certain-discretionary allowances-regarding the resolution of your current project. But let us return to the topic: why did you request that Bolzano be held?”
“First tell me this: why have you elected to do so? My suggestion certainly isn’t justifiable grounds for detaining a foreign national, is it?”
Nasi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You know it’s not.”
“Then I was right to guess that-for a little while, at least-Grantville’s own intelligence ‘brotherhood’ would like to keep my balloon a secret.”
“Well…yes. So far as it’s possible, since the Venetians spoke openly about what they were doing. But most everyone thinks they are still building the first balloon, not the second.”
“Yes; that was why I suggested you find and detain Bolzano. Not to protect the knowledge of how to make an airship; that will be common knowledge, soon enough-particularly since this design is so simple. But Bolzano might also have informed others that we already had a working balloon.”
“Yes, about that-”
Estuban let himself smile. “It’s about Italy, isn’t it?”
Nasi’s face became completely expressionless. “How do you know?”
“News like that travels quickly; by tomorrow at the latest, everyone in Grantville will know that there will soon be an anti-pope, and that Urban is missing.” Miro smiled wider. “Or is he? Because if Urban isn’t missing-if, instead, someone wanted to fly him out from a spot where there was no airfield, or fly in a special security team and their equipment-I suspect it might be very helpful to have a balloon to expedite that kind of mission.”
“So you can do it? You can fly to Northern Italy?”
“I can lift three thousand pounds over the Alps and arrive in Brescia four to eight days after we start out. The journey would be in four legs. Leg one is to Nurnberg. Then to Biberach. Then across the Bodensee up to Chur in the Grissons cantonment. Then south over the Valtelline and onto the Northern Italian plain. Each leg is a three- hour trip, give or take. Assuming that we must arrange support at the endpoint of each leg, we should be able to make a flight every two or three days. If the support could be arranged ahead of time,”-Miro looked through the wall in the direction of the radio room-“we could perform a flight a day.”
“So we-that is, President Piazza-could have a team on-site in four days?”
“If you consider Brescia ‘on-site,’ then, yes: if the weather permits, four days. Assuming that President Piazza-or even higher authorities-can arrange the necessary support.”
“And what kind of support will you need?”
Miro wondered, given the carefully rehearsed diction of that question, if it had been originally anticipated by Nasi, or Piazza, or Stearns-or maybe all three. “At each endpoint, we need a place to store the balloon-which, given its segmented keel, folds down to fifty feet long and twenty wide. And we need enough fuel on site-ethanol, methanol, lamp oil, fish oil-for the balloon’s next flight.”
“Sounds simple.”
“Oh, it is-which is why I already have twelve transport contracts for when I begin commercial flights.”
“Twelve? Already?”
Miro nodded. “Six out of Venice, one from Lubeck, two from Amsterdam, one from Prague, two from Brussels.”
“And you are carrying-?”
“A fair number of passengers, particularly diplomats and specialists. Lots of documents: data, research copies, bonds, certificates, and contracts of all sorts. Some specie, some spice, some lenses, even some gemstones and pearls. Low weight, high value. My rates are steep, but the transport is fast, safe, and almost entirely tariff- and toll-free.”
“And could you carry a-a ‘special cargo’ for President Piazza, first?”
“Of course; here’s the rate sheet.”
Nasi studied it, blanched, and then looked a bit like a penniless farmer confronting a burly amtman. “Estuban-I can’t-I don’t think the government here can pay these charges.”
Miro nodded, watching Nasi closely: another second and the spymaster might start mentioning how President Piazza might need to “nationalize a key asset-such as your balloon-for the duration of the crisis.” Probably not, but why risk having the deal move in that direction? By claiming poverty, Nasi had inadvertently given Miro the initiative: “Let’s keep the operating expenditures equal to my costs, Francisco: just have the president-or your successor-pay for the fuel and the crew. Besides, what’s more important to me than your government’s money is your government’s political influence.”
“What kind of influence?”
“The kind that would allow my airship company to become a government partner in bulk purchasing and shipment of various kinds of fuel. The kind of influence that would help us get support facilities established in the cities we’d be servicing directly. The kind of influence that reduces or eliminates certain tariffs or taxes. In short, nothing that needs to come out of a president’s-or a spymaster’s-always overburdened operations budget.” And Miro smiled.
Francisco smiled back. “To quote a fine, if sentimental, movie I just saw, I suspect that President Piazza may consider this ‘the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ ”
Miro nodded. “ Casablanca. See? I’m acclimating. And none too soon, for today I am truly embarking upon the American Dream.”
Francisco frowned. “What do you mean?”
Estuban feigned surprise. “Why, I have attained what every person in Grantville is pursuing! Today, as my financial prospects promise to rise with my airship, its seems that I have literally achieved ‘upward mobility.’ ”
Four Days on the Danube
Chapter 1
The first notice Rita had that something was amiss was on the startling side. The front door to the small apartment in Ingolstadt’s military headquarters that she and her husband Tom had just finished settling into was blown in by an explosion. A splinter from the door sliced open her left arm just below the shoulder. Another splinter flew into her side and stuck there like a pin, just above the hip.
The blast itself sent her stumbling back. She tripped and fell into the fireplace. Where her dress caught fire.
A man came through the door on the heels of the explosion. He had a wheel-lock pistol in his hand which he leveled at her and fired.
That was pretty much the low point of the evening. Luckily for Rita, the door hadn’t been completely blown off the hinges. Half of it was still hanging in the entrance and a jagged edge caught the man’s sleeve as he brought up the gun. His aim was thrown off and the bullet went into the fireplace instead of Rita’s chest.
Squalling with fear and anger, Rita scrambled out of the fireplace. She started slapping at her dress to extinguish the flames licking at the hem. Then, seeing that her assailant was bringing out another pistol, she left off trying to extinguish the flames and turned instead toward the mantelpiece. Her husband Tom kept his shotgun up there.
She wouldn’t make it, she realized despairingly. By the time she-
Another crash drew her head around. Tom had burst in from their bedroom. The front room of the apartment doubled as a dining area. Tom disarmed the gunman by the simple expedient of driving the dining table across the floor into the man’s hip.
Tom Simpson was a former football lineman. If anything, the years since the Ring of Fire and his military service had put still more meat and muscle on his immense frame. And he certainly hadn’t lost any strength. The
