CHAPTER 37
Cassiopeia recalled something Cotton once told her.
Another of his stories.
There was a criminal who committed a crime.
But he was caught and sent to the king for punishment.
The king told him he had two choices. He could be hanged by a rope or take what was behind the big iron door.
The criminal quickly decided on the rope, and as the noose was being slipped onto his neck he turned to the king and asked, “Out of curiosity, what’s behind that door?
” The king laughed and said, “I offer everyone the same choice, and nearly everyone picks the rope.” The criminal remained curious.
“So what’s behind the door? I mean, obviously, I won’t tell anyone,” he said, pointing to the noose.
The king paused, then answered, “Freedom, but it seems most people are so afraid of the unknown that they immediately take the rope.”
A good lesson. Also a reminder about the dangers of clinging to the familiar. So many people choose it. Too many are fearful about the unknown. Risk is foreign to them. She was like that once.
Not anymore.
“My grandfather was a smart man,” Cotton told her.
“He said that life is just one long try to resist the unknown. He taught me about making choices. To push past your fears and open the doors to the unfamiliar. Like he would say, ‘When nothing changes, then nothing changes.’ If you keep doing what you’re always doing, you’ll keep getting what you’re always getting. ”
All good advice that she was practicing here. Choosing the door, and the unknown. Changing things up.
She and Westlake had left the Grand H?tel and, out on the sidewalk, Westlake had called Monica. The conversation was brief.
“She wants to meet,” he said to her, when the call ended. “What do you want to do?”
No choice. The familiar be damned. “We meet.”
But she’d told herself to be wary.
What would Cotton say? To get you have to give.
She debated whether to go alone, but realized there wasn’t much help she could call in.
The locals were out. Cotton was off on his own line of inquiry.
Stephanie had told her they had CIA backup, but she decided that would be more of a problem than a solution.
This one was on her. The good thing? She was armed with a semi-automatic, its holster tucked tight at her belly beneath her shirt, two extra clips in her back pocket.
The bad thing? The time was approaching 11:30 P.M. and she was tired, running on adrenaline.
Nothing new there. Thankfully, she was a night owl.
Westlake ordered an Uber and they left the city, heading north.
“I should warn you about Monica,” he said as they rode. “She has little patience and is accustomed to having her way. She can be extremely unpredictable and dangerous. Spontaneous, even. It’s another reason I chose not to challenge her.”
“She knows I am coming?”
He nodded. “She wants you to take a message back to the palace.”
Okay. That could mean a multitude of things.
She found her phone and sent a text.
Stephanie was concerned.
And she had every right to be.
First she’d been headed to Uppsala to find Ivan.
Her contacts in Moscow had provided an address.
Then a text had come from Cassiopeia. Meeting set with Monica.
Heading there now. So she’d pivoted with a change of plan, calling the number that Sandra Koss had provided and requesting immediate CIA assistance.
Thirty minutes later a car intercepted them on the highway and she switched vehicles, sending the palace driver back to Stockholm.
Earlier, she and Cassiopeia had activated the FIND ME applications on their phones so both would know the other’s location.
They hadn’t been sure what would happen.
Perhaps nothing. But just in case, they’d arranged a contingency plan.
No way was she allowing Cassiopeia to enter that hornet’s nest alone.
The two men who’d been sent were local operatives the CIA routinely contracted with.
Sandra had said they were at her disposal for as long as needed.
The purpose of her late-night venture had been to find Ivan.
Now that had changed with an opportunity to take Monica Butler-White into custody.
“Where are we headed?” she asked the driver, who had her phone and was following the tracker toward Cassiopeia.
“It seems to Sigtuna.”
“And that is?”
“A small harbor town on Lake M?laren. About halfway between Stockholm and Uppsala. One of the oldest places in Sweden. Mainly a tourist destination now.”
“How large?”
“Less than ten thousand people and definitely not a late-night place. All its cafés, restaurants, and shops will be closed.”
“Speed up. We need to get there. Fast.”
Cassiopeia stepped out of the Uber.
They were about fifty kilometers north of Stockholm in a quiet little village called Sigtuna.
A single cobbled street ran down its center, both sides lined with colorful clapboard and shingled houses that held boutiques, shops, and cafés, each advertised by ornate iron placards that hung out over the street.
The lighting was minimal, mainly from the backlit storefronts and a few streetlamps that threw out long streams of dull radiance.
The place appeared old, but was most likely all of a more recent vintage.
Off to the right, among trees, stood a church lit to the night, built of brick in the Romanesque style, which had definitely been there for a few centuries.
“Monica awaits us,” Westlake said as he climbed from the car too.
The Uber driver left, the taillights receding. She looked around. No one in sight. Apparently Sigtuna was not a late-night place, even in summer. Westlake started walking. Absolutely nothing about this was good. More of what Cotton would say came to mind.
Make what you can out of a bad situation, even when it’s really bad.
Like this.