came to the office so early. If others wanted to believe he spent every moment reading the mail, no harm was done.

  Now that he was here, he regretted not stopping in to have a coffee with Teresa. There was something wonderfully erotic about letting himself into her apartment, walking quietly to the bedroom, and watching her sleeping. Especially now, in the summer, when he could often find her without a sheet covering her, and with a flimsy nightdress more often than not riding high on her legs. When she was sleeping, there was a strange and entirely delightful warmth about her, and a slight musky smell. Teresa kept an apple on her bedside table. She wouldn’t let him kiss her on the mouth until she’d taken a bite or two. Then her mouth tasted of apples.

  Tomorrow, Mallín decided. I will visit Teresa tomorrow.

  He turned from the window and went to his desk and consulted his schedule for the week. He had an appointment at eleven o’clock tomorrow.

  There will be time for Teresa before I have to meet with Schneider. And if I run a little late, Schneider will just have to wait.

  He glanced at the paper spread out on the conference table and sighed.

  I better stop thinking about Teresa and do my reading. What the devil is that? A cable. I don’t remember seeing that before. I’ve told that idiot again and again to put the cables on top!

  He walked around his desk to the conference table and picked up a pale-pink envelope and tore it open.

  * * *

  WESTERN UNION NEW ORLEANS 1115AM NOV 19