Down: Pinhole (38 page)

“Well, I’ll be painfully truthful with you. I won’t help you find ways to cripple and enslave people.”

Himmler yawned and got up and she tensed her muscles, ready to defend herself. But he walked past her to a cabinet and withdrew a metal cylinder, then placed it on the desk and sat beside it.

“It’s not even worth having a discussion about whether or not you will assist me, because, of course, you will. It will be a tiresome exercise of depriving you of food, keeping you naked in a cold dungeon, hurting you in many ways, because in the end you will cooperate. Or we can skip all that unpleasantness and just roll up our sleeves and get to work. So, let us forget about your negative attitude for the moment. Look at this beauty.”

He handed her the heavy cylinder.

“What is it?”

“A battery. It has been a matter of personal embarrassment that the English and the French have the telegraph but we do not. That will soon be rectified. My spies stole this piece of equipment from London where it is one of many that power their system. I have found in Frankfort a nineteenth century chemist who will also be assisting you, who is making the necessary acids to power the electrodes. You see, with batteries and electromagnets all I will need to do is build a dam on the Rhine and I will have hydroelectricity. And with electricity I will be able to start building machines to make machines, not small machines like our steam automobiles but large, industrial machines. And, in time, not tomorrow, but in time, we will have centrifuges to enrich uranium and we will build a great bomb and the machines to launch them against our enemies.”

It was Emily’s turn to laugh. “If I remember my history, you Nazis weren’t able to build the A-bomb with all the twentieth-century technology and top-notch scientists at your disposal. And you’re sitting here in your medieval castle illuminated by candles and heated with wood telling me about your plans to enrich uranium. This is ludicrous.”

He stared back icily. “I have two things I didn’t have during the war,” he said flatly. “I have an infinite amount of time and now I have a twenty-first century physicist.”

“You don’t seem to listen. I told you before. I’m a particle physicist. I don’t know how to make atomic bombs or any bombs at all. And, in case you don’t recall, I’m not dead like you. I don’t have infinite time. If I’m not able to find my way back to my own time and place I will likely decide to end my own life rather than stay in this horrid world of yours. And if you could somehow prevent me from doing that, I imagine I would grow old and die. So please, stop all this nonsense and let me return to England so I can at least try to go home.”

An officious looking man, neatly dressed in a suit of Himmler’s era came in and apologized for the interruption. He informed his boss that he had been told that the king was on his way.

“Here? He is coming here? Why did he not summon me as usual?”

“Apparently something has happened which had caused him to become greatly agitated.”

Himmler frowned and said to Emily, “I have a history of dealing with agitated leaders.”

She stood and began to leave but Frederick swept in with an entourage of nobles. It was the first time Emily had seen him on his feet. He seemed surprisingly quick and agile for an old man.

The king squinted at her and said, “So, you have recaptured her. I trust she will not have the opportunity to escape again.”

Himmler replied that he would personally guarantee her confinement and said that she was just leaving. Soon she would begin to work on all manner of advanced technologies for the realm. Emily was not about to let them talk around her as if she weren’t even there but when she tried to speak the king told her to sit down and be silent. What he was about to say was relevant to her new role.

Frederick was offered a soft chair but he refused it and paced furiously back and forth. Himmler seemed uncomfortable at remaining seated while his king was on the move so he stood at his desk, his head going back and forth as if watching a tennis match.

“The Duke of Hamburg, here, has just arrived with news,” the king said. “Tell the chancellor what you have told me, Gerhardt.”

The duke, a stocky man with a bushy beard, nodded crisply and said, “One of my many spies in the Norselands, crossed the channel into Germania to deliver a disturbing dispatch. It seems King Henry had led a large expedition to Gothenburg where he has defeated King Christian and has personally taken his head.”

“Whatever for?” Himmler cried. “What strategic purpose is to be gained from it? He would still need to approach us by sea if he wanted to move against us.”

The duke said, “I am informed he wished to seize the Norse iron mines.”

“Again, I ask why?” Himmler said. “He has iron mines, we have iron mines. They are not so rare throughout Europa.”

“I too asked this question,” Frederick said. “Listen to the reason.”

“The reason is this,” the duke said. “Henry has a new arrival to his kingdom, a man who has some knowledge of weapons and metal works. He has advised the king that he can make superior cannon with Swedish iron, as it is stronger. Furthermore, he has designed a new large cannon that is said to make a singing noise when fired.”

“Singing?” Himmler asked.

“Yes, singing. The ball is said to sing as it makes its way vast distances to its target. My spy was at a tavern in Gothenburg and heard Henry’s sailors speak of it. This weapon was decisive in the victory at sea over the Iberians.”

Himmler banged his desk in fury. “We are at a great disadvantage not having an ambassador at Henry’s court. Rainald handled the matter clumsily. He was not cunning enough in his diplomacy. We should have known of this new man and procured him for ourselves.”

Frederick fixed Emily with his watery eyes. “What manner of cannon sings?”

“You’re asking me?” she said.

“Such impertinence,” the duke yelped, sniffing the air at Emily’s scent.

“It is her way,” Himmler sighed. “She is like a wild horse in need of breaking, and believe me, I will break her.”

Emily folded her arms truculently and mumbled that they’d see about that then added, “I don’t know a damn thing about cannon, singing ones, dancing ones, any ones.”

“In any event, there is more news. Worse news,” the duke said, ignoring her. “As soon as Henry has made more of these new cannon his intention is to sail his fleet to the lowlands, march to Paris, his army augmented by several thousand newly conscripted Norse soldiers, and engage Maximilien. Should his singing cannon win him the day, he will add French troops to his numbers and surely march on us.”

Himmler forewent protocol and sat back down behind his desk, his cheeks blanched.

“Well,” Frederick demanded, “what can we do?”

Himmler gazed at the ceiling, as if looking for answers. “Our army is powerful, the best in Europa, but if Henry is able to defeat the French and combine forces, we are in jeopardy.”

“Is there nothing this woman can do to advance our defenses?” the king asked.

While Emily shook her head emphatically, Himmler replied that in time, perhaps, but not immediately. “We will have to seek a hasty and strategic alliance. We have little choice.”

“With whom?” the duke asked. “The French or the Italians will never make allegiance with us. There is too much bad blood. ”

“Nor the Iberians,” Frederick said. “They will be too lately weakened by their defeat at sea.”

Himmler found his answer on the ceiling. “It will have to be the Russians.”

“You suggest we dance with the bear?” the duke said. “Do you wish us to be mauled?”

“I don’t believe we have a better choice,” Himmler said. “It is a dangerous ploy, and we will have to take every precaution, but this is my recommendation as chancellor.”

The king surveyed the room and seeing and hearing no objection said, “Very well. Send your steam machines to Moscow with an armed troop to guard my emissary against rovers and the like. Have him carry a coded message for our ambassador. Tell him to quickly conclude a treaty with that loathsome man.”

Emily’s curiosity got the better of her and she had to ask, “Which man is that?”

The corners of Himmler’s mouth curled unpleasantly when he answered. “Joseph Stalin, of course.”

John disguised himself in his smelly cloak and set about to reconnoiter Borgia’s palace with Luca, Antonio, and Simon. The piazza outside the palace was crowded with market stalls filled with men trying to earn a few coins selling foodstuffs and odds and ends to the king’s courtiers.

Simon, who was always hungry, bought a few rolls and distributed them to his comrades to munch upon as they walked the perimeter.

“We should talk among ourselves so we do not look so suspicious,” Luca said.

“About what?” Antonio said.

“I don’t have any ideas,” Simon said. “We’ve done nothing but speak to each other for two weeks.”

John took the bull by the horns and said, “I haven’t seen any women around Giuseppe’s house. Doesn’t he have a lady in his life?”

Simon thought about it. “Aside from the likes of an old housekeeper or a seamstress I’ve never seen one about. At least not a lady to grace one’s bedchamber.”

“Nor I,” Luca said.

Antonio chimed in, “He told me once that he is too old to worry about women. He prefers his dogs. They demand less and offer an old man more.”

“How about you, Antonio?” John asked. “You seem like a ladies’ man.”

“I am a fighting man, not a lady’s man, signore. I live on the road. I take a whore from time to time but I have neither the time nor the money to support a woman. Maybe if our master achieves his goals then my life will change.”

“And I know who he would have then,” Luca said playfully.

“Who?” Antonio challenged.

“Borgia’s queen, that’s who. Caterina Sforza. I have seen him step on his tongue when her coach passes by.”

“Well, she is a beauty,” Antonio said.

“Dream on,” Simon said. “Tell me, John, what’s your Emily like?”

“She’s smarter than I am by a mile, she’s beautiful, funny, strong, mentally and physically. She’s an amazing woman. I hope you get a chance to meet her.”

Simon patted John’s shoulder. “She sounds wonderful.”

“Put it this way,” John said, “I’d follow her to Hell.”

Borgia’s palace appeared to be extremely well defended. The walls were high and John could see by peering through the main gate that they were also thick. Guards patrolled the battlements with muskets and the inner and outer iron portculli looked like they could be dropped in seconds to seal the main gate. His assessment was that it would take heavy and sustained cannon fire to breach the walls and a substantial well-armed invasion force to make entry and secure a victory.

Retreating to Garibaldi’s palazzo the men regrouped and dined with the duke.

“So you are not optimistic,” Garibaldi said.

“I can’t see a brute force approach easily succeeding,” John said. “You could set up conventional cannon at close range, assuming you could move them into position without engaging the enemy, and with enough time, I suppose you could punch through but your chances of taking the castle are speculative.”

“What about your singing cannon?” Simon asked.

“Yeah, we could build you some, providing you’ve got a good forge and good iron, but they wouldn’t offer a particular advantage. They increase range and accuracy but there’s no long-range line of sight to the castle, no high ground. You might be able to lob some rounds in from a distance but it’s going to be a hit and miss proposition.”

Garibaldi speared a piece of fruit. “We need to cut off the head of the snake. We need Borgia. His nobles and his army will accede to my command once he is neutralized. I know it.”

John drank some ale. His head was still hurting from the previous night’s brandy, and absent modern pain relievers the best he could do was administer the hair of the dog. “If you’re confident about that, Giuseppe, then why not try a targeted assassination, like the gambit that was tried on you last night?”

“He’s too well protected. His most trusted advisors and nobles are never truly alone with him. There’s always a ring of steel surrounding his person. He won’t even bed a woman without guards at hand in his boudoir. He won’t eat a morsel without a taster. He’s lasted as long as he has by being more than prudent. He trusts no one. Perhaps Machiavelli was closest to him but he is no more and with him missing he will be even more on guard.”

John suddenly smiled at the audacity of the idea that had sprung full-blown into his aching head. “Why don’t we use a Trojan horse?”

Garibaldi shook his head and scoffed, “I rather doubt he’d be foolish enough to wheel a large wooden horse into his palace. He is too well schooled in the lessons of antiquity.”

“I’m not suggesting a wooden horse. I’m suggesting me.”

The forge, located at the end of a small lane in the northern reaches of Milan, backed up against a field of tall grasses. John waited outside while Antonio had a discussion with the blacksmith. Luca and Simon stayed behind with Garibaldi at his palazzo to work on other logistics. Antonio emerged from the forge and ushered John in when the business with the smith was settled.

“Franco is a friend,” Antonio said, clasping the short, powerful man on his bare shoulders. “He will help us.”

The smith hesitated when John extended his hand but with Antonio’s gentle prodding, he took it in friendship and amazement.

“It’s hard to believe,” he said in Italian.

“Show him what you need,” Antonio urged John.

Garibaldi had given John one of his precious sheets of paper and a charcoal pencil and he had made some sketches to demonstrate his design.

The three men drew closer to the furnace for light. It was far smaller than William’s cannon furnace, but it would do. The ironworkers, a group of a dozen or so shirtless men, sampled the air as John passed them by and at least pretended to mind their own business.

With Antonio translating, John showed Franco his drawings. The smith seemed to grasp the idea immediately but Antonio was puzzled.

“What do you call it?” Franco asked.