1636_The Vatican Sanction

by Eric Flint

  “Cops and robbers—or terrorists, I guess. And look: since I’m a surgeon, I might need to be on hand to save the lives of any assassins you haven’t killed outright. If we’re going to have anyone to talk to after this, they might need patching up.” She stared around at the group. “And so might some of you. So, in order to both carry out the best investigation we can and to protect our own personnel”—she glared at Ruy—“I’ve got to be close enough to do the jobs that only I can do.”

  Hastings was looking back and forth between security chief husband and ambassador wife. “Sir? Ma’am?” he said. He sounded like he was trying to swallow a sideways chicken bone.

  Ruy shrugged. “You will detail one of the soldiers to assist Corporal Finan in protecting our ambassador. And our surgeon. And our forensic specialist.” He smiled at her. “Our own troublesome yet divine trinity made into one flesh.”

  Sharon almost smiled as she flounced past him. “And don’t you forget it.”

  * * *

  Pedro Dolor walked slowly, rather than stealthily, toward the most secluded corner from which he could see the entrance to the house in which he lodged—and came to a soft, gradual halt; two men were already at that corner. One was a Burgundian regular, who was clearly following the lead of the Hibernian with him. Both were peering around the corner as Dolor himself had intended to do.

  Instead, Dolor turned, almost lazily, to retrace his last few steps as he thought through his options.

  The front door was under observation, so he had no direct access. Trying to open a hole in the surrounding forces was the kind of tactic that only a novice or an idiot would consider. Even if he could take the two at the corner by surprise, it was unlikely he could do so without one of them making enough noise to attract the attention of the rest, whose numbers were completely against him. Hastings and six of his Hibernians had run past him. Then Sanchez had followed. The ambassador, while not a concern in and of herself, always had at least one Hibernian with her—Finan—and often a further small retinue of Burgundian soldiers. Furthermore, Hastings had been exchanging hand signals with a sniper and an observer in the bell tower of St. Peter’s. If there was a feasible way to defeat that large a force without catching at least half of them asleep in their beds, Dolor didn’t know of it—and this was the kind of scenario he pondered frequently, by way of a professional exercise.

  Also, the significance of the sniper and observer added a further, very complicating dimension. The emergency escape route Dolor had always relied upon—out the back windows and through St. Peter’s graveyard—was suddenly useless. It was a long shot—somewhere between 120 and 130 yards, Dolor estimated—but the Hibernians had the weapon, training, and scope to score hits at that range. And any hit from a .40-72 black powder cartridge was likely to be debilitating, at the very least. Worse still, unless someone in his collection of killers chose this day to start thinking professionally, they were likely to reflexively try the back windows—and thereby, almost certainly lose one or two of their number discovering that the team at St. Peter’s was watching for exactly that attempt at flight.

  Warning Rombaldo by radio had never been an option, unfortunately; Dolor had known that the moment he saw the ambassador and others crowded intently around one of their mobile sets. It seemed that, somehow, they had been able to use their own radios to locate his. He remembered encountering mention of such a feat in one of the up-time books he had read: a military thriller depicting the almost surreal battles of their time. But he had been under the (admittedly, vague and indirect) impression that pinpointing the location of a radio transmitter required powerful sets specially designed for that purpose. Evidently, the task was vastly more simple than he’d imagined, which left him with yet another reason not to attempt to warn Rombaldo by radio: he might very well give away his own location. But primarily, he did not pursue that option simply because there wasn’t the time. It would have taken close to a quarter hour to retrace his steps to the cellar, unpack their original radio, hook up the batteries. and then hope that its signal would not be crucially degraded by the stonework and dirt surrounding him.

  If, therefore, he had any way to still act effectively, and potentially undetected by his opponents, it would be because of the suite’s small back window. It took some skillful wriggling to get through it—Dolor was not convinced that Radulfus could make it through at all—and then required a stovepipe climb down for ten feet or so, at which point it was still a seven-foot jump to the ground. But the window actually looked like it belonged to an adjoining building, so unless someone knew the floorplan in advance, there would be nothing suggesting that it was another means of egress from the flat.

  Of course, if Sanchez’s men had come across that information, or if they were operating on information passed to them by one of Dolor’s own men, then his only reasonable option was to leave the scene as quickly as possible. However, Dolor considered the first scenario implausible and the second one very unlikely. There were several reasons why he had sharply restricted the amount of time his men were allowed out of their rooms. The most important had been because, with the exception of Giulio, his handpicked crew were all far better at killing people than meeting or socializing with them. They had the kind of personalities that someone might remember, and not in a flattering fashion. So operational security had required that he minimize their contact with the outside world.

  It had the secondary benefit of limiting any opportunities to betray Dolor and the others. None of them had any prior experience of, or contacts in, Besançon; that had been one of Dolor’s selection criteria. As a result, even if they had contemplated shopping around to see if someone was willing to pay them an informer’s wage, they had no place to start and little opportunity to find a way to begin.

  So, hopefully, Sanchez was not aware of the small side window. And if he was…

  …I’ll find out soon enough.

  * * *

  Ruy waited until the last of the four pairs of “box watchers” they’d sent to monitor the approaches to the house slipped around the corner. “So, we are together now.” Which meant five Hibernians (not counting Finan), five Burgundian swordsmen, Hastings, Sharon, Ruy himself, and three runners. He nodded to the youngest runner. “Can I trust you to deliver an important message?”

  “Sir, you can!”

  Ruy kept a smile off his face. “Very well. You must go to the Palais Granvelle. You must ask to speak to Don Owen Roe O’Neill. If he cannot be located, ask for Dr. Sean Connal. Inform them what you have seen here, that we shall be taking action soon, and that we do not presently require his help but wish him to be aware of what is transpiring. Go now.”

  As the fellow sprinted off, Ruy turned to the oldest. “How are you called, lad?”

  “Simon, Colonel Sanchez.”

  “Simon, you will walk with this fellow”—Ruy pointed to the youngest of the Burgundian swordsmen—“to the house we have selected. You are to knock on the door of the family in the first floor rooms directly below those in which we are interested. If no one answers, you are to enter the rooms and inspect them; make sure no one remains in them when you leave. If someone is in those rooms, you are to inform them that the Archbishop Rey himself has had news from beyond Besançon that bears upon them and that he must communicate it to them in person—all of them and immediately. If they refuse to all accompany you, he”—another finger jab at the soldier—“shall persuade them to do otherwise. It is crucial that you leave no one in that apartment. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Off with you, then.”

  At which point the third and last messenger waited expectantly for a moment before asking, “And what of me, sir?”

  “You,” Ruy said solemnly, “have arguably the most important job of all.”

  “And what is that, sir?”

  “You are to wait with the ambassadora and her radioman. If our radios fail, or if we must send a quick, unexpected message to someone without ready
access to a set, you will be entrusted with delivering it.”

  The boy stood very straight. “You may count on me, sir!”

  Ruy believed the young fellow meant it. He turned to Finan. “Corporal, please send the following to Zehenter, for relay to St. Peter’s by Aldis lamp. ‘Message begins. Will enter soon. Stop. Expect attempted flight through rear windows. Stop. If windows open ring church bell once. Stop. If rooms appear strongly held ring again. Stop. Engage any defender holding a firearm. End.’”

  Rolf, the corporal in charge of Hastings’ reaction force, craned his neck to see down the street. “Runner and Burgundian returning from the house, sir. No one with them.”

  Ruy nodded, took a moment to put a gentle palm along Sharon’s tense arm. “We have all the advantages, my love. It shall be over soon.”

  Sharon looked at him balefully. “No matter how many advantages you have, trying to arrest or fight people in buildings is never a sure thing.”

  “You are right. Which is why this is where you remain, with Corporal Finan and the runner. As soon as it is safe, we shall send for you.” Sharon nodded, crossing her arms as if there was a chill in the warm air.

  The runner and soldier who had been sent to the house tucked around the corner. “No one home,” the soldier explained. “And we think we have a good idea of the floorplan. Looks like the top is pretty much the same as the bottom, but we can’t tell for sure: the house seems to share a few walls with adjoining buildings. You come in facing the stairs to the second floor. On your left, on both levels, are small rooms; might be enough for a single person. Might be storage. On the right are the doors into the two larger apartments. The ground floor is essentially two rooms, one in line with the other. Long and thin.”

  “Railroad flat,” Sharon added, using what was apparently an up-time term for such an apartment. “One room after the other, no hallways.”

  The soldier nodded. “That’s it. But the entry narrows a bit. If the top floor is like the bottom, there’s an alcove to the left as you go in. Used for storage, mostly.”

  Hastings folded his arms. “We shouldn’t wait too long. Every minute increases the chance that one of them will leave, or something will happen that gives us away.”

  Ruy nodded; he discovered he was not as ready to simply rush the house as he would have been in earlier times. Why? Was he getting old? Or was he unwilling to shock his wife? Sharon’s reaction to what down-timers often saw as brute necessity was often to perceive it as callous indifference to human life.

  Or…

  …or was he adopting a bit of her view? He’d soldiered for Spain for more than four decades, all told. There were certainly times when the only prudent course of action was often ruthless, even cruel. But there had been too many other times when he had witnessed, had even been a reluctant abettor, of brutality and savagery for its own sake. And if now, in the October of his life, he felt that guilt more keenly, perhaps it was not untoward that he repudiate it not just with words, but with deeds: by changing the measure of care exerted to protect innocent bystanders from what was, in all likelihood, about to occur.

  Ruy looked up almost seven inches at Hastings. “We will make haste slowly, Lieutenant. We shall advance on the house—”

  “—and then up the stairs and burst in?” Hastings finished, almost eagerly.

  “No. We shall move as quietly as we may into the positions I indicate.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we will knock on the door.”

  “Knock on the door?” Hastings’ frown was mighty. “Sir, that’s—that’s giving away the advantage of surprise.”

  “Perhaps that is better than being surprised to find out that we were wrong about the occupants being assassins—after we rush in and slaughter innocents. But if they are not innocents, they will not wish to fight: they will wish to flee out their back windows. And I am fairly sure they shall be surprised by what they experience when they try.”

  Hastings’ frown had almost transformed into a smile. “The men are ready, sir.”

  Ruy undid the holster snap for his Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. “Then let us not keep them—or the inhabitants of the second floor—waiting.”

  Chapter 30

  Lieutenant Marwin Hastings had to remind himself that being an officer meant no longer leading from the very front. Toward the front, yes: otherwise, you were not close enough to see the situation and give appropriate orders. But having spent many years as a sergeant—even before joining the misnamed Hibernians—his deepest instinct was to be the first to charge, to go up the ladders, to leave the trench. Or, in this case, go through the door.

  But that job fell to the new sergeant, Rolf, who turned the crude handle and, pushing his shoulder against the door, first peered and then slipped through the widening crack. Percussion cap revolver in his right hand, he moved the door slowly into a full open position. He checked the doorway on the right, and then the left, before waving the rest forward with his left hand.

  Hastings, third through the door, pointed at Rolf and the Hibernian who had followed him in and then aimed his finger up the stairway to the door on the left.

  Rolf nodded, took a two-handed hold on his pistol, and, staying close to the right-hand wall, began going up the stairs at a slightly slower than average pace, the second trooper right behind him. The fourth and fifth men, the two right behind Hastings, didn’t need further instructions; moving as far to the left as they could, they aimed their lever-action rifles up the stairs at the right-hand door just visible beyond the edge of the second floor landing.

  Hastings unholstered his own weapon: a nine-millimeter Glock 17 that had been gifted to him by the Wrecking Crew as a gesture of thanks for his actions at Molino. Which seemed very far away and very long ago at this particular moment.

  From beyond the front door, two of the Burgundian swordsmen peeked in, both curious and cautious; they had busted into many houses in their time, but not as if they were playing hide-and-seek. Hastings held up a hand; they shrank back.

  Rolf paused two steps below the landing, and, keeping his gun trained on the door to the right, moved diagonally up across the last two stairs and then as far as he could to the wall farthest away from the stairs. Hastings nodded, satisfied; if anyone came out of that door now, they’d be in a crossfire between Rolf’s pistol and the rifles at the base of the stairs.

  He pointed to the sixth and last Hibernian, then to the right-hand ground floor door. “Survey and report.”

  The man nodded, opened the door slowly, stopped when it creaked unexpectedly. So did everyone else. When there was no response from the suite on the second floor, he edged it open a few inches more and slipped in.

  Hastings glanced up the stairs to the trooper who had followed Rolf and indicated the door on the left-hand side of the landing. The trooper nodded. He followed the same diagonal path that Rolf had taken, but instead of crossing to the far side of the landing, he stopped just to the side of the left-hand door. He tried the flimsy knob, turned to face Hastings and shook his head.

  Which was what Hastings had expected, and dreaded. He leaned toward the front door, put his hand outside, and made a waving motion. In less than two seconds, Colonel Sanchez was in and standing next to him. How could that old man move so quickly? And so quietly?

  Before Hastings could update the Catalan, he had glanced up the stairs and nodded. “No way into the room to the left, then.”

  “Not without using force. As we discussed.”

  Sanchez nodded. “It is too valuable a position to forego. Proceed.”

  Hastings glanced toward the right-hand door just as the trooper who had opened it slipped back out. “Report. Quickly.”

  “Nothing of significance, Lieutenant.”

  “Is there an axe?”

  “An axe, sir?”

  “Yes. Quickly!”

  “Er…yes, sir. A small one-handed axe. Good for trimming, even splitting, smaller pieces of wood. But I—”


  “Excellent. Fetch it quickly. Then go back and take up a position just there, in the alcove.”

  “You mean, the alcove of the room I just exited, sir?”

  “Am I mumbling, trooper? Yes, there! Colonel Sanchez will give you instructions. Rifle out and ready. And be ready to withdraw back here at a moment’s notice.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Hastings glanced at Sanchez as he waited for the axe. He shifted to English, so that the Burgundians would have a harder time following their exchange. “This plan presumes much, Colonel.”

  “Not really, Hastings. The left-hand door up there”—he jutted a bearded chin up the staircase—“should give way. And it is unlikely that the occupants of the room across the hall will emerge with weapons at the ready. If they were no better disciplined than that, they would have given themselves away to the neighbors long before now. By the time they can even peek out, you should all be under cover near the target door, and we will have three more armed men waiting near the head of the stairs.”

  “And so, find ourselves in a standoff. We could just rush it, sir. The Burgundians have little appreciation of what they might encounter. They would open a wedge for us. A quick resolution.” Hastings received the axe from the trooper who immediately returned to the room, Winchester at the ready and looking perplexed as he slid into the alcove to the left of the door.

  Sanchez was shaking his head. “Unfortunately, that quick resolution would kill most of the Burgundians as well as the blackguards we will probably discover on the other side of the door. Whereas a standoff, Lieutenant, is another word for victory, insofar as we are concerned. They will realize that the stairs are impassable for them. They will open the rear windows to see if the way is clear. It will appear so.” Sanchez smiled. “When they discover to their dismay that it is anything but a safe escape route, they will stop to consider their vastly diminished options. We shall further consolidate our position. They will realize that time is entirely on our side. And if they do not decide to surrender, they will ultimately resolve to make a suicidal rush. Of course, not all may be so bold as to follow that resolve. And so we shall have survivors to interrogate.”