Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  Harvath chose his words carefully. “I’m a consultant.”

  “Consulting. That’s a very broad industry. Specifically, what kind of consultant are you?”

  “Security.”

  “As in cameras and burglar alarms?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not really,” Harvath said.

  Martin opened his file folder and began perusing the contents. Without looking up, he asked, “What kind of background qualifies one for employment as a security consultant?”

  Harvath’s finely tuned BS detector was starting to kick in. “I suppose it varies from company to company.”

  “How about your company?” the Norwegian asked, looking up. “What qualified you?”

  “Besides charm and good looks?”

  “Besides that.”

  “They sought me out,” said Harvath.

  “Was that because of,” Martin asked, returning to the file, “your tenure as a United States Navy SEAL, or the additional work you did with the United States Secret Service detailed to the White House?”

  “Those sound like very interesting careers.”

  “I’m guessing there’s lots more after that, but despite my best efforts, it’s a black hole. I couldn’t find a thing. I have my suspicions that your employment became even more interesting.”

  Harvath had no idea how the man had been able to unearth that much about his background. They had drifted far beyond what he felt comfortable with. He needed to either get control of this interrogation or find a way to pull the plug.

  “If you’re looking to leave Kripos and pursue a career in security consulting, I’d be happy to give you some pointers, but over breakfast at an Oslo restaurant. I’m starting to get hungry. Why don’t we wrap this up?”

  Martin smiled. “We wrap up when I say we wrap up. Is that clear?”

  Harvath looked up at the one-way glass, certain he was being observed, and smiled back. “Of course.”

  “Back to my previous question: Are you now or have you ever been a United States Navy SEAL and/or a member of the United States Secret Service?”

  “I don’t want to sidetrack us, but do you normally treat people who protect your fellow Norwegians and stop criminals like this?”

  There was a pause as Martin looked up at the glass, almost reluctant to proceed, before he hardened his visage and returned to his questioning with a renewed determination.

  “Mr. Harvath, are you familiar with something called the continuum of force?”

  Harvath knew exactly what it was, but he wasn’t going to give the Kripos officer the satisfaction. “Can you explain it to me, please?”

  “It is the theory that law enforcement officers have numerous tools at their disposal to deal with threats. It starts with things as simple as one’s authority and the words they use, transitions through things like pepper spray, baton, or Taser, and goes all the way to use of lethal force. In other words, the remedy employed must be proportional to the threat.”

  “As perceived by the law enforcement officer.”

  “Yes,” Martin agreed. “As perceived by the law enforcement officer.”

  “In other words, if a subject is a block away holding a knife, you can’t shoot him. But if that same subject is ten feet away and charges you with the knife, and you believe your life is in danger, you are allowed to go right to lethal force.”

  “Exactly,” said Martin, who then realized what Harvath had done and tried to correct the record. “That’s a hypothetical, of course.”

  “Remind me again why I’m here.”

  The Norwegian looked up at the glass once again before reengaging. “Under Norwegian law, self-defense is permissible, but only proportional to the threat.”

  Harvath looked at him. “I have no idea what we’re talking about. Do you have a problem with how I handled things at the ATM? If so, let me hear it. Because none of this makes any sense.”

  “In Norway, we hold members of law enforcement and the military to a higher standard when it comes to how they handle themselves in cases of self-defense. They have superior training and that training needs to be viewed on a scale of proportionality.”

  “Are you saying, in the face of being confronted by two attackers—one of whom pulled a knife—that I applied too much force? That somehow I responded disproportionately?”

  “That is now the crux of our investigation,” Martin stated. “How do you reply?”

  Knowing his answer might end up entered as evidence in court, he organized his words with precision. “Fearing for my life,” he said calmly, “as well as for the life of the woman at the ATM, I did what I felt was necessary to stop the threat. And I did so without employing lethal force.”

  “That last part may end up being debatable.”

  Harvath was confused. “How can that be up for debate? Both of the attackers are still alive. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “The second offender,” said Martin. “The one who pulled the knife. The doctors think that when his head struck the ATM, he developed an aneurysm. Shortly after arriving at the hospital, he had a stroke. He’s in a coma.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Harvath was stunned. It was a huge piece of information and the police had taken their sweet time in giving it to him.

  Nevertheless, it didn’t change anything. He had done the right thing and would do it again in a heartbeat.

  “Dirty pool, Martin,” he said to the Kripos officer. “You and I are done speaking. Either charge me with a crime or call me a cab.”

  The man was about to respond, when there was a knock at the interrogation room door. Another officer stuck his head in, said something in Norwegian, and then left.

  “Apparently, your lawyer is here,” Martin revealed as he turned off the recorder.

  “What lawyer?”

  “Sølvi must have been busy. A representative from your embassy has also arrived. I’ll leave you alone to talk.”

  Standing, he picked up the file folder and left the room.

  Moments later, Holidae H. Hayes, the CIA’s tall, redheaded Oslo Station Chief, entered.

  “Don’t say anything,” she instructed. “We’re going to have you out of here in a few minutes.”

  “Who told you I had been brought in?”

  “No talking.”

  He did as she asked and closed his mouth.

  Five minutes later, a distinguished-looking man in a well-tailored suit and carrying a Ghurka briefcase joined them.

  “Mr. Harvath,” he said, handing over the passport that the police officer had taken from him, “you are free to go.”

  “Thank you, Johannes,” replied Hayes. “I appreciate your help.”

  “It is not a problem. I have informed the special prosecutor that, short of charges being filed, Mr. Harvath will not be doing any further interviews.”

  The attorney handed Harvath his business card. On the back, he had written his mobile number. Then the three of them left the interrogation room and headed to the elevator.

  As they rode down, Johannes and Hayes made small talk about a high-profile divorce case that was getting a lot of attention in the local papers.

  When the elevator doors opened, the first thing Harvath noticed was Martin. He was standing across the lobby, speaking with an odd-looking woman. When she saw him, she shot him an icy glare.

  “Who’s that?” he asked as Hayes steered him toward the exit.

  “Astrid Jensen. Member of Parliament and all-around pain in the ass. She’s the reason the police brought you back in for more questioning.”

  “Was she behind the glass during the interrogation?”

  “Probably.”

  “What’s her beef with me?”

  “She’s looking for headlines and is hoping you’ll provide them.”

  “That’s definitely not going to happen.”

  “I agree,” said Hayes. “And Johannes made that crystal clear to the police prosecutor�
�s office. That doesn’t mean she can’t still make trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “She’s not just a politician; she’s also an attorney. She knows her way around the law. It was her idea to have you brought back in and questioned on the use-of-force issue. Like I said, she’s looking for headlines. ‘U.S. Navy SEAL Beats Up Immigrants, Puts One in a Coma’ would be a nice starting place for her.”

  “Those weren’t a couple of altar boys,” he muttered, preparing to shoot her a glare of his own.

  “Eyes front,” Hayes advised as they neared the glass doors. “For what it’s worth, the police didn’t want to bring you in. They bowed to political pressure. The hope is that this will go away.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  “It tells me we have bigger problems on our hands right now.”

  He held open the door for her and they stepped outside. “What kind of problems?”

  “Your ghost sighting has set off a lot of alarm bells back at Langley.”

  “What do they want done about it?”

  “Not here,” she said as they arrived at her vehicle. “I think it’s safer if we talk back at the embassy.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The United States Embassy to the Kingdom of Norway was located in a bucolic neighborhood called Makrellbekken, about three and a half miles from the city center.

  Set among tall trees and rolling hills, the modern multistory compound had been constructed from gray stone. Its sleek rooftops, as well as its polished windows, were a pale green that amplified the pastoral setting.

  Hayes waited while Harvath was screened and then led him to her section. At a heavy security door, they placed their phones in a cubby and she swiped her ID through a card reader. There was a hiss of air as the locks released. Hayes pointed at a conference room, told him to help himself to coffee, and that she’d be there in a moment.

  He had been in a lot of embassies around the world and one thing was for certain: the decorating budgets all worked from the outside in. The deeper down you drilled, the cheaper the furnishings became. It was no different here in Oslo. The only saving grace was that, while inexpensive, everything at least had a degree of Scandinavian chic to it.

  Helping himself to a cup of coffee, he grabbed a seat at the conference table and waited for Hayes. No doubt, she had as many questions for him as he did for her. What he would have to settle on was how much he was willing to tell her.

  When she walked in, she came carrying her laptop and a stack of files. Dropping everything on the table, she poured herself a cup of coffee and then took the seat next to him.

  “Hell of a start to the day,” she remarked.

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Knowing you, I don’t doubt it. Nice haircut, by the way.”

  “Okay if I ask some questions now?” he inquired, ignoring the compliment.

  She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her coffee. “Go ahead.”

  “I assume Sølvi told you I had been brought in for questioning?”

  Hayes nodded. “She did.”

  “Did she also tell you that I didn’t want a lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “So Astrid Jensen is like dog shit: Once you’ve stepped in it, it’s important to get rid of it as quickly as possible. If you don’t, the stink will follow you everywhere.”

  “But you said yourself that the police don’t want to bring this case. Not only do we have a witness, whom I saved, but the attackers probably have rap sheets as long as my arm. I’m also going to assume that the ATM has a camera, and if it doesn’t, this is Oslo, which means there’s gotta be one close by. Even if we don’t have perfect footage of what went down, I’d say we’ve got a near airtight case.”

  “What you need to understand is that this isn’t about being airtight. I already told you. This is about headlines—for her. She doesn’t care that you doled out an ass-kicking to a couple of small-time hoods. All she cares about is that Norwegians at large think she cares. It’s about building up her political capital. Nothing more.”

  “She’s a typical politician, then. How about I apply for asylum? Then the story becomes immigrant-on-immigrant violence. It’ll be like magic. Poof! She’ll instantly lose interest.”

  “Very funny,” said Hayes.

  “You’re too worried about this. What’s the worst that could happen? If the cops don’t want to bring the case, the police prosecutor isn’t going to bring it.”

  The CIA chief leaned forward and set her coffee on the table. “For starters, how about if she gets you banned from Norway? She doesn’t have to make this a criminal case. She can, and likely would, turn it into a human rights issue. She could make so much noise that the Norwegian government tosses you out just to get her to shut up.”

  He didn’t like that prospect. Not a single bit. If he couldn’t legally get into Norway, it would make seeing Sølvi extremely difficult.

  “How do we make my Astrid Jensen problem go away?”

  “I’m already working on it,” she replied.

  “Thank you. And thanks for showing up with the lawyer. Even if the police are not inclined to come after me, it’s good for them—and for Astrid Jensen—to see we’re serious.”

  Hayes smiled. “They know we’re serious all right. Johannes is one of the top lawyers in the country. You could hear the collective butt cheeks of the entire Norwegian Police Service tightening when we walked in the door.”

  Harvath was as pro–law enforcement as they came, and took no delight in things being made difficult for good cops, but the remark made him grin. Changing gears, he asked his next question as broadly as possible. “How do you, and more importantly, Langley, know about my ghost?”

  He could have asked if Sølvi had told her, but he didn’t want to implicate Sølvi in getting him the dash cam footage. Better to play it a little uninformed and see how Hayes responded.

  “Pretty simple,” she said. “Your boss called my boss.”

  “He couldn’t have called your boss. Not without—”

  “Calling the President first. Yeah, he did that. Then the President told them both to work together and share everything they had.”

  “And because the target was spotted here, your boss called you.”

  “Immediately,” Hayes replied.

  It made sense. Harvath worked for a private intelligence agency whose number one job was to help handle the most sensitive national security operations while the CIA was undergoing massive reforms.

  In essence, The Carlton Group was the “condo” where the CIA’s most pressing matters were living in while the Agency as a whole was going through a down-to-the-studs, full-scale gut renovation.

  Harvath took a sip of his coffee. “Were you able to uncover anything?”

  “Yes and no, technically speaking.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “As far as the United States government and the Central Intelligence Agency are concerned,” she explained, “what you saw, you didn’t see. And even if you did see it, we’re not getting involved.”

  “Define we.”

  “We would be the United States Embassy, Oslo, and all personnel therein.”

  “Right. Because that makes total sense.”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “You, on the other hand, do not represent the United States government or the CIA and can, for all intents and purposes, do whatever you want.”

  One of the biggest reasons Harvath’s company had been established was to be able move quickly, without the burden of Congressional oversight and bureaucratic red tape. It also afforded the upside of imbuing the American President with plausible deniability.

  What he didn’t understand was why play that card now. This was red meat for the CIA. They should have been all over this, setting up surveillance operations on the Chinese Embassy and working every single contact they had.

  He looked at her, his BS detector fully switched on. “W
hy the pass?”

  “Because the current U.S. Ambassador to Norway is, as my British friends would say, a wanker.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know how this stuff works. The CIA operates out of each U.S. Embassy because it grants us diplomatic cover. The deal, which I think is insane, is that the Ambassador gets read in on all operations and gets final say. It subordinates the Central Intelligence Agency to the State Department.

  “And don’t get me started on how ambassadorships are nothing more than popularity contests, awarded by POTUS based on how much cash a candidate raised or how effective a spokesperson they were during the campaign.

  “Way too often, these people are playing pretend diplomat. They have next to zero grasp of geopolitics, the workings of the Intelligence Community, or the intricacies of achieving our objectives abroad. They get drunk, throw dinner parties, and the American taxpayer foots the bill.”

  While there were some exceptional Ambassadors, Harvath didn’t disagree with her. He did, though, find her take interesting. “Aren’t you angling for an Ambassadorship in the next administration?”

  “We’ll see what happens. There’s a lot of road between now and then.”

  “But if your candidate does win?”

  “If, and that’s a big if, I were to be offered the privilege of serving, I think I’d do a damn good job.”

  Short. Sweet. And to the point. He had to give Hayes credit. Brevity, after all, was the soul of wit.

  “Back to your feelings about the current Ambassador: What’s the problem with him?”

  The CIA Station Chief tried to decide where to begin. “First off, he’s impossible to brief. He has the attention span of a gnat. He’s also incredibly arrogant. Thinks he knows more than anyone else. Maybe that’s from making millions in Silicon Valley, or maybe he’s just wired that way. The outcome is the same.

  “When it comes to handling him, though, the Norwegians are smart. I think they had his number before he even arrived. Whenever they want to get his attention, regardless of the issue, they don’t invite him for a sit-down with the Prime Minister or send their Minister for Foreign Affairs but rather they use their very young, very attractive climate minister.