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

They pried thean/prc-6 motorola corp. Chicago, ill. labels from the walkie-talkies; then they each put one of them on clear display in their luggage.

The customs officer was fascinated with the radios, and very sympathetic. After he put a radio to his ear and heard only a hiss, he offered the professional opinion that they probably dropped them, or else got them wet on the beach.

He pawed perfunctorily through the chickens, ducks, and fishes in the "wooden" boxes, smiled, and waved them through.

"Buenas. noches, Se?ores."

"Buenas noches," Clete replied, and motioned for a porter to carry their luggage toward the taxi line. He carried one of the "wooden" boxes and Tony carried the other.

As they walked toward the line, he asked Tony if he wanted to have dinner at the guest house, or else go out somewhere.

"Thanks, no, Clete," Tony replied. "What are we going to do with this stuff, now that we've got it?"

"I'll keep it," Clete said. "That would probably be the safest thing."

"I was thinking that maybe you could give the radios to Ettinger. Maybe he can figure out what to do when the batteries go dead."

"Right."

"And I'd like to take the detonators. I want to take a good look at them, to make sure how much dry-cell juice I'm going to need."

"Good thinking. But we can drop the radios off at Ettinger's apartment on the way to yours. And then we'll drop the detonators at yours, and get some dinner."

"I think I'll pass, Clete," Tony said. "Unless you really want some company."

"Just an idea. I'll bring the radios to David tomorrow."

"What I'm going to do, Clete," Tony said, as if worried that he'd hurt Frade's feelings, "is go find a church. Light a candle. Say 'thank you.' You want to come along?"

"I think I'll pass on that, Tony," Clete said. "If I went to church, the steeple would fall off. But say 'thank you' for me, too, will you?"

"I will," Tony said, wondering if it was a sin for him to be glad Clete didn't want to go to church with him. The church he had in mind was near the Ristorante Napoli. Afterward, he would drop in to the Ristorante Napoli for his dinner. She just might be there.

Hell, she might even be in the church. Odds are that she's Catholic, and nice Catholic girls go to church.

They took their turn in the taxi line, and finally climbed into one. Clete told the driver to take them to Tony's apartment on Avenida Corrientes.

It was quarter past ten when the driver pulled up before the gate at 4730 Avenida Libertador. There were lights on over the drive and above the door, but the gates were closed, and the smaller pedestrian gate beside the vehicular gate was locked; he could see no light coming from the servants' quarters. Since Se?ora Pellano had not known when to expect him, he presumed she had simply gone to bed.

Finding the keys he needed, then wrestling with the ancient lock on the gate, and then carrying his luggage and—carefully— both "wooden" boxes from the cab to the front door took another five minutes.

He paid the cabdriver, then moved everything inside the house.

I'll bring these boxes upstairs— duty first. I'll take them apart, put the pieces on a shelf in one of my closets, and then I'll come down here and have a very stiff drink. I was more afraid smuggling this stuff past customs than I let on.

He was almost to the elevator when he heard, faintly, Beethoven's Third Symphony on the radio or the phonograph. Then he saw a crack of light under the double doors to the library.

Who the hell can that be? My father?

He walked to it and pushed it open with his foot.

A young man in a quilted, dark-red dressing gown was slumped in one of the armchairs, a cognac snifter resting on his chest. A cigar lay in the ashtray on the table beside him.

Who the hell is this?

"Buenas noches, Se?or."

The young man was startled. He quickly put the cognac snifter on the table, rose, and smiled.

"Buenas noches," he said.

"Yo soy Cletus Frade."

"El Coronel Frade?" the young man asked incredulously.

"No," Clete chuckled, "el Teniente Frade. El Coronel is my father."

The young man bowed and clicked his heels.

"Mucho gusto, Teniente. Yo soy el Capitan Hans-Peter Freiherr von Wachtstein, de la Luftwaffe."

Holy shit! This must be the guy who brought the body from Germany. And you told him you were a lieutenant. Brilliant, Frade, fucking brilliant! He speaks Spanish perfectly.

"Se?or, please, Capitan. I am no longer a lieutenant. Better yet, please call me Clete."

"I'm called Peter," von Wachtstein said, offering his hand. "Am I in your chair?"

"Sit down," Clete said.

“The lady who runs this place told me to make myself at home. So she asked if it would be all right if she went to evening mass," Peter said. "I took the liberty of coming down here and playing the phonograph, and helping myself to the cognac. Was that all right?"

"The cognac is a fine idea. Give me a minute to take my things to my room, and I'll join you."

"Let me help you."

"Not necessary."

"I would like to."

"Thank you."

Peter followed Clete back into the reception foyer and picked up the second "wooden" box.

"Delightful," he said, admiring the straw chickens, ducks, and fishes. "For your children?"

"I have no children that I know of," Clete said as they stepped into the elevator.

"I have none that I acknowledge," Peter replied.

They smiled at each other.

"I was drinking when I bought these," Clete said. "At the time it seemed like a splendid idea."

Peter chuckled.

"Se?ora Pellano has a herd of grandchildren," Clete said. "They will not go to waste."

"How nice for the grandchildren."

They put the "wooden" boxes inside the door to Clete's apartment, then made a second trip with his luggage, and finally returned to the library.

"It's a beautiful and unusual, house," Peter observed as Clete helped himself to the cognac.

"To your health, Peter," Clete said, raising his glass.

"And yours, Clete," Peter replied in English.

"The house was built by my granduncle Guillermo," Clete said, and went on to relate the history of Uncle Bill and the house.

It'll give me a chance to decide how to handle this,he thought. I am obviously in the presence of mine enemy.

Capitan von Wachtstein was properly appreciative of the story of Granduncle Guillermo, chuckled a final time, and then met Clete's eyes.

"You said you were formerly a lieutenant," he asked amiably. "In the Argentine Army?"

"No," Clete said.

"I could not help but observe your watch," von Wachtstein said in a polite challenge. "I have seen such watches before."

"Have you?"

"On the wrists of American aviators shot down over France and Germany. They are very good watches."

"You are a very perceptive man, mi Capitan."

"Possibly. And you have a very interesting Spanish accent.

Why do I think that my being here may be very awkward for both of us?"

"I am not a professional officer, mi Capitan," Clete said. "I have no idea what conduct is expected of an officer, even a former officer, when he meets an enemy officer in a neutral country."

"And in his father's house," Peter replied. "I, on the other hand, am a professional officer, and I haven't the faintest idea either. My father, however—my father is a Generalmajor, and presumably should know about these things—served in France in the First World War and often told me about the armistice, the unofficial armistice, declared between the English and the Germans on Christmas Eve. Do you suppose, as officers and gentlemen, that we might pretend it's Christmas Eve? We'd only be off by a couple of weeks. Less."

"I think that would be a splendid solution," Clete said. "Merry Christmas, Captain. Peter.''