a bit more comfortable, some more uncomfortable, but in the end, all of them were containers for the unwanted.
“You have been in prison, then?” The Colonel all but pounced on this.
“In Russia, some years ago. Many European industrialists were.” It was his most recent incarceration. “My primary crime was being rich; my secondary one was having a title. Add to that my foreign origins, and my ties to banks and shipping, and my doom was sealed.” The corners of his mouth lifted for an instant. “For since I am an exile with no government to complain of my incarceration, there was no embarrassment for the Bolsheviks. I should imagine the same realization has crossed your mind, as well.”
Colonel Senda did his best to look shocked. “I would not resort to anything so unpleasant unless you make it necessary.”
“That is what the Bolsheviks said, too,” Saint-Germain approved. “They were certain that they could achieve their goals by depriving me of property, wealth, and at last, food and warmth. They put me in a monk’s cell outside of Krasnoye Selo and did their utmost to forget about me. They very nearly succeeded.” He inclined his head. “But as you can see, I am still here.” He recalled his escape as he fled westward on a stolen horse, and knew he would not have such an opportunity in España.
“But here is España, not Russia,” said Colonel Senda.
“No; not Russia,” Saint-Germain agreed.
Whatever Colonel Senda had been about to say, it was silenced as Rogerio came back into the room carrying a tray on which stood a very large balloon snifter of fine Austrian crystal, with a pool of cognac in the bottom. “I trust this is to your satisfaction.”
The Colonel took the snifter, gave the contents a swirl, and sniffed deeply at the vapors that rose from the wild-honey—colored liquid. “Very good. Not the best I have had, but very good.” He took a generous swig of the cognac, then sighed with satisfaction. “How much of this do you have?”
Saint-Germain glanced at Rogerio. “A case or two. There is more in Córdoba.”
“A case or two,” the Colonel mused. “Quite an investment for a house where you do not live for years on end.”
“The servants who maintain it cost a great deal more than the cognac,” said Saint-Germain, a sardonic light in his dark eyes.
“Tell me,” said Colonel Senda, “do you think you can influence me with good drink? On such an important matter?” He nodded his dismissal to Rogerio; he stared at the servant as if he wanted to annoy him. “You needn’t listen at the door.”
Rogerio paid no attention to this studied insult, but stepped back from Senda’s chair. “Will there be anything else?” he asked Saint-Germain.
“Not just now, thank you, Rogerio” was his reply. “Perhaps you could look in on us in half-an-hour or so? If I need you before then, I’ll ring.”
“Very good, Comte,” he said, and withdrew.
“He’s very old school, isn’t he?” Colonel Senda said as he took another generous sip of the cognac; he paid no attention to the sudden eruption of gunfire in the street below.
“I suppose so. But then,” Saint-Germain explained, “so am I.”
Colonel Senda laughed immoderately. “Oh, how apt,” he said as his mirth ceased. “You are that, no doubt.” A second volley of shots caught his attention, but he said nothing more.
“And, in my old-school way, I am not yet ready to be coerced into surrendering all control of Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias to you, no matter how much it would please you to have me do it. My corporation is not in violation of any Spanish laws, and I have maintained the company along the recommended governmental lines.” Saint-Germain stood up slowly. “You know my conditions for releasing control of the firm to the army, or any other group.”
“You’ve spelled them out: adaptation for surveillance only, no weapons to be added to the airplanes, or alterations in design that would
“You have been in prison, then?” The Colonel all but pounced on this.
“In Russia, some years ago. Many European industrialists were.” It was his most recent incarceration. “My primary crime was being rich; my secondary one was having a title. Add to that my foreign origins, and my ties to banks and shipping, and my doom was sealed.” The corners of his mouth lifted for an instant. “For since I am an exile with no government to complain of my incarceration, there was no embarrassment for the Bolsheviks. I should imagine the same realization has crossed your mind, as well.”
Colonel Senda did his best to look shocked. “I would not resort to anything so unpleasant unless you make it necessary.”
“That is what the Bolsheviks said, too,” Saint-Germain approved. “They were certain that they could achieve their goals by depriving me of property, wealth, and at last, food and warmth. They put me in a monk’s cell outside of Krasnoye Selo and did their utmost to forget about me. They very nearly succeeded.” He inclined his head. “But as you can see, I am still here.” He recalled his escape as he fled westward on a stolen horse, and knew he would not have such an opportunity in España.
“But here is España, not Russia,” said Colonel Senda.
“No; not Russia,” Saint-Germain agreed.
Whatever Colonel Senda had been about to say, it was silenced as Rogerio came back into the room carrying a tray on which stood a very large balloon snifter of fine Austrian crystal, with a pool of cognac in the bottom. “I trust this is to your satisfaction.”
The Colonel took the snifter, gave the contents a swirl, and sniffed deeply at the vapors that rose from the wild-honey—colored liquid. “Very good. Not the best I have had, but very good.” He took a generous swig of the cognac, then sighed with satisfaction. “How much of this do you have?”
Saint-Germain glanced at Rogerio. “A case or two. There is more in Córdoba.”
“A case or two,” the Colonel mused. “Quite an investment for a house where you do not live for years on end.”
“The servants who maintain it cost a great deal more than the cognac,” said Saint-Germain, a sardonic light in his dark eyes.
“Tell me,” said Colonel Senda, “do you think you can influence me with good drink? On such an important matter?” He nodded his dismissal to Rogerio; he stared at the servant as if he wanted to annoy him. “You needn’t listen at the door.”
Rogerio paid no attention to this studied insult, but stepped back from Senda’s chair. “Will there be anything else?” he asked Saint-Germain.
“Not just now, thank you, Rogerio” was his reply. “Perhaps you could look in on us in half-an-hour or so? If I need you before then, I’ll ring.”
“Very good, Comte,” he said, and withdrew.
“He’s very old school, isn’t he?” Colonel Senda said as he took another generous sip of the cognac; he paid no attention to the sudden eruption of gunfire in the street below.
“I suppose so. But then,” Saint-Germain explained, “so am I.”
Colonel Senda laughed immoderately. “Oh, how apt,” he said as his mirth ceased. “You are that, no doubt.” A second volley of shots caught his attention, but he said nothing more.
“And, in my old-school way, I am not yet ready to be coerced into surrendering all control of Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias to you, no matter how much it would please you to have me do it. My corporation is not in violation of any Spanish laws, and I have maintained the company along the recommended governmental lines.” Saint-Germain stood up slowly. “You know my conditions for releasing control of the firm to the army, or any other group.”
“You’ve spelled them out: adaptation for surveillance only, no weapons to be added to the airplanes, or alterations in design that would
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