Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Earn your money, fellows,” he said aloud.

  [NINE]

  Alicia Carzino-Cormano was delighted to see Clete walking toward their table in the lobby restaurant of the Alvear Palace. Her sister was not.

  “Well, what a pleasant coincidence,” Clete said. “Alicia. Isabela. Mi Capitán.”

  “Teniente,” Peter said, standing up, bowing, and clicking his heels. “Perhaps you would care to join us?”

  “I would hate to intrude.”

  “Nonsense,” Peter said. “I insist.”

  “Well, if you’re sure it will be no imposition,” Clete said, and pulled up a chair.

  He met Alicia’s eyes as he sat down and then winked at her. She smiled back.

  “You really should be at the Duartes’,” Isabela said.

  “Why?” Clete asked simply.

  “Jorge was your cousin. It was unseemly of you not to be there with the family.”

  “Isabela, I never met the man. I didn’t even know I had a Cousin Jorge until a couple of weeks ago.”

  “If you had been there, your father might not have gotten so drunk.”

  “Isabela!” Alicia protested.

  “Well, he is,” Isabela said. “Disgustingly drunk. Weeping drunk. Telling everyone who’ll listen it’s his fault that Jorge is dead. Making a spectacle of himself. Humiliating Mother.”

  “My father,” Clete said, coldly angry, “buried his nephew today. He loved him very much. Maybe that’s why he got drunk.”

  “He had no right to make a spectacle of himself. To humiliate my mother. Everyone important in Argentina was there.”

  Clete stared hard at her, then stood up and looked down at Peter. “I had the feeling I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Oh, Clete, you’re not leaving. Please don’t leave!” Alicia said.

  “Alicia, it’s always a pleasure to see you,” he said, and smiled at her. Then he extended a hand to Peter. “Sorry, mi Capitán,” he said.

  “Please,” Alicia pleaded. “Isabela, say you’re sorry!”

  Clete nodded at Peter and started down the corridor toward the lobby. As he reached the center of the lobby, Peter caught up with him and touched his arm.

  “Cletus, my friend, listen carefully to me. An attempt will be made on your life, probably tonight.”

  “What?” Clete asked incredulously.

  “Don’t go back to the Guest House tonight. Better yet, go to your father’s estancia.”

  Clete looked into Peter’s eyes.

  “Jesus Christ! You’re serious.”

  “On my word of honor.”

  Peter touched Clete’s arm, then turned and walked back toward the restaurant in the corridor.

  XVII

  [ONE]

  Bureau of Internal Security

  Ministry of Defense

  Edificio Libertador

  Avenida Paseo Colón

  Buenos Aires

  2230 19 December 1942

  Comandante Habanzo delivered the preliminary visual and communications surveillance reports ten minutes late, at 2210 hours. While he leafed through the five-inch-tall stack of papers, el Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martín kept Habanzo standing in front of his desk.

  He wondered if he was doing this because Habanzo was late, or because he simply did not like the man. He decided it was the latter. He had often warned his agents that it was far better to turn in a report late than to turn it in inaccurate—but obviously not often enough, to judge by the quality of the visual surveillance reports in front of him.

  The question then changed to why he disliked his deputy. First of all, obviously, because Habanzo was stupid. Stupid people did not belong in internal security. How Habanzo wound up there was one of the great mysteries of life. For a long time, he simply assumed that he never completely trusted the information Habanzo gave him because the man was so devastatingly stupid. But now vague, uncomfortable tickles in the back of his mind were suggesting other reasons as well.

  Could Habanzo be taking small gifts—or large ones, for that matter—from some interested party or other? Could he be passing items of interest to them?

  Could the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, for example, have him on their payroll? The answer came swiftly: Not likely. Habanzo’s limited mental abilities would be immediately apparent to the G.O.U. And they would be afraid of him, too; for they would see him as the loose cannon that he is. He was perfectly capable of having a sudden attack of conscience and confessing, for instance. Or of selling out to a higher bidder.

  On the other hand, in the counterintelligence business, one was expected to consider the unlikely—even the absurdly unlikely—as a possibility.

  The communications surveillance preliminary reports were typewritten. Almost all of the wiretappers came from Army and Navy Signals, where they’d been radio operators. Radio operators were trained to sit before a typewriter and almost subconsciously transcribe Morse Code signals. Now they sat before a typewriter in a basement somewhere, or in an office off the Main Telephone Frame Room in the Ministry of Communications, and pecked out a transcript of someone’s telephone calls. Aside from minor corrections, and the elimination of abbreviations, their final reports would not be much different from what Martín had in front of him.

  The visual surveillance preliminary reports were something else: They were handwritten, compiled from notes discreetly taken on site. And predictably, the syntax in these reports was often highly imaginative. More important, they were liberally sprinkled with question marks. This was done in the interest of fairness, so that El Coronel A’s words would not become a matter of official record when the agent was not absolutely positive that it was El Coronel A who spoke them, or that these were his exact words. The idea was that questionable items would be verified in the final reports: that it was not El Coronel A, but in fact El Coronel B, and that he said he was not going to Córdoba, rather than that he was going to Córdoba.

  By the time the preliminary reports were finalized, about ninety-five percent of the information verified was no longer of any interest whatever. It was a terrible system. But—as Winston Churchill said about democracy—el Teniente Coronel Martín could not think of a better one.

  Nothing in the reports before him was especially interesting. That was not surprising. Just about all of the members of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos attended el Capitán Duarte’s funeral, but they were all far too intelligent to reveal anything worth paying attention to anywhere they might be overheard.

  And though el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade solaced the loss of his nephew with a liter or so of Johnnie Walker, this did not yield useful information…unless irreverent remarks about the funeral ceremony could be considered useful.

  Visual surveillance of young Frade was a little more interesting. He did not follow the casket to Recoleta Cemetery, but instead returned to the Frade Guest House on Avenida Libertador, where two American men were waiting for him.

  One of them, Pelosi, Anthony J., was ostensibly an oil-industry technical expert who came to Argentina with young Frade. The other, Ettinger, David, was a newly arrived employee of the Banco de Boston.

  If one accepted the theory that young Frade was an OSS agent…and Habanzo is strongly convinced of this; I wonder why… then Ettinger would likely be the third member of a three-man team. But on the other hand, none of these three look like men any intelligence agency in its right mind would send anywhere.

  Which, of course, might be precisely what the OSS hopes someone like me will think.

  Martín would have liked very much to know exactly what they talked about, but that was out of the question. At the same time, Martín was sure that his decision not to install listening devices in the house was correct. Tapping a telephone was relatively simple, and difficult to detect. Listening devices were the opposite, difficult to install and easy to detect. They were also very expensive and hard to come by. He had a budget to consider. If el Coronel Frade or his son came across a listening device—and the
y more than likely would—they would simply smash it. And a good deal of money, time, and effort would go down the toilet. All a listening device would accomplish would be to remind Frade and his son that they were under surveillance.

  There was one anomaly in the reports, which of course Habanzo’s summaries offered little to explain: Shortly after young Frade met with the two other Americans, he returned to the Duarte mansion. On the way there, he stopped for a time at the lobby restaurant in the Alvear Palace Hotel. There he encountered the young German Luftwaffe officer and the two Carzino-Cormano girls.

  Habanzo did not have a man on the young German officer, pleading a shortage of available agents. And “technical difficulties” created a ten-minute loss of phone coverage at the Guest House—which meant the man tapping the Guest House line had gone either to relieve himself or to have a little snack. During that time there could possibly have been a telephone call in connection with the meeting between young Frade and the German.

  According to the visual agent’s report, young Frade suddenly left the Frade Guest House garage and then drove at “a high rate of speed” to the Alvear Palace. By the time the agent caught up with him, Frade was in a confrontation with the older of the Carzino-Cormano girls, Isabela. This was followed by an apparent confrontation with the young German officer, as Frade “walked angrily” out of the hotel.

  Since it was reasonable to presume that the young German officer was not involved with young Frade’s mission for the OSS (if indeed young Frade was actually working for the OSS), it seemed reasonably safe to presume that the confrontation had something to do with the Carzino-Cormano girl. Isabela was a beautiful young woman, and both the German and the American could easily be romantically interested in her.

  Thus, a likely scenario: Young Frade slipped away from the funeral and the post-funeral reception for a meeting with his men, then telephoned the Duarte mansion (during the period of “technical difficulties” with the telephone surveillance), somehow managed to get through, and was informed that the Señorita had left with the German officer.

  Thirty-two incoming calls came to the Duarte mansion during the afternoon; four of them asked for Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano.

  Masculine ego outraged, he went looking for them in one of the very few public places where a young woman of her position could be seen, found her with the German, expressed his displeasure, and “walked angrily” out of the hotel.

  He next went to the Duarte mansion and stayed there for several hours, presumably helping Señora Carzino-Cormano deal with his father, who was by then very deeply in his cups.

  “And where, Habanzo, is young Frade now?”

  “At the Guest House, mi Coronel.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  “And the agents on duty are prepared to deal with the situation if he suddenly erupts again from the garage and drives away at a high rate of speed? They will not, to rephrase the question, lose him again?”

  “No, mi Coronel.”

  “And may we expect further ‘technical difficulties’ with communications surveillance of the Guest House line?”

  “I have been assured, mi Coronel, that the equipment is now working perfectly. But on the other hand, mi Coronel…”

  “I don’t wish to hear about ‘on the other hand,’ Habanzo.”

  “No, mi Coronel.”

  “I want enough people on the communications surveillance, and enough visual people watching the house, so that tomorrow morning I will know if there were telephone calls to him, and what was said. And I want to know who comes to visit him.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  “And if he leaves the Guest House by car—even at a ‘high rate of speed’—I want to know where he goes, who he sees, and with a little bit of luck, what he says.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  “That will be all, Habanzo. I will see you here, with tonight’s preliminary reports, at nine in the morning. And if there is any unforeseen problem, I expect you to telephone me at my home.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel. I understand.”

  “I devoutly hope so, Habanzo.”

  [TWO]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires

  0015 20 December 1942

  “I wonder,” Clete Howell said aloud as he pulled off the avenue onto the driveway and stopped, “if I can get this big sonofabitch through that narrow gate.”

  He was driving his father’s Horche, with Señora Pellano sitting next to him. He had the Horche because he took his father home from the Duartes’ in it, and he needed a way back to the Guest House.

  An hour earlier, though he seemed to have passed out for the evening in a leather armchair in the Duartes’ upstairs sitting room, El Coronel suddenly stood up and announced that he was tired and going home.

  “You are not going to drive,” Señora Carzino-Cormano said. “You’re drunk.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Dad, you’ve had a couple,” Clete said.

  “He’s had a liter!” Señora Carzino-Cormano said.

  “I have never been drunk in my life.”

  “It is a pity, Jorge,” Señora 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 accompanied 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 Señora 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 Señora Pellano. And he was asleep by the time they reached the big house on Avenida Coronel Díaz. With Señora 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 Señora 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.

  “Señor Clete?” Señora 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, Señor Clete?” she asked as they entered the house through the kitchen. “Perhaps a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Señora Pellano. I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am positive.”

  “Señor 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 Río de la Plata. Señora 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, cushioned 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 Señora 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 I 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 removed the clip, emptied and reloaded it, dry-fired the pistol, satisfied himself that it was functioning properly, and then reinserted the clip and worked the action, chambering a round.