Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “El Patron and I will be there directly,” Beth told her in Spanish, then smiled knowingly at Clete.

  “It’s easy to get used to,” he said, and then waved her ahead of him out of the room.

  He followed her down the corridor to the dining room, where everyone was seated at the table. Dorotéa was sitting at its foot—as she had at dinner—which meant, Clete thought, that as far as she was concerned she was already playing the role of La Patróna. It pleased him.

  “Good morning, Cletus,” Dorotéa said sweetly. “Did you sleep well?”

  God, she’s beautiful!

  “Actually, no,” he said seriously. “One thing and another kept me up most of the night.”

  “Perhaps your conscience was bothering you, darling,” she replied without missing a beat.

  “And how did you sleep, Dorotéa?” Beth asked innocently.

  “Well, there was nothing on my conscience, so I slept like a baby,” Dorotéa replied.

  She picked up a small silver bell by her plate and rang it. Two maids immediately came out of the kitchen and started serving breakfast.

  [THREE]

  Control Tower

  El Palomar Airfield

  Buenos Aires

  1435 2 May 1943

  “Mi Coronel…” the senior control operator said, and when he had Coronel Bernardo Martín’s attention, pointed his index finger toward the sky.

  Martín picked up a set of earphones and put them on. He was in uniform because a colonel’s uniform would be more useful than his Bureau of Internal Security credentials for what he wanted to do now.

  “El Palomar Tower, this is Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three.”

  Despite the slight static and clipped frequency of the control tower’s radio, the voice was easily recognizable as Cletus Frade’s.

  Martín looked at the control tower operator, who was doing absolutely nothing. Martín gestured impatiently for him to get on with it.

  The operator picked up his microphone. “Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three, El Palomar, go ahead.”

  “Four Three is at 2,500 meters, indicating 250 knots—correction, 400 kilometers—per hour, approximately sixty kilometers due north of your station. Request approach and landing instructions. Over.”

  Four hundred kilometers per hour? My God, that’s fast!

  He did the arithmetic: Four hundred kilometers an hour was six point six six six forever kilometers a minute. At that speed, it will take him nine minutes to fly sixty kilometers. I just got here in time.

  “Mi Coronel?” the control tower operator asked.

  “Give him what he wants, por favor, Señor,” Martín said politely, and added mentally, You idiot!

  “Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three, El Palomar. Permission to approach El Palomar on present course is granted. Descend to one thousand meters. Report when twenty kilometers from the field.”

  “El Palomar Four Three. Understand and will comply. Beginning descent at this time.”

  Four minutes later, Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three called again.

  “El Palomar, Four Three. At one thousand meters. Due north. Indicating four hundred kilometers. Estimate maybe 25 kilometers from your station.”

  This time Martín was waiting for the control-tower operator to ask for instructions.

  “Do whatever you have to do to have him land,” he ordered.

  “Sí, mi Coronel,” the control-tower operator said, and picked up his microphone. “Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three, El Palomar.”

  “Four Three, go ahead.”

  “You are cleared to land on Runway One Eight. There is no other traffic. The winds are from the south at fifteen kilometers. Report when you have airfield in sight.”

  “Understand, One Eight. South at fifteen. I have the airfield in sight. I will require customs and immigration.”

  Again, Martín was waiting for the control-tower operator’s request for orders.

  “Inform the appropriate customs and immigration officials,” he said, “and thank you for your courtesy, señor.”

  “It is nothing, mi Coronel.”

  Martín quickly went down the steep and narrow stairs from the control tower and walked toward the customs and immigration area. He was nearly there when, looking northward toward the Rio Plate, he saw the Lodestar making its approach to the field.

  He stopped to watch it land.

  The wheels came out of their wells. The airplane moved slightly to the right to precisely line up with the runway, and then it gracefully touched down, the tires giving off an audible squeal and puffs of smoke when they encountered the runway.

  It’s a beautiful machine. I’m glad I came to see this.

  He resumed walking as the Lockheed rolled to the far end of the runway.

  The day before, he had been informed that the Lodestar had taken off from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo an hour and a half after the event. The report would have come immediately, Benito Letieri had assured him nervously, if the telephone line hadn’t gone out.

  Benito had also related that Señor Frade’s two sisters were aboard, as were Señorita Mallín and Señor Duarte, but no one else, Benito seemed to think. His information was that they were bound for Uruguay.

  Martín had immediately called El Palomar, not at all surprised to hear that the Lockheed had cleared customs and immigration and taken off ten minutes earlier with the announced destination of Carrasco airfield, outside Montevideo.

  By the time Martín could get through to his man in Montevideo, it was of course too late for him to reach the airport when the Lockheed landed; but he had ordered him out there anyway, with orders to ask questions and immediately report the answers. And also to stay there, around the clock if necessary, to report the departure of the Lockheed.

  Martín thought, more admiringly than angrily, that whatever the purpose of his flight, Cletus Frade had gotten away with it. It was of course entirely possible that the flight was wholly innocent, and that the telephone line going down so conveniently was Cletus Frade tweaking his tail.

  But it was also highly possible—Cletus Frade not being the amateur intelligence officer he’d once assumed—that Frade had wanted to see if the people he knew were watching him at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo could communicate with Buenos Aires by another means besides the telephone.

  If I had had my people at El Palomar when he landed the first time, he would have known that I had another telephone line, or a radio, out there. And I suspect that if my men had gone over that airplane with a fine-toothed comb, they would have found nothing at all illegal.

  His man in Uruguay had called several hours later to report that the plane had been met by the managers of Frade’s Uruguayan estancias and by the Managing Director of the Bank of the Río Plate. Frade and Señor Duarte had gone off to an unknown destination with the banker and the managers, and the young ladies had gone off in another car.

  And then today, when his man in Montevideo had called to report that Frade was in the process of clearing customs and immigration and about to take off for El Palomar, Martín had decided that the facts clearly indicated that the trip was as innocent as it appeared…or else Frade had succeeded in doing whatever he’d wanted to do.

  Under ordinary circumstances, he would have simply sent one of his men to El Palomar to see what he could find out. If the clever fellow had succeeded in putting one over on him, he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing him there. But under these circumstances—he would have to report the flight to General Obregon—he decided the best thing to do was go. He did not want General Obregon to think he was not doing all he could to keep an eye on Frade.

  When he reached the airfield, he toyed briefly with having a word with the customs people to take a close look at the aircraft, but decided that it wouldn’t be neces
sary. When they saw him in uniform, they would be inspired to show how dedicated they were to their duty.

  The Lockheed was now taxiing up the taxiway parallel to the runway. Martín could not see Frade, but he could see the copilot, over whose long blond hair were cocked a set of earphones.

  I wonder how much the beautiful Señorita Mallín knows about what he’s doing? Or how much, if anything, she will learn as Señora Frade?

  With a roar of its engines and a blast of air from its propellers (which blew Martín’s uniform cap off his head), the Lodestar turned and stopped in the customs area.

  When he had chased down his hat and turned back to the airplane, he saw Frade in the pilot’s seat. Frade waved cheerfully, smiling in obvious amusement about the blown-off hat. Coronel Martín saluted.

  A somewhat battered 1938 Ford station wagon drove up to the airplane, bearing customs and immigration officers. They did not seem at all surprised to see him, which meant that the man in the control tower had not only called them, but told them that a colonel of the Bureau of Internal Security was showing great interest in the aircraft.

  The customs and immigration officials saluted him, wordlessly asking for instructions. He returned the salute but said nothing.

  The engines died, and a moment later the door in the fuselage opened. Frade was the first person out. “Buenas tardes, mi Coronel,” he said cheerfully. “How nice to see you. Just happened to be at the airfield, right?”

  “A pleasant happenstance, Mayor Frade.”

  “Oh, really? When I saw you chasing your hat into the grass, I thought perhaps a little bird had told you we were coming.”

  “A ‘little bird’?”

  “A little bird in Uruguay. A man at Carrasco was fascinated with the airplane, and when I looked at him, I had the strangest feeling that you might know each other.”

  “Oh, I think your imagination is running away with you, my friend. Argentina would never station an intelligence officer on someone else’s soil.”

  Clete chuckled, and Martín smiled at him. “Did you have a nice flight?”

  “Lovely, thank you,” Clete said.

  “That’s really a fine airplane. I’ve only seen it before at a distance.”

  “I’d be happy to show it you.”

  “I’d like that,” Martín said.

  Humberto Duarte was the next to step out of the airplane, followed by Dorotéa Mallín and Beth and Marjorie Howell, and finally by Enrico Rodríguez.

  “How nice to see you, Señor Duarte,” Martín said.

  “What an unexpected pleasure, Coronel,” Humberto said.

  “Do you know my fiancée, Colonel? And my cousins?”

  “I have not had the pleasure, but I know of Señorita Mallín by reputation.”

  “And what reputation would that be?”

  “As one of Argentina’s most lovely women.”

  “You are too kind, Coronel,” Dorotéa said.

  “And these are my cousins, Miss Marjorie and Miss Elizabeth Howell. Beth, Marj, this is Coronel Alejandro Martín.”

  “I am enchanted, ladies. Argentina is enriched by your beauty.”

  “I think I like you, Colonel,” Beth said, giving him her hand.

  “In that case, I am enchanted and delighted.”

  “Are you a friend of Clete’s?” Beth asked.

  “I like to think so,” Martín said. “And while I have the opportunity, Señorita Mallín, may I offer my very best wishes for your upcoming marriage?”

  “And what little bird told you about that?” Clete asked.

  “My wife’s sister, actually. She works in the office of the Cardinal Archbishop. It will take place next Saturday, correct?”

  “And we look forward to seeing you there, don’t we, darling?” Clete said. “You and Señora Martín.”

  “Absolutely,” Dorotéa said without hesitation.

  “I accept with great pleasure.”

  “The invitations will go out on Monday,” Dorotéa said. “It will be at El Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”

  “So I understand,” Martín said.

  “Your sister-in-law told you that too?” Clete asked. “Just out of personal curiosity, Bernardo, who does she work for, you or the Archbishop?”

  “I think she is what people in the intelligence business refer to as an informal but usually reliable source of information,” Martín said.

  “I suppose people like that can be very useful,” Clete said, “to someone in the intelligence business.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.”

  “Mi Coronel,” the customs officer interrupted hesitantly. “With your permission, Señor, may we proceed with the inspection of the aircraft and the luggage?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Martín said. “Señor Frade and Señor Duarte are prominent citizens of our country. I can’t image that they would try to smuggle anything into Argentina. Or, for that matter, out of Argentina. You may have your records indicate that I waived the customs inspection. If you will have someone stamp their passports, they can be on their way.”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “That’s very good of you, Bernardo.”

  “It’s nothing, Cletus. What are friends for?”

  “But you would like a tour of the airplane?”

  “I would very much like to see the inside.”

  Clete waved him onto the Lodestar.

  Twenty minutes later, Martín watched the Lodestar lift off, genuinely impressed both with the technology it represented—four hundred kilometers in one hour! And it isn’t a fighter plane, which you expect to be very fast, but a transport, with leather-upholstered seats for fourteen people!—and with the pilot—Gonzalo Delgano says that two highly skilled pilots are needed to operate it, and here Frade is casually flying it by himself.

  He considered leaving instructions with the airport commander that the Lodestar was never again to be cleared for departure without his being notified beforehand, but decided against it.

  It would be a waste of time and effort.

  Cletus Frade would expect him to do something like that, and if he decided in the future to use the aircraft for anything illegal, he wouldn’t bother to clear customs and immigration beforehand.

  [FOUR]

  Estancia Santo Catalina

  Near Pila

  Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1645 2 May 1943

  I am not buzzing Estancia Santo Catalina with this great big sonofabitch, Cletus Frade told himself. All I am doing is making a very low, very slow approach to my airstrip.

  It wasn’t very low, actually, about 500 feet over the roof of the main house, but it wasn’t very slow, either. The Dash One said the Lodestar would stall at about 75 knots. Since he hadn’t had the opportunity to stall the Lodestar yet, the safe thing to do was perform a maneuver like this at three times stall speed, which translated to approximately 230 knots.

  Only two people sitting in the gazebo near the main house smiled when the Lodestar flashed overhead with a deafening roar and even perhaps a little propeller wash.

  Claudia Carzino-Cormano wasn’t sure later whether the tall flower vase had been knocked over by wind from the airplane, or whether Señor Enrico Mallín had jarred the heavy table as he jumped to his feet and cried, “Holy Mother of Christ!”

  Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, who was at the gazebo to make his manners to his hostess for her weekend hospitality, smiled. Buzzing unsuspecting natives is something that fighter pilots do, although rarely in a twin-engine transport.

  And Mrs. Martha Howell smiled, too, not sure later whether she had forgotten her manners because of memories of her husband and Clete buzzing Big Foot Ranch, or because the look of absolute terr
or on the face of Enrico Mallín was the funniest thing that had happened all day.

  “He’s out of his mind!” Enrico Mallín proclaimed, redfaced. “Dorotéa is on that airplane!”

  “I would say he’s exuberant, Enrico,” Martha said, coming to Clete’s defense. “He’s actually a very good pilot.”

  “He shot down seven Japanese planes, you know,” the Old Man said, looking at von Wachtstein.

  “Did he really?” Peter replied politely. Countering that he had shot down thirty-two himself, including six Americans, would have been really bad form. And he liked the Old Man. In many ways he was like his father, with a definite opinion about everything.

  “Yes, he did,” the Old Man drove the point home.

  “Well, at least we know they’re back,” Pamela Mallín said. “Which means we can go fetch her.”

  “I’ll send someone over in a car. Or Cletus can bring her,” Claudia said.

  “Oh, no,” Enrico said firmly. “Thank you very much, but we’d rather, wouldn’t we, Pamela?”

  The good-byes and expressions of mutual gratitude took almost twenty minutes, and Enrico Mallín’s Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe had just reached the road paralleling the Estancia Santo Catalina landing strip when the Feiseler Storch flashed overhead.

  Enrico Mallín looked at his wife across Little Enrico—a slender fifteen-year-old who had inherited his mother’s blond hair and soft, pale complexion. “Peter’s going to be at the wedding, is he?”

  “You know how Beatrice feels about him,” Pamela said.

  You mean I know how crazy she is.

  “That isn’t going to cause problems with Cletus?” Enrico asked.

  “Both of them are aware they are in a neutral country,” Pamela said. “And will behave accordingly.”

  “The Germans killed Jorge Frade,” Mallín said.

  “I’m sure Major von Wachtstein had nothing to do with that,” Pamela said. “And I know Cletus doesn’t hold him responsible, either.”

  “Forgive me for saying this, darling, but has it ever occurred to you how much better off everyone would be if neither the Germans nor the Americans were here?”