Urban shook his head. “No, no: not that. But until I may have a Swiss Guard again-if I ever do-I would take great comfort in being able to rely upon your kind and vigorous defense of my person and the Church Militant. And I have already communicated my wishes to your employer, who has replied that my choice honors him greatly, and that my trust is well and wisely placed.”
“King Fernando said that?”
“He did-along with Archduchess Isabella. They have even extended an invitation to visit there, which I might very well do. I might even convene the council in their lands.”
Owen spread his hands. “Your Holiness, how can you? The Low Countries is not a purely Catholic realm anymore.”
“Owen,” commented Sean quietly, “tell me: which realms are, at this moment, purely Catholic realms?”
The answers that first jumped into Owen’s mind-all of Spain’s possessions and Bavaria-died before they emerged from his mouth. “I see,” he observed, with a pull at his newly trimmed beard.
“And besides,” added Urban, “the Low Countries are one of the few realms that have tendered such an offer to my troublesome self.”
“Has France?”
Urban’s smile was sly. “Of course. And they offered Avignon as my papal seat-which, if I agreed to it, would be like declaring Borja the true pontiff and myself the anti-pope. No. I have many friends among the French cardinals, but Richelieu holds their reins. So I continue to consider one other offer.”
“Which is-?” Connal wondered with a winning and far-too-innocent smile.
“Which is best shared at a later time. Besides, I do not yet have your answer, Owen Roe O’Neill: may I indeed consider myself protected by those Wild Geese that you feel suitable for such duty?”
Owen Rowe O’Neill stood very straight. “Where the pope goes, we go. We are his men.”
Urban smiled. “Nothing could please me more. Now I will ask one more thing of you: seek out Thomas North and Lieutenant Hastings. The USE has graciously offered to lend me their contracted services.”
“A sassenach protecting a pope?” O’Neill smiled. “What is this world coming to?”
“It is coming to an urgent crossroads perched upon the edge of a yawning abyss, Colonel O’Neill. Over which I intend to build many such bridges before we all fall into it and are consumed. Now, please be so good as to tell the co-owner of the Hibernian Mercenary Battalion that their USE employers have decided to extend their current ‘special contract’ in a most uncommonly lucrative fashion.”
Still smiling, Owen nodded his respects, and went in search of the damned sassenach.
Sherrilyn leaned back and tried stretching her knee out straight; it did not cooperate. Damn it, what I’d give for a whirlpool right about now “Quatrine for your thoughts?”
She turned and smiled in the direction of Harry Lefferts’ voice. “They’d cost you a whole lot more than that, buddy.”
He sat down on the bench beside her, but she could tell he wouldn’t stay long: his body was bent forward over his knees, hands clenched between them. Obversely, when he meant to settle in, he slouched back like a cougar at repose. Feeling an awkward silence growing, she asked, “How’s Matija doing?”
“Fine. Donald’s in the sick ward with him right now.” Harry looked out beyond the hills. “At least the two of them made it.”
“Harry, listen,” said Sherrilyn. “We’re the Wrecking Crew; danger is our job description. Paul and George died doing their jobs as well as any of us ever have. And Rome is old news. What you and Miro pulled off in Mallorca-that was an extraordinary piece of work, and yes, everyone knows that most details of the close assault on Bellver came from you. You might be determined to play down your role in it, but Miro isn’t; if anything, he’s trumpeting your contributions while under-representing his own.”
Harry looked off to the side. “Yeah, well-I’m not going to get all worked up about it. The last time I basked in the spotlight I got a little bit blinded. And that got some good people killed. Some really good friends, too. I don’t need-or want-any credit for Mallorca. That was for the folks we left behind in Rome.”
Sherrilyn put a hand on shoulder. “Harry, listen to someone you trust-yourself. What you said in Venice was dead right: we had a good run, and had it as long as we could. When we first arrived down-time-when Mike Stearns recruited us-we were flying by the seat of our pants, and making up plans only seconds before carrying them out. And a good part of our success was because we were an unknown quantity; because the down-timers didn’t know all they things we could do, but more importantly, they also had no idea about all the things we couldn’t do.
“That was sure to change, Harry-and that’s what happened in Italy. The job changed, not us, not you. We had our run, and we had no way of foreseeing just how fast and hard that run was going to be over.” She rubbed her wrapped knee. “And I had no idea I was becoming an old lady.”
Harry grinned. “Well, Sherrilyn, you should know-better than anyone else-that I have a thing for older women.”
“Idiot,” Sherrilyn said with a smile.
“Ya gotta hand it to me, at least I’m consistent.”
“That you are, Harry,” she said as he stood.
“Well, I’m off.” He said brusquely-and then, his tone suddenly became serious, almost somber. “Every morning, when I wake up, I start the day by telling myself that the sacrifices we made were all worth while. We got Frank and Giovanna back, you kept the pope from getting killed, and we beat the other guys at their own sneaky games.”
“Yup,” agreed Sherrilyn, who rummaged around in her pocket and extended its contents up toward Harry: sunglasses. The weren’t exactly like his trademark pair, the ones he’d broken in two and tossed in the Tiber, but they were close down-time copies that had come with an embassy worker out of Rome.
Harry looked at them and shook his head. “No, Sherrilyn, I’m through with them. I think I’ve gotten to that stage of my life where there’s only one good reason to wear sunglasses.”
“To shade your eyes against the sun?”
Harry nodded. “Pretty dull-but when the image gets in the way of the job, it’s time to dump the image.”
Sherrilyn hoisted herself up, wavered a bit, but finally stood firm. She snapped a clean, respectful salute. “It’s been an honor serving with you, Captain; you are a hell of a soldier.”
He returned the salute. “I’m going to live up to that, Sherrilyn. And-truth be told-the honor was all mine.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The sun in Barcelona was punishing, and Pedro Dolor had seated himself at the table with his back to it. This also gave his host-the count-duke of Olivares-the seat with the superior view of the harbor. If it also happened to make the older man squint a bit and work a bit harder at maintaining a serene and superior composure-well, Olivares was an old hand at just these kinds of clandestine meetings, so Dolor thought it unlikely that he would be so easily rattled. However, Pedro was happy for any advantage he might acquire, no matter how small.
Olivares picked at his camarones al ajillo distractedly. “You seem to have done quite well for yourself in your new position, Senor Dolor.” He nodded at the plain but fine clothes that Pedro wore, seemed to scan fingers and neck for any sign of jewelry. “Although you seem reluctant to make any display of it.”
“Professional considerations, Your Grace. In my line of work, unobtrusiveness, not ornamentation, is key.”
“But surely you can veer from this Spartan regimen when you are in private?”
Dolor shrugged. “If the lack of ornamentation remains an unexceptioned habit, then one cannot, in a moment of distraction, forget it. It is one’s reality, one’s sole reflex. Which is precisely what, in my case, it must be.”
Olivares nodded slowly. He seemed to consider the shrimp he held aloft on a silver fork, but Dolor knew that in fact, the count-duke was considering him. Measuring the increased confidence, the seemingly sudden increase in what Olivares and his aristocratic ilk would call “courtly breeding,” congratulating himself on having had the foresight to promote this lowly lackey from bloody-handed work to the subtler requirements of the mission he had just completed. Which had, paradoxically, included the two most profitable failures of his career.
The paradox of the deeper successes implicit in those two superficial failures was evidently not lost on
