back, she shook her head, deleted it, and tried again.
Ten minutes and three drafts later, she finally had something that struck the right tone.
It was a big ask—on a lot of levels. It was also embarrassing. She had to do it, though. Carl Pedersen would havedone it for her.
Looking at the time, she debated whether she should head home or just crash on the couch in her office. It was late and she was wrung out—both emotionally and physically. The pull from Oslo’s seedier neighborhoods as she drove back to her apartment would be strong. Probably too strong to resist. She convinced herself it would be better to stay.
In the morning, she’d go for arun around the lake and then shower in the NIS locker room. There was a spare change of clothes in her office closet. By all appearances, she looked like a hard worker—and she was. Get far enough under the surface, though, and you saw that working—sometimes even spending nights at the office—was how she walled off her demons.
But there was no reason for anyone to suspect what she was wrestlingwith. Carl Pedersen had seen to that. He kept her drug use secret and had made sure that when she returned to work that she aced her physical and no residual traces of illicit substances were detected in her system.
That was the kind of friend he was. He had not only helped her weather her own particular storm, but he had lashed himself and his career to her. Sink or swim, they were in it together.He believed in her that much.
Ever the espionage chieftain, he had prepared a cover story for her. As far as anyone at NIS was concerned, her leave of absence had been due to the dissolution of her marriage. Dropping hints in the right hotbeds of office gossip, many coworkers suspected that she had gone through a period of depression. It explained everything without rendering her disqualifiedfor her position. Human beings were logical creatures. Give them a simple, plausible explanation for an issue and, absent any contradictory evidence, they’d accept it.
And despite her fear, everything had worked out—just as Pedersen had said it would. There was only one wild card: the person who had suspected her drug use and had reported it to Pedersen.
They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t evenseen each other since she had returned to NIS. But that was the person she needed a favor from now. It was why she had agonized over the wording of her email. She was only going to get one shot, if at all.
The CIA’s Oslo station chief was as buttoned-up and professional as they came. There’d be a lot of questions. There’d also be some painful recriminations. They had been friends. Good friends.But a lot of murky, not-so-nice water had flowed under the bridge since.
Making up her couch, she turned out the lights and lay down. She tried not to think of Pedersen, but as soon as she closed her eyes, her mind was filled with him. The thin gray mustache, the chain-smoking, the turtlenecks and perfectly creased trousers. She remembered his smile, and his warmth, and his patience.
At thecorners of her eyes, she could feel tears beginning to come. She fought them back. Not now , she commanded herself. Giving into grief only created a dangerous on-ramp. It was what had propelled her into the world of drugs when Gunnar had left her. She couldn’t risk that again. She needed to sleep. She needed to be sharp for tomorrow. Because it was going to be ugly.
Whether the CIA liked it ornot, they were going to give Scot Harvath to her.
CHAPTER 7
J OINT B ASE A NDREWS
P RINCE G EORGE’S C OUNTY , M ARYLAND
T he Carlton Group’s G650ER touched down and taxied to a revetment area on the far side of the airfield. There, a Black Hawk helicopter—rotors hot—sat waiting to take the private jet’s passengers on the next leg of their journey.
Testifying to how fast the team had moved to get down to Key West, the aircraft hadn’t been catered.The only food in the galley were shelf-stable items like granola
Ten minutes and three drafts later, she finally had something that struck the right tone.
It was a big ask—on a lot of levels. It was also embarrassing. She had to do it, though. Carl Pedersen would havedone it for her.
Looking at the time, she debated whether she should head home or just crash on the couch in her office. It was late and she was wrung out—both emotionally and physically. The pull from Oslo’s seedier neighborhoods as she drove back to her apartment would be strong. Probably too strong to resist. She convinced herself it would be better to stay.
In the morning, she’d go for arun around the lake and then shower in the NIS locker room. There was a spare change of clothes in her office closet. By all appearances, she looked like a hard worker—and she was. Get far enough under the surface, though, and you saw that working—sometimes even spending nights at the office—was how she walled off her demons.
But there was no reason for anyone to suspect what she was wrestlingwith. Carl Pedersen had seen to that. He kept her drug use secret and had made sure that when she returned to work that she aced her physical and no residual traces of illicit substances were detected in her system.
That was the kind of friend he was. He had not only helped her weather her own particular storm, but he had lashed himself and his career to her. Sink or swim, they were in it together.He believed in her that much.
Ever the espionage chieftain, he had prepared a cover story for her. As far as anyone at NIS was concerned, her leave of absence had been due to the dissolution of her marriage. Dropping hints in the right hotbeds of office gossip, many coworkers suspected that she had gone through a period of depression. It explained everything without rendering her disqualifiedfor her position. Human beings were logical creatures. Give them a simple, plausible explanation for an issue and, absent any contradictory evidence, they’d accept it.
And despite her fear, everything had worked out—just as Pedersen had said it would. There was only one wild card: the person who had suspected her drug use and had reported it to Pedersen.
They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t evenseen each other since she had returned to NIS. But that was the person she needed a favor from now. It was why she had agonized over the wording of her email. She was only going to get one shot, if at all.
The CIA’s Oslo station chief was as buttoned-up and professional as they came. There’d be a lot of questions. There’d also be some painful recriminations. They had been friends. Good friends.But a lot of murky, not-so-nice water had flowed under the bridge since.
Making up her couch, she turned out the lights and lay down. She tried not to think of Pedersen, but as soon as she closed her eyes, her mind was filled with him. The thin gray mustache, the chain-smoking, the turtlenecks and perfectly creased trousers. She remembered his smile, and his warmth, and his patience.
At thecorners of her eyes, she could feel tears beginning to come. She fought them back. Not now , she commanded herself. Giving into grief only created a dangerous on-ramp. It was what had propelled her into the world of drugs when Gunnar had left her. She couldn’t risk that again. She needed to sleep. She needed to be sharp for tomorrow. Because it was going to be ugly.
Whether the CIA liked it ornot, they were going to give Scot Harvath to her.
CHAPTER 7
J OINT B ASE A NDREWS
P RINCE G EORGE’S C OUNTY , M ARYLAND
T he Carlton Group’s G650ER touched down and taxied to a revetment area on the far side of the airfield. There, a Black Hawk helicopter—rotors hot—sat waiting to take the private jet’s passengers on the next leg of their journey.
Testifying to how fast the team had moved to get down to Key West, the aircraft hadn’t been catered.The only food in the galley were shelf-stable items like granola
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