“My balloon will get here within the week. Certainly before the Wrecking Crew returns from Rome.”
“Empty handed,” Tom amended glumly.
“Not quite. They don’t have Frank and Giovanna, but they gathered essential information, which all indicates that they will need extra resources for the job. Extra resources which are coming in on the balloon.”
“Yeah, Estuban, but not all of the resources you wanted; the repair parts for the Monster took precedence. Now we’re not going to be able to get it airborne until we get some more fuel down here. Which means another balloon ride.”
Miro nodded. “Yes, Tom. I know. I wish we had another balloon.”
“You and me both. Listen: I’m not annoyed at you, Estuban. You’ve been a life-saver in all this. Where would we be at this point if we didn’t have your balloon?”
Miro shrugged. “In a few years from now, we wouldn’t have to be depending on a single balloon. Or, even if we were, we wouldn’t be restricted to such small payloads.”
Tom shrugged, somewhat distracted. “Well, even the hydrogen design is no bigger than the one you’re using currently.”
“True. But size is not what determines payload.”
Tom nodded, snapping out of what Miro guessed was the trance of an increasingly worried parent. “Sorry; yeah, of course. With more than three times the lift of hot-air, hydrogen is going to really boost how much mass even a balloon of the same size can carry. And since you don’t have to carry fuel for a burner that keeps the air in the envelope heated, you free up a huge amount of the carrying capacity-volume as well as mass-for cargo. About nine tons useful payload instead of the current limit of just under one ton, if I remember the design specs.”
Miro smiled. “I see you’ve been doing some extra reading.”
“Always do, before I get involved in money stuff.”
“A smart investor always considers the investment carefully.”
“Well, yeah, that too. But that’s not really what I meant.” Tom’s big feet started their customary rocking. “Making money is just not that important. Money comes, money goes, and it’s bullshit when it’s around. Makes people sick in their heart and their head. But right now, it seems there’s no choice but to live with it. So if I’m going to get involved in something where I have to worry about how much money I am going to contribute, and what it’s going to be used for, I look really carefully at what I’m buying. I mean, is the project worth all that worry? Is it going to make that big a difference?” Tom’s feet stopped imitating a pair of big, matched metronomes. “Your balloons are worth it. Until I had read through the specs of the hydrogen airship, I didn’t realize just how much they’re worth it. And I’ve got to have a concrete understanding of those details before I can bring myself around to getting involved on the money side of a project. Because if I didn’t, then when all the shit about costing and pricing and amortization of assets begins-and it always does-then I’d get disgusted and walk away. What keeps me committed to a project is what it’s about, what it’s achieving. The money stuff-win, lose, or draw-just makes me want to run the other direction.”
Miro shook his head and smiled. “Tom, did you ever read the Talmud?”
“Uh, some. Not much. Long time ago. Why?”
“Because although you could not sound less like it, some of your opinions about money-about everything worldly, for that matter-are very reminiscent of its wisdom.” Miro sighed, as he looked at the black plume that no longer had any visible flames at its base. “I’m relatively sure that my childhood rabbi would find as much to disapprove of in me as he would find salutary in you. No doubt he would suggest that God destined our paths to cross so you could improve my materialistic soul.”
Tom scoffed. “Well, first off, you’re not the materialist you think you are. I see your eyes when you talk about those balloons. I know a dreamer when I see one, man. I’ve been looking in the mirror a long time, you know.” Tom grinned sheepishly. “And if you were all about money, you wouldn’t be down here on this ‘at cost’ gig, overseeing the rescue of my son and the safety of the pope.”
“And a shining success I’ve made in both cases,” Miro grumbled.
“Okay, Estuban, now let’s not talk pity-party shit, okay? If anything, I was the one in a god-damned rush to get Harry to Rome; you were the one who wanted to wait for a few more resources, in case the job was ‘more problematic.’ Your very words. Your only problem is that you listened to a distraught father and let Harry flex his authority muscles, instead of laying down the law. But you’re the new guy, and Harry has a lot of successes, so basic human dynamics got in the way. And your instincts about those dynamics were not bad ones, either. Besides, I’m sure Ed Piazza and Don Francisco gave you a few sermons on being a team player, and the problems of having authority over people who really didn’t know you, and who had a pretty good track record of getting things done on their own. Probably said something like, ‘don’t think of yourself as a leader; think of yourself as a coordinator.’”
Miro kept his face blank; actually, Piazza had used the term “facilitator” rather than “coordinator,” but in every other particular, Tom Stone’s rendition of Miro’s sessions with Grantville’s intelligence cadre was eerily accurate.
“And as regards the pope, you’re doing the best job anyone can. You’ve got more security forces inbound, and the safe house will be ready in a week. And that”-he pointed at the pillar of smoke-“probably couldn’t have been stopped. Again, you called the event before it occurred. ‘Too big and too much traffic to be secured properly.’ That’s what you said when we walked around the compound after the crash, figuring out how to protect the plane from Borja’s saboteurs.”
“Being right doesn’t help if you aren’t effective, too.”
“Man, you sound like some kind of business school hard-ass, now. Listen: you want to beat yourself up? Fine. But do it on your own time, and know- know — that it’s all bullshit. You did what you could. You protected the plane. They got the gas.” Tom shrugged. “They’ve got professionals, too. Which is another prophetic point you made the day you got here: ‘just because you can’t see enemy, doesn’t mean they’re not here.’”
Miro nodded. “And have been here for weeks, probably. This was simply the first time they had to tip their hands. If they hadn’t acted, we’d have had the plane working again within a few weeks and removed the pope. Or could have quickly extracted the Wrecking Crew a day’s sail beyond Ostia after a successful rescue in Rome. Now, without a plane, we’re the ones racing against the clock, not them.”
Tom nodded back at Miro. “But, thank the Great Pumpkin, we’ve still got your balloon, because if we didn’t, it would be ‘game over, man.’ So-” Tom leaned forward, fists resting gently on his knees “-what’s the new plan?”
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thomas North watched the dark shape of the boat emerge from the morning mist that lay upon the Laguna Veneta like a carpet of gray cotton. “They’re here,” North called over his shoulder. The sounds of meal-taking in the small pilgrim’s refectory behind him diminished, succeeded by the clatter of plates being collected and removed for washing.
Sherrilyn came to stand beside him. “Can you see who it is?”
“I can barely make out the boat.” Thomas smiled. “But if you’re willing to make a wager-”
“With a sneaky bastard like you? Never.”
Thomas grinned, remembering how, just five days earlier, she had actually out-bluffed the redoubtable Harry Lefferts during a marathon session of five-card stud. Despite the excellent sailing characteristics of their lateen- rigged boat, they had nonetheless spent half a day lying becalmed just south of Bari, waiting for a favorable wind that would bring them to the eastern side of the Adriatic and the northerly current that predominated there. Toward the end of that game, she’d taken the hand on a busted flush, eliciting groans and howls from Gerd, and Paul, the
