by Eric Flint
“Nor do I. But I know that look. You have an idea, a plan of action.”
“You bet. The signal from Besançon was so strong, and so close, that it has to be in the city.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I had Finan take the mobile set for a short walk, and even then, we were able to get some directional results.”
Ruy stared. “What do you mean, ‘directional results’?”
“Remember what I told you about radio direction finding game called ‘fox and hounds’?”
“Er…yes.”
She wasn’t entirely sure he did. “Okay, so here’s how it works. The easy part is just simple distance. The farther away your receiver is, the fainter the transmission gets; the closer you get, the stronger.”
“That stands to reason.”
“So that’s how you know you’re moving farther away or closer. The trickier part is determining which direction on the compass the signal is coming from. For that, you get a special antenna—we’ve fashioned a simple round one—and you turn it in a circle. When the ‘face’ of the circle is facing the transmitter, the signal grows stronger, because more of the antenna is catching the signal. When you turn away and the circle is no longer facing the transmitter, only one side of it is really getting the signal, so it weakens. And since we’d be using two mobile sets, we can coordinate from two directions and narrow it down very quickly. In fact—”
Ruy held up a hand. “Two mobile radio sets?”
Sharon nodded, refused to be deterred. “Yes, two sets: Finan’s and one other. As we agreed with Hastings.”
“Sharon, my love: did you inform Hastings before you commandeered the second set?”
“There wasn’t time,” she mumbled, looking away. “But I doubt he’ll be very annoyed.”
“Why?”
“Because if we get signals tomorrow, we should be able to get a location very quickly. And at that point, I’m going to pull him and the reaction force in to take a look at who’s sending these messages.”
“My love! What if something should happen—such as an assassination attempt—while Lieutenant Hastings is performing this task?”
“Ruy, it won’t take very long. It means walking a few blocks. And if this radio traffic isn’t innocent, then we may catch the assassins before they can strike.”
“My love, all that makes impeccable tactical sense, but only if your presumption—that the radios are being operated by the assassins or their handlers—is correct.”
Sharon nodded. “Yes, that’s true. And I think we should take that risk. The timing is too suspicious. The day the colloquium was called to session is the day the radio activity picked up both dramatically and inexplicably. And no one else in town who is known to own a radio has been using it these past few days: we’ve checked. So whoever it is, they’re not openly declared owners. And what are the odds that they’re just innocent hobbyists, communicating in a code we can’t crack?”
Ruy thought. “If I were to play the part of the devil’s advocate, they could be journalists who came in under false identities, reporting on any rumors emerging from the colloquium.”
“Could be, but with the session being closed, what do they have to report? Particularly when tomorrow is another closed-session day. So if the airwaves are once again humming then, I don’t think it’s news. It’s coordination or something like it. Ruy, this could be our only chance to stop an attack before it occurs.”
Ruy’s smile was sudden and very wide, and before the last words had left her lips, he had caught her around the waist with both arms. “My wife from the future is not just a surgeon and an investigator but a steel-eyed general! Your hypothesis is too plausible to ignore. We shall do as you say, wonderful wife.”
Sharon eyed him narrowly. “Because you think it’s the best plan or because you’re trying to make me more…pliable?”
“Your question suggests that only one of those reasons could be true.”
Sharon smiled. “You are terrible, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz.”
Ruy smiled back. “Now that is truth plainly spoken. And I shall prove it.”
When he bent forward to kiss her, she whispered, “You always do.”
* * *
Norwin entered the common room of L’Auberge de Boucle d’Argent in workman’s clothes and a rough cap on his head. Estève Gasquet, sitting alone at a table, moved toward the bar, not looking at him.
Norwin drifted toward the bar as well and produced a pipe. When the barkeep stepped over, he shook his head. “On second thought, I’m going to have a smoke.”
“Nice night for it,” agreed the barman as Norwin left with a nod.
Gasquet pushed his empty flagon toward the barman, who looked at it. “More?”
“No. Finished for the night.”
The barman nodded, and by the time Gasquet had leaned away and started toward the stairs, he was busy wiping out the flagon and talking to the next customer.
Just before Gasquet reached the stairs, he stepped slightly to the left, which put him in the short narrow corridor that led out the back. As he went through the already open door—the traffic from the hot kitchen was frequent enough that it made no sense to close it—he half turned his head to get a glimpse of the barman: his back was turned.
Gasquet slipped into the cool evening air and made for the side of the building.
Norwin was already there, his pipe lit. He did not look up but muttered. “Lee of the chimney: full shadow there. Person would bump into you before they see you.”
“Thanks, but I’ve acquainted myself with the details of my flop.” Gasquet hoped the bored tone concealed his annoyance. Norwin was a damned quick study with a damned sharp eye. He’d be a dangerous opponent, if it ever came to that.
The Swiss just shrugged. “What’s so important that we should take the risk of being seen together?”
“My handler is getting pressure from Rome. About the weapons and the plans and why we don’t have them yet.”
Norwin took a long pull at his pipe. “I don’t like it either, but it was Rome’s idea.”
“Maybe, but they’re nervous now.”
Norwin nodded. “Ah. Afraid that our controller sold some and pocketed the money for himself, just in case we don’t like the plan and decide to leave town?”
Gasquet smiled. “Something like that.”
Norwin tapped around in the bowl of his pipe. “Wish I knew more than you do, but I don’t. I suspect the most important feature of the plan is that it can be kept completely secret until the last second.”
Gasquet nodded. “Yes, but we can probably make a few educated guesses.” He couldn’t be sure if Norwin was telling the truth, but his reactions to a few hypotheses might clear that up. If Eischoll started trying to redirect Gasquet, it probably meant that Norwin felt he was getting close to a truth the Swiss handler wasn’t willing to share. “Clearly, it was important that you and the rest of your group became part of the pathetic Swiss Guard parade so that you’d gain the opposition’s trust. That’s why you were the ones who killed the pigeons I set up for you during the attack at St. John’s.”
“Yes, clearly the case. And nicely done.”
Gasquet ignored the compliment. “It’s equally clear that we are not going to get the plans or the weapons until right before the attack. And I don’t like that.”
Norwin shrugged. “When did it ever matter what those such as ourselves like? We are simply tools, to them.”
Gasquet couldn’t tell if Norwin’s phlegmatic response was genuine or a very nicely underplayed attempt to steer away from the topic by suggesting that inquiry was futile. “Well, there’d better be a reasonable chance of surviving this.”
Norwin inclined his head slightly. “If there isn’t, I won’t be a part of it.”
His comment was so direct, and so indifferent in tone, that Gasquet found it difficult to believe it to be anything other than the simple, unadorned truth. “Well, I hope they know that
. About all of us.”
Norwin took a small draw on his pipe, which made a soft guttering sound. He spoke as he let the smoke drift out of his mouth. “I believe they must know that much. The way they’ve planned it thus far tells me this isn’t the first assassination they’ve arranged. Which means they must also know that, if they want the job done, we have to consider the payment to be worth the risk.” He tapped the ashes out of his pipe. “After all, no amount of silver is worth near-certain death.” He stretched, still not looking back at Gasquet. “I’ll send you word as soon as I get it. Enjoy your meals and beds; they’re a damn sight better than ours.”
He strolled away, fading quickly into the gathering darkness.
Part Five
Friday
May 9, 1636
In the high west there burns a furious star
Chapter 28
Rombaldo rolled his eyes when the radio started clattering again. “Damn, Borja is a tiresome bastard. He won’t even let us finish breakfast.” Actually, Rombaldo was the last one eating; he tended to linger over meals.
Pedro Dolor shrugged. “I suspect now that he’s had a night to sleep on it, he has discerned further reasons why any problems with the unfolding of his plan are due to the late Señor de Requesens, not himself.” He finished wrapping up their own radio and its batteries and fitting both tightly into an outsized rucksack. Rombaldo was already wearily copying the characters onto a long roll of paper; notepads had not yet been much produced down-time. Probably not cost effective, Dolor surmised, which was a shame. He had seen one or two left behind by fleeing up-time telegraphers and thought them an excellent invention.
His lieutenant looked away from his task balefully. “You know, I think I just might plead bad weather and request a resend. Maybe I’ll send it twice.” He smiled wickedly. “Or more.”
Dolor shrugged. “It’s a waste of our batteries, too. So unless you want to do the recharging, conclude the task as rapidly as possible.”
Rombaldo’s smile soured. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Finish burning our notes. I suspect we’ll be moving soon. The rooms need to be empty and clean before that. When we depart, it should be like any other day when we walk out the door. No large packages, no traveling cases. Just the clothes on our back and what’s in our pockets.”
Laurin looked up from where he was sharpening one of his knives. “You could let us help you move the gear, you know.”
“I know that very well. It’s more important that none of your faces are seen, none of your voices are heard.”
Radulfus grunted. “You should not take all risk.”
Dolor shook his head. “It is less risk this way. You are all proficient at your craft: killing. But you are unable to mask your accents, your nervous glances when you come out of the shadows. I am. That is part of what I have trained to do: to be innocuous and easily overlooked when I must be.”
Rombaldo kept recording the steady flow of characters. “Should we burn de Requesens’ papers, too? Surely we won’t need them all.”
“No, but our adversaries will, if they are to have a clear compass that points at Borja’s men and takes any suspicion off us. When we leave here, we shall make sure to leave clues that point to this flat.”
“But they will know he didn’t operate from here. They will identify his body and know that he was killed soon after leaving L’Auberge de Boucle d’Argent.”
“Oh, I am confident they already know that. But whoever killed him will be presumed to be Borja’s agent, removing the dandy due to incompetence. Or they will prefer another narrative. It hardly matters: the evidence that de Requesens was the assassins’ handler will be authentic. And once they find the code books, they will use them to decipher all the messages they have no doubt intercepted, including those from Rome. At that point, our adversaries will no longer be so determined to find the details of why de Requesens was removed. They will have a powerful indicator that Borja was the architect of whatever happens here. And we, and all sign of us, will be gone.” Dolor shouldered the rucksack and began moving for the door.
Rombaldo held up a hand. “Wait a minute; did you hear that?” He pointed toward the radio.
Dolor shook his head.
“Borja—must be him—was going on again about not even he knows the attack plan. But here’s an interesting comment: ‘From the moment we chose where to strike the blow, it has been our intent to not merely rid ourselves of the current apostate pontiff, but of as many of the faithless cardinals and reformationist heretics who now hang on his every treasonous word.’” Rombaldo looked up. “Do you think that is just figurative language and wishful thinking, or…”
Dolor shook his head. “No. Because he not only indicates that he knows the place where the attack will take place, but why it was chosen: to do damage to as many of Borja’s enemies as possible.
“Which means he has just told us where the ambush will take place. And it is just where we thought.” Pedro considered. “And I believe he has also told us roughly when the attack will occur.”
“And when’s that?”
Dolor shrugged “Before the colloquium concludes. How else can Borja hope to get both cardinals and ‘reformationist heretics’?” Dolor walked briskly toward the door. “There is no time to lose. When I return, I will take two more of the guns to our starting point.”
“And the last two? Will you take them during the night?”
“No; too risky. With less traffic at night, there is a greater chance that entering the building with a load might attract notice. I will have to take them tomorrow morning. And hope that will not be too late.”
* * *
Sharon frowned at Finan’s report. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, ma’am. If I understood Rochus’ runner aright, we’re within three hundred yards, already.”
Sharon checked the map again, and the points they’d plotted so far. Finan was turning the radio slightly again, looking for the direction that gave him the strongest signal. The two Burgundian soldiers glanced over and muttered something to each other in the almost impenetrable besontsint dialect that predominated over in the Battant. But the tone sounded rich with doubt and even superstition.
Sharon had her own doubt to deal with: specifically, that this could have been done so quickly. The signals had begun about seventy minutes ago, when Odo sent a runner down the hall to where she was handling the morning’s correspondence. While she double-checked that her shoulderbag of plotting equipment—compasses, binoculars, map, pencils—was ready to go and did the same with her doctor’s case, Finan sent a signal to the other Hibernian radio operator, Rochus Zehenter, who had been left on call in the event that the signaling resumed.
Twenty minutes later, each radio team, furnished with a battery carrier and three runners each, were in their designated starting positions: Finan on the steps of St. Vincent’s and Zehenter in the shadow of St. Paul’s. Being on essentially opposite sides of the city—St. Vincent’s to the southeast, St. Paul’s to the northwest—they began the leapfrog process of moving, finding the new direction, waiting for the other radio operator to do the same, and then starting all over again.
Within thirty minutes it had become obvious that the transmitter was between them and only slightly to the south. Within another twenty minutes, the two teams caught sight of each other, concluding that Zehenter now needed to swing around to the other side of the transmission point to increase the accuracy of the search. Now Zehenter was located less than a hundred yards away, between St. Peter’s graveyard and the clutter of houses that backed on it, whereas Finan was on the street that marked the limit of those houses in the other direction. The next runner waited, eager: even he could tell that the hunters were closing in on their quarry.
Sharon took a deep breath. “We stop here, for now.”
“We stop?” Finan’s voice ended on an almost comically high note.
The runner, understanding that much English, prepared to dart off, bu
t Sharon held him with a look. “Let’s take a moment, take a deep breath, and start moving more carefully. Let’s not rush around. Let’s not make any overly sudden moves.”
Finan shook his head. “But why?”
Sharon looked sideways at him. “Because anyone can go to the Grantville library and read about radios. And about playing fox and hounds.”
“So you think they might be watching for us?”
“No; I’m just saying let’s be careful.” Actually, Sharon had long ago conjectured that the transmitters did not know that they could be located, given enough time. Had they any awareness that extended transmissions could be studied for range and direction, they would have sharply limited the length of each exchange and their willingness to stay on the same frequency the whole time. “So we go slowly. You runners”—she nodded at the knot of them—“you walk now. Except you.” She pointed to the eager one. “You run as if our lives depended on it.” And they very well might.
“Oui, madame. And where I run?”
“To Lieutenant Hastings.”
“The message?”
“Tell him where we are, that he should keep his men out of this area of the map”—she circled the densest part of the tangle of houses that framed one side of the St. Peter’s graveyard—“and that he and my husband should join us here. Right away.” She took a deep breath. “The hounds are about to corner the fox.”
* * *
Pedro Dolor made sure that the boxes containing the guns and grenades were within easy reach, but closed and with a light tarp over them to keep out the dust and moisture. He looked around the low-ceilinged cellar, and, satisfied that all was in order and ready for use, he exited, locking the uneven door behind him. He walked slowly up the mostly earthen stairs, dusted his hands off, emerged into the building’s sad excuse for a vestibule, and opened the door.
The late morning light smote his eyes. As he raised a hand to ward it off, he discovered that the vendors who congregated near the road separating two of the city’s major inns from both the palace and the convent, were all turning in the same direction. He spared a glance to see what had attracted their attention.
