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

Well, his intelligence is apparently good, if he has the names of three ships. But what good are the names if we don't know which ship it is? Or are we expected to take out all three of them?

"I have high hopes that David Ettinger will be helpful in finding out which of the ships is the one we're after," Nestor said, as if he knew what Clete was thinking.

"I don't follow that," Clete said.

"There are a number of Jews in the ship chandlery business here. One of the things the replenishment vessel cannot bring from Europe—it's at least a three-week voyage, more often a month—is fresh produce, meat, milk, and other nonfreezable perishables. Additionally, the more canned goods the replenishment vessel can buy here in Buenos Aires, the better for them; the longer they can remain on station. The only reason the Sundsvall left Argentinean waters was that her supply of torpedoes and diesel fuel was exhausted. So one of the things David will be looking for is a vessel which purchases more than the usual quantities of perishable goods or of canned and/or frozen supplies."

"You think people will tell him?"

"I hope so. He was trained as an investigator, for one thing, and more important, we were able to provide him with a list of names of Jews from Berlin now resident in Buenos Aires. It's likely that he will know some of them, or have mutual friends. He should be able, through them, to make contact with the people in a position to help."

"Here we are," Nestor announced, pulling into an off-the-street hotel entrance not unlike that of the Alvear Palace Hotel's. "We'll have a drink in the bar, and then have our luncheon. Did I tell you El Grill is the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires?"

"I'll pass on the drink, thank you," Clete said.

"Oh, I think we really should have a drink," Nestor said, and there was a tone of command in his voice. "Taking an important client for a drink in the Plaza bar before lunch is the sort of thing a vice president of the Bank of Boston would be expected to do."

A uniformed doorman and a bellman walked to the car and opened the doors. The doorman greeted Nestor by name. Nestor took his briefcase and motioned for Clete to precede him into the hotel, then led him to a staircase and down it to the bar.

The room was paneled with dark wood. There was a bar, with stools, three quarters of them occupied, and a dozen tables, each with three or four leather upholstered chairs, half of them occupied.

Most of the customers were men, but there were some women. All but one of the women were striking; she was silver-haired, plump, and wearing a small fortune in diamonds on her fingers. She and the man with her, obviously her husband, were almost certainly Jewish.

And there were three Mi?as, one at the bar, two at tables, one with a man old enough to be her father, the other with a young man in a beautifully tailored suit. When he saw Clete looking at the girl, his right eyebrow rose in indignant question. Clete smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Nestor led him on a tour of the bar, introducing him to three of the men there as "Cletus Howell Frade," just as he'd done in the bank. One of the men had a Mi?a with him. She was intro duced only by her Christian name, Estrellita. Estrellita smiled shyly at him.

Then they took a table, and a waiter immediately appeared. Nestor ordered Ambassador-Twelve scotch. Clete had the waiter recite the short list of available bourbon, heard nothing he liked, and told the waiter he would have what Nestor was drinking.

The whiskey was served with a plate of hors d'oeuvres and with the same little ceremony that Alberto, the Mall?ns' butler, had used.

It's classy,Clete decided. They know how to do things down here.

He glanced around the room. There were mirrors. He found himself looking at the reflection of the good-looking Mi?a with the young man in the beautifully tailored suit. And she was looking at him. He winked. A faint but unmistakable smile touched her lips.

"That's a nice touch," Nestor said. "I understand they’re really quite comfortable."

What the hell is Spymaster talking about? What's "really quite comfortable"? The Mi?a? Come to think of it, I'll bet she is.

"Pardon me?"

"I just noticed your cowboy boots," Nestor said.

"These are boots," Clete explained. "Cowboy boots are usually old, cracked, and covered with horseshit."

He glanced down at his boots, and flicked a dried spot of mud off the glistening left toe.

When he looked up, he sensed eyes on him and glanced around the room. The good-looking Mi?a was smiling at him.

If I can escape the Mallins' hospitality, maybe I could come back here and see what develops.

[TWO]

23 Calle Arcos

Belgrano, Buenos Aires

1605 25 November 1942

The key to the lock on Clete's bedroom door was a massive device as long as his hand; and when he turned it, the bolt fell with an audible metallic clunk. It could probably be heard the length of the corridor; if so, it would probably make people wonder why he was locking the door.

But it couldn't be helped. He didn't want one of the servants barging in while he was going through the briefcase.

The afternoon was not going well. There was something about Jasper Nestor he didn't like, even if he couldn't put his finger on it. The three-ounce drink Nestor forced on him made him feel thick-tongued and stupid at lunch. And after he left the air-conditioned hotel into the summer heat, it made him dizzy and gave him a headache.

He decided in the taxi on the way to Pelosi's new apartment on Avenida Corrientes that it was probably a delayed reaction to coming from Guadalcanal, a to-be-expected resentment toward any military-age male who hadn't been there, who had been sitting around in a neutral country drinking whiskey with ice in it in an air-conditioned saloon, while he and the others were in the heat and mud and humidity of Guadalcanal eating captured Japanese food and wondering if today was the day the odds would catch up with you and your next takeoff in a battered and worn-out Wildcat was going to be your last.

And then he wasn't able to find Pelosi. Carrying the pistols in a briefcase like a Chicago gangster, he went to the apartment on Avenida Corrientes. But Pelosi wasn't there—the building manager said he would return tomorrow and finish moving in. So Clete tried the Alvear Palace Hotel.

When Pelosi wasn't there, either, Clete decided he was following his orders to familiarize himself with Buenos Aires. Clete had told him to get on a bus, any bus, and ride it as far as it went.

The bus-riding was one of the really helpful, practical suggestions they'd gotten from the mentors in New Orleans. That Pelosi was following his orders reminded Clete that he himself was violating the military equivalent of the Golden Rule: that a commanding officer should never order his men to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. He had yet to ride on a bus. His rationale, which he knew was empty, was that he'd been too busy, and when the Buick arrived, he would make up for his failure by driving around the city.

He left a note for Pelosi in an envelope at the concierge's desk in the Alvear Palace, telling him he would meet him there at ten in the morning.

He sat down on the bed and opened Nestor's briefcase. Two envelopes were inside, unsealed. In one was a single sheet of paper on which was typed:

Sud Atlantico Mercader-Cadiz-19 Nov

Reine de la Mer—Lisbon—23 Nov

Aguila del Mare—Barcelona—16 Nov

Those are the names of the three possible ships— where the hell is Cadiz? I should have paid attention in geography class. And when they sailed. Nestor probably gave them to me in case I hear something on my own about them. He said the voyage was at least twenty-three days. Twenty-three days minimum from where? Anyway, that means the first of them will be here in the next couple weeks.