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

A moment later, one of the other servants appeared, this one in an apron. He was armed with an enormous key for the enormous padlock.

His name is Roberto...Ricardo... and he is Alberto's nephew, Frade remembered. Or a second cousin, something like that.

Between the two of them, they got the gates open, and Frade drove inside.

When he left the car, Alberto was standing there.

"My apologies, mi Coronel," he said. "We did not know you were coming, and we are not receiving."

"It's all right," Frade said. "My sister is at home?"

"I have told the Se?ora you are here. You will be received in the library, mi Coronel."

Frade walked into the house. There was a huge foyer, furnished with heavy, leather-upholstered furniture, tables along the walls, and a fountain, not presently in use, in the center. The floor was marble.

He walked into the library, which was carpeted and quite dark. Alberto followed him in, turning on lights and opening the curtains on two windows which looked out onto the garden.

"May I take your hat, mi Coronel?" Alberto asked. "And may I bring you something?"

Frade handed him the hat.

"I would like a drink," he said. "I know where it is. Would you get me some ice? And some agua mineral con gas?"

While Alberto left to fetch ice and soda water, Frade went to what appeared to be—and had once been—an ancient chest of drawers and tugged on one of the pulls. The entire front opened to him, after which he slid out a tray that held half a dozen bottles of spirits and as many large, squat crystal glasses. He took a bottle of Dewar's scotch and poured three fingers' worth in a glass.

He looked at it a moment, then took a healthy swallow, grimacing slightly as the whiskey passed down his throat. Then he refilled the glass to a depth of two fingers and waited for Alberto to bring the ice and soda.

When his sister and her husband walked into the library, he was sitting in a chair apparently taking his first sip of a drink. No one spoke. He rose as Beatrice came toward him, took two steps toward her, and kissed her on the cheek. A real kiss—he could taste her face powder.

Beatrice is still a handsome woman,Frade thought. She looks ghastly right now, but even so, she seems much younger than Humberto... and they are what? Forty-six. Beatrice is actually six months older than Humberto, now that I think about it.

"People mean well," Humberto Valdez Duarte, his brother-in-law, a tall, slender man, said as he put out his hand. "But they— we closed the gate, hoping they would think we were gone away, or take the suggestion that we are not receiving."

"I understand," Frade said.

"What is that you're drinking, Jorge?" Beatrice asked, then went on without giving him a chance to reply. "Will you have something to eat?"

"The scotch is fine, thank you," he said.

"We went to eight o'clock mass," Beatrice said.

"Did you?"

"At Our Lady of Pilar," (The Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar (completed 1732), on Recoleta Square, is considered to be the most beautiful church in Buenos Aires. It is adjacent to the Recoleta Cemetery, which dates to 1822 and contains the remains of the most prominent Argentine families, interred in magnificent marble tombs (many of these tombs have as many as five subterranean levels, each holding three levels of caskets on open shelves, access to which is by stairways leading down from the ground floor). Humberto said, evenly, but looking at Frade.

Christ, I know what's coming.

"And then afterward, we went to Recoleta," Beatrice went on.

There is a dreamy quality to her voice, and to the way she behaves. I hope to God she doesn't become addicted to whatever she's taking.

"We visited the Duarte tomb," Beatrice went on, "and of course ours. I left flowers on Mommy's casket and Daddy's."

"I haven't been there in almost a year," Frade said, thinking aloud.

"Humberto said I shouldn't ask you, because you wouldn't know," Beatrice said, "but I have been wondering, Jorge, do you -think there was a mass when they buried our Jorge?''

"I don't know about a mass, Beatrice, but I'm sure there was a priest. They have chaplains in the German Army, as we do. Beatrice..."

"And I would really like to know, Jorge," Beatrice said, looking at him, "whether you think—after this horrible war, of course—there are chances of our bringing him home, to put him to rest in Recoleta, with the Duartes?"

"Actually, Beatrice, that's why I'm here," Frade said.

"Excuse me?"

I don't think she will understand what I have to tell her. Thank God Humberto is here.

"There has been a radio message, Beatrice. Do you remember Juan Domingo Per?n? El Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n?"

She considered that a full fifteen seconds before shaking her head no. There was confusion all over her face.

"He and I were lieutenants together. And then we were at the Command College. He's in Germany, studying welfare and retirement, and social services for the poor."

Beatrice laughed brightly.

"Whatever are you talking about, Jorge?"

"It appears that the Germans are arranging to send Jorge home, Beatrice," Frade said. "Per?n was called to the Foreign Ministry and introduced to—actually, he was asked to approve of—the German officer who will escort the remains."

"The Germans are sending Jorge home?" Beatrice asked.

"Odd, that you were told and not me," Humberto said.

Frade was genuinely fond of his brother-in-law—despite his penchant for taking offense when none was intended. He was annoyed with him now, but kept that from his voice when he replied.

"I'm sure there will be a formal notification. Probably by the German ambassador. But Per?n knew Jorge was my nephew, and he sent unofficial word to me through our military attached By radio. The mail service is nonexistent these days. Rather than telephoning, someone from the Defense Ministry took it all the way out to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. As soon as I received it, I brought it here."

"When are they sending Jorge home?" Beatrice asked.

"I don't know that yet, Bea," Frade said gently. "I'm sure as soon as the details are known, you will be informed."

"We can have a mass, a high requiem mass, at Our Lady of Pilar," Beatrice said. "I'll have to tell the Bishop."

"There will be time for that, mi amor," Humberto said.

"And Jorge, there are still those lovely cedar caskets at San Pedro y San Pablo? Aren't there?"

Years and years before, their father somehow came onto a stock of cedar. He had a cabinet maker at the estancia turn it into caskets. It was not, Frade thought, the only odd thing the old man did after he turned sixty. But at least half a dozen cedar caskets remained stored in the rafters of the old carriage house. All that had to be done to them was to outfit the interior.

"Yes, there are," Frade said.

"That will make it nice," Beatrice said. "We will put Jorge in with the Duartes, but in a casket from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo."

God, she's out of her mind. If she had had more than the one child, she would be far better off.

"Yes," Frade agreed, "that would be nice."

"I must talk to the Bishop and see what is involved," Beatrice said.

"Beatrice, it'll wait until tomorrow," Humberto said.

"Nonsense," she said. "I've known him since he went into the seMi?ary. He'll have time for me."

She walked out of the room.

When he was sure she was out of earshot, Frade asked, "What is she taking?"

Humberto shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know. Something the doctor gives her."

"She is not herself," Frade said.

"Of course she's not herself," Humberto snapped. "She's lost her only child in a war he had no business being involved in."

"That's not what I mean, Humberto," Frade said.

"When she doesn't take her pills, she weeps. For hours, she weeps," Humberto said.