back to the table. “What about aircraft?” Natalia asked, but Bernie was shaking his head before she’d even finished the question.
“Not without some pretty powerful engines,” he said. “And I don’t know anything about aerodynamics. Nor is there anything in the books we brought with us.”
The meeting went on for a couple of hours, a disheartening mix of “not yet” and “it can’t be done,” with only a sprinkle of things they could do.
Disheartening, yes. But not that disheartening. It was early days yet and they all knew it.
Chapter 13
March 1632
Vladimir took one look at Boris and knew he had made a rough, fast trip back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I want to get done here and get back to Moscow as quickly as possible. How is the network progressing?”
“I’m not sure. It seems to me to be working fairly well. The number of spies, artists and philosophers that are living or visiting here seems to grow every day. Trotsky is starting to see spies under his bed.”
“I doubt anyone cares what happens in Trotsky’s bed, even his wife,” Boris said. “Still he knows his business.”
“Oh, there are spies enough.” Vladimir agreed. “However for the most part they don’t seem to care about us.” He shook his head, caught between laughter and embarrassment. “What few attempts we’ve had to penetrate our network have been clumsy. Almost as though they didn’t really care what we were doing but were too polite to simply ignore us. The Spanish and the Austrians want to know what the Swedes are doing here and the Swedes want to know what the Hapsburgs are doing here. The French want to know what the Catholics, and, well, everyone is doing here. The Italians want to know what the other Italians and the Spanish are doing here. The closest thing to a real attempt to subvert me has been an offer by a group of merchants and agents to go in together in the copying of the Encyclopedia Americana 1963 and such other books and periodicals as we can agree on. I accepted, of course. They were already doing it and were simply looking for more subscribers to defray expenses.”
* * *
When Brandy Bates received the letter from Natasha Gorchakova she was on her day off and getting ready to go to a play with her mom at the high school.
Her mom answered the door and the first thing Brandy heard was, “You have a letter for Brandy from who?”
“Who is it, Mom?” Brandy asked as she came into the living room to see a tall, dark-haired man with deep blue eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard.
“I’m Kniaz Vladimir Gorchakov,” he said. “The letter is from my sister.”
Brandy wasn’t a true adherent of the philosophy of Club 250, but she had taken in enough of the attitude while working there that she wasn’t the least bit awed by the title or the fancy clothes. Well, maybe the least bit. But she responded by being just a bit snooty herself. “And why is your sister writing to me?”
“Apparently Bernie Zeppi recommended you as a correspondent,” the guy said.
Bernie had gotten a job in Poland or Russia or someplace like that. The pay was supposed to have been pretty good and Mom was giving her the “you behave” look. Oh, what the hell. She could at least read the letter. “Well, if Bernie suggested it at least it’s not out of the blue.” Brandy held out her hand and with clear reluctance the guy handed her the letter.
Mom asked him to have a seat as Brandy examined the letter. It was folded over with a wax blob holding it closed and the wax had been imprinted with a crest.
Brandy shrugged, popped the seal and looked at the letter. The handwriting was good but with way too many flourishes. Working through the letter she got to the part about burning bras in the market square and burst into laughter.
Both Mom and the guy were looking at her with curiosity clear on their faces. Brandy handed the letter to her mother and smiled. “For once Bernie did the
“Not without some pretty powerful engines,” he said. “And I don’t know anything about aerodynamics. Nor is there anything in the books we brought with us.”
The meeting went on for a couple of hours, a disheartening mix of “not yet” and “it can’t be done,” with only a sprinkle of things they could do.
Disheartening, yes. But not that disheartening. It was early days yet and they all knew it.
Chapter 13
March 1632
Vladimir took one look at Boris and knew he had made a rough, fast trip back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I want to get done here and get back to Moscow as quickly as possible. How is the network progressing?”
“I’m not sure. It seems to me to be working fairly well. The number of spies, artists and philosophers that are living or visiting here seems to grow every day. Trotsky is starting to see spies under his bed.”
“I doubt anyone cares what happens in Trotsky’s bed, even his wife,” Boris said. “Still he knows his business.”
“Oh, there are spies enough.” Vladimir agreed. “However for the most part they don’t seem to care about us.” He shook his head, caught between laughter and embarrassment. “What few attempts we’ve had to penetrate our network have been clumsy. Almost as though they didn’t really care what we were doing but were too polite to simply ignore us. The Spanish and the Austrians want to know what the Swedes are doing here and the Swedes want to know what the Hapsburgs are doing here. The French want to know what the Catholics, and, well, everyone is doing here. The Italians want to know what the other Italians and the Spanish are doing here. The closest thing to a real attempt to subvert me has been an offer by a group of merchants and agents to go in together in the copying of the Encyclopedia Americana 1963 and such other books and periodicals as we can agree on. I accepted, of course. They were already doing it and were simply looking for more subscribers to defray expenses.”
* * *
When Brandy Bates received the letter from Natasha Gorchakova she was on her day off and getting ready to go to a play with her mom at the high school.
Her mom answered the door and the first thing Brandy heard was, “You have a letter for Brandy from who?”
“Who is it, Mom?” Brandy asked as she came into the living room to see a tall, dark-haired man with deep blue eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard.
“I’m Kniaz Vladimir Gorchakov,” he said. “The letter is from my sister.”
Brandy wasn’t a true adherent of the philosophy of Club 250, but she had taken in enough of the attitude while working there that she wasn’t the least bit awed by the title or the fancy clothes. Well, maybe the least bit. But she responded by being just a bit snooty herself. “And why is your sister writing to me?”
“Apparently Bernie Zeppi recommended you as a correspondent,” the guy said.
Bernie had gotten a job in Poland or Russia or someplace like that. The pay was supposed to have been pretty good and Mom was giving her the “you behave” look. Oh, what the hell. She could at least read the letter. “Well, if Bernie suggested it at least it’s not out of the blue.” Brandy held out her hand and with clear reluctance the guy handed her the letter.
Mom asked him to have a seat as Brandy examined the letter. It was folded over with a wax blob holding it closed and the wax had been imprinted with a crest.
Brandy shrugged, popped the seal and looked at the letter. The handwriting was good but with way too many flourishes. Working through the letter she got to the part about burning bras in the market square and burst into laughter.
Both Mom and the guy were looking at her with curiosity clear on their faces. Brandy handed the letter to her mother and smiled. “For once Bernie did the
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