Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Most devotedly at your service,

  Juan Enrique Senda, Colonel

  JES/ay

  chapter seven

  Cherbourg was warm and breezy, the morning limpid in its newness. Saint-Germain stood at the edge of the airfield, hatless and shading his eyes as he looked up at the airplane that was coming in for a landing on the private airstrip that was flanked with open fields basking in the rising summer sun. Behind the two, the control tower rose up, topped with an octagonal cupola of glass. “Is that our—” he asked, turning to Rogerio.

  “Yes; it is our airplane,” said Rogerio from his place by their chests, crates, trunks, and suitcases. “You chartered it and it will carry us to America.” If he was disquieted, he gave no indication of it. “You can stay with your native earth all the way.”

  Saint-Germain nodded, saying apologetically, “I’m sorry to fuss so, but being high in the air, over water…” He stepped into the shadow of the control tower.

  “I am cognizant of the problem,” said Rogerio with a trace of humor. “I have explained that you are terrified of flying, and that you have been given a calmative by your physician so you will sleep for the whole journey. You are so wealthy, the pilot thinks you are indulging a foolish eccentricity.”

  “And so I am. Clever as always, old friend,” said Saint-Germain as the airplane touched down and rolled down the long paved stretch toward the shine of the English Channel, three kilometers beyond the fence at the end of the airfield.

  “The pilot and his assistant pilot are both accustomed to dealing with very rich customers—their business depends upon them. They boast of the oddities they have to accommodate; by comparison with some, you are quite tame. He said one of the Rockefellers demanded a half-sized table be brought on, for table tennis, so he and his friends could amuse themselves playing the game all the way to Boston. It was a fairly smooth crossing, so they actually played awhile.”

  “I shan’t need anything so athletic.” Saint-Germain patted his pocket. “All our papers are in order, so there is no reason to stay here much longer; once our things are aboard and the pilot is satisfied, we should be ready.” He squinted at the sky. “It will be hot before noon.”

  The airplane turned and started back up the runway toward the control tower and the two waiting men.

  “It is a good-sized airplane,” said Saint-Germain, studying it with narrowed eyes.

  “It has four propellers, and it can accommodate seventy-eight passengers in its usual commercial set-up, but it has been modified for private charter use, with sofas and a lounge in front, and sleeping cabins behind, instead of rows of seats. Very luxurious. You will be accommodated in one of the two sleeping cabins. It’s all arranged.” Rogerio patted his leather portfolio. “I have everything here. Mr. Dylan has assured me that the pilots have made this crossing many, many times, very successfully.”

  “Mr. Dylan is the agent for the airline?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “Yes”; the man Miles Sunbury suggested we contact; his offices are in Paris, but the company is Irish,” said Rogerio. “He has been very helpful in making our arrangements.”

  “I thought I recalled the name,” said Saint-Germain, mildly distracted.

  Rogerio knew Saint-Germain was growing more nervous—a rare event for him—and wished he could allay his discomfort. “You have survived a month in the hold of a ship; twelve to fifteen hours in an airplane should not be intolerable. The speed is worth the discomfort, or so you’ve said. You have had a few days to recover from our rapid journey to France, so you are not as exhausted as you were.”

  “You mean that I visited that young dancer in her sleep, yes; and it did somewhat restore me,” Saint-Germain admitted.

  “And you’re prepared for this journey, as much as one of your blood can be,” Rogerio reminded him.

  “So I try to tell myself, and I recall other journeys in other times that were more arduous for both of us,” said Saint-Germain, coming as close as he would to admitting his unease.

  “Truly,” said Rogerio, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines as the airplane swung around and came toward them.

  Saint-Germain pressed his lips together in thoughtful silence, then said, “You have done very well; I know I have been a trial.”

  “We have left Spain behind,” said Rogerio, “and that is more urgent than any of these arrangements.”

  “Yes. Spain is no longer safe in any way, not with the turn events have taken. Still, I dislike having to slip away as I did, but I gambled and lost.” He looked off toward the Channel again.

  “You got Doña Isabel out,” Rogerio reminded him.

  “Hardly significant in light of all that has transpired.” Saint-Germain shook his head once. “The war is well and truly begun there, and nothing will stop it until one of the combatants has been defeated. The generals are pressing their advances from every garrison. Cádiz is already in their hands, and Zaragossa, and Burgos will be next, and Sevilla, then Barcelona, and then they will take Madrid. And, of course, Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias.”

  “A foregone conclusion,” said Rogerio. “But you have left other things behind in Spain.”

  “Many times, as have you,” Saint-Germain agreed, recalling the past with an intensity that made him wonder if Csimenae was still alive, and if she was, where she was hiding during this latest upheaval.

  The airplane halted, the propellers ceased their rotations, and two men rolled out a tall flight of stairs; slowly the door in the side swung open and a young man in a blue-grey uniform stood aside as the pilot, his second in command, and the navigator came down the steps. When they were on the ground, the young man came after them, leaving the door open for the ground staff to deal with the airplane.

  “You mustn’t worry. The crew will be with you shortly,” said the young man. “They are allowed forty minutes between flights to recruit themselves, so they are going to have breakfast. While they dine, the fuel tanks will be filled again, as they were in Paris, and your belongings will be put aboard, and then, as soon as the crew is ready to leave, we will be on our way to Ireland, then on to Newfoundland.”

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain.

  “I’ll tend to your needs during the flight I’m your cabin steward.” The young man added, “My name is Ange.”

  An unreadable expression flickered across Saint-Germain’s attractive, irregular features, but all he said was “Thank you, Ange” as the young man continued on toward the ground floor of the tower.

  “Is this all you’re taking with you?” a man in overalls asked, his French that of Cherbourg laborers, as he and two companions came up behind Saint-Germain. “We’re loading up now, while the crew is in the café.”

  “Yes. This is all of it,” said Saint-Germain; his French was educated, with a slight, unidentifiable accent.

  “Then we’ll put it aboard,” said the man, and signaled to the others; a portion of the airplane’s belly swung down, giving access to the storage hold.

  Saint-Germain stood very still, watching the workers move his bags, chests, and luggage; he said nothing, not wanting to attract too much attention.

  The assistant pilot stepped out of the tower, a cup of coffee in one hand, a croissant in the other, to look at Saint-Germain, sizing him up. “I can see you are anxious, but there’s no reason to worry. The weather is fine. You’ll have a fresh crew; don’t worry. We aren’t tired after the flight from Paris,” he remarked in French, but with an Irish lilt to it, before going back into the lower part of the control tower where the café was located.

  “That is our agreement,” said Rogerio, although he doubted the man heard him. He looked over at Saint-Germain. “It’s a shame you’ve had to leave so many autos behind.”

  “Better autos than … many other things,” said Saint-Germain obliquely. “We have lost much more at other times.”

  As the loading continued, one of the workmen stopped as he was lifting the last remaining chest onto his
dolly. “This is going into one of the sleeping cabins?” he asked, clearly doubting that this could be correct.

  Saint-Germain turned toward him. “Yes. Be good enough to put it there.”

  The workman shrugged. “All right,” he said in a tone that showed he thought it was a ridiculous thing to do.

  “It is not yours to question what the charter asks, so long as it doesn’t endanger the airplane, as we both know this will not,” Rogerio said firmly. “You are being well-paid to do this, and you will not debate your instructions.”

  “Servants are more haughty than their masters,” the man declared, and spat before consulting his work-order. “In the second sleeping cabin, then. There won’t be much room for you to move around once I put this in place.” He shoved the dolly ahead of him and went back toward the airplane.

  “He thinks I’m a fool, or worse,” said Saint-Germain in third-century Greek. “No matter, so long as he stows the chest in the sleeping cabin.”

  “He’ll do that,” said Rogerio. “He wants the bonus promised for obeying instructions. It is enough to convince him to make an extra effort.”

  “Thank goodness for that, although it will also make him recall us, and where we are bound,” said Saint-Germain in French as his gaze followed the workman to the airplane. He paced a short way down the runway, then came back, his features schooled to a self-possession that did not reflect his state of mind. “I am not usually so nervous. I will be less apprehensive once we are under way.”

  “Yes,” said Rogerio.

  He stood still for a short while, then managed a rueful smile. “I’m sorry I have been so uneasy. If you can pardon my lapse in—”

  Rogerio shook his head. “You have no reason to apologize.”

  Another silence overtook them, this one more companionable. Finally Saint-Germain said, “I may sit up until we leave Ireland.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Rogerio. “If you like, then do.”

  Saint-Germain chuckled once. “I may have to: I’m still restive, and I may remain so for a while, even after we are in the air.”

  “That is apparent.” Rogerio glanced at his watch. “We have half-an-hour until the crew is supposed to return. Do you want to step into the waiting room now that all our chests and luggage is aboard?”

  “That might be best. We’ll be out of the sun. There should be newspapers in the waiting room.” He lifted his head and squinted up at the sky, searching as if for signs. “Let us hope for a smooth flight.”

  “Certainly,” said Rogerio as he followed Saint-Germain into the small waiting room where three modern sofas made up the furnishings, two of them standard-length, the third noticeably longer. There was a magazine-rack on the far wall and under it an occasional table stacked with newspapers; Rogerio picked up the top newspaper. “Two days old,” he said.

  “Nothing more recent?” Saint-Germain asked while Rogerio flipped through the stack.

  “No; the others are older.” He held out the copy of Le Jour. “It’s Cherbourg. There are two pages of shipping news.”

  “It will do,” said Saint-Germain, taking the paper and beginning to read it. “There are more developments from Germany, I see.”

  “Yes,” Rogerio said as he sat down and selected a magazine.

  “The Belgians are worried about Hitler’s move to reoccupy the Rhineland,” said Saint-Germain as he read. “I would like to hope their fears are unfounded.”

  “But you don’t,” said Rogerio.

  “How can I? I have seen what the NSDAP have done in Germany, a few short years ago, and they have only grown stronger and more belligerent. They have become so cocksure, it isn’t likely that they will rein themselves in.” Saint-Germain turned the page. “The Italians are continuing their advances in Ethiopia. Ever since they took Addis Ababa, they have become more and more pugnacious.”

  “A sadly uneven match,” said Rogerio.

  “It appears the young Egyptian King may have been able to strike a bargain with the British,” Saint-Germain went on as he turned another page. “A sixteen-year-old boy: Farouk. I can recall Pharaohs that young.”

  “He has much to deal with,” said Rogerio.

  “That he has,” said Saint-Germain, and turned the page again. “There is more speculation about Stalin and his Purge. Poor Russia—the Soviet Union,” he corrected himself. “Matters there grow worse by the hour.” He put the paper aside.

  “Is the news too upsetting?” Rogerio asked.

  “There is so much of it,” said Saint-Germain, turning back to the front page. “Look at it all. A century ago it would have taken months to accumulate the information in this single edition of the newspaper. Since the telegraph, the telephone, and the wireless, all this has changed, and the news arrives within two days of the events—three at most—to be assimilated over morning coffee.” He tapped the pages he held. “The next issue will have as much again, and possibly more. It is the quantity and rapidity of it all that is occasionally … overwhelming.”

  Rogerio kept his opinion to himself, but he studied Saint-Germain closely. “It isn’t the news that bothers you; it is something else.”

  “You know me too well, old friend,” Saint-Germain responded after a brief silence. He lowered his head for a long moment of contemplation, then said, “You are right, of course.”

  “But you will not tell me,” Rogerio guessed aloud.

  “Not until I have a better understanding of it myself.” He shrugged as if making sure he had not offended Rogerio. “I do apologize for my untoward behavior.”

  There was a tap on the waiting-room door and Ange leaned in. “You may go aboard now, if you like.” He glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. “You made no food selection for your crossing. Is there something you would like to have aboard?”

  “No, thank you,” said Saint-Germain quickly. “I prefer not to eat while flying.”

  “So,” said Ange sympathetically, “you have sickness in the air.”

  “Something of the sort,” Saint-Germain admitted.

  Ange turned to Rogerio, his manner subtly less pleasing. “And you? You have made no selection other than steak tartare.”

  “That will suffice,” said Rogerio. “As simply made as possible. You need not add capers and onions.” He could bear to eat a little of such ingredients, but they always gave him indigestion.

  “Just pepper and eggs?” Ange asked, clearly disappointed.

  “That would be most suitable,” said Rogerio.

  “And no wine or spirits?” Ange consulted his clipboard again as if he could not believe what he saw.

  “No, thank you. I like to keep a clear head while traveling,” Rogerio said.

  The steward lifted one shoulder in eloquent French indifference. “Then I shall only include what the pilot and crew wish to have. Your steak tartare is in a refrigerated chest and I will be able to serve you whenever you wish.” He studied the two men for an intense few seconds, then withdrew.

  “Well,” said Saint-Germain, resigned. “I suppose we should get aboard.” He got to his feet and slowly made his way to the door.

  “It might be wise,” said Rogerio; he followed Saint-Germain out of the waiting room.

  The airplane was parked in the same location, the boarding-stairs pulled up to its side; the drop-door in the underside was closed and only one workman remained near the airplane. As Saint-Germain emerged from the tower-building, he came forward.

  “You carried out our orders?” Rogerio asked him.

  “Just as specified,” said the workman, and blatantly held out his hand. “You owe me my bonus.”

  “So I do,” said Rogerio, and took his wallet from his inner pocket, then counted out the money promised. “One hundred fifty,” he said as he laid down the last bill. “It is the amount agreed upon, isn’t it?”

  The workman folded the money and slipped it into a pocket in his overalls. “Merci,” he muttered before stalking away.

  Saint-Germain had alread
y begun to climb the stairs, but he paused to stare after the workman. “Not very forthcoming, is he? I wonder what he thinks of all this—so large an airplane, and only two men bound westward.”

  Rogerio shook his head. “He has his view of the world.”

  “As have we all,” said Saint-Germain, resuming his upward progress. “Never mind. He will boast to his friends how he was able to hoodwink an aristocrat and his unctuous servant, and that will mean more to him than the money.”

  Behind them, the pilot stepped out of the tower-building and started toward the airplane; he carried a valise and a cup of coffee in his left hand.

  “Very likely,” said Rogerio, and smiled, his austere features transformed by amusement. “It’s what I would have done, when I was first in Roma, had I been given such an opportunity.” He made no mention that he was first in Roma during the reign of Nero.

  Saint-Germain had reached the top of the steps; he stood for a long moment before ducking into the airplane, where he looked about with a slow, appreciative nod. “Yes. Very well done.”

  Rogerio came into the airplane. “Just what Mr. Dylan described,” he said. “The design has the two sleeping cabins behind the lounge of the airplane, with toilet facilities all the way to the rear.”

  “Very likely; it is a sensible arrangement, given the room.” Saint-Germain went to the longer of the two sofas and patted the full roll of the back. “This is very pleasant; considerably less Spartan than Eclipse Aero’s Spartan.” The clumsy pun received a wince from Rogerio; Saint-Germain looked abashed. “Sorry for that.”

  “If it eases your state of mind,” said Rogerio, “say anything you like.”

  “So you will indulge me?” Saint-Germain countered, shaking his head. “I am nervous, but not yet an idiot, I hope.”

  “Hardly that,” said Rogerio.

  “Um,” said Saint-Germain. “It is necessary that we leave: I am certain of it.”

  “If only it didn’t have to be in the air,” said Rogerio, his voice dropping.

  Saint-Germain nodded ruefully. “Yes; if only.” He stepped around the end of the sofa and sat down. “Comfortable.”