1635 The Papal Stakes (54 page)

“Although Borja’s secretaries relentlessly screened each others’ communiqués to prevent any mention of Frank and Giovanna’s ultimate destination, there was one detail they overlooked: the routing of the dispatch pouch that was sent with their ship. My relative—Luigi Ferrigno—managed to slip a copy of the routing order out of the villa just before he was caught.” Piero took another long swallow of wine, looked down at his now-exposed leg, which was healing nicely.

“Piero,” Miro prompted, “the dispatches in the pouch: where were they addressed?”

“To the viceroy of Mallorca and the commander of a fort called San Carlos.”

Judging from North’s quick sideways glance, he had apparently expected Miro to be surprised—but was himself surprised when Estuban received the news calmly.

“Did you suspect this?” North asked.

Miro shrugged. “It was a distinct possibility. Mallorca is as far as you can get from Italy if you’re traveling toward Spain, and is not easily accessible from the coast of any other nation.”

“But why not put Frank and Gia in Spain itself?” North wondered.

Miro shook his head. “No. Borja would not do that. And Philip would not want it. As it stands now, Frank and Giovanna are the products of Borja’s actions. If they arrive at the Spanish mainland, Philip becomes directly involved and responsible for them. I suspect he wants to maintain as much distance from Borja as possible, wants to retain the option of denouncing his own cardinal as a rogue who exceeded his mandate and whose excesses must be corrected.

“In turn, Borja knows that Philip’s patience is wearing thin. Our informers told us, up until they were discovered, that Borja had received scant acknowledgement from Madrid and all of it had been notably terse. So on the one hand, Borja will not want to put Philip in an awkward position where he must either decide, once and for all, to either support Borja or renounce him. On the other hand, whatever uses Borja has for his prisoners would be lost to him if they were to fall under a greater power’s control. Mallorca, as a nominally Catalan possession, has a far more circuitous connection to Madrid, and furthermore, has a number of facilities that are not under the direct control of crown authorities.”

“And do you have an idea where the two of them might be imprisoned?” North asked narrowly.

“Only a suspicion, a ‘hunch,’ as the up-timers say. Now, Piero, did the note indicate if there were any other messages in the dispatch pouch? Other destinations?”

“No, Don Estuban; all the mail was for Palma de Mallorca.”

Miro nodded. “So they will make directly for the Balearics. Meaning the ships are fully provisioned for the journey and do not need to put in at other ports along the way. This way, they will leave no word of their passing in other cities, nor will they ever be found lying at anchor near a populous area in which attackers such as ourselves might gather covertly.”

North leaned back, arms folded. “So what do we do? Chasing them seems to be out of the question.”

Miro nodded again. “We would never catch them. And we could not best them in a fight with our sad little vessels. Nor, even if we won, could we guarantee the safety of the prisoners.”

North raised an eyebrow. “By process of elimination, then, it seems like we are bound for Mallorca.”

Miro smiled. “At least you will have an expert guide, once we arrive there.”

North nodded. “Yes, but to what end? Once we get there, what do we do?”

“Well, it seems like the basic plan of rescuing Frank and Giovanna from their prison cell is still the objective.”

“Yes, but how? We’ll have fewer men available for operations than our full muster, you realize. Boats in a combat environment need anchor watches; that will drain some of our manpower. If, before our actual attack, we must land our gear and operate from a forward ground base, we’ll need to leave pickets there: more manpower lost. And we are starting with under twenty-five combat effectives, all packed so tightly into two boats that it would take half a day to unload the gear we’d need for a serious fight. And that long again just to get all the various components of the airship out and ready for assembly and inflation. If we wind up using the balloon at all, that is.”

Piero shrugged. “It sounds like you need another boat.”

Miro shrugged. “Yes, but another boat would mean needing another crew. And the larger our operation gets, the more unwieldy it becomes.”

“Still,” said North, “Piero makes a good point: we need more operational redundancy, more hulls in which to store our gear and spread out our personnel. We’ll be more responsive and flexible that way.”

“Very well,” relented Miro, “but there are not many places for us to get boats, Thomas. I do not think Borja will let us have any of his. Nor do I think the Spanish Viceroy of Naples, Osuna, would be any more generous. The same problem applies to Genoa, with Spain’s Milanese factors watching over their shoulders. Which leaves Tuscany.”

Piero shook his head. “You will not want to buy from Tuscany, Don Estuban. Their ships are all moving grain to the Spanish, or are fishing to supply the tercios if they have better contracts than that which was offered to Aurelio and his crew. Besides, the Medicis of Tuscany have old family grudges which might keep them from offering you favorable terms—or keeping your deal with them quiet.”

North frowned. “Family grudges? Against who?”

Miro sighed and leaned back. “Against the Barberinis—the pope’s family. Yes, I forgot that. There is bad blood there. Early in his papacy, Urban VIII became involved in a struggle for the lands of the duke of Urbino, when the last legitimate issue of that line died without heir. A lot of persons felt the Medicis had the better claim, but Urban wanted to add those holdings to the papal tracts—which he did. It was a most unpleasant business, as I recall.”

“So where
does
one get a boat around these parts?” asked North testily as Harry came back inside.

“Speaking about boats,” Lefferts said, “it looks like Aurelio’s boat is coming around the point now. But there seem to be a bunch of guys down at the pier, already waiting for him.”

Piero shrugged. “They are all Piombinese. All fishermen.”

Harry stared. “All of them? Damn, there must be a lot of fish around Anzio this season.”

Piero shook his head. “No. Not at all. The waters are fished out, just now. All to feed the Spanish.”

“Then what are they all doing here?”

“Sharing in the money you are paying Aurelio.”

Harry pointed down the shore. “All those guys? Hell, we’re not paying Aurelio enough to handle all those guys. They’d be lucky getting a quatrine a day, each.”

“Less, probably. But that’s more than they would make back in Piombino.”

“So they didn’t come here to fish, really.”

Piero tilted his hand back and forth. “They all fish, but about once every three days. It’s a communal enterprise, you see.”

Harry looked out the door at Aurelio’s now-moored
scialuppa
, the waiting throng, and cocked his head, considering. “Hey, Estuban, so if we need boats, how about Aurelio and his gang? They’ve got a ship, they’re seamen, and they are already on our payroll.”

North frowned. “Well, that is certainly the half full glass you are seeing, Harry. What I see when I look out that door are fishermen, not seamen
per se
, without training for, or experience in, combat. And yet they are so numerous that they could not fit in their own boat all at once.”

Miro rubbed his chin. “What you say is true, Thomas. But, operationally speaking, we are beggars, not choosers. So, Harry, would you be kind enough to ask Aurelio to come in here for a chat? And please bring the radioman to the inn, I need him to set up his equipment and establish contact with Ambassador Nichols as quickly as possible. I have some questions for one of her staff…”

The eager jabbering that had first arisen when Aurelio went back out to his gathered crew and announced the offer of employment fell suddenly silent.

“And that,” speculated Miro, “indicates that Aurelio has just informed them of our stipulation that none of them will step on inhabited land again until we return to Italy.”

North drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “With any luck, that requirement will chase some of them away. There are too many of them—more than we can use, Estuban.”

Miro looked at the Englishman with raised eyebrows. “I seem to recall you being the one calling for more personnel.”

“Blast it, yes, but with a suitable increase in hull space, as well. Look at them, Estuban; they’ll be packed tighter than rats in the bilge. We’ve no use for all of them.”

But Miro smiled. “At this moment, perhaps not. But as you say, we need both more crew and more ships. The crew materialized first; we must not fail to add them to our resources while we may. And at least it relieves the problem of losing so many of combat personnel to mundane tasks. These Piombinese will furnish the hands and backs that shall bear all the burdens of seamanship, lading, and night watches.”

North scowled at the milling Piombinesi, who seemed more somber now, but whose numbers had not decreased at all. “True enough, but as you are fond of pointing out, we have a very limited budget, and those”—he nodded at the fishermen—“are an awful lot of new mouths to feed and palms to pay. And while it may seem like serendipity to find this much crew, they’ll bleed us dry while we try to add another hull to our resources. Which may prove a far more difficult lack to remedy.”

Harry smiled, lopsidedly. “Yeah, there is that, isn’t there?”

A respectful tapping on the doorjamb announced Aurelio’s reapproach. He leaned into the common room, hat in hand. “Signori?”

“Yes, Aurelio?”

“The men, they come to a decision. All will go.”

“No surprise, there,” muttered North.

“Excellent,” Miro said, loud enough to obscure Thomas’
sotto voce
grumpiness, “Tell the men we shall set sail for Piombino itself.”

Aurelio looked baffled. “Why there, Signor Miro?”

“We need to acquire another boat, and given your contacts in—”

Aurelio shook his head. “No, Signor, this is no good idea. Piombino’s boats are all working for the Spanish, or have been taken by them.”

“Taken?”

“
Si
. Well, the Spanish, he say he ‘bought’ the boat. But if a man give you a few coins and take your boat without asking, has he ‘bought’ it? What would you say the Spanish is doing, when he do this?”

North affected a hoarse, throaty voice and a semi-Sicilian accent: “To quote yuh Godfaddah, I’d say dat he is making you an offer you cannot refuse.”

Harry snickered. Miro guessed that North was imitating some up-time media icon—probably from an up-time gangster movie—but understood no more than that.

Aurelio understood the general import clearly enough, however. “
Si.
The one Piombinese who refused the offer got a sword through his belly. So, no sailing to Piombino. No ships for you there, and too many Spanish. Besides, the trip, it is more dangerous, now.”

“Dangerous now? Why?”

Aurelio’s brows darkened. “Pirates,” he spat. “An Algerine.”

North rolled his eyes. “Well, we get the full gamut here, don’t we? From Spanish highway robbery to Moorish high seas brigandry. I can see why people come to the Italian coast for vacations.”

Miro hardly noticed the Englishman’s sarcasm. “What kind of ship is she, Aurelio? How is she working?”

“She is a xebec, Signor Miro, and a big one. A crew of seventy, at least. And she is trouble for everyone because she is not working much at all, anymore.” Aurelio spread his hands. “The Algerians, they like hunting big ships, big prizes. Merchants mostly. But now, with Borja in Rome, and supply convoys going back and forth to Barcelona—”

Miro nodded. “Of course. The Spanish have impounded all the local shipping, and keep it in convoy. Madrid has probably hired some privateers, as well, working at piracy suppression.”

“
Si.
So the Algerine, she has to stay farther north than she would like, and must hunt for smaller prey.” Aurelio looked resentful. “She even hunts for the smallest fishing boats, now. Whatever she can find.”

“And where has this xebec been sighted?”

Aurelio shrugged. “All around the Tuscan archipelago: Elba, Pianosa, Monte Cristo—”

Miro turned to North and Lefferts. “You see? Providence provides.”

“No,” said North.

“Colonel North, how can you, of all persons, complain?” Miro met his scowl with a cheery smile. “You challenged serendipity to provide us with a ship to hold our too-numerous seamen, and here it is, furnished by the hand of Fate, or God—whichever suits your philosophy. Indeed, one of your Christian priests might counsel you to accept this Algerine xebec as proving the truth of their exhortation ‘ask, and ye shall receive.’”

North grimaced. “Hmph. Now I am only interested in proving the truth of the one religious axiom that pertains to trading volleys with pirates.”

“And what axiom is that?”

“That, verily, it is better to give than to receive. Pass me that wine, damn you; I need a drink.”

Donald Ohde, the team’s unofficial radio operator, popped his head back in the door. “I’ve got the embassy standing by on the radio, Don Estuban. Don Ruy himself is on the line, wondering what you need.”

Miro rose. “Did you tell him that we are bound for Mallorca?”

“Yep.”

Miro smiled. “Then I will ask my Catalan friend what he might know about a most significant fortification on the island, the one known as the Castell de Bellver…”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Captain Castro y Papas knew that Señor Dolor was approaching him from behind, but not because he could hear the man’s boots on the deck. Dolor was, fittingly, as quiet as death, but the sailors working the sails and rigging hushed at his approach. As they always did. Some made warding signs when they thought he wasn’t looking. Castro y Papas was quite sure that Dolor saw it all, and more besides.

“Captain,” said the smaller man as he came to stand beside Don Vincente at the rail.