Midnight Harvest by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

of that sort could happen. I was assured…” Pradera sighed. “No. No; I was hoping they would be grateful for my help and do something to show their appreciation.” He looked up at Saint-Germain and did his best to plead his case. “You’re in exile. You should be eager to cooperate with the government. Consider what you can offer. You could do yourself a great deal of good.”
    “Do you think so?” Saint-Germain regarded him, his expression revealing nothing of his ruminations. “I trust you don’t believe that” He picked up his hat and smoothed the brim. “If you want to resign, you may have six months’ pay when you leave. If you insist that I fire you, you can have half that amount.” He waited a moment. “In any case, you will be gone by the end of our business day.”
    Pradera dropped his head. “Very well. I will resign.”
    “And you will leave this office forever by the end of business today,” he repeated. “You may take your own property with you, of course, but nothing from this company beyond your final check. Prepare your check and Lundhavn’s; I will sign them, and I will stipulate they are final payments.” He took a step back from Pradera’s desk. “I’m sorry it came to this, Armando.”
    “So am I,” said Pradera, then added in a note of forlorn hope, “I can’t say anything to persuade you to reconsider.”
    “No, you can’t,” said Saint-Germain.
    “But you must know that the government will know about this. The soldiers will make their reports.” He rubbed his hands together. “There must be a way to—”
    “I’ve had too much experience with the wishes of governments to become party to their plans,” Saint-Germain interrupted him, and did not add that his cognizance of governments stretched back four millennia.
    Pradera was not familiar with the implacable note in Saint-Germain’s voice, but he realized what it meant. “Exiles are at a disadvantage, I suppose.”
    “In many ways,” said Saint-Germain, and started toward the door.
    “You won’t provide a recommendation, I suppose,” said Pradera.
    “Would you, were you in my position?” Saint-Germain countered, and left the office.
    Raimundo stared at Saint-Germain, his big eyes wary. “Is there anything wrong, Señor Conde?”
    “Not now,” said Saint-Germain. “Señor Pradera is leaving. At once. And there is a check to be messengered to Señor Lundhavn’s home at the end of the day. Use a company courier to carry it.” He could see that Raimundo was shocked, so he added, “I rely upon you to make sure the check is delivered.”
    “Yes, Señor Conde,” said Raimundo, staring at the large blotter pad on his desk.
    “And do not worry, Raimundo. None of Señor Pradera’s mistakes redound to you, or to Señor Liston.” Saint-Germain reached out and lifted the counter-gate and let himself out of the accounting office.
    “I’ve spoken to Señor Liston, and apprised him of Señor Pradera’s departure, and Señor Lundhavn’s,” Rogerio said as Saint-Germain came up to him. “I suggested he might want to give you some privacy while you dealt with Señor Pradera. Do you still want to see Señor Liston?”
    “Yes, but not today, I think. Tomorrow will be time enough. I’ll return after siesta tomorrow. Raimundo Orgullo will tend to taking care of the final checks; Señor Liston won’t have to be part of any of it.” Saint-Germain glanced toward the accounting-office door. “I suppose there is no way to keep the staff from speculating on this.”
    Rogerio shrugged. “You know the answer better than I,” he responded.
    For a long moment Saint-Germain said nothing. “I think it would be prudent for us to remain here for at least a week. There is more to be done here. I cannot rid myself of the notion that Lundhavn and Pradera are only the tip of the iceberg.” He glanced down the corridor. “Where are the soldiers?”
    “In the lunchroom,” said Rogerio. “With Lundhavn’s