Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘Where is it, Enrico?’’ Clete asked.

  ‘‘Where is what, Señor?’’

  ‘‘OUTLINE BLUE.’’

  ‘‘In el Coronel’s . . . in your apartment, Señor Clete.’’

  Clete gestured with his hand for Martín to rise, then led him out of the library, down the corridor, and into what was now his room.

  ‘‘Is there a safe in here, too?’’ Clete asked.

  ‘‘No, Señor,’’ Enrico said.

  He went to the bed, pulled up the bed cover, and shoved his hand under the mattress. He came out with the blue folder, walked to Clete, and handed it to him.

  Martín chuckled.

  ‘‘Since I can’t believe that el Coronel Frade really hid that under his mattress, would it be reasonable for me to assume you’ve been in the safe?’’

  Clete didn’t answer. He simply handed Martín OUTLINE BLUE.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Believe me. This is the right thing to do.’’

  ‘‘I hope so,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘The money?’’

  ‘‘That’s in the safe.’’

  ‘‘Is it all still there?’’

  ‘‘I would suppose so. I don’t think anybody else has been in there.’’

  I know nobody else has been in there. If anybody had, the money would be gone, and so would Peter’s papers and money.

  ‘‘Have you read this?’’

  ‘‘Just glanced through it.’’

  ‘‘But enough to tell you how dangerous this would be in the wrong hands?’’

  Clete nodded.

  ‘‘I really am grateful,’’ Martín said. ‘‘So will a number of other people be grateful.’’

  ‘‘Just keep me up to date on Colonel Goltz’s plans for Ettinger,’’ Clete said, ‘‘and we’ll call it square.’’

  ‘‘I would have done that anyway,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I am offended at the notion of a foreigner coming into my country, cloaked in diplomatic immunity, and ordering someone killed. Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?’’

  ‘‘How good are you at obtaining import permits?’’

  ‘‘What kind of import permits?’’

  ‘‘For an airplane, for example.’’

  ‘‘What kind of an airplane?’’

  ‘‘My father’s airplane seems to be missing.’’

  ‘‘A rumor is going around that it’s on the bottom of Samborombón Bay, near where the Reine de la Mer blew up."

  ‘‘I hadn’t heard that,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Anyway, I need an airplane.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘For someone obviously aware of the advantages of having a light airplane at your disposal, that’s an odd question, wouldn’t you say?’’

  ‘‘Indulge me.’’

  ‘‘I have recently learned that I have a vineyard in Córdoba. ..."

  ‘‘Of course, San Bosco.’’

  ‘‘And other property around the country.’’

  ‘‘And you’d like to be able to fly around and look at it from time to time, is that it?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘Well, import permits are a little out of my line, but I’ll look into it for you.’’

  ‘‘Thanks.’’

  ‘‘What kind of a plane did you have in mind to import? Another stagger-wing?’’

  ‘‘They don’t make stagger-wings anymore, unfortunately. But I happen to know where I can lay my hands on a twin-engine Beech—same manufacturer—in Brazil.’’

  ‘‘In Brazil? You mean you could fly it in? It wouldn’t have to be brought in by ship?’’

  ‘‘It could be flown in.’’

  ‘‘That might make things a good deal simpler. Let me ask some questions.’’

  ‘‘Discreet questions, please, mi Coronel.’’

  ‘‘Of course, discreet questions,’’ Martín said. ‘‘And now I am somewhat embarrassed to find myself imposing on your generosity again.’’

  ‘‘How is that?’’

  ‘‘Do you think you could find a briefcase, or a small suitcase, to carry OUTLINE BLUE in?’’

  ‘‘Enrico?’’

  "Sí, mi Coronel,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘There are several briefcases here. There’s probably one in the sitting closet here.’’

  ‘‘See if you can find one, would you, please?’’ Clete asked.

  Enrico nodded and left the bedroom.

  ‘‘Do you want the money, too?’’ Clete asked.

  ‘‘I’ve been thinking about that,’’ Martín said. ‘‘If you don’t mind, I’ll leave it where it is for the time being. Money by itself is not incriminating.’’

  ‘‘Whatever you say,’’ Clete said. ‘‘What if General Rawson asks for it?’’

  ‘‘I’d give it to him, or if he should send his aide for it, Capitán Lauffer—you’ve met him—I’d give it to him. No one else, I would think.’’

  Clete nodded. Enrico came back into the room carrying a somewhat worn-looking briefcase.

  ‘‘Perfect,’’ Martín said, taking it from him. ‘‘I’ll return it, of course.’’

  ‘‘Enrico tells me that money is to ‘ensure the success’ of OUTLINE BLUE.’’

  Martín looked at him coldly.

  ‘‘If you’re asking, politely, if it’s bribe money, yes, I’m afraid it is,’’ he said. ‘‘That offends you?’’

  ‘‘ ‘We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor,’ ’’ Clete quoted. ‘‘That’s from our Declaration of Independence. . . .’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I’m familiar with it.’’

  ‘‘In our revolution, our guys took a chance. I saw where my father signed OUTLINE BLUE. He took a chance. But I didn’t see anybody else’s signature on OUTLINE BLUE. And everybody seems perfectly comfortable with the idea of bribing people.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t say anyone involved in this is comfortable with it. It’s necessary.’’

  "Why?"

  ‘‘There are two kinds of officers in the Argentine Army and Navy,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Those like your father, perhaps ten, fifteen percent, who have no need to concern themselves with a salary or pension. For the others, losing their commissions and their pensions, as they would if OUTLINE BLUE fails, would mean the end of their livelihoods. Understandably, they want to protect their families—’’

  ‘‘As a practical matter, has anybody considered what these ‘patriots’ you’re buying are going to do if somebody comes along with more money?’’

  ‘‘For what this is worth, Señor Frade, your father had similar moral objections. The issue was debated at some length. It was decided that at whatever cost, the revolution should be bloodless. Having said that, I do not wish to discuss it further. Forgive me, but it’s really none of your business, is it?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know if it is or not,’’ Clete said. ‘‘If they can’t carry off OUTLINE BLUE, I might be in a little trouble myself. ’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’’ Martín said. ‘‘You’re a norteamericano.’’

  ‘‘Oh, but I’m not. I’m an Argentine.’’

  ‘‘That’s right, isn’t it?’’ Martín said. ‘‘I keep forgetting that. I try, but I guess it’s hard for me to think of you as an Argentine.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you should try harder, mi Coronel. I’m going to be around awhile.’’

  ‘‘I promise you I will,’’ Martín said. He closed the briefcase, then offered his hand to Clete. ‘‘Thank you for all your courtesies.’’

  ‘‘My pleasure, mi Coronel,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Any time.’’

  [TWO] Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1140 11 April 1943

  Clete stood with Enrico on the verandah, waiting for the Fieseler Storch to take off.

  He could hear the pilot test the magnetos, and then the roar as he pushed the throttle to takeoff power. Much sooner than he expected, the
airplane appeared above the cedar tree windbreak in a slow, incredibly steep climb.

  He’s showing off, of course, the sonofabitch. But look at that thing climb!

  The pilot dipped the wings, waving goodbye, and then passed over the house.

  Christ, the flaps are as big as the wings. No wonder he could get it off that way!

  ‘‘What do you think of Martín, Enrico?’’

  ‘‘For a clown, he is not so bad. Of course, he is a cavalry officer.’’

  ‘‘There is no such thing as a bad cavalry officer, right?’’

  ‘‘That is not what I said, Señor Clete.’’

  ‘‘How do you feel about aviators, Enrico?’’

  ‘‘El Coronel wondered why you did not go into the cavalry, Señor Clete.’’

  ‘‘We don’t have cavalry anymore,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But in the Marine Corps, we sort of think of airplanes as flying horses.’’

  Enrico considered that carefully but didn’t reply.

  ‘‘I’m going to take a ride,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘To see el Jefe’’—the Chief—‘‘I will go with you, Se ñor Clete.’’

  ‘‘And Ettinger,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You are not going. You are full of holes, and I don’t want you bleeding all over a horse. It will attract flies, and annoy the horse.’’

  Enrico looked at him long enough to decide that argument would be futile.

  ‘‘Rudolpho will go with you,’’ he announced.

  ‘‘OK. If either Señora Carzino-Cormano or my uncle Humberto arrives before I come back, do not tell them where I am.’’

  "Sí, Señor Clete.’’

  With Enrico on his heels, Clete turned and walked down the corridor toward the entrance foyer, where Antonio intercepted him.

  ‘‘Is there anything I can do for you, Señor?’’

  ‘‘I’m going for a ride.’’

  ‘‘I will lay out riding clothes for you.’’

  ‘‘Antonio, I’m a Texas Aggie. This is all the riding clothes a Texas Aggie needs.’’

  He pulled up his khakis to reveal his boots.

  ‘‘Whatever you wish, of course, Señor Cletus,’’ Antonio said.

  As they walked across the garden to the stables, Enrico asked, ‘‘Señor Clete, what is a ‘Texas Aggie’?’’

  ‘‘A despoiler of virgins, Enrico. A drinker of hard whiskey, and above all, a superb horseman.’’

  Enrico nodded.

  Twenty or more saddles were in the tack room, neatly straddling leather-padded sawhorses. There were two side-saddles and a half-dozen hornless saddles, apparently for polo. The rest were recados, hornless, long-stirruped saddles that were used with a thick sheepskin pad under the rider.

  Clete impulsively chose one of the latter, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and went into the stable. There was room for forty animals, each in an individual stall. Nearly all the stalls held horses. Clete noticed that Enrico was no longer with him.

  ‘‘Where the hell are you when I need you?’’ he asked aloud. ‘‘One of these animals is a vicious sonofabitch who would toss Gene Autry on his ass, and that’s the one I’ll pick.’’

  Enrico appeared a moment later, followed by Rudolpho, who had a recado over his shoulder. Enrico carried a short-barreled bolt-action Mauser rifle in his hand.

  ‘‘What do I ride, Enrico?’’

  ‘‘Your father was fond of Julius Caesar, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico said, pointing to an obviously high-spirited black stallion that had put its head out of its stall and was looking at them curiously.

  ‘‘Fine,’’ Clete said, and started for the stall.

  Rudolpho’s eyebrows rose, and Enrico picked up on it.

  ‘‘Señor Cletus is a fine horseman,’’ he said. ‘‘He is a Texas Aggie.’’

  That being said, I’ll get on him, and he will toss me before we get out of the yard.

  ‘‘I will saddle him for you,’’ Enrico said.

  ‘‘No, you won’t,’’ Clete said.

  As he saddled Julius Caesar, the horse tried to bite him. And when he led him out of the stables into the yard and tried to mount him, Julius Caesar not only shied but tried to bite him again. A few moments later, he swung into the saddle and moved across the yard to establish who was in charge. When Clete jerked on his bit, Julius Caesar reared.

  Clete kept his seat, but Uncle Jim’s Stetson came off.

  Julius Caesar put his front feet back on the ground, took two or three delicate steps, and then reared again.

  ‘‘Goddamn you! If you stepped on that hat, you sonofabitch, you’re cat food!’’ Clete told him, as he jerked hard on the bit and kicked him hard in the ribs.

  Julius Caesar came down from his rear again—then, as if he had decided that Clete was a horseman worthy to ride him, suddenly gentled down.

  Enrico picked up the Stetson and handed it to Clete, who saw approval and amusement in the old soldier’s eyes.

  ‘‘Cat food, Señor Clete?’’

  Jesus, if Enrico understood that, I must have cussed him out in Spanish!

  Rudolpho, on a wiry roan, moved beside him. He held the Mauser easily, vertically, its butt on his leg.

  They rode out of the yard, through the garden, and started down the road. They passed a dozen workers, each of whom took off his hat when he saw Clete and stood waiting for him to pass.

  I feel like Don Pancho Spaniard, father of the dark-eyed beauty Gene Autry’s got the hots for, on his hacienda down Mexico way in the movie of the same name, accepting the humble salute of his people.

  I should feel embarrassed, the way I was in the car. But now I don’t. How come?

  He nodded at each man and smiled.

  Five hundred yards down the road, Rudolpho turned off it and onto the pampas. Clete nudged Julius Caesar with his heels and the animal broke into a canter. Just to see what the horse would do, Clete applied the pressure of his left knee and made as faint a tug on the reins as he could manage. Julius Caesar immediately turned to the left. And a moment later, when Clete applied right-knee pressure— no reins—the horse turned in the other direction.

  Damned well-trained horse. No wonder my father liked him. Did he train him himself? Is this a polo pony? Aren’t they smaller than this?

  I’m going to have to try polo, real polo. Why not? There’s two polo fields here, and it can’t be all that difficult. I don’t care how small the ball is, I can probably learn to whack it with a little practice.

  The polo Clete had played, on Big Foot Ranch outside Midland and at College Station, was played with brooms, a volleyball, and on cow ponies, and, every once in a while, on a well-trained quarter horse, just for the hell of it.

  What the hell are you thinking about? Playing polo, for Christ’s sake?

  Without thinking about it, he touched the reins. Julius Caesar, who had been trying to push his nose ahead of Rudolpho’s roan, obediently moved behind him.

  ‘‘Rudolpho, is it safe to gallop here?’’ he called.

  "Sí, Señor.’’

  ‘‘Let’s go, then,’’ Clete said.

  Rudolpho touched the roan with his spurs and shouted something to him Clete couldn’t understand. The roan broke into a gallop. Julius Caesar’s ears stood up. Clete touched his heels to him, and the animal broke into a gallop.

  Julius Caesar was larger and faster than Rudolpho’s roan, and a minute later, passed him. Clete saw that at a full gallop the only change in Rudolpho’s seat was that he no longer supported the Mauser on his knee. Now he had it cradled in his arm, like a hunter. He looked as comfortable as someone sitting in his armchair.

  Well, that shatters your foolish belief that you really know how to ride a horse about as well as anybody, doesn’t it?

  Five minutes later, now moving at a walk to cool the horses, Clete realized that he had no idea where he was. There was nothing from horizon to horizon but the rolling pampas, dotted with cattle and groves of eucalyptus and pine trees. No sign of a road, or even a power line or a
fence.

  He had a sobering thought: If I had come out here by myself, and damned fool that I am, that’s exactly what I intended to do, I not only couldn’t have found the station, but I would have been lost, and they would have had to send somebody to find me.

  Twenty minutes later, they topped a small rise and Clete scanned the horizon. There was a glint of reflected light high in a stand of pine trees several hundred yards directly ahead. It disappeared, and then reappeared. He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked again. It was gone.

  He looked again a minute or so later, and it was again visible. He had just decided it was white, and a couple of inches long—and thus probably man-made—when there was proof. There was a faint but unmistakable glint off copper wire.

  A radio antenna. They were approaching the station.

  It was only when they were no more than fifty yards from the thick trees that he could see through them far enough to pick out automobiles and trucks. Three of them— immaculately maintained Ford Model A pickup trucks— belonged to the estancia. And there was a 1940 Chevrolet business coupe and a 1941 Studebaker sedan. Tony Pelosi’s and Dave Ettinger’s cars, he decided, although he didn’t know which car belonged to which.

  They entered the trees, and a hundred yards inside came to a small clearing that held three buildings made of reddish sandstone. A large, somewhat florid-faced man in a gaucho ’s Saturday-Night-Go-to-the-Cantina costume emerged from the largest building. His flat, wide-brimmed black gaucho’s hat was at a suitably cocky angle. He wore a red bandanna rolled around his neck, a flowing white blouse, topped with a black, red-embroidered vest, billowing black trousers, and soft, thigh-high black boots. There was a menacing -looking, silver-handled dagger in a leather sheath on his belt. And he held a silver Mate22jar with a silver straw in his hand. He smiled at Clete.

  ‘‘Buenos tardes, Señor.’’

  He looks more like a gaucho than Rudolpho. The only thing he won’t do is get on a horse.

  Clete smiled at him, then touched his right hand to his temple in a crisp salute.

  ‘‘Permission to come aboard, Chief?’’

  Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, returned the salute crisply.

  ‘‘Permission granted, Sir,’’ he said. ‘‘Welcome aboard.’’