Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Rogers, still dressed for traveling, was looking somewhat rumpled as he sat down on the small sofa in Szent-Germain’s study, a room of good size that opened onto the corridor on the east wall, and onto the extensive library on the north wall. He dropped his briefcase onto the floor next to the sofa. “That’s unfortunate, for them as well as for the Germans. Though you can’t blame them, after the war.”

  “That’s been a frequent excuse through the centuries—one of them does something the other cannot tolerate, and so they begin another war, claiming it is justified and necessary. It made some kind of sense back in the Middle Ages, or so everyone thought. The demands of honor take curious forms, and open aggression requires an active defense. This last war most certainly was needed, but for reasons of fashion or custom, as some of the others have not been,” Szent-Germain reminded him with little heat, but with sorrow in his dark eyes.

  “It’s become a matter of character and style for both cultures, which is unfortunate.” He bent to open his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope straining to hold the report it contained. “You would have thought that the Revolution could have changed that, given all their humanitarian posturing,” said Rogers, falling into the subject with the ease of long practice, aware that the Grof did not want to discuss his findings now. “Their intentions were admirable, those Revolutionaries. The French were on a course to have better … diplomatic relations with their neighbors.”

  “With the ones they were already inclined to like, yes, they were,” Szent-Germain said, sounding melancholy. “They have trouble even now with those they actively dislike.”

  “They have justified their goals before their first shots were fired,” said Rogers. “It wasn’t their decision in the last war.”

  “No, and not for all of their neighbors,” the Grof stated. “The French have a different relationship with the Dutch, but that may be changing, too. The weapons are too powerful now. No country can afford the risks of war, not with the bombs and guided, long-range missiles—” He had trouble finding Latin terms for these, and broke off.

  “And the character of the first large encounter defines the hostilities from first to last—at least it does often.” Rogers stretched, yawning. “Harking back to the Revolution.”

  “The Revolution, perhaps; the Terror, never,” Szent-Germain said, thinking back to the hectic days in Lyon, trying to get Madelaine de Montalia out of the country before the Guillotine claimed her head and delivered the True Death.

  Rogers sensed some of the Grof’s troublesome memories, and said, “Do you think there will be a way to end their animosity?”

  Szent-Germain shrugged. “It may happen, eventually. It cannot be forced.”

  “Do you mean that they cannot resolve their differences without battles? at least for now?” Rogers rubbed his eyes. “I hadn’t realized I am as tired as … this.”

  “Bear with me a little while. I doubt a military contest will serve the cause of peace; it certainly hasn’t in the past. The Great War was supposed to end all wars, and yet it has just been fought again. The French and the Germans haven’t got on since Karl-lo-Magne ruled, and France wasn’t even a country then,” said Szent-Germain. “Neither you nor I can change them; it would be folly to try. It is up to them to change themselves.” He took the sixteenth-century atlas off his desk and put it back on the shelf in its usual place. After a couple minutes of silence, he said, “You were telling me about your journey before we got sidetracked.” He said the last word in English, since it was difficult to express sidetracked in Latin.

  Rogers rubbed his eyes and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles, very nearly yawning. “I spent most of the time on the train from Milano typing out my notes, which will make matters easier for you to assess, I think. There is a real tangle in Genova, and possibly one in Athens.” He was still speaking Imperial Latin.

  “Where did you get the typewriter?” Szent-Germain inquired.

  “I borrowed the Olympic in the Athens office, the little portable, and I took a ream of paper from the Eclipse Publishing branch there. The notes are in Greek, not surprisingly, but I thought it would be wise to have a record not everyone can read. Border-guards can be too curious.” He picked up the manila envelope and handed it to Szent-Germain, who received it with a single nod.

  “No doubt, as can others,” said Szent-Germain, and sat a little straighter in his chair as he reached out to put the manila envelope on his desk. “What slowed your journey? I expected you at twenty-two hundred hours. I had Fabert call the train station about half an hour before midnight; they said there had been a delay.”

  “Don’t tell me he was worried too? Fabert?” He did not laugh or make any display of humor, but there was something in his faded-blue eyes that indicated that he was amused that Szent-Germain’s houseman would be concerned for Rogers, of whom Fabert was deeply jealous. “I thought it best to leave from somewhere other than Genova, considering all the things that have been going on there. You’ll have to arrange something with your factors there. I didn’t want to have to explain anything to the police, so I went to Milano. It was a clamber, getting to the station in time, but I’m here now. We were delayed twice, once at Varese, once near Montargis. An old bomb went off and damaged the track.”

  “I’m relieved you got here safely. Those old bombs are a serious matter for everyone. Not even you and I could survive a direct hit…” His voice faded out as he shaded his eyes, contemplating the library lamp. “How provident that you should anticipate a need for a typewriter in Athens.” He started to rise, leaning a little forward and moving his arms on the chair. “I suppose you’re hungry,” said Szent-Germain in his most cordial tone. “There’s a fresh-killed capon in the refrigerator … I put it there when I learned you’d be late, though it is much later than I supposed it would be.” This was usually a suggestion that they postpone any more discussion until morning, but for once Rogers did not respond as Szent-Germain expected.

  “Not as hungry as I thought I might be; I’ll have it tomorrow, when I’ll probably be famished. I’m sure it will keep that long,” Rogers told him, draping one arm along the back of the sofa. “And I’m convinced you’re right; I should go and spend a week or so in Copenhagen. That could serve to throw some of the hounds looking for any crime that we might be accused of off the scent.”

  “You mean the Italians, the Dutch, or the French—or the Americans?” Szent-Germain’s countenance was wry as he sat back down again. “For now, we needn’t bother about the Germans. And we needn’t consider the Danes. They’re pleased about Eclipse, both shipping and publishing, and they’re trying to keep from being dragged into the post-war scramble. I’m glad you changed your mind. But I imagine caution would be a wise course for both of us.”

  “You are being as paranoid as some of the Coven members; I don’t think we’ve attracted the scrutiny you believe we have, though I don’t rule out the possibilities, especially since this last trip. There are all sorts of refugees and exiles in Europe. You and I are just another two,” said Rogers, and was about to apologize when Szent-Germain waved him to silence.

  “You may be right—indeed, I hope you are,” he declared as loudly as he had said anything since Rogers’ arrival. “Please go on,” he said in English.

  “You suspect we may be overheard?” Rogers asked, a touch of aggravation in his tone; he was still speaking in Latin.

  “Perhaps,” Szent-Germain said as if it were of little interest.

  “It seems … unusual,” said Rogers. “Even at this hour? Who would be up now, and not cause suspicion for it?”

  “When we go to the press, I’ll explain as much as I know.” This was once again in Latin. “I’ve had diMaggio look for bugs there, but he didn’t find any.”

  Rogers looked askance for an instant. “You mean that you have found electronic bugs here? In this flat?”

  “No, I didn’t. Steve diMaggio did. It was quite an impressive operation,” Szent-Germain stared blankly a
t a space some six feet beyond Rogers’ head. “I’ve put him on a weekly retainer, the way most of the Coven members have done. He has found bugs in highly unlikely places. Professor Treat is right: he’s very good at what he does.”

  “What did he find? Where did he find it?” Rogers asked with an urgency he was unable to disguise. “And did he perhaps put it there himself?”

  “He found them”—he gave subtle emphasis to them—“in the dining room, the drawing room, the reception room, and the library. I very much doubt he put them in place.” He gestured toward the door. “We’d have noticed something.”

  “Ye gods,” Rogers allowed himself to mutter. “When did this happen?”

  “That he can’t determine. He did say that they were probably installed over time, or when we were traveling and this flat was empty but for Fabert, though he thinks that is unlikely. He’s left the bugs in place, but disabled. He believes that the listeners won’t be aware of our cognizance of their devices. That will buy us a little time to try to discover who is listening, and why.”

  “You mean he thinks one of the servants helped?” Rogers demanded. “Fabert is the only one who lives in, and I can’t see him being part of any such efforts.”

  “Apparently, according to him, since there is no evidence that the flat has been broken into. But diMaggio warned me not to jump to conclusions, which I wanted to do, though not in the way he supposed. He believes that if one of the servants is involved, he’ll show his hand if we don’t press him too much. If he goes to ground, we’ll be in a real predicament.” Szent-Germain rubbed his chin. “When you have time, I’ll ask you for a shave.”

  “Certainly,” said Rogers. “Tomorrow. This afternoon.”

  “This afternoon, late in the day,” Szent-Germain said, as if trying to shake off the mass of unwelcome possibilities that were pressing at his thoughts. “I was hoping we were through with spies for a while.”

  “You’re experienced with spies,” Rogers reminded him.

  “Oh, yes, but the more … traditional kind, the ones who watch and listen in the vicinity, not those who intrude from afar,” he agreed. “But diMaggio has tried to explain matters to me: if I were to pursue the course that seems preferable to waiting, I could bring about just the kind of fracas that would lead to a host of legal complications and other disturbances. A very strange situation, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think he’s right?” Rogers asked in surprise.

  “I don’t know, but it seems to be the wiser course to follow his instructions. He’s done much for the Coven members, and I find them generally a reliable group.”

  “Has diMaggio shown any secondary purpose in his searches, do you know?”

  “I’ve heard nothing to his discredit, but I’ll ask Bethune when I see him, and trust him to be forthright.” He paused, his expression troubled. “Apparently a Coven member who last year filed a complaint with the police when he found bugs in his home became enmeshed in some kind of intrigue he knew almost nothing about. He had a passing acquaintance with one of the agents involved, but nothing clandestine. Some of the others in the group were afraid that the Coven had been penetrated by US agents, and began a hunt of their own for the spy. There was an upheaval of some sort, and the Coven member who had made the original complaint had to flee to Spain in the night—”

  “Not a pleasant task,” Rogers said, thinking back to their own flight from Spain just as the Spanish Civil War broke out.

  “The roads are paved now, most of the main ones, and the autos are better and faster,” Szent-Germain said in French, then went on in Latin. “The man remains in Barcelona, and will not return to France for fear of ending up in prison on suspicion of espionage. He’s invited the Coven to visit him when they like, but is staying as out of sight as he can, and has his house searched frequently for bugs. DiMaggio found the bugs that began the whole Sturm und Drang, only a day or two after he came to Paris from the US. There was an immediate demand for his services, and it hasn’t diminished since.”

  “Interesting,” Rogers said, and yawned again. “I’m sorry, my master, I need to get to bed. I may not need much sleep, but I’ve been up for over sixty-five hours and—”

  “I understand, old friend,” said Szent-Germain. “I’ll see you during the day. I have to be at the press by noon, so plan accordingly.”

  “We’ve been spied on before,” Rogers said.

  “That we have, but not so persistently, nor so … ruthlessly.”

  “In what sense ruthlessly?” The bugs were unnerving, but now that they had been detected, there was no reason to be upset by their presence, Rogers thought.

  Szent-Germain took several seconds to answer, and when he spoke, it was as much to clarify his thoughts as to answer Rogers’ question. “We don’t know who placed them, or why, and whether or not they will attempt to do it again. DiMaggio says two of them are American-made, and he thinks one of the others is German, probably from a black market supplier, but that’s no guarantee that we know who is responsible. Anyone can get their hands on these devices, and there’s no way to determine…” He gave a very quiet sigh. “They’re so … competitive with one another, these nations calling themselves allies, although that appellation hardly applies to many of them now. It’s not just the Soviets who have broken from Western European concerns, it is Greece, and in another sense, Spain, which was never an ally in the usual sense, or Switzerland, for that matter. All of them are eager to have knowledge of the greatest number of secrets, and they behave accordingly. So I cannot be sanguine when diMaggio tells me that two of the bugs he has found are of US origins, for the US supplies half the world with spying devices; it is a matter of knowing who ordered them put here, and why.”

  “Do you want to find out?” Rogers asked, snapping the clasp of his briefcase closed as he rose from the sofa.

  “I doubt it, but I need to find out,” said Szent-Germain, his tone sardonic. “Come, old friend; get some rest. We’ll want to be out of the flat by half-eleven.” He studied this room, trying to decide where he would look for bugs here, but realized he would need to learn more from Steve diMaggio before he would be able to check out his various homes for himself.

  Rogers went to the door into the corridor. “Are you going out tonight?”

  “I think not. It’s much too late, and I’m not in need of sustenance just at present. I was planning to read.”

  “Then I’ll wish you goodnight, for what’s left of it,” he said to Szent-Germain, and closed the study door behind him as he started off for his own quarters on the other side of the building.

  When Rogers came into the drawing room the next day at twenty minutes past eleven, almost all signs of fatigue had vanished, though there was a little lingering shadow under his eyes. The draperies were pulled across the windows, shutting out the refulgent sun. He saw Szent-Germain put his finger to his lips, and turned so that he could see that his employer was on the telephone.

  “Tell me as much as you know, Mielle, and send your report along at once.” Szent-Germain’s French was fluent, if a bit old-fashioned, and tinged by an unplaceable accent; Rogers realized the Grof was annoyed with the man at the other end of the line.

  There was a vociferous outburst on the other end of the call; Rogers heard both indignation and fright in the tinny voice.

  Szent-Germain was unmoved by whatever was said. “I’ll expect your report by no later than Friday. No excuses, and nothing withheld.”

  Rogers could not make out the words, but he could hear the panicky outrage coming from the receiver. He regarded Szent-Germain curiously, but waited to speak until Szent-Germain hung up.

  Szent-Germain repeated, “Friday, Mielle,” and he put the receiver back in its cradle. “Good morning, Rogers. I trust you slept well.”

  “Well enough,” he answered. “What was that about?”

  “I was giving some instructions to a gentleman in Genova,” said Szent-Germain.

  “What kind of instructions? He didn
’t sound very pleased about it.”

  “No, he didn’t, but he will do what I ask of him,” said Szent-Germain. “He wants me to keep his secrets, and will do as I tell him.”

  “Are you certain? He didn’t sound very cooperative.”

  “I am,” said Szent-Germain, and although his manner remained genial, there was something at the back of his eyes that did not encourage Rogers to pursue it. “The Delahaye is in the alley; I brought it around an hour ago. If you’re ready?” He indicated the hallway that led to the rear of the flat and the stairs to the alley. His pace was faster than it appeared, but Rogers was used to this after his almost two thousand years with the Grof, and he kept up without apparent effort. Szent-Germain took time to lock the back door before descending the staircase to the alley where the Delahaye waited.

  “Is there someone coming by the press?” Rogers asked. “I know you’ve met with a few of the Coven members—”

  “Yes, I have a couple of Coven members calling upon me, but about books, not about spies or other nefarious matters. Russell McCall wants to talk with me; I think he’s after information about Bethune, although why McCall should think I would have anything beyond what he already knows is a mystery to me.” He opened the passenger door, then went around to get into the driver’s seat, settling himself behind the steering wheel.

  “Why does he want it?” Rogers wondered aloud. “Don’t tell me he’s investigating the Coven.”

  “He’s a reporter, so he is curious. He’s one of the Coven who thinks there is still a mole in the group, and wants to bring him—or her—out into the open.” He started the engine. “We’ll need petrol later today.”

  “I thought you had an arrangement with—”

  “I do, but I have to let him know I’m coming. He is afraid that the police may find out about his private reserves program.” The Delahaye hummed along through the morning traffic, the engine operating reliably. “I had this to the mechanic last week. Pierpont’s given it a thorough going-over.”