Marcoli digested that for a moment. Then, mournfully: “It is not just Massimo who will be going no further.”
Frank nodded. And then realized what that meant. “We’re not going back to Venice, are we?” he asked, incredulous.
Venice . . . with its assassins and murderers and inquisitors and who knew what-all else. Not to mention having to face the wrath of Magda without having pulled off the rescue first. Getting reamed out and then assassinated was bad enough; getting reamed out and then assassinated after having failed was just about the most awful prospect he could imagine. He dwelt a moment on the memory of one of Magda’s more impressive ass-chewings, multiplied it about tenfold, and realized he was less scared of the assassins than he was of his stepmom, right at the moment. It was all he could do not to smile at the thought of standing in the street and shouting out who he was so that the assassins would get to him first.
Marcoli interrupted his flight of whimsy. “No, of course not!” he said, sounding quite indignant. “Galileo must still be rescued! You must go on without Massimo and me.” He sighed deeply. “The doctor, he said that there was a risk I might lose the leg without the hygiene your father taught, and I should stay here and keep clean.”
That nearly set Frank off again. His dad had included lectures on aseptic technique, that he did remember. There had been a strong smell of grappa—the stuff was a pretty good antiseptic, even if drinking it took the lining out of your stomach—while the doctor had been working. And it seemed they were taking no chances with how far you had to go with it, either. As well as setting and splinting the bone, the doctor had insisted that Marcoli be washed all over and put to bed in freshly laundered linen. The bed bath, Frank decided, probably wouldn’t do any harm and would help keep his temperature down. Dad’s teaching hadn’t been even close to comprehensive, but basic sick care had been a must, living as they did on a commune with no health insurance.
Frank was no judge, but he didn’t think Antonio Marcoli had suffered a very serious break. Just bad enough to keep him off his feet for a while, following any kind of intelligent medical regimen.
Frank realized it was turning into a long, uncomfortable silence. “What do we do, then?”
Another long silence.
Marcoli took a deep breath, and looked Frank firmly in the eye.
Uh-oh.
“Messer Stone,” he said, giving the name a portentous roll to it. “You must lead the rescue of Galileo.”
Somber, it was. The tone of a man reading a death sentence, Frank thought. How did they execute people in Italy nowadays, anyway?
Was there any limit to folly?
But all he could manage was:
“Uh. Me?”
* * *
“What is it, Lieutenant Trumble?” Sharon asked, doing her level best to keep irritation and exasperation out of voice. Since the operation the day before, Ruy’s condition seemed to be stabilized for the moment. But she was still gnawed with deep fear—somewhere in the corner of her brain the words peritonitis! peritonitis! peritonitis! wouldn’t stop gibbering at her—and in no mood to be called to the embassy’s front entrance to settle some kind of squabble with—
Oh.
She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Your Eminence.”
Just beyond the door, Cardinal Bedmar gave Billy Trumble a triumphant little glance. “And good morning to you as well, Signora Nichols. I have come to inquire about my servant, Ruy Sanchez. I have been given to understand that you intend to keep him here at your embassy.”
Been given to understand, Sharon thought sourly. That was spook-speak for my spies tell me.
On the other hand, she could understand why the special ambassador from the Spanish Netherlands would be concerned at discovering that his top spy was now residing under the roof of a foreign nation’s embassy. All the more so when that nation was at war with his own—and, by the latest reports, the war was heating up rapidly.
“Yes, he is here.” A sudden impulse swept over her. Probably undiplomatic as all hell, but . . .