CHAPTER 13
Stephanie exited the palace a few minutes after Cotton left. The weather remained awful. The rain had slackened but tendrils of mist still groped down from the dark clouds. Her body felt a fundamental fatigue, deep and lurking, easily capable of becoming exhaustion.
But she had to keep going.
And do her job.
The king had lingered for a few minutes after Westlake left, angry and agitated, but also concerned.
Having Westlake back in the country was not something he liked.
He preferred his brother-in-law to stay in England, which had largely been the case for nearly a decade.
When the king contacted her yesterday and explained the situation, her first instinct was that the Russians were involved.
So it had been her idea to involve Westlake.
Worth a try. Now she had to determine if that effort would be feast or famine, and Cassiopeia would provide those answers.
Finally, Wilhelm had been hustled along by staffers.
He was due at an event outside the palace.
The idea was to maintain the established schedule, drawing attention to nothing out of the ordinary.
Luckily, the Swedish monarchy was not subjected to the same array of public scrutiny as their British counterparts.
The press here was also far less aggressive.
Few negative stories were ever written, and no major scandal had ever been attached to the royal family.
She was grateful for Cotton’s and Cassiopeia’s help.
No way to officially involve any intelligence agency, her own included, as the ramifications would be enormous.
If the Russians were behind all this, President Warner Fox and the other NATO leaders would never stand idly by.
The whole thing could escalate out of control.
Of late, everyone seemed itching for a fight, each side nibbling at the other.
Tensions were high across the board. There’d been a similar rise in anxiety, years ago, when Finland joined NATO.
Russia had pushed to stop it. Hard. But had not crossed the line.
Here? To kidnap a royal and use extortion?
Even for the Russians that seemed a bit much.
But desperation often spawned foolishness.
Unfortunately, she was still flying blind.
Intel on the situation was virtually nonexistent.
Just bits and pieces. The king was counting on her to find out more, so she’d sent Cotton out in the field.
If there was anything at all, he would find it.
Yesterday she’d called in another favor with Derrick Koger, the CIA’s European station chief.
That man owed her big time. She’d stuck her neck out for him repeatedly as of late.
Koger also cared little to nothing about chain of command or kissing his bosses’ asses.
Normally that was a problem. But here? Definitely an asset.
They’d talked on the phone again right after the king left and she’d explained what she needed.
A text came a few minutes later that told her where to go and when to be there.
Past the palace she hailed a cab and was driven through the commercial heart of modern Stockholm to the T-Centralen, Stockholm’s main underground metro station.
Sixty miles of track crisscrossed beneath the city, serviced by a hundred metro stations scattered around three rail lines.
Red, Blue, and Green. Ninety of those stations were decorated with a bold blend of art and expression, earning the metro system the title of the longest art gallery in the world.
T-Centralen had been carved from the bedrock then decorated with bright white and blue tiles that created lifelike vines that spread across the rough, rocky walls and ceiling.
Impressive.
She approached the turnstile and purchased a ticket, then stepped through and headed down to the platform.
The station was busy. Clots of commuters merged in and out, none aware of the danger a member of their royal family was in.
She’d long ago become accustomed to working in the shadows, without acknowledgments or accolades.
The only reward? Getting the job done. Which fit her.
But it wasn’t for everyone. Some needed a pat on the back.
An atta boy. Or a medal. Something to say good job.
But the shadows suited her just fine. As they did Cotton.
Which was another reason the two of them had always seen eye-to-eye.
She made her way to the Red Line and waited for the train, which arrived a few moments later. She stepped on board, the car brightly lit and sparkling clean. The subway extended from central downtown north, south and west, a vital transportation loop that millions utilized every year.
She rode for less than ten minutes, two stops north, to the Tekniska Hogskolan station.
This one cast a different vibe with a cave-like ambience that came from the earthy walls and a low ceiling, all covered with more swirling patterns of blue and white.
Dangling below the ceiling was a large glass polyhedron.
A placard on the wall said the sides represented Plato’s five elements.
Fire, water, air, earth, and ether. Other bows to technology came from depictions of Leonardo da Vinci’s efforts in creating a flying machine, Polhem’s mechanical alphabet, and Newton’s three laws of motion.
Not many people here. Only a few stepped off with her, and they all quickly moved away.
She’d been told to wait under the polyhedron.
The train left the station with a sustained clattering, heading farther north.
A woman turned a corner and approached from the far side of the station.
Stephanie’s pulse began to quicken and anticipation caused her to fidget.
She was not a field officer. Never had been.
Never wanted to be. The woman came close and asked in English, “Excuse me, have you ever seen the Silvert?get?”
The proper question. Delivered in a calm, quiet voice. A reference to an urban legend about a Silver Train that supposedly rode the rails beneath Stockholm and carried dead people to the afterlife.
“That’s a myth,” she said, uttering the correct reply. “As is the Kymlinge ghost station.”
Another urban legend about an actual metro station which was built but never taken into service.
Supposedly, no one living debarked at Kymlinge, only the dead.
Both were rather obscure Stockholm tales, though not out of place for the surroundings.
Which was the whole idea. Sign/countersign.
Old-school spy craft. She’d expected no less from a CIA operative come to provide direct intel, per Derrick Koger’s orders.
“Shall we walk and talk,” the woman said.
“And you are?”
“Sandra Koss.”
Her contact was an older woman, gray hair coiled tightly in a bun to the back of her head. She wore a simple blue blouse and a long skirt. Everything ordinary. Non-memorable. Unnoticeable. More old-school craft.
They strolled the empty station.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Sandra said. “The Magellan Billet is a top-notch agency.”
“I appreciate that. And you are?”
“Derrick’s right hand.”
She understood. “He’s keeping this one close?”
“To say the least. He sent me here yesterday, after you first called. So I would be on-site, ready to go. The Russians are definitely on high alert. They have a number of assets currently deployed in Sweden.”
“More than usual?”
“Definitely more. But it’s understandable, given how they feel about Sweden’s admission to NATO.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“A woman named Monica Butler-White. She’s a British citizen who once oversaw SVR sleeper cells. Lately, she’s been used where needed. And now she’s here. As is Westlake.”
Russia was notorious for embedding covert assets in foreign countries.
Sleepers. Who slumbered for years, sometimes decades, before being awakened.
Nine years ago Stephanie had mobilized the Magellan Billet and helped uncover a network of agents that had been planted by the SVR across the United States, posing as ordinary American citizens.
For years they built contacts with academics, industrialists, and policymakers, all to gain access to usable intelligence.
The investigation, carried out jointly with the FBI, called Operation Ghost Stories, culminated with ten arrests in the United States and an eleventh in Cyprus.
There would have been a twelfth in England, if not for the death of their confidential source and the intervention of the king of Sweden.
By definition a sleeper never drew scrutiny.
He or she would acquire a job, an identity, preferably one that could prove useful in the future, then blend into everyday life.
The best sleeper agents were those who were financially solvent, able to support themselves, not requiring any payments from abroad.
Those who gained social status, political power, or positions of influence were the most coveted.
The higher up the pole, the better. A British billionaire with connections throughout royalty and government?
He would be perfect. So she wanted to know, “And to the main question I posed to your boss?”
“We checked. Deep too, I might add. No question, Westlake makes millions from his Russian stores. His business is thriving there. He also has direct contact with many oligarchs and the government. But all of that is fully known to the British. He’s filed every report and disclosure required by law.
In fact, the Brits encouraged him to diversify there.
We think he even might be providing them some useful intelligence. ”
Which might be why they knighted him.
Another way to toss everyone off the scent.
“But there is nothing indicating that Westlake is, or was, a Russian intelligence asset,” Sandra said. “No proof. Nothing, but a singular accusation from a dead source.”
“Which was confirmed with the canary trap,” she made clear.
“A onetime test, which could have been compromised. You know that. It’s not foolproof.
But we do agree with your suspicions, and Koger wanted me to say, and I quote him, that ‘this whole thing stinks like a fish frying in the hot sun.’ He’s also skeptical the Russians would make such a radical move as kidnapping a Swedish royal.
The potential for blowback is enormous.”
“Maybe we should expose this whole thing to the world and put Moscow under the spotlight.”
“He told me you might want to do that. He says no or, more accurately, ‘No way in hell no.’ That would accomplish little to nothing. Moscow would just deny any involvement, and the princess would be killed and buried where no one would ever find her.”
She knew all that too. But she just needed to hear the denial. “The prime minister told me that the Czechs are not aware of the situation. Is that true?”
“As far as we can see, the Swedes have told them nothing.”
“And neither should we?”
“There’s no upside to doing that. Also, Langley is not looped in here.”
She smiled. Typical Koger. But, “You okay with that?”
“I do what my boss tells me to do and ask few questions.”
“If this takes a bad bounce, your career could get hurt.”
“But if the ball finds nothing but net, we all win.”
“Spoken like a true field officer. Were you one once?”
“Nearly fifteen years. I’ve been posted all over the world.”
“And now you’re the girl Friday to the loosest cannon on the American deck.”
Sandra smiled, reached into her shoulder bag, and removed a flash drive. “Here is what you wanted on Westlake. Remember it’s all classified. Your eyes only.”
“I’ll handle it with care.”
“Do you need any additional ground help?”
“Tell Derrick I appreciate the gesture, but Captain America and Wonder Woman have this. For now.”
She knew the nicknames Koger liked to use when referring to Cotton and Cassiopeia. Which were not necessarily compliments.
They stopped at the long escalators that led up to ground level. Sandra reached back into her bag and removed a soft-covered glossy book, which she handed over.
Codex Gigas, The Devil’s Bible: The Secrets of the World’s Largest Book.
“My boss thought this might come in handy,” Sandra said.
She accepted the offering. “Tell him I appreciate it.”
“This is your party,” Sandra said. “We respect that. But please know we are here to help, if you need us. You have my direct contact information. Just call and I’ll be there with what you need.”
“You’re staying here in Stockholm?”
“Until the pigs fly.”
She watched as the older woman stepped onto the escalator and headed up.
Stephanie was violating every rule in the playbook by keeping this quiet.
Washington should be told the situation.
But the king had asked her not to do that, at least not until tomorrow at noon.
So she’d called in the two people in the world she knew she could truly count on.
Still, doubts continued to nag at her. Things that did not add up.
What was really going on here?