CHAPTER 23
Cassiopeia wrestled with the clown, the two of them rolling across the sandy floor.
The man was built solid and used his weight and muscles to free himself from her embrace and spring to his feet.
But she was not unmindful of the gun and swung her right leg up, kicking the weapon from his grasp with her boot.
The clown did not stay around to retaliate or even look for the gun.
Instead he disappeared into the smoke, which was rising fast, masking the audience.
She heard a lot of coughing, and the level of noise inside the arena was increasing by the second.
She stood and searched for Cowgirl through the smoke.
No sign.
She caught sight of the yellow car laying down doughnuts in the sand, emerging in and out of the smoke. She found the gun, which she gripped in her right hand, finger on the trigger, ready.
The car swung around and propelled—
Straight for her.
John was having trouble seeing through the dense cloud that engulfed the car.
One of the clowns emerged from the fog and aimed his weapon straight at the car.
John reacted in two ways. First, he floored the accelerator, increasing speed, and second he ducked to the right just as a bullet smacked the windshield.
Spiderwebs sprouted from the impact point.
He pivoted back up just in time to see the clown dive out of the car’s path.
He whipped the steering wheel to the left, downshifted to first, and brought the front end around, trying to get his bearings.
Before him, through the shattered windshield, stood a woman.
His minder. Closing fast. Holding a gun.
Opportunity. Finally.
He slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop.
She rushed around to the passenger side.
“Who are you?” he asked through the open window.
“A friend.”
“I have precious few of those.”
“Those people out there your friends?”
And she pointed forward.
He spotted two of the clowns and Monica heading for him, the clowns brandishing their weapons. “Hardly.”
“Then let’s leave.”
He shifted into first and floored the accelerator.
The car responded and shot forward. Monica and her acolytes stood their ground, aiming weapons.
The woman inside with him extended her gun out the open window and fired twice.
The bullets had the desired effect, as they all dove out of the way.
He roared past them, navigated toward the correct exit runway, and sped up.
As promised, there was nothing in the way.
At the top he slowed and turned right, angling for an outer door.
He drew close, saw no ramp that led from the dock down to ground level, and decided to just go for it, increasing speed and vaulting off the platform, the tires slamming the pavement after a couple of meters’ drop.
The suspension held and they rocketed off between two of the long trailers.
A gate loomed ahead, blocking the way. He hit it at a solid fifty kilometers an hour, blowing the plastic bar apart, and kept going out to the street that bordered the rear of the building.
“We need to be away from here,” she said to him.
He agreed and kept driving.
“You realize that this car is not the most inconspicuous,” he said.
“Maybe not. But it’s all we have.”
Cassiopeia sat silent as Westlake maneuvered the stage car across Stockholm.
From everything she’d seen, Westlake had not participated in what had happened.
Just the opposite, in fact, as he’d taken down a few of the clowns who’d definitely been shooting at him.
The windshield before her bore the spiderwebs of those impacts.
It also appeared that at least one of the clowns had fired directly at the king and queen.
Hard to know who had been hit with all the smoke.
The audience had seemed confused, unsure how the mayhem should be taken.
“You handled yourself like a pro in there,” she said to him.
“Long ago, in my youth, I was part of the British Army Special Air Service. That training never leaves you.”
Interesting. No one had mentioned that little tidbit.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Cassiopeia Vitt. I’m here helping out Stephanie Nelle.”
“Following me?”
“Something like that.”
“I have to admit, on this occasion I am thankful. Maybe now they will believe me. I was tricked into being there. They told me they had Lysa and wanted to speak to me. They threatened her with harm if I did not cooperate. I was simply trying to get her back.”
“They?”
“The Russians.”
“I was told you denied any involvement with them.”
“I have no involvement. But just like years ago, they simply will not leave me alone.”
“It did not appear that you were being forced to do anything.”
He turned a corner, downshifted, and gunned the Moskvitch’s engine. “I assure you, I was pressured.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a slip of paper. “That was delivered to my hotel room.”
She read the one-line message.
“The use of Tomte proved they had Lysa. It’s a nickname only the two of us know.”
Which explained the bellman who’d ventured up to the Flag Suite. “What about the guy who bumped into you outside the arena?”
“He left an entrance pass and instructions where to go in my pocket. They went to a lot of trouble to get me there, so I went. Once there, Monica said they would harm Lysa if I did not cooperate.”
“Monica?”
“Monica Butler-White. She is an SVR asset.”
She was impressed. “You speak spy language fluently.”
“Believe me, I learned all I want to know nine years ago. She was the one who framed me.”
“Why would she do that?”
“To protect her real asset.”
They kept going, the traffic light in both directions. A petrol station appeared ahead. Westlake eased the car into the lighted space, parking off to one side.
“Ms. Vitt,” Westlake said, “I assure you, I am not a Russian spy. Never was. Never will be. But I can understand why Stephanie Nelle and the king think otherwise. The SVR made a point to implicate me so that whatever real assets they had in place would be protected. I was their diversion. Now they have dragged me back in.” Westlake went quiet for a moment before saying, “You saw what I did back there. They were threatening the king and queen. I want to help. Truly, I do.”
“Then you need to be honest.”
More silence.
Finally, he nodded. “Okay. It is probably time for that.”
She was skeptical. “I am told that you may not be the most truthful person in the world.”
“Stephanie Nelle and the king are going to have to decide if they want my help or not. Clearly, the Russians want me in this.”
Both good points.
Any decisions here were, as Cotton would say, way above her pay grade, so she found her phone and noticed a text from Stephanie that had arrived half an hour ago. She’d silenced the unit before entering the arena.
Russian involvement confirmed. Be careful.
She sent her own text to Stephanie.
Things happening. Westlake wants to talk. He has something to say.
The reply came fast.
Head for the palace.