Victory and Honor

“What the hell is the twenty-four-hour zone?”

“Officers in your status cannot be placed on leave to any address from which he cannot return, when so ordered, to NAS Pensacola within twenty-four hours. Hence ‘twenty-four-hour zone.’”

“Am I going on leave?”

“Officers returning from overseas service are automatically granted a thirty-day leave. Providing, of course, that their leave address is within the twenty-four-hour zone. Perhaps you might consider going to one of the fine hotels or motels on Pensacola Beach and having Mrs. Howell join you there. The beaches here are absolutely beautiful.”

“Mrs. Howell?”

“Mrs. Martha Howell, your adoptive mother, of the Midland address, is listed as your next of kin. Isn’t that correct?”

I have a wife and two children, but I don’t think this is the time to get into that.

“That’s correct. Tell me, Commander, how far is it, timewise, from here to New Orleans?”

“You have a family member in New Orleans, Colonel?”

“My grandfather.”

And who is the last person in the world I need to see right now.

If the Old Man hears what’s going on with me—and I would have to tell him—ten minutes after that two senators and his pal Colonel McCormack of the Chicago Tribune will be coming to my rescue.

“I’ll need his name and address, Colonel. And his telephone number.”

What the hell, I’ll call the house and see if the Old Man is there.

If he is, I’ll hang up. If he’s not . . .

“The address is 3470 Saint Charles Avenue, New Orleans. My grandfather’s name is Cletus Marcus Howell. I don’t know the phone, but I’m sure it’s in the book.”

“And your grandfather is sure to be there?”

“Absolutely. At his age, getting around is very difficult.”

Please God, let the Old Man be in Washington, Venezuela, Dallas, San Francisco—anywhere but on Saint Charles Avenue.

“You understand, Colonel, that I am taking your word as a Marine officer and gentleman about your grandfather and that address?”

“I understand, Commander.”

“Well, then, I happen to know there is a three-forty train to New Orleans. You’ll just have time to make it.”

[FOUR]

3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 1955 25 June 1945

“The Howell Residence,” Jean-Jacques Jouvier said when he picked up the telephone. He was an elderly, erect, very light-skinned black man with silver hair. He wore a gray linen jacket. He had been Cletus Marcus Howell’s butler for forty-two years.

“No, Mister Cletus, he’s in Venezuela.”

He took the telephone from his ear and held it in his hand and looked at it.

Then he looked at the pale-skinned blond woman standing at the door to the library.

“That was Mister Cletus, Miss Dorotea,” he said.

“Where is he? What happened? Why did you hang up?”

“I didn’t hang up, Miss Dorotea. Mister Cletus did. When I told him that Mister Howell was in Venezuela, he said, ‘Get out the Peychaux’s Bitters, the rye, and crack some ice. I’ll be right there.’ And then he hung up.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea said.

“Mister Cletus—and Mister Howell—really like a Sazerac or two before dinner, Miss Dorotea. It’s a cocktail. Rye whiskey . . .”

“And something bitter and cracked ice,” Dorotea said. “While you crack the ice, Jean-Jacques, I’ll change into something suitable to welcome our boy home.”

[FIVE]

Arnaud’s Restaurant 813 Bienville Street, New Orleans 2145 25 June 1945

“I can’t believe you ate two dozen of those things,” Dona Dorotea said to Don Cletus.

“They call them oysters, my love, and I ate two dozen of them because the oysters in Argentina are lousy. And as to the two dozen? You know what they say about oysters. . . .”

Dorotea confessed she didn’t know what was said about oysters, so he leaned over and whispered in her ear what magical qualities were said about oysters.

“I really hope that’s true,” Dorotea said. “Will they give you back your money if they don’t work?”

“Somehow I suspect all of these will work just fine.”

“And afterward?”

“I think I’ll sleep.”

“You know what I mean, Cletus.”

“I honest to God don’t know, sweetheart. You know what Mattingly told me. You told me that Team Turtle is out of reach of the Secret Service. Mattingly said there will be friends to help. I was treated like an admiral on the Greene—I told you—after there was a radio message from some friend of somebody.

“I don’t know what to think about that Navy lawyer in Pensacola, McGrory. He could be a friend who put me on leave to hide me, or he could just be a pencil-pusher who put me on leave because the book said that’s what to do. The only thing I know for sure is that I have to stay out of the clutches of the Secret Service for as long as I can to give Mattingly the time to get General Gehlen and his people set up.”

“Eventually, darling, they are going to have you in their clutches. Then what?”

“I will lie to them as convincingly as I can for as long as I can.”

“You realize you sound like Peter? You’re going to do your duty, no matter what?”

“There’s a slight difference between Peter and me. While I don’t think Secretary Morgenthau likes me very much, dear, I really can’t see him skinning me alive.”

“What are your chances of going to prison?”

“I really don’t think it will go that far.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t think that’s very encouraging.”

“It’s the best I can do, sweetheart.”

The waiter appeared.

“May I bring you another Sazerac, madam? Sir?”

“Not for me, thank you,” Dorotea said. “I’ve already had too many of them.”

“I’ll have another, thank you,” Cletus said and, looking at Dorotea, added, “Actually, those are my plans for the indefinite future. Drink lots of Sazeracs and eat lots of oysters.”

The waiter smiled. “Sounds like a good plan, sir.”