Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“I am not surprised,” she replied seriously.

Sorry, Princess. No ride in the Buick. If Internal Security is watching me this close, you don’t want to be anywhere near me. What the hell was I thinking about?

[FIVE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1715 14 December 1942

A dark-maroon Beechcraft stagger-wing and a Piper Cub were parked beside a wind sock about a thousand yards from the grove of trees surrounding the ranch house—the trees looked to Clete like several acres of long-established, at least a century old, hardwood. He wondered if his father flew the Beechcraft, then decided that was unlikely. Since there was probably a pilot, that would probably complicate his laying his hands on the stagger-wing.

And then there is that other problem, Cletus, my boy, you’ve never flown a stagger-wing. Well, so what? You never flew a Wildcat either before the first day you flew one. If you can fly a Wildcat, it would seem logical that you can fly a stagger-wing.

When Clete pulled up, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was sitting in an armchair on the wide verandah of the ranch house. He held a large, very black cigar in one hand; and in the other was a large, squat glass, dark with whiskey. He was wearing a white polo shirt, riding breeches, and glistening boots.

“Welcome to San Pedro y San Pablo,” Frade said, moving down the shallow stairs toward the car.

The cigar, Clete saw, was freshly lit. The drink was fresh. So was the shave: A dot of shaving cream was by his father’s ear.

He got all dressed up to meet me. Jesus, that’s nice.

“I brought Señora Pellano along with me to show me the way,” Clete said as he shook his father’s hand.

“I hope that is all right?” Señora Pellano asked.

“Of course it is, Marianna,” Frade said. “I should have thought of it myself.”

“Gracias, mi Coronel,” she said.

“Nice-looking automobile,” Frade said. “The latest model?” He took a closer look and proclaimed indignantly, “It’s filthy.”

“It just came off the ship.”

“They should have prepared it for you at the dock,” Frade said indignantly. “I was assured that everything would be taken care of.” But then he brightened. “No problem. Enrico will see to it that it is washed and waxed.”

“That’s not necessary,” Clete protested.

“Nonsense. Enrico will be pleased. He admires fine automobiles. Marianna, would you be good enough to have someone take care of Señor Cletus’s luggage, and have someone send for Enrico, and then ask if they can prepare a little snack for Señor Cletus and myself?”

“Sí, mi Coronel.”

“Come sit on the porch with me,” Frade said. “I do not normally take spirits before seven, but your visit is a special occasion for me. And perhaps you would like a little something…what is it they say, ‘to cut the dust of the trail’?”

“Yes,” Clete said, restraining a smile. “Thank you, I would.”

Señora Pellano walked into the house. Thirty seconds later, a procession of three servants marched onto the porch, one of them heading for the car, the other two pushing wheeled tables. On the first of these was arrayed an enormous plate of hors d’oeuvres. And on the second Clete saw enough whiskey of various sorts for a party of eight.

He had that set up, too. It took half an hour to make that tray of food. How did he know exactly when I would arrive? Ah hah, those guys galloping over the fields on those beautiful horses with the funny-looking, hornless saddles. He had people out there waiting.

“We will have a drink, or perhaps two, and then you will decide when we should have our dinner. It will be simple, just you and I. It will take no more than an hour to prepare.”

“Thank you,” Clete said.

“I did not know when you would arrive, of course, so I was about to take a ride,” Frade said.

Sure you were. Where’s the horse, Dad?