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

A bellboy (a boy, Clete thought, he's not a day over twelve or thirteen) spun a revolving door for them, and they entered the lobby.

"This is Argentina," Mallin said. "It is unfortunately required to give your passport to the management. I thought perhaps you'd like a coffee, or something stronger..."

"Coffee would be fine," Clete said. "Or maybe a beer."

Mallin gave him another strained smile, and went on, "... while I take care of that for you. You'll find a bar by the elevators."

Mallin gestured for them to precede him, and they entered the bar. The headwaiter greeted Mallin by name and escorted them to a table.

"My American friends," Mallin announced, "will have something to drink while I take care of Mr. Pelosi's registration." He nodded in the general direction of Tony Pelosi.

"You will have to excuse, gentlemen, my English is not so fine," the headwaiter said.

"I'll have a beer, please," Clete said in Spanish, "but my first priority is finding the men's room."

"Ah, you speak Spanish," the headwaiter said in Spanish. "If you will cross to the door beside the elevator, the gentlemen's facility is one floor down."

"And perfectly," Mallin said. "I'd forgotten you spoke Spanish."

"But I don't know the word for that," Clete said in English, inclining his head in the direction of the bar, where a stunningly beautiful woman in a revealing linen dress was beaming at a man at least twice her age.

"The word for that is Mi?a," Mallin said. "They are one of the many treasures of Buenos Aires."

"Very nice!" Tony Pelosi said, with admiration.

"Expensive, no doubt?" Clete said.

"Yes, but not in the way... They are not... how does one say? 'Ladies of the evening.' "

"I think, Mr. Pelosi," Clete said, "that in time I could come to like Buenos Aires."

"I like it already," Pelosi said, looking at the Mi?a.

"I will see about your registration," Mallin said, and walked back through the lobby toward the reception desk.

Following the maitre d'hotel's directions, Clete crossed the lobby and started down a wide, curving, marble staircase. Halfway down, he encountered another young woman, just as stunning as the one in the bar. He smiled at her. She averted her eyes, ladylike, but he thought he saw a small smile curve her full lips. To hell with the OSS! My priorities have just changed. First I will get laid, and then I will play Alan Ladd and lead my brave band of men to blow up the Nazi ship.

[TWO]

23 Calle Arcos Belgrano,

Buenos Aires

2105 21 November 1942

"I hope your friend will be able to fend for himself tonight," Enrico Mallin said as they sat with the Rolls' s nose against his garage door, waiting for it to open.

"He's a big boy," Clete replied, and then chuckled. "He'll most likely have a quick shower and then spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar, hoping another Mi?a will come in."

"Interesting young man," Mallin said. "He's from Chicago, you said?"

"That's right."

"That seems a long way from Howell Petroleum in Louisiana."

"It is. But if you're asking how he came to work for Howell, I'm just one of the hired hands, and I don't know."

One of the double doors to the garage opened inward, and then the other. An old man in a blue denim jacket smiled at them as they drove past. Two other cars were in the garage; after a moment Clete identified one of them. He remembered it because the name amused him—a Jaguar saloon. There was also a small van withleyland on its grille. He had never seen a van like that, or heard of a Leyland. He did the arithmetic. Counting the station wagon, that made four cars.

The old man told me— in case Mallin became difficult— not to forget that he, and his father before him, have made a good deal of money out of Howell Petroleum, and to deal with him accordingly.

"I hope you don't mind coming into the house via the garage," Enrico Mallin said. "I hate to leave the car in front. I don't trust the old man to park it for me."

"Don't be silly," Clete said. "I'm flattered that you're having me in the house at all. I'm afraid I'm imposing."

A narrow, steep, and dark staircase led from the garage to a butler's pantry. A woman was waiting there for them.

"Welcome to our home, Mr. Frade," Pamela Mallin said. She was a tall, slim woman in a linen dress with a single strand of pearls and a simple gold wedding ring. "And forgive my husband for bringing you through the basement. I'm Se?ora de Mallin, but I do hope you'll call me Pamela."

Clete had always found English women attractive, and he decided that this one was ten degrees above the average: She wore her pale-blond hair parted in the middle and had startlingly blue eyes and a marvelous complexion.

"I'll call you Pamela if you call me Clete. And thank you for having me in your home. It's unexpected."

"It gives us much pleasure," Mallin said, and went on: "I suggest we give Clete a chance to freshen up—he's been on the airplane for thirty-six hours, at least—and then we can have a little chat over a cocktail before dinner."

"Ramon called," Pamela replied, with a look of disappointment on her face. "There was some trouble with the luggage. The officials, not only the customs people, were going through everybody's luggage dirty sock by dirty sock. He said they were obviously looking for something."

"He should have known enough to see Inspector Nore," Mallin said, annoyed. "When did he call?"

"About ten minutes ago. He wanted to know whether you wanted him to go to the Alvear first, or here."

"And you told him the Alvear, right?" Mallin asked, not pleasantly.

"In the absence of instructions to the contrary," Pamela replied, with a strained smile, "I thought that was the thing to do."

Mallin flashed a smile.

"Well, then," he said, "we can have a little chat now, and wait for your luggage, Clete. Sorry about this."

"Don't be silly," Clete said.

They followed her out of the butler's pantry through a dining room, where an enormous table was already set with five places, and then across a foyer to double doors, behind which was a sitting room. One wall was filled with books.

Pamela arranged herself gracefully on a dark-brown leather couch, then reached to a side table and pressed a button.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you told me what'd you'd like," she said. "Alberto's English is not as good as it could be. I am permitted to offer you a drink? Henry—perhaps I shouldn't say this—used the word 'boy.' "

In Spanish, Clete said, "A weak one. I had champagne on the plane, and a beer at the hotel. And a glass of water first, please? The airplane dehydrated me."

"He also didn't tell me that you spoke Spanish," Pamela said. "I'm disappointed; I looked forward to having someone in the house who speaks English."

Clete switched to English: "I don't speak English, but if you're able to put up with my American ..."

"Beggars can't be choosers, can they?" she asked with a laugh.

A middle-aged male servant in a linen jacket appeared at the double doors, then walked into the room.

"Alberto, this is Mr. Frade, who will be staying with us. He speaks Spanish, but you are to speak Spanish with him only in an emergency. You understand? I am determined that you improve your English."

"S?, Se?ora," he said.

"Mr. Frade will have first an agua con gas and then a scotch with a little water and ice; Mr. Mallin will have... what, Henry?"

"Scotch is fine."

"... and if you have opened the dinner wine, I will have a Malbec. We are going to have a Malbec?"

"S?, Se?ora," he said, and half backed out of the room.

Pamela turned to Clete.

"I believe polite custom requires me to ask, 'How was your flight?' "

"Very long," Clete said.

She laughed dutifully. "And now you can't get the authorities to release your luggage. I wonder what that was all about."