The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

in writing the purchase of “cargo” from His Majesty. Sometimes the company acquired “pepper.” Other correspondences spoke of the company’s desire to buy cargo of musk, amber, pearls, rubies, diamonds. Much “trade” he had with the Spanish king. Perhaps too much trade for the Queen’s tolerance. Unofficially, England and Spain were still at war. They had to act as fast as possible.

      Aben Ayesh continued, “The stowaways should be docked in Spanish Brussels by the end of June. Our agent there is still David. He will bring them to Amsterdam and integrate them.”

      Jorge said, “The whole mission will be harder than ever. The galleon ship flies the flag of Sicily—Philip’s dominion. There are bound to be Spaniards aboard, and since Raphael was caught, they’ll be looking out for more stowaways—as well as Miguel.”

      “Ferreira de Gama wrote of another possibility,” Aben Ayesh said. “It may be possible to transfer the conversos to an inbound vessel—a ship headed for the Thames. If this is the situation, Miguel has only to sneak aboard a local ship—a much simpler task. The English will not be as suspicious or as vicious as the Spanish. And, God forbid, if Miguel is captured, at least he’ll be under the arm of Her Majesty instead of His Majesty and the Inquisition—as was Raphael.” He sighed. “Dearest, poor Raphael …”

      Aben Ayesh lowered his head for a moment. Then it was back to business. He said, “If Ferreira de Gama can arrange such a task, so be it.”

      “How inconspicuously does Esteban Ferreira de Gama move under the watchful eye of the Inquisition?” Dunstan asked.

      “He grows increasingly concerned for his safety,” Aben Ayesh said. “But, praise be to God, so far the Holy See has no suspicions that he is one of us.”

      “What’s the name of the galleon that holds the conversos?” Benjamin asked.

      “El Don Carlos,” said Aben Ayesh. “Would that Philip’s son were as mighty as his namesake of a ship.”

      “We must begin Miguel’s training at once. He must be skilled enough to fight off anyone who challenges him on the road to Portsmouth.”

      All eyes went to Thomas.

      “I’ll teach him what I’m able.” Thomas patted the hilt of his sword. “But only Miguel can execute the moves.” He paused, then blurted out, “Of course, I’d be happy to accompany him—”

      “You’re needed in the business,” Jorge said firmly. “I need someone trustworthy with the money and inventory at home.”

      “What about Dunstan?” Thomas retorted.

      “Dunstan travels much,” Jorge said.

      Benjamin said, “Uncle, I could cancel my overseas travel if I am needed.”

      “Nonsense,” Jorge said. “Go to Venice.”

      Thomas said, “But—”

      “Enough,” answered Jorge.

      “Father, there is not a man alive who has my skill in swordplay, my swiftness, my strength—”

      “Quiet,” Jorge yelled. “I’ve heard your pleas before and again I reject them. Thomas, my son, if we have not the funds with which to bribe, all our efforts are for naught. Besides, Tommy, I want you whole until Leah is healthy enough to deliver to you a fine son.”

      Biting his lip, Thomas sank back in his chair. Dunstan grinned.

      “By the way, Tommy,” he said. “Where is your wife?”

      Thomas reddened with anger. As if the bastard didn’t know.

      “Leah has taken rest with her parents in Turkey,” Aben Ayesh answered for Thomas. “She’s due back in England during autumn.”

      Dunstan said, “Tut, tut. The lass was sorely worn out by the birth of another daughter!”

      Thomas bolted up and drew his sword.

      “Stow thy peace, Thomas,” shouted Jorge. “And quit thy baiting words, Dunstan. Such animosity between brothers! Tis ungodly! Learn a lesson from Miguel and Raphael—God rest his soul. Now there were true brothers.”

      Shamefaced, Thomas returned to the floor. The men sat in silence for a moment. Aben Ayesh asked wearily,

      “Any questions about the operation?”

      Again, shakes of the head.

      Aben Ayesh said, “We need many more citizen’s papers. We have left only six official sets.”

      “Grace is completing a set as we speak,” said Dunstan.

      “Maria had done two,” Jorge said.

      “We still are short,” Aben Ayesh said.

      “I shall tell Sarah to get to work,” said Roderigo. “Becca can work as well. The task shall occupy her thoughts, keep her mind off her woes.”

      “Uncle,” Dunstan said, “I pray you, remind Rebecca to speak with discretion.”

      “Has she been indiscreet?” Roderigo asked.

      Dunstan hesitated, then said, “She’s a woman. All women have loose tongues. And that can be fatal, especially since you house that worm, de Andrada.”

      Roderigo grimaced at the mention of the name. De Andrada, Don Antonio’s former “trusted” spy, wanted by Don Antonio for being a traitor. A snake Lopez was forced to feed and shelter because de Andrada had managed to learn too much about their operations. Though de Andrada had acted grateful for the help, Lopez knew he could never be trusted.

      “I shall remind Becca of the virtue of silence,” Roderigo said.

      “We must pray,” Aben Ayesh said, rising. “Instead of our individual meditations, let us say our morning prayers together—as if we were a minyan.”

      “Morning prayers?” Dunstan said. “It’s still night.”

      “Would you rather say them when the servants are awake and their ears are open to our chanting?” Roderigo said.

      Dunstan turned red.

      “Excuse my impertinence, Father,” Benjamin said, “but do not we need ten to be a minyan?”

      Roderigo said, “We are only six in number but thousands in spirit. God will forgive us.”

      The men stood and faced the eastern side of the chamber. Jorge extinguished the torches, leaving only the faint, orange flame of candlelight. Silhouettes of faces projected onto the walls. Head down, Aben Ayesh began the prayer of kaddish over Raphael’s soul—a supplication praising God’s infinite power and wisdom. He whispered the blessing so the servants could not hear. But in truth, he knew he needn’t have vocalized the blessing at all. God hears everything.

       Chapter 5

      Manuel de Andrada knew they were plotting his demise. He could feel evil vapors swirling about his room. It was the same aura he had sensed before his defection from Don Antonio’s service, and it filled him with dread.

      Twas only a matter of time.

      He shivered under his counterpane, his winter nightshirt itchy, sewn from frieze cloth—a pauper’s garment. Marry, how it irritated his skin! Dr. Lopez had not the decency to give him one woven from flax, the miserable wight. Throwing the blanket atop his head, de Andrada bunched himself into a tight knot and began his ritual curses.

      Curse Don Antonio—his former master. A man he had fought for, spied for, a man whom he had almost given his life for … Almost.

      Curse King Philip—a weak old wretch whose generosities were as shriveled as his face. De Andrada remembered his last visit with His Majesty, kissing the bony hand, sitting