CHAPTER 16
And here one was in Stockholm. How fortunate.
The arena before him was round and attractively modern with a domed roof and plenty of glass walls. It was set back from the street on a broad, paved plaza where squares of grass alternated with the concrete.
He walked toward the entrance.
Through the glass walls he saw people buying food, drink, and souvenirs, readying themselves to be entertained.
More patrons streamed in through the entrances.
He checked his watch. The performance began in less than half an hour.
He’d noticed another cab that had driven past the arena and deposited his female minder a little way down the street.
She’d need a few moments to catch up, so he slowed his gait.
Someone suddenly bumped into him. Which caught him by surprise. A young man, dressed in jeans and a pullover shirt, wearing no rain gear.
“Pardon me,” the man said in English. “My fault entirely.”
He grabbed hold of himself.
“Look in your coat pocket,” the young man whispered before heading off in the light rain toward the arena.
He patted his left side. Nothing.
Then the other.
Something was there.
He reached inside and removed a piece of paper folded around a laminated card. Some sort of admission pass with writing that was a mixture of English and Cyrillic. On the folded paper was written in English, USE THIS AT THE PERFORMERS’ ENTRANCE AT THE REAR. ROOM 9 INSIDE.
So he rounded the building and found a two-story appendage faced with rough-cut gray stone that connected to the arena.
What was labeled the performers’ entrance was set back from the street.
Three paved driveways led to loading docks, each wide enough to accommodate the heavy paneled trucks that were backed up to them, the area teeming with activity.
Large folding doors were open, allowing access in and out for all the equipment.
Lightweight aluminum gates closed off the driveways.
Performers and workmen streamed in and out of the back entrance.
A lone uniformed security guard stood watch, checking credentials that appeared like the laminated card he held.
He stepped around one of the gates, walked up to the loading dock, and showed the card.
The guard gave it a quick look, then waved him inside.
Cassiopeia was puzzled.
Westlake had come to a performance of the Moscow Circus?
But had not gone inside.
Instead he’d made his way to the rear of the building. That was after a young man had bumped into the Brit and she’d seen a hand go into Westlake’s coat pocket. Clear from her wider vantage point.
But not to Westlake.
Who’d been surprised with what he’d found in the pocket.
Something was happening here.
John entered the building and blended with the chaos. The note had said Room 9. So he found a corridor lined with a series of closed doors, each one numbered starting with 22 and working their way backward. He came to the one labeled 9 and lightly tapped.
No answer.
People moved back and forth in haste, unconcerned by his presence.
He checked his watch. The performance was set to begin in fifteen minutes.
He turned the knob and entered what appeared to be a small dressing room with a table abutting the wall before a lighted mirror, a small settee, and two vinyl chairs.
It seemed unused. On the table lay a pair of folded yellow coveralls, a mask, a bowler hat, and a holster with a toy gun.
Like something for a clown. The door behind him opened and he spun around.
“Dobryy vecher,” Monica Butler-White said, closing the door.
“I received your message,” he said in English, ignoring her use of Russian.
“And we have company,” she said. “American?”
“Hard to say. But she definitely is working with Stephanie Nelle. She has been with me since I left the palace. Nice touch with using Tomte.”
“Such a lovely term of endearment. Adorable. Though I have never thought of you as a pudgy little troll.”
“How is my wife?”
“Placid and happy. Like always. She worships you. Like always. But, for the life of me, I do not see why.”
He’d first met this woman, who carried herself with confidence and spoke with a quaint British accent, ten years ago.
Her given name was Monica Butler-White, hyphenated with the surnames of her birth and adoptive parents.
Now in her mid-forties, she still had a narrow waist and an always elaborate styling of radiant ebony hair.
The face carried a few more fine lines—the net of age, his mother would have said—than a decade ago.
Her mind, coiled thin and strung tight like the mainspring of a watch, was her strongest attribute.
Little escaped her. She was also bold and unabashed.
Afraid of nothing. Which was both attractive and scary.
She was dressed in a Russian version of an American cowboy costume, complete with oversized shoes and, of all things, a blunderbuss, which seemed more apt for the Pilgrims than for the Wild West. He’d already caught the swell of her breasts from the buttons that remained open at her collar.
He’d known since yesterday that there’d be a moment when he’d be tested, when he’d come face-to-face with the new reality, when his actions would either reaffirm or deny the past.
Now here it was.
“You ready?” she asked him.
“Absolutely.”
He stepped over and examined the costume on the table.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked.
“Illusion is always better than reality, provided the illusion is convincing and complete.”
He asked, “Can we achieve both here?”
“I think we can. We have just the audience we wanted to see what we want them to see.”
The circus had always been part of the plan but, as always, Monica had made the necessary adjustments to take advantage of the opportunity offered by the woman following him. Louis Pasteur had been right. Chance favors the prepared mind. Still, “This will be extremely risky.”
“Just the way I like it.”
That she did.
“Now, please,” she said, “put on the overalls, holster, and mask. The show is about to start.”