Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  This left the gentlemen free to take their Miñas there in the almost certain knowledge that they were safe from their wives.

  The girls liked the system too. They could move from table to table chatting happily with their friends, while the gentlemen were afforded the opportunity to show off their Miñas to their peers, and to have private conversations about business, or whatever else needed to be discussed in confidence, in a place where the walls do not have ears.

  As a matter of fact, in Enrico Mallín’s judgment, the showing-off aspects of the custom had recently started to get a little out of hand. For one thing, certain gentlemen were beginning to bedeck their Miñas in jewelry and furs. There was nothing wrong, certainly, with giving your Miña a couple of small gold trinkets, or even a silver-fox cape, especially if she had done something to make you extraordinarily happy, or as a farewell gift, if the relationship was drawing to an end.

  But these weren’t trinkets, these were diamonds and other precious jewels, and heavy gold bracelets, and quite expensive fur coats. Once one or two gentlemen started this practice, all the Miñas would begin to expect it.

  And worse than that, certain gentlemen started to appear in the Plaza bar with a Miña on each arm. And there was one old fool, Hector Forestiero—he was as bald as a cucumber and must be in his seventies—who was showing up with three. Enrico had no idea what exactly he thought he was proving by this—to suggest that he had enough money for three Miñas, or that he was still virile enough to handle a ménage à quatre in bed.

  The Plaza bar was L-shaped. The bar itself, with its comfortable stools, occupied a corner of the room. On either side, there were leather-upholstered chairs and tables under large mirrors and mahogany paneling.

  The place was full, but that was not unusual.

  When the maître d’hôtel saw Mallín and Maria-Teresa, he came quickly to them and led them to a table at one end of the L. He snatched a brass “Reservado” sign from it and held Maria-Teresa’s chair as she sat down.

  Enrico looked around the room and nodded to several gentlemen of his acquaintance. A waiter appeared a few minutes later, automatically delivering a plate of hors d’oeuvres; a Johnnie Walker Black with two ice cubes and a little water for Mallín; and a gin fizz for Maria-Teresa.

  The waiter barely had time to prepare Mallín’s drink when Alejandro Kertiz appeared. Kertiz was a lawyer with a pencil-line mustache and a taste for flashy clothing. His Miña was cut from the same bolt of cloth. Her clothing was too tight, too revealing, and she apparently applied her lipstick with a shovel.

  Enrico Mallín did not like Alejandro Kertiz. His grandmother—perhaps even his mother—was probably a Miña. You don’t need a good family to be a successful lawyer, just a devious mind and a complete lack of morals. Mallín avoided Kertiz whenever possible. He certainly did not want to give the impression that he and Kertiz were anything more than casual acquaintances.

  “My dear Enrico,” Kertiz began. “Would there be room for us with you? The place is jammed.”

  “I would be honored,” Mallín said.

  The two sat down after Kertiz’s Miña leaned across the table to kiss Maria-Teresa’s cheek.

  “I was hoping to run into you,” Kertiz said, and started looking around for a waiter.

  Even the waiters recognize you for what you are and try to ignore you.

  By snapping his fingers so loudly and so often that everyone in the room was looking their way, Kertiz finally attracted the attention of a waiter, and grandly ordered “whatever Señor Mallín and the Señorita are having, plus a Dewar’s White Label, doble, with soda, for the Señorita and myself.”

  Good manners require that I protest and tell the waiter to put that on my bill. To hell with him. Let him buy his own whiskey. On the other hand, if I permit him to buy me a whiskey, I am indebted to him.

  “Put that on my bill, por favor,” Mallín ordered.

  Kertiz waited until the waiter delivered the drinks, then said, “Corazonita,”—Little Heart—“why don’t you go powder your nose and take Señor Mallín’s little friend with you? I wish to discuss something in confidence with him.”

  The young women left the table.

  “She’s so very attractive,” Kertiz said, obviously referring to Maria-Teresa, and then added, “Pity.”

  “Yes, I think she is,” Mallín said. “What do you mean, ‘pity’?”

  “None of them—sadly—seem able to deny themselves the attentions of a young man,” Kertiz said. He reached into his pocket, produced a brownish envelope, and handed it to Mallín.

  There was a photo inside. It showed Maria-Teresa standing by the railing of the canal across from the English Yacht Club at El Tigre. She was holding the hand of a dark-skinned young man. His back was toward the camera; his face could not be seen, but Mallín could see his dark skin, and that he was touching Maria-Teresa’s face with his hand.

  Another goddamned Italian! Mallín thought furiously. A stevedore from La Boca, or a vegetable salesman, all dressed up in his one suit of “good” clothes.

  “I took my family out to El Tigre yesterday,” Kertiz said. “To the Yacht Club. You know that my wife’s grandfather was one of the founding members?”

  “I had heard something like that,” Mallín said.

  While your grandmother was a Miña.

  “And I had the camera with me, a Leica I-C, with a shutter speed of one one-thousandth of a second. With the new American film and the Leica, one can take photographs with practically no light.”

  “Fascinating!”

  How dare the ungrateful little bitch do this to me!

  “I wasn’t sure at first that it was actually your little friend, but I took the shot anyway, and I developed the film…. I have my own laboratory, I think you know, complete in every detail.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “And I examined the negatives, and then made an enlargement, so I could tell for sure.”

  “It is her cousin Angelo,” Mallín said. “I know the boy well. He works in her father’s restaurant.”

  “Oh, I am so happy to hear that,” Kertiz said, making it quite clear that he thought that possibility was remote indeed. “I would hate to think that she does not find satisfaction with you, my friend.”

  “May I have this?” Mallín asked.

  “Of course. I made it for you.”

  “Muchas gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  Soon after the girls returned to the table, without the manners to excuse himself, Kertiz jumped up and walked across the room to invite himself to sit with another gentleman and his Miña. A minute or so after that, he rather imperiously waved for his Corazonita to join him.

  Of course, you sonofabitch. You accomplished at my table what you set out to do. Rub this disloyal bitch’s philandering in my face.

  “I didn’t think to ask, Teresa,” Mallín said when they were alone. “Did you have a pleasant Sunday?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Well, I went to an early mass at San Juan Evangelista, then we had a family dinner, and then visited with relatives.”

  You are a bad liar.

  Did you really go to mass? Or were you in bed all morning with your vegetable salesman? Perhaps in bed with your young man in the apartment I provide for you? After you told your father you were going to mass, did you then take your vegetable salesman into our bed?

  “I was thinking that perhaps one day we should drive out to El Tigre,” Mallín said.

  Well, that caused a reaction, didn’t it? Your eyes are frightened.

  “El Tigre?”

  “I thought we might go out there for lunch,” he said. “Get out of the heat of the city.”

  “That would be very nice,” Teresa said.

  “It’s been some time since I have been there,” he said. “When was the last time you were there?”

  Teresa shrugged.

  “A long time ago. I don’t rem
ember.”

  Mallín stood up, so suddenly it frightened her.

  “I am leaving you now, Maria-Teresa,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  He threw Kertiz’s photograph on the table.

  “If you want to go out to El Tigre, have your vegetable sales-boy take you there.”

  “Enrico!”

  “Get your things out of the apartment today,” he went on. “And please tell your father that I am no longer able to guarantee his loan at the bank.”

  “Enrico, amado”—beloved.

  “Don’t ‘amado’ me, you treacherous little bitch!” Mallín said, louder than he intended. He glanced around the bar. People were looking at him. Kertiz had a smug look on his face.

  He marched out of the bar with as much dignity as he could muster.

  There wasn’t a taxi in sight. There was never a taxi when you needed one.

  He felt like crying.

  Finally, a taxi appeared and he flagged it down and told the driver to take him to the Edificio Kavanagh. He would get the Rolls and drive around until he had his emotions under control, and then he would go home, where he would have several stiff drinks.

  Pamela would be pleased to see him. She didn’t expect him for several hours. Perhaps he would surprise everyone, Pamela, Dorotea, and Little Enrico, and take everybody out for dinner.

  [FOUR]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires

  1730 16 December 1942

  Clete put the top up on the Buick convertible, marveling again that the General Motors automotive engineers had the ingenuity to come up with a device that would raise and lower the top at the push of a button (unlike the do-it-yourself bullshit he and Tony had had with the ’37 Ford in Punta del Este). Then he carefully locked the car and walked into Uncle Guillermo’s house.

  A man was loitering at the corner of Calle Jorge Newberry, and Clete wondered whether the man was there to watch him.

  He was in an unpleasant mood. Who the hell was Jorge Newberry, anyway? he thought as the man on the corner glanced his way, then averted his gaze.

  The plan was to leave Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for Estancia Santa Catharina sometime in the morning. To Clete’s way of thinking, that meant sometime before ten-thirty. But it was twelve-thirty before the two-car, Horche-Buick convoy finally set out down the gravel road to Estancia Santa Catharina. During the forty-mile trip, he had to swallow the dust from his father’s Horche.

  And, of course, Claudia’s daughters were not prepared to leave when they arrived. Argentina, while very unlike Mexico, had mañana in common with the republic immediately south of the Rio Grande.

  “Since you have nothing to do in Buenos Aires,” his father said cheerfully, “I’m sure you won’t mind waiting for the girls to finish their packing while Claudia and I drive ahead. The girls will show you the way.”

  “Fine,” Clete said.

  The trouble was that he had something to do in Buenos Aires. He had to get in touch with Nestor and tell him he had found the Reine de la Mer and that he could forget taking her out by planting a charge against her hull. It couldn’t be done that way. And since he could think of no way to do it himself, that would be up to Nestor to figure out.

  On the flight back to the ranch, inspired by an Errol Flynn Battling the Dirty Nazis movie he vaguely remembered, he considered sneaking aboard the ship, overpowering the crew, placing scuttling charges, and then slipping away.

  It worked for Errol Flynn. But, he finally remembered—shooting down the only idea he had been able to come up with—that ship in the movie was tied up at a wharf, not anchored twenty-odd miles offshore.

  But of course he could not tell his father that, so he smiled and waited patiently for the girls to put their goddamned gear together. He occupied himself by putting the convertible top down, because he would no longer be swallowing his father’s dust.

  When she finally came out to the car, Isabela Carzino-Cormano insisted on riding in the backseat. Fine gentleman that he was, knowing that riding in the backseat of a convertible going as fast as he intended to drive was no fun, he put the roof up.

  That situation lasted perhaps two miles, until Isabela tapped him imperiously on the shoulder and asked him if he would be good enough to please raise the windows. The wind was mussing her hair and she was getting dusty.

  That was the last word Isabela spoke before they reached Buenos Aires. It was hotter than hell in the Buick with the roof up.

  Alicia Carzino-Cormano tried to make conversation. “Now tell the truth, Cletus,” she asked him, “aren’t you really just a poco interested in Dorotea Mallín?” Watching them play tennis, she saw him looking at her in a certain way.

  Actually, Alicia, you saw me looking down her dress and at her crotch, because I am a perverted dirty young man.

  “Alicia, don’t let your imagination run away with you. And since you’re so curious, there is a young woman in America I’m involved with.”

  He was glad to get rid of both of them at his father’s house on Avenida Coronel Díaz and drive quickly to the Guest House.

  One of the maids greeted him at the door, then asked him if he would like her to park the Buick.

  Thank you, no. Sweetheart. You are probably a worse driver than my father.

  “No, gracias. I’m going to leave it right where it is.”

  His answer brought him a lecture about petty crime on the streets of Buenos Aires. She assured him that if he left the car outside overnight, in the morning there would be nothing left but the windshield, and perhaps not even that.

  Getting the car into the garage also posed a problem. They couldn’t find the keys. Señora Pellano would of course know where the keys were, the maid told him, but Señora Pellano was unfortunately at the house on Avenida Coronel Díaz. They wound up telephoning Señora Pellano and asking where the keys were.

  Finally, stopping off at the kitchen to load a silver champagne cooler with ice and two bottles of cerveza, Clete was able to take the elevator to Uncle Guillermo’s playroom and get on the horn to Nestor. Predictably, Nestor was not thrilled to hear from him.

  “I saw that boat you were talking about, the one you’re thinking of buying? Reine de la Mer,” Clete said.

  “I’d really rather hear it from you in person, Clete. Why don’t you come here?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You have your car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We can take a ride.”

  “I’m on my way,” Clete said.

  [FIVE]

  Jasper C. Nestor came out of his house and got in the Buick. As soon as he was seated, Clete said, “There’s a Fiat parked down the street that was parked across the street from the Guest House when I drove out of the garage.”

  “Well, they can’t hear us as long as we’re driving. You implied that you know where the Reine de la Mer is?”

  “She’s at anchor twenty miles or so offshore in the Bay of Samborombón.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw her there. I was flying my father’s airplane.”

  “You’re sure it’s the Reine de la Mer? How can you be sure?”

  “Because I flew close enough to read her sternboard. And as a bonus, I got a good look at all the nice searchlights and machine-gun mounts on her superstructure.”

  “You…flew close enough to read her sternboard?”

  “I buzzed her, all right? That was the only way I could get close enough to read the sternboard.”

  “I’m not sure that was wise.”

  “Why?” Clete asked incredulously.

  “We would have found her.”

  “You didn’t, did you?”

  “And now they know you’ve found her.”

  “Mr. Nestor, I don’t think there’s any way to get close enough to her to blow her up. At least, I can’t think of one.”

  “Point one, Frade, is that you’re not to blow her up, you are to disable her. And as quickly as
possible, certainly within the next week or ten days. If she replenishes one German submarine, that’s one too many. Point two is that you seem to have forgotten that it is not your function to question your orders, but to obey them.”

  “Did you hear what I said? There is no way to get close to her where she lies. And even if we could, I don’t believe that the explosives we have would do much damage.”

  “There’s enough explosives—you have more than twenty pounds. If judiciously placed, that’s more than enough to disable her. That’s what we’re after.”

  “If we could get to her steering…or to her engines, and had an hour or so to do it, possibly. Pelosi is very good at what he does, but…”

  “But what?”

  “There’s no way to get close to that ship, much less get aboard her.”

  “You have to try.”

  “I’ll have a shot at anything that looks like it has a chance of succeeding, but I’m not going to commit suicide.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m not going to commit suicide. I respectfully suggest you send a message to Colonel Graham…”

  “Colonel Graham is the Deputy Director of the OSS. I have no intention of bothering him with something like this. What he expects from me, and what I expect from you, is that we carry out the mission assigned by the OSS.”

  “I respectfully request, Sir, that you send a message to Colonel Graham and tell him that I said there’s no way to take the Reine de la Mer out with the men and materiel I have.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Frade,” Nestor said. “We receive our orders and we carry them out to the best of our ability.”

  What is this “we” crap? You’ll be in your office in the Bank of Boston.

  “Why didn’t we, or the English, sink the Reine de la Mer off Lisbon, once she was identified? Or here, as she came into the Río de la Plata estuary? The Navy is operating in the South Atlantic. And there’s even a destroyer, the Alfred Thomas, making a port call here the day before Christmas.”