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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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your countrymen will die.”
“Many of them will die no matter what you or I do,” said Liebre, then adjusted his posture so that it was more attentive.
“You’re cynical,” said Zapatilla, disapproval radiating from him like body heat.
“I am experienced,” Liebre corrected.
Zapatilla was about to take issue with this when there was a rap on the door and Esteban, not waiting for a summons from Zapatilla, let himself in; he carried a tray with two steaming cups of coffee on it, along with a jug of milk and a small jar of sugar cubes. “Oh. Yes.” Zapatilla motioned to the place on his desk where the tray should be set. “Do you want milk or sugar?”
Liebre leaned forward and poured in a generous dollop of milk, then took the tongs and dropped three cubes of sugar into his coffee. He selected one of the small spoons on the tray and began to stir the contents of his cup in a negligent manner. “Thank you, Señor Zapatilla. It is most gracious of you.”
“It is my pleasure,” said Zapatilla in a tone that implied the opposite. He put one cube of sugar into his coffee and gave it a perfunctory stir. “You may go, Esteban.”
His assistant withdrew promptly, taking care to close the door with a final sound that made it apparent that they would be private.
“And now, about this Ferenc Ragoczy,” Zapatilla prodded. “You have had the opportunity to observe him. What have you found out?”
“That you aren’t the only official looking into his activities,” said Liebre with a smug little smile. “The army is curious about him, too. I am proof of that. And I am not the only one assigned to monitor his activities.”
“Yes,” Zapatilla muttered. “I had heard something of that.”
“His actions are watched and his professional dealings are observed most carefully, particularly his correspondence, as I suppose you are aware.”
“Yes. I have received notice of this,” said Zapatilla. “And what have you discovered from your inquiries in this regard?”
“There have been letters from Germany and England and Russia. Most of the English letters come from a firm of solicitors and barristers, I believe they are called.” Liebre let this information sink in. “There have also been letters from Canada, and from a university in Peru, apparently from a woman with a French name. There may be more: I haven’t checked the letters for myself and that is all the desk clerks have told me. I cannot seem too curious, or Señor Echevarria may put me to work in a less convenient place than in the car park.”
“Wouldn’t you learn more at the desk?” Zapatilla inquired.
“I might, and I might not, but I am not yet sufficiently trained—in Señor Echevarria’s opinion—to do that work, nor am I in a hurry to learn.” He managed a little chuckle to indicate how ridiculous he thought this. “It is as useful for me to tend the autos as to go to the registration desk—more useful, in fact.” He tasted his coffee and set it aside. “I can learn all I need to know without appearing to … to snoop.”
“Do you mean to say you are watched?” Zapatilla asked. “You?”
“Of course I am. All the employees at the Hotel della Luna Nueva are.” He looked mildly amused. “Do you suppose that I receive any undue attention? I do not; I am a nonentity, less to be noticed than the autos the guests drive. If I behave well, no one pays any attention to me. But chambermaids have been known to pilfer, and desk clerks from time to time take bribes that are compromising to the hotel. Everyone has to be careful of clerks and maids. Not so much so with cooks and waiters, but they see very little of the guests, and what contact they have is very formal, limited to meals in the dining room. A parking attendant? I hear the same gossip as all the others, and I am practically invisible so long as I do nothing to draw attention to myself. I would be a fool to steal an auto, or to damage one; everyone knows that. As an
“Many of them will die no matter what you or I do,” said Liebre, then adjusted his posture so that it was more attentive.
“You’re cynical,” said Zapatilla, disapproval radiating from him like body heat.
“I am experienced,” Liebre corrected.
Zapatilla was about to take issue with this when there was a rap on the door and Esteban, not waiting for a summons from Zapatilla, let himself in; he carried a tray with two steaming cups of coffee on it, along with a jug of milk and a small jar of sugar cubes. “Oh. Yes.” Zapatilla motioned to the place on his desk where the tray should be set. “Do you want milk or sugar?”
Liebre leaned forward and poured in a generous dollop of milk, then took the tongs and dropped three cubes of sugar into his coffee. He selected one of the small spoons on the tray and began to stir the contents of his cup in a negligent manner. “Thank you, Señor Zapatilla. It is most gracious of you.”
“It is my pleasure,” said Zapatilla in a tone that implied the opposite. He put one cube of sugar into his coffee and gave it a perfunctory stir. “You may go, Esteban.”
His assistant withdrew promptly, taking care to close the door with a final sound that made it apparent that they would be private.
“And now, about this Ferenc Ragoczy,” Zapatilla prodded. “You have had the opportunity to observe him. What have you found out?”
“That you aren’t the only official looking into his activities,” said Liebre with a smug little smile. “The army is curious about him, too. I am proof of that. And I am not the only one assigned to monitor his activities.”
“Yes,” Zapatilla muttered. “I had heard something of that.”
“His actions are watched and his professional dealings are observed most carefully, particularly his correspondence, as I suppose you are aware.”
“Yes. I have received notice of this,” said Zapatilla. “And what have you discovered from your inquiries in this regard?”
“There have been letters from Germany and England and Russia. Most of the English letters come from a firm of solicitors and barristers, I believe they are called.” Liebre let this information sink in. “There have also been letters from Canada, and from a university in Peru, apparently from a woman with a French name. There may be more: I haven’t checked the letters for myself and that is all the desk clerks have told me. I cannot seem too curious, or Señor Echevarria may put me to work in a less convenient place than in the car park.”
“Wouldn’t you learn more at the desk?” Zapatilla inquired.
“I might, and I might not, but I am not yet sufficiently trained—in Señor Echevarria’s opinion—to do that work, nor am I in a hurry to learn.” He managed a little chuckle to indicate how ridiculous he thought this. “It is as useful for me to tend the autos as to go to the registration desk—more useful, in fact.” He tasted his coffee and set it aside. “I can learn all I need to know without appearing to … to snoop.”
“Do you mean to say you are watched?” Zapatilla asked. “You?”
“Of course I am. All the employees at the Hotel della Luna Nueva are.” He looked mildly amused. “Do you suppose that I receive any undue attention? I do not; I am a nonentity, less to be noticed than the autos the guests drive. If I behave well, no one pays any attention to me. But chambermaids have been known to pilfer, and desk clerks from time to time take bribes that are compromising to the hotel. Everyone has to be careful of clerks and maids. Not so much so with cooks and waiters, but they see very little of the guests, and what contact they have is very formal, limited to meals in the dining room. A parking attendant? I hear the same gossip as all the others, and I am practically invisible so long as I do nothing to draw attention to myself. I would be a fool to steal an auto, or to damage one; everyone knows that. As an
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