Despite his failings, Philip remained favored by the Vatican as a loyal member of the Catholic League in the wars against the Huguenots, and as a staunch defender of the faith against the rising Calvinist threat.
This was why the Church was maintaining the utmost discretion as it dealt with the theft of a valuable relic from its proscribed vault deep below the Vatican. The cardinals still did not know how the thief had eluded detection by the Swiss Guard and gained access to the vault, but there was no doubt about his identity: Don Carlos of Navarre, King Philip's beloved nephew.
Six weeks ago his Holiness Pope Clement VIII had summoned Father Claude Aquaviva to the Holy See. There, behind the locked doors of the innermost sanctum of the Vatican, the Father General of the Society was charged with the retrieval and disposal of the purloined relic, with no harm to Don Carlos in the process, and no connection to the Vatican. In fact, if the object's loss appeared to be an act of God rather than man, so much the better.
Francisco found it astounding that an honor of this magnitude would be bestowed upon such a young order. A former soldier named Ignatius Loyola had founded the Society of Jesus fewer than six decades ago, but since its inception it had proved a magnet for some of the best minds in the civilized world.
That Francisco, a yet-to-be-ordained Jesuit brother, should be chosen for the mission… well, it seemed beyond belief.
Could it be but three weeks since Father Diego Vega, the Father General's second in command, had stepped into his quarters, closed the door, and told him what he must do?
Francisco understood that he had been chosen because of his nautical past and his interest in astronomy. And of course, because of his devotion to the Society.
His head was still spinning. He had spent the last three years in Greece studying their ancient texts on the stars, and had only recently returned. He was still recovering from the disorienting experience of seeming to lose ten days of his life because of Greece's refusal to give up the Julian calendar. Spain had been utilizing Pope Gregory's new calendar for decades.
And now this.
The world was changing too fast. Ah, but the stars… one could always count on the stars.
He had joined the King's Navy at a young age and learned navigation by trial and error. Before too long he was assisting the pilot, honing his skills as he sailed the length and breadth of the Mediterranean, staying mostly within sight of shore as did most navigators, but unafraid to leave the comfort of land on the horizon and strike out into open water.
Not a terrible risk in the Mediterranean. If one set sail from its African shore and held to a northerly course, soon enough one would spy Europe.
But the Atlantic… now that was a different matter. The swells, the storms, the space between its shores. Not a place for the faint of heart.
Francisco remembered the first time he had piloted a galleon through the Straits of Gibraltar and into the Atlantic. The captain had wanted to test the seaworthiness of his vessel as well as Francisco's skills. They traveled west-northwest for two days, then south for one, and then the captain told him to guide them back to where they had begun.
Using his astrolabe and cross staff, Francisco piloted the ship with such accuracy that their first sight of land was the high cliffs of Gibraltar.
He would have had a future in the navy, but instead he obeyed a higher calling.
He looked now again at the main deck of the Sombra. Originally christened Santa Ines, it had served Spain until last year when the navy sold it. Francisco was no expert on naval policy, but he wondered how often a navy sold off one of its ships. Another sign of an atrophying empire? He might understand if the Santa Ines was old and decommissioned, but this nao was in excellent condition.
Even considering King Philip's financial troubles, selling it seemed unusual. So unusual that one would have to assume the buyer to be a most influential man. Like Don Carlos of Navarre, perhaps.
But why had the new owner changed the ship's name from something holy to something unquestionably dark—from a saint to a shadow? Why would anyone choose such a name for a ship?
And why would it be sailing without escort through waters infested with pirates and British privateers?
He had to wonder as to its intended purpose.
He saw a heavyset man in a white ruffled shirt and black waistcoat step aboard. He watched Eusebio make an obsequious approach and point toward him.
Francisco gave a slight bow as the man reached the aftcastle.
"Captain Gutierrez, I presume?"
He looked irritated. "Yes-yes. What is this about Vazquez? Is he really dead?"
"Quite."
"Who sent you, then?"
"Apparently the owner of Sombra and I share an acquaintance whose craft I have piloted on numerous occasions. He recommended me and I accepted the assignment."
A flagrant lie, and if the captain had the time to check with the owner's agent, he would expose the untruth. But Francisco knew the captain had already been delayed by Vazquez's illness. He had to put to sea today if he wanted to reach Cartagena anywhere near his expected time of arrival.
He shook his head. "Crossing the Atlantic with an unproved navigator…"
"Hardly unproved, sir. I learned my craft in His Majesty's navy. Where, I assume, you learned yours."
Captain Gutierrez quizzed him on the ships he had piloted, the captains he had served under. He too had been in the first Armada and was most impressed by Francisco's bringing the Santa Clarita safely back to port.
That satisfied him.
"Very well. We sail with the tide. You will have Vazquez's cot in the officers' quarters."
As the captain brushed past him, Francisco allowed himself a deep breath of relief.
He had succeeded. He was now Sombra's navigator.
He hoped God would forgive him for what he had done to poor Vazquez, and for what he would eventually do to this crew. Father Diego had said he would receive a Plenary Indulgence from His Holiness himself after completing this mission.
Opus Dei… Francisco had to keep reminding himself that he was doing the Lord's work. He was removing an evil from the world, hiding it where no one would ever find it, where no one could ever steal it again.
He knew the name of the object hidden in the hold, but did not understand the nature of its evil—Father Diego had been coy on that. All he knew was that he must prevent it from reaching the New World.
SUNDAY
1
Jack stood on the dock and stared at Tom's boat. Most of the surrounding slips in this marina in Nowhere, North Carolina, were empty. But even if they'd been crammed, Tom's forty-footer, with its flag-blue hull, white superstructure, and varnished teak trim, would have stood out.
"What's wrong?" Tom said as he carried his backpack and one of the food coolers past Jack.
"I didn't know judges made this sort of money."
"We don't."
Jack watched him step onto a rubber footplate on the gunwale and hop onto the rear deck.
"Then how…?"
"It's not really mine. But the owner owes me a few favors, so I get to use it pretty much whenever I want."
Jack shook his head in wonder.
It had been one long, strange car ride. Four-hundred-plus miles covered in eight-plus hours to these private docks on Wanchese harbor. Most of the time—when Tom wasn't pumping him for details about his lifestyle—they'd played blues. Tom had asked him if he was the Jack mentioned in Bighead's "R-J Blues." Jack had told him he'd have to ask the singer.