Midnight Harvest (16 page)

“Ah. At last,” said Saint-Germain as he climbed out; he brushed his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles he found. “It was not as bad as I feared it might be.”

“Are you … uncomfortable?” Rogerio asked.

“If you mean, am I hot, the answer is yes. But I am not baked. I have certainly endured worse. The air-vents helped a great deal. It was certainly preferable to riding in direct sun.” He gave Rogerio a steady gaze. “I am grateful to you for your concern.”

Rogerio put down the lid of the boot and locked it, then handed the key to Saint-Germain. “We’ll need more petrol soon. We have only one full spare container left.”

“Then I will look for a station; they usually have pumps at the post offices, and a few of the general stores,” said Saint-Germain. “Has there been any difficulty?”

“I haven’t been stopped,” said Rogerio. “But I have seen soldiers in lorries and autos on the road. More than I expected to see,” he added.

“Not a good sign,” said Saint-Germain. “We’ll need to be more alert.” He got into the Voisin and looked at the fuel gauge. “We can always use that extra petrol we’re carrying, but I would prefer not to do that until we’re beyond Burgos. In fact, I’d like to fill up our extra containers again.”

“I understand,” said Rogerio, getting into the passenger seat.

“If you want to rest, go ahead; I’m quite refreshed.” Saint-Germain put the auto into gear and rolled onto the highway. “Thank goodness España doesn’t fold its tents once the sun goes down, as so many northern countries do; it’s still too hot to sleep.” He managed a quick, wry smile. “We should be able to purchase fuel in Talavera de la Reina, which is up ahead.”

“My thought as well,” said Rogerio, leaning as far back as the seat permitted. “I may rest my eyes a bit.”

“A fine idea,” said Saint-Germain cordially as he switched on the headlights and drove eastward into the dusk, keeping a good speed until the outskirts of Talavera de la Reina, when he came upon a barricade across the highway manned by soldiers. He pulled into the rear of the line of waiting automobiles, carts, motorcycles, and lorries, taking his travel documents from his small leather portfolio on the seat beside him; Rogerio continued to drowse, not quite sleeping but far from awake, apparently unaware of what was happening at the barricade. Slowly he advanced to the inspection point, watching all that transpired ahead of him; by the time he arrived at the front of the line, he had seen four vehicles—two lorries, an auto, and a motorcycle—pulled over and taken away from the road, which struck him as ominous.

“Name?” The officer in charge snapped out the question as Saint-Germain rolled down his window.

“Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain,” he said, handing over the small portfolio. “My documents.”

“Not Spanish.”

“No, not Spanish,” said Saint-Germain.

“Um,” said the officer, holding up a grimy lantern to read the various authorizations and permissions. “You have a private airfield near Burgos?”

“My company does,” said Saint-Germain carefully.

“You have two houses, I see: one in Cádiz, one in Córdoba.” He made this sound like an accusation.

“Yes. My assembly plant is in Córdoba. I have other business interests in Cádiz.” He made his answer flat and to the point.

“But you are not Spanish.” He reiterated as if confirming something nefarious. “Where do you come from?”

“My home is far from here, in the Carpathians. My passport, as you can see for yourself, is Hungarian.” Saint-Germain gave a little diplomatic cough. “I am no longer wholly welcome in my native land.”

“Many of you aristocrats from the East have battened on the West; you stole from your own people and live on the spoils,” the officer said condemningly.

“Many have, more’s the pity. Yet, I believe I have not been so ungrateful to this country,” said Saint-Germain. “My businesses are approved by the government.”

“For the time being,” the officer muttered. He held the portfolio for a short time, staring down at the various documents in it. “Who is with you?”

“My manservant. You have his passport there, an Italian one; you will see that it is totally in order.” He made no effort to tell the officer that Rogerio had been born in España. “Rogerio has been with me a very long time.”

“And you think that is something to be proud of?” The officer regarded him, his lip curled in scorn.

“No; I am thankful for such loyalty,” said Saint-Germain with utter sincerity.

“Huh!” the officer scoffed. Then, abruptly, he handed it back to Saint-Germain. “Well. Everything seems to be in order. Drive on.”

Saint-Germain took the portfolio, saying, “Muchas gracias,” then did as he had been ordered, noticing in the rearview mirror that the auto that had been in line behind him was pulled over and the occupants removed at gunpoint.

“Trouble?” Rogerio asked without opening his eyes. “I listened.”

“Indeed. As to the trouble, we’ll have to wait to find out,” said Saint-Germain, putting his attention on the street ahead, for he was now entering Talavera de la Reina and saw soldiers everywhere; most of the population remained indoors, those few on the streets were either outrageously reveling or careful and furtive, avoiding the soldiers who gave the streets the appearance of an army camp. “I think we had best not stop here,” he remarked as he heard the rattle of gunfire nearby.

“On to Madrid,” Rogerio said dryly. “As soon as possible.”

“No. Not Madrid. Not with the military already spreading through the country. If Talavera is so filled with soldiers, Madrid will be worse, and more dangerous because of it” Saint-Germain began to read the various road-signs as he passed them. “I think we’ll take another way. There is a road to Escalona If you will look for it?”

“Escalona. Certainly,” said Rogerio, sitting up and beginning to take notice of the activity around them. “This is very troubling.”

“Yes, it is,” said Saint-Germain as he reached the Plaza de Santa Maria de las Estrellas, where a small sign pointed the way to Escalona He made the turn, pausing to let a squad of soldiers cross the plaza in front of him. “They are getting ready for something.”

Rogerio peered down a side-street where the first bright streamers of fire were beginning to rage. “We’d best leave here soon.”

“My thought exactly,” said Saint-Germain, and continued down the street toward the road to Escalona “Let us hope we can depart without incident.”

“Are you expecting an attempt to stop—” Rogerio began, stopping himself before he said too much.

“I am trying to expect nothing,” said Saint-Germain as his memories crowded in upon him. “I want to keep my attention on what happens now, not what might happen.”

“Just as well,” said Rogerio.

Saint-Germain said nothing, but there was a glint in his dark eyes that warned Rogerio that his master was in a state of heightened awareness. Finally, as they left Talavera de la Reina behind, he relaxed a little. “A discouraging turn of events.”

“The army being in Talavera?” Rogerio asked.

“The whole of it. I thought it would not escalate so quickly. I suppose the generals are becoming impatient.” He sighed and drove awhile in silence. “If you will watch for a place we can purchase fuel?”

“I have been doing,” said Rogerio. “How much do we have left?”

“A bit less than a quarter tank,” said Saint-Germain, glancing out the window to the mountains rising sharply on their left. “I doubt there are any villages off this road that would have petrol to sell.”

“Most won’t have petrol at all,” said Rogerio. “I think San Juan el Monje is up ahead. There is a post office there.”

“I hope we’re not too late,” said Saint-Germain.

“It’s not quite midnight. We should be in time,” said Rogerio. “I hope there aren’t so many soldiers.” He looked down at the portfolio. “We may have to pay a high price.”

“That is no problem,” Saint-Germain said. “The banknotes are in the map-pocket on your seat. There’s enough there to fuel half-a-dozen airplanes.”

“Weren’t you worried the soldiers might find it?” Rogerio inquired, trying not to sound worried.

“No. If they had taken us from this auto, money would have been the least of our problems.” The line of his mouth was grim.

Rogerio nodded, then pointed. “San Juan el Monje. There are some lights burning.”

“Any sign of soldiers?”

“None that I can see,” Rogerio answered carefully.

“Then we’ll see if we can buy some petrol. The post office should be in the central plaza,” he said calmly. “If there is fuel in this place, it will be there.”

“We’d best buy as much as we can,” Rogerio said, worry in his voice.

A few gaslights shone to mark the central plaza; at the east end stood the old church of San Juan el Monje; to its right was the Officina del Pueblo; to the left were the post office and bank, which then became an arcade for shops and eating establishments. A pair of soldiers stood in the plaza where a few late-dining citizens were lingering in an outdoor café; the soldiers kept a casual eye on them, then turned their attention to Saint-Germain as the Voisin came into the plaza and rolled toward the petrol pump in front of the post office.

One of the soldiers ambled over to the petrol pump and put his arm around it. “You looking for something, señor?”

“I am,” said Saint-Germain.

“And would it be petrol for your auto?”

“It would.”

The soldier smiled without any humor. “If it is fuel you want, it is under the control of the army.”

“I am prepared to pay,” said Saint-Germain.

“How can I ignore my orders, señor?” the soldier asked in mock dismay. “You expect me to make an exception of you?”

“I think you wouldn’t turn down a great deal of money,” said Saint-Germain.

“A great deal of money?” the soldier echoed. “What would that be?”

“Do you know what gold coins are worth?” Saint-Germain asked.

The soldier laughed. “You cannot tell me you would pay gold for petrol.”

“I would, if you want gold.”

“How will I know the coins aren’t base metal with a thin coating?” The soldier wagged a finger at him. “There are many offering such counterfeits.”

“What would you consider, then?”

“Oh,” said the soldier with exaggerated nonchalance, “I don’t know. Suggest a sum.”

“Do you want pesetas as bills, or old-fashioned reales?” Saint-Germain kept his voice level.

The soldier looked about as if he were afraid of being overheard. “Reales? You have them?”

“They are gold coins,” Saint-Germain reminded him.

“But stamped and…” His voice trailed off. “How many reales will you pay?”

“For a full tank of fuel, and two full extra containers, five reales,” said Saint-Germain, who, a century ago, had paid that amount for a superb Andalusian stallion.

The soldier swallowed. “Is this a joke?”

Saint-Germain pulled the coins from his pocket and held them out for the soldier to see. “Examine them. Satisfy yourself that they are genuine.”

With trembling fingers, the soldier took the five gold coins. “Heavy,” he remarked, and bit one of them, not knowing what it should reveal but aware that it was proper to bite gold. “I suppose these must be genuine.”

“They are,” said Saint-Germain, who had made the gold and poured the ancient molds himself, a month ago.

“A goodly amount.” The soldier regarded Saint-Germain with avaricious speculation.

“I must reach Burgos in time to show the army a new airplane my company makes,” said Saint-Germain without any outward indication of the anxiety he felt. “I am expected there, so it is worth extra money to me to be timely.”

The coins clinked in the soldier’s hand. “Five gold coins.”

“For a full tank of petrol, and two containers,” said Saint-Germain, “you may have them.”

The soldier continued to stare at the coins in his hand. “All right,” he said at last. “But I could simply keep these and order you to go along.”

“Yes, you could,” said Saint-Germain. “But you are a man of honor.” There was no suggestion of sarcasm in his voice.

“That I am,” he said, and cranked the pump. “You will have to fill it yourself,” he announced.

Rogerio got out of the Voisin. “I’ll attend to it,” he said, and went to take the nozzle from the soldier. He filled the tank as quickly as the pump would allow, taking care not to look directly at the soldier. When he was done, he thanked him and got back into the passenger seat.

“Where are you bound, again?” the soldier asked.

“We have authorized passage to Burgos, as I told you,” said Saint-Germain.

“Along way. Perhaps you should rest for the night.” There was a crafty angle to his brow now, as if he had hit upon another way to get more riches from this stranger.

“Thank you, soldier, but we still have a way to go tonight, I fear.” He put the auto in gear.

“There may be fighting ahead,” the soldier warned.

“Thank you for telling us,” said Saint-Germain before he rolled up the window.

“Don’t blame me if you’re stopped again!” the soldier yelled after them.

A short distance out of San Juan el Monje the road ran parallel to an old railway line; Rogerio relaxed a bit as the tracks and the road began to rise into the hills. “They usually maintain roads that give rail access,” he said after a few kilometers of silence.

“They also make excellent targets,” said Saint-Germain, a frown beginning to accent his brow.

“Surely you don’t think there will be an attack at this hour,” said Rogerio. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I think anything is possible,” said Saint-Germain. “There is so much at stake, for all the sides in the conflict.”

Rogerio nodded sadly. “But out here, in the mountains, what would be the point?”

“There is always intimidation,” said Saint-Germain, and slowed down as he caught sight of a peasant in a goat-cart on the road ahead. “What do you think?” he asked Rogerio.

“A farmer who stayed late in town,” said Rogerio as they came abreast of the goat-cart.

“Or a partisan carrying weapons to guerillas,” said Saint-Germain. “The cart is empty but the goat is straining.”

The peasant paid no attention to the auto; he stared ahead as if completely unaware of the Voisin and the men in it.