Page 15 of Edge of Honor

Sølvi turned her gaze from the Potomac back to her husband. “That’s the one. Except it wasn’t Hansen who made me the offer. She’s just the messenger.”

Harvath took a sip of his coffee as he waited for her to continue.

“The good news is that it’s only a temporary assignment,” she finally stated.

“And the bad news?”

“I have to start right away.”

None of this was doing anything to tamp down his concern. “What’s the assignment?”

She took a deep breath and said, “The Norwegian Prime Minister wants me on her security detail for the NATO Summit.”

Harvath’s hand tightened around his mug. He used to do this exact same job and knew exactly what it entailed. Not only could it be extremely dangerous, but this request was completely unnecessary. Norway would be sending a full detail of its own protection agents with the Prime Minister.

What’s more, the moment they touched down on U.S. soil, they would be augmented by a full complement of Secret Service agents. Adding Sølvi made no sense at all.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Your special forces background more than qualifies you, but dignitary protection isn’t your field of expertise. Why do they want you working halls and walls?”

“Do you want the short answer or the long?”

Almost out of coffee, he answered, “Short.”

“Prime Minister Stang doesn’t trust the U.S. Secret Service.”

That didn’t exactly come as a surprise to him. The Secret Service had experienced some highly publicized failures recently, not the least of which were assassination attempts in the run-up to the general election. While no one, thankfully, had been killed, dramatic, inexcusable mistakes had been made.

Though he had only worked with the Secret Service for a short time, he felt compelled to mount some sort of a defense on their behalf.

“I am not going to argue that there haven’t been some screwups recently. But presidential elections open up a whole Pandora’s box of threats. I highly doubt anyone is going to be gunning for the Prime Minister of Norway. And even if someone was, the United States Secret Service remains the best protection agency in the world.”

“Really?” Sølvi asked. “What about what happened in Dublin two years ago?”

“Dublin?” Harvath replied, trying to jog his memory.

“As the presidential motorcade was leaving the U.S. Embassy?”

He had almost forgotten about the incident and winced thinking about it.

The president’s backup limo, which always traveled with him, was identical to the bullet- and bomb-proof Cadillac known as “The Beast.” It was in the motorcade, ahead of the actual limo carrying the President and First Lady. When it reached the top of the concrete ramp leading out to the street, it scraped its belly, high-centered, and became stuck. The rest of the vehicles behind it, including the limo with the President and First Lady, were forced to reverse into the parking garage and leave via an alternate exit.

Normally, the Secret Service agent responsible for the Beast is supposed to drive every inch of every possible route before the President arrives. Whether or not the agent practiced exiting the embassy properly was never publicly revealed.

It was extremely embarrassing for America and the previous president. It became a metaphor for the United States being bloated, overweight, and unable to maneuver. It was also catastrophically embarrassing for the Secret Service.

Video and still photographs of the teetering limo, with its American and Irish flags above the fenders and presidential seals on the doors, made headlines around the world. And in so doing, they made America and the Secret Service a laughingstock.

“Dublin wasn’t good,” he agreed. “But like I said, the Secret Service is still the best at what they do, bar none.”

“Do you want me to cite the other examples the Prime Minister is concerned about?”

He shook his head. “No organization is perfect. Not even the Norwegian Intelligence Service. Let’s not forget that your people had a Russian mole in the center of everything who almost got you killed.”

It wasn’t a card he was eager to play, yet it felt necessary to inject a modicum of perspective into the conversation.

Sølvi, however, wasn’t happy being reminded. The experience was still too raw; too painful.

While debriefing a Russian defector at a top-secret NIS safe house in Oslo, she and her team had come under attack. Every protective agent on-site was killed. Sølvi and her defector were the only two to make it out alive. And even then, just barely. She had been betrayed from within her own organization.

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