1636_The Vatican Sanction

by Eric Flint

  Dolor bowed his head. “Bishop Maculani’s knowledge, and foresight, are most excellent.”

  Borja could not help a proud smile from curving his lips slightly. Vincenzo Maculani had been a rare find: a cleric with an excellent education, a willingness to get his hands dirty (what former head inquisitor could do otherwise?), and an early life that made him familiar with the cynicism and brutish reality of the streets. So far as stratagems and their execution were concerned, he was nearly Dolor’s equal.

  But then Maculani went and ruined it all: “Your Eminence, this news—what it portends, and how we vouchsafed it—compels me to renew my appeal that we retain the services of a radio operator.”

  Borja almost groaned aloud. “Not this again, Maculani.”

  “Please, Your Eminence, consider how Don Pedro’s report demonstrates the indispensable nature of this technology. Not only did this intelligence reach us from distant, winter-locked Basel within a day of its acquisition, but it was conveyed by a roving agent. Two radio operators, moving with two guards could furnish us with urgent news weeks, even months, before standard couriers could bring it to us.”

  Borja shifted. Which must have let Maculani know that this was the moment to press home his decisive argument: “And if we wish to stop Urban from creating more cardinals to build his appearance of legitimacy and of Church dominance, we must be able to control—carefully and precisely control—the operations we have considered mounting to stop him.”

  Borja stared at him, half annoyed, half hoping that Maculani would somehow find a different path.

  But the square-headed and square-chinned bishop—who would probably have made a formidable wrestler—only stared back and added, “The operations we have considered will be most delicate, Your Eminence. Indeed, it would be quite advantageous for the hands not to know precisely what the head is planning until just before they are set in motion.”

  Borja glanced at Dolor.

  Who shrugged. “Your Eminence certainly knows my opinion on this matter. Last year, when pursuing Urban VIII, I was forced to communicate with our agents in Venetian territory via pigeons. And once events moved beyond the reach of the coops the pigeons knew, our agents were left to their own crude devices. If we had had a capable radio operator traveling with or near them—”

  Borja flicked a sharp, irritated wave in Dolor’s direction, even as he looked away. “Yes, yes, you have made it quite clear how the outcome could have been much different.”

  Dolor did not reply, simply nodded and looked at Maculani.

  Who looked baleful. He was not comfortable with Dolor. Last September, shortly after the assassin-turned-intelligencer had returned from Spain with letters patent from none other than Olivares, he had paid a respectful visit to Borja, even though he no longer answered to the cardinal. Maculani, not a talkative man in his most extroverted moments, sat as still and silent as a graven image during that brief meeting. When Borja later asked him of his impressions of Dolor, Maculani’s frown had deepened. “He makes it hard to form an impression; he reveals so little of himself. Which I do not trust.”

  But on this particular winter’s day, Maculani’s crucial and possibly only ally was this selfsame man he did not trust. He turned his eyes back to Borja. “Your Eminence, I understand that you wish to guard Mother Church against infernal up-time devices. So do I. But it may be that we may not protect her adequately without making an exception in this case. You know that Don Pedro and I often have very different opinions on our strategies and their execution, but we are of one mind on this. I believe I speak for both of us when I beseech you to consider: is not the good to be done by retaining the services of a radio expert far greater than any danger it might pose?”

  In fact, Borja was not convinced of that easy formulation. Something told him that the greased slide into a world dominated by the up-timers and their devices began with just such “exceptions” as this. Ultimately, such exceptions would become more routine, then plentiful, and then ubiquitous, until, finally, the up-timers had recast reality in the form that suited them and their inscrutable, but certainly nefarious, designs. But the cardinal also had to admit that instant communications had been a far, far more decisive factor than the weapons or airships the up-timers had used to best them the prior summer. And he could not allow Urban VIII to continue on his present, ruinous course—ruinous both for Mother Church and Gaspar de Borja y Velasco. Concepts which, in his mind, had begun to elide and merge into one.

  “Very well.” Borja sighed. “We shall take this step. Who must we consult to find a reliable operator and technician?”

  Dolor cleared his throat. “In acquiring a radio for my own operations, I have encountered a number of operators who might serve your needs.”

  Borja nodded. “Very well. Who do you recommend most highly?”

  Dolor seemed to reflect for a moment, which struck Borja as slightly odd; Dolor always seemed to know his intended path long before he was asked to reveal it. “Bruno Sartori, a Venetian.”

  “A Venetian?” Borja was gratified that Maculani’s voice had joined his own in a chorus of dismay and aversion.

  “A Venetian,” Dolor persisted quietly, “who was disowned upon being revealed as one of our agents last summer. He has been living in Rome since September, and has been unable to find suitable work.”

  Maculani’s frown became a scowl. “And if this Sartori is so accomplished, why have you not retained him yourself?”

  Dolor shrugged. “By the time I knew he had fled to Rome, my needs were already met. He would not have fulfilled them, anyhow: he does not speak enough languages. Only Italian, German, and weak French. Much of my work involves monitoring USE transmissions, and many of their operators use English or Amideutsch. Furthermore, he is a functionary, not a man for field work. He will be happy to receive a good salary in Rome, where he may have his creature comforts.”

  “Could he be bribed by our enemies, do you think?” Maculani asked in a low mutter.

  “Possibly, but for the same reason he would not be serviceable in the field, he should not pose a security risk. So long as his salary is sufficient, I estimate him to prize safety from retribution more than any additional funds he might realize by becoming a double agent. However, if you are looking for an upright pillar of the faith who would serve out of principle, I fear I do not have any such candidates to recommend. My duties rarely put me in touch with such persons—at least not those who have the skills you require.”

  Borja huffed lightly. Hardly an ideal candidate, this Sartori. On the other hand, a paragon of virtue might not be what they needed in this case. Particularly not with the orders they inevitably would have to send to their operatives in Besançon. Pontificide would trouble the conscience—and perhaps loosen the guilt-ridden tongue—of a more upright man. So, on second thought, perhaps this Sartori was indeed the ideal candidate, specifically because he was not the ideal Catholic. “The Venetian should do. Send him to us as soon as you may.” And now the delicate part of the meeting, which hopefully Dolor would not realize as the reason Borja granted him an audience so swiftly. “I understand that you traveled a bit before returning to Rome. Searching for radios and operators to recruit for your own operations.”

  Dolor’s nod was almost imperceptible. “Your Eminence is extremely well informed.”

  Hah. Dolor can be surprised! One of the frequent weaknesses of spymasters was that they often believed that they, and their immediate enemies, were the only ones doing any spying. “Did your own travels take you to Besançon?”

  “I am sorry to disappoint Your Eminence, but no, they did not. It was not needed.”

  “Not needed?” Maculani asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace. As His Excellency Count-Duke Olivares already had taken steps to have an agent placed in Besançon to observe the changes wrought there by Duke Bernhard, it was deemed extraneous for me to go there myself. I merely needed to get an update from the agent.”

  Borja frowned. “I do not und
erstand, Don Pedro. You did not visit this agent yet you received an update from him. How was that effected?”

  “By radio, Your Eminence, when I passed through Basel. At that distance, and without a mountain range in between us, reception was very easy and reliable.”

  Borja felt the wheels of a plan spinning toward each other in his mind, mesh together. “So. Olivares’ man in Besançon is already furnished with a radio.”

  “Yes,” Dolor confirmed. “Although I do not know if I would call him specifically the count-duke’s man. He was placed there on the count-duke’s order. I do not know to whom he reports directly. However, given his broad mandate, I suppose he is providing diverse information to a number of the crown’s factotums.”

  Carefully now, Borja thought, and could tell that Maculani was thinking the same thing. “And is this agent’s employ strictly reserved for the crown’s business?”

  Dolor thought. “I do not know. I do not believe so. Some of the agent’s information suggests he was also financing some trading ventures himself. Although he is descended of a grandee family, he is from a branch that has fallen upon lean times. I doubt he would be specifically constrained from doing business of his own while abroad. I cannot recall such restrictions ever being placed upon our foreign factotums.”

  Of course not, since Spain, from the king on down to the most impoverished hidalgo, runs on money. “And so I presume you would not be averse to telling us who this agent is and how to reach him?”

  Dolor frowned slightly. “I suppose not. His name is Javier de Requesens y Ercilla. I shall give you the times of day and frequencies whereby I reached him.”

  Borja nodded toward Maculani, who provided Dolor with a sheet upon which to write the information. As he did, the bishop looked up at Borja. “Once we have the radio, Your Eminence, we might be able to get a better idea of who Urban is making cardinals in pectore.”

  Borja frowned. “What do you mean by this, Maculani?”

  The bishop spread his hands in what seemed half explanation, half appeal. “Well, we have reports that Urban is resorting to up-time documents to arrive at a list of likely candidates, using them to determine which men his up-time self raised to the biretta. With the Papal Library lost to us—”

  —a nice euphemism for what had actually happened: Neapolitan troops running wild through the Holy City, carrying off everything that was, or looked like it might be, valuable, and burning much of the rest—

  “—Urban’s copies of the up-time records were either destroyed or are among the remaining documents that are still being sorted. However, if we were to furnish a confidential agent in Grantville with a radio, we might be able to access a copy of that list ourselves, and determine which of Urban’s later-life allies he is now raising up to—”

  Borja killed that notion with a guillotine chop of his hand. “Had we known to do so two, three months ago, that might have made a difference. Now, any of his intended in pectore cardinals that are not still hiding in their cellars are on the road to Besançon, beyond our reach.” He drew himself up to his full height. “We shall know who the traitors are when they enter that city for his so-called colloquium, for now we shall have a contact there who may report their arrivals.” He smiled at Dolor, who was stepping back from the table. “Thanks to you.”

  Dolor bowed. “I am gratified to have been of help, Your Eminence.”

  Borja held up a hand to detain him. “There is one further courtesy I ask of you, Don Pedro. Because you have been a confidante of mine and a friend to Mother Church’s attempts to reestablish order and its own imperiled legitimacy, the bishop and I deemed it safe to speak frankly of the grave measures that we might still need to undertake, an inevitable continuation of your efforts last year. We therefore presume that now, as then, you will keep these discussions in strictest confidence, not even sharing them with secular authorities. These are, properly, Church matters and should remain within the Church.” He paused, looked long into Dolor’s hazel eyes. “I take it that I make myself clear?” Which the assassin could not possibly translate in any way other than, If you tell Olivares, I will come after you.

  “I understand perfectly, Your Eminence.”

  Borja was certain that he did. “I appreciate your discretion, as our situation is most difficult. Particularly here.”

  “In Rome?” Dolor asked.

  “Most certainly,” Maculani said emphatically. “Let us presume that God graces us by removing the heretical Urban. Will his followers come back? Of course not. They have turned their backs on the Church’s true mission, so they know what awaits them here. So what will they do? Why, appoint themselves as a consistory and elect one of their own number pope. It has happened before.”

  Dolor shrugged. “You have a consistory also.”

  “And that,” Borja said with a sigh, “is the larger problem. Or, I should say, the large problem of our smaller numbers. At this moment, we count—how many, Maculani? Seventeen cardinals, all told?”

  Maculani leaned his head to the side as he recalled the list. “There’s Doria, di Savoia, Moscoso, Galamini, Bentivoglio—who had to be compelled to declare for His Eminence—Spínola, the other Spinola, Torres, Borghese, Albornoz, Pamphili, Pallotta, Trivulzio, Centini, Campori, Salamandri, Zacchia. Urban has at least twice as many in support of him. Perhaps three times. And many of those who are ‘unreachable’ are, in reality, keeping their heads down until this crisis has passed. You may be sure that they will then reemerge testifying that they were always ardent supporters of the pope—whoever that turns out to be.” He glanced at Borja quickly. “A figure of speech, only, Your Eminence. If God pleases to see that justice in the Church Mundane be done in compliance with the writ of heaven, then you shall soon sit upon the cathedra.”

  Borja was pleased—and reassured—by Maculani’s emendation, but only for a second: rather than nodding, Dolor’s face seemed more grim than ever.

  “I understand your concern, Your Eminence. For if Urban is not removed by divine or mundane means, you may well have to defend this place. If you can.”

  Borja refused to be rattled by this dire projection. “And what could overcome my forces?”

  Dolor shrugged “The entirety of occupied Italy’s enraged population. Probably swollen by the forces of the unoccupied or neutral states that would stand to gain from your loss.” He bowed a slow farewell. “Your Eminence.”

  Once the door had closed behind Dolor, Maculani leaned forward, his hard, heavy hands knuckles-down upon the mahogany table before him. “I do not trust him.”

  Borja waved a dismissive hand. “That is wise, insofar as Dolor is under Olivares’ control, not ours. But I have had Dolor under observation and see no cause for worry. He is not devout, but then again, there is no evidence that he cares for any faith or philosophy at all. He is a materialist, yet neither takes bribes nor lives hedonistically. If he were Greek, I would presume his ancestors were Spartans.

  “But whereas Dolor lacks a theologically enlightened sense of duty to Our Savior in heaven, he understands the hard realities of this terrestrial vale of tears. He is a singularly useful tool and counselor within the limited scope of his expertise and interests. Beyond that, he demonstrates little affinity for anything else, and no perceptible passions which might be used to move him to treachery of any kind.”

  Maculani nodded. “And that is precisely why I do not trust him, Your Eminence.”

  Borja smiled at the Dominican whom he had made a bishop and had brought away from his duties as Rome’s head inquisitor. Maculani’s mind was too sharp and too practical to waste upon the usually futile task of attempting to redeem undeserving heretics and unbelievers. Before, that is, they succumbed to the tortures that destroyed their bodies in order to compel them to repent and so, save their souls. “You are a suspicious fellow, Vincenzo,” Borja murmured. “I like that.” Because you are my suspicious fellow.

  Yet Cardinal Gaspar de Borja y Velasco had found himself still staring at the door thr
ough which Dolor had departed on that cold February day, filled with unease.

  It was the same unease he felt now as the Tevere glimmered more faintly beneath the setting May sun while he waited for the radio report from Javier de Requesens y Ercilla in Besançon. A large part of what made Pedro Dolor so unnerving was his almost prophetic foresight. Yes, his assassins had failed to kill Urban last year, just as his jailors in Palma de Mallorca had failed to keep rescuers from spiriting away the young hostages Borja had meant to use as leverage against the up-timers. But in both cases, Dolor had made initial recommendations that others—even Borja himself—had denied or ignored. And, in both cases, had his advice and requests been heeded, it seemed likely that the outcome would have been quite different.

  But Pedro Dolor’s foresight was, in fact, not the primary trait that made him unnerving. The greater part resided in his silent acceptance of outcomes and almost mechanical reflex to simply address the new challenges that resulted—without overtly or obliquely calling attention to the fact that, had his superior comprehension and anticipation been heeded, there would have been no failure in the first place.

  Borja took up his glass of rioja again and sipped at it, a bit more deeply than was his wont. It was a matter of course that some men had greater abilities than others. But for a man not to revel in the triumphs enabled thereby, to fail to call attention to his superior perspicacity in order to accelerate his own ascension while undercutting the rise of possible rivals?

  That, Borja concluded with yet another worried sip at his glass, was not merely distressingly atypical; it was positively inhuman.

  Chapter 8

  Having completed the entry code, Pedro Dolor stepped back from the door to the rooms he had taken for a year’s lease six months ago.

  Laurin, whose underground infamy as an assassin ranged from Paris to the Pyrenees and beyond the Piedmont, smiled faintly around the corner of the door as he opened it precisely six seconds after Dolor had completed the complex pattern of taps and knocks. Dolor entered, checking to the opposite side as he did so.