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

"I believe it ends, 'into the valley of death,' mi Comandante," Clete said.

"I don't like this conversation at all," Alicia said.

"Neither do I," the Princess said.

"This is a friendly conversation, with literary overtones, between friends. Isn't that right, Se?or Frade?"

"Absolutely, mi Comandante."

"If you're friends," the Princess said with surprising firmness, "then you should stop that ridiculous 'mi Comandante' and 'Se?or Frade' business."

"Princess, there is nothing that makes a brand-new comandante happier than to hear himself called 'Comandante,' " Clete said, laughing.

Alicia gave him a dirty look. Peter laughed.

"We have a saying in the Luftwaffe that there is nothing faster than a brand-new Unterfeldwebel—I think you say 'Corporal'— rushing to his first noncommissioned officers' meeting," Peter said. "But may I suggest we indulge the ladies? May I call you 'Cletus'?"

"You may call me 'Clete,' my friend. It's 'Hans-Peter,' right? Do I call you 'Hans' or 'Peter'?"

"Peter, if you please," von Wachtstein said.

"Tell me, Peter," Clete asked mischievously, "when you were a little boy, did they call you 'Hansel'?"

"Hansel?" the Princess asked.

"As in Hansel and Gretel," Clete explained. "The fairy tale."

"Oh, yes," the Princess said. "Of course."

"Yes, they did," Peter said. "My parents called me Hansel until... I guess until I went off to the university. And sometimes afterward."

There was something in his tone, something artificially bright, that made Clete look at him. And then he saw that his eyes were very thoughtful. Sadly thoughtful.

Well, what the hell. He's a long way from home, too, and it's the day after Christmas. And home for him is not somewhere safe like the States. We 're bombing hell out of Germany.

"Clete," Peter said, "before I forget it. I don't want to bore the ladies with business, but I need a service, a favor. Could I call on you?"

"I owe you," Clete said. "You've got a blank check, Peter."

"Excuse me?"

"You name it, you've got it, my friend."

"Thank you," Peter said. "I understand."

The Princess's hand patted Clete's leg under the table.

"That's much nicer," she said. "Thank you."

If she doesn't take that hand away, I'm going to get a hard-on to end all hard-ons.

She didn't, and he did. And she moved her hand so there could be absolutely no doubt in his mind that she was aware of his physiological transformation and had a possessive interest in it.

He looked at her face. Total innocence.

"What are you thinking, Clete?" the Princess asked.

"I was thinking we should drink to Peter's promotion," Clete

said.

"Oh, yes," the Princess said, and after sort of a farewell squeeze, removed her hand from beneath the table and picked up her champagne glass.

[SIX]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenue Cordoba

Buenos Aires. Argentina

1630 26 December 1942

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein took a long, effusive time to thank Se?or Cletus H. Frade and the ladies for the pleasure of their company at luncheon.

He's doing that,Clete reasoned, so he will be seen. I wonder what the hell kind of a favor he wants? Or whether he is the one who wants the favor, or his Colonel, with some scenario a la Graham and company in mind?

"And we will be in touch soon, Se?or Frade?"

"Like I said, Hansel, anything but my toothbrush or my girl."

"You should stop calling him that," Alicia protested. "He is not a child."

"My friends can call me Hansel," Peter said. "You may call me Hansel, Alicia, if you like."

"All right," Alicia said. "I think I will. I like 'Hansel.' "

Peter shook Clete's hand a second time, then walked through the gate in the fence onto the embassy grounds. A large, brilliant red flag with the Nazi swastika hung limply from a flagpole on the lawn.

"Can we drop you at my father's place, Alicia?" Clete asked, turning to face her in the backseat. "Please," she said.

"This is not the way to your house," the Princess accused ten minutes later, somewhat indignantly turning on the seat of the Buick to look at him.

"This is the way to your house," Clete said.

"We are not going to your house?"

"No."

"I have somehow offended you?"

"I have some stuff to do."

"I thought you would like my little caress," the Princess said. "All the boys here beg me to do that to them."

"And do you?"

"All the time," she said. "But I will never do it again to you if you don't like it. And besides, we can't go to my house. Mother thinks I am having luncheon and then bridge at the Belgrano Athletic Club. I can't go home before eight-thirty."

"What if your mother finds out you were with me?"

"Mother would understand, I think," she said. "My father. .."

"He will find out," Clete said. "Then what?"

"I'll tell him we are in love," she said. "But I would rather not face that today. Is there some reason I can't wait at your house, while you do—what was it you said—your 'stuff?"

"Why don't I drop you at the Belgrano Club?"

"If you did that, my parents would hear about it within the hour. You'll have to think of something else."

I already have. I put you in a taxi and send you to the Club. That would solve the problem neatly.

What the hell. There's nobody in the house.

You're thinking with your dick, pal.

You look for the first taxi and put her in it.

"My father's having you, your whole family, to dinner on Tuesday," he said.

The Princess shrugged.

"I didn't say I didn't like it," he said. "Jesus, I loved it."

The Princess shrugged again.

"If you liked it, we would be going to your house."

The Buick entered a wide, sweeping, tires-screaming U-turn.

"If you think I am going to move next to you and do it now, you are mistaken."

"How about when we get to the house?"

"Perhaps," the Princess said. "Perhaps not."

She resolved her indecision in the affirmative the moment they were in the basement garage of Granduncle Guillermo's house.

First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, was therefore in an understandable state of excitement when—his arm around the Princess, her arm around him, his face smeared with her lipstick—he walked into the kitchen and found Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, in full dress-white uniform, gold hash marks from sleeve cuff to elbow, gleaming, full-sized medals dangling from his breast, sitting at the table drinking a beer with Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired; Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, USAR; and Staff Sergeant David G. Ettinger, AUS, all of whom were in civilian clothing.

"We got a problem, Mr. Frade," Chief Schultz said. "Dave here, it turns out, can't take code worth a shit. And Chief Daniels, the Ordnanceman, says Mr. Pelosi's going to blow hisself up if he tries to take apart an illuminating round by hisself."

"What is he talking about?" the Princess asked. "Darling, who are these people?"

"Jesus, Mr. Frade, I didn't think she'd speak English," Chief Schultz said, sounding genuinely contrite.

"You didn't see the lady, understand?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"I'll be with you in a minute," Clete said.

"Take your time, Mr. Frade," Chief Schultz said understandingly.

Clete led the Princess from the dining room to the foyer. As he boarded the elevator, he heard Chief Schultz's somewhat gravelly voice pass on a bit of Naval lore to Lieutenant Pelosi and Staff Sergeant Ettinger.

"Them Marines are all like that. They don't let nothing get between them and their squeezes. Not a goddamn thing."

He had, Clete thought, a certain touch of admiration in his voice.

Chapter Twenty

[ONE]

4730 Avenida Libertador