CHAPTER 7
John faced the king of Sweden.
Gustaf Oscar Wilhelm I.
An aristocratic-looking man. Tall. Stout.
His face clean-shaven and even-featured.
Mid- to late seventies in age, the hair, long ago gone to silver, trimmed short.
The king wore a tailored black business suit with a white shirt and pale-blue tie.
If there was concern over the two of them being alone for the first time in years, not a muscle in the face betrayed any anxiety.
Careful of the eyes, though. A brittle blue, boyish at first glance, disconcertingly mature on further acquaintance, able to both intimidate and penetrate to the core.
All that marred the man’s perfect composure was a slight limp in his gait, always controlled, as though he was determined that no one would notice.
Sweden’s national government was an anomaly.
It consisted of a prime minister, appointed and dismissed by the speaker of the Riksdag, and cabinet ministers, appointed and dismissed at the sole discretion of the prime minister.
They functioned as a collegial council with collective responsibility to govern the realm, accountable only to the Riksdag.
The monarchy was vested with no real power.
But the king remained the foremost representative of Sweden.
Head of state. Commander in chief. There had been kings for more than a millennium.
At first they were elected, but the role became hereditary in the sixteenth century.
Like other kings around the world, Wilhelm attended special events and official openings, and marked anniversaries.
He also made regular visits abroad representing the soul of Sweden.
Personally he championed the environment, which endeared him to Swedes.
Queen Ingrid focused on children, especially their early education.
Today the royal family was broken down into three groups.
Those with titles who performed official engagements, which was primarily the king, the queen, and their offspring.
Those with titles who performed no official engagements, like a sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandchildren.
Then, finally, the extended family of other relatives who never represented the country in any way.
Lysa had fallen into the second category, and John, as her spouse, was also included.
No laws delineated the rules of membership in any of the three categories.
All of that was left to the sole discretion of the king.
“How are you, John?” the king asked, but the politeness had the virile courtesy of a man who could not care less.
“I am quite fine, Wilhelm.”
He intentionally avoided using Your Majesty. True, the omission might normally be disrespectful and antagonistic, but nothing about this was normal, and he owed this man not a single gram of respect.
“Have you spoken with Lysa today?” the king asked.
“I have not. I tried, but she did not answer her phone. I will find her when we are done. I must confess, I am curious why you want to speak with me.”
“I have some disturbing news.”
He waited.
“Lysa has been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? What in the world are you talking about?”
“She was taken yesterday and is being held. To get her back, the government must agree to a specific term.”
He listened as the king told him about Sweden’s application to NATO, the Czech Republic’s opposition, and the deal made to trade its vote for the return of the Codex Gigas.
“Give the kidnappers the Devil’s Bible,” he said to the king. “Do it immediately. What are you waiting for?”
“It is not that easy.”
Wilhelm had a reputation as a fair, honest, hardworking monarch, as did his wife, Queen Ingrid. But to him? They were two sanctimonious souls who’d readily believed the worst about him without much in the way of evidence at all. But he told himself to forget all that.
The past no longer mattered.
Stay focused.
He asked, “How could this even happen? There were no security people?”
The king shook his head. “She refused any, said she was unimportant and did not want to waste the subjects’ money. We believe the Russians have her.”
And there it was.
Dropped quite quickly into their conversation.
Up until he met Lysa he’d led a successful but fairly mundane life as the son of a Liverpool shopkeeper.
Business coursed through the family blood going back four generations.
He was twenty years old when he started his own discount retail chain selling health and beauty products, groceries, and toys, maximizing his margins by acquiring inventory at a discount from companies trying to off-load unsold stock.
Through the years he rebranded the stores several times while constantly expanding.
By the time he and Lysa married he owned seven hundred stores across Great Britain, employing nearly forty thousand people.
His current net worth was around ￡2.05 billion.
His reputation was one of an intrepid entrepreneur and dedicated philanthropist, well regarded in British social circles.
Both the royal family and the government courted his favor.
He remained high on everyone’s social registers.
No one outside of the Swedish king, along with a few within various intelligence agencies, knew any of what had happened nine years ago.
All of it had been stamped highly classified to appease Wilhelm.
For nearly a decade he’d kept his end of the bargain and lived a quiet, solitary life as the seldom-seen husband of a popular Swedish royal.
“John.”
He stared at the king and decided to be a little testy. “It is Sir John.”
“You cannot be serious. You want me to use that title.”
The British Crown had bestowed him a knighthood five years ago. Further proof that no one knew a thing.
“They have no idea what you did,” the king said.
“No idea of what?”
The king shook his head. “I was hoping, praying, that you might put your wife above yourself and be able to open a back channel for us to negotiate with the Russians. Something. Anything.”
“You are convinced they took Lysa?”
The king nodded. “It seems clear. They are the only logical suspect.”
The tone seemed serious and sincere, but with a shading of benevolent mockery, one used when chastising an old friend who was behaving like an idiot.
“Give them the codex,” he told the king again.
“We shall. If need be. But first we want to try to find her.”
“You have people working on it?”
“I have asked the Americans for assistance. We need to keep this contained.”
“Why? It seems going public could be to your benefit.”
“I have been told that that would accomplish nothing, and could further endanger Lysa.”
“So you thought I, as some sort of supposed Russian spy, could help?”
“I was hoping. You still do business there.”
“I do. But none of the men I associate with are spies. Far from it in fact. None are fans of the current Russian government.”
“But they might be able to speak to the right people. Are you not in the least concerned that your wife has been kidnapped?”
“Of course I am. It is horrible. Which is why I said give them the codex. And I should have been told this yesterday, after it happened.”
A few moments of strained silence passed between them. He decided to allow the older man the latitude to steer the conversation. But Wilhelm said nothing else. Instead, the king walked over and opened the door.
Three people entered.
Two women and a man.
One of the women was the Swedish prime minister. He knew the face. The man was unknown. But the other woman. He knew her.
Stephanie Nelle.
“He says he cannot help, since he has no ties to Russia other than through business,” the king said to them.
“For a man with no intelligence connections, there were an awful lot of SVR agents swirling around you,” Stephanie said. “People went to great lengths to protect you.”
No handshaking nor even a murmur of the usual pleasantries. No hello, how are you. Just more accusations that rang with arrogance and self-satisfaction.
“You were wrong then,” he said. “And remain wrong today. So we are clear, I sell overstocked retail merchandise at discount prices. I have fifty-three stores in Russia, so I am forced to deal with them. But only on that level. Nothing more.”
“You seem to have greatly profited from your relationship,” Stephanie said.
“All of that was sanctioned through the British government, with their active help and assistance, per British law. There were, and are, no secrets.”
“We heard the same thing nine years ago,” Stephanie said.
“Yes, you have business contacts with Russia. The retail markets there are virgin territory. There is money to be made. But to open up that opportunity it is necessary to play ball with the government. Corruption is not only the norm, it’s expected.
Many businesspeople from around the world profit from the Russian markets, but they are not spies.
Did I forget anything you said back then? ”
Nelle looked about the same as nine years ago.
Petite. Blond hair streaked with waves of silver.
The features not unattractive, but not all that noteworthy either, the face one you could easily forget.
Then she’d headed an American intelligence agency.
So he ignored her question and asked, “Do you still run the Magellan Billet?”
“I do. Someone just tried to kill me.”
“A shame they failed.”
“A car tried to run us both over,” the unknown man said.
“And you are?”
“Cotton Malone.”
“You work with Stephanie?”
“I once did. Now I just help out.”
“How gallant.”
“I like to think so.”
He’d learned more than enough. Time to go. “This is pointless.” He stepped toward the door, not waiting to be formally excused.
“John,” the king said.
He noticed the repeated omission of Sir.
“Just for the sake of argument. What would it take for you to contact your Russian business associates and make inquiries about Lysa?”
He stopped but did not turn around. Excitement grew warm in his veins, and he clamped his teeth over the words he truly wanted the man to hear.
Instead he said, “A sincere apology.”
And he left.
Outside, in the hall, he kept walking until out of sight of the guards. Then he found his phone and sent a text.
I was right.