1635 The Papal Stakes Read Free

have missed a trapdoor character.”
    “Which changes the code, right?”
    “Yes, Ambassador Nichols. But, from the rest of the message, I would say that Captain Simpson’s group plans to leave Chiavenna immediately after meeting the cardinal.”
    Ruy’s and Sharon’s eyes drifted to the window; the sunlight was no longer yellow, but late-day amber. “That had better be one quick meeting,” observed Sharon.
    “Do not worry, my love. I’m sure all will go well.”
    She half turned, looking at him over her thickly graceful shoulder. “Oh? Really? And why would you say that, Ruy?”
    Ruy shrugged. “To ease your mind, love.”
    She touched his arm lightly, then turned back to encourage Odo to check other frequencies.
    As Ruy studied his wife’s wide, watchful eyes in their fixation upon the radio, he silently conceded that Sharon was, of course, entirely correct: his assurance that “all will go well” was merely hopeful nonsense. The simple truth of the matter was that he hoped all would go well.
    But of course, it rarely did .

CHAPTER TWO
    The proprietor of the rustic Crotto Fiume leaned a bit closer to Tom Simpson and almost crooned: “Are you sure you won’t have the soup, signor? It is a local specialty: black cherry and game. A favorite of men who are large like you—who are so, so… robusto .”
    “Oh, puh-leeze,” Rita Simpson whisper-groaned down at the tabletop.
    As much to taunt his wife as satisfy the culinary curiosity that the stew’s description had piqued, Tom assented. “ Si, grazie .”
    “ Brego ,” replied the innkeep, cook, and owner—for that was the arrangement in most of these small, informal crotti —who bowed himself out to prepare their meals.
    As soon as he was gone, Rita leaned against Tom’s Herculean bicep, “My robusto hero,” she cooed, “He can eat with the best of them.”
    And while it was true that Tom had a healthy appetite, the era into which he had been thrown—the end of the Thirty Years’ War—had also trimmed off any small residual fat that might have originated with meals taken in the fast-food eateries and saturated fat emporiums of the very late twentieth century.
    Melissa Mailey looked at Tom and seemed less amused. “Did you really have to have the soup?”
    “Uh…no, but it sounded good. And I get to see all of you roll your eyes.” He leaned back, stretching his immense arms outward from his even more formidable chest and shoulders.
    “I’m not rolling my eyes.” Melissa’s voice was devoid of jocularity. “I’m worried about our rendezvous.”
    “What? You think the soup takes half a day to cook?”
    “No, Tom: I think that we should not spend a second more in towns than we must—not since leaving Lombardy, at any rate. We don’t have a lot of friends in these parts.”
    James Nichols broke open a small loaf of bread, not much bigger than his thumb; it sent up a fragrant puff of steam. “Now, Melissa, we’re on neutral ground, here. Chiavenna is an open city.”
    “Which is a very nebulous term here, James. This isn’t simply Casablanca with the Alps instead of the Atlantic, and with snow instead of sand. These folks don’t define ‘neutral’ the way we do, and they’ve not had much success with co-dominium—excuse me, tri -dominium—arrangements like this one.”
    Diminutive Arcangelo Severi leaned over so that he could see past James’ large, prominently veined black hands to the people farther down the table. “The Signora Mailey, she speaks correctly.” Two weeks on the road with the group had almost ironed the idiomatic peculiarities out of his English—almost, but not quite. “The Spanish now guard Chiavenna instead of the Milanese? It is a black wolf replacing a gray wolf: same breed, same teeth, just a slightly different coat.”
    “And the French observers are hardly our friends, either.” Melissa tapped her fork for emphasis. “Officially, we are still every bit almost-at-war with them as the