Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

Then he went back into the sitting and looked out the window onto Avenida Alvear. The off-the-street drive to the hotel was concealed from his view, and thus he couldn’t tell if Enrico had moved the Buick, but on Avenida Alvear a backed-up line of six cars was waiting to enter the hotel drive.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. Clete walked to it and pulled it open.

  Two young women were standing in the corridor, a redhead and a blonde. They were well-dressed and good-looking.

  They don’t look like whores or prostitutes. But, then, what does a whore or a prostitute, by any name, look like?

  “Won’t you please come in?” Clete said, pulling the door all the way open.

  The women walked to the center of the sitting and turned to look at him.

  “My name is Frade,” Clete said.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Señor,” the redhead said, and offered her hand. “My name is Estela Medina, and this is Eva Duarte.”

  Duarte, like Humberto? A distant cousin from the country, maybe?

  “I’m very pleased to meet you both,” Clete said.

  “May I express my most sincere condolences on your loss of your distinguished father, Señor Frade?” the blonde asked. “And be permitted to offer my best felicitations on your upcoming marriage?”

  Well, at least she gets the message I won’t be playing around.

  Unless she thinks—everybody thinks, starting with Jorge-the-concierge—that this is my farewell-to-bachelorhood party. Cigarettes, and whiskey, and wild, wild women.

  “You are very kind, Señorita…Duarte, you said?”

  “Yes. I believe I am distantly related to the family of your uncle.”

  “Is that so?” Clete replied politely. “May I offer you a glass of Champagne, ladies? And there are some hors d’ ouveres….”

  “That would be delightful,” the blonde said. “I so love Champagne.”

  “Then let me get you some,” Clete said.

  She talks funny, he thought, and then, as he unwound the wire on a bottle of Champagne, understanding came: She is trying to sound like an Argentine aristocrat by using big words. She’s trying to sound like Dorotéa or my Aunt Beatrice. Or as she thinks they talk.

  It doesn’t work. She sounds like someone from the country, who had to look up condolences and felicitations in the dictionary. There’s something sad about that.

  He poured Champagne into crystal glasses, wondering idly if they belonged to the hotel or whether, like the apartment, they were his.

  He handed glasses to the women. “Thank you for accepting my invitation on such short notice,” he said.

  Neither replied, but the redhead, Estela, asked if he wasn’t having any Champagne.

  “Of course I am,” he said, and poured himself a glass.

  “This is such an exquisite apartment,” the blonde, Eva, said. “It has such élan.”

  Does she think people swallow that phony elegance? Christ, I speak Tex-Mex Spanish, and even I can tell the difference.

  “Thank you very much, Señorita Duarte,” Clete said, and raised his glass. “To your very good health, ladies,” he said.

  They tapped glasses.

  “You are both from Buenos Aires, I take it?” Clete asked.

  I’m not good at this trying-to-be-charming business. I feel like a character in a bad high-school play.

  “I’m from Cordoba, the city of Alta Gracia. Do you know it?”

  They call a city “High Grace”?

  “I’m afraid not,” he said.

  “It was founded by the Jesuits in 1588,” she said proudly.

  “I didn’t know that,” he said. “May I inquire as to your profession, Señorita—”

  What the hell is your last name?

  “—Medina?”

  “I am in the administration division of the Banco Roberts,” she said.

  In other words, you’re a clerk.

  “How interesting,” Clete said. “And you, Señorita Eva?”

  “I am an actress,” she said.

  You’re an actress like I’m a bullfighter. Neither one of us has the talent.

  “On the stage? In the movies?”

  “Right now I’m a radio actress. On Radio Belgrano,” Eva said.

  Radio Belgrano? That rings a bell. My father had money in a radio station. Was it Radio Belgrano? Maybe I own Radio Belgrano; every time I turn around, I bump into something else that belonged to el Coronel, Incorporated. That would sure explain how she knew who I am and that I’m getting married.

  There was a knock at the door. When Clete opened it, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was standing there. “Oh, Señor Gonzales,” Clete said. “Please come in.”

  Peter walked in, took a quick look at the redhead and the blonde, and then looked at Clete.

  “Ladies, may I present Señor Pedro Gonzales, of Madrid?” Clete said. “Pedro, the ladies are Señorita Medina and Señorita Duarte.”

  Peter went to each of them and told them he was enchanted. And both of them seemed delighted that Señor Gonzales was not forty-five, bald, and overweight.

  “Can I offer you a glass of Champagne, Pedro?” Clete asked.

  “I’d like nothing better, but I’m a little pressed for time.”

  “We can talk in there,” Clete said, nodding to one of the bedrooms. “But take a glass of Champagne with you.” Clete poured a glass of Champagne, handed it to Peter, and then motioned him ahead of him into the bedroom. “Will you please excuse us, ladies?” he said. “We won’t be long.”

  He didn’t close the door. Peter looked at him as if he thought Clete was either drunk or had lost his mind, and went to the door and started to close it.

  “Leave it open,” Clete said.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here?” Peter asked.

  “If we close the door, the girls will think we’re faggots, and it will be all over Buenos Aires by morning.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Trust me. Enrico set it up. Leave the door open.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Peter said, but then the humor got to him. “What the hell, close the door. Give them something to talk about.”

  “Fuck you, Fritz!”

  “How did you set this up so quickly?”

  “I didn’t know about it, but the apartment is mine. Enrico got the concierge to get the girls—”

  “Prostitutes?”

  “No. Not quite. But with them here, no one will talk about us. Got the picture?”

  “OK,” Peter said.

  He took Clete’s arm and led him into the bathroom, leaving that door open.

  “You told me one time you felt in my debt,” he said.

  “What I said was you have a blank check,” Clete said.

  “Excuse me? Blank check?”

  “If I’ve got it, it’s yours,” Clete said. “Except, of course, for Dorotéa and my toothbrush.”

  Judging by his face, Clete sensed that Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein did not understand the humor. “What do you need, my friend?” Clete asked seriously.

  “I’m going to Germany in the morning,” Peter said. “I think I will be coming back. I don’t think I’m really under suspicion of telling you about the Océano Pacífico. They don’t think I knew beforehand, in other words.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “It may be whistling in the dark. I may not come back.”

  “You’ll be back,” Clete said. “They also need you for Phoenix.”

  “I may not come back,” Peter insisted. “That possibility is real and has to be considered.”

  “Peter,” Clete said thoughtfully, “why do you think they don’t think you knew beforehand where that boat was going to come
ashore?”

  “When Goltz was showing de Banderano—”

  “Who?”

  “The captain of the Océano Pacífico.”

  “OK.”

  “—where he was to land the boat, he made a point of giving me that information, saying something like ‘it’s time for you to know.’ De Banderano picked up on that. He told the Ambassador and Gradny-Sawz.”

  “And the guy who gave you the information? What about him?”

  “I got it from the father of an embassy driver, a man named Loche. And he didn’t know what he was giving me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did Loche have it? And he didn’t know what it was?”

  “He didn’t know about the landing. All he knew was that he had been ordered to have a truck at a certain spot. I knew why the truck was supposed to be there; he didn’t.”

  Peter looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. “OK,” he said. “That makes sense. So what do you need from me?”

  “Alicia thinks she is in love with me.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Clete said.

  “If I don’t come back, she will want to wait for me.”

  “OK.”

  “If I don’t come back in two months, I will not be coming back,” Peter said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I don’t want her to wait for something that’s not going to happen.”

  “How am I supposed to stop her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Dorotéa could help.”

  “This is all noble as hell of you, Fritz, but I think you’ll be back.”

  “I am now asking you, Cletus, for repayment of the debt you say you feel you owe me,” Peter said, very seriously.

  “You have my word, my word of honor,” Clete said, just as seriously.

  “Thank you,” Peter said, and put out his hand.

  “You’re welcome,” Clete said. “What else?”

  “What else?”

  “What else do you want?”

  “You gave me what I wanted when you gave me your word of honor,” Peter said.

  We went through this whole absurd routine just so you could tell me to tell your girlfriend to forget you?

  And it isn’t only absurd, it’s dangerous.

  And you’re no fool, you knew that it was dangerous when you called me.

  Which means (a) you’re really in love with Alicia; (b) you think there’s a very good chance you’re not coming back; and (c) you really think I’m your friend and can be trusted.

  Which means I am a prick for mocking you.

  Particularly since you are about to go In Harm’s Way and, as of about 1300 hours this date, Major Cletus H. Frade of the Marine Corps has been under a direct order to get and stay out of the fucking line of fire.

  “I will take care of Alicia for you, my friend,” Clete said, and meant it.

  Peter grasped Clete’s arms at the shoulders.

  “Watch it,” Clete said. “You don’t want the ladies to see us like that!”

  “Fuck you, Cletus!” Peter said, and smiled.

  “Now what?” Clete asked.

  “Now I go back to the dinner,” Peter said. “And in the morning, to Germany.”

  “Without seeing Alicia again?”

  “How can I see her again?”

  “Would she come here if you called her?” Clete said.

  “You mean here?”

  Clete nodded. “You could get another telephone call, and this time when you came here, she’d be here.”

  “Von Deitzberg would be suspicious,” Peter said.

  “So he follows you up here, and what does he find? A fighter pilot doing what fighter pilots do.”

  “It is not like that between us,” Peter said indignantly. “Alicia is pure.”

  “Is or was? This is me you’re talking to, Fritz.”

  “Oh, God, I want to see her before I go.”

  “You got her number? There’s the phone.”

  After Peter had given the hotel operator the number, Clete took the phone from his hand. “This is Cletus Frade. Put Señorita Alicia on the line,” he said. “And don’t go through that ‘I’ll see if she’s at home’ routine.” There was a minute’s wait. “Alicia, Clete. A friend of yours wants to see you. Be standing on the curb in front of your house in fifteen minutes. I’ll pick you up in the Buick. Just do it.” He hung up.

  “She’ll do it? Just like that?”

  “Actually no, she told me to go fuck myself. Of course she’ll do it. She trusts me. Now say good-bye to the girls and go back to your dinner. I’ll have Alicia here in thirty minutes.”

  “And now I owe you, my friend,” Peter said.

  “Pay me when you get back.”

  Peter touched Clete’s shoulder and then left the bedroom. He nodded at the blonde and the redhead, said it had been a pleasure to meet them, and quickly left the apartment.

  The blonde and the redhead looked at Clete.

  Fuck it. When all else fails, tell the truth.

  “Ladies,” he began, somewhat awkwardly, “the truth of the matter is, something has come up, and the party’s just about over.”

  “Did I in some manner offend?” Eva Duarte asked.

  “Absolutely not, my dear lady,” Clete said. “It is I who owe you both an apology.” He reached into his pocket and found two small wads of money Enrico had given him. “Please allow me to take care of your taxis,” he said, and gave them the money.

  The redhead took it, tucked it into her brassiere, and left.

  The blonde seemed reluctant to leave.

  “If you will excuse me, Señorita?” Clete said, and passed through the other bedroom into the room where Enrico waited. “How long will it take you to get the car? I told Alicia Carzino-Cormano I’d pick her up in fifteen minutes.”

  “Señorita Alicia?” Enrico asked, obviously confused.

  “Von Wachtstein is going to meet her here. I just paid off the girls.”

  “You made a little gift to your guests,” Enrico corrected him.

  “Have it your way. The car?”

  “Wait here ten minutes. I will have a word with Jorge, and then I will be in the drive.”

  “OK.”

  He left the small room by a door to the corridor. Now he had a short-barreled Browning auto-loading shotgun in his hand.

  I wonder what people in the corridor are going to think about that?

  Clete looked at his watch so that he would know when to go down to the drive, then went into the sitting room and helped himself to a straight shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  And then he saw the blonde, Eva, standing in the door to the bedroom. He smiled at her uneasily.

  “I thought you would not mind if I finished this exquisite Champagne,” she said.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “But I have to leave, myself, in just a minute.”

  “Oh, what a pity,” she said. “I would really hate to think that you do not find me attractive.”

  “I think you are very attractive, Señorita.”

  She walked up to him. “And I find you very attractive, Señor,” she said, and after brushing her fingers over his lapel, let them drop below his belt.

  He felt them lightly, but unmistakably, travel the length of his organ. Then she stepped away.

  “Do you really have to leave in the next few minutes?” she asked.

  “I really do,” he said, and walked to the door to the corridor and opened it.

  “And if you said ‘another time, Señorita,’ could I believe you?”

  “Yes, you could.”

  “But you’re not going to say it?”

  “Another time, Señorita,” Clete said.r />
  She smiled at him, then drained her Champagne glass. She walked to the door, paused just long enough to touch him again, said, “Another time, Señor,” and left.

  He closed the door, walked back to the display of whiskey bottles, and had another straight shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  [TWO]

  1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz

  Palermo, Buenos Aires

  0820 7 May 1943

  Cletus Frade was eating breakfast at a small table at the window overlooking the formal gardens in the sitting of the master suite when Antonio entered to inquire if he was at home to Padre Welner, who was on the telephone.

  What the hell does he want this time of morning?

  “I am as much at home as you can get in a museum, Antonio,” Clete said. “Put him on.”

  His breakfast—a small bife de chorizo, two fried eggs, a large glass of grapefruit juice, a glass of milk, and coffee made half as strong as the Argentine variety—had struck both the cook (when he had gone to the kitchen to order it) and the maid (who had delivered it) as another manifestation of the oddity of norteamericanos. An Argentine breakfast usually consisted of a cup of coffee and a couple of very sweet croissants.

  The look in the maid’s eyes when she laid the breakfast before him made him wonder what the boys at Fighter One on Guadalcanal were having for breakfast—if they were lucky, some rehydrated dried eggs—and how they had dressed for the occasion.

  He was wearing a red silk dressing gown that had more or less been his father’s. He had found it, still in it’s Sulka’s Rue de Castiglione Paris box, apparently forgotten since his father had returned from his last European trip in 1940.

  Antonio headed for the telephone, which was on a table against a wall.

  Clete stood up and waited for Antonio to announce that Señor Frade was at home, then took the telephone from him.

  “And how is my favorite devious Jesuit this fine morning?”

  “I am involved in my pastoral duties, Cletus, and the odd thought just struck me that you might he able to help.”

  “Exactly what did you have in mind?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where Alicia Carzino-Cormano is, would you, Cletus?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Why do I think I have just struck the bull’s-eye? Where is she, Cletus? Claudia is nearly out of her mind.”