Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The sergeant laid his hand on the door-handle. “Do not think you can move about unnoticed. We will be watching you, Señor. We are watching all foreigners in Spain.” With that, he stepped back and motioned Saint-Germain to drive on.

  Proceeding along the widening road toward the Calle del Sol, Saint-Germain had to fight down a sense of unease; the encounter with the soldiers troubled him, and he kept watch for similar groups of soldiers on the road, in case he should be singled out again. He reached the Plaza de los Pescadores without further incident, but he could not rid himself of the notion that he was being followed. Turning into the Avenida Fantasma, Saint-Germain shifted down into second gear, maneuvering along the steep, narrow street with deceptive nonchalance, for he was surreptitiously checking the windows and roofs of the buildings around him; approaching the entrance to the Hotel della Luna Nueva he finally spotted a man in uniform in the upper window of the three-story house just across from the wrought-iron gates standing open for hotel guests. He made the turn rather abruptly, the tires squealing on the cobblestones.

  “Welcome back, Conde,” said the doorman in Spanish as Saint-Germain pulled into the parking area. He hurried up to get the door for this illustrious gentleman.

  “Thank you, Cornelio,” said Saint-Germain in the same language, handing over twenty francs; he knew Cornelio Liebre preferred foreign coins to Spanish ones. “Is Rogerio in?”

  “Yes, Conde. He is in your front suite.” Cornelio stepped back to allow Saint-Germain to pass. “Or,” he added conscientiously, “he was half-an-hour ago. He may have gone out the north door. I wouldn’t have seen him.”

  The Hotel della Luna Nueva was a handsome building that had once been the mansion of a wealthy merchant who had profited from New World trade three hundred years before. The style was the restrained Spanish Baroque, four stories high, with three wings, one of them added in the last century when it was changed from a private residence into a hotel. Saint-Germain went up the five broad steps and entered the lobby; he nodded at the manager as he turned toward the north wing where he had engaged three four-room suites for his use and one for his manservant, Rogerio. “Good afternoon, Señor Echevarria,” he said.

  “And to you, Comte,” said Señor Hernando Echevarria, his French meticulous, with a politeness that bordered on the obsequious. He was perfectly attired and he supervised the lobby as his glorious fiefdom; it was a gracious and elegant place: the settees and chairs were upholstered in a damask of olive-green and turquoise, the carpet was a dull gold, the walls were a lighter olive-green than the furniture, and the pillars were the same dull gold as the carpet. Five large urns sprouted extravagant palms and two large vases contained cut flowers.

  “Have you any messages for me?” Saint-Germain asked, looking toward the registration desk.

  “Nothing today, Comte. But the afternoon mail hasn’t been delivered yet,” said the manager, as if apologizing for the lateness of the postman.

  “If something should come, will you have it sent up to me, if you please?” Saint-Germain requested, and without waiting for an answer passed on through the lobby to the corridor that led to his suites. He arrived at the front suite and knocked twice, waited, and knocked twice again.

  Rogerio answered the second pair of knocks promptly, greeting Saint-Germain without ceremony. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “You may have had cause to,” said Saint-Germain lightly as he closed the door; when he spoke again, it was in Byzantine Greek. “Something has happened.”

  Rogerio took care to close the door. “Tell me,” he said in the same tongue.

  Saint-Germain shrugged. “We’re being watched. At least, I am.” He took off his jacket and changed the subject. “Will you draw me a bath?”

  “Yes.” Rogerio was not yet willing to abandon the matter. “Who is watching you?”

  “The army, I believe. Perhaps the police. It may be both of them.” He looked directly at Rogerio. “We have suspected this for some days, old friend. All that has happened is that the suspicions are confirmed.”

  “That is scarcely a minor matter,” said Rogerio. He studied Saint-Germain’s face. “Do you think perhaps we should leave for France sooner than we planned?”

  “I see no reason why, and I can think of several reasons not to,” said Saint-Germain. “I don’t think that leaving would improve my situation.”

  “That may be so, but you are unwilling to leave—what reasons do you have for remaining?” Rogerio achieved a nice balance between respect and testiness. “It isn’t because this is my native city. Gades,” he went on, using the old Roman name of the place, “is long gone. This is just another Spanish port now.” He studied Saint-Germain’s face. “You don’t like being forced to leave, do you?”

  “That is the heart of it,” Saint-Germain admitted. “But I have a few projects that haven’t yet come to fruition. If it is possible, I would prefer to remain here until they are established enough for me to leave them in the hands of—”

  Rogerio shook his head. “Your managers. Yes. All very well and good,” he said sharply. “But they may not achieve the goals you seek in the time you anticipate. And some of them may be influenced by the political climate.”

  “Of course they are,” said Saint-Germain, removing his jacket and handing it to Rogerio. “I’ll want my tails for tonight. White-tie.”

  “At the British Consul’s,” said Rogerio, still not willing to set aside his concerns quite yet. “Will you at least reconsider your position if the surveillance is increased? If the risks change, perhaps you should as well.”

  “Yes, I will,” Saint-Germain said. “You have my Word.” He glanced toward the bathroom. “Not too warm, but not too cold.” He spoke in Spanish again.

  “I have drawn baths for you one way and another for two thousand years,” Rogerio reminded him, also in Spanish. He went to hang up the jacket, saying as he did, “Do you know why you’re being watched?”

  “I have a few ideas,” said Saint-Germain dryly. “I have three businesses the government may want: the fuel-processing plant near Bilbao, the shipping business here, and the airplane-manufacturing company in Córdoba. They may also want the chemical company in Valladolid, but it is a less obvious prize, and, at the moment, not especially profitable.” He put two fingers to his brow. “They are becoming greedy, these new-style politicians, and they have enlisted the generals in their greed.”

  “Is that limited to Spain?” Rogerio asked as he went to turn the spigots for the deep, rose-marble bathtub. As the water began to rise, he went and adjusted the Venetian blinds so that the bathroom was in shadow.

  “Among other places. Look at Germany.” Saint-Germain glanced toward the window. “And Russia is in a terrible state.”

  “A bad situation,” said Rogerio, adjusting the temperature of the water.

  “And getting worse hourly,” said Saint-Germain, shaking his head slowly. “The Great War settled nothing.”

  Rogerio tested the water one more time. “What will you do if we must go?”

  “I suppose we’ll go to Montalia, as I promised Madelaine I would do.” Some of the severity of his expression softened as he spoke her name.

  “Is she still in Peru?” Rogerio asked.

  “As far as I am aware. She has discovered an Incan tomb and plans to excavate it.” He removed his tie and draped it over the back of a chair.

  “For whom?” Rogerio came and gathered up Saint-Germain’s shirt as he removed it. “Is it a private or a formal dig?”

  “The university in Lima is her sponsor, if I remember correctly.” He had a swift recollection of Lima as he had seen it in 1641 on his way to Cuzco; he knew it had changed a great deal since then but he could not change his memory of it. “They have an arrangement with one of the museums in France—I think it is in Provence, or perhaps the one at Lyons; she has done a great deal of work for them recently.” He looked toward the tub. “I’m going to rest when I’m through with my bath.”

 
“For how long?” Rogerio inquired. He took Saint-Germain’s singlet, hardly noticing the broad swath of scar tissue that reached from his employer’s sternum to his belt; it no longer shocked him to see it.

  “Probably an hour or two. If you have any errands to run, perhaps they will wait until I rise?” He unfastened his belt and opened his fly to step out of his slacks.

  “Certainly,” said Rogerio. He took the black wool slacks and folded them over his arm. “Need I do anything to these?”

  “You may sponge them when you press them, if you would; they don’t need anything more than that,” said Saint-Germain as he walked into the bathroom and stepped into the tub, getting onto his knees as he reached for the washcloth and began to rub a bar of Pears soap on it, watching the lather build up before he began to wash; he was quick and efficient, and soon had rinsed the soap off his skin, added a little more hot water to the tub, and prepared to relax. He had just settled back in the water, his head resting on the edge of the tub, supported by a folded hand-towel, when the telephone in the sitting room shrilled.

  Rogerio answered it, and after a few quick questions in oddly antiquated Spanish, he called to Saint-Germain, “A Colonel Senda is in the lobby and would like to talk to you.”

  “Colonel Senda?” Saint-Germain repeated, trying to place the man; he made no move to get out of the tub. “I don’t believe I know a Colonel Senda.”

  “My master says he doesn’t recognize your name,” Rogerio said to the telephone, and waited. “He tells me you haven’t met.”

  “Then I will gladly arrange an appointment for him,” said Saint-Germain.

  Rogerio put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you want to provoke him?” he asked in an under-voice.

  “No, I don’t,” said Saint-Germain. “But I don’t want to be too accommodating, either. That would be as suspicious as too much resistance.” He opened his eyes enough to shoot a knowing glance at Rogerio.

  “Very well,” said Rogerio, and addressed the telephone again. “I am sorry, Colonel, but my master is preparing to go out for the evening; he has a pre-existing engagement. There is a reception at—Yes, the British Consul’s residence. Perhaps you can call again in the morning—say at half-ten?” Whatever the Colonel’s answer was, Rogerio stood more stiffly, his face set in hard lines. “I will convey your remarks to my master, and I will tell him to expect you at ten in the morning.” He waited a moment. “And thank you for calling,” he said in a tone that was barely polite before he hung up.

  “What does Colonel Senda want?” Saint-Germain asked, lifting his head to watch how Rogerio responded.

  Very meticulously Rogerio said, “The good Colonel has asked me to inform you that he has some urgent questions to ask you concerning your contracts with certain Italian and French industrialists. Apparently he seems to think you are using them as a cover for political activities Generals Mola and Franco and their supporters do not support.” His disapproval was so pronounced that he could hardly speak.

  “They’re in Spanish Morocco,” Saint-Germain said, wanting to dismiss them.

  “Their influence is everywhere, even in Madrid,” said Rogerio. “And Cádiz is a garrison city. The army matters here.” He began to pace. “If they can make an example of you, they can put the entire international community on notice.”

  “Yes; so I think.” Saint-Germain closed his eyes again, settling back for the luxury of a long soak.

  “What are you going to do?” Rogerio asked, recognizing this attitude of withdrawal; he had seen it many times in the past and knew there was little he could do to change Saint-Germain’s mind once he entered this state.

  “I’m going to consider the implications of what Colonel Senda tells me—tomorrow at quarter past ten.” He sank a little deeper into the warm water. “Until then, I will do my utmost to keep from jumping to unfounded conclusions.”

  “What about well-founded ones?” Rogerio asked, an edge in his voice.

  “When I know which is which, I will decide what is to be done,” said Saint-Germain in a tone that seemed almost bored.

  Knowing there was nothing more he could do, Rogerio left Saint-Germain to his bath and went to set out his evening clothes.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ARMANDO PRADERA IN CÓRDOBA TO CRISTOBAL LAS TRUCHES IN MADRID.

  17, Avenida de los Feos

  Córdoba, España

  9 January, 1936

  Cristobal Las Truches

  Departamento de los Extranjeros

  Madrid, España

  Señor Las Truches,

  In response to your letter of December 14, I am delighted to answer your inquiries in regard to Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain, who is the principal investor in this company, and for whom I serve as accountant in regard to Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias. I write to you from my residence, for it would be awkward to explain our correspondence to those who work with me. I ask that you will be similarly discreet.

  As you are already aware, the Comte has been the head of this company in all but name for the last five years. When he bought La Mancha Aeroplano Industrias, the business was failing. He renamed and reorganized the business from the sort of airplanes we manufacture to the way in which we sell them. He has also enabled us to appeal to markets in France, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Scandinavia. Under his guidance, the company has not only recovered, it has prospered and expanded. This has meant that we have been able to double our production in the last two years and to sell every airplane we produce.

  Our most successful airplane is the Scythian Type 44, which has been used to deliver mail and other lightweight shipping purposes. It has two engines, can seat up to four, and has a range of 590 kilometers under normal flying conditions. Last year this plant produced fifty-eight of these airplanes, as well as sixteen of our Spartan Type 29, which is designed for the private sportsman. It also has two engines, can seat up to six, and has a range of 720 kilometers. Our Moghul Type 17 is currently undergoing redesign, the Type 18 will be available early next year. It has four engines, can seat ten, and has a range of 680 kilometers, making all three airplanes among the best in their respective classes. The Comte has said he would like to add another two models to our production in the next three years, and he has been searching out engineers to help us improve our designs. It is his goal to produce an airplane that has a range of 800 kilometers, can carry a dozen, and can be used for service to smaller cities where airfields are more primitive than most modern airplanes require. He offers good pay and fine working conditions, which has made it possible for him to select the most skilled technicians and designers currently working in Europe.

  You ask if any of his airplanes have military potential—I am not a designer and so I have no opinion beyond telling you that he has never attempted to see his airplanes go to any military force anywhere in the world. He has made it his policy to avoid entanglements with the military, for he cannot engage in strategic enterprises so long as he is in control of the company: as a foreigner, he has said his situation is such that he should not put himself in the position of having to support one regime more than another. Some of our staff have tried to persuade him to make an exception for the Spanish government, but so far he has not relented. He is determined—he has said—to keep developing airplanes for peaceful uses, and thus far, his desires have prevailed. Of course, if the government should require him to provide military aircraft, I am certain he would not refuse to manufacture them. He must have acquaintances among Spanish industrialists who would be willing to take over the running of this company, to accommodate the laws of Spain. It would be worse than folly for him to remain obdurate in the face of a governmental mandate. I say this because if what you seek is his cooperation in such an endeavor, you would do well to present him with irrefutable demands, not polite requests.

  As you must be aware, the Comte employs men from five nations, including Italy, France, Belgium, Denmark, and Poland, but he has shown no preferential inclination to any of them; the m
en were hired for their expertise. He has also employed a Czech woman, a mathematician, who has been developing calculations for improving fuel consumption for his engines. It is a bit irregular to employ women, but she is a spinster without family or expectations beyond her ability to find gainful employment, and so it may be a kindness on the Comte’s part to offer her a position of a sort. She has done diligent work, but I doubt she could find so accommodating an employer elsewhere. Druze Sviny is very loyal to the Comte, and rightly so. She will undoubtedly side with him in any decisions that bear on this company. It is possible that the others may, as well, but they may also support the government, should there be a contest of wills. If you assure his staff of continued employment, only la Sviny is likely to refuse to go along with any changes in production that may be undertaken.

  I am enclosing a full and accurate copy of our production records for the past eighteen months, and our projected production for the next eighteen months, along with copies of our ledgers for you to review for costs and supplies. If you have any questions in regard to the material, I hope you will ask in such a way that you do not compromise my position with this company. If I am dismissed for revealing this information to you, I will not be able to assist you again, if you should require more material from this company.

  In this and in all things, I have the honor to be

  Eternally at your service,

  Armando Pradera

  AP

  chapter two

  February had turned bitter in Spain, the cold wind slicing down from the central plateau, sending ribbons of sleet to ruin the roads and break the fragile electrical lines that had finally begun to crisscross the country. Córdoba was miserable, bleak, and sere; as Saint-Germain got out of the Minerva in front of his factory, he had to steady himself to keep from falling on the slick pavement.

  “Dreadful,” said Rogerio, emerging from the other side of the auto with exaggerated care, hunching his shoulders against the cold. “Almost as bad as when the Visigoths were here.” He hoped Saint-Germain might find this amusing; his faded-blue eyes crinkled at the corners in what passed for a smile in his austere demeanor.