Midnight Harvest by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online Page B

determined, I will go,” said Lundhavn in a tone of ill-usage. “I trust I may be permitted to telephone my wife to tell her I am going to be home early?”
    “Why should I object to that?” said Saint-Germain as he closed the door.
    Rogerio had been standing near the end of the conference room door, and he turned around to face his employer. “It went badly.”
    “Yes; is it that obvious?” Saint-Germain inquired politely. “He has an offer from a company in Dresden and I believe he supposes helping the generals will smooth his departure.”
    “More fool he,” said Rogerio, falling in beside his master. “Where are we bound?”
    “To accounting, first. I need to authorize a final payment for Lundhavn, and then I need to have a word or two with Armando Pradera. Then I want to talk to Druze Sviny.” He started down the stairs to the lobby, apparently unaware of the attention he was attracting among his staff, or the sharp surveillance of the two soldiers. “I dislike having my hand forced.”
    “And that is what’s happening,” said Rogerio.
    Saint-Germain said nothing as he descended to the main floor. “Is the house ready for us, or do we need to find a hotel for the night?”
    “Lazaro has said the house is ready,” said Rogerio, accepting this change of subject as a matter of course. “If the electricity is working, then we’ll have a pleasant evening.”
    “That may be uncertain,” said Saint-Germain as he went toward the north hall; he saw a man pull back from his doorway.
    Rogerio sensed the tension and curiosity in the building. “Have you decided how long you want to stay in Córdoba?”
    “Three days at least. It will depend upon what I find out during my inspection here tomorrow.” He stopped in front of the frosted glass door of the accounting department. “This shouldn’t take long.” He tapped on the glass lightly before stepping inside, once again leaving Rogerio in the corridor.
    “Conde,” said the young man behind the counter, trying to seem at ease. “We were told you were in the building.”
    “No doubt,” said Saint-Germain. “Is Señor Liston in?” He lifted the counter-bridge and came up to the young man’s desk. “Or Señor Pradera?”
    “Señor Liston will be back in a few minutes,” said the young man uneasily. “He is with Señor Pradera and someone else in the small conference room.”
    Saint-Germain wondered with whom Liston had gone to confer, but said nothing of this, remarking only, “I will wait in his office. Will you be good enough to ask Señor Pradera to come in when he returns. Señor Liston will not be required to join us.”
    “Certainly,” said the young man, a bit too quickly. “Anything you like.”
    “Thank you, Raimundo,” said Saint-Germain, noticing that the young man was surprised that his employer remembered his name. He went into the nearer office and sat down in the visitor’s chair, once again putting his hat on the corner of the desk; he guessed he would not have to remain alone long.
    It was less than five minutes later that the door opened and Armando Pradera came into the office; he was in a fashionable suit of navy-blue wool with a navy-and-dull-gold tie over his crisp white shirt. With care he adjusted his tie-clasp in order to do something that looked suave. Satisfied with the result, he ducked his head and stood nearly at attention. “Good afternoon, Señor Conde,” he said, his voice tight.
    “Good afternoon, Señor Pradera,” Saint-Germain responded. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” He indicated the straight-backed chair by the wall.
    Pradera drew the chair away from the wall and sat down, very like a truant schoolboy. “What do you want?” He knew that came out badly. “I’m at your service, of course.” That was a bit better, he decided.
    “I need a final check for Señor Lundhavn—all that is due him, plus three months’ pay. It is to be carried to his house.” He studied Pradera’s features.