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Saint-Germain had had with Colonel Senda four days ago, when the officer had again called at the Hotel della Luna Nueva without warning for another so-called discussion of Saint-Germain’s equivocal circumstances; Rogerio had heard the Colonel’s harangue two rooms away from him, and had noticed that Saint-Germain was not eager to discuss what had transpired. He came around the front of the auto and started toward the main entrance of the Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias office building, a large structure only four years old, a masterpiece of contemporary style in glass and brushed aluminum. Two long car parks flanked the building, and a broad road led to the more utilitarian assembly plants behind the office edifice. “I’ll come back and move into one of the parks when you’ve gone inside. Would you prefer the east or west side?”
    “No need,” said Saint-Germain. “Our followers know where we are. We might as well accommodate them. Leave the Minerva where it is.”
    “If you like,” said Rogerio, stepping up to the thick glass doors with a four-foot-high rendition of Saint-Germain’s eclipse acid-etched to center on the opening. He grabbed the brushed aluminum handle, glad of his gloves in this biting cold, and pulled the door open as he stood aside, allowing his employer to enter the building ahead of him.
    The two-story lobby was not large but its glass walls, even on this grey and gloomy day, provided so much luminescence that it appeared vast. The light, faintly green from the thick glass, gave an impression of being underwater, an impression that was enhanced by the celadon walls. A reception desk of polished teak in a modernistic wedge-shape dominated the main floor of the lobby, and acted as a divider for the double staircases that curved up the inner walls to the gallery on the second floor; behind the stairs was an alcove where the building’s telephone switchboard was located, five women handling all the connections. Two well-dressed young women manned the reception desk, each wearing a welcoming smile that did not extend as far as their eyes.
    “Buenos días, Señor Conde,” said the taller of the two, not quite simpering. “I’ll tell Señor Lundhavn you’re here.”
    “Gracias, Estrellita,” said Saint-Germain as if perfectly satisfied with this suggestion; he removed his hat and held it by the crown-crease as he looked about the lobby, barely pausing as he caught sight of two soldiers standing on the far side of the eastern staircase. “Tell him I’m on my way,” he said, and started up the western staircase, Rogerio right behind him.
    The second floor, with its three corridors leading away from the lobby gallery, was primarily devoted to office space, and Elias Lundhavn occupied one of the two largest at the end of the main corridor. He came to the door just as Saint-Germain knocked on it, saying, “So good to see you, Comte” in Danish, and repeated himself in French. He was middle-aged, stocky, brown-haired, and blue-eyed, with a square face that just now seemed wooden, although he did his best to force a welcoming smile. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have arranged a full turnout for you. The staff are always eager to be included in your meetings.”
    “Not this one, I think,” Saint-Germain said lightly.
    Lundhavn blinked. “Should I send for my secretary to take notes?” He tried to cover his sudden edginess by lighting a cigarette.
    “No need for that,” said Saint-Germain. “This isn’t a progress call. I have a few matters I have to discuss with you, and I would prefer to do it without fanfare. I suppose you would prefer that, as well.” He crossed the office to the larger of two visitor’s chairs and sat down; Rogerio remained in the hallway. “Do sit down, Elias. This may take some time.”
    Lundhavn coughed nervously and removed a silver cigarette case from the inner pocket of his suit jacket; he offered this to Saint-Germain, and when it was waved away,