1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The sun in Barcelona was punishing, and Pedro Dolor had seated himself at the table with his back to it. This also gave his host-the count-duke of Olivares-the seat with the superior view of the harbor. If it also happened to make the older man squint a bit and work a bit harder at maintaining a serene and superior composure-well, Olivares was an old hand at just these kinds of clandestine meetings, so Dolor thought it unlikely that he would be so easily rattled. However, Pedro was happy for any advantage he might acquire, no matter how small.

Olivares picked at his camarones al ajillo distractedly. “You seem to have done quite well for yourself in your new position, Senor Dolor.” He nodded at the plain but fine clothes that Pedro wore, seemed to scan fingers and neck for any sign of jewelry. “Although you seem reluctant to make any display of it.”

“Professional considerations, Your Grace. In my line of work, unobtrusiveness, not ornamentation, is key.”

“But surely you can veer from this Spartan regimen when you are in private?”

Dolor shrugged. “If the lack of ornamentation remains an unexceptioned habit, then one cannot, in a moment of distraction, forget it. It is one’s reality, one’s sole reflex. Which is precisely what, in my case, it must be.”

Olivares nodded slowly. He seemed to consider the shrimp he held aloft on a silver fork, but Dolor knew that in fact, the count-duke was considering him. Measuring the increased confidence, the seemingly sudden increase in what Olivares and his aristocratic ilk would call “courtly breeding,” congratulating himself on having had the foresight to promote this lowly lackey from bloody-handed work to the subtler requirements of the mission he had just completed. Which had, paradoxically, included the two most profitable failures of his career.

The paradox of the deeper successes implicit in those two superficial failures was evidently not lost on Olivares. “Despite recent outcomes, it seems that you are an indispensable man, Senor Dolor.”

“My Grace honors me with a compliment where I failed in both tasks?”

“Tsk. Nonsense-although your repeatedly expressed willingness to assume responsibility serves you well. What I-and others-note is that, as long as you were personally in charge of situations, they went quite well. In Rome, you did not merely defeat, but may well have shattered, the most famous group of military daredevils-so-called ‘commandos’-on the Continent. In Venice, you crippled the USE’s aircraft and designed a meticulous search strategy that ultimately located Urban. And given the restrictions under which you labored in Mallorca, and since you were not present when the USE’s second task force of rescuers arrived, your responsibility for that outcome is, at most, marginal. As I understand it from independent sources, the viceroy had summoned you to the Almudaina to extort new threads of gossip from my letter to you, and to hold his nervous hand since he is no longer a favorite in Madrid.”

“The Count-Duke is remarkably well-informed-and over-kind in choosing to see my merits above my failures.”

“And you are over-modest, Dolor. Which I have always liked about you; it suggested your quality from the start. It is good-very good indeed-to have watched you grow into the full promise of your skills.”

“Which I owe to your example and tutelage, Your Grace,” Dolor lied.

Olivares may have actually believed that compliment, or taken it as another sign that Dolor was ready for advancement into direct court matters: flattery-as long as it was not excessive or untimely-was a prerequisite skill if one was to be successful in that rarified environment.

“You have come a long way, Pedro-and will go much further, if I am any judge of men. So tell me: what do you think happened in Mallorca?”

Dolor considered. “I think it illustrated for us why shattering the Wrecking Crew in Rome was not an unalloyed benefit.”

Olivares held the shrimp frozen before his lips. “What do you mean?”

“Consider, Your Grace. By only breaking, rather than destroying, the USE’s premier special operations tool in Rome, we actually pushed it to evolve into an even better tool, one that now boasts an even broader set of capabilities. Much of what occurred in Mallorca bears the mark of Harry Lefferts, but just as much suggests that he is now working with others who brought their own, unique strengths to the operation. And it seems obvious that this new whole is much greater than the sum of its parts.”

The poised shrimp went slowly into Olivares’ mouth. “There is much depth in you, indeed,” the count-duke mused. “And before you left Palma to make this report to me, did you see to it that the responsible parties there were appropriately punished?”

Dolor knew that Olivares was asking about measures taken against the xueta. They were not directly implicated: the explosions and subsequent fire had destroyed almost everything but the stonework of the Castell de Bellver. The scant remains mostly defied identification. The deaths of Dakis, Asher, and Castro y Papas could only be inferred from the fire-scoured tools and weapons that had been recovered from the lazarette-crematorium. The governor’s charred bones had been found amidst the scorched fixtures of his own armoire. Whether he had hidden there, or had been locked inside by attackers would never be known. And of the attackers themselves, there were almost no remaining signs. So if the xueta had been involved, there was no remaining evidence to suggest, let alone prove, it-no matter how very likely it now seemed.

But Dolor harbored no hatred of Jews-did they not bleed like everyone else? — and was unwilling to punish people for suspected crimes; he was happy to leave that brand of sadistic idiocy to the Inquisition. He decided to redirect the conversation into a more provocative-and, if carefully handled, productive-direction. “Your Grace, when you ask about ‘responsible parties,’ I take it your are referring to Cardinal Borja’s political mismanagement of holding the Stones as hostages? Unfortunately, I lack sufficient authority to punish him-to borrow your own terminology.”

Olivares blinked. “Be wary, Senor Dolor,” he said in a severe tone. But Pedro saw in Olivares’ eyes that the indirect remonstration was also insincere: Olivares’ disdain for Borja, and delight at Dolor’s question, was quite obvious. “I was referring to the parties responsible for what happened in Palma,” Olivares clarified with a ghost of a smile.

But this was where Dolor felt the moment had come to play his well-established role of the ever-solemn professional. “With all respect, Count-Duke Olivares, I do in fact consider Cardinal Borja to be the architect of the disaster in Palma.”

“How? He was not present.”

“He did not have to be. The situation there was the direct result of his policy in regards to Frank and Giovanna Stone. How might everything have been different if the cardinal had been willing to conceive of them as useful assets, rather than scratching posts? One is tempted to think that it could have resulted in sustained dialog with the up-time powers-which, however noxious, would have been useful. Particularly had extended negotiations resulted in the repatriation of the pregnant woman.”

Olivares’ face became carefully expressionless. “And how would that have been beneficial to us?”

“First,” Dolor explained, “I suspect that the up-timers would not have resorted to a strategy of forceful extraction so quickly, if ever. Had we repatriated the wife, they would have logically clung to the hope that the same could be achieved for the husband, with enough negotiation. And there was only one thing they had possession of that we would have been interested in negotiating for.”

Olivare’s eyebrows climbed. “The up-timers would never have turned Urban over to us in exchange for the husband.”

“Of course not, Your Grace. However, once our requests were rebuffed, we could have sent an envoy to either Gustav Adolf or his adversaries within the government of the USE. They could have-legitimately, in this scenario-protested that, in the case of the wife, His Majesty Philip had made humanitarian accommodations desired by the USE. However, the up-timers had then autonomously rejected the reasonable reciprocal requests of Spain. Which was, simply, that the legitimate guardian of the fractured Roman Catholic Church, Cardinal Borja, be given the fugitive anti-pope. Or that the up-timers simply mind their own business and cease aiding and sheltering him.”

Dolor ate, affecting not to notice Olivares’ frank, admiring stare when he continued. “Would this have gained us access to Urban? Of course not-but it would have generated much political division in the USE. The almost autonomous activities of the up-timers against our forces and in our territories, would have been brought into sharp relief. It is exactly the kind of issue that Stearns’ opponents in the USE would eagerly build into a casus belli — and Borja missed the opportunity. Alas, he did not even see it-no more than he has seen the other situations in Rome that have severe international implications. Indeed, one such matter could send shocks of a most personal and unpleasant nature right into His Majesty’s private chambers.”

Olivares sat up sharply. “To what do you refer?”

It was now time for Dolor to play the card he’d been waiting for Fate to deal him his whole life. “You received my confirmation that it was indeed John O’Neill-son of the late Hugh O’Neill, the eldest of the two remaining princes of Ireland-who was slain in the courtyard of the Palazzo Giacomo Mattei?”

“I did,” Olivares said, his eyes suddenly careful. “As you conjecture, that promises to be a thorny matter when presented at court. And I note that you made no mention of Cardinal Borja’s reaction. Why?”

Dolor knew the time had come to turn the card face up. “Because I did not report it to him.”

“No?” Olivares stared, and then, after a flash of what looked like both outrage and relief, an expression of careful calculation settled into his features. “Who else knows that it was O’Neill?”

“Others. Enough to make sure that the information is safe, that it cannot be lost by any collection of unfortunate accidents.”

Olivares smiled. “Your prudence-against Fate’s whims and my treachery-is duly noted, Senor Dolor. But it affords little flattery to our dealings thus far; they have been in good faith.”

Said the axe-wielding farmer to the Christmas chicken. “That is true, Count-Duke Olivares. I mean no offense to you. After all, what if you were to pass this information to a less honorable subordinate this afternoon, but God called you to his kingdom at dinner this night? Kings have been slain by fish bones, after all.”

Olivares smiled at Dolor’s face-saving explanation. “Very well, so the information is safe. And not in Borja’s hands. But why did you not share it?”

“I would have, had he asked, Your Grace. But he did not. He conducted no review of his own. Nor did he take note of the strange coincidence of Father Luke Wadding’s apparent removal from St. Isidore’s and the involvement of several Wild Geese at the insula Mattei. That alone would prompt a prudent man to begin a careful investigation. Which would have revealed O’Neill’s identity quite quickly. And that, in turn, would have prompted an obvious question: why was the king in the Low Countries’ best known mercenary commander in Rome? The obvious answer-that he was in Rome to kill his Spanish comrades and free the son and daughter-in-law of the wealthiest up-timer-has ramifications of singular import to His Majesty, King Philip.”

Olivares’ expression had become grim. “You are right, of course-in both your assessment of how difficult an issue this will be to raise with His Majesty, and Borja’s failure to detect it.” Olivares pushed the last shrimp around his plate in irritation. “This entire matter-of the Irish in Rome-makes matters more complicated in regards to evolving a suitable policy regarding the changes in the Low Countries.”

“And I suppose it would become even more difficult to reveal that the Irish were also involved in the raid upon the Castell de Bellver.”

Olivares forgot the rogue shrimp. His eyes widened. “The Irish were in Mallorca, as well?”

“Without doubt, Your Grace. We found these in Rome-” Dolor held up what looked like a strangely formed wooden ring-“and in Bellver as well. The two examples we have were badly scorched; they endured the fire only because they were apparently in or near a large tun of water, at the time.”

“But what are these rings? Why do they signify the presence of the Irish?”

“These rings are used to hold the priming caps in place for a preloaded cylinder for this kind of revolver.” And Dolor produced a battered pepperbox revolver from within the folds of his garments.

Olivares stared. “What is that?”

“It is a new design of pistol, inspired by up-time technology. After Rome, we found three of them, one near each of the bodies of the Wild Geese. I had inquiries made as to the weapon’s manufacture. Do you care to guess where it is being produced, by privately contracted gunsmiths?”

“The Low Countries.” Olivares tone was a statement, not a question.

“Precisely. The money came from the court, albeit indirectly. The design was conceived of-in general principles-by the last of the Irish princes, Hugh O’Donnell.”

“I know him. And that only compounds the embarrassment.”

Dolor raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because O’Donnell renounced his membership in one of Spain’s most prestigious orders of knighthood, the Order of Alcantara, as well as his position as a Gentleman of His Majesty’s bedchamber, within the past few months.”

So. There was widespread disaffection brewing among Philip’s long-neglected Irish allies. Hardly a surprise-but damnably awkward for Olivares. Which only made Dolor’s hand stronger than he had anticipated. He played another card: “We found similar rings at St. Isidore’s, but did not know what to make of them. And to return to the attack on the Castell de Bellver, one of the corporals manning the western ravelin heard a Gaelic war-cry within the walls, just before the shooting became most intense.”

Olivares cocked an eyebrow of his own now. “I was not aware so many of our rank-in-file artillerists possessed expertise in obscure Celtic languages.”

“Only those who served with the Irish at the siege of Breda and other Lowland campaigns, Your Grace. Our men have always noted that the Irish stir themselves up with such cries immediately before they make the most dangerous of charges or sallies.”

Olivares actually rubbed his eyes with his hands. This was better than Dolor could have hoped for. “Do you have any idea of how many Wild Geese were involved in these attacks, Senor Dolor?”

“I doubt more than twenty, Your Grace. Probably more like a dozen. But the identity of one of their other leaders may be of greater significance than their numbers.”

“What do you mean?”

Dolor spread his hands. “Several of my contacts in the South of France reported that, back in May, a person answering to John O’Neill’s description was seen taking ship for Italy. Another notable was with him, and that person answered more closely to the description of Owen Roe O’Neill-whose tercio in the Low Countries is now reportedly under the nominal control of his arch-rival Thomas Preston. It is tempting to wonder if the redoubtable Owen Roe O’Neill was also present for the rescue attempts at both-”

“Enough!” Olivares held up a hand, shaking his head. “This whole matter becomes worse and worse. I had hoped to find a way of explaining Conde O’Neill’s involvement in Rome as a fluke, a personal aberration. But this begins to smack of a mission conducted with the blessing, maybe even at the behest, of Fernando himself. And with so much evidence pointing in this direction, I must reveal it now, or keep it forever buried.”

“Perhaps there is a third option.”

Olivares looked up, eyes narrow and quick. “What do you mean?”

And from the look in those eyes, Dolor knew he had Olivares. He finally had leverage over the man who could change his fortunes, even make possible the eventual supplantation of his father at court-who, being a figurative bastard, had long ago sired a literal, miserable one in the shape of one Pedro Dolor.

Olivares’ tone was urgent. “What do you mean, a third alternative? Do you mean that perhaps the matter can remain buried, if only for a time?”

“Of course, Your Grace-if the evidence and the information is handled correctly. The inchoate reports from Bellver could take some time to untangle, naturally.” Dolor smiled. “And after all, it will be sheer-and long-delayed-chance that leads me to eventually piece together the disparate evidence and physical clues that our own soldiers scattered in the aftermath of the combat at the insula Mattei.”

“Yes, I see. These ‘delays’ would be most helpful, Senor Dolor.” Olivares smiled.

Dolor didn’t smile back.

Olivares’ smile faded, then returned, sly but also an admission that his henchman had, in this moment, undergone a sudden transformation into something more like his vassal. “As I said, this would be most helpful, Don Pedro. Now tell me, what will it take for a complete report-and thus, news of the involvement of O’Neill and his Wild Geese-to be so unfortunately delayed?

Dolor leaned back and savored the moment he had been waiting his whole life to savor. At last he would have a position from which he could begin to exact true and proper vengeance, the closest thing to justice he could acquire for all the little boys that Madrid’s mighty and the powerful had abandoned to cruel streets.

Little boys who had been abandoned just as he and his brother had.