"Coffee would be fine," Clete said. "Or maybe a beer."
Mallin gave him another strained smile, and went on, "... while I take care of that for you. You'll find a bar by the elevators."
Mallin gestured for them to precede him, and they entered the bar. The headwaiter greeted Mallin by name and escorted them to a table.
"My American friends," Mallin announced, "will have some-thing to drink while I take care of Mr. Pelosi's registration." He nodded in the general direction of Tony Pelosi.
"You will have to excuse, gentlemen, my English is not so fine," the headwaiter said.
"I'll have a beer, please," Clete said in Spanish, "but my first priority is finding the men's room."
"Ah, you speak Spanish," the headwaiter said in Spanish. "If you will cross to the door beside the elevator, the gentlemen's facility is one floor down."
"And perfectly," Mallin said. "I'd forgotten you spoke Span-ish."
"But I don't know the word for that," Clete said in English, inclining his head in the direction of the bar, where a stunningly beautiful woman in a revealing linen dress was beaming at a man at least twice her age.
"The word for that is Mi¤a," Mallin said. "They are one of the many treasures of Buenos Aires."
"Very nice!" Tony Pelosi said, with admiration.
"Expensive, no doubt?" Clete said.
"Yes, but not in the way... They are not... how does one say? 'Ladies of the evening.' "
"I think, Mr. Pelosi," Clete said, "that in time I could come to like Buenos Aires."
"I like it already," Pelosi said, looking at the Mi¤a.
"I will see about your registration," Mallin said, and walked back through the lobby toward the reception desk.
Following the maitre d'hotel's directions, Clete crossed the lobby and started down a wide, curving, marble staircase. Halfway down, he encountered another young woman, just as stun-ning as the one in the bar. He smiled at her. She averted her eyes, ladylike, but he thought he saw a small smile curve her full lips. To hell with the OSS! My priorities have just changed. First I will get laid, and then I will play Alan Ladd and lead my brave band of men to blow up the Nazi ship.
[TWO]
23 Calle Arcos Belgrano,
Buenos Aires
2105 21 November 1942
"I hope your friend will be able to fend for himself tonight," Enrico Mallin said as they sat with the Rolls' s nose against his garage door, waiting for it to open.
"He's a big boy," Clete replied, and then chuckled. "He'll most likely have a quick shower and then spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar, hoping another Mi¤a will come in."
"Interesting young man," Mallin said. "He's from Chicago, you said?"
"That's right."
"That seems a long way from Howell Petroleum in Louisi-ana."
"It is. But if you're asking how he came to work for Howell, I'm just one of the hired hands, and I don't know."
One of the double doors to the garage opened inward, and then the other. An old man in a blue denim jacket smiled at them as they drove past. Two other cars were in the garage; after a mo-ment Clete identified one of them. He remembered it because the name amused him-a Jaguar saloon. There was also a small van with leyland on its grille. He had never seen a van like that, or heard of a Leyland. He did the arithmetic. Counting the station wagon, that made four cars.
The old man told me-in case Mallin became difficult-not to forget that he, and his father before him, have made a good deal of money out of Howell Petroleum, and to deal with him accord-ingly.
"I hope you don't mind coming into the house via the garage," Enrico Mallin said. "I hate to leave the car in front. I don't trust the old man to park it for me."
"Don't be silly," Clete said. "I'm flattered that you're having me in the house at all. I'm afraid I'm imposing."
A narrow, steep, and dark staircase led from the garage to a butler's pantry. A woman was waiting there for them.
"Welcome to our home, Mr. Frade," Pamela Mallin said. She was a tall, slim woman in a linen dress with a single strand of pearls and a simple gold wedding ring. "And forgive my husband for bringing you through the basement. I'm Se¤ora de Mallin, but I do hope you'll call me Pamela."
Clete had always found English women attractive, and he de-cided that this one was ten degrees above the average: She wore her pale-blond hair parted in the middle and had startlingly blue eyes and a marvelous complexion.
"I'll call you Pamela if you call me Clete. And thank you for having me in your home. It's unexpected."
"It gives us much pleasure," Mallin said, and went on: "I suggest we give Clete a chance to freshen up-he's been on the airplane for thirty-six hours, at least-and then we can have a little chat over a cocktail before dinner."
"Ramon called," Pamela replied, with a look of disappoint-ment on her face. "There was some trouble with the luggage. The officials, not only the customs people, were going through every-body's luggage dirty sock by dirty sock. He said they were ob-viously looking for something."
"He should have known enough to see Inspector Nore," Mal-lin said, annoyed. "When did he call?"
"About ten minutes ago. He wanted to know whether you wanted him to go to the Alvear first, or here."
"And you told him the Alvear, right?" Mallin asked, not pleas-antly.
"In the absence of instructions to the contrary," Pamela re-plied, with a strained smile, "I thought that was the thing to do."
Mallin flashed a smile.
"Well, then," he said, "we can have a little chat now, and wait for your luggage, Clete. Sorry about this."
"Don't be silly," Clete said.
They followed her out of the butler's pantry through a dining room, where an enormous table was already set with five places, and then across a foyer to double doors, behind which was a sitting room. One wall was filled with books.
Pamela arranged herself gracefully on a dark-brown leather couch, then reached to a side table and pressed a button.
"Perhaps it would be easier if you told me what'd you'd like," she said. "Alberto's English is not as good as it could be. I am permitted to offer you a drink? Henry-perhaps I shouldn't say this-used the word 'boy.' "
In Spanish, Clete said, "A weak one. I had champagne on the plane, and a beer at the hotel. And a glass of water first, please? The airplane dehydrated me."
"He also didn't tell me that you spoke Spanish," Pamela said. "I'm disappointed; I looked forward to having someone in the house who speaks English."
Clete switched to English: "I don't speak English, but if you're able to put up with my American..."
"Beggars can't be choosers, can they?" she asked with a laugh.
A middle-aged male servant in a linen jacket appeared at the double doors, then walked into the room.
"Alberto, this is Mr. Frade, who will be staying with us. He speaks Spanish, but you are to speak Spanish with him only in an emergency. You understand? I am determined that you im-prove your English."
"S¡, Se¤ora," he said.
"Mr. Frade will have first an agua con gas and then a scotch with a little water and ice; Mr. Mallin will have... what, Henry?"
"Scotch is fine."
"... and if you have opened the dinner wine, I will have a Malbec. We are going to have a Malbec?"
"S¡, Se¤ora," he said, and half backed out of the room.
Pamela turned to Clete.
"I believe polite custom requires me to ask, 'How was your flight?' "
"Very long," Clete said.
She laughed dutifully. "And now you can't get the authorities to release your luggage. I wonder what that was all about."
So do I. Am I already a paranoid secret agent, wondering why they were searching our luggage?
"What I'm wondering," Mallin said, "is what brings you to Argentina. Would it be rude of me to ask?"
"No, of course not. Actually, it's pretty silly. There are ap-parently paranoid people in our government who suspect that both crude
from Venezuela and refined product from the States is being diverted to the Germans or the Italians."
"That's absurd!" Mallin flared.
"So my grandfather said," Clete replied. "But after extensive negotiations with the government, a solution was reached. If rep-resentatives of Howell, American representatives, were actually present in Argentina to more or less swear that our product is in fact staying in Argentina, the government would be satisfied. And I was chosen to come for several reasons-for one, my middle name is Howell; for another, I was recently discharged from the service and needed a job."
"Oh, you were in the service?" Pamela asked. "Which one?"
"I would like to know where the idea started that SMIPP could be involved with something like that," Mallin said indignantly.
"The Marine Corps, briefly," Clete said.
"And you were released?" Pamela asked. "Or shouldn't I have asked?"
"I was to be trained as a pilot," Clete said. "At the final physical, they found out that I have a heart murmur. Pilots-for that matter, Marines-cannot have heart murmurs."
That story came from Washington, with Adams the mentor. At one point Clete asked Adams why he had to deny that he was a pilot who had seen active service (at one point, Adams had told him that the best cover story was one which comes close to the truth, and which only alters or invents those facts that have a bearing on the deception). Adams replied that if Clete had a phys-ical defect, his release from the service would be more credible than if he had actually become a Marine aviator. Clete didn't see the reasoning then or now, but Adams was supposed to be the expert in that sort of thing.
He was surprised at how easily he was able to tell both fabri-cations. He had previously thought of himself as a more-than-honest man who would have difficulty lying. That obviously wasn't the case.
Am I a natural-born liar, or can I do it now because this whole business is so unreal, like a game? Will I be able to lie as easily when it is important?
Or am I missing the point here and forgetting that these lies are important?
Alberto returned, bearing a silver tray on which were a crystal bottle with a silver "Scotch" tag hanging from its neck; a wine bottle; a silver bowl full of ice; a crystal water pitcher; a wine-glass; and two large, squat crystal glasses. He made quite a cer-emony of preparing the drinks, first pouring a sip of wine in the wineglass, then offering it-plus the cork, held in his palm-to Pamela for her approval.
She sniffed the cork, smiled, looked at Clete, said, "I think you will like our wines," and then sipped her wine. "That's fine, Alberto."
He filled her glass; then, with tongs, he added an ice cube to a crystal glass, and asked Clete, "Is sufficient, Sir?"
They were not large cubes.
"Two more, please," Clete said.
Then Alberto took what looked like a silver shot glass with a handle, held it carefully over the glass, filled it with scotch to the brim-and perilously over the brim-and only then dumped it. Then he picked up the water pitcher and, looking at Clete for orders to stop, added water. When Clete held up his hand, he stopped pouring and stirred the drink with a silver mixing stick.
If I drink all of that, I'll be on my knees.
"Gracias, Alberto."
Alberto repeated the ritual for Enrico Mallin. After Alberto placed the tray on a table and left the room, Mallin raised his glass.
"Welcome to our home, Clete," he said. "And to Argentina. May your visit be long and pleasant."
"Hear, hear," Pamela said.
"Thank you," Clete said, and took a sip. The drink was even stronger than he expected.
You will limit yourself to half of this, Clete, my boy. You had champagne on the airplane, a beer in the hotel, now this; and there is going to be wine for dinner, and you don't want to make an ass of yourself in front of these nice people.
The door opened again.
What now? Hors d'oeuvres?
He turned to see.
"Sorry, Mommy," the Virgin Princess said, "I didn't know you had a guest."
She looked to be about nineteen, as old as his "sister" Beth, and she was standing just inside the doorway. She spoke with Pamela Mallin's delightful British accent. She was wearing tennis clothes: a very brief skirt which showed most of her magnificent legs, a thin white blouse that pleasingly contained her absolutely perfect bosom, white socks, and tennis shoes. She carried two tennis racquets in covers under one arm, and held a red leather bag with the other hand. Her hair was long and light brown (probably shoulder length, Clete decided), swept up loosely and quite attractively at the back of her head. She had a wonderful inno-cence in her look and manner (innocent... but by no means childlike), yet she was confident too. Virgin and Princess.
"Come in, darling," Pamela said, "and say hello to Mr. Frade. He's an old friend of Daddy's; he will be staying with us."
The Virgin Princess crossed the room to her mother, kissed her, crossed to her father, kissed him, and then turned to face Clete. She put out her hand.
"Hello, Mr. Frade. I'm Dorotea," she said, offering him a glowing smile; her complexion was even more lovely than her mother's.
Her hand was warm and soft.
"Clete Frade," he said. His voice sounded strange to him. And his heart was beating strangely, too.
She's just a kid; she is the daughter of your hosts. Control yourself! What's wrong with you, pal, is that you haven't been laid since Christ was a corporal, and you are full of booze. Watch yourself!
"How was the game, querida?" Mallin asked fondly.
"My God, Daddy, it was hot out there! Even at this hour."
"Do you play tennis, Clete?" Pamela asked.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good, then we'll have a game, Henry plays well, but dragging him onto the courts is like dragging him to the dentist."
"I'd like that."
Ram6n, the chauffeur, appeared in the doorway, holding his cap in his hand.
"I have had the gentleman's luggage sent to his room, Se¤or," he reported.
"What happened at customs?" Mallin demanded. "When there was a delay, why didn't you speak with Inspector Nore?"
"I did, Se¤or. He said it was out of his hands; it was an Internal Security matter."
Maybe I'm not so paranoid after all, Clete thought. It is entirely possible that that charming Argentinean Consul in New Orleans warned them we were coming. Well, they found nothing. The last thing Adams did before we got on the train to Miami was go through our luggage to make sure there was nothing that could raise questions about us.
Mallin grunted. "And the luggage of the other gentleman?"
"It is at the Alvear Palace, Se¤or."
"Thank you, Ramon. Would you ask Alberto to come in, please?" Mallin said, and turned to Clete. "Well, better late than not at all."
"Thank you, Ram¢n," Clete said. "And now, if I may be excused?"
"Alberto will show you to your room," Pamela said. "If you need anything, just ring. Should I order dinner for... say, in forty-five minutes?"
"That would be fine with me."
"I'll see you at dinner, Mr. Frade," the Virgin Princess said.
Clete nodded at her but did not trust himself to speak.
Alberto led him to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. After he left, Clete found proof that the search of his luggage at the terMi¤al had been thorough. While Clete was still in the house on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, Antoinette did his laundry. Spe-cifically, she washed his socks and rolled them in her peculiar manner. He remembered thinking about that when he packed: Antoinette's rolled socks would pass the inspection of even the most critical, nasty-tempered drill instructor at Parris Island. The socks neatly laid out in a drawer in a chest of drawers here were neat, but not Antoinette neat. When they-what did Mallin's chauffeur say? "Internal Security"-examined his luggage they went so far as to unroll his socks.
Graham had told him that Argentine Internal Security was very good.
Did finding nothing satisfy them? Or just incr
ease their curi-osity?
Forty minutes later, after a long hot shower to remove the grime of the flight, and an even longer cold shower to force his libido under control, Clete dressed in a seersucker suit, went down the wide stairs to the foyer, and looked in the sitting room.
Mallin waved him in.
"Feel a little better?" he asked.
"Much better, thank you."
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 20