It was like having the truck that had just hit you, back up, and do it all over again. He needed another drink—a big one. Probably more than one.
Turning his gaze to the body bag, he managed, “So that’s the guy.”
“We think so, but there’s not much to go on. The killer didn’t leave any evidence at the scene in Norway.”
It had to be him, Harvath thought. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
“How did you know he was going to be here, tonight, on Key West?”
“We didn’t,” said Haney.
“Then how did you find me?”
“When you didn’t pick up your phone, we were worried it might already be too late.”
“I’ve had it turned off. It’s in a drawer back in—”
“Back in your room,” Haney said, interrupting him. “Yeah, we know. We found it. That’s the first place we hit when we got here.”
Harvath knew that the phone didn’t need to be turned on for it to be tracked.
“In order to get word to you,” Haney continued, “we asked Key West PD to go by and do a wellness check. They did, but your room was empty. Eventually, they tracked down the property manager, who said he’d seen you earlier and everything appeared fine. The cops left a note in your room, as well as with the property manager to call Uncle Paul.”
Call Uncle Paul was a distress code. Had Harvath received that message, he would have known that he was in danger and should make contact as quickly as possible.
“How did you figure out to come by the bar?” he asked. “I’ve never brought my phone there and I always pay cash.”
Haney withdrew the receipt upon which the bartender had written her name and cell number and handed it to Harvath. “Her phone wasn’t turned on either.”
“Probably because she was tending bar,” said Harvath.
“We didn’t know what to think. Because it was off, we couldn’t call, but we could track it. Once we got a lock, we headed straight over.”
Harvath had thought about throwing the woman’s number away, but in the end had hung on to it. He wasn’t planning on sleeping with her. At least he hadn’t thought he was. But in all of his despair and loneliness, there was part of him that craved the touch of another human being.
That phone number had saved his life. And even though The Carlton Group had its own private jet, they must have moved heaven and earth to get to him as fast as they had. A few seconds later and he would have been dead. At the very least, he owed his teammates a thank-you.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Haney replied. “No more funerals.”
Harvath nodded. It was a noble ambition, but he didn’t know how realistic it was. Death was an occupational hazard in their line of work. It came with the territory.
The goal, of course, was to make sure the bad guys were the ones doing the dying. But, as evidenced by Lara, the Old Man, Lydia, and now Carl Pedersen, that wasn’t always possible.
Gesturing toward the body bag again, Harvath stated, “This has got to be the same guy. There must be something that ties him to Carl.”
Haney agreed. “This is priority one for the Norwegians. Who knows what evidence they’ve developed since we last heard from them. We’ll take prints, a retinal scan, and photos for facial recognition on the flight home.”
Home. The term didn’t resonate with him the way it once had. Home used to be a place he longed to return to after dangerous assignments abroad. It was what he had been building with Lara and Marco—a life, a family—something worth living for and coming back to. Now, he had nothing.
As he teetered on the edge of an all-consuming darkness that threatened to swallow him whole, he needed to face his demons—in his time, in his own way. If he survived, great. If not, then so be it. It wasn’t time for his self-imposed exile to end.
“Drop me off at the next corner,” he ordered.
Sloane caught his eyes in the rearview mirror and then flicked her gaze to Haney.
“Scot,” said Haney. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”
“I don’t plan on staying. But I’m a big boy and can handle myself. Maybe I’ll follow in Hemingway’s footsteps. Head down to Cuba. Do some fishing.” And a hell of a lot more drinking.
“That’d be a bad idea,” Staelin interjected.
“Why’s that?”
“Besides Cuba being a communist dictatorship and you being one of the most anticommunist people I’ve ever known?”
“Yeah, besides that.”
Staelin glanced at Haney as if seeking permission to answer the question. But before he could, Chase jumped back in. “There may be more than one assassin out there looking for you.”
Harvath turned to him. “What are you talking about?”
“We have a piece of information that the Norwegians don’t.”
CHAPTER 6
NORWEGIAN INTELLIGENCE SERVICE
OSLO, NORWAY
Sølvi Kolstad was tall, very good-looking, and had made a lot of bad choices. She was lucky to have been allowed back.
Standing up, she stretched her long legs. It felt good to get the blood flowing. She was exhausted and her mind worked better with movement.
Outside, beyond the thick forest of pine and the clear, cold lake, she could feel the thrum of the city. It was always worse late at night. The pull of the different neighborhoods. Places like Grünerløkka, where she used to go for MDMA, or Brugata for cocaine, as well as Hausmanns gate for heroin, and Grønland for meth.
She could feel them all calling out to her as sure as she could feel her lungs inflating as she breathed, and the beating of her heart in her chest. It was a struggle. Day by day. Hour by hour.
The treatment counselors had told her that if she didn’t give in—if she remained strong—that over time the powerful longing would fade. Fade, but never completely disappear.
The closest thing she had found to the euphoria of illicit drugs was intense, lung-searing, muscle-burning exercise. The flood of endorphins released into her system transported her, albeit all too temporarily, to another plane of existence. The only thing better was a mind-blowing orgasm. But for those, she needed a partner—and ever since her divorce, which had sent her spiraling, she couldn’t be bothered to put in the effort. Intimacy wasn’t very high on her checklist anymore. Walking over to the window, she studied her reflection in the glass.
When her blond hair was pulled up in a high ponytail you could see the beginning of a tattoo. It was a line from Sartre in delicate, thin blue script that ran from the base of her neck down to the midpoint of her spine. Il est impossible d’apprécier la lumière sans connaître les ténèbres. It is impossible to appreciate the light without knowing the darkness.
Above her right hip was a scar from a bullet that had gone straight through. A couple of millimeters lower and it would have shattered her hip, sabotaging the mission she had been on at the time. While she had bled profusely, she had managed to accomplish her assignment. The scar in front and in back were reminders—both of the dangers she faced in her job and that she should never take anything for granted.
Her striking appearance was rounded out by large blue eyes, full lips, and impossibly high cheekbones. For all of the damage she had done to herself, she hadn’t lost her looks. In fact, some were saying that she looked better now than before her leave of absence from NIS.