Midnight Harvest (18 page)

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain.

“I’ll tend to your needs during the flight I’m your cabin steward.” The young man added, “My name is Ange.”

An unreadable expression flickered across Saint-Germain’s attractive, irregular features, but all he said was “Thank you, Ange” as the young man continued on toward the ground floor of the tower.

“Is this all you’re taking with you?” a man in overalls asked, his French that of Cherbourg laborers, as he and two companions came up behind Saint-Germain. “We’re loading up now, while the crew is in the café.”

“Yes. This is all of it,” said Saint-Germain; his French was educated, with a slight, unidentifiable accent.

“Then we’ll put it aboard,” said the man, and signaled to the others; a portion of the airplane’s belly swung down, giving access to the storage hold.

Saint-Germain stood very still, watching the workers move his bags, chests, and luggage; he said nothing, not wanting to attract too much attention.

The assistant pilot stepped out of the tower, a cup of coffee in one hand, a croissant in the other, to look at Saint-Germain, sizing him up. “I can see you are anxious, but there’s no reason to worry. The weather is fine. You’ll have a fresh crew; don’t worry. We aren’t tired after the flight from Paris,” he remarked in French, but with an Irish lilt to it, before going back into the lower part of the control tower where the café was located.

“That is our agreement,” said Rogerio, although he doubted the man heard him. He looked over at Saint-Germain. “It’s a shame you’ve had to leave so many autos behind.”

“Better autos than … many other things,” said Saint-Germain obliquely. “We have lost much more at other times.”

As the loading continued, one of the workmen stopped as he was lifting the last remaining chest onto his dolly. “This is going into one of the sleeping cabins?” he asked, clearly doubting that this could be correct.

Saint-Germain turned toward him. “Yes. Be good enough to put it there.”

The workman shrugged. “All right,” he said in a tone that showed he thought it was a ridiculous thing to do.

“It is not yours to question what the charter asks, so long as it doesn’t endanger the airplane, as we both know this will not,” Rogerio said firmly. “You are being well-paid to do this, and you will not debate your instructions.”

“Servants are more haughty than their masters,” the man declared, and spat before consulting his work-order. “In the second sleeping cabin, then. There won’t be much room for you to move around once I put this in place.” He shoved the dolly ahead of him and went back toward the airplane.

“He thinks I’m a fool, or worse,” said Saint-Germain in third-century Greek. “No matter, so long as he stows the chest in the sleeping cabin.”

“He’ll do that,” said Rogerio. “He wants the bonus promised for obeying instructions. It is enough to convince him to make an extra effort.”

“Thank goodness for that, although it will also make him recall us, and where we are bound,” said Saint-Germain in French as his gaze followed the workman to the airplane. He paced a short way down the runway, then came back, his features schooled to a self-possession that did not reflect his state of mind. “I am not usually so nervous. I will be less apprehensive once we are under way.”

“Yes,” said Rogerio.

He stood still for a short while, then managed a rueful smile. “I’m sorry I have been so uneasy. If you can pardon my lapse in—”

Rogerio shook his head. “You have no reason to apologize.”

Another silence overtook them, this one more companionable. Finally Saint-Germain said, “I may sit up until we leave Ireland.”

“You don’t have to,” said Rogerio. “If you like, then do.”

Saint-Germain chuckled once. “I may have to: I’m still restive, and I may remain so for a while, even after we are in the air.”

“That is apparent.” Rogerio glanced at his watch. “We have half-an-hour until the crew is supposed to return. Do you want to step into the waiting room now that all our chests and luggage is aboard?”

“That might be best. We’ll be out of the sun. There should be newspapers in the waiting room.” He lifted his head and squinted up at the sky, searching as if for signs. “Let us hope for a smooth flight.”

“Certainly,” said Rogerio as he followed Saint-Germain into the small waiting room where three modern sofas made up the furnishings, two of them standard-length, the third noticeably longer. There was a magazine-rack on the far wall and under it an occasional table stacked with newspapers; Rogerio picked up the top newspaper. “Two days old,” he said.

“Nothing more recent?” Saint-Germain asked while Rogerio flipped through the stack.

“No; the others are older.” He held out the copy of
Le Jour.
“It’s Cherbourg. There are two pages of shipping news.”

“It will do,” said Saint-Germain, taking the paper and beginning to read it. “There are more developments from Germany, I see.”

“Yes,” Rogerio said as he sat down and selected a magazine.

“The Belgians are worried about Hitler’s move to reoccupy the Rhineland,” said Saint-Germain as he read. “I would like to hope their fears are unfounded.”

“But you don’t,” said Rogerio.

“How can I? I have seen what the NSDAP have done in Germany, a few short years ago, and they have only grown stronger and more belligerent. They have become so cocksure, it isn’t likely that they will rein themselves in.” Saint-Germain turned the page. “The Italians are continuing their advances in Ethiopia. Ever since they took Addis Ababa, they have become more and more pugnacious.”

“A sadly uneven match,” said Rogerio.

“It appears the young Egyptian King may have been able to strike a bargain with the British,” Saint-Germain went on as he turned another page. “A sixteen-year-old boy: Farouk. I can recall Pharaohs that young.”

“He has much to deal with,” said Rogerio.

“That he has,” said Saint-Germain, and turned the page again. “There is more speculation about Stalin and his Purge. Poor Russia—the Soviet Union,” he corrected himself. “Matters there grow worse by the hour.” He put the paper aside.

“Is the news too upsetting?” Rogerio asked.

“There is so much of it,” said Saint-Germain, turning back to the front page. “Look at it all. A century ago it would have taken months to accumulate the information in this single edition of the newspaper. Since the telegraph, the telephone, and the wireless, all this has changed, and the news arrives within two days of the events—three at most—to be assimilated over morning coffee.” He tapped the pages he held. “The next issue will have as much again, and possibly more. It is the quantity and rapidity of it all that is occasionally … overwhelming.”

Rogerio kept his opinion to himself, but he studied Saint-Germain closely. “It isn’t the news that bothers you; it is something else.”

“You know me too well, old friend,” Saint-Germain responded after a brief silence. He lowered his head for a long moment of contemplation, then said, “You are right, of course.”

“But you will not tell me,” Rogerio guessed aloud.

“Not until I have a better understanding of it myself.” He shrugged as if making sure he had not offended Rogerio. “I do apologize for my untoward behavior.”

There was a tap on the waiting-room door and Ange leaned in. “You may go aboard now, if you like.” He glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. “You made no food selection for your crossing. Is there something you would like to have aboard?”

“No, thank you,” said Saint-Germain quickly. “I prefer not to eat while flying.”

“So,” said Ange sympathetically, “you have sickness in the air.”

“Something of the sort,” Saint-Germain admitted.

Ange turned to Rogerio, his manner subtly less pleasing. “And you? You have made no selection other than steak tartare.”

“That will suffice,” said Rogerio. “As simply made as possible. You need not add capers and onions.” He could bear to eat a little of such ingredients, but they always gave him indigestion.

“Just pepper and eggs?” Ange asked, clearly disappointed.

“That would be most suitable,” said Rogerio.

“And no wine or spirits?” Ange consulted his clipboard again as if he could not believe what he saw.

“No, thank you. I like to keep a clear head while traveling,” Rogerio said.

The steward lifted one shoulder in eloquent French indifference. “Then I shall only include what the pilot and crew wish to have. Your steak tartare is in a refrigerated chest and I will be able to serve you whenever you wish.” He studied the two men for an intense few seconds, then withdrew.

“Well,” said Saint-Germain, resigned. “I suppose we should get aboard.” He got to his feet and slowly made his way to the door.

“It might be wise,” said Rogerio; he followed Saint-Germain out of the waiting room.

The airplane was parked in the same location, the boarding-stairs pulled up to its side; the drop-door in the underside was closed and only one workman remained near the airplane. As Saint-Germain emerged from the tower-building, he came forward.

“You carried out our orders?” Rogerio asked him.

“Just as specified,” said the workman, and blatantly held out his hand. “You owe me my bonus.”

“So I do,” said Rogerio, and took his wallet from his inner pocket, then counted out the money promised. “One hundred fifty,” he said as he laid down the last bill. “It is the amount agreed upon, isn’t it?”

The workman folded the money and slipped it into a pocket in his overalls. “Merci,” he muttered before stalking away.

Saint-Germain had already begun to climb the stairs, but he paused to stare after the workman. “Not very forthcoming, is he? I wonder what he thinks of all this—so large an airplane, and only two men bound westward.”

Rogerio shook his head. “He has his view of the world.”

“As have we all,” said Saint-Germain, resuming his upward progress. “Never mind. He will boast to his friends how he was able to hoodwink an aristocrat and his unctuous servant, and that will mean more to him than the money.”

Behind them, the pilot stepped out of the tower-building and started toward the airplane; he carried a valise and a cup of coffee in his left hand.

“Very likely,” said Rogerio, and smiled, his austere features transformed by amusement. “It’s what I would have done, when I was first in Roma, had I been given such an opportunity.” He made no mention that he was first in Roma during the reign of Nero.

Saint-Germain had reached the top of the steps; he stood for a long moment before ducking into the airplane, where he looked about with a slow, appreciative nod. “Yes. Very well done.”

Rogerio came into the airplane. “Just what Mr. Dylan described,” he said. “The design has the two sleeping cabins behind the lounge of the airplane, with toilet facilities all the way to the rear.”

“Very likely; it is a sensible arrangement, given the room.” Saint-Germain went to the longer of the two sofas and patted the full roll of the back. “This is very pleasant; considerably less Spartan than Eclipse Aero’s Spartan.” The clumsy pun received a wince from Rogerio; Saint-Germain looked abashed. “Sorry for that.”

“If it eases your state of mind,” said Rogerio, “say anything you like.”

“So you will indulge me?” Saint-Germain countered, shaking his head. “I am nervous, but not yet an idiot, I hope.”

“Hardly that,” said Rogerio.

“Um,” said Saint-Germain. “It is necessary that we leave: I am certain of it.”

“If only it didn’t have to be in the air,” said Rogerio, his voice dropping.

Saint-Germain nodded ruefully. “Yes; if only.” He stepped around the end of the sofa and sat down. “Comfortable.”

“Do you want to see the sleeping cabin?” Rogerio asked. “Or would you prefer that I check it?”

“If you would, please. The workman said the second cabin, didn’t he?” He glanced toward the window. “The fields are in good heart.”

Rogerio went back to the sleeping cabins. The one on the right was labeled “A,” the one on the left, “B”; he opened the “B” door and saw the chest full of earth shoved up against the bed. He stepped inside and pulled the mattress and covers off the bed and laid them on the chest, then set the pillow at the fore-end before returning to the lounge. “All attended to,” he reported.

Ange was securing the outer door, and the hatch to the cockpit was standing open.

“The crew is aboard,” said Saint-Germain.

“So I gather,” said Rogerio.

“Then we’ll soon be airborne,” said Saint-Germain.

“Off to Ireland,” said Ange in fairly good English.

“To Ireland,” said Saint-Germain, doing his best not to sound dismayed.

“There are seat-belts in the sofas, if you will use them for take-off and landing; just pull them around and buckle them, not too tight, but enough to hold you in place while we reach our cruising altitude,” said Ange, sounding slightly bored. He went on, his delivery almost sing-song; he had given this information so many times before that he no longer thought about what he was saying. “Once we’re in the air, you can retire to the sleeping cabin, if you like. The bunks are ready for use. We’ll wake you for our landing. We need you seated and buckled in for landings, just to be safe. The rest of the time, provided it isn’t stormy, which is unlikely today, you may walk about the cabin or retire to the sleeping cabins, as you wish.” His smile was as practiced as it was insincere. “It’s helpful for nervous fliers to have a chance to become accustomed to being in the air before they attempt to rest.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Saint-Germain, listening intently as the engines revved; in a very short while they began to taxi. “We’re under way.”

Rogerio smiled his encouragement. “The engines sound excellent.”

“Like four well-tuned autos,” Saint-Germain agreed critically as he listened more intently. “Just as they should.”

Ange all but smirked. “We take very good care of our airplanes. We have our own crews of mechanics on the ground, and we contract directly with the fuel suppliers.” He had strapped himself into a jump-seat between the cockpit and the alcove that served as a galley. “The assistant pilot can explain our policies to you after we’re in the air, if you like.”