1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thomas North watched the dark shape of the boat emerge from the morning mist that lay upon the Laguna Veneta like a carpet of gray cotton. “They’re here,” North called over his shoulder. The sounds of meal-taking in the small pilgrim’s refectory behind him diminished, succeeded by the clatter of plates being collected and removed for washing.

Sherrilyn came to stand beside him. “Can you see who it is?”

“I can barely make out the boat.” Thomas smiled. “But if you’re willing to make a wager-”

“With a sneaky bastard like you? Never.”

Thomas grinned, remembering how, just five days earlier, she had actually out-bluffed the redoubtable Harry Lefferts during a marathon session of five-card stud. Despite the excellent sailing characteristics of their lateen-rigged boat, they had nonetheless spent half a day lying becalmed just south of Bari, waiting for a favorable wind that would bring them to the eastern side of the Adriatic and the northerly current that predominated there. Toward the end of that game, she’d taken the hand on a busted flush, eliciting groans and howls from Gerd, and Paul, the only other members of the Wrecking Crew to leave Rome. These sounds of distress had so alarmed the crew of their small Dalmatian gajeta that the first mate had rushed over to see who’d been injured.

The card-playing had also been an icebreaker for increasing interaction with the Irish Wild Geese. However, with the exception of Wadding, who had apparently learned the rules simply by watching a few hands, they became more perplexed as the play progressed. The earl of Tyrone had pronounced the game as a debased variant of primero and turned his back upon it. Owen Roe-a bit more congenial than his young earl, and far more even-tempered-unsuccessfully tried to understand it as a new form of the English game brag. The other Irish might have found some interest in the game, but, between being poorer than indigent church mice, and more interested in chatting up the up-timers, their focus strayed from the rules and the cards.

After that, the stormy Adriatic had kept them busy, scudding too close to the Dalmatian coast, beacons warning them away from headlands at the last safe minute on more than one occasion. Thomas suspected it was more the extraordinary competence of the crew-a mix of Croats, Ragusans, and Italians-that had saved them in these instances: their knowledge of the coast was uncanny, even at night.

The Venetian lagoon had marked the abrupt end of the crew’s collective navigational knowledge, but one of the Italians had shipped out from piers on the Lido on two prior occasions, and so was able to guide them to their destination: San Francesco del Deserto, a small islet just north of St. Erasmo. There had been some debate over that choice; Harry and North had wanted to head straight in to Venice itself, simply because they knew of no other way to contact Tom Stone and the embassy. Wadding, in his typically quiet way, had pointed out that if Borja was indeed guilty of all that he seemed guilty of, then the main island would be watched by his confidential agents and should be avoided. Thomas had been pleased, but not entirely surprised, at Wadding’s revised opinion of the political realities in contemporary Italy. The boat ride had provided ample opportunity to disabuse good Father Luke of his rather optimistic hopes that Borja’s worst atrocities were, in fact, simply malign propaganda.

Once apprised of the trail of evidence that connected the assassinations, disappearances, and almost capricious slaughter of civilians to Borja’s decrees, Wadding’s nimble and nuanced mind quickly became an invaluable asset. Their current billet was a case in point: only Wadding had known about the small Franciscan monastery on the islet of San Francesco del Deserto. It was a place that had few visitors, and all of those came for purposes of hermitage or induction. It had no commerce, the monks acquiring their scant needs from the smaller, rustic islands nearby. A perfect place to arrive in Venice and yet remain unobserved and quite comfortable.

Bog hoppers or not, North admitted, the Irish were masters of surreptitious activity; they had little choice, given the stern occupation under which they struggled. Not that North would ever say so aloud, but he was of the opinion that his own countrymen had really gone too far in the subjugation of Ireland, and that there was now no way to reverse the situation, much less undo the damage. Of course, the Irish weren’t exactly shining exemplars of Christian charity and restraint, either. North suspected that when the parable of “turn the other cheek” was read out in Irish churches, the priests half-leaned out of their pulpits and whispered sotto voce behind a confidential hand, “except when the barstard is a feckin’ sassenach, o’ course.” Such were the contextualized pieties of the Emerald Isle.

But also, such were its lessons in subtlety. At Wadding’s instruction, a sealed message had gone out yesterday at dawn, entrusted to the order’s youngest novice, who was traveling to nearby St. Erasmo for provisions. While there, he had sought and found a slightly younger childhood friend who was also an aspirant to the order. A brief chat after morning prayer, a blessing, and a lira, and that young aspirant was on his way to the main island to pass the ciphered message on to the couriers’ collective that handled afternoon deliveries to the USE embassy.

And apparently, the message had reached the desired parties. Hopefully, it had also avoided detection by Borja’s many agents. But even if they had intercepted the communique, it would do them little good. The cipher was a disposable code, and was only one of the ways in which the monks had protected the message. Only a priest familiar with the legends of St. Francis, who had reputedly made a hermitage on the islet where they were hiding, would understand the allusive and symbolic cant in which it was written.

But even if Borja’s agents somehow managed to decipher all of that, they would only have learned that Ambassador Stone and Don Estuban were requested to travel to San Francesco del Deserto this morning. How they would get there was a matter left to those summoned. They had no doubt employed a variety of precautions, probably involving a rendezvous of boats in the predawn, to defeat interception. And if Borja’s minions decided to land on the islet itself and attack Thomas turned around; Owen Roe O’Neill was inspecting his pepperbox revolver. Standing by his side, the earl of Tyrone was scowling at the weapon, muttering that a sword was the proper weapon of a warrior and a man. Harry Lefferts had just finished reassembling the shotgun he’d field-stripped after racing through his breakfast. More than half a dozen of the Irish, seasoned in the Low Countries campaigns despite their scant years, lounged about the kitchen door. Dangerous men in a fight, they huddled there like so many young boys, hoping for the favor of an extra roll or rasher of bacon from the indulgent friar-cook. Surveying this array of both mechanical and human weapons, Thomas North couldn’t help smiling at the thought of what a bunch of assassins would encounter if they foolish enough to attack this island. A fitting line from one of the up-time movies he had memorized suggested itself: “Go ahead; make my day.”

“Well, are you coming- sassenach?”

Thomas North looked up and found Owen Roe O’Neill looking at him. With a smile. “That would be ‘Lord Sassenach’ to you, cultchie.”

“And that would be ‘Lord Cultchie’ to you, Lord Sassenach.”

North couldn’t help smiling back. “It seems we have come to an agreement on the mutually odious nature of our relationship.”

“So it seems. Now, are you coming, or are you planning on sneaking off and stealing the sacramental wine when no one’s about?”

“You mean they leave it unlocked?”

“Only because they don’t know about you. Come along, then.”

Miro leaned back when North had finished giving his report. He looked at Tom Stone, who waved the four USE Marines out of the room to join the four already outside. He looked down the table at the O’Neills. John looked back, expressionless. Owen waited a moment for his earl to act, and then nodded at the Wild Geese, who joined the Marines. Miro nodded his thanks to Owen, who nodded back. John looked sideways at his much older cousin, annoyed.

Tom Stone cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to clear the room, but we’re going to start talking plans. Seems like the moment to minimize the number of people hearing them.”

John O’Neill crossed his arms. “I can trust my men. To the death.”

“I believe that, Lord O’Neill, but tell me this: do they ever get drunk? Talk in their cups? Do they keep track of who’s new in a shared billet and who isn’t? Do they remember that every innkeep, serving girl, farrier, stable hand, prostitute might be a potential informer? Because only people who can maintain that kind of highly suspicious frame of mind should be in this room.”

Which made Miro reflect, and not for the first time, that perhaps the earl of Tyrone himself should not be present. But such an exclusion was a diplomatic impossibility.

John seemed a bit mollified by Tom Stone’s explanation, but not much. It was Wadding who found a way out of the growing silence. “Ambassador Stone, we are grateful that you agreed to meet us here on such short notice. It seems we have a number of mutual objectives, and I thought it wise for us to confer on how we might best combine our resources to achieve them.”

Tom Stone glanced at Miro, thereby signaling that, as the ambassador, he was handing off the meeting to the acting chief of local field operations. Miro knew that Tom didn’t much like ambassador-ing, particularly not under these conditions. But protocol demanded his presence. John O’Neill, one of the two exiled princes of Ireland, had asked to meet him, and besides, any conversation that involved rescue plans for his son and daughter-in-law was a conversation Stone had insisted on being a part of, damn it.

Miro leaned forward. “Father Wadding, as I understand it, you were the objective of the Colonels O’Neill.”

“Technically, yes-but in actuality, that mission was just a stalking horse.”

“You mean, if the O’Neills were apprehended in Rome, they could honestly claim that they had been sent after you, without alerting Cardinal Borja to the fact that they were also attempting to rescue the pope.”

“That is correct. A venal sin concealing a mortal sin, as it were.”

“I see. Now, about the mortal sin to which you refer-”

The earl of Tyrone leaned forward aggressively. “Just say plain: do you have Urban in your care or not?”

Wadding looked at the earl, made a gesture of patience, possibly also indirect admonishment; there was clearly history between those two.

Miro looked at John O’Neill directly and answered, “Yes; the pope is under our protection.”

The Irish in the room stopped as though frozen. The Wrecking Crew’s representatives weren’t much less surprised.

Wadding was obviously the trained negotiator among the Irish; he was the first who recovered enough to ask, “Not that we are ungrateful for your extraordinary candor-but why did you tell us?”

“Because, unless I am very much mistaken, you had already guessed as much.”

Owen hid a smile; John’s expression softened; Wadding looked at Miro as if he had discovered a fascinating clue to a puzzle. “And how did you surmise this?”

“By having a long acquaintance with human nature, Father Wadding. From what Colonel North has reported, this doctor of yours who stayed behind-Sean Connal, the representative of the earl of Tyrconnell-spent the days before you left Rome asking the Wrecking Crew to join him in speculating upon Urban’s whereabouts and fate. An innocent enough question, and perfectly reasonable, since it is on everyone’s minds and lips. But the Wrecking Crew’s command staff noticed that Dr. Connal did not as frequently engage them on this same topic.”

“From which you draw what conclusion?” asked Owen with wonder in his voice.

“Why, that Dr. Connal quickly discerned who in the Wrecking Crew could keep a secret and who couldn’t. So he concentrated his attention and efforts upon the Crew’s rank-and-file members, where he surely discovered the telltale signs of persons who suspected far more than they were willing to reveal. He no doubt communicated their identities to you three before you left him behind in Rome.

“That way, on your sea voyage from Rome to Venice, you had ample opportunity to continue those discussions with these more susceptible members of the Wrecking Crew. It hardly mattered that their speculations were neither specific nor detailed-because they arose, in large part, from wondering about the orders they were receiving and the indirect clues they were sensing from their commanders. Of course, they still felt the need to deny any relevant knowledge-but every time they squirmed, that meant you were possibly hitting close to the mark you were seeking: inferential data on the status and whereabouts of Urban himself.”

John and Owen exchanged very long looks. Wadding smiled slightly. “Don Estuban, you do indeed seem an astute observer of human nature, but were these projections the sole source of your deduction?”

“Not at all, merely the hub of the wheel, so to speak. It also made sense that you would naturally begin to wonder about our ‘possession’ of the pope on your own. After all, if the pope’s whereabouts and fate were unknown, then why would the USE deploy its most renowned team of commandos merely to rescue an ambassador’s son? I mean no offense, Mr. Ambassador, but the fate of the pope has immense and even global implications. It is only logical that the USE would devote its best rescue team to the task of locating and retrieving him, if such action was necessary; the demise of Urban VIII would mean the ascendancy of Borja. That would be disastrous for our interests, as well as those of our allies.”

Miro pointed at the O’Neills. “So after the two of you encountered the famous Harry Lefferts and his band in Rome, determined to rescue Frank Stone, you had to eventually conclude, ‘If the USE can spare the Wrecking Crew to retrieve young Stone and his wife, they must already know that the pope is either dead or safe.’ And safe would naturally mean ‘under USE protection,’ at this point.”

Owen and John exchanged yet another long look. Wadding rubbed his rather pointy chin.

“So,” Miro concluded, “remaining coy about the pope’s status would only be an insult to your intelligence. And that would undercut our ability to exchange information freely and plan for joint operations. For, as I understand it, Lord O’Neill, you have said it might be in the interests of your employers and your own countrymen to help us rescue young Mr. Stone and his wife.”

“Could be,” John answered, with a sly smile at Harry, who answered with one of his own. And in that moment, Miro saw that making allies via realpolitik was only half of the earl’s motivation for offering assistance; he, too, had fallen victim to the Harry Lefferts Charisma Effect. Not like an abjectly adoring schoolboy worshiping a sports hero; more like a peer who had met a kindred-spirit that was also a freer spirit, one who lived a life of action and adventure unconstrained by the responsibilities of a prince. But that would only be part of John O’Neill’s motivation “Could be that lending a hand to you is also the only way for me to fulfill my main mission, as well.” John explained. “Now, I’ll confirm something that you’ve probably deduced: we are charged to bring the pope to the Low Countries, to Fernando and Isabella. And I’m betting you won’t go along with that, not right away. But good will starts somewhere, am I right? And besides, unless I make you happy, you’re not going to consent to have two of my men appointed as Urban’s personal bodyguards.”

Miro blinked. “I assure you, Lord O’Neill, the pope has a sizable security contingent. And it will be expanding very soon again.”

“I thought no less. But I am not talking about mere soldiers. I am talking about personal bodyguards. My men will go wherever he does, ready to fight and die to keep His Holiness safe at all times. That’s the kind of protection we were charged to provide. I would satisfy those orders-at least in part and in spirit-by providing two of my men for that service.”

Miro looked at the earl of Tyrone, saw that this decision had come as much from his heart as his head. Miro instinctively understood that this was an important moment, a test of sorts. “Yes. Agreed,” he announced firmly.

The earl’s broad, and frankly surprised, smile made him look almost boyish. “Well, perhaps we’re going to get along famously, after all.”

“It would also be helpful,” mentioned Owen Roe, “to relay this news to the Low Countries. We had thought to send signals through the Venetian network, but if you were to be so helpful as to use your radio to-”

“Colonel O’Neill, your arrival here”-Miro made sure his glance included Wadding-“was already communicated to Magdeburg and Grantville last night. I suspect it has been passed on to King Fernando. We will append the rest later today. Along with a formal request that Fernando grant you permission to aid us in retrieving the hostages.”

“And you will include a report on the welfare of the pope?”

“That,” answered Miro through a long exhale “is unfortunately not within my purview. However, not only will I urge that the king in the Low Countries is informed of Urban’s status, but I suspect that my superiors are already similarly minded.”

Thomas North cleared his throat histrionically. Miro smiled at him. “Just jump in, Colonel North.”

“Thank you, Don Estuban. Although I sympathize with the desire to inform select persons of the continued well-being of the pope, I feel duty-bound to point out that there is no way to be absolutely sure that, once transmitted, the message will remain-er, fully secure within its intended circle of distribution.”

My, Thomas, what big intel-speak words you use. Probably either heard them in a movie, or read them in an up-time political thriller. But, on the other hand, North clearly had a head for genuine intelligence and counterintelligence operations. “I agree with you, Colonel North, but I think the damage done by such a leak will not significantly impact our other plans. Soon Borja will have fully excavated the rubble of the Castel Sant’Angelo. We know they will not find Urban’s body there, nor any traces of one. They may find, however, spent shotgun shells, but again, no sign of a shotgun or the person who might have wielded it. They will deduce that Urban was rescued by agents of the USE. So, even if Fernando’s court in Brussels leaks the intelligence, it will only tell Philip’s spymasters what they would very soon have learned for themselves.

“Consequently, I think that sharing the information with our new allies’ liege as a sign of the growing trust between us and the Low Countries is far more important than a few extra days of secrecy. Just as I wanted to make it clear to our new Irish friends that we are willing to help them fulfill their bodyguard assignment, at least until the pope decides to leave Italy.”

Wadding leaned forward, surprised. “Don Estuban, do I correctly infer that the pope’s continued presence in Italy is not merely because he is waiting for you to repair your plane?”

“That is correct, Father. Pope Urban is weighing all his options, and their consequences, very carefully.”

“I would be grateful to sequester myself with his Holiness to offer any services I might in the course of his deliberations.”

Miro smiled. “Easily granted, also-since that was the pope’s wish, as well.”

“The pope? Requested me?”

“Just as soon as he got the message that you had arrived here.”

Wadding, imperturbable up until this moment, suddenly seemed impatient to leave. “Upon concluding our business, I shall pack immediately.”

“Patience, Father; joining the pope is not easily done, and it is a one-way trip. You will not be able to leave him until such time as he departs Italy. Any traffic to or from his safe house is just what Borja’s agents will be watching for.”

Harry leaned forward. “Let’s steer back to the really time-critical issue: the rescue. Just before we left Rome, we learned from informers that the Spanish have relocated Frank and Giovanna to the Palazzo Mattei.”

Tom Stone squinted. “The what? Where’s that? Never heard of it.”

Wadding answered. “It is a fairly recent construction, just east of the Ghetto and the Tiber. It is a large complex of palaces and houses that takes up a whole block: an insula, as the Romans call it. However, whether you plan to rescue your friends by stealth or by a trial at arms, it will not be easy in such a large place. At the very least, you will need more men to attempt it.”

“Which,” resumed Harry, as if on cue, “is why I’d like to pull a few Marines from the embassy, so that we’ve got enough-”

Miro shook his head. “No, Harry, we can’t do that. At no time would it be advisable for us to use our Marines, but now, with Borja’s agents watching us and looking for Urban, it’s out of the question.”

Harry jerked a thumb in Thomas North’s direction. “Then what about some of his guys?” North looked startled, seemed ready to bristle.

Miro jumped in. “Again, Harry, I just can’t-”

“Look. I hear you’ve got a regular balloon service working here. So how about I take, say, three or four of the Hibernian Company, and you bring down their replacements on the balloon?”

Miro didn’t like the sound of that for a number of reasons. First, he wanted to keep the security forces as dense as possible around Urban. Second, it was clear that North and Harry had just recently buried a methodological hatchet over the operational cause of their first meeting with Wadding and the Wild Geese. North had been annoyed that Harry had been, to use his words, “cowboying” when he entered St. Isidore’s, and Harry had retorted that if it hadn’t been for his initiative, they wouldn’t have their new allies at all.

But on the other hand, in this matter, Harry was inarguably right: he just didn’t have enough trained manpower for the rescue. And the Wild Geese, while a significant addition, were not the full answer on their own. Besides, Miro had kept four of the Hibernians here in Venice, rather than with the pope, just in case something came up. Something like this.

Miro spread his hands wide upon the table. “Very well, Harry. I will authorize the release of four Hibernians to assist with the rescue operations. However, I am placing them directly under Colonel North’s personal command.”

Harry nodded. “Sure. But, fair warning: on these jobs, formations sometimes get a little messy. It’s hard to keep coloring inside the lines when things get exciting, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand that during combat operations, the command structure may need to be fluid.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Harry beamed. Thomas North, conversely, looked much less than pleased. Well, they’d have plenty of time to iron out any persisting difficulties later on…

“We also have to head back to Rome quickly,” Harry continued.

“Why?” asked the earl of Tyrone; his tone was one of curiosity, not umbrage.

Tom Stone raised his chin. “My daughter-in-law is due sometime in October. I know down-time women are pretty tough customers; I’ve seen plenty of proof of that. On the other hand, we’re not talking about normal circumstances. I figure a rescue could get pretty kinetic: running, jumping, ducking, climbing, crawling. That’s not what any doctor ever ordered for the third trimester.”

Harry nodded. “Yep, and the longer we wait, the bigger a problem Giovanna’s speed and mobility limitation becomes. So, since we’ve got the extra troops we need right here in Venice, and since the crew and ship that brought us here were pretty trustworthy-”

Miro shook his head. “We’ll retain them, but they are not the ones who will convey you to Rome; that will be done by a special ship and crew that you will meet at Ravenna. We will send your current ship after you, as a back-up.”

Thomas North tapped the table restively. “Ravenna isn’t really a port, Don Estuban.”

“No, it’s inland a bit, but ships stop at the fishing village close to it. The vessel we’ve engaged is a barca-longa, single-decked and with especially reliable crew. They are part ex-Arsenal, part Napolitano expatriates. They’ve got a reasonable proportion of military experience, no love of the Spanish, and a bit of experience in the ‘small trade’ business.”

“Black market?” translated Harry. “Outstanding.”

John O’Neill raised an eyebrow. “You like traveling with tinkers and thieves, do you, Harry?”

“Hell, I travel with you, don’t I?” But Harry’s smile made the jibe a jest between comrades.

“Seriously,” Harry answered, “that new ship sounds perfect, Estuban. Those guys will have exactly the skills we’ll need, including being Italians without any connections to Rome.”

Miro nodded. “And since half of their generous pay is contingent upon your healthy return to Venice, your safety and interests will become their interests. They will be alert to subtle treacheries that might elude the notice of non-natives. Now, have you had a chance to look at the communiques we received from the team you left behind in Rome?”

“Briefly,” responded Harry with a shrug. “Looks like Mr. Donald Ohde is becoming a pretty fair hand with a radio.”

“Yes. He reports that they’ve found sufficient vantage points for observing the Palazzo Mattei. And Juliet is developing quite a following among the local youngsters.”

“Well, a little cash buys a lot of good will in lower-class Rome, right now. Things are pretty sparse, there. So by the time we arrive-using a different entry method-she should have a good observation network set up. Watching the palazzo’s provisioning deliveries as well as their guard rotations will give us the real numbers of the troops we’re facing. Also, with Juliet talking to the servants, we should manage to get a good map of the internal layout.”

“That last factor is what concerns me, Harry. Donald’s messages indicated that there weren’t many servants to speak with, as though the domestics are being kept in the Palazzo Mattei at all times. If that is the case, how will you get a workable floor plan?”

“Oh, Juliet will find someone who can draw us a map, I’m sure.”

Owen frowned. “And why are you so sure?”

Harry shrugged. “Because there’s always a loose end, like a former scullery maid who had to leave employment when she got pregnant, and who can now use a few lire in exchange for a few lines drawn on a piece of paper. Never fails: there’s no way to sew up all the folks who know what the inside of a building looks like. And Juliet always finds them. Always. It’s her super-power, you know.”

“Eh…yes, of course.”

“Her what?” inquired Wadding.

“I’ll explain it later, Father,” Sherrilyn assured him. She turned toward Miro. “Juliet’s also busy rebuilding the ranks of the lefferti, from what I understand.”

“Yes, although that was already half-accomplished by the time you arrived. Juliet’s been learning that, due to their martyrdom in the early days of the occupation, being one of the lefferti became a symbol of underground resistance among Rome’s younger men. So there are a lot of new lefferti already available. They are also more political now. Not more informed about politics, but certainly more motivated by political issues such as the Spanish occupation of Rome. And, increasingly, Madrid’s control over Naples and Sicily.” Miro looked around the table, noted the new frown on North’s face. “Colonel? Something to add?”

“Something to ponder. Specifically, how much of our future plans we should share with the prince of Palestrina and with Romulus? Do we let them know when we’ve returned to Rome? It would be good to have the extra support, and an alternate escape route or safe haven if a maritime extraction goes pear-shaped. But…”

Miro nodded appreciatively. “Yes: ‘but.’”

Harry sat up straighter. “‘But’ what? You can’t believe Romulus is a turncoat.”

Thomas shook his head. “You’re right; I think we can trust Romulus. Whoever the hell he is. But can we trust everyone in the chain linking us to him? And him to Don Taddeo Barberini? And all of the duke’s advisors?”

Owen’s frown was thoughtful. “Is some past event feeding your suspicion, Thomas?”

“‘Suspicion’ is too strong a word. Let’s just say I entertain the possibility that it wasn’t mere chance that we were conveniently on hand to witness the shell-game that Borja’s spymaster staged on streets of Rome, using the two prisoners as the pea. Indeed, if word had come from Palestrina that we were in country-”

Harry nodded. “-then Borja’s henchman would have had enough time to set up what we saw, hoping we’d tip our hand reacting to it. But since we stayed out of direct contact with the duke during our one-night stay in Palestrina, the opposing spymaster’s informers couldn’t get any detailed intel on us. Just that some group was bound for Rome and probably for the purpose of rescuing the Stones.”

Sherrilyn considered. “And so Borja’s folks quickly came up with a plan to bait us into doing something stupid.”

“I’m not sure that plan was developed quickly, Ms. Maddox.” North studied his own, steepled, fingers. “The complexity of the operation we saw in Rome, and the surety with which it was mounted, make me suspect that our ‘opposite number’ had the whole ruse in readiness. As I remarked in Rome, it is hardly a stroke of genius to expect that the famous Wrecking Crew might be sent to rescue the prisoners. So he only had to wait for one of his wide net of informers to provide him with credible intelligence that we were in the area. And if his informer was indeed somewhere inside the household of the prince of Palestrina, Taddeo Barberini, it tells our opponent something else, now that I think of it.”

Miro blinked. “Of course; it suggests-doesn’t prove, but certainly suggests-that Urban is alive.”

“What?” John O’Neill looked from one to the other. “Why?”

It was Wadding who answered. “Because Taddeo Barberini is another of Pope Urban’s nephews. So if the pope was dead, or even if his location was unknown, how reasonably could Harry and the USE presume he would cooperate? But the USE operatives did go to his domain, and Taddeo did cooperate. That suggests that the USE and the duke have some other, common cause-which would logically be the safety of the duke’s uncle, the pope. Which would in turn dispose Taddeo Barberini to assist a USE rescue team when it arrived near Rome.”

“He might be motivated by revenge, too; his oldest brother, Cardinal Francesco Barberini, was cut down like a dog.” John sounded both defensive and truculent.

“Yes, my lord,” Wadding replied mildly, “that could be his motivation. But I am familiar enough with the reputation of Taddeo Barberini to know that, like the other nobles of the Lazio, he will not endanger what power and possessions he has left simply to indulge a thirst for personal vengeance. He is too shrewd for that. Indeed, he might have personally preferred to remain wholly uninvolved in the Wrecking Crew’s rescue attempt; any hint that he helped Borja’s enemies could incite disastrous reprisals. No, I suspect Borja would read this as I would: Taddeo Barberini felt obligated to aid and abet representatives of the USE because they have, and control the fate of, his uncle the pope.”

Owen let out a long-held breath. “So, Father, you believe that Borja already knows that the pope is alive and in USE custody?”

“As Colonel North observes, the aid the Wrecking Crew received from Palestrina does not prove anything about the pope’s fate. However, it suggests certain probabilities, among which the holy father’s continued survival in a USE sanctuary ranks very high indeed.”

Sherrilyn looked grim. “So the assassination clock has started ticking for the pope.”

Miro turned toward her. “The clock is being wound, but I don’t think the countdown has begun yet. If Borja’s agents cannot find an eyewitness to indicate that the pope is alive-and we have taken measures to prevent that-then they must build their case for his survival upon telltale bits of data and evidence. Like this one. They have no doubt come to provisionally believe that Urban is alive and in hiding with us, but when all the evidence is circumstantial, you must accumulate a great deal of it before you are satisfied you have proven your hypothesis.”

Harry leaned forward. “Estuban, leaving aside hypotheses for a second, I’d like to touch on a few facts. Fact: I brought Gerd back with us because he’d like to get his hands on some lively chemical substances, if you catch my drift.”

“I suspected as much. Ambassador Stone?”

Tom smiled. “Sounds like my boys. They experimented with a lot of exothermic substances when they were younger.”

Harry smiled back. “So I recall. So can Gerd have the run of your warehouse?”

“Well, it’s not like we’ve got a munitions stockpile. But I’ll set him up with a list of what’s on hand. He can choose from the menu.”

Harry nodded. “Great. Thanks. Estuban, how much more gear can you bring in on your balloon?”

“Nothing, not before you leave again for Rome. The balloon is already en route with repair parts for the Monster. It’s also carrying fuel and a few more Hibernians, who will now simply replace the ones you are taking to Rome. After that, the balloon’s next cargo run from Grantville has to be gasoline for the Monster. We’ll fit in some extra cadre as well, but that’s a full load, too.”

“Cadre? How many? And who?”

“I’m not sure how many seats will be available on that flight, but, with all the Hibernians deployed to protect Pope Urban, and with Colonel North attached to the Wrecking Crew for the duration, I’ve decided to bring down the ranking Hibernian officer in Chur, Lieutenant Hastings, to help command the papal protection detail.”

Harry nodded. “Okay. What about radios? We left one behind with the team in Rome, so now we’ve only got our backup. Is there another we can pull from stores?”

“Yes, and I have more on the way.”

“Any of them voice-grade?”

“Surely you jest. Morse code works just fine.”

“Yeah, fine-and slow. And hard.”

“Well, the other sets are far too big and fragile for you to be able to transmit on the move. Besides, a slow radio connection is at most an operational nuisance, not a crisis.”

“We’ll also need money.”

“That’s already been drawn and is waiting for you. We’re only providing Roman and Tuscan coins. That way, the money’s origin won’t draw any attention, or tip off anyone looking for a USE operations team based out of Venice.”

The room remained silent for three seconds. Miro wasn’t about to wait until someone thought of something else; there was simply too much work still to do. He stood. “Very well, I believe that takes care of the primary business. I will remain in Venice until the fuel arrives.” He looked at Harry. “By that time, with any luck, you will have rescued the Stones and be on your way back here. Father Wadding, you will be escorted to the pope with all dispatch, but please forego leaving this island until then. Anyone who arrives in Venice and associates with us will almost certainly acquire a tail who works for Borja. Lord and Colonel O’Neill, if you would be so good as to accompany me now, we will compose a joint communique to your lieges in the Low Countries, and see to any refitting needs you might have.” He stood. “Gentlemen and Ms. Maddox, Ambassador Stone and I are compelled to depart within the hour, so my last words to you must be these: good luck and godspeed.”