Sting of the Scorpion

Prolog

The trap that had snared her hadn’t held her. She had escaped; or such was the illusion. The scorpion had not been crushed. Not only was it still very much alive, it was coiled to strike again and sting with a murderous vengeance. Time was not on her side.

A bullet-riddled twin Cessna flying over the barren sandstone plateau of the Nubian Desert is not where Kristina Anderson wanted to be. Someone had paid to have her killed. That was a brittle fact. But what really freaked her was the elaborate scheme that had suckered her into an African civil war where no cops would ever investigate her murder. Who wanted her dead? For what reason? She was a young woman who had been accepted to study medicine at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. She had no political alliances. She was a threat to no one that she could imagine. Answers were tantalizingly illusive and shrouded by maddening walls of secrecy.

Oliver had been targeted with her and she barely knew him. His lifeless body lay abandoned on a dirt landing strip a couple hundred miles behind them. Why the two murders in tandem—hers and his? She shuddered.

Kristina’s eyes riveted on the aircraft’s fuel gauges. She clenched her hands into tight fists. She felt her heart beating in her chest. Both engines sounded ruff. Probably just my imagination, she thought. She glanced at Theo next to her at the controls. Theo Giannopoulos was a broker of weapons to most of the governments and wannabe governments in Sub-Saharan Africa. He seemed reasonably calm. He knew more than he was telling her. She was confused by his silence. But he was a friend. At great danger to himself he had quite literally plucked her out of a horrifying chasm of death.

Doggedly determined not to panic, she opened her hands and placed them over her bleeding thighs. She had gouged them with her own fingernails. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. Lieutenant J. G. Kevin Winslow had warned her that she was gambling with danger, but youthful exuberance and curiosity had trumped common sense. She still didn’t understand why he or the navy had been interested in her. Maybe that handsome hunk was a little sweet on her. She filed that thought away for now.

Below the hot lifeless plateau stretched out forever. They were over the heart of the Sudan where civil war is endless history. She swallowed hard. If we go down here, we could never survive, she thought. If a crash landing didn’t kill us, we’d die from dehydration. Conscious of her heartbeat again, she thought, The line that separates being alive from being dead is slender indeed.

Theo leaned the fuel mixture to stretch the precious gasoline.

Behind them a scarcely conscious man lay on a seat moaning. He calls himself Sasha. If he had a last name, he’d long forgotten it. Or so he’d said. Three ugly red-rimmed holes in his shirt reveal multiple gunshot wounds. Blood didn’t disturb her. She was a nurse. But in the last ghastly twenty-four hours, she’d seen too damn much of it.

Sasha was beyond her nursing skills. She wished she could do something or say something to ease his dying. Over several years he had murdered three men, the last a New York City cop. But after what she’d seen a few hours earlier, she was tempted to trivialize ‘plain ordinary murder.’

Surely it was a time for praying but she was afraid to pray. It seemed like surrendering. Surrender was not Kristina’s nature.

Pain shot through her back like shards of glass cutting. Three hours ago on that dirt runway, Sasha had violently thrown her to the ground and fallen on her. Bullets from two directions had whistled over them. Three had whistled through him before he fell.

As both fuel gauges teased the red line near ‘empty,’ Theo turned to her and said, There’s a landing strip in about forty miles on our nose. Even if we run out of fuel at halfway, we can glide to the runway from this altitude.

She stared down again at the endless expanse of nothing. Desolation dissolved shapelessly into the horizon. Will they have gas?

If they have, it’ll probably be auto gas.

Will that work?

Maybe. If it doesn’t screw up the gas filter. It’ll be in rusty jerry cans. Those Arab bastards aren’t fussy about keeping their stolen gas clean.

Kristina stared into space, overwhelmed by the utter senselessness of her being in a wounded airplane with near strangers flying over a brutal desert in Africa. Less than six weeks ago she had been a happy young woman on a nursing staff. She’d never met Theo Giannopoulos. Sasha had clawed his way into her life only a week ago. Oliver, who for some incomprehensible reason had also sacrificed his life to save hers, she’d known for a mere three days. A sickly smile crossed her face. The staff at the hospital probably thinks that I’m having a wonderful time.

How did I fall into this so innocently?

Book I

Kristina

Chapter 1

Six weeks earlier

Stockholm, Sweden

Kristina Anderson arose at seven to a chilly December morning. She put on a warm robe and seated herself at her kitchen table next to a window. The aroma of hot coffee filled the kitchen. She poured the hot liquid into a mug emblazoned with the multicolored logo of the Baltimore Ravens—a gift from her Uncle Oskar. Adding cream and artificial sweetener, she relished that first delightful sip. Coffee reminded her of pleasant mornings spent with her late step-father, Avar. Crossing her legs at the ankles she took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, sat back and relaxed.

Her shift at the Queen Sophia Hospital would start at ten o’clock. Nursing provided a comfortable living and kept her comfortably far away from Helga, her indifferent mother.

Kristina hadn’t a single clue that someone with great power wanted her dead.

An envelope on the counter behind her contained a new private pilot’s license. She’d had a fear of flying. Kristina overcame that fear by learning how to fly.

Fair-skinned with a trim figure and flaxen hair cut short smartly, her pleasant face is accentuated by serious blue eyes. Men have called her stunning. Her engaging smile and gentle grace invite people to underestimate her grit. That underestimation produces tactical advantages. Kristina is an intelligent, determined, strong-willed, focused young woman.

As she raised the coffee mug a second time, her thoughts wistfully turned to Avar. When Kristina was five, Helga, had met Avar Anderson in the hall at the Lutheran Church in Filipstad, Sweden—the village where they lived. The meeting had not been accidental. Little that Helga did was accidental. Avar was a late middle aged man of simple tastes. He was huge —six foot three with blond hair combed back, broad shoulders, and a powerful build. In spite of his strength—perhaps out of caution—he was gentle. His firm mouth seemed hard wired into a kindly smile. Within a few months they were married—his first; Helga’s second.

As owner of the paper mill, Avar had wealth and stature in the community. He’d had no hesitance in taking on the support of a five-year-old daughter. His house was large. Helga and Kristina moved in. Avar loved Helga. Helga loved the security, comfort, status and cover that he provided. Her true love was Reva, the bishop’s wife.

Avar had two brothers. His older brother, Oskar, was dean of the medical faculty at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland. Eric, his younger brother, was director of the nursing school in Stockholm where Kristina had qualified.

She reminisced about the Saturday mornings when she was a child. She and Avar would take walks in the park. In the summertime they rode the carousel and afterward sat on a park bench near the duck pond listening to the music of the calliope. Little-girl-important-things were discussed. Days with Avar had been delightful days. She often wondered whether her real father would have been as attentive as he. She desperately wished her mother had saved a photograph of him. Why, she wondered, wouldn’t a mother keep a picture of her daughter’s father? And why would she refuse to talk about him?

On one such walk when she was a teenager, she had asked Avar if he had known her real father. He had replied, No. He died before you and your mother moved here.

She’d cocked her head and challenged, How do you know that?

When we went to the registrar for our marriage, your mother produced his death certificate to the clerk. He died an automobile accident.

Did you actually see the certificate?

I glanced at it, but why do you ask?

Mother doesn’t always tell me the truth. When you saw it, did you see where it came from?

Yes. It was issued by the government of Island County in the State of Washington in the United States. That’s all I know about it. There had seemed no point in continuing the conversation. But it hadn’t ended her curiosity.

She arose, took a pastry out of the refrigerator, placed it in the toaster oven, and reseated herself.

Shortly before the brain cancer had taken his life, Avar had inquired whether she would like to study medicine at Johns Hopkins. The question had not totally surprised her. She had thought of studying medicine, but not at Johns Hopkins. There were many medical schools within the European Union.

Oskar would love to see you come.

Her eyes had questioned his. I would like that very much, she had replied, but I can’t afford medical school—not to mention travelling to and living in the United States.

I knew that would be your answer, Kristina. I’ve created a trust for you in Maryland with sufficient funds to carry you through. Oskar is the trustee. There’s even enough for you to do research afterward. Maybe you could find a cure for the disease that’s killing me.

She had promptly made application and Johns Hopkins had accepted her.

She glanced out the window again. The eastern sky had brightened. The leading edge of the blazing rim of the sun spilled across the horizon. As Kristina finished her mug of coffee and ate the pastry, she recalled the last morning she and Avar had shared coffee together. In a tone of profound sadness, he’d said What I regret most is that I won’t see you graduate from medical school. You’re a brilliant young woman. Your mother told me that your biological father was brilliant too, intimating that she’d stepped down to marry me.

That’s terrible, Kristina had replied.

It’s alright. She needed to feel superior. It didn’t really bother me. I’ll bet your father was spunky like you.

The memories of Avar’s last day were still vivid. He had been writhing in unremitting pain for weeks. His eyes were closed when he had weakly grasped her hand. His lips didn’t move. All of the words that had needed to be spoken had been. Slowly, silently, and mercifully God’s inexorable finger had touched him and delivered him from his pain forever.

She half-filled her coffee mug. Uncle Oskar was looking forward to her arrival. She was excited about flying on a large commercial airliner to America. All that was necessary was a student visa to enter the United States. Also resting on the counter behind her was a letter inviting her to an interview at the American embassy. She thought that strange. The consulate would have seemed more appropriate. The appointment was for the middle of next week. It couldn’t come too soon.

Her enthusiasm was muted, however, by an empty crevice in her soul. Avar had been the only person in her young life that she had loved and who had loved her in return. She wasn’t sure whether she still believed in Heaven. She wanted to. More than that, she wanted to believe that Avar somehow could still share in her joy.

She felt an even more poignant crevice—a wound that had lurked in her subconscious for a very long time. She yearned for the real father she couldn’t remember—the father that Hagar refused to talk about—the father whose picture didn’t exist. She wanted him to know, too. When she was a little girl, she had imagined that he was her guardian angel and that he would protect her from all sorts of horrible things. But now, of course, she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

It was time to go to work. Arising, she rinsed out the mug, the one with the bright Baltimore Ravens logo, and went into her bedroom and dressed. The time for sentimentality had passed. There was a real world out there with more challenges than she could imagine.

Chapter 2

The Queen Sophia Hospital

Stockholm, Sweden

When Kristina arrived at the hospital, the nurses on the second floor were silly-giggly. Their excited chatter concerned a handsome and apparently well-to-do American patient encamped in Room 219. The chit chat said that his heavy thatch of dark curly hair on his head competed with the thatch on his chest. His expensive blue blazer had been tailored in Hong Kong. Its buttons were real gold. His shoes were Belgian. He was wearing a Rotonde de Cartier Caliber 9800 MC wrist watch. Neither their husbands nor their lovers were so stylish.

Kristina was the greenhorn on the staff. Fresh out of nursing school, she tended to make suggestions for improvements of care that were not particularly welcomed by the more experienced staff. Several senior nurses showed displeasure by ignoring her. She was concerned, but she didn’t feel insecure or intimidated. Neither was part of her nature.

Gretchen, the head nurse, had assigned Kristina to the purported hunk. That made Kristina curious. Why did Gretchen risk upsetting the staff by assigning me, the unpopular freshman? Gretchen wouldn’t say and Kristina wasn’t about to fret over it. He was just another patient.

Kristina wheeled out her computer platform and keyed in his name: ‘Theo Giannopoulos.’ He had been brought to the emergency room during the night. Food poisoning was indicated. His passport indicated he was a forty-seven year old American from Chicago. Even more puzzled now, she frowned. He’s too old for me. Of course, most of the young men I know are frivolous. Their strongest commitment is to drinking an obscene amount of imported English ale, freeken out, and hitting on me.

She read on. Occupation: Broker of armaments. Local contact: Adolphus Amundsen, Admiral, Royal Swedish Navy. She thought, He barks with the big dogs.

As she pushed her computer cart into room 219 she saw a tall muscular man with broad shoulders standing in front of the window with his back to her. He apparently heard her enter and turned to face her. He needed a shave. Two dark, almost black, penetrating eyes studied her to the point of making her uncomfortable. Take charge, she thought.

You get in that bed, she commanded so resolutely that his lips curved into a wry smile. But he unhurriedly obeyed. She pulled the covers over him and as she proceeded to check his vitals she added, And you should eat in better restaurants.

He chuckled and his dark eyes brightened. Grinning, he said, Where did they find you? He cocked his head and added, I know this is trite, but truthfully you are a vision of loveliness. You’re the most attractive young woman I’ve seen in a long time.

Kristina frowned.

He quickly added, I apologize. I know it’s the custom in Sweden that, when a man meets a woman, he should talk about the weather or something impersonal. But you are simply stunning.

Is everyone in Chicago a sycophant?

I…

You needn’t answer. I’m your nurse. How are you feeling?

But I’m not a Swede, he continued unabated. I’ll be in Stockholm for only a short time. The weather doesn’t interest me. I feel fine. Surely an obviously sophisticated young woman like you knows the better restaurants. Perhaps you could guide me.

She clapped her hands and laughed. You certainly aren’t shy. If you know one of our admirals, you haven’t been dining at McDonalds. Your blood pressure is normal. Your pulse is a little fast but you’re working on that. Is that because you’re thinking naughty thoughts?

His eyes met hers and he grinned again.

Hold out your finger. I need to check your oxygen.

He raised his hand obediently. His grin turned into an avuncular smile. He said, You’d be perfectly safe with me. I’m old enough to be your uncle.

"My uncle! That’s a new one. Your oxygen is fine. Did the doctor tell you the nature of the poison?"

Arsenic.

That’s what the lab test said. I’ve not heard of anyone picking up arsenic from a restaurant in Stockholm. In your business do you come in contact with chemicals that contain arsenic?

His eyes narrowed slightly as he replied, Don’t be concerned. Whatever the source, it was accidental. I’m confident that it’s unlikely to happen again. I feel fine now.

The unexpected response puzzled her. Normally the patient would be looking for someone to accuse. Being an American he would be expected to hire a lawyer. She didn’t trust men who didn’t fit the mould like this Mr. Theo Giannopoulos from Chicago. Out of curiosity she asked, Have the police been notified?

He reached over, took her hand. Reflexively she pulled it back but he had grasped it firmly. In a kindly tone he said, I wouldn’t trouble them. There’s no crime involved. Admiral Amundsen agrees.

She pulled her hand free. I suspect that you’re using the truth sparingly. Do you delight in being a man dripping with mystery?

He laughed. Actually I try not to drip. Truthfully, I need to avoid publicity. In my business I deal with politicians, government officials, and shadowy characters of various breeds. All are sensitive to media attention and to people who draw media attention. The doctor said I’ll be out of here tomorrow. I’ll bet you could lead me to restaurants that even the admiral doesn’t know about. He grinned confidently. Tomorrow night?

As Kristina turned to walk out of his room he added, Miss Nurse, I can’t stay in Stockholm forever. Tomorrow?

Kristina hesitated at the door. Someone poisoned him and he doesn’t want the police involved. He probably just wants to get layed. Should a decent young woman who hasn’t had a date for a few weeks cave in to such a man?

Tomorrow night?

She turned, smiled, and said, Tomorrow never comes. It’s always today. With that she walked out leaving both the door and the subject open.

Later, when she sat down in the nurses’ lounge for another shot of coffee, she thought: If I meet him at a restaurant, I should be safe. It might be fun. It would tantalize every frustrated female’s prurient imagination on the second floor. And they’ll talk to me with a whole different attitude.

When she returned to his room several hours later, he was sitting on the side of the bed putting down his cell phone. As she checked his blood pressure she asked, What brought you to Stockholm, Mr. Giannopoulos?

Please call me Theo. Business. He added kindly, That’s all you need to know. He turned away and glanced out the window which added an exclamation point to a skinny answer.

Kristina concentrated on the pressure gage as she said cheerfully, Your business wouldn’t be any of my business unless I was interested in being your guest for dinner tomorrow night.

Touché. His eyes met hers. It’s not a deep dark secret. Yesterday I met with your naval ministry. I broker armaments—weapons—naval and otherwise. Your country produces some of the highest quality steel used to manufacture all sorts of them. My job is to find willing buyers and willing sellers and help negotiate a price. When necessary, I assist the purchasers and sellers to obtain government export and import permits. I often arrange the financing, too.

Checking his oxygen, she said, I’ve never met a weapons broker before. It sounds like a profitable business but I’m not sure that I like it.

Actually it’s not my business. I’m an agent for someone else.

Who?

Dona Maria Imelda de la Verde.

I’ve not heard of her.

She’s the doyenne of a Spanish noble family that dates its lineage back to the Dark Ages. She also owns several cargo ships.

Do you have a business card?"

Not with me. Where you would like to go? Give me a time and place. We’ll meet at the restaurant if that’ll make you feel more comfortable. I’ll send you home in a cab. The avuncular smile returned. Your virtue will be sacrosanct.

That was cute. I’ll bet he’s a good salesman—I mean broker. As she started toward the door, she frowned, turned back and said, Armaments kill people.

That’s true, but almost every nation has an army to protect itself from enemies both domestic and foreign.

Do you broker weapons only to legitimate governments?

Sometimes armaments are sold to those who expect to become a legitimate government. They use them to neutralize what they believe to be an illegitimate government.

Neutralize is a softer word than kill. How do you tell the good guys from the bad guys? Don’t answer. I know. The good guys are the ones who can afford to pay.

His dark, almost black, eyes sparkled as they met hers. You’re mature enough to understand that all things are relative. It has been said that truth is the daughter of time. History judges more accurately because it can look back with a cool detachment. Winners become freedom fighters. Losers become rebel terrorists. So…

Kristina shook off his answer and said, "I know the ugly logic. If you don’t do it, someone else will.

Brokering armaments disturbed her but he was an interesting man. She had never dated a ‘man-of-the-world’. That might be exciting. By the time he was discharged, she had promised to be his restaurant guide.

Chapter 3

Embassy of the United States

Stockholm, Sweden

Lieutenant Junior Grade Kevin Winslow retrieved a document file from a side drawer in his nondescript government-issue spinach green steel desk. His was a conspicuously small office on the second floor of the Embassy. In his mid 20s, Winslow was tall, trim, and muscular, with a determined chin, engaging blue eyes, and well-groomed sandy hair. He was smartly dressed in the uniform of the United States Navy. He had earned his commission through the Reserve Officers Training Program at college which obliged him to serve four years. He had six months to go. Soon he would need to make a decision as to whether he should leave the navy. His father and grandfather had been Academy men who had made the Navy their careers. His Dad had hoped that Winslow would do the same. His mother wanted him to marry. Winslow felt that marriage and the Navy didn’t mix. His mother had had to raise him and his two sisters with his father absent for long periods. He couldn’t see taking a wife and then leaving her while he ran off to sea. Besides, he hadn’t found the right girl. The closest he had gotten to water is the washbowl in the men’s room. Winslow is the assistant to the American Naval Attaché, Commander William McCord Jackson.

He likes Jackson. The Commander had just given him an excellent efficiency rating. Good ratings are doubly important when your commander has a direct pipeline to their admiral. He needed a positive efficiency rating was needed to keep his options open.

His father had been a naval aviator. He had been killed in action during the First Gulf War. His mother, Alice, had remarried. Thomas Harper, her second husband, had navy connections—had been an agent of the Naval Investigation Service before it became NCIS. Seventeen years ago Harper had resigned to become a professional Foreign Service Officer. Although ambassadors are usually political appointments, he presently is the United States Ambassador to Switzerland. Winslow is comfortable with his stepfather. Even more important, his mother is very much in love with him.

Winslow’s primary function is gentlemanly spying on the Swedish Navy and upon the naval attachés of other countries that function in Stockholm. Commander Jackson reports to Rear Admiral J. Carter Roswell. Roswell has an elegant desk crafted of highly polished fine mahogany which commands an oversize office—the kind of impressive office that a two-star admiral on the cusp of becoming a three star admiral should have. It rests in the Pentagon in Virginia.

Winslow’s work requires piercing the veil of opaque transactions and smoking out the dastardly enemies of the United States. He enjoys the camaraderie of young officers of the Swedish Navy and other foreign attachés. His assignment requires him to entertain. He had acquainted himself with the bartenders in all of the better cocktail lounges. The coin of the United States was well spent when it bribes bartenders to ease up on the alcohol in his drinks and load-up on his guest’s. A young Swedish lieutenant on an admiral’s staff has been spectacularly useful. He drinks aquavit with beer chasers and stores state secrets in a sieve.

Winslow’s assignment today puzzled him. He was to interview a young Swedish woman who had applied for a student visa to study medicine in the United States. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He had an appointment with the commander.

The commander’s office was adjacent to his. He entered, saluted, and seated himself. After the small talk the commander said, You need a heads-up on your assignment this morning. Do you understand that you’ll be interviewing a wisp of girl from the Swedish backwoods named Kristina Anderson?

Aye, sir, but I believe Ms. Anderson is more than a wisp of a girl, sir. I believe she’s twenty-two.

She looks younger, but I didn’t see her up close.

Sir, my research indicates that this wisp, as you put it sir, is a very bright young lady. She finished first in her class at the leading nursing school in Sweden and has been accepted by the medical school at Johns Hopkins. She is well thought of in her native village. May I ask why the Navy is interested in her, sir?

Are you familiar with the name Theo Giannopoulos, Kevin?

Aye, sir. He brokers the sale of armaments, mostly in the Near East and Africa. Last week he was in Stockholm meeting with some people in the Swedish Naval Ministry. He works for an extremely wealthy Spanish woman, the Señora de la Verde. She sometimes finances weapons purchases. Often she is joined in this financing by a Saudi Arabian prince by the name of Mohmoud bin Zahran bin Ali. A few days ago Mr. Giannopoulos was admitted to the Queen Sophia Hospital suffering from a case of food poisoning.

Or so he claimed.

You don’t believe it, sir?

Let me put it this way, Kevin. My CIA contact here in Stockholm tells me that shortly after he arrived at the hospital, a person we only know as Mr. Vee clandestinely gave the head nurse a bribe to assign Ms. Anderson to Theo’s care. My contact says that Giannopoulos had never met Ms. Anderson before. It seems unlikely that Ms. Anderson was aware of the bribe. Since then Giannopoulos has wined her and dined her. I understand he hasn’t romanced her. He’s in his late 40s and never married but the Swedes don’t think he’s queer.

Gay, sir. One of the Swedish officers tells me that the Spanish Señora has just hooked up with one of the wealthiest men in Japan, a Mr. Okichi. He doesn’t deal with weapons nor participate in financing. They have no idea of what he’s doing in that triumvirate.

My contact has heard that, too, Kevin. All of this seems nonsensical at first blush. It’s our job to make sense out of the nonsensical.

"But sir, that doesn’t explain why we’re interviewing her.

We’re interviewing her because Rear Admiral J. Carter Roswell has ordered us to. He has a top security clearance. I don’t, and he hasn’t explained it to me.

Sir, how the hell did the admiral know about Ms. Anderson? She seems inconsequential and he’s sitting six thousand miles away in the Pentagon?

I guess he has informants in Sweden.

"Am I missing something, sir? I thought we were his informants in Sweden."

The commander chuckled. "Lieutenant, we are his subordinates in Sweden. He’s bounced all around this world on his way up to that big desk in the Pentagon. His old fellows’ network is probably larger than naval intelligence. I’m privileged that he’s allowed me to have a confidential relationship with him. Of course the confidence works mostly in one direction. Off the record, Kevin, he’s the cagiest old fox that I’ve ever met."

So, sir, Ms. Anderson is a target because, for some presently unexplained reason, Giannopoulos is interested in her.

"She’s a target because the admiral says she’s a target. There’s a mole in Homeland Security. We don’t know who or where. He or she could be in the CIA, the FBI, Army Intelligence, Air Force Intelligence, or in our operation. One of our agents and two CIA were vetted and they all ended up dead. The CIA and FBI haven’t been able to identify him or her. The admiral thinks the mole may be connected to the Spanish Señora’s organization. This Mr. Vee seems to be her mayor domo. It’s rumored that he controls hatchet men. I emphasize: that’s a rumor. Rumors are a dime a dozen in this business. "

Is Giannopoulos rumored to be one of them?

"I haven’t heard that. The top Swedes claim he’s a straight arrow. They deal with him at the highest levels. The Señora’s whole organization may be entirely innocent. To me that seems unlikely. Ms. Anderson is a new twist. We need to factor her in.

Counter intelligence, sir?

Something like that. She’s the right age for you, Kevin.

Does that mean that I might have to date her, sir?

I doubt it, but that remains to be seen. The admiral wants the Navy to identify this mole without the rest of the government knowing that we’re working on it. If we can accomplish what the CIA, FBI, Army and Air Force haven’t been able to do, he’s convinced that he’ll get his third star. If he gets that star, he’ll promote me to captain. Maybe there’d be something in it for you, too. So, the game’s afoot. As with all we do, keep this confidential, Lieutenant.

Aye, sir.

Commander Jackson handed him a list of questions to pose to Ms. Anderson. Winslow reviewed them and said, Sir, these all seem trivial. None have anything to do with shadowy figures, dastardly plots or daring do. Why are we wasting our time on this young woman?

Jackson titled his head, grinned and said, If I weren’t an officer and a gentleman, I could put the answer more colorfully, Lieutenant.

I know sir—I shouldn’t ask so many fucking questions.

I think you’ve got it, Kevin.

I hope at least she’s pretty.

Chapter 4

Embassy of the United States

Stockholm, Sweden

Kristina, dressed in dark blue slacks with a pale blue pull-over chord sweater and a jaunty white cap, climbed the outside stairway of the Embassy of the United States of America. At the top she crossed a landing to face two impressive brass doors, each decorated with eagles. They were well balanced and effortless to push. She entered a reception area with a ceiling so high that it seemed to her like wasted space. She shivered—not because she was cold—but because its Spartan decorations made the room seem cold and uninviting. What she had expected from the embassy of such a great nation she wasn’t sure, but this wasn’t it. At the center of the oversized room she approached what seemed to her a rather tiny information desk. Behind it sat an attractive young woman dressed in a woolen business suit and a sunbeam smile.

Good morning, the young woman said warmly, compensating for the coldness of the room. She pushed a book toward her. You must be Ms. Kristina Anderson. We are glad to see you. Please sign our guest book. Kristina reciprocated the