1635 The Papal Stakes (27 page)

As the coaches lined up in broad daylight, and with full-length blinds and canopies erected to obscure the identities of whoever might be handed up into each vehicle, Don Vincente was conscious that he was grinding his teeth.

Audibly, apparently. Ezquerra coughed lightly. “This must be the best-publicized secret prisoner transfer in Roman history.”

Castro y Papas nodded sharply. “Yes. Which I do not like at all.”

“Well, who wants to share in a secret that everyone knows?”

“This isn’t incompetence, Ezquerra. This is an occasion where Napoleon’s axiom does not hold.”

“Who is Napoleon?”

“A famous up-time general who advised, ‘Never ascribe to malice that which can be explained by incompetence.’ Except the flaws of this prisoner transfer are not the product of incompetence: they reek of malice. Or rather, malign plotting. These instructions we were given—to follow at a distance and remain watchful for any attempts to surreptitiously follow the coaches—means that our masters are trailing the hostages like bait in the water. Which could get the two of them—no, the
three
of them—killed.”

“By whom? Their own people?”

“Sergeant, how long have you served before the cannon?”

“Almost an hour now, sir. Or perhaps eight years. Honestly, I’ve lost track; serving under you is such a singularly pleasant experience, that time just seems to fly by.”

“So, you have been a soldier for a lifetime and a half. And so you have seen how often casualties are inflicted upon one’s own side: inaccurate fire, confusion, poor visibility. The causes are legion, but the lesson is all one: if weapons are used, people die—and the wielders of the weapons rarely, if ever, have complete control over
who
dies.”

Castro y Papas jerked his head at the second coach. “They are playing
passe-dix
with the lives of hostages whose safety is their responsibility. One of whom is a woman with child.” Don Vincente spat. “It is a stain upon the honor of every one of us who must take part.”

Ezquerra shrugged. “Maybe, but would you not agree that it is also a clever plan?”

Castro y Papas sighed. “Perhaps. If the audience for which they intend this show is here to see it.”

“And do you think they are?”

Don Vincente sighed. “We shall find out soon enough, perhaps.” He snagged the reins of his horse, jumped a foot up into the waiting stirrup, and mounted with fluid ease.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sherrilyn’s voice was calm. “The carriages are moving.”

“Is Juliet back with her street-urchins?”

“Harry.” An English-accented mezzo piped up from below. “I’m right down here in the street.”

Thomas North smiled. What ears that woman had! There was no under-the-breath spousal grumbling in big George Sutherland’s house, that much was certain.…

Juliet added, “—and I am currently surrounded by eager palms that want to be filled.”

“With bread?”

“No. With quatrines.”

“Robbers.”

“They take after their idol,
Harry
”—

—Who smiled. “Okay, give ’em what they want. We can’t lose track of Frank and Giovanna, now—whichever carriage they turn out to be in. This could still be our opportunity to grab them.”

Thomas suppressed a start of surprise. An opportunity to grab them? There were four carriages, one with the Barberini family crest stained with the brown-maroon of dried blood, all starting out from the front of Palazzo Rospigliosi. All had opaque leather blinds bound in place to cover the windows, and each had a cavalry escort. North failed to see how this was an opportunity to retake the hostages.

Thirty minutes ago, when the first of the carriages and cavalry began pulling up in front of the palazzo, Harry had started issuing preparatory orders for ambushing what he presumed would simply be a well-escorted prisoner transfer. But he had also had the foresight to suggest that Juliet should summon the young minions she had recruited over the past two days, in the event that there was more than one potential target to keep track of. The youngsters had responded swiftly; since many of them were related to
lefferti—
both alive and dead—they were glad and excited to do something that might injure the Spanish.

And it was now obvious that today, Spanish security was not merely going to be the product of strength, but guile: the carriages were arranged to move separately, rather than
en convoy
. Thankfully, Harry was a flexible tactician; he now revised his earlier orders with admirable dispatch. “Sherrilyn, take your team up to the roof; use the flue to relay reports down to me here. The rest of you”—his gaze took in the remaining members of the Wrecking Crew, except Thomas—“get down to the ground floor. And be ready to split up; we may have to follow more than one of those carriages.”

By the time Harry was done giving orders, his binoculars were already back up to his eyes. And Lefferts’ very next word told North that his own fears regarding the Spanish plans had been vindicated: “Shit.”

North was pretty sure of the answer, but asked anyway. “What’s happening?”

“Two of the carriages are heading northeast, toward the Quirinale. The other two are heading south; they’ll pass right under our window.”

“Probably making for the Corso. Harry, if these pairs split up”—
which they will
—“we’re not going to be able to chase all of them.”

“Damn it,” muttered Lefferts. “I just didn’t expect them to play ‘shell game’ with us.”

“Yes, a bit unsporting. And even if we could follow them all, there’s no way any of the groups doing so would be large enough to mount a successful ambush and retake the hostages.”

Harry thought for a moment and then leaned over toward the fireplace, shouting up the flue. “All right: here’s the new plan, Sherrilyn. You keep eyes on the targets as long as we can. I’ll watch from here, too, but will mostly be coordinating with our guys on the ground floor. Juliet’s kids should be able to keep up with the carriages easily enough to see where they all go. Rome’s widest streets are still none too wide, so they’re not going anywhere too quickly. When we’re no longer able to keep track of them from this vantage point, we’ll choose the most likely shell under which the Spanish have hidden the hostages and go after that one.”

“Carefully,” amended North.

“Not so carefully that we’re too late to strike, if the opportunity presents itself.”

Thomas nodded, but thought:
if
it’s not
already
too late.

“Well, spank me hard and call me Sally.” Sherrilyn saw her team, Felix Kasza and Donald Ohde, start slightly. She smiled. However profane the men of the Wrecking Crew thought themselves—and they had good reason for that self-image—they were always startled when a provocative new colloquialism came from Sherrilyn.

Donald recovered first. “What’s up?”

“Not our odds of grabbing the hostages,” Sherrilyn answered. She pointed, keeping her eyes planted on the binoculars. “One coach is going northeast along the Via Recta, but it looks like it’s preparing to turn left. Probably to head north along the Strada Felice. Another carriage has gone west. I can’t see it just now, but—yeah, there it is, turning right to get on the Corso, heading north.”

From down below, Harry’s annoyed shout hooted out of the flue at her right elbow. “Sherrilyn, you seein’ all this?”

“Yeah, I’m seeing what you’re seeing and more.”

“What’s happened to the two that just passed beneath us?”

Sherrilyn pivoted on her heels, scanned with the binoculars, and caught sight of the boxy carriages swaying into and out of view beyond the buildings to the southwest. “They’re still going southwest along the Via Recta—no, wait; one has just veered into a small westbound street.”

“What’s over there?”

“Nothing. They’re probably taking a shortcut to get to the Strada papale.”

“And the other?”

“Looks like they’re following along to the end of the Via Recta. Again, nothing much in that direction, unless they’re looking to get to the Via dell’Aracoeli. And—wait a minute.”

“What?”

Sherrilyn strained her eyes; were those two mounted men, far behind the last carriage, also following it? They just seemed like ordinary travelers from the look of it, but—

No. She caught the glint of a light steel gorget when the one closer to her vantage point turned to look behind and his collar gapped, revealing the neck armor beneath. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see the telltale signs of a plainclothes tail. The overstuffed saddle bags that probably concealed weapons, the buff gloves, the way they sat their horses: they were military.

And they were now looking with increased interest at two of Juliet’s child-recruits. Looking at them very attentively as they followed along behind the coach, playacting the part of a lord and lady. The two horsemen urged their mounts into a slightly faster walk, peering at the two nine-year-olds more closely. And mouth suddenly hanging open, Sherrilyn realized why:

My god, those horsemen are not merely security; they’re the watchers for anyone who tries to follow the carriage surreptitiously. They’re watching for
us
.

“So, we’re busted? Totally?” Harry rubbed his chin meditatively.

Sherrilyn nodded. “This shell-game they staged: it was a set-up. To see who, if anyone, would follow.”

“Pretty crafty,” admitted Harry.

“More than that.”

Harry turned to look at North. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this tactic of theirs was damned near oracular in its presumptions. Here we are in Rome, conducting reconnaissance preparatory to a hostage rescue. First they give us exactly what we want to see: the hostages, about to move into the open. But then they throw us what you Americans call a ‘curve ball’: our objective, although right under our noses, is now moving in one of four possible directions. Thereby baiting us to make a weak attempt to get the hostages now, either by hitting all the coaches, or by striking blind at one or two. At the very least, they figure we might reveal ourselves by following a little too eagerly, a little too closely. All staged so they can either strike us preemptively, or at least get a look at our methods and some of our personnel.”

Harry frowned. “Are you saying we’ve been ratted out?”

“Eh? Oh, you mean an informer from our side?” North shook his head. “No, I very much doubt that.”

North felt Sherrilyn’s eyes studying him closely as she asked, “Why do you doubt it?”

North had to think that through: his tactical instincts had raced ahead of his deductions. “Any informer who knows enough to betray us would have solid information regarding our numbers and our general appearance. Whoever is behind this shell game ploy would have used that information to craft a more precise plan to lure us into killing range.

“I suspect he anticipates that someone will try to rescue Frank and Giovanna, and that they will logically be sent by the USE. But beyond that, I doubt he has anything more than guesswork, although I wouldn’t be surprised if the Wrecking Crew is high on his list of probable rescuers.”

“Then he’d have numbers and identities, right there.”

“Maybe. But from what I heard during my own travels, Harry, intelligence on the Wrecking Crew is pretty sketchy other than that you are its very visible and distinctive leader. How many members the Crew has, and how consistently you all operate together, is unclear. For instance, people in London are convinced that Julie Sims is a part of the Wrecking Crew, thanks to that sharp shooting during the Tower of London escape.”

“A classic, that one.” Harry beamed at the walls in happy reminiscence.

“Yes, the talk of Europe. Which unfortunately, may be hurting us now.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, commando teams are useful, in large measure, because they are covert. Covert, as in unseen and unknown.”

Harry frowned. “I guess I see your point. We’re not exactly an unknown quantity.”

“Harry, I think it might be worse that that. It’s possible that whoever is running the show on the other side of the curtain may have made a study of your methods. Let’s ignore your technological edge, for a moment. None of your strikes to date could be pulled off without a great deal of advance reconnaissance. That means you, or your agents, observe a target before you strike, often for a long time. That means you are in your area of operations well before you drop the hammer.”

Harry nodded. “And so, the guy running the show for the Spanish today put out Frank and Giovanna as bait, figuring that even if he didn’t know where we were, that we’d be somewhere close by, probably watching. Maybe being tempted to do something stupid.”

Thomas nodded. “That’s the gist of it.”

The Crew, sans George and Juliet, had been silent throughout the quick council of war that had been summoned on the rooftop. It was Donald Ohde who looked out over the half-classical, half-ramshackle Roman cityscape. “So do we know anything else?”

Sherrilyn had taken another quick, four-points-peek with her binoculars. “The coaches are moving pretty slowly, except the one that went north on Strada Felice in the direction of the Pincio.”

“Toward the old embassy and the Palazzo Barberini,” nodded Harry.

“Yeah. They’re moving at a pretty good clip. Juliet’s kids are not going to keep up with that one. Besides, the farther north they go, the more sparse the crowds and the houses. The kids are going to start sticking out more, particularly when they have to start running to keep up. And they’ve been told not to be obvious, so I think we have to assume that they’ll stop following that coach any minute now.”

“Does that coach seem to be in more of a rush than the others?” Thomas could hear the predatory anticipation in Harry’s tone.

Sherrilyn shrugged. “Hard to tell. Maybe they are. But it might just be that there’s a whole lot less traffic out there. So it might be that those Spanish want to move faster, or simply that they
can
move faster.”

Donald Ohde nodded. “And the other coaches?”