Down: Pinhole (36 page)

“How’d that go?” John asked.

“He was cautious and highly suspicious. A king never wishes to lose his crown and he had kept his for centuries. It was clear I had to prove my worth. At first he gave me small tasks—overthrow this minor prince, steal that big-bosomed woman away from the court of a duke. Then the tasks grew in import and daring and after many decades I had insinuated myself into his inner circle and was granted a duchy along with this fine house. And with this base, I have quietly and discretely reached out to others in Italia and in other kingdoms who might share my vision for a better life. These good men here tonight are now among my loyal comrades. Believe me, there are many others.”

“Where do you go from here?” John asked.

“The plan is this: the next stage involves the overthrow of Borgia. Once I have his throne I will have his army. Once I have his army, I may endeavor to defeat the other kings of Europa. Once I have Europa, I would defeat the realms to the east, and then, the whole of this terrible world.”

“So one day you’re the king of Hell,” John said. “Then what?”

“I will unite all the men and women against our common enemy, Hell itself. I will abolish war. I will abolish slavery and ban the exchange of women as property. I will abolish hunger by having men cooperate on farming and livestock. I will have laws to treat men fairly and punish the wicked, for alas, though all of us here are wicked, some are much worse than others. There will be judges to administer these laws, men who, though they too deserve to be in Hell, have some virtues. Sadly, there are no children to teach, but we may nevertheless have schools to educate people and teach them skills. This will still be Hell, make no mistake, John, but it will be a more humane place with less suffering and pain.”

“But you’d be the king. Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” John said. “Don’t you think all this power would go to your head?”

“I would hope not, but if this happens, and I were to become abjectly evil, then I would expect that I would be toppled and replaced by a man who had my original intentions. Perhaps it would be one of these men here today.”

“If you’re able to pull it off at all, this plan of yours isn’t going to happen overnight.”

“John, the one commodity we have in abundance is time. Though I do burn with impatience, I have all the time in Hell at my disposal.”

“Okay, Giuseppe, good luck to you. I hope you succeed, but
I
don’t have all the time in the world. I’ve got to find Emily and get her back to Dartford in less than three weeks. If I don’t we’re going to be trapped here.”

“Then help us. Swiftly. Then we will help you free her from the clutches of King Frederick.”

John raised his arms in exasperation. “Just tell me what you think I can do for you. But let’s get on with it.” He pulled out his pocket watch and jabbed it with his finger. “We’re wasting this.”

“I have been told how you aided Henry to defeat the Iberians. Your knowledge of advanced weaponry is impressive. We will need new and more powerful weapons to vanquish Borgia. I can call on a few hundred men-at-arms to march on his fortress not far from here, but he has thousands at his disposal.”

“I made cannon for Henry. Do you have access to a forge?”

“Not a cannon forge, no. But smaller forges, yes. There are smithies who would follow me.”

John asked if he could get a look at the fortifications of Borgia’s palace in the morning. It could be arranged, he was told, but as he began to ask more questions, Garibaldi’s manservant abruptly entered and announced in Italian that they had a visitor.

“At this hour?” Garibaldi asked. “Who?”

“It is Duke Machiavelli.”

The other men looked alarmed.

John heard the name and said, “Tell me you’re not talking about
the
Machiavelli.”

“Niccolò Machiavelli, yes,” Garibaldi said. “He was Borgia’s man in life and he is Borgia’s man still. You studied his works in your military academy?”

“
The Prince
was required reading. The end always justifies the means, blah, blah.”

“He has reproduced the work here and I have a copy in my library. Please, Luca and Simon, take John upstairs. Antonio, stay close. I will see what the scoundrel wants.”

When Machiavelli entered, Garibaldi was trying his best to look composed. He stroked his dogs to calm them and looked up from the fire to say, “To what do I owe this pleasure, Niccolò?”

Machiavelli was tall and held himself ramrod straight. He was nearly sixty with a receding crop of short, gray hair, a long nose and a small mouth, seemingly more useful for nibbling than chomping.

“Borgia learned tonight that King Henry has defeated the Iberian armada,” Machiavelli announced breathlessly.

“What of it?” Garibaldi asked.

“Emboldened by his victory he has sailed to the Norse country and taken Gothenburg. It seems he is to strike Francia next.”

“Let him. Let both English and French noses be bloodied.”

“I might give the self-same counsel if not for this: it is my belief that when Barbarossa learns of Henry’s intentions, if his spies have not already informed him, that he will fear Henry will be successful and march on Germania next with a combined army. Therefore the Germans will likely decide to counter Henry on French soil, waiting only long enough for both the French and English to suffer their casualties, then attacking both weakened armies. It is not only I who has made this assessment. King Maximilien has informed us through his ambassador that he wishes an alliance with Italia to counter the hordes of invaders who are preparing to descend upon him. Borgia knows that if the Germans are victorious, then Italia may be the next piece on the board they will take. Therefore, Cesare desires to enter into this alliance with Francia and would have you prepare a war plan.”

“What, tonight?” Garibaldi chuckled. “This could not wait until the morning?”

“Cesare is an impatient man, Giuseppe. You know this. For some men impatience is a weakness, for him, it has always been a strength, for he uses his sense of urgency to strike decisively before his foes are prepared.”

“Well, I will begin to formulate a campaign in my bed chamber tonight. Is that soon enough?”

“While you are snug in your bed you would do well to think about what our Iberian, Russian, and Macedonian adversaries might do in such a conflict.”

“Yes, of course. It is all a grand game of chess, is it not?”

Machiavelli noticed two half-filled cups of brandy on Garibaldi’s table. John had left his behind.

“Did I disturb you? You have a guest?”

“Not at all. Earlier I was conversing with Lombardo, one of my men, but he took ill.”

“Lombardo? The scholar with red hair? I hope it is nothing serious. In any event, the king will want to see you as soon as he awakes. He will have a war council.”

Garibaldi began to stand but Machiavelli bade him to remain in his chair. Then, in an apparent after-thought, he produced a small wooden box from inside his cloak and held it up. The older man smiled.

“I almost forgot,” Machiavelli said. “Signora Carbone has prepared your favorite sweet meats. Give me some brandy and I will sit with you while you sample them. They do go stale quickly.”

“We will both partake.”

“Alas, she used the kind of berry which does not agree with my digestion.”

Garibaldi arched his eyebrows, reached to fill a fresh cup with the amber liquor, and handed it to Machiavelli who in turn sat beside him, opened the box and presented it. Garibaldi plucked one of the small pastries with the swollen fingers of one hand and reached for his brandy with the other but he brushed against it, sending it to the ground. He swore at his own clumsiness and tried to retrieve it but his guest told him to be still and hurriedly crouched to fetch the cup.

As he did this, Garibaldi fed his pastry to one of his dogs which gobbled it whole and licked the honey from her lips. Machiavelli rose, filled the cup again then noticed the pastry was gone.

“It was delicious,” Garibaldi said.

“Have another.”

“Perhaps I will. In a moment.”

The two men chatted for a minute, gossiping about the sexual proclivities of the Duke of Sardinia, when Garibaldi’s dog began howling and collapsed on its side, its mouth foaming with pink froth.

“Treachery!” Garibaldi screamed at the top of his lungs. “Assassin!”

Antonio and Garibaldi’s manservant both rushed in from the adjoining room, their swords drawn. Though Machiavelli protested his innocence, the servant held him in a bear hug from behind while Antonio took a cue from his angry master and ran his dagger across the duke’s long neck, splashing the floor with jets of crimson.

The servant then released him, letting his body crumple.

Luca, Simon, and John, hearing the shouts from upstairs came running down the stairs to witness a dead dog and a twitching man.

“He tried to poison me,” Garibaldi said, breathing hard and holding onto his chair for support. “He must know something of my plans. And if he knows, Borgia knows. Who came with him?”

The servant said that a carriage man and two guards were at the gate.

“Give them the same treatment as their duke,” Garibaldi ordered. “Take anything of value from their persons then put their bodies inside the carriage and send the horses away with it. It must look like the work of rovers. And make sure their eyes are put out and their ears ruined so none can blink an answer or mouth a response to a question. If the king asks, I will claim he never arrived here.”

John stood over Machiavelli’s body and looked into his blinking, seemingly comprehending eyes. He asked if he understood English and when told he did not, he asked someone to translate.

“Tell him that I’m alive. And tell him I read
The Prince
.”

Antonio spoke to the exsanguinating man in Italian, eliciting a series of rapid eye flutters.

“Anything more?” Antonio asked John.

“Yeah. Tell him that I think he’s an amoral piece of shit and as far as I’m concerned, the best thing about the book was that it was short. And tell him I’m going to help you guys kick Cesare Borgia’s ass.”

Woodbourne awoke to the sight of a girl standing over him.

He was on the floor, wedged up against the door to prevent an escape while he slept. Before he’d crashed for the night he had Benona empty out some tins of food and tie them with thread to the pulled curtains so he’d hear them rattle if she tried to signal someone on the street.

“Leave him be, Polly. Go back to bed,” Benona said sternly when she came out of the bathroom.

Polly had identical hair to her mother, yellow and silky, but she was prettier, and while her mother’s eyes were muddy brown, hers were sky blue.

“Who are you?” she asked Woodbourne.

He propped himself up, his back against the door. “My name’s Brandon. You’re Polly, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“Your mum told me, didn’t she?”

“You smell bad.”

“Polly!” Benona said.

“It’s okay. I do smell bad. Need to put on more of that cologne, I reckon. You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Benona took her daughter by her shoulders and lightly pushed her toward her room. “I said go back to bed.”

Polly resisted and stood fast. “I’ve got school.”

“You don’t have to go today.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“But mum …”

Woodbourne got up and harshly told the girl to mind her mother and as Polly sullenly obeyed, Woodbourne walked behind her and peered into her room.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at an object on her nightstand. “Is that one of them telephone things?”

“It’s my mobile,” the girl said.

“Give it here.”

“It’s mine!”

“If you don’t I’ll smack your mum.”

The girl threw it and bounced it off of his chest making him laugh. “I like you,” he said, picking it off the floor and pocketing it. “Don’t come out till I say so.”

“Well I don’t like you.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” her mother said. “Everything is okay. I bring you some cereal.”

“Children have their own little telephones?” he asked Benona when he shut the door.

“Many have them, yes.”

“She doesn’t have two, does she? Everything’s so daft here. That goes for you too? Tell me the truth.”

“Only one each.”

He told her he had to use the WC and would keep the door open. If she tried to run out he’d take it out on the girl.

When he emerged he smelled of cologne again. She broke some eggs into a skillet and scrambled them on the stovetop.

“I’m starved,” he said.

Benona looked strung out from lack of sleep and worry. “How long you stay?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must leave soon.”

“I’ll leave when I want to leave. You got bread and butter?”

She nodded. “But I need to buy food today. How I can do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can’t leave flat. You don’t know when you will go away. How will this work? You want us not to eat?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“You better start knowing, mister,” she said.

His eyes filled with rage and he balled up a fist but she turned away and kept stirring the eggs and that neutralized him. He sat on her sofa bed and looked at the small TV.

“You don’t have much money, do you?”

“Not so much, why?”

“Your TV’s a lot smaller than the others I’ve seen.”

“It’s big enough.”

“Can you switch it on for me?”

He quickly became bored with a morning chat show so she taught him how to change channels himself using the remote. He settled on a program about dog training. Soon, the barking stirred Polly and her voice could be heard from behind her door asking if she could watch too. He let her out and she sat on the sofa bed beside him.

“You smell better,” she said.

Trevor exited the M25 at the Croydon junction and followed his sat-nav directions to an estate of semi-detached stucco houses at Roundhills. He parked and then knocked on a door that needed some paint. He waited then knocked again and was about to leave when he heard a muffled, “Just coming.”