Neither statement was actually true at all. Sharon was almost compulsive about doing her duty and, in his own inimitable way, Stoner was even more so. Still . . .
Mazzare had other things on his mind, and the fact was that he had a great deal of confidence in Sharon Nichols. Even, for that matter, in Tom Stone. Besides, he understood enough already just in the short time he’d had to think about it to realize that the pope’s decision to appoint Mazzare to defend Galileo was going to transform Europe’s politics. Whatever real diplomacy would be practiced in Italy for the next period would be practiced in Rome, not Venice.
“All right, Sharon. Thanks.” He started to turn away to attend to his packing, when a last thought arrested him. “Oh. And—ah—explain it to Mike Stearns as best you can when—”
He managed not to glance at Mazarini. “—whenever you can send off a letter.”
Sharon’s smile was really quite dazzling. And Mazzare noted with approval that she didn’t even glance up the stairs toward the radio room. “Yeah, sure, Father. Consider it done. I’ll start writing the letter as soon as you and the monsignor are gone.”
* * *
“We don’t have any choice, Frank,” insisted Ron. “You heard what Gerry said. I mean, we’re talking about the Inquisition here. They’re not even respecting Father Mazzare’s diplomatic immunity any more. You think they won’t cut our throats—or your girlfriend’s—without blinking an eye? Okay, sure, Antonio’s a little too sure of himself, maybe. But, you ask me, he’s an island of sanity in this crazy place.”
Frank ran fingers through his hair, glancing at their youngest brother. For once, the sixteen-year-old wasn’t looking in the least bit cocksure. Gerry looked just plain scared.
Frank didn’t blame him. He was scared himself. Joe Buckley tortured and murdered—the authorities making it clear they were going to look the other way—and Father Mazzare now hauled off to an Inquisition dungeon in Rome. Michel Ducos hiding out from his own French embassy at the Marcolis—they’d tried to kill him, he said. Given how crazy everything had suddenly gotten, Frank had no trouble believing it either. Michel certainly had a nasty-looking defensive wound on his hand
Worst of all, in some ways, was that their dad wasn’t available to talk to. He and Magda were in Padua. As much as Tom Stone could often drive his sons nuts, at bottom they trusted him more than most kids did their parents. Even his good judgment.
The thought of his father in Padua did the trick. Frank knew that Antonio Marcoli was planning to travel through Padua on the way to Rome. Frank could at least get Giovanna out of the murder hole that Venice had turned into and maybe keep her safe. And he could ask his dad what he thought about Marcoli’s plan when they reached Padua. Frank had always thought the plan was pretty nutty, but . . .
All of Italy looked to be a madhouse. So maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll do it. As soon as that bastard Mazarini’s gone with the father.”
Gerry had drifted over to the window in their rooms as Frank had ruminated. Suddenly, he stiffened. “They’re leaving now. And—damn it, look!—they’re hauling away Reverend Jones, too.”
The look on his face combined indignation and fear. “I thought they couldn’t do that? I mean, he’s not a Catholic to begin with.”
Ron shrugged. “I’d say they can pretty much do whatever they want to. What’s Mike Stearns gonna do? Send an army across the Alps at the same time we’re fighting everybody else in Europe? Not hardly.”
Fifteen minutes later, they slipped out of the back door of the embassy and headed for Murano.
* * *
The radio at the embassy wasn’t capable of reaching across the Alps during the daytime, so Sharon would have to wait until the evening window to send a message to Magdeburg bringing Francisco Nasi and the prime minister up to date on the most recent developments. In the meantime, she decided she would write a letter.
In the end, after dillying for a bit, Sharon decided to make it a brief note. That would be enough to bring Sanchez to the embassy, and she found herself unable to write anything more extensive. She needed to be looking him straight in the face when she said what she had to say.