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

He found a sheet of paper in the writing desk and copied the names down for Pelosi.

I don't think Pelosi stands any better chance of learning anything about these ships than I do, but if Nestor thinks there's a chance— and he's the expert— no harm can be done. And even if we don't learn anything on our own, Pelosi will at least know what we're looking for.

The second envelope contained a thick stack of money, American twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. And a sheet of paper, on which was typewritten:

Receipt of Two Thousand Five Hundred Dollars ($2590.00) in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the Service of The United States is acknowledged.

Cletus H. Frade

25 November 1942

Well, that's interesting. Nestor forgot to have me sign for what is obviously our expense money. He didn't even mention the money. Maybe his mind was on other things, once he met me. Such as ' 'What is the OSS thinking of to send an absolutely unqualified airplane driver down here to do something important?"

What do I do about it? Drop the signed receipt off at the bank in an envelope? Or let him ask for it? "What twenty-five hundred?"

He'll ask for it. Probably telephone. And if he does, I can ask him how I can get together with Ettinger. I'm pretty forgetful myself, especially when I have three ounces of scotch in me before lunch.

He took the pistols from the briefcase and laid them on the chest of drawers. They were each in holsters, separately wrapped in small towels. The holsters were different from U.S. military issue. They were stiff—molded—and had a hard molded cover, fixed in place with a rather ornate catch instead of the flap used by American armed forces. And they had a pocket holding an extra magazine sewn to the long side.

The two magazines provided for each pistol were loaded. When he thumbed the cartridges out, he saw that while they were identical to the .45 cartridges he was familiar with, their head stamps (which he didn't understand) were foreign.

I guess they make their own down here. Why not?

While the pistols themselves functioned identically to the Colt he'd carried in the Pacific, they were not exact copies. He couldn't put his finger on the difference, but there was a difference.

The grip safety? The horn, or whatever it's called, looks longer. And the safety on the side of the receiver. That's shaped differently, too, I think.

What does it matter, so long as it goes off when you pull the trigger?

He stripped and then reassembled both pistols. Both were dirty and required cleaning and lubrication. And there were pits in both barrels. He used a handkerchief and a toothbrush to clean them And for lubrication he used what was left of the jar of gray U.S. Navy Medical Corps paste he was sure was Vaseline.

He had just about finished with the pistols when there was a knock at the door.

"S??"

"Tel?fono, Se?or."

That must be Nestor, who's remembered I didn't sign the expense money receipt.

"Gracias," he called. He stuffed everything back into Nestor's briefcase and then locked the briefcase in the enormous wardrobe that covered just about all of one wall. He then unlocked the door with a loud clank and went quickly downstairs to the sitting room to the nearest telephone.

The Mallins were there, Mommy, Daddy, and the Virgin Princess.

"It's a woman," Mallin said, somewhat indignantly. "She wouldn't give her name."

A woman? Ah. Nestor's secretary. I was right.

He sensed the eyes of the Virgin Princess on him. She looked either angry or hurt or both.

"What's that? She doesn't like the idea of a woman calling me?

You want to keep your Older Gentleman Friend to yourself, do you, Princess, and not share him with the other virgins at the Belgrano Athletic Club?

He went to the telephone and picked it up.

"Hola?"

"Se?or Frade?" a woman's voice asked.

"S?."

"Un momento, por favor," the woman said.

A man came on the line and asked, "Cletus? Cletus Frade?"

"Who is this?"

"This is your father."

Jesus Christ! What do I do? What do I call him? "Dad"? "Father"?

Nestor was right. He did find out that I'm here, and quickly.

"I don't know what to say," Clete said.

There was a chuckle, a deep one.

"Now that I have you on the line, neither do I. What about 'Hola, Padre'?"—Hello, Father.

"Hola, Padre," Clete said.

"Hola, Cletus. I only learned that you were in Argentina three days ago. It was impossible for me to come to Buenos Aires until today."

Clete said nothing.

"Is it an embarrassment for you if I call there?" Jorge Guillermo Frade asked.

"No, Sir. Not at all. You just caught me a little off base."

" 'Off base'? Of course, the baseball."

"Yes, Sir."

"I would like to see you, Cletus."

"Yes, Sir."

"Would tomorrow be convenient? Luncheon, perhaps, here at my home. I could send a car for you ..."

"No," Clete said. Why did I say "no"? "I have business downtown tomorrow morning. At the Alvear Palace Hotel. Could we meet there?"

"Certainly. Give me a time."

"Noon. I'll meet you in the lobby at noon."

"I will be there."

"How are you going to recognize me?"

"That will be no problem," his father said. "I will look forward to seeing you at noon. Thank you, Cletus."

The phone went dead.

I have just talked to my father. He found out I'm here and called me up. He invited me to lunch. A belated sense of being a father? Simple courtesy? Or simple curiosity. If I had a son, I'd at least want to see what he looks like.

"I'll be goddamned!" Clete heard himself say.

Nice, in front of the Mallins.

He exhaled audibly as he replaced the telephone in its cradle, then turned to face Mommy, Daddy, and the Virgin Princess. They were all looking at him with understandable curiosity.

"That was my father," Clete announced.

The looks on the faces of Mommy and Daddy changed from curiosity to surprise, or confusion. The look on the face of the Virgin Princess changed to disbelief.

"Your father?"Enrico Mallin asked, visibly baffled by the announcement. "He's here? In Buenos Aires?"

Clete was surprised at Mallin's reaction. Considering that Enrico Mallin had been doing business with Howell Petroleum for years, and had actually stayed with the old man on St. Charles Avenue, he had naturally presumed that Mallin had been treated, at least once, to the old man's standard "Oh, let me tell you about that three-star sonofabitch Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day" diatribe, and that good manners, not ignorance, were the reason why the subject of his father had not come up.

Is that yet another example of the old man's ' "The Bottom Line Is All That Matters" philosophy? He didn't want to lose Mallin as a source of revenue. And that might have happened if Mallin— or Mallin's father — had known about the bad blood between the old man and my father.

"He lives here," Clete said. "I was born here. Until just now, I thought you knew."

"No, I didn't," Mallin said. "He lives here? He's an Argentine?"

"A retired Army officer," he said.

"But you're an American," Pamela blurted.

"My mother died when I was very young," Clete said. "I was raised by my grandfather and my aunt and uncle in the States."

"I see," Mallin said.

"If you were born here," the Virgin Princess announced, "and if your father is an Argentinean, then you're an Argentinean." She seemed pleased.

"No. I'm an American citizen."

"No, you're not," the Virgin Princess insisted.

"I can't imagine..." Mallin said. "How is it... ?"

"I've never met my father," Clete said.

"Henry, this is really none of our business," Pamela said.

"Who is your father?" Mallin asked, ignoring her. "You say he's a retired Army officer? What's his name?"