Chapter 597: Wine and Blood
The vineyards outside Madrid had ripened early that year.
Spring had not yet touched most of Europe, but here in the Castilian basin, the sun held court over rows of ancient vines budding with new life.
The civil war raging just a few dozen kilometers east felt a thousand miles away.
The low hum of engines stirred the clouds above. A sleek silver aircraft descended through the haze like a falcon over a quiet field.
The guards at the villa’s perimeter barely raised their heads; everyone had been briefed.
The plane, a swept-wing prototype derived from the Fernbomber line, braked with surgical precision on the improvised airstrip beside the vineyard estate.
Behind it came the unmistakable growl of the Focke-Wulf PFL escorts; turboprop fighters with curved wings and black cruciform silhouettes, slicing across the sky like vultures too bored to land.
The door opened.
Bruno von Zehntner stepped out alone, dressed entirely as a civilian, without the slightest hint of militarization or chivalric honor.
He did not bring aides. He needed no security. The war had shifted so decisively that even the most diehard Republican saboteurs would sooner blow up a cathedral than risk an attempt on his life.
King Alfonso XIII awaited him under a marble canopy, seated beside a rustic wooden table overlooking the valley. A bottle of 1919 Rioja had already been uncorked, sweating gently in the early sun.
"Your Majesty," Bruno said with a nod, taking the seat opposite.