“The SKS is a great weapon,” emphasized Harry, with more animation than he had evinced so far. “Reliable, handy, accurate out to one hundred and seventy yards, reasonably effective out to four hundred, and it fires a pretty damned lethal round. Best of all, you can fire ten times-as fast as you can squeeze the trigger-before you need to reload with a stripper clip. Or, in the case of the ‘M’ series, with a thirty-round magazine.”
North took up the paean of praise for the SKS. “I won mine in a poker game at the Thuringen Gardens just before I was incarcerated. A most excellent weapon. A man with an SKS is easily worth ten with muskets. Probably more. Now, Estuban, about my Hibernians: did you happen to-?”
Miro smiled. “The six who will arrive tomorrow were trained on the weapon the week before they left. From what I am told, they adapted to it rather quickly.”
Thomas smiled around the table. “You know, I am actually beginning to feel that this mission might not be suicide, after all. But now I’m a bit worried about the safety of the pope; by shifting these troops to our rescue mission, it means at least two weeks will pass before his security detail is reinforced.”
Miro spread his hands. “It can’t be helped. But the odds are in our favor, there. Borja’s agents would have to be very lucky to discover Urban’s hiding place within that short a period of time. And if the signals from Grantville are right, the new reinforcements should be there in only ten, maybe eleven, days.”
Sherrilyn frowned. “Wait a minute; how is that possible? I mean, if every day from now until then was perfect flying weather, you might get a round trip completed in that time, but-” Miro tried to keep the smile off his face, but she saw it. “Wait a minute-we have another balloon?”
“We do now. The second one constructed-and finished only two weeks ago-was just leased by Ed Piazza for ‘official emergency use.’ Franchetti’s nephew has been preparing it for service, familiarizing himself with its particulars.” He turned to Thomas. “It is picking up Lieutenant Hastings and a few more of your Hibernians at Chur, but, in order to keep the pope’s location a secret, they are debarking at Campofontana.”
“Where?” asked Harry, Sherrilyn, and Owen simultaneously.
Miro answered. “A small town, up in the foothills of the Lessenia Mountains.”
“That doesn’t help me much,” commented Sherrilyn.
It was Thomas who provided more information. “I believe Campofontana is just south of the Little Dolomites. It’s all Hemingway country, up there.”
“Huh?” said Sherrilyn.
“You know: A Farewell to Arms. The campaign in the Italian Alps. A bit slow reading for my tastes, but memorable.”
Miro nodded. “The terrain there is rather forbidding. Landing at Campofontana should keep the arrival of the reinforcements away from any of Borja’s observers, although it will mean a somewhat long walk to Urban’s safe house. However, they should get there long before any assassins do. The next cargo will be the gasoline for the Monster.”
“Fetched by the balloon that will arrive in Venice tomorrow?” asked Harry.
Miro smiled. “No. That balloon will soon be committed to other operations.”
“Such as?”
“Such as ours.”
Sherrilyn screwed up her face. “We’re taking the balloon with us to Rome? Who’s going to fly it?”
“Virgilio Franchetti has agreed to assist in the rescue, and he is an excellent pilot.”
“Yeah, but what if something happens to him? Then we’re stuck.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Why?”
“Because I can also fly the balloon-more or less. You see, I’m coming with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thomas was not sure that he had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon: you are coming with us?”
Miro nodded. “That is correct.”
North stilled a very annoyed internal voice. Just when it looks we’re reassembling a team of seasoned professionals, the pencil-pusher decides to become a field agent. How bloody typical. “Estuban,” he said in his very best, and carefully groomed, tone, “are you sure this is wise?”
Miro smiled. “No, I am not.”
Well, that’s a relief. Partially. “Then why, may I ask, have you decided to become part of a field operation?”
“First, to solve the problem that Sherrilyn indirectly raised: I am the only extra pilot for the balloon, albeit not a very good one. But second, and far more important, if we lose Frank and Giovanna’s trail, you are going to need the advice of someone who knows every city, and almost every coastal mile, of the Mediterranean.”
Tom considered the profound merits of that argument.
Merits that Sherrilyn did not immediately see, evidently. “Why do you say we might lose their trail? Do you think the Spanish might move them?”
“Absolutely. I expect them to.”
“Good grief, why?”
“Because I would.”
“No offense, Estuban, but that’s kind of crazy. That’s-”
“That’s called breaking contact,” Harry pointed out quietly. “It’s SOP for good intelligence work. Particularly in a situation like this one. The Spanish know we’re working against the clock. So if they can force us to waste time just finding Frank and Gia all over again, it’s unlikely we’d have enough time left to be able to mount a second operation. And if we did, it’s likely to be a rush-job, and therefore, prone to disaster. No, the guy working for Borja now has either read our playbook, or has been schooled in the down-time equivalents.”
“So even though they kicked our asses-?”
“-their best strategy is to move Frank and Giovanna. Quickly.” Harry shrugged. “I suspect they’ve already shipped the two of them out of Rome; best to move them right after they beat us. They know our local networks are so shattered or shuttered that they probably won’t detect the activity, for now.”
Owen frowned. “Then how do we find their trail at all? No one will have any word of where they’ve gone, or even when they left.”
Thomas scratched his left ear. “That might not necessarily be true, Owen. Do you remember the first boat we transferred to when we were fleeing Rome?”
“You mean the scialuppa that we rendezvoused with farther down the Tiber?”
“Yes, that one. Well, when we left them for the barca-longa that brought us back here, we-that is to say Harry and I-put them on retainer.”
Owen smiled. “Did you now?”
North smiled back. “Yes. Harry and I wound up getting their whole, sad story as we were heading down toward Anzio. Seems they are fishermen out of Piombino, near the Tuscan border, and can’t make a fair quatrine. The Spanish sutlers wait on the docks and impound their catch the moment the mooring lines are fast. So they’re making more money by having us pay them to sit still, than having the Spanish only pay a quatrine for a scudo worth of fish.”
“And do you think they’ll be reliable?” Sherrilyn sounded dubious.
“As much as family can make them; their master is the brother-in-law of the senior remaining lefferto.”
“And who would that be?” Owen asked.
Harry’s voice was dark. “Piero. You know him. Wounded at the attack and, if he’s smart, far away from Rome. He was pretty sure that Borja’s people would be looking for him. Real hard. And I agreed.”
Miro leaned his chin into his hand. “Why him?”
“Because Piero was one of the two main sources from which the lefferti were getting inside information on what was going on in Borja’s villa. And I’ll bet anything that Borja’s new spymaster identified those informers, and then used them to feed us the disinformation that corroborated my belief that the Spanish were undermanned at the insula Mattei. And once the attack was over, and the Spanish had those informers in their torture chambers, the
