The Princess Trap

by Kirsten Boie

  “Is, Your Royal Highness, it still is!” von Thunberg said soothingly. “There’s no way your daughter can leave if she’s still here. Security is on its way with dogs and searchlights and night vision aids, so rest assured, we shall find the children.”

  “It was that Pizza Princess business!” said Margareta, burying her face in her hands. “She was so ashamed. And then I had to go and talk to her like I did …”

  “You think she’s run away?” asked Petterson, putting a hand on her shoulder. For a father whose son had also disappeared, he seemed remarkably calm. “But how could she have done that? Thunberg’s quite right, the security measures here couldn’t be better. I’m more inclined to think …”

  “No!” said the princess. “No, Peter, no!”

  “We need to face facts, Greta,” Petterson persisted. “It can’t be a coincidence that both Perry and Jenna have vanished at the same time.”

  “But they could have run away together!” the princess said, almost pleading. “Peter! Why can’t you believe that?”

  Petterson stroked her hair. “Two of them just slipping through the security net?” he asked gently. “Margareta, be honest with yourself. The rebels have always found ways and means. How can we know who’s infiltrated our security staff? True, we haven’t received any ransom demands yet, but …”

  “No!” whispered the princess. She stood up, then paced to and fro. They were in one of the von Thunbergs’ reception rooms. The heavy brocade curtains had not been closed, so the glass of the windows reflected the ornate chandeliers. The parquet flooring, with its decorative inlays, was covered with oriental silk carpets that deadened the sound of her footsteps. “Not last year all over again! I couldn’t bear that, Peter! The fear! Not Jenna again! It’s been nonstop anxiety since the day she was born!”

  Von Thunberg cleared his throat. “If I might just point something out, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “The security situation in our country is badly in need of improvement. It seems to me very unlikely that the rebels would dare to abduct a princess if they had to deal with military roadblocks at every turn. But of course …” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Now is not the time to promote your agenda, Thunberg!” said Petterson sharply. “Margareta, darling. My son has disappeared with her, and —”

  At that moment the door swung open. “I came straight from the airport as soon as I got your news, Margareta,” said the king, standing in the doorway. “Well? Any updates?”

  The princess shook her head. “Not Jenna again!” she repeated in a whisper.

  Magnus crossed the room and took her in his arms. “There, there,” he said. “It’s too soon to tell. Jenna could be sitting somewhere, clueless to all our concerns, happy as a clam …”

  Margareta pushed him away. “You believe that?” she cried. “After all you went through yourself last year? How can you be so blind, Magnus? And how can we just stand here wasting time? We’ve got to —”

  Von Thunberg interrupted. “Your Majesty!” he said, with an impatient bow. “I can only agree with your sister. We should make a public announcement immediately, issue a missing persons alert for both children. It may not be much help now, in the middle of the night, but tomorrow morning when people get up and it’s the first thing they hear on the news, you’ll have the whole of Scandia searching for them.”

  “The press already have photos,” added Petterson.

  The king nodded. “Right,” he said. “An announcement.” He looked exhausted. Considering the recent series of events, the last few days had been made up of one long meeting after another. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight,” he said.

  “Forgive me if I disagree, Your Majesty,” said von Thunberg. “Let me order my men to take over internal security. Within two hours they can set up roadblocks on all the major routes. Even during the night we can still conduct searches of every known or suspected rebel stronghold. This is a national crisis, Your Majesty!”

  “The possibility that my niece has been kidnapped does not constitute a national crisis, von Thunberg,” said the king. He leaned against one of the window seats, almost too tired to stand. “Even if it feels like one to my sister and me. A personal tragedy for the royal family is no more important to the nation than the tragedy of any other family. It does not justify military intervention.” He looked out across the grounds, which were now in total darkness. “Even if at this moment I might wish that it did,” he added wearily.

  “Magnus!” cried Margareta. With a few steps she was beside him. “Please, Magnus! It’s not just Jenna! Von Thunberg has been asking now for so long …”

  “To be honest, Magnus, I think he’s right,” said Petterson. “Look at what happened at the airport this afternoon. The rebels are doing as they please right under our noses — they think they have nothing to fear! If you stay this stubborn, you’ll jeopardize all the progress you say you’re trying to foster in Scandia.”

  The king looked at him. “If only I knew the right thing to do,” he murmured.

  “Please, Magnus!” cried his sister. “Think of Jenna!”

  “Think of our country, Your Majesty,” said von Thunberg.

  “Think of the reforms,” said Petterson.

  The king gave a weary nod. “All right, von Thunberg,” he said. “Do what’s necessary. And inform the press. But emphasize that it’s only a temporary measure. As soon as the situation calms down again, there’ll be no more soldiers on the streets of Scandia.”

  “Thank you, Magnus,” said the princess.

  Von Thunberg was already on his way out.

  “I don’t think we should go back to Holmburg tonight,” said Petterson, glancing at the king. “You should get some sleep, Magnus. I fear there are difficult days ahead.”

  The king nodded. “The last thing I wanted was to have to give orders like these again.”

  As soon as the sun was high enough to give her some warmth, Jenna lay down on the ground behind some bushes, rolled herself up into a ball, and immediately fell asleep.

  She woke up when she heard the noise of a vehicle in the distance. There was an ominous tickle in her throat. She must not let it turn into a full-blown cold. The road was narrow and winding, with occasional exits to remote farmsteads on both sides. She wondered who might be driving along here at such an early hour in the day.

  Looking over the hedge, she saw it was a milk tanker. She hesitated for a moment; she was tired and there was still a long way to go. All the same, she decided to continue on foot. It was safer. There was no guarantee the driver wouldn’t recognize her, even if she didn’t look in the least like a princess.

  But peeking over the hedge was enough to bring the heavy truck to a screeching halt.

  “Do you want a lift?” asked the driver. He had dark hair like hers. “Where are you going?”

  “Saarstad,” said Jenna, before she could even think about it.

  The man leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door. “Get in,” he said. “It’s not that far, but every mile counts, eh?”

  Jenna sneezed and nodded. He hadn’t recognized her. How could he, with her straggly, matted hair and her shabby dress?

  “Hey, you’re soaked through!” he said, putting the truck in gear and pressing the accelerator. The truck moved off. “Were you outside in the storm last night? Here, wrap this blanket around you.”

  He stopped the truck again, stood up in his seat, and motioned to Jenna to stand up, too. Then he removed the blanket they’d been sitting on and draped it over her shoulders. “There,” he said.

  Jenna didn’t know if she should feel disgusted or not. The blanket was threadbare, and had that musty smell that comes from being used for ages without being washed. But the warmth in it made her realize just how cold she had been. “Thank you,” she murmured. She wasn’t even aware of her eyes closing.

  She was startled out of her sleep by an abrupt jerk of the brakes, and it took her a moment to remember where she was.

&nb
sp; “Awake now?” asked the driver with a laugh. “You didn’t get much sleep. Sorry.” He turned on his radio.

  “Are we in Saarstad?” asked Jenna. On each side of the road were wooden houses painted yellow, pink, and red, with well-tended gardens. Ripe berries hung from the bushes, there was not a weed to be seen in the vegetable patches, and the paths leading up to the houses were lined with bunches of daisies and hollyhocks. On the road ahead of them a line of cars stood bumper to bumper.

  “Great!” muttered the driver, caught up in his own thoughts. “And we’re still only on the outskirts.” He fiddled with the radio, switching from one station to another. “No idea what this holdup is all about. Let’s see if I can find a traffic report …” He sighed. “At this rate there’s no way I’ll be able to get the milk to the dairy on time. I don’t know why everything’s started running short — suddenly people can’t get enough to eat. If there’s a cheese shortage as well, you’ll know the reason why.”

  Jenna removed the blanket from her shoulders. “Thank you for the ride,” she said. “I’ll go the rest of the way on foot now.”

  The man nodded. “You’ll get there quicker that way,” he said. “Out you get.”

  Jenna thanked him again. She waved up at the driver’s cab, then walked on past the line of cars toward the center of town.

  The short sleep had done her good, and she was warmer now. All the same, she couldn’t help sneezing. I’ve caught a cold after all, she thought. I hope I’m not going to get a sore throat as well. I could do without that.

  She’d gone about a quarter mile when she began to recognize the houses. There was still a long line of cars along the road beside her. Maybe there’d been an accident. It couldn’t be too far now to the marketplace where she’d called those horrible coup plotters, Bolström and Mrs. Markas, last year. She remembered the morning smell of freshly baked bread, and children on their way to school.

  How frightened she’d been then. Now she just felt sad, though the morning sunshine made her situation seem more bearable.

  At the sight of the market square, Jenna came to an abrupt stop. What’s going on here? she wondered with some apprehension. The square was so full of people, you could hardly see the buildings. Camera operators were standing at the sides with their heavy apparatus perched on their shoulders, filming; reporters were thrusting microphones into the angry faces of South Scandians; and in the center of the square she could see the satellite vans from the country’s two most important TV channels.

  She moved a little closer, pulling a strand of hair over her face as she went. Recent paparazzi photos of her had shown little more than a gaping mouth, and in the months before that, they’d been portraits of a princess carefully made up for all occasions by the royal stylists. The driver of the tanker truck hadn’t recognized her, but that didn’t mean no one else would. There might still be people who’d see the ragged little northerner in the damp blue dress and identify her as the Pizza Princess.

  Jenna felt the anger rising inside her. In her despair over Jonas, she’d forgotten all about that. Well, now you’re rid of me, she thought. Now you’ll have to find someone else to write your vicious articles about. I’m no longer available to the media, so tough luck. The Roly-Poly Princess has left the building.

  It was quite a satisfying thought, she noticed, and anger felt better than sadness. At last she’d stopped letting people tell her how to live her life and was doing something for herself. Even if it was only running away. She’d taken her life into her own hands. Yes, she liked the sound of that.

  People were packed tight in the market square, watching something — it was surprising how many people there were for such a small town. Jenna heard a loud clattering, followed by yelling. She pushed her way toward the front.

  About fifty women in aprons and headscarves were marching around the square, shouting at the top of their lungs, drumming saucepans with wooden spoons.

  “Our pots are empty!” they yelled. “Our children are hungry! Down with the government!”

  Cameras were filming the scene from all angles. Jenna hid her face behind some man’s broad back.

  “Our pots are empty! Our children are hungry! Down with the government!”

  The women marched up and down, up and down, chanting their slogan. The two at the front were carrying a large banner on which the same words were written.

  So Scandia’s come to this, thought Jenna. Mothers demonstrating against hunger. Something’s got to be done! How can it be the government’s fault? Liron is a good, smart person and he’s Minister of the Interior. Surely he can make certain that people have enough to eat?

  She ducked away, and moved slowly through the crowd toward the opposite side of the square. She had to take the road that led to the sea. There was still a short distance to go.

  At the side of the square stood a woman holding the hand of a child who was staring at the microphone, its thumb in its mouth. The mother was being interviewed. “Of course it’s a scandal!” she said. “Mothers protesting because their children haven’t got enough to eat, here at home, in Scandia! This used to be such a rich country!”

  “Down with the government?” asked the interviewer.

  “Down with the government!” said the mother, and pulled her child away.

  Jenna looked back at the marching women, pouring all their energy into the protest. She could see their faces. Suddenly one in particular caught her eye and she blinked in shock.

  Mrs. von Thunberg! she thought in utter disbelief. If the woman hadn’t been wearing a headscarf and an apron, she could have sworn it was Mrs. von Thunberg!

  Jenna sneezed.

  Well, Jenna knew better than anyone that people can have look-alikes. But the woman behind Mrs. von Thunberg looked familiar, too. And the one next to her. Hadn’t Jenna seen all of them somewhere before? Could it be …? Yes! Yesterday, at the party!

  Jenna ducked her head and continued on her way. I’m losing it, she thought. It can’t be them. When I think what was served at the von Thunbergs’ yesterday — no one was going hungry there! It just can’t be them. I’m seriously sleep-deprived, I’ve got a cold, I’m hallucinating. I need to get to the navigator’s house. I’ll be able to catch up on some sleep there. After that, we’ll see.

  Liron wanted to borrow Carlson’s car.

  “Why?” Carlson asked. He could only bear to drive his own little clunker because he spent the rest of the day behind the wheel of the large state limousine. “It’s over ten years old, sir!” “I just want to remind myself what it’s like to drive in an ordinary car,” Liron replied. He didn’t know whether Carlson believed him. But he couldn’t borrow the cook’s car again, and he was pretty sure the chauffeur’s personal car wouldn’t be bugged. “I may be Minister of the Interior, Carlson, but all the more reason why I shouldn’t ever forget how ordinary people live, should I?”

  “But you don’t have to go out in an old wreck like this, sir! Couldn’t you borrow one of the other servants’ cars?” said the bewildered chauffeur. “I’ve been wanting to buy a decent car for ages. And I’ll do just that as soon as I’ve saved up enough. It’s better to wait and get something really top-notch rather than rush into it and get a load of old junk. That’s what I say. Am I right, sir?”

  Liron agreed with him, but persuaded him his car would do just fine. He sat down in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The car coughed and spluttered in response, then moved forward with a little jerk. “It will have to do,” murmured Liron.

  He exited the grounds of the parliament and merged with the heavy traffic rumbling along the six-lane boulevard that led toward the city center. On each side of the road were wide expanses of lawn, with sprinklers watering the grass. This early in the morning there was traffic everywhere, and progress was slow through the narrow streets of Holmburg, which had been built more than a hundred years ago for horse-drawn carriages and only widened during the last few decades.

  In the center
of Museum Square stood a nineteenth-century fountain of a shepherdess holding a jug from which water cascaded down several levels of a large basin. It was here that Liron saw the first soldiers. So soon, he thought. It hadn’t taken von Thunberg long to deploy the army. Presumably he’d had plans drawn up for some time now, and was just waiting for approval to execute the order. The presence of soldiers should have given Liron a sense of security, but instead he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  He sighed. Magnus had yielded to pressure and the decision had been made. Now they would have to see how they could live with it. But having the military on the streets made it all the more vital that the crisis was dealt with quickly.

  The spotless white buildings on both sides of the street were a sign of the nation’s former wealth. Behind the shining shop windows there had once been piles of goods for sale. Now, as he drove past, he could see that they contained nothing except the silk drapes covering the back walls.

  And there he was, in his chauffeur’s used car, on his way to find a solution to all these problems.

  At a crossroads, he made a gut decision. Instead of turning off onto the road that would take him straight across the dam to the meeting place, he drove past it. The next exit took him to one of the newer areas on the outskirts of the city, where from a distance the grim housing projects seemed to dwarf the old church. These prefabricated apartment buildings had been hastily thrown up in order to house the cheap labor from the north who were then so urgently needed to boost Scandia’s economy.

  Just a year ago, he and Jonas, northerners themselves, had hidden in one of these anonymous buildings. It came as a shock to realize how long ago that seemed, and how unfamiliar the surroundings had become. He was in danger of forgetting how the other half lived. He shuddered at the sight of overturned garbage cans, a shopping cart abandoned in a straggly bush, the graffiti on the walls, plastic bags in the trees, and empty bottles in the gutters.