Midnight Harvest (6 page)

“If you cannot leave Spain to accept it, the flattery means little, and you may discover that the generals will not be willing to let you go as long as they have work of their own for you,” said Saint-Germain with a wry turn of his mouth.

“I am a Dane. They can’t keep me here,” Lundhavn insisted.

“You may find that they can, unless you are planning to fly out in one of our test airplanes, leaving your wife and children behind. And do not assume that they would hold your family blameless.” He studied Lundhavn’s face. “You think you can elude the government? Just where were you planning to go?”

“I have received an offer from … a company in Dresden.” He set his jaw. “I have already agreed to start work there in May.”

“Then I see my visit is useless.” Saint-Germain rose, picking up his hat. “Very well: since you will not relent—you will not be allowed to take any blueprints or files out of the building, Elias. And since you are so determined to put yourself at a disadvantage, you may do so at once. I will have a check carried to your home by messenger before the end of the day. You may consider yourself dismissed. I will draft a letter to that effect before I leave this afternoon.” He turned toward the door. “You may have your secretary assist you in gathering your things; I will expect an inventory of what you have removed from this office, signed by you and your secretary, to be left on your desk when you leave.”

“And how you’ll tell your Colonel Senda about my plans,” Lundhavn goaded him.

“No. I doubt that will be necessary. There are others in the company who report to him regularly.” Saint-Germain pulled the door open. “I will go to the accounting office now. When I return I will expect you to be gone.”

“If you are determined, I will go,” said Lundhavn in a tone of ill-usage. “I trust I may be permitted to telephone my wife to tell her I am going to be home early?”

“Why should I object to that?” said Saint-Germain as he closed the door.

Rogerio had been standing near the end of the conference room door, and he turned around to face his employer. “It went badly.”

“Yes; is it that obvious?” Saint-Germain inquired politely. “He has an offer from a company in Dresden and I believe he supposes helping the generals will smooth his departure.”

“More fool he,” said Rogerio, falling in beside his master. “Where are we bound?”

“To accounting, first. I need to authorize a final payment for Lundhavn, and then I need to have a word or two with Armando Pradera. Then I want to talk to Druze Sviny.” He started down the stairs to the lobby, apparently unaware of the attention he was attracting among his staff, or the sharp surveillance of the two soldiers. “I dislike having my hand forced.”

“And that is what’s happening,” said Rogerio.

Saint-Germain said nothing as he descended to the main floor. “Is the house ready for us, or do we need to find a hotel for the night?”

“Lazaro has said the house is ready,” said Rogerio, accepting this change of subject as a matter of course. “If the electricity is working, then we’ll have a pleasant evening.”

“That may be uncertain,” said Saint-Germain as he went toward the north hall; he saw a man pull back from his doorway.

Rogerio sensed the tension and curiosity in the building. “Have you decided how long you want to stay in Córdoba?”

“Three days at least. It will depend upon what I find out during my inspection here tomorrow.” He stopped in front of the frosted glass door of the accounting department. “This shouldn’t take long.” He tapped on the glass lightly before stepping inside, once again leaving Rogerio in the corridor.

“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-Germain, 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.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
H
ORATIO
B
ATTERBURY IN
W
INNIPEG TO
L
EANDRO DE
G
UZMAN IN
M
ADRID; WRITTEN IN
E
NGLISH
.