Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Ever the reporter,” Julia sniped at him.

  “Good thing, too,” McCall said, unfazed by Julia’s rancor. “You’ll be able to rely on what I tell you about him. I’ll write out a report and send a mimeo of it to all of you. We can discuss it at the next meeting, if you like.”

  “What about those of us who want to talk to him about our work?” Praeger spoke up, a defensive edge in his tone.

  “Do it at your own peril,” said Pomeroy.

  “How do we know you won’t sell information about our work to … to anyone interested?” asked Moira.

  Szent-Germain stared at her. “Because I give you my Word I will not,” he said quietly.

  “His Word,” said Praeger sardonically. “That’s got a lock on it.”

  Allanby held up his hands. “Please, everyone. Let him finish. We’ll know soon enough what is and isn’t true.”

  “I’ve seen Eclipse Press books before,” Hapgood Nugent announced. “They put out a very good historical atlas just as the war was getting started. We found them most useful in our work with Naval Intelligence. They even had a lot of material on South America and Africa that isn’t generally available. It had a very informative text, as well. A fine publication, in my opinion.”

  “Thank you,” said Szent-Germain.

  “If Eclipse takes your work, you’ll have nothing to be ashamed of,” said Charis, a bit too loudly. Color suffused her face as she made herself lean back in her chair.

  “You say that because he’s made an offer on your book?” Mary Anne asked as she might ask someone to pass the salt.

  Charis bristled. “That’s not why I said it.”

  Julia laughed unpleasantly.

  “But they have made an offer,” Young said. “Seeding the mine?”

  Szent-Germain chuckled. “You mean I made the offer to Professor Treat to lure you in, thinking Eclipse is more profitable than it is? That would be doubly foolish of me, don’t you think? What would be the point of it?” He shook his head. “I’d create more trouble for myself than I would gain from fleecing a few of you.”

  “It depends on what game you’re playing,” said McCall. “These days, we have to think about the CIA, and all the rest of them.”

  “I don’t want to feel dire every time there’s a knock on my door,” said Mary Anne.

  “I’m with you,” said Moira.

  “What have you got to say to that, Mister Grof?” McCall challenged.

  “Great Lord Harry, Russell,” Boris exclaimed, his deep voice rumbling like an approaching subway train. “Let him talk. You can search out evidence of chicanery later. Some of us are curious about what he’s saying.”

  Nugent grinned. “Save the fight for later. Right now, most of us are enjoying ourselves.”

  McCall gave an ill-used sigh, and made a show of opening his notebook in order to record the salient points of Szent-Germain’s remarks. “I’ll make some inquiries and let you know what I find out.”

  “Thank you,” said Szent-Germain, and went on. “I have an office here in Paris. I’ll give anyone who would like to talk to me a business card, and I’ll instruct my secretary that any member of this group be given timely appointments. I want you to know this: I share your distress at the current American preoccupation with oppression in the name of security. The Soviets are still reeling from the war and are in no position to launch an all-out assault on all things American, and certainly not the American presence in Europe.” He shook his head. “To have intellectual inquiry stifled in the name of political exigency is—”

  “We know what it is,” said Tim Frost, moving his wheelchair forward by a few inches.

  “Yes,” said Szent-Germain. “You do.”

  Allanby came up to the front of the room once more. “I think we’ll wait until Mister McCall sends out his report on what he learns about you and your company, Grof, before we continue this, if you don’t mind.” He managed a friendly nod that was also a dismissal.

  “Very good,” said Szent-Germain. “Those of you who would like to make an appointment to discuss your works, feel free to do so. I’ll leave a dozen or so business cards with Professor Allanby.” As he spoke, he drew out a small card-case from his inner pocket and removed a number of them that he handed to Allanby. “Thank you for listening to me.” He nodded to the Coven, then went to retrieve his coat from the rack. “Professor Treat, would you rather stay or leave?”

  She glanced at him uncertainly. “I think I should stay, if you don’t mind.”

  “This is your organization—I am here only on your cachet,” he said calmly. “Can you get home safely from here, or would you like me to return in an hour or two?”

  “I’ll get you home, Charis,” said McCall.

  “And pump me with questions all the way? No thank you,” Charis declared.

  “I’ll be back in two hours,” said Szent-Germain as he pulled on his coat and went toward the door. “Twenty—eight: ten hours I make it.”

  “It’s six-ten now, so yes, that will do,” said Charis after glancing at her wristwatch and adjusting for military time. “I’ll be in the vestibule.”

  “Until then,” he told her as if there were no others to hear him, then he stepped out into the corridor, and made for the rear of the house. As he passed the kitchen, he saw Dudon enveloped in fragrant steam, watching him, and said, “It all smells delicious; I’m sorry I won’t have the chance to enjoy it tonight,” which was true enough in a somewhat skewed way: he had not eaten since his execution some four thousand years ago.

  “Another time,” said Dudon, returning his attention to his pots and pans.

  The Rue Tranquille was poorly lit, and the old paving stones were wet, but neither of these hazards was a problem to Szent-Germain’s night-seeing eyes; he noticed the two young men in heavy leather jackets in the shelter of the eaves of the house down the street and on the opposite side. Szent-Germain lengthened his stride and soon reached the two young men, aware as he neared them that both of them carried knives. He uttered an obscenity in Byzantine Greek and steeled himself for a nasty encounter, even as he realized that he and Charis had not escaped their pursuers after all, that they had been waiting for the two of them to leave. “At least there’s just the one of me,” he muttered in Provencal Medieval French.

  As predictably as the appearance of thugs in a gangster film, the two young men stepped out of the shadows and into the drizzle, slouching as much to keep dry as to seem threatening. The taller of the two stood half a head taller than Szent-Germain, and he projected an air of menace. “Stop where you are,” he muttered in an accent that came from the south of France, not Paris. “Keep quiet, hand over your money, and we won’t hurt you.”

  “I doubt that,” said Szent-Germain without a hint of fear. “So if you will step aside, I won’t have to disable either of you.”

  The second young man, only slightly taller than Szent-Germain, but heavier and more conspicuously muscular, moved to block him. “Stay right where you are.” To emphasize his intent, he drew a knife with a thick handle like a boning knife but a long, sturdy blade like a skinner. Suddenly his right hand lunged out, the knife moving swiftly toward Szent-Germain’s eyes. The man laughed once, a sound combined of rage and triumph.

  Szent-Germain took a half-step back and reached for the man’s right wrist and tugged it, all but casting the man to the ground. Keeping hold of the man’s wrist, the Grof pulled the would-be robber around and into the side of his companion.

  His companion cursed and tried to get hold of Szent-Germain, but failed as he turned around in a tight circle, hauling the robber he held around with him. Taking hold of the knife, Szent-Germain stomped on the man’s arch and let him go. “What the fuck—?” the man said as he tried to step back only to fall as he put his weight on his injured foot.

  The taller man bellowed with rage and attempted to rush at Szent-Germain, fists up at the ready. Szent-Germain made a quarter-turn away from him and kicked out at the robber’s knee; t
he man’s fist, augmented with brass knuckles, grazed the side of the Grof’s face as he wobbled in an attempt to remain standing. Szent-Germain gave him a shove in his shoulder. The man howled and fell, clutching his disjointed knee.

  “You’ll need a doctor to look at your injuries, sooner rather than later,” Szent-Germain told them as he neatened his coat, then threw the knife over a tall fence into what was probably a small garden.

  The taller man uttered an obscenity; the shorter man attempted to stand, his arms flailing in his effort to keep his balance.

  Szent-Germain studied the two men. “Whatever your purpose was this evening, I advise you to abandon it. And get yourselves to a clinic.” He inclined his head in a perfunctory bow, then went on along the Rue Tranquille, being careful about the various dark places that connected with the street. Little as he liked to contemplate the possibility, he admitted to himself that this might have been something more than a robbery, at the same time chiding himself for indulging in paranoia. This was not Berlin, and von Wolgast was dead. Other men who had sought Szent-Germain’s death had themselves been dead for more than two or three decades, or centuries. He walked quickly, making an effort to walk lightly so that he might hear any untoward sound along the way. Aside from a duet of yowls from a pair of tomcats, only the sound of a lorry on the street the other side of the Rue Tranquille caught his attention, so that by the time he reached his car, he was more at ease than he had been since before the Coven’s meeting had begun. He removed the key from his suit-pocket, and while he opened the door, he studied the activities of the night. Satisfied that he was not observed, he got into his 1949 Delahaye, its roof raised against the worsening drizzle, and prepared to drive off, but hesitated, to see if any other threatening figures might emerge from the narrow passageways that emptied onto the Rue Tranquille. This was not a dangerous part of Paris, but there were other criminals abroad throughout the city, so he waited. No one came forth, and he turned the key, adjusted the choke, engaged the reverse gear, and backed out of his parking place, heading in the direction of the Seine at moderate speed, wondering if he had time enough to visit the Boutique Musique before he would have to return to Chez Rosalie to take Charis back to her apartment. While stopped at an intersection, he felt his face, trying to determine if there were any marks on it from the bout, and found himself wishing he had a reflection so he could use the rear-view mirror to remove any blood or scrapes; the taller man had landed a couple of blows that might produce bruises. He sighed, thinking he needed Rogers to take care of his appearance, wiped his face with his handkerchief, put both his hands on the steering wheel, and drove on.

  When he reached Chez Rosalie he saw Charis talking to Joe Allanby and Washington Young as they stood in the shelter of the entryway to the restaurant. He drew up to the curb, stopped the engine, and got out of the glossy white Delahaye.

  Young whistled at the car; Allanby raised his bushy eyebrows that lay like well-mannered caterpillars over his troubled, deep-set eyes.

  “Gracious!” Charis exclaimed as he stepped into the light. “What happened to you? Your hand is bleeding.”

  He decided to give a direct, if not entirely accurate, answer. “A pair of young toughs tried to rob me.” He looked at Allanby. “Have any of your Coven members had trouble with—”

  “Not that I know of,” said Allanby, frowning. “We should warn the Coven,” he said to Young.

  “I’ll put something in The Grimoire. But no one’s ever mentioned it before.” He studied Szent-Germain. “You put up a fight.”

  “As best I could,” the Grof said without offering particulars.

  “There’s a bad scrape on your jaw,” Charis said. “You’ll want to put some iodine on it, and a bandage.”

  “I will,” Szent-Germain promised. “But after I take you to your residence. I’m not incapacitated.” He had a quick recollection of lying on the edge of the levee on the edge of Sankt Pitersburgh, barely conscious, his broken leg aching fiercely. “I’ll be over any injury shortly.”

  “Yes,” said Allanby. “But what a dreadful thing to have happen.”

  “Are you going to inform the police?” Young asked.

  Szent-Germain considered this. “I’ll probably call to report the incident. They didn’t get anything from me other than a broken foot and a dislocated knee.” Young chuckled, Allanby looked startled, and Charis gave a little gasp. “The gendarmes can look for them in a hospital or clinic.”

  “Good on you, Grof,” Young said, making the thumbs-up sign.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Charis burst out. “Get in the car and take me home. Then you can get your injuries looked at.”

  Allanby nodded. “Thanks for letting us know about the thugs. We’ll make sure that everyone is alerted.” With that, he opened the inner door and went into the restaurant, going toward the front room.

  “He’s having dinner here,” Young explained, holding out his hand to Szent-Germain. As they shook, he added, “I’m more curious than ever to find out what McCall learns.” He gave a kind of salute, then followed Allanby.

  “Come on, Grof,” Charis said, slipping her arm past his elbow and nudging him in the direction of his Delahaye.

  Szent-Germain opened the passenger door for her, then went around to the driver’s side. Sliding into the white-leather seat, he noticed a few small drops of blood had dropped onto the pristine leather. Something more to be attended to, he thought as he settled into his seat and turned the key in the ignition, then switched on the headlights before he signaled to the light traffic passing in front of the restaurant. His jaw was starting to ache. “Better roll up your window all the way; it looks like we’ll have some splashes along the way.”

  “Sure,” she said, and twisted the handle to crank the window up the last few inches.

  The engine purred as Szent-Germain drove off into the shining night.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM EUGENE STIRLING OF THE WASHINGTON POST IN ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA, TO RUSSELL MCCALL IN PARIS, FRANCE; DELIVERED BY AIR MAIL THREE DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

  137 Ashtree Lane

  Alexandria 4, Virginia

  Nov. 16 th, 1949

  Russell McCall

  7, Rue des Cinq Jardins

  Paris, France

  Dear Russ,

  Good to hear from you. I was beginning to think you’d gone underground and were making it your business to keep away from your friends back home. This isn’t going out on the paper’s letterhead; I’ll drop it in a box here in Alexandria. So far none of the HUAC’s minions have done any snooping around me, or most of the reporters, so I’ll assume this will reach you safely without causing more difficulties for you, or any for me.

  Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain is unknown to me, and as much as I want to say that I have records of him in the morgue, so far as I can tell, I don’t, at least nothing current. There is something about a visiting Hungarian with a similar name who was taken for a lot of money, but that was a century ago, and in London. Whoever this guy is, he either has done nothing criminal or clandestine, or he’s flying well under the radar—way under—which is a smart thing to do. Maybe he’s just looking out for himself and who can blame him? I can tell you that his shipping company is doing fairly well, all things considered, and his publishing company has been able to keep going for a couple of decades here in the US. Judging from the Szent, he’s Hungarian, like the guy a hundred years ago; could be a relative of some sort, which might explain his exile, given how the Russians are acting these days—not that I trust Army Intelligence or the CIA to be wholly candid with the press; both of those groups have too much to gain from keeping secrets. There is a lot of speculation going around about how HUAC chooses its subjects for investigation, not all of it too reassuring. I’ve assumed all along that they went for you because of your opinions, and to scare the bejesus out of any journalist who is inclined to cover the Leftist point of view honestly. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open about this Szent-Germain, and I’ll drop yo
u a line if I find out anything that looks important. For the time being, figure he’s legit, but keep an eye out for anything cloak-and-dagger; some of those Eastern Europeans have strange commitments and alliances.

  Thanks for asking about the family. Randy started high school last September, and is getting his sea-legs. Nina and I have arranged for him to continue his music lessons with a teacher from the local orchestral society. Randy tells us he loves the French horn and is thinking of it as a career. It’s true that many orchestras were short of musicians during the war, but that seems to be changing, and Nina and I want him to have every chance, but we’re telling him not to put too much into it until he finds out what kind of life he would have to lead if that becomes his career. His grandfather—Nina’s father—isn’t in favor of him playing the French horn professionally, and that’s led to some clashes. Linda takes her brother’s side, and I try to stay neutral. Nina’s been volunteering at the local VA physical therapy facility three days a week. She wants to do her part, she says.

  The paper is sending me on assignment to Hawaii next week, so it’s a good thing you wrote when you did. I won’t be back for ten days, and you said you needed to hear from me ASAP. This is the best I can do, and I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.

  Sincerely,

  Gene

  5

  BALTIMORE WAS coming out of the last of a blustery winter; the weather was doing its part to confuse everything: temperatures had been almost balmy the day before, with occasional flocks of woolly white clouds grazing through the cerulean sky. But there was a nip in the frisky wind today that promised winter had not quite left. On the streets, overcoats and jackets were standard dress still; a few pedestrians were wearing fur hats instead of felt, and had mufflers wrapped around their necks. The women out on errands had on shawl-collar coats with the collars turned up, and hats that were warm as well as fashionable; almost everyone wore gloves.

  From his handsome office around the corner from the Coast Guard Central Atlantic Administration Building, Lydell Gerold Broadstreet watched the street out the tall windows for a short while, then switched his attention to the oversized green blotter on his rosewood desk and the morning’s workload; he opened the latest file of international cables, arranged the way he liked them—not by operative but by country of origin—put on his glasses, smoothed his fine, butter-blond hair, set his foolscap notebook open at his elbow, placed his fountain-pen above it, picked up the top cable, and began to read, breaking the codes as he went, one of the few advantages of his photographic memory. Bishop in Dublin stated that he needed to get a replacement soon; the Free Irish Army were becoming suspicious of him, and although they were a small group, they were expert in making bombs, and were known for blowing up suspected informers. He scribbled a note to himself, shuffled the cables, and took up the cable from Fletcher, who sent his travel plans that would bring him to Alaska on a British ship in ten days and would need a covert pick-up; then from Vane in Istanbul where he had managed to get his network going without incident and would need a local contact to handle encoded communications. Nothing much new in any of them, Broadstreet told himself with a sigh. The self-congratulations from some of his station-chiefs were becoming oppressive: the war had been over long enough for vast numbers of uniforms to disappear from the general population, but not so long that the celebrations were completely over, particularly for those who had worked in the shadows—and still ought to do so, he told himself.