by Brad Thor
“It’s all upside,” the Vietnamese had said. “You’re not labor on this one, you’re management.”
The offer was incredible—one he knew he would never see the likes of again.
“I get to do it my way, with the people I want?” said Aubertin. “No strings attached?”
“No strings attached,” Trang had replied.
For the next twenty minutes they talked. Finally, with all of their issues resolved, they clinked glasses, and sealed their deal.
CHAPTER 12
OSLO, NORWAY
The Thief Hotel was one of the coolest, most opulent hotels in the world. It took its name from its location—Tjuvholmen, or Thief Islet. Once known as a haven for bandits, pirates, and prostitutes, today it was a trendy waterfront neighborhood jutting out into the Oslo Fjord filled with restaurants, yacht harbors, condos, and office buildings.
Built by a Norwegian billionaire and adjacent to the Astrup Fearnley Museum of Modern Art, the chic, splashy hotel functioned like a swanky additional wing. It displayed a rotating array of the museum’s most impressive contemporary pieces. But the art was nothing compared to The Thief’s guest list.
The six-star property, famed for “treating rock stars as guests and guests as rock stars,” attracted a powerhouse, international clientele, as well as the crème de la crème of Oslo’s cultural, financial, and political elite. It also had a kickass rooftop bar and restaurant, which was why Sølvi Kolstad had chosen it for her rendezvous.
She had loved The Thief since before it had even opened. As part of the waterfront renovation, it was an ambitious urban-renewal project and she was proud of what it said about Oslo’s commitment to always move forward.
The whole area, packed with financial, advertising, and media executives, dripped with money and was incredibly glamorous. In fact, she had suggested to Gunnar that this was where they should live, but he had brushed it off. He wanted to be in one of the older, more established quarters of the city—like Briskeby with its shops and luxury apartment blocks, or leafy, park-studded Bygdøy.
It was too bad. Had he jumped in when she had suggested, they probably would have doubled their money by the time they divorced.
None of that mattered now. Or maybe it did still matter, a little, but she knew better than to dwell on it. Nothing good would come from thinking about Gunnar and what could have been. It only served to upset her.
Parking in the underground garage, she came up to the street level, walked to the bridge in front of the hotel, and peered over the railing. There were always beautiful boats moored along the dock below. Today was no exception.
An exquisite Riva bobbed against its fenders in the sparkling water. She had to be almost fifteen meters long. The sparkling, silver paint job stood in perfect harmony with the caramel-colored teak decking and highly polished chrome railings, cleats, and assorted fixtures.
Sølvi loved boats and loved getting out on the water. Despite everything else they had in common, the fact that Gunnar didn’t, should have been a sign.
Entering The Thief through its massive, automated revolving door, she breathed in the delicious, rarefied air. Simply walking into the lobby, she felt like a VIP. Crossing to the elevators, she took it all in, the art, the décor, the staff—there was no other way to phrase it, the whole place was just so damn sexy. It only got better once she got to the roof.
Walking down a narrow hallway, she stepped out onto the deck and into the open-air restaurant. The young manager greeted her with a bright smile and treated her as if she was a regular. She gave the man her name, he consulted his tablet, and then, picking up two menus, led her to the exact table she had requested.
As she walked, she could feel the eyes of most of the male, as well as the female customers on her. It was a sensation that used to make her uncomfortable and self-conscious. But if anything good had come from her otherwise disastrous time abroad as a model, it was getting used to people noticing her.
In the intelligence game, one normally didn’t want to be noticed. To put it more succinctly, one especially didn’t want to be remembered. She had ways of downplaying everything, including her height. When she wanted to slip by unnoticed, she wasn’t half bad. On the occasions when she wanted to catch someone’s attention and stand out, she was exceptional.
Her table was in the back corner. It had both privacy and amazing views. The glass doors had all been retracted, lanai style, as had the long fabric awnings above. Planter boxes filled with herbs and wildflowers ran along the edges of the roof and provided a riot of color as well as a sweet perfume.
After she had sat down, the manager unfolded her napkin and handed it to her, followed by a menu and a wine list. Before he had even finished wishing her a good lunch, her waiter had appeared, but stood a respectful distance away. Once the manager had departed, he stepped forward and introduced himself.
They chatted pleasantly, Sølvi ordered a kokekaffe, and the man disappeared to place her order. Norwegians were the second largest consumers of coffee in the world—imbibing over twenty-one pounds per capita annually. Only the Finns drank more. And when it came to how Norwegians liked their favorite caffeinated beverage prepared, they were rabidly passionate.
Kokekaffe was one of the most popular methods and came from coarsely ground beans steeped in boiling water. Because it used a lighter roast, it produced a lighter coffee than most of the world was used to, but Norway’s citizens loved it.
As she waited, Sølvi looked out over the fjord. Weekends were always the busiest, especially when the weather was nice. Sailboats, with their bright white sails, tacked back and forth as gleaming motorboats and large passenger ferries pushed through the light chop. If she had to be stuck on land, she couldn’t think of a better place with a better view in which to be stuck.
When the waiter returned with her coffee, she thanked him, took the porcelain cup in both hands, and continued looking out over the water. It was a good thing, she mused, that her office was surrounded by trees. If she could look at boats all day, she probably wouldn’t get any work done.
As much as she enjoyed taking in the fjord, she was still a professional intelligence officer who had been trained to maintain her situational awareness. Therefore, she made sure to keep one eye on her surroundings.
A few minutes after her coffee arrived, she saw her guest step out onto the deck and approach the host stand. Catching her CIA colleague’s eye, she waved. Her old friend waved back and, thanking the manager, headed her way.
Sølvi sat up straighter. She was nervous and suddenly wished she had ordered something alcoholic. As she watched her colleague getting closer, she knew it was too late. The moment of truth had arrived.
CHAPTER 13
Holidae H. Hayes was who Sølvi Kolstadt wanted to be. The raven-haired CIA Oslo station chief was not only exceedingly attractive, but she was also whip-smart, highly respected, and, after the next American election, was actually being considered for an ambassadorial post. Langley’s loss would be the State Department’s gain—and it was the right move.
“Triple H,” or “H3” as she was known, was eminently qualified. She had paid her dues in some of the best, as well as some of the worst postings around the world. She had steered ambassadors with half her intelligence and a fraction of her experience through moments of great crisis, never once taking credit, nor asking for any recognition. All that had ever mattered was the mission as she zealously served the United States abroad. She was a legend in D.C. and the President had taken notice.
Sølvi had no idea how much she had missed her until she walked up to the table, opened her arms, and said, “Carl was one of a kind. I am so sorry for your loss.”
Without giving it another thought, Sølvi stood and embraced her friend. She thought, alone in the privacy of her office, that she had exhausted herself of tears, but there were still a few more left. Quietly, she let them out.
They stood there together for several moments, not caring what anyone else thoug
ht. Then, it was Sølvi who stepped back and invited her friend to sit.
As they did, she touched her napkin to the corners of her eyes, drying the remaining tears, just as the waiter walked up.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?”
Sølvi looked at her colleague. “The usual?”
“Are you okay with that?”
It was a well-intentioned question. Sølvi’s weakness had never been alcohol. It had always been drugs. And while alcohol could loosen one’s inhibitions, it would take a lot more than a couple glasses of champagne to push her back into that dark world.
Nodding, Sølvi looked at the waiter and said, “We’ll take a bottle of the Ruinart Blanc de Blancs and a dozen oysters.”
She was delighted to hear that they had just received a shipment of fresh oysters from near Sarpsborg, where she was from. “We’ll take those, please,” she replied.
As soon as the waiter had left the table, it was time to start rebuilding bridges. To her surprise, though, Holidae went first. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to get your email. I didn’t know if you were ever going to speak to me again. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Sølvi replied.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through. What can I do for you? Better yet, how are you?”
“Still in shock, to be honest. Carl’s death was quite gruesome.”
“I spoke with the head of NIS and I’m not going to lie, I agree. It sounded terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“We’re beside ourselves. And I’m sure you can understand, that as an organization, this is a priority. But for me personally…”
Holidae jumped in as her friend’s voice trailed off. “Of course. Carl was your mentor. I’ve got to imagine you want to get to the bottom of this more than anyone else.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“So,” said Holidae as the waiter appeared for a moment, set down an ice bucket, and left again. “Is that why I’m here?”
Sølvi nodded. “But first I want to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For the fact that we haven’t spoken.”
“You know I only went to Carl—”
“Because you were concerned about me,” Sølvi interrupted, finishing her friend’s sentence for her. “I know that. It was a very difficult time for me.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine,” stated Holidae. “But let’s just pretend, for a moment, that I have. Suffice it to say, I have zero doubt that we could snuff that d-bag, ex-husband of yours, dump the body, and be drinking Chablis an hour later without anybody ever being the wiser.”
Sølvi smiled. She knew her friend was kidding, but at the same time she didn’t doubt that she was capable of it. “You’re a good friend. Thank you. Right now, though, I have my mind set on a different man.”
“Scot Harvath?”
The Norwegian nodded.
“I thought that’s where this might be headed,” said Holidae.
“What can you tell me about him?”
Hayes smiled. “First thing’s first. How is it that you got reinstated at NIS? I found drug paraphernalia in your apartment.”
“Which was part of a case I was working.”
“Okay,” said the American. “But how do you explain your behavior?”
“The divorce was very hard on me.”
Hayes smiled again. “I love you, Sølvi, I really do. But you were always Carl’s favorite. If I had to guess, I’d wager that he cooked up some sort of story that saved you from losing your job. And now, instead of being honest with me, you expect me to believe it too.”
“You can believe what you want. I’m telling you the truth,” Sølvi insisted. It was a lie, but one which Carl had stressed was necessary if she was to keep going in the espionage business.
It would hurt to tell it, he had said, especially to colleagues and close friends, but it was necessary. Without the lie, she was done for. Her career was over.
“I’m not asking you for state secrets,” she continued.
“Actually, that’s exactly what you’re asking for,” Hayes replied.
“My God, Holidae. What does a friend have to do to get a favor?”
“Simple. A friend, needs to tell the truth. Come clean.”
“I’m desperate,” said Sølvi.
“I knew that when I received your email. I haven’t heard from you since I told Carl I thought you had a problem. After that, you went completely off the grid. Even when you came back to work, though, you didn’t reach out to me. I got the message loud and clear. It took Carl being killed for you to reestablish contact.”
“Don’t make it sound like—”
“Like what?”
“Like I froze you out.”
“But that’s exactly what you did,” said Hayes. “And you know what? If you did have a substance abuse problem, and if going to ground was what it took to get everything straightened out, as your friend, I’m okay with that.”
Sølvi was about to protest, when the waiter returned, set two glasses on the table, and then presented her with the bottle of champagne.
She nodded, but remained quiet as he removed the foil and the cage. Releasing the cork, there was only the faintest hiss. Like a lover’s sigh, as they used to say in France.
He poured, she tasted, and then nodded again. Once their glasses were filled and he had left the table, she raised hers in a toast. “To Carl,” she said.
“To Carl,” Hayes replied.
They clinked glasses and took a long sip of champagne. It was cold and popped on their tongues. Not too sweet, not too dry. In fact, it was as it had always been—perfect.
How many times had they gone through this ritual? How many lunches, or brunches, or nights had they gotten together after work to split a bottle, or just grab a glass because they were racing to something else?
As NATO allies, they were expected to work together, but their friendship had gone beyond a work relationship. They enjoyed being together. Jogging, working out, movies, shopping, they had been tight. Very tight.
It was all the more reason that Holidae going to Carl with suspicions over her drug use had felt like such a betrayal. Friends didn’t turn each other in.
In fairness—and if pressed—Sølvi would likely be forced to admit that friends also didn’t sit idly by and watch their friends descend into a narcotic pit there was little hope of climbing out of.
Nonetheless, Holidae could have come to her first. She didn’t need to go over her head to her boss. It was something, right or wrong, she still was struggling to forgive.
It felt as if they’d had this great friendship, but the moment something had gone wrong, something that potentially could have impacted work, Holidae had been all business.
It had made their friendship feel false, hollow. It had also made Sølvi feel betrayed. Having just lost her husband, the betrayal of such a close friend had been even more bitter and difficult to absorb.
“What is it you say in English?” Sølvi inquired. “I’d like us to bury the hatchet?”
Hayes smiled. “Interesting choice of idioms. I didn’t know we had been at war. I thought we just weren’t on speaking terms.”
The Norwegian smiled back. “I’m a Viking. Å grave ned stridsøksen is what we say. I think burying war axes sounds better than offering olive branches. Peace?”
The CIA operative raised her glass. “To peace.”
CHAPTER 14
“So,” said Hayes, once their oysters had arrived, “you want me to tell you what I can about Scot Harvath.”
Sølvi smiled and, after setting an empty shell down on the platter, replied, “Actually, I want you to tell me what you can’t.”
“Can’t or shouldn’t?”
“It’s the same thing in English, isn’t it?”
Hayes nodded. “Usually. But why are you asking me? I told Ivar everything we know.”
“Ivar Stang. The NIS Director?”
Hayes nod
ded. “When Harvath’s name was discovered in the searches on Carl’s devices, he asked me to come in and meet with him.”
“And?”
“And I spoke to Langley. Out of a spirit of cooperation, they prepped a presentation, which I gave in Ivar’s office.”
“Who else was there?” asked Sølvi.
“Ivar’s number two, Norvik.”
“Lars Norvik.”
“Yes,” said Hayes. “And then someone I had not previously met before. A woman named Holst.”
“Hella Holst?”
“She didn’t give a first name.”
“Heavyset woman?” Sølvi asked. “Late fifties? Short brown hair? Greenish eyes that bulge out just enough to make you wonder if she has a thyroid condition?”
Hayes tapped her index finger against the tip of her nose and then pointed it at her friend. “Maybe we can help each other. Tell me about Holst and I’ll share a couple of things about Harvath that weren’t in my presentation. Deal?”
Sølvi nodded. “Hella heads a new division at NIS. In English, it roughly translates to Strategy Section.”
“What’s it responsible for?”
“As you know, when it comes to population, Norway is a relatively small country. We have less than five and a half million citizens. But despite our size, bureaucracy is a growing problem—as it is for most advanced Western nations.
“Like a person with heart disease, the arteries of our agencies are calcifying, making it impossible for blood to efficiently flow. In the case of the NIS, our blood flow is information. Cut it off, or even reduce it partially, and not only does our agency risk atrophy and even death, but our greater body, the country of Norway, is susceptible as well. Does this make sense?”
“Of course,” said Hayes.
“Good, because now it gets tricky. Strategy Section,” Sølvi continued, “was designed, in part, as a heart bypass, if you will. If NIS was ever severely compromised, or shut down—say in the case of an invasion or a massive terrorist attack—Strategy Section’s job is to make sure that critical information is still pumped to all the vital organs of state.”