Mademann had been stroking his beard thoughtfully. "So your shot would be the signal. As soon as we hear it, the rest of us come out into the street. We should be able to hide well enough in the alleys. If all goes well, we'll catch the Dane and the girl before they've reached the cathedral. Then we make our separate escapes."
He, too, now looked a bit dubious. "Tricky timing, though."
But Locquifier's doubts had vanished. "It's the only way," he said firmly. "The instructions from Michel and Antoine were very precise. We must succeed in the full task. This is the only way to do it."
Once Guillaume Locquifier came to the conclusion that a given plan was ordained by Michel Ducos, he would be unyielding in his determination to stick to it. Under other circumstances, Mathurin Brillard had often found that annoying. But under these, he didn't mind at all.
He began giving some thought, for the first time, to methods of escape. It was unlikely he could do so, of course, given the ambitious scope of the project. But perhaps not impossible. Especially since the others would draw most of the attention, as numerous as they were and coming out in the open to fire pistols. He hadn't come up with the plan for that reason, to be sure. Mathurin was cold-blooded, but not that cold-blooded. Nonetheless, the plan having been agreed to, there was no reason he shouldn't take advantage of its unfortunate but inevitable results.
Part Four
September 1635
The light of setting suns
Chapter 21
Berlin, Capital of Brandenburg
Mike Stearns had never visited Berlin up-time. But he had a distinct memory of a collection of photographs he'd once seen of the city, especially the Brandenburg Gate and the magnificent tree-lined boulevard Unter den Linden.
Neither was here, now. The Brandenburg Gate didn't exist at all. And where Unter den Linden would be in a future world, in this one there was nothing more than a bridle path that led to the elector's hunting ground in the Tiergarten.
There was really no part of Berlin in the year 1635 to attract sightseers, beyond a couple of churches built during the later middle ages. Those were the Marienkirche near the fortified city gate called the Spandauer Thor, and the Nikolaikirche near the Spree river. The Spree divided the two parts of Berlin, the city proper—what Mike thought was called the Mitte—and its adjoining sister city of Cölln.
Both churches were impressive enough, by the standards of the north German plain. But they didn't really compare with such Gothic masterpieces as Notre Dame or the cathedral at Chartres. Of the two, Mike favored the Marienkirche because of its warm brick construction—which was just as well, since that was where Gustav Adolf had chosen to hold his war council.
Mike found the situation a little amusing, given the religious fervor of the seventeenth century. He'd noticed before that the self-professed profound devotion of people of the time—princes and kings, certainly—never stopped them from trampling their very profane boots over holy ground whenever they found it convenient.
Mike wasn't really complaining, though. The only alternative venue for such a large war council would have been to hold it in the elector's palace. But that had been badly burned by a fire that swept through it the night before Gustav Adolf marched into the city. It would take a month to clear away the damage.
The fire hadn't been caused by the Swedes, though. Apparently it was the product of arson committed by persons unknown, but presumed to be acting on the instructions of the Brandenburg elector himself.
In the end, George William hadn't tried to match Gustav Adolf on the battlefield. He'd stayed in his capital until the last minute, and then left with his entourage and his army to seek refuge in Poland.
Mike had found that out the day before he arrived in Berlin. Immediately, he'd understood the implications. There would now be no possibility whatsoever of persuading Gustav Adolf to refrain from launching a war on Poland. There hadn't been much chance of it anyway, of course. Torstensson had made quite clear to Mike that the emperor was determined to do so, even if he had no better pretext than the presence of a small contingent of Polish hussars fighting with the Saxons at Zwenkau.
Now, Gustav Adolf had the sort of pretext that almost anyone would accept—at least, if they thought the way rulers did in this day and age. Being fair about it, probably any day and age. If Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee had somehow managed to take their government and army into Mexico in 1865, wouldn't Lincoln have sent Grant and Sherman in pursuit? And if that meant war with Mexico, so much the worse for Mexico.
When Mike entered the vestibule of the church, he found Gustav Adolf there. Waiting for him in order to have a private conversation, clearly enough. None of the Swedish king's subordinates were standing nearby. He was giving Mike the sort of look an eagle might give a hawk who ventured into its territory.