Page 66 of Edge of Honor

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.”

Sølvi 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 Sølvi’s questions along the way. Any door Sølvi 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, Sølvi 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.

Sølvi 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, Sølvi 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 Sølvi 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, Sølvi 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. Sølvi 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 Sølvi 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, Sølvi 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, Sølvi 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.

---