Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  “These are my friends,” Mallín said.

  “Welcome to Argentina,” the man said in heavily accented English, and shook hands with them in turn. “Please, your documents?”

  He took a rubber stamp and an ink pad from his desk, very carefully 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,” Mallín said.

  “I am happy to be of service, Señor Mallín,” 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 Ramón your baggage checks, he will see to the luggage,” Mallín said.

  The baggage checks were handed over, and then Mallín 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 Señor Pelosi accommodations in the Alvear Palace Hotel, which I hope, Señor 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.

  Mallín looked at him, and after a moment, smiled.

  VII

  [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). Mallín 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.

  Mallín 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,” Mallín 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,” Mallín said, “to make sure that everything 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,” Mallín said. “It is unfortunately required to give your passport to the management. I thought perhaps you’d like a coffee, or something stronger…”

  “Coffee would be fine,” Clete said. “Or maybe a beer.”

  Mallín gave him another strained smile, and went on, “…while I take care of that for you. You’ll find a bar by the elevators.”

  Mallín gestured for them to precede him, and they entered the bar. The headwaiter greeted Mallín by name and escorted them to a table.

  “My American friends,” Mallín announced, “will have something to drink while I take care of Mr. Pelosi’s registration.” He nodded in the general direction of Tony Pelosi.

  “You will have to excuse, gentlemen, my English is not so fine,” the headwaiter said.

  “I’ll have a beer, please,” Clete said in Spanish, “but my first priority is finding the men’s room.”

  “Ah, you speak Spanish,” the headwaiter said in Spanish. “If you will cross to the door beside the elevator, the gentlemen’s facility is one floor down.”

  “And perfectly,” Mallín said. “I’d forgotten you spoke Spanish.”

  “But I don’t know the word for that,” Clete said in English, inclining his head in the direction of the bar, where a stunningly beautiful woman in a revealing linen dress was beaming at a man at least twice her age.

  “The word for that is Miña,” Mallín said. “They are one of the many treasures of Buenos Aires.”

  “Very nice!” Tony Pelosi said, with admiration.

  “Expensive, no doubt?” Clete said.

  “Yes, but not in the way…They are not…how does one say? ‘Ladies of the evening.’”

  “I think, Mr. Pelosi,” Clete said, “that in time I could come to like Buenos Aires.”

  “I like it already,” Pelosi said, looking at the Miña.

  “I will see about your registration,” Mallín said, and walked back through the lobby toward the reception desk.

  Following the maître d’hôtel’s directions, Clete crossed the lobby and started down a wide, curving, marble staircase. Halfway down, he encountered another young woman, just as stunning as the one in the bar. He smiled at her. She averted her eyes, ladylike, but he thought he saw a small smile curve her full lips.

  To hell with the OSS! My priorities have just changed. First I will get laid, and then I will play Alan Ladd and lead my brave band of men to blow up the Nazi ship.

  [TWO]

  23 Calle Arcos

  Belgrano, Buenos Aires

  2105 21 November 1942

  “I hope your friend will be able to fend for himself tonight,” Enrico Mallín said as they sat with the Rolls’s nose against his garage door, waiting for it to open.

  “He’s a big boy,” Clete replied, and then chuckled. “He’ll most likely have a quick shower and then spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar, hoping another Mina will come in.”

  “Interesting young man,” Mallín said. “He’s from Chicago, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That seems a long way from Howell Petroleum in Louisiana.”

  “It is. But if you’re asking how he came to work for Howell, I’m just one of the hired hands, and I don’t know.”

  One of the double doors to the garage opened inward, and then the other. An old man in a blue denim jacket smiled at them as they drove past. Two other cars were in the garage; after a moment Clete identified one of them. He remembered it because the name amused him—a Jaguar saloon. There was also a small van with LEYLAND on its grille. He had never seen a van like that, or heard of a Leyland. He did the arithmetic. Counting the station wagon, that made four cars.

  The old man told me—in case Mallín became difficult—not to forget that he, and his father before him, have made a good deal of money out of Howell Petroleum, and to deal with him accordingly.

  “I hope you don’t mind coming into the house via the garage,” Enrico Mallín said. “I hate to leave the car in front. I don’t trust the old man to park it for me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Clete said. “I’m flattered that you’re having me in the house at all. I’m afraid I’m imposing.”

  A narrow, steep, and dark staircase led from the garage to a butler’s pantry. A woman was waiting there for them.

  “Welcome to our home, Mr. Frade,” Pamela Mallín said. She was a tall, slim woman in a linen dress with a single strand of pearls and a simple gold wedding ring. “And forgive my husband f
or bringing you through the basement. I’m Señora de Mallín, but I do hope you’ll call me Pamela.”

  Clete had always found English women attractive, and he decided that this one was ten degrees above the average: She wore her pale-blond hair parted in the middle and had startlingly blue eyes and a marvelous complexion.

  “I’ll call you Pamela if you call me Clete. And thank you for having me in your home. It’s unexpected.”

  “It gives us much pleasure,” Mallín said, and went on: “I suggest we give Clete a chance to freshen up—he’s been on the airplane for thirty-six hours, at least—and then we can have a little chat over a cocktail before dinner.”

  “Ramón called,” Pamela replied, with a look of disappointment on her face. “There was some trouble with the luggage. The officials, not only the customs people, were going through everybody’s luggage dirty sock by dirty sock. He said they were obviously looking for something.”

  “He should have known enough to see Inspector Nore,” Mallín said, annoyed. “When did he call?”

  “About ten minutes ago. He wanted to know whether you wanted him to go to the Alvear first, or here.”

  “And you told him the Alvear, right?” Mallín asked, not pleasantly.

  “In the absence of instructions to the contrary,” Pamela replied, with a strained smile, “I thought that was the thing to do.”

  Mallín flashed a smile.

  “Well, then,” he said, “we can have a little chat now, and wait for your luggage, Clete. Sorry about this.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Clete said.

  They followed her out of the butler’s pantry through a dining room, where an enormous table was already set with five places, and then across a foyer to double doors, behind which was a sitting room. One wall was filled with books.

  Pamela arranged herself gracefully on a dark-brown leather couch, then reached to a side table and pressed a button.

  “Perhaps it would be easier if you told me what’d you’d like,” she said. “Alberto’s English is not as good as it could be. I am permitted to offer you a drink? Henry—perhaps I shouldn’t say this—used the word ‘boy.’”

  In Spanish, Clete said, “A weak one. I had champagne on the plane, and a beer at the hotel. And a glass of water first, please? The airplane dehydrated me.”

  “He also didn’t tell me that you spoke Spanish,” Pamela said. “I’m disappointed; I looked forward to having someone in the house who speaks English.”

  Clete switched to English: “I don’t speak English, but if you’re able to put up with my American…”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” she asked with a laugh.

  A middle-aged male servant in a linen jacket appeared at the double doors, then walked into the room.

  “Alberto, this is Mr. Frade, who will be staying with us. He speaks Spanish, but you are to speak Spanish with him only in an emergency. You understand? I am determined that you improve your English.”

  “Sí, Señora,” he said.

  “Mr. Frade will have first an agua con gas and then a scotch with a little water and ice; Mr. Mallín will have…what, Henry?”

  “Scotch is fine.”

  “…and if you have opened the dinner wine, I will have a Malbec. We are going to have a Malbec?”

  “Sí, Señora,” he said, and half backed out of the room.

  Pamela turned to Clete.

  “I believe polite custom requires me to ask, ‘How was your flight?’”

  “Very long,” Clete said.

  She laughed dutifully. “And now you can’t get the authorities to release your luggage. I wonder what that was all about.”

  So do I. Am I already a paranoid secret agent, wondering why they were searching our luggage?

  “What I’m wondering,” Mallín said, “is what brings you to Argentina. Would it be rude of me to ask?”

  “No, of course not. Actually, it’s pretty silly. There are apparently paranoid people in our government who suspect that both crude from Venezuela and refined product from the States is being diverted to the Germans or the Italians.”

  “That’s absurd!” Mallín flared.

  “So my grandfather said,” Clete replied. “But after extensive negotiations with the government, a solution was reached. If representatives of Howell, American representatives, were actually present in Argentina to more or less swear that our product is in fact staying in Argentina, the government would be satisfied. And I was chosen to come for several reasons—for one, my middle name is Howell; for another, I was recently discharged from the service and needed a job.”

  “Oh, you were in the service?” Pamela asked. “Which one?”

  “I would like to know where the idea started that SMIPP could be involved with something like that,” Mallín said indignantly.

  “The Marine Corps, briefly,” Clete said.

  “And you were released?” Pamela asked. “Or shouldn’t I have asked?”

  “I was to be trained as a pilot,” Clete said. “At the final physical, they found out that I have a heart murmur. Pilots—for that matter, Marines—cannot have heart murmurs.”

  That story came from Washington, with Adams the mentor. At one point Clete asked Adams why he had to deny that he was a pilot who had seen active service (at one point, Adams had told him that the best cover story was one which comes close to the truth, and which only alters or invents those facts that have a bearing on the deception). Adams replied that if Clete had a physical defect, his release from the service would be more credible than if he had actually become a Marine aviator. Clete didn’t see the reasoning then or now, but Adams was supposed to be the expert in that sort of thing.

  He was surprised at how easily he was able to tell both fabrications. He had previously thought of himself as a more-than-honest man who would have difficulty lying. That obviously wasn’t the case.

  Am I a natural-born liar, or can I do it now because this whole business is so unreal, like a game? Will I be able to lie as easily when it is important?

  Or am I missing the point here and forgetting that these lies are important?

  Alberto returned, bearing a silver tray on which were a crystal bottle with a silver “Scotch” tag hanging from its neck; a wine bottle; a silver bowl full of ice; a crystal water pitcher; a wineglass; and two large, squat crystal glasses. He made quite a ceremony of preparing the drinks, first pouring a sip of wine in the wineglass, then offering it—plus the cork, held in his palm—to Pamela for her approval.

  She sniffed the cork, smiled, looked at Clete, said, “I think you will like our wines,” and then sipped her wine. “That’s fine, Alberto.”

  He filled her glass; then, with tongs, he added an ice cube to a crystal glass, and asked Clete, “Is sufficient, Sir?”

  They were not large cubes.

  “Two more, please,” Clete said.

  Then Alberto took what looked like a silver shot glass with a handle, held it carefully over the glass, filled it with scotch to the brim—and perilously over the brim—and only then dumped it. Then he picked up the water pitcher and, looking at Clete for orders to stop, added water. When Clete held up his hand, he stopped pouring and stirred the drink with a silver mixing stick.

  If I drink all of that, I’ll be on my knees.

  “Gracias, Alberto.”

  Alberto repeated the ritual for Enrico Mallín. After Alberto placed the tray on a table and left the room, Mallín raised his glass.

  “Welcome to our home, Clete,” he said. “And to Argentina. May your visit be long and pleasant.”

  “Hear, hear,” Pamela said.

  “Thank you,” Clete said, and took a sip. The drink was even stronger than he expected.

  You will limit yourself to half of this, Clete, my boy. You had champagne on the airplane, a beer in the hotel, now this: and there is going to be wine for dinner, and you don’t want to make an ass of yourself in front of these nice people.

  The door opened again.
/>   What now? Hors d’oeuvres?

  He turned to see.

  “Sorry, Mommy,” the Virgin Princess said, “I didn’t know you had a guest.”

  She looked to be about nineteen, as old as his “sister” Beth, and she was standing just inside the doorway. She spoke with Pamela Mallín’s delightful British accent. She was wearing tennis clothes: a very brief skirt which showed most of her magnificent legs, a thin white blouse that pleasingly contained her absolutely perfect bosom, white socks, and tennis shoes. She carried two tennis racquets in covers under one arm, and held a red leather bag with the other hand. Her hair was long and light brown (probably shoulder length, Clete decided), swept up loosely and quite attractively at the back of her head. She had a wonderful innocence in her look and manner (innocent…but by no means childlike), yet she was confident too. Virgin and Princess.

  “Come in, darling,” Pamela said, “and say hello to Mr. Frade. He’s an old friend of Daddy’s; he will be staying with us.”

  The Virgin Princess crossed the room to her mother, kissed her, crossed to her father, kissed him, and then turned to face Clete. She put out her hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Frade. I’m Dorotea,” she said, offering him a glowing smile; her complexion was even more lovely than her mother’s.

  Her hand was warm and soft.

  “Clete Frade,” he said. His voice sounded strange to him. And his heart was beating strangely, too.

  She’s just a kid; she is the daughter of your hosts. Control yourself! What’s wrong with you, pal, is that you haven’t been laid since Christ was a corporal, and you are full of booze. Watch yourself!

  “How was the game, querida?” Mallín asked fondly.

  “My God, Daddy, it was hot out there! Even at this hour.”

  “Do you play tennis, Clete?” Pamela asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Good, then we’ll have a game. Henry plays well, but dragging him onto the courts is like dragging him to the dentist.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Ramón, the chauffeur, appeared in the doorway, holding his cap in his hand.

  “I have had the gentleman’s luggage sent to his room, Señor,” he reported.