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

The Fieselers and the Piper might well have just dropped into the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with our old comrade-in-arms Jorge Guillermo Frade. But it's more likely that I've come upon a meeting of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos.

So what to do now? Turn around and go back to Buenos Aires, hoping that no one has noticed an official Army car turn around close to the house? There are gauchos in the fields. It's entirely possible that they are posted as guards or lookouts, and that they sent one of their number galloping across the pampa to the house to report an Army car on the road. Cutting across the pampa, they can get to the house long before I do.

Innocence, I think, is the best face to put on this. If I were placing the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos under surveillance, I would hardly show up in uniform in an Army Mercedes.

A burly man in a brown suit stepped off the shaded verandah as Martin's driver was opening the door for him. There was something about him—his bearing, his immaculate shave—that made Martin suspect he had spent a large portion of his life in the Army, and probably in the Cavalry.

That has to be el Coronet's chauffeur and bodyguard,Martin decided. Suboficial Mayor—Sergeant Major—Rodriguez retired with el Coronel Frade from the Husares de Pueyrred?n.

"Buenas tardes, mi Coronel," the man said.

"I would like to see el Coronel Frade," Martin announced.

"Does el Coronel expect you, mi Coronel?"

No question about it. The gauchos alerted them to my arrival, and this fellow is Suboficial Major Rodriguez, Retired.

"No, he does not."

"If you will be so kind to wait, mi Coronel, I will see if el Coronel is at home."

"Gracias."

Two minutes later, the retired soldier was back.

"If you will be so kind as to come with me, mi Coronel."

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, wearing riding breeches, boots, and an open-collared shirt, was waiting for him inside the house, in a large room with an enormous fireplace framed with carved and gilded wooden columns that looked as if they belonged in a museum. The floor was nearly covered with Persian carpeting, beneath which a red-tiled floor could be seen.

"I am Coronel Frade," he said, offering his hand. "Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. May I offer you a cup of coffee? Something stronger?"

Martin saluted before taking the hand.

"I am Martin. At your service, mi Coronel. No, thank you, Se?or."

"How may I help you, Coronel Martin?"

Martin took his credentials from his pocket and extended them to Frade.

"How did an honest cavalryman become connected with the BIS?" Frade asked.

"It is a long and painful story, mi Coronel," Martin said, smiling.

"I am at your service, and that of Internal Security, Coronel."

"This is a delicate matter, mi Coronel," Martin said. "Absent more pressing duties, el Almirante de Montoya would have handled this himself."

"Why don't we get to the point, Coronel?" Frade said, more than a hint of impatience in his voice.

"I have some photographs, mi Coronel," Martin said, reaching into his briefcase for the envelope containing a dozen from the more than fifty photographs Habanzo had laid on his desk the day before. "May I show them to you?"

Frade went through them one by one. The first several showed three people getting into the ostentatious Rolls-Royce convertible Enrico Mallin insisted on driving.

There is something vaguely American about the other two men,he thought. Where was this taken?

The next several photographs showed everybody leaving the Rolls. He recognized the site. Avenue Alvear.

They're getting out of the Rolls at the Alvear Palace Hotel.

Who the hell are these people?

What's the interest of Internal Security in Enrico Mallin?

There is somethingvery American about the tall one.

Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!

The balance of the photographs were views of the men in the lobby and lobby bar of the hotel.

One of them showed ... Christ, my son, my son!... looking with obvious appreciation at a rather spectacular Mi?a fawning over an old fool standing at the bar.

There was another one of that. Cletus ... my son, my son ...sprawled in a chair, legs outstretched and ankles crossed, wearing boots ... what do you expect, he was raised in Texas, in Texas they stretch their legs and wear boots ... a glass of beer in his hand, and looking with healthy admiration at the Mi?a.

What in the name of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints is he doing in Argentina?

The last two pictures showed Cletus entering Mallin's car and driving off down the Avenue Alvear.

He handed the photographs back to Martin.

"Well? What was I supposed to see in those?"

“Mi Coronel, with respect, did you recognize anyone in those photographs?"

"Yes, of course. Enrico Mallin. The man with the mustache."

"Mi Coronel, with respect, no one else?"

"I have no idea who the short one is. The taller one is my son." He met Martin's eyes. "I didn't think you were asking if I recognized my son."

"Excuse me, mi Coronel. No offense was intended."

"No offense was taken. But I am, naturally, interested to know why BIS is interested in my son."

"There was some question, mi Coronel, whether or not he was in fact your son."

"A question in whose mind?"

"Mine, I am sorry to say, mi Coronel. I am paid to be suspicious of the innocent."

"Yes, I know," Frade said dryly.

"I will not trouble you further, mi Coronel," Martin said. "Thank you for receiving me without notice."

"I'm always pleased to be able to put the mind of the BIS to rest," Frade said.

"Mi Coronel. One final question. To close this matter, so to speak. So far as we know, this is the first time Se?or Frade has visited Argentina. Could you comment on that?"

"I would presume it would have something to do with Howell Petroleum. It is a large norteamericano oil company owned by his grandfather. They do much business here. With Se?or Mallin. Are you telling me you didn't know that?"

"Excuse me, mi Coronel. Do I understand you to say that you have no knowledge why your son has come to Argentina?"

"My son and I have been estranged since he was a small child," Frade said. "I haven't seen him in nearly twenty years. He is an American citizen. And I am surprised that Internal Security didn't know that, either."

"You didn't know he was here, Sir?"

"Not until you showed me those photographs. Is that all, Coronel? I have guests."

"I thank you very much for receiving me, mi Coronel."

"Not at all," Frade said, and put out his hand.

El Teniente Coronel Martin knew that he had been dismissed. He had a number of other questions he would have liked to ask, but he knew he would ask them in vain.

He shook Frade's hand, saluted, then marched out of the house and stepped into his car.

Frade watched Martin from the doorway as he got back in the Mercedes and drove off. Then he went to a small room inside the house furnished like a library, and took from a shelf a thin volume bound in artificial leather. He thumbed through it until he found the page he had often turned to before. On it were a number of photographs of members of the Tulane University Class of 1940. Below one of these was the caption:

Cletus H. Frade

"Clete" "Tex"

BA

Clete came to Tulane from Texas AandM

and never quite got the sagebrush out of his hair.

Tennis, Golf, the Aviation Club

Going to Be a Marine Pilot

He looks much younger in this picture than he did in the ones Martin showed me, but there's no question that's him.

I wish I could somehow have kept some of those photographs.

What in the name of Sweet Jesus is' he doing here?

Doing here that has attracted the interest of Internal Security?