Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

He took it, sat it down, took off his cap, and then picked up the coffee again. “What I have to say to you must never leave this room,” he said solemnly. “Agreed?”

That depends on what you have to say, Colonel.

He looked at them one at a time.

“Sí, Señor,” Enrico said.

“Certainly, Juan Domingo,” Claudia said.

Welner nodded.

Perón looked at Clete, who nodded.

“First, let me say, Cletus that I owe you an apology.” He turned to Claudia and Welner. “When Cletus told me he held the Germans responsible for the murder of our beloved Jorge—may he now be resting in peace for all eternity united again with his beloved Elizabeth-Ann…”

And where’s that going to leave Claudia, you pious fraud? She loved my father too, and spent a hell of a lot more time with him, taking care of him, than my mother did.

What is Claudia supposed to do, for all eternity, ride around on a cloud by herself, strumming on a harp?

“…I found the suggestion so monstrous that I was unable to believe it, and told him so…”

Who else could have done it, had any reason to do it, you stupid bastard?

“…which caused bad feelings between us, which, as his godfather, caused me much pain.”

Not as much pain as a load of double-ought buckshot in my father’s face caused. What the fuck are you up to?”

Perón turned back to Clete. “I now tell you, Cletus, that I was wrong, and can only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive your godfather, who looks upon you as the son God never saw fit to give him.”

Maybe you can knock up one of your little girls and have one of your own.

“I’m not sure what you’re saying, mi Coronel,” Clete said.

“A distinguished German officer recently arrived from Berlin, Cletus,” Perón began, then turned and looked at Claudia and Father Welner. “This is, of course, what must go no further than this room.” He turned back to Cletus. “This distinguished German officer, like yourself, Cletus, an honorable officer, the son and grandson of general officers—”

Clete was horrified to hear himself ask, not very politely, “Has this distinguished German officer got a name?”

Watch it, stupid! Keep your goddamned mouth shut! Hear the bastard out!

Perón obviously didn’t like the question. “Given your word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that it will go no further than this room?”

“You have my word,” Clete said. Why am I uncomfortable giving him my word when I don’t mean it? “But if giving me the name is awkward for you, don’t—”

“Generalmajor Freiherr Manfred von Deitzberg,” Perón said. “Of the General Staff of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht. You have a right to know. Do you know what this is, the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht?”

“Yes, Sir.”

And I also know, mi Coronel, that von Deitzberg is no more a Wehrmacht officer than I am. The sonofabitch is not only SS, he’s Heinrich Himmler’s adjutant.

“General von Deitzberg was sent to Argentina to offer the assurances of the Wehrmacht that the German officer corps had absolutely nothing to do with murder of our beloved Jorge.”

“If the Germans didn’t kill him, Juan Domingo,” Father Welner asked in an innocence Clete suspected was as phony as a three-dollar bill, “who did? I don’t understand.”

“There was an officer—a man at least wearing the uniform of a German officer; actually he was in the SS. Do you know what the SS is, Father?”

Welner shook his head.

“It is the German secret police.”