Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Rogers told me about you,” said Hawsmede, taking Bethune’s proffered hand.

  “Where is Szent-Germain?” Rothcoe demanded as Hawsmede moved aside to have a sotto voce conversation with Bethune.

  Rogers answered before either Bethune or Hawsmede could speak.

  “In traffic, no doubt,” said Rogers, and motioned to Bethune and Hawsmede to continue with their discussion.

  Next to arrive was Edward Merryman, sent over from the American Embassy to observe the negotiations, an unfailingly polite man in his forties who walked with a cane and who wore a hearing aid in his left ear; he told Bethune and Hawsmede that he had entered the diplomatic corps shortly after receiving his doctoral degree from Princeton, and had been there ever since. He had spent the war advising General de Gaulle on the ways of Americans. He went about the room introducing himself as the Embassy observer, and informing the men there before him that the US Ambassador was sending a second observer to this meeting, an officer from Naval Intelligence who had information to offer that had bearings on this case. “I offered a deposition instead, but the Ambassador refused. He said he wants everyone in the same room.”

  Rothcoe glowered at Merryman, but managed to keep his mouth shut. He took a warning stance behind the chair that held his valise, and watched the door, his expression daring anyone to address them.

  The next arrival was Gui Saint-Michel Terrascote, the French observer, who spoke English with a Canadian accent, which he learned in Winnipeg in the eight years before he entered the university in Montreal. “I’m regarded as neutral enough for the assignment. I’m a translator: English, French, German, and Dutch.”

  Rogers had just finished introducing Terrascote around when Peter Leeland came in. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What say we get this over with?”

  “Not everyone is here yet,” said Rogers, earning a sharp look from Rothcoe. “We have to have everyone here in order to make our agreements official.”

  “So how long do we wait?” Rothcoe demanded, as if he had no idea.

  “Our instructions say we wait ninety minutes beyond the stated meeting time for everyone to gather,” said Bethune. “It’s in the memo each of you received last week.”

  “Ninety minutes! Ridiculous!” Rothcoe scoffed.

  “Phil,” Leeland said, making the name almost a rebuke. “We might as well wait. I don’t want to go out in this weather until I have to.”

  Rogers glanced at the clock in the corridor, and noticed the elevator was moving again. He hoped it would be Szent-Germain, but saw Medwyn emerge, rolling a cart laden with trays ahead of him. He stepped back into the room and motioned to Rothcoe and Leeland to help him hang up the coats on the sideboard to make room for the coffee-urn and a dozen pastry plates. “I think this will help,” he said, wondering where his usually prompt employer was.

  Rothcoe shook his head. “The butler will take care of it. He doesn’t need any help from us.” His stare at Rogers showed his contempt. “Or you may want to help out of habit.”

  The doorbell chimed again; Merryman jumped a little, startled by its suddenness. The elevator descended again, and then moved up.

  “Szent-Germain?” Rothcoe asked Leeland, cocking his head in the direction of the elevator.

  “No,” said a voice from the study at the back of the meeting room, “I’m here.” He came out of the small chamber holding a newly revised atlas of Europe in his hands; he was dressed in his usual black three-piece suit with an ivory silk shirt, a tie that was of so dark a red that it looked almost black. As usual, he did not wear a hat. On the first finger of his right hand, he had a platinum ring set with a black sapphire and incised with raised, displayed wings: his sigil. “I came up the backstairs; I parked in the alley behind this place.” He looked around the room. “I see we’re all here, and it’s not quite half-three.”

  “Two minutes of,” said Bethune, a great portion of his nervousness fading as he went to the table and the chair that had his briefcase on it.

  The others took their places around the table while Medwyn set out the various items on the racks of his rolling tray-cart, working as if he were completely alone in the room; he went to turn up the brightness on the two chandeliers, stacked his trays on the tray-cart, and whisked it and himself out of the door, leaving the remaining nine men in silence.

  “The room was scanned for bugs not two hours ago,” Szent-Germain said as the quiet became oppressive. “You may speak freely.”

  Bethune almost chuckled, wishing he had such sangfroid. “There are cups for twelve, and we’re only eight.”

  “One of us is still missing,” said Rothcoe, staring in Szent-Germain’s direction as if Rothcoe suspected the Grof of doing something to delay the meeting.

  “The fellow from Naval Intelligence,” said Bethune. “I don’t know him.”

  “Nor I,” said Rothcoe.

  “The terms of this meeting require we not discuss anything bearing on this case until and unless all parties are present,” Merryman reminded them in his most diplomatic voice. “Perhaps we should choose what we wish to drink.”

  “Lord, what fun you must be at diplomatic receptions,” Leeland muttered.

  “More so than you would be in the same circumstances,” Merryman rejoined as he got up and made for the sideboard where coffee, tea, milk-jug, creamer, sugar-bowls, pastries, sherry, and cognac were set out with appropriate bone china, napery, and utensils.

  “I guess we might as well,” said Bethune, rising and going to pour out some coffee.

  “Please, all of you, help yourselves,” said Szent-Germain. “If nothing else, you will have something to sustain you while we wait.”

  Over the next ten minutes, all the men but one went to choose something to refresh them; they spoke little, not wanting to say anything that could compromise the purpose of the meeting.

  “—and furthermore, the man was a haberdasher, not a good training job for someone who was going to be President of the United States,” Merryman was saying to Rogers and Hawsmede as the door-chime sounded with the demand of attention that might have been in preparation for the Last Trumpet. Hasty footsteps on the stairs served to announce the arrival of Lieutenant William C. Bereston of US Naval Intelligence.

  He was an impressive figure in his uniform, his close-clipped tawny hair looking more blond than it had when he had met Szent-Germain before. He came to the head of the table where there was an unoccupied chair. “Good afternoon, Grof, gentlemen.” He very nearly saluted, but instead remarked, “I extend my apologies to all of you. I was unavoidably delayed.”

  “That’s the Navy for you,” Merryman mumbled.

  Watching Lieutenant Bereston attentively, Szent-Germain nodded once, certain that he recognized the man. “I must suppose you do not really arrange film and publishing ventures for the US Department of State, or if you do, it is only a side-issue for your assignment. I have your card somewhere in my study in Venice.”

  “It’s old information now, Grof; you don’t need to keep it.” He put his leather portfolio down in front of the chair and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m famished. Haven’t had anything since zero-five-thirty. I’ve been traveling to get here, and there were delays.” He went to the sideboard and selected a round pastry about the size of a baseball and poured himself a large cup of coffee, carried them back to the table, and sat down. “I love these sweet grenades. I don’t know what their proper name is, but they’re wonderful, with sweetened cream cheese inside.” Three of the men at the table were finishing up their pastries and coffee or tea, and one of them—Terrascote—signaled to Bereston.

  “Why did you rush to come here?” asked Hawsmede.

  “To provide you with some intelligence about Szent-Germain you may not have discovered for yourself.” He took his fork and carefully, deliberately stabbed it, and was rewarded with a small explosion of soft, white cheese. He grinned as he cut the half in half again.

  “Why would the Department of State—or the Navy
, for that matter—be watching a man like the Grof?” Bethune inquired patiently.

  “I’ll explain that shortly. First, there are a few misconceptions about—”

  “What do you mean, a few misconceptions?” Leeland demanded, seeking to keep Rothcoe from entering the fray as much as he wanted to have some answers; Rothcoe was in it for the kill, he thought, not the information.

  Bereston took a sip of coffee and put his cup back in the saucer. “I am about to tell you something, but you never heard it from me. My superiors will not look kindly on any discussion outside of this room. Do you understand me?”

  Terrascote bristled. “You cannot make such demands on us as this. You have not the authority.”

  Merryman coughed delicately. “Actually, he has. His information impacts the French as well as it impacts the US.” He had been holding a zippered portfolio. “The authorizations are all in this, if you want to examine it.”

  “By all the forgotten gods, what is this nonsense all about?” Szent-Germain asked in a firm voice. “And before you speculate, I work for no government other than my own.”

  “You’re an exile,” Rothcoe said as if he meant something contagious.

  “I am, but I still honor the ties of blood. I transmit nothing from Western Europeans to the Soviet Union, nothing from the US to the Soviets, nothing from Europe to anywhere, unless you would call cargo a transmission, which I admit to doing on a regular basis.” He saw Bethune’s urgent gesture to stop talking; he folded his arms and looked at Rothcoe. “Your turn.”

  Rothcoe leaned forward on his elbows, his hands gathered into fists. “So you want to play clever, do you?”

  “I want all this rumor-mongering to stop. I am not a Communist. I do not work for Communists. I am not involved in espionage. I do not produce nor do I trade in military weapons. Believe this. I am here with two attorneys, as are you, and there are observers as we agreed upon. You obviously have something you want to know. Ask me and if my attorneys agree, I will answer. If they refuse to allow me to answer, they will tell you why.” For half a second, he appeared to be exhausted, ancient, and incapable. Then it was gone and his elegance and self-possession had returned, so the five men who noticed Szent-Germain’s change wondered if they had seen anything at all; the most perplexed of the four was Edward Merryman, and it took him marginally longer than it took the rest to shake off the odd sensation that had come with that instant.

  “Is that true?” Rothcoe challenged. “Because I have it on good authority that the group known as the Ex-Pats’ Coven is under your patronage, and they’re all notorious Communist sympathizers.”

  “May I answer?” Szent-Germain asked Bethune.

  “Carefully,” Bethune replied.

  Szent-Germain thought for almost a minute. “To the extent that I publish books some of the members of that group have written, I suppose I do—patronize them. But not for their politics: I publish scholarly works for the most part, and the Coven members are almost all scholars. I have no group agreement with them: each book is contracted individually, and I put no money into the group per se, I only pay those who are my company’s authors.” He looked to Bethune and nodded once; Bethune made a gesture suggesting that Szent-Germain had just parried a sword-blow.

  “You may say so, but where is your proof?” Rothcoe pursued, and then wanted to call his words back as he looked at Hawsmede, who was wearing a lupine smile. “My firm handles Grof Szent-Germain’s international businesses: we keep copies of all contracts, scheduled meetings, tax filings, customs forms, as well as all secondary transactions. We have records of all his dealings, and if you require it, we can arrange a time for you to come to our chambers and examine what we have on hand. You’ll have to allocate some time for that project. I should warn you, there is a great deal of it.” He leaned back in his chair and had the last of his tea. “I would need the Grof’s permission to show you anything, of course.”

  Rothcoe shook his head. “You want to drown me in paper, is that it?”

  “No. I want you to have an appreciation for what this man does,” he said as if addressing a difficult child. “My obligation is to my client to the limits of the law.”

  “Very noble, for a lawyer,” Rothcoe sneered.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Merryman interrupted. “Shall we stick to the point of this meeting?”

  Szent-Germain spoke up again. “If you feel you must see these records, Mister Rothcoe, then we will make an arrangement that will accomplish your wish. But I think that in pursuing me, you are ignoring the obvious targets of this whispering campaign: the members of the Ex-Pats’ Coven, I am, at best, a secondary casuality.” He saw Leeland flush. “They’re trying to salvage their reputations and their livelihoods from here, and there are those in the US that do not want them to succeed. By dragging me into the conflict, the waters are muddied, because my presence gives the appearance of foreign intrigue, which does not exist. I do not want to cause any of the Coven distress, but I think, for their sake, I must lessen my involvement with some of its members.” He had talked to Charis about this, and would shortly discuss the matter with the rest of the Coven.

  “They aren’t useful?” Rothcoe asked.

  This time it was Rogers who answered. “What is it you seek in this investigation? Do you want to provide political entertainment for your citizens? Do you think this is some sort of film, one that is designed to show the vigilance of your security forces against a system the leaders fear and dislike?” He directed his gaze to Rothcoe. “Are you crying wolf? If you are, the wolf is a puppet of your own making. You have imbued Communism as Catholics believed Protestants were diabolic; by magnifying the nefarious deeds and intentions of Communists with the same malign intent, you make your hunters of them more powerful and heroic than they would be were you more realistic in your depiction of an economic system that does not coincide with your own.” He paused. “I have known the Grof for a great many years”—roughly two thousand years, he silently reminded himself—“and I know he is not involved in anything clandestine.”

  “You work for him,” Rothcoe said, dismissing Rogers’ remarks. “What else would you say?”

  “And he is right, Ragoczy Ferenz is a humanitarian, from all our records on him, and his uncle before him,” Bereston added, and went on a bit more rapidly. “I have official records that he”—he inclined his head in Szent-Germain’s direction—“helped Cardinal Roncale get Jewish children out of Bulgaria during the war; he provided transportation for many of them to safe locales. The Grof has also established a school for refugees in Hungary. There are persistent rumors he provided a kind of way-station for the Resistance during the war, as well, but if he did, he covered his tracks completely. For a wealthy man, he is remarkably uninvolved in politics.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Szent-Germain.

  “Can all these claims be established?” Leeland asked.

  “How do we know you’re not lying?” Rothcoe moved in his chair as if he might try to pounce on Szent-Germain.

  Szent-Germain regarded him steadily. “Because I give you my Word I am not.”

  “Sweet fucking Jesus,” said Leeland, his patience finally gone. “Give it a rest, Phil. It’s settled that this guy isn’t a Communist. We’ll check out his proofs of it after the first of the year.”

  Merryman made a sound that might have been a tut-tut but was more likely a swallowed chuckle.

  “What more do you want to ask my client?” Bethune inquired personably, directing his question to Rothcoe.

  “I want him to tell the truth,” said Rothcoe, his eyes accusing. “I want him to say who he’s working for.”

  Bethune started to speak, but Szent-Germain waved him to silence. “I work for those of my blood, not as their servant, but as their … protector, I guess you would call it. It’s a bit old-fashioned these days, but I keep to the old ways where blood is concerned.”

  “You say that so easily,” Rothcoe complained.

  “I say
it readily, not easily, but I doubt you would understand the difference,” Szent-Germain told him.

  Bethune straightened his back. “Is there any other question you want to put to my client?”

  Rothcoe swore.

  Merryman rose. “I think we’re done for now. Something may arise later, but I don’t believe we will need anything more today. I don’t know why we should continue this—it is degenerating into unfounded opinion, and that should worry some of you.” He went to the far end of the sideboard and examined the labels on the three bottles that stood there. “There’s some excellent cognac set out for us, and a very acceptable sherry. And some kind of Romanian liquor I am not familiar with. Tell me which you would like.”

  “We can’t stop now!” Rothcoe exclaimed.

  “We can, and we will. As the senior representative of the US government present, I am adjourning this meeting, and unless I receive a request from President Truman himself to schedule a new meeting, then we will regard the matter settled.” Merryman’s air of bumbly preoccupation had gone and in its place was a decisiveness that surprised everyone but Hawsmede. “Come, gentlemen. It’s dark and cold outside. Have a little something to help you keep warm.”

  “You bastard!” Rothcoe blared. “He’s conning you. Can’t you see? And you’re lapping it up by the spoonful.”

  “If you are displeased, you may leave, Mister Rothcoe. I’m tempted to tell you that you owe the Grof an apology, but I fear that would be useless.” Merryman opened the bottle of cognac.

  Terrascote got up and went to join Merryman at the end of the sideboard. “Thank you, Mister Merryman.”

  While the two men found the glasses for the sherry and the cognac, Rothcoe gathered up his things, and glared at Szent-Germain and then Merryman before he flung himself out of the room, leaving the door open.

  Merryman held out a small balloon glass of cognac. “Grof?”

  “No. Thank you. Rogers and I have another engagement tonight.” He rose. “I am grateful to you, Lieutenant Bereston. If ever I can be of service to you—for anything other than politics—please do not hesitate to ask.” He held out his hand to Bethune, who had got up and was talking quietly with Hawsmede.