W. IV - Honor Bound 05 - The Honor of Spies

The way this road weaves, we're a lot closer as the bird flies than that.

Why the hell do people say that?

"As the bird flies" means in a straight line? I've never seen a bird fly more than twenty-five yards in a straight line.

Jesus Christ, it's odd thoughts time! And that means C. Frade's tail is really dragging.

I have every right in the world to have my tail dragging. Not only did I just fly from the States across Central and South America, and then fly down here, I also just threw Tio Juan out of Uncle Willy's house, had people try to kill me, and--and what else?

Doesn't matter what else.

I have every right to be tired, and I damn sure am.

What does matter, however, is that when my tail is really dragging, I tend to do really stupid things. Like, for example, being a little less than charming to Mother Superior at the convent and then actually getting ready to walk out of her office.

If Dorotea and Welner hadn't stopped me, I think I would have, and that would have really screwed up things.

Watch it, Little Cletus. You just can't afford to screw something up.

Ten seconds later, the Lincoln slowed and turned off the highway. Fifty meters off the road, there was a gate in a wire fence. Beyond the fence, the headlights lit up rows of grapevines as far as he could see.

There was a Ford Model A pickup truck inside the fence. A man got out of it, walked to the gate, and swung it open. The Lincoln's lights flashed over the pickup as they drove through the gate, and Frade saw there was a second man standing by the side of the truck, a Mauser rifle cradled in his arms. This one he recognized. He was one of the peones he'd brought from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

When they drove past, the man saluted. Clete returned it.

They drove for a kilometer, perhaps a little more, through endless rows of grapevines. The road suddenly became quite steep--the resident manager had to shift into second gear--and made a winding ascent of a mountainside.

And then there was a massive wooden gate blocking the road.

But there's no fence or anything to the right of the gate.

Why have a gate if people can just drive around it?

He looked out his side window and saw why people could not just drive around this gate. Three feet from the side of the car a stone curb marked the side of the road. Beyond the curb there was a precipitous drop-off; he could not see the bottom.

Well, since there's a granite mountain on the left and nothing but air on the right.

I guess that if they don't open the gate, you either blow it up or you don't get in.

The gate swung inward as they approached it.

There was another Model A pickup with another man holding a rifle just inside the gate, and again Clete recognized him as one of his men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. This one didn't salute as the Lincoln inched carefully past the Ford.

The road now was so steep that the estancia manager did not shift out of low.

They turned a curve and suddenly were on a level plateau perhaps three hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. A low stone wall on three sides suggested--it was too dark to see--a drop-off like the one beside the gate.

At the far end of the plateau, with what looked like a light in every window--and there were a lot of windows--was the house and its outbuildings.

The main house was three stories and red-tile-roofed. The third floor had dormer windows, and the roof extended over a verandah whose pillars seemed vine-covered. The Andes Mountains were on the horizon behind it, bathed in moonlight.

And now we know why they call it Casa Montagna.

That is indeed a mountain house.

"It's beautiful!" Dorotea said from the backseat.

Enrico Rodriguez, Madison Sawyer, and Gonzalo Delgano were standing on the verandah.

If they're waiting for us, they knew we were coming, and that means there's a telephone at either or both gates.

Nobody's going to get in here by surprise.

"No nuns?" Sawyer greeted them as he waved them into the house.

Inside the door was a foyer. In the center was a fountain in a circular pool.

"Classy," Frade said.

"This whole place is classy," Sawyer said. "And that fountain has no pumps. Enrico showed me. It's fed by a mountain stream. There's a tank, and that provides the pressure. And after the water goes through the fountain, it's fed back into the stream and goes down the mountain."

"Fascinating," Frade said.

Enrico showed him how the fountain works? That means that Enrico knows this place pretty well.

And never told me about it.

What the hell else can I own?

"I don't suppose that at a vineyard there's a pump spitting out wine?" Frade said.

"No, but there's a very nice bar in there," Sawyer said, pointing.

"Why don't we have a look at that?" Frade said.

"The nuns should be here any minute," Dorotea said.

Translation: Now is not wine time.

"Where's Frau Frogger?" Frade asked.

Sawyer pointed to the left.

"There's an apartment there with barred windows and lockable doors. Enrico put her in there. Her husband and son are with her, and one of our guys is sitting in the foyer outside. Stein's setting up the SIGABA and the Collins."

"Well, as soon as I have a glass of wine, I'll have a look at both," Frade said.

Dorotea shook her head in resignation.

Clete walked through the door that Sawyer had indicated and found himself in a comfortable room, two walls of which were lined with books, one half of a third wall with oil paintings and framed photographs and half with a bar, complete with stools. The fourth wall held French doors that opened onto a rear patio and provided a panoramic view of the Andes.

Clete went behind the bar and looked through the bottles of wine in a rack on the wall, finally pulling out a Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon. He took a quick look at the label and then a longer look.

"My God!" he said. "This says one of 2,505, 1917. Nineteen seventeen?"

"I think it gets better with age, like Kentucky bourbon," Sawyer said.

"Either that or we have a bottle of twenty-six-year-old vinegar," Clete said, and fed the bottle to a huge and ornate cork-pulling device mounted on the wall. He poured some in a glass and sipped.

"Mother Superior and the nuns will be here any minute," Dorotea said.

"So you keep saying," Clete replied. "Well, don't worry. I won't give her any of this twenty-six-year-old vinegar."

He poured his glass half full and took a healthy swallow.

"Terrible, absolutely terrible," he said. "I don't think you'd like this at all, Polo."

"Why don't you let me decide for myself?"

"Because anyone who has volunteered to jump out of a perfectly functioning airplane is obviously incapable of making wise decisions."

Sawyer snatched the bottle from him and poured wine into a glass.

"Nectar of the gods," Sawyer pronounced a moment later.

Frade found more glasses under the bar and poured wine for Delgano and Rodriguez.

"And there's a whole wall of it," Frade said, pointing at the wine rack. "I'm starting to like this place."

And then his eyes fell on a silver-framed photograph on a table.

He walked quickly to the table and picked it up.

"What, honey?" Dorotea asked.

"My parents' wedding picture," he said softly.

He extended it to her.

"Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, New Orleans," Frade said.

Dorotea examined it and then handed it to Sawyer. It showed the bride, in a long-trained gown, and the groom and the other males in the rather large wedding party in formal morning clothes, standing in front of an altar.