1635 The Papal Stakes: Chapter Nineteen

    Sherrilyn’s voice was calm. “The carriages are moving.”

    “Is Juliet back with her street-urchins?”

    “Harry.” An English-accented mezzo piped up from below. “I’m right down here in the street.”

    Thomas North smiled. What ears that woman had! There was no under-the-breath spousal grumbling in big George Sutherland’s house, that much was certain.…

    Juliet added, “– and I am currently surrounded by eager palms that want to be filled.”

    “With bread?”

    “No. With quatrines.”

    “Robbers.”

    “They take after their idol, Harry” –

    – Who smiled. “Okay, give ‘em what they want. We can’t lose track of Frank and Giovanna, now — whichever carriage they turn out to be in. This could still be our opportunity to grab them.”

    Thomas suppressed a start of surprise. An opportunity to grab them? There were four carriages, one with the Barberini family crest stained with the brown-maroon of dried blood, all starting out from the front of Palazzo Rospigliosi. All had opaque leather blinds bound in place to cover the windows, and each had a cavalry escort. North failed to see how this was an opportunity to retake the hostages.

    Thirty minutes ago, when the first of the carriages and cavalry began pulling up in front of the palazzo, Harry had started issuing preparatory orders for ambushing what he presumed would simply be a well-escorted prisoner transfer. But he had also had the foresight to suggest that Juliet should summon the young minions she had recruited over the past two days, in the event that there was more than one potential target to keep track of. The youngsters had responded swiftly; since many of them were related to lefferti — both alive and dead — they were glad and excited to do something that might injure the Spanish.

    And it was now obvious that today, Spanish security was not merely going to be the product of strength, but guile: the carriages were arranged to move separately, rather than en convoy. Thankfully, Harry was a flexible tactician; he now revised his earlier orders with admirable dispatch. “Sherrilyn, take your team up to the roof; use the flue to relay reports down to me here. The rest of you” — his gaze took in the remaining members of the Wrecking Crew, except Thomas — “get down to the ground floor. And be ready to split up; we may have to follow more than one of those carriages.”

    By the time Harry was done giving orders, his binoculars were already back up to his eyes. And Lefferts’ very next word told North that his own fears regarding the Spanish plans had been vindicated: “Shit.”

    North was pretty sure of the answer, but asked anyway. “What’s happening?”

    “Two of the carriages are heading northeast, toward the Quirinale. The other two are heading south; they’ll pass right under our window.”

    “Probably making for the Corso. Harry, if these pairs split up” — which they will — “we’re not going to be able to chase all of them.”

    “Damn it,” muttered Lefferts. “I just didn’t expect them to play ‘shell game’ with us.”

    “Yes, a bit unsporting. And even if we could follow them all, there’s no way any of the groups doing so would be large enough to mount a successful ambush and retake the hostages.”

    Harry thought for a moment and then leaned over toward the fireplace, shouting up the flue. “All right: here’s the new plan, Sherrilyn. You keep eyes on the targets as long as we can. I’ll watch from here, too, but will mostly be coordinating with our guys on the ground floor. Juliet’s kids should be able to keep up with the carriages easily enough to see where they all go. Rome’s widest streets are still none too wide, so they’re not going anywhere too quickly. When we’re no longer able to keep track of them from this vantage point, we’ll choose the most likely shell under which the Spanish have hidden the hostages and go after that one.”

    “Carefully,” amended North.

    “Not so carefully that we’re too late to strike, if the opportunity presents itself.”

    Thomas nodded, but thought: if it’s not already too late.

 

---

 

    “Well, spank me hard and call me Sally.” Sherrilyn saw her team, Felix Kasza and Donald Ohde, start slightly. She smiled. However profane the men of the Wrecking Crew thought themselves — and they had good reason for that self-image — they were always startled when a provocative new colloquialism came from Sherrilyn.

    Donald recovered first. “What’s up?”

    “Not our odds of grabbing the hostages,” Sherrilyn answered. She pointed, keeping her eyes planted on the binoculars. “One coach is going northeast along the Via Recta, but it looks like it’s preparing to turn left. Probably to head north along the Strada Felice. Another carriage has gone west. I can’t see it just now, but — yeah, there it is, turning right to get on the Corso, heading north.”

    From down below, Harry’s annoyed shout hooted out of the flue at her right elbow. “Sherrilyn, you seein’ all this?”

    “Yeah, I’m seeing what you’re seeing and more.”

    “What’s happened to the two that just passed beneath us?”

    Sherrilyn pivoted on her heels, scanned with the binoculars, and caught sight of the boxy carriages swaying into and out of view beyond the buildings to the southwest. “They’re still going southwest along the Via Recta — no, wait; one has just veered into a small westbound street.”

    “What’s over there?”

    “Nothing. They’re probably taking a shortcut to get to the Strada papale.”

    “And the other?”

    “Looks like they’re following along to the end of the Via Recta. Again, nothing much in that direction, unless they’re looking to get to the Via dell’Aracoeli. And — wait a minute.”

    “What?”

    Sherrilyn strained her eyes; were those two mounted men, far behind the last carriage, also following it? They just seemed like ordinary travelers from the look of it, but –

    No. She caught the glint of a light steel gorget when the one closer to her vantage point turned to look behind and his collar gapped, revealing the neck armor beneath. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see the telltale signs of a plainclothes tail. The overstuffed saddle bags that probably concealed weapons, the buff gloves, the way they sat their horses: they were military.

    And they were now looking with increased interest at two of Juliet’s child-recruits. Looking at them very attentively as they followed along behind the coach, playacting the part of a lord and lady. The two horsemen urged their mounts into a slightly faster walk, peering at the two nine-year-olds more closely. And mouth suddenly hanging open, Sherrilyn realized why:

    My god, those horsemen are not merely security; they’re the watchers for anyone who tries to follow the carriage surreptitiously. They’re watching for us.

 

---

 

    “So, we’re busted? Totally?” Harry rubbed his chin meditatively.

    Sherrilyn nodded. “This shell-game they staged: it was a set-up. To see who, if anyone, would follow.”

    “Pretty crafty,” admitted Harry.

    “More than that.”

    Harry turned to look at North. “What do you mean?”

    “I mean this tactic of theirs was damned near oracular in its presumptions. Here we are in Rome, conducting reconnaissance preparatory to a hostage rescue. First they give us exactly what we want to see: the hostages, about to move into the open. But then they throw us what you Americans call a ‘curve ball’: our objective, although right under our noses, is now moving in one of four possible directions. Thereby baiting us to make a weak attempt to get the hostages now, either by hitting all the coaches, or by striking blind at one or two. At the very least, they figure we might reveal ourselves by following a little too eagerly, a little too closely. All staged so they can either strike us preemptively, or at least get a look at our methods and some of our personnel.”

    Harry frowned. “Are you saying we’ve been ratted out?”

    “Eh? Oh, you mean an informer from our side?” North shook his head. “No, I very much doubt that.”

    North felt Sherrilyn’s eyes studying him closely as she asked, “Why do you doubt it?”

    North had to think that through: his tactical instincts had raced ahead of his deductions. “Any informer who knows enough to betray us would have solid information regarding our numbers and our general appearance. Whoever is behind this shell game ploy would have used that information to craft a more precise plan to lure us into killing range.

    “I suspect he anticipates that someone will try to rescue Frank and Giovanna, and that they will logically be sent by the USE. But beyond that, I doubt he has anything more than guesswork, although I wouldn’t be surprised if the Wrecking Crew is high on his list of probable rescuers.”

    “Then he’d have numbers and identities, right there.”

    “Maybe. But from what I heard during my own travels, Harry, intelligence on the Wrecking Crew is pretty sketchy other than that you are its very visible and distinctive leader. How many members the Crew has, and how consistently you all operate together, is unclear. For instance, people in London are convinced that Julie Sims is a part of the Wrecking Crew, thanks to that sharp shooting during the Tower of London escape.”

 

---

 

    “A classic, that one.” Harry beamed at the walls in happy reminiscence.

    “Yes, the talk of Europe. Which unfortunately, may be hurting us now.”

    “Whaddya mean?”

    “Well, commando teams are useful, in large measure, because they are covert. Covert, as in unseen and unknown.”

    Harry frowned. “I guess I see your point. We’re not exactly an unknown quantity.”

    “Harry, I think it might be worse that that. It’s possible that whoever is running the show on the other side of the curtain may have made a study of your methods. Let’s ignore your technological edge, for a moment. None of your strikes to date could be pulled off without a great deal of advance reconnaissance. That means you, or your agents, observe a target before you strike, often for a long time. That means you are in your area of operations well before you drop the hammer.”

    Harry nodded. “And so, the guy running the show for the Spanish today put out Frank and Giovanna as bait, figuring that even if he didn’t know where we were, that we’d be somewhere close by, probably watching. Maybe being tempted to do something stupid.”

    Thomas nodded. “That’s the gist of it.”

    The Crew, sans George and Juliet, had been silent throughout the quick council of war that had been summoned on the rooftop. It was Donald Ohde who looked out over the half-classical, half-ramshackle Roman cityscape. “So do we know anything else?”

    Sherrilyn had taken another quick, four-points-peek with her binoculars. “The coaches are moving pretty slowly, except the one that went north on Strada Felice in the direction of the Pincio.”

    “Toward the old embassy and the Palazzo Barberini,” nodded Harry.

    “Yeah. They’re moving at a pretty good clip. Juliet’s kids are not going to keep up with that one. Besides, the farther north they go, the more sparse the crowds and the houses. The kids are going to start sticking out more, particularly when they have to start running to keep up. And they’ve been told not to be obvious, so I think we have to assume that they’ll stop following that coach any minute now.”

    “Does that coach seem to be in more of a rush than the others?” Thomas could hear the predatory anticipation in Harry’s tone.

    Sherrilyn shrugged. “Hard to tell. Maybe they are. But it might just be that there’s a whole lot less traffic out there. So it might be that those Spanish want to move faster, or simply that they can move faster.”

    Donald Ohde nodded. “And the other coaches?”

    “I’ve lost sight of the two that went south and west.”

    “Any guess where they might have been headed?”

    Sherrilyn consulted her map: a tangled composite of modern and recent cartography. “The first one which turned off the Via Recta could follow along the Strada papale, or might be making for the Ponte Sisto, and over the river into the Trastevere district. It’s a rat-warren over there. The one that went south — that’s even harder to say: maybe toward the Forum, maybe toward the new palazzi north of the Jewish ghetto, maybe all the way to Isola Tiberina. Again, a maze.”

    Harry nodded thoughtfully. “And the closer one that went north?”

    Sherrilyn raised her binoculars in that direction. “Still on the Corso, moving slowly.”

    “And the kids got chased away from that one?”

    “Yeah, the outriders seemed to assume that our kids were beggar urchins, trying to trail along and stick out their palms at the quality when they finally got wherever they were going. So we’ll have no way to know if that’s the one carrying Frank and Giovanna.”

    Thomas cleared his throat. “I would make one addition to Ms. Maddox’s summation. We cannot actually be sure that Frank and Giovanna are in any of the coaches. Our informer in the Spanish command indicated that this transfer was taking place, and we have certainly observed movement consistent with a transfer. But how do we know — know for sure — that, in the end, the hostages really have been relocated? Or that they were conveyed to a new prison by one of the four coaches? As far as we know, they could have been sealed in an old barrel being removed for disposal from a rear entrance.”

    Harry nodded. “Okay. That makes it imperative we get a pair of eyes on each of the coaches we can still see to follow. So we’ve got to put a new tail back on the northbound coach. The same goes for the one that’s headed for the Pincio along the Strada Felice. We’ve at least got to have someone trail them in an attempt to determine — even if it’s after the fact — where they deposited their passengers. If they’ve got passengers, that is.”

    Donald shouldered his gear. “Right. Teams?”

    “Juliet stays behind here. The kids will eventually return and make their reports on the southerly wagons, and they’ll all want their quatrines. And she’ll need to set up some occasional watches on wherever those southbound coaches dropped off their passengers.”

    “I’ll tell the missus.” George started down the stairs.

    “Not so fast, George; tell her on the way out.” Harry turned to Thomas. “You, Sherrilyn, and Felix will follow the coach going north along the Corso. When you find where it has stopped, break off, and head east to rendezvous with us one block west of Palazzo Barberini. The rest of us will fall back on that point as soon as we’ve finished following the coach heading toward the Pincio along the Strada Felice.”

    “They’ve got a long head start on you, and that’s quite a walk.” Thomas considered the manpower in each group. “Why so many people in your group, Harry?”

    “Because” — and Lefferts started shouldering his own gear — “I’ve got a funny feeling about that coach heading to the Pincio. There isn’t a lot up there.”

    “So?”

    “So, they must have anticipated that that one would move faster. And if Frank and Giovanna are in one of those coaches, that’s the one they’d want to make sure we can’t cut off. And oddly enough, the coach heading to the Pincio is the only one of the four that is arguably getting away. I find that –” he turned and smiled like a wolf seeing a lame rabbit ” — suspicious. It could be an opportunity, too. If they get a little too cocky, if they think they’re safe and out of our reach, well, I want most of the Crew’s manpower on hand to take advantage of their mistake.”

    Thomas nodded. Yes, that all sounded good, and maybe Harry was right. But on the other hand, Lefferts was counting on the kind of slipup that Thomas doubted their opponent would make. Their unknown adversary seemed too methodical to create a situation in which the hostages would be easily snapped up by the opposition.

    “We’re moving.” Harry headed for the stairs. “Now.”

 

---

 

    “Are you sure this is the place?” Owen asked in a low voice.

    John O’Neill looked up at the second story of the unfamiliar house. “I think so, but I’m not sure. When I was here, students stayed back there.” He waved farther down the street by which they had approached St. Isidore and its college, which was only a small wing added onto the church’s rectory.

    O’Neill looked up beyond the steep, flanking steps at the porticoed white façade of the church: two tall openings framed an even taller, wider archway that was in line with the doors. Bordered on three sides by the lush green vegetation of the largely unbuilt Pincio, Luke Wadding’s Irish College looked unchanged from when he had visited it, shortly after its opening ten years ago.

    Owen’s voice was still low, but was now worried, as well. “John, we can’t stay here. It’s too open, and we’re too many not to attract attention. Besides, the place is thick with Spaniards.”

    John frowned. Thick with Spaniards? Hardly. Well, not so much. But, now that he looked closer, beyond the two at the entry, and the two he’d seen leaning in the shade of the portico’s arches, there were several more that appeared occasionally in the windows of the rectory and annex. Not exactly patrols, or at least not strict ones. Just a continuous presence, moving irregularly through the whole complex.

    “John –”

    “Yeh, yeh. I’m cogitating, Cousin.”

    “Well, do it quickly, Johnnie. I think we’ve attracted the attention of the guards at the gate.”

    “Aye, so we have. Well, there’s nothing else for it then. You stay here. Stay in the house, actually.”

    “In this one just behind us?”

    “Of course.”

    “The door is locked.”

    “And you’re a mighty fellow. Besides, it seems like classes have been suspended. There’s been no sign of the students who should be running in and out of here, and no fires or domestics preparing dinner. Just wait until I’m distracting the guards at the church’s main gate before you bust into the house.”

    “You’re going to distract guards at the main gate? John, what are you going to do?”

    “Use the only kind of power these Spanish are likely to understand. Synnot, McEgan: with me.”

    “What? John –”

    But John was already walking briskly across the Strada Felice, approaching St. Isidore’s along a small side-road from the west. The two morioned Spaniards at the gate exchanged long looks. One of them took a step forward, a hand raised. “Non si puó.” The Spanish guard’s Italian was ragged. “Chiesa chiusa.”

 

---

 

    “Hablo español bien.”

    The Spanish looked at each other again, clearly surprised.

    Keeping to their language, John continued: “Besides, I doubt St. Isidore’s is closed to me.”

    “And who are you?”

    John produced his travel papers and a copy of his commission. “I am Lord John O’Neill, the third earl of Tyrone, Colonel of tercio O’Neill under Archduchess Isabella of the Spanish Low Countries. Etcetera etcetera etcetera. But most important, I am an old friend and student of Padre Luca. Whom I wish to see.”

    Again the Spanish looked at each other. One more time, John thought, and it wouldn’t even make for a good comedy routine, anymore. “Is he expecting you?” one of them finally asked.

    “I don’t really know,” John lied with a smile. “A letter was sent, but delivery is a little uncertain these days.” He gestured at the skyline; the tattered silhouettes of burnt buildings, and their pervasive smell, were unmistakable.

    The Spanish nodded. “Yes. This is true. If the conde will be pleased to wait for one moment, I shall sent word to Father Luke tha –”

    John brushed past the man, putting on haughtiness like a heavy cloak. “I will announce myself. I have not traveled so far, through such filth, to wait like a boy on the doorstep.”

    He could hear the rapid conference fading behind him, and then one set of footfalls growing louder. “Lord, Conde Tyrone — please. We have orders. We cannot allow you to pass us without –”

    “Well, then, don’t allow me to pass you. Come along. Announce me as I arrive, if you must.” Clearly not what the Spaniard was going to suggest, but perhaps a course of action he could accept, rather than contradicting or denying a noble a second time.

    True to form, the Spanish trooper strode briskly ahead. Behind, John heard the other one exclaim, after them, “Roberto, no! You cannot take him in –” And, soft and almost inaudible behind that exclamation, John heard the pop of a flimsy lock being broken. Which meant that Owen and the rest of the Wild Geese were now in the abandoned dormitory, having done so while the last guard’s back and attention were turned away.

    O’Neill reached the stairs that led up to St. Isidore’s entrance and started up, suddenly feeling ten years younger, possibly because of the memories of the place, but more likely because he was breaking rules and taking chances.

 

---

 

    Sherrilyn, her short hair tied back and hat pulled low, turned right off the Via di Condotti. She was not following the coach itself, but had insinuated herself into the clutter of reintegrating traffic the vehicle left in its wake, trying to ignore the growing pain in her knee. And as soon as she swung around the corner, and assessed the carriage’s status on the northbound stretch of the Via di Ripetta, she resisted the urge to dodge right back. That was too obvious, so she crouched down, as if searching for a dropped coin. Then she stood, making sure her back was now to the carriage, and limped back around the corner.

    And almost ran into Thomas North in the process. Who looked down at her knee. “Have you injured yourself, Ms. Maddox?”

    “Just an old sports injury. I’m fine. Here’s the situation: the coach has drawn up in front of the Villa Borghese. If anyone was riding in it, we’ve come too late to see.”

    “And you are so pale because –?”

    “Because the whole damned street is filled with Spanish troops, checking people. Checking everyone who stands still long enough to be checked, from the look of it.”

    “And not from any pain in your knee?”

    “Listen, shut about my knee. I’m fine.”

    Felix Kasza licked his lips. “With all the Spanish in the next street over, I am thinking it is time to leave, then?”

    North nodded. “I’d say so. As I recall the first briefing with Romulus, it was believed that Frank and Giovanna’s first prison was close to the Villa Borghese, wasn’t it, Ms. Maddox?”

    “Yep,” she answered, “they were penned right under Borja’s very feet, some thought. Are you thinking they’ve been brought back there?”

    Thomas North frowned as they started to amble casually away from the corner. “No. I don’t think so.”

    “Why?”

    “It just doesn’t feel right, not the sort of thing our opponent would do. Ask me ‘why’ again later; my brain may have caught up with my instincts, by then.”

 

---

 

    “What gives, Harry?” The outdated up-time expression sounded comically awkward coming from Matija. “Those three fellows just walked right past the guards and into St. Isidore’s Church.”

    Harry pocketed the small field glasses. “Not quite, Matija. The leader got stopped by the two guards at the gate, spoke with them a bit. Then he breezed past them.”

    Gerd smiled. “And one of them ran after him like a little bub, trying to make him stop.”

    “Hmmm. I don’t think it was quite that clear cut. Looks like the two Spanish guards wanted to stop him, didn’t have the authority to do so, and now one of them is ‘escorting’ him in.”

    “Leaving only one guard at the gate,” Matija pointed out.

    “Yeah, but there are others near the entrance to the church, and a few more stalking around inside the buildings attached to it.” Harry considered his surroundings: his team was in a side street, one block north of the Piazza Barberini, across from the Capuchin monastery. Beyond that dour building there was a scattering of marginally inhabited cottages, and then St. Isidore’s, all of which had their backs to the extensive fields that radiated southward from the Villa Ludovisi.

    Donald Ohde made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Okay, Harry, what are you thinking?”

    “Well, a couple of things. First, I’d like to find out who that guy was, dropping by for a visit just now. This location is off the beaten path for the high and mighty, up here at the green margins of the Pincio. Clearly, he had rank, but just as clearly, the guards didn’t know him. That’s an odd combination, out here.”

    “You thinking he’s somehow connected with the mastermind who ran the shell-game with the carriages?”

    “Could be. Don’t know why else they’d get high-ranking but unfamiliar visitors out here just before dusk.”

    “Okay, but if he’s got that kind of rank, why’d he come on foot?”

    “Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that. And the gear of those three guys didn’t look right, either. I mean, it could be Spanish, but it’s not like what we’ve seen down here. Their leader seemed to carry a heavier sword than the Spanish use, these days.”

    “Yeah, and his pal with the very red hair and very pale skin didn’t look like any Spaniard I’ve ever seen. None of them did, in fact.”

    “Which makes it all the more interesting. And possibly, very significant. After all, just because the Spanish have a criminal mastermind working for them now doesn’t mean they hired from in-house. Their evil genius could be foreign talent.”

    “True enough,” drawled Ohde. “After all, look at us.”

    “You look; my eyeballs have already had their quota of ugly for today.”

    “Yeah, we love you, too, Harry.”

    “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘abjectly adore.’ But enough sweet talk; I’m thinking that we couldn’t have asked for a better tactical situation.”

    “How do you mean?”

    “One guard is off the gate. If we move fast, we can get in.”

    “What?” Ohde sounded surprised. “Get in? How?”

    “Gerd is going to walk past the church, eyeball it a little, just enough to get the last guard’s attention. That’s when the rest of us slip between the cottages north of the monastery and angle around behind the back of St. Isidore’s. From there, we slip into the rear of the annex and take a look around.”

    Donald Ohde was frowning. “I guess the real question I should be asking is, ‘why?’”

    “To see if there’s any sign that this where they’re keeping Frank and Giovanna.”

    “Here? With this low security?”

    “Yeah, low security — which invites us to assume that the Spanish couldn’t be hiding them here, right? Our opposition might use that kind of ruse: make the real prison look weak — so weak that we would dismiss it as a possible site. So we’re going to check it out. If it’s a dry hole, we withdraw and rendezvous with Sherrilyn’s group when they’re done chasing after the carriage heading up toward the villa Borghese. And maybe, when we’re inside the church, we might see something that tells us whether Mr. Non-Spanish Boss-man is just a random visitor, or someone who was involved in setting up the trap they laid for us today.”

    “And if he is?”

    “Then we’re in a perfect position to follow him when he leaves the church. And we’ll take that opportunity to show him the hospitality of a small room without windows until we get some answers from him.”

    Big George Sutherland shrugged and pointed out, “Harry, that Boss-Man also walked like a seasoned soldier, and had the gear to go with the gait. It might not be so easy to compel him, and his bodyguards, to accept your invitation.”

    Lefferts smiled up at George. “Yeah, it’s harder to grab eggs when you can’t break ‘em. But we’re no slouches ourselves. And with any luck, the whole Crew will be together by the time Boss-man decides to head off into the sunset.”

    “Which might be soon,” observed Matija, looking up at the rapidly dimming western skyline.

    “Good point. So let’s move. Gerd, I think it’s about time for you to take a stroll past the church…”