The Honor of Spies (Honor Bound 5)

Why did the steward do that?

He then saw the Jesuit priest bringing up the rear of that line, after the nuns, orphans, members of the Order of Saint Francis, and the other Jesuits.

Why? Because Father Welner “suggested” that to him.

What is that wily Jesuit up to?

Clete looked out a window.

Manuel Ramos and the older pilot whose name Clete could not remember were shaking hands with El Presidente and party, everybody under umbrellas.

Where the hell did all those umbrellas come from?

And the people holding them?

The band was playing. Trumpets and flutes only, plus a xylophone.

I guess the rain fucked up the drums.

El Presidente and one other man—a short, pudgy, middle-aged fellow wearing clerical vestments, a wide-brimmed hat, a huge gold cross, and a purple waistband—Christ, that must be the Papal Nuncio! What the hell is he up to?— plus umbrella holders—God, there must be twenty of them. Where the hell did they all come from?—walked toward the stairway.

Two of the nuns started down the stairway, followed by two orphans. Then two more nuns, followed by four older orphans.

When they got to the tarmac, now shielded by umbrellas, the nuns curtsied before the Papal Nuncio and kissed his ring. The Papal Nuncio made what Clete thought was a gesture of blessing, then patted the orphans on the head.

Then El Presidente patted the orphans on the head.

Flashbulbs from at least fifteen photographers lit the scene.

The umbrella holders then led the nuns and the orphans toward two buses that Clete hadn’t noticed before. The buses were parked beside a Mercedes limousine bearing diplomatic license plates.

The number on the plate—0001—caught Clete’s eye.

Who the hell gets plate Number One? God?

Close, Cletus.

The Papal Nuncio gets diplomatic license plate Number One, that’s who!

Now members of the Order of Saint Francis went through the ritual. They all kissed the Papal Nuncio’s ring, but he did not pat their heads, and El Presidente gave them nothing but a smile and a quick handshake.

And then fin

ally the Jesuits. When they had gone through the line, the Papal Nuncio and Father Welner, each with his own umbrella holder, walked to the Mercedes limousine and got in.

Clete turned and went into the galley, which was between the cockpit and the passenger compartment. He quickly found a bottle of brandy and a snifter. He half filled the glass, then took it and the bottle to one of the first seats, sat down, and took a healthy swallow.

A sudden memory filled his mind.

“This is a long goddamn way from our puddle jumper, isn’t it, Uncle Jim?” he said softly but aloud, his eyes filling with tears and his voice on the edge of breaking. “Here I am having a little snort after flying this great big beautiful sonofabitch across the Atlantic!” He raised the glass, said, “Mud in your eye!” and drained it.

James Fitzhugh Howell, Clete’s uncle, who had raised him and was really the only father he had known as a child and young man, had taught Clete to fly in a Piper Cub when he was thirteen.

He poured more cognac and estimated it would be another three or four minutes before he could leave the Ciudad de Rosario and go down the stairway and put his arms around Dorotea and feel her warmth and smell her hair.

Three minutes later, a familiar voice pleaded: “Please don’t say it, Cletus.”

“But they will,” Clete said. “If we keep meeting this way on my airplane, people will talk.”