CHAPTER 39
John walked down Sigtuna’s main artery. A lot of paths were about to cross.
Scores to be settled. Things to be righted.
They were coming to the point of no return.
He’d thought of this moment for a long time, imaging how he would feel.
Monica was here doing what she did best. Creating chaos.
Keeping everyone off guard. What he’d not told the king or Stephanie Nelle was that he’d not been all that innocent nine years ago.
He’d had an affair. With Monica.
Hard not to find her brains, beauty, and energy attractive.
For the first few years he and Lysa had a reasonably solid marriage.
But sadly, their relationship had always lacked intimacy.
They were more like a couple of good friends than husband and wife.
For a decade he just ignored the issue and quietly satisfied himself outside the marriage.
Lysa was oblivious to any of that, so cheating had been easy.
But with what happened nine years ago, stacked on top of a frigid wife, he’d recently decided he could ignore the situation no longer.
Sex for Lysa was nothing but a chore that occurred once every other month, at best. And with so many rules.
Never after dinner. Or in the middle of the day.
Or the day of or before a doctor or dentist appointment.
Morning was preferable. Late afternoon better.
And always after a shower and her makeup was applied.
Never, though, if she had a lunch engagement or visitors expected for the evening.
Their public displays of affection were nonexistent.
She considered those unseemly. I love yous came rarely.
True, they were kind and respectful of each other, but the relationship possessed not a hint of passion.
He supposed a lot of that was her upbringing.
Being raised in a royal bubble by strict Protestant parents came with its ups and downs.
But humans were social animals and, as such, had a need to feel connected, to believe that they were worthy of someone’s love and lust. Intimacy made you feel alive, like you’d been found, as if someone was finally taking the time to peer into the depths of your soul and really see you.
With Lysa he’d always felt like she was looking right through him.
Gradually he’d slipped away until finally considering himself just a roommate.
Friendly and cordial, but a roommate nonetheless.
Which Lysa seemed to embrace.
But he grew to resent.
Monica was not the first “other woman,” nor the last, but she had been the longest and most enduring of his extramarital relationships.
Monica was different. They’d connected. On many levels, both physically and emotionally.
She was a vibrant, alluring woman. Exciting.
Daring. And bold. With a capital B. They’d long maintained a robust physical relationship, covert and secret, that was also coming to a point of no return.
Choices were about to be made.
Farther down the street a figure emerged from the shadows. The form and shape unmistakable.
He stopped.
“There she is,” he said, voice low.
Cassiopeia stood her ground beside Westlake.
Monica was about her height and size. Dressed similarly too. Jeans and a button-down shirt with boots. Her right arm hung free, but the left hand gripped a pistol, which she kept at her side.
Cassiopeia reached for her own weapon.
But Westlake stopped her, saying, “That would not be wise.”
The buildings on both sides of her were packed tight, the street only about six meters wide, with alleys leading in and out. Lots of places for trouble to hide. The whole thing felt like a showdown from some American western movie. Two gunslingers facing off, but only one with a weapon drawn.
And the odds that Monica Butler-White was here alone?
Zero.
John started walking toward Monica. “Okay, I came and brought her, as you asked.” He and Cassiopeia stopped a few meters away. “This is Cassiopeia Vitt. She was sent by Stephanie Nelle to keep an eye on me. She is working directly for the palace.”
“With the American, Cotton Malone?”
“You seem to be remarkably informed,” Vitt said.
“It is my job to be so.”
“You have a message you want delivered?” Vitt asked.
“I do. The Swedes need to understand that we are not bluffing. We want that codex.”
“A complication has developed.”
“Really? Care to explain.”
“Sir Westlake, here, says that his wife is an SVR operative. If that is true, no one is going to trade for anything.”
Cassiopeia kept her eyes on Monica’s hands, which stayed down at her sides, resisting the urge to reach for her own weapon. Westlake was right. It would only provoke this unknown commodity.
“Did you tell them that?” Monica asked Westlake.
“It is the truth.”
“If the princess is compromised, even innocently, the government will make no trade,” Cassiopeia made clear. “There will be little sympathy for her situation.”
Movement on the peripheries from the side alleys caught her attention. Two men appeared. One left, the other right. Both armed. She could take one, maybe two. No way she’d take down both, plus Monica, before one of them shot her.
“Is the princess an SVR asset?” she asked.
Monica stepped close to Westlake and said, “You talk too much.”
“Actually, I do not talk enough. I have stayed silent for nine years. Because of you.”
Monica shook her head.
Then her left arm swung up fast and the butt of the gun she held smashed into Westlake’s right temple.
The neck whipped back and Westlake began to stagger.
Cassiopeia moved to defend him but the two guys with guns leveled their weapons straight at her.
She froze and raised her arms in mock surrender.
Westlake collapsed to his knees, dazed, and reached up, rubbing the side of his head, but Monica was not finished.
She slammed the weapon again into the other side of Westlake’s head.
His eyes rolled skyward. Mouth opened. And he folded to the cobbles, landing hard on his right shoulder.
Monica faced her. “He stays here. With us. Now we have two hostages.”
“You plan to kill him?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“Let me be clear. Princess Lysa has, in fact, for many years supplied us with much useful information. We manipulated and used her, all without her knowledge. Sir Westlake here? He was someone we used to divert attention away from the princess. He’s a greedy capitalist who was easily bought.
Tell the Swedes that if we do not have the Devil’s Bible by noon tomorrow, I will personally put a bullet in Princess Lysa’s and Westlake’s skulls.
If they think I am bluffing, you can tell them what you just witnessed. ”
“How did you manage to get the princess to work with you?”
“Leave.”
Cassiopeia stood her ground. She needed to learn what she could.
Monica fired a sound-suppressed round at the cobblestones. The bullet ricocheted away a few inches from Cassiopeia’s feet.
“I told you to leave. I would like you to deliver the message but, if need be, I can shoot you dead and do it another way.”
She decided she’d pushed enough.
So she turned and walked away.