Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  Jesus! What the hell is this?

  He turned to the next page. It was once as neatly typed as the title page, but there had been a number of corrections since, in both pencil and ink. He had little doubt, however, that it was an index to the rest of the document. Turning to page three removed any doubt about what he was holding in his hands.

  PART ONE

  STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

  The purpose of OUTLINE BLUE is the seizure, in the name of the people of Argentina, by the Group of United Officers of all elements of the Government of Argentina; to depose the incumbent President of the Republic and all officials holding appointed power under him; and to govern the Republic of Argentina under Martial Law until, at the earliest feasible time free, honest and democratic elections may be held.

  Jorge Guillermo Frade

  Jorge Guillermo Frade

  Coronel, Cavalry, Retired

  President, Grupo de Oficiales Unidos

  No wonder Claudia wanted to lay her hands on this before I did!

  But if she knew about it, that means she’s involved with this, too, and up to her ears!

  I wonder where, if at all, Humberto fits in. I don’t think he knows about this.

  He quickly flipped through the folder. It wasn’t exactly like an American Operations Order, but it was organized very much like the last Operations Order Clete had seen— ‘‘Movement of VMF-221 From Ewa Marine Air Station, Territory of Hawaii, to Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands.’’

  Who was to do what and when was spelled out in numbing detail. The consequence of the ‘‘who’’ listed in OUTLINE BLUE was that it was a list of all the officers, all over Argentina, Army and Navy, who were involved in the planned coup d’état. Officers who could be tried for treason, if this document fell into the wrong hands and OUTLINE BLUE was nipped in the bud.

  ‘‘Did you know what this was?’’ Clete asked.

  "Sí, Señor Clete.’’

  ‘‘You think Señora Carzino-Cormano did?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Humberto Duarte?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so.’’

  ‘‘Is there someplace else we can hide this?’’ Clete said. ‘‘She’s liable to show up here any moment. And I want to read it.’’

  And decide what, if anything, I’m going to do with it.

  ‘‘I know where to put it,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘The money, too, Señor Clete?’’

  ‘‘What’s that money for?’’

  ‘‘To pay some of the senior officers,’’ Enrico replied, making it clear he thought that should have been self-evident.

  ‘‘I think we’ll leave the money there,’’ Clete said, thinking aloud. ‘‘I may even let Señora Carzino-Cormano into the safe. But I want to put OUTLINE BLUE someplace else— someplace safe—until I make up my mind what I’m going to do about it, understand?’’

  Enrico nodded.

  Clete laid OUTLINE BLUE on the floor and reached for the three large manila envelopes inside the safe. The first two held legal documents, including several deeds.

  These were obviously the documents Humberto was concerned about. The records involving the investment of the money Peter von Wachtstein had brought from Germany.

  There’s no time to look at these now, and even if there was I wouldn’t know what I was looking at.

  The third envelope contained only another, letter-size envelope. The rear flap was embossed, SCHLOSS WACHTSTEIN, POMERN.

  Wachtstein Castle, Pomerania. A year ago, six months ago, when I heard the word castle, I thought of King Arthur, or maybe Frankenstein. It never occurred to me that anybody I would ever know would have grown up in a castle . . . considered it his home. And when I heard ‘‘Pomerania, ’’ I thought of some ugly snarling mutt sitting drooling on a fat lady’s lap.

  He remembered Peter trying without success to control his voice and to ignore his tear-filled eyes when he read the letter aloud, translating it for him as he did so.

  And he remembered his father reading the letter shortly afterward, and then, turning to Peter with tears in his eyes and with great difficulty finding his voice, finally saying, ‘‘I can only hope, my friend, that one day my son will have reason to be half as proud of me as you must be of your father.’’

  Well, I’m proud as hell of you, too, Dad. It took balls to sign this OUTLINE BLUE thing. You damned well knew your signature was all Castillo would need to convict you of treason and stand you in front of a firing squad. Maybe signing it wasn’t smart, but it was the honorable thing to do.

  His own eyes watery, he replaced the small envelope in the larger one, tied it, and put it on the floor with everything else. Then he walked to his father’s desk, sat down in his father’s chair, and started to read OUTLINE BLUE.

  ‘‘Señor Clete, the good fathers are waiting for you,’’ Enrico said.

  ‘‘Damn!’’ Clete said. He closed OUTLINE BLUE and held it out to Enrico. ‘‘Wherever you take this, Enrico, put it someplace where I can look at it later.’’

  "Sí, Señor.’’

  [THREE] Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1105 11 April 1943

  ‘‘May I?’’ Father Welner asked, holding up a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

  Fathers Denilo and Pordido had just left them, after two glasses of wine each and a fifteen-minute briefing on the requiem mass. It was apparently going to be nearly as elaborate as the service in the Basílica of Our Lady of Pilar; all that was missing was the casket and the Húsares de Pueyrredón.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Clete said, and slid his glass across the desk. ‘‘I could use another sip myself.’’

  ‘‘Was that difficult for you?’’ Welner asked, and then interrupted himself. ‘‘This is very nice. It comes from one of your vineyards. Your father was very fond of it.’’

  ‘‘One of my vineyards?’’

  ‘‘San Bosco, in Córdoba. It’s essentially a varietal cabernet. ’’

  Welner pulled the cork out, sniffed it, and then poured wine into Clete’s glass before filling his own.

  ‘‘That wasn’t difficult,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Odd. I’m not a Catholic, and having a Catholic priest seek my approval, of anything, is a little strange.’’

  ‘‘Oh, but you are a Catholic,’’ Welner said.

  ‘‘I’m an Episcopalian, Father,’’ Clete said. ‘‘An Anglican, I guess you say down here. A communicant of Trinity Protestant Episcopal Church, Midland, Texas.’’

  ‘‘You were baptized here into the Roman Catholic Church,’’ Welner said. ‘‘So far as we’re concerned, you’re a Roman Catholic.’’

  ‘‘So far as I’m concerned, Father, I’m not.’’

  ‘‘Would it offend you if I continue to think of you as a Christian? There is even some talk in Rome that Anglican holy orders are valid.’’

  ‘‘You can think of me any way you want to, Father.’’

  Welner smiled and nodded.

  ‘‘You made Father Denilo happy when you approved of the arrangements he made. Your approval is very important to him. I know he would like to stay on here at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. He’s been here for almost thirty years.’’

  ‘‘What have I got to do with him staying on or not?’’

  ‘‘In one sense, nothing. He is a diocesan priest, assigned here on the sole authority of his bishop. On the other hand, if it came to his bishop’s attention that the Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo wished that Father Denilo was assigned elsewhere, I’m sure the Bishop would consider that the Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo provides—I would guess—somewhere between forty and fifty percent of his budget.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Money talks,’ huh? You sound like my grandfather.’’

  ‘‘Should I take offense at the comparison? Your father was not an admirer of your grandfather, of whom he often talked.’’

  ‘‘No offense was intended. I’m very fond of, greatly admire, my grandfather.’’

&nbs
p; I even admire his capacity to hate, his ruthlessness. So what does that make me? A chip off the old blockhead?

  ‘‘Your father described him as a hardheaded man who saw things only in black and white. Which could have been a description of himself.’’

  Clete chuckled.

  ‘‘Where are you assigned, Father? I guess I’m asking how come you were my father’s priest . . . what did you say, ‘his confessor’?’’

  ‘‘I’m a member of the Society of Jesus.’’

  ‘‘A Jesuit?’’

  Welner nodded. ‘‘I am educated in the law, canonical and temporal. I teach in Buenos Aires, at the University of St. Ignatius of Loyola. We’re not really as bad, as Machiavellian, as we are sometimes painted, Mr. Frade.’’

  ‘‘What makes you think I think you’re Machiavellian?’’ Clete asked with a smile.

  ‘‘Your eyes. When your mouth said ‘Jesuit,’ your eyes said, ‘OK, that explains everything.’ ’’

  ‘‘Am I that transparent?’’

  ‘‘You are your father’s son, Mr. Frade. You are no more opaque than he was. And I was his friend—as well as his confessor—for many years.’’

  ‘‘You said you wanted to talk to me. What about?’’

  ‘‘I am, of course, first and foremost a priest. I thought I might be of some service under the circumstances. How are you handling your father’s death, for example?’’

  ‘‘Frankly, Father, with a good deal of anger.’’

  ‘‘The classic dichotomy between the ‘eye for an eye’ of the Old Testament and Christ’s admonition to ‘turn the other cheek’ in the New.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ ’’ Clete quoted.

  ‘‘ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ ’’ Welner responded.

  ‘‘How did we get into this?’’ Clete asked.

  Welner picked up the wine bottle.

  ‘‘This may have something to do with it,’’ he said. ‘‘In vino veritas.’’

  ‘‘Well, let’s get off the subject,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘As you wish,’’ Welner said. ‘‘There is nothing else you would like to talk about?’’

  ‘‘Not a thing, thank you,’’ Clete said, and then heard himself saying: ‘‘Well, there is something.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ Welner asked.

  Clete picked up his wineglass. It was nearly empty. He drained it, reached for the bottle, poured more, and then offered the bottle to Welner, who nodded.

  ‘‘I need a little cultural advice,’’ Clete said as he filled the priest’s glass. ‘‘Not moral.’’

  ‘‘When faced with more tableware than you know what to do with, the best thing to do is work inward,’’ Welner said, straight-faced. ‘‘The outer fork first, then the—’’

  ‘‘My aunt Martha taught me all I need to know about knives and forks, thank you very much, Father,’’ Clete interrupted, chuckling.

  ‘‘I’m surprised. According to your father, norteamericanos are savages who handle their food with sharpened sticks,’’ Welner said. ‘‘I was apparently misinformed.’’

  ‘‘Actually, most of the time we just use our fingers,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘What is your cultural problem?’’

  ‘‘I think the wine got to me,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Now I’m sorry I started this.’’

  ‘‘Your father once told me—we had been drinking some wine—that the only reason he tolerated me at his table was that I was the only priest he ever knew who didn’t pry,’’ Welner said. ‘‘We’ll leave your cultural problem at that.’’

  He took a swallow of his wine and set the glass down.

  ‘‘I’ll leave you to get settled,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank you for your kindness to Father Denilo.’’

  Clete had a sudden insight.

  ‘‘Is that why you were here to greet me?’’

  ‘‘One of the reasons. Father Denilo is a good man, a good priest, but I wasn’t sure you would understand him. Or he you.’’

  ‘‘Tell the bishop that if he transfers him, I will shut off the money,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘I won’t do that,’’ Welner said. When Clete looked at him in surprise, Welner went on: ‘‘According to your father, you are, or were, a very fine officer. Doesn’t the U.S. Army teach its officers to conserve their ammunition against the time when they will really need it?’’

  ‘‘I was a Marine, not a soldier,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But thank you for the advice.’’

  ‘‘Thank you for the wine,’’ Welner said, and started to walk out of the room. ‘‘I’ll see you again, soon.’’

  ‘‘I’ll look forward to it,’’ Clete said, feeling somewhat hypocritical.

  He heard the sound of an airplane engine, low, over the house, distracting him.

  That’s not one of el Coronel’s Piper Cubs.

  Two of them are J-3s with 40-horsepower Continental A-40-4 engines; the third one is a J-4 with a 75-horsepower Continental A-75-8.

  All of which are now mine, of course.

  There’s a much bigger engine in whatever that is.

  I wonder what it is?

  The sound of the engine changed as the pilot throttled back for landing.

  I wonder who it is, landing on my strip?

  He returned his attention to Father Welner and saw that the priest had just about reached the door.

  ‘‘Father,’’ Clete called out, and when the priest stopped and turned to look at him, Clete heard himself blurting, ‘‘Father, I’ve . . . uh . . . I’ve made a girl pregnant.’’

  Welner looked at him for a long moment.

  ‘‘You don’t consider that a moral problem?’’

  ‘‘The morality of it will have to sort itself out. What I’m ignorant about is how to tell her father.’’

  ‘‘You love her?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I love her.’’

  ‘‘You intend to marry her?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Who is she?’’

  ‘‘I’m reluctant to give you her name.’’

  ‘‘You may not like this, but in my mind you’ve come to me as a priest. What you tell me will go no further. At least tell me, is she of your background?’’

  The already faint sound of the aircraft engine died as the pilot shut it down, and then there was a backfire.

  What the hell is that engine? Who is that?

  ‘‘Dorotéa Mallín,’’ Clete heard himself saying. ‘‘Her father is Enrico—’’

  ‘‘I know him well,’’ Welner said. ‘‘He will not like this at all.’’

  ‘‘He’s a hypocritical sonofabitch,’’ Clete was shocked to hear himself blurting. ‘‘Great wife, great family, and he was keeping a mina’’—mistress—‘‘on the side.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Judge not,’ et cetera,’’ Father Welner said. ‘‘I must say I admire your taste. And, now that I think about it, I can see why Dorotéa was attracted to you.’’

  ‘‘I think they call that ‘stupidity,’ ’’ Clete said. ‘‘For one thing, she’s just a child . . .’’

  ‘‘Not any longer,’’ Welner said.

  ‘‘. . . who really had no comprehension of what she was letting herself in for.’’

  ‘‘Because of your connection with the OSS?’’

  ‘‘Where did you hear about th—What was that you said, ‘OSS’? Never heard of it.’’

  ‘‘Where do you think?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘You might consider that in the United States, there are probably many thousands of young women with child, whose husbands are off fighting a war. Is Dorotéa’s situation so different?’’

  ‘‘Hell, yes, it’s different. I don’t want her, or our baby, killed because the Germans are after me.’’

  ‘‘Then you will have to make provisions for her. Bring her out here, for example, after you’re married.’’

  ‘‘The immediate problem is to get married,’’ Clete sa
id. ‘‘How do I go about that? Show up at his door? ‘Buenos días, Señor Mallín, you’re about to be a grandfather, and I’m the sonofabitch who did it’?’’

  Welner chuckled.

  ‘‘You’re asking for my advice?’’

  ‘‘I guess I am,’’ Clete said after thinking it over.

  ‘‘Well, then, I would suggest you first tell your uncle Humberto, and then Señora Carzino-Cormano. Overlooking the missing sacrament, she is de facto your father’s widow. She would want to know; she would be deeply hurt if you didn’t tell her. If that bothers you, I’ll be happy to talk to them for you.’’

  ‘‘And then what?’’

  ‘‘And then Humberto and Claudia and I will call upon Señor Mallín to discuss the problem we have regarding the children.’’

  ‘‘ ‘The children’? And then what?’’

  ‘‘What can he do, Cletus?’’ Welner asked. ‘‘Shoot you . . . ?’’

  That’s the first time he called me by my Christian name.

  ‘‘Throw Dorotéa out on the street? You and Dorotéa are not, you know, the first two young people in history who let their glands overwhelm their brains. He loves Dorotéa, and in time he may even learn to tolerate you.’’

  ‘‘That’ll be a cold day in hell,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘A newborn, they say, can melt stone hearts.’’

  ‘‘You really think there won’t be a problem?’’

  ‘‘There is a problem. We can deal with it. And I’m sure the bishop, after prayerful consideration, would be willing to accept my suggestion that he waive the customary banns for the Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. You could be married here at the chapel. Possibly as soon as next week.’’

  ‘‘By a Catholic priest? The Old Man will shit a brick when he hears about that!’’

  ‘‘Now, there’s a colloquialism I never heard before,’’ Welner said. ‘‘ ‘The ‘‘Old Man’’—presumably you mean your grandfather—will ‘‘shit a brick" ’?"

  Clete nodded, smiling.

  ‘‘A little vulgar, I suppose, but accurately descriptive.’’