1636_The Vatican Sanction Page 31

  A tall Hibernian—it was Hastings himself—was striding quickly toward the crossroads, barking orders to a group of soldiers with rifles at the ready. He then sent a runner—whom Dolor recognized as one frequently used by Urban’s security chiefs—across the street to the Palais Granvelle. Whatever he told, threatened, or promised the boy was obviously a major incentive: he sprinted so hard that he left a trail of dust in his wake.

  As Hastings walked toward the street that Dolor himself used to return to his abode, the Hibernian turned, pacing backwards while he stared up, up, and up—until he was signaling to his man in St. Peter’s bell-tower. The highest in city center, it was also where the Hibernians had stationed one of their observation posts, as well as one of their snipers. Whatever hand codes they exchanged now—effected with the speed and surety of true professionals—were not ones that Dolor had seen before. but when they were done, the sniper rose and began moving around to the northern compass point of the tower.

  The part that looked back across the graveyard at an angle, and ultimately, in the direction of Dolor’s rooms.

  Dolor slowed, keeping his face calm but moderately interested: the kind of expression that would be expected from a curious tradesman momentarily distracted from his business. The likelihood that this could have anything to do with his men, with his operation, was incalculably small. There had been no error, no oversight, no clues left that could lead Urban’s security forces to him. Keeping on his original path, he crossed the street, well behind the half dozen Hibernians following in Hastings’ wake.

  More activity from the direction of the palace caught Dolor’s attention; he was careful not to turn to observe it, but simply notice it peripherally once it came closer. Which it did, the sound of running feet growing until they seemed ready to cross his path…

  Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz sprinted past, holding his scabbarded rapier tightly so that it did not bounce or tangle, moving far faster than the thirteen-year-old who had fetched him. Indeed, moving far faster than any man his age should logically be able to move. But Dolor saw what his incentive was soon enough.

  Turning the corner into the street, he saw Sanchez heading toward a knot of individuals, perhaps one hundred yards down the street, not far short of where Dolor himself would turn off to head to his lodgings. After a moment, the heads and shoulders in that group moved enough to show a profile—and a complexion—that were unique in Besançon: Sharon Nichols. And right next to her, as always, was her short guard and radioman. Although currently, it seemed to be the latter role that occupied his attention. Holding one of their enviably portable wireless sets, the Hibernian—Finan: yes, that was his name—moved in a slow circle. And as the radio’s unusual antenna—a hoop, not a simple wire—turned like a gaping mouth in the direction of Dolor’s flat, the group became excited again, pointing in that same direction, and then to a map that Ambassador Nichols was holding as if all at once stunned, triumphant, and worried.

  Dolor adopted the expression that would be most inconsistent with what he felt—resigned boredom—and shuffled away from the disturbance and into one of the smaller streets that wound its way into the collection of houses.

  And would ultimately lead to the alleys he could follow to his house’s back window.

  He maintained his pace. And hastily contemplated contingencies he had never imagined needing.

  * * *

  Even when Ruy arrived at a full sprint, the sense of general anxiety that had been growing like a tight fist behind Sharon Nichols’ sternum did not go away; it simply ceased getting any larger.

  She looked around at the ring of strangely unemotional faces; Hastings, six of his Hibernians, six Burgundian soldiers, and even Finan all had reduced affect. Their eyes no longer revealed anything going on inside of them; they were unblinking visual intake organs and nothing more. It was not the look she associated with violence. That was often the reverse: wide nostrils and eyes, lips tight, often pulled back slightly, faces flushed. No; this was the look of war, of men resolving themselves to violence to come. And, she always thought, of an emptying of their own humanity.

  It wasn’t a criticism. Anything but: at least twice in the past year, men wearing that look had been instrumental in saving her life and those of her embassy staff. And she understood why they wore it, why they emptied themselves of humanity: because what soon followed was its opposite. No matter how precise the planning, how professional the conduct, war was always an encroachment of primeval savagery upon civilization. And the ease with which it did so was a horrifying reminder of just how thin a veneer of ritualized codes and courtesies civilization actually was.

  Only Ruy’s face was still truly human, but she could see that part of him—the part that knew how she felt about such situations, was concerned for her emotional well-being—was already hardening around the edges, chilled by the approach of cold, brutal necessity. Before she could stop it, she shivered—not out of personal fear, but visceral loathing for what was almost sure to come next.

  A surge of concern momentarily thawed Ruy’s stiffening expression. “Sharon, my—” He stopped and she could read the reason in his eyes: her rank and his role. In this particular place and time, there was no room for personal sentiment, for any expression of intimacy. Every gesture, every nuance, was now carefully circumscribed according the terrible formalities, the final rituals of order, before the plunge into chaos. “How may I help you?” Ruy said with great gravity, his eyes caressing and soothing her as his hands and arms could not.

  “I’m fine, Ruy. I’m just—well, this is the part I don’t look forward to.”

  It was Finan who spoke through a rueful smile. “An’ it please the Ambassador, none of us do.”

  Hastings nodded sharply. “All the more reason to get about it, and quickly.”

  Ruy’s nod was deep and profound, rather than brusque. “What do we know?”

  Sharon pointed to the map, letting her finger hover above a dense cluster of houses overlooking the graveyard—terribly fitting, she realized with a chill along her arms and spine. “We just got a final result from Zehenter, which places the transmission source here. Almost certainly this larger building.”

  Ruy nodded. “And where is Zehenter now?”

  Keeping her finger on the graveyard-facing line of buildings, Sharon moved her finger forty yards farther away from St. Peter’s. “About there.”

  “And who is with him?”

  “A pair of Burgundian soldiers.”

  Ruy nodded. “Are you still using runners?”

  “Yes.”

  Hastings nodded, in the annoying way that military men did when they began to understand the tactical importance of the questions another soldier was asking a civilian, foreseeing the operational intent through some combination of professional training and experience. Which, Sharon reminded herself, was a phenomenon even more prevalent among doctors. So she didn’t have much room to complain.

  Hastings pointed to where Zehenter’s team was on the map. “We’ll want them to stay in the shadows at this point. Ambassador, is there any further advantage to be gained from using the radios for—er, for—”

  “Direction finding,” Sharon supplied.

  “Yes, thank you: any further use for that?”

  Sharon shrugged. “I suppose we could narrow the source down a bit more. But I figured that, if we are on the trail of assassins, they might have a lookout. And if we got too close—”

  Hastings nodded. “Ambassador, your instincts were perfect. And if I understand you correctly, we are now free to move our radios to a different frequency to coordinate directly with Zehenter.”

  Sharon nodded. “Yes. If you think that’s safe.”

  Hastings shrugged. “As long as we keep to our own code, I suspect we’ll be fine.” He looked around the rest of the group. “However, from here on, we must make any further approaches very carefully.” He crooked a finger at the oldest of the runners they had retained. “Take this message to the
observation post in St. Peter’s: we need a telescope scan of these four buildings”—he pointed at the suspected tangle of houses on the map—“to see if any of them look suspicious in any way. Have the observer send the outpost’s runner with the report.” The adolescent lad looked stricken by this exclusion; Hastings explained. “Their runner won’t be winded and we need the report as quickly as possible. Go.”

  As the young fellow dashed off, the lieutenant glanced at the remaining runners. “Have any of you been in any of these buildings?” One of the younger lads put up a hand. “Describe it.”

  This boy’s English was very limited. “Room is one. Low roof. No clean.”

  “How long since you were there?”

  The boy thought. “Four, five month, but no change.”

  Hastings rubbed his chin. “So a filthy, low-ceilinged single room. Apparently no new tenants recently. Not our target, I think.”

  “No,” Ruy agreed, “but possibly a source of information on their neighbors. Particularly any relatively new neighbors.” Hastings seemed ready to send a Burgundian to make inquiries, but Ruy put up a hand. “Let us wait until we receive the observer’s report. In the meantime, let us send one of your Hibernians and one Burgundian to each of these street corners.” Ruy ran his fingertip from point to point until he had essentially drawn a large box around the houses in question. “From these corners, our men can monitor significant or suspicious movement into or out of the area of interest without being visible to anyone inside it.”

  Hastings sent the men on their way. “Anything else?”

  Ruy glanced at the two remaining Hibernians. “Send one of them to Zehenter, along with another local soldier.”

  Hastings frowned. “Should we split our forces so completely?”

  Ruy smiled. “Have you ever hunted with hounds and riders, Lieutenant?”

  Hastings’ answer may have been a bit stiff; as an Englishman, he may have heard an oblique social denigration in the hidalgo’s question. “I have not had that pleasure, Colonel.”

  Ruy’s answer clearly put him at his ease. “Trust me, Hastings, you are not missing anything. However, think on it this way. Early in the hunt, particularly if the prey is potentially dangerous, you start by surrounding it. Without also alerting it, if that is at all possible. Once you have it contained in an area of your choosing, then you bring your forces back together.” He smiled. “We are still hunting what may turn out to be a very dangerous bear. If so, then we will regather in such a way to ensure that it cannot escape. For you may trust that I am obedient to this one military axiom, Lieutenant: I will not allow my forces to be divided in the face of an enemy.”

  Lieutenant Hastings almost smiled back. “Very good, sir. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Each of your squads carries a lantern that can be used as an Aldis lamp, do they not?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Excellent. Who in the team is carrying it?”

  “Our signals specialist, Feuchtwangen. I take it you wish him to be the man I send to Zehenter?” At Ruy’s nod, Hastings leaned toward the man, murmured a frequency number, then turned to Sharon. “Ambassador, if you would be so kind as to instruct Finan to establish contact with—”

  “Yes, with Zehenter on the new frequency, as soon as Feuchtwanger delivers it,” interrupted Sharon, who was determined not to be pigeonholed as the token clueless civilian. “That way, Zehenter’s group can work as our communications center; they’ll be able to signal to the tower from the shadows with the Aldis lamp and relay to us via radio. That way, everyone stays on the same page. Is that about right?”

  Sharon’s grin was mostly patient, but she was just a bit peeved, too. She could tell that Hastings had been about to explain all that, but take twice as long while also making it sound far more difficult. She harbored a secret delight when she saw the tall Englishman’s gaze falter uncertainly; damn, just because I hate watching you zombies prepare for a battle doesn’t mean I don’t understand what you’re doing. She turned to Ruy, who was doing his best to hide a small grin. “Now what?”

  “Now,” Ruy said, folding his hands in his trademark philosophical pose, “we wait for news.”

  Chapter 29

  Finan looked up from the radio. “I’m in contact with Zehenter.”

  Ruy nodded. “Very good. Send the following: ‘Message begins. Remain in shadows against buildings. Stop. Establish Aldis light exchange with observer in St. Peter. Stop. Request reconnaissance updates from same. Stop. Signal when all achieved. End.’ And here comes our preliminary report from the bell-tower.” He gestured behind Sharon, who turned to see a runner raising a trail of dust as he came toward them. As she turned away, Ruy used that moment to adjust his shoulder holster, which always tended to ride up a little. Now the up-time revolver would come out without snagging on his buff-coat (more likely) or the armpit rim of his cuirass (much less likely).

  He had his hand back in a casual position on his hip by the time Sharon turned back around, her eyes following the young man as he pattered to a panting halt in their midst. When he straightened up out of his post-sprint cramp, Ruy asked, “So, then: what message?”

  “The gentleman—the observer—says…it must be…the middle house. The one…with two…stories.”

  Ruy nodded to Sharon, who held out the map. Ruy speared the building he had suspected from the start with his index finger. “This one?”

  “Oui—yes. That is the one. All the windows. On the north side. Are shuttered. No other houses. Have windows. Shut like that. All the others have them. Open for the breeze.” The fellow stopped wheezing. “The gentleman says that the second story windows of this house always appear this way, ever since they were given duty in the bell-tower. They thought that one of the upstairs flats was shut up, maybe—empty—during their first month. But the windows do open. Sometimes. Never for long.”

  “Did he report on seeing any people there?”

  “Only once, twice. Four or five different men. Only men. Not much furniture. Nothing on the walls, not even a cross. At least not where he could see it. But it was clean.”

  Hastings frowned. “Come again?”

  That idiom confused the young besontsint for a moment; then: “The walls that he can see, and the parts of the floor—are never dirty. They do not dry their laundry on lines. So they must do it in the rooms. But when they do, the shutters are not open.”

  Ruy nodded. “Not just simple bachelor laborers or tradesmen, from the sound of it. But before we decide we have found our target—tell me: were the other buildings all normal? Nothing unusual?”

  The runner nodded. “Normal. Clothes drying, people shouting—men, women, children—all leaning out from the open windows to cool off when it was hot last week. Sometimes, when there was snow, chamber pots being emptied when they thought no one would see.”

  Hastings folded his arms. “The second story of that first building does sound a likely place to visit.”

  Ruy nodded, turned slowly to Sharon, hoping she would not become irate over what had to come next. “Sharon, without you, without your expertise and ideas, we would have missed these persons, whoever they turn out to be. But now, I must ask you to return, with one of the soldiers, to the Palais Granvelle. We must now move toward—”

  “I know exactly what you’re moving toward, Ruy Sanchez, and you’re not going there without me.”

  Ruy smiled sadly—and he was genuinely sad; he hated disappointing his wife, but…“My peerless and irreplaceable wife, you are the USE’s ambassador to this place. Not a soldier. It was madness risking you out on the streets with such scant protection in the first place.”

  “Yes, well, as the ambassador, I call the shots. Including this one. I’m coming.”

  “My dear,” Ruy said, noticing he sounded as though he had an intolerable stomachache, “I cannot obey that order.”

  “Ruy, husband or no—”

  “Sharon. My darling. I am not disobeying your order because I am your husband
. I am disobeying your order because I must also answer to Pope Urban, Estuban Miro, and beyond him, Edward Piazza. And beyond him, Michael Stearns. They, too, have given me duties, and I feel certain that they would unanimously agree that I would be derelict in those duties if I was to allow the ambassador of the USE to remain so close to what might prove to be a hazardous area. So, my dear, must I repeat my entreaty that you leave?”

  Sharon was staring at the ground, very hard, as if her gaze might crack it open and a new alternative might arise from it. When she looked up suddenly, Ruy had the terrible premonition that, figuratively speaking, that had just occurred. “Very well. I accept that there is no extenuating circumstance that requires me, as ambassador, to remain in this area. So I will not stay for that reason. Instead, I am staying because I am the only person capable of genuine forensics and adequate analysis of evidence. Whatever happens next, I am essential to a timely investigation of what you find in those rooms.”

  Ruy opened his mouth but nothing came out. He had assumed that a glib and reasonable counter would present itself almost immediately. But as his agile mind flitted over the various rebuttals that presented themselves, he rapidly found flaws in every one. And if he gave Sharon just one more second—

  As it turned out, she didn’t need another second. “Forget it, Ruy. You’re not going to come up with a way to get rid of me. You can’t know ahead of time that whatever you find in this building is going to be the whole assassination plot, tied up in a neat package, and fully resolved by your actions. And if it’s not, then you need someone with skill in forensics and crime scene assessment to preserve the clues that might lead us to any further culprits that might still be lurking in Besançon once you’re done playing Miami Vice in there.”

  “Playing what?”