Page 87 of The Dandelion Princess
“Here’s the thing…”
27
Something Rotten
ELLA
Marc’s voice drops. “Why are you using an anonymous, untraceable computer on the grounds of a private club with a long track record of keeping its secrets? What mischief are you up to?”
I swallow thickly. Mischief. That’s the way to sell this. A prank. Bringing about the downfall of a popular elected official is barely a step up from circling the toilet ring with snapping fireworks, setting the seat gently in place, and waiting for a furious sister to burst from the loo.
“Listen,” I begin.
“Oh no.” Marc looks up to the dull metal ceiling where our reflections live in blurry contentment. “It’s more than a few Pixy comments, isn’t it? It’s more than just ‘looking into’ the prime minister.”
I clear my throat. “A little more.”
He closes his eyes, and I wonder if this is one of the early warning signs of a heart attack. “Have you hacked into the national security database?” he asks. “Are we talking about something that big?”
Is it wrong to feel flattered that he thinks I’m capable of it? “I don’t need to hack anything. You would not believe how much dirt you can dig up simply by tracking how busy nearby takeout places are during a national security crisis.”
“Explain.”
“If there are lines at the döner kebab place, they’ve got a problem with the Navy. The top Army brass prefer an American pizza chain.” His hand tightens. “The point is that culling through publicly accessible information is not a crime.”
“I tremble when you use that tone,” he says, dragging the laptop closer. “If you’re not doing anything wrong, explain the remote location and VPN.”
“I wanted a measure of discretion.”
“Discretion,” he mutters. “Show me what you’re working on.”
I don’t know how to keep secrets from Marc. My brow wrinkles. That’s not entirely true. He doesn’t know how much I would give to memorialize this booth for posterity, to put up a historical plaquethatNeerheidvan Heyden and HRH Princess Ella made history on this spot. Continents shifted. Lives were changed.
He navigates with the touchpad, emitting a series of grunts.
Finally, his knuckle brushes the underside of my chin, urging me to face him. “I thought you were trying to untangle yourself from your family. To run away and never look back.”
Arne probably has his eyes locked on us now, prepared to spray us down with a fire extinguisher in the event of another public incident.
“Neutralizing their greatest threat is my parting gift,” I murmur.
“Vede.” The word seems to hiss through his skin, and I drag my gaze away.
“I’m tracking his position,” I say. “The prime minister’s office has a daily rota of activities and lists of meetings anyone is privy to, but there are consistent gaps.” I pull up a spreadsheet, divided up in quarter-hour segments. “Once a week, he drops off the grid.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything nefarious,” Marc argues. “Maybe it’s pickleball. Maybe it’s church.”
My eyeballs almost roll onto the table. “Can you see him bending to the will of the Almighty without alerting PAPZ?”
A smile flits across Marc’s mouth.
“Look at this,” I press, lifting my phone. “During one of these dark spots in his itinerary, he posted a 10 second video of himself, promising a review of the Provisional Residency Card system.”
Until his marriage to Freja, Oskar was a Provisional Resident. For Ella, the subject is personal.
“You might not like him, but he has to visit his constituency and address their concerns.” Marc pushes back, but I don’t mind. He listens, his questions always sharpening my thoughts, forcing me to articulate my reasoning.
I shake my head and Marc brushes a curl back, tucking it in among the others. “He’s not in his constituency.”
