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

"Jorge Guillermo Frade," Clete said, hearing his grandfather's acidic pronunciation as he spoke. "El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade."

"My God, he's a friend of mine!" Mallin exclaimed. "And, Cletus, if you don't know this, he is not just 'a retired Army officer.' He's one of the most prominent men in the country."

"So I've been told," Clete said.

"You've never met him?" Pamela asked.

"There is bad blood between my grandfather and my father."

"How sad," Pamela said. "But—I couldn't help but overhearing—you're going to meet him tomorrow?"

"Yes, I am."

"He's Alicia Valdez's uncle," the Virgin Princess said. "She introduced me to him on Independence Day. At the reception at the officers' club."

"Who?" Pamela asked..

"Alicia," the Virgin Princess said.

"I really wish I had known all this," Mallin said. "I can't imagine what your father is thinking. You here, in my home, and..."

"If I have in any way embarrassed you, I'm sorry," Clete said. "But I... I simply presumed you knew."

"You haven't embarrassed us," the Virgin Princess said, walking across the room to him and touching his arm. "Has he, Mother?"

"Of course he hasn't," Pamela said. "It was a simple misunderstanding."

"When I see my father tomorrow, I will make sure he understands that you didn't know my relationship to him," Clete said.

"Funny," the Virgin Princess said, rubbing his arm and looking up into his eyes, "you don't look like an Argentinean."

Clete averted his eyes, which meant that they fell on the V of her dress, and into the valley between her breasts.

She's no older than Beth. And her feelings for you are as innocent as Beth's. Remember that.

"But you are, you know," the Virgin Princess went on, her fingers still on his arm. "An Argentinean. It was a question in a political science exaMi?ation."

"No, I'm not, Princess," Clete said firmly.

Pamela laughed.

"Princess? Why do you call her 'Princess'?" Pamela asked, smiling.

"Yes, why do you?" the Virgin Princess asked.

"Princesses are beautiful young girls, adored by their parents, who live in a castle like this one, waiting for their knight in shining armor to ride up on his horse," Clete said.

"I don't think I like the 'young girl' part. And why should my knight have to wear shining armor? Why not cowboy boots?"

"Dorotea, you're embarrassing Clete," Pamela protested.

"Am I embarrassing you, Clete?"

"Yes, you are."

"You can go to hell," the Virgin Princess said.

"Ignore her, Clete," Pamela said, one adult to another. "All of her friends think it's chic, and makes them seem mature, to swear like sailors."

[THREE]

Office of the Managing Director

Sociedad Mercantil de Importation de Productos

Petroliferos

21st Floor, Edificio Kavanagh

Calle Florida 1065

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1030 27 November 1942

"Excuse me, Senor Mallin," his secretary said, walking to his desk and extending a visiting card to him. "This gentleman says it is quite important that he see you." Mallin took the card and looked at it.

Alejandro Bernardo Martin

Teniente Coronel

Ministerio de Defense

Goddamn it! I knew something like this was going to happen!

"Ask him to come in, please," he said.

Martin, in a tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers, came into the office smiling and held his hand out.

"I very much appreciate your time, Se?or Mallin," he said. "I know that you're a very busy man."

"I always have time for the Ministry of Defense, mi Coronel," Mallin said, shaking his hand. "May I offer you a coffee?"

"If it would not be an imposition?"

"Not at all."

Martin walked to the window.

"What a splendid view."

"It may not be modest of me to say so, mi Coronel—but I say this as a tenant, not as the owner—I think it is the best view in all Buenos Aires."

Martin waited until the coffee had been served and Mallin's secretary had left them alone. Then he reached in his pocket, took the leather folder which held his Internal Security credentials, and extended it to Mallin.

Internal Security. Goddamn it, now what?

"I see," Mallin said. "And how may I assist Internal Security?"

Martin noted the signs of nervousness in Mallin's eyes and

body language.

I wonder why? There's nothing in the files to suggest that he's anything but what he purports to be, a well-educated, wealthy, successful importer of petroleum.

Martin had taken another look at Mallin's dossier just before driving to the Kavanagh Building: He had done his active military service honorably, but without distinction, and had no more to do with the military afterward than the law required. He was friendly, but not intimate, with members of the major political factions— a skillful tightrope walker. His only recorded violation of the laws of God and/or the Republic of Argentina—aside from an extraordinary number of citations for illegal parking—was to maintain one Maria-Teresa Alberghoni, twenty-one, in Apartment 4D at 2910 Avenue Canning in Palermo. And Martin would have been surprised if Mallin did not maintain a Mi?a.

"Let me begin by saying that the BIS does not really eat babies for breakfast, Se?or Mallin, and there is no Tower of London here in Buenos Aires where we chop heads off."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that."

"But we do try to keep an eye on things, find answers to questions which interest us."

"Of course."

"We are interested, frankly, in your houseguest, Se?or—or should I say 'Mister'?—Cletus Howell Frade. Could you tell me what he's doing here?"

Be very careful, Enrico. This could be a very dangerous conversation.

"You are aware, mi Coronel, that SMIPP, in addition to other associations, of course, represents the interests of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) in Argentina?"

Martin nodded.

"Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) is a subsidiary of Howell Petroleum, which has its offices in New Orleans, Louisiana. Se?or Howell, my houseguest, is the grandson of Cletus Howell, the owner. When I was in the United States, I was a guest in his house..."

He left the rest of the sentence unspoken. Martin would certainly understand reciprocal hospitality. A nod of Martin's head suggested that he did.

"As to what he's doing here: The United States government has somehow concluded that certain petroleum products—Howell Petroleum Products—are being illegally diverted. To the Germans or the Italians, presumably. They are of course sold to us with the understanding that they will be consumed in Argentina and not transshipped anywhere."

"And is that happening? Are there products being transshipped?"

"Not to my knowledge. For one thing, it would be quite difficult. The Americans know what we consumed before the war, and they have been unwilling to raise the amount of product shipped to us, although our demand has risen. If I wanted to, I would not be able to divert any product. In fact, my clients are increasingly unhappy that they can't get what they need. Cutting that amount would be simply impossible, since the government knows to the last liter how much product I receive."

"Nevertheless, the American government has the idea that— what was the term you used? 'product'?—is being diverted, and Mr. Frade's presence in Argentina has something to do with that?"

"As he explained it to me, he will verify to the U.S. Embassy that Howell product is in fact entering our supply channels and is not being diverted."

"Well, that explains his presence here, doesn't it?" Martin said. "Meanwhile, I have a couple of other questions in my mind that probably fall into the category of personal curiosity, rather than official queries."

"I don't quite understand."

"I was wondering how a young man, a man his age, in apparently good health, could avoid military service in the United States. In wartime, that's seems a little odd."