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W ith nothing but her passport and cell phone, S?lvi had shown up at the Embassy of Norway, ready to begin her stint as an adjunct protection agent for Norwegian Prime Minister Anita Stang.

Prime Minister Stang and the Norwegian delegation would be arriving at Dulles International Airport.

S?lvi, and the U.S. Secret Service agents augmenting Stang’s existing detail from the Norwegian Police Security Service, also known by the acronym PST, would meet them at their plane and escort them to waiting vehicles on the tarmac.

One of the PST agents, an old friend of S?lvi’s named Bente Bergstr?m, would be transporting her body armor, CZ Nighthawk Custom pistol, her Norwegian Intelligence Service credentials, and a handful of other items she had left behind in Oslo.

The Secret Service would be providing all the Norwegian protective agents, including S?lvi, with special, temporary credentials, as well as a unique lapel pin that readily identified them as precleared security professionals.

Arriving at the embassy, S?lvi parked her car and sought out the chief of embassy security.

They did a full walk-through of both the embassy and the Ambassador’s residence.

Since it was technically still an “active” crime scene, portions of the residence, including the kitchen, had been closed off with heavy sheets of plastic and yellow crime tape.

Nevertheless, because she was a detail person, S?lvi wanted to have eyes on any and every area that the PM might elect to see or pass through.

Because of all the stress and upheaval caused by the attacks, President Mitchell had graciously offered Ambassador Hansen rooms at Blair House, the state guesthouse just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.

While the Ambassador and her husband had politely declined, they had accepted on behalf of Prime Minister Stang, who under normal circumstances would have stayed at the Ambassador’s residence.

Blair House was where S?lvi had scheduled to go next.

The Secret Service team augmenting Prime Minister Stang’s Norwegian detail was composed of two male and two female agents. S?lvi had been given their information the day before during her meeting at Secret Service headquarters, but had yet to meet them.

The team arrived at the embassy a few minutes early and double-parked their black Chevy Suburban outside. When S?lvi stepped out, they exited the vehicle and introduced themselves.

They all shook hands and traded cell phone information, then the agent in charge, Jonathan Miller, gave her a quick tour of the vehicle, pointing out where the medical kit was, along with some other equipment. Once that was complete, they mounted up and headed for Blair House.

As they made the short, two-and-a-half-mile drive, Miller broke down how the rest of the day would unfold.

The Secret Service had arranged for a large private suite at one of the fixed base operator buildings at Dulles Airport.

Once Prime Minister Stang’s Scandinavian Airlines flight had arrived at the gate, the Norwegian delegation would be deplaned first and taken down the jet-bridge stairs to three waiting Secret Service vehicles and driven to the FBO.

There the Prime Minister and her team could relax, have something to eat, and even shower if they wanted, while their luggage was collected and their passports were processed.

Then, once everything was in order, they would head to Blair House.

It was all pretty straightforward. Removing a special NATO Summit lapel pin from his pocket, the agent in charge handed it to her and indicated which side it should be pinned to.

When they rolled up to the police checkpoint just before Blair House, the young, broad-shouldered FBI agent driving their Suburban, Eric Sorola, bantered with one of the cops. As the barrier arm was raised, the cop saw him off with the Marine Corps motto, “Semper Fi,” which Eric proudly repeated.

“A United States Marine,” S?lvi said approvingly from the second row of seats.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sorola replied.

“How long were you in?”

“Eight years. Then college. Now the Bureau.”

“Did you see any combat?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Afghanistan?” she asked.

“And Iraq,” the young man responded.

“What was your MOS?”

“Started out infantry, drifted into Marine Security Guard duty, and ended up doing a lot of dignitary protection.”

“Makes you perfect for this assignment,” said S?lvi.

Sorola chuckled as he pulled up in front of Blair House and parked. “When I was in Iraq, I drove Route Irish so many times my buddies said I should start my own version of Uber and call it Suber.”

S?lvi smiled. It was a funny line.

Route Irish, however, was no laughing matter. It was an extremely dangerous, seven-and-a-half-mile stretch of the Baghdad Airport Road that connected the International Green Zone, where the U.S. Embassy was, with Baghdad International Airport.

Getting out of the Suburban, the team was greeted by the director of Blair House, who welcomed them and explained that the complex was made up of four separate nineteenth-century homes, boasted fourteen guest bedrooms, and spanned over 70,000 feet, making it bigger than the Executive Residence across the street at the White House.

Guests have included Queen Elizabeth II, Nikita Khrushchev, Charles de Gaulle, Margaret Thatcher, and even Afghan leader Hamid Karzai.

Normally reserved for heads of state, it was considered quite an honor to have it extended to the Norwegian NATO delegation. President Mitchell had been deeply saddened by the loss of Norwegian lives at Ambassador Hansen’s residence and wanted the entire delegation to feel safe and at home.

The director took them on an overall tour and answered all of S?lvi’s questions along the way. Any door S?lvi wanted opened or space she wanted to look into, the director happily obliged.

Maintaining her thorough attention to detail, and knowing her fellow Norwegians as well as she did, S?lvi asked where the closest watering hole was. She was interested in something upscale, with good security, that also served food.

Miller and Blair House’s director both agreed—the Off the Record bar in the basement of the Hay-Adams hotel, just across Lafayette Square.

S?lvi asked if they might trace the walk right now and even get a bite to eat before heading out to Dulles. The director offered to call over and see if she could reserve a table on their behalf.

Sixty seconds later, they were on their way.

Strolling across the park, they were met in the lobby by the hotel’s gracious concierge, who took them downstairs and got them all set up.

As they ate, S?lvi got to know more about the team, including the two female agents, Longwell and Del Vecchio.

Sorola also discussed more about his time in Iraq, a country S?lvi had been to a couple of times, and the myriad vehicles he had used for his airport runs, including the M1117 armored security vehicle that had been nicknamed the “Guardian.”

When the bill came, S?lvi insisted on paying. The elegant Hay-Adams had been her idea. She didn’t want to put the Secret Service agents in a difficult position if their per diems wouldn’t cover their lunches.

On the way back to Blair House, they continued to chat. S?lvi had filled them in on her military history and now it was mostly just personal stuff—families, relationships, that kind of thing.

Hopping back in the Suburban, they headed west on I-66, crossed the Potomac River via the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, and kept going till they merged with the Dulles Access Road and eventually arrived at the airport about forty-five minutes later.

All in all, it wasn’t a terrible trip, though the Dulles Access Road had to be one of the ugliest stretches of highway S?lvi had ever experienced.

Stain-covered sound-attenuation barriers, anonymous, unattractive low-rise office buildings, orange traffic barrels, and patchy, overgrown highway grass.

It was nothing like the ride in from Oslo’s international airport, where the road was lined with majestic pines. She was just sorry Scot wasn’t with her so she could point out the difference and see if she could get a rise out of him.

Pulling up to the FBO, she could see a fleet of pristine black SUVs with U.S. government plates. Two of them—a Chevy Suburban and a Chevy Tahoe—were armored.

As she had been told that the Dutch delegation was landing at the same time and that they would all be caravaning back to D.C. together, she wondered which armored vehicle was for Prime Minister Stang.

Getting out of the Suburban, she stretched her legs as Miller chatted with a couple of agents who were standing nearby.

When he was done, he came back over and explained that because the Suburban was bigger and considered more prestigious, it was the one that had been reserved for the Norwegians.

While Miller headed inside, S?lvi walked over to look at it. Sorola joined her.

“You get the big one,” he said. “First class.”

She didn’t know about that. “Do you have a penny on you?” she asked as she continued to examine the vehicle.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some change and handed her one.

Circling the vehicle, S?lvi used the penny—head down—to gauge the level of treads on the run-flat tires. It was a trick Scot had taught her.

After she had done a full 360, she got up on the driver’s-side running board and motioned for Sorola to join her.

Once he was standing next to her, she grabbed hold of the roof rack and said, “Let’s see how much play there is in the suspension.”

Using their combined body weight, the young FBI agent helped her rock the vehicle up and down.

“Now let’s try the Tahoe,” she said.

They put it through the same test and then she walked around the vehicle with the penny, checking out all the treads.

“What are you thinking?” Sorola asked as she took a step back and gazed at both SUVs.

“Culturally, I think Americans believe bigger is always better. We don’t see things that way in Norway.”

“You don’t want the Suburban?”

“I think everybody wants the Suburban. That’s the problem.”

He looked at her. “What’s wrong with it?”

“At a glance, nothing. But judging by the difference in the treads and the stiffness of the suspensions, the Suburban has seen more use.”

“We can totally switch you over to the Tahoe. That’s not a problem. They’re both the same model year, same engine, and have the same level of armor.”

S?lvi smiled. “Thank you. Yes. Let’s take the Tahoe. And there’s one other thing I need.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to drive it,” she replied.