Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“Can you open that?” Claudia inquired. “How much have you had to drink?”

“I have had this one drink.”

“And how many before? You were as nervous as a virgin on her bridal night when I talked to you this morning.”

This woman is not simply a pushy widow woman from the next spread, Clete thought.

Claudia took the champagne bottle from the cooler, expertly uncorked it, and poured.

She handed Clete a glass, then handed one to his father, and finally picked hers up.

“Welcome to Argentina,” she said, and raised her glass. Clete followed suit.

Claudia held up her hand to stop the toast.

“No,” she said. “More importantly. Welcome home, Cletus. Your father has been waiting for you for a long time.”

“Thank you,” Clete said, and his voice broke.

Claudia walked quickly to him and laid a hand on his cheek. Then, with a little hug, she kissed him. He could smell expensive perfume.

“It is all right to cry,” she said. “Your father cries often.”

She was right. When Clete looked at his father, tears were running down his cheeks.

[SIX]

Bureau of Internal Security

Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador

Avenida Paseo Colón

Buenos Aires

2045 14 December 1942

El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martín, in a foul mood, parked his car directly in front of the main entrance of the building and stormed inside.

It is almost nine o’clock, after all, and unless Paraguay or Chile has invaded Argentina as an evening surprise, there will be no one superior in rank to me in the building, and I can park wherever the hell I choose.

The ornately uniformed guards standing by the door moved from parade rest to rifle salute as he passed (the formal guards at the Edifico Libertador wear the dress uniforms of the Patricios Regiment, circa 1809). Martín, who was wearing civilian clothing, forgot that he wasn’t in uniform and returned the salute.

The door to the building was locked, and he pressed the bell button impatiently. A sargento appeared, immediately followed by a teniente, to tell him the building was closed. These men were in the field uniform, with German-style helmets and accoutrements, of the army unit charged with actually protecting—as opposed to decorating—the building.

He finally produced his Internal Security credentials. He disliked using them—and did not, unless he had to—because there was a lamentable and uncontrollable tendency on the part of people like this to remember him and point him out to their girlfriends: See the funny man? He’s Internal Security!

With profound apologies, the teniente finally opened the door. He would now almost certainly remember him; he could tell all his friends that Internal Security, ever vigilant, worked all night. Martín walked across the lobby and took the elevator to his seventh-floor offices.

The sargento on duty and Comandante Carlos Habanzo were waiting for him there. They rose to their feet as Martín walked through the door.

“Buenas noches, mi Coronel.”

“I was playing bridge with the father-in-law when you called, Habanzo. I hope your reasons are important,” Martín said, and waved at Habanzo to follow him as he walked to the door of his office and opened it.

“I took the liberty of putting the agent’s reports on your desk, mi Coronel,” Habanzo said.