"You heard?" grunted Richelieu. Servien nodded.
Richelieu threw up his hands, as much with humor as exasperation.
"What a formidable woman!" Feeling a little tug on his robes, the cardinal gazed down at the kitten playing with the hem. The serene smile returned. He bent over, picked up the small creature, and deposited it in his lap. Then, as he petted the kitten, continued to speak.
"I never would have thought it possible, Etienne. A Sephardic Jewess-Doctor Balthazar Abrabanel's daughter, no less! That breed can talk for hours on end, ignoring hunger all the while. Philosophers and theologians, the lot. I'd expected to simply smile and let her fill my ears with information. Instead-"
He chuckled ruefully. "Not often that happens to me. I trust I didn't give away anything critical?"
Servien shrugged. "The Sephardic Jews also provide Europe and the Ottoman Empire with most of its bankers, Your Eminence-not a profession known for being loose-lipped. Moreover, while he may be a doctor and a philosopher, Balthazar Abrabanel, as well as his brother Uriel, are both experienced spies. Also not a trade which favors blabbermouths. Then, to make things still worse, Abrabanel's daughter Rebecca-by all accounts, including those of her enemies-is extremely intelligent in her own right. She would certainly have deduced, in any event, that France has not laid down its arms. So… best to do as you did, I think. Beyond that, she learned nothing. There was certainly no hint in your words of our grand strategy."
" 'Grand strategy,' " echoed Richelieu. "Which grand strategy are you referring to, Etienne? The greater, or the lesser?"
"Either of them, or both. I assure you, not even Satan himself could have deduced our plans from anything you spoke. The woman is intelligent, yes. But, as you said, not a witch."
The cardinal pondered silently for a moment, his lean face growing leaner still.
"Still, she is too intelligent," he pronounced at length. "I hope she will accept my offer to provide her with an escort for a journey overland to the Spanish Low Countries. That would enable us-in a dozen different ways-to delay her travel long enough for our purposes. But…"
He shook his head. "I doubt it. She will almost certainly deduce as much, and choose to make her own arrangements for traveling by sea to Holland. And we simply cannot allow her such a close examination of the ports. Not now, of all times!"
Servien pursed his lips. "I could certainly keep her away from Le Havre, Your Eminence. Not every port on the Channel, of course-that would be too obvious. But if she were forced to take ship from one of the smaller ports, she might not notice enough-"
Richelieu interrupted him with a gesture which was almost angry. "Desist, Etienne! I realize that you are trying to spare me the necessity of making this decision. Which, the Lord knows, I find distasteful in the extreme. But reasons of state have never been forgiving of the kindlier sentiments." He sighed heavily. "Necessity remains what it is. Do keep her from Le Havre, of course. One of the smaller ports would be far better anyway, for… what is needed."
The cardinal looked down at the kitten, still playing with his long forefinger. "And, who knows? Perhaps fortune will smile on us-and her-and she will make a bad decision."
The gentle smile returned. "There are few enough of God's marvelous creatures in this world. Let us hope we will not have to destroy yet another one. On your way out, Etienne, be so kind as to summon my servant."
The dismissal was polite, but firm. Servien nodded and left the room.
A moment later, Desbournais entered the room. Desbournais was the cardinal's valet de chambre, and had entered Richelieu's service at the age of seventeen. Richelieu was popular with his servants, as he was with all of his allies and associates. However ruthless he might be in the service of France, the cardinal was invariably considerate and polite to those around him, no matter what their station. Very generous to them, as well. Richelieu repaid loyalty with loyalty of his own. That was as true of his kitchen help as Louis XIII, king of France.
The cardinal lifted the kitten and held it out to Desbournais. "Isn't he gorgeous? See to providing for him, Desbournais-and well, mind you."
After Desbournais left, Richelieu rose from the chair and went to the window in his chamber. The residence the cardinal used whenever he was in Paris-a palace in all but name-was a former hotel which he had purchased on the Rue St. Honorй near the Louvre. He'd also purchased the adjoining hotel in order, after having it razed, to provide him with a better view of the city.
As he stared out the window, all the kindliness and gentleness left his face. The cold, stern-even haughty-visage which stared down at the great city of Paris was the one that his enemies knew. For all his charm and grace, Richelieu could also be intimidating in the extreme. He was a tall man, whose slenderness was offset by the heavy and rich robes of office he always wore. His long face, with its high forehead, arched brows, and large brown eyes, was that of an intellectual, yes. But there was also the slightly curved nose and the strong chin, set off by the pointed and neatly barbered beard-those, the features of a very different sort of man.
Hernan Cortez would have understood that face. So would the duke of Alba. Any of the world's conquerors would have understood a face which had been shaped, for years, by iron resolve.
"So be it," murmured the cardinal. "God, in his mercy, creates enough marvelous creatures that we can afford to destroy those we must. Necessity remains."
"Well, how'd it go?" asked Jeff Higgins cheerfully. Then, seeing the tight look on Rebecca's face, his smile thinned. "That bad? I thought the guy had a reputation for being-"
Rebecca shook her head. "He was gracious and polite. Which didn't stop him-not for a second-from issuing what amounted to a declaration of total war."
Sighing, she removed the scarf she had been wearing to fend off a typical Paris drizzle. Seeing it was merely a bit damp, she spread it out to dry over the back of one of the chairs in the sitting room of the house which the delegation from the United States had rented in Paris. Then, seeing Heinrich Schmidt entering the room from the kitchen, Rebecca smiled ruefully.
Major Heinrich Schmidt, as it happened. The officer who commanded the small detachment of U.S. Army soldiers who had accompanied Rebecca in her voyage, along with Jeff and Gretchen Higgins and Jimmy Andersen.
"I'm afraid-very much afraid-that you gentlemen may soon be earning your pay."
Heinrich shrugged. So did Jeff, who, although he had a special assignment on this mission, was-along with his friend Jimmy-also a soldier in the U.S. Army.
The next person to enter the room was Jeff's wife. "So what's happening?" she demanded, her German accent still there beneath the fluent and colloquial English.
Rebecca's smile widened. She always found the contrast between Jeff and Gretchen somewhat amusing, in an affectionate sort of way. What the Americans called an "odd couple," based on one of those electronic dramas which Rebecca still found fascinating, for all the hours she'd spent watching television-even hosting a TV show of her own.
Jeff Higgins, though he had been toughened considerably in the two years since his small American town had been deposited into the middle of war-torn central Europe in the year 1631, still exuded a certain air of what the Americans called a "geek" or a "nerd." He was tall, yes; but also overweight-still, for all the exercise he now got. Although Jeff had recently celebrated his twentieth birthday, his pudgy face looked like that of a teenager. A pug nose between an intellectual's eyes, peering near-sightedly through thick glasses. About as unromantic a figure as one could imagine.