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

"My appointment is for twelve, at the Alvear Palace."

"Eleven-thirty, mi Coronel?"

"A little earlier, I think. I don't want to be late."

"S?, mi Coronel."

At ten forty-five, when el Coronel descended the wide marble staircase to the entrance foyer and looked out the window, his car was not standing before the door.

He turned and went down a corridor into the kitchen. Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table with the housekeeper and one of the maids, drinking coffee.

"Mi Coronel, you said eleven-thirty," he said with reproof in his voice, as he stood up.

"It is not a problem," Frade said, walked past him, and passed through a door leading to the basement garage.

Enrico was there, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, polishing the hood of the Buick station wagon. He was carrying a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster.

"Antonio said eleven-thirty, mi Coronel," he said.

"Better to be early than late," Frade said.

"Where are we going, mi Coronel?"

"We are not going anywhere. I will not need you this morning, Enrico."

“Mi Coronel?"

"I am going to the Alvear Plaza, and then to the Centro Naval. And I wish to be alone.'

Enrico was visibly unhappy with this announcement.

"Mi Coronel..."

"Are the keys in the Horche?"

'S?, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I can wait in the car."

"Open the doors like a good fellow, Enrico," Frade said, and then added, "Enrico, I will be all right."

Enrico expressed his displeasure with Frade by showing him a stony face as he opened the door to the Horche, then went to open the garage doors. Frade started the engine, let it warm a moment, and then drove out of the garage and headed downtown.

He decided to leave the Horche at his sister's house on Avenue Alvear. It was only two squares from the hotel, the walk would do him good, and inside her tall fence (there is no good reason I can't close the gates myself) it would be safe from both the idiot drivers on the street and the greasy hands of the curious. And with just a little bit of luck, she wouldn't even know it was there.

The Horche was important to him. He truly believed that he indulged himself in few personal luxuries; and if he was extraordinarily sensitive about his 1940 Horche droptop touring sedan, so be it. In his judgment, the Horche was the finest automobile in the world. Certainly better than the Cadillac or the Mercedes-Benz or the Rolls-Royce or the Packard, and far superior to every lesser car he had ever driven. His was one of the very last Horches to leave the factory, before the factory started to make trucks or cannon or whatever for Hitler's military.

It was built like a battleship would be built if Swiss watchmakers built warships. It not only handled beautifully and was powered by a smooth, very strong engine, but was beautifully furnished inside, with fine leather seats and gnarled walnut on both the dashboard and in the passenger compartment. With reasonable care, it would last not only through the war—however long that lasted—but indefinitely thereafter. He personally supervised its care, and often did the work himself.

The problem was little things. If there was a fender-bender, he had absolutely no way to replace a bumper, a headlight ring, or one of the clever little lights that sat on the fenders and indicated (controlled by a switch on the dash) which way the driver intended to turn. There were simply no parts available in Buenos Aires.

Therefore, it seemed entirely understandable to him that he never permitted anyone to drive it but himself, and on rare, absolutely unavoidable occasions, Enrico. First of all, he was as good a driver as he knew—fast but skillful, and thus safe. Secondly, no one else could be expected to share his full appreciation of the mechanical and aesthetic superiority of the Horche, and therefore no one else could be expected to handle the car with the respect it deserved. He had no intention of entrusting the Horche to one of the Alvear Palace Hotel's bellmen to park.

Leaving it at his sister's house seemed a perfectly satisfactory solution to the problem of driving the Horche downtown to meet Cletus.

Luck was not with him. Two of Beatrice's servants were adjusting cobblestones in the drive, and it wasn't until too late that he saw Beatrice herself, in a mourning-black dress, standing there watching. Or believing she was supervising.

Her face lit up when she saw him; her eyes were at once bright and vacant.

Mother of Christ, she's still taking those pills! What the hell is the matter with her husband?

"Jorge, how nice!" she said as he stepped out of the Horche.

He walked to her and she raised her cheek to be kissed.

"I didn't expect to see you," he said. "All I wanted to do was use your drive to park the car."

"The cobblestones are washing loose," Beatrice said, pointing. "Ricardo thinks that water is coming under the drive out of the drainpipes from the roof."

One of the workmen, hearing his name, looked up and smiled at Frade.

"Buenos dias, mi Coronel."

"Buenos dias," Frade said. "Beatrice, you'll have to excuse me. I have a business appointment at noon." She looked at him with empty eyes and a smile. "At the Alvear," he added, nodding down Avenue Alvear.

Beatrice put a hand to her bosom and lifted a lapel watch.

Damn, she has a watch. I'm surprised she knows what day of the week it is, but she has a watch.

"It's eleven-fifteen," Beatrice announced. "You have forty-five minutes. It will take you two minutes to walk to the Alvear. We have time for a coffee."

"It's an important meeting. I don't want to be late."

"You have time. And I have so much to tell you about the arrangements."

She took his arm and led him into the house, to the sitting room.

"Ambassador von Lutzenberger has been to see Humberto—'*

"I know," Frade interrupted her. "He called me first, and I suggested he call Humberto."

Alberto came into the library.

"We will have two coffees, please, Alberto. And if mere are any candied orange slices... el Coronel likes candied orange slices; he has since we were children."

"S?, Se?ora," Alberto said, and left.

I don't like candied orange slices. I haven't liked them since I was fourteen or fifteen. Good God!

"Ambassador von Lutzenberger told Humberto that Jorge is to be decorated, posthumously, by the German government," Beatrice said.

"He mentioned that to me."

"And—I thought it would be nice, I'm trying to work it out with Monsignor Kelly—do you know him?"

Frade shook his head no.

"Very nice man. He handles important ceremonies for the Archbishop."

"I haven't had the pleasure."

"Well, I thought it would be nice to have that ceremony—they pin the decoration to the flag, which will be covering the casket— outside Our Lady of Pilar. On the plaza, before the Archbishop celebrates the high requiem mass. Or do you think it Would be better to do it after the mass, and before we take the casket to Recoleta?"

Has it occurred to you, my poor darling, that you are talking about a decoration to be awarded in the name of a mass murderer? For political reasons, not because poor Jorge did anything valorous?

"If you want my opinion, Beatrice, I would say that sort of decision would best be left to the Monsignor. You said his name was Kelly?"

"Yes. Monsignor Kelly. A fine and holy man."

"Why don't you tell him to do what he thinks is best?"

"You're right, of course," she said. "Have I told you about the reception?"

"No. You haven't."

"I was wondering... We'll have it here, of course. It was Jorge's home. Getting people in and out of their cars will be a problem. Especially if it rains. Otherwise, I suppose they could park their cars by Our Lady of Pilar and walk here from Recoleta. But if it rains, that would pose a problem, of course."