“But how do you know Ingrid is behind this?”
“Because I found the man who sold her the promethium. And it turned out the person I’m working for knew it all along. Brigitte Bildt was coming to the United States to warn my government about Ingrid. She just never got there. The Karlsson Logistics plane was one of the first ones shot down.”
“She did that to Brigitte on purpose?”
“Yes.”
She hitched the towel up under her arms. He felt her body relaxing in his grip. “I’m sorry, I just…I mean, part of me wants to say that it’s not possible, that Ingrid would never do that — especially not to Brigitte of all people. But…I mean, I’ve heard some things I wasn’t supposed to hear. Just little pieces. I kept telling myself it wasn’t possible, that I must have just misheard or misunderstood.”
“What have you heard?”
“Enough,” is all she said.
“Enough that you know it’s true.”
She nodded. “So what do you want with me?”
He released her. She turned around.
“I need your help,” he said. “I need you to be one of the good guys.”
AS TILDA GOT DRESSED, Storm averted his eyes and explained the rest of what she needed to know. They agreed they would free William McRae first, then confront Ingrid Karlsson.
Eight minutes later, they were heading for the door of her stateroom when she stopped him.
“Wait. Your clothes.”
“What about them?”
“If anyone sees you on camera, they’ll know you don’t belong here. I can improve on them.”
She went quickly to her closet and emerged with white pants and a blue shirt — the preferred regalia of the Warrior Princess. They were clearly not her size. They were made for a man even larger than Storm.
“A little big for you, aren’t they?” Storm asked.
“A, uh, friend of mine left these here.”
Storm eyed them then cracked a smile. “Must be a good friend.”
“More like a convenient friend. It gets lonely in the middle of the ocean.”
She tossed him the clothes. Storm ducked into the bathroom, shucked off his black clothes, and donned the Karlsson colors. His new outfit fairly swam on him. Especially the pants. He cinched the belt to keep them from slipping off his hips, then he bent over to roll up the hem.
“I could always use another friend, you know,” she said from the other room. “Especially one who dances and kisses well.”
“Have you ever been to Seychelles?” Storm asked.
“No.”
“We’ll have to fix that,” Storm said.
He emerged back into the bedroom to see Tilda gripping his Sig Sauer by the muzzle, having retrieved it from the dry bag. She had retreated to the far side of the stateroom, by the door.
“What’s this?” she said, with measured disrespect. She was holding it like it was the most offensive refuse imaginable.
“Well, it’s a gun, darling,” Storm said.
“I can see that. Do you really need it?”
“Unless I can surprise everyone else on this boat while they’re in the shower? Yes.”
She was shaking her head. “You’re with me now. You’re not shooting up everyone on board this boat. They’re good people. I’ll tell them you’re on the side of the angels. They’ll listen to me, especially if they see you’re not armed. No one needs to get hurt.”
Storm paused, thought about his alternatives. He had assumed he would need to take the boat by coercion, that Tilda could be converted but that the rest of Ingrid’s employees would be loyal to their boss. He felt naked without a gun. But Tilda had a point. Winning the people’s hearts and minds might be easier than shooting them. It was certainly more humane.
“The man who owns those pants is named Laird Nelsson. He’s the chief of security. He’ll do what I tell him,” Tilda continued. “The people on board this boat are my friends. I can’t put them in danger. If you want my help, no gun.”
“Well, it’s hard not to like a guy named Laird,” Storm said. “But what about Ingrid? I’ve got many admirable qualities. Being bulletproof isn’t one of them. This vest is nice, but if she starts shooting at me, I want to be able to shoot back.”
“She abhors guns. I think if she could reverse one human invention — other than the nation-state — it would be gunpowder. She had to be talked into even letting her security force have them. And even then it took Barbary pirates running amok in the Mediterranean to convince her.”
“I’d still feel more comfortable with a firearm.”
Tilda’s answer was to quickly open the door and fling the gun out, end over end, boomerang style. Except, unlike a boomerang, this weapon wasn’t coming back. Storm watched it arc over the side of the boat.
“And I feel more comfortable without one,” she said.
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
She crossed the room, raised herself on her tiptoes and planted a hard kiss on his lips. “Well, it’s done now. Come on, let’s go.”
Storm sighed and followed. They went around to the boat’s portside and a covered corridor that had nevertheless become very slick from the torrential wind-driven rain. The footing was treacherous and every once in a while they had to stop and simply hang on as the Warrior Princess crested a particularly large wave.
She reached a door with a small window set into it, opened it, and turned down a narrow staircase that led below deck. At the bottom, she opened another door, which led to a hallway. Storm continued following. Unlike the rest of the ship, with its lavish decorations, this part of the boat was spare. Crew’s quarters, Storm guessed.
Tilda reached one of the doors and tried the handle. It was locked. She knocked, rapping the door several times until it could be heard over the wind. “Laird, it’s me,” she said.
As she waited for a response, she turned toward Storm and asked, “Do you speak Swedish?”
“Enough to order in a restaurant, maybe,” he said. “But not much more than that.”
“Then you better let me do the talking. Laird speaks fine English, but it’ll be faster in Swedish.”
Finally, the door opened. Storm found himself looking at collarbones. Laird Nelsson was an immense man, at least a half a head taller than Storm, with blond hair, blue eyes, and bulk everywhere Storm looked.
Tilda herded Storm into the room and began talking in rapid Swedish, too rapid for Storm to follow — other than the names. He heard “Ingrid,” “Brigitte,” and his own name. Laird was in off-duty clothing and kept nodding as Tilda spoke. Storm felt like it was going well. Every once in a while, Laird’s eyes would shift to Storm, who tried to look friendly.
When Tilda finished, Laird nodded one final time. “One moment please,” he said, in English, as he reached into his nightstand.
He came up with a Beretta, which looked small in his bearlike paws. He pointed the weapon at Storm.
“Hands up,” Laird said. “Come on.”
Storm experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach as he slowly raised his hands.
“Ingrid Karlsson is a visionary in a way a mercenary like you could never understand,” Tilda spat at him. “Don’t you see? Someday, we’ll all be citizens of the world. Ingrid is leading us there.”
“And the people who don’t want to walk her path get sent to their graves, is that it?”
Tilda ignored him and turned to Laird. “He doesn’t have a gun. I saw to that. But he does have a knife. I saw an ankle sheath bulging from his calf.”
“Very well. You will now remove your knife and set it on the bureau there,” Laird ordered. “Do it slowly, please.”
Storm complied. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tilda smiling savagely.
CHAPTER 32
ABOARD THE WARRIOR PRINCESS
hile Derrick Storm didn’t know much Swedish, he did know the word mörda. It’s a verb. Its English translation is “to kill.”