Page 22 of Shadow of Doubt

“Get down,” she ordered Grechko, pulling out her pistol.

As she did, the van’s driver flipped on his high beams and picked up speed. Another figure leaned out the passenger-side window. When Sølvi saw the gun in his hand, she began firing.

The shooter returned fire with a bigger, fully automatic weapon, which shattered the windows, windshields, and mirrors of the cars all around her. Sølvi, however, was relentless.

Alternating her rounds between the passenger and the driver, she didn’t let up. She used her cover as best she could and held her ground.

When she ran her pistol dry, she slammed home her final magazine and got right back in the fight. With the van almost on top of them, she changed her point of aim, taking out the right front tire.

The vehicle careened wildly as the driver lost control and slammed into a row of parked cars.

The impact was so severe, the passenger was jettisoned from the cab. He slammed against a concrete support and landed only fifteen feet away. Motioning for Grechko to stay put, Sølvi crept forward.

She used parked vehicles for cover for as long as she could. When she stepped out into the open, it was only long enough to check the defenestrated passenger for a pulse. He didn’t have one. He also didn’t have a phone, any identification, nor any pocket litter that might give her a clue to who was behind the attack.

Leaving the man where he lay, she raised her pistol and cautiously approached the van.

The driver was still alive, but only barely. Blood ran from his nose and both ears. He wheezed as he drew in short, painful gasps of air. The van was older and didn’t have airbags. The steering wheel had crushed his rib cage and likely punctured both of his lungs. No doubt there were all sorts of other internal injuries as well.

Seeing her approach, the man lifted a Beretta 9mm and arced it in her direction. Sølvi shot him in the head, killing him instantly.

Quickly she patted him down, but once again she came up empty. No phone, no ID, no nothing. The glove box and the van’s rear cargo area were also a bust.

Leaving everything where she had found it, she hurried back to Grechko.

“We’re not safe yet,” she said. “Follow me.”

The Russian did as he was instructed. They wove their way through the honeycomb of parking areas, careful never to step out into the open unless they absolutely had to, and even then, only for as long as was necessary.

Finally, they arrived at a large set of steel doors, which Sølvi pushed her way through before walking over to an elevator call button.

When the elevator doors opened, they stepped inside. Sølvi pressed a black keycard against a reader and selected the fourth floor.

“What is this place?” Grechko asked.

“Plan B,” said Sølvi, motioning for him to be quiet. She wasn’t in the mood to answer questions. Her mind was spinning, trying to put together everything that had just happened to them.

At the fourth floor, the elevator doors gently chimed and opened onto a sumptuous, carpeted hallway. The walls were covered with blond wood and each numbered door was painted a glossy black. Theirs was a corner room at the end of the hall. Sølvi used her keycard once more.

When the lock released, she stepped inside to make sure everything was okay and then waved Grechko in, telling him to take a seat on the couch.

Opening the sliding glass door to the balcony, she dissembled her phone and threw the pieces into the water below. Already she could hear the Klaxons of police and first-responder vehicles approaching. Closing the door, she locked it and drew the drapes.

Grechko was studying the directory of services that he had picked up off the coffee table.

“The Thief,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Interesting name for a hotel.”

“Stand up,” Sølvi responded.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” she ordered.

When he complied, she patted him down from top to bottom.

She went over every square inch of him, searching for anything her people might have missed—any sort of subcutaneous tracker that might have led the assaulters to the safehouse. She couldn’t find anything. They had already swapped out his clothes and provided him with new shoes. A male operative had even checked his anal cavity, or his “prison wallet” as it was colloquially referred to. By whatever means the attackers had found the safehouse, Grechko, it would appear, hadn’t led them there.

That brought Sølvi back to the unimaginable possibility that someone inside Norwegian Intelligence had betrayed them—all of them, including Martin and his security team.

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