Page 2 of Edge of Honor

He pulled her in tighter. “We could just skip the party.”

Sølvi laughed and gave him one last kiss before pushing him away. “Not a chance. I haven’t seen you in a suit since the christening, much less a linen one. We’re going to this party, and I’m going to show you off to everyone. Now grab your shoes so we can get going. I don’t want us to be late.”

“Vikings,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Sostrict.”

“You have no idea what strict is.” She smiled. “Believe me.”

Surprising her with one last kiss, he went off in search of his shoes. Ten minutes later, they were on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, headed for D.C.

Because he was driving, he got to choose the music. His Norwegian playlist made her cringe, especially a song titled “Popular” by the Albino Superstars—a duo from a tiny village outside Oslo. The song, which was in English, had been extremelypopulartwenty years ago, back when she was in high school. She knew better than to complain, however, because whenever she did, he only turned it up louder and further exaggerated his lip-syncing. It was why, as a playful payback, she was threatening to have his windows tinted. They were both cut from the same cloth.

After torturing her for a little bit longer, he handed over his phone and told her she could play what she liked—as long as it wasn’t more ABBA. Sølvi laughed, pulled up her favorite Dinah Washington album, and hit shuffle. The first song up, “My Man’s an Undertaker,” made them both chuckle. Gallows humor had been a psychological survival mechanism in both their respective military and espionage careers.

And while Scot didn’t relish the taking of human life, he had never hesitated when it had been necessary. As his colleagues, who were also practitioners of gallows humor, were fond of saying, Scot Harvath had killed more people than cancer.

Though it was an obvious exaggeration, Sølvi knew enough about his past to know they weren’t off by much. She had also seen him in action. When his friends asserted that guys like Scot didn’t get PTSD—they gaveit, she nodded knowingly because she understood completely what they meant.

He took few people into his confidence, and unless you knew him well, you’d have no clue as to his background, nor his fluency in violence. For all intents and purposes, he was an extremely charming and handsome man, who made more than his share of jokes and didn’t seem to take anything too seriously.

A bit of that nonchalance was on display as they approached what Harvath liked to refer to as one of the most politically interesting intersections in the nation’s capital—the point at which Thirty-Fourth Street T-bones Massachusetts Avenue.

The residence of the Norwegian ambassador sat on one corner, the Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See—also known as the Vatican Embassy—sat on the other, and directly across from them both, on an almost perfectly round, heavily fortified, seventy-two-acre wooded parcel, was the United States Naval Observatory.

In addition to its many horological and astronomical functions, the observatory campus was best known for housing the official residence of the Vice President of the United States.

As Scot and Sølvi Harvath sat idling in traffic, waiting for the light to change, they observed a large protest taking place outside the gates.

“What’s going on over there?” Sølvi asked, reading some of the placards and banners aloud. “Stick to the plan! The voters have spoken! Keep your promises!”

Glancing across the street, Scot replied, “Democracy in action.”

“Obviously. But what are they actually protesting?”

“No clue.”

She looked at him. “You sound like you don’t care.”

He didn’t. Their honeymoon had been a wonderful break from politics. He hadn’t picked up a paper, turned on a TV, or logged onto a website the entire time. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d been that relaxed.

“Welcome to D.C.,” he replied. “We get protests here every day.”

“Sure, but this is a relatively big one. Why aren’t there more police?”

It was a fair question.

After scanning the immediate area, he pointed to an unmarked white van with smoked windows and government plates. “The cops have backup. They’re just keeping it quiet. Believe me, they’re not going to let things get out of hand, especially not this close to the Vice President’s Residence.”

“In Norway,” Sølvi chided him, “we wouldn’tletthem get this close to the Vice President’s Residence.”

She loved to play this game. Everything—it didn’t matter what—was always better back in Scandinavia.

Scot laughed. “A,” he stated: “Norway doesn’t have a vice president. And B, even if it did, why would anyone in the world’s most perfect country ever protest anything?”

It was an excellent response. “See?” she replied with a smile. “My friends didn’t believe me, but I told them,he’s teachable.”

He was about to add “And great in bed” when he noticed two men in hooded sweatshirts, carrying black backpacks and wearing face masks and sunglasses, step away from the crowd.

Even before they had tossed their backpacks under the van, his instincts had kicked in and he knew what was about to happen. There was no way that he’d be able to punch through the traffic in time.

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