Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“Yes. And I have had a word with him about the importance of discretion. Now, I don’t want you, Clete, to think that any immediate action is required. Fortunately, we have some time.”

“Sir…Sorry. I don’t think I follow you.”

“The replenishment vessel that was in the River Plate has left, presumably because it was out of supplies. Its replacement is almost certainly on the high seas, inbound from Europe, but won’t be here for three weeks or so. We don’t have a name. One possible candidate, of French registry, was sunk by a submarine off the coast of Morocco. The French blame the British; the British deny any knowledge and blame the Germans. The United States government has also denied any knowledge of the incident. That leaves three ships of interest now on the high seas; all of them are capable of the replenishment mission. As soon as I hear anything specific, if I hear of anything, I will, of course, let you know. You’ll find the names in the briefcase.”

Well, his intelligence is apparently good, if he has the names of three ships. But what good are the names if we don’t know which ship it is? Or are we expected to take out all three of them?

“I have high hopes that David Ettinger will be helpful in finding out which of the ships is the one we’re after,” Nestor said, as if he knew what Clete was thinking.

“I don’t follow that,” Clete said.

“There are a number of Jews in the ship chandlery business here. One of the things the replenishment vessel cannot bring from Europe—it’s at least a three-week voyage, more often a month—is fresh produce, meat, milk, and other nonfreezable perishables. Additionally, the more canned goods the replenishment vessel can buy here in Buenos Aires, the better for them; the longer they can remain on station. The only reason the Sundsvall left Argentinean waters was that her supply of torpedoes and diesel fuel was exhausted. So one of the things David will be looking for is a vessel which purchases more than the usual quantities of perishable goods or of canned and/or frozen supplies.”

“You think people will tell him?”

“I hope so. He was trained as an investigator, for one thing, and more important, we were able to provide him with a list of names of Jews from Berlin now resident in Buenos Aires. It’s likely that he will know some of them, or have mutual friends. He should be able, through them, to make contact with the people in a position to help.”

“Here we are,” Nestor announced, pulling into an off-the-street hotel entrance not unlike that of the Alvear Palace Hotel’s. “We’ll have a drink in the bar, and then have our luncheon. Did I tell you El Grill is the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires?”

“I’ll pass on the drink, thank you,” Clete said.

“Oh, I think we really should have a drink,” Nestor said, and there was a tone of command in his voice. “Taking an important client for a drink in the Plaza bar before lunch is the sort of thing a vice president of the Bank of Boston would be expected to do.”

A uniformed doorman and a bellman walked to the car and opened the doors. The doorman greeted Nestor by name. Nestor took his briefcase and motioned for Clete to precede him into the hotel, then led him to a staircase and down it to the bar.

The room was paneled with dark wood. There was a bar, with stools, three quarters of them occupied, and a dozen tables, each with three or four leather upholstered chairs, half of them occupied.

Most of the customers were men, but there were some women. All but one of the women were striking; she was silver-haired, plump, and wearing a small fortune in diamonds on her fingers. She and the man with her, obviously her husband, were almost certainly Jewish.

And there were three Miñas, one at the bar, two at tables, one with a man old enough to be her father, the other with a young man in a beautifully tailored suit. When he saw Clete looking at the girl, his right eyebrow rose in indignant question. Clete smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Nestor led him on a tour of the bar, introducing him to three of the men there as “Cletus Howell Frade,” just as he’d done in the bank. One of the men had a Miña with him. She was introduced only by her Christian name, Estrellita. Estrellita smiled shyly at him.

Then they took a table, and a waiter immediately appeared. Nestor ordered Ambassador-Twelve scotch. Clete had the waiter recite the short list of available bourbon, heard nothing he liked, and told the waiter he would h

ave what Nestor was drinking.

The whiskey was served with a plate of hors d’oeuvres and with the same little ceremony that Alberto, the Mallíns’ butler, had used.

It’s classy, Clete decided. They know how to do things down here.

He glanced around the room. There were mirrors. He found himself looking at the reflection of the good-looking Miña with the young man in the beautifully tailored suit. And she was looking at him. He winked. A faint but unmistakable smile touched her lips.

“That’s a nice touch,” Nestor said. “I understand they’re really quite comfortable.”

What the hell is Spymaster talking about? What’s “really quite comfortable”? The Miña? Come to think of it, I’ll bet she is.

“Pardon me?”

“I just noticed your cowboy boots,” Nestor said.

“These are boots,” Clete explained. “Cowboy boots are usually old, cracked, and covered with horseshit.”

He glanced down at his boots, and flicked a dried spot of mud off the glistening left toe.

When he looked up, he sensed eyes on him and glanced around the room. The good-looking Miña was smiling at him.

If I can escape the Mallíns’ hospitality, maybe I could come back here and see what develops.