CHAPTER 18
Cassiopeia had to get inside the building, but that was going to be a challenge considering the arena door was manned by a security guard checking credentials. She’d watched from a distance as Westlake had produced a badge and gained admittance.
Interesting.
She noticed performers coming and going, those in costume not being hassled for any badge.
They just walked right in. And the workers.
Toting props and equipment. They were not bothered either.
The rain had finally abated, but both her coat and her hair were wet.
She hopped the gate and hustled down the ramp to one of the large trailers backed to the loading dock.
Inside was an assortment of wooden and plastic crates filled with props and equipment.
She decided the easiest way in was the most obvious, so she ditched her coat and grabbed one of the crates just as two men entered the trailer and scooped up a container of their own.
Perfect.
They headed out and she followed, holding the box up blocking her face.
The two men approached the guard, who did not give them a second look.
She fell into line behind them and made it past without a problem.
Inside, an ancient gray-haired woman sat behind a wooden desk, eyeing everyone who streamed past. When people flashed their ID cards, she motioned for them to proceed.
It worked outside. Why not here? So she kept in pace with the two other men, and the woman waved them through.
They passed a ramp that led down into the arena. Music played. On the right were animals in their cages. Bears, tigers, monkeys. Scantily clad women of all shapes and sizes were lining up for the opening production. A group of muscular acrobats loosened up on mats.
To her right stretched a labyrinth of rooms with closed doors.
Where was Westlake?
John slipped the yellow coveralls on over his clothes and zipped the front, which was decorated in colorful swirls and designs.
The mask was a happy clown face with a broad smile along with a bright-red bowler hat.
Quite the opposite of his mood. The holster and gun seemed an accompaniment to the costume Monica wore. The gun was made of plastic. Not real.
“Put on the mask and follow me,” Monica said.
She opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
He followed, donning the mask as he stepped from the room.
Monica walked to a ramp that led into the arena, and they moved down to its end.
In the style of the old Soviet and European circuses there was but a single ring with all the seats around it slanting steeply upward in a circle, like a modern version of a Greek amphitheater.
Three other runways led into the ring at various points around the arena, but the one where he stood was the widest.
“The big stuff comes in and out of here,” Monica said. “Back up there, then out of the building. It will be kept cleared.”
Good to know.
She told him exactly what she had in mind. He was a bit surprised but knew better than to question. One thing he’d learned. She knew what she was doing.
“Just run with it,” she said. “Of course, all this is dependent on your shadow cooperating. If not, just bail out and leave.”
A band struck a loud chord of a Russian folk tune and the crowd broke into applause as performers ceremoniously filed in.
A metallic voice announced in Swedish and English that the show was about to begin.
He and Monica stayed back and mingled with a group of performers lined up along the runway.
Mini-skirted dancers pranced by. A whip-cracking animal trainer, blond and bare-chested, entered the main ring from one of the other runways with leopards.
One of the animals leaped atop a horse and rode around the ring.
The audience clapped in rhythm to show their approval.
Then John saw him.
Wilhelm. Grinning and gesturing to Queen Ingrid.
They sat mid-arena across from the runway in prime ringside seats.
Men in dark suits flanked the royal couple on either side.
Two more security men, similarly dressed, sat behind them.
Interesting how loose the protection. If that had been the British prime minister, or the American president, they would have been encircled by agents.
Even more would be stationed backstage and across the arena.
But he knew the Swedes prided themselves on a lack of violence.
Big mistake.
Cassiopeia caught sight of Westlake as he emerged from one of the rooms down the corridor.
She still held the crate and used it to shield herself from him.
He’d appeared with a woman dressed in some sort of cowboy costume, Westlake wearing a bright-yellow coverall and slipping on a clown’s mask with a bowler hat.
She held her distance but kept watch.
Thankfully, everyone was concentrating on the performance, with people and animals moving in and out through the runways.
The music continued to blare from inside the arena.
Then it dulled and the lights dimmed. She set the crate aside and ventured farther down one of the runways, closer to where it drained out into the ring.
Westlake and Cowgirl were gone, disappearing into one of the other runways.
A female aerialist in red tights was climbing up a rope to the top of the domed ceiling, all eyes on her.
She began her routine. Spotlights formed shadows of her body on the ceiling.
She methodically worked through her performance, timed to music, without a net.
When she finished, the lights came back on as applause erupted.
An elephant lumbered into the ring.
Monkeys dressed as children cavorted in too.
Another monkey rode a pony in circles.
With great fanfare from the orchestra performing bears came tumbling in, dressed as musicians. Their trainer acted as conductor and the bears began to play the accordion, cymbals, balalaika, and tambourine. The audience offered another rhythmic clapping.
She studied the crowd.
And saw the king and queen.