W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound

by Honor Bound(Lit)

  "It is a pity, Jorge," Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano said, "that Cletus is such a bad driver. Otherwise he could drive you home in your car."

  "Cletus, you silly woman, is a splendid driver. I myself ac-companied him while he was at the wheel of the Horche. He drives it nearly as well as I do." He turned to Clete. "It is settled. You will drive me home in the Horche. Then you may use the Horche as long as you like." He turned back to Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano: "Are you satisfied, you silly woman?"

  "Perfectly, my darling. You are always such a reasonable man."

  Not without difficulty, El Coronel was installed in the front seat by Clete, Enrico, and Se¤ora Pellano. And he was asleep by the time they reached the big house on Avenida Coronel Diaz. With Se¤ora Pellano preceding them to open doors, Enrico and Clete half-carried, half-dragged him up the stairs to his bedroom, undressed him, and put him to bed. As soon as he was on his back, he started to snore.

  "Will he be all right?" Clete asked Enrico.

  "I will stay with him, mi Teniente, until Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano arrives."

  Clete considered waiting for Claudia, then decided to hell with it, he would take the Horche and worry about the Buick in the morning.

  "Se¤or Clete?" Se¤ora Pellano asked.

  "I was wondering if I can get this car through the gate."

  "I will guide you," she said. She stepped out of the car, opened the gate, and with great seriousness (which made him smile), used hand signals to guide him into the basement garage.

  "Can I make you a little something to eat, Se¤or Clete?" she asked as they entered the house through the kitchen. "Perhaps a cup of coffee?"

  "No, thank you, Se¤ora Pellano. I'm beat. I'm going to bed."

  "You're sure?"

  "I am positive."

  "Se¤or Clete, I have something to say," she said hesitantly.

  "Say it."

  "Today was a sad occasion. But it was not the burial of Jorge that made your father drink."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It was happiness. You are here and alive, and your war is over. That is why your father drank. He is so relieved, so happy about that."

  She touched his face.

  "¨Con su permiso?" she asked, and before he could reply, she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  Without thinking, he put his arms around her and hugged her.

  It was hotter than hell in Uncle Guillermo's playroom. No one had raised the vertical blinds to take advantage of the breezes coming off the Rio de la Plata. Se¤ora Pellano would have taken care of that; but she wasn't here.

  By the time he raised them and opened the windows to the balcony, Clete was sweat-soaked. He stripped down to his undershorts and boots, then stepped onto the balcony to catch the breeze.

  Who's going to see me, anyhow? And if somebody does, so

  what?

  He relaxed for a moment on one of the six comfortable, cush-ioned chairs around the table, wiping the sweat from his brow as soon as he was seated. Then he stood up and went to the ice chest. It should certainly be stocked with cold beer, he thought with pleasure.

  The beer was floating around in tepid water.

  When the cat's away, the mice will play, he thought. If Se¤ora Pellano had not gone to the Duartes' to help out at the funeral, there would be cold beer in here.

  And then the hair on his neck curled.

  Jesus Christ, if Peter was serious, I'm one hell of a target for somebody with a rifle over there in the racetrack grandstands!

  He quickly returned to the bedroom and stood with his back against the wall. His heart was beating rapidly, and his sweat was now clammy.

  Then he told himself he was being foolish.

  It's incredible to think that someone is in the grandstands with a rifle. If there were, they would have taken a shot at me when I drove up in the Horche.

  And besides, those Argentine FBI guys-the Internal Security agents-are outside on the street.

  But then he remembered that he didn't see a car on the street when he drove up, and no South American Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat standing under the tree.

  I probably lost them when I took the Old Man's Horche from Uncle Humberto's. They are standing around watching for the Buick.

  That made him smile. And with the smile, he lost the feeling of terror. He pushed himself off the wall.

  You are a melodramatic asshole, Clete Frade!

  But, shit, Peter sounded serious. Better safe than sorry.

  He walked quickly around the room, turning off the lights. Then he carefully lowered the shutters.

  He turned the lights on again.

  As 1 learned as a Boy Scout, "Be Prepared!"

  He went to the wardrobe where he was hiding the Argentine copy of the Colt Model 1911.45 pistol and took it out. He re-moved the clip, emptied and reloaded it, dry-fired the pistol, sat-isfied himself that it was functioning properly, and then reinserted the clip and worked the action, chambering a round.

  And then he felt a little absurd, again.

  "Why don't I do this right?" he asked himself aloud. "If this is going to be a replay of the Gunfight at the OK Corral, why not do it with a Colt six-shooter?"

  He went to the desk and took out the felt-lined walnut box containing the old Hog Leg, the Colt Army.44-40 revolver that his grandfather carried while commanding the Husares de Pueyrredon.

  You'd be proud of me, Grandpa, sitting here with your Hog-Leg about to defend myself against the Argentine equivalent of the Apaches.

  Jesus Christ, it's hot in here with those goddamned blinds closed!

  He stood up and walked to the rear of the apartment, where there was a second balcony behind the elevator shaft and the steep stairway. It was barely wide enough for two simple wooden chairs with leather seats and backs. And it offered a far-from-charming view of the service entrances of other houses-and to judge from the smell of it, the Buenos Aires version of a privy.

  But it was in the open, and there was a small breeze. He started to sit down, but decided a warm beer was better than no beer, and returned to Uncle Guillermo's playroom.

  Feeling more than a little sheepish, he turned off the lights, opened one of the vertical blinds, and crept onto the balcony. He took two beers from the ice chest, then crept back inside. He lowered the blind again, then started back toward the other bal-cony.

  The.45 automatic was on the desk, beside the.44-40 Hog Leg.

  I should put that away before Se¤ora Pellano comes in here with my breakfast and sees it.

  Ah, to hell with it. I'll take it with me and put it away before I go to bed.

  He went to the rear balcony and laid the pistol on the floor of the balcony. Then he settled himself as comfortably as he could- sitting in one of the chairs, resting his booted feet on the other- and opened one of the beers.

  Warm beer is better than no beer at all.

  While he sipped the beer, thoughts of the Virgin Princess passed pleasantly across his mind.

  Can I tell her I love her?

  Why the hell not, she already said that to me... probably.

  And she looked at me out of those beautiful eyes and pursed her lips in a kiss....

  Jesus Christ, I'd give my left nut to put my arms around her and kiss her!

  He heard the sound of feet on the stone stairs.

  What the hell is that?

  A cat or something? Rats?

  What the hell is it?

  He carefully lowered his booted feet to the floor and stood up. He had left the door to the rear balcony slightly ajar. He ap-proached it, put his hand on the knob, and started to open it. Then he changed his mind, dropped to his knees, and felt around the floor until his fingers touched the Argentine.45.

  He went back to the door. He heard feet on the stone stairs again, then his heart jumped as he realized someone was coming up the stairs.

  No. Someone is already on the top floor; and somebody else is coming up the stairs. And it goddamned sure isn't Se¤ora Pel-lano. Then who the he
ll is it?

  He smelled a man.

  A man who hasn't had a bath in a long time. Smells like an infantry Marine from the 'Canal.

  The second man walked toward Uncle Guillermo's playroom.

  What the hell do I do now?

  Clete eased the door open. Walking on his tiptoes, he left the balcony and walked toward the playroom.

  It was absolutely dark inside.

  He found the light switch, closed his eyes, and turned the lights on.

  He opened his eyes. In the time it took them to adjust to the sudden glare, he saw two men.

  What the hell is he doing next to my bed?

  The second man was closer, shielding his eyes. He held a long, curved knife. When he saw Clete, he brought the arm holding the knife up across his chest, so he could slash at Clete when he moved in.

  The man next to Clete's bed turned-he had an even larger knife-and assumed a crouching position.

  Clete glanced at the closer man, in time to see him start to rush at him.

  Did I chamber a round in this thing?

  The.45 kicked in his hand, and then again and again. The noise was deafening.

  The man rushing him staggered, with a look of surprise on his face. He fell to the ground. The back of his head was a horrible, bloody mess, shattered like a watermelon.

  Where the hell did I hit him? In the mouth? I had to; there's no other mark on his face.

  The other man was now rushing at him with his knife held high over his shoulders.

  The.45 bucked again and again and again and again. The man rushing him started to fall.

  Clete pulled the trigger again. The pistol didn't fire. He checked it. The slide was locked in the rear position. He had emptied the magazine.

  The man he had just hit was now screaming in agony, holding his right leg with both hands.

  Jesus Christ, when Se¤ora Pellano hears all this noise, she'll be terrified!

  Se¤ora Pellano! How did these bastards get past her?

  He looked at the man screaming in pain. The way his leg was bent, it was clearly broken. Blood covered the man's hands.

  I shot at him four times and only hit him once, in the lower leg?

  He walked to him, kicked his knife across the room, then went to the desk. He picked up a loaded.45 magazine, ejected the empty one in the pistol, loaded the fresh one, and let the slide go forward.

  He went to the stairs and started down them.

  There were no lights.

  He went down carefully, rubbing his back against the wall, desperately hoping he wouldn't fall.

  He reached the first floor and found the handle to the kitchen door.

  He raised the pistol and pushed the door open. The kitchen, too, was dark. He felt around for the switch, found it, and snapped on the lights.

  Se¤ora Pellano, in a black bathrobe, was sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes were open and her head was thrown back.

  Her throat had been cut. Through the gaping wound he could see bone and her slashed throat. Blood soaked her bathrobe and dripped onto the floor.

  "You miserable sonsofbitches!" Clete said, his voice breaking.

  He ran back up the stairs to Uncle Guillermo's playroom. Half-way up, he could hear the man screaming again.

  "For the love of the Blessed Virgin, please help me!"

  He reached the playroom. The man had crawled to the bath-room, where he had pulled a towel from the rack and was at-tempting to make a tourniquet with it.

  He looked at Clete.

  "Please, Se¤or, for the love of God, help me!"

  Clete raised the pistol and shot him in his good leg. And then, when the man looked at him in surprise and terror, he shot him again, aiming between his eyes. His aim was a little off; he hit him in the center of his forehead.

  [THREE]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires

  0115 20 December 1942

  El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martin made an illegal U-turn in the middle of Avenida Libertador and pulled up behind one of the five Polic¡a Federal police cars parked in front of the Frade Guest House.

  His action attracted the attention of two uniformed Polic¡a Fed-eral officers-the one assigned to make sure that traffic continued to flow along Avenida Libertador, and the one assigned to make sure that no unauthorized persons entered the scene of the crime.

  Both greeted him as he left his car.

  "Yo soy el Coronel Martin, del Servicio de Seguridad del In-terior," he said. Though he was out of uniform-he was wearing only the shirt he had worn that day and a pair of casual trousers- he spoke with such authority that one of the policemen saluted and the other begged his pardon for stopping him.

  He entered the foyer of the Guest House and found el Com-andante Habanzo in animated conversation with several Polic¡a Federal officers-two uniformed senior officers, one a capit n, the other a teniente, and two plainclothes detectives, most prob-ably from the Homicide Bureau.

  Habanzo looked enormously relieved to see him.

  "Mi Coronel," he said.

  Interesting that he is here, Mart¡n thought as Habanzo briefly described the carnage at the Guest House. Is this a manifestation of his devotion to duty, inspired by our little chat earlier? Or is there another reason?

  "You are?" the Capitan asked, not at all friendly, when Ha-banzo finished.

  "Mi jefe, el Coronel Mart¡n," Habanzo introduced him.

  "¨Credenciales?"

  Christ! They are in my jacket pocket.

  "Capitan," Mart¡n said. "You have two choices. You may accept the word of el Comandante Habanzo, whose credentials I presume you have seen, that I am who I say I am..."

  "Credenciales, por favor."

  "...or we will all stand here while I telephone my office and have an agent dispatched to my home to pick up my credentials. While we are waiting, I will telephone my friend el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, wake him from a sound sleep, and tell him that one of his capit ns is interfering with Internal Security."

  "With respect, mi Coronel," the Capitan said. "We have three murders here. Murder is the responsibility of my office."

  "What we have here, according to el Comandante Habanzo, is three bodies. If my investigation indicates that there were in fact three murders, and that these murders have no connection with Internal Security, then I will happily turn over the investigation to the Polic¡a Federal."

  He locked eyes with the Capitan, who after a moment backed down.

  "S¡, mi Coronel."

  "Where is the American?" Mart¡n asked.

  "In there, mi Coronel," Habanzo said, pointing to a closed door, before which stood a uniformed Polic¡a Federal. "It is the library."

  "Has he been interrogated?''

  "No, mi Coronel. He refuses to answer any questions."

  "I have placed him under arrest," the Capitan said.

  "No, you haven't," Martin said. "Be good enough, Capit n, to accompany el Comandante and me on a preliminary survey of the crime scene."

  "There are two," Habanzo said. "The kitchen, and the apart-ment on the upper floor."

  "We will begin with the kitchen," Martin said. "Where is it?"

  "Through that door, mi Coronel."

  Martin's stomach nearly turned when he saw the body sitting at the kitchen table. There was already the sickly sweet smell of blood, and flies.

  "Get a towel, or a sheet or something, and cover the body."

  "Photographs have not been taken," the Capitan protested.

  "If I decide photographs are in order, the sheet can be re-moved," Martin said, and went to the doors leading outside from the kitchen to examine them for marks of forcible entry. There were none.

  Which means nothing. People will remove dead bolts and chains to open doors to complete strangers.

  He turned from the door to the basement.

  "Habanzo, have you examined the door from the street to the garage, and the front d6or, for signs of forcible entry?"

  "1 have," the C
apitan answered for him. "Or rather, one of the Homicide Bureau investigators has," he corrected himself. "There were none."

  "Thank you," Martin said. "How do we reach the-you said 'upper-floor apartment'?"