the wind, the skilled crew of that hull was doubtlessly tacking to-and-fro to make decent progress. If she didn’t make enough headway, no matter. She could take a more westerly heading for a while, and in bringing her prow out of the wind, she would make better speed to her own new loiter point.
North looked east; no glimmers on the horizon, yet. Good, he thought, we’ll make it to the new loiter points just in time to give the Spanish something new to chase. Why hunt down enemy ships alone, when you can hunt both a ship and an enemy balloon together? Yes, each Spanish pursuit boat-too separated from its mates to signal effectively-would certainly press on alone if they believed themselves poised to also capture the mysterious airship that had attacked the Castell de Bellver. And that is exactly what Lefferts’ and Miro’s escape plan would lead them to believe.
North’s smile became unpleasant. “Happy hunting, you bastards,” he muttered toward the distant lights of Palma.
From the stern of the Atropos, and with the Llebeig running in from the southwest, Miro watched the mizzen’s lateen fill nicely. The Atropos herself had left Dragonera behind shortly before dawn, heading due north, almost out of the sight of the coast, and taking good, but not best, advantage of the Llebeig. With the yard mounted on the same side as the wind from that angle, the lateen was unable to work to optimum effect on that leg of their journey.
But that brief sacrifice was worth it, for ultimately, Aurelio brought the Atropos over hard-a-starboard and into a due east heading. From this angle, the Llebeig came full into the lateen, the yard being on what was now the leeward side of the mast. The xebec seemed like a suddenly spurred horse, leaping through the swells with speed that, according to the up-timers, they associated with powered boats or racing yachts.
That speed had been central to the overall escape plan: if the Spanish had not found the Atropos by the time it left Dragonera, it was very unlikely they ever would. Heading away from shore also meant heading directly away from potential pursuit. And now, with the wind at the most optimal position for the xebec’s rig, there was quite probably not a single ship in the Balearics that could overtake them. This was one of the two reasons Miro had been willing to take the risks necessary to seize the xebec in the first place: it not only had a large enough stern to support balloon operations, but it was also the fastest get-away ship in the Mediterranean.
Miro leaned into the wind. Hours ago, the flotilla’s four swiftest boats-each readying one of the large kongming lanterns that Meir had purchased for him-had, at the same time, gone to their new loiter points well south of Palma. There, with the first hint of graying in the east, they lit the lamps and sent them aloft, each tethered to its ship by a silken string.
Each lantern had been a flickering airborne lure, visible to one or maybe two of the Spanish chase ships. Being unable to communicate with the others as their search pattern carried them farther apart, the Spanish had been almost sure to follow whichever enemy ship-and-balloon combination they first espied. With the enemy barely visible upon the horizon, each Spanish captain would reasonably believe that he-and only he-was chasing the right ship: the one towing the balloon that had been seen during the attack on Castell de Bellver.
And right about now, if Miro guessed the position of the sun correctly, those captains would be discovering the final trick that had been played upon them: that the separate balloons they had each been chasing had been released from their tow ships at least half an hour earlier. And, more distressingly, that the balloons had actually been nothing more than aerial lanterns, common in the Far East but quite unfamiliar in the Mediterranean-and, as they had now learned, very misleading as to their size and range, particularly when seen at a great distance and against a uniform backdrop such as the sea. Miro smiled; there was a satisfying irony in having misled those captains by giving them exactly what they had expected to see-since that was just what the Spanish had done to the rescuers in Rome.
Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Miro noticed that they had come back in sight of the shore; the dark gray coastline swept up higher to the north. The Atropos ’ course would parallel those peaks-the barren Tramuntana mountains that marched across the top of his home island like a wall-all the way until they reached the dramatic northeast promontory known as the Cap de Formentor. From there, the Atropos would maneuver to rendezvous with the Guerra Cagna and the Minnow, and let off a quick series of radio squelches that would signify “all well, hostages rescued, team returning.” But even then, Miro would not presume they were safe-not until they reached the Ligurian coast, just north of the Golfo de Spezio, from whence they would relaunch the dirigible toward Brescia, one hundred and five miles inland and safe behind the Venetian border.
However, Miro conceded, leaning back against the taffrail and enjoying a sudden dappling of sunlight through the light overcast, it was reasonable to indulge in at least a small amount of satisfaction, even before they arrived in Italy. After all, the rescue plan that Harry and he cobbled together had worked. Miro smiled. In fact, it had worked quite acceptably.
Quite acceptably, indeed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Larry was standing alongside Urban, looking out the rear window of the Garden Room, one of the few that had not been severely damaged during the prior night’s combat. Out upon the villa’s rear grounds-arrayed in rows between the herb and vegetable gardens-were all the dead. Mazzare swallowed, not having seen so many bodies since the Croat cavalry rode into Grantville in an attempt to slaughter all of the recently arrived up-timers.
“How many?” murmured Urban.
“Us or them?” asked Mazzare.
Urban closed his eyes. “How many of God’s children, Cardinal Mazzare?”
Larry felt a pang of shame-not the first one he’d felt in the past day. “Er…eighty-four in all, Your Holiness.”
Urban nodded, and after a time, opened his eyes. “There on the end, is that the boy who ran messages- Carlo? And is that the cook, the one with the lovely voice, beside him?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“I could not tell. They are almost completely covered.”
“Their wounds-and dignity-demanded no less.”
Somewhere, out near the small barn, a hoarse cry rose up and dwindled back down with a whimper. Larry closed his eyes. Even with Sharon here, there had been wounds too grievous to treat-and in the borderline cases, the preference had been routinely given to the staff and defenders of the embassy, rather than the attackers. Those whose wounds would ultimately prove mortal-and there had been many-had been moved to the barn, from whence screams and cries had emerged all night long. Shortly before dawn, the frequency and volume of the agonized screams had begun to taper off. Now, they were rare. If Sharon’s triage assessments were correct, there would be final silence shortly past noon. And he, Cardinal Larry Mazzare, champion of peace, declaimer of war, had put at least four into that death house, himself. He felt a quiver start deep inside his body Urban put his hand on Larry’s shoulder. For the first time in Mazzare’s memory, the pope’s grip felt almost frail, but it drove off whatever demon of guilt and remorse had been rising up in him. “This has been a hard night, Lawrence. How many assassins attacked us?”
“We’re not sure, Your Holiness. There are fifty-one of their bodies out there. Some escaped, but not many.”
“And how many of our own friends have gone to be with their Maker?”
“Twenty-one of the embassy workers, nine of the Marines, one of the Hibernians, and Fleming. And-” Mazzare paused.
“-and George Sutherland. Yes, I know. I think I will see his face for the rest of my days.”
Someone cleared a throat behind them; they turned.
Sharon and Ruy stood just within the doorway. “Holy Father,” she said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need a moment of your time.”
Urban sighed but put on a smile; it was arguably the saddest expression that Larry Mazzare had ever seen. “Of course, Ambassadora Nichols.”
“I know it seems that, after last night, we should all have time to rest and recover, but we don’t. We’ve got to move you again, Holy Father. We can’t be sure that there is only one group of assassins.
