Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Frade said.

  Antonio began moving items from the breakfast cart to a table, as Frade picked up a chair and carried it to the table. He sat down and watched as Antonio poured orange juice and then coffee, and then began to cut the meat from a cantaloupe.

  Frade picked up the orange juice.

  “And what are we going to wear today, mi Coronel?”

  “A suit. I have an important lunch.”

  “The double-breasted gray?”

  “That should do,” Frade said. “With one of the new shirts.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  “And for a tie?”

  “Lay several out,” Frade said.

  “Sí, mi Coronel. And the black wing tips?”

  Frade nodded.

  “The Señora asks that you call when you have time,” Antonio said. “At her home.”

  “Here? She’s in town?”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  “The Señora will have to wait. If she calls again, please tell her I will try to call her this afternoon. And while you’re on the phone, call the Centro Naval* and tell them I may require my table for luncheon.”

  “For how many guests, mi Coronel?”

  “One.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel,” Antonio said as he picked up a silver coffeepot and refilled, el Coronel’s cup. “You will require the car when, mi Coronel?”

  “My appointment is for twelve, at the Alvear Palace.”

  “Eleven-thirty, mi Coronel?”

  “A little earlier, I think. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  At ten forty-five, when el Coronel descended the wide marble staircase to the entrance foyer and looked out the window, his car was not standing before the door.

  He turned and went down a corridor into the kitchen. Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table with the housekeeper and one of the maids, drinking coffee.

  “Mi Coronel, you said eleven-thirty,” he said with reproof in his voice, as he stood up.

  “It is not a problem,” Frade said, walked past him, and passed through a door leading to the basement garage.

  Enrico was there, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, polishing the hood of the Buick station wagon. He was carrying a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster.

  “Antonio said eleven-thirty, mi Coronel,” he said.

  “Better to be early than late,” Frade said.

  “Where are we going, mi Coronel?”

  “We are not going anywhere. I will not need you this morning, Enrico.”

  “¿Mi Coronel?”

  “I am going to the Alvear Plaza, and then to the Centro Naval. And I wish to be alone.”

  Enrico was visibly unhappy with this announcement.

  “Mi Coronel…”

  “Are the keys in the Horche?”

  “Sí, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I can wait in the car.”

  “Open the doors like a good fellow, Enrico,” Frade said, and then added, “Enrico, I will be all right.”

  Enrico expressed his displeasure with Frade by showing him a stony face as he opened the door to the Horche, then went to open the garage doors. Frade started the engine, let it warm a moment, and then drove out of the garage and headed downtown.

  He decided to leave the Horche at his sister’s house on Avenue Alvear. It was only two squares from the hotel, the walk would do him good, and inside her tall fence (there is no good reason I can’t close the gates myself) it would be safe from both the idiot drivers on the street and the greasy hands of the curious. And with just a little bit of luck, she wouldn’t even know it was there.

  The Horche was important to him. He truly believed that he indulged himself in few personal luxuries; and if he was extraordinarily sensitive about his 1940 Horche droptop touring sedan, so be it. In his judgment, the Horche was the finest automobile in the world. Certainly better than the Cadillac or the Mercedes-Benz or the Rolls-Royce or the Packard, and far superior to every lesser car he had ever driven. His was one of the very last Horches to leave the factory, before the factory started to make trucks or cannon or whatever for Hitler’s military.

  It was built like a battleship would be built if Swiss watchmakers built warships. It not only handled beautifully and was powered by a smooth, very strong engine, but was beautifully furnished inside, with fine leather seats and gnarled walnut on both the dashboard and in the passenger compartment. With reasonable care, it would last not only through the war—however long that lasted—but indefinitely thereafter. He personally supervised its care, and often did the work himself.

  The problem was little things. If there was a fender-bender, he had absolutely no way to replace a bumper, a headlight ring, or one of the clever little lights that sat on the fenders and indicated (controlled by a switch on the dash) which way the driver intended to turn. There were simply no parts available in Buenos Aires.

  Therefore, it seemed entirely understandable to him that he never permitted anyone to drive it but himself, and on rare, absolutely unavoidable occasions, Enrico. First of all, he was as good a driver as he knew—fast but skillful, and thus safe. Secondly, no one else could be expected to share his full appreciation of the mechanical and aesthetic superiority of the Horche, and therefore no one else could be expected to handle the car with the respect it deserved. He had no intention of entrusting the Horche to one of the Alvear Palace Hotel’s bellmen to park.

  Leaving it at his sister’s house seemed a perfectly satisfactory solution to the problem of driving the Horche downtown to meet Cletus.

  Luck was not with him. Two of Beatrice’s servants were adjusting cobblestones in the drive, and it wasn’t until too late that he saw Beatrice herself, in a mourning-black dress, standing there watching. Or believing she was supervising.

  Her face lit up when she saw him; her eyes were at once bright and vacant.

  Mother of Christ, she’s still taking those pills! What the hell is the matter with her husband?

  “Jorge, how nice!” she said as he stepped out of the Horche.

  He walked to her and she raised her cheek to be kissed.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” he said. “All I wanted to do was use your drive to park the car.”

  “The cobblestones are washing loose,” Beatrice said, pointing. “Ricardo thinks that water is coming under the drive out of the drainpipes from the roof.”

  One of the workmen, hearing his name, looked up and smiled at Frade.

  “Buenos días, mi Coronel.”

  “Buenos días,” Frade said. “Beatrice, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a business appointment at noon.” She looked at him with empty eyes and a smile. “At the Alvear,” he added, nodding down Avenue Alvear.

  Beatrice put a hand to her bosom and lifted a lapel watch.

  Damn, she has a watch. I’m surprised she knows what day of the week it is, but she has a watch.

  “It’s eleven-fifteen,” Beatrice announced. “You have forty-five minutes. It will take you two minutes to walk to the Alvear. We have time for a coffee.”

  “It’s an important meeting. I don’t want to be late.”

  “You have time. And I have so much to tell you about the arrangements.”

  She took his arm and led him into the house, to the sitting room.

  “Ambassador von Lutzenberger has been to see Humberto—”

  “I know,” Frade interrupted her. “He called me first, and I suggested he call Humberto.”

  Alberto came into the library.

  “We will have two coffees, please, Alberto. And if there are any candied orange slices…el Coronel likes candied orange slices; he has since we were children.”

  “Sí, Señora,” Alberto said, and left.

  I don’t like candied orange slices. I haven’t liked them since I was fourteen or fifteen. Good God!

  “Ambassador von Lutzenberger told Humberto that Jorge is to be decorated, posthumously, by the German governme
nt,” Beatrice said.

  “He mentioned that to me.”

  “And—I thought it would be nice, I’m trying to work it out with Monsignor Kelly—do you know him?”

  Frade shook his head no.

  “Very nice man. He handles important ceremonies for the Archbishop.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Well, I thought it would be nice to have that ceremony—they pin the decoration to the flag, which will be covering the casket—outside Our Lady of Pilar. On the plaza, before the Archbishop celebrates the high requiem mass. Or do you think it would be better to do it after the mass, and before we take the casket to Recoleta?”

  Has it occurred to you, my poor darling, that you are talking about a decoration to be awarded in the name of a mass murderer? For political reasons, not because poor Jorge did anything valorous?

  “If you want my opinion, Beatrice, I would say that sort of decision would best be left to the Monsignor. You said his name was Kelly?”

  “Yes. Monsignor Kelly. A fine and holy man.”

  “Why don’t you tell him to do what he thinks is best?”

  “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Have I told you about the reception?”

  “No. You haven’t.”

  “I was wondering…We’ll have it here, of course. It was Jorge’s home. Getting people in and out of their cars will be a problem. Especially if it rains. Otherwise, I suppose they could park their cars by Our Lady of Pilar and walk here from Recoleta. But if it rains, that would pose a problem, of course.”

  “What were you wondering, Beatrice?”

  “Mommy’s punch bowl. Do you have it here in the city? Or is it at the estancia?”

  Mother’s punch bowl?

  It was enormous. He suddenly remembered that he and Beatrice were whipped as children after filling it with a litter of nearly grown Llewellyn setters.

  “I was thinking it would look so nice,” Beatrice explained, “filled with flowers, if we put it in the center of the foyer. We could move in one of the tables from the library and put it on that.”

  “I think it’s here,” Frade said. “If it’s not…if it’s at San Pedro y San Pablo, I’ll have it brought to you.”

  “Just the punch bowl. Not the cups.”

  “Just the punch bowl.”

  “You are always so kind to me, Jorge. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Beatrice.”

  Alberto appeared with the coffee on a silver tray, a cortado for his mistress, and a café doble for Frade.

  “Everything for the invitations is ready, except the date. We won’t know the date, of course, until the General Belgrano arrives. Humberto spoke with someone at the shipping company…”

  “L.M.A.E.,” Frade said without thinking—Líneas Marítimas de Argentina y Europa.

  “Yes,” Beatrice said, ever so genteelly letting him know she didn’t like the interruption. “L.M.A.E. The General Belgrano sailed November eighth, so it’s due here around the first of the month. In a week or so. The casket is to be brought here. Humberto wanted to put it in the library, but I said there will be so many people that we’ll have to put it in the foyer, to keep the traffic moving, so to speak. Don’t you agree?”

  If I don’t escape from here in the next thirty seconds, I am going insane!

  “Yes, Beatrice, I agree.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Beatrice, I must go.”

  “You haven’t finished your coffee.”

  “I drink too much coffee. It’s bad for my nerves. I can’t sleep.”

  “Those Brazilian cigars of yours are what keeps you awake,” Beatrice proclaimed. “I read an article…”

  “Beatrice, I’ll have the punch bowl sent over to you as soon as I can; within the next several days.”

  “And there’s one more thing,” Beatrice said.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s nobody in your house but you, so I wondered if it would be a terrible inconvenience for you to put up Captain von Wachtstein for a while, at least until the funeral is over.”

  “Captain who?”

  “Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. He is the officer bringing Jorge home. Ambassador von Lutzenberger said that he comes from a fine Pomeranian family; and that his father is a Major General. I don’t think he would be comfortable here, Jorge, and we certainly can’t put him into a hotel.”

  In that case, let the goddamned German ambassador take care of him!

  “Certainly, Beatrice. I’ll tell Señora Pellano to set up an apartment for him in Uncle Guillermo’s.”

  “The Guest House?” she asked, surprise and hurt in her voice. “Not in your house?”

  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 Palace Hotel.

  El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade did not believe in drinking during the day. A glass or two of wine with lunch was not drinking, 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 difficulties 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.

  “¿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.

  “Sí, 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?”

  “Sí, Señor. 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?