Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“Not at all.”

Martín walked to the window.

“What a splendid view.”

“It may not be modest of me to say so, mi Coronel—but I say this as a tenant, not as the owner—I think it is the best view in all Buenos Aires.”

Martín waited until the coffee had been served and Mallín’s secretary had left them alone. Then he reached in his pocket, took the leather folder which held his Internal Security credentials, and extended it to Mallín.

Internal Security. Goddamn it, now what?

“I see,” Mallín said. “And how may I assist Internal Security?”

Martín noted the signs of nervousness in Mallín’s eyes and body language.

I wonder why? There’s nothing in the files to suggest that he’s anything but what he purports to be, a well-educated, wealthy, successful importer of petroleum.

Martín had taken another look

at Mallín’s dossier just before driving to the Kavanagh Building: He had done his active military service honorably, but without distinction, and had no more to do with the military afterward than the law required. He was friendly, but not intimate, with members of the major political factions—a skillful tightrope walker. His only recorded violation of the laws of God and/or the Republic of Argentina—aside from an extraordinary number of citations for illegal parking—was to maintain one Maria-Teresa Alberghoni, twenty-one, in Apartment 4D at 2910 Avenue Canning in Palermo. And Martín would have been surprised if Mallín did not maintain a Mina.

“Let me begin by saying that the BIS does not really eat babies for breakfast, Señor Mallín, and there is no Tower of London here in Buenos Aires where we chop heads off.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

“But we do try to keep an eye on things, find answers to questions which interest us.”

“Of course.”

“We are interested, frankly, in your houseguest, Señor—or should I say ‘Mister’?—Cletus Howell Frade. Could you tell me what he’s doing here?”

Be very careful, Enrico. This could be a very dangerous conversation.

“You are aware, mi Coronel, that SMIPP, in addition to other associations, of course, represents the interests of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) in Argentina?”

Martín nodded.

“Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) is a subsidiary of Howell Petroleum, which has its offices in New Orleans, Louisiana. Señor Howell, my houseguest, is the grandson of Cletus Howell, the owner. When I was in the United States, I was a guest in his house…”

He left the rest of the sentence unspoken. Martín would certainly understand reciprocal hospitality. A nod of Martín’s head suggested that he did.

“As to what he’s doing here: The United States government has somehow concluded that certain petroleum products—Howell Petroleum Products—are being illegally diverted. To the Germans or the Italians, presumably. They are of course sold to us with the understanding that they will be consumed in Argentina and not transshipped anywhere.”

“And is that happening? Are there products being transshipped?”

“Not to my knowledge. For one thing, it would be quite difficult. The Americans know what we consumed before the war, and they have been unwilling to raise the amount of product shipped to us, although our demand has risen. If I wanted to, I would not be able to divert any product. In fact, my clients are increasingly unhappy that they can’t get what they need. Cutting that amount would be simply impossible, since the government knows to the last liter how much product I receive.”

“Nevertheless, the American government has the idea that—what was the term you used? ‘product’?—is being diverted, and Mr. Frade’s presence in Argentina has something to do with that?”

“As he explained it to me, he will verify to the U.S. Embassy that Howell product is in fact entering our supply channels and is not being diverted.”

“Well, that explains his presence here, doesn’t it?” Martín said. “Meanwhile, I have a couple of other questions in my mind that probably fall into the category of personal curiosity, rather than official queries.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“I was wondering how a young man, a man his age, in apparently good health, could avoid military service in the United States. In wartime, that’s seems a little odd.”

“As I understand it, mi Coronel, he was called up for training as a pilot, and then was physically disqualified and discharged.”