1635 The Papal Stakes (38 page)

“Something we cannot fix. Not yet.”

The ambassadora shrugged. “We only have the soldiers we have. Don Estuban radioed that more are on the way.”

Ruy sighed. “I hope they will be enough.”

Antonio looked between the frowning faces around him. “Well, what of the Marines from the embassy? If more soldiers are needed, cannot they—?”

But the Spaniard was shaking his head. “It would not be advisable, Your Eminence.”

“Are they not loyal?”

“Indeed. Almost to a fault. But they are most certainly under observation. If any number of them were to depart the embassy, they would be followed. Discreetly. Perhaps at the distance of a day’s journey.”

“Then they could lose those who are trailing them, no?”

Ruy sighed again. “I wish it were so simple, Your Eminence, but no, not if the men following are capable. Four mounted Marines must camp, must cook, must get provisions, and may need to seek lodgings; they will be seen. And the embassy’s Marines are almost all men of Scotland or the Germanies. In dress and appearance alone, they attract notice, but when they open their mouths to speak Italian—” Ruy’s summation was an expressive roll of his eyes.

“Then how will Father Wadding be brought to us at all?”

“First, he has not visited the embassy, and so can not be followed from there. Second, just this morning, I believe, he has commenced the first leg of his journey: westward via boat, up the Po River. Neither he nor his companions will leave that boat, nor moor it at a pier or dock, until they are at least fifty miles west of Venice. Upon coming ashore, they will immediately travel northward, overland. When they have made rendezvous with us, Father Wadding’s escorts shall return by horseback. With any luck at all, this will put them well outside the observation of Borja’s Venetian agents.”

Antonio clapped his hands. “So there is nothing to lead them to us. Indeed, your precautions are so complete that it seems impossible that they shall
ever
find us!”

But the Spaniard was shaking his head. “No, Your Eminence; we are merely ensuring that Borja’s agents will be much delayed in finding us. But they will not fail to ultimately learn our location. Our objective is to make it so difficult that, by the time they do locate us, we shall have departed our new safe house for a place of permanent safety, far beyond their reach. But determined assassins such as Borja’s will not rest. If led by a patient, thorough man, they know that it is only a matter of time before some clue falls into their ever-watchful, waiting hands.”

Antonio, cursed with a vivid imagination and visual inventiveness, could suddenly see outlines of those waiting assassin-hands flexing fitfully, impatiently, within the shadows of the farmhouse’s familiar doorways, arbor, sheds. “Perhaps we should repair to our mounts now,” he suggested, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Rombaldo de Gonzaga almost spilled his very expensive coffee when Giulio came sprinting into his private chambers, as flushed and excited as ever. “The fisherman reports movement near the island monastery, Rombaldo.”

Hmm. Sooner than he had expected. The up-time commandos and their allies had only arrived in Venice—well, at San Francesco del Deserto—a few days ago. And now they were already on the move again. “What movement?”

“The fisherman we have watching the island says that early this morning, the Dalmatian
gajeta
that brought them here set out to the south. I do not know more than that. But the fisherman sent his assistant to follow that boat, thinking its departure might have been meant to draw him away.”

“And?”

“And he was evidently correct. Only two hours later, a rowboat was brought out from the cover of bushes and several persons left the island.”

“Where did they go?”

“They met and transferred to a ketch of shallow draft in open water of the lagoon. The ketch made for the west; the rowboat returned to the island.”

Rombaldo thought carefully. The
gajeta
was probably not merely a decoy; the smart move would be to give it a legitimate task, as well. But it was also harder to follow. He didn’t have enough boats at his disposal to track multiple targets. So there was probably little he could accomplish other than sending a prompt report back to Dakis that the Wrecking Crew was apparently on the move again.

“The
gajeta
was heading south, you said?”

“Yes, Rombaldo.”

So. South. Well, that didn’t reveal much. Except that it seemed unlikely that the Wrecking Crew was going to reinforce whatever security was safeguarding Urban. So, as expected, they were probably returning to Rome. But why not go directly out of the lagoon into the Adriatic? It would have been harder to follow them, then.…

Unless, of course, they intended to change boats before they got to Rome. A prudent step, but difficult to arrange on such short notice. Unless, that is, the change was going to take place fairly close to Venice, someplace the USE planners could inform quickly by sending a mounted messenger or a fast boat ahead, farther down the coast. Hmmm—farther down the coast…“Giulio, first message. To all our agents farther down the coast, particularly in Ravenna and Rimini. They should be watching for this
gajeta.
It might rendezvous with another boat. Probably a slightly larger one. There’s a bonus for any report that reaches me within twelve hours of the sighting.”

“Yes, Rombaldo. Anything else?”

Well, of course there was something else; they had to determine what the second boat, the ketch, was up to. A rowboat leaves the island of the Franciscans and transfers its passengers to the small, shallow-hulled ketch. Which heads due west. Now that, Rombaldo reasoned, might have something to do with his target, the pope.

Might he be stashed someplace on the west shore of the lagoon? No. Too close. Although very unexpected, it was also too bold a move; a little bit of bad luck and the pope’s life would be forfeit. No matter how much security Urban had, it was better for him to be well-hidden, than well-defended. That meant he’d be found in a modest compound, not a bristling fortress. And anything less than a fortress was something that Rombaldo could overwhelm with sheer numbers, if it was close to Venice. But the farther away the pope’s sanctuary was from Venice, the more ground Rombaldo’s men had to search and the more scattered they became while doing so. That, in turn, made it increasingly unlikely that whatever band of searching assassins found Urban would also be large enough to overcome his current protection.

So, by process of elimination, the enemy’s smart move was not to gamble on sequestering the pope close to Venice, because he would not only be easier to find, but because Borja’s hired men could be more easily and swiftly summoned to converge upon, and overwhelm, such a target.

Meaning that Urban was out in the countryside. Maybe up in the mountains, by now. Logically they would want a remote area; a city is full of eyes, and you have no way of knowing which pair is looking for you. On the other hand, an isolated farm or villa—probably one abandoned or infrequently visited—would be perfect. No one had business going to such a place, which meant that any approach would be immediately noticed and engaged. So, if the boat was carrying someone or something to the pope, then its westward course across the lagoon should logically be bringing it closer to that kind of remote sanctuary.

So they were making for the Po. It was the only logical answer. The boat moving westward—small, with a shallow draft—would be ideal for a long upriver journey, eliminating much of the need to fret over navigating shallows. And it would, of course, be hard to follow. Particularly if they had set in enough provisions for their entire journey, thereby obviating the need to put in at any of the towns along the banks of the Po.

But logically, once they left the boat, whoever was on it would wish to move quickly. Meaning they would need to either purchase mounts, or, more likely, have them already waiting in a prearranged point. And from there, they would almost certainly head farther north. Farther west was pointless; it put them even deeper into the much-trafficked east-west agricultural and commercial belt that followed the Po River valley all the way out to Lombardy. Farther south put them beyond the protection of Venice’s borders and just that much closer to Rome’s reach. On the other hand, Venice had some truly remote areas in its northern territories, where the land rose up—first as hills and then small mountains—to meet the Alps.

So: “Next message, Giulio. We need our agents in Mestre and Vincenza to spread out along the Po. We need at least one in each of the towns on the north shore that have stables of reasonable size. They are to seek the ketch and watch for its passengers to transfer to mounts. They will do so quickly; they will not spend a night in the town.”

“Rombaldo, this will take some time to arrange. By the time the messages are sent, received, and the agents change position—”

“Yes, Giulio, I’m well aware of this. Which means, unfortunately, that our agents might arrive after the boat for which they are searching. So they cannot simply go to the villages and sit by the side of the Po, staring, hoping to see a ketch. They will need to make surreptitious inquiries about recent arrivals, mounts that were recently purchased or stabled there, strangers passing through—some of whom will certainly not be Italians. And yes, it will take time, but we are not in a hurry. Thoroughness, not hastiness, is our best ally right now.”

“It shall be as you say, Rombaldo. And if the ketch’s passengers are located, should our men ambush th—?”

“Absolutely not. They are to follow, observe, and report. That is all. These travelers are not our targets; they are our guides. We would be fools to slay them before they lead us to our ultimate objective.” He waved Giulio out. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Also, be sure to give the fisherman three extra lire. He showed cleverness and initiative.”

Giulio stopped and cocked his head. Rombaldo almost laughed; the scrawny Paduan looked like a quizzical spaniel. He asked, “A bonus for the fisherman, Rombaldo?”

“Yes. Why? What were you expecting?”

“Well, that we’d cover our tracks like always. That we’d kill him.”

Rombaldo frowned. “Kill him? Good grief, no.” Then he shrugged, “Well, at least not yet.”

It was not at all fair, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz decided. Not fair at all.

He looked over the ears of his horse and saw his beautiful wife reach down to give yet another child a turn riding behind her. In the time that he had known her, Sharon had become only a passably capable equestrienne. But otherwise, each passing day seemed a divine ordination upon the further growth of her other, peerless gifts. For Ruy, every moment of existence also allowed him to see more clearly how she was the very acme of charm, wit, kindness, beauty, and—and—

—yes. And. That. Ruy sighed. Three days upon the road and two evenings spent in the even less comfortable fields had taken their toll on Ruy’s naturally ebullient spirit. Not because of the onset of saddle sores, or the monotonous food, or the omnipresent dust that coated body, mouth, and nostrils. Being a veteran of innumerable campaigns, he no longer noticed such discomforts. No, Ruy resented the absence of a bed. And privacy. Specifically, the bed and privacy that he and his bride of less than two months had enjoyed at the farmhouse.

It had not been a wonderful bed; it was cranky and had needed a thorough dosing of DDT before it was vermin-free. And it creaked. A great deal. But that was part of what he missed. Say what one might, a creaking bed was rather like an orchestral accompaniment, and Sharon Nichols had shown, in the past weeks, that she was a virtuoso performer.

It just wasn’t fair, Ruy concluded.

“A
real
for your thoughts?”

Ruy looked up from his funk, smiling, simply because the sound of Sharon’s voice always made him happy. “You might not approve,” Ruy warned her.

“Try me,” she said with a smile that was more than half-leer.

Ruy glanced behind. The pope sat his horse comfortably and loose-limbed; Vitelleschi sat his like a long-necked scarecrow without joints.

“You might approve, my heart, but I sincerely doubt that the pope would.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think Urban VIII is a prude. But Vitelleschi—brrrr. I suspect he thinks holding hands is the equivalent of fornication.”

“Hmf,” moped Ruy. “Well, I certainly don’t.”

“No,” she agreed with a smile, “you certainly don’t.”

“Heart of my heart, it is more than a man should be asked to bear, this abstinence. To touch your beauty, to experience your vigor, it brands a man’s soul. It creates a hunger that knows no surfeit. It afflicts me with fantasies and daydreams of delights that are bestowed by an angel with the impulses of a demon.”

“In short, you miss the bed.”

“Ah, the bed,” Ruy sighed, shaking his head. “I remember it almost as if it were yesterday.”

“It was. Well, the day before yesterday.”

“Is it so? Then why does it already feel like a century of centuries?”

“Ruy, don’t herniate your flattery muscles, now. And besides, being on the road is a source of adventure, of new opportunities, new places—new beds. “She poked him, her lips curving slighly.

His eyes widened, then narrowed to match the salacious smile that he could feel growing on his face. “It may be true that variety is the spice of life, but I was not done savoring all the many flavors of the farmhouse. And its bed. Which lifted you just high enough, when you lay full upon it, that I was perfectly positioned to—”

“Ruy. You are not going to talk about that here.”

“Ah, so now
you
fear that Urban will overhear?”

“That. And I need to keep my head on my business.”

Ruy effected an epic sulk. “I
am
your business.”

“You most certainly are, you old goat. You are the business I want to get down to. Which is precisely why I’m going to ride ahead of you now.”

“To separate yourself from me? I am wounded, wounded unto death.”

“Really? Wounded to death? You?
All
of you?” Her challenging gaze drifted south of his belt for just a second; he quite literally rose to the challenge.