Page 121 of Edge of Honor

“I don’t think I want to hear this story,” she said, opening the fridge. “We’ve experienced enough death for a while.”

“Speaking of which,” said Harvath, “I think something died in our fridge. It smells terrible.”

Sølvi smiled. “Nothing died. It’s just a little present Bente brought us from Oslo.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

The remainder of the week had passed quickly. They went back out to babysit on Wednesday, but other than that, had played things close to home—mostly spending time on their dock, working on their tans, and enjoying the ultimate luxury of just sitting still.

When Friday and the Fourth of July finally arrived, Scot was in pretty good spirits. The60 Minutesspecial had indeed been devastating, but in a strange sort of way, it had given President Mitchell an opportunity—especially in the run-up to America’s birthday—to promote the importance of Americans coming together, of working to build an even stronger union. It was a difficult moment for the country, but Mitchell was proving himself the right man for it.

Running a brand-new American flag up the Bishop’s Gate flagpole, Scot stood there for several minutes, admiring it as it blew in the breeze. If the people who had once lived on this property could see where the nation was now, they would be amazed. The American experiment had not only endured, it had prospered. As he always said, there was no other place he would rather be than in the United States and in no other time in history.

From the open kitchen window, Sølvi watched her husband staring up at the flag. Pulling out her phone, she snapped a picture. She wanted to capture the moment. It was the essence of the man she had married—strong, proud, and patriotic—quintessential Scot Harvath.

When Ambassador Rogers arrived, they already had cocktails prepared. Sølvi had wanted to do something to represent the colors of the flag and they had settled on highly alcoholic red, white, and blue daiquiris.

Haney and his wife, Jenna, were next to show up, and after Mike had carried in the food they had prepared, they both gladly accepted insulated tumblers with Sølvi’s special Fourth of July concoction.

They had invited Nicholas and Nina, but they had politely declined, thinking it might be too much for the baby.

Eventually, McGee texted to let them know that he was getting close. As soon as he did, they gathered everything up and took it all down to the dock.

The ex–CIA director had graciously offered, and everyone had accepted, to pilot the Chris-Craft over from Kent Island, so they could all watch the D.C. fireworks from the water.

It was a long trip, but McGee enjoyed being out on the boat. Harvath had also offered to let him tie up at his dock and spend the night, so he didn’t have to go all the way back in the dark.

“Do you have the coordinates for me?” McGee asked once they had cast off and started heading up the Potomac.

Harvath helped entered them in the GPS unit and then, after offering his friend something to drink, joined Sølvi at the stern.

Putting his arm around her, he didn’t say anything. He just took in the moment, savoring the breeze and the slowly setting sun.

When they got to the rendezvous point, they found Admiral Tyson andPier Pressureright where he had promised to be. His boat was loaded down with friends, many of them female, and they were having a terrific time drinking and passing around plates of food.

“Hungry?” Sølvi asked, getting up and pulling out paper plates and plastic utensils.

“I am,” Harvath said, knowing that she’d been out shopping. “Ravenous actually. What do we have?”

“Sushi.”

“Perfect. What kind?”

An impish grin spread across her face as she handed him his own special container to open. “Viking sushi.”

That didn’t sound very good, and the moment he peeled away the lid he knew why. Entering his nostrils, the smell was like getting punched in the face. Even being in the fresh air, on a boat, out on the open water couldn’t blunt its impact.

It was a smell Harvath had only encountered once before. One he would never forget. His body had an instant aversion to it and there was no question what it was—lutefisk.

As he looked up at his wife, the disgust written across his face, she snapped his photo—another quintessential Harvath moment she wanted to capture.

“When we get back to shore, I’m calling the police,” he stated.

“What for?”

“Spousal abuse.”

Sølvi rolled her eyes. “Weak. Just like my brothers said.”

He smiled and she leaned into him as he put his arm around her again. Unseen was his dumping the lutefisk over the side of the boat into the Potomac. With all the lye it contained, it could only help but improve the quality of the water.

Thankfully, Sølvi, as well as the Haneys, had brought plenty of other, palatable things to eat.

As they ate and enjoyed each other’s company, Harvath reflected on how fortunate he was—not only to have such wonderful friends and such a fantastic wife, but also to have been able to serve his country and to have done so with honor.

Kissing Sølvi, he sat back and watched as the fireworks began with an enormous bloom of red, white, and blue.