Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Galle said, looking at him carefully.

That look, Clete thought, went beyond idle curiosity.

“May I ask why you’re traveling to Argentina?” Galle asked as he picked up the visa applications.

“It’s on the application, Señor,” Clete said, switching to Spanish. “Our company is opening an office in Buenos Aires.”

“And your company is?” Galle asked, in English.

“Howell Petroleum,” Clete said. “Actually a subsidiary. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela).”

“Oh, yes. I know them,” Galle said. “And I see that your name is Howell. Is there a connection?”

“My grandfather founded the company.”

“I’m not always this inquisitive,” Galle said. “But we’re co-operating with your government in a rather delicate area. It would seem that your government has discovered that a number of young men have decided they would much rather enjoy the delights of Buenos Aires than those of, say, Fort Benning.”

“Really?”

“Our policy is that we inform young men of a certain age that while we would be pleased to grant them a visa to visit Argentina, there will be a delay of a week or so while we confer with your Department of Justice. A number of young men, upon hearing that, have decided to change their travel plans.”

“Both Mr. Pelosi and I have done our service,” Clete said.

“You would not be offended if I asked to see your discharge papers?” Galle asked.

“Right here in my briefcase,” Clete said. “Mine and Señor Pelosi’s. And I do have my brand-new draft card, which shows my classification. Medically discharged.”

“That should do it,” Galle said, finally switching to Spanish himself. “You speak Spanish very well, Señor.”

“Thank you,” Clete said.

After carefully examining the discharge documents and Clete’s draft card, Galle handed them back to him with a smile.

“No offense, Señor Frade?”

“Absolutely none. I hope you catch a couple of draft dodgers.”

Galle bent over the desk and scrawled an initial on one of the visa applications—Clete could not see which one—and then started to do the same thing on the other.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Galle said, straightening and looking directly at Clete. “You’re an Argentinean, Mr. Frade.”

“No,” Clete said. “I was born there, but I’m an American citizen. My mother was an American.”

“Under our laws, you’re an Argentinean; citizenship comes with birth in Argentina.”

“Is that going to pose any problem?” Clete asked.

“No. But it’s probably fortunate that you have done your military service. You were a Marine, I see?”

“That’s right.”

“We have, as you do, compulsory military service,” Galle said. “And we, like you, have our share of young men who would rather not serve their country. If you hadn’t done your service, then perhaps it could have been awkward. But since you have, I’m sure there will be no problem. But may I suggest you take your discharge documents with you? You’ll probably never need them, but if the question came up somehow…”

“Thank you for the advice,” Clete said. “I will. And I’ll tell Pelosi.”

Galle put his initials on Clete’s application and then on Pelosi’s.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to give Miss O’Rourke twenty dollars—visas are ten dollars each—I think we can finish this up.”