by Brad Thor
If Baldwin was successful in getting the American government to drop its case against him, Wo would then transfer a completion fee in the amount of one hundred million dollars.
He didn’t care how Baldwin got rid of the investigation. Only that it went away ASAP.
For Baldwin, who had been having financial troubles, it was like manna from heaven. He didn’t need to think twice. He agreed to the deal right there in the suite and flew back to the U.S. the next day to get to work.
Wo had left the meeting feeling upbeat about his prospects. It had taken him a while to find Baldwin, but the man definitely appeared to be the answer to his problems in the United States. Once the investigation was dropped, he could work on getting citizenship. He didn’t want to remain in China any longer than he had to.
Which brought him to the safe house he was approaching and the meeting he was about to have. He loathed the terms of his confinement. More than that, he loathed the person he was required to report to.
While the Chinese referred to their policy as “safe harbor,” it felt a lot more like house arrest. And the woman he was about to interact with, Xing Fen, was his sadistic jailer.
The joke was that Xing, short and unattractive, had become a member of the Politburo and one of the People’s Republic of China’s four Vice Premiers the old-fashioned way—by sleeping her way to the top. It couldn’t have had anything to do with being first cousin of the General Secretary and one of his closest confidants. The Chinese Communist Party expressly forbade all forms of nepotism.
Wo had been told to meet her at a safe house not far from Beijing’s Jianshan Park. Much like Xing herself, the structure was bland, with zero adornment.
After a pat-down by her security detail, Wo was shown into the living room. The Vice Premier sat on a worn leather couch. On the low table in front of her, someone had prepared tea.
Wo hated tea—always had. But what he hated even more were the “delicacies” Xing brought with her to these meetings. She specialized in finding the nastiest street food available.
Tonight she had picked up fried scorpions on a stick, grilled centipede, and pan-seared grasshopper. Capping it all off was a plate of horribly pungent Hunan tofu—the scent of which was triggering his gag reflex. He was positive that she did it only to remind him who was in charge.
She had been a colonel in the People’s Liberation Army and had served her time in Military Intelligence. She understood the dynamics of power.
Though Wo was half her age and grew up in another country, he knew it would have been disrespectful to turn down her hospitality. She was his host, after all. But more important, she held his fate in her hands.
They exchanged greetings and he sat down. When she offered him tea, he politely accepted. When she offered him food, he also politely accepted, though inside he was ready to throw up.
“Dennis,” she said, addressing him by his given name the way one does in the West. “I understand you have requested permission to travel to Hong Kong.”
“Yes, Vice Premier.”
“Is there something wrong with Beijing?”
“No, Vice Premier.”
“Then what is it?” she asked.
“Hong Kong reminds me of home.”
“The arts and culture? Or do you mean the nightclubs and gambling in Macau?”
There was no use in lying to her. She was well aware of his interests. “Yes, Vice Premier. The clubs as well as the casinos in Macau.”
She looked at him for a long time as if she were trying to gauge how much of a security risk the trip would be.
For his part, Wo didn’t allow himself to get his hopes up. It would have been great to get out of Beijing for a few days, but the rug had been yanked out from under his plans so many times that he had learned not to count his chickens before they hatched.
Xing seemed to delight in granting approval for his sojourns, only to rescind permission at the very last minute. The excuse was always the same: “security concerns.”
Frankly, it was laughable. She always sent state security officers with him when he traveled, and he was certain that his communications were being monitored. They had even made him download a tracking app on his phone and required that he keep it with him at all times. Canceling his travel at the last minute seemed more like a subtle form of torment than a legitimate concern over his safety.
“Maybe we can come to an arrangement,” she suggested.
Wo took a sip of his tea and waited for her to go on.
“The gentleman you are using in Washington, Mr. Baldwin. We would like you to make contact and offer him an additional piece of work.”
“An additional piece of work?” he asked, hesitant to allow anything that could distract from his own case. “What are we talking about?”
Smiling, Xing picked up one of the skewers and removed a fried scorpion with her teeth. As she began to chew, she said, “There’s an impediment we need removed.”
* * *
They talked for twenty minutes. More specifically, Xing talked and Dennis Wo listened. She wanted to make sure he understood exactly what she expected and how the Americans were to be handled.
Once she was confident that he understood the bigger picture and his precise role in it, she bid him good night and had him escorted away from the safe house.
“Do you trust him?” her second-in-command asked. He had been standing out of sight, listening to the conversation.
“No. I do not. If he can double-cross us, he will.”
“So why give him such an important task?”
“Because he has connections.”
“So do we.”
She shook her head. “He has American connections. They will be far less suspicious of him and much more open to cooperation. Diplomacy is a subtle art form.”
“I prefer the darker arts.”
“I know you do, which is why you work for me. Speaking of which, let’s talk about Norway. Has our asset arrived?”
The man nodded. “He landed in Oslo this morning.”
“Excellent. I want you to reiterate to him that we will accept nothing less than his complete and total success. No matter what, he must accomplish his mission.”
“I understand. I will make certain of it.”
CHAPTER 5
OSLO
WEDNESDAY
As soon as Sølvi had sent him the footage, Harvath had put together a report and had uploaded it via a secure link back to D.C. He hadn’t been crazy and his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him. It was exactly who he thought it was.
All that had been left to do was to await instructions. There was no telling when they would come. There was also no telling when Sølvi would be back from the office, so he had decided to turn in.
She slid quietly into bed a few hours later, trying not to wake him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. He loved how her naked skin felt against his.
In the half-light pouring through the window, he could just make out the tattooed line of thin blue script running down her spine. It was a quote from Sartre: Il est impossible d’apprécier correctement la lumière sans connaître les ténèbres. (It is impossible to properly appreciate the light without knowing the darkness.) A perfect metaphor for them both.
They eventually fell asleep, tightly held in each other’s arms. Four hours later, the landline phone on the nightstand screeched its double chirp, signaling that someone was calling up from the lobby. It had to be some sort of mistake.
The phone was on Sølvi’s side of the bed. Harvath listened as a quick back-and-forth took place and then she buzzed the person in.
“Who is it?” he asked, checking the time.
“It’s the police.”
“What do they want at this hour?”
“I don’t know. They say it’s important.”
“Are you sure it’s really the cops?”
“I’m sure,” she said, turning on the light and getting out of bed. “Martin is a deputy hea
d at Kripos, the National Criminal Investigation Service. I’ve worked with him before. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.”
“You didn’t get the taxi dash cam video from someone in his department, did you?”
“No, I used another source.”
“But it was someone inside the Norwegian Police, right?”
She nodded and, as she did, Harvath’s heart sank. If he had gotten her into hot water, he’d never forgive himself. This kind of thing, especially in privacy-focused Norway, could be a career ender.
They had barely gotten dressed before there was a knock on the apartment door. Sølvi went to answer it.
Hanging on a peg in the hall was a heavy canvas jacket. Stashed in one of the pockets was a subcompact .45 caliber Glock G30. It was more than enough firepower to blast through the door and cut down any threat that might have been standing out in the hallway.
Risking a glance through the peephole, she saw that it was indeed Martin and opened the door.
He was wearing his customary business suit and was accompanied by two uniformed officers. He asked if he could come in and she stood back, opening the door the rest of the way and allowing them to enter.
They walked down to the kitchen, where Harvath had just started a pot of coffee. When Martin addressed him in English, he had a feeling they weren’t here to talk to Sølvi.
“May I please see your passport?” the officer asked. “In order to confirm your identity.”
“Stop,” Sølvi commanded. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s okay,” said Harvath. “It’s in the bedroom.”
Martin nodded at his two patrol officers to accompany Harvath to retrieve it.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or not?” Sølvi asked as the men walked to the back of the apartment. “C’mon, Martin. Do you even have a warrant?”
The police investigator removed a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
She scanned it and said, “Nope. There’s not going to be a search of my apartment. I’ll call my boss and we’ll quash this immediately on grounds of national security. So don’t even think it’s going to happen.”
“I don’t need to search your apartment. The warrant is pro forma.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“You know about what happened yesterday? At the ATM?” he asked her.
“Of course. Scot prevented a woman from being robbed.”
“He did. Every member of the Oslo Police Service thinks he’s a hero. As do I.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There was a physical confrontation.”
“Of course there was. The criminals pulled knives on him.”
“One of them,” Martin clarified, “pulled a knife.”
“Officers found a knife on the other when they arrested him.”
“We just want to ask some questions.”
“I assume you took a full statement from him at the scene. Why now? And why with a warrant?”
Martin looked up to make sure his men were not in earshot and, out of a modicum of caution, lowered his voice. “It has become politicized.”
“What has? Saving someone from being the victim of a crime? How the hell does that get politicized?”
Martin double-checked again to make sure his men were not near and then made his eyes go cross and pantomimed someone getting their bangs cut with a pair of imaginary scissors.
Sølvi drew a sharp breath. “You have got to be kidding me. Astrid? Astrid Jensen?”
Jensen was a minor political figure with an outsized voice. It was outsized in comparison to her position in the Norwegian Parliament, not to mention her tiny party’s influence in Norway. She was known for having a crossed left eye and hair that looked like she cut it herself. Why she would care about a foiled robbery was beyond Sølvi.
“What does this have to do with her?” she asked. “Why would something like this even be on her radar?”
“I’ll give you one guess about the background of the perpetrators.”
One guess was all she needed. If Jensen was involved, it could only mean one thing. “Asylum seekers?” she asked.
Martin nodded.
“Faen,” came her one-word response.
Jensen was more activist than politician. She and her party were champions of immigrants’ rights, which was a noble endeavor. Where they got sideways with most Norwegians was when they took the side of immigrants and asylum seekers regardless of the evidence. No matter how heinous the crime—rape, assault, murder—Jensen and her party always blamed Norway and its “system.”
Just as annoying, she and her party always stood in the way of meaningful reforms meant to better integrate those same immigrants and asylum seekers. As far as Jensen and her comrades were concerned, attempts to assimilate newcomers—no matter how much it would improve their lives—was a human rights violation of the highest order.
The headaches that caused to Norwegian Police were incalculable. Time after time, Jensen and her party had put forth fabricated versions of criminal events that were simply not true. It had a false, unfair, and corrosive effect on the image of the police, particularly in Norway’s immigrant communities.
In short, good cops—the majority of the nation’s force—found it increasingly difficult to do their job and keep everyone in the country safe.
Harvath, trailed by the two patrol officers, came back into the kitchen and handed over his passport.
“Thank you,” said Martin as he scanned it. Everything matched up. Scot Thomas Harvath. American. Five-foot-ten. One hundred and seventy-five pounds. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Closing the passport, he slipped it into his pocket.
“Am I going to get that back?” Harvath asked.
“Eventually.”
“You’re keeping his passport?” challenged Sølvi. “Seriously?”
“Listen,” replied Martin. “I’m going to save us all a lot of time. I don’t like having to do this, but I’m going to do everything by the book.”
“Because Jensen is all over this.”
“Because,” he emphasized, “we’re professionals. If Mr. Harvath wants, he may have an attorney present. Per Norwegian law, the state will pay for it.”
“I don’t need an attorney,” said Harvath. “I told the officers everything when I gave my initial report. If you take me in, the only thing you’re going to get is practice.”
Sølvi looked at him. “You’ve got nothing to lose. Let them provide you an attorney.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Scot—” she began.
But before she could continue he turned to Martin and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 6
Kripos Headquarters was located in a mixed industrial and residential part of Oslo known as Bryn. The long, five-story, orange-brick building was framed with gray windows. There were so many flagpoles in front that it could have been a stand-in for a United Nations structure.
They parked in the underground garage and took the elevator up to the third floor. There, Harvath was shown into a rather luxurious interrogation room. If it wasn’t for the one-way glass running down the opposite wall, he would have thought he was in some chic Scandinavian boardroom.
The walls were covered in gray fabric, the floor carpeted, and instead of the cheap metal chairs and tables he was used to seeing in police interrogation rooms back in the States, here the furniture was all crafted from walnut.
“Does Kripos rent this space out for photo shoots when it’s not being used for questioning?” he asked.
Martin smiled. “This is one of our nicer ones. Consider it a professional courtesy.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Would you like some coffee or a bottled water before we get started?”
Harvath was tempted to go for the water, just to see if he’d be offered a choice between still or sparkling, but opted for the caffeine instead. “Coffee,
please. Black.”
Gesturing for Harvath to take a seat, Martin disappeared and returned a few minutes later with two mugs—something Harvath never would have offered anyone he was interrogating. If he offered coffee at all, it would have been served as a reward for cooperation, tepid, in a Styrofoam cup. Piping hot liquid in a ceramic mug was handing him two things he could use as weapons. Either Martin was careless, or he was convinced that Harvath wasn’t a threat. Seeing as how the Norwegian was a deputy head of Norway’s lead law enforcement investigatory branch, he figured it was the latter.
Setting down the folder tucked under his arm, Martin turned on a digital recorder and stated his name, rank, time, and date, as well as the nature of the interrogation. He then asked Harvath to state and spell his full name. Once more, he made Harvath aware of his right to have an attorney present at Norway’s expense, which Harvath once again declined.
“Okay, then,” said Martin. “Let’s get to it. Shall we?”
They spent a good hour, going back and forth through what had happened—both leading up to and at the ATM. Harvath answered the man’s questions as honestly as he felt was reasonable.
He explained that he had been at Kafé Celsius on Christiania Square before heading north toward the Mathallen Food Hall to shop for dinner. He left out the part about the taxi and the man who had gotten out of it.
A couple of times, Martin professed to be confused about Harvath’s route. There were quicker, more direct ways to get to Mathallen.
Still, Harvath’s response remained the same. He was on vacation and in no hurry. He had been to Mathallen multiple times and always selected a different route so he could see more of Oslo.
Unless they had him on CCTV, which he hoped they didn’t, there was no reason for Martin to doubt him. Hell, even if they did have him on CCTV, it had nothing to do with what had happened at the ATM.
Eventually, Martin dropped it and switched to a new line of questioning.
“You have said you are on vacation. From what?”
“From America.”
The Norwegian smiled. “Not from where, Mr. Harvath. I know from where. I have your passport, after all. Let me be more specific. What is your occupation?”
