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  For Carolyn Reidy—

  Of Manhattan, Southampton, and Paris.

  My friend and publisher.

  You lived life really, really well.

  Thank you for everything.

  “Kill with a borrowed knife.”

  —GENERAL TAN DAOJI

  “In the decades ahead, rapidly melting sea ice and increasingly navigable Arctic waters—a Blue Arctic—will create new challenges and opportunities off our northern shores. Without sustained American naval presence and partnerships in the Arctic Region, peace and prosperity will be increasingly challenged by Russia and China, whose interests and values differ dramatically from ours.”

  —DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY, A BLUE ARCTIC: A STRATEGIC BLUEPRINT FOR THE ARCTIC

  PROLOGUE

  78°55'30"N 11°55'20"E

  ARCTIC OCEAN

  SVALBARD ARCHIPELAGO

  Helicopters, it was said, didn’t fly—they merely beat the air into submission. But halfway between continental Norway and the North Pole, it felt as if the air were winning.

  As sleet slammed against the exterior, another sixty-plus-mile-per-hour gust rocked the airframe. The rotors groaned in protest. There was only so much the helo could handle. They were pushing it beyond its limits.

  Scot Harvath didn’t need to see the water to know the slate-gray ocean was roiling with whitecaps. This far above the Arctic Circle, where moisture from the south collided with icy polar winds, massive depressions formed, unleashing nightmare weather.

  If anything went wrong, there would be no rescue. No one back at the U.S. Embassy in Oslo, much less anyone at the White House, would acknowledge him, or the mission he was on.

  He glanced at the cracked face of his watch, blood crusted atop its bezel. Just a little farther, he thought to himself. We’re almost there.

  Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he reached for his pack and opened it. Everything was still in place. Take care of your gear and your gear will take care of you. It was a mantra that had saved his life again and again.

  Under his mountaineering jacket, he felt the cold press of metal against his skin. No one knew if the odd-shaped key, hanging from a piece of paracord, would even work—not after all this time.

  If it didn’t, all of the danger, all of the risk, would be for nothing, and the consequences would be deadly. Failure, however, wasn’t an option.

  That was the world he lived in. He wasn’t interested in easy tasks. In fact, he had always chosen the most difficult, the most perilous assign-ments.

  It was how he was wired. No matter how bleak the scenario, he would never give up. Success was the only outcome he would entertain.

  But as yet another gale-force blast of frigid air convulsed the helicopter, causing it to swing violently from side to side, he began to have his doubts.

  Moments later, an alarm began shrieking from the cockpit, and Harvath knew they were in trouble.

  The pilots, though, were able to regain control. The bird was still swaying, but nowhere near as badly as before. It looked like everything was going to be okay.

  Then there was an earsplitting crack. It sounded as if the helo had been hit by lightning. It was followed by the tail rotor completely shearing off. And as it did, the helicopter began to spiral.

  They were going down.

  CHAPTER 1

  OSLO

  TUESDAY

  72 HOURS EARLIER

  There was only one problem with summer in Norway—it was too short.

  Sitting at his favorite outdoor café, Harvath raised his face to the sun. The warmth felt good. He felt good. Better than he had in a long time. The last two months had been exactly what he had needed.

  He and Sølvi had bounced between her apartment in the city and the cottage he had rented out on the fjord. It depended on her schedule. As one of the newest Deputy Directors at the Norwegian Intelligence Service, or NIS for short, she had been pretty busy.

  Because the commute was easier from the apartment, they usually stayed in Oslo during the week and headed for the fjord on Fridays. That was fine by Harvath. He had enjoyed getting to know the city. There were plenty of museums and cultural sights, not to mention great bars, restaurants, and cafés.

  Most mornings, if Sølvi didn’t have to leave too early, they would go for a run. The lush Akerselva River Trail was a favorite, as was the Ekeberg Sculpture Park. For safety, they always mixed things up, never frequenting the same location two days in a row.

  In addition to running, Harvath had joined a neighborhood gym. When they were at the cottage, he would swim—a lot.

  The physical activity had been restorative. After losing his wife, he had stopped taking care of himself. But now, the weight he had shed was back. He had returned to his full level of fitness. And while he still consumed alcohol, it wasn’t like before. A half-empty bottle of wine could sit in the fridge for days before they finished it off.

  In a word, he was happy. Really happy. Sølvi was an amazing woman. She was not only beautiful, but smart and talented as hell. To be honest, she was probably smarter and more talented than he was. The only realm in which he was confident that he had her beat was experience. But even then, it was only because she was several years younger.

  Despite the age difference, however, they shared something very powerful, something that went beyond their physical attraction to each other. Her past was as dark and troubled as his own. They had both been shattered but, in coming together, had found a way to glue their pieces into something better, stronger.

  Ultimately, what he loved most about her was her sense of humor. It was a sign of how intelligent she was.

  It was also a coping mechanism. The espionage business could be exceptionally brutal—a fact he knew all too well.

  Devoid of meaningful relationships, spies often became disillusioned, cynical. Many checked out via booze or other vices—another fact he knew all too well. He had resolved not to allow that to happen to either of them again.

  He wanted to make Sølvi happy—as happy as she made him. Second chances were rare in life. He was determined not to screw this up. Which was why mapping out their next step was proving to be difficult.

  It was one of the best summers he’d ever had. They had squeezed every drop out of it. The cottage had come with a boat, and they had gotten out on the water as often as they could. A few mornings, he had even used it to drive Sølvi to work, dropping her at the dock adjacent to The Thief hotel, where she’d catch a ride to the office.

  There had been barbecues and beach parties. A rotating mix of friends from NIS and the CIA’s Oslo Station had drifted in and out of their lives—both in the city and out on the fjord. It was rare to see a weekend where they weren’t hosting some sort of get-together, or attending someone else’s. It had been wall-to-wall fun, and it was no surprise that no one wanted it to end. But at some point, it had to.

  He had burned through all of his sick leave, as well as his vacation days. To say the office was “eager” for him to return was an understatement. In fact, his boss had told him in no uncertain terms that if he wasn’t back the following week, he would be “cashiered.”

  It was a dramatic term to have used. Not fired. Not the more genteel let go. But cashiered—the public humiliation of having one’s military insignia ripped away and sword snapped
in front of one’s comrades.

  It was an old-school term. Really old-school. Yet it was perfectly in keeping with the Cold War–era warrior he reported to.

  He couldn’t blame the man for wanting him back. Had their situations been reversed, he would have felt the same. In fact, he was surprised that he had been allowed to stay away as long as he had. That’s where his next step with Sølvi got tricky.

  There was no telling where he would be sent, much less for how long. On the whole, his were quick in-and-out jobs. What they weren’t was predictable.

  In an attempt to give their relationship some structure, something for the two of them to look forward to, he had printed out a calendar.

  The idea was to ink specific dates they felt certain they could be together. The additional hope was that, in between his assignments, he could swing through Oslo to see her. With her promotion, she was wedded to headquarters. Any hope of tagging up with him on an assignment in a hotel room in some far-flung, exotic locale was out of the question. Their best chance of seeing each other was in Norway.

  It would be tough, but not impossible. He was committed to making it work. And when he set his mind to something, he made it happen.

  With the clock ticking down, he wanted their remaining time together to be special. They had been eating a ton of takeout lately, so tonight he decided he’d cook a real American dinner. Something for just the two of them. It would be a night he could freeze in his memory and replay until he returned and they were together again.

  He finished the last sip of his kokekaffe—a popular Norwegian afternoon coffee served black and slightly cooled. Standing up, he put on his sunglasses and strolled across the cobbles of Christiania Square, toward his favorite butcher shop.

  Though it was a bit of a walk to the food hall in Mathallen, it was worth it. Annis Pølsemakeri had the best meats in town.

  Out at the cottage, there was an old smoker that he had made his mission to get up and running again. Once he had, he decided to throw a Texas-style barbecue. When he asked friends where he could get the absolute best brisket, ribs, and pork butt, everyone had said “Annis.”

  The staff had been so friendly that he had gone back again and again—even just to pick up ground beef for burgers. They were an amusing bunch and tried to upsell him into horsemeat or beef tongue, seeing good-naturedly if they could gross out their American customer. They had no idea that over the course of his career, he had eaten much, much worse.

  After buying a couple of T-bones at Annis, he would hit Vulkan Frukt og Grønt AS for fresh vegetables. He figured it was a safe bet that they’d have potatoes and salad fixings. Hopefully, they’d have fresh ears of corn as well.

  Once those items were taken care of, all he would need was a nice bottle of wine and dessert.

  Not far from the food hall was a Vinmonopolet. He’d probably have to pay through the nose for a good California red, but if they had one, he planned on ignoring the price tag. He wanted their dinner to be as American as possible.

  All that was left was to figure out dessert. Apple pie felt a bit too on the nose. What’s more, while he could grill or smoke up a storm, he was no baker.

  Since Sølvi was a big fan of dark chocolate, he decided that’s where he would focus. There was a stall in the food hall called SebastienBruno that sold chocolates, but what she really liked were Belgian chocolates. He made a mental note to keep his eyes peeled for any along the way.

  After dinner, if there was time, they could stream a movie. Her passion for classic Hollywood films was bottomless. So far, they had watched Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, Psycho, The Godfather, On the Waterfront, North by Northwest, and Citizen Kane together. Tonight, he wanted to introduce her to The Night of the Hunter, from 1955. It was unsettling, but a classic nonetheless.

  A few blocks from the food hall, he spotted a small boutique that looked promising for quality chocolate. But when he was fifty yards away, a taxi pulled up and disgorged a ghost.

  The sight of the man stopped Harvath dead in his tracks. His eyes had to have been playing tricks on him. The man he was looking at was dead.

  Harvath had killed him himself.

  CHAPTER 2

  Not only had he killed him, but he had hung around just long enough to make absolutely certain the man was dead.

  How the hell was he now seeing him alive? And what was the man doing in Norway?

  There was only one way to find out. Giving up on his errands, he fell in a safe distance behind and followed.

  The man walked at a moderate, confident pace. Had Harvath not been trained, he might not have noticed the moments at which the man checked to see if he had a tail.

  Thankfully, Harvath not only noticed but had anticipated them and made sure he wasn’t seen.

  He tracked him for two blocks until they came to a large, busy boulevard. Taking advantage of a changing traffic light, the man rushed across at the last minute, just as vehicles were beginning to accelerate. Harvath had no choice but to wait. Had he run after him, he would have exposed himself and blown everything.

  While he waited, he watched a tram arrive and kept his eyes glued to it. As far as he could tell, the man hadn’t boarded.

  Once the light changed, Harvath recommenced his chase. But by the time he arrived on the other side of the boulevard, the man was gone.

  There were all manner of shops, bars, restaurants, and apartment buildings he could have disappeared into. Something told Harvath that he hadn’t opted for any of them. He was still on the move. The question was: Where?

  Up ahead, two smaller streets split off from the boulevard, like spokes from a hub. If he was correct, and the man had continued in this direction, he had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right direction.

  The street closest to him was narrower and offered more opportunities for a person to ascertain if they were being followed. It was the one Harvath would have chosen.

  Half a block down, he realized he had made a mistake. There was no sign of the man. He must have taken the other street. Turning around, Harvath quickened his pace and headed back for the boulevard.

  Once there, he hurried to the next intersection and then, slowing down, casually turned the corner.

  This street was a bust as well. Harvath walked all the way down, but no luck. His quarry had vanished.

  More than a little ticked off, he prepared to turn around and head back, when something caught his eye.

  It wasn’t the man he was looking for. It wasn’t even someone he knew. But he couldn’t turn away.

  Oslo was a safe city, but, like anywhere else, it wasn’t immune from trouble. And what he was looking at was definitely trouble. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

  An older, well-dressed woman was being steered toward an ATM by two not-so-well-dressed men in their mid-twenties. The young men each had her by an arm and kept looking over their shoulders.

  The look in her eyes told Harvath everything he needed to know. These weren’t a couple of Boy Scouts helping an old lady cross the road. She was being mugged and she was terrified.

  It looked like an “express kidnapping,” something he’d first heard about out of Mexico. Criminal gangs would grab a person, take them to the nearest ATM, and force them to withdraw as much money as possible.

  Today wasn’t going to be their lucky day.

  He stayed far enough back so as not to arouse suspicion and waited until they had reached the ATM before making his move. There, he knew the men would have their attention divided. One would be pressuring the woman to hurry up and withdraw her cash while the other kept an eye open for any sign of trouble.

  Harvath was quite skilled at not looking like trouble. It was only when he was right on top of his target—if they even saw him—that they realized how much trouble they were in. And so it was at the ATM.

  Pulling out his wallet, he removed his bank card and approached the machine. The young man functioning as the lookout held his hand up and said something in heavi
ly accented Norwegian. Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t grown up in Norway.

  “Sorry,” Harvath replied. “I only speak English.”

  “Machine broken,” said the man. “Find different.”

  His English sounded like it was just as bad as his Norwegian.

  “They get sticky.” Harvath smiled, moving toward the ATM. “Sometimes they just need a little tap.”

  As he moved, so too did the lookout. The young man stepped right in front of him and put his palm into Harvath’s chest to stop him.

  Contact. Game on.

  Since the man had offered Harvath his hand, he figured it would be rude not to accept it.

  Grabbing the lookout’s wrist in a joint lock, Harvath tucked in his head in case he threw a punch with his opposite hand, and pressed down. Instantly, the man’s knees buckled.

  As he fell toward the sidewalk, Harvath thrust his right knee up into the man’s chin, knocking him out cold. It was then that his partner made a fatal mistake.

  Instead of spinning the old woman and using her as a shield, he let her go and pulled a knife. It was obvious why these two were pulling robberies and not running IBM.

  To the attacker’s credit, he was skilled with a blade. He not only knew how to hold it but also how to come at his opponent. This wasn’t his first knife fight.

  But Harvath had been in his share of knife fights as well. In fact, he had a recent scar on his chest that he had spent all summer covering with sunscreen. He had no intention of getting cut again.

  On the man’s first slash, Harvath failed to trap the blade and control it. The tip of the knife had come within a whisper of his abdomen.

  When the attacker lunged at him again, he was ready, but the mugger was fast and slippery. Harvath barely got control of the man’s wrist.

  As he did, the man drew the knife back behind him. Harvath went with it.

  When the man tried to drive the knife forward again, Harvath rotated his wrist and helped him cut deep into the back of his own knee.