Nasi examined the portrait to which the thumb was pointed. It was not a portrait, as such, but one of the few photographs hanging up on the walls. A classic example of that peculiar sub-genre of the visual arts known as Politics, American, Crass Beyond Belief.
“Indeed. Michael Stearns. Cheerfully eating the first Hans Richter Victory Sandwich produced by the Freedom Arches in Magdeburg. What are the ingredients, again?”
“Baltic rye bread, Danish ham and cheese, with, of course, the essential splash of French dressing. It’s not bad, actually.”
The prime minister turned away from the window. “All right, Francisco, enough of the drollery. I know you could bring down the house with your comedy routines. Well, anywhere except in Istanbul.”
Nasi winced. “Risky business, that. Murad the Mad is prone to assuming that all jokes are at his expense.”
Stearns pointed to the file. “I also know that you’re just stalling because this is one of the few subjects you don’t feel particularly knowledgeable about. I understand that. I don’t expert a Sephardic Jew from Istanbul to be the world’s expert on the inner workings of the Roman Catholic Church. Still, what’s your best estimate?”
“The truth? I think we are sensing a tremor beneath our feet. The first sign of a coming political earthquake.”
Mike stared down at the file, his hands now planted on the desk. “That’s what I think, too. Jesus, Joseph and Mary.”
Nasi shook his head. “The man will not take sides, you understand.”
“Don’t be silly, Francisco. He has been taking a side, whether he liked it or not—which, by all reports, he didn’t much.” Stearns rapped the file with a finger. “Simply the act of declaring neutrality is taking a side, when you’re already on one.”
“Not what I meant. Sorry. I only intended to say that I think there is no chance—no chance at all—that the pope will do or say anything overtly which could in any way be construed—formally, you understand—as an alliance of any kind with the United States of Europe.”
Mike gave Nasi a very placid look. Francisco braced himself. That sleepy expression invariably signaled the coming sarcasm.
“At a rough guess, Francisco, I could get the same assessment from two out of three urchins in the streets of Magdeburg. Nineteen out of twenty, in the streets of Rome. Maffeo Barberini who was, Urban VIII who is, has been accused of a lot of things in his sixty-some-odd years. Deviousness, manipulation, cynicism—not to mention a truly breathtaking devotion to nepotism—but never once, that I can recall, being a moron. Try again.”
Nasi sighed. “Michael, this is not a subject—”
“Try again.”
“Tyrant!”
“Try again.”
Nasi puffed out his cheeks. “You’d do better to ask von Spee. He’s back in town, you know.”
“Good idea. I will. Try again. And I’ll make it easy for you, since you brought up von Spee. Who is still, I remind you, a Jesuit.”
Stearns gave Nasi a little encouraging jiggle of the chin, the way a mother encourages her toddler to say mama. “Don’t try to start with a pope maybe undergoing a real and profound crisis of conscience. Start with what you know. Would Urban even consider this if he didn’t think he had Vitelleschi in his corner? And I’m not talking about that famous fourth vow of obedience. I’m talking about the father-general of the Jesuits—the Black Pope, they sometimes call him—being really in his corner.”
Francisco felt the ground stabilize beneath his feet. “No,” he said firmly. “Not a chance.”
“What I think, too.” Stearns stared at the file on the desk. Then, suddenly, slammed his open palm down upon it. Stearns had big hands. The loud noise almost startled Nasi out of his chair.
“Hot damn!” Mike exclaimed. “Hot diggedy-damn. Chew on that, Richelieu. And you can downright choke on it, you stinking emperor of Austria. And you, puke-face elector of Bavaria, you can take your so-called Catholic League and stick it where the sun don’t shine. Y’all just lost your fig leaf. ‘Bout to, anyway. If that wasn’t enough—you morons!—you just lost the help of what is probably still the most effective political organization in Europe. Maybe the whole world, the way the Japanese seem to be squawking. Sure as hell the most experienced.”