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

"Jawohl, Excellenz."

"My residence, my office, and my telephone lines are regularly inspected to detect listening devices. I am regularly assured there are none—by Oberst Gr?ner. Consequently, I am very careful of what I say in my office, in my home, and on the telephone. Do you take my point, Herr Hauptmann?''

"Yes, Sir."

"After you are presented to me tomorrow by Gr?ner, I will, as a courtesy to your father, whom I know socially, have you as a guest in my home. You will remain there until you have completed your duties vis-a-vis Hauptmann Duarte and my staff can find you a suitable apartment. I regret that our relationship thereafter will be formal and distant. This is doubly unfortunate, inasmuch as Frau von Lutzenberger and your mother were close, and I myself hold your father in the highest regard," he met Peter's eyes again, "in these difficult times."

"I understand, Your Excellency."

"This conversation never took place."

"Yes, Sir."

"Watch your drinking and your mouth, von Wachtstein."

"Yes, Sir."

Ambassador von Lutzenberger nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.

[FOUR]

The Port of Buenos Aires

1200 14 December 1942

When Clete and Se?ora Pellano left the taxi, the Buick was waiting for him, along with half a dozen customs officials. The Buick looked like hell, despite an obviously fresh, if none-too-skillful, wash job.

The paperwork was taken care of. All he had to do was sign an acknowledgment of receipt of the vehicle in an undamaged condition.

A customs officer— obviously the senior man,Clete decided, in deference to my father or Se?or Mallin or both —walked to the car with him and watched somewhat nervously as Clete threw his and Se?ora Pellano's bags on the backseat, then got behind the wheel.

The engine fired as soon as he stepped on the starter; and it quickly settled down to produce its entirely satisfying Buick Straight Eight exhaust rumble. The smoothness, so quickly, surprised Clete, and he looked at the water-temperature gauge. The engine was warm; it had obviously been running recently. He remembered now that the customs officer standing by the side of the car exhaled audibly in relief when the engine started. Having friends — or a parent— in high places is very nice.

"Excuse me, Se?or," the customs officer said. "Be so kind. Inform me how you did that?"

"Did what?" Clete said, and then understood. "On this model the starter is mounted with the accelerator pedal. To start the engine, it is necessary only to press the accelerator."

"Magn?fico! We looked—I myself looked—for the starter button, and could find none. It was necessary to call a mechanic to ... how you say, jump-start?"

"Short the starter leads," Clete furnished.

"Precisely," the customs officer said. "A marvelous invention!"

"Thank you, and thank you for your many courtesies."

"De nada," the customs officer said, offering his hand. After Clete shook his hand, he stepped back and saluted.

Clete put the Buick in gear and drove off, feeling fine, wondering if the Virgin Princess would be as fascinated with the step-on-the-gas-pedal starting technology as the customs guy was.

If I am goddamn fool enough to actually call her up and ask her if she still wants to take the ride she asked for.

Jesus Christ, why does she have to be only nineteen goddamned years old? And an innocent, virginal nineteen-year-old at that?The good feeling about the Buick lasted until he reached the port gate and its guard shack. The heavy steel gate was open, and the guard on duty smilingly waved him through. Just outside the gate, there was a small, permanent watercourse, about six inches deep and perhaps a foot wide.

When he crossed it, there was an awful thump, as if the whole goddamned rear end were about to fall off.

He drove, very slowly, for a block or two, listening for the sounds of a fatal defect—the clutch tearing itself to pieces, for example—and then pulled into a side street, stopped, and got out.

He tried to slam the door. It wouldn't close. He tried it again, then took a closer look to see what the hell was wrong with it.

The door panel was falling off.

Jesus Christ! How did that happen?

He tried to push the little clips back in place with his thumb. That didn't work. They needed the jolt from a hammer. There was—at least the last time he looked—a tool kit in the trunk. He reached through the window and pulled the key from the ignition.

"There is trouble, Se?or Clete?" Se?ora Pellano asked.

"I don't think so. Just checking."

When he opened the trunk, the mysterious thump was explained. The spare tire was not mounted where it should have been: flat on the trunk floor against the right fender well and held in place with a bolt passing through the floor plate. When he passed over the bump, the tire flew up and down.

How the hell did that come loose?

I'll be a sonofabitch; they searched the car. They took the spare out to see what I might have hidden in there, and they didn't know how to put it back the way they found it. That also explains the loose door panel.

He pressed hard on the sidewall of the spare. It had been deflated, obviously to dismount it. And he found scratches on the paint of the wheel. And then they forgot to reinflate it—or else they didn't have time to do that.

He bolted the spare wheel in place, found the hammer, and tapped the door-panel clips on both doors back in place. They had managed to properly reinstall the rear seat panels, however, which fastened with screws.

He finally slipped behind the wheel and started the engine again.

"All fixed, Se?ora Pellano," he said. "Among my many other accomplishments, I am a master mechanic."

"I am not surprised," she replied seriously.

Sorry, Princess. No ride in the Buick. If Internal Security is watching me this close, you don't want to be anywhere near me. What the hell was I thinking about?

[FIVE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1715 14 December 1942

A dark-maroon Beechcraft stagger-wing and a Piper Cub were parked beside a wind sock about a thousand yards from the grove of trees surrounding the ranch house—the trees looked to Clete like several acres of long-established, at least a century old, hardwood. He wondered if his father flew the Beechcraft, then decided that was unlikely. Since there was probably a pilot, that would probably complicate his laying his hands on the stagger-wing.

And then there is that other problem, Cletus, my boy, you've never flown a stagger-wing. Well, so what? You never flew a Wildcat either before the first day you flew one. If you can fly a Wildcat, it would seem logical that you can fly a stagger-wing.

When Clete pulled up, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was sitting in an armchair on the wide verandah of the ranch house. He held a large, very black cigar in one hand; and in the other was a large, squat glass, dark with whiskey. He was wearing a white polo shirt, riding breeches, and glistening boots.

"Welcome to San Pedro y San Pablo," Frade said, moving down the shallow stairs toward the car.

The cigar, Clete saw, was freshly lit. The drink was fresh. So was the shave: A dot of shaving cream was by his father's ear.

He got all dressed up to meet me. Jesus, that's nice.

"I brought Se?ora Pellano along with me to show me the way," Clete said as he shook his father's hand.

"I hope that is all right?" Se?ora Pellano asked.

"Of course it is, Marianna," Frade said. "I should have thought of it myself."

"Gracias, mi Coronel," she said.

"Nice-looking automobile," Frade said. "The latest model?" He took a closer look and proclaimed indignantly, "It's filthy."

"It just came off the ship."

"They should have prepared it for you at the dock," Frade said indignantly. "I was assured that everything would be taken care of." But then he brightened. "No problem. Enrico will see to it that it is washed and waxed."