Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You want me to go to Claudia, is that it?”

  “Maybe later. Not yet. What I was hoping you could do is find out what’s happened to Peter.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Peter is suspected of being involved in what happened at the beach of Samborombón Bay.”

  “In still other words, he is suspected of being a traitor. Is he?”

  “Another shot to the nuts, Padre,” Clete said. “I can’t answer that.”

  “You don’t have to; the answer is in your eyes. But I don’t understand what you want me to do, what you think I could do.”

  “Don’t you have some back-channel communication with Germany? With other Jesuits in Germany? People who could ask questions and get straight answers?”

  “What questions?”

  “‘Is Peter von Wachtstein dead?’ is the most important one.”

  “You think that’s likely?”

  “I think the possibility has to be considered,” Clete said.

  “There is a much easier way to get what you want done than using my channels,” Welner said. “I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Clete said.

  “Tío Juan,” Welner said.

  “Perón? How the hell could he help?” Clete asked, and the answer came to him even before Welner replied.

  “The Germans think he’s important to them,” Welner said. “Von Deitzberg’s apology to him about your father seems proof of that.”

  “They think he’s going to be el Presidente,” Clete agreed thoughtfully. “You think they’d tell him about von Wachtstein?”

  “His interest in von Wachtstein might even…be helpful.”

  “Christ, I hate to go to him,” Clete said, and then thought of something else: “And if I do, he’ll know Peter and I—”

  “Not necessarily,” Welner replied. “You heard of Alicia’s…problem…from your wife, her dear friend. And, as your father’s son, despite the natural animosity you feel toward an enemy officer, you feel obliged to help a young woman who is like a sister to you.”

  “Jesus! You are devious, aren’t you?” He chuckled and added: “Thank God!”

  “Ignoring the blasphemy, my son, I will accept that as a compliment. Or—what is it you say—‘a left-handed compliment’?”

  “You think my Tío Juan will help?”

  “I think he will if you can force yourself to say ‘Tío Juan’ with a shade less sarcasm.”

  “When necessary, Father, I can—here’s another Americanism for you—charm the balls off a brass monkey.”

  Welner laughed.

  “And if Tío Juan can’t—or won’t—help, then what?” Clete asked.

  “I’ll do what I can, of course.”

  “And what do we do if…things have gone wrong with von Wachtstein and he won’t be coming back?”

  “There are a number of young men of good family…a suitable marriage can be arranged. Not only is she an attractive young woman, but she will ultimately own half of Estancia Santo Catalina.”

  “Jesus, that’s awful!”

  “Yes, it is,” Welner agreed. “The best thing that can be said about a marriage like that is that it’s in the best interests of the child.”

  Clete shook his head and reached for the bottle of Merlot.

  [FIVE]

  La Casa Grande

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

  Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

  1905 18 May 1943

  With a glass of Merlot in his hand, Don Cletus Frade stood at the window of the cloakroom looking through the slats of the blind at the drive where the cars of his guests would arrive for the reception. The drill, as he thought of it, was that when a car pulled up before the house, one of the servants would approach it, open the door, and lead the guests into the house and into the small sitting, which was across the foyer hall from the cloakroom.

  There they would be greeted by a reception line of women. At the head of the line would be Señora Dorotéa Mallín de Frade. Beside her would be Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano: then Señora Pamela Holworth-Talley de Mallín; and then the Señoritas Carzino-Cormano, Alicia and Isabela.

  Though Señora Beatrice Frade de Duarte naturally felt entitled to a prominent place in the reception line—she had been born and raised in the Casa Grande—it was the unspoken hope of everyone concerned that her arrival would be delayed (either inadvertently, or intentionally by her husband) until the guests had passed through the reception line and gathered in the large sitting for cocktails and Champagne.

  That was not to happen. The very first car to arrive was the black Rolls-Royce of Señor Humberto Duarte, and Beatrice was out of the backseat before the chauffeur could open his door.

  “Shit,” Clete muttered, and put his glass on the windowsill. Then he had a second thought. Beatrice’s early arrival might disturb the women—God alone knew what she would do or say in the reception line—but he needed to talk to Humberto.

  He walked onto the veranda and allowed himself to be emotionally greeted by his aunt.

  “You look so elegant, Cletus!” she cried happily. “So much like your father, may he be resting in peace with your sainted mother and all the angels.”

  Clete was wearing a tweed sports coat, a checkered shirt, a blue silk foulard, gabardine breeches, and glistening British-style riding boots. Their reception was informal, Dorotéa had announced, and the riding costume would set the proper tone.

  After examining himself in a full-length mirror in his dressing, Clete had come to two conclusions. First, he looked like the Duke of Whateverthehell about to have tea and crumpets—whatever the hell a crumpet is—with the Duchess of Windsor. The second, truth to tell, Cletus Frade, you do look pretty spiffy.

  “And you are as beautiful as ever, Beatrice,” he said. “Dorotéa’s still dressing.”

  “Then I will go to her,” Beatrice announced, and marched into the house.

  Clete and Humberto embraced with genuine affection.

  “You do, you know, look elegant,” Humberto said.

  “In Texas, we have a name for people who wear these things,” Clete said, pointing at the foulard.

  “Please don’t tell me what it is.” Humberto chuckled. “And, as you may have noticed, Cletus, you are not in Texas.”

  “Have I ever,” Clete said, and adding, “We have to talk.” He led Humberto into the cloakroom and closed the door after them.

  “Something’s wrong?” Humberto asked.

  Clete walked to a table on which sat an array of bottles and glasses. “You want wine, or something stronger?” he asked.

  “A little wine, tinto, please,” Humberto said. “I think it may be a long day.”

  Clete poured Merlot in two glasses and handed one to Humberto, then stationed himself where he could look through the slats in the blind. He glanced out, and then faced Humberto. “Alicia’s in the family way,” he said.

  “Oh, my God!” Humberto said softly. “Peter’s the father?”

  Clete nodded. “I found out a couple of hours ago.”

  “Does Claudia know?”

  “Just Dorotéa, me, now you, and in a few minutes, Juan Domingo Perón.”

  “Why him?”

  “Add Welner to the list,” Clete said. “He thinks my Tío Juan’s influence with the Germans may be helpful.”

  “Alicia went to Father Kurt?”

  “I did,” Clete said then. “Oh, shit, I forgot about them.”

  Humberto walked to the window. Four men were getting out of a 1942 Buick Super with diplomatic tags. Three of them were in the pink-and-green uniform of U.S. Army officers, all with the golden rope of military attachés hanging from the epaulets. The third man was in a somewhat
rumpled suit. Humberto recognized two of the officers and the civilian. They were Milton Leibermann, “Legal Attaché of the American Embassy”; Captain Maxwell Ashton III; and Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi. The third officer he had never seen before. “Who’s the officer?” Humberto asked.

  “I don’t know his name. He’s the new military attaché. Milton thinks I should meet him.”

  “And meet him in public,” Humberto said.

  Clete shrugged to indicate he had no idea of Leibermann’s motives.

  “You were telling me what Father Kurt had to say,” Humberto said.

  “I asked him if he could find out what’s going on with Peter von Wachtstein,” Clete said. “He suggested Perón would be useful. I told you about this von Deitzberg character bringing the apologies of the German officer corps for murdering my father….”

  “What do you think has happened to Peter?”

  “I don’t like to think about that,” Clete said. “They obviously suspect he was involved with what happened at Samborombón Bay. That’s enough to put him in front of a firing squad, without even getting into the rest of it.”

  The door opened without a knock. Clete glowered at it and then smiled. Señora Dorotéa Mallín de Frade, wearing a simple black dress and a double strand of pearls that had belonged to Clete’s grandmother, entered the room. “Tío Juan is five minutes out,” she announced.

  Enrico had stationed gauchos near the road from Pila to the estancia with orders to notify him the moment el Coronel Perón’s car appeared on the road. By galloping across the pampas, a gaucho could reach the Casa Grande at least five minutes before an automobile could do so by road.

  She walked to Humberto and kissed him. “He told you?”

  Humberto nodded.

  “You think Tío Juan will be able to help?”

  “I tend to think Father Kurt is usually right,” Humberto said.

  Dorotéa went to Clete and adjusted the foulard. “Now you look fine,” she said. “Go easy on the wine, darling.”

  Clete exhaled audibly. “I hope I can charm the sonofabitch,” he said, then added: “You haven’t said anything to Alicia?”

  “Of course not,” she said.

  She leaned upward, kissed him rather chastely on the lips, and left the room.

  Almost exactly five minutes later, the 1939 Packard 280 touring car provided by the Republic of Argentina for the use of its Minister of War rolled majestically up before the Casa Grande and stopped. The chauffeur jumped out and ran around the front, almost succeeding in reaching the rear passenger door before Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, who had been waiting on the veranda.

  The passengers in the rear seat got out. Everyone—the chauffeur, Rudolpho, Minister of War General de Division Edelmiro Farrell, Minister of Labor Coronel Juan Domingo Perón—was in civilian clothing, and the canvas roof of the enormous Packard was up; but Clete had no trouble envisioning the roof down, everybody in uniform, and Farrell and Perón standing up in the backseat, hanging on to the chrome of the rear-seat windshield and trooping the line of the Húsares de Pueyrredón.

  Rodolfo led them into the house, and a moment later, the door to the cloakroom opened. “Patrón,” Rudolpho barked, “el General Farrell and el Coronel Perón.”

  Clete walked across the cloakroom. “A sus órdenes, mi General,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Farrell spread his arms wide. “Ah, Cletus,” he said, “thank you for including me.”

  They shook hands.

  Clete turned to Perón. “Tío Juan,” he said. They embraced and went through the kissing ritual of intimate males. The touch of Perón’s mouth on Clete’s cheeks made him uncomfortable, but he forced himself to return the intimacy.

  “My boy,” Perón said, patting Cletus’s back.

  Farrell kissed Humberto’s cheeks—pro forma, Clete decided; there was no lip contact—and they each spoke the other’s Christian name.

  “What are we doing in here?” Perón asked.

  “Tío Juan,” Clete said. “With your permission, I want to introduce you and General Farrell to an old Texas custom.”

  “Which is?” Perón asked, smiling.

  “We call it ‘cutting the dust of the trail,’” Clete said.

  He led them to the table with the array of bottles. He picked up two glasses half full of whiskey, handed them to Farrell and Perón, and then picked up two more, handing one to Humberto and raising the other one. “Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,” he said.

  “I think I like your custom,” Farrell said, and drained his glass.

  “I am pleased, mi General,” Clete said.

  Perón chuckled. “And the Champagne, Cletus?” he asked, pointing at the open bottle in a cooler.

  “The dust of the trail having been cut,” Clete said, “you now can pick up the Champagne glasses and carry them into the small sitting to join the ladies. And if the ladies presume you have cut the dust of the trail with nothing stronger than Champagne…” Farrell and Perón both laughed. “On the other hand, if the dust is still thick in your throats…it is a long ride from Buenos Aires.” Clete picked up a bottle of scotch.

  “Now that you mention it, Cletus,” Perón said, holding his glass out.

  Cletus refilled his glass.

  “Does everyone get this treatment?” Farrell asked.

  “Sargento Gomez has a very short list,” Clete said, “of those he suspects have dusty throats.”

  Humberto took Farrell’s arm and led him to the window so he could see Gomez at work.

  Clete went to Perón and touched the sleeve of his dark blue double-breasted suit. “Tío Juan,” he said softly. “I have a problem. Can I talk to you about it?”

  “Of course,” Perón said. “Of course you can, Cletus. We will make the time.”

  “Thank you,” Clete said. “Perhaps now?”

  Peron looked at him and then nodded. “Edelmiro,” he said, and when Farrell turned to look at him, went on: “Why don’t you and Humberto go in to the ladies? I need a moment alone with Cletus.”

  That was an order, and he called Farrell by his first name. Colonels don’t normally call generals by their first names. I guess that establishes the pecking order, doesn’t it?

  “Of course,” Farrell said.

  When they had gone, Perón looked at Cletus.

  “I don’t know where else to go with this, Tío Juan,” Cletus said.

  “I am touched that you are coming to me, Cletus. How may I help?”

  “I learned today that Alicia Carzino-Cormano is with child,” Clete said.

  “My God! Yours?”

  You filthy-minded bastard!

  “Tío Juan, I have come to look on Alicia as a sister.”

  “Then whose?”

  “I can tell you in absolute confidence,” Clete said.

  “Of course.”

  “The father is the German officer von Wachtstein.”

  Perón took a long moment to think that over. “I was not aware they had…become so close,” he said finally.

  “The dirty sonofabitch!” Clete said. “Taking advantage of a decent girl like that.”

  Perón smiled tolerantly. “There are those, Cletus, who would say the same thing of you,” he said, and chuckled. “Your wife’s father, for example.”

  “That was different,” Clete said with what he hoped was just the proper amount of indignation and embarrassment.

  “I happen to know Major von Wachtstein better than you do, Cletus. And I can see why Alicia was attracted to him. He’s very much the same kind of young man as you. In different circumstances, I’m sure that you would become friends.”

  “With that Nazi sonofabitch?” Clete said. “Never!”

  “Major von W
achtstein is an honorable man,” Perón said. “A highly decorated officer from an ancient German family of officers. Did you know that his father is a teniente general?”

  “No, and I really don’t care.”

  “I happen to know that Teniente General von Wachtstein is an honorable man, Cletus. Just as honorable, just as decent, as your father. Blood tells, Cletus. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that when Major von Wachtstein learns of this situation—I presume he doesn’t know?”

  “According to what Alicia told Dorotéa, he doesn’t know.”

  “When he does know, I am sure that he will behave as honorably as you did when you learned the consequences—forgive me for saying this, Cletus—of allowing your lust to overcome your good sense.”

  “I wish, Tío Juan, that I shared your confidence in that bastard’s sense of honor.”

  “He is not a bastard, Cletus,” Perón said. “And I am sure that he will be as anxious as you were to ensure that the product of his indiscretion will not be a bastard either.”

  “He’s in Germany, as I guess you know. Alicia doesn’t even have an address to write to him.”

  Perón thought that over. “Does Claudia know?”

  “Not yet,” Clete said.

  “I think the thing to do about that is to say nothing to her until I have a chance to talk to Generalmajor von Deitzberg. Perhaps to Ambassador von Lutzenberger as well, but certainly to von Deitzberg. He’s a soldier, and will understand. And he is very highly placed in Germany. I’m sure he will be willing to help.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Clete said.

  And if von Deitzberg tells you to go fuck yourself, then what?

  “Do you think you could find out when the bastard’s coming back to Argentina?” Clete asked.

  “You have your father’s weaknesses as well as his strengths. He had great difficulty controlling his anger. I would be grateful if you would stop calling Major von Wachtstein a bastard.”

  “Sorry,” Clete said.

  “It’s too late to do anything about it tonight,” Perón said. “But I will call von Deitzberg tomorrow and ask him to lunch.”

  “And you really think he will be willing to help?”