Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  You have expressed concern for your airplane company, and I share that concern. I would be remiss if I did not tell you that you may be forced to give up control of your company. I do not know if I can do much to prevent any claims the Spanish government may make upon your manufactory, but if you authorize me to undertake a suit, I will be willing to find counsel for you in Spain, and work with that advocate to protect your interests to the best of my ability.

  If there is anything more you require of me, you have only to inform me of it and I will do my utmost to carry out your wishes.

  Most sincerely at your service,

  Miles Sunbury, Esq.

  MS/jnp

  enclosures

  chapter six

  “Your waxwork is ready,” said Rogerio as he came out of Saint-Germain’s study in the house on the Avenida de las Lagrimas. “I have your camera set up as well.” He was beginning to show signs of strain as he looked across the room to the two trunks waiting to be carried down to his automobile.

  “I’ll take the photographs,” Saint-Germain told him. “And I’ll process them as quickly as possible. It will be enough to get us the visas we need.” He paused. “It is inconvenient to be unable to leave an image more precise than a smear on film.”

  “You have remarked on the hazards of the present age before.” Rogerio did his best to smile, but his strain was evident in the pull of his mouth. “This is just another one.”

  “So I have, and never have I felt it as I have these last few months. To be under constant scrutiny in such a way that not even the Emperor of China or the Doge of Venice—let alone the Inquisition—could have imagined in the past; it is most disquieting. Binoculars at the window, interceptions on the telephones…” He started toward the study. “Give me an hour-and-a-half. Then I’ll carry down the trunks; I’ll make it seem they’re empty, in case anyone should see us at this time of night.”

  “Do you think it’s wise to leave at such an hour? Mightn’t it look suspicious?” Rogerio was keenly aware that they were still under observation by various government agencies and the military.

  “We have permission to travel, and it makes sense to go as early as possible, given how hot the days are. Burgos is a long drive,” he reminded Rogerio. “We have a meeting there, and the bureaucrats know it. But it will be best to be cautious.” He was quiet for a long moment, then added, “Once we’re there, we will know how best to proceed.”

  “So I hope,” said Rogerio.

  “The military wants my airplanes,” Saint-Germain said with annoyed determination. “If I must surrender them, I intend to do it with as much protection as I can warrant. I will not be complacent about this, no matter how much the army may wish me to be.”

  “So I understand,” said Rogerio with a hint of exasperation in his manner. “It is probably no longer in your hands.” This reminder made both men uncomfortable.

  “You’re right,” Saint-Germain allowed after a short pause. “All the more reason to leave while we can.”

  “So, if you will take your photos…” Rogerio said in a tone that made it clear he would not question anything Saint-Germain had decided to do.

  “I will,” said Saint-Germain, and went into the study where he set up his waxwork, taking care to adjust the wig to conform to his present haircut; he adjusted the shirt and jacket to look more natural; then he put this against a plain, light turquoise background and lit it as most official photographs were lit, snapped four photos of it, shifting the position of the waxwork a little each time, hoping to achieve an illusion of animation. Satisfied, he took his film into his small laboratory that also served as a darkroom, rolled up his sleeves, donned protective gloves, poured out the chemicals under the glare of a red bulb, then went to work developing his film. He was pleased with the results; the waxwork had cost him a fair amount of money, made by Madame Tussaud’s best image-makers, but it was worth the price in these photograph-driven days. He made several copies of the four photographs in a number of sizes, then cleaned up his laboratory and stepped out into the study to dismantle and pack the waxwork, which, disassembled, fit nicely into a small steamer trunk.

  Rogerio came into the study. “I have packed the Voisin, as you ordered. Are you sure you want to leave the Minerva here?”

  “I would rather not, but it is the prudent thing to do; it gives the illusion that we are going to return—that and your Voisin handles bad roads better than the Minerva; we will certainly have to use bad roads,” said Saint-Germain with a slight chuckle as he slipped his photographs into a manila envelope. “I am going to assume the military has read my letter to Charles Whittenfield, and will take it to mean that we will be here for a while yet.” He shook his head once. “I hate having to use old acquaintances for such a ruse, but I doubt he will mind.”

  “If he understands at all,” said Rogerio.

  “There is that,” said Saint-Germain sadly. “Do you have your copies of your photos?”

  “In my valise.” He looked at the small trunk containing the waxwork. “You’re taking that with you?”

  “Of course. I will undoubtedly need it again, and it isn’t the sort of thing I want found. It would create too many suspicions.” He rolled down his sleeves and reached for his jacket of black, tropical-weight wool. “Did you put in the containers of extra fuel? We’re likely to need it before we’re out of Spain.”

  “Yes. They’re in the boot” He lowered his head for a moment “It is sad to go.”

  “It is,” Saint-Germain agreed, going on in a kindlier tone, “Possibly more so for you—this was your home.”

  “Two thousand years ago,” Rogerio pointed out “Gades is long-gone. Cádiz is as foreign to me as Lo-Yang.”

  “Still, you may feel a pull,” said Saint-Germain as he prepared to carry the small steamer trunk down to the courtyard.

  “That is more for your blood than for me,” said Rogerio. “What do you want me to bring?”

  “I have two leather suitcases in my sitting room. If you’ll fetch them?” He was already at the door.

  “Yes.” He went toward the hallway, turning off the lights as he reached them. Slipping into Saint-Germain’s sitting room, he picked up the two suitcases and turned out the reading-lamp on the small desk. The house was beginning to feel empty already, so he turned the light back on, to give the appearance of occupancy. He went down the rear stairs, pausing at the door to the kitchen to put the door keys onto one of the hooks, where the cook would find it in the morning.

  The Voisin stood near the back door, its boot and one of the rear doors open. The auto was fairly well-laden, the various chests and cases tied down and braced, the small steamer trunk set in the boot. Rogerio put the suitcases in the backseat and pulled a strap across them, securing it under the seat so it would not shift. He closed the door and went around to the passenger side, where he stood waiting. When Saint-Germain reappeared, he had one of the large chests in his arms; this he worked into the boot, then closed the lid.

  “Is everything in place?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “I think so,” said Rogerio. “If you have your chests, of native earth and your other supplies, we should be ready.”

  “Then there is no reason to wait,” said Saint-Germain.

  “It is a pity to give up an entire year’s lease on this house,” Rogerio remarked, looking back at the building.

  “A small price to pay for the protection it provides us,” Saint-Germain said. “With the lease paid in advance, the military will assume we’re returning, as our travel plans would indicate. If they thought we were leaving, they would take steps to stop us.”

  “Are you certain of that?” Rogerio asked, then answered his own question. “Yes, I know. Colonel Senda has been busy, and as soon as Eclipse Aero is taken over, you will be arrested and held as a suspicious alien, just as those five Italian engineers have been.”

  “They’ve almost vanished,” said Saint-Germain, “for no reason more than they designed ships’ hulls.
”

  “The generals have uses for ships,” said Rogerio bluntly.

  Saint-Germain nodded. “As soon as I heard about the Italians, I knew it was time to go. Thank all the forgotten gods, I heard about it almost as soon as it happened.”

  “They have kept it out of the press,” said Rogerio.

  “Another ominous indication,” Saint-Germain agreed.

  “Yes, it is,” said Rogerio. “Are you carrying your pistol?”

  “No, of course not. All the army would need is an excuse to detain me, and then I would be in prison for who knows how long.” He suppressed an inward shudder at the recollection of the various cells he had occupied over the centuries. “You don’t have one, do you?”

  “No,” said Rogerio regretfully. “But there is one in the compartment behind the rear seat, the hidden one. There are cartridges for it as well.” He looked directly at Saint-Germain. “In case we need more than money and words.”

  “We are taking a chance,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Always,” Rogerio concurred. “At least it doesn’t look deserted,” he decided aloud as he looked back at the house.

  “I left four lights on,” said Saint-Germain as he stepped into the driver’s seat. “And there is the lamp at the kitchen door.”

  “I left one,” said Rogerio, doing his best to contain the apprehension he felt.

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain as Rogerio got into the Voisin; the engine rumbled to life and warmed up quickly. Saint-Germain released the hand-brake, eased the clutch into first gear, and drove out of the courtyard onto the Avenida de las Lagrimas. When he reached the first cross-street, he turned on the headlights and turned south toward the main road out of the city.

  “Do you think the military will believe you have gone to Montalia?” Rogerio asked when they were safely beyond the limits of Cádiz.

  “I hope so. I’m doing my best to make that the logical conclusion,” said Saint-Germain as he turned onto the road leading to the main highway to Sevilla, Madrid, and Burgos.

  “And you think they will be satisfied?” Rogerio could not contain his uneasiness.

  “They may or may not be; that doesn’t concern me just now.” He looked at his wristwatch. “We should be at Sevilla shortly after dawn. A pity we can’t go through Córdoba, but that would be reckless.”

  “You intend to go to Mérida from Sevilla, and then on to Madrid,” said Rogerio, repeating what they had decided two days ago.

  “Yes. At Sevilla, you can take over driving; I’ll get into the boot for the duration of daylight.” He gestured to show that this was acceptable to him.

  “I still worry about what could happen—it is so hot during the day, and the boot is an oven,” Rogerio remarked.

  “I’ll lie on my chest of native earth, and we have rigged those two air-screens. I shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.” He sounded more convinced than he was. “If we have to break our journey, we should do it in Toledo; we don’t want to spend any more time in Madrid than we must. There is too much military activity around Madrid.”

  “We’re agreed on that,” said Rogerio.

  They went on for another ten kilometers in silence as the eastern horizon began to glow; in half-an-hour the sun was rising. Saint-Germain pointed out a sign indicating five kilometers to Sevilla. “I’m going to pull over and get in the boot.”

  “A good idea,” Rogerio seconded. “Once we reach the city, someone might notice and wonder why such a well-dressed man wants to ride there.”

  “You’re worried, old friend; not that I can fault you—I am, too,” said Saint-Germain as he pulled out into a small lay-by where a single lorry was parked. He pulled the brake on and put the gears in neutral. “Are you ready?”

  “I think so,” said Rogerio, opening his door and going around to the rear of the auto; he opened the boot and waited for Saint-Germain to get in. “If you become too hot, you know the signal.”

  “I do,” said Saint-Germain as he ducked his head and climbed into the boot, atop the large chest of his native earth. He took the inner latch and pulled the lid closed.

  Rogerio waited a moment, then went to the driver’s side, got in, and put the Voisin in gear as he released the brake. Soon he was barreling down the road into Sevilla, his faded-blue eyes narrowed against the brilliant morning sun; he kept unobvious watch on everything around him. He passed more autos and horse-drawn carts as he entered the city where the first activities of morning made the streets crawl. Four times he passed armed soldiers in lorries, and he felt a twinge of apprehension; he drove steadily on, and, to his surprise, he was able to motor out of Sevilla without being stopped. An hour later, he purchased fuel at the village of Huelva, then went on toward Mérida, where he saw half-a-dozen lorries filled with armed soldiers drawn up at the side of the road; they watched all the vehicles passing, as if searching for a particular auto or person. He did not stop for siesta, pressing steadily on while many autos and lorries pulled off the road; with the highway all but empty he was able to increase his speed to one hundred kilometers per hour, making a great deal of progress by the time traffic again picked up as the day waned. At sundown, they were four hundred kilometers from Cádiz and Rogerio was beginning to feel tired. He pulled off the highway near Mijadas and went to open the boot.

  “Ah. At last,” said Saint-Germain as he climbed out; he brushed his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles he found. “It was not as bad as I feared it might be.”

  “Are you … uncomfortable?” Rogerio asked.

  “If you mean, am I hot, the answer is yes. But I am not baked. I have certainly endured worse. The air-vents helped a great deal. It was certainly preferable to riding in direct sun.” He gave Rogerio a steady gaze. “I am grateful to you for your concern.”

  Rogerio put down the lid of the boot and locked it, then handed the key to Saint-Germain. “We’ll need more petrol soon. We have only one full spare container left.”

  “Then I will look for a station; they usually have pumps at the post offices, and a few of the general stores,” said Saint-Germain. “Has there been any difficulty?”

  “I haven’t been stopped,” said Rogerio. “But I have seen soldiers in lorries and autos on the road. More than I expected to see,” he added.

  “Not a good sign,” said Saint-Germain. “We’ll need to be more alert.” He got into the Voisin and looked at the fuel gauge. “We can always use that extra petrol we’re carrying, but I would prefer not to do that until we’re beyond Burgos. In fact, I’d like to fill up our extra containers again.”

  “I understand,” said Rogerio, getting into the passenger seat.

  “If you want to rest, go ahead; I’m quite refreshed.” Saint-Germain put the auto into gear and rolled onto the highway. “Thank goodness España doesn’t fold its tents once the sun goes down, as so many northern countries do; it’s still too hot to sleep.” He managed a quick, wry smile. “We should be able to purchase fuel in Talavera de la Reina, which is up ahead.”

  “My thought as well,” said Rogerio, leaning as far back as the seat permitted. “I may rest my eyes a bit.”

  “A fine idea,” said Saint-Germain cordially as he switched on the headlights and drove eastward into the dusk, keeping a good speed until the outskirts of Talavera de la Reina, when he came upon a barricade across the highway manned by soldiers. He pulled into the rear of the line of waiting automobiles, carts, motorcycles, and lorries, taking his travel documents from his small leather portfolio on the seat beside him; Rogerio continued to drowse, not quite sleeping but far from awake, apparently unaware of what was happening at the barricade. Slowly he advanced to the inspection point, watching all that transpired ahead of him; by the time he arrived at the front of the line, he had seen four vehicles—two lorries, an auto, and a motorcycle—pulled over and taken away from the road, which struck him as ominous.

  “Name?” The officer in charge snapped out the question as Saint-Germain rolled down his window.

  “Ferenc
Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain,” he said, handing over the small portfolio. “My documents.”

  “Not Spanish.”

  “No, not Spanish,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Um,” said the officer, holding up a grimy lantern to read the various authorizations and permissions. “You have a private airfield near Burgos?”

  “My company does,” said Saint-Germain carefully.

  “You have two houses, I see: one in Cádiz, one in Córdoba.” He made this sound like an accusation.

  “Yes. My assembly plant is in Córdoba. I have other business interests in Cádiz.” He made his answer flat and to the point.

  “But you are not Spanish.” He reiterated as if confirming something nefarious. “Where do you come from?”

  “My home is far from here, in the Carpathians. My passport, as you can see for yourself, is Hungarian.” Saint-Germain gave a little diplomatic cough. “I am no longer wholly welcome in my native land.”

  “Many of you aristocrats from the East have battened on the West; you stole from your own people and live on the spoils,” the officer said condemningly.

  “Many have, more’s the pity. Yet, I believe I have not been so ungrateful to this country,” said Saint-Germain. “My businesses are approved by the government.”

  “For the time being,” the officer muttered. He held the portfolio for a short time, staring down at the various documents in it. “Who is with you?”

  “My manservant. You have his passport there, an Italian one; you will see that it is totally in order.” He made no effort to tell the officer that Rogerio had been born in España. “Rogerio has been with me a very long time.”