Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘Aye, aye, Sir.’’

  ‘‘Have another little taste, Chief. This won’t take long. And tell Mr. Pelosi to make sure they go out with tomorrow ’s pouch.’’

  He sat down at the venerable Underwood with the Spanish keyboard, rolled a piece of paper into it, and started to type.

  Clete walked Chief Schultz through the house and out to where he had parked his Model A on the drive.

  ‘‘I thought maybe you would have learned to ride while I was gone,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘Don’t hold your fucking breath, Mr. Frade,’’ Chief Schultz said. ‘‘Horses is dangerous.’’

  He put the car in gear and drove off.

  Clete walked back to his apartment. There was an untouched cognac snifter on the desk in the sitting.

  Well, it’s done now. In three, four days the Old Man’ll have that letter, and what will happen will happen.

  He picked up the snifter and drained it, then pushed open the door to his bedroom.

  Just enough light was coming through the open window to make out the bed, so he didn’t turn on the light.

  He sat down at the bed and grunted as he pulled off the boots.

  I wonder what happened? The goddamned things weren’t so tight when I first put them on. But then I couldn’t walk. Did I have that much to drink? Or was it the charming company?

  ‘‘I wondered if you were ever coming to bed,’’ a voice behind him said. ‘‘What in the world were you doing out there anyway with that bloody typewriter? And who was that with you?’’

  He turned. His eyes had now adjusted to the light.

  ‘‘Hello, Princess,’’ he said.

  She was sitting up in the bed, wearing a white night-gown.

  ‘‘Hello, yourself, and don’t call me that, please.’’

  She sat up suddenly, then started to bounce on the mattress.

  ‘‘I think I’m going to like sleeping here,’’ she said. ‘‘This mattress is wonderful!’’

  ‘‘What did you do, climb in through the window?’’

  ‘‘I could hardly walk down the corridor, could I?’’ she asked reasonably. ‘‘What would people think?’’

  Then she held her arms open for him.

  [THREE] La Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 0940 12 April 1943

  A large, badly hand-tinted photograph of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade in a gilded wooden frame sat on an easel in the center aisle of the chapel.

  It was probably taken, Clete decided, shortly before his father retired from command of the Húsares de Pueyrredón. His father—wearing a ribbon-bedecked green tunic and a brimmed cap with an enormous crown—was photographed standing beside a horse, holding its reins. The saddle blanket carried the Húsares de Pueyrredón regimental crest and the insignia of a colonel.

  Without conscious disrespect, he wondered where his father had gotten all the medals, and remembered Tony’s crack that the Argentine Army passed out medals for three months’ perfect attendance at mass.

  There was plenty of time to examine the photograph, for two reasons. For one thing, the requiem mass had begun at eight. That was because work on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo had to go on, and no one was going to work until the mass and the reception following it were over.

  The second reason was that Clete had only limited success keeping his eyes off Dorotéa. The best he could do was focus his attention on either his father’s photograph or the ceremony itself. Dorotéa was sitting beside him, her legs modestly crossed, on a slightly smaller version of his own thronelike, high-backed, elaborately carved chair.

  She was wearing a black suit with a white lacy blouse, the lace covering most of her neck. She wore a black hat with a veil, and her black-gloved hands held a missal in her lap. In other words, she was the picture of respectable, demure, virginal young Christian womanhood.

  Whenever he glanced at her, and she smiled demurely at him, his mind’s eye flooded with images of Dorotéa wearing absolutely nothing at all, cavorting with enthusiastic carnal abandon in his father’s bed.

  While it was probable that they at least dozed off momentarily sometime between the moment she held her arms open to him and the time she crawled out the bedroom window as the first light of day began to illuminate the bed (which would be rightfully theirs in the sight of God once the goddamned wedding was over and done with), he could not remember it.

  These kinds of thoughts—not to mention the physiological reaction they caused in the area of his groin—did not seem appropriate within the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles during a service honoring his father’s life, so he tried hard to devote his attention to his father’s portrait and the ceremony.

  Behind what he thought of as his and Dorotéa’s thrones, Humberto and Beatrice Duarte and the honored guests were seated in red-velvet-upholstered pews. The honored guests were Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano and her two daughters; Suboficial Mayor (Retired) Enrico Rodríguez; Antonio LaVallé, el Coronel Frade’s lifelong butler; Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, a houseguest of Señora Carzino-Cormano; and el Capitán Roberto Lauffer, aide-de-camp to General Arturo Rawson, who had been assisting the late el Coronel Frade’s son during the final services honoring his father.

  Finally, the Bishop—who spoke after Fathers Denilo, Pordido, and Welner—concluded his ‘‘talk.’’ Clete was not sure if it was a homily, a eulogy, or a thinly veiled plea for the new Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo to continue the generous support of the diocese and its clergy that had been a long-standing tradition of previous God-fearing and commendably devout Patróns of the estancia.

  The Bishop climbed down from the pulpit and took his place to lead the recessional parade. Father Welner, taking his place behind Fathers Denilo and Pordido, discreetly signaled Clete that it was time for him and Dorotéa to stand up and be prepared to join the recessional, immediately behind the crucifer.

  The crucifer was the nice-looking blond kid who had taken Julius Caesar and Rudolpho’s roan back to the stables the day before. Clete was reminded of his own service as a crucifer at Trinity Episcopal in Midland, Texas. He had been ‘‘promoted’’ to crucifer following an unfortunate incident in which he, functioning as one of two acolytes, had lost the taper from the candle-lighting device and set the altar cloth gloriously aflame.

  The procession moved through the church, out, and then down the paths of the English garden until it reached the house. There the Bishop, the priests, and the deacon lined themselves up on the lower step of the verandah. The crucifer and the other acolytes marched off down the drive.

  Clete and Dorotéa, and then Beatrice and Humberto, joined the clergy on the wide verandah step. Father Welner shifted position so that he was standing next to Clete.

  Not on the ground, Clete thought, but on the step. Was that on purpose? I’ve had about all of this I can take.

  First the Mallín family shook everybody’s hand in the reception line.

  That handshake and smile, Henry, are even more magni ficently insincere than yesterday. Have you been practicing, or are you just hungover?

  Henry Mallín next kissed his daughter, then subjected himself to the effusive greeting of Beatrice Frade de Duarte, who was obviously enjoying the reception line.

  Pamela Mallín kissed him.

  It’s nice when Pamela kisses me that way, sort of motherly.

  El Kid Brother is a little sheepish. He knows I’m pissed. Good. I am. Nobody likes a squealer.

  ‘‘A beautiful service, I thought,’’ Claudia Carzino-Cormano said, both shaking his hand and kissing him. ‘‘And the two of you were handsome.’’

  You’ve lost just as much as I did, Claudia. Maybe more. You spent most of your life with him, and he never married you. Because of me. And then he got killed, also because of me. If I were you, I don’t think I’d like me. You should have been sitting where Dorotéa sat, and we both know it.

  ‘‘I’d like to tal
k to you, if we can find time, Claudia.’’

  ‘‘We’ll make time.’’

  Isabela Carzino-Cormano kissed his cheek with about as much enthusiasm as Henry Mallín shook his hand.

  The feeling is mutual, Señorita. Go fuck yourself.

  ‘‘I felt a little better when I saw Dorotéa sitting there with you,’’ Señorita Alicia Carzino-Cormano said.

  ‘‘You’re very sweet. Did I ever tell you that?’’

  ‘‘Again, my condolences, Señor Frade,’’ Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein said, clicking his heels and bowing as he shook Clete’s hand.

  ‘‘I found that letter we were looking for,’’ Clete said softly. ‘‘Don’t leave before we have a chance to talk.’’

  Peter nodded and moved on. El Capitán Roberto Lauffer was next in line.

  He heard what I said to Peter. And so did the Jesuit.

  ‘‘When it’s convenient, I would like to take that material off your hands.’’

  ‘‘Just as soon as this is over.’’

  And Welner heard that, too. I wonder how much he knows?

  It was half an hour before the last of the guests and estancia workers had made their way through the line, and Father Welner could tug on the Bishop’s vestments.

  ‘‘Señor Frade suggests that you might like to have a coffee with him whenever you’re ready,’’ Welner said.

  The Bishop beamed at Clete and then went into the house, trailed by the others.

  ‘‘Thank God that’s over,’’ Dorotéa said. ‘‘I need to find a loo in the worst way.’’

  ‘‘The worst way is probably blindfolded,’’ Clete said solemnly.

  It took her a moment to understand what he considered to be humor.

  ‘‘And I’m going to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you?’’ she asked incredulously, and went quickly into the house.

  When Clete saw Beatrice turn to him, a dazzling smile on her face, he moved quickly after Dorotéa.

  The house was full of people; each of them had something to drink in one hand and something to eat in the other. He saw General Rawson and Colonel Perón.

  I don’t remember Perón coming through the line.

  He saw Lauffer, who inclined his head in the direction of the safe and asked with his eyebrows if Clete was free to go there. Clete nodded.

  Two well-dressed men—Army officers? Clete wondered, majors, maybe—were in civvies standing in the corridor by the door of the private study. Two large leather briefcases rested on the floor beside them. And both men obviously carried pistols under their jackets.

  Clete was fishing through his pockets for the key to the room when Enrico walked past him, his key in his hand.

  Lauffer did not introduce Clete to the two officers, and they did not volunteer their names.

  ‘‘Open it, Enrico,’’ Clete ordered, and Enrico pulled the bookcase away from the safe and worked the combination. Then he spun the spoked wheel and pulled the safe door open.

  Clete looked at Lauffer and saw one of the briefcases in his hand.

  ‘‘Help yourself,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘I wouldn’t wish to take anything I shouldn’t,’’ Lauffer said.

  Clete went to the safe and handed Lauffer bundles of currency. They all would have fit easily into one of the briefcases, but when Lauffer apparently decided Clete had handed him about half, he put out his hand to stop Clete, then motioned for the second briefcase.

  The entire business didn’t take two minutes.

  ‘‘That’s it,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘Gracias, Mayor Frade,’’ one of the two men said.

  ‘‘I will inform el Coronel that we have finished our business, ’’ Lauffer said.

  OK, el Coronel is obviously Perón. The reason I didn’t see him in the reception line, or, for that matter, in church, either, now that I think about it, is that he and these two guys were sitting on the safe.

  ‘‘You’re leaving, Roberto?’’ Clete asked.

  That was dumb. Both of these guys picked up on my calling him by his first name.

  ‘‘When it pleases el General Rawson to leave, Señor Frade.’’

  ‘‘Well, if I don’t see you again, thank you for everything you have done for me in the past few days, Roberto.’’

  ‘‘It has been my privilege to be of service, Señor Frade.’’

  I think we did that perfectly. Roberto was properly formal with me, and I was the typical ill-mannered norteamericano who calls people he hardly knows by their first names.

  The two men nodded to him and left the room. Clete now had no doubt they were officers. Lauffer left last.

  Why do I have the idea I’ve made friends with that guy? Trust him? Feel comfortable that he’s not going to run off at the mouth to anyone about Peter? Is that what you call masculine intuition? Or gross stupidity?

  He gave in to his curiosity ten seconds after they left the room. He went out into the corridor in time to see them leaving the house by a door at the end of the corridor. He went into one of the rooms on the corridor and started to haul quickly on the canvas strip that raised the vertical wooden shutters.

  He gave it one quick pull, and was about to give another, when Enrico stopped him.

  ‘‘What?’’ Clete demanded impatiently.

  Enrico gave him his El Winko Famoso, as Clete now thought of it, then showed him that if you pulled the canvas strip just a few inches, the shutter rose enough so you could see through the cracks. The message was clear. He could see out, and no one would notice an open shutter, or one being opened.

  ‘‘Gracias,’’ Clete said, and peered through a crack.

  Three cars were parked on the service road that ran past the kitchen, two 1941 Chevrolets and a car of about the same size sandwiched between them—he thought it was an Opel. The Chevrolets each held four men.

  The two officers with the briefcases got in the backseat of the Opel. For two or three minutes, nothing happened. Then a Mercedes sedan appeared on the road. Clete saw the lanky form of el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón in the backseat. It drove on the lawn to move around the three cars on the road. Then they started after it.

  Soon what was now a small convoy—a small, armed convoy, Clete thought—disappeared around the corner of the house.

  ‘‘Where are they taking that money?’’ Clete asked.

  Enrico shrugged.

  Clete thought it interesting that el Coronel Perón had assumed responsibility for the money. That fixed Perón’s place in the G.O.U. hierarchy; he was somewhere near the top.

  Enrico lowered the shutter all the way and followed Clete into the corridor.

  Peter von Wachtstein was standing by the open door to the private office.

  ‘‘Captain Lauffer said he thought you would be back here,’’ Peter said.

  ‘‘Go on in,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Don’t let anybody else in here, Enrico.’’

  He followed Peter into the study and closed the door.

  ‘‘Lauffer came looking for me,’’ Peter said. ‘‘To tell me you would be back here. What was that all about? How much does he know, in other words?’’

  ‘‘He was being a nice guy,’’ Clete said. ‘‘He knew where I was, and that I wanted to see you. He doesn’t know anything he shouldn’t, and what he suspects he will keep to himself.’’

  Peter did not seem convinced.

  ‘‘Your father’s letter is in there,’’ Clete said, pointing over his shoulder toward the safe. When Peter looked confused, Clete turned and saw that the movable section of the bookcase was back in place.

  He went to it and swung it outward.

  ‘‘You saw it?’’ Peter asked.

  ‘‘And the documents.’’

  ‘‘Then you might as well leave it where it is,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I certainly don’t have a better place to hide it.’’

  ‘‘Maybe Alicia does,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You can leave it here, of course. But . . .’’

  ‘‘I’
ll ask her,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I hadn’t thought about her.’’

  ‘‘Or Claudia may have a place,’’ Clete said as he swung the bookcase closed.

  ‘‘Claudia’s up to her ass in this coup d’état,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Half the General Staff of the Argentine Army is, or has been, at her place in the last twenty-four hours.’’

  ‘‘I don’t suppose you heard anything interesting?’’

  ‘‘Is that personal curiosity, or is the OSS interested?’’

  ‘‘Both.’’

  ‘‘I’ll tell you something I heard,’’ Peter said, meeting his eyes. ‘‘That should get your personal attention. We have a visitor. A Standartenführer—do you know what that is?’’

  Clete nodded.

  ‘‘Yesterday morning Standartenführer Goltz ordered Grüner to have your man Ettinger killed. As soon as possible. ’’

  ‘‘Who told you that?’’

  ‘‘Von Lutzenberger. You better tell your man to watch his back, Clete.’’

  I wonder if von Lutzenberger also told Martín?

  And do I tell Peter I already heard about it?

  No. I don’t know why no, but no.

  ‘‘I’m interested in this SS guy. Why is he here?’’

  ‘‘That sounds like the OSS asking,’’ Peter said.

  ‘‘You sound like you’re trying to straddle a fence, Peter, ’’ Clete said softly.

  ‘‘You have to understand, my friend, that I have this large yellow streak running down my back,’’ Peter replied. ‘‘I don’t want Goltz finding out about it, as he’s likely to do if he learns you—the Americans—are onto him, and starts wondering who could have told you. He’s SS-SD. They follow the charming Nazi philosophy that it’s better to garrote, or castrate, one hundred innocent men than have one guilty one get away.’’

  Clete didn’t reply.

  ‘‘Not only am I not used to—what’s that charming phrase in international law? ‘giving aid and comfort to the enemy?’ ’’ Peter went on, ‘‘but I don’t like the odds that Goltz will hear about it and order Grüner to have somebody cut my throat and blame it on burglars. Not only would it foul up what my father wants me to do, but I think it might hurt.’’