Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

“Sir?”

“You said you didn’t want him at your wedding for one thing because he’s a pervert. What else?”

“Well, in the face of the facts, he refuses to admit the Germans killed my father.”

“Milton, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Graham said.

“Clete, it could be because the Germans know about his sexual appetites,” Leibermann said. “In a society like this, Perón would do or say whatever they want him to to keep that from coming out.”

“That may be very useful information, for use somewhere down the pike,” Graham said.

“I would hold that card a long time before playing it,” Leibermann said.

“Of course,” Graham said. “As far as you’re concerned, Frade, aside from keeping your eyes and ears open to confirm this little-girl business, you say and do nothing. You got that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I think that concludes our conversation,” Graham said. “We understand each other, right, Frade?”

“Yes, Sir. Sir, I’m sorry—”

“Save your breath. In our business, sorry doesn’t count.”

Leibermann grunted as he raised himself out of the too-low couch.

“One more thing,” Graham said. “Mr. Leibermann and I accept your kind invitation to your wedding.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clete said, and then thought of something else, decided to hell with it, it was his business, but in the end decided it probably was Graham’s business—or Graham would think it was. “Sir, I plan to get married in my uniform,” he blurted.

Graham looked at him and took fifteen seconds to think it over. “Fine,” he said finally, then started to walk out of the room.

XI

[ONE]

1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires

2245 6 May 1943

Clete had wasted the evening at a not entirely pleasant dinner at the home of his fiancée. Rather than spending time with Dorotéa, he had had to “get to know” Dorotéa’s paternal grandmother and some of her father’s brothers and sisters, none of whom he had previously met.

The grandmother in particular, as well as most of the uncles and aunts, had—through a haze of icy courtesy—managed to make it clear what they thought of norteamericanos and Protestants in general, and of a Protestant norteamericano who had despoiled the family virgin in particular.

At the time, he had resisted the temptation to drink, but as he walked through the door to the Museum, he told Antonio to bring American whiskey to his sitting.

He was halfway through his third Jack Daniel’s, and listening to the news from the British Broadcasting Corporation’s Foreign Service, when Antonio reappeared.

“Are you at home, Señor?” Antonio asked. “There is a Señor Freets on the telephone.”

“I’ll take it,” Clete said, and quickly got out of the chair, where—in addition to listening to the news—he had also been wincing mentally at the (richly deserved, he was forced to admit, hook, line, and sinker) tongue-lashing he’d gotten from Colonel Graham, and wondering how many Mallín family genes the baby would inherit.

He crossed the room to the telephone, then had to wait until Antonio said, “One moment, please, Señor Freets,” before he handed it to him.

“Fritz? What’s up?” Clete asked.

“I’m going to Germany tomorrow. I’m about to go to dinner in the Alvear with von Deitzberg, the Ambassador, and Gradny-Sawz. I’d like to see you for a few minutes. I can’t get away from here for more than twenty minutes. Any ideas?”