Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

What the hell is he talking about?

"I don't consider myself any kind of a hero, Sir."

"In my experience, few bona fide heroes do," Graham said matter-of-factly, meeting his eyes. "What it is, Frade—why I asked you to hold off on the whiskey—is that I wanted to have a talk with you, to ask you a couple of important questions. And I wanted you to be sober when I did."

"A talk about what, Sir?"

"Let me ask the important question first, to save your time and mine," Graham said. "Would you be willing to undertake a mission involving great personal risk?"

"Excuse me?"

"The nature of which I am not at liberty to discuss right now," Graham went on, "beyond saying that it's outside the continental limits of the United States and is considered of great importance to the war effort."

This man is absolutely serious. What the hell is this all about?

"Colonel, Sir, with respect, I have no idea what you're asking of me."

"Then I'll repeat the question: Are you willing to undertake a mission involving great personal risk outside the continental limits of the United States?"

He didn't say "overseas." He said "outside the continental limits of the United States.''

Oh!

"Has this something to do with my father?" Clete asked.

"You weren't listening, Lieutenant," Graham said. "I said I was not at liberty to discuss the nature of this operation."

Sure, it has to do with my father. I could see that in your face, and the only possible thing about me that would interest an intelligence type like you is my father— and that's certainly what you are, Colonel, an intelligence type. And Argentina is "outside the continental limits of the United States,' as opposed to 'overseas.'

"Colonel, are you aware that I hardly know my father, that I wouldn't recognize him if he walked into this room?"

"Yes, I am," Graham said. "But that's the last question on that subject I'm going to answer. Or let you ask."

"Until I volunteer for this mission of yours, you mean?"

Graham nodded.

"Colonel, I just got home from Guadalcanal."

Graham nodded. "I told you, I arranged that. To save me a trip over there to have this conversation."

"This— mission.It's that important?"

Graham nodded, then said, "It's that important."

"Do I have to decide right now?"

"That would make things more convenient for both of us."

"And what if I say yes now, hear what you have to say, and then change my mind?"

"I wondered if that possibility would occur to you. The answer, frankly, is that there's really nothing I can do but appeal to your patriotism."

"Isn't patriotism supposed to be the last refuge of the scoundrel?" Clete asked, smiling.

"I've heard that said," Graham replied, smiling back at him. "I'm not sure if I believe it. I'm an Aggie—just as you were once, for a while. We Aggies take words like 'patriotism' and 'honor' seriously." (An Aggie is an alumnus of the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical Institute.)

"At least some of us do," Clete said. He met Graham's eyes for a moment, then said, evenly, "OK."

Graham nodded, then walked to the chest of drawers and laid his briefcase on it. He opened the briefcase, took out a form, closed the briefcase, laid the form on it, then took a fountain pen from his shirt pocket and extended it to Frade.

"Would you please sign this?"

Clete walked to the chest of drawers, then bent over Graham's briefcase and read the form.

SECRET

The United States of America

Office of Strategic Services

Washington, D.C.

Acknowledgment of Penalties Provided by the United

States Code for the Unauthorized Disclosure of National

Security Information

The undersigned acknowledges that the unauthorized disclosure of any information made available to him by any officer of the Office of Strategic Services will result in his prosecution under applicable provisions of the United States Code (including, where applicable. The Rules for the Governance of the Naval Services and/or The Manual For Courts-Martial, 1917) and that the penalties provided by law provide on conviction for the death penalty, or such other punishment as the court may decide.

Cletus Howell Frade

Executed at Los Angeles, California,

this 12th day of October 1942

Witness: :

A.F. Graham Colonel, USMCR

SECRET

He knew I was going to sign this, didn't he? My name and the date are already typed in on the form,Clete thought, and then, This is a little melodramatic, isn't it? And then, What the hell is the Office of Strategic Services?

After a moment's hesitation, he asked that aloud.

"What's the Office of Strategic Services?"

"Sign that, Lieutenant, or don't sign it," Graham said, and now there was a tone of annoyance in his voice. "Make up your mind."

Clete scrawled his name on the form. Graham retrieved the form and his pen and signed his name as witness, then put the form into his briefcase.

"OK, Lieutenant Frade, now you can ask questions," he said.

"What is the Office of Strategic Services?"

"An agency of the federal government which reports directly to the President. It performs what are somewhat euphemistically known as strategic services for the government."

"In other words, you're not going to tell me."

"You will be told what you have the need to know."

"What does the Office of Strategic Services want from me?"

"As you guessed, it wants you to go to Argentina. You will command a three-man team with the mission of taking out a merchant vessel—a merchant vessel of a neutral country, which we have determined is replenishing German submarines operating off the coast of South America. These submarines are doing considerable damage to shipping down there. We have to lessen that. But additionally, if you can find the time, we'd like you to dream up other ways to make things difficult for the Germans, the Italians, and the Japanese in Argentina."

"I don't know anything about... sabotage... that sort of thing."

"The other members of your team do," Graham interrupted.

"So the only reason I can think of that you want me for something like this is because of my father. You know my father is an Argentine ... Argentinean, right?"

"Of course. And you're right."

"Did you hear what I said a minute ago, that I wouldn't recognize my father if he walked into this room?"

"We know that too. Actually, we know more about you, Frade, than you probably know yourself. For example, are you aware that you hold Argentine citizenship?"

"I've always been told that Americans can't hold dual citizenship."

"So far as our government is concerned, we can't. So far as the Argentine government is concerned, you were born there, therefore you are an Argentine citizen."

"I haven't been there since I was an infant," Clete said.

"Yes, we know," Colonel Graham said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

He turned to his briefcase and came out with a five-by-seven-inch photograph and handed it to Clete.

“El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade,” Graham said, pronouncing it "Frah-day." "He looks rather like you, or vice versa, wouldn't you say?"

Clete examined the photograph. It showed a tall, solid-looking man with a full mustache. He was wearing a rather ornate, somewhat Germanic uniform, and stepping into the backseat of an open Mercedes-Benz sedan. In the background, against a row of Doric columns, was a rank of soldiers armed with rifles standing at what the Marine Corps would call "Parade Rest." Their uniforms, too, looked Germanic, and they were wearing German helmets.

Christ, he does look like me. Or, as Colonel Graham puts it, vice versa.

Well, it looks as if I will finally get to meet my father.

Do I want to? I don't feel a thing looking at this picture. He's a stranger. And he certainly has made it pretty goddamned plain that he doesn't give a damn for me. I'm the result of a youthful indiscretion, as far as he's concerned. Maybe, probably, even an embarrassment.