The Eastern Front(94)

"Another message had arrived from Jozef," the agent announced. "And it's good news this time."

He gave the hand-written message to Koniecpolski.

Big storm coming. May last for days.

"Finally," he said. He turned to his aides, who half-filled the tent. "I want the army moving by dawn tomorrow. There's a Swede who needs killing."





Chapter 30


Vaxholm Island, in the Stockholm Archipelago

"Wonderful," muttered Charles Mademann. He stuck his head out of the tavern doorway and looked up at the early morning sky. It was solid gray everywhere you looked. Very dark gray, too. It was going to start raining soon and from the looks of it, the rain would be heavy and go on for quite a while.

And today was their last chance to carry out their mission. Realistically, at any rate. The princess and her entourage wouldn't leave until tomorrow, but when that happened they'd be under heavy guard and the queen most likely wouldn't make an appearance. She hadn't come out to greet her daughter at the docks when she arrived, so why would she accompany her to the docks on her departure? It was now two and a half months since Kristina had come to Stockholm, and relations between her and her mother had reached a nadir.

So they'd been told, anyway. But the information was almost certainly reliable. The Huguenots had developed good relations with several of the palace's servants, using French livres provided by Michel Ducos. He'd embezzled a small fortune from his former French employer, the comte d'Avaux. As a result, for the past two years all of the projects and missions of the group he led with Antoine Delerue had been well funded.

They'd not changed the livres into a different currency, of course. For the purposes of their mission, it would be all to the good for the Swedish authorities to discover some of the palace servants had been suborned with French money. That would cast still more suspicion on the target of the whole exercise, Cardinal Richelieu. No one else in the world, after all, had greater access to the coinage of the French crown.

Well, there was no help for it. They'd simply have to take their positions, as they had done so many days before, and hope that perhaps this final day things would work out.

Locquifier came to stand next to him. "We should leave now, I think."

Mademann nodded. There was no reason to stay at the tavern on the island any longer. If nothing happened today, they'd find lodgings for the night in the city. By tomorrow, they'd either be dead or making their escape from Sweden altogether.

He looked over his shoulder. Ancelin and Brillard were sitting at the center table, watching him. They understood the logic of the situation just as well as he did.

He gave them a little nod. Immediately, the two men rose from the table and headed toward the kitchen. The tavern-keeper and his wife would either be there, or—more likely, this time of morning—still asleep in their bed upstairs. Which would be even easier.

"We should plant the forgeries," said Locquifier, stating the obvious as he was prone to do.

"Yes. Let's see to it."


Stockholm

Baldur Norddahl closed the lid of the last trunk. Then, with a little grunt of effort, placed it on top of the stack of trunks piled next to the door that led into the palace suite that he and Prince Ulrik had shared since they arrived.

"That's it," he said. "We're all packed except for the one small valise we'll use tomorrow morning. Hallelujah, and hosanna as well. We're finally almost gone. God willing, we'll never see the witch again."

Referring to the queen of Sweden as a witch was a gross form of disrespect for royalty. The French called it lèse majesté, but it was a concept that went all the way back to the Roman emperors. The term itself derived from the Latin laesa maiestas.

For more than a millennium and a half, men had lost their heads for committing the offense. But Prince Ulrik couldn't find it in his royal self to take umbrage.

Maria Eleonora was a witch, queen of Sweden or not.

In a manner of speaking, at least. Caroline Platzer came into the suite just in time to hear Baldur's quip. She immediately took it upon herself to issue a technical correction.

"Don't be silly. Witches don't exist in the first place. The queen of Sweden probably has what's called borderline personality disorder. BPD, for short."

"Probably?" asked Ulrik.

Platzer shrugged. "I've been trained mostly by Maureen Grady, and Maureen thinks people throw around the diagnosis of BPD way too readily."

"It's the first time I've ever heard the term, actually."

"Well, sure. You're a prince, not a shrink. For you, a borderline personality is either someone you ignore completely or"—here came a gleaming smile—"a prime candidate for the chopping block. They're not a lot of fun to be around, especially if you're family."