CHAPTER 11
John had no idea how long he would be in Stockholm.
A few hours? A day? Hard to say. He was just glad to be here.
Thankfully, the Grand H?tel management had made sure he was comfortable.
Before boarding his flight from England he’d called to reserve a room and they’d assured him that the Flag Suite would be available, the bar stocked with his chosen brands, including a rare bottle of expensive yellow Chartreuse, his favorite.
He decided to take a few moments and unpack, sorting the clothes his valet had chosen.
The Irishman had worked for him over two decades and knew exactly what he preferred.
He hung the clothes on the hotel’s wooden hangers, then changed, losing the suit and donning corduroy trousers and a pale-blue button-down, open at the collar.
What was about to happen? Hard to say. He might be going out, or he might be staying around the hotel for the evening, dining in the famed Veranda, a favorite meeting place for Stockholmers and tourists alike.
It also offered a wonderful view of the waterfront and the palace, with its flagpole high atop.
He was craving some fresh Baltic fish and companionship.
But he was careful about outside women, usually paying for proven professionals who understood the value of discretion.
He used a high-end European escort service through a private app, which had indicated that there were several prospects in the area he could choose from.
Maybe later. Depending.
He slipped on a pair of Italian loafers and climbed the spiral staircase up into the cupola.
Stockholm stretched out before him from ten stories in the sky.
Through the thick glass the sounds from the rush of the city were muted.
Like a silent movie playing out in all directions.
A line from Shakespeare came to mind. There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.
How true.
One could not judge a person’s true intentions, or thoughts, based solely on their appearance.
Humans were deceptive beings. Faces were masks.
The real person remained hidden. Actions alone revealed people.
Words, pictures, impressions, the fragmented history of behavior?
All were tools used to work from what was, to what might have been.
He’d thought a lot about the past of late.
Memories that had lain dormant for years had become more prevalent.
A struggle had long been raging within him, and he’d found it increasingly difficult to grab hold of anchors that rooted life.
He had little family. No children. Few close friends.
Just Lysa, work, and other women. A wave of cold apprehension passed through him, along with a dose of righteousness that ripped at his soul, always leaving him empty and weak.
He hated the feeling. It was time to change things.
Thankfully Wilhelm had called. Ironic that he was back.
Here. Where it all began. With another chance.
A story his father told him long ago had lately come to mind.
As a man was passing some elephants, he stopped, confused by the fact that the huge creatures were being held by only a small rope tied to their front leg.
No chains, no cages. The elephants could, at any time, break their bonds.
But for some reason they did not. He saw a trainer nearby and asked why the animals just stood there and made no attempt to escape.
“When they are young and much smaller, we use the same size rope to tie them, and at that age it’s enough to hold.
As they grow they are conditioned to believe they cannot break away.
They believe the rope can still hold them, so they never try to be free.
” The man was amazed. The elephants remained captive only because they thought there was no way out.
He’d been one of those elephants for nine years. A pawn in the chess game of ministerial pursuits. With no way out.
But not anymore.
His visit to the palace had been productive.
He now knew that the Americans were involved.
Stephanie Nelle and a man named Cotton Malone.
Here to handle things quietly, exactly as Wilhelm would want.
He’d anticipated just such a move. Good to know his instincts were still spot on.
The text he’d sent from the palace had surely set things in motion.
A knock on the door below disturbed the silence.
He reined in his emotions and re-formed his own facial mask. He descended the stairs and headed into the main salon, opening the suite’s exit door. One of the bellmen from below stood outside.
“A message for you,” the young man said, handing over a small, sealed envelope.
“From who?” he asked.
“A man appeared in the lobby, handed me one hundred kroner, and asked that I deliver it to you.”
He accepted the envelope.
The messenger left, hustling back down the stairs before he could offer more of a gratuity. He closed the door and opened the envelope to find two items. One was a ticket for admission to the Moscow Circus, which indicated that the performance was in Stockholm this evening at 6:00.
He checked his watch. Less than an hour away.
The other was a small piece of card stock upon which was printed, in English, Use the ticket, Tomte.
Okay. Things were in motion.
Cassiopeia found a seat in one of the lounges that filled the Grand H?tel’s main lobby.
The vantage point offered a view of both the elevators and front doors.
She’d texted Stephanie and reported what Westlake had done after leaving the palace and that she was in position, ready to go wherever he led.
Which might be nowhere.
A quick recon had refreshed her memory that, of the two elevators, only one reached to the top of the building and the Flag Suite.
The other stopped short a floor below, a set of open stairs in between.
To better fit in she ordered a glass of rosé champagne, which always reminded her of home in France.
That was one difference between her and Cotton.
He did not like alcohol, having never acquired the taste in his youth.
She loved a good champagne but was not obsessed enough to spend obscene amounts of money on rare bottles.
An excellent recent vintage, moderately priced by the glass, would more than suffice.
She sat alone and sipped from the flute.
Here she was again in the middle of something.
What that was? Who knew. Just something.
For Stephanie Nelle getting involved was part of her job as head of an American intelligence agency.
But for her and Cotton? It was just a matter of helping out a friend.
Somebody once said, Friendship is like money, easier made than kept.
So true. She could count on two hands the number of true friends she had.
Several were within the upper management of Terra, her family’s corporation.
Another was the woman who’d long maintained her chateau.
Of course Viktor, who oversaw the castle rebuilding project.
They’d been friends since university. Henrik Thorvaldsen had definitely been close, but he died a while back inside a Paris church.
Then there was Stephanie and, of course, her best friend in the world, Cotton.
Whatever either wanted, she would do. And vice versa.
No questions asked. It was comforting to know that she had two friends like that.
She’d watched a few minutes ago as one of the bellmen, holding a small white envelope, entered the elevator and rose all the way to the Flag Suite floor. Less than five minutes later he returned minus the envelope.
A message for Westlake?
Hard to say.
But her senses came alert.
John left his suite and descended the elevator to ground level. The use of the label tomte had wrested his attention.
Nice touch.
A nisse and a tomte were similar mythical characters.
The former was Norwegian, the latter Swedish.
Both were solitary, mischievous, domestic sprites responsible for the protection and welfare of a home.
Tomte literally meant “homestead man.” Described as an older person, stunted in size, wearing ragged clothes and sporting a long beard and bright red cap.
Americans would call it a gnome. Always male.
They usually resided in the pantry or barn and protected the household.
“You are my Tomte,” Lysa said to him.
“Is that a compliment?”
“Much so. They watch over things, making sure all is good. They tolerate no mischief. That seems you completely.”
“And I only want a bowl of porridge with butter at Christmas? So I will not cause any problems?”
She laughed. “Like you, tomtes can be easily satisfied.”
During the twenty-six years they’d been together Lysa had always used the nickname Tomte for him. But only in private.
Among the two of them.
Which now seemed the perfect way to send a message.
Cassiopeia enjoyed another sip of champagne.
People were coming and going through the hotel lobby in a steady procession. No one else had ventured up to the top floor. She was hungry, and had no idea how long she would be there, so she ordered a bowl of chowder loaded with chunks of haddock, crabmeat, scallops, and clams.
Her phone vibrated. She checked the display.
Cotton.
“You having fun?” he asked, when she answered.
“I’m sitting in a five-star hotel, drinking champagne, and eating some wonderful chowder. Living the dream.” She kept her voice low.
“You sound like me.”
“You’re rubbing off. Where are you headed?”
“I decided to start at the scene of the crime.”
“It’s as good as any other place, considering how little information we have to work with.”
“Tell me about it.”
She listened as he reported all that had happened inside the palace with Westlake.
“He’s definitely been pushed,” Cotton said to her. “But to where? Who knows.”
The elevator door opened across the lobby and Westlake emerged, changed out of his suit into more casual clothes, a raincoat draped over one arm.
“I have to go,” she said. “He’s on the move.”
“Stay with him.”
She ended the call, dropped fifty euros on the table, and headed off in pursuit.