W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound

by Honor Bound(Lit)

  Beatrice, for the love of God!

  "I think he would be more comfortable in the Guest House. My house will probably be full of senior officers."

  "Yes, of course it will," she replied, after considering that. "The Guest House will be better, won't it, for the Captain?"

  "I think so. I will arrange for an officer of suitable rank to be with him."

  "Muy bueno," Beatrice said, then changed the subject: "I have the proofs, or whatever they're called, of the invitations. Would you like to see them?"

  "I'd love to, Beatrice, but I have to go."

  He kissed her and fled. She called his name as he was passing through the front door, but he pretended he didn't hear. He walked quickly down the Avenue Alvear toward the Alvear Pal-ace Hotel.

  El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade did not believe in drinking during the day. A glass or two of wine with lunch was not drink-ing, of course, and a glass or two of beer in the afternoon never hurt anyone; but he often said that he learned as a young officer that drinking spirits during the day caused nothing but trouble.

  Right now, after that pathetic scene with Beatrice, he wanted a drink, a good stiff drink, very badly. He told himself that he would nobly resist that temptation, of course. He didn't want his son to smell alcohol on his breath at their first meeting and get the wrong idea.

  As he waited for two women to negotiate the revolving door to the lobby of the Alvear Palace, he glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five-specifically, 11:46:40.

  He looked around the lobby, in case Cletus might have arrived early.

  No. He will arrive late. Stylishly late. Five or ten minutes late. I have plenty of time for a drink. There is no reason at all why I should not have a quick one.

  I would not be at all surprised if Beatrice's emotional difficul-ties are contagious. I pity poor Humberto.

  He walked up to the bar. It was crowded.

  I wonder what work these people do that allows them to come in here at noon and drink whiskey.

  He found an empty stool near the end of the bar and slipped onto it. One of the bartenders came to him immediately.

  "S¡, Mi Coronel?"

  The man sitting to his right, on the last stool of the bar, had a bottle of Jack Daniel's American whiskey sitting in front of him.

  If you must take a drink for medicinal reasons in the middle of the day, you might as well do it right. Bourbon whiskey was not at all subtle. When you drink American bourbon whiskey, you know instantly you are drinking.

  El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade pointed at the bottle of American bourbon whiskey, then held up two fingers, meaning a double. He pointed at the ice bucket sitting in front of the man next to him and shook his index finger. No ice. He pointed to the water pitcher, then to a small glass, signaling he wanted water on the side.

  "S¡, mi Coronel," the bartender said, smiling, and made the drink.

  He picked up the glass of bourbon and took a healthy swallow. He felt a burning sensation in his mouth and then in his throat. Warmth began to spread in his stomach.

  Precisely what I needed. Good decision, the American bourbon.

  He set the glass down and almost immediately picked it up and took another swallow.

  It gave him the same reaction, except the burning sensation didn't seem as harsh or as enduring.

  I will ask the barman for a slice of lemon, and eat it, pulp and

  rind, just before I go upstairs. I don't want Cletus imagining the reek of his father's alcohol fumes when he recalls the first time in his adult life he ever met him.

  He sensed the attention of the gentleman sitting beside him, and turned to glower at him. It was no one's business but his own if he wanted to take a couple of quick swallows of American bourbon whiskey.

  "Excuse me, Sir," the man asked in Spanish. "But are you Colonel Frade?"

  "S¡, Se¤or. Yo soy el Coronel Frade," Frade said, the words coming out before he could stop them.

  "My name is Frade too," Clete said.

  "I know full well what your name is," Frade snapped. He was horrified at the sound of his own words, but they just kept coming. "You were supposed to meet me in the lobby at noon."

  Frade saw anger form in Clete's eyes, in the tightening of his lips, in a faint reddening of his cheeks.

  God, what have I done?

  Then Clete's lips loosened, and turned into a smile.

  "I see that I'm not the only one who needed a little liquid courage for the great confrontation."

  "Is that how you view it, as a 'great confrontation'?"

  "Isn't that what it is?"

  The barman appeared, asking with the inclination of his head whether Clete wanted another drink. Clete pushed his empty glass across the bar to him.

  "Do you customarily drink whiskey at the noon hour?" Frade asked, and was again horrified at the sound of his words.

  What in God's name is wrong with me?

  "Only when about to confront a great confrontation," Clete said. "What about you?"

  God, he's insolent! No one talks to me like that! Now watch what you say!

  "Actually," Frade said, "it's not you. I just had an unpleasant confrontation with my sister. Your aunt Beatrice."

  "I didn't know I had an Aunt Beatrice," Clete said quietly, and then asked flippantly, "And Aunt Beatrice drove you to drink whiskey at the noon hour?"

  I'd like to slap his face! I'd like to punch him square in the nose! How dare he talk in that manner about Beatrice?

  And again the words came out of control.

  "She's ill, Cletus. Emotionally disturbed," Frade heard himself say. "She's on something, God only knows what, that her psy-chiatrist prescribed."

  "I'm sorry," Clete said. "I didn't know..."

  "You had no way of knowing. You didn't even know she exists," Frade said.

  "No, Sir, I didn't."

  "Beatrice lost her son, her only son, your cousin Jorge," Frade heard himself saying.

  "I'm sorry," Clete said.

  "He was killed at Stalingrad. Beatrice has... been disturbed since."

  I had a cousin in the German Army? Clete thought Jesus H. Christ! The Old Man was right. They're all Nazis down here!

  "Stalingrad? What was he doing at Stalingrad?"

  "He was assigned as an observer," Frade said. "He was not supposed to be at Stalingrad, much less involved in anything that would place him in danger. He gave me his word to that effect before I agreed to his assignment."

  Well, there were for sure no Argentine "observers" on Guad-alcanal. What did he say? "Before I agreed to his assignment"?

  "Before you agreed to his assignment?"

  Frade met his son's eyes.

  "I have a certain influence within the Argentinean Army," he said. "Jorge would not have been given that assignment without my approval."

  "And now you're blaming yourself because he was killed?"

  "Obviously, to a certain degree, I feel responsible."

  "What was he? What rank?"

  "A captain."

  "People get killed in wars. If he didn't know that, he shouldn't have been a captain."

  Frade looked at Clete, thinking: That's damned cold-blooded. When I told myself the same thing, I was ashamed of myself.

  "How was he killed?"

  "As I understand it, he was flying a Storch on a reconnaissance mission, and was shot down."

  He was a pilot? Clete thought.

  "He was flying a what?"

  "A Fieseler Storch. A small, high-wing, two-place observation airplane," Frade explained. "Something like the Piper Cub, ex-cept larger and more powerful."

  Clete shook his head, signifying he had never heard of the Storch.

  "What ever happened to your plans, Cletus, to become a pilot? A Marine pilot?"

  How the hell did he hear about that?

  Clete looked at his father. For the first time, their eyes met.

  I don't want to lie to this man.

  "I was discharged about three weeks ago,"
Clete said. "They found a heart murmur. You can't be a Marine Aviator with a heart murmur."

  "They discovered it when you were in training?"

  Clete met his father's eyes and saw genuine concern in them. And realized that he could not lie to him.

  "No."

  "You saw active service, then?" his father asked.

  "They discovered the heart condition when I came back from the Pacific. From Guadalcanal."

  "You flew at Guadalcanal?"

  "Yes. And I was at Midway, too."

  "I didn't know that," Frade said. "We read about Midway and Guadalcanal in the newspapers, of course. And there have been newsreels in the cinema."

  The father saw the newsreels again in his mind's eye. American fighter planes, and their young pilots, rising into the sky from a jungle airstrip.

  Did I see Cletus? Was he one of those tired-looking young men?

  He was one of them, whether or not I saw him. And that ex-plains why he can be so cold-blooded about Jorge. He is a sol-dier. He has the right to think that way, and say what he thinks.

  "What about your heart? A murmur, you said?"

  "Nothing serious," Clete said. "It just disqualified me from flying for the Marines. Thank you for your service, and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out."

  He's bitter. That's understandable.

  "Otherwise you weren't injured?"

  "I got dinged a couple of times. Nothing serious."

  Spoken like an officer. And why not? The blood of Pueyrred¢n runs in his veins.

  "Would it be impolite of me to ask what you are doing in Argentina?"

  Clete met his father's eyes. "No. Why should it be? I'm work-ing for my grandfather..."

  "And how is Mr. Howell? Well, I hope?"

  "Yes, he is, thank you," Clete said. The Old Man would shit a brick if he knew the two of us are sitting here like this.

  "And your uncle James and your aunt Martha? They are well, I trust?"

  "Uncle Jim died when I was in the Pacific. A heart attack."

  "I am so sorry," Frade said.

  He sounds as if he means that.

  "And my aunt Martha is well, thank you."

  Frade nodded. "You say you are working for your grand-father?"

  "The U.S. government seems to think that somebody down here is diverting Howell petroleum products to the Germans. I was sent down to make sure they aren't."

  "I can't believe Enrico Mallin would be involved in that kind of thing," Frade said. "Not only is he an honorable man, but I'm sure his sympathies lie with the English and the Americans in this war."

  Well, I guess I am a pretty good liar, after all. He swallowed that hook, line, and sinker. And where do your sympathies lie, Dad?

  "I don't think he is either," Clete said. "But the deal the Old Man worked out with the government meant sending me down here to make sure he isn't."

  "I am glad you are here," Frade said. "To finally meet you."

  "Yeah, me too," Clete said.

  "Perhaps there will be an opportunity for us to know one an-other," Frade said.

  "Yeah," Clete said. "Maybe there will be."

  "But the immediate problem before us is lunch," Frade said. He pushed his glass of bourbon away from him. "I have had enough whiskey."

  He beckoned, rather imperiously, for the bartender to bring the bill. When it came, he scrawled his name across it.

  "Gracias, mi Colonel," the barman said.

  "The Centro Naval-the Navy Officers' Club-is not very far from here. They usually serve a very nice lunch," Frade said. "How does that sound, Cletus?"

  "That sounds fine."

  "Well, then, I suggest we go," Frade said.

  Clete slid off the barstool and followed his father up the cir-cular staircase to the lobby. They were halfway across the lobby when his father suddenly veered to the right, toward the con-cierge's desk.

  It looks like he's chasing that guy.

  Frade caught up with a man who pretended, not too success-fully, to be both delighted and surprised to see him. They shook hands, and then Frade propelled him across the lobby to where Clete stood.

  "Coronel, I want you to meet my son. Cletus, this is Teniente Coronel Martin, of the Internal Security Service."

  Teniente Coronel Martin could not conceal his discomfort.

  "How do you do?" he said in English.

  "A sus ¢rdenes, mi Coronel," Clete replied.

  "Welcome to Argentina," Martin said, still in English.

  "Thank you," Clete said, switching to English.

  There was a long, awkward silence.

  "Well, it was very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Frade," Martin said. "And to see you, mi Coronel."

  Frade nodded coldly but didn't speak.

  Martin walked out of the lobby into the driveway.

  "Who was that?" Clete asked.

  "An officer of our intelligence service," Frade said. "The Bu-reau of Internal Security. It was from him that I learned you were here."

  "Oh?"

  "He was naturally curious why you were staying with Se¤or Mallin and not me."

  "I'm surprised he knew about me at all," Clete said.

  "I thought it a bit odd myself," Frade said. "Unless, of course, you're not here for the reason you gave me."

  "I don't know what you mean," Clete said. "I'm here because my grandfather needed someone down here, and I speak Spanish and needed a job."

  He knows I'm lying. Whether because I'm not a very good liar, or because he's put two and two together. Whatever else he is, this man, my father, is no fool.

  The question is, where does that leave us?

  "You speak Spanish very well," his father said, dropping the subject. "Shall we go?"

  Frade led Clete through the revolving door to the entrance driveway before he remembered where the Horche was. Taking Cletus there would be unwise. Beatrice would almost certainly see Mm.

  "I have the car parked a block or so away," Frade said.

  "All right."

  "Why don't you just wait in front for me."

  "I don't mind walking."

  "Please wait for me in front," Frade said. It was unquestion-ably an order.

  "All right," Clete said.

  Clete watched his father march down Avenue Alvear. Then nature called. He went back into the hotel and down the stairs again to the men's room. An attendant patiently waited for him to relieve his bladder, men stood by with soap, a towel, a comb, cologne, and an open hand.

  When Clete reached the entranceway again, his father was al-ready there, standing impatiently by the open door of a magnifi-cent, gleaming, four-door convertible. A Horche, according to the grille.

  What the hell is a Horche?

  "I wondered what happened to you," Frade said.

  "That's one hell of a car," Clete said.

  "I rather like it myself," Frade said. And then he heard himself say, as he extended the keys to his son, "Would you like to drive?"

  [THREE]

  Centro Naval

  Avenida Florida y Avenida C6rdoba

  Buenos Aires

  1325 27 November 1942

  "I don't usually take spirits at lunch," el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade announced solemnly as he waved Clete into a leather-upholstered chair in the dark paneled bar of the Officers' Club, "but this is an occasion, no? Our 'great confrontation'?"

  He turned to the white-jacketed waiter who had trailed them from the door. "Dos Jack Daniel's, dobles, por favor, Luis."

  Clete looked around the room. He saw no women. Most of the men were in civilian clothing, but something about them sug-gested they were officers. Not officers, he corrected himself,

  brass. Hardly anybody in here is my age. Lieutenants and cap-tains not welcome, and please keep off the grass on your way out.

  He looked at his father. His father was making a visual sweep of the room. He gave a curt nod of recognition to a few men, smiled faintly at others, but at two in particular he smiled wide
ly and nodded his head as if in approval.