man. "That's one of them. They've been training for weeks with us. By now, they should know how to handle all of it."
Torstensson cocked his head, looking at the man Simpson was pointing to. The gesture was inquisitive. The Swedish radio operator was fluent in English, of course, given his assignment, so he'd been able to follow the conversation.
The man nodded firmly. "Good," said Torstensson. "That will help. A great deal."
He gave Mike a smile that was still grim, but also a bit amused. "I must warn you, however, that while it is most disrespectful to suggest that His Majesty would stoop to something as low and common as horse-trading, he is actually very good at it."
"You're telling me," chuckled Mike. "I've swapped horses with him before, you know. It's still a painful memory."
But not all that painful. Sure as hell not compared to a civil war, if it can be avoided. Some can't, but this one can.
"Anything else?" asked Simpson.
"Send an immediate radio message to Wismar. I want Jesse back here ASAP, with the plane. And tell that stubborn apolitical character that if he doesn't overfly the palace at least three times before he lands, I'll have his liver for dinner. Gas is cheap; blood isn't. But, most of all, I want Sharon here. Desperately. She'll be worth her weight in gold."
"Done. Anything else?"
Mike thought a moment.
"Yes. Please send a runner to your wife. I'll want—very much want—Mary and Veronica to be standing on the palace steps next to me."
Again, Simpson was caught off-balance. "Mary? Why? Sharon and Veronica I can understand, sure—Hans Richter's betrothed and grandmother. But Mary—"
The admiral groped for words. "Mike, please. She'd be like a fish out of a water at something like that. Not to mention scared out of her wits. Ask Mary to give a speech to a crowd of—well, you know. Rich people sitting at fancy tables in a fancy banquet room while she tries to squeeze money from them for her latest project. But—"
"John, be quiet." Mike's voice was low, but almost steely. "What you—or Mary—understand about this stuff could be written on the head of a pin. You're not in that universe, any longer. You're in this one. And in this one . . ."
He groped for words himself. As he did so, his eyes ranged across the area, coming to rest on the small crowd of Germans gathered