Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 02 - Blood and Honor

"Well, I could start to work on that the minute I get down there. I have seen—"

"I'm not so foolish as to try to tell you to keep your pecker in your pocket. But carry on with somebody you won't have to marry if you get her in the family way. One Argentine in-law in my lifetime has been more than enough."

"If it wasn't for my father, I wouldn't be sitting here with you."

"Possibly not, but your mother, may she rest in peace, would be. She could have had her pick of any one of—"

"Strange," Clete interrupted the Old Man, "but I seem to recall hearing all this before."

"All right," the Old Man said. "Just don't write me a letter and tell me you've found some female down there you want to marry."

"That's highly improbable."

"It better be impossible," the Old Man snapped, and then suddenly his entire aura changed. He looked old and vulnerable, not delightfully feisty.

"Clete, if there is one thing that would break my heart, kill me, it would be if you were to get seriously involved down there. It would kill me if you married an Argentine. Your mother did that, and look what happened to her."

"I have no plans to marry anybody in Argentina," Clete said.

That is the truth. I would like to, but it's simply out of the question.

"Don't change your mind," the Old Man snapped, his feistiness returning as quickly as it left. "That's a hell of a long airplane ride for an old man to take with a bullwhip to beat some sense into you. Which I assure you I would do."

Clete shook his head. "I'm terrified," he said.

He sensed that he would remember the old man's momentary vulnerability for a long time, perhaps forever.

What the hell's the matter with me? The question is moot. It is because I love her that I can't marry her. The worst thing I could do to her, in my line of work, is marry her. Make her pregnant. Leaving her a widow with an American child would be a hell of a lot more rotten thing to do than what my father did to my mother.

Chapter Three

[ONE]

3470 St. Charles Avenue

New Orleans, Louisiana

2305 5 April 1943

The Cadillac turned off St. Charles and stopped while the chauffeur opened the gate. When it did, they could see lights burning behind the drapes of the library of the Howell Mansion.

"It must be the new maid," the Old Man said. "Jean-Jacques knows better than to throw money away lighting empty rooms."

"Or there may be somebody in the library," Clete said, "who's afraid of the dark."

"Somebody in the library? At this hour?" Martha asked doubtfully.

"There's a car at the curb," Clete said, gesturing toward a black Ford Fordor.

The Old Man did not follow the gesture.

"My guests park their cars inside the fence, on the drive," the Old Man said.

Jean-Jacques opened the portico door to admit them.

"Colonel Graham is in the library, Mr. Howell," he said, "with two other gentlemen."

"Is he really?" the Old Man said, and headed for the library. Clete followed him. After a moment's hesitation, Martha followed Clete.

Afterward, Clete was to remember that his reaction to the unexpected appearance of Colonel Graham was curiosity. He had no concern that something might have gone wrong—much less a premonition that disaster had struck.

"Well, hello, Graham," the Old Man said. "Jean-Jacques get you everything you need?"

"Mr. Howell," Graham said. "Clete."

The Deputy Director for Western Hemisphere Operations of the OSS was a short, trim, tanned, barrel-chested, bald-headed man in his fifties. He was as well-tailored as Clete's grandfather and wore a neatly trimmed pencil-line mustache.

"A sus ?rdenes, mi Coronel," Clete replied—"[I stand] at your orders, Colonel."—primarily to annoy the Old Man. Although his grandfather spoke fluent Spanish himself as a result of his years in Venezuela, he devoutly believed the world would be a far better place if everybody spoke English.

The Old Man flashed Clete a dirty look.

"I don't believe you know my daughter-in-law," the Old Man said. "Mrs. James F. Howell. Martha, this is Colonel Graham."

"I've heard a lot about you, Colonel," Martha said, offering him her hand.

"Have you really?" Graham said, looking at the Old Man. "It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Ma'am."

"Not that you're unwelcome at any hour, of course, Graham," the Old Man said, "but curiosity ..."

"I apologize for the hour," Graham said, "but it was unavoidable. I'm afraid that I'm the bearer of some very bad news."

"Is that so?"

"Clete, I have to tell you that your father is dead," Graham said.

"Oh, Clete, honey, I'm so sorry!" Martha said, and touched his cheek.

"What happened?" Clete asked after a moment.

"We don't know much, and what we do know we haven't been able to verify. It seems there was a robbery attempt last night on the estancia highway. Your father resisted and was shot to death. I'm very sorry."

"What about Enrico?" Clete asked without thinking.

"Enrico?" Graham asked, confused.

"Enrico Rodriguez, my father's . . . sergeant," Clete said. "He never goes . . . went. . . anywhere without him."

"Clete, I just don't know," Graham said.

"Cletus, I'm sorry," the Old Man said. "I—"

"Those sonsofbitches," Clete said bitterly. "They couldn't get me, so they got him!"

"We don't know that, Clete," Graham said.

Clete snorted.

"What do you mean, 'they couldn't get you'?" Martha asked, horrified.

"Nothing," Clete said.

"I want to know," Martha went on, "what Cletus meant when he said they tried to get him!"

Graham, visibly uncomfortable, looked as if he was carefully framing a reply.

"If you're thinking about telling me this is none of my business, save your breath," Martha said.

Graham looked at her directly for a long moment before deciding that she could not be cowed.

"An attempt was made on Clete's life, Mrs. Howell," Graham replied. "Obviously, it failed."

"An attempt was made on his life? By whom?"

"In Clete's case, we have reason to believe it was the Germans," Graham said.

"Christ," Clete said. "We know it was the Germans. And it was the Germans who killed my father."

"We don't know that," Graham argued.

"I'll damned sure find out when I get down there."

"We have to talk about that, Clete," Graham said.

"What do you mean, talk about it?"

"This unfortunate development opens a number of other possibilities for us," Graham said, "which we really should not—I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Howell— discuss in your presence."

"Us meaning the OSS?" the Old Man interrupted.

"Yes," Graham said, simply.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Clete said.

"We've been thinking—" Graham began.

"We is who?" the Old Man interrupted, and when Graham looked at him in shock and annoyance at the interruption, went on: "And don't tell me this is none of my business, Graham. We're in my library, and I have been involved in this whole business from the beginning. And for that matter, so has Mrs. Howell, so don't try to exclude her, either."

Graham's face was stiff for a moment, but then he smiled and shrugged.

Then he turned to one of the men who came with him, a slim man in his thirties, who wore his hair combed straight back and, like Graham, sported a pencil-line mustache. "Delojo," he said, "this is one of those circumstances we were talking about when it is necessary to deviate from procedure."

Delojo nodded but did not smile.

"Excuse me," Graham went on. "Mrs. Howell, Mr. Howell, may I present Lieutenant Commander Frederico Delojo, U.S. Navy, and Mr. Quinn?"

Quinn was a stocky, pale-skinned Irishman, also in his thirties.

Delojo offered his hand first to Martha and then to the Old Man. When the Old Man shook Delojo's hand and then Quinn's, he made it clear with the gesture that while he was willing to be civil, his patience was being strained.