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

They drove out of town, east, across a long, narrow two-lane bridge set on pilings. Tony saw signs saying they were on U.S. Highway 98.

Chief Norton turned around and looked at him.

"Adams said you know something about explosives, Pelosi. That right?"

I've probably forgotten more about explosives than you ever knew, pal!

"I know a little bit about explosives," Pelosi replied.

"You ever use explosives to cut steel?"

Not more than five or six hundred times.

"A couple of times."

"I generally found when I'm teaching somebody who has a little experience with explosives that the best way is to get him to forget what he thinks he knows and let me start from scratch. Think you could handle that?"

"Why not?"

"This isn't the first time we've done this," Chief Norton said. "Usually we have a lot more time, a couple of days more, anyway."

[THREE]

The Consulate of the Republic of Argentina

Suite 1103

The Bank of New Orleans Building

New Orleans, Louisiana

0900 10 November 1942

"Buenos dias," Clete said to the redhead in the office of the Argentine Consulate.

"Good morning," the redhead said in English. "Can I help you?"

She's not an Argentinean, Clete Frade realized, which surprised him. He'd assumed that anyone who worked in the Argentine Consulate would be an Argentinean. But when he considered that, he realized there was no reason that should be so. It was obviously cheaper to hire a local than bring someone up from Argentina. It reminded him that what he knew about consulates and embassies—and for that matter, Argentina—could be written inside a matchbook with a grease pencil.

"I've come to apply for visas," he said, and smiled at her. He set his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the forms and handed them to her.

"There's two applications," she said.

"Well, the sad truth is that my friend, who's going with me, right now thinks he's about to die," Clete said with a smile. "He was out on Bourbon Street all night, and most of the morning, too. I hoped he wouldn't have to come himself."

"I'll have to ask Se?or Galle about that," she said. "Which one is he?"

"Pelosi," Clete said. "I'm Frade."

She examined Pelosi's visa application carefully.

"Seems to be all right," she said. "Do you have his passport?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Clete said, and handed it to her.

"I'll have to ask Se?or Galle about it," the redhead said.

She went farther into the office, and a minute or so later a well-dressed, smiling man in his late thirties or early forties came into the outer room.

"Good morning," he said. His English was very faintly accented. "Miss O'Rourke gives me to believe that Bourbon Street has claimed yet another victim. My name is Galle."

He offered his hand.

"Frade," Clete said, taking it. "Clete Frade."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Galle said, looking at him carefully.

That look,Clete thought, went beyond idle curiosity.

"May I ask why you're traveling to Argentina?" Galle asked as he picked up the visa applications.

"It's on the application, Se?or," Clete said, switching to Spanish. "Our company is opening an office in Buenos Aires."

"And your company is?" Galle asked, in English.

"Howell Petroleum," Clete said. "Actually a subsidiary. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela)."

"Oh, yes. I know them," Galle said. "And I see that your name is Howell. Is there a connection?"

"My grandfather founded the company."

"I'm not always this inquisitive," Galle said. "But we're cooperating with your government in a rather delicate area. It would seem that your government has discovered that a number of young men have decided they would much rather enjoy the delights of Buenos Aires than those of, say, Fort Benning."

"Really?"

"Our policy is that we inform young men of a certain age that while we would be pleased to grant them a visa to visit Argentina, there will be a delay of a week or so while we confer with your Department of Justice. A number of young men, upon hearing that, have decided to change their travel plans."

"Both Mr. Pelosi and I have done our service," Clete said.

"You would not be offended if I asked to see your discharge papers?" Galle asked.

"Right here in my briefcase," Clete said. "Mine and Se?or Pelosi's. And I do have my brand-new draft card, which shows my classification. Medically discharged."

"That should do it," Galle said, finally switching to Spanish himself. "You speak Spanish very well, Se?or."

"Thank you," Clete said.

After carefully examining the discharge documents and Clete's draft card, Galle handed them back to him with a smile.

"No offense, Se?or Frade?"

“Absolutely none. I hope you catch a couple of draft dodgers."

Galle bent over the desk and scrawled an initial on one of the visa applications:—Clete could not see which one—and then started to do the same thing on the other.

"Oh, this is interesting," Galle said, straightening and looking directly at Clete. "You're an Argentinean, Mr. Frade."

"No," Clete said. "I was born there, but I'm an American citizen. My mother was an American."

"Under our laws, you're an Argentinean; citizenship comes with birth in Argentina."

"Is that going to pose any problem?" Clete asked.

"No. But it's probably fortunate that you have done your military service. You were a Marine, I see?"

"That's right."

"We have, as you do, compulsory military service," Galle said. “And we, like you, have our share of young men who would rather not serve their country. If you hadn't done your service, then perhaps it could have been awkward. But since you have, I'm sure there will be no problem. But may I suggest you take your discharge documents with you? You'll probably never need them, but if the question came up somehow ..."

"Thank you for the advice," Clete said. "I will. And I'll tell Pelosi."

Galle put his initials on Clete's application and then on Pelosi's.

"Now, if you would be so kind as to give Miss O'Rourke twenty dollars—visas are ten dollars each—I think we can finish this up."

Clete handed the redhead the money. She opened a drawer in her desk and took from it a small metal box. It was unlocked. She put the money in a tray, then removed the tray. From the bottom of the box she took a rubber stamp and a stamp pad, and with great care stamped each of the passports. As she finished she handed them to Galle, who signed the visas with a flourish.

Then he returned the passports to Clete.

"Have a nice voyage. When did you say you were leaving?"

"In the next several days. Whenever we can get seats on Pan American."

"One final bit of advice," Galle said. "Take summer clothing. Our seasons are reversed, you know. It is now summer in Buenos Aires, and sometimes the weather, the humidity, you understand, is not very pleasant."

"Thank you," Clete said, putting out his hand. "Thank you for your courtesy and the advice."

"Have a good time in Buenos Aires," Galle said. "I wish I was going with you. You're not married, I gather?"

"No, Sir."

"I think what I miss most, here, are the women of Buenos Aires," Galle said, smiled, added, "Bon voyage," and walked away.

Thirty minutes later, Galle left his office, walked out of the business district and across Canal Street into the Vieux Carre, then went on to a building on St. Peter's Street. He let himself into a small apartment which he had rented at an exorbitant price under a name that was not his own. The landlord believed he was a Mexican-American named Lopez from San Antonio who visited New Orleans frequently on business—and to see a woman. Once a month, at least, Galle took pains to see that the landlord noticed him entering the apartment with a woman.