Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  Quinn smiled. “No fooling you, is there Thomas?”

  “No, there isn’t. As I’ve told you before. Now let’s be after them.”

  * * *

  Templeton leaned away from the Ruger’s telescopic sight. “They just turned into the abbey, sir.”

  “Patrols?”

  “One man in a blind outside the complex. About fifty yards up the road from the main entrance.”

  Schoenfeld stared wide-eyed at the scope, at Templeton, and back at the scope. “He can see all that? From a mile and a half away?”

  “He most certainly can,” Thomas assured him, before turning to Quinn. “So. Prum is not sending his ill-got gains anywhere else, at least not directly.”

  “Nope. And any of his men can be deemed complicit, given the size of their unit and the fact that they all seem to rotate through the privilege of coming to down to pick up the payola.”

  Schoenfeld frowned. “I admit their guilt looks certain. But, as a man who makes a living tricking human eyes into believing they have seen something they have not actually seen, I must point out: looks can be deceiving. It is not proven that the daughters are at the abbey, just that there is some kind of underhanded business going on between Prum’s men and Lay.”

  Thomas was about to rebut that sometimes things are exactly as they seem, but Quinn nodded. “You have a point, Johann. And there’s one last bit of evidence which will tell us whether or not the girls are in Nuremburg, instead.”

  Thomas kept from rolling his eyes. Six months studying under a lawyer and the once-daring and decisive Lawrence Quinn had almost been unmade as an officer and a man.

  “What is this evidence? How do we get it?” asked Schoenfeld eagerly.

  “Well, actually, Johann, it was you who gave us the answer to that question.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. So here’s what we’ll do tomorrow morning…”

  * * *

  By the time Thomas and Quinn had emerged from the Rathaus, Johann was already waiting for them at the head of the market place. His stance and flushed cheeks suggested barely contained agitation.

  “I hope you fared better than I,” he snapped when they drew near. “The moment I asked the servants if the mothers had any letters for me to carry to their daughters, it was as if I had become a plague carrier. All three doors were shut in my face. And you?”

  “The same with the fathers,” answered Quinn with a nod. “But with the added deceitful details you’d expect from nervous politicians.”

  Thomas smiled. “It was strange. When we indicated that we would have to return north to report the failure of our mission here, they were relieved. That changed around entirely when we indicated that we were returning via Nuremburg and thus would be happy to accept responsibility for delivering letters to their daughters at their respective schools. All of a sudden, all three corrected us: their daughters were not at schools, but under the guidance of private tutors.”

  “Did they give you names?” pressed Schoenfeld ingenuously.

  “They couldn’t,” Quinn answered gently, “since it’s pretty clear there are no names to give.”

  Schoenfeld nodded. “So they are concealing something.”

  Quinn nodded. “And now, we’ll double-check it from the other end.”

  “How?”

  “We have a radio with us. We’ll use it to contact the personnel at the new aerodrome in Nuremburg. Some of the local staff there are well-connected with a number of the more affluent groups in the city, who do have enough personnel to make a quick round of the gates and travel-houses. Places which would not fail to notice and remember three girls of such young ages, arriving in the dead of winter in a big city, waiting for a tutor to meet each of them and take them in hand.”

  Schoenfeld nodded. “Absolutely. One, they might miss. But all three? It would probably be a safe assumption that if they were not seen, it is because they were never there.”

  Larry nodded and turned to North. “Let’s get back to the men at Ringschnaitt. Are they ready to move?”

  Thomas shrugged. “They were ready before we left this morning.”

  * * *

  As Metzger, the radio operator, looked up, Thomas knew the answer before the squat man even shook his head. “So,” the Englishman said turning to Quinn and Schoenfeld, “Not a whisper of them.” He turned to Volker and Wright, whom he’d sent out early that morning to keep the abbey under closer observation. “Report on reconnaissance?”

  Wright—who was even taller than North—spoke with smooth precision. “The garrison, such as it is, is still maintaining reasonable watchfulness, Colonel. Although from the attitude of the men we’ve observed, they don’t seem too accustomed to guard duty, and don’t much like it.”

  Probably on alert only because we’re still in the area, Thomas conjectured.

  Wright hadn’t finished. “They’ve taken some minor steps to increase the defensibility of the abbey. As seen yesterday, they keep one man in a hidden outpost on the roadway in. They send out irregular walking patrols into each quadrant of their perimeter; never more than two men, often only one. Judging from the morning cooking fires, I suspect the small patrol complement is due to their small numbers. We also caught a brief glimpse of one man just a mile from Biberach, we think with a mount, in a concealed position, watching the roads into town.”

  “Keeping a close eye out for any movements by our unit, I’ll wager. And the discipline at the abbey?”

  Wright’s smile was pinched. “Not such as I’d call it, sir. They seem to be following their orders, but in a casual fashion.”

  “And the girls?”

  “Sorry, sir. Not a sign of them. But the abbey itself is large, even though they’ve closed up all the outbuildings except the stables. They could be anywhere, sir.”

  If they’re still alive, he could hear Wright thinking in unison with him. “Well done, Mr. Wright. You and Volker should get yourself some breakfast.” Which, for all we know might be your last with me, since Quinn already has his acquisitive hooks into the two of you.

  Schoenfeld had crossed his arms, looking from North to Quinn. “So. Prum and his men have apparently become common bandits. What do we do? Scout the abbey more closely, try to find the girls?”

  Quinn shook his head. “We can’t go any closer. They know we’re in Biberach, and until we leave, that one nearby lookout will be watching us. Which means that the moment we move directly toward the abbey, we are putting the girls at risk. We need the element of surprise, if we are to save them.”

  “So then we approach under the cover of night, and charge them head on?”

  Quinn shook his head. “We might manage to approach undetected, and we could probably overcome them, but not before they killed the girls. Or put guns to their heads and compelled us to withdraw.”

  Schoenfeld’s composure disintegrated: his shout turned heads among North’s men. “Then what do you plan to do?”

  “Us?” Thomas said mildly. “Why, we plan to leave.”

  “To get reinforcements?”

  “To get a fresh perspective,” said Quinn.

  Schoenfeld stared, livid, from one to the other. “So this is how the great and powerful United States of Europe defends the interests of one of its newest affiliates?” His withered hand trembled as he pointed it at them. “Then I will attempt what you soldiers will not. I will secure the release of those girls myself!”

  North allowed one eyebrow to rise skeptically. “Indeed?”

  “Yes,” the rather wiry artist retorted hotly. “Judging from the artful planning that went into carrying off this scheme, Prum is a clever man—clever enough to realize that once his crime is known, his only logical alternative is to turn the girls over to me and flee the area at once.”

  North struggled to keep a grin off his face—but Quinn leaned forward with an earnest frown. “Johann, don’t do that. It won’t work. If we thought talking to Prum would work, that would be our first approach—”
>
  “Your first approach is to flee.” Johann almost sneered. “I concede your point that an outright attack would endanger the girls. But instead of considering any other solution—and particularly a solution that relies upon brains instead of brawn—you decide to give up. But I will not. I will do what must be done. Alone, if need be.”

  Quinn leaned forward even more urgently, evidently ready to make further entreaties that Johann not pursue such a course of action—but North took a step toward Johann with a smile and an extended hand. “And we wish you luck, Herr Schoenfeld. You are indeed a brave man, and we hope that your mission succeeds.”

  Johann blinked, stunned by such a rapid approval of his plan—and the de facto confirmation that his friends were not, in fact, going to provide any material assistance in the attempt to free the girls. Then, with a grimace and narrowed eyes, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  North appreciated Quinn’s modicum of composure: the American did not round on him until Schoenfeld had turned a corner, leaving them quite alone in one of Ringschnaitt’s narrow lanes. “Thomas, you just sent that poor unsuspecting artist to his death. Once he’s revealed that he knows about the girls and has seen the inside of the abbey’s defenses, Prum will never let him go.”

  North shrugged. “Of course he won’t; Prum may be an amoral monster, but he’s no idiot. He’ll figure right enough—and right away—that poor Johann is not particularly gifted at playing high-stakes poker with extortionists. In fact, what Herr Schoenfeld believes to be his ace in the hole—the threat of external intervention—is worthless, as Prum will quickly teach him.”

  “North, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d swear you are as heartless a bastard as Prum himself.”

  “Nonsense; I was the legitimate product of a church-consecrated marriage, so I am not a bastard. Technically. However, you may be right about the rest. But mark me, Larry: Prum has no reason to kill Johann immediately—and, more importantly, Johann’s abortive visit will actually allow us to prepare the surprise attack we need to use against Prum.”

  Quinn crossed his arms. “Enlighten me.”

  “Shh. No talking during Professor North’s lecture. Let us begin by admitting that Prum will be aware that, if Biberach’s town fathers were sending Schoenfeld as some kind of envoy, he would not be traveling to the abbey alone. There’d at least be a small escort, hanging back a few hundred yards. So the absence of that escort will tell Prum that Johann is acting on his own, naively convinced that the bastard will not harm him for fear of bringing searchers out to the abbey. Which Prum knows will not happen, since we can be sure the town fathers have been told—in grisly detail—what will happen to their daughters if they reveal or confirm Prum’s extortion to anyone else.

  “So as long as Prum refuses to allow poor Johann to return to Biberach, there’s still no danger of the truth getting out. And even if Schoenfeld had gone to the town fathers first—which he is likely to claim—Prum will interpret the lack of an escort as a sign that those same civic worthies have sent the artist out to the abbey as they would send a lamb to the slaughter: to be silenced before he tells anyone else what he knows. Which you may be sure Prum will do—eventually.”

  “Which means we’ve just signed Johann Schoenfeld’s death warrant.”

  “An overly-hasty conclusion, Mr. Quinn. Attend and learn the delicate art of dealing with inhuman monsters. Prudent creatures like Prum are also cautious creatures. So he will want to speak with Johann. Furthermore, Prum is also a proud creature—and so he will also want to gloat: it is an almost invariable characteristic of such blackguards that they must preen a bit when they feel themselves completely safe.”

  “And why will Prum suddenly feel himself completely safe?”

  “Well, Mr. Quinn, by the time Herr Schoenfeld arrives at the abbey, the fellow Prum has watching our movements from a mile outside of town will have seen us depart northward and will have ridden back to inform his despicable master that we have all left the area. Which means that the only plausible threat to Prum is gone. And we will have departed in such a blasé fashion that he will be forced to conclude that we not only failed to resecure a site for the aerodrome, but that we remain unaware and unsuspecting of Prum’s extortion. Logically, awareness of such a crime would compel us to take action rather than slouch back the way we came. All reasonable, so far?”

  Quinn was still frowning, but he nodded. Grudgingly.

  “So when Johann arrives with his naive threats of disclosure, Prum will no doubt press him—perhaps unpleasantly, I grant you—to confirm that we actually have left the area. Which our now-resentful friend will either emphatically confirm or unconvincingly deny—because he now believes it to be true also. That is why I couldn’t let you share our plans with him.”

  Larry nodded. “Because now, having two separate but identical reports of our departure, Prum will be doubly assured that he is safe.”

  Thomas nodded. “Just so. And the moment that Prum begins basking in that mistaken sense of security, that is when we must strike. After we see how he handles Johann, that is.”

  “What?” Quinn’s eyes had opened wide.

  “Larry, the lecture is over: now we must confront brute reality. Prum will have to pull some of his already meager sentries off the line to escort and guard Johann when he approaches the abbey. And because Prum will feel himself safe, he should be pretty relaxed about doing so. And when he does, those movements will show us precisely where most of his men are positioned, how they react when the abbey is approached, and will possibly help us determine the best sightlines for a sniper.”

  “So that we can take out Prum immediately, when we attack.”

  “Exactly. If our first blow takes off the head of the serpent, the body is likely to thrash around purposelessly for a while. So before it can grow a new head, some of us will rush in and secure the girls—and Johann—while the rest of us chop its writhing coils into tiny pieces.”

  Quinn nodded, but he was still frowning. “Well, that all sounds fine. Except for one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is: what if you are wrong about Prum letting Johann live for a while? What if Prum decides to simplify his hostage-holding tasks: one less person to guard, one less mouth to feed?”

  North shrugged. “It’s not a logical course of action, Larry. They have plenty of food and they can just let Johann sit in a cell while they wait to see if they have further need of him: as a hostage, a liaison, or an information source for subsequent dealings with the town.”

  “Granted—but those are all conjectures. We’re talking about putting a man’s life in certain danger.”

  “We’re also talking about the lives of three young girls—and all the men in our platoon who would unnecessarily die in any frontal assault. Which would almost certainly result in the deaths of those young ladies, as well. So this way, we risk one to save all.”

  Quinn’s eyes were unblinking and, North had to admit, rather unsettling. “And you wouldn’t even let me warn him what he was walking into.”

  “Larry, Prum will believe Johann because, as things stand now, Johann himself is not only convinced that we are gone, but that we do not care about local problems. His genuine bitterness toward us is what will lead Prum to believe him, to believe that we are truly out of the picture. And once he believes that, we have the best chance of making a surprise attack that should save the hostages’ lives. Now, let’s get the platoon ready to pull out north toward Ulm.”

  * * *

  Four hours later, sitting in a copse a quarter mile due north of the abbey, Quinn handed the binoculars to Thomas. “There he goes.”

  Johann Schoenfeld, having approached the abbey along the east-west road, did not see the man at the observation post wave to the sentries at the main building.

  “Have you marked their picket?” Thomas growled behind him.

  “Marked, sir,” answered Lieutenant Hastings, who passed a second set of binoculars along the line t
o the unit’s best marksmen: Volker and Templeton.

  Schoenfeld was met and brought into the abbey by two armed men. Thomas relayed the key information as he saw it: “One wheel lock, one flintlock. Or possibly a snaphaunce. Can’t tell at this range.” Assessing the firearms they were up against was crucial tactical intelligence, gathered more easily when the members of the garrison came out from the walls and shadows of the abbey. Or leaned out the window in amused curiosity, as several others did now. “A pretty even mix of wheel locks and flintlocks throughout,” Thomas added, based on the new appearances. “Are you marking their positions, Hastings?”

  “They are marked, sir.”

  Quinn produced his own binoculars. “I want to get my own close look at how this next part goes down,” he explained. Thomas lay elbow to elbow with the up-timer and watched.

  After some delay, Schoenfeld appeared in a high-ceilinged upper-story room, made commandingly expansive by its several wide windows. They had heard about this room from locals. It had evidently been, at different phases in the abbey’s history, a chapel, a library, and a convalescent sunroom. It was hard to tell what it had been most recently, given the chaos of pompery that had been pushed into it. An ornate chair was on a makeshift dais. An altar had been pushed off to one side, serving as a combination sideboard and weapons-rack. Prum appeared from the dark at the back of the room, wearing a red cape—a cardinal’s?—and began walking in a circle about Schoenfeld, asking short questions. The answers he received seemed to instigate long responses, replete with grandiose gestures.

  “Damn: poor Johann,” muttered Quinn. “Trapped in the court of the Crimson King.”

  “Eh? What?”

  “An up-time reference, Thomas. Just a way of saying that Prum is completely out to lunch.”

  “Don’t use up-time idioms to explain up-time idioms, damn you. But if you mean that Prum is mad, well—no, I don’t think so. I’ve seen a lot of this kind of behavior, particularly once the wars became perpetual and the armies started to become desperate and disorganized. Little men, having lived a life beneath the boots of their ‘betters,’ suddenly come into a moment of power. It’s an intoxicating opportunity to play the part of those whom they have hated—and envied—for so long, and to exact vengeance from all who are too weak to resist, as they themselves had long been. But Prum does not stand to gain anything by killing Schoenfeld—not right away, at any rate.”