with two possibilities: either communication did not occur unless the fisherman had something to report, or that the communication was conducted more subtly than could be detected by the maximally discreet methods of observation employed by his agents.
Miro would now have the answer to that mystery within a few hours. From the look of him, the wiry Venetian was not going to be resolute enough to resist the sustained interrogation that he would experience in a safe-house near the embassy. Not that he would be hurt-he wouldn’t; Miro’s personal tastes and Tom’s explicit instructions eliminated the option of torture. But the fisherman didn’t know that and did not look to be particularly courageous. So few of us are, when we are well-caught and alone, Miro mused, remembering close calls with the Ottomans, back during his days as a merchant sailing the Mediterranean.
“Don Estuban,” said the master of the small, yawl-rigged scialuppa that had been provided by the Cavrianis for the night’s work, “shall we approach the mooring, now?”
Miro held up a hand and waited. After a few moments, he saw more dit-dah flashing in the darkness to the west: K-E-N-N-E-L. So: the chase was indeed over. That codeword signified that the chase boats and Marines were now ready to return to their berths and billets, respectively. It was also a shorthand indicator of the concluding situation report: “known enemy observers apprehended; no others detected.” Personally, Miro had been hoping for the code sign “RABBIT.” That would have indicated that the fisherman-FOX-had been caught, and additional, suspected observers were being pursued, possibly resulting in a clean sweep of the opposition’s monitoring assets.
But that tidy outcome had not occurred. On the one hand, Borja’s spymaster in Venice might not have enough resources to put more than one man on the job of watching the island. Even if he had two men, he would then have to choose between keeping the island under almost constant observation, or having the second man watch what happened to the first. So even if Miro’s adversary had a second man, where was he? At home, sleeping before his next, solo shift-or was he out here right now, somewhere in the dark, lying low in a rowboat, watching as the first watcher was scooped up by Miro’s agents?
Estuban sighed. Such are the uncertainties of this business. Annoying, but they kept the game interesting. “Paulo,” he said over his shoulder to the master of the small boat.
“Yes, Don Estuban?”
“Take us in to the monastery. Briskly.”
In retrospect, Miro wished he had told Paulo to tarry a bit, despite the fact that it gave any possible, unseen observers just that much more opportunity to spot their lightless, black-sailed boat. As it was, they arrived before the skiff that was inbound from the galliot that had retrieved what they now knew to be Harry’s unsuccessful rescue party.
But that was all anyone knew: they were returning without Frank and Giovanna. That much had been presumed when the team started missing their radio checks. There was brief fear that they had all been destroyed or captured, but about a week ago, one of Nasi’s Roman agents-formerly a resident of the Ghetto and now fleeing for his life-had delivered the news of the repulsed attack upon the Palazzi Mattei. Though the man had few details, it was quite clear that most of the rescue party had escaped.
Consequently, Miro was still hoping for the best when there was a knock on the door of the same conference room in which they had all met weeks before. Miro signaled for the two Marine guards to open the door and leave, and felt the old priest, Father Anthony Hickey, rise slowly beside him.
Miro instantly realized the operation had been not merely a failure, but a disaster, because the first face in the doorway-Harry’s-was utterly devoid of emotion or expression. It would have been a sobering expression to behold on any face, but on Harry’s habitually animated features, it was as though he was wearing a death mask. He gave Miro a shallow nod and seated himself at the far end of the table.
A step behind Harry was Owen Roe O’Neill, who bore a light bundle in his arms. His eyes met Hickey’s, and what looked like days of preparation for this difficult moment became rigid resolve: lips stiff, the Irish colonel held out the bundle to the old cleric.
Hickey did not need words to understand the message. He hobbled forward, palsied hands coming up to touch the tightly folded but bullet-rent cloak that Owen held before him. The Franciscan’s already-well-lined face collapsed, blinded by the great round tears that ran down his cheeks. He unsteadily patted John O’Neill’s patched tartan, family broach, and absent face with tentative hands that he finally raised to cover his red-rimmed eyes. He never made a sound.
From what Miro had heard, Hickey may have been the first person who came to accept that young John O’Neill was never going to grow up to be a statesman, or even a great captain. But, under other circumstances, the priest had hinted, he might have been a good enough man. Yes, he had been a wild wayward boy who did not like books or following rules, but even in his early twenties, John O’Neill had loved listening to stories, and if he had a big temper it was in part a measure of the size of his heart. And Hickey knew these things because it was he who had read the now deceased earl of Tyrone the stories, and had cherished that big heart, possibly above all others.
The monastery’s prior, standing nearby, took his brother by the elbow and gently guided him from the room. Owen Roe wandered toward a seat as Sherrilyn and Thomas North entered and did the same.
Miro looked round at the stiff, carefully controlled faces. “So, John O’Neill-?”
The pause was pregnant; Owen opened his mouth uncertainly-but Harry interrupted in a voice both hoarse and raw. “John didn’t make it. A lot of us didn’t.” He held out a sheaf of papers. “Here’s my after-action report. But I can bottom line it for you: I fucked up. And no, I’m not selling you any ‘my watch, my fault’ bullshit, Miro. Borja’s guy in Rome suckered me, and once we were in his trap, he cut us to pieces. The sorry-ass details-” Harry waved at the papers “-are all there. End of report.”
He glowered at Miro and leaned far back in his chair, arms folded, shoulders slouched.
Miro, for the first time in many years, had no idea of what to do or say next. He looked at Thomas North. “How many-?”
North looked cautiously down the table at hollow-eyed Harry’s hundred-yard stare and made an almost imperceptible negational gesture. “Our casualties are in the report, I believe. But there’s one thing that Harry refused to include.”
“And what is that?”
“That Captain Lefferts made no errors in planning or execution. He designed and executed the operation in a most capable manner.”
Miro saw the color rush into and then out of Harry’s face; for a moment he wondered if the up-timer was going to roar or vomit-but he did neither. Miro let his eyes slide over toward Owen Roe O’Neill. “Colonel, do you agree with Colonel North’s assessment?”
The veteran Irish commander-who had spent more years before the cannon than any of the rest of them had been alive-nodded firmly, but it was slightly less emphatic affirmation than North’s had been.
Miro, hating what he had to do in order to bring the horrible necessity of this inquiry to a swift and final end, forced himself to ask, “Colonel O’Neill, you seem to have some reservations in regard to Captain Lefferts’ plan or actions?”
“No, Don Estuban,” the Irishman’s voice was firm, even strident, “not at all.”
“Then-?”
O’Neill shrugged. “Harry-we-had no way of knowing that we were walking into a trap. Harry took every precaution, and more besides. But Borja’s man was good-damned good-and we were too spread out for a fast, orderly escape.”
Miro frowned. “What do you mean?”
O’Neill glanced an apology at Harry who might or might not have heard a word that had been spoken since delivering his damning self-report. “Don Estuban, I’ve taken towns and defended them for almost three decades now-more, if you count the years I served as a runner and an orderly. And here’s a nasty fact of fighting in cities, in castles, or in other tight quarters: you get separated too easily. You can’t blow a trumpet and sound a general retreat-particularly when you’re skulking around in handfuls here, and there. When disaster strikes-and sometimes it does, no matter what you do-it is often impossible to let all of your men know in time. And then-” Owen Roe’s eyes lost focus and Miro had the distinct impression that he was seeing smoking cityscapes from all around the Low Countries “-then your boys start disappearing. Sometimes you see what happens to them, but more often you don’t. Bad sight-lines, the tumult of the guns and voices, drifting smoke, blind corners: it’s utter chaos. You don’t know
