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

"I'm sure he does. Nestor is a good man," Donovan said. Then, suddenly and perversely unable to resist the temptation to needle Graham, he added: "Colonel Newton-Haddle thinks very highly of him."

Good God, why did 1 say that? The last thing I want to do is antagonize him!

Graham's eyes, ice cold, locked on Donovan's for a moment. Then, his eyes still cold, he flashed Donovan a gloriously insincere smile.

"What is it they say, Bill, about birds of a feather?"

Donovan laughed, hoping it sounded more genuinely hearty than it felt.

"And the explosives expert? What about his cover?"

“Frade's family is in the oil business. Howell Petroleum: Mostly in West Texas and Louisiana, but with interests in Venezuela, including one conveniently known as Howell Petroleum (Venezuela). Conveniently, it sends two or three tankers a month to Argentina. Argentina would like to buy more oil. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) is going to accommodate them. This will require the opening of in office in Buenos Aires to make sure the petroleum is not diverted. Meanwhile, the Germans are desperate for petroleum, especially for refined product, and don't seem to care what it costs. Money talks. And especially loudly in Argentina, or so I'm told. So it's credible to establish an office down there to make sure that Howell oil is consumed within Argentina. And that gives a credible cover to the Marine—his middle name is Howell—and to Pelosi, as well. He's been around enough tank farms and refineries—if only to demolish them—to look like he knows what he's doing."

Donovan nodded.

"That should work," he said. "Tell me more about your plans for the Marine vis-a-vis his father."

"That's a wild card. The boy was born there. But he was with his mother when she died in the United States. He was an infant then and stayed here. He was raised by an uncle and aunt, and later lived with his grandfather, Cletus Marcus Howell..."

"I know the name," Donovan interrupted.

"... in New Orleans. The grandfather loathes and despises the father, and very possibly has poisoned the son against him. In any event, they don't know each other. We'll just have to see what happens when they get together."

"Best case?"

"El Coronel is overcome by emotion at being united with his long-lost American son, and tilts our way, bringing the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos with him."

"Worst?"

"He hasn't been in touch with his son since he was in diapers. The child may be something el Coronel wishes never happened, and he won't be at all happy to have his son show up down there."

"But you think we should play the card?"

"Absolutely. I don't like to think about the consequences in South America if we found ourselves involved in a war against Argentina. If somebody asked me, I wish Brazil had remained neutral."

"You're talking about J. Edgar Hoover's major intelligence triumph," Donovan said.

J. Edgar Hoover, the enormously politically powerful director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, claimed sole authority for all United States intelligence and counterintelligence activity in Latin and South America. While not publicly challenging Hoover's position or authority, President Franklin Roosevelt had nonetheless authorized Donovan's OSS to operate in South America.

"You're not suggesting Hoover thinks we would be served by a war between Brazil and Argentina?'' Graham asked, surprised.

"Of course not. Whatever Edgar is, he's no fool."

"Best scenario," Graham went on, "Argentina sees the light and joins the Allies. Next best, Argentina remains neutral, leaning toward us. Next best, Argentina remains neutral, leaning the other way. Worst, Argentina gets in a war with Brazil and becomes a de facto if not de jure member of the Axis powers. Anything we can do to keep the worst scenario from coming into being seems to me to be worth the effort. The Frade father-son card isn't much, but you play what you have. Sometimes you get lucky."

"I agree," Donovan said. "But be careful, Alex," he said.

"And keep me posted. Personally, not with one of your memorandums."

"Right," Graham said. He raised his eyebrows, asking, Is that all?

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Alex," Donovan said drolly. "We really should do this more often."

Graham laughed. "The very next time I'm in town," he said, and then walked out of Donovan's office.

Chapter Three

[ONE]

The Country Club

Fairfax County, Virginia

1115 16 October 1942

The brick pillars which just over a year before had supported the country club's crest and the legend "Private Club—Members Only" remained; but the sign with the club's name had been taken down. Twenty yards down the macadam road, just barely visible from the highway, two new signs, each painted on a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood, one on each side of the road, announced that this was a U.S. Government Reservation and trespassers would be prosecuted. Eighty yards farther down the road, a guard shack had been built. On either side of the road, a twelve-foot hurricane fence, topped with coiled barbed wire, disappeared into groves of trees.

The guardhouse was manned by two men in blue, vaguely police-type uniforms. They had badges pinned to zipper jackets, and were armed with Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum revolvers.

When Graham's 1942 Plymouth station wagon came down the road, one of the guards stepped out of the shack and waved it, unnecessarily (a striped pole barrier hung across the road), to a stop. As Graham rolled down his window, the guard leaned over and looked in the car.

Graham offered the guard a small leather wallet, holding it open. It contained an identification card with a photo on it. The guard knew Graham by sight, but the security Standing Operating Procedure dictated that no one would be passed through without proper identification, not even an Assistant Director of the OSS.

"Good morning, Colonel," the guard said.

"Morning," Graham replied, then nodded his head toward Staff Sergeant David G. Ettinger, Army of the United States, who was sitting beside him. "The Sergeant is with me."

"Yes, Sir," the guard said; he didn't seem at all surprised that an Army sergeant was wearing a well-cut civilian suit. "Sergeant, may I see some identification? Dog tags?"

Ettinger, a tall, dark-eyed, sharp-featured man, with very light brown hair, reached into the pocket of his tunic and came out with a small, folding leather wallet much like the one Graham had shown the guard. The guard took it, said, "Just a moment, please," and went into the guard shack.

"I've heard about this place," Ettinger said.

There was a faint accent, but not readily identifiable. In New York City, it would go unnoticed, Graham observed when he first met Ettinger.

"From what I've heard," Graham said, "you will quickly learn to loathe it."

"I've heard that, too," Ettinger said.

"Perhaps our security here isn't as tight as we like to think," Graham said. "I'm sure it couldn't be that there are loose lips at the Counterintelligence Corps Center."

"What they told us in training was that there are loose lips everywhere, Sir," Ettinger said.

Graham smiled. In the eighteen hours since he met Ettinger, he had come to like him. He had a droll sense of humor... not unlike his own. And he quickly became convinced (good things as well as bad often come in threes) that he was right in choosing Ettinger to round out the Argentine Team. It could have gone the other way. Ettinger could have been as fluent in Spanish as Graham himself, as knowledgeable about radio as David Sarnoff himself, and wholly unsuitable for the Argentine Team.

The guard returned to the car with a clipboard and a visitor's badge: a plastic-covered, striped card hanging from a dog-tag chain.

"Sergeant, would you sign this?" the guard asked. "It's a receipt for the visitor's badge. Wear it at all times when you're on the reservation."