by Brad Thor
“We most definitely don’t sit,” said Sølvi. “Not unless we are invited to and not until the King himself sits down.”
“The King? That’s who we’re here to see?”
“Among others,” she replied. “You’ll be fine. You worked at the White House. I know this isn’t the first time you’ve been around royalty.”
He smiled. She had no idea. He had been around plenty of royalty, including the King of Jordan, who once backed him up in a helicopter gunship. But that was a story for another day.
He barely had time to admire the paneled walls with their beautiful rows of colorful leather-bound books before a small door on the other side of the room opened and the King of Norway stepped in.
And as if that weren’t a sight in and of itself, it was the woman walking behind him who caught Harvath’s attention.
Suddenly he had a feeling that he knew what all this was about. There was just one detail missing.
The King was a handsome, impeccably dressed man who radiated charm and intelligence. As this was an informal audience, he took charge, introducing himself to his guests.
Harvath knew not to initiate a handshake but to wait for the King to do so, which he did. He then turned and introduced the woman who had entered behind him.
“Mr. Harvath,” the man said. “I know you both met, but I would like to make a formal introduction. This is Mrs. Bente Gundersen.”
The woman extended her hand and Harvath gently shook it. He had not seen the older woman since foiling the robbery at the ATM. With all that had happened, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Bente,” the King continued, “was a longtime resident of our household before she retired. She was our children’s most beloved governess. What you did in protecting her was an act of courage and chivalry. On behalf of Mrs. Gundersen and all of the citizens of Norway, I would like to thank you. Your example is one to be extremely proud of.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Harvath replied, knowing that the less said—especially in a situation like this—was always the best way to handle oneself.
Pressing a button at his desk, the King gestured for his guests to join him for tea near the fireplace.
They all thanked him and followed him over. Once he had sat down, they followed suit.
He was an exceptional conversationalist and had done his homework on Harvath, asking about his upbringing in Southern California, his time as a competitive skier, and nonsensitive questions about his military background.
Throughout tea, Harvath politely engaged with the King, answering all of his questions, eventually drifting into a detailed discussion about sailing.
To his credit, the King made sure to engage his other guests by asking them specific questions and listening intently to their responses.
Learning that Mrs. Gundersen had been a governess for the royal family answered Harvath’s question about why the King had taken an interest in what had happened at the ATM. As Sølvi was his significant other, he could even understand why she had been invited for tea.
What he couldn’t understand, however, was what Holidae was doing here. Why invite the CIA’s Oslo station chief? There was still a piece to this puzzle that was missing.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Gundersen said her goodbyes and a staff member arrived to accompany her out that things began to come into sharper focus.
“So,” said the King, “shall we proceed?”
Proceed with what? Harvath hadn’t a clue. But he knew the only answer to a question in this kind of situation was Yes and he responded politely and accordingly.
As they followed the King out of his study, he glanced at Sølvi, who winked at him in return. Looking over his shoulder at Holidae, she gave him the same fake I have no idea what’s going on expression she had in the limo. Neither of these two were any help whatsoever.
After a short walk down a carpeted hall lined with oil paintings, they arrived at a gilded reception room where three very select additional visitors were waiting.
The first was the American Ambassador to Norway, Michael McCourt. Standing next to him was Sølvi’s boss “Odin,” better known as Ivar Stang, Director of the Norwegian Intelligence Service. And next to him stood Ellen Jagland, head of the Norwegian Police Security Service.
The King made formal introductions, everyone shook hands, and then the other reason Harvath had been invited to the palace was finally made known.
Odin approached the King and opened a velvet box.
“Your courage extends far beyond what you did for Mrs. Gundersen,” said the King. “Your heroism in relation to the GLOBUS 3 system in Vardø, and your pursuit of our shared national security interests on Svalbard, are deeply appreciated.”
The King removed a golden Cross of St. Olav inlaid with a red cross and a large V and topped with a crown. He hung it around Harvath’s neck, declaring, “For outstanding service in the interest of Norway, I present you with the Royal Norwegian Order of Merit.”
* * *
Champagne was served, and as the King had other duties to attend to, he said goodbye to his guests before his glass was even half-empty.
Odin and Ellen Jagland left shortly thereafter, followed by Holidae Hayes and Ambassador McCourt, who rode back to the embassy together. Finally, only Harvath and Sølvi remained.
Not wanting to overstay their welcome, they availed themselves of the royal limousine and had the driver return them to The Thief, where, per Sølvi’s request, their table had been kept waiting.
As they sipped a final glass of champagne and ordered oysters, Harvath gazed at her yet again. It was going to be really tough being away from her.
They both had something to do and someone to love. What they really needed was that something to look forward to. Something beyond just seeing each other when they could grab vacation time.
“So you’re not going to propose to me, are you?” he asked, smiling at her.
She smiled back with the thousand-megawatt smile he adored and said, “Norwegian women can be very forward. We can also be somewhat old-fashioned. It’s nice to be asked.”
“In that case,” Harvath replied, removing a velvet box of his own and getting down on one knee, “will you marry me?”
The ring, which he had purchased the day before, was amazing. He hadn’t known how or when he would pop the question. He only knew it was something he wanted to do before he left for the States.
Here, atop The Thief, where their relationship had officially started, seemed the perfect place to take it to the next level.
Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”
CHAPTER 66
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Spencer Baldwin had booked Lindsey Chang into the best room of the elegant Hay-Adams hotel. Her French balcony directly overlooked the White House. It was one hell of an aphrodisiac.
The only thing sexier, in his mind, was watching him work—which was what he allowed her to do next.
After she had refreshed herself from the flight in, he set her up in the hotel’s fabled Off The Record bar. A power broker’s playground, it was considered the best place in D.C. to be seen and not heard.
She ordered a cosmo and Baldwin told the bartender to put it on his tab. Then, seeing his guest arrive, he stood up and told her to enjoy the show.
“Mr. Adam Benson,” said Baldwin as he greeted the U.S. Special Representative for the Arctic and guided him to the table he had reserved. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“My pleasure,” said Benson, a distinguished-looking man with a chiseled jaw and a runner’s build. “You’ve got powerful friends in all the right places.”
“I’m all about relationships. I hope you and I can be friends too.”
“That’s what fuels the Washington engine. Let’s talk.”
“What should I call you?” asked Baldwin as they sat down. “Special Representative? U.S. Envoy? Arctic czar?”
Benson smiled. “You can call me Adam.”
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“Perfect. What do you like to drink, Adam?”
“A Gold Rush.”
“I’m not familiar with it. What’s in it?
“Bourbon over one huge rock of ice with honey syrup and lemon juice.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Baldwin, who waved the waiter over, ordered two of them, and then got down to business. “Where do you see yourself in ten years, Adam?”
“Is this a job interview?”
“Maybe.”
“Ten years is a long time in this town,” said Benson.
“You’d be surprised how quickly time flies,” Baldwin replied. “If you don’t set your goals early, you’re going to have a hell of a time getting to where you want to be.”
Benson nodded. “Excellent point. I really enjoy the Foreign Service. I guess an ambassadorship would be nice.”
Baldwin leaned in. “It’d be nice? Or is that what you want?”
“I’ve never had it put that directly. An ambassadorship is what I want.”
“Good. Now you’ve got the beginnings of a goal. The next question is: Where do you want to be ambassador?”
“Specifically?” asked Benson. “I don’t know that I’ve given it that much thought.”
“Come on, Adam. I can tell by looking at you that you’re an ambitious man. If you could wave a magic wand, which U.S. Embassy do you see yourself in?”
“Paris,” Benson said. “No question.”
“That’s a hell of a good choice. Right off the Place de la Concorde. The five-star Hôtel de Crillon across the street. You’ve got excellent taste. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“That ambassadorship is a plum posting—one of the absolute best the American President can dole out,” Baldwin explained. “It doesn’t go to career Foreign Service officers. It goes to mega–campaign donors or people who can bundle tons of money for a candidate.”
“You’re right,” said Benson, a realist. “But you did ask me what I would do if I could wave a magic wand.”
“Do you know what business I’m in?”
“You’re a political fundraiser.”
Baldwin leaned forward even farther. “I also hand out magic wands. Not to everybody. Just my friends.”
“I’m listening,” Benson replied.
“I can’t promise you Paris—that’s up to POTUS—but what if I could move enough money through you in the next election that you’d be one of the top contenders for that ambassadorship.”
“I’d say I’m still listening. What would you expect in return?”
“I need the U.S. to drop its resistance to Chinese investment in the Norwegian port of Kirkenes.”
Benson fell silent as the waiter came back and set their drinks down.
“Changing American foreign policy?” he said after the server had walked away. “That’s a major ask.”
“What if I could sweeten the deal?” replied Baldwin, sensing he had him and just needed to set the hook.
“Are we talking money?”
“Even better—stock in the company created to helm the port project. The certificates would be placed in an account of your choosing in Panama.”
Benson took a sip of his drink and said, “Walk me all the way through it.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes and two more cocktails later, the details of Baldwin’s plan fully sketched out, the men stood up and shook hands.
“Did you drive?” Baldwin asked. “I can ask them to validate your parking.”
“No, thank you,” said Benson. “I took a cab. But it’s so gorgeous outside, I think I’m going to walk. How about you?”
Stealing a glance at Lindsey, the man replied, “I’ve got something else planned.”
* * *
The pair shook hands once more and Benson exited the hotel and headed north on Sixteenth Street. As he had been instructed, he acted naturally and didn’t look back.
At K Street, he turned left and two blocks later climbed into the white windowless panel van and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Did you get everything?” he asked.
The FBI agent in charge of the investigation helped remove the microphone and replied, “All of it.”
CHAPTER 67
Ethan Russ loved jogging outside. The D.C. weather, however, didn’t always love him back, especially in the summer. They didn’t refer to Washington as the swamp for nothing. The heat and humidity could be killers.
Today, though, was extraordinary. This was exactly the kind of day he loved. And there was no place he loved more to run than surrounded by history on the National Mall. The Washington Monument, the U.S. Capitol Building, the Lincoln Memorial…
It truly was extraordinary.
With his earbuds in and his favorite playlist on repeat, it felt as if he could run forever. During that time, nothing else mattered. His mind would hit Pause and he would enter an almost Zen-like state. The only thing better was the rush of endorphins that flooded his system after it was all over.
Crossing Seventh Street, he could see the roof of the Smithsonian Castle up ahead. He was remembering the first time he had ever visited there, when his thoughts were interrupted by a flashing light and the blaring of a police klaxon.
He turned to see an unmarked four-door sedan, the kind of vehicle favored by police detectives, or in this case members of the FBI. Someone wanted his attention. Removing his earbuds, he walked toward the car.
The man in the passenger seat, wearing a navy suit and wire-rim glasses, rolled down his window.
“Great day for a run,” said William Lamb, head of the FBI’s Counterintelligence Division.
“Not many like this left,” Russ replied. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“On behalf of the Bureau, I wanted to say thank you. If you hadn’t reported Spencer Baldwin to us, I don’t know if he ever would have hit our radar.”
“How’d the meeting go with Benson?”
“It just wrapped up,” said Lamb. “With all of the audio you both helped us get, he’ll be going away for a long time.”
“Good. I hope the Chinese get the message.”
“They’re going to get it all right. Trust me. At the very least, Baldwin is going down for bribery of public officials and failing to register as a foreign lobbyist. His Chinese handler-cum-honey-pot is going down for espionage.”
Russ rolled his earbuds in his hand. “I suppose you’ll be in touch?”
“If we need any further statements. Going forward, it’ll be the prosecutors at DOJ who will be handling everything.”
“You all know how to get ahold of me.”
Lamb nodded and was about to roll up his window, when he added, “You’re a good man, Ethan. You could have taken the money, but you didn’t. A lot of people—unfortunately, a lot of them in politics—probably would have gone the other way. I hope you do run for office. We need more good people in those jobs.”
Smiling, the young man returned his earbuds to his ears, tapped the roof of the car, and resumed his run.
* * *
Baldwin, excited and nervous all at the same time, knocked on Lindsey’s door. She opened it, already in a state of undress, wearing nothing but lingerie.
Stepping into the room, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and closed the door.
“You look good enough to eat,” he told her.
She smiled the practiced smile she had been taught. She was anything but excited. His forehead was already damp with perspiration. The thought of his sweaty body on top of hers was enough to make her blood run cold.
“I’m so glad you like it,” she cooed, doing a pirouette so that he could take in the total magnificence of her young, firm body.
“What did you think of my performance in the bar? An entire hour with the U.S. Special Representative for the Arctic. Are you pleased?”
“Is he going to work with us?”
Baldwin grinned. “He’s definitely going to be on board.”
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sp; Lindsey smiled back. “Let’s celebrate.”
“Oh, we’re going to celebrate, all right,” he said, reaching out and running his fat fingers across her skin.
“I brought you a present.”
“You’re the only present I need.”
She broke away just as he was trying to wrap her in his embrace.
From her suitcase, she pulled out a bottle of bourbon and held it up. “Pappy Van Winkle. If I recall, you’re a fan.”
“Huge fan,” said Baldwin. “I take it—”
“Neat,” she replied. “I remember.”
Kicking off his shoes, Baldwin untucked his shirt and lay on the bed.
Lindsey poured a drink and handed it to him. She also poured one for herself.
Taking a sip, he savored the amazing liquor. Then, resting the glass on his ample midsection, he looked at the White House through the open windows. Smiling as the young woman climbed atop the bed next to him, he said, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
But no sooner had the words left his mouth than someone was pounding on their door.
“FBI!” a voice yelled from out in the hallway. “We have a warrant for your arrest. Open up!”
EPILOGUE
BEIJING
ONE MONTH LATER
True to his word, upon landing at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, Han had revealed how to disarm the fail-safe measures on the Black Ice equipment.
Once all of it had arrived back in the United States, NSA and DARPA began taking it apart and studying it. The technology was quite ingenious, exploiting a previously undetected flaw in air defense systems that had spilled over into some of the West’s most sophisticated radar technology. It was going to take time, but they were on track for developing a way to fix it.
In the meantime, Han had received a diagnosis and it wasn’t good. He had a form of bone cancer. His prognosis, however, was excellent. He had been moved to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota and was receiving the best care in the world.
When Harvath was given his next assignment, he asked for permission to go visit the Chinese operative and solicit his help.
