1635 The Papal Stakes (52 page)

“Sherrilyn.”

Her name—which Harry uttered with a kind of flat-toned finality—stopped her. “What?”

“Sherrilyn, it wasn’t just Miro’s idea. It’s mine, too.”

Sherrilyn searched his face, looked for a hint of prevarication, for any sign that this was a cosmetic lie intended to save Estuban Miro from her wrath. But she saw no such sign. “Harry,” she said—and then didn’t know what else to say.

He picked up the conversation. “Look, first off: how much of the Wrecking Crew is left? You, me, George, Donald, Matija, and Paul. And we can’t take George anywhere with us right now. So we’re down to barely half of our strength. And most of us are nursing some kind of injury.” He looked at her knee but kept on his topic. “So, let’s be honest: we may have big—decisive—contributions we can make to this next rescue attempt, but we don’t have the power as a unit to remain the primary players.”

“The hell we don’t,” Sherrilyn snarled in a denial that she knew was simply the triumph of loyalty over common sense.

Harry looked at her and smiled—a small, patient smile that she had never seen on his face before—and shook his head. “Sherrilyn, think it through. Command should pass to the guy who’s going to be bringing the decisive hammer to the party.”

“North.”

“Yeah, and he’s good. Let’s be honest, Sherrilyn: he’s commanded real units—military units—all his adult life. And Rome, and whatever comes next, is likely to be primarily a military operation. The Crew—hell, it’s always been hard to fit us into a team-player mold, when you get right down to it. We’ve always worked on our own: in fast, hit hard, out fast. Rome wasn’t like that—not as much as I wanted it to be, and that’s part of what got us torn up. North wouldn’t have made my mistakes.”

“Yeah? Well, he wouldn’t have made a bold plan, either. Hell, if we had to wait for Nervous Nelly North, we’d probably still be sitting in Rome, eating pasta, wondering what to do.”

Harry smiled. “Sherrilyn, you know that’s bunk. North just thinks more like a military commander than a commando. Frankly, if he had been in charge, I’m pretty sure he’d have given me complete autonomy with the Crew. He understands how to blend really good soldiers like his with high-power commando operatives like us. I thought I knew how to, also—but I didn’t. Not well enough.”

Sherrilyn rose up. “Okay, so maybe you’ve got something left to learn. Big deal: you’ll learn it. Starting now.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, but this time, I’m not going to risk any more lives by learning on the job. Besides, Sherrilyn, let’s be honest; the Crew is never going to be the same again. And not just because of the casualties we took, but because someone found a way to mess with our act, to trip us up and knock us down.”

Sherrilyn shook her head sharply. “You don’t do self-pity very well, Harry.”

“This isn’t self-pity, Sherrilyn. I’m dead serious. Look: as long as we were tear-assing around Europe, blind-siding the locals and dancing off before they could get their paws on us, we were golden. The Wrecking Crew was like a rock band; we did what we wanted, spent everything we earned, lived like kings, had groupies, roadies, you name it.”

He looked sideways at the stars peeking over the roofs of the monastery. “But, also like a rock band, our glory ride had to come to an end. There’s always a point where you hit the wall, your moment is over: you’ve reached your limit and now you’re on the downslide. Problem was, we didn’t get to learn that gradually, the way most bands do; we didn’t see a string of gigs going more and more sour as the opposition got smarter and smarter. We caught it in our faces, all at once. The situation—and the guy—in Rome was deadly serious shit; I wasn’t ready for it.”

“Okay,” Sherrilyn answered with a sharp nod. “So you weren’t ready for it. Neither was North. Hell, none of us were. And how could we be? So maybe you’re right: maybe you need to watch and learn a bit before you sit in the big chair on that big an operation again. But so what? They say that if you don’t fail, you don’t learn. So here’s your learning opportunity. And one of the things you’d better damned well learn from this, Harry Lefferts, is that, sometimes, you’re going to be beaten—and it isn’t the end of the world. It means you’ve met an enemy who taught you a hard lesson—and your job is to learn that lesson and step up the game so that
you
are schooling
him
, next time.”

Harry smiled at her. “You give one hell of a pep talk, teach. Break ’em down and build ’em up—all in one minute. Pretty impressive.”

Sherrilyn shrugged. “Had plenty of experience at it.”

“Yeah, you did. And you always provided a good example—both in victory and defeat.”

Sherrilyn narrowed her eyes. “I heard that emphasis on ‘defeat,’ Harry. Don’t try to get slick with me. You got some bad news for me, you just come out and say it.”

Harry shrugged. “Okay, Sherrilyn. Here’s the deal: you’re not coming back out with us. You’re going up-country to make sure they have some up-time expertise helping out with the papal security detail.”

Sherrilyn felt her jaw drop. “You’re benching me? Now?”

“Sherrilyn, I’ll ask again: how’s your knee? Or do I have to ask you to run a set of high hurdles and then we can both see how much you’re limping? Listen, we’ve all got some hard facts to deal with today. This one is yours: you are as kick-ass capable as you ever were, Sherrilyn, but your knee is giving out. Having you scramble around on tile roofs, climbing ropes, bouncing around on a pitching ship’s deck: it’s not safe. Not to you, and not to the people depending on you.”

Sherrilyn was all ready to tell Harry how wrong he was—but realized that she didn’t actually have a rebuttal: she had no way to refute the incontrovertible evidence of her own swollen knee and gimping gait. She limped out from under the last groined vault of the arcade, stared up into the night sky, and sighed. “Yeah, okay—you’re right, Harry. But it still sucks—sucks that this could be the end of the Wrecking Crew.”

Harry joined her, looking up at the low clouds that had started scudding overhead. “Yeah, that part sucks all right. But we had a great run while it lasted.”

Sherrilyn looked over at his fine profile and resolved not to get maudlin. “Yeah,” she said. “The best. The very best.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas drew up to his full height and stared down at the other man. “This is unconscionable. I will not do it.”

“You will, Captain, and you will do it personally. There can be no delay; it must be done before we set sail this afternoon.”

Castro y Papas stopped himself from refusing directly. The man he knew only as Dolor had no official place in the military command structure, but, as had Quevedo, enjoyed broad authority. Borja had even instructed all but three of his generals to obey this joyless, black-cloaked reaper without hesitation. So, disobeying Dolor would simply be a way to end his career, and maybe life, given Borja’s taste for vigorous punishment of any infractions that could be interpreted as treasonous.

Castro y Papas tried a different tack. “This punishment is not merely pointless; it will further harden them against us.”

Dolor shook his fine, close-cropped head. “It will remind them that we are to be feared, and will prevent them from aiding our enemies ever again. And besides, it is Cardinal Borja’s explicit order.” He stared up at Castro y Papas with calm disinterest, as if the outcome of their conversation was already obvious, and he was simply listening to the other out of courtesy.

His final impulse—to ask, “And why have I been selected to inflict the punishment?”—the captain successfully stifled. The question would not change anything, and besides, it was more his responsibility than anyone else’s. But more importantly, if he asked that question, there was the chance that the duty would indeed pass to someone else, someone who had neither the skill nor the interest in restricting the severity of damage inflicted.

Without responding to Dolor, Castro y Papas turned on his heel and harshly ordered one of his own guards—who were now outnumbered by Dolor’s retainers—to open the door to the prisoner’s room.

He walked in quickly, careful not to make eye contact. “You,” he spoke toward the window where he had seen the prisoner brooding a few minutes earlier. “You should not have involved yourself when the rescuers came, and certainly not by attacking the soldiers of His Imperial Majesty King Philip IV’s with an incendiary device. Now stand up.”

Frank Stone did, frowning. “Hey, if anyone’s going to be testy around here, I think I’m the one who has the best reason to—”

“Frank!” warned Giovanna sharply.

Castro y Papas grimaced.
Damn it, but that one can read me like a book. Well, there’s no point in waiting—
He looked up long enough to firmly fix Frank Stone’s position, and then threw the first punch.

It landed as Castro y Papas had intended: squarely on the surprised up-timer’s chin. As Frank fell backward and his wife emitted a shriek, the Spaniard saw Stone’s eyes get wobbly. Perfect; he was dazed, but not unconscious. This way, he’d feel less pain, but still be awake, which meant that Dolor and his dogs couldn’t force Castro y Papas to inflict a second, more complete beating at some later date.

But no, Dolor and his men were not dogs; judging from the barking laughs from behind, they were hyenas. Castro y Papas turned, saw Dolor’s little Cretan adjutant, Dakis, leaning against the doorjamb, settled in to enjoy the spectacle. With him and the others watching, there would be no way to end this quickly, so Castro y Papas would have to be very careful.

As he turned back to his loathsome task, he discovered Giovanna Stone staring at him, her eyes as murderous as any he had ever seen in almost fifteen years of soldiering. And he did not blame her in the least. He held her eyes one second longer as he reached down for her swooning husband with his left hand—and carefully shook the signet ring on his right hand so that it rotated on his finger, the immense imprinting head swiveling safely back inside his readying fist.

Her eyes darted to that fist, noting the change. Then she looked at him again, her mouth closed and her chin elevated. She understood, seemed all but ready to nod at him—and not to give the leering animals near the door the pleasure of her further screams.

Castro y Papas closed his eyes, threw his next punch obliquely into Frank’s belly, and began calculating the minimum number of face or bone blows that would be required to make look the beating look convincing to his savagely eager audience.

The country house that was the only large building of the sprawling farming establishment called Molini was emerging from beneath the soot and dust of long neglect. The Cavrianis’ report to Sharon indicated that the last residents had been the elderly remnants of a cantankerous clan that had not repopulated itself very vigorously, and drove off those few offspring that might have one day inherited the remote, self-styled “commune.” Some said the last of Molini’s antediluvian inhabitants had abandoned it voluntarily; others said they were carted away in their senescent (if combative) infirmity. However, this much was clear: it had stood empty for the preceding nine months, and had fallen into disrepair over the preceding decade.

With the nearest neighbors almost four miles away, no one had any business coming to visit Molini. But if anyone had, they would have noticed dramatic changes. The gardens were being tended once again, walkways were repaired and swept, and what had appeared to be an angular compost heap against the back wall had been replaced with a new pile of kitchen firewood.

After finishing the first full meal cooked in that refurbished kitchen—wild boar stuffed with turnips, wild carrots, and chives—Sharon and Ruy sought the comfort of the smaller, more intimate hearth of the master suite’s sitting room. It was not their private retreat, however, despite the fact that their bedroom was contiguous with it. Although the house was quite large, it was still small for their entire contingent: all the rooms fit for sleeping were accommodating at least six people. The only exceptions were the rooms reserved for the Ruy and Sharon, Vitelleschi and Antonio Barberini, and Wadding and Larry Mazzare, the last eliciting no small number of muttered comments about strange bedfellows, indeed. Only the pope had a private room. Or did in theory, anyway: of the two Wild Geese—Patrick Fleming and Anthony McEgan—one always kept watch over Urban at all times.

So Sharon and Ruy were not surprised when the entirety of the clerical contingent filed into the sitting room adjoining their quarters. But Sharon quickly understood that this was not to be simply another session of the post-prandial companionship that was rapidly becoming a tradition in this space: Urban and Wadding compelled the two Wild Geese to remain outside the room. Then Urban moved over to take the chair closest to the fire; even with summer coming on, the nighttime temperatures of the Italian PreAlps were still bracing. The others found seats and looked at Vitelleschi expectantly.

Ruy glanced at Sharon and then, together, they faced the newcomers. “Your Eminences,” Ruy began, “do you require the private use of this chamber for—?”

Urban shook his head. “No, my son, you and your charming bride are welcome to remain here as long as you wish. Although our discourse might bore you.”

From the mischievous twinkle in the pope’s eye, Sharon seriously doubted that would be the case.

As he often did, Vitelleschi began addressing his fellow clerics without preamble. “As per His Holiness’ instructions, I shall preside over the debates between Cardinals Mazzare and Wadding. Cardinal Barberini shall serve as recording secretary. And I reiterate his Holiness’ strict instructions that the discussants are not to address arguments to him during our sessions, nor are they to present him with appeals outside of them. He is an observer only.

“The first item to be addressed is whether it can reasonably be asserted that Grantville is an infernal construct. If it is deemed possible, then logically, our discussions will end there.”

Ruy poked Sharon’s arm gently. “You do not seem demonic to me, my heart. At least, not when we are in public…”