Secret Honor by W.E.B. Griffin

Author:W.E.B. Griffin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2000-11-30T16:00:00+00:00

XI

[ONE]

1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires

2245 6 May 1943

Clete had wasted the evening at a not entirely pleasant dinner at the home of his fiancée. Rather than spending time with Dorotéa, he had had to “get to know” Dorotéa’s paternal grandmother and some of her father’s brothers and sisters, none of whom he had previously met.

The grandmother in particular, as well as most of the uncles and aunts, had—through a haze of icy courtesy—managed to make it clear what they thought of norteamericanos and Protestants in general, and of a Protestant norteamericano who had despoiled the family virgin in particular.

At the time, he had resisted the temptation to drink, but as he walked through the door to the Museum, he told Antonio to bring American whiskey to his sitting.

He was halfway through his third Jack Daniel’s, and listening to the news from the British Broadcasting Corporation’s Foreign Service, when Antonio reappeared.

“Are you at home, Señor?” Antonio asked. “There is a Señor Freets on the telephone.”

“I’ll take it,” Clete said, and quickly got out of the chair, where—in addition to listening to the news—he had also been wincing mentally at the (richly deserved, he was forced to admit, hook, line, and sinker) tongue-lashing he’d gotten from Colonel Graham, and wondering how many Mallín family genes the baby would inherit.

He crossed the room to the telephone, then had to wait until Antonio said, “One moment, please, Señor Freets,” before he handed it to him.

“Fritz? What’s up?” Clete asked.

“I’m going to Germany tomorrow. I’m about to go to dinner in the Alvear with von Deitzberg, the Ambassador, and Gradny-Sawz. I’d like to see you for a few minutes. I can’t get away from here for more than twenty minutes. Any ideas?”

Clete had no ideas at all. It would take more than twenty minutes for Peter to travel back and forth from the Alvear Palace Hotel to the Museum; and if he himself went to the hotel, they would be seen together.

“Call me back when you get to the Alvear,” Clete said. “I’ll think of something.”

“Right,” Peter said, and the line went dead.

Clete looked around for Enrico and found him asleep in an armchair in the small foyer of the master suite. He touched his shoulder.

“Señor Clete?” Enrico asked, suddenly wide awake.

“Mayor von Wachtstein is going to be at the Alvear in maybe fifteen minutes. He can’t get free long enough—twenty minutes, no more—to come here. He wants to see me. Obviously, it’s important. Any ideas? Is there someplace near the Alvear where we could meet without being seen?”

“You have an apartment in the Alvear,” Enrico said.

“I do?” Clete asked. It was the first he’d heard about that.

Enrico reached into his pocket, came out with an enormous bunch of keys, found the one he was looking for, and held it up triumphantly.

“Why do I have an apartment in the Alvear?” Clete asked.

“El Coronel used it for entertaining,” Enrico said. “When discretion was necessary.”

“What does that mean? And I thought that’s what the house on Libertador is for? A guest house.

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