Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Conde,” said the young man behind the counter, trying to seem at ease. “We were told you were in the building.”

  “No doubt,” said Saint-Germain. “Is Señor Liston in?” He lifted the counter-bridge and came up to the young man’s desk. “Or Señor Pradera?”

  “Señor Liston will be back in a few minutes,” said the young man uneasily. “He is with Señor Pradera and someone else in the small conference room.”

  Saint-Germain wondered with whom Liston had gone to confer, but said nothing of this, remarking only, “I will wait in his office. Will you be good enough to ask Señor Pradera to come in when he returns. Señor Liston will not be required to join us.”

  “Certainly,” said the young man, a bit too quickly. “Anything you like.”

  “Thank you, Raimundo,” said Saint-Germain, noticing that the young man was surprised that his employer remembered his name. He went into the nearer office and sat down in the visitor’s chair, once again putting his hat on the corner of the desk; he guessed he would not have to remain alone long.

  It was less than five minutes later that the door opened and Armando Pradera came into the office; he was in a fashionable suit of navy-blue wool with a navy-and-dull-gold tie over his crisp white shirt. With care he adjusted his tie-clasp in order to do something that looked suave. Satisfied with the result, he ducked his head and stood nearly at attention. “Good afternoon, Señor Conde,” he said, his voice tight.

  “Good afternoon, Señor Pradera,” Saint-Germain responded. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” He indicated the straight-backed chair by the wall.

  Pradera drew the chair away from the wall and sat down, very like a truant schoolboy. “What do you want?” He knew that came out badly. “I’m at your service, of course.” That was a bit better, he decided.

  “I need a final check for Señor Lundhavn—all that is due him, plus three months’ pay. It is to be carried to his house.” He studied Pradera’s features. “And then we will negotiate how much you are to receive in your final payment.”

  “What?” Pradera looked up sharply. “What sort of jest is this?”

  “No jest at all, I fear,” said Saint-Germain.

  “But … Why should you terminate my employment because of Señor Lundhavn? If he has disappointed you, why should you demand satisfaction of me? I am not privy to his work, or anything else.” Pradera set his jaw and tried to summon up his indignation. “How do you…” His voice dropped away as he saw Saint-Germain pull a carbon copy of a letter from his waistcoat pocket: it was the letter he had sent to the Departamento de los Extranjeros a month ago. “Madre de Dios,” he whispered.

  “Well might you pray,” said Saint-Germain, his expression unchanged. “This is most distressing, Armando. I am not dismissing you for what Señor Lundhavn has done—I am dismissing you for what you have done. Do you have some reason for your disloyalty? I hope it wasn’t simple caprice.” He folded the letter and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Saints save me,” said Pradera as his predicament sank in.

  Saint-Germain studied him. “Can you tell me what you wanted to accomplish with this?”

  Pradera had large, big-knuckled hands, and he knotted the two of them together. “I don’t know if I can explain it to you.”

  “Armando: try,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Oh, God. This can’t be happening.” He looked about as if his sentiments were innovative and not the same protestation Saint-Germain had heard countless times over the centuries. “I was assured that no one would learn about what I’ve done.” He bit his lower lip.

  “You were misled,” said Saint-Germain, his voice gentle but his dark eyes keen.

  Pradera nodded. “Yes. Yes. You’re right. I was.” He steeled himself to meet Saint-Germain’s dark eyes. “But how did it come about that you received a copy of the letter? I didn’t make one, not that I recall, and I never had it in the office.” He fretted, working his hands more tightly. “How did you manage to get your hands on it?”

  “There are those whose task it is to monitor those in responsible positions, in industry and in government; you should not be surprised that you come under scrutiny as well as I.” Saint-Germain stared toward the high windows that provided light with privacy for the office. “I don’t employ spies, if you think I do.”

  “But it seems you have them nonetheless,” said Pradera humorlessly. “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

  “No; I’m not,” Saint-Germain told him. “Suffice it to say that it has become known that a few of my employees have made a point to try to gain the favor of certain political factions and will now have to reap the rewards of their efforts.”

  “This is dreadful,” said Pradera.

  “I would agree,” said Saint-Germain, and went on at his most urbane. “I am saddened to have to lose you, Pradera, but a man in your position must maintain the confidence his position demands, or he cannot be worthwhile. You have divulged too much that isn’t yours to impart to others.” He rose slowly. “You have compromised my company, Armando. You have put me in a position where I must divest myself of this company or have to enter into a pact with the government that will only be to my disadvantage.”

  “You overestimate the importance of this company, Conde; it cannot be so significant as you seem to think it is. I have been told that interest in it is only cursory,” said Pradera with a forced smile. “The airplanes we make are not what the government is seeking. I sent the information to the Departamento de los Extranjeros so that they would know your company isn’t anything they’d want.”

  “Of course,” said Saint-Germain, coming to stand directly in front of Pradera’s desk. “So you must be shocked to know that I am now being forced to deal with the military.”

  “I didn’t intend that anything of that sort could happen. I was assured…” Pradera sighed. “No. No; I was hoping they would be grateful for my help and do something to show their appreciation.” He looked up at Saint-Germain and did his best to plead his case. “You’re in exile. You should be eager to cooperate with the government. Consider what you can offer. You could do yourself a great deal of good.”

  “Do you think so?” Saint-Germain regarded him, his expression revealing nothing of his ruminations. “I trust you don’t believe that” He picked up his hat and smoothed the brim. “If you want to resign, you may have six months’ pay when you leave. If you insist that I fire you, you can have half that amount.” He waited a moment. “In any case, you will be gone by the end of our business day.”

  Pradera dropped his head. “Very well. I will resign.”

  “And you will leave this office forever by the end of business today,” he repeated. “You may take your own property with you, of course, but nothing from this company beyond your final check. Prepare your check and Lundhavn’s; I will sign them, and I will stipulate they are final payments.” He took a step back from Pradera’s desk. “I’m sorry it came to this, Armando.”

  “So am I,” said Pradera, then added in a note of forlorn hope, “I can’t say anything to persuade you to reconsider.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Saint-Germain.

  “But you must know that the government will know about this. The soldiers will make their reports.” He rubbed his hands together. “There must be a way to—”

  “I’ve had too much experience with the wishes of governments to become party to their plans,” Saint-Germain interrupted him, and did not add that his cognizance of governments stretched back four millennia.

  Pradera was not familiar with the implacable note in Saint-Germain’s voice, but he realized what it meant. “Exiles are at a disadvantage, I suppose.”

  “In many ways,” said Saint-Germain, and started toward the door.

  “You won’t provide a recommendation, I suppose,” said Pradera.

  “Would you, were you in my position?” Saint-Germain countered, and left the office.

  Raimundo stared at Saint-Germai
n, his big eyes wary. “Is there anything wrong, Señor Conde?”

  “Not now,” said Saint-Germain. “Señor Pradera is leaving. At once. And there is a check to be messengered to Señor Lundhavn’s home at the end of the day. Use a company courier to carry it.” He could see that Raimundo was shocked, so he added, “I rely upon you to make sure the check is delivered.”

  “Yes, Señor Conde,” said Raimundo, staring at the large blotter pad on his desk.

  “And do not worry, Raimundo. None of Señor Pradera’s mistakes redound to you, or to Señor Liston.” Saint-Germain reached out and lifted the counter-gate and let himself out of the accounting office.

  “I’ve spoken to Señor Liston, and apprised him of Señor Pradera’s departure, and Señor Lundhavn’s,” Rogerio said as Saint-Germain came up to him. “I suggested he might want to give you some privacy while you dealt with Señor Pradera. Do you still want to see Señor Liston?”

  “Yes, but not today, I think. Tomorrow will be time enough. I’ll return after siesta tomorrow. Raimundo Orgullo will tend to taking care of the final checks; Señor Liston won’t have to be part of any of it.” Saint-Germain glanced toward the accounting-office door. “I suppose there is no way to keep the staff from speculating on this.”

  Rogerio shrugged. “You know the answer better than I,” he responded.

  For a long moment Saint-Germain said nothing. “I think it would be prudent for us to remain here for at least a week. There is more to be done here. I cannot rid myself of the notion that Lundhavn and Pradera are only the tip of the iceberg.” He glanced down the corridor. “Where are the soldiers?”

  “In the lunchroom,” said Rogerio. “With Lundhavn’s secretary.”

  “Should I be troubled by that, do you think?” Saint-Germain inquired with a wry twist of his mouth.

  “I doubt it,” said Rogerio. “I gather they flirt often.”

  Saint-Germain began to walk toward the lobby. “I’m almost through here for now. There are two checks I still have to sign, and I need to make sure that Lundhavn has left. His office will have to be inspected tonight”

  “And Pradera?” Rogerio asked.

  “He will be gone by the end of this day,” said Saint-Germain. He stepped into the lobby and noticed that the receptionists were watching him covertly, whispering together. “I don’t think it would be wise to linger.”

  “I’ll bring the auto to the front door,” Rogerio offered.

  “I will be with you shortly.” He started to climb the stairs, wishing as he went that he did not feel as if everyone in the building were watching his progress.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM HORATIO BATTERBURY IN WINNIPEG TO LEANDRO DE GUZMAN IN MADRID; WRITTEN IN ENGLISH.

  Compton House

  658 Selkirk Road

  Suites 4–9

  Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

  22 February, 1936

  Leandro de Guzman

  Ministerio de Guerra

  Madrid, Spain

  My dear Mr. de Guzman,

  I am in receipt of your letter of 10 February, and I thank you for your kind inquiry into Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. Yes, this business does have international clients, and you are correct in your assumption that Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain, sits on our Board of Directors, albeit in a purely honorary capacity, for he has never, in fact, done more than supply the company with formulae, which, given the efficacy of his work, is more than enough. In fact, as far as I am aware, he has not visited Canada. I have only met le Comte once, and that was in Brussels, four years ago, when I went there to finalize our dealings.

  I must congratulate you on your thoroughness, but I am baffled as to why you should be interested in this company. Surely there are chemical companies in Spain that are producing all that you require. Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. does have certain proprietary compounds that may have application to your work, and if this is the reason you have contacted us, I will, upon your request that I do so, pass on your solicitations to our legal department to arrange for any applicable licenses sought.

  However, your questions suggest that you are attempting to catalogue le Comte’s foreign holdings; while it may be appropriate for you to do so in your capacity as a member of the Ministry of War, I cannot offer more to you than that which is public record. For that reason, I will stipulate that we at Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. have no direct contractual obligations with any company in Spain, for such information is undoubtedly within your purview, but I will offer you nothing more about other arrangements we have with other countries.

  I regret any inconvenience this may cause you.

  Cordially,

  Horatio Batterbury

  Chairman, Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd.

  HB/lm

  chapter three

  Mercurio Zapatilla spread the contents of the brown accordion file out on his desk, thumbing his way through the array of onion-skin carbon copies, good quality bond letters, clipped newspaper articles, and a dozen photographs. Carefully he read through two of the letters, shaking his head as he perused them, disliking what he saw. He pursed his lips, making his small mouth look even smaller. Finally he picked up the telephone and spoke a few words to the man who answered. “And bring me the file on Dñoa Isabel Vedancho y Nunez,” he added, an afterthought.

  “In addition to the file on Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias?” Zapatilla’s assistant asked.

  “Yes. I need to have all our information on this man and his associates; this file on el Conde de Saint-Germain is sadly lacking,” said Zapatilla, a slight impatience in his voice as he gathered these all together and put them back in the large accordion envelope that had contained them. “What I have here isn’t nearly enough. It doesn’t matter if the records are not in Spanish.” This was a subtle little boast; Mercurio Zapatilla had risen to his present post in large part due to his linguistic abilities—he spoke nine foreign languages: French, German, Italian, English, Dutch, Swedish, Czech, Russian, and Greek, and had a nodding familiarity with an additional five—which he liked to remind his underlings of from time to time was the reason for his promotion to his present position.

  “Of course,” said his assistant, and rang off.

  Zapatilla sat staring into the dull morning light that filtered into his office through the gaps in the draperies; he was growing perplexed with the very visible but strangely elusive Conde de Saint-Germain. Fussily he smoothed the waves of his thinning, greying hair, and then touched the ends of his meticulous, narrow mustache, as if seeking to make himself more presentable for any visitor he might have; he had a slight resemblance to Claude Rains, which he carefully cultivated, combing his hair as the actor did, and affecting the elegant manner that was Rains’ hallmark. A small clock on his desk delicately chimed eleven, and, as if reminded of a forgotten engagement, Zapatilla rose from his leather-upholstered chair and paced the length of his tall, oaken bookcases, pausing by the window to lift the edge of the deep teal velveteen draperies the better to look at the bustle on the floor beneath him in the busy street. He felt himself remote from the activity below, which both saddened him and made him proud of his position. Eventually he would be posted to Madrid, but for now he had to be content with Sevilla. A discreet tap on his door halted him in his tracks. “Come in,” he rapped out.

  His assistant was a slender man of about thirty wearing thick glasses that magnified his black-brown eyes to the point that they resembled those of frogs. Aside from this, Esteban Pasotorpe was a good-enough-looking fellow—fashionably lean, clean-shaven, and as well-dressed as his salary would allow. “I have the files you asked for, Jefe.” He used the title with an air of jest that was just enough to keep it from being insulting. “Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias and Doña Isabel Vedancho y Nuñez.” He held the two thick envelopes for Zapatilla to see.

  “Put them on my desk, Esteban, and send down for two cups of coffee,” said Zapatilla. “Bring them in when Liebre gets here—not just at once; wait five or ten minutes.”

  “
Of course, sir,” he responded, and did as he was told, withdrawing from the room quickly.

  Zapatilla went back to his desk and sat down, unfastening the string closure on the uppermost file. He took out the various papers and photographs, spreading them out, the better to contemplate them. His concentration made him tense as he scanned the material from the file. Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias was a thriving firm, that much was certain: well-financed and successful, meeting its contractual obligations in a timely manner. The Scythian airplanes were the best-selling of their models, and had been sold all over Europe. He studied the information on the assembly plant and the level of production it maintained. “Most commendable,” he muttered as he reviewed the records. No wonder the generals were interested in the business. He looked at the most recent additions to the file—copies of the resignation letters of Elias Lundhavn and Armando Pradera, both signed on the same day. He contemplated them. Lundhavn had been offered work in Germany, so his desire to leave was understandable. But Pradera was a bit of a puzzle. His letter cited personal reasons for his departure, with no hint as to what they might be. The pay records showed both men had received handsome closing checks, so it seemed unlikely that they had been forced to resign. But that they left on the same day continued to trouble him. He would have to get to the bottom of it. The letter from Colonel Juan Enrique Senda was a masterpiece of understated indignation, implying all manner of nefarious motives for Saint-Germain’s actions, all of which were unsupported by any reliable evidence. Still, the Colonel’s animus might reveal something that deserved closer attention. He put the material back in the file and wound the string to close it. Then he took the second file and opened it The uppermost photograph showed Doña Isabel in a lovely formal gown of pale silk under an elaborate lace jacket with a tulip hem; her head was turned slightly away from the camera and showed the elegant line of her forehead, nose, and cheek to advantage. Zapatilla stared at her, struck by her beauty; he could find it in his heart to envy her absent husband: the woman was a prize of the highest order. He moved the photograph aside, placing it where he could look at it. A tap on the door disturbed his concentration, and he stacked the papers on top of the photograph. “Who is it?”