arrives. At which point they see to it that the passengers will arrive in Venice just before the plane departs, in order to make a quick escape.”
“You must take preventative steps against such an eventuality.”
For the first time, the faintest hint of a smile rippled at the corner of Dolor’s mouth.
“Ah. So this is already in hand.” Borja smoothed his cassock again. “Do you have other conjectures?”
Dolor pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “Not exactly, but I am troubled by the number of USE troops that apparently headed into Italy after the action outside Chiavenna. Why bring in so many security personnel if Ambassadora Nichols’ important guests are soon to fly away in an airplane? And why send Simpson and his rather important companions home though a risky transalpine route first, rather than waiting for the plane? And why not escort Ginetti down here separately for the same aerial extraction?”
“Perhaps the USE’s large aircraft cannot be spared for a trip to Venice.”
“I think not, Your Eminence. Even though the largest aircraft are in constant demand throughout the USE, the events here must certainly warrant the speedy redeployment of at least one of their Jupiters.”
Borja frowned. “Yes. It is strange, all this running about when they have these wondrous aircraft. There is something missing here. What do you think it is?”
“I do not know, Your Eminence. But I begin to wonder if one of our central assumptions might be flawed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can we be sure that Urban does indeed, wish to depart Italy at this time? Even if he means to leave eventually, is there anything he might achieve by delaying that departure?”
Borja scoffed. “You need not trouble yourself with that baseless speculation, Senor Dolor. The man who has forever soiled the papal title ‘Urban VIII’ remains the back-stabbing, nepotistic, heretic-lover who was born under the name Maffeo Barberini. And you may be sure that his nature will not change: he will forever love his pretty furnishings and his Church-wrecking cronies almost as much as he loves spending money like a drunken sailor. But he loves one thing more-far more-than any of these.”
“And what is that, Your Eminence?”
“His contemptible hide. The man is a coward, has always wrung his hands looking for peace and accommodations when it was clearly Mother Church’s duty to wage war to protect her interests and her flock. He is a coward and a turncoat and will flee behind his Swedish pimp’s skirts at the very first opportunity.”
Dolor had raised one eyebrow but said nothing.
Still caught up in his ire, Borja snapped, “It that all?”
Dolor nodded. “Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Very well. Keep me apprised of any new developments. You may go.”
As Pedro Dolor emerged from behind the absurdly tall doors of Borja’s office, the short man who had accompanied him on his first visit to the Villa Borghese rose from an upholstered chair farther down the hall. When Dolor reached him, the fellow fell in beside his captain, observing, “If Borja is going to converse with everyone as though he is issuing a public declaration, he needs to get thicker doors.” Dolor did not answer; they walked on together for a few more steps. “Does he really intend to kill Urban?”
“Borja has reportedly killed sixteen cardinals, although some may only be languishing in hidden dungeons. Either way, he does not seem like a man who stops at half measures.”
“Maybe not, but he does seem fond of putting a legal gloss on his atrocities. As I hear it, all those dead red hats were killed resisting arrest. Funny: I didn’t think there were that many brave cardinals in the whole Church.”
“There never have been and everyone knows it. And of course Borja would prefer Urban VIII dead rather than alive. As you probably heard, he wants to keep searching for him until we find the living man, the dead body, or the returned Christ sitting on top of the Sistine Chapel.”
“So do we recruit for a full search of Venetian territory now, and-?”
“No. We don’t have any intelligence to act upon yet. We don’t even know where to look.”
“But you just said that Borja ordered you to-”
“Dakis, when your lord tells you to kill a pig that’s ruining his vines, you do his bidding, but you don’t consult him about how to do it. Like as not he’d steer you wrong or get you killed. That’s why the best lord just gives you the order and leaves you to your business.”
“And is Borja such a lord?”
“No, but we’ll make sure he behaves like one.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“There’s the Laguna Veneta.”
Klaus nodded at his copilot’s announcement. He measured the Jupiter Two’s sideways drift again, then began the long, lazy bank that would bring the four-engined aircraft 180 degrees about. When the turn was completed, they would be set up at the head of a landing run that would end near the litter of small islands that sheltered Mestre’s far western warren of docks and warehouses.
As they started over the lagoon, well to east of Venice itself, Klaus called for a wind check. Arne was a little slower in making his reports than most junior copilots, but he was never wrong; he would have been typecast as the tortoise in any staged rendition of Aesop’s fable of that creature’s race with the rabbit. “Two knots from the southeast. Very steady.”
“Good.” And it was. Landing the Jupiter in Venice was, in some ways, very easy: the lagoon was a large, calm body of water which made it particularly friendly to the immense plane’s unusual air-cushion landing gear. But if the winds were running in off the Adriatic as they often did, and were strong, then it was safer touching down from the north approach; a nose wind increased lift and was a little more forgiving with the air-cushion landing gear.
And Klaus Kohlbacher was happy for any little advantage. Having started his aviation career flying on smaller craft with conventional, wheeled landing gear, he had never taken to the ACLG. Of course, he had always kept his misgivings to himself; there weren’t a lot of jobs for pilots, to put it lightly. And being a pilot had become his dream the first time he saw one of the up-timers’ wondrous aircraft: to make his living among the clouds as a “knight of the air,” as his enthusiastic young nephew put it. So Klaus had resolved never to voice any reservations that might reduce the confidence his employers placed in his abilities.
But sometimes, it had been hard to contain his misgivings about the Jupiter-or more particularly, its landing gear. Flying the aircraft was, admittedly, the aerial equivalent of piloting a river barge; it was ponderous and did not respond well to frequent or abrupt course changes. But the Jupiter was strong and steady and surprisingly reliable for such an ambitious multiengine design. So what if she wasn’t a high-spirited and agile Arabian mare? She was a sturdy and strong Percheron.
“Surface conditions?” Klaus asked as their turn brought them around to the south of the island of Venice itself, where galleys and noas and carracks and billow-sailed sloops jockeyed for berthing positions in what, at this altitude, appeared to be a graceful but very slow dance.
“Water surface is smooth,” answered Arne. “Nothing more than wind ripples.”
Which meant all signs were good for the southern landing approach, which would put them just a few hundred yards away from the shallow ramp leading up to the new hangar and shop facilities. “Excellent. We will be landing from the south. Test the blower motor.”
Arne nodded. “Testing blower motor.” He checked that subsystem’s dials, and threw the starter switch with the choke set wide open.
A faint, thin vibration added itself to the customary thrums, growls, and jiggles of the immense aircraft.
“Blower motor tests as ready; shutting off.”
The blower motor, which had started its up-time existence spinning the blades of a lawn mower, slept again; the faint vibration disappeared.
“Confirm bearing for final approach.”
“Confirmed.”
