Miro smiled. “That would not be an exaggeration.”
“Want some breakfast?”
“Thank you, no; I had a light meal before coming here,” Miro lied, hoping that the sudden contradictory growl from his stomach remained inaudible to Stone.
Apparently it did. Tom replied with the strange, neck-bobbing nod that was his wont, and looked uneasily out the window. “I don’t mean to rush you, Don Estuban, but-”
“Mr. Stone, there is no need for apologies. If I had family members in the clutches of Borja, I would want to get down to business, too.”
Tom smile gratefully. “I’m glad you understand, Don Estuban, really I am. I don’t want to seem rude but-well, Frank and Giovanna are on my mind. Pretty much all the time.”
Miro noticed the faint blue rings under his host’s eyes but said nothing.
“So what’s the plan?”
“First, Mr. Stone, have there been any further developments? I haven’t received a situation report since Chur.”
Stone went back in his seat with a sigh and a grimace. “No. No ransom demands. Not even anyone to talk to. The Spanish ambassador here claims ignorance of Borja’s actions. ’Course, he’s probably telling the truth; seems all the Spanish big shots in Italy were taken as much by surprise by Borja’s actions as was Rome itself.”
Miro nodded. “Unfortunately, with no remaining embassy in Rome, we are unable to get any new information on the situation there. Even Don Francisco Nasi’s intelligence networks have gone silent. We cannot tell if they have been discovered and eliminated or are merely unable to send messages because of the political and domestic chaos prevailing in the city.”
Tom nodded. “So-what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wait a minute. Mike radioed that you were in charge of the rescue operation-”
“I am in charge of the mission sent down here to Italy, but that mission has three separate mandates: protect the pope, recover your son and daughter-in-law, and coordinate with you. I only know the specifics of the objectives I am to be directly involved in. Harry Lefferts is in charge of the rescue operation, and I must remain unaware of his plans.”
Tom nodded again. “Yeah, yeah. Compartmentalization of information, right? So even if someone grabs you, you can’t tell them anything about any of the other plans.”
“That is correct. And that is why you will no longer be hearing from the ex-Roman embassy after it relocates.”
“What? Not even by radio?”
“Not routinely. Other than brief, coded status reports at prearranged times, radio communications will be of an emergency nature only.”
“Why?”
“It is unlikely, but the Spanish may have procured radios. If they have, it is even more unlikely but still possible that they have acquired a working knowledge of signal triangulation. Which could lead them directly to the pope.”
“Whoa. Signal triangulation is a bit out of the Spaniards’ league, isn’t it? Hell, it’s out of our league, I thought.”
“Not quite, and between up-timer defectors and all the down-time radio operators you have trained that have since left your service, the Spanish could easily gather the resources necessary to get an initial sense of the embassy’s final hiding place if it sends radio transmissions. Which reminds me; might I have the list of new safe houses compiled by Giuseppe Cavriani?”
Tom took a sealed scroll from his desk and handed it over to Miro. “Just what Nasi asked for: three locations, all vetted and brokered by Giuseppe Cavriani himself. I haven’t broken the seal; no one other than he knows the locations.”
“Excellent. And the arrival of your large airplane, the Jupiter?”
Tom slouched in his chair and picked distractedly at threads that had come loose from the upholstery on the armrests. “Next few days. Maybe next week.”
Miro tried to keep the frown off his face. “I see. Problems?”
“Seems so. That damn Monster’s landing gear are turning into maintenance pigs. Or so they tell me.”
Miro wasn’t quite sure he had parsed all the slang correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
Tom uprooted one of the threads abruptly, seemed to regret it. “The Monster-which is what most of us call our big, four engine transport, the Jupiter-has got air-cushion landing gear. It was the only approach that seemed workable when we were building it, and it also allowed us to use any body of water as an airfield. Cool idea, huh?”
“Huh,” agreed Miro, trying not to sound confused.
“Yeah, well it was great until this ‘ACL gear’ started failing maintenance checks. Every time that happened, they had to take it off-line-they had to ground it-and fix the problem. Now, it’s grounded more than it’s flying. Not that I see why the Monster is needed down here.” He cast an appraising glance at Miro.
Miro smiled. “I’m not allowed to talk about that, at this point. Compartmentalization of information, I’m afraid.”
Tom grumbled but smiled back. “Yeah, I figured. Although I figure maybe you’ll use it to get the pope out of Italy. And I figure that maybe, once Harry springs my kids, it would be a lot easier to fly away from Rome than elude overland or maritime pursuit.”
Miro merely nodded. Well, so much for having any major operational surprises up their sleeves. Although, truth be told, if he were the Spanish, he would be expecting these gambits, anyhow.
Tom was still staring at him. “You know, I hear rumors that you have a balloon. That that’s how you came over the Alps.”
“There are so many rumors, these days, it’s hard to know what to believe.”
“I got this rumor from some folks here in Venice, folks who are thinking of trying to build one of their own. Seems someone’s ex-seaman son has given up sewing sails and has instead been stitching seams for an airship’s envelope up in Grantville for the past eight months. Seems the guy paying him is one Don Estuban Miro.”
Miro sighed. “It seems that we live in a very small world, indeed.”
Tom smiled. “Sorry to pop your balloon, so to speak.”
Miro’s stomach growled again. So audibly that Tom Stone noticed. Miro waved away any concern. “That was merely distress at your unforgivable pun, not hunger, Mr. Stone.”
“Tom.”
“Very well. Tom. And I am simply Estuban.”
“Great.” Tom rang for breakfast before Miro could object-who silently blessed him. “Listen, Estuban, I was thinking. If the Monster doesn’t get here on time, or gets gummed up or something…well…”
“Yes?”
“Well, what about your balloon?”
Miro shook his head. “I am sorry, Tom, but no, my balloons are completely insufficient for any of the tasks you are envisioning.”
“Whaddya mean? They got you over the Alps, didn’t they? You and the Wrecking Crew, who usually come pretty heavily armed.”
“Yes, the balloon got us over the Alps, but at a rate of only one hundred miles per day, and only thirty miles per hour.”
“What? Why so slow?”
“Tom, these are hot air balloons. They consume fuel at a prodigious rate. Most of our cargo space is fuel tankage for the burner, so that we can keep the air in the envelope hot enough.”
“And why so slow?”
“Hot air has much less lift than the other balloons you were familiar with, such as the Hindenburg and the others which used hydrogen. So hot air balloons can’t afford the weight of a full internal frame. Without that frame, the balloon deforms at higher airspeeds; it begins to flatten at the nose, buckle, veer off course. It is an inherent limit of the technology, Tom. I am sorry.”
