CHAPTER 6
Cotton had loved books his entire life.
It started long ago when, as a teenager, he visited the Carl Sandburg house in western North Carolina.
A national historic site. Every wall in every room had been lined, ceiling-to-floor, with shelves that held countless books.
He’d admired that dedication. Sandburg had definitely been a bibliophile.
Years later, as an adult, Cotton’s home in Atlanta had been similar, displaying thousands of first editions that he’d gathered.
A lot of those had formed the basis of his new bookshop in Denmark, more of that out-with-the-old-in-with-the-new stuff.
Others he’d given away. Only a precious few he’d kept, and they were back inside his Copenhagen apartment above the bookshop.
He too was a dedicated bibliophile. Unashamed and unabashed.
Books were both his passion and his profession. What had the ransom note said?
WE CAN TRADE. THE DEVIL’S BIBLE FOR YOUR SISTER.
He knew all about the Codex Gigas.
Measuring three feet tall, nearly two feet wide, and nine inches thick with 320 vellum folios.
It carried the distinction of being the largest and heaviest medieval illuminated manuscript in the world, weighing an impressive 165 pounds.
Best guess? Created sometime in the early thirteenth century in Bohemia, the modern-day Czech Republic, inside one of its many monasteries.
Each page had been penned with impeccable precision and relentless attention to detail, all with colorful illustrations, precise borders, and highly stylized letters.
It supposedly contained the then-world’s volume of knowledge through authoritative, ancient, and commonly recognized texts.
Which included the Vulgate Bible, both Old and New Testaments, Josephus’ Antiquities of the Jews, Isidore of Seville’s encyclopedia Etymologiae, the chronicle of Cosmas of Prague, an early version of the Ars medicinae compilation of treatises, and two books by Constantine the African.
There were also some smaller works dealing with exorcism, magic formulas, and a calendar with a list of saints and people of interest, along with the days on which they were honored.
The Swedes bestowed upon it a more popular label thanks to a highly unusual, nineteen-inch color drawing of Satan.
“The Devil’s Bible?” he said. “That’s an odd request for a ransom.”
“Not really,” Stephanie noted.
He waited for more.
Which the prime minister provided.
“The Czechs approached us five years ago about returning the codex to them,” de Ciutiis said. “We refused. But to appease that request, we loaned it to them. It was displayed in Prague for nearly a year.”
“Why didn’t they just keep it?” he asked.
“We thought they might, so we took a simultaneous loan of one of their treasures for the same amount of time as collateral. The Saint Wenceslas Crown. They decided the crown was more important than the manuscript, so both were returned. But they have now seized another opportunity that came their way to get the codex back. A much more effective one. Two years ago Sweden made an application to join NATO. The vote was thirty-to-one to allow us in. The Czechs blocked our admission.”
He knew that any new NATO member had to be approved unanimously and recalled reading about Sweden’s failed effort.
“They have continued to block our admission,” de Ciutiis said.
“Publicly, they have expressed reservations about not wanting to provoke Russia and other weak excuses. The same concerns that were raised by others when Finland joined the alliance. But privately they proposed a solution to the impasse. Return the Devil’s Bible and they will drop their objection. ”
He said, “Russia would not want Sweden in NATO.”
“No, they would not, and they have made that position quite clear both publicly and privately.”
He pointed to the ransom note. “You think the Russians took the princess? To get the codex and stop the deal?”
“They are the most likely candidate,” the prime minister said. “Our Office for Special Acquisition thinks they want to acquire and return the Devil’s Bible to the Czechs as a goodwill gesture. In return, of course, for a continued veto of our membership.”
The Military Intelligence and Security Service was a division of the Swedish Armed Forces Central Command.
The Office for Special Acquisition came under the Military Intelligence and Security Service, the most secret part of the Swedish intelligence network, tasked, like the CIA, with espionage abroad, including human intelligence and interagency relations as well as clandestine activities. If anyone would know, it would be them.
“Your intelligence people are briefed on all this?” he asked.
“They are. We need good information in order to make good decisions.”
He agreed with that, but he was also skeptical. “This whole thing seems a bit off-the-cuff to me? And overly dramatic.”
“I agree. Nonetheless it is happening, and that note is rather specific,” the prime minister said. “The Devil’s Bible for the princess.”
“And you’re saying,” Cotton said, “that the government, after refusing to return the codex out of any sense of moral obligation, was going to trade all that for a ticket into NATO?”
“We believe that being in NATO is more important than keeping that book. If that is what the Czechs want, then we give it to them. We can also publicly exploit the situation with much fanfare and goodwill—returning national treasures and all that—without, of course, revealing the deal. For the past two weeks we have been in the process of preparing the codex to leave.”
“When?” Stephanie asked.
“Tomorrow. We have a plane set to fly the crate south.”
“All this has some curious timing,” he pointed out. “Interesting the Russians waited to the end to act. This ransom note came to the palace?”
“To the king’s personal email. Which Princess Lysa would know.”
“No way to trace it?” Stephanie asked.
“Efforts were made. To no avail.”
He checked his watch. “The deadline is less than nineteen hours from now.”
De Ciutiis nodded. “Obviously, we would prefer not to concede to any demand, but we will not allow the princess to be harmed. If need be, we will trade the book for her and find another way to deal with the Czechs.”
“Do the Czechs know what has happened?” he asked.
De Ciutiis shook her head. “Not to my knowledge, and there is no reason to tell them. As yet.”
Now he realized why he was here. “So I have until noon tomorrow to find the princess.”
“Correct. Do that and our problem is solved.”
“Cotton,” Stephanie said, “if the Russians are involved, which is a real likelihood, then John Westlake could be our best conduit to them.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he is Princess Lysa’s husband—and was once, and may still be, a covert Russian asset.”
Really? That was something new.
“It all happened nine years ago,” Stephanie said. “He was never prosecuted because we did not have enough evidence. And publicly acknowledging that the husband of a Swedish royal princess may be a Russian spy? The king would not allow that to happen.”
“So it was all handled quietly?”
Stephanie nodded. “The king wanted things kept secret, so that is what we did. Westlake was isolated in England and placed on a watch list, which made him useless to the Russians.”
“And your connection to Westlake?” he asked.
“I was the one who exposed him.”