Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

Clete had to impatiently circle the block twice before he found a place to park the Buick. As he was putting the roof up, he saw the car which had followed him from Avenida Libertador drive up on the sidewalk at the next intersection. A furious policeman stalked over to it, and didn’t seem to be very appeased by the documents the driver showed him.

I wonder if they will follow me into the officers’ club, or just hang around outside?

He walked quickly through the entrance of the Centro Naval, then took the wide marble stairs to the second-floor dining room two at a time.

Peter von Wachtstein, Alicia Carzino-Cormano, and Dorotea Mallín were at a table at the far side of the room. Peter rose and waved his hand when he saw Clete.

The Virgin Princess smiled at him. His heart jumped.

“Ah, Señor Frade,” von Wachtstein said. “We were growing concerned.”

“Sorry to be late, mi Comandante. I had trouble finding a place to park.”

“Cletus, we were worried,” Dorotea said.

“Nothing to worry about, Princess.”

“Princess?” Alicia Carzino-Cormano said. “How sweet!”

No longer the Virgin Princess, but still the Princess, Clete thought as he kissed Dorotea’s extended cheek. He walked around the table, kissed Alicia’s extended cheek, then sat down bes

ide Dorotea. Her knee immediately found his.

“I took the liberty of ordering champagne,” von Wachtstein said. “But perhaps you would prefer corn whiskey?”

“Champagne will be fine, mi Comandante,” Clete said.

“I heard Americans prefer corn whiskey to everything else,” Peter said.

“And I heard that Germans preferred peppermint schnapps to all else,” Clete replied with an equally broad smile.

“You are, I hope, fully recovered from your injuries?” Peter asked. But before Clete could reply, a waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne in a cooler.

“I was not aware that Germans drink champagne in the middle of the day,” Clete said. “I would have thought beer.”

“Only fighter pilots,” Peter said. “Bomber pilots and other lesser mortals drink beer. Or peppermint schnapps.”

“Ah ha!”

“I have the feeling that you two are about to say something rude to each other that will ruin our lunch,” Alicia said.

“You have no cause for concern, my dear Alicia,” Peter said. “I am here under orders to be charming to Señor Frade.”

“Under orders, did you say, mi Comandante?” Clete asked.

“The orders of my superior, el Coronel Grüner, the Military Attaché, Señor Frade.”

“How extraordinary!” Clete replied as the waiter finished pouring the wine. “I can’t imagine why he would do that, mi Comandante.”

“I think he wants to make the point that we Germans had nothing to do with the unfortunate business at your home,” Peter said.

Clete felt a shoe push against his. He moved his foot. A moment later he felt Dorotea’s leg pressing against the back of his calf. He looked at her, then decided that he did not want to look at her.

“Apparently, your Colonel has not read Shakespeare, mi Comandante.”

“Shakespeare?”

“‘Methinks thy Colonel dost protest too much,’” Clete quoted.