Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Are we going to be naughty?” Maria-Teresa asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. Would you like to be naughty?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t.”

  He leaned down and kissed one of her nipples.

  “That’s naughty, Tío Juan!” Maria-Teresa said. It was more a comment than a protest.

  “Not as naughty as I would like to be,” he said.

  “I think I would rather walk across the street and have a strawberry cake in the Jockey Club.”

  “You would, would you?”

  “Can we do that?”

  “If I do that for you, what are you going to do for me?”

  “You mean ‘what am I going to do naughty to you?’” she said.

  He bent over her and kissed her other nipple. “Well?”

  Maria-Teresa slipped her hand inside his dressing gown. “Is this naughty enough for you?”

  “It’s a beginning,” he said.

  “If I’m really naughty, will you take me to Harrod’s and buy me a dress?”

  “Yes, but not today. Today Tío Juan has things to do. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You really want to be naughty, don’t you? You’re ready right now.”

  “You are so beautiful!” he said.

  [TWO]

  1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz

  Palermo, Buenos Aires

  1305 11 May 1943

  The mansion’s twelve-foot-high cast-iron gates were already open when Clete turned off Avenida Coronel Díaz, and he drove to the front door without stopping.

  He was still in the process of leaving the car when the door opened and a parade of servants, led by Antonio the butler, marched out of the house. Antonio and the housekeeper walked to the car’s passenger side. The maids and cooks—the females—formed a line to the left on the stairs, and the gardeners, the handyman, and the other males formed a line on the right.

  At the last moment, Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, stepped out of the house, took a quick glance around, and took up a position next to the men.

  Clete smiled.

  This is not the first parade you’ve been a little late for, is it, Rudolpho? I know the feeling.

  That’s a new suit. The one you had on at the wedding looked like something you borrowed.

  You thought you were the picture of civilian sartorial splendor, but obviously Antonio did not.

  Antonio opened Dorotéa’s door. “Welcome to your home, Señora,” he said. “It is a great pleasure for all of us to have you here.”

  “Thank you very much, Antonio,” Dorotéa said. She shook the housekeeper’s hand, then followed Antonio to the stairs. There she was introduced to the men. After shaking hands and saying a word or two to each, she crossed the stairs to the women, who curtsied as Antonio gave their names.

  She knows the drill, Clete thought admiringly. She handled that like a pro. Did her mother include how to do things like that in their little “what every bride should know” chats?

  Antonio bowed Dorotéa into the foyer, and Clete trotted up the stairs after them.

  “Nice suit, Rudolpho,” he said as he passed him, and was not at all surprised to hear Rudolpho call after him,

  “Antonio got it for me, Señor Clete. Three of them. He said it was your wish.”

  Just inside the massive doors, a Winchester Model 12 riot gun was leaning against the wall, and a leather bandolier filled with brass 12-gauge 00-buckshot shells for it hung from the back of a chair.

  And somewhere under his new suit there’s a .45.

  He caught up with Antonio and Dorotéa, who were standing in the center of the foyer.

  “And when would Señora like luncheon?” Antonio asked.

  “As soon as it’s convenient,” Dorotéa said.

  “Would broiled chicken be satisfactory, Señora?”

  “Broiled chicken would be fine,” Dorotéa said. “I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up. Anytime after that.”

  “Sí, Señora. Señora, Padre Welner is in the downstairs sitting. Is it your desire that he join you for lunch?”

  What the hell does he want? Clete wondered. Then: How did he know we were going to be here?

  Dorotéa paused just perceptibly before replying. “Please tell Father Welner that Señor Frade and I would be delighted if he was free to join us for luncheon.”

  “Sí, Señora,” Antonio said, and added: “Señor Clete, el Coronel Perón telephoned. He said that he hopes you and the Señora are free this evening, and that he would telephone again at one-twenty to explain.”

  Sonofabitch! The last thing I want to do tonight is have dinner with that sonofabitch! What the hell’s going on? Is that damned Jesuit involved?

  “How interesting,” Dorotéa said. She looked at Clete, and he shrugged to indicate he had no idea what Perón wanted. She turned to Antonio. “We’ll be down directly,” she said.

  “I’m all right, baby,” Clete said. “Maybe Welner knows what’s going on. I’ll ask him.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better freshen up?” she asked.

  The translation of that is I either go upstairs with you or I will be sorry.

  Oh, Jesus! Is that what she’s thinking? A little quickie before lunch? It must be at least five hours since we have shared the now-sanctioned joys of connubial bliss.

  “Your wish, my dear, is my command,” Clete said, à la Clark Gable.

  She started walking up the wide staircase. He followed, which gave him reason—again—to think that her rear end was one of the wonders of the modern world. But when they were inside the master suite with the door closed behind them, he quickly learned that she did not have anything carnal in mind.

  “Not now!” she said, holding him at arm’s length.

  “Sorry.”

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “I thought we were going to the house on Libertador.”

  “Tío Juan is in the house on Libertador,” he said.

  “I’d forgotten,” she said. “How long is that going to go on?”

  “You want me to tell him to move out?”

  “I don’t suppose you could really do that, could you?” she asked, and then, without giving him a chance to reply, asked: “And Rudolpho?”

  “Rudolpho comes with your wedding present,” Clete said a little awkwardly. “He was here making sure it glistens.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You’ve always liked the Buick,” he said. “So, happy marriage, Dorotéa, the Buick is yours.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I thought you’d like it,” he said. “If you’d rather, you can have the Horch.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “If I started to drive your beloved Horch, you would have a fit.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I’m trying to get used to the idea that Rudolpho is going to follow me around with a shotgun, the way Enrico follows you.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You really think it’s necessary?” she asked.

  “My uncle Jim used to say that you never need a gun unless you need one badly. I suppose the same thing could be said about a—”

  “A bodyguard?” she interrupted.

  He shrugged, then nodded.

  “Do you think he would mind if I got him one of those little caps, so he would look like a chauffeur?”

  Clete thought about that briefly, then replied, “Yes, I do. I think he would mind.”

  “Well, then, I’ll guess I will have to get used to Rudolpho the bodyguard, won’t I?”

  “Baby, I wouldn’t want to live if a
nything happened to you,” Clete blurted.

  “Odd,” she said. “That was precisely what I told myself when I realized that Enrico was going with us on our wedding trip.” She looked at him a minute, then touched his cheek with her hand and changed the subject. “Why don’t you ask Father Welner how we can get Perón out of the guest house? I really hate the prospect of calling this museum home.”

  “OK,” he said.

  “I’ll be down in about fifteen minutes,” she said. “I want to take a good bath before I go—Rudolpho and I go—to see Dr. Sarrario.”

  “OK,” he said.

  “Cletus, thank you very much for the Buick,” she said. “I really like that auto.”

  “With all my worldly goods, baby, you are now endowed. Weren’t you listening?”

  “I must have missed that part,” she said. “Anyway, if you have convinced me that you have been a good boy while I was off to the baby doctor, I may have a little present for you myself.”

  “What kind of a present?”

  “What kind of a present can a wife give a man who has everything?” she asked.

  Then, looking into his eyes and smiling sweetly, she placed her hand firmly on the symbol of his gender.

  “Think about it, husband of mine,” Dorotéa said, and walked into the bedroom.

  The telephone in the downstairs sitting began to ring as Cletus walked through the door.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Jesuit,” he said.

  Father Welner, a Champagne glass in his hand, rose gracefully to his feet from a red leather couch and, smiling, walked to Clete with his hand extended. “The value of the compliment would depend, of course, on how many members of the Society of Jesus you know.”

  “Counting you?” Clete chuckled, and began to count by folding down the fingers of his left hand. When he stopped, two fingers remained extended.

  “That many?” Welner chuckled. They shook hands. “And how do you find married life?” he asked.

  The door opened, and Antonio announced, “Señor Clete, el Coronel Perón is on the line.”

  Clete could see no reaction on the priest’s face. He walked to a telephone and picked it up. Just in time, he stopped himself from saying “mi Coronel.” “Tío Juan,” Clete said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  If I sound as insincere as I feel, he’s going to know just how pleased I really am.

  “So you two didn’t go to Bariloche, to Llao Llao, as you announced you would,” Perón said. “That was very naughty of you, Cletus, but under the circumstances probably a very wise thing to do.”

  “How did you find out about that?” Clete asked.

  “I called out there,” Perón said. “I really had to talk to you.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I took a chance, and Antonio told me you were expected within the hour.”

  That’ll be the last time you’ll tell this bastard anything about me, Antonio.

  “Well, I’m glad you tried here. What’s up?”

  “Ambassador von Lutzenberger is giving a reception tonight—eight o’clock at the Plaza Hotel—in honor of Deputy Foreign Minister von Löwzer and Generalmajor von Deitzberg.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Something touched his arm, and he looked. Welner was offering him a glass of Champagne.

  “And I really think you—and, of course, Dorotéa—should attend.”

  “If I may speak frankly, Tío Juan,” Clete said. “I have two problems with that….”

  Welner jabbed him painfully in the ribs with his index finger. Clete glowered at him.

  “Which are, Cletus?” Perón asked.

  “First, I’m on my honeymoon; and second, we haven’t been invited, so far as I know.”

  “There will be invitations at the door,” Perón said. “I thought the three of us could go together.”

  Welner jabbed Clete again, not quite so hard as the first time, and when Clete looked at him, nodded his head “yes.”

  “That would be very nice, if it’s convenient for you,” Clete said.

  Welner nodded approvingly.

  “And I would like to have a few words with you privately,” Perón said. “Before we go to the Plaza.”

  “You mean this afternoon?”

  “What are your plans for this afternoon?”

  “Dorotéa’s going to the doctor….”

  “Nothing wrong, I hope?” Perón asked.

  There was something in his voice that caused Clete to think, I’ll be damned. The bastard sounds genuinely concerned.

  “Just checking in with her obstetrician,” Clete said.

  “Good,” Perón said. “A young woman, a delicate young woman like Dorotéa, cannot be too careful during her first pregnancy.”

  And that sounded sincere, too. Damn!

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Then Dorotéa will not be at Coronel Díaz this afternoon?”

  “She’s going right after lunch,” Clete said.

  “Do you suppose I could come there then?” Perón asked.

  “Better yet, Tío Juan,” Clete heard himself saying. “Why don’t you come over here right now, if that would be convenient, and have lunch with us? Father Welner is already here.”

  As I suspect you damned well know. Welner’s presence here is not a coincidence.

  “You sure I wouldn’t be intruding? It is important that we have a word—”

  “Don’t be silly, Tío Juan,” Clete said.

  “Then I shall leave directly,” Perón said. “I’m at the Libertador house.”

  “Fine, then we’ll see you in just a few minutes.”

  Clete put the telephone it its cradle, looked at the Champagne glass in his hand, raised it to his mouth, and drained it.

  “You’re supposed to sip Champagne,” Welner said.

  Clete extended his right hand, the fist balled, except for the center finger, which pointed upward.

  “You don’t have an invitation to where?” Welner asked, smiling.

  “To a reception at the Plaza. A German Embassy reception. You didn’t know?”

  Welner shook his head.

  “You being here is just one of those coincidences, right?”

  “Claudia was sure you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She wants to remove some personal things,” Welner said. “She wanted to do that when she was sure you wouldn’t be here, and she asked me to be here when she did it.”

  “Where is she?” Clete asked.

  “She should be here any minute,” Welner said.

  Clete pulled a bell cord hanging next to the door. Antonio appeared a moment later. “Señora Carzino-Cormano and probably one or both of her daughters will be here shortly. And so will el Coronel Perón. Is feeding them going to be a problem?”

  “None whatever, Señor Clete.”

  “In the future, Antonio, I don’t want you telling anyone—in particular el Coronel Perón—where I am, or where my wife is.”

  “I never have, Señor Clete, and I never would.”

  “Then how did he know we were going to be here?”

  “I have no idea, Señor Clete.”

  “Then I owe you an apology,” Clete said. “I should have known better. Sorry, Antonio.”

  Antonio inclined his head, accepting the apology. “Will there be anything else, Señor?”

  “No, thank you.”

  When Antonio had left the sitting, Clete looked at the priest. “In English, we call that ‘el footo in el moutho,’” he said. “I’m very good at it, as you just saw.”

  Welner chuckled. “So was your father,” he said. “Why do you think Perón wants you to go to the German
’s reception?”

  The door opened before Clete could reply, and Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano walked into the sitting. She was alone. She went to Welner and gave him her cheek. Then she turned to Clete. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” she said as she gave him her cheek.

  “I didn’t know I was going to be,” he said. “Dorotéa has to go to the obstetrician.”

  “Everything’s all right?”

  “So far as I know. We got a little bored in Mar del Plata,” Clete said. “And she hasn’t been to the obstetrician yet. Name of Sarrario. You know him? Is he any good?”

  “The best,” Welner said.

  “He delivered both Isabela and Alicia,” Claudia said. “Why hasn’t she seen him before?”

  “Because she didn’t have a wedding ring before,” Clete said.

  “He is something of a prude.” Claudia chuckled. “Did Father Kurt tell you what we’re doing here?”

  “He said you were going to burgle the place, and wanted him here for an alibi. Claudia, you don’t ever have to sneak in here. And take whatever you want.”

  “There are some personal things…”

  “You wouldn’t be interested in buying the place, would you?” Clete said.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “You can’t be thinking of selling the place, Cletus,” Welner said.

  “Why can’t I be?”

  “Because it’s the Frade mansion.”

  “The Frade museum is more like it. I don’t like it, Dorotéa hates it, and, for that matter, my father referred to it as ‘my money sewer on Coronel Díaz.’”

  “Yes, he did.” Claudia laughed.

  “But it never entered his mind to sell it,” Welner argued.

  “Why not? Do you know how many people are working here? In this almost-always-empty marble barn? The only reason we’re here today is because Perón is in the guest house, and I can’t think of a way to get him out.”

  “It is the Frade mansion,” Welner repeated. “If you sold it, people would talk.”

  “Not that I give a damn, but what would they say? ‘Gee, it took him a long time to figure out he was pouring money into that museum of his for no good reason, and to decide to get rid of it’?”