Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “In a very real sense, Cletus,” Martin said. “Manuel is to me what Enrico is to you. Where I go, he goes, and he knows that what he hears or sees goes no further than I tell him it should.”

  Clete was watching Lascano’s face in the rearview mirror. It flushed with pride.

  “If he’s half as good at that as Enrico,” Clete said, “then I would say you are fortunate to have him as a friend, Bernardo.”

  “I think so,” Martín said. “So tell me, Cletus, do you see much of our mutual friend Coronel Almond?”

  “No, can’t say that I do.”

  “He’s looking for someone called Galahad,” Martín said.

  “Who?”

  “I thought that was perhaps the reason for your tour of Argentina today, Cletus. That you were assisting the Colonel and Major Ashton and Lieutenant Pelosi in trying to find Señor Galahad.”

  “Bernardo, you couldn’t be more wrong,” Clete said.

  “A man bearing a striking resemblance to Coronel Almond was reported getting on your airplane at El Palomar this morning.”

  “Is that so? I can’t imagine why. Maybe your…friend…mistook Captain Ashton for Coronel Almond.”

  Martín smiled. Almond was tall and thin with very fair skin. Ashton was short, dark-skinned, and obviously Latin.

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Martín said.

  “You’re looking for Colonel Almond, are you, Bernardo? Why?”

  “Actually, it’s Mr. Galahad who’s piqued my curiosity. Do you know him, by any chance, Cletus?”

  “Never heard the name.”

  “I thought you might have been looking for him in Córdoba or Posadas.”

  “My, you have been keeping track of me, haven’t you?”

  “I thought perhaps you were headed for Montevideo again, despite what I took to be our understanding that you wouldn’t do that without passing through immigration.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Clete said. “Not only would that be illegal, but it would violate our understanding.”

  “And what were you doing in Córdoba and Posadas, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’m thinking of starting an airline. I wanted to take a look at the airfields around the country. Captain Ashton went with me to help me with the controls. And to get a look at the land. He’s an assistant military attaché, you know, and they like to learn as much about the host country as they can.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Martín said. “And I don’t think you found Galahad in Bariloche, either?”

  “I don’t even know who your Señor Galahad is, as I’ve told you, Bernardo.”

  “And you weren’t in Bariloche, either?”

  “San Carlos de Bariloche? I didn’t even know they had an airfield.”

  “Just a simple gravel strip,” Martín said. “No terminal. Very few people even know it’s there. But you have experience in flying into simple airfields that very few people know about, don’t you?”

  “A little.”

  “Well, in my simple way, I’ve just been trying to put things together,” Martín said.

  “What things?”

  “I had a most interesting report from the Gendarmeria Nacional in Bariloche several hours ago. A man walked into town from the direction of the airstrip, went to the Gendarmeria, identified himself as Colonel Almond, said he had lost his diplomatic carnet and his passport, and requested assistance.”

  “Was it your friend Colonel Almond?”

  “Yes, it was. I spoke with him on the telephone. He was not willing to tell me how he’d gotten to Bariloche, or how he’d lost his identification.”

  “I wonder what he was doing in Bariloche?” Clete asked.

  “I thought maybe he might be looking for Señor Galahad,” Martín said. “And I thought maybe you dropped him off in Bariloche while you were flying around the country.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “A large red airplane was seen flying over Lake Nahuel Huapí,” Martín said. “In the belief that it might be landing, the Gendarmeria lieutenant drove to the airstrip. But there was no red airplane when he got there. He said he thought he saw a man who could have been Coronel Almond standing at the end of the runway, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “I wonder who that could have been?” Clete asked.

  “What I’m wondering is how Colonel Almond got to Bariloche. There are only two buses a day, and he wasn’t on either of them.”

  “Gee, that is puzzling, isn’t it? Did you ask Colonel Almond?”

  “He did not wish to discuss the matter. He claimed the privileges of his diplomatic immunity.”

  “That wasn’t very cooperative of him, was it?”

  “I thought it was very uncooperative,” Martín said. He exhaled audibly and shrugged. “Cletus, my friend, we’re getting close to your house. Can we stop fencing?”

  “Is that what we’ve been doing?”

  “I have the feeling that you don’t want Colonel Almond to find Galahad. True or false?”

  “If I start answering questions, do I get to ask questions?”

  “Within reason.”

  “Then I will answer questions within reason. First answer, true. You now owe me one.”

  “Does Coronel Juan Domingo Perón know the identity of Galahad?”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. Now you owe me two.”

  “Would you like Perón to know his identity?”

  “I’ll take my first question now,” Clete said. “Why did you ask that question?”

  “Perón asked the German ambassador for his help in getting someone back here from Germany. I thought it might be Galahad.”

  “Got a name?”

  “The German pilot Major von Wachtstein. That’s your two questions.”

  “Alicia Carzino-Cormano is in the family way. Von Wachtstein is the father.”

  “That’s the truth?”

  “Does that count as a question?”

  “A small question.”

  “That’s the truth. I got that from my wife, who said Perón is ‘taking care of things.’ I am not supposed to know either about the baby or Perón.”

  “OK.”

  “If I asked how you got von Wachtstein’s name, would that be a small question?”

  “It would be a very large question, which I can’t answer.”

  “If I were in the intelligence business, I really would like to have someone in the Germany Embassy.”

  Martín chuckled.

  “You know who Almond’s looking for, don’t you?”

  “That would be a big answer, worth a big question from me.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is. Will I give it to you? No. So don’t ask.”

  “You don’t want me to know, and you don’t want Almond to know, and you don’t want Perón to know.”

  “If that’s a question, yes.”

  “It was a statement, but I’ll give you a question.”

  “I’ll swap all my questions for one favor,” Clete said.

  “I’ll listen to the proposal.”

  “If you find out who Galahad is, would you tell me before you tell anyone else?”

  “Why would you want me to tell you?”

  “I’ll throw that question in with the others,” Clete said. “Because at that time, I could tell you things I think would color whatever decisions you had to make.”

  “OK,” Martín said. “I make no promises beyond telling you before I do anything with Galahad’s identity.”

  “Deal. We’re now even.”

  “I’ll give you an answer without a question. Almond offered me twenty thousand dollars for Galahad’s identity.”

  “I know,�
�� Clete said.

  “Señor,” Sargento Lascano said. “We are at Señor Frade’s home. Shall I drive around the block?”

  “No, just pull up in front,” Martín ordered. He put out his hand to Cletus. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Don Cletus.”

  “And you, Bernardo.”

  “One more question,” Martín said. “If for some reason—suspicious behavior, for example, like his mysterious appearance in San Carlos de Bariloche—Colonel Almond was determined to be persona non grata, would that please you?”

  Clete hesitated a moment before saying, “No.”

  “Because they would send someone with the same mission?”

  Clete nodded, and opened the car’s door.

  [THREE]

  La Case Grande

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

  Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

  2205 29 May 1943

  Señora Dorotéa Mallín de Frade was in the small sitting, knitting blue baby booties—she was convinced she was carrying a boy—when she heard the wheels of an auto crunching the gravel on the driveway.

  This was followed by the slam of an automobile door, which made her suspect that it was her husband. He had never learned to close a door. He always slammed automobile doors as if he hated the cars they were attached to.

  She rose from the chair in anticipation of having a word with her husband.

  In a moment, the door to the small sitting opened.

  Don Cletus Frade’s heart swelled when he saw his wife, the picture of a young mother-to-be, actually knitting whatever they called those things they put on baby’s feet. “Hey, precious,” he said emotionally.

  “You bah-stud,” Dorotéa said with precise English pronunciation. “You miserable bah-stud!”

  “It was too dark to fly it back here. We had to drive.”

  “You left here, you bah-stud, at the crack of dawn, telling me you were going to get a few hours’ instruction in the Lodestar. You did not tell me, you bah-stud, that you were going to fly the plane alone to Buenos Aires to get that instruction. You implied that Colonel Whatsisname was here.”

  “I said nothing of the kind.”

  “I quote you, Cletus Frade. A few hours from whenever the hell you got out of bed in the middle of the night—”

  “It was after six. It was light.”

  “From after six, if you insist, a few hours translates to ten or eleven o’clock in the morning. I had luncheon prepared. You didn’t arrive. I called El Palomar, where a very nice man at the petrol place told me that you had been there about seven, picked up Colonel Almond and Tony and Maxwell Ashton, and taken off about seven-thirty.”

  “Correct.”

  “You promised me you would not fly the aircraft by yourself until you were qualified to do so.”

  “That will never happen again, I promise you,” Clete said.

  “Why do I detect more deception in your tone of voice?”

  “You’re suspicious by nature?”

  “You bah-stud!” she said, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

  He smiled at her.

  “Cletus, I have been sitting here the entire afternoon and the entire evening, knitting these damned booties, with visions of you crashed somewhere. Where the hell have you been?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Oh, yes, I do!”

  The telephone rang. Clete moved toward it.

  “No, you don’t! Someone will answer it. Where were you, Cletus?”

  “All over the country,” he said.

  “Specifically.”

  “Posadas, Córdoba, and Bariloche.”

  “My God!” Dorotéa said. “I didn’t know there was an airfield at Bariloche. Damn it, Cletus, couldn’t you have learned how to fly that aircraft without flying all over Argentina? Is that why you lied to me, because you knew I would beg you not to?”

  He saw the anger was gone, replaced by sadness.

  “Baby…” Confirmation came when he saw tears form in her eyes.

  “My God, you’re about to be a father! Doesn’t that mean anything to you at all?”

  “I had a reason,” he said. “I don’t think you want to know what it was.”

  “Our understanding, Cletus, was that you were to share everything with me.”

  “I was dealing with Almond,” Clete said. “He was sent down here to find out Galahad’s identity.”

  “Sent by whom?

  There was a knock at the door, and Antonio entered without knocking. Dorotéa quickly turned away so that he would not see her tears. “I beg pardon, Don Cletus, but el Coronel Perón is on the line, and says it is very important.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw you drive up, Señor.”

  Clete walked to the telephone and picked it up. “Tío Juan, how are you?”

  “I have just learned from friends of mine that a friend of ours, as we speak, is on his way back to Argentina,” Perón said. “I thought you would like to know as soon as possible.”

  “Jesus Christ, that’s good news!”

  “I can only hope that it will alter the opinion you hold of my friends,” Perón said.

  “Sure,” Clete said.

  “I thought perhaps Dorotéa might wish to tell Alicia. I have not called Estancia Santo Catalina.”

  “I’m sure she would. You’re very thoughtful. Tío Juan. And I’m grateful.”

  “We’re family, Cletus. I could do no less.”

  “Well, I’m truly grateful.”

  “As soon as I have further details, I’ll pass them on.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good night, Cletus,” Perón said sonorously, and the line went dead.

  “You’re truly grateful about what?” Dorotéa demanded.

  “He came through,” Clete said. “‘As we speak,’ Peter’s on his way to Argentina.”

  “Thank God!”

  “You better get on the phone to Alicia. Or maybe drive over there in the morning.”

  “We’ll drive over there tonight. I want to be there when Claudia finds out.”

  “I’d rather go in the Buick, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s about out of gas,” Clete said, and held open the door of the Horch for her to get in. He was just about to drive out of the garage when Enrico appeared, carrying the Browning shotgun.

  Dorotéa didn’t seem at all surprised to see him, didn’t protest, and then waited until they were on the macadam road through the pampas before picking up their original conversation precisely where it had been cut off: “You were telling me Colonel Almond was sent down here to identify Peter…Galahad. By whom?”

  Clete exhaled, and decided this was as good a time as any to get it over with. “I originally suspected the OSS, but he says it was the G-2. That’s Army intelligence, and I think he was telling the truth.”

  “He told you this?”

  “At the time, I had a pistol in my hand and had just let off a round two feet away from him.”

  “You threatened to kill him?” Dorotéa asked matter-of-factly.

  He nodded.

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I hope so. Otherwise I will have to kill him.”

  “You should have told me before,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t have worried myself sick all afternoon and evening.”

  “I’m sorry about that, baby.”

  “Enrico, do you think that man, Colonel Almond, believes Señor Clete will do what he said?”

  “Sí, Doña Dorotéa.”

  “Well, then, it’s been a good day all around, hasn’t it?” Dorotéa said.

  “We still have Claudia to face,” Clete said.

  �
��That’s right, and for God’s sake, darling, let me handle that!”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Doña Claudia Carzino-Cormano received Señor and Señora Frade in her dressing gown, explaining that their very welcome visit was unexpected, and that she had decided to retire early.

  Then she looked at them expectantly.

  Alicia, also in her dressing gown, came into the room looking very frightened.

  “You should have stayed in bed,” Claudia said, and turned to Clete and Dorotéa. “She’s got some sort of influenza. This morning she was nauseous.”

  “Mother, for God’s sake.”

  “Alicia,” Clete said. “Peter’s on his way to Argentina.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Alicia said, and started to weep.

  “Exactly what is going on around here?” Claudia demanded suspiciously. “I’m pleased to hear that Peter’s coming back, but couldn’t you have telephoned the news? Or wouldn’t it have waited until morning?”

  “Tía Claudia, there’s something Alicia’s been trying to find a way to tell you,” Dorotéa said.

  [FOUR]

  El Palomar Airfield

  Buenos Aires

  1640 30 May 1943

  Clete was sitting in the cockpit of the Lodestar. One of the two speakers of his headset was on one ear, allowing him to listen to radio traffic; the other ear was free, so he could converse with the student sitting in the right seat.

  He was functioning as an Instructor Pilot, and loving the role, because his student was not only attentive and an obviously quick learner, but absolutely adorable as well.

  And then he heard what he was waiting to hear: “El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Two Nine.”

  “Darling, put your cans on,” Clete ordered.

  “‘Cans’?” Dorotéa parroted, obviously amused at the term; but she put the earphones quickly over her head. Her husband thought her expression was priceless.

  “Lufthansa Six Two Nine, this is El Palomar.”

  “El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Two Nine is at two thousand meters sixty kilometers south of you, over the River Plate. Request approach and landing instructions.”

  “Lufthansa Six Two Nine, El Palomar. Permission to approach El Palomar on present course is granted. Descend to one thousand meters. Report when twenty kilometers from the field.”