Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  It seemed impossible for the pounding to grow any louder; surely the door would break if it kept up one instant longer. Druze Sviny put her square, blunt-fingered hands to her ears to shut out the worst of it, and very slowly rose from behind her desk to make her way across the room to the door. “Stop! I am going to open,” she shouted, hoping the soldiers would hear her. She waited two seconds, then turned the key in the lock, and pressed the handle down, allowing the door to swing inward. Warily she moved aside, but not far enough to permit the soldiers to enter easily. From beyond her office, she could hear autos coming into the parking lot, and she feared what it might mean—that Eclipse Aero was finally in the hands of the army. It was almost five in the afternoon of a hot summer day; after siesta, the streets were becoming noisy again as the people of Córdoba tried to hang on to a semblance of normality in their daily lives. Druze knew their efforts and shared them.

  Four young men in rumpled army uniforms stood in the corridor, one still holding his rifle up, ready to pound it on the oaken door again; dents and scrapes in the wood showed the hard use the door had already been given. Behind them was an officer, his uniform much neater, his hair well-cut, his nails trimmed, and his manner so disdainful that Druze itched to slap him: she had seen enough of haughty men since she entered the university to study mathematics; the faculty had been full of them, intellectual popinjays all, treating her more like a clever dog than another human being with a gift for numbers. The soldiers regarded the plain, middle-aged woman with faint surprise, as if they were surprised to see her.

  “Señora Sviny,” said the officer, stumbling over the unfamiliar name and favoring her with a hint of a bow.

  “I am Druze Sviny,” she said, knowing it must be obvious. She stood a little straighter, not wanting to appear intimidated by the soldiers. “No one else is in my office, and my name as Acting Chairman is on the door.”

  The officer made a face to express his annoyance at her and her manner. “Naturalmente. The title speaks for itself. So. If you will let us in? We have documents to present to you.”

  “Of course you do, and you must do your duty,” she said with patently false cordiality but not wanting to provide the soldiers with an excuse to be more aggressive. “Do come in.” She stood aside and managed not to add another sharp comment to the one she had already made.

  The officer entered first, fingering his mustache nervously. “I don’t want to make this any more unpleasant than it has to be.”

  “How considerate,” she said as neutrally as she was able.

  “I am certain,” he said as he motioned his men inside, “that this can be accomplished with a modicum of difficulty.” He took an official envelope from inside his tunic and smirked. “This transfers ownership of this company to the Spanish Army. You will see it has been properly signed, sealed, and endorsed. This is a strategic industry, and has been operating in accordance with the regulations set down for strategic industries, but now that your owner is gone, it has been decided that authority over this business must remain in España.” He made this recitation as if it had been carefully rehearsed.

  “Señor Ragoczy is gone because he is under order of arrest,” said Druze sharply. “You know as well as I that he would have been thrown into prison had he remained here.”

  “Yes,” the officer conceded. “He would have been, and no doubt it was a necessary thing to do.” He smiled slightly. “We cannot have airplane assembly plants in the hands of foreigners, not at a time like this.”

  Druze bit her lip, keenly aware that she was as much a foreigner as Saint-Germain was. “What are you going to do?”

  “Colonel Roberto Clavel will take over the running of this assembly plant effective tomorrow morning. He has been foreman for an automobile factory, and knows how such things should be run. And Colonel Jaime Manguera will review all designs and assembly specifications in preparation for their adaptation to our purposes.” He gave a single nod. “You will be here in the morning to help the transition to this new chain of command, and you will make it your business to encourage the others working here to accept the changes we will institute with a minimum of fuss. España is at war, Señora Sviny, and no one at Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias should forget that.” He pointed directly at her, making no apology for this rudeness. “You’re said to be a sensible woman. Well, now is the time to keep your wits about you.”

  “Señor Ragoczy is my employer,” she said, maintaining a fierce formality with the officer. “I have an obligation to him.”

  “Señor Ragoczy, as you call le Comte de Saint-Germain, is a foreigner, already condemned as working against the policies of España. Your obligation to him is over.” The officer glared at her.

  “So you tell me,” she said, doing her utmost to hang on to her fading courage. “But I have a contract with him—”

  “It is null and void,” said the officer, patting the envelope he carried. “It is all spelled out here. Perhaps you should read it before we go any further in this?” He handed her the envelope and folded his arms. “Go ahead. Read it. Take all the time you need.”

  She opened the envelope carefully, scrutinizing all the signatures and seals on the outside before she pulled out the six sheets of folded paper it contained; she smoothed the pages flat and began to peruse the documents, doing her best to control her anger and her fear. How on earth would she explain this to Señor Ragoczy? The orders left her without recourse of any kind—she had to turn over the assembly plant immediately, as the orders stipulated, or risk being sent to prison. She read the pages twice, as if hoping the commands they contained might change before her eyes. When she was done, she looked up at the officer. “Are you Capitán Andreas Morales?”

  “I am,” he said, bowing very slightly.

  “It says here that you are to be in charge here until Colonels Clavel and Manguera arrive,” she remarked. “Is that your understanding?”

  “It is.”

  “I see also,” she went on in a harsher tone of voice, “that you are authorized to confine me to my home or a cell if I do not fully cooperate with you.”

  “I will do,” he said, not quite smiling.

  “Isn’t that a trifle arbitrary?” She waited for him to speak.

  At last he said, “I don’t think so.”

  “No; I suppose you wouldn’t,” she said. “It also says here that you may order me escorted out of the country if you believe it would aid your country in more fully securing this facility.”

  “So it does. You are free to go, at least for a little while yet. And in case you supposed you could trade upon your work here, it also provides that you cannot take anything from this office.” He took a cigarette from a small brass case in his breast-pocket and used a matching brass lighter to ignite it.

  “Yes, I saw that.” She took a deep breath, knowing that most of the important information contained in the office files already existed in her mind. “I think it would be best if I left España, all things considered.”

  Capitán Morales studied her with narrowed eyes as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “Is that what you want?”

  Druze answered before she could consider the ramifications of her admission. “Yes. Yes, I want to be out of España.” Now that the words were spoken, she felt recklessly free. “I am from Czechoslovakia; my interests in this war you are fighting is minimal, and I would just as soon not have to deal with it.”

  “Do you have someplace to go?” Capitán Morales asked, slightly amused at her temerity.

  “That is hardly your concern,” she said with the sinking certainty that she did not—all she had was the address of an advocate’s office in London that Saint-Germain had left her; she hoped it would be enough.

  “You’re right.” He studied the far wall as if the grain of the wood contained a hidden message; then he said, “Very well. I will see you have a pass to leave España, provided to take a train tomorrow.”

  “Must it be a train?” Druze asked.

  “It is
all I may do,” he answered somewhat obliquely. “If it isn’t to your liking, then I regret that you will be left to your own devices. You will find that ships leaving Spanish harbors will not take on foreign nationals without proper authorizations, and all airplanes have been commandeered for military use.”

  Druze gave this her quick consideration, wondering if she could still get passage on an Eclipse Shipping vessel, and decided not to chance it. “Very well. I will depart tomorrow on the train—for Toulouse and Burgundy,” she added quickly. “From what I have heard on the wireless, there has been a flood of refugees through the southern passes of the Pyrenees, and I have no wish to add to their numbers.”

  Capitán Morales bit his lower lip. “I will arrange it,” he said at last. “Be ready at half-seven in the morning and one of the soldiers will escort you to the train station.” He glanced around the room. “This was Saint-Germain’s office?”

  “No—his is at the end of the corridor,” said Druze, feeling uneasy at revealing so much, yet compelled to offer these men something to appease them. “His name is on the door. You can look for yourself. He did use this office occasionally, for certain meetings, but—” She was finally able to stop herself.

  “He has records in his office?” Capitán Morales inquired.

  “In his safe and in the filing cabinets. They’re locked.” This last pleased her.

  “Do you know how to open them?” the Capitán pursued.

  She shook her head. “I don’t have the combination to the safe. The keys to the cabinets are in the fourth little drawer of his desk—just above the inkwells. There’s nothing secret about the location of the keys. I’d guess that anyone in this building could tell you that.” She picked up her purse and made sure the latch was closed.

  Capitán Morales nodded. “As you say, Señora Sviny.” He flicked his hand in the direction of the door. “Estanque, escort Señora Sviny from the building. In fact, drive her to her home, and see that she remains there.”

  One of the four soldiers ducked his head, then remembered to salute. “I will, Señor Capitán.” He motioned to Druze with the barrel of his rifle. “Come along, Señora.”

  “Respect, Estanque, respect,” Capitán Morales reminded him as he started toward the door, Druze falling in beside him. “Let her go into her house by herself. You stay outside, and watch. She isn’t to telephone anyone, or go anywhere alone.”

  “Yes, Señor Capitán,” said Estanque.

  As she reached the door, Druze looked back. “May I go to the bank? I should like to—”

  “I regret, Señora, that is impossible,” said Capitán Morales, dismissing her with a wave of his glowing cigarette. “Take her home, Estanque.”

  “Yes, Señor Capitán,” said the young soldier, this time with greater purpose.

  “All right,” said Druze, squaring her shoulders, resolved to leave with her head high, and all the while fighting tears. As she reached the top of the curving stairs that led to the lobby below, she noticed a tall, slender man of perhaps thirty-five with floppy, brownish hair and light, china-hazel eyes; he was wearing a nondescript navy-blue double-breasted suit with a white shirt and simple navy-blue tie. For some inexplicable reason, she shivered when he nodded at her as he climbed up the stairs.

  Estanque laughed at her obvious discomfort. “They say he’s Italian; he’s called Cenere, in any case.” He relished the look of dismay in Druze’s eyes as she followed the thin man’s steady progress up the stairs. “It means ash.”

  “I know,” said Druze, wondering what it was about the man that so disturbed her.

  “Keep going,” Estanque told her, strutting a little as he noticed Estrellita glancing at him. “Cenere isn’t the kind of man you want to notice you.”

  Druze did as he ordered, only nodding once to the receptionist as she walked to the heavy glass doors that led out of the building. The tightness in her throat was painful but she maintained her composure as she went out into the afternoon heat. “Which auto?”

  “That one,” said Estanque, pointing to the Benz tourer. He guided her by her elbow. “Get into the front passenger seat.”

  “As you like,” said Druze, obeying him. She took a last look at the Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias building through the windscreen and was stricken with a sense of loss that would have staggered her, had she been standing. As it was, she murmured her farewells in Czech, glad for once that only she could understand.

  From his vantage-point at the top of the stairs, the man called Cenere watched the Benz depart, then made his way down the corridor to the office where Capitán Morales awaited him. He paused in the doorway as if uncertain of his welcome. “Capitán?”

  “Ah, Signore Cenere,” Capitán Morales exclaimed. “The very man I have been looking for. Come in, come in.” He had taken the chair behind the desk and was relishing the position.

  “You have work for me?” If Capitán Morales’ position intimidated him, he disguised his apprehension very well.

  “Yes, I do. With the full approval of the generals.” He smiled, showing his teeth.

  “I should think so,” said Cenere, a world of disagreeable implications in his tone. “Very well. Who am I to find, and what am I to do with him?”

  Capitán Morales sighed; he had hoped to milk their conversation a bit more, but he knew enough about Cenere not to press his luck. “You are to find a foreigner—one Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain—”

  “An auspicious title,” Cenere said, sneering.

  This remark was lost on Capitán Morales, but he went along with Cenere anyway. “Yes, it is.”

  “He is the one you want me to locate for you? Is that all?” He looked about the office. “I should think you would prefer to have him gone, out of reach.”

  “It will not serve our purposes. He could make claims in court that would prevent our use of his company for months, if not years, and we cannot have that.” Capitán Morales pursed his lips in distaste.

  “Ah. I understand why you summoned me, Capitán. You would prefer to have this Comte de Saint-Germain truly gone, completely out of the picture,” said Cenere. “No embarrassing protests to deal with.”

  “Yes. You have it precisely.” He paused, hoping to add impact to what he was about to say. “You are to find him and you are to kill him—unobviously. This is to be an entirely clandestine operation. Nothing of his death is to redound to us in any way, but he must not vanish, or his estate will have to wait the required seven years to settle. He is rich enough to demand attention, so his death cannot rouse questions.”

  “So an unobvious murder that will leave no questions. A lamentable accident, in fact,” said Cenere with spurious sympathy.

  “Yes. A lamentable accident.”

  Cenere flexed his long, thin hands. “Do you have any notion where this Ragoczy is?”

  “No, not just at present. We know he isn’t in España.”

  “That leaves a great deal of the world in which he may hide,” Cenere observed, unimpressed. “Is there any information that could narrow the search?”

  “That is what we are hoping to find out,” said Capitán Morales. “His office should contain material we can use to locate him. I can appoint one man to help you.”

  “I’d rather use the receptionist. She’ll know with whom he talks, and she should be able to provide us telephone numbers or street addresses. And if I speak firmly to her, she will want to tell me everything she knows.” Cenere spoke flatly, completely confident that he would get what he wanted.

  “Then you may use her,” said Capitán Morales, disliking the way his statement came out. “I will appoint her to assist you.” There. That was less sinister.

  “Thank you,” said Cenere, and took another turn around the office. “May I go inspect his files?”

  “Certainly,” said Capitán Morales as he stubbed out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray on Druze Sviny’s desk. He would be glad to have Cenere out of the office. “If you wish to remove anything, tell me
what it is, so I may give you a certificate allowing you to take it.”

  “Very good,” said Cenere, and left Capitán Morales and his three remaining men in the Acting Chairman’s office. He entered Saint-Germain’s office and took stock of it: the room was paneled in mahogany; wall-sconces in the shape of sea-shells provided a soft lighting that was as quietly elegant as the burgundy silk draperies that covered the three tall windows, one of which was fronted by a trestle table made of glossy teak; three Oriental carpets lay over the polished wooden floor, their rich colors luminous; a handsome roll-top rosewood desk dominated one end of the office, facing three high-backed chairs upholstered in celadon damask; golden-oak file cabinets matched a set of glass-fronted bookcases on the west wall. In spite of himself, Cenere was impressed. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb, concentrating on what he did not see: there were no photographs anywhere. Perhaps, he thought, they had been removed and sent on to Saint-Germain, in which case he would have to find out where they had gone.

  There was a tap on the door and one of the soldiers called out, “The Capitán has the receptionist with him, if you would like to speak with her.” His accent was that of Malagá.

  “Bring her to me when Morales is done,” said Cenere, exasperated at having his hand forced.

  “Sí, Señor Cenere.” The soldier went away.

  Cenere waited a few minutes, then went to test the drawers on the file cabinets. Finding them locked, he took a small tool—not unlike a toothpick with a little bend at one end—from his wallet and jimmied them open. He made a swift examination of the tabs and pulled out six of the files, spreading them out on the narrow table in front of the central window. He pulled a handful of onion-skin carbon copies from files, then stacked them, but did not return them to the files. With a hint of a smile, he folded the carbons in half and slipped them into one of the three large pockets in his suit jacket. Satisfied, he took a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs, turning it to let him see the door as well as the desk. For twenty minutes he waited, smoking and thinking, and then there was another knock on the door.