CHAPTER 22
Cotton emerged from the underground cistern in Stockholm’s old town amid an array of busy shops and cafés. His clothes were soaked from the icy water. The rain had stopped, but the air remained cool and damp. He needed to return to the hotel and change, but first things first.
He grabbed his bearings, then headed for the Stortorget, making his way across the bustling square and walking back to where he’d met the old man who’d called himself Lars.
Being wet had not drawn a lot of attention given the rain.
The steady drizzle and streetlamps had turned the path into a gleaming black mirror.
He found the courtyard with the Iron Boy sculpture.
Three people were standing beside it, taking pictures.
One left a coin. He walked past, climbed the stairs, found the same apartment door from earlier, and carefully jiggled the knob.
Unlocked.
He lightly rapped on the wood. No answer.
He turned the knob and gave the door a little push. It swung open, but he stayed on his side of the threshold. No alarms went off. No cat prowled about. Only a warm sickly smell greeted him.
Not unfamiliar.
A quick search revealed that the apartment was empty except for the fake Lars from earlier, who lay on the kitchen floor with two bullet holes in the chest. He crouched down to check for signs of life and was shocked to see the old man breathing, the eyes opening, alight with pain and fear.
“Take it easy. I’ll get you an ambulance.”
The fake Lars grabbed his right arm and tried to say something, but blood seeped from the lips.
“Don’t talk,” he told him. “Save your strength.”
The old man shook his head. “Get… them. Bastards… shot me.”
“Who shot you?”
More blood spewed from the mouth with each gargled exhale.
No way he would make it to a hospital.
“Adv…” the old man tried to say, but he began choking.
Cotton lifted the head up to help clear things. The vise grip remained on his arm. He stared hard into the old man’s eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
“Advokat… Jakob… Elmore.”
Then the body went limp.
He checked for a pulse. None.
He swallowed hard, an empty feeling shooting up from his gut.
He’d seen a lot of death as a Magellan Billet agent and in the years after he retired.
Most recently he’d held a woman from his past in a similar embrace, someone he’d thought never to see again, and watched her die a gruesome death.
She hadn’t deserved that, and neither had the fake Lars, who was most likely a loose end.
But when you play with a snake, expect to get bit.
He decided to search the apartment. In one of the cabinets he found an assortment of framed family photographs, seemingly stashed away in haste, depicting a harmless, innocent-eyed, benevolent-browed old man.
The same one he’d seen down in the cistern.
Not the corpse in the kitchen. He’d been played.
There was no other way to view the situation.
He found his phone and dialed Stephanie.
“This is far more complicated than you imagined,” he told her.
And he explained.
“There’s a lot of planning going on here,” she said. “This was all thought through, and by someone with some smarts. It might be time to confront the Russians head-on.”
“That’s your call. But flushing the birds from the bushes does make it easier to shoot ’em.”
“Another of your quaint sayings?”
“My grandfather’s. But good advice to live by.”
“What now?” she asked.
He stared at the corpse. The cat from earlier appeared and seemed unaffected by the situation. “I keep going. Where’s Cassiopeia?”
“She’s tailing Westlake. I haven’t heard from her.”
“She needs to be told to watch herself.”
“I’ll take care of it. What do you need from me?”
“See about finding that old man’s body, and this one here needs some attention too. I’ll be in touch.”
He ended the call and typed JAKOB ELMORE into the phone’s browser. To help narrow the search he included STOCKHOLM.
And got a hit.
For an advokat. Lawyer.
With an address in the city.
Stephanie sat in her hotel room thinking.
Cotton was right. This whole thing was more complex than they’d anticipated. Cassiopeia needed a warning. So she sent a text advising extreme caution and hoped all was good.
Here she was again embroiled in someone else’s problems.
That seemed the story of her life.
She spent the majority of her time alone, both at work and home. Only when Danny Daniels came to town, or she traveled to DC from Atlanta, was her solitude interrupted. She loved Danny. And he loved her.
Odd to hear that in her thoughts.
His marriage had ended right after his second term in the White House, when he was ready to retire from politics and enjoy life.
His wife had other plans as she’d fallen in love with another man, whom she ultimately married.
They now lived in California, far from Tennessee where Danny was still regarded with the adoration of a rock star.
In an age when politicians seemed to embrace fear, flamboyance, and deceit, Danny forged a reputation from the exact opposite.
He was both tough and fair. But nobody really cared about ex-presidents.
They were expected to live quietly, build their libraries, and write a memoir.
Not serve in the United States Senate. But there was nothing conventional about Danny.
God love him.
At present she had six of her twelve Magellan Billet agents in the field, working a variety of operations.
The Billet’s services were utilized by both the Departments of State and Justice, sometimes by the White House, and occasionally in joint operations with the CIA and NSA.
She’d never employed a second in command and no one at the Billet carried the title of deputy.
Only three people worked upper management, each autonomous in their realm, reporting directly to her.
She preferred that simplicity, but also realized it made the agency too dependent on one individual.
She’d seen evidence of that organizational flaw during her recent suspension when her three subordinates had shouldered all the responsibility and floundered a bit.
Left hand not knowing about the right hand.
No matter. That was the way she ran the Billet.
She’d been the one who first envisioned it.
The one who created and organized it. And she’d been the only one to head it over the past twenty-plus years.
Good and bad both belonged to her. Was her time coming to an end?
That possibility had invaded her thoughts more and more of late.
She’d always said that she would not stay around past her prime, but that was a much younger Stephanie Nelle talking.
One who had not, as yet, faced the prospect of becoming irrelevant.
Which was not a pleasant thought. Age brought wisdom, right?
No. Age just brought age.
She and Danny had talked retirement and marriage.
A part of her longed for both. But another part hated the prospects.
Danny was not dissimilar. Eight years as president of the United States had forged him a solid reputation worldwide.
A few years as the junior senator from Tennessee had kept him in the game.
Did he want to give that up? Just say the word and I’ll tender my resignation and book a wedding chapel.
His words from a few weeks ago. She’d said she would think on it.
But not now.
Her mind returned to the present problem and the Russians.
Time to make some calls.