1636_The Vatican Sanction

by Eric Flint

  Dolor shrugged. “They didn’t say. But I suspect it’s because you are working alone. We have enough people to take the necessary steps.”

  “What steps?”

  “To contact you. To prepare Gasquet’s men to be moved. To keep an eye on the investigation.” It even sounded plausible to Dolor.

  De Requesens nodded. “Yes, of course. I shall compose messages for Gasquet, and—”

  Dolor shook his head. “No time for that. We’ll do it.”

  “You will do it? How? You do not even know the drop points.”

  Dolor shrugged. “Tell me and we’ll take care of it.”

  De Requesens recoiled. “Tell you my drop points? No, that is expressly against the control protocols. Just as you have set and kept secret the drop points for the Swiss, so I have with Gasquet.”

  Dolor had known this would be the hardest argument to finesse, so he sidestepped it. “If you want to argue the point, then please do annoy Cardinal Borja in Rome so that he can confirm the orders he gave us. On the other hand, take a moment to think calmly. Once you move across the river, and once Gasquet and his men are relocated, would it still be safe to use your current drop points?”

  De Requesens looked away. “It would not be…optimal,” he admitted.

  “It would be inviting disaster,” Dolor exaggerated. “So you will need to set up new ones as soon as you and Gasquet are both relocated. Which means that the drop points you reveal to me will be defunct within the next twelve hours. And practically speaking, you don’t have the time to write a message and send it to them, not if we’re going to relocate you in time.”

  As Dolor had hoped, the new wrinkle—relocation—pulled de Requesens’ attention away from giving up Gasquet’s drop locations. “I am to be relocated? Why?”

  Dolor stared at Javier. “This town has almost no space left in it, certainly not for seven men.” He gestured at the rooms in which they stood. “Of course, if this suite were to become available—”

  “And then where do I go?”

  “We have a contact over the river. He owns a small inn. The rooms are very modest, but at least there’s no increased security over there. In fact, the watch is lighter than usual; it’s all been concentrated here in the Buckle. The innkeeper has already been paid through next week. We kept the room there just in case we ran into unexpected problems here in town.”

  “So I’m to stay in the Battant?” De Requesens said it as if the word was a synonym for sewer. “But I will be unable to come back to the Buckle—and I must, to set up new drop points for Gasquet and his idiots.”

  “That is not correct. You can get back across the Doub; you have identity papers. It will just be much more inconvenient.”

  “It will be harder to maintain a low profile.” De Requesens’ complaint ended on an almost petulant whine.

  Dolor shrugged. “Well, that’s all part of ‘your craft.’ Besides, things will move quickly now. With any luck, there will be but one more message from Rome, and but one more drop to make.” He looked around. “Write down your drop locations for me and then gather what you need. The bridge closes shortly after dark and I need to be back across the river by then.”

  De Requesens stared around hastily; he turned a full circle without taking any action, his eyes wide.

  Dolor adopted a tone of voice not unlike the one he used to calm skittish horses. “First things first. The radio. The codebooks. Your correspondence. Anything else that, if found by the authorities, would betray your identity.”

  Emerging from his paralyzing state of distraction, the young hidalgo set about gathering all the items, emptying the contents of the heavy lockbox into a leather traveling bag that was soon bulging. Nodding approvingly, Dolor said, “Choose only the clothes you can carry. You can replace your toilet once in the Battant. I shall check for any documents or other items you might have left about.”

  There was almost nothing, as Dolor had suspected, but he did find a bill on the table: a small charge for a better grade of wine that had been sent up with his dinner. He scanned it, found what he had hoped to: an obsequiously appreciative closing line from the hotel’s owner. Dolor pocketed it, then remarked that de Requesens had best write a note to the innkeeper, announcing his departure.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “That’s only proper. I shall take it to him just before we—”

  “I will give it to him,” Dolor stated. “It is possible, if unlikely, that I have been followed. If so, that suggests that Urban’s men are looking for you. So we must make haste. Then, after you are safely across the Doub, I will return and deliver your note to the innkeeper, as well as to put a deposit on the suite to hold it for Gasquet and his men.”

  The Spaniard shrugged, wrote the note, and handed it to Dolor, who also volunteered to carry de Requesens’ clothes and toilet, which had been rolled together into a traveling bag. Javier, on the other hand, insisted on keeping hold of the radio, its batteries, and his papers, which slowed him to a stooped, stumbling walk as they left the suite.

  Dolor put up a hand as they neared the bottom of the stairs. “I will go ahead, see if the way out back is clear.”

  It was a narrow hallway, mostly used by kitchen staff to take deliveries and carry out rubbish, and it took a few moments of patient lurking next to the stairs before there was an untrafficked moment. Dolor leaned back into the staircase, waved for de Requesens to follow, and moved briskly to the door. He held it while the young Spaniard tilted dangerously toward the wall as he came off the stairs, almost dropping the radio and papers. He swayed upright, lurched into the passage and slipped out the back door…just as an oblivious serving maid exited the kitchen, laden with plates for the common room.

  The one redeeming aspect of the walk to the Pont Battant and beyond it to a small, tilting inn was that de Requesens was too breathless to talk much. Dolor offered once to help share more of the burden, but the hidalgo refused, and while it would have been better to complete the journey more quickly, it was more important to leave him in possession of what he felt were his most secret materials. To do otherwise might have kindled some suspicion in de Requesens that this was part of some plot to deceive him into compromising the confidential nature of his work and present burden. Which was, of course, precisely what was occurring.

  As they were crossing the Pont Battant, however, and de Requesens stopped to adjust the load on his shoulders, the span was deserted enough that he hazarded in a low voice, “Since you know my name, it seems only fair that I should learn yours.”

  “Fair? Perhaps. But if I answered, would you not then fear for your life?” De Requesens stared in shock. “Think on it. Given what we are about to put in motion, our only safety is in anonymity. So if I were to disclose my identity, it stands to reason that I had no intent of letting you live to reveal it.”

  That silenced the young intelligencer until they came in sight of the age-darkened shingling of the inn. Dolor paused. His companion looked up, staring ahead, squinting. “What is it? What do you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  Dolor shrugged. “It might be. But it would also be what we’d see if Urban’s men learned that this was where we might be headed. They might be waiting inside. Or nearby.” He turned toward the stables, gesturing for Javier to follow.

  Once they were inside, Dolor laid down his burden. “Stay within. Best remain hidden in that empty stall.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “There’s a small chute that goes through to the side sheds, for receiving hay. I shall slip through there, walk the perimeter of the inn, make sure that it is unobserved. I shall make a quick pass through the common room as well, just to be sure. Then I shall come back and fetch you.” He looked at the burden that was bowing the younger man’s back. “You might wish to put that down; I will be a few minutes.”

  De Requesens stubbornly held on to it. Dolor shrugged and, pulling his cloak closer about himself, sl
ipped across the barn to the chute. Crouching, he was through it in a single step.

  Once outside the barn, he paced quickly about the inn, not bothering to conceal himself. No cooks or maids were loitering out back, no tipplers were tarrying on the stairs up to the commons room. He slowed his pace, straightening his cloak carefully and making sure that his garments were not twisted in each other. When he was sure that he had full freedom of motion, he slipped back to the barn and entered with a stealthy, shadow-courting sidestep.

  “Hsst,” he breathed at the stall where he’d left de Requesens.

  The Spaniard gasped slightly. “Mierda, I did not hear you coming!”

  Dolor shook his head. “Be quiet.”

  “Very well. But are we safe?”

  “We were not followed,” Dolor replied truthfully. “The way seems clear but it is always possible that our adversaries are more cleverly hidden than our senses can detect. Are you ready?”

  De Requesens nodded.

  “Then pick up your bags and let us go quickly.”

  The Spaniard bent to comply. As he did, Dolor’s left hand went into his cloak and came straight out in one smooth motion. His poignard entered de Requesens’ chest a thumb’s width to the left of the sternum.

  The young intelligencer did not even get out a complete gasp as Dolor stepped closer with the grace of a dancer. He slipped his right arm behind the falling body. Stunned brown eyes looked up into his own. They had lost focus by the time he eased de Requesens down into the hay.

  Dolor glanced quickly about, listening intently: no one was approaching. Staying wide of the rapidly expanding pool of blood, he removed his poignard and wiped it clean on the hidalgo’s elegant pants leg: it would soon be sodden, anyway. Slipping the blade into the scabbard under his right arm, Dolor used his left hand to plant the wine bill from L’Auberge de Boucle d’Argent in the Spaniard’s coat pocket. He easily gathered up the bags the young man had carried with considerable distress, snagged a finger through the strap that held his clothes and toilet bound together, and started back toward the Pont Battant at a leisurely pace.

  And all the way there, even after he let de Requesens’ personal effects drag off his finger and into the Doub, the heavier elements of the toilet forcing them toward the bottom, Pedro Dolor recited silently, in time with the cadence of his steps: left hand strike, left hand strike, left hand strike…

  * * *

  The door was not yet closed behind Dolor before he started issuing orders. “Rombaldo, break down our radio and set this one up in its place.”

  “Why? Is it better?”

  “No. But it is the one that de Requesens used, and in my experience, all complex machines have their own strange quirks and characteristics. When Rome receives messages from us, masquerading as de Requesens, it must resemble his communications in every particular. For the same reason, examine this satchel of his transmission records.”

  “That will take—”

  “Be silent. Read as much of it as you can. We must familiarize ourself with de Requesens’ compositional habits: his idioms, his sentence structure, his word choices. All of it. We will compose our replies to match those of the vast compendium he has so thoughtfully provided, along with his codebooks.”

  “Do you think Borja would really notice a few small differences?”

  “Borja, no, but Maculani might. And we can take no chances.” He raised his voice. “Giulio.”

  “Yes, Pedro?”

  “You are to put on the monk’s robes we acquired. Keep your hood up, find two street messengers. The younger the lads the better.”

  “What are they to deliver and where?”

  “The first messenger is to hand-deliver this letter to the innkeeper. In person.” He handed a single, wax-sealed sheet to Giulio. “This is a note from de Requesens to the innkeeper, indicating that he has vacated his suite.”

  “And what is the second messenger to deliver?”

  Dolor reached into his own deal-wood desk, pulled out a larger, carefully sealed packet that he had prepared before leaving for L’Auberge de Boucle d’Argent. “This is also to be hand-delivered to the innkeeper. It is a week’s rent on the suite that de Requesens has just vacated, and a note explaining that the young Spaniard mentioned his intention of relocating yesterday. Send the messenger with this half an hour after you send the first.” Giulio bobbed compliance and went to find the monk’s robe. “Laurin.”

  The strangler sidled closer. “What is needed?”

  “You know the house where Gasquet and his men are staying?”

  “Ought to. Have watched it enough.”

  “And they have never seen you?”

  “Señor Dolor, do you mean to insult me?”

  “No, I ask a serious question, and you must be absolutely certain about the answer.”

  “They have never seen me.”

  “Good, because your life and our operation could depend upon it. You are to go as a crier to their street, announcing that there are rooms for rent at the L’Auberge de Boucle d’Argent at only twice the normal rate.”

  “‘Only’ twice the rate?” Laurin repeated sceptically.

  “Exactly.”

  “No one will take rooms at that rate.”

  “That’s the idea—no one but Gasquet, that is. By now, he will know, or should at least suspect, that he must vacate his current rooms. He’ll be ready to pay that rate—or at least ask you if it is negotiable. Which you will confirm on the sly. Like everyone that Borja has sent here, Gasquet has been provided with ample funds, and he will spend it; it’s their necks if they do not relocate.”

  Laurin nodded and moved off.

  Rombaldo frowned. “If they find de Requesens too soon, they’ll go investigate where he last lived. And they’ll walk in on Gasquet.”

  Dolor shook his head. “Quite the contrary. We want them to find the corpse as quickly as possible.”

  Rombaldo’s frown deepened. “That would be disaster.”

  “No, it will be an elegant solution. I made sure the body will be found swiftly. It probably has been by now. When they check the pockets, they will find a bill that identifies de Requesens and indicates that he was very recently staying at the de Boucle d’Argent.”

  Rombaldo’s frown gave way to surprise, and then a wide grin. “And so Urban’s investigators will be there first thing in the morning. Before Gasquet and his crew.”

  “Precisely. By the time he and his men turn up, Ambassador Nichols and anyone assisting her will have visited the suite and scoured it for anything that promises to be a clue. And they will have no reason to return. I have also left the investigators another small conundrum.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I killed de Requesens very professionally, and with a left-hand strike.”

  Rombaldo’s raised an eyebrow. “But you are right-handed.”

  “Yes, I am. However, since I was a boy, I have practiced everything I do with my left hand also. Forced ambidexterity.”

  Rombaldo’s only reply was a puzzled look.

  Dolor began drafting a very small note using the drop code with which de Requesens had communicated with Gasquet. “Firstly, by killing de Requesens with a blow that I made sure to be obviously from a left-handed attacker, it introduces a new variable into their investigations. They have only seen right-handed attacks. Now they have a left-handed murderer to look for, one who did not bother to hide the body of a man who will be a puzzlement to them. He clearly had a radio in his room, since an aerial was left behind. But no documentation was to be found, and his employment is unclear. Also, since he has been in Besançon since 1634, there will logically be uncertainty whether he could reasonably be connected with an assassination plot that cannot have been more than three months in the making.”

  “But what will all that accomplish?” Rombaldo asked finally.

  Dolor shrugged. “Wasted energy and uncertainty. Which are our friends. Every clue or conjecture that might connect de Requesens’
murder to Lamy’s or a potential assassination plot is now countered and complicated by another that seems to point in the opposite direction.” He finished the note and began rolling it tightly enough to fit into one of the reedlike tubes that de Requesens had used for his drops. “All plots are made up of intentional acts, arrayed purposefully around an objective. But what if one or two such acts do not fit into any given pattern? And what occurs if an outsider must reconstruct the actual plot?”

  Rombaldo smiled. “They’re stymied. They try to make all the pieces fit. But they can’t.”

  “Exactly. And even if such an outsider was shrewd enough to speculate that some of the clues were spurious, motivated by an intent to mislead, how would they know which pieces those are? The best they can do is construct multiple hypothetical plots, but they remain unable to determine which is accurate. If any. And so they waste precious time not only trying to choose among the many plots, but also come up with countermeasures or responses that can be adapted to all of them. Which are ultimately inferior compromises, compared to what they would have devised if they had been able to discern the one strategy by which they will be attacked.” Dolor rose and put on a shorter cloak that looked nothing like the ones used by the watch.

  Rombaldo looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

  Dolor held up the message tube. “To put this where Gasquet will find it.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “What you might expect. That there are rooms waiting for them at L’Auberge de Boucle d’Argent, paid in advance, and that they should not arrive there until after noon, tomorrow. Also, that this is the last message drop in either direction, that Rome fears we have used them too long, and that the chance of detection is too great, now that we are nearing the actual assassination attempt. Instead, the attack plan will either arrive via a messenger I send, or be relayed by whoever is controlling the Swiss. And even though Gasquet is to remain the leader for the attack, he is to accept the plan that he receives, no matter the source.”

  “And you are depositing it in the drop site yourself?”

  “I am.”