1635 The Papal Stakes (34 page)

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.