Former Justice Department operative, Cotton Malone, is called to Sweden when the younger sister of King Wilhelm is kidnapped. The ransom demand? Hand over an 800-year-old book, the Codex Gigas, the largest illuminated medieval manuscript in the world. Claimed as war loot from Bohemia in 1648, it’s been kept in Stockholm for nearly 400 years. Along the way it also acquired another more mysterious moniker.
The Devil’s Bible.
Now the Czech Republic wants the codex back, and Sweden has agreed to return it, but forces are at work to stop that deal from happening. The likely instigator? Russia. Who is also top of the list for possible kidnappers. It’s up to Cotton and Cassiopeia Vitt to locate the king’s sister, secure the codex, and thwart the Russians. Yet nothing is as it seems. Trusted allies become hostile enemies. Long-standing enemies suddenly shift into partners. Making matters worse an array of conflicting personalities re-emerge from Cotton’s past, transforming an already chaotic international situation into something far more personal and deadly.
From the cobbled streets of Stockholm with its placid waterways and picturesque islands, to the hostile skies over the Baltic Sea, and finally onto a fabled 16th century Swedish warship, Cotton and Cassiopeia come face-to-face with the unthinkable—changing both of their lives forever.
Release date:
February 17, 2026
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
400
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The reference was to the Alistair MacLean novel, where nothing was as it seemed and everything, and everyone, was suspect. His senses were focused on the hustle and bustle of the major metropolitan area that surrounded him. So many different and confusing signals. Totally unlike Ice Station Zebra, which the author had set in the isolated Arctic. Earlier in the day he and Stephanie Nelle had completed their business in Italy and flown direct from Florence, arriving in Stockholm three hours ago.
“I have a problem, Cotton. A big one. I hate to ask. But I need your immediate help.”
His answer to Stephanie was never in doubt.
“You got it.”
And the problem?
The only sibling of the king of Sweden, sixty-eight-year-old Princess Lysa, had been kidnapped off the streets of Stockholm near her apartment. She’d been walking her dog, something she did every day when in town. The dog had returned to the residence still on the leash, but without its owner. A hasty search had revealed nothing. But a message, delivered shortly afterward to the palace, had identified the crime and specified the demands.
Definitely a problem, to say the least.
They were expected at the royal palace at 4:30, so they’d taken the time to eat an early dinner. The coming night promised to be a long one. Luckily, they’d both grabbed a little sleep on the flight.
Unfortunately, the weather was not cooperating. A leaden sky hung low, enveloping Stockholm in a premature dusk. A storm had arrived, the humid air bringing down a drenching moisture. Both he and Stephanie wore raincoats and carried umbrellas. Around them other pedestrians were similarly attired, all hurrying in their quest for drier havens.
He’d always regarded Stockholm as one of the world’s great cities. It owned a Viking past and a cosmopolitan present. A beguiling mixture of culture and nature, built on a series of islands, which meant you were never far from the water. Unlike other major cities, he knew all that water was clean and swimmable.
They were walking across the Strömbron bridge onto the island that had first been settled over a thousand years ago. Now it held Stockholm’s old town, Gamla Stan, a charming maze of cobblestone streets, archways, and stairways that recalled a bygone era when Sweden reigned as a world power. Today it hosted an impressive collection of pastel-colored stone buildings filled with souvenir shops, bars, restaurants, and, his personal favorite, bookstores. It all had grown up around the medieval fortress of Tre Kronor, Three Crowns, that had been surrounded, as was customary in its time, by a great stone wall. Today a royal palace occupied that site. One side faced the water, the opposite a plaza that accommodated the main visitor entrance. Streets lined the other two sides, one private, the other public. They were headed for the public one.
Slottsbacken.
“Considering all that happened in Tuscany,” Stephanie said, “you coming here with me is above and beyond.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Home in Copenhagen. Running your bookshop.”
“My business is fine. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
And he meant that.
“I appreciate it. I truly do,” she said. “Princess Lysa and I are friends. We met ten years ago. We’re the same age and even share a birthday.”
He knew that age was a sore subject for Stephanie. She never talked about or revealed her own. His best guess before today? Late sixties, but that was based on her employment history and not her looks, which were of a woman much younger. On every government form where it asked for age she always wrote N/A, which had caused more than one bureaucratic problem. But everyone had their quirks. Even his former boss.
“The king is a friend too,” she said. “I’ve known him for nearly thirty years. We first met when I was with the State Department.”
“Is that why he called you?”
She nodded. “One reason.”
“And I assume that at some point, you plan to tell me all the others?”
“Don’t I always?”
He opened his mouth to point out that this was not the case, but she silenced him with a raised hand. So he shook his head and surrendered. “Never mind.”
They came to an intersection.
The eastern waterfront of old town stretched to their left, where more rain crept in off the choppy Baltic Sea under a dome of stained clouds. The wind freshened, gusting in long dark streaks that swept over the inlet. A bronze statue of the famed King Gustav III, dressed in the uniform of the Swedish Navy, dominated a small park. The king stood with his back to the water, an arm outstretched, supposedly offering a twig of peace to the burghers of Stockholm. They’d called him the charming king, but he was assassinated in 1792 by his own nobility, who resented his reestablishment of absolute monarchal power. Tolstoy was right. Power is a word the meaning of which we do not understand.
They waited for the traffic signal to change, then crossed the intersection onto Slottsbacken, a wide cobbled street that inclined sharply upward. Originally it had been a slop of sand and gravel, deliberately left unfinished for defensive purposes. But eventually a paved route was formed, along with a moat that protected the palace’s southern side. The moat had been filled in centuries ago, but the street remained. Cars moved up and down in a sporadic procession. The palace’s most attractive façade, with entry to the treasury and the royal chapel, faced this way to his right, everything soaked from the rain.
“No Swedish police or security forces have been involved,” Stephanie said to him. “Just a few of the palace guard, who are closest to the king.”
“Is that wise?”
“That’s not for us to judge. The king and the government both want this handled quietly.”
Odd. Especially for a supposed kidnapping of a royal.
They walked up the wet incline, headed for the highest point of old town. At the top stood the Storkyrkan, the seven-hundred-year-old national cathedral. Once Catholic, now it was a monument to Protestantism, central to the Church of Sweden. Little to no curbing existed, just a double layer of cobbles that formed a line between the walkway and the street. A series of concrete pedestals connected by sloping chains created a barrier on the right where there was a sharp drop-off down to a small parking lot. Most likely for palace employees. The looping chains ended about fifty feet ahead, where a driveway up from the lower lot drained into Slottsbacken. A gate blocked the entrance.
He was tired. The past few days had taken a toll. He’d definitely done some things he thought he would never do. No longer could he go full speed ahead without a few aches and pains. But he wasn’t dead yet. He could still run with the big dogs. As Italy had shown.
Two cars eased past them on the street headed down toward the water and the traffic signal behind them. Stephanie walked with her eyes fixed forward, her mind seemingly off somewhere else, as if the distance between herself and some ill-defined past was closing with each step she took. She held her umbrella steady in the breeze. All was okay. He was here. And it was his job to stay alert. She’d tell him everything. When ready.
They passed the last of the chain and concrete pedestals. Ahead on the right stood a triumphal arch for the entrance to the royal treasury. A uniformed palace guard manned a post outside, standing at attention inside a small weather enclosure.
A white Volvo turned onto Slottsbacken at the top of the hill and headed their way. What caught his attention was its speed. Accelerating down the incline, unlike the other cars that were allowing gravity to carefully ease them down the wet cobbles.
The engine gunned.
Stephanie walked closer to the street. The Volvo was about fifty yards away, the distance between them evaporating fast. A quick glance back and he saw that Slottsbacken all the way down to the intersection was clear.
He refocused ahead.
The Volvo was thirty yards away. Still in the middle of the wide street. Not a threat. He realized European drivers were more aggressive than their American counterparts. Driving fast was not unusual. Was he being paranoid? Maybe. But if someone was really after you, then it wasn’t paranoia.
Damn right.
Suddenly, the Volvo veered left.
Straight toward them. Twenty yards away.
Coming fast.
He reacted by tossing his umbrella aside and wrapping his left arm around Stephanie, sweeping her off her feet and pushing them both to the right, toward the palace’s outer wall.
The Volvo kept coming.
Right behind them was the beginning of the ramp that led down to the parking lot. He was gambling that the Volvo was not going to head through the pole gate into a dead end. So he took them both to the ground, absorbing most of the impact with his right shoulder, and rolled over. Stephanie let go of her umbrella, and it launched out into the wind. They passed beneath the barrier that blocked the ramp. The Volvo could not now get close enough to them without colliding with the gate, then heading downward.
A gamble? For sure.
But it was the only move on the board.
The Volvo’s tires wobbled at the road’s edge. The driver seemed to realize the quandary and, at the last moment, swerved right, rubber screaming across the wet cobblestones as they grabbed traction and reentered Slottsbacken. Cotton sprang to his feet and darted out, searching with his gaze for the license plate, which was hard to see in the rain. The Volvo was a good forty yards away and receding fast. He could only make out the first three letters—FJB—before the car turned at the intersection and disappeared.
What the hell?
He helped Stephanie to her feet. The guard rushed their way, spewing out something in Swedish.
“We’re fine,” Stephanie said. “Really, we are.”
“This should be reported,” the guard said, switching to English.
“Are there cameras out here?” Cotton asked.
The guard nodded.
“We are on our way to meet with palace security,” Stephanie pointed out, grabbing hold of her composure. “We will speak to them about this.”
The guard seemed satisfied and retreated to his station, but not before retrieving their two umbrellas and handing them over.
“What was that?” she quietly asked Cotton as the guard walked away.
“Three possibilities. That car was after me. Or you. Or both of us. My guess?”
“Me. Since nobody knew you were coming.”
“Seems like the correct answer.”
“I feared this whole thing may turn personal.”
“Is that another reason why I’m here?”
She nodded. “I was afraid me being involved would escalate an already bad situation. I told the king that, tried to beg off, but he insisted I come.”
He waited.
“And it’s all thanks to a man named John Westlake.”
John Westlake could not believe his good fortune. One minute he was home, enjoying the glorious English countryside, about to begin another uneventful day. Less than twelve hours later he was in Sweden.
Back for the first time in many years.
He’d once routinely entered the royal palace through the official diplomatic entrance, a portal reserved for heads of state and foreign ambassadors, uniformed guards always at attention atop a red carpet. Today he’d gained access through a lesser side door used only by staff. No honor guard. No welcome. Nothing.
That was okay. He hadn’t been hoping for much.
He remained a royal consort, husband to Princess Lysa and thus a senior member, by marriage, of the Swedish royal family. Twenty-six years ago there’d been a grand wedding here in the palace televised to the nation. The king and queen had both attended, along with over a thousand invited guests. The festivities had consumed four full days. A bit of a fairy tale. It was customary for the royal family to wed other royalty, either from within Sweden but more often from the outside. Lysa had broken with that tradition and married a wealthy British businessman. The king had never considered him anything more than a commoner, telegraphing his distaste every chance he could.
Like today.
And the entrance he’d been told to use.
“The king needs to speak with you. In person. Please come to the palace with all speed.”
There’d been no explanation from the royal secretary beyond that the matter was important and discretion was advised. Lysa was here, in Stockholm, on a previously scheduled visit and he’d tried to call and speak with her, but she’d not answered her mobile phone. He’d stopped by her apartment, but there’d been no answer there either.
He stood for a moment and took stock of his surroundings.
He’d always been impressed with the royal residence. Long ago the famed Vasa kings had turned the ugly Tre Kronor fortress into a beautiful Renaissance palace, but that building burned to the ground in 1697. Its replacement—which took sixty years to complete—had an Italian exterior and a French interior, all muted by a mundane Swedish influence. One thousand four hundred and thirteen rooms across fifty thousand square feet. A daunting edifice that served as the official residence of the king, housing his and the queen’s offices along with the royal administration. Used only during official duties, though. Otherwise the family lived three miles away at the much smaller Drottningholm, which allowed the main palace to serve as a tourist destination, many of the rooms open for viewing. Summer was the busy time, but he noticed little activity today. The place seemed deserted save for the bureaucrats that, he assumed, remained in perpetual foot-dragging mode.
He grabbed his bearings and found the administrative offices, still located where they’d always been, and was told he was expected in the Jubilee Room.
He nearly smiled.
Another message?
For sure.
Its decorations were a gift a decade ago from Sweden’s parliament and local municipalities honoring the king’s silver jubilee on the throne. The overall theme and design was the embodiment of a Swedish summer. Its carpet a reminder of wildflowers, the watercolor walls like open fields, the ceiling a blue sky dotted with light clouds.
Everything airy and upbeat.
Belonging exclusively to the king.
He climbed an impressive staircase of Swedish marble and porphyry to the second floor and followed another familiar path to the palace’s north side. The rooms ran into one another in the French way, making corridors sparse. Two plainclothes security men waited outside the Jubilee Room. He told himself to be mindful. Be gracious. Conciliatory. The king was old school. A traditionalist who’d sat on the throne going on fifty-one years. Married to the same woman since he was twenty-nine years old. Father of six children. Grandfather to nine. Educated first privately here at the palace, then at boarding school, serving three years in the Swedish Army, rising to the rank of captain before his accession to the throne. A learned man trained in history, sociology, political science, and economics. But also stubborn and arrogant, with myriad rigid opinions, many of which had been sore spots between them.
None of that disagreement today, though.
Thankfully, over the past nine years, he might not have acquired any resolution or ease of manner, but he’d at least gained a comfortable self-confidence.
So embrace it.
He’d dressed appropriately. Clothes were important. He loved what Coco Chanel once said. In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different. For him suits were like tools. Navy was the hands-down top choice. And rightly so. It worked with every skin tone, suitable for work, weddings, and everything in between, screaming class. Gray was just as versatile but generally connoted business, used more often as the go-to option when navy seemed too relaxed. Formal events and evenings demanded a black suit, as did funerals, but vibrancy could be added through colorful accessories like a bright silk tie, pocket square, or bold socks. Today, for this royal audience, he’d chosen a gray windowpane check, tailor-fitted on Saville Row. The ensemble was, as Chanel would have loved, one of a kind.
He stopped before the Jubilee Room.
The door before him was old, weathered, its grain-raised, fine walnut surface glowing a rich red-brown. The two security men clearly knew who he was as neither asked for any identification.
One reached for the handle.
Curiosity screamed within him at the prospect of being face-to-face with the man he’d hated for so many years. He told himself to project the relaxed awareness of someone who lived his life in the open, free of guilt.
Okay.
Here we go.
Stephanie remained shaken. Thank goodness Cotton had been there. As usual, he’d handled the situation. That ability to do the extraordinary was what made him special. She’d known this was going to be complicated.
But an attempt on her life? Right off the bat?
That changed things.
There were few people in the world she truly trusted. Danny Daniels, of course. The two of them had cemented their relationship, and they both seemed happy. Her husband had died decades ago, and she’d never thought love possible again. But Danny had changed that. He was a good, decent man who led the United States for eight years as president. Now he served in the Senate, first appointed then elected to a full term from Tennessee. He remained a political force. Not much was done in Congress that did not make its way through him. He had friends on both sides of the aisle and knew the workings of the American republic better than probably anyone in the country. He was also immensely popular, which provided a Teflon coating from his enemies. He and the current president, Warner Fox, did not see eye-to-eye, and that animosity had spilled over to her on more than one occasion. A truce now existed between them. Not an unconditional peace and an end to all hostilities. More a cease-fire that everyone was trying hard not to break.
Her son Mark was also on the trust list. An Oxford-educated historian who’d once taught at the University of Toulouse in southern France. Long ago he was supposedly lost in the Pyrenees during an avalanche. But he’d risen from the dead, found alive and well, living in a cloistered French monastery, where he was today, and they remained close.
All thanks to Cotton.
Who was the third person she trusted unconditionally.
They’d met a long time ago. She’d been pointed his way by admirals who thought Cotton better suited for intelligence work than being a navy JAG lawyer. She’d been skeptical, particularly considering his youth and brashness. Their first encounter had been a memorable one in Florida. But those admirals had been right. There was something there. A boldness, tempered by reason, that sprang from an ability to independently think, assess, and act. He simply got things done. A true pragmatist, taking the world as it came, dealing only in facts or inferences that could be reasonably made from them. No guessing. No seat-of-the-pants. Few mistakes. She’d never regretted the decision to hire him, and he remained her go-to man when the chips were down.
She and Cotton walked to the top of Slottsbacken, umbrellas back in hand, and left the rain, entering the palace through the tourist doors. Waiting for them was a woman in her mid- to late fifties, pleasant-faced, well dressed in a charcoal-colored business suit, her brown hair piled serenely in braided coils.
Simone de Ciutiis. The current prime minister of Sweden.
Not someone Stephanie had ever dealt with, so she’d been briefed by those in the know who offered two pieces of advice. First, pronounce her name correctly: Simona de Chootis. She was peculiar about that. The foreign press loved to screw it up. And second? Tread carefully. Her talent was being herself—easy, natural, giving, accepting—but all that hid the mind of someone who, she’d been warned, always thought beyond the moment. She likes to be underestimated. But who didn’t? The prime minister was in her eighth year in office, only the second woman to ever achieve the top political spot in Sweden.
“It is good to meet you,” Stephanie said in English. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“As do I.”
She introduced Cotton. “He worked for me a long time. He’s now retired. Out of the official loop. But there is no one better qualified to help with this matter.”
“Then it is good you are here,” de Ciutiis said to Cotton.
They left their wet coats and umbrellas at the counter and were led into the palace.
“Has John Westlake arrived?” Stephanie asked their host. She’d been told the Brit had been summoned.
“He is with the king. His Majesty wanted to speak with him alone, first, before we became involved.”
Cotton showed no reaction to the mention of the name, and being a pro, he made no further inquiry. He knew the pecking order, realizing that he was the low man on the pole. As he loved to say, you learned a lot more with your ears open and mouth shut.
They climbed an ornate staircase to the third floor.
“The building will be closed for the next few days,” the prime minister said. “Nothing unusual there. It is often shut for official functions and state visits.”
“Has this been contained?” Stephanie asked.
“So far. Beyond the king and queen, no one else in the royal family knows anything.”
They made their way into what was identified by a placard as the Council Chamber, a beautiful room with gilded walls, crystal chandeliers, tapestries, and stunning oil portraits. Four curtained windows opened to the outside. Once the king of Sweden’s principal dining room, now it served as a meeting space, where the cabinet council occasionally met to inform the monarch on the affairs of government. A long table dominated the space, solid and graceful, placed with respect according to some official instinct, catty-cornered in the middle of the room. It was sheathed in a green cloth with ten red velvet chairs down each side. A single chair sat at the far end was reserved for the king. Two guards waited at the entrance. Once they were inside the doors were closed, leaving the three of them alone.
“Let me start,” the prime minister said, “by saying that I personally am sympathetic to this situation, as is the government. This is awful. And totally unexpected.”
“Is the cabinet council involved?” Stephanie asked.
“They have been informed.”
And she knew why. Sweden’s government was focused on the cabinet council, comprising twenty-five ministers who oversaw the various government departments. Similar to the United States with the president’s cabinet. But unlike back home, none of these ministers were autonomous in their various areas. Instead, everything was decided collectively. Which, more often than not, resulted in too many cooks in the kitchen.
Stephanie noticed a file folder atop the table. “Is that it?”
De Ciutiis nodded.
She stepped over, motioned for Cotton to come close, and opened the file. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a few lines of plain English print.
We can trade. The Devil’s Bible for your sister. If there is agreement, fly the flag on the palace roof inverted. You have until noon tomorrow to do that. If not, your sister will not be coming back alive.
A door seemed to open in Cotton’s mind, and he gave her the look.
One she’d seen many times before.
Which said.
Really?
Lysa’s nerves were on edge.
She’d agreed to all that had happened but had not realized, at the time, just how out of place the whole experience would be. She was a creature of the familiar. Change was not something she actively sought. But John had assured her that everything was okay. This would be short-lived and vitally important. And though she had reservations she sincerely believed that her husband would never mislead her.
They met nearly thirty years ago at a social gathering held at Stirling Castle in southern Scotland. She’d been there on behalf of her philanthropic foundation that dealt with dyslexia, an affliction she herself suffered from. They dated for nearly three years before he proposed, and they were married inside the royal chapel, in Stockholm, at the palace. Her brother the king had not been thrilled but, to his credit, he’d not been an obstacle either. She’d worn a fabulous gown made at Märthaskolen, the famed Stockholm couture school where, in her youth, she’d been a student. Everything had been perfect.
What a wonderful day.
And her life changed.
Long ago, prior to her brother marrying, she’d acted as First Lady of the realm and hosted events at the palace. So being in the spotlight was not foreign to her. But when Queen Ingrid came along, she was relegated to a different role.
. . .
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