Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“I think, Mr. Pelosi,” Clete said, “that in time I could come to like Buenos Aires.”

“I like it already,” Pelosi said, looking at the Miña.

“I will see about your registration,” Mallín said, and walked back through the lobby toward the reception desk.

Following the maître d’hôtel’s directions, Clete crossed the lobby and started down a wide, curving, marble staircase. Halfway down, he encountered another young woman, just as stunning as the one in the bar. He smiled at her. She averted her eyes, ladylike, but he thought he saw a small smile curve her full lips.

To hell with the OSS! My priorities have just changed. First I will get laid, and then I will play Alan Ladd and lead my brave band of men to blow up the Nazi ship.

[TWO]

23 Calle Arcos

Belgrano, Buenos Aires

2105 21 November 1942

“I hope your friend will be able to fend for himself tonight,” Enrico Mallín said as they sat with the Rolls’s nose against his garage door, waiting for it to open.

“He’s a big boy,” Clete replied, and then chuckled. “He’ll most likely have a quick shower and then spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar, hoping another Mina will come in.”

“Interesting young man,” Mallín said. “He’s from Chicago, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“That seems a long way from Howell Petroleum in Louisiana.”

“It is. But if you’re asking how he came to work for Howell, I’m just one of the hired hands, and I don’t know.”

One of the double doors to the garage opened inward, and then the other. An old man in a blue denim jacket smiled at them as they drove past. Two other cars were in the garage; after a moment Clete identified one of them. He remembered it because the name amused him—a Jaguar saloon. There was also a small van with LEYLAND on its grille. He had never seen a van like that, or heard of a Leyland. He did the arithmetic. Counting the station wagon, that made four cars.

The old man told me—in case Mallín became difficult—not to forget that he, and his father before him, have made a good deal of money out of Howell Petroleum, and to deal with him accordingly.

“I hope you don’t mind coming into the house via the garage,” Enrico Mallín said. “I hate to leave the car in front. I don’t trust the old man to park it for me.”

“Don’t be silly,” Clete said. “I’m flattered that you’re having me in the house at all. I’m afraid I’m imposing.”

A narrow, steep, and dark staircase led from the garage to a butler’s pantry. A woman was waiting there for them.

“Welcome to our home, Mr. Frade,” Pamela Mallín said. She was a tall, slim woman in a linen dress with a single strand of pearls and a simple gold wedding ring. “And forgive my husband f

or bringing you through the basement. I’m Señora de Mallín, but I do hope you’ll call me Pamela.”

Clete had always found English women attractive, and he decided that this one was ten degrees above the average: She wore her pale-blond hair parted in the middle and had startlingly blue eyes and a marvelous complexion.

“I’ll call you Pamela if you call me Clete. And thank you for having me in your home. It’s unexpected.”

“It gives us much pleasure,” Mallín said, and went on: “I suggest we give Clete a chance to freshen up—he’s been on the airplane for thirty-six hours, at least—and then we can have a little chat over a cocktail before dinner.”

“Ramón called,” Pamela replied, with a look of disappointment on her face. “There was some trouble with the luggage. The officials, not only the customs people, were going through everybody’s luggage dirty sock by dirty sock. He said they were obviously looking for something.”

“He should have known enough to see Inspector Nore,” Mallín said, annoyed. “When did he call?”

“About ten minutes ago. He wanted to know whether you wanted him to go to the Alvear first, or here.”

“And you told him the Alvear, right?” Mallín asked, not pleasantly.

“In the absence of instructions to the contrary,” Pamela replied, with a strained smile, “I thought that was the thing to do.”