CHAPTER 2
John Westlake could not believe his good fortune. One minute he was home, enjoying the glorious English countryside, about to begin another uneventful day. Less than twelve hours later he was in Sweden.
Back for the first time in many years.
He’d once routinely entered the royal palace through the official diplomatic entrance, a portal reserved for heads of state and foreign ambassadors, uniformed guards always at attention atop a red carpet.
Today he’d gained access through a lesser side door used only by staff. No honor guard. No welcome. Nothing.
That was okay. He hadn’t been hoping for much.
He remained a royal consort, husband to Princess Lysa and thus a senior member, by marriage, of the Swedish royal family.
Twenty-six years ago there’d been a grand wedding here in the palace televised to the nation.
The king and queen had both attended, along with over a thousand invited guests.
The festivities had consumed four full days.
A bit of a fairy tale. It was customary for the royal family to wed other royalty, either from within Sweden but more often from the outside.
Lysa had broken with that tradition and married a wealthy British businessman.
The king had never considered him anything more than a commoner, telegraphing his distaste every chance he could.
Like today.
And the entrance he’d been told to use.
“The king needs to speak with you. In person. Please come to the palace with all speed.”
There’d been no explanation from the royal secretary beyond that the matter was important and discretion was advised.
Lysa was here, in Stockholm, on a previously scheduled visit and he’d tried to call and speak with her, but she’d not answered her mobile phone.
He’d stopped by her apartment, but there’d been no answer there either.
He stood for a moment and took stock of his surroundings.
He’d always been impressed with the royal residence.
Long ago the famed Vasa kings had turned the ugly Tre Kronor fortress into a beautiful Renaissance palace, but that building burned to the ground in 1697.
Its replacement—which took sixty years to complete—had an Italian exterior and a French interior, all muted by a mundane Swedish influence.
One thousand four hundred and thirteen rooms across fifty thousand square feet.
A daunting edifice that served as the official residence of the king, housing his and the queen’s offices along with the royal administration.
Used only during official duties, though.
Otherwise the family lived three miles away at the much smaller Drottningholm, which allowed the main palace to serve as a tourist destination, many of the rooms open for viewing.
Summer was the busy time, but he noticed little activity today.
The place seemed deserted save for the bureaucrats that, he assumed, remained in perpetual foot-dragging mode.
He grabbed his bearings and found the administrative offices, still located where they’d always been, and was told he was expected in the Jubilee Room.
He nearly smiled.
Another message?
For sure.
Its decorations were a gift a decade ago from Sweden’s parliament and local municipalities honoring the king’s silver jubilee on the throne.
The overall theme and design was the embodiment of a Swedish summer.
Its carpet a reminder of wildflowers, the watercolor walls like open fields, the ceiling a blue sky dotted with light clouds.
Everything airy and upbeat.
Belonging exclusively to the king.
He climbed an impressive staircase of Swedish marble and porphyry to the second floor and followed another familiar path to the palace’s north side.
The rooms ran into one another in the French way, making corridors sparse.
Two plainclothes security men waited outside the Jubilee Room.
He told himself to be mindful. Be gracious.
Conciliatory. The king was old school. A traditionalist who’d sat on the throne going on fifty-one years.
Married to the same woman since he was twenty-nine years old.
Father of six children. Grandfather to nine.
Educated first privately here at the palace, then at boarding school, serving three years in the Swedish Army, rising to the rank of captain before his accession to the throne.
A learned man trained in history, sociology, political science, and economics.
But also stubborn and arrogant, with myriad rigid opinions, many of which had been sore spots between them.
None of that disagreement today, though.
Thankfully, over the past nine years, he might not have acquired any resolution or ease of manner, but he’d at least gained a comfortable self-confidence.
So embrace it.
He’d dressed appropriately. Clothes were important.
He loved what Coco Chanel once said. In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.
For him suits were like tools. Navy was the hands-down top choice.
And rightly so. It worked with every skin tone, suitable for work, weddings, and everything in between, screaming class.
Gray was just as versatile but generally connoted business, used more often as the go-to option when navy seemed too relaxed.
Formal events and evenings demanded a black suit, as did funerals, but vibrancy could be added through colorful accessories like a bright silk tie, pocket square, or bold socks.
Today, for this royal audience, he’d chosen a gray windowpane check, tailor-fitted on Saville Row.
The ensemble was, as Chanel would have loved, one of a kind.
He stopped before the Jubilee Room.
The door before him was old, weathered, its grain-raised, fine walnut surface glowing a rich red-brown. The two security men clearly knew who he was as neither asked for any identification.
One reached for the handle.
Curiosity screamed within him at the prospect of being face-to-face with the man he’d hated for so many years. He told himself to project the relaxed awareness of someone who lived his life in the open, free of guilt.
Okay.
Here we go.