Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

I’ve probably forgotten more about explosives than you ever knew, pal!

“I know a little bit about explosives,” Pelosi replied.

“You ever use explosives to cut steel?”

Not more than five or six hundred times.

“A couple of times.”

“I generally found when I’m teaching somebody who has a little experience with explosives that the best way is to get him to forget what he thinks he knows and let me start from scratch. Think you could handle that?”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve done this,” Chief Norton said. “Usually we have a lot more time, a couple of days more, anyway.”

[THREE]

The Consulate of the Republic of Argentina

Suite 1103

The Bank of New Orleans Building

New Orleans, Louisiana

0900 10 November 1942

“Buenos días,” Clete said to the redhead in the office of the Argentine Consulate.

“Good morning,” the redhead said in English. “Can I help you?”

She’s not an Argentinean, Clete Frade realized, which surprised him. He’d assumed that anyone who worked in the Argentine Consulate would be an Argentinean. But when he considered that, he realized there was no reason that should be so. It was obviously cheaper to hire a local than bring someone up from Argentina. It reminded him that what he knew about consulates and embassies—and for that matter, Argentina—could be written inside a matchbook with a grease pencil.

“I’ve come to apply for visas,” he said, and smiled at her. He set his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the forms and handed them to her.

“There’s two applications,” she said.

“Well, the sad truth is that my friend, who’s going with me, right now thinks he’s about to die,” Clete said with a smile. “He was out on Bourbon Street all night, and most of the morning, too. I hoped he wouldn’t have to come himself.”

“I’ll have to ask Señor Galle about that,” she said. “Which one is he?”

“Pelosi,” Clete said. “I’m Frade.”

She examined Pelosi’s visa application carefully.

“Seems to be all right,” she said. “Do you have his passport?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Clete said, and handed it to her.

“I’ll have to ask Señor Galle about it,” the redhead said.

She went farther into the office, and a minute or so later a well-dressed, smiling man in his late thirties or early forties came into the outer room.

“Good morning,” he said. His English was very faintly accented. “Miss O’Rourke gives me to believe that Bourbon Street has claimed yet another victim. My name is Galle.”

He offered his hand.

“Frade,” Clete said, taking it. “Clete Frade.”