1635 The Papal Stakes (48 page)

“Now, we move the prisoners again.”

Borja sat up; he clearly had not expected this response. “We move them again? After Lefferts’ rescue has been successfully repulsed? Surely we can now resort to normal methods of imprisonment.”

“Surely not—not here in Rome, at any rate. As this attack shows, Rome is too comfortably within the operating envelope of the USE and Grantville. And obviously, both the Jews and
lefferti
helped them considerably.”

“And so, they will be chastised. Strenuously.”

“If you must, you must,” commented Dolor with a shrug, “but it would be better to merely threaten the Jews with chastisement, while offering them a better option.”

“Which is?”

“Collaboration. To work for us as double agents if they are approached by the up-timers again. If you were to take a few select hostages from the major families of the Ghetto—well-treated, of course—that should serve to ensure the loyalty of the rest.”

Borja stroked his vulpine chin. “So do you really think the up-timers might be so foolish as to strike again?”

“If the prisoners remain in Rome long enough, then yes. Which means that next time, they will need to strike at you, too.”

Borja’s response was surprisingly high-pitched for a full grown man. “They would strike at
me
?”

“Of course, Your Eminence. The up-timers are well aware that they no longer possess the advantage of surprise, and have seen that we are on guard for their tricks. So, failing at finesse, they will resort to brute force.”

“We have many tercios to dissuade them from such action, Señor Dolor.”

“Those tercios are less of a disincentive to up-timers than to our other adversaries, Your Eminence, owing to their style of warfare. The up-timers rely on speed and small, intensely destructive units, not set-piece field engagements. However, to mount a major rescue attempt now would require them to not only destroy or paralyze our units, but to do the same to our command centers—possibly by using immensely powerful, timed bombs. With you and the generals who assist you dead, our units might remain in their barracks, waiting for orders that never come.”

And now, it was time to play one of his trump cards in today’s game of
scare the cardinal
. “The agents of the USE might even be able to stir up a popular revolt to preoccupy our military assets in advance of such a strike, and so obscure their own actions. Such a plan might be welcomed by many communes of the Lazio. After all, we are not welcome here, and Duke Barberini has many friends in the hills that ring this city.”

Borja seemed alarmed. “Do you think such a disastrous course of events to be likely?”

Dolor smiled within: it was important not to overplay one’s hand. “No, I do not think it likely. However, I am less sure of our enemy’s next move, now. It was relatively easy to predict that they would employ their famed Harry Lefferts in a rescue attempt: the up-timers were as dazzled by his myth as the gullible Roman boys who emulated him.”

“So, you believe we have seen the last of Lefferts?”

“As a commander? For now, probably. But Harry Lefferts is still a dangerous weapon in service of the USE, whose leaders will now realize that in this scenario, it was not Lefferts who failed; it was his methods. Which means they will appoint a very different commander for their next rescue attempt.”

“Ah. You mean someone more like you.”

Dolor was not often surprised. But he had not yet thought through the probable nature of his next adversary, and he certainly had not expected such an insight to come from a rash pope-intendant. However, Borja’s spontaneous assertion had a certain elegant logic to it. “I suspect so, yes. At any rate, I do not expect their next captain to walk so blindly into a trap, no matter how well I lay it.”

“So our best option is—what?”

“To move Stone and his wife to a more distant location, as quickly as possible.” Seeing Borja about to sputter objections, Dolor extrapolated: “At this moment, we still hold the initiative. The up-timers are still fleeing, probably back to Venice, licking their wounds as they go. So this is the perfect time for us to move their objective. By the time they have recovered enough to begin reassessing the situation, the prisoners will be gone without a trace. We, of course, will maintain the charade that they are still being held in the
insula
Mattei. But I do not expect that ruse to buy us much extra time.”

Borja was still not placated. “And so now we must ship these two wretches off somewhere?” His tone became archly facetious. “Where would you propose to send them? To Madrid? Perhaps to be held in a chamber adjoining Philip’s own?”

Dolor shook his head. “No. The chamber next to the king would not be secure enough.” Seeing Borja’s dumbfounded stare, he shrugged. “A king has courtiers. Where there are courtiers, there are debtors. And where there are debtors, there are men who can be bought, extorted, or both. No, Your Eminence. I have someplace much better in mind. A place that will hard for the USE to find, impossible to assault, and so far away from here that you need not worry about becoming a target of their next attack.”

That last trump card won Dolor the prize he had hoped to gain. Borja waved airily. “Very well. It seems there are sound reasons for moving them. But before we drop the subject of the prisoners, show me the head of the Roman again.”

Dolor nodded to the man holding the appropriate bag. The face of Giovanna Stone’s brother Fabrizio rose back up out of the blood-spattered canvas that housed it.

As Borja smiled, the color drained from Ferrigno’s face. Almost as white as the paper upon which he was scribbling, Borja’s small secretary jumped up and withdrew several steps. Dolor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Borja was staring at Fabrizio Marcoli’s head and sad, staring eyes. “Given young Stone’s meddling during the attack, I wonder if the head of his wife’s brother is a providential asset.”

Dolor frowned. “I am sorry, Your Eminence, but I do not understand what you mean.”

“Surely you must, Señor Dolor, being a man who understands the need for absolute discipline and obedience. Punishing Stone himself might bring edification through pain, but not so much through terror. And for a man such as Stone, the greatest terror will not be in anticipating further injury to himself, but to those he loves.” Borja’s smile became positively feral. “For instance, if we were to show this head to his wife, or better yet, present it to her in just one more covered dish brought in with breakfast—”

Dolor shook his head. “Think of the shock, Your Eminence; women have miscarried with far less provocation. Far less.” Borja was frowning, considering—but still not fully dissuaded. “And if the unborn child were lost we would have less political leverage against the USE. Also, the prisoners might become suicidally hostile instead of grudgingly cooperative. Right now, they are still concerned with protecting their unborn child. If they lose that child—particularly due to any action of ours—they might welcome death.”

Borja sighed and looked disappointed. “Yes, yes, I suppose what you say is wise. We shall not harrow the little she-devil as she deserves. But then you must take other steps to ensure that Stone has learned his lesson. Thoroughly.” The cardinal’s eyes were bright, eager.

Dolor nodded, accepting this lesser of two inadvisable evils. “It shall be as you say, Your Eminence.” He looked over at Ferrigno, who was literally trembling against the wall. Dolor gestured at him with a jerk of his head. “Your Eminence, is he a scribe or not?”

Borja followed the gesture, frowned, and snapped at Ferrigno as he might have spoken to a dog. “What are you doing over there, Ferrigno? Sit here, at my desk, and see to your duties.” He turned back to Dolor as the spare scribe shuffled toward the other chair facing Borja’s. “We are almost done, though, are we not?”

“Almost. I am grateful for the time Your Eminence has lavished on my review of what we have discovered about both the external and internal enemies who made possible the USE’s attack.”

Borja started to nod, stopped. “Internal enemies? You mean, the
lefferti
and the Jews?”

“No, Your Eminence. Although they are native to Rome, they are also our obvious enemies, and so, are external threats. I am speaking of traitors within our very ranks.”

Alongside Dolor, Ferrigno was scribbling furiously. Borja’s jaw swung open momentarily before he barked: “Traitors? What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Dolor, reaching out a hand and placing it gently but firmly upon the back of Ferrigno’s wrist, “that my men observed a peculiar phenomenon shortly after every one of my meetings with you. They found that Signor Ferrigno was wont to pile scrap papers near the kitchen furnace.”

“For disposal. Secure disposal,” Ferrigno gulped out.

“Not secure enough, evidently. It seems that on each of these days, one of the boys who works in the stables invariably came into the kitchen for a snack. And being a tidy sort, he always wrapped the food in some handy paper. Oddly enough, the paper that was always handiest was that which had been discarded by Signor Ferrigno.” Dolor felt the narrow wrist beneath his hand grow very cold.

Borja’s face had grown bright red; his eyes were wide. “And there is more?”

Dolor nodded. “Oddly enough, the stable boy always had work to deliver to a saddler in the Ghetto, an immense fellow named Isaac, who, it is rumored, also had the USE embassy as a client before all the recent unpleasantness. But that is ultimately not as interesting as another piece of information: Isaac has another client who invariably showed up at his shop less than twenty-four hours after the stable boy had dropped off the leather-work from this villa. Isaac’s other client is a fellow named Piero—and has been identified by several of the surviving
lefferti
as one of their senior and most trusted members.”

Borja could not speak; he seemed ready to burst. Ferrigno appeared to have aged ten years within the past two minutes; it seemed impossible to imagine how such a small, spare man could have become more withered and bowed, but he had.

Dolor finished. “This is why the agents of the Wrecking Crew were able to immediately discern that we had Stone and his wife at the
insula
Mattei: they had inside information. The
insula
had no outgoing servants, and we did not parade the prisoners in plain view for several weeks. How then did they already know to have us under observation? We noticed their surreptitious observers easily enough, but it took weeks to trace it back to Signor Ferrigno; he made use of routine connections between this villa and the world beyond to pass his intelligence, and he himself seemed a most unlikely candidate.”

But Borja’s wrath now seemed to focus on Dolor. “And you did not see fit to inform me at each stage? You lied to me,” he hissed. “From the start. You misinformed me about the troop strength at the
insula
Mattei, you—”

“Your Eminence, when I first arrived, did I not ask for your patience and trust? Here you are reaping the benefits of that trust. I spoke lies to your face, yes, but they were not intended for your ears, Your Eminence. They were intended for your scribe’s.” Ferrigno’s skin trembled beneath Dolor’s palm.

Borja acknowledged Dolor’s explanation with a testy nod, and then stared at little Ferrigno. “Execution is not enough,” he asserted after three seconds. “A man may come to grips with the fear of death, but not the fear of agony. Particularly not long, excruciating, varied, hopeless agony that will end in not merely death, but witnessing the dismemberment of one’s own body, the uncoiling and dissection of one’s own guts.”

Ferrigno gulped back vomit; Dolor’s nose told him that the scribe had soiled himself.

Borja noticed as well and sniffed in disgust. “Señor Dolor, you have much experience in this area: what would you recommend?”

Dolor shrugged; he knew he could not press too hard if he wanted to change Borja’s mind. “I do not recommend torture as punishment. Even when the objective is to gather information, torture is only advisable when there is reason to suspect it will be effective.”

Borja looked disappointed. “I would not have thought you squeamish, Señor Dolor.”

“I am not squeamish, Your Eminence; among my many faults, this one certainly cannot be reasonably attributed to me. But if one acquires a reputation for torture, it often instills desperate courage in his remaining adversaries. An enemy who knows that capture means mortal torture often chooses certain death of the battlefield. That way, we lose more men. I prefer my reputation to be one of efficiency and undefeatability; I want my adversaries to despair of besting me, but not to fear capture. That way, they may despair of hope and yet safely surrender, rather than fear torture and sell themselves dearly.”

Borja looked at Dolor strangely. “There is some wisdom in what you say,” the cardinal conceded finally, “but it is the wisdom of the streets, of your particular ‘calling.’ The wisdom of Mother Church tells us that if we spare the rod upon the back of one treacherous, homicidal child, we shall surely spoil many of the other untainted innocents. Mother Church uses the carrot when practicable—but in this case, we have only the stick.”

Dolor nodded. “What kind of stick do you instruct us to use in this case, Your Eminence?”

Ferrigno moaned slightly.

Borja considered. “The greatest terror would come from not knowing what kind of agony to expect, and in what sequence.” He stared at Ferrigno, attempted to keep a flickering grin from troubling the left corner of his mouth. “Why select just one stick, Señor Dolor? Be creative. Indulge yourself.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Estuban Miro peered into the dark. By the light of the half moon, he could make out the fishing ketch that the embassy Marines had boarded only minutes earlier. According to the morse code message sent by their Aldis-rigged bull’s-eye lantern, the boat’s single enemy operative had surrendered without a struggle.

Miro sighed; it was unfortunate that they had been compelled to remove the observer that Borja’s local spymaster had sent to watch the island of San Francesco del Deserto. In intelligence operations, the only thing better than knowing oneself to be unobserved (a rare, and usually unprovable, circumstance) was to know where the enemy observers were. Such had been the case with this particular fisherman. Ever since Harry Lefferts’ rescue team had departed for Rome several weeks ago, this wiry fellow had been casting his nets in the vicinity of the island’s Franciscan monastery: sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west; sometimes closer, sometimes farther. But always close enough to keep an eye on any comings and goings. Which, since the rescue team’s last meeting there, had been entirely routine.