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

So do I. Am I already a paranoid secret agent, wondering why they were searching our luggage?

"What I'm wondering," Mallin said, "is what brings you to Argentina. Would it be rude of me to ask?"

"No, of course not. Actually, it's pretty silly. There are apparently paranoid people in our government who suspect that both crude from Venezuela and refined product from the States is being diverted to the Germans or the Italians."

"That's absurd!" Mallin flared.

"So my grandfather said," Clete replied. "But after extensive negotiations with the government, a solution was reached. If representatives of Howell, American representatives, were actually present in Argentina to more or less swear that our product is in fact staying in Argentina, the government would be satisfied. And I was chosen to come for several reasons—for one, my middle name is Howell; for another, I was recently discharged from the service and needed a job."

"Oh, you were in the service?" Pamela asked. "Which one?"

"I would like to know where the idea started that SMIPP could be involved with something like that," Mallin said indignantly.

"The Marine Corps, briefly," Clete said.

"And you were released?" Pamela asked. "Or shouldn't I have asked?"

"I was to be trained as a pilot," Clete said. "At the final physical, they found out that I have a heart murmur. Pilots—for that matter, Marines—cannot have heart murmurs."

That story came from Washington, with Adams the mentor. At one point Clete asked Adams why he had to deny that he was a pilot who had seen active service (at one point, Adams had told him that the best cover story was one which comes close to the truth, and which only alters or invents those facts that have a bearing on the deception). Adams replied that if Clete had a physical defect, his release from the service would be more credible than if he had actually become a Marine aviator. Clete didn't see the reasoning then or now, but Adams was supposed to be the expert in that sort of thing.

He was surprised at how easily he was able to tell both fabrications. He had previously thought of himself as a more-than-honest man who would have difficulty lying. That obviously wasn't the case.

Am I a natural-born liar, or can I do it now because this whole business is so unreal, like a game? Will I be able to lie as easily when it is important?

Or am I missing the point here and forgetting that these lies are important?

Alberto returned, bearing a silver tray on which were a crystal bottle with a silver "Scotch" tag hanging from its neck; a wine bottle; a silver bowl full of ice; a crystal water pitcher; a wineglass; and two large, squat crystal glasses. He made quite a ceremony of preparing the drinks, first pouring a sip of wine in the wineglass, then offering it—plus the cork, held in his palm—to Pamela for her approval.

She sniffed the cork, smiled, looked at Clete, said, "I think you will like our wines," and then sipped her wine. "That's fine, Alberto."

He filled her glass; then, with tongs, he added an ice cube to a crystal glass, and asked Clete, "Is sufficient, Sir?"

They were not large cubes.

"Two more, please," Clete said.

Then Alberto took what looked like a silver shot glass with a handle, held it carefully over the glass, filled it with scotch to the brim—and perilously over the brim—and only then dumped it. Then he picked up the water pitcher and, looking at Clete for orders to stop, added water. When Clete held up his hand, he stopped pouring and stirred the drink with a silver mixing stick.

If I drink all of that, I'll be on my knees.

"Gracias, Alberto."

Alberto repeated the ritual for Enrico Mallin. After Alberto placed the tray on a table and left the room, Mallin raised his glass.

"Welcome to our home, Clete," he said. "And to Argentina. May your visit be long and pleasant."

"Hear, hear," Pamela said.

"Thank you," Clete said, and took a sip. The drink was even stronger than he expected.

You will limit yourself to half of this, Clete, my boy. You had champagne on the airplane, a beer in the hotel, now this; and there is going to be wine for dinner, and you don't want to make an ass of yourself in front of these nice people.

The door opened again.

What now? Hors d'oeuvres?

He turned to see.

"Sorry, Mommy," the Virgin Princess said, "I didn't know you had a guest."

She looked to be about nineteen, as old as his "sister" Beth, and she was standing just inside the doorway. She spoke with Pamela Mallin's delightful British accent. She was wearing tennis clothes: a very brief skirt which showed most of her magnificent legs, a thin white blouse that pleasingly contained her absolutely perfect bosom, white socks, and tennis shoes. She carried two tennis racquets in covers under one arm, and held a red leather bag with the other hand. Her hair was long and light brown (prob ably shoulder length, Clete decided), swept up loosely and quite attractively at the back of her head. She had a wonderful innocence in her look and manner (innocent... but by no means childlike), yet she was confident too. Virgin and Princess.

"Come in, darling," Pamela said, "and say hello to Mr. Frade. He's an old friend of Daddy's; he will be staying with us."

The Virgin Princess crossed the room to her mother, kissed her, crossed to her father, kissed him, and then turned to face Clete. She put out her hand.

"Hello, Mr. Frade. I'm Dorotea," she said, offering him a glowing smile; her complexion was even more lovely than her mother's.

Her hand was warm and soft.

"Clete Frade," he said. His voice sounded strange to him. And his heart was beating strangely, too.

She's just a kid; she is the daughter of your hosts. Control yourself! What's wrong with you, pal, is that you haven't been laid since Christ was a corporal, and you are full of booze. Watch yourself!

"How was the game, querida?" Mallin asked fondly.

"My God, Daddy, it was hot out there! Even at this hour."

"Do you play tennis, Clete?" Pamela asked.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good, then we'll have a game, Henry plays well, but dragging him onto the courts is like dragging him to the dentist."

"I'd like that."

Ram6n, the chauffeur, appeared in the doorway, holding his cap in his hand.

"I have had the gentleman's luggage sent to his room, Se?or," he reported.

"What happened at customs?" Mallin demanded. "When there was a delay, why didn't you speak with Inspector Nore?"

"I did, Se?or. He said it was out of his hands; it was an Internal Security matter."

Maybe I'm not so paranoid after all,Clete thought. It is entirely possible that that charming Argentinean Consul in New Orleans warned them we were coming. Well, they found nothing. The last thing Adams did before we got on the train to Miami was go through our luggage to make sure there was nothing that could raise questions about us.

Mallin grunted. "And the luggage of the other gentleman?"

"It is at the Alvear Palace, Se?or."

"Thank you, Ramon. Would you ask Alberto to come in, please?" Mallin said, and turned to Clete. "Well, better late than not at all."

"Thank you, Ram?n," Clete said. "And now, if I may be excused?"

"Alberto will show you to your room," Pamela said. "If you need anything, just ring. Should I order dinner for... say, in forty-five minutes?"

"That would be fine with me."

"I'll see you at dinner, Mr. Frade," the Virgin Princess said.

Clete nodded at her but did not trust himself to speak.

Alberto led him to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. After he left, Clete found proof that the search of his luggage at the terMi?al had been thorough. While Clete was still in the house on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, Antoinette did his laundry. Specifically, she washed his socks and rolled them in her peculiar manner. He remembered thinking about that when he packed: Antoinette's rolled socks would pass the inspection of even the most critical, nasty-tempered drill instructor at Parris Island. The socks neatly laid out in a drawer in a chest of drawers here were neat, but not Antoinette neat. When they— what did Mallin's chauffeur say? "Internal Security"—examined his luggage they went so far as to unroll his socks.