Queen Isabelle sat behind her massive oak desk, looking every inch the monarch she'd been for the past twenty-three years.She was a striking woman in her early fifties, with the kind of bone structure that photographers spent hours trying to capture and the kind of personality that made photographers wish they'd chosen a different career.Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in the same elegant chignon she'd worn since I was a child, and her pale blue eyes missed absolutely nothing, including, the bit of hay I'd just noticed on my sleeve.
She wore a navy blazer and her posture suggested she'd been born knowing exactly how much space she deserved to occupy in any room.Which was all of it, in case you were wondering.
But today something was different.There were dark circles under her eyes that her makeup hadn't fully managed to conceal, and her usually controlled demeanor seemed strained at the edges.The stack of documents on her desk wasn't the usual correspondence and ceremonial plans.These looked like intelligence briefings, and from what I could read upside down, it wasn’t good news.
I'd learned to read my mother's subtle signs over the years, mostly as a survival mechanism.The slight tightening around her eyes meant she was annoyed.The way her fingers drummed once against her desk meant she was about to deliver news I wouldn't like.The fact that she hadn't yet commented on the hay on my sleeve meant whatever she was about to say was serious enough to override her usual sartorial criticism.
This was going to be bad.
"You wanted to see me, Mother."
"Sit down, Archibald."
The use of my full name was never a good sign.I took the chair across from her desk and waited.This wasn't going to be a quick conversation, but at least it wasn’t going to be about something as mundane as flower arrangements.Small mercies.
"I've just received word from Valdoria," she said without preamble."Princess Bettina has been located."
It took me a moment to place the name."The kidnapped heir.I thought she was dead."
"As did most of Europe.But it appears she's been living in America for the past twenty years.Oregon, of all places."
"Oregon."I tried to picture a European princess in Oregon.The images that came to mind involved a lot of flannel and mooses.Meece?Moose."Doing what, exactly?"
"Working as a barista, apparently."
I blinked."A barista."
"Yes.She makes coffee.For money.In a café."My mother said this the way most people might describe finding a cockroach in their soup."She's being brought home as we speak."
I waited for her to explain why this concerned me.Surely my role in all this would be limited to making polite conversation at some welcome home dinner and then retreating back to my horses.
"I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you."She reached for a folder marked with security classifications I'd never seen in her private study before."The world situation has become considerably more dangerous than the public realizes."
She opened the folder and turned it so I could see the contents.Satellite photographs, naval positioning charts, and what looked like intelligence assessments from multiple NATO sources.Spy briefings with Mother.Lovely.
"These were taken three days ago," she said, pointing to the first photograph."Russian submarines in the Black Sea.Count them."
I studied the image, noting the distinctive silhouettes scattered across the dark water."Twelve."
"Normal deployment is six.These additional vessels arrived over the past two weeks, ostensibly for routine training exercises."Her voice carried a bitter edge when she said the word routine."Training exercises that were supposed to conclude last Tuesday but have been extended indefinitely."
The next document was a detailed map of Mediterranean shipping routes, with Solmarina's territorial waters highlighted in red.Curved lines showed the flow of commercial traffic through our seas, with percentages marked at key intersections.
"Forty percent of European energy imports pass through these waters," Mother continued, tracing the shipping lanes with her finger."Oil tankers from the Middle East, natural gas shipments from North Africa, emergency supply routes that bypass Russian-controlled pipelines.If someone wanted to strangle Europe's energy supply, this is exactly where they would do it."
The implications were starting to become clear, and I didn't like where this was heading.I especially didn't like how it seemed to be heading toward me.
"Putin's been reducing energy exports to European markets for months," she said."Driving up prices, creating shortages, making countries more desperate and more willing to make political concessions.But if he could control the alternative supply routes as well..."
"He'd have Europe by the throat," I finished.
"Our intelligence sources believe he's positioning for some kind of coordinated action within sixty days.The submarine positioning, the extended 'exercises,' the timing of it all points to an operation in the Mediterranean."
She flipped to another page showing NATO naval response times and current defense capabilities.
"Our nearest allied bases are in Naples and Gibraltar.From Naples, it takes forty-eight hours to get a meaningful defensive force to our waters.From Gibraltar, even longer.By the time help could arrive, any operation would be a fait accompli."
I studied the charts and timelines, seeing the strategic problem laid out in stark detail."So what's the solution?"
