Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  Sitting up, Harvath thought about heading downstairs to make an espresso but decided instead to phone Sølvi. It would be nice to chat with her before he had to take off for Svalbard the next day.

  Unfortunately, both her cell phone and office phone went to voicemail, which meant she was probably in a meeting. He sent her a text to let her know he was having dinner with the Mercers and asked her to give him a call later if she could. If not, he promised to call her in the morning.

  He pulled on a pair of jeans and a fresh white shirt. Not exactly black-tie, but Kirkenes wasn’t that kind of town. Things here were pretty casual.

  Downstairs, he stuck his head into Nicholas’s room. “Anything new to report?”

  “Nothing at the moment. You off to meet Mercer for dinner?”

  “Shortly. Do you want to come along?”

  The little man shook his head. “Thank you for asking, but I have a bunch of things to work on here.”

  Harvath wrote down the name of the restaurant on a Post-it Note and handed it to him. “Look up their menu online and let me know what you’d like me to bring back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Happy to do it.”

  “Thank you,” Nicholas replied. “I’ll do that.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to make an espresso. Want one?”

  The little man nodded and pulled up the restaurant on the computer while Harvath walked into the kitchen to begin making the coffees.

  Harvath had always enjoyed coffee but had become a real aficionado this summer. Sølvi had really helped him up his game.

  Per capita, the Norwegians were some of the biggest coffee consumers in the world. He’d had a lot to learn and she had helped him.

  Pods were good in a pinch, but they weren’t as good as the real thing. So addicted had he become to the espresso machine at Sølvi’s apartment that he had bought another one for the cottage out on the fjord. He didn’t afford himself a lot of luxuries in life, but that one—along with renting the convertible and buying the best meats he could find—were worth it.

  The safe house, unfortunately, didn’t have an espresso machine, only one that took pods. Nevertheless, he was glad to have it. It was better than no espresso at all.

  As the machine buzzed and whirred, he grabbed a bottle of water and popped some ibuprofen. Then, when the drinks were ready, he walked back over and sat down with Nicholas.

  “Here’s my order,” Nicholas said, handing over the Post-it Note in exchange for the coffee.

  Harvath read it over to make sure he could decipher the little man’s terrible handwriting. He had teased him about it once and Nicholas had been quite good-natured about it. He had said that he wished he could blame it on having small hands, but the truth was that he used to have excellent penmanship. However, since he now did everything via phone and keyboard, he seldom used a pen these days except to sign his name. Even filling out a check was a struggle. He had to put forth a lot of effort in order to make his letters and numbers legible.

  It was an affliction that Harvath also suffered from in part—a consequence of our modern, Internet-enabled lives in which we don’t write letters or even postcards anymore.

  “How is my ride from Longyearbyen to Barentsburg looking?” Harvath asked as they drank their coffees.

  “The mining company in Barentsburg charters out their helicopter to make extra money on the side. Provided the weather holds, it’ll be standing by for you.”

  “And if the weather doesn’t hold?”

  “Then the boat to Barentsburg is probably not going, either, and you’ll have to wait for the storms to pass. For now, let’s keep our fingers crossed that the weather cooperates, the helo is operational, and our old friend Murphy is off vacationing in some other country far, far away.”

  CHAPTER 47

  The restaurant—or rather the resort—that Hilde had selected for dinner was less than a fifteen-minute drive from Kirkenes.

  A huge tourist attraction in winter, its hotel carved from snow and ice was famous worldwide. Its enterprising owners had even figured out how to refrigerate the “Snow Hotel” so that guests could stay there and enjoy the experience year-round.

  Harvath had to hand it to Hilde. With the day that he’d had, this was a nice distraction. What’s more, he was always impressed with people who took pride in their hometowns and wanted to show them off.

  The resort had a smattering of charming wooden cabins that could have been right out of The Hobbit. But at the end of the long driveway was the showstopper. It looked like a cross between a glitzy, high-end ski lodge and a massive Viking longhouse. Crafted of glass and timber, the building served as the resort’s stunning main restaurant with unbelievable views over the Langfjorden. Hilde had booked them a table right up against the window.

  When Harvath parked and entered, and the hostess showed him to the Mercers’ table, he found Hilde with a glass of wine, enjoying the vistas by herself.

  “Hello, Hilde,” he said, thanking the hostess.

  “Hello, Scot,” she greeted him.

  “Where’s your handsome husband?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure where he was, but he smelled terrible when he got home—like campfire smoke mixed with I don’t know what. He thought he’d just change his shirt and we’d jump in the car and come over here. I told him that wasn’t happening. He needed to take a shower first and then he could join us once he was all cleaned up.”

  Harvath smiled. She really did remind him of Sølvi. Scandinavian women, Norwegians in particular, had zero problem speaking their minds and laying down the law. It wasn’t weird or bossy; it just was. They didn’t BS you. They simply spoke their minds and told the truth as they saw it.

  “How about a drink?” she asked, waving the waiter over.

  “Sure,” Harvath replied as he sat down.

  When the waiter arrived, Hilde spoke to him in rapid-fire Norwegian, apparently making a couple of jokes, because she got him laughing.

  Looking at Harvath, she asked, “What do you like to drink? Do you like shots? Akevitt?”

  “Tonight isn’t a good night for shots,” he replied, fully schooled in the Scandinavian liquor also known as aquavit. “I have an early flight.”

  Hilde smiled at the waiter. “It’s okay if I take him down to see the other bar?”

  “Of course,” the man replied. “I think he will enjoy it.”

  “What other bar?”

  “It’s amazing,” Hilde said, standing up. “Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

  Gesturing at the gorgeous view, Harvath asked, “More amazing than this?”

  “It’s different,” she replied, “but very cool. Come on.”

  He knew better than to argue. Standing up again, he followed her through the restaurant, to the main door, and outside.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “This way,” she answered, pointing to an offshoot of the road Harvath had driven in on.

  The night was cold. The crisp air was full of the scent of pine—lush and fresh.

  Despite the cloud cover, it was still very light.

  “The land of the midnight sun,” said Harvath, looking up. “It must be interesting living with the sun in the sky twenty-four hours a day.”

  “It’s actually quite nice,” Hilde remarked.

  “How long does it last?”

  “In this part of Norway, it begins around the middle of May and ends toward the last week of July.”

  “So it will be ending soon.”

  Hilde nodded. “Yes. It lasts even longer up on Svalbard. There it begins in mid-April and doesn’t end until the third week of August.”

  “What about the polar night season?”

  “November to January,” she said with a shudder. “No sunlight at all. That’s when we like to take our vacations.”

  Harvath smiled. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Tell me about your girlfriend. The one in Oslo. Phillip says she is
very beautiful. And smart.”

  “She is.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Phillip sees a lot of himself in you.”

  “We’ve definitely got a few things in common.”

  “Including falling for a lovely Norwegian,” she said with a smile.

  Harvath laughed. “Sølvi told me that she thought Phillip was very smart. When I asked her if she was referring to his level of intelligence or the fact that he had married a woman from Norway, she said, Both.”

  It was now Hilde’s turn to laugh. “I like her. A lot.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments before Hilde posed her question once more. “So, is it serious?”

  “We’re figuring things out,” Harvath replied. “I have to go back to the United States. It may be complicated for a bit.”

  “I will tell you something that someone told us many years ago when we were trying to figure things out. If you have the determination, the distance doesn’t matter.”

  It was good, simple advice. It also fit what Harvath had always held as three key ingredients to happiness: something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.

  He already knew that his career was his something to do. He was just hoping that Sølvi could be both his someone to love and his something to look forward to.

  He was about to thank her, when up ahead he saw the resort’s other big attraction.

  “Is that our destination?” he asked, looking at the entrance for the Snowhotel Kirkenes.

  “You can’t come all the way to the Arctic and not visit Scandinavia’s best snow hotel.”

  “I thought Sweden had the best,” he replied, teasing her.

  “Sweden’s is made out of ice. That’s nothing. Ours is made out of snow. Everyone knows that snow is much more difficult to work with.”

  “Of course. Everyone knows that.”

  She appreciated his sense of humor and smiled yet again as she led him inside. He was instantly awed by what he saw.

  From the intricate Viking longboat, carved completely from an enormous block of crystal-clear ice, to the enormous carvings of figures from Norse mythology that seemed to leap right off the walls, the level of artistry was amazing. And adding to it all was absolutely perfect blue lighting, which seemed to make the snow appear whiter and the ice more brilliant. If Harvath had a bucket list, spending a night here would have gone on it.

  As it was, his teammates had always joked that, with his intense devotion to work, the only thing he had was a Fuck it list. That terrorist won’t come out with his hands up? Fuck it, we’ll go in through the roof. There’s how many guys guarding that compound? Fuck it, how big a bomb can we drop?

  Perhaps a bucket list wasn’t a bad thing to have. And maybe he and Sølvi could not only look forward to being together but to doing some very cool, out-of-the-ordinary things.

  “Okay, mister,” said Hilde as she walked Harvath up to a long, curved bar made of ice, “if you are going to date a Viking woman, you have to learn how to drink like a Viking man.”

  One of the last things Harvath needed to be taught was how to drink like a Viking. He had cross-trained with more Finns, Swedes, and Norwegians than he could remember—and that training had always ended with evenings soaked in alcohol. What’s more, because his call sign was Norseman, the peer pressure to prove he was worthy of the Viking moniker had been off the charts. He not only knew how to drink like a Viking; he knew how to battle through the next day’s hangover like one as well.

  Nevertheless, he enjoyed Hilde’s spirit and went along with her playful taunt. “What do I have to do?”

  She spoke to the barman, who smiled and removed two perfectly round shot glasses shaped from ice. He also pulled out a special bottle of akevitt. It had been frozen in a block of ice, and the ice had been intricately carved with Viking knots and Norse runes.

  “This is the real Viking akevitt?” Hilde asked the large, bearded barman, who looked like he could have been a Viking himself.

  The man joked as he poured, “Under Norwegian law, we’re not supposed to serve it to Americans. But if you promise not to say anything, tonight we’ll make an exception.”

  Harvath shook his head and smiled. “You have my word.”

  “You have a good face,” said the barman, sliding their drinks to them. “I think I can trust you.”

  Hilde asked the man a question in Norwegian and he nodded, saying, “Yes, you drink it all at once and then you must crush the glass, Viking-style, on top of the bar.”

  Raising his glass, Harvath clinked his with Hilde’s and said, “Skål!”

  “Skål!” she replied.

  They both tossed back their shots in one go and then smashed their glasses onto the bar.

  It was much stronger than the akevitt he was used to and it burned like fire going down.

  She looked at him and laughed. “Now,” she said, “you’re a real Viking.”

  “Finally,” he replied.

  Hilde checked the time on her phone. “We should get going back to the restaurant. Phillip will be here soon.”

  Harvath insisted on paying for the shots and gave the bartender a nice tip, thanking the man for initiating him.

  As they walked back, Hilde told him of all the winter activities at the resort, including pickup at the airport and transfer via dogsled. They were happy to provide hot drinks or champagne to make the ride even more enjoyable.

  Harvath was definitely starting a list of things to do with Sølvi, and the Snowhotel Kirkenes was going on it. Astrid Jensen notwithstanding, if their jobs were going to require them to spend the majority of their time seeing each other in Norway, why not make it exciting?

  * * *

  When they arrived back at the restaurant, Phillip Mercer was already at the table, waiting for them.

  “Did you take Scot down to the snow hotel,” he asked, standing to kiss his wife, “and make an official Viking out of him?”

  “I certainly did,” she replied.

  “Wait a second,” Harvath said to Hilde as he shook hands with her husband. “You’ve done this before? I thought I was your first.”

  Hilde winked at him. “You’re not my first, but you were very special.”

  “That’s the same thing you say to me,” Mercer laughed.

  “But with you, Phillip, I always mean it,” she said, allowing him to pull out her chair for her.

  When they were all seated, the waiter came over and took their drink orders. Hilde still had her glass of wine from earlier. Harvath shifted to water. Mercer ordered a scotch and soda.

  “You clean up well,” Harvath said once the waiter had left the table.

  “So do you,” the ex–CIA man replied.

  “How was the rest of your day?”

  “Same old, same old. You know. Nothing much interesting ever happens around here.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that I don’t want to know what’s been going on between you two?” Hilde asked.

  “I’m just trying to change Scot’s mind. He thinks he wants to move up here and set up house with Sølvi.”

  She looked over at Harvath. “Is that true?”

  “Not a word of it,” he replied. “The winters are just a little too cold and a little too dark for me.”

  “But if she’s the one…,” said Mercer, his voice trailing off.

  Harvath ignored him and focused on Hilde. “Sølvi’s family is all from south of Oslo. It was bad enough that I kept her largely to myself this summer. If I ever tried to move her anywhere other than closer to them, I don’t think the police would ever find my body.”

  “They sound like good Norwegian people,” she replied.

  “They are. I like them.”

  “And if you make her happy, I’m sure they like you too.”

  “Actually,” Harvath joked, “they’re quite shallow. They only like me because I’m so good-looking. It’s demeaning, but it’s a start.”


  “Well, now that you’re a Viking, they have no choice,” Mercer observed. “If they don’t love you, Norwegian law says you’re free to burn down their house.”

  Hilde shook her head and handed the specials card to Harvath. “That’s not true. Technically, you’re supposed to carry away their women first, then you can burn down their house.”

  Mercer held up his index finger in warning to Harvath. “Think very carefully about carrying away all their women.”

  Mrs. Mercer turned to her husband. “Is that a mother-in-law joke?” she asked. “Are you referring to my mother?”

  “Never, my love,” he replied. “Your mother is an absolute angel. I often feel we don’t spend enough time with her.”

  “We don’t spend enough time with her,” said Hilde.

  “Maybe we can see her this weekend.”

  “That would be nice. Maybe after I do the grocery shopping on Saturday?”

  Mercer shot a quick conspiratorial glance at Harvath before responding, “That sounds perfect. In fact, please make sure to pick up some extra peanut butter. Just to have around. I hear there’s been a run on it lately.”

  Had Harvath had a mouthful of water at that moment, he might have done a full-on spit take.

  There was no question, though, that Hilde was onto him. She might not have known completely what he was talking about—thank God—but she knew her husband well enough to know when he was playing with her. They obviously enjoyed joking about his relationship with her mom.

  Moments later, the waiter arrived with their drinks and took their dinner orders. It was evident that Mercer and Hilde dined here a lot. They knew right away what they were going to eat. He opted for the reindeer filet. She chose the salmon.

  Harvath had thought about going for the lamb chops, but Mercer talked him out of them and into the reindeer. It was shades of the butcher shop in Oslo all over again, except this time he was being talked into something truly exceptional.

  They spent the meal laughing and trading stories about Reed Carlton, toasting the Old Man as they went along.

  It was a fitting tribute—an additional wake for the Old Man to make up for the one Mercer, the former protégé, hadn’t been able to attend. Harvath understood how important this was. Hilde, to her credit, was riveted throughout.