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  Dropping the blade, the attacker cried out, but Harvath wasn’t finished. Before the knife had even hit the ground, he surged upward with a palm strike into the man’s jaw, knocking him backward into the ATM.

  The mugger’s head must have hit the keypad and completed the interrupted transaction, because moments later the machine spat out a bank card and a stack of cash.

  Harvath removed both and handed them to the old woman, who was standing, frozen in fear, only a few feet away.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied.

  As he turned to leave, police cars—with klaxons blaring—came racing up from both ends of the street. It was the last thing he needed.

  He didn’t want to interact with law enforcement. He had spent the whole summer off the grid—not on anyone’s radar. All he wanted right now was to simply fade into the background and disappear.

  Disappearing, however, wasn’t in the cards. A small crowd had gathered and the police had him well in their sights.

  Watching the patrol cars approach, he attempted to reassure himself that at least things couldn’t get any worse.

  But if he had learned nothing else in his life, it was that things could always get worse.

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time he returned to the apartment, Sølvi was already there. As he had lost interest in grocery shopping, he had opted for takeout from their favorite dim sum spot—a restaurant called The Golden Chimp, not far from Oslo’s central train station.

  Setting the bag on the kitchen counter, he kissed her hello.

  “Let me see you,” she said, turning him around. She had been bugging him to get a haircut and he had finally given in.

  She had asked if she could pick the spot and he had agreed, as long as it was a proper barbershop and not some fancy hair salon. He wasn’t a salon kind of guy. Somehow, she had found a way to split the difference.

  Technically it was a “barbershop,” but one geared toward hipsters. If the bike rack outside hadn’t been enough of a red flag, the cooler full of green juice and mineral water inside should have been.

  By the time Harvath figured out he’d been tricked, it was too late to turn around. The receptionist had taken one look at him, figured out who he was, and welcomed him in English.

  Sølvi must have given the woman a description of him when she had called and made the appointment. Soon enough, he was beginning to suspect that wasn’t all she had given them.

  After being escorted back to a chair and introduced to his barber, he sat down and explained to the tattooed man what he wanted. Nothing crazy. Just a little off the top and sides.

  Oiling his clippers, the barber replied, “No problem.”

  Twenty minutes later, when the man held up a mirror so that he could see his haircut from all angles, he was convinced that Sølvi had been behind it.

  Not that it was bad. It was just different. A lot of things this summer had been different. But different, he had been learning, could be good.

  “I like it,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Stylish. Takes ten years off of you. Five more and we could almost pass for the same age.”

  Normally, that was the kind of joke he’d laugh at. He wasn’t in the mood and she noticed. “What’s going on?”

  When they discussed work, they did everything in their power to steer clear of classified issues. Their countries were allies and fellow NATO members but separate, sovereign nations.

  Holding out his hand, he gestured for her phone. Once she had given it to him, he took it, along with his own, and tucked them away in the other room.

  “I need a favor,” he said, walking back into the kitchen.

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I saw somebody get out of a taxi today. If it has a passenger-facing dash cam, I need the footage. I also need to know where the passenger was picked up, how they paid, and anything else the driver may have seen or overheard. Do you think you can get that for me?”

  She thought for a moment. “I know somebody I can ask. I assume you have a license plate or taxi number?”

  “I can give you both.”

  “Plus the address where the driver dropped the passenger off.”

  Harvath nodded. “As well as a physical description.”

  “As long as it isn’t for an attractive female, eighteen to twenty-two, I don’t see a problem.”

  He blew by that joke as well. “And I’d like any CCTV footage near the pickup and drop-off locations.”

  “That’s going to be more difficult, but I’ll see what I can do. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  He was asking her for a lot. The Norwegians had strict data privacy laws. It was time for him to offer something in return.

  “Several years ago, I was sent to China on an assignment.”

  “This isn’t when you got caught in a hurricane on Macau, is it?”

  “No. This was much more recent.”

  “What kind of assignment was it?”

  “The Chinese were planning a terrorist attack on the United States. We disrupted it. When our President confronted their Premier, the Chinese denied it. Once we had presented them with the evidence, they claimed it was a rogue operation by one of their intelligence chiefs.”

  “And you were sent to confront the chief.”

  He shook his head. “No. I was sent to kill him.”

  She was no stranger to killing, though she was certain her scorecard was nowhere close to his. That said, she was also certain that, like her, he found no pleasure in taking another human life.

  It was a sad fact of their business that sometimes there was no other recourse and it simply needed to be done. For some, the only language they understood was violence.

  As the old saying went: People sleep peacefully in their beds only because rough men—and women, she was known to add—stand ready to do violence on their behalf. The two skills most necessary for a nation state to survive were its ability to keep secrets and covertly project force. Lose either ability and your country was doomed.

  “So, this man you were sent to kill. I assume you were successful?”

  “I never stop until I am.”

  “And that’s who you saw get out of the taxi?”

  He nodded.

  “Any chance you were mistaken? It has, after all, been several years. Maybe he just really looked like him?”

  Opening the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of beer. “You don’t forget those faces. It doesn’t matter how many years it has been.”

  He had a point. Like a branding iron seared into her subconscious, she could recall the face of every person she had ever been tasked with dispatching. The one consolation of having to carry those mental pictures was that they all deserved what she had meted out to them. She felt no pity. No remorse. The people of Norway slept peacefully in their beds at night because she was ready, willing, and able to do violence on their behalf. End of story.

  “Whatever information I can dig up for you, if I can dig up any at all, it didn’t come from me. Deal?”

  “Deal,” he replied, popping the cap off of his beer and changing the subject. “There’s a bottle of white in the fridge. Do you want a glass with dinner?”

  Moving to him, she placed her hand against his chest. “I can’t. I have to go back to the office tonight.”

  He understood. It was a cruel twist. As his time with her was winding down, her work was spinning up. He appreciated that she had snuck out to eat with him—even if it meant she’d have to turn around and go right back.

  “How long do we have?”

  “Enough time for dinner.”

  “Dinner and…?” he asked, his voice trailing off as he smiled at her.

  She smiled in return and kissed him. “Just dinner, I’m afraid. The good news is that I’ll be able to make those calls for you as soon as I get back to my desk.”

  It was yet another thing they had in common. Sh
e was as driven as he was. She cared too much about Norway to give up her career and follow him back to D.C. He cared too much about the United States to give up his career and stay in Oslo. The silver lining was that they were both committed to making it work—no matter how many frequent flyer miles it cost them.

  “Plates? Or straight out of the containers?”

  “I’ve got enough time for plates. In fact, we can even sit down at the dining room table like adults,” she said before looking down and asking, “What happened to your hand?”

  He hadn’t even noticed. “What about it?”

  “The inside of your right hand. You’ve got a bruise. Where’d that come from?”

  “This?” he asked, turning his palm over. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Something’s up. What are you not telling me?”

  “It’s nothing,” he repeated. “I probably just bumped it at the gym.”

  “Now you’re lying.”

  She was right. He was. Lying was part of his job and he was quite good at it—when he wanted to be. He didn’t want to lie to her, though.

  “I got in a little shoving match this afternoon.”

  “A shoving match?”

  “You might call it a scuffle.”

  She looked at him. “What happened?”

  “A couple of street thugs tried to rob a little old lady at an ATM. I helped them realize it was a bad idea.”

  “That was you?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It popped up on my news app. Let me go get my phone.”

  Harvath watched as she headed to the bedroom. He was allergic to publicity and avoided the spotlight like the plague. Media attention was like kryptonite for spies. He had survived a bad brush with the press in the past, but it had been difficult.

  When she returned, she opened the app, pulled up the article, and handed him her phone.

  “You know this is written in Norwegian, right?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Americans. You’ve been here most of the summer and have made zero progress.”

  “That’s not true,” he protested. “Du har vakre øyne.”

  “Pickup lines telling me I have beautiful eyes don’t count.”

  “Faen.”

  “Nor do curse words. Give me my phone back.”

  He gave it to her and she translated the story into English. It was short and mercifully devoid of details. No names were given. It stated that a Western tourist had foiled the mugging of a Norwegian senior citizen. Both of the perpetrators had been injured during the altercation and had been transported to a nearby hospital for observation. Once they were cleared by medical staff, they would be transported by officers to the Central Police Station, where they would be booked and await their arraignment.

  He smiled when she finished. “Like I said. It was nothing.”

  “You saved a Norwegian citizen from being robbed and sent her attackers to the hospital. That’s hardly nothing.”

  “You’re right. I also brought home takeout.”

  “Yes, you did. Thank you. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

  * * *

  After they had finished dinner, Harvath offered to take care of the dishes so that she could get going back to the office.

  Brewing a coffee to go, she gave him a kiss goodbye and headed out the door. He was sorry that she had to return to work, but he was hopeful she’d be able to track down footage of his ghost.

  Once everything was cleaned and put away, he decided to watch a movie by himself. While he’d had his heart set on The Night of the Hunter, he figured it best to save it for when Sølvi could watch it with him. Instead, he planned to watch his all-time favorite, The Magnificent Seven.

  He retrieved his phone, grabbed another beer, and headed into the living room, where he made himself comfortable on the couch. Booting up the film, he settled back and tried to lose himself, to not think about anything that had happened this afternoon. If there was one movie that could make him forget everything, this was the one.

  It had been his father’s favorite as well. Once a year, the vintage theater in San Diego would bring it back and, if his father was in town, they would cross the bridge and see it together. And not just once but over and over again. Like his dad, he could recite every line by heart. Some kids went to baseball games with their fathers; he went to the movies.

  Not until he was an adult did he realize why this film spoke to his father. It was a story about courage, about professionalism, about doing the right thing and protecting the weak. All of which were hallmarks of his upbringing.

  He had made it all the way to the closing credits, when his phone chimed. It was an encrypted message from Sølvi. The taxi in question did have a passenger-facing dash cam and she had been able to secure a copy of the footage. Taking a deep breath, he clicked on the attachment she had sent.

  As the video began to play and he saw the passenger enter the cab, he had only one thing to say.

  “Gotcha.”

  CHAPTER 4

  BEIJING

  Dennis Wo had never been subtle—about anything. He was a slick, flashy, wildly successful, young con man. Part Bernie Madoff and part Frank Abagnale Jr., he had pulled off the biggest scam in Singapore’s history.

  On the eve of his twenty-sixth birthday, he was about to be charged with embezzling four and a half billion dollars from the nation’s largest sovereign wealth fund.

  After receiving a tip, he had fled for China, leaving his cars, penthouse, and several very pissed-off girlfriends behind.

  They weren’t the only ones, though, who were angry. The Singaporean government was out for blood.

  For a country that prided itself on law and order, what had transpired was an outrageous scandal. All of the corrupt politicians who had assisted in the plot had been rounded up and thrown in prison.

  It was a good start, but Singapore wouldn’t rest until Wo had been apprehended. The government planned to put him on trial and make a very public example of him. To that end, an Interpol Red Notice had been issued for his arrest.

  When the warrant landed at the Hong Kong Department of Justice, it was purged from the system. The powers that be in Beijing had made it clear that Wo was a guest of the Chinese Communist Party and nothing was to happen to him.

  The CCP liked that, even in exile, the young con man was a thorn in Singapore’s side. He backed opposition candidates, pushed anti-government propaganda, and was seen as something of a Robin Hood who was eager to fund populist causes.

  As long as he continued to be useful, the CCP would continue to give him sanctuary. And as long as he kept running, Singapore would pursue him.

  In addition to the Red Notice, the government scoured the globe for bank accounts and assets which they could claw back.

  While Wo had managed to put a fortune beyond their reach, there were some items he couldn’t keep hidden.

  His two-hundred-foot yacht had been impounded in Tahiti. Paintings he had given to a beautiful European actress had been repossessed and put up for auction. Properties from Bombay to Brussels—even those buried in sophisticated blind trusts—were being seized.

  But the worst of it, the most painful of his losses, were happening to him in the United States.

  America had been his playground, his childhood dream. He had purchased a massive home in Bel Air and hobnobbed with the Hollywood elite.

  He threw incredible parties. He gave lavish, expensive gifts. He called famous actors, musicians, and media personalities his friends. Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness hadn’t had billions of it to throw around. Wo was having the time of his life—until, suddenly, it had all come crashing down.

  Through its Ambassador in Washington, the Singaporean government had lobbied the U.S. Department of Justice to open an investigation and help recapture as much of the stolen money as possible. Because Wo had invested so heavily in American real estate and business ventures, there was
plenty to get.

  But the most embarrassing part of the process was the FBI accosting his friends and threatening them with criminal prosecution and jail time if they didn’t surrender the gifts Wo had given them. The Rolex watches, the European sports cars, the diamond jewelry—all of it had to be handed over.

  Soon enough, none of his “friends” would take his calls or answer his texts. One by one, they began to unfollow him on social media. It had felt to him like his life was unraveling. He needed to stop the bleeding. So, he had turned to the one thing he understood best—people.

  It was all about influence. Influence the right people and any problem could be remedied. Right now, what he faced was a political problem. Therefore, he needed political influence. And the fastest way to political influence was via money—lots of it.

  In America, the only thing that mattered was the party in power. They controlled the levers of government. Get to the right person and the investigation could be made to disappear. It was the way of the world. He who holds the gold gets to make the rules. Or at least he who holds the gold can get access to one who makes the rules.

  The problem with America, he realized, were its laws—especially when it came to political donations. There were so many regulations, all of them nearly impossible to navigate. What he needed was a guide, a fixer. He found one, and then some, in Spencer Baldwin.

  An accomplished businessman and longtime political fundraiser, Baldwin was a true Washington insider. He went to all the best events, knew all the right people, and could access almost anyone within the government.

  Politically agnostic, he didn’t care what party a politician belonged to, as long as that politician could further his ends, or the ends of one of his clients. He was exactly the man Wo needed.

  Ever cautious that Singapore might send a snatch squad after him, Wo kept a low profile and was constantly on the move. He arranged for Baldwin to meet him in Shanghai and covered all of his expenses.

  In an opulent suite of The Peninsula Shanghai, Wo made his American guest an eye-popping offer. He would wire ten million dollars into an account of Baldwin’s choosing and work would commence immediately.