Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Clete had managed to keep his mouth shut, but it had not been easy.

Radio Belgrano occupied a small, old, and run-down two-story masonry house. The house’s trim needed a paint job, and a not-very-impressive antenna rose from the faded tile roof. To Clete it looked as if it had been welded together of thin iron rods on the spot—far less substantial than the windmill water pumps that dotted the fields of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. What had been the lawn of the house was now a muddy gravel parking lot. Two somewhat battered automobiles, a Ford and a Citroen, were parked facing the house, leaving room for only two more.

Claudia’s driver pulled into one of the slots, and Clete drove in beside it. That left no room for the Army Chevrolet, and the sergeant simply stopped in the street, holding up traffic, until Perón ordered him to circle the block and find a place to park.

Claudia was by then at the door of the building, which was at the same moment pulled open by a mustachioed man in a business suit whose thinning hair was plastered against his skull. He kissed Claudia’s cheek, then smiled broadly at Clete as he and Perón walked up to the door.

“How nice to see you again, Señor Frade,” he said, enthusiastically pumping Clete’s hand, and confusing Clete—“see me again”?—until Clete realized that the man had probably been one of the long line of managers and other executives of El Coronel, Incorporated, who had shown up at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for his father’s memorial service.

“It’s good to see you, too, Señor,” Clete said. “Do you know Coronel Perón?”

“Only by reputation,” the man said, and began to pump Perón’s hand. “It is a great privilege to have the Special Assistant to the Minister of War visit our little radio station, mi Coronel.”

Perón smiled at him.

The man bowed them into the building, where there was a variation of the King Comes Home ceremony they had gone through when Clete and Dorotéa had arrived at the museum.

The employees of Radio Belgrano were lined up in the inside foyer, waiting to be introduced to El Patrón. Among these was Eva Duarte, the blonde from the Alvear Palace Hotel.

They worked the

ir way down the line, with Claudia in the lead, shaking everyone’s hand.

“And this, Señor Frade,” the plump little man said, “is Señorita Evita Duarte, one of our dramatic artists.”

“I have the privilege of Don Frade’s acquaintance,” the blonde said. “How nice to see you again, Señor.”

“You know each other?” Perón asked, obviously surprised.

“We met at a social event at the Alvear…. It was the Alvear, wasn’t it, Don Frade?”

“I think so, yes,” Clete said.

“I am Juan Domingo Perón,” Perón said, taking her hand.

“Oh, I know who you are, mi Coronel,” the blonde gushed. “Everyone in Argentina knows who you are. I consider it a great privilege to make your acquaintance.”

“The privilege is mine, my dear young woman,” Perón said, beaming at her.

She’s a little old for you, isn’t she, Tío Juan? I’ll bet she’s the far side of twenty.

The procession moved into the manager’s office—it had obviously previously been the house’s dining—where a brass sign on his desk identified him as Manuel de la Paz, General Manager.

Clete was surprised that the blonde was one of the privileged few permitted to share a tiny cup of coffee with the visiting brass, and about as surprised to see that Tío Juan was charming the hell out of her.

That was followed by a tour of the station’s facilities: Administrative offices were on the first floor, and three studios, a record library, and a control room—once obviously bedrooms—were on the second. These were covered with squares of sound-deadening material, some of which were in the process of falling off the wall.

And then the procession moved downstairs and out into the parking lot.

If Claudia wants to buy this, she can have it.

Hands were shaken, Manuel de la Paz announced that he hoped to see more of Don Frade, and he informed Perón that his visit had been a great honor.

Perón and the blonde beamed at each other.

“Where are you headed, Claudia?” Clete asked.

“To Estancia Santo Catalina,” she said.