CHAPTER 3
Stephanie remained shaken. Thank goodness Cotton had been there. As usual, he’d handled the situation. That ability to do the extraordinary was what made him special. She’d known this was going to be complicated.
But an attempt on her life? Right off the bat?
That changed things.
There were few people in the world she truly trusted.
Danny Daniels, of course. The two of them had cemented their relationship, and they both seemed happy.
Her husband had died decades ago, and she’d never thought love possible again.
But Danny had changed that. He was a good, decent man who led the United States for eight years as president.
Now he served in the Senate, first appointed then elected to a full term from Tennessee.
He remained a political force. Not much was done in Congress that did not make its way through him.
He had friends on both sides of the aisle and knew the workings of the American republic better than probably anyone in the country.
He was also immensely popular, which provided a Teflon coating from his enemies.
He and the current president, Warner Fox, did not see eye-to-eye, and that animosity had spilled over to her on more than one occasion.
A truce now existed between them. Not an unconditional peace and an end to all hostilities.
More a cease-fire that everyone was trying hard not to break.
Her son Mark was also on the trust list. An Oxford-educated historian who’d once taught at the University of Toulouse in southern France.
Long ago he was supposedly lost in the Pyrenees during an avalanche.
But he’d risen from the dead, found alive and well, living in a cloistered French monastery, where he was today, and they remained close.
All thanks to Cotton.
Who was the third person she trusted unconditionally.
They’d met a long time ago. She’d been pointed his way by admirals who thought Cotton better suited for intelligence work than being a navy JAG lawyer.
She’d been skeptical, particularly considering his youth and brashness.
Their first encounter had been a memorable one in Florida.
But those admirals had been right. There was something there.
A boldness, tempered by reason, that sprang from an ability to independently think, assess, and act.
He simply got things done. A true pragmatist, taking the world as it came, dealing only in facts or inferences that could be reasonably made from them.
No guessing. No seat-of-the-pants. Few mistakes.
She’d never regretted the decision to hire him, and he remained her go-to man when the chips were down.
She and Cotton walked to the top of Slottsbacken, umbrellas back in hand, and left the rain, entering the palace through the tourist doors.
Waiting for them was a woman in her mid- to late fifties, pleasant-faced, well dressed in a charcoal-colored business suit, her brown hair piled serenely in braided coils.
Simone de Ciutiis. The current prime minister of Sweden.
Not someone Stephanie had ever dealt with, so she’d been briefed by those in the know who offered two pieces of advice.
First, pronounce her name correctly: Simona de Chootis.
She was peculiar about that. The foreign press loved to screw it up.
And second? Tread carefully. Her talent was being herself—easy, natural, giving, accepting—but all that hid the mind of someone who, she’d been warned, always thought beyond the moment.
She likes to be underestimated. But who didn’t?
The prime minister was in her eighth year in office, only the second woman to ever achieve the top political spot in Sweden.
“It is good to meet you,” Stephanie said in English. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“As do I.”
She introduced Cotton. “He worked for me a long time. He’s now retired. Out of the official loop. But there is no one better qualified to help with this matter.”
“Then it is good you are here,” de Ciutiis said to Cotton.
They left their wet coats and umbrellas at the counter and were led into the palace.
“Has John Westlake arrived?” Stephanie asked their host. She’d been told the Brit had been summoned.
“He is with the king. His Majesty wanted to speak with him alone, first, before we became involved.”
Cotton showed no reaction to the mention of the name, and being a pro, he made no further inquiry. He knew the pecking order, realizing that he was the low man on the pole. As he loved to say, you learned a lot more with your ears open and mouth shut.
They climbed an ornate staircase to the third floor.
“The building will be closed for the next few days,” the prime minister said. “Nothing unusual there. It is often shut for official functions and state visits.”
“Has this been contained?” Stephanie asked.
“So far. Beyond the king and queen, no one else in the royal family knows anything.”
They made their way into what was identified by a placard as the Council Chamber, a beautiful room with gilded walls, crystal chandeliers, tapestries, and stunning oil portraits.
Four curtained windows opened to the outside.
Once the king of Sweden’s principal dining room, now it served as a meeting space, where the cabinet council occasionally met to inform the monarch on the affairs of government.
A long table dominated the space, solid and graceful, placed with respect according to some official instinct, catty-cornered in the middle of the room.
It was sheathed in a green cloth with ten red velvet chairs down each side.
A single chair sat at the far end was reserved for the king.
Two guards waited at the entrance. Once they were inside the doors were closed, leaving the three of them alone.
“Let me start,” the prime minister said, “by saying that I personally am sympathetic to this situation, as is the government. This is awful. And totally unexpected.”
“Is the cabinet council involved?” Stephanie asked.
“They have been informed.”
And she knew why. Sweden’s government was focused on the cabinet council, comprising twenty-five ministers who oversaw the various government departments.
Similar to the United States with the president’s cabinet.
But unlike back home, none of these ministers were autonomous in their various areas.
Instead, everything was decided collectively.
Which, more often than not, resulted in too many cooks in the kitchen.
Stephanie noticed a file folder atop the table. “Is that it?”
De Ciutiis nodded.
She stepped over, motioned for Cotton to come close, and opened the file. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a few lines of plain English print.
We can trade. The Devil’s Bible for your sister. If there is agreement, fly the flag on the palace roof inverted. You have until noon tomorrow to do that. If not, your sister will not be coming back alive.
A door seemed to open in Cotton’s mind, and he gave her the look.
One she’d seen many times before.
Which said.
Really?