The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B. Griffin; William E. Butterworth; IV

  They were now at Km 39.8.

  That means we're point-six kilometer from where we'll turn onto Estancia Don Guillermo, and thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers from where they started counting, probably at a marker in the Mendoza town square.

  That's not saying we're thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers from the center of town, but that we're thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers down the road from the marker.

  The way this road weaves, we're a lot closer as the bird flies than that.

  Why the hell do people say that?

  "As the bird flies" means in a straight line? I've never seen a bird fly more than twenty-five yards in a straight line.

  Jesus Christ, it's odd thoughts time! And that means C. Frade's tail is really dragging.

  I have every right in the world to have my tail dragging. Not only did I just fly from the States across Central and South America, and then fly down here, I also just threw Tio Juan out of Uncle Willy's house, had people try to kill me, and--and what else?

  Doesn't matter what else.

  I have every right to be tired, and I damn sure am.

  What does matter, however, is that when my tail is really dragging, I tend to do really stupid things. Like, for example, being a little less than charming to Mother Superior at the convent and then actually getting ready to walk out of her office.

  If Dorotea and Welner hadn't stopped me, I think I would have, and that would have really screwed up things.

  Watch it, Little Cletus. You just can't afford to screw something up.

  Ten seconds later, the Lincoln slowed and turned off the highway. Fifty meters off the road, there was a gate in a wire fence. Beyond the fence, the headlights lit up rows of grapevines as far as he could see.

  There was a Ford Model A pickup truck inside the fence. A man got out of it, walked to the gate, and swung it open. The Lincoln's lights flashed over the pickup as they drove through the gate, and Frade saw there was a second man standing by the side of the truck, a Mauser rifle cradled in his arms. This one he recognized. He was one of the peones he'd brought from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

  When they drove past, the man saluted. Clete returned it.

  They drove for a kilometer, perhaps a little more, through endless rows of grapevines. The road suddenly became quite steep--the resident manager had to shift into second gear--and made a winding ascent of a mountainside.

  And then there was a massive wooden gate blocking the road.

  But there's no fence or anything to the right of the gate.

  Why have a gate if people can just drive around it?

  He looked out his side window and saw why people could not just drive around this gate. Three feet from the side of the car a stone curb marked the side of the road. Beyond the curb there was a precipitous drop-off; he could not see the bottom.

  Well, since there's a granite mountain on the left and nothing but air on the right.

  I guess that if they don't open the gate, you either blow it up or you don't get in.

  The gate swung inward as they approached it.

  There was another Model A pickup with another man holding a rifle just inside the gate, and again Clete recognized him as one of his men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. This one didn't salute as the Lincoln inched carefully past the Ford.

  The road now was so steep that the estancia manager did not shift out of low.

  They turned a curve and suddenly were on a level plateau perhaps three hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. A low stone wall on three sides suggested--it was too dark to see--a drop-off like the one beside the gate.

  At the far end of the plateau, with what looked like a light in every window--and there were a lot of windows--was the house and its outbuildings.

  The main house was three stories and red-tile-roofed. The third floor had dormer windows, and the roof extended over a verandah whose pillars seemed vine-covered. The Andes Mountains were on the horizon behind it, bathed in moonlight.

  And now we know why they call it Casa Montagna.

  That is indeed a mountain house.

  "It's beautiful!" Dorotea said from the backseat.

  Enrico Rodriguez, Madison Sawyer, and Gonzalo Delgano were standing on the verandah.

  If they're waiting for us, they knew we were coming, and that means there's a telephone at either or both gates.

  Nobody's going to get in here by surprise.

  "No nuns?" Sawyer greeted them as he waved them into the house.

  Inside the door was a foyer. In the center was a fountain in a circular pool.

  "Classy," Frade said.

  "This whole place is classy," Sawyer said. "And that fountain has no pumps. Enrico showed me. It's fed by a mountain stream. There's a tank, and that provides the pressure. And after the water goes through the fountain, it's fed back into the stream and goes down the mountain."

  "Fascinating," Frade said.

  Enrico showed him how the fountain works? That means that Enrico knows this place pretty well.

  And never told me about it.

  What the hell else can I own?

  "I don't suppose that at a vineyard there's a pump spitting out wine?" Frade said.

  "No, but there's a very nice bar in there," Sawyer said, pointing.

  "Why don't we have a look at that?" Frade said.

  "The nuns should be here any minute," Dorotea said.

  Translation: Now is not wine time.

  "Where's Frau Frogger?" Frade asked.

  Sawyer pointed to the left.

  "There's an apartment there with barred windows and lockable doors. Enrico put her in there. Her husband and son are with her, and one of our guys is sitting in the foyer outside. Stein's setting up the SIGABA and the Collins."

  "Well, as soon as I have a glass of wine, I'll have a look at both," Frade said.

  Dorotea shook her head in resignation.

  Clete walked through the door that Sawyer had indicated and found himself in a comfortable room, two walls of which were lined with books, one half of a third wall with oil paintings and framed photographs and half with a bar, complete with stools. The fourth wall held French doors that opened onto a rear patio and provided a panoramic view of the Andes.

  Clete went behind the bar and looked through the bottles of wine in a rack on the wall, finally pulling out a Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon. He took a quick look at the label and then a longer look.

  "My God!" he said. "This says one of 2,505, 1917. Nineteen seventeen?"

  "I think it gets better with age, like Kentucky bourbon," Sawyer said.

  "Either that or we have a bottle of twenty-six-year-old vinegar," Clete said, and fed the bottle to a huge and ornate cork-pulling device mounted on the wall. He poured some in a glass and sipped.

  "Mother Superior and the nuns will be here any minute," Dorotea said.

  "So you keep saying," Clete replied. "Well, don't worry. I won't give her any of this twenty-six-year-old vinegar."

  He poured his glass half full and took a healthy swallow.

  "Terrible, absolutely terrible," he said. "I don't think you'd like this at all, Polo."

  "Why don't you let me decide for myself?"

  "Because anyone who has volunteered to jump out of a perfectly functioning airplane is obviously incapable of making wise decisions."

  Sawyer snatched the bottle from him and poured wine into a glass.

  "Nectar of the gods," Sawyer pronounced a moment later.

  Frade found more glasses under the bar and poured wine for Delgano and Rodriguez.

  "And there's a whole wall of it," Frade said, pointing at the wine rack. "I'm starting to like this place."

  And then his eyes fell on a silver-framed photograph on a table.

  He walked quickly to the table and picked it up.

  "What, honey?" Dorotea asked.

  "My parents' wedding picture," he said softly.

  He extended it to her.

  "Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson S
quare, New Orleans," Frade said.

  Dorotea examined it and then handed it to Sawyer. It showed the bride, in a long-trained gown, and the groom and the other males in the rather large wedding party in formal morning clothes, standing in front of an altar.

  "Is that Peron?" Sawyer asked.

  "That's Ol' Juan Domingo," Frade said. "The fat Irishman is the cardinal archbishop. Also present are my grandfather, whose uncontrollable joy is evident on his face. And my Uncle Jim and my Aunt Martha, who raised me." He turned to Enrico. "You were there, too, right?"

  "Si, Don Cletus."

  "How come you're not in the picture?"

  Enrico's face showed he didn't like the question; he ignored it.

  "Since they didn't expect us, Don Cletus," Enrico said, "there was no food, or not enough, but I have sent to Senor Alvarez's home for a cook and food for tonight and the morning."

  Whose home?

  Ah, the resident manager, the guy who was driving the Lincoln.

  Where the hell does he fit in here?

  "I hope that wasn't an imposition, Senor Alvarez," Dorotea said politely.

  "How could it be an imposition, senora?" Alvarez asked. "The cook will stay here for as long as necessary. . . ."

  He paused, making the statement a question.

  "We'll be here--in and out of here--indefinitely," Clete said. "Chief Pilot Delgano and I will be in and out on a regular basis in connection with South American Airways business, and Mr. Stein and Mr. Sawyer with the wine business. And I brought six men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo with me, who will also be here indefinitely."

  "There is plenty of room, Don Cletus," Alvarez said. "There are seventeen rooms in Casa Montagna, in addition to the . . . special suite. And, depending how you wish them set up, more than a dozen bedrooms in the outbuildings."

  "The men I brought with me can stay in the outbuildings," Frade said. "And I will probably bring another half-dozen."

  "Don Cletus," Enrico said. "There are already a half-dozen men here. All from the Husares. I have spoken to them. . . ."

  Alvarez saw the questioning look on Frade's face, but he mistook it to mean Frade was wondering why there were a half-dozen old soldiers in a house rarely occupied.

  Alvarez explained: "There are a number of works of art in Casa Montagna, Don Cletus, that el Coronel wanted to make sure were protected, as the house was so rarely used."

  That, however, wasn't the question in Clete's mind. He asked, of Enrico, the one that was: "You knew all about this place, didn't you?"

  Rodriguez nodded.

  "But you never mentioned it to me. Why?"

  "I knew you would come here eventually. That would be the time to tell you."

  The telephone rang.

  Enrico went to a small table. There were two telephones on it; one was an ordinary--if, to Clete, old-fashioned--device and the other apparently the Argentine version of the U.S. Army Signal Corps EE-8 field telephone. Enrico picked up the latter, listened, then pushed the butterfly switch and snarled, sergeantlike, something into it, then put the handset back in its leather case.

  "Mother Superior and the nuns are at the lower gate," he announced.

  Clete asked the question that had popped into his mind when he saw the military field telephone.

  "What's that military telephone doing in here?"

  "It is connected to the lower and upper gates right now, but there is a field switchboard."

  "That's not what I asked."

  Enrico looked uncomfortable.

  "When el Coronel was leading Operation Blue," he said finally, making reference to the coup d'etat that would have, had he not been assassinated, made el Coronel Frade the president of Argentina, "we needed Casa Montagna."

  "And is there anything else you'd like to tell me about that?"

  "El Coronel knew this was the logical place for it, but as he did not wish to come here, he sent me to set it up."

  "A logical place for what?"

  "There is a cache of weapons in the basement, Don Cletus."

  "What kind of weapons?"

  "Enough to equip four troops of the Husares de Pueyrredon, Don Cletus. El Coronel was concerned that they would not be available if they were needed; that someone might seize the regimental and troop armories. So he cached enough here . . ."

  "You're talking about rifles, pistols, that sort of thing?"

  "And some machine guns, Don Cletus. Even some mortars and hand grenades. And, of course, the ammunition for the weapons. That is really why the old Husares are here. To keep an eye on the cache, so that it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands, until I could tell you about it and you could decide what you want to do about it."

  "Enrico, if you weren't so ugly, I think I would kiss you," Frade said.

  "You should not say things like that, Don Cletus."

  Frade turned to Alvarez. "Did you know about this?"

  "I am proud to say, Don Cletus, that your father took me into his confidence."

  "It is so, Don Cletus," Enrico confirmed. "El Senor Alvarez may be trusted."

  "I'm very glad to hear that," Clete said, meaning it, and then went on: "Senor Alvarez, it is very important that no one learns that la Senora Fischer is here. Her life would be in danger otherwise."

  Alvarez nodded. "No one, Don Cletus, will know anything beyond that the sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar are caring for an ill woman."

  "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop," Cletus said. "As I'm sure it will. But what I think I'm going to do now is have another glass of this twenty-six-year-old nectar of the gods to give me the courage to face Mother Superior."

  "Cletus, for God's sake!" Dorotea said. "What is el Senor Alvarez going to think of you?"

  "I have already made up my mind, Dona Dorotea," Alvarez said. "He is his father's son."

  The Mother Superior of the Mendoza chapter of the Little Sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar marched into the library four minutes later, trailed by the enormous nun who had been in her office and three others. Father Welner brought up the rear.

  I know who the big nun is, Clete decided. She's the convent version of Enrico.

  "Enrico," Reverend Mother ordered, "you will please make yourself available to me when we finish the business immediately at hand."

  "Yes, Reverend Mother."

  "I will introduce myself to these other gentlemen at that time. For now you have met Sister Carolina." She pointed to the huge nun. "These sisters are Sister Monica, Sister Theresa, and Sister Dolores. Sisters, this is Don Cletus Frade and la Senora Frade. Enrico, you know."

  The nuns wordlessly bobbed their heads.

  "You will get to meet the others later," she went on. "For now get yourselves settled. You know where to go. Sister Monica, you will decide who goes on duty now. When you have done so, and your selection is settled, send her to the apartment. If Father and I are inside, wait for us to come out." She turned to Father Welner. "Are you ready, Father?"

  "Yes, Reverend Mother."

  With that they all marched out of the library.

  Clete smiled.

  "I'm almost afraid to ask, darling," Dorotea said. "But what are you thinking?"

  He grunted. "When I was in Los Angeles just now, I heard that since February there have been women in the Marine Corps. I was thinking that Mother Superior would make a fine gunnery sergeant."

  "What the hell, Clete," Sawyer said. "Why not? They've had women in the Army and the Navy for a long time."

  Frade began, very cheerfully, to sing to the melody of "Mademoiselle from Armentieres": "'The WACs and WAVEs will win the war, parlez-vous. The WACs and WAVEs will win the war, parlez-vous. The WACs and WAVEs will win the war, so what the hell are we fighting for? Inky dinky parlez-vous.' "

  Sawyer laughed. Dorotea glared at him and asked, "How much of that wine have you had?"

  "Not as much as I'm going to," he said, and reached for another bottle of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1917.

  Mother Superior returned mu
ch sooner than Frade thought she would, this time trailed by Father Welner, Oberstleutnant Frogger, and Herr Wilhelm Frogger. But no nuns.

  "Enrico," she said, "I didn't know about Marianna until Cletus told me. I am so very sorry."

  "Marianna and El Coronel are now at peace with all the angels, Mother," Enrico said. "I have avenged their murder."

  " 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,' " Welner quoted.

  "I have avenged them," Enrico repeated.

  Mother Superior changed the subject: "Frau Frogger--"

  "Frau Fischer," Cletus interrupted her. "Fischer. There's nobody named Frogger here."

  Mother Superior looked at him very coldly.

  He met her eyes. "The name is Fischer. And make sure your nuns don't fo rget that."

  "Cletus!" Dorotea started to protest.

  Mother Superior stopped her with an upraised hand, then went on: "La Senora Fischer, in addition to what else might be troubling her, is not only exhausted but has apparently been beaten."

  "That was after she tried to kill a woman with a fireplace poker," Clete said. "The woman she tried to kill didn't like it much."

  "So Father Welner told me," Mother Superior said calmly. "She's lost a tooth and may require dental attention. We can deal with that if it becomes a problem. What she needs now is rest. Sister Monica will be with her overnight. If she awakens, I have prescribed--given Sister Monica--a sedative to give her. I'll try to talk to her tomorrow afternoon."

  Staff Sergeant Sigfried Stein came into the library. When no one said anything to him, he announced cheerfully, "I bring greetings from Vint Hill Farms. We're up. And to the estancia."

  "Good man," Frade said.

  "You must be Major Stein," Mother Superior said.

  Stein looked at Frade, who nodded.

  "Yes, ma'am," Stein said.

  "Both la Senora Fischer's husband and her son have told me that the very sight of you triggers feelings--uncontrollable feelings, irrational feelings--of rage in la Senora Fischer."

  "I don't think she likes Jews very much," Stein said.

  "And you are a Jew?"

  "Guilty," Stein said.