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

"I appreciate your sharing this with me, Mr. Howell," Ettinger said.

"I thought it was my duty," the old man said. "And now, Mr. Ettinger, unless you've made other plans, I was going to suggest you ride out to the house with us. I've got a bottle of cognac out there, much too good for Cletus, that I think you might appreciate."

"I hate to impose, Mr. Howell."

"Nonsense. No trouble at all. We'll have a little cognac and a cigar, and whenever you feel you should, I'll have Samuel drive you back to the Monteleone."

"Thank you very much, Sir. I'd like that."

"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to wash my hands," the old man said, and stood up. "If the waiter should get lost and come in here, Cletus, will you ask him to have Samuel bring the car around?"

"Yes, Sir," Clete said. He waited until the old man had gone, then said, "David, I'm sorry you had to sit through that. There was no stopping him."

"Actually, it was a fascinating story," Ettinger said. "And no, you couldn't have stopped him. He's like my mother."

"Your mother? Where is she?"

"In New York. She and I got out. She hates like he does. When I told her I was going to Argentina, she was disappointed. She had visions of me blowing up the Brandenburg Gate with Adolf Hitler on it."

"You told your mother you were going to Argentina?" Clete asked incredulously, angrily. "Jesus Christ, Ettinger, what the hell were you thinking about?"

Ettinger looked both shocked and distinctly uncomfortable.

I guess I sounded like a Marine officer, and he didn't expect that. Well, that's what I am.

"I presume you signed the same form that I did, which made it pretty clear it's a General Court-martial offense to have diarrhea of the mouth about what we're doing?" Clete went on coldly.

"I felt relatively sure that whatever I told my mother, she would not rush to the telephone to pass it on to the Abwehr."

"Don't be flip with me, Sergeant!" Clete said coldly. "Exactly how much did you tell your mother?"

"Just that I was going to Argentina, Sir."

That's right, Sergeant, you call me "Sir."

"To do what?"

"She knew what I've been doing here..."

"You told her what you were doing for the CIC? She and who else?"

"Just my mother, Sir. I had to tell her something. I couldn't just suddenly vanish. And what I told her seemed to be the best story I could come up with. The subject of what I was supposed to tell my mother never came up at the Country Club ..."

"You should have been able to figure that out without a diagram. You were supposed to tell her nothing! Damn it, Sergeant, you were in the CIC! You certainly should have known better than to tell anyone, much less a civilian ..."

"Sir, I don't mean to be insolent, but your grandfather seems..."

"What my grandfather knows or doesn't know is not the subject here. What you told your mother is."

"Yes, Sir. I led her to believe that I would be doing the same thing there that I'd been doing here. Making sure that the refugees are in fact refugees. I told her that when I had an address, I would send it to her, but that she shouldn't expect to hear from me for a while."

"I can't believe you told her where we're going!"

"Sir, I thought it would put her mind at rest," Ettinger said.

"You did?" Clete asked sarcastically.

"Mother knows that Argentina is neutral," Ettinger explained. "And her memories of Argentina seem to begin and end with the Teatro Col?n:"—Buenos Aires' opera house—"Spanish-speaking people with exquisite manners."

"She's been there?" Clete asked, wondering why he was surprised.

Ettinger nodded. "So have I. But I was a kid, and I can't remember a thing. My grandfather took us there."

"And how much did you tell your grandfather?"

"My grandfather died in a concentration camp, Sir."

"What's that, an attempt to invoke my sympathy?" Clete snapped, and was immediately ashamed of himself. "Sorry, Ettinger. Colonel Graham told me about your family. I was out of line."

Ettinger met his eyes. After a moment, he said, "So, apparently, was I. What happens now?"

"I don't know what the hell to do about this, frankly."

"If it would make it any easier for you, I'll report my... indiscretion to the people from the Country Club tomorrow."

" 'Indiscretion'?" Clete snapped. "I'd call it stupidity. Incredible stupidity."

"Yes, Sir. I can see from your standpoint that it would be."

"And from your standpoint?"

"I had to tell her something, Lieutenant. That was the best I could come up with."

"Incredible stupidity," Clete repeated.

Ettinger stood up.

"Where are you going?" Clete demanded.

"Back to the hotel, Sir. Under the circumstances, it would be awkward with your grandfather. I'll make a report..."

"If a report is made, Sergeant, I'll make it," Clete thought aloud, and then added, "The damage, if any, has already been done."

"Sir, I don't think there will be any damage. I made the point to my mother that this assignment, including our destination, was classified. She won't say anything to anybody."

"We don't know that, do we?"

"No, Sir. We don't."

If I turn him in for this, it will really screw things up. Colonel Graham feels that getting us down there as soon as possible is damned important. If they have to scrounge around for a replacement for Ettinger— and that would obviously be difficult— God only knows how long a delay there would be.

Or this fellow Pelosi and I will get sent down there by ourselves.

I need him. It's as simple as that.

"We never had this conversation, Ettinger," Clete said. "You understand me?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

"Don't misunderstand me. I'm not being a nice guy. I just think turning you in would do more damage to this mission than taking you with us."

"I understand."

"I wonder if you do," Clete said. "But the subject is closed. The conversation never occurred. Clear?''

"Yes, Sir."

"Besides," Clete said, smiling. It took more than a little effort. “If you were missing when my grandfather finishes his piss call, I would have to explain your absence. My grandfather, as you may have noticed, is a difficult man."

"I repeat, Lieutenant, thank you. I really want to go on this mission. It's much more important than what I've been doing."

"Try to keep that in mind," Clete said. "Now let's change the subject."

Ettinger nodded, then smiled.

"My grandfather was not unlike yours. A difficult man."

I don't really give a damn about your grandfather, Ettinger.

"Really?"

"He believed what he wanted to believe, and the facts be damned. He chose to believe that despite what was going on, he was perfectly safe in Berlin. What was happening to the Jews there was happening only to the Slavic Jews, not to good German Jews like him. After all, he had won the Iron Cross as an infantry officer in France in the First World War."

"That didn't do him any good?"

"No. They took him away. He died 'of pneumonia' in a place called Sachsenhausen."

"You hate the Germans? In the way my grandfather hates the Argentines?"

"No. I understand that the flesh is weak. If you hate weak people, you hate everybody. If you're asking if I'm motivated to go to Argentina, yes, I think I can do—we can do—some good down there."

"Blowing up 'neutral' ships?"

"That, certainly. And perhaps doing something about keeping the Argentine equivalent of the Nazis from taking over the country. The Nazis took over Germany because nobody fought back."

Cletus Marcus Howell pushed open the curtain and came back into the small room. His eyes passed back and forth between them as if he sensed something was wrong.

"Have you asked for the car?" he demanded after a moment's hesitation.

"No, but I will bet it's been waiting outside for the last half hour while you bored David with our family linen."