CHAPTER 42
Which was not uncommon.
Interest in the Codex Gigas grew.
To no avail, though.
The perfect leverage arrived when Sweden, breaking with centuries of neutrality, applied for NATO membership. Finally, the Czechs had real bargaining power.
That they did, Stephanie thought.
And good for them.
The Codex Gigas, the Devil’s Bible, was Bohemian, not Swedish.
It was war booty. Stolen. It should be returned, no matter that its acquisition violated no seventeenth-century law.
But that was her personal opinion. Which had no place in the equation.
She was here to find Princess Lysa and make the deal with the Czechs happen.
No more. No less.
She sat in the backseat of a car. She and the two CIA operatives were headed for Sigtuna.
A text had come a few minutes ago from her son, Mark.
Just a short message to see if she was okay and mention that he was looking forward to their seeing each other in a few weeks.
She still recalled how she felt all those years ago in southern France.
Disconnected from her life. A jumble of confusion, her anxiety hard to settle.
So many demons from the past that finally had to be confronted.
Both then, and now, she was the head of one of the most highly specialized units within the United States government.
She dealt with crises on a daily basis. Like right now.
True, none were as personal as that day, facing her supposedly dead son from across a room.
But she’d worked it out.
With Cotton’s help.
Stephanie opened the door lock. Inside, Cotton flipped on a lamp in the den and immediately noticed a rucksack tossed into a chair that neither he nor Stephanie had brought.
He reached for the gun at his belt.
Movement from the bedroom caught his eye. A man appeared in the doorway and leveled a Glock.
Cotton brought his weapon up. “Who the hell are you?”
The man was young, maybe early thirties, with the same short hair and stocky build that he’d seen in abundance over the past few days.
The face, though handsome, was set for combat—the eyes like black marbles—and he handled the weapon with assurance.
But she sensed a hesitancy, as if the other man was unsure of friend or foe.
“I asked who you are?”
“Lower the gun, Geoffrey,” came a voice from inside the bedroom.
The weapon came down.
Cotton lowered his too.
Another man stepped from the shadows.
He was long-limbed and squarely built with close-cropped auburn hair. He too held a pistol, and it took her only an instant to register the familiar cleft, swarthy skin, and gentle eyes from the photo that still angled on the table to her left.
“My God in heaven,” she whispered.
Her body shook. Her heart pounded. For a moment she had to tell herself to breathe. Her only child, missing for years, was standing across the room. She wanted to rush to him, to tell him how sorry she was for all their differences, how glad she was to see him. But her muscles would not respond.
“Mother,” Mark said. “Your son is back from the grave.”
She caught the coolness in his tone and instantly sensed that his heart was still hard. “Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story.”
No shade of compassion tempered his stare. She waited for him to explain, but he said nothing. Cotton came toward her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and broke the awkward pause. “Why don’t you sit.”
That had been quite a day.
Her son, indeed back from the dead.
Thought gone forever.
But not.
Thankfully, she and Mark ultimately resolved their differences and grew close.
He still lived in southern France as the prior in a long-standing monastery, his life happy and fulfilling.
Her own? Both happy and fulfilling too. Definitely.
She loved her job. There was nothing she’d rather be doing.
Retirement was an option, but the prospect of not working any longer simply did not appeal to her.
President Warner Fox would love to see her go.
He was no fan, nor was she of him. Firing her had once been on the table but not anymore.
The current attorney general seemed ambivalent.
But he was a political appointee and his loyalty was to the White House.
First, foremost, and always. She’d dealt with so many AGs. Some hot, some cold, most lukewarm.
Thinking of Mark had been happening more and more of late.
But nostalgia was a dirty liar, one that insisted things were better once than they seemed now.
Change was the law of life. Unbending and certain.
She’d come to learn that the past could not hurt you unless you allowed it.
Memories can both warm your insides and tear you apart.
Her late husband was the perfect example.
But she’d learned from his mistakes, God rest his soul.
Now she knew that you could either feel sorry for yourself or treat all that had happened as a gift.
What had Cotton told her once? There comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book, or simply close it.
He did love his book metaphors.
But he was right.
Which one should she choose?
She still harbored a private thought that she’d never shared with anyone.
Nobody worked forever. Not even her. She would eventually retire, but she wanted to make sure that the Magellan Billet passed into good hands.
Her dream for so long had been for Cotton to take the reins.
He’d be perfect as director. He had the right temperament, had an uncanny ability to lead, and was totally results-oriented.
He was also apolitical, which to her was an absolute prerequisite for the job.
He would continue what she started while, at the same time, stamping it with his own unique perspective.
Bottom line. She trusted him like no other.
But she doubted that would ever happen. He was happy being a bookseller. And she was going to work forever.
Right?
The car eased through a succession of sharp turns, then stopped.
Time to focus. Get in the game.
She popped open the door and stepped out into the night.
The two CIA operatives followed suit, each reaching for their weapons.
No other cars were around, but their tracking said Cassiopeia’s phone was here in Sigtuna.
A figure appeared on the street. A hundred feet away. Walking with a familiar gait.
Cassiopeia.
“That one is with me,” she said to the two men with guns.
They relaxed, but kept vigilant.
Cassiopeia approached. “Westlake was taken.”
“Is Monica Butler-White here?”
“She was, and she confirmed what Westlake told us about the princess. She also said Westlake was innocent, but took him as insurance.”
“And the question of the night?”
Cassiopeia shook her head. “I tried but got nothing.”
She motioned and the two men headed to check things out. A few moments later they trotted back to the car and reported that there was no one to be found.
She stared up into a sky that was finally surrendering to night.
What a long day.