Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

The night man worked for Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos, not for the Edificio Kavanagh. He could be counted on to have the door open in anticipation of Mallín’s arrival. He could also be counted on to have a kettle of water simmering in the small kitchen in Señor Mallín’s private office, and to have checked with the Communications Department to make sure that all communications Señor Mallín would possibly be interested in were neatly laid out on the conference table in Señor Mallín’s office.

Enrico would brew his own tea (Hornyman’s Special) in a china teapot, remove his jacket and loosen his tie while he was waiting for it to steep, and then begin his day by reading the material from the Communications Department.

Very little of this was addressed to him personally. And very little of what he read required any action on his part. He made the odd note now and again to query one of his Division Chiefs, but the basic purpose of his spending an hour or two reading the communications was simply to get an idea of what was going on.

One piece of wisdom he brought home from America—an insight that was ignored at the London School of Economics—was the leadership philosophy he acquired from a marvelous curmudgeonly character of an American oilman, Cletus Marcus Howell. Howell told him—actually proclaimed—that if you have to look over the shoulder of the people you’ve hired to make sure they do what you tell them to do, you’ve hired the wrong people.

The philosophy was simplistic, of course, but in practice it worked. And in the case of Cletus Marcus Howell, in that wonderful American expression, he put his money where his mouth was in his relationship with Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos. SMIPP had represented both Howell Petroleum and Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) in Argentina for many years. There were twice-annual visits (annual now, because of the war) by Howell’s accountants to have a look at the books. But aside from that, Howell (or his people) rarely asked questions and never offered any criticism of the way Mallín was running things.

They offered, of course, constructive suggestions, but these were precisely that: both constructive and suggestions. Generally speaking, when other SMIPP clients offered “constructive suggestions,” they were actually criticizing. And “suggestions” was a euphemism for orders.

Over the years, Mallín had taken more care handling the Howell accounts than any others, simply because he knew he had a free rein, and it would have been terribly awkward and embarra

ssing if he was caught doing something unwise. Or stupid. Mallín took a little private pleasure in knowing that in his case, Cletus Marcus Howell was sure he had hired the right man.

Mallín almost casually glanced at the material laid out on his conference table, then poured himself a cup of tea, adding sugar and lemon. He then went to the window and slowly sipped it, gazing out at the boats on the River Plate as he did. As long as the office was his (he inherited it, so to speak, on his father’s death three years before), the view fascinated, almost hypnotized, him. He privately acknowledged that looking out the window was one of the reasons he came to the office so early. If others wanted to believe he spent every moment reading the mail, no harm was done.

Now that he was here, he regretted not stopping in to have a coffee with Teresa. There was something wonderfully erotic about letting himself into her apartment, walking quietly to the bedroom, and watching her sleeping. Especially now, in the summer, when he could often find her without a sheet covering her, and with a flimsy nightdress more often than not riding high on her legs. When she was sleeping, there was a strange and entirely delightful warmth about her, and a slight musky smell. Teresa kept an apple on her bedside table. She wouldn’t let him kiss her on the mouth until she’d taken a bite or two. Then her mouth tasted of apples.

Tomorrow, Mallín decided. I will visit Teresa tomorrow.

He turned from the window and went to his desk and consulted his schedule for the week. He had an appointment at eleven o’clock tomorrow.

There will be time for Teresa before I have to meet with Schneider. And if I run a little late, Schneider will just have to wait.

He glanced at the paper spread out on the conference table and sighed.

I better stop thinking about Teresa and do my reading. What the devil is that? A cable. I don’t remember seeing that before. I’ve told that idiot again and again to put the cables on top!

He walked around his desk to the conference table and picked up a pale-pink envelope and tore it open.

* * *

WESTERN UNION NEW ORLEANS 1115AM NOV 19

1942

FROM HOWELL PETROLEUM NEW ORLEANS

VIA MACKAY RADIO

ENRICO MALLIN

SMIPP

KAVANAGH BUILDING

CALLE FLORIDA 165

BUENOS AIRES ARGENTINA

FOR REASONS MY GRANDSON WILL EXPLAIN IN PERSON HOWELL VENEZUELA OPENING BUENOS AIRES OFFICE STOP CLETUS HOWELL FRADE AND ANTHONY J PELOSI COMMA TANK FARM ENGINEER COMMA DEPARTING MIAMI PANAMERICAN FLIGHT ONE SEVEN ONE NOVEMBER TWENTY STOP APPRECIATE YOUR ARRANGING HOTEL ETCETERA UNTIL PERMANENT ARRANGEMENTS CAN BE MADE STOP REGARDS CLETUS MARCUS HOWELL END

* * *

The old man is opening a Buenos Aires office? And sending his grandson down here to do it? What in the devil is that all about?

The first thing that came to his mind was that SMIPP had somehow failed to meet the old man’s expectations. Had something gone wrong?…He couldn’t imagine what…. But was he about to lose Howell Petroleum as a client?