Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Work this out”? What the hell am I talking about? This is a goddamn problem without a solution if I ever heard one.

  Alicia nodded her head. “Will Peter be coming back, Cletus?” she then asked.

  “For all we know, he may be on his way back right now,” Clete said.

  On the other hand, they may have already stood him in front of a firing squad, or whatever those bastards do to a traitor, or someone they suspect might be.

  “I wanted him to go to Brazil,” Alicia said, softly. “If he was in Brazil, I could have gone to him there.”

  And if he had gone to Brazil, the Nazis would by now have shot his father.

  “That wasn’t an option, honey,” Clete said gently.

  “Can we find out when he’s coming back? If he’s coming back?”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  German Embassy? Good afternoon. This is Major Cletus Frade of the OSS. I wonder if you’d be good enough to tell me if Major Hans-Peter von Wachtstein is coming back to Argentina? And if so, when can I expect to see him?

  Welner! Can Welner help?

  “Honey, is Father Welner coming today?”

  “You think he could help?” Dorotéa replied. “I didn’t think of him.”

  “I don’t want him to know,” Alicia said.

  “He’s going to have to know eventually,” Clete said. “He can be trusted.” He turned to Dorotéa. “Is he coming, baby?”

  “Of course,” Dorotéa said.

  Alicia sobbed.

  “If your mother sees you crying,” Clete said, “she’s going to wonder why.”

  “Cletus is right, Alicia,” Dorotéa said. “You’re going to have to act as if nothing—”

  “How can I do that?” Alicia challenged.

  “We’ll work this out,” Clete said. “You’re just going to have to hang tight until we do.”

  She looked into his eyes, then nodded her head.

  She trusts me. Goddamn it!

  “We’ll go back to the house,” Dorotéa said. “So you can wash your face. Cletus will come up with something.”

  Is she saying that to make Alicia feel good? Or is she, too, placing faith in me that’s absolutely misplaced?

  He stood up.

  Alicia raised herself out of the seat. “Thank you, Cletus,” she said, and then turned and walked down the aisle.

  Dorotéa stood up and met his eyes for a moment but said nothing, then followed Alicia down the aisle.

  Clete followed them to the door, watched them walk away from the Lockheed, and then flipped the switch that activated the electrical motor for the stairs. They began to retract, with the funny noise again, but finally came in place. He exhaled audibly and jumped to the ground.

  “Shit!” he said.

  [THREE]

  Gendarmeria Nacional Post 1088

  Route Nacionale No. 2

  Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

  1530 18 May 1943

  Sargento Manuel Lascano abruptly braked the blue 1939 Dodge sedan. This act awakened el Coronel Bernardo Martín, who had been dozing in the front seat beside him. Martín looked out the window.

  Fifty meters down Route 2 was a Gendarmeria Nacional Post. The two-lane highway divided around an island on which sat a guard shack. On the right of the road was a two-story administrative building. Martín knew the plan; he’d been inside many such buildings. Offices and a detention cell occupied the first floor, and the second was a barracks for the dozen or so men who manned the post.

  There were three gendarmeros on the island. A sargento was signaling the Dodge to stop with a somewhat imperiously raised palm. This could mean any number of things. It could mean, for example, that the Gendarmeria Nacional sargento was bored and was stopping them for something to do. Or else he had had a fight with his wife and was looking for someone on whom to vent his unhappiness.

  But probably it meant that Lascano had been caught speeding. The Gendarmeria Nacional sometimes hid men in roadside ditches a kilometer apart, who timed how long it took a car or truck to cover the kilometer. Speeders were reported to the next post, where offenders were pulled over and issued citations.

  There were two kinds of speeding. Manuel could have been going like hell, say 120–130 kph (75–80 mph), which was really a bit much for Route 2 in this area, or he could have been going just a few kilometers over the absurd posted speed limit of 75 kph (45 mph).

  Gendarmeria Nacional road checkpoints were all over the country; this was the third they’d passed since leaving Buenos Aires. El Coronel Martín regarded not only the checkpoints but indeed the Gendarmeria Nacional itself as a monumental waste of effort and money.

  Though organized on military lines, the Gendarmeria was a law-enforcement agency. They were policemen, in other words, who dressed like soldiers. But they were not very good policemen. On one hand, they didn’t have the requisite training. On the other, they felt they were far too good to stop a man who was beating his wife, for example, or who was selling farmers tickets in a nonexistent raffle.

  Manuel stopped the Dodge and rolled the window down.

  The Gendarmeria Nacional sargento saluted. “Buenas tardes,” he said. “Documents, please.”

  The saluting also annoyed Coronel Martín—as it did many other Army and Navy officers—who felt the salute was a greeting of mutual recognition between warriors, and should not be rendered by a policeman to a civilian who was about to be cited for a traffic violation.

  Perhaps for that reason, though he usually displayed his BIS credentials reluctantly, Martín found himself reaching into the breast pocket of his well-tailored, faintly plaided suit for his papers. Agents of the Bureau of Internal Security were immune to arrest by any law-enforcement or military agency.

  He leaned across Sargento Lascano.

  This earned him another salute from the Gendarmeria Nacional sargento—a much crisper salute than the first. “If you will be so good as to wait a moment, Señor,” the sargento said, and trotted across the road to the Administration Building.

  Lascano looked at Martín, who held his hands up helplessly.

  Martín was tempted to tell Lascano to just drive off, but there might be a reason why they’d been stopped.

  That appeared a moment later.

  Commisario Santiago Nervo, Chief of the Special Investigations Division of the Policía Federal, emerged from the building, leaned down, put his hands on the window frame, and smiled. “Shame on you, mi Coronel. One hundred thirty-five in a seventy-five-kilometer zone.”

  “Been promoted, have you, Santiago? Out here catching speeders! Before you know it, they’ll let you wear a uniform.”

  Nervo laughed. “Before I throw you in a cell, Bernardo, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “You are so kind,” Martín said.

  Nervo pointed to the parking area beside the Administration Building and got out of the car.

  Martín followed him into the building, where Nervo was considerably less jovial to the Gendarmeria Nacional lieutenant in charge. “El Coronel and I will require coffee,” he announced, “and we do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “Would you be good enough to get my driver a cup of coffee, too, Lieutenant?” Martín asked courteously.

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  Nervo waved Martín into an office with OFFICER COMMANDING lettered on the door, and then onto a couch. He sat at the other end of the couch and offered Martín a cigarette. Martín held up his hand to decline.

  The sargento who had stopped Martín’s Dodge carried in a tray with coffee cups and a thermos of coffee.

  Nervo nodded at him

  “You’re very kind, Sargento,” Martín said.

  “Close the door as you leave,” Nervo ordered.
He poured coffee for Martín, who declined milk and sugar.

  “What a pleasant coincidence meeting you here, of all places,” Martín said.

  “Well, I don’t get invited to the estancias of the high and mighty,” Nervo said. “I have to park by the side of the road and watch them drive by.”

  My God, is he really jealous?

  “What can I do for you, Santiago?” Martín asked.

  “I would like your honest opinion about a political matter. Make that opinions, political matters.”

  “Certainly. Ask away.”

  “Ramírez has appointed Perón Minister of Labor.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Juan Domingo Perón is a very capable man.”

  “Why isn’t he Minister of Defense?”

  “General Farrell is Minister of Defense,” Martín said. “Nobody told you?”

  “Don’t fence with me, please, this is serious,” Nervo said.

  “Perón doesn’t have to be at the Ministry of Defense so long as Farrell is there. Farrell does exactly—no more and no less—what Perón tells him to do.”

  “Why does Perón want to be Minister of Labor?”

  “Because he wants to be president of the Republic. The Minister of Labor can do nice things for the laboring class, who vote. What can the Army and the Navy do for the voters?”

  “You think Perón will make it? Become the president?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And if he does, will we get into the war?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t believe he could be that stupid.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the English and the Americans are going to win the war, and I think that Perón knows that—no matter how much he would wish otherwise.”

  Nervo nodded. “We have finally found something we agree upon, Bernardo,” he said.

  “We agree upon many things, Santiago, and you know it.”

  “Perón will be at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo today?”

  Martín nodded.

  “Is that why you’re going out there?”

  “I was invited out there,” Martín said.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “I don’t really know,” Martín said. “But it will give me a chance to see who’s there, won’t it? And maybe even see who’s talking to whom, and with a little bit of luck, hear what is said.”

  “And will Perón like that?”

  “Perón has Don Cletus Frade calling him ‘Tío Juan.’”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I am not. I have the feeling that Juan Domingo will be delighted to see me. The more Argentine friends Frade makes, the better his Tío Juan likes it.”

  “Isn’t that letting the fox into the chicken coop?”

  “By now, everyone knows that Frade is in the OSS. I don’t think he will be told anything he should not be told.”

  “Even by his Tío Juan?”

  “That’s really in my half of the football field, Santiago, but I’ll answer you anyway: No. Whatever else he might be, Juan Domingo Perón is both intelligent and a patriot.”

  Nervo paused, considered the reply, then nodded. “Speaking of whatever else an unnamed gentleman might be, are you aware of the new lady friend?”

  “He sent the other one home to Mommy?”

  “No. Señorita Maria-Teresa Alsina will probably celebrate her fifteenth birthday in the Arenales apartment.”

  The two exchanged glances of wonderment and contempt.

  “How old is the new one?” Martín asked.

  “A little older, twenty-two or thereabouts. I have it reliably that he is looking for another apartment for her. When I have the address, I’ll give it to you.”

  “The new one has a name?”

  “Her name is Eva Duarte. Blonde. She works at Radio Belgrano.”

  “You’re sure about them?”

  “Of course, it could be my cynical mind, but the lady has spent the last two nights in the Frade place on Libertador.”

  “What do we know about her?”

  “Not much. She’s from the country. I’m working on it. All I know now is that she is a very friendly lady if she thinks you can do her any good. You don’t know the name?”

  “I’ll check. We’ll exchange notes?”

  Nervo nodded.

  “Anything else?” Martín asked.

  “If you learn anything interesting today?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Martín got up and extended his hand to Nervo. Nervo held on to it.

  “What would happen if it got out that Perón likes little girls?” he asked.

  “Why should it get out? As far as I’m concerned, if it doesn’t endanger the nation’s security…”

  “If it got out, who do you think Perón would blame?”

  “Well, I would blame you, Santiago, because I’m not going to tell anybody. And I trust the very few of my people who know to keep their mouths shut.”

  “It’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

  “With a little bit of luck, maybe he’ll marry the blonde.”

  “I think if the blonde got out, he’d be in trouble. She is not some virgin of good family.”

  “But she’s twenty-something, you said. Maybe that would make the difference between a caballero with an eye for the ladies, and a dirty old man?”

  “Interesting question,” Nervo said, and finally let go of Martín’s hand. “Drive slow, mi Coronel. Respect the nation’s laws.”

  “How could I do otherwise, with police officers like you on the job?” Martín asked, then walked out of the room.

  [FOUR]

  El Estudio Privado del Patrón

  La Casa Grande

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

  Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

  1605 18 May 1943

  As the Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., walked through the door with a smile, Cletus Frade began to push himself out of his overstuffed, dark-red leather armchair. The Jesuit motioned for Cletus to stay where he was. The two shook hands, then Welner sat on the edge of another overstuffed, but not matching, leather armchair. This one was smaller, green, and sat closer to the floor.

  “Yes, thank you, I will,” he said, reaching for the bottle of Merlot sitting on the low table between the chairs.

  “Mi vino es su vino, Padre,” Clete said. “And yes, I think I will have another drop.” He leaned forward and shoved his glass toward the priest, who topped it off.

  “This is new,” Welner said, indicating the green chair.

  “Dorotéa put it in here.”

  “How does Dorotéa feel about this?” Welner asked, waving his hand around the room that had been described as Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade’s Shrine To His Son.

  “I don’t know,” Clete said. “So far she hasn’t suggested we turn it into a nursery.”

  “And you?”

  Clete met his eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m…what? Embarrassed…and sometimes it makes me a little sad, thinking of all the hours my father spent in here because my grandfather was such a sonofabitch.”

  “Maybe it would be more useful as a nursery,” Welner said.

  “On the other hand, it’s the only room on the estancia where I know nobody’s going to come through the door.”

  “Your father made it rather plain this was his, period.”

  “Did he let you in?”

  “Not often. Usually when you had done something that made him proud of you. He’d show it to me before he had it framed, or put it into one of the scrapbooks.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I suppose it’s too
much to hope that I am being allowed into the sanctum sanctorum to hear your confession—”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Clete chuckled.

  “—but something is on your mind.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Clete said. “Tell me about this business of what I tell you as a priest—”

  “As your priest, Cletus.”

  “—going no further. Does it apply if I tell you something about somebody else?”

  “That would depend,” Welner said.

  “I was afraid you would say something like that. Yes or no, Padre?”

  “I can give you my word as a man, as your friend. You have it.”

  “Alicia is with child,” Clete said.

  Welner shook his head sadly. “The German?” he asked.

  Clete nodded.

  “How far is she along?”

  “She thinks it happened that night in my apartment in the Alvear.”

  “When you played Cupid?”

  “You really know how to go for the nuts, don’t you?”

  “I take your meaning, even if I never heard it phrased so graphically before. ‘Go for the nuts.’ I’ll have to remember that one.”

  “We Episcopals don’t believe we automatically go to hell because we tell a priest to go to hell.”

  Welner smiled. “That would depend, of course, on the circumstances. Whether you really wish for me to spend eternity in the fires and agony of hell, or whether that is simply a paraphrase of ‘fuck you,’ in which case it would be a crudity, not a curse.”

  Clete laughed.

  Welner took a sip of his wine. “Very nice,” he said, then added, “You do bear a certain degree of responsibility, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That occurred to me. And, of course, to Dorotéa. As it will to Claudia when she finds out. Alicia’s not blaming me.”

  “Claudia doesn’t know?”

  “Alicia, Dorotéa, and me, that’s all.”

  “Claudia will have to know sooner or later.”

  “Dorotéa told me sometimes women miss a period, particularly if they’re upset. This may be a false alarm.”

  “Is that what Alicia is hoping?”

  “It’s what Dorotéa and I are hoping. Alicia is convinced she’s pregnant.”