Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“My God, Daddy, it was hot out there! Even at this hour.”

“Do you play tennis, Clete?” Pamela asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good, then we’ll have a game. Henry plays well, but dragging him onto the courts is like dragging him to the dentist.”

“I’d like that.”

Ramón, the chauffeur, appeared in the doorway, holding his cap in his hand.

“I have had the gentleman’s luggage sent to his room, Señor,” he reported.

“What happened at customs?” Mallín demanded. “When there was a delay, why didn’t you speak with Inspector Nore?”

“I did, Señor. He said it was out of his hands; it was an Internal Security matter.”

Maybe I’m not so paranoid after all, Clete thought. It is entirely possible that that charming Argentinean Consul in New Orleans warned them we were coming. Well, they found nothing. The last thing Adams did before we got on the train to Miami was go through our luggage to make sure there was nothing that could raise questions about us.

Mallín grunted. “And the luggage of the other gentleman?”

“It is at the Alvear Palace, Señor.”

“Thank you, Ramón. Would you ask Alberto to come in, please?” Mallín said, and turned to Clete. “Well, better late than not at all.”

“Thank you, Ramón,” Clete said. “And now, if I may be excused?”

“Alberto will show you to your room,” Pamela said. “If you need anything, just ring. Should I order dinner for…say, in forty-five minutes?”

“That would be fine with me.”

“I’ll see you at dinner, Mr. Frade,” the Virgin Princess said.

Clete nodded at her but did not trust himself to speak.

Alberto led him to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. After he left, Clete found proof that the search of his luggage at the terminal had been thorough. While Clete was still in the house on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, Antoinette did his laundry. Specifically, she washed his socks and rolled them in her peculiar manner. He remembered thinking about that when he packed: Antoinette’s rolled socks would pass the inspection of even the most critical, nasty-tempered drill instructor at Parris Island. The socks neatly laid out in a drawer in a chest of drawers here were neat, but not Antoinette neat. When they—what did Mallín’s chauffeur say? “Internal Security”—examined his luggage they went so far as to unroll his socks.

Graham had told him that Argentine Internal Security was very good.

Did finding nothing satisfy them? Or just increase their curiosity?

Forty minutes later, after a long hot shower to remove the grime of the flight, and an even longer cold shower to force his libido under control, Clete dressed in a seersucker suit, went down the wide stairs to the foyer, and looked in the sitting room.

Mallín waved him in.

“Feel a little better?” he asked.

“Much better, thank you.”

“Another little belt before dinner?” Mallín asked.

“Thank you, no.”

“One is usually enough for me, too,” Mallín said.

Christ, it should be. There must have been four ounces of scotch in the drink you gave me.

“…and then I usually have a glass of wine for the appetite. May I interest you…?”