1635 The Papal Stakes (72 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The watchtower at Cala Pi appeared abandoned as the now-familiar
llaut
from Miguel Tarongi wound its way out of Cala Beltran. Once in open water, it headed straight toward Miro’s larger
llaut,
the one his men had captured near the Bay of Canyamel and had named the
Bogeria
, or
“Folly,”
in Catalan.

The captain of the
Bogeria
—a Ragusan who had piloted similar boats before—cut an alarmed glance at Miro. “Don Estuban, what does this mean? Why is the other boat on course to meet us? Has the ship been seized by the Span—?”

“Steady as you go,” muttered Miro, squinting into the distance. If only he could make out the deck crew, even one of them—

A loud bellow saved him the need of further squinting. “Heh, old friend; you look as blind as an owl at noon, screwing your eyes up that way.”

“Miguel Tarongi, what are you doing here?” What Estuban wanted to say was,
“What the hell are you doing here, Meir? You and I are not supposed to have any further contact.”

But Miguel waved airily. “Oh, I thought we could chat while your fellows pick up the packages we left in Cala Beltran. Last load, you know.”

Of course I know!
What the devil was Meir doing, taking a chance like this?

Meir’s
llaut
came close alongside the
Bogeria
. “Hop aboard,” he called.

“Miguel, I—”

“Just do it, high ears. Don’t worry about the Spanish; no one’s home in the Cala Pi watchtower.”

“Oh?” replied Miro, jumping aboard Meir’s
llaut
as the two ships passed each other with less than a foot of room between their sides. “And just how do you know that—Miguel?”

A wave from Miguel and they were soon alone in the bows.

“You seem to forget,” answered Meir as Miro recovered his balance, “that most of the Spanish troops west and south of Manacor depend on
xueta
sutlers.”

“So it was easy to know how many need provisioning in the tower, and when.”

“That, and it is easy to sneak inside when you know it is not manned. During which time one can infest the place with rats.”

“You didn’t.”

“I most certainly did, Estuban. Since then, the Spanish soldiers discovered that swords are not good for killing rats.”

“Still, to abandon a watch post simply because of rats—”

Miguel Tarongi shifted into Hebrew and a much lower voice. “The local militia—which provides at least eighty percent of Cala Pi’s manpower—is all too ready to find any excuse not to spend the whole day, staring south, watching for pirates that no longer come. And the other twenty percent—the Spanish—had to find and hire locals with the right skills and tools to eliminate the rats.”

“Huh. Pity you can’t do the same thing with the staff at Castell de Bellver.”

“True, but our
xueta
sutlers have been busy there, too; our plans are well in hand.”

“And you needed to tell me that yourself? Is that why you came out this morning, Meir?”

Tarongi shuffled restlessly. “More or less. Besides, up until this point, staying at arm’s length was prudent; we were simply exchanging cargos, not information. And the men you sent—well, they came with your instructions, which were all quite clear.” He scratched behind his ear. “But now, we need to make sure that everything is in order, that nothing has been overlooked or forgotten. Because by this time tomorrow, you’ll be bound back for Italy, won’t you?”

“You know I can’t tell you any more than I have, Meir. But you can rest assured that, by dawn tomorrow, I will either be bound elsewhere, or will be remaining in Mallorca. Permanently, I fear.”

“Yes. So I gathered from your last message.” Again, Meir scratched fitfully behind his ear and looked out to sea.

And Ezekiel Miro understood. “You came out today to see
me
. Because by this time tomorrow I’ll be gone for good—one way or the other.”

“Damn it, Ezekiel. Why did you have to get mixed up in this? You could have—”

“Meir.” Miro lowered his voice. “The world is changing. We have always changed with it. That has often meant far travels. It has meant that some of us go ahead to prepare the way so the rest of our people can follow to a new place of safety.”

“And is that what you’re doing?”

“Who knows? I will send word when I know for sure. But that is all speculation for another time; let us settle matters. You need to be back in Palma before sunset.”

Meir shifted his gaze west. “So I do. And I know you don’t have a lot of time, either; you’ll have to double back to wherever you’re based right now. Which I’m guessing is on the Illa dels Conill?”

“That is not important,” said Miro, who wanted to spit in frustration. Were his plans that obvious, that Meir could guess his remote hideout and staging area on the very first try? On the other hand, given the timing of their regular rendezvous at Cala Pi, Meir’s only reasonable conjecture was to presume that Miro’s base was located somewhere in the tiny Cabrera archipelago, just within sight of Cap des Salines, Mallorca’s southernmost tip.

The island of Cabrera itself had a castle on it: insufficiently garrisoned, but a Spanish presence, nonetheless. But the Illa dels Conill, the next largest island, was rarely visited, had no natural water source, no useful flora or fauna, and was ringed almost entirely by forbidding cliffs. Also, the southernmost extent of the islet—that which was closest to Cabrera—presented a high hump to observers on the main island, thereby screening the islet’s one, very small bay to the north.

“So, you are sure then: you’ll make the attempt before dawn?”

Miro nodded. “The wind and tides are right. So is the weather: light low clouds and a thick haze coming up from the south.”

“The
Llebeig
? Again?” asked Miguel quizzically, referring to the Saharan wind that blew out of the southwest. “We had a light storm from it just four days ago. It is strange that more clouds are coming from there, and so soon. This worries me; perhaps the earlier storm was just the harbinger of a heavier one following. If so, then—”

“Meir, I can’t stop now. Besides, the skies over the cloud-tops are clear; there is no heavier weather following. And having the
Llebeig
blowing for us is an excellent bit of good fortune; we’ll have the wind over our beam and our yards rigged away from it, to the starboard and north. Given our projected course, those conditions will make
Atropos
the swiftest boat in the water. Frankly, I would have preferred slightly heavier clouds, ones that would have given us a little rain, but this will have to do.”

“You
want
rain? That would make it hard to navigate.”

“It would also make it harder to see—and I would prefer to have the Spanish blind, particularly as we approach.”

“Well, the moon seems disposed to hide herself until well after midnight. So it seems Fortune smiles on your venture.”

“Let us hope it does—but that almost-dark moon is one of the reasons I’m willing to go without the rain or heavy clouds. And that’s also why I had you re-pitch your
llaut
.”

Meir smiled. “As I said, you were ever a deep one, Ezekiel.” He looked over at the hull, newly coated with dark brown pitch. “I was wondering why you ordered that—and caused a three-day supply interruption. So it was to makes us less visible in the dark?”

Miro nodded. “And when you go out tonight, you’ll no longer fly yellow banners and a white sail.”

“Of course not. We’ll set the black sail that you sent to me, along with North and his men, two days ago.”

“Exactly. How are the troops holding up?”

Meir rolled his eyes. “How do you think? They’re all stuck in a basement, going over the plans again and again and again, cleaning their weapons, reassembling them, then turning out the light, taking them apart, and putting them together again. O’Neill is at his wit’s end, but doesn’t complain as much as North—even though North is the one forcing them to go through all these strange actions.”

“He’s cantankerous,” agreed Miro, “at least on the outside. But he knows what he’s doing.”

“And he’s cursedly close-lipped for someone who talks and scolds so much.”

“Ah. So you tried to trick North into revealing his part of the plans, then?”

Miguel looked out toward the rapidly sinking sun. “I don’t like being so much in the dark on this operation, Ezekiel. What if something goes wrong and one of us has to improvise?”

Miro shook his head. “There can be improvisation only once we have all arrived at the destination. There will have to be improvisation then, for who can predict how all the details will actually unfold? But before that, no: there is no room for improvisation. That’s why all of these men are with you beforehand, why they are hiding, why only a few of them know the whole plan: if something goes wrong, if one of my men should somehow fall into Spanish hands before we begin, then we might be able to cut our losses and try again. But only if the person captured has minimal knowledge. In fact, while you’re standing here, North is briefing them on the final location and details.”

“So all their planning—all the child’s games played moving from doorway to doorway chalked out on the floor—they don’t even know that they were learning the layout of Castell de Bellver?”

“Except for the officers, no.” Miro smiled. “And the special casks? Are they ready?”

“Have been for a week. They were easy to build, since we’ve used something like them before. Just recently in fact.”

“Oh? Why did you need them?”

“An informer who is a servant in the Black House told us that the Inquisition might be preparing to investigate a
xueta
family whose son was fool enough to have an affair with the daughter of a Gentile business rival. We sneaked them all out—even the idiot son—on a ship, using casks similar to the ones you asked for.”

“Excellent. And O’Neill understands what to do?”

“He understood it well enough by the time he came to me; you seem to have drilled him no end on it. He’s just eager to get it over with—and hopes he won’t need that wondrous up-time watch you sent with him.”

“Me, too.” Miro sighed. “Because if he does, it will mean that something has gone terribly wrong. And lastly, were you able to find the—?”

“Yes, yes, those strange, large lanterns that float in the air when you light the candles at their center? It took many inquiries, but I located three of them for you. One was from a curio merchant who has apparently had one for years, unable to sell it. And an Ottoman merchantman sold several—copies from the Mughal lands—when it put into port at the end of April; I found three of those.”

Miro smiled. “My friend, you are a wonder. Now, just one last task: to guide Thomas North and his men to the Castell de Bellver tomorrow night.”

“Yes, well, I have someone who can do a better job than I can. You remember Hayyim? He’s one of the Castell’s sutlers, now. And his father helped build some of the newer fortifications, so he knows the hills and quarries that lie around it.”

Miro heard the evasive tone. “Meir, what are you planning?”

“What do you mean?” Meir would not look at Miro for more than a moment.

“I mean, originally you had wanted to pilot the
llaut
that is, right now, carrying North and his men over to Cala Pedrera. Failing that, you were resolved to show them how to get up to Bellver. Now you can’t be there at all?”

“Oh, I’ll be there; don’t worry about that. But it looks like it’s time for me to go.” He pointed to the
Bogeria
, wending its way back out of the Cala Beltran. “This last shipment was a big one, because of all that olive and fish oil. And between the amount of pure spirits you wanted for Asher, and the amount you wanted for yourself, I doubt there’s a drop of them left in Palma.” Meir tried to smile as the boats drew closer together. “So, begone with you.”

“It has been good seeing you, old friend,” Miro said, putting a hand on Meir’s shoulder, and then jumping the narrow, but moving, gap between the two
llaut
s.

Meir waved. “
Viaja con dios
,” he said, articulating the Catalan sardonically.

“
Shalom
,” Ezekiel Miro whispered earnestly over the rustle of the sails.

“I think it is time, Frank.”

Frank Stone looked out the window toward Palma; it was almost dark. Asher would be waiting, by now. But if they started too soon…

“Frank, everything is prepared. We can do no more. Now we must act and trust in God. I am ready.”

“Okay, then.” Frank walked over to his wife and handed her the vial that Asher had given them earlier that day. He waited until she had finished with it, and then shouted, very loudly: “Gia! What’s wrong? What—?”

Gia pushed over his writing table, went to the floor.

“Gia? Gia?” Frank turned and hammered on the door. “Guards! Guards! My wife is—she’s—there’s something wrong with her!”

The door yanked open; the face of the guard who came through showed a minimum of concern mixed with a maximum of annoyance. That ratio flipped when he saw Giovanna, balled up on the floorboards, a thin trickle of blood pointing the way back towards its source, high in her skirts.

“
Merda!
” the guard gasped. Then he shouted to his men to bring the governor, to bring Don Vincente, to bring the Jew doctor: to bring anyone, damn it.

Frank stole a quick smile at Gia. Who saw it. Then her eyes rolled back into her head.

That was when the shouting at the door became truly loud.

In the oilskin tent that his men had hidden in the folds of Illa dels Conill’s rolling terrain, Miro leaned back from the map spread on the folding field table. Illuminated by a covered lantern, it was an enlarged copy of the bay of Palma, inexpertly but functionally reproduced from a
Frommer’s Guide
, and heavily footnoted by Miro’s appendations. Around the table, all the shipmasters, as well as Harry, Sean Connal, Virgilio, and one of the cleverest of the Wild Geese, Turlough Eubank, stared down at it intently.