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S cot was familiar with S?lvi’s past. She had been brutally honest with him and had shared everything—her drug addiction as a model in Paris, her recovery and entry into the Norwegian military, and her relapse when her previous husband left her because of her inability to have children.

It was an incredibly painful story, but only by owning and acknowledging it could she move beyond it.

One thing that Scot didn’t know, though it didn’t surprise him, was the number of strings that needed to be pulled to get her reinstated at the Norwegian Intelligence Service after her relapse.

Her mentor, an NIS legend named Carl Pedersen, had moved heaven and earth. He had not only vouched for her, but he had also called in every single debt owed to him.

In the end, one person had stood between S?lvi and getting her career back—the head of the Norwegian Parliamentary Intelligence Oversight Committee, Anita Stang, who now, years later, had become Prime Minister of Norway.

Without a debt Carl could call in from her, he was required to make her a promise.

If the day came that she needed something, all she would have to do is ask.

But before she had been able to cash in her chit, Pedersen had been killed.

As the Prime Minister saw it, however, the debt was binding and transferable. S?lvi agreed.

And so when Ambassador Hansen had left the house, she had already secured S?lvi’s cooperation.

S?lvi would join the Prime Minister’s protective detail and be with her for the duration of the NATO Summit.

All S?lvi had requested was to be the person her husband heard it from.

Hence the cryptic goodbye from the Ambassador and the shift in S?lvi’s demeanor when seeing her off.

One of the things Scot loved about his wife was her integrity. She was doing the right thing. He respected her for that.

What’s more, she knew how to handle herself. If anything went down, the Norwegians would be thanking their lucky stars that they had brought her onto the team. He had seen her in action enough times, including last night, to know what a badass he’d married.

With the added comfort of knowing that the NATO Summit was going to be one of the most secure events of the year, he said the very thing to her that she would have said to him had their situations been reversed: “What can I do to help?”

S?lvi kissed him. It was the perfect answer on every level as far as she was concerned. Like nobody else before in her life, he “got” her.

He understood that what she was doing was not only out of loyalty to her mentor, but also out of allegiance to her country.

She hadn’t yet decided if she was going to return to the NIS, but agreeing to work the Prime Minister’s detail could only help to keep a seat warm for her.

After checking the husband box, Scot immediately went into tactical mode. “You’re going to have a gun and body armor, right?” he asked.

S?lvi nodded. “They’re bringing my full kit from my weapons locker in Oslo.”

With that, there was nothing else he could do, except to figure out how, without a car of their own, she was going to get back and forth from “work.”

Hopping on a car-sharing site, he was able to find a whole bunch of vehicles, available immediately in their area.

He screened out the EVs as S?lvi couldn’t stand them and he didn’t have a charging station anyway.

Choosing vehicles that could be delivered next door to Mount Vernon, he winnowed the list even further.

“Volkswagen Jetta, Mercedes-Benz C-Class, or Ford Mustang?” he asked, picking out the top three listings with the best ratings.

She looked at him like he was nuts. “Duh,” she replied. “Mustang.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiled, selecting the vehicle.

“Hold on. It’s not a four-cylinder, is it?”

Harvath checked the description. “Nope. Dark Horse Premium Package. Comes with a five-liter V-8.”

“Good. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a four-banger Mustang.”

He smiled again. “They can drop it off at Mount Vernon around lunchtime.”

“Book it,” she stated, and he did.

He was indulging himself, scrolling through the super high-end cars, the McLarens, Lamborghinis, and Aston Martins—all vehicles that now, thanks to his windfall, were within his reach to own—when he received a text from Nicholas.

He and S?lvi had just been over at Nicholas’s place to see Nina and the new baby. It was amazing how much she had grown since the christening.

Opening the text, he read Nicholas’s message.

“You’re never going to believe this,” he said, looking at S?lvi. “I’ve got to go back to the office.”

“Did you forget something? Can’t they mail it to you?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Brendan Rogers is there.”

“The former National Security Advisor?”

“Correct.”

“Wasn’t he part of the team that helped get you out of Russia?” she asked.

“Yeah, he was the Hostage Czar at the time.”

“What’s he doing at the Carlton Group? Is something going on?”

Scot shrugged. “I don’t know. Nicholas just asked if I could come in. He says it’s important.”

“Then you should go. I would offer to give you a ride, but.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he replied. “How about you come pick me up in your hot-shit American muscle car in a few hours and we’ll grab a late lunch together?”

“Burgers?”

“Whatever you want. As long as it’s not lutefisk, I’m in.”

Scot hated the traditional dried cod cured in lye that the Norwegians served at Christmas. He’d had one bite with S?lvi’s family back in December and had thought he was going to hurl. He couldn’t even get their dog to eat it under the table. It was that bad.

He decided it must have been some kind of torturous communal penance dreamed up by the Vikings to appease their angry and vengeful gods.

That night, before going to bed, he’d made it clear to S?lvi that if she ever tried to make him eat it again, he’d have her dragged to The Hague and brought up on war crimes.

“Still so angry about the lutefisk,” she said with an impish grin. “My brothers warned me that you were weak.”

“If your brothers had to eat half of the terrible stuff I’ve eaten over my career, they’d be curled up in a corner crying and sucking their thumbs.”

The image of her two very large brothers crying over bad goat, fried scorpions, or whatever other foul things Scot had been forced to ingest in the field made her laugh.

“Okay, I promise. No lutefisk. For now.”

“Not ever ,” Harvath reinforced, giving her a kiss. He needed to get back up to the house and get changed. Board shorts and a Parliament-Funkadelic T-shirt weren’t exactly office attire—though he was tempted to keep his flip-flops on, just as an f-you to the system.

Twenty minutes later, he came downstairs to the kitchen in a light gray houndstooth suit that had been hanging at the back of his closet for over a year.

Underneath the jacket he wore a crisp, white, oxford slim-fit shirt, but no tie.

Now that he was retired, he didn’t intend to ever wear a tie again.

Caving on footwear, he opted for a pair of black, cap-toe shoes.

In his outer breast pocket, a half-inch block of a perfectly folded linen handkerchief was visible.

On his left wrist was the Seaholm Offshore dive watch S?lvi had given him as a wedding gift to replace the one he’d been forced to part with in Afghanistan.

“Doesn’t that suit fit just right in all the right places,” she said approvingly, as he gave her a slow 360 to take it all in. “I think I like corporate Scot. A lot .”

Harvath laughed. “I’ll let my tailor know you give him five stars.”

“And then some. I could get used to seeing you like this.”

“Please do us both a favor and don’t. This is the last thing I want to be putting on every day.”

“I’m just saying, this is a really good look on you.”

Glancing at his phone, he saw that his Uber was getting closer.

“Gotta go,” he said, giving her a kiss. “I’ll text you later about lunch.”

It was a short walk from the house to the pickup point he had entered into the app. For security purposes, he preferred to share his true address as seldom as possible.

The driver was right on time, had the car perfectly air-conditioned, and wasn’t much of a talker.

It made for the perfect ride as far as Harvath was concerned.

They made the thirty-five-mile trip in just under forty minutes, which was practically a world record considering the ubiquitous D.C. traffic.

Arriving at the Carlton Group offices, Scot found it a little strange not to be entering through the garage and taking the private elevator up. But without a key card and parking pass, he had to enter via the main lobby like everyone else.

After being announced and granted access, he was directed to the appropriate elevator where the floor for the Carlton Group had already been entered. He stepped into the carriage and rode up by himself, humming the Albino Superstars song he had teased S?lvi with just the day before.

When the chime sounded and the doors opened, he entered the office for the first time since having cleared out his desk.

He had wondered how it would feel and it actually felt pretty damn good.

He traded pleasantries with the two security agents standing near the desk, inquired after the receptionist’s children, and then thanked her as she told him which conference room to head toward and buzzed him in.

Taking the back hall, he only saw a handful of people.

As usual, the Carlton Group was in the thick of a hundred different things and no one really had the time to stop and make small talk.

He waved, traded a few fist bumps, and kept moving.

At the conference room door, he knocked and then let himself in.

The dogs perked up the moment they saw him, but with a quiet command, Nicholas directed them to stay put.

Scot walked to the table and greeted the Ambassador, before shaking hands with Nicholas and then bending down to give Argos and Draco a little attention. When he was done, he took a seat across from Rogers.

“Thank you for coming,” said Nicholas. “I hope S?lvi doesn’t mind that we called you in.”

“Don’t worry. She thinks I’m playing golf.”

“In a suit?”

Scot smiled. “Of course not. Come on. She knows exactly where I am and why I’m here. If it wasn’t for you two, I wouldn’t have made it out of Russia alive. I’m at your service. What do you need?”

“The Ambassador may have an issue that needs handling,” said Nicholas.

“What kind of issue?”

“I think the Iranians are trying to kill me,” Rogers replied.

“Because of the Soleimani hit?”

The Ambassador nodded.

“If that’s true, you don’t need to hire the Carlton Group. If you drew the Iranians’ ire while working for the U.S. government and carrying out the policies of the previous administration, that is a cut-and-dried Secret Service issue.”

“Which is what I told him,” Nicholas replied. Then turning to Rogers, he said, “Now tell Scot what you told me.”

The Ambassador cleared his throat and stated, “The Secret Service said no.”

“Excuse me?” Harvath responded, certain that he must have heard the man wrong. “They said what?”

“According to the Secret Service, I’m on my own.”