The Baltic War(297)

"Ah." Lefferts glanced away, looking at the door. "The plot thickens."



"Excuse me?"



"Never mind. Yes, you're right. And if you're not here for the reason I'm guessing you're here, things are going to get really sticky between us. Really quick."



He glanced now at Baldur. "Meaning no offense, Mr. Norddahl, but there's only one of you."



The tension was back in full. Hastily, Ulrik said, "I came here because—in the event Eddie needs to be rescued, which I don't think he actually will—we can handle it in a better way than having you shoot up half a palace in the process."



"Really. And how is that?"



Now, Ulrik felt he could afford to clear his throat. "Well, I am a prince of Denmark. That means, among other things, that I have access to the palace keys."



"That's a step, sure enough. But it's a small step." Lefferts pointed toward a very large man seated down the table, next to one of the women. "You'd be amazed how fast George there can get through a locked door. Clickety-boom; clickety-boom; smash. That's how long it takes."



"Makes a lot of noise, though."



"True enough. But we'd have to get through the guards at the door, anyway. Which also doesn't take much time, although it's just as loud and one hell of a lot messier."



"Not if the guards are irrelevant. Which they would be, if a Danish prince insisted he had to take the prisoner to a private meeting. Very quiet, very clean, in less than five minutes we are at one of the many side entrances to the castle, you have a wagon waiting, and it's done. Nobody is hurt at all."



Lefferts studied him, intently. "You'd catch—pardon the expression—royal hell, afterward."



Ulrik shrugged. "So I would. But it's not likely my father would have me executed, either. The worst he'll do is have me imprisoned for a year or two—and that, in very comfortable quarters."



After a moment, the cool smile on Lefferts' face broadened and became considerably warmer. "Well, I guess the stories about you aren't bullshit. I figured they probably were. Royal spin doctors at work, you could say."



One of the women spoke up. "Harry, this is awfully damn dicey." She gave Ulrik a quick hard glance. "All we've got is his word—"



"No we don't, Sherrilyn," said Lefferts brusquely. "He hasn't 'given his word,' to begin with. Just said what he would do. No solemn royal oaths, no bullshit sacred vows, nada. Just said what he would do."



When he looked back at Ulrik, the good humor had returned to his eyes as well. "I figure a prince of Denmark who charged one of the admiral's ironclads in a rowboat with nothing better than a bomb on the end of a stick has probably got the cojones to do this, too."



Clearly, the woman wasn't bashful. From her accent, Ulrik thought she was another American. "Yeah, fine, Harry, point taken. Which means he's a complete screwball. Meaning no offense, Your Highness or whatever you Danes call you." She was now looking at Ulrik directly. "I mean, Jesus. What're you? Fucking crazy?"



Suddenly, the room burst into laughter. No little round of laughs, either, but riotous laughter.



"I'll drink to that!" boomed one of the men who'd moved aside to make room for Ulrik. Paul, he thought. "Here's to crazy fucking princes!"



"Another round!" called out Lefferts, waving his hand at the tavern keeper. "And bring a couple of more mugs. Baldur, have a seat. Paul, you and Felix make room, this time."



Once the tavern keeper had carried out his tasks, Harry gave him a meaningful glance. Or so, at least, it seemed to Ulrik—a guess which was confirmed when he saw that the man quickly left the room, thereby eliminating any possible eavesdroppers.



In a peculiar way, he found that more impressive than anything else. He knew from Baldur that Lefferts and his team had only arrived in Copenhagen very recently. Yet somehow, in that short a time, they'd managed to find a tavern they could use as a headquarters, replete with a cooperative owner. How? he wondered.



Probably by waving money under his nose, along with the none-too-subtle suggestion that they were about some criminal enterprise. In a neighborhood like this, and with a tavern this run-down, that had probably not been difficult. It wouldn't occur to the tavern keeper, of course, that the criminal enterprise in question would have anything to do with infuriating the Danish crown.



Still, it was impressive. There were skills involved here that went far beyond the obvious.





Developing the plan itself didn't take long. The biggest problem was simply timing the escape properly, so that whatever alarm was given wouldn't come in time to prevent a slow-moving wagon from getting to the harbor at Helsingør. Lefferts insisted on that, although it would obviously be much faster to get Eddie from the palace to a boat in Copenhagen's own harbor.