1637 The Polish Maelstrom

by Eric Flint

  * * *

  The Amber Road had a reputation for being plagued by highwaymen, but Jeff wasn’t concerned about that. In fact, he was hoping some robbers would be foolish enough to attack them. The Hangman Regiment had just recently been equipped with the USE Army’s new rifle, the Hockenjoss & Klott Model C, shortened to H&KC, but which the troops themselves were starting to call the Hocklott. It was a .406 caliber breech-loading bolt action rifle and had been modeled on the Chassepot rifle which the French used to great effect in the Franco-Prussian War. (Which explained the “C” in “Model C.”)

  It was probably the most advanced rifle anywhere in Europe for the moment, but it had never been used in action. Not by the Hangman Regiment, at any rate.

  “C’mon, brutal bloodthirsty robbers,” Jeff would mutter from time to time. “Do your thing.”

  But if the train hadn’t failed him, the highwaymen of the Amber Road certainly did. They never made an appearance.

  One of his soldiers did shoot a bear which he claimed was looking at him in a threatening manner. Jeff was dubious of the claim but didn’t make an issue about it. In the seventeenth century the concept of “endangered species” was about as familiar to the average person as “quantum mechanics.” And bears wouldn’t qualify anyway. In the year 1636, the critters were as thick as thieves. Thicker, actually, judging from appearances.

  The Hocklott did a fine job on the bear, though. That was a good sign.

  Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia

  “So, have you cracked the code yet?” Gretchen asked.

  Major Eric Krenz looked sulky. “Well…no. But it’s just a matter of time.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “I doubt that. You’ve had weeks already.” She rose from the big table she used in lieu of a desk and picked up the sheaf of papers lying there. It wasn’t a thick sheaf—not more than a dozen pages.

  “Follow me,” she said. “I will show you the proper way to decode secret messages sent and received by a spy.”

  It didn’t take them long to get to their destination. Down one corridor in the city’s town hall, down one flight of stairs, then a short distance to a door.

  The door was guarded by two soldiers, one on either side.

  “Unlock the door,” Gretchen commanded.

  One of the soldiers set about the task. That was going to take a while, given the number of locks, padlocks, bolts and bars. If Gretchen didn’t know better, she’d assume some sort of slavering monster was being held there.

  “About time!” said Eric. “I told you long ago we should just beat it out of him.”

  Gretchen didn’t bother to respond to that. Once the door was finally open, she strode through.

  If Jozef Wojtowicz had been sleeping, he wasn’t by now. But he’d almost certainly been awake already, this late in the morning. He was fully dressed and sitting in the small room’s armchair with a book in his hands.

  Gretchen held up the sheaf of papers and said: “I need you to tell me what these say, Jozef. If any of the messages involve military operations, you can keep those to yourself. But I want to know everything else.”

  Jozef studied her for a moment. “That provision’s meaningless. If I decipher some of the messages for you, that will give you what you need to decipher the rest.”

  “Good point. I will let you burn any messages you don’t decode.”

  “How am I to know you don’t have copies?”

  She swiveled her head to look at Krenz. “Do we have copies?”

  “Uh…”

  “We do. Get them and bring them here—and don’t dawdle. The radio room’s just up the stairs. Now, Eric.”

  Off he went.

  Gretchen turned back to Wojtowicz. “He won’t have time to make more copies. You can judge that for yourself.”

  Jozef was starting to look like a cornered mouse. His mustache was actually twitching a little. “But…how do I know…”

  “Because I give you my word,” Gretchen said. She handed him the sheaf of messages. The lettering on them was just the dots and dashes of Morse code.

  DOT DASH DASH DASH DOT DOT DOT DASH DASH

  “What do they say?”

  Jozef took the papers as if they were so many hornet’s nests. He started to read through them, although he hadn’t started translating yet. That wouldn’t be quick. First he had to translate the Morse into actual letters and then he’d have to translate the code itself.

  Gretchen pulled out the chair at the small desk—just a side table, really—that was part of the room’s spare furniture and sat down.

  She waited.

  “I see you found my radio,” Jozef said.

  “Of course we found it. Did you think we wouldn’t search your quarters once we discovered you were a spy? You didn’t have it hidden that well, anyway.”

  “I didn’t keep written messages. And this isn’t my handwriting.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re not stupid.” She nodded toward the papers in his hand. “We moved the radio here and we’ve had one of our operators on duty around the clock. Any messages that came in, we copied what they said. Copied the Morse, rather. We still haven’t cracked the code.”

  Jozef smiled. “It’s a good code, I always thought. Nice to see that confirmed.”

  Krenz came back through the door, with a thicker sheaf of papers in his hand. His expression was sulkier than ever.

  “Here are the copies,” he said, thrusting them at Gretchen. “All of them. Ah, Lady Protector.”

  She took the papers and immediately handed them to Wojtowicz.

  Or tried to, rather. He was paying no attention to her now. He was staring at the next to last message, his eyes wide.

  Then, quickly, Jozef read the last message. By now, Gretchen thought his face was getting pale.

  Wojtowicz lowered the messages until he had his hand resting on his lap. He looked out the window for a few seconds.

  “Where’s Lukasz?” he asked abruptly.

  “I don’t know.” Gretchen looked up at Krenz. “Do you, Eric?”

  He shook his head. She looked back at Jozef.

  “Do you want me to have him brought here?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  She looked back up at Krenz. “Find him. If he’s not in the town hall—look in the Ratskeller first—he’ll be in one of the nearby taverns.”

  Off he went.

  “It shouldn’t take long. Opalinski doesn’t actually drink very much but he spends most of his time these days in the taverns, talking to soldiers who do. I’d suspect him of being another spy, except…” She shrugged.

  A wan smile came to Jozef’s face. He was still looking out the window. “Lukasz has about as much natural inclination to spy as a… Hard to find an analogy. Lamp-post? Pile of bricks?”

  “He’s a hussar.”

  “Yes. That’s the analogy I was looking for.”

  “I’m not sure that’s an analogy.”

  “Neither am I.” He was still looking out the window. There was not much to see out there, since this window didn’t look out over the square. Just a lot of tightly packed rooftops.

  Something had him upset, Gretchen realized. Really upset.

  * * *

  It took longer than she’d expected, but eventually Eric returned with Opalinski in tow.

  The big hussar didn’t look for anywhere to sit, since the only space still vacant was the bed. Hussars don’t sit on other men’s beds. It just wasn’t done.

  “Why did you call me here, Jozef?” he asked.

  Wojtowicz held up the sheets of paper. “They’ve been keeping records of the radio messages that came in.”

  “Of course. Did you really think they wouldn’t, once they found your radio?”

  Jozef shook his head. “No, I expected it. What I didn’t expect…”

  He sorted through the papers and withdrew the last two messages. “My uncle is dead, Lukasz. That’s what this one says.”

  He then held up the la
st one. “And this one says—it’s just a few words—Suspect poison. Return immediately to Poznań.”

  He lowered the paper. “I’m sure the last two were sent by one of the radio operators on his own volition. Czesław Kaczka, probably. He’s a good man. Very loyal.”

  Lukasz’s face also seemed to be pale, although it was hard to tell since it was naturally pale. Slowly, he went to the bed and sat down on it.

  “The grand hetman is dead? Dead?” He shook his head. The gesture was not so much one of denial as disbelief.

  “He always seemed indestructible to me.”

  Jozef’s face tightened. “No one is indestructible, Lukasz. Especially not against poison.”

  He looked over at Gretchen. “I would like to talk with Lukasz alone. Please.”

  Gretchen didn’t say anything. She just got up and left the room, with Krenz trailing behind.

  * * *

  Once outside, Eric lapsed into blasphemy. “Jesus,” he said, almost whispering. “Koniecpolski’s dead?”

  Gretchen drew him by the arm further down the hall, out of the hearing of the two guards.

  “He isn’t just ‘dead,’ Eric,” said Gretchen. “He was apparently murdered. There’s a difference. Big difference.”

  He stared at her.

  She suppressed her impatience. Eric was a smart man, but his mind just didn’t run down certain channels.

  “Eric, think. The only thing that really held the loyalty of the two men in that room”—she nodded toward the door they’d come out of—“was their attachment to Grand Hetman Stanisław Koniecpolski. If he’d simply died of natural causes, they’d probably retain their loyalty to the king, if not the Sejm.” She smiled thinly. “Both of them, especially Lukasz, are still medieval in some ways.”

  Eric had finally caught up with her. “But with the grand hetman murdered…by whom, though? I can’t see why the king—”

  “It wouldn’t have been Władisław,” Gretchen said firmly. “He would have no reason to—quite the opposite. As long as Koniecpolski was the grand hetman, Władisław had no fear of being overthrown. Which is the reason I think Koniecpolski was actually killed.”

  Krenz frowned. “Someone is planning to overthrow Władisław?”

  “Not necessarily. By all accounts, the king of Poland can be manipulated rather easily. Just wave some new whores under his nose. But the great magnates of the Commonwealth chafe under any sort of regulation or oversight. With Koniecpolski gone, their leash is gone as well—or it’s a lot longer, anyway. Whatever schemes they might have can now be advanced boldly.”

  “What schemes?”

  Gretchen shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not a master spy.”

  Now it was she who nodded at the door. “But one of Europe’s great master spies is sitting in that room. And those arrogant bastards just cut his leash too.”

  “Oh.” Eric’s mouth dropped open a little. His mind just didn’t run down certain channels.

  The door opened and Lukasz stuck his head out. “Gretchen, could we talk to you?”

  “Certainly.” She headed for the door.

  Behind her, Eric’s mouth closed. He wasn’t stupid. “Ah,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Pescia, grand duchy of Tuscany

  Italy

  “I assure you we will be undisturbed here,” Fakhr-al-Din said to Mike Stearns. “I have used this villa before, both as a retreat and a refuge from Florence’s noise and disquiet. Furthermore, it belongs to me personally. It is not a gift from the Tuscans. I purchased it through an intermediary, so no one here knows who I am.”

  After the translator passed that on, Mike was careful to keep the expression on his face from reflecting his true reaction. Mike was skeptical of the last claim. Fakhr-al-Din had insisted on keeping his wife Khasikiya clothed in what he considered a properly modest manner. If she’d stayed in their carriage the whole time, no one might have noticed, but she’d gotten out every time they stopped in order to sleep in the more comfortable rooms of a tavern. People who saw her wouldn’t have known who she was, because of the veil and the very unrevealing garments, but she’d certainly drawn attention—not only to herself but to the husband who accompanied her. Fakhr-al-Din himself wore Italian clothing, but, unlike his wife, his face was not covered.

  As security precautions went, those of the Druze emir were pretty wretched, in Mike’s opinion. Three of Fakhr-al-Din’s bodyguards had accompanied them on their trip from Florence to Pescia. The guards had the bearing of men who knew how to fight and would almost certainly be able to handle one or two assassins. Highwaymen wouldn’t even think of attacking their party. But in the turmoil that raged in Europe in the middle of the 1630s, it was not unheard of for assassination attempts to be mounted by large parties of men. That was how Pope Urban VIII had been killed, and Julie and Alex had come close to losing their own lives in Scotland from such an assault.

  Mike was now regretting his decision not to bring bodyguards on this trip to Italy. But he’d assumed they’d be staying in Florence, where Fakhr-al-Din not only had a well-guarded palace of his own but where there would be plenty of Tuscan troops available as well.

  What he hadn’t taken into account were the foibles of Levantines, because he wasn’t familiar with them. Privacy ranked very high on their list of things to be greatly desired. And unfortunately, the patience of the emir and his wife had been badly frayed in the weeks prior to Mike’s arrival. The dowager grand duchess of Tuscany, Ferdinando’s grandmother Christina of Lorraine, had died not long before. She’d been the regent of the grand duchy for years after the death of Cosimo II in 1621, and even after Ferdinando came to maturity she continued to be immensely influential. She’d played in Tuscany much the same role that the formidable Archduchess Isabella had played—continued to play—in the Low Countries.

  Christina’s funeral had been a major affair of state, and Florence had been filled with visitors before and since. Eventually, Fakhr-al-Din had decided he and Khasikiya needed a break. And what better place to do it than his little-known villa in the town of Pescia, right on the border with the Republic of Lucca? The republic had good relations with Tuscany, so it was not as if they’d be near any of the potentially hostile Papal States.

  Despite his misgivings, Mike had agreed to the relocation. The negotiations he’d started with the Druze leader looked very promising and this was no time to be breaking them off.

  He accepted the cup of tea offered to him by one of the servants Fakhr-al-Din and his wife had brought with them. (There were only four, which was the emir’s notion of “roughing it.”) It was still too hot to drink, so he set it down on the small round table in front of him. He’d hesitated to do so when they first arrived at the villa, since it was a work of art—beautifully polished brass with intricate designs etched into it. Mike wasn’t certain, because he wasn’t familiar with Arabic, but he thought the design of the etchings derived from calligraphy. Whether they did or didn’t, they were gorgeous. It hadn’t been until the third time he accepted tea from Fakhr-al-Din after they arrived in Pescia that he accepted the emir’s assurance that the table was “just an old family piece, intended for practical use.”

  “It is unfortunate that Borja has taken the papacy,” said Fakhr-al-Din, after Mike set down the cup. The emir had started drinking from his own cup immediately, and now used it to indicate a window that looked to the south. “Whatever the Spanish usurper claims, he has made himself a pope in all but name. Which is a pity, since I got along quite well with Urban. With the archbishop of Florence also. Pietro Niccolini, that was. But he was one of those murdered in the Spanish coup, and the man who replaced him—”

  The emir made a face and drank again from his cup. When he lowered it, his expression was one of distaste. “He’s an Italian, not a Spaniard, but he’s still a swine.”

  Mike had understood most of that without translation. His Italian was improving rapidly, partly due to his natural linguistic skill and partly because h
e was now immersed in the language.

  Still, he waited for the translator to finish before speaking, to make sure he’d understood everything. “Which means you can’t get any help from the papacy in approaching the Maronites,” he then said.

  “I am afraid not. But I don’t believe that’s a critical problem. My relations with the Maronites are already very cordial. They, too, chafe under Ottoman rule.”

  Mike didn’t think he was boasting. He’d heard from several reliable sources that in this day and age the Druze and the Maronite Christians generally got along quite well. Rebecca had heard the same thing, before she left. The savage wars between the Druze and Maronites of which there’d been some mention in Grantville’s records were two centuries in the future—and a future that would now never happen, anyway.

  All in all things were looking good. Put together an alliance of Druze and Maronites, each of whom could probably field an army of ten thousand men, add to that Mike’s own Third Division…

  That was enough to hold Mount Lebanon and the cities cupped along the coast in its shelter. Of course, there was still the issue—hardly a small one!—of getting Simpson’s fleet into the Med, without which a seaborne seizure of Beirut would be too risky. And there was also the question—no small one, either—of whether David Bartley’s logistical plan could be made to work.

  Still, things were looking good. Very good.

  Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia

  The first word Rebecca got of Koniecpolski’s death was after she landed at the airfield in Breslau. Both Gretchen and Noelle were there to greet her, which didn’t surprise her that much. It was taking her a while to get accustomed to her new status in the world. Her life until the Fourth of July Party won the election and Ed Piazza became the new prime minister and she became the secretary of state had been—or so she thought, at least—one of circumspection. She was just Michael Stearns’ wife. True, she’d held a position for a time in the legislature, but she’d been one of many legislators. True also, she’d been an envoy extraordinaire to France and the Netherlands. But she thought of that as a temporary and provisional position.