by Eric Flint
“Could it be radio traffic from airships?” Sharon asked.
Finan shook his head. “That’s what we thought at first, ma’am, particularly since the blimp that brought Cardinal Bedmar only departed yesterday. But in the last twenty-four hours, the rate of traffic has increased and the signal has been strong enough that Odo has heard and recorded long messages. Except those messages aren’t from any of our stations or airships and they’re in a code we don’t know.”
Ruy heard the lack of conclusion in Finan’s tone. “What more?”
“Odo thinks that some of the intermittent traffic we’ve heard before now may have been in the same code. He had presumed that most of the signals didn’t make sense because they were coming from a great distance and were either fragmentary or unclear. Now, he’s half convinced that what he heard were snippets of a completely different set of code characters.”
Owen turned toward Sharon, also frowning. “Is there any chance that your friends in Grantville have devised new codes for special purposes. For signaling among the airships, for instance?”
Finan looked at her and shook his head; Sharon gestured for him to speak. “The airships communicate without code, sir—what radio operators call, ‘in the clear.’ The reason being, if they run into trouble and only get to send a fraction of a message, there’s no time lost trying to determine which code it is. And with respect sir, although we Hibernians are not officially soldiers of the USE, we’d be among the first to know if there was a new cypher being used for intelligence or special operations—because it’s likely some of our lads would be involved.”
Ruy glanced at Sharon. “What is to be done? How may we determine the source of the transmissions? How shall we decipher their code—or codes?”
Sharon nodded, thought for a moment before looking up sharply at Hastings. “Lieutenant, I’m going to need access to both of your portable ratio sets—with fresh batteries—at all times.”
“Ma’am, I don’t have enough men to keep recharging the—”
“Then get one of the Benedictine monks or a trustworthy besontsint to turn the cranks or pedal the machine or however it is you recharge your batteries. But I need mobile radio support, twenty-four/seven, do you understand?”
Hastings glanced at Ruy, who raised his eyebrows in reply. Hastings sighed. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”
She turned to Finan. “I need you to keep in touch with Odo.”
Finan frowned. “Ma’am, that will drain the batteries very quic—”
“I am aware of the battery drain. That’s why we’re going to have someone constantly recharging them. But the only way we’re going to find the location and identity of the person transmitting in this code is if you are available to coordinate with Odo the next time he detects one of these bursts of radio activity.”
Ruy leaned towards his wife. “I do not understand, my love: how will two radios help?”
Sharon smiled. “There’s a game played by radio enthusiasts: ‘fox and hounds,’ I think it was called. The fox is the transmitter and sends short, occasional signals. The ‘hounds’ are the receivers, who triangulate on the position of the fox by determining the directionality and the strength of the signal it’s sending. The object is to close in on and find the fox, wherever it’s hiding.”
“And so—?”
Sharon’s smiled widened. “And so, Odo is at a fixed radio set. He doesn’t have the same power supply worries. He can keep actively scanning the dial for radio transmissions, assuming the unknown transmitter—our ‘fox’—isn’t always using the same frequency. When he detects it, he alerts Finan, who will then tune his radio to the ‘fox’s’ frequency and, along with the other mobile radio operator, will try to close in on it.”
Finan’s question was as much confused babble as it was speech. “H-how…how the fe—how the divil am I supposed to do that?”
Sharon turned her winning smile upon him. “Well, finding that out is job one. Have Odo send a high priority message to Grantville: we need all the info they can scrape together about ‘fox and hounds.’ If I recall correctly, some of the folks there have actually played it.”
Hastings nodded. “Another question, Finan: did Odo keep records of those unusual intercepts?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Well, find out. If he did, he’s to relay them to Grantville at once, routed to Mr. Miro.”
Sharon shook her head. “I don’t know if it’s the right term for the army, but ‘belay that order, Mr. Finan.’” She met Hastings’ stare. “Think it through, Lieutenant. If we know to listen to them, it stands to reason they know to listen to us. And if they do, and they hear snippets of their own code embedded in our transmission—”
“Then they know we’re on to them.”
“And will change their code,” finished Owen admiringly. “Ambassador, if I haven’t said it before, I’m glad you’re on our side!” He winked at Ruy. “Well, I guess we know who’s the brains in your family, eh?”
Ruy smiled, taking in the radiance that was Sharon. “I have always said so, and now you see for yourself that it is not an exaggeration.”
Hastings snapped a salute. “Sirs, madame, I presume I’m no longer needed. Any orders to pass along, sirs?”
Ruy shook his head, but O’Neill spoke up. “Word to my men and yours, Lieutenant: all evening liberty is suspended until Monday, earliest. Officers of the watch need to be made aware that there will be no leaving billets on private matters, any hour of the day or night.”
Hastings looked worried. “Sir, with all due respect, a flagon or a pint of an evening is all the men have to look forward to.”
O’Neill nodded sourly. “Yes, and a wee bit of tickle and peck with unwilling barmaids, unless life in the army has improved its moral character in the last few days. So the consolation must be that the good fathers of the canon house will provide extra wine in reasonable measure for as long as the men are to remain in their billet when not on duty. We can’t afford to have them on the town, talking about where they’ve been strolling of late, can we?”
Ruy nodded slowly. “I appreciate your precaution, Colonel. Hastings, add this to Colonel O’Neill’s orders. Until Monday, any man discovered fraternizing with locals in any fashion, in any place, will be subject to military discipline.”
“The lash, sir?” asked Hastings.
Ruy shook his head. “Better they don’t know; it puts more fear in them.”
Hastings’ smile was small but genuine. “That it does, sir. I shall pass on your orders, sir.”
Ruy and O’Neill saluted; Sharon turned to look at them. “Ruy. Lashes? Really?”
Ruy could not cover his puzzlement fast enough to keep his eyebrows from raising. “Yes, of course, my dear.” Seeing her surprise contract into anger, he suddenly wished that O’Neill and Finan were far, far away. “My love, I do not understand your consternation. Surely, you are familiar with the habits of military discipline.”
“Yes—of civilized military discipline. Not torture.” She turned to Finan. “Let’s go see if there’s any news about the identity of the murder victim.”
Ruy stood looking after her; O’Neill stood looking at him. “She’s a—a woman of strong convictions,” the Irish nobleman muttered after several moments.
Ruy could not help but smile. “She is all that and more, my friend.” He put a hand on O’Neill’s shoulder, turning them both in the direction of the Carmelite convent. “Come, then; let us pay a visit to the prioress.”
Chapter 22
Mulling over which apple he might have bought, had he intended to purchase any at all, Pedro Dolor watched the gathering of his enemies at the base of the Palais Granvelle’s stairs break up after an urgent discussion…about what?
Dressed in local garb and a dirty workman’s smock, Dolor noticed the impatient produce vendor, who started to roll his eyes at the indecision of his only potential customer. However, noticing that customer’s direct and unblinking gaze, he apparently deci
ded it was much more important to rearrange the asparagus that had just come in from the countryside beyond the Battant.
Dolor felt a pang of frustration as Sharon Nichols went one direction with a small Hibernian—the one who usually bore a portable radio—Hastings went back up the stairs toward the palace’s wide doorway, and Sanchez and O’Neill resumed crossing the street. A pity, he thought. All gathered together in one place, at one time. Had he been able to anticipate their chance meeting, and place a hand-cart with a bomb nearby, he could have killed or at least incapacitated the opposition’s security cadre and the USE’s ambassador, all in one fell swoop. Of course, that would not necessarily have translated into a successful attack upon the pope, but in the ensuing chaos of such a loss, there would have been sure to be miscommunications and mistakes that he could have capitalized upon…
Dolor backed away from the apples; enough daydreaming about what might have been. He had been lucky enough to see the five of them gathered together as he emerged from the cellar he rented in a nearby building. The urgency of their discussion suggested that they were dealing with an unexpected development of some kind. He watched as Sanchez and O’Neill walked past the fountain of Neptune, the god nude and astride a dolphin—a rather provocative statue to leave embedded in the facade of a convent—and then as they passed quickly into that same building. According to his reports, they had already visited it: Sanchez on his own several months ago, and the pair of them again early last week. And now they were entering it again, with a marked sense of purpose.
Perhaps when he returned to his rooms near St. Peter’s, there would be news that might hint at the source of his foes’ sense of urgency—and therefore, furnish some intimation of how he might take advantage of it.
* * *
Upon entering the second story apartment that had been his home for the better part of three months, Dolor didn’t even have time to ask if there was any interesting to report: Rombaldo fairly charged from where he was hovering over their radio. “There is news!” he almost shouted.
“I gather as much. And you may lower your voice. I am in the same room, not down the street.”
“Yes, yes…but this is urgent. I almost sent a runner after you but…”
“You did well not to, as per my instructions.” Dolor made for his own room. “If anyone was to stumble upon our preparations by following one of our less gifted associates, we should be lost.”
“Yes, but this does bear upon our preparations—or at least those of Borja’s thugs.”
Dolor seated himself. “Indeed? Have they been found out?”
“No, but they could be.” Although they were now in a separate room, Rombaldo inexplicably chose this moment to lower his voice. “They killed their landlord.”
Dolor came as close to laughing as he ever did. “You jest.”
“Do I ever?” Actually, Rombaldo did jest, albeit rarely.
“When did the murder come to light?”
“Depends who you ask. It just became general knowledge within the hour. But there were rumors making the rounds on the docks this morning.”
“And how did those rumors start?”
“Apparently, one of our informers saw some of the Wild Geese carrying a body through the side entrance of St. Peter’s.”
Dolor sat up. “The Wild Geese? How many? Was anyone with them?”
“A few, but one stood out: the ambassadora.”
Dolor nodded. So that might explain the hasty and unprecedented gathering he had noticed outside the palace: a quick conference on the state of the investigation into the body they had found. Which they might have identified either shortly before or after they dispersed, since the word was already spreading. It also explained why Sanchez and O’Neill had been late to begin the morning circuit of their watchposts. The discovery of the body had no doubt turned them out of bed early, and the subsequent investigation had probably run roughshod over their normal itinerary.
But the ambassador…Why had she been called out into the predawn streets? The answer came as quickly as the question: perhaps the victim had still been alive when discovered. Or perhaps her medical background might offer some insight into how he had been attacked. Or maybe they had reason to hope that her insights might be more astute, more precise, than that…
A thin thread of memory tickled Dolor. He vaguely recalled that there had been an oddity in the dossier he had compiled on Sharon Nichols, a fact that eluded him now, except that he felt sure it was anomalous and yet somehow relevant. But what was it? One way to find out: “Rombaldo, I need you to send a radio message to my confidential agent in Madrid.”
“The one in Olivares’ office?”
“He does not report directly to Olivares, nor is he in the same office, although he is part of the count-duke’s intelligence apparatus.” In fact, he was nothing more than a glorified file clerk, but one who was very propitiously placed. “Once you have contacted him, send him this message.” Dolor hastily scratched out a request and handed it to Rombaldo.
Who looked at it quizzically. “I do not recognize this code.”
“You are not meant to. Just enter it as written. And wait for a reply. When you have finished that, send Giulio out to observe and gather what further rumors are spreading on the street.”
Rombaldo frowned, then shrugged and shuffled off glumly to do as he was bid. Dolor almost closed his eyes in frustration; the man touted himself as a “professional intelligencer” but, when shut out of confidences, occasionally sulked like a schoolboy. A very spoiled schoolboy, at that.
Behind, Dolor heard the faint hiss of the radio being activated. “Rombaldo, is there any speculation where the murder took place?”
“Word is the body—Baudet Lamy—was found up against the wall of the Trois Frères tavern.”
Dolor shook his head. “No. That was not where he was killed.”
Rombaldo started tapping out his request, which he would repeat until the radio operator in Spain signaled that the message had been received in full. “Why are you so certain the body was moved?”
“Because we have observed Borja’s men. They almost never go out, except to get their food. We’ve never once seen them visit a tavern or a brothel.”
“Damned dull, if you ask me.” Rombaldo’s voice suggested that he sympathized; it wasn’t too different from the discipline that Dolor had imposed upon their own group.
“Dull but prudent, Rombaldo. Because they were not often seen, there will be few people who will remember their faces. But now that the corpse has been identified, it will only be a matter of time before they are visited by soldiers, or the Wild Geese.”
Rombaldo took a second to respond. “That’s only if they suspect that he wasn’t killed in the street.”
Dolor took out the three blades he routinely carried—a poignard, a throwing knife, and a razor-edged stiletto—and considered which he should sharpen and clean first. “They will certainly suspect that he was not killed there.”
Rombaldo’s reply was immediate, intrigued. “Why do you say so?”
Dolor shook his head. “Just listen for a reply from Madrid. We may not have much time to save this operation.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the radio started chattering in response to Dolor’s query. Rombaldo had to listen to three full iterations of the message until he could confidently send the cypher that indicated the transmission had been received in full.
Rombaldo’s heavy tread approached from behind. “Yet another code that I don’t recognize.”
Dolor turned and took the transcription from his assistant. “That’s excellent news.”
“Why?”
“Because it is a code of my own design, and to my knowledge, it has not yet been cracked.” Of course, for all I know, no one has yet tried.
Rombaldo remained standing as Dolor began to skim the contents of the message. “What’s the use of having a code that no other person understands?”
Dolor did not look
up. “A promising intelligencer ought to be able to reason that out.”
In fact, a decidedly mediocre one should have been able to arrive at the answer. Despite a prodigious memory, Dolor had always found it irksome when, in the course of an operation, he had need of information that he could no longer recall. On several occasions, that failure had cost lives—and very nearly his own, once. So he had retained a clerk in Olivares’ bloated intelligence-gathering apparatus to maintain a separate set of files, to which Dolor weekly sent a considerable volume of data. In the early days, organizing it for easy retrieval had been challenging, but then, in the process of arranging for an intelligence pipeline from inside the Grantville High School library, he had happened upon what was, to his mind, one of the most extraordinary and useful innovations that had come back into the past with the up-timers: the Dewey decimal system.
He adopted its orderly organization of ideas by topic and source to his own purposes and so, by memorizing only that data directory, he was able to both submit coded updates to his archive and call reports from it with ease. And, since only he understood the encoding, his proprietary information was doubly safe: a tiny and indecipherable needle lost in the vast haystack that was the sum total of Olivares’ intelligence files.
Dolor was so familiar with his own cypher that he did not need to decode it; he read it with the facility of a familiar second language. He skipped the biographical summary of Sharon Nichols, as well as the chronology of her movement and actions: he was already well-acquainted with those particulars. Instead, he concentrated on the footnotes, seeking the entry that might have created the shard of memory that refused to either dissolve or resolve into something definitive.
The luxury of having dossiers on his probable opponents was something he had long wanted, and had finally been able to actualize after last year’s dual debacles in Molino and Mallorca. Dolor had made a compelling case that lack of detailed information on the up-timers had been why they had repeatedly surprised Philip’s best troops and intelligencers over the last two years, and had thwarted almost all attempts at preemption, prediction, or containment. Dolor had also proposed a simple solution: suborn a person who worked in Grantville and have them collect all available information on a list of particular topics or persons. Olivares was ambivalent, objecting that if the up-timers’ counterintelligence service detected this ploy, they could use it to feed Madrid disinformation. Dolor had shaken his head, clarifying that he did not propose overtly recruiting an agent for Spain. Rather his approach was to solicit the person’s services on behalf of an anonymous consortium of merchants who wanted a detailed understanding of the present and future needs of the phenomenal community, so that they might anticipate and thus dominate trade with its unusual and influential population as time went on. The data collected for this purpose would then be picked up by a wholly uninvolved (but surreptitiously shadowed) courier who would deliver it to actual Spanish agents who would, in turn, radio it back to Madrid.
