Jasinski was intrigued. “How is it you know him?” she asked.
“I don’t. Not personally. I only know of him. He and my boss go way back together.”
“Lars and Harvath do?”
Sloane smiled. “I should rephrase that. Lars and my boss’s boss go way back.”
“And who is your boss’s boss?”
Sloane smiled once more. “Now we’re getting into things above my pay grade.”
“So you’re not going to tell me?”
“It’s better if you ask Harvath,” she replied as she glanced back out the window.
Jasinski realized that she had likely hit a dead end. Changing the subject, she, too, looked out the window and asked. “Are we in trouble?”
“Only if they search our luggage.”
Shit, Jasinski mumbled under her breath.
“And knowing Harvath,” Sloane continued, “he probably did date one of their daughters. So we’re probably totally screwed.”
The joke made her smile. “Where’d he get the Norseman call-sign?”
“In the SEALs. He had a thing for flight attendants from Scandinavian Airlines. Dated quite a few of them. The name started as a joke, but stuck.”
“And now?”
“Meaning what?” Sloane replied. “Is he dating? Married?”
Jasinski nodded.
Sloane grinned. “Yeah. His friends refer to her as the ‘underwear model.’ Her parents are from Brazil. She’s gorgeous. Super smart, tough as hell, and really sweet. Why? You’re not interested in him, are you?”
“Me?” Jasinski scoffed. “No. Not at all. Just curious.”
She’s a liar. And not a very good one, Sloane thought. But better for her to know up front. Harvath was as close to marriage as you could get without actually being married. The joke around The Carlton Group was that if he ever came back home long enough for there to be a wedding, he’d probably be married already.
As far as Sloane was concerned, Harvath would be an idiot not to marry Lara. They were made for each other. She’d never seen two people click as well as those two.
But what truly amazed her was how Harvath could put his entire personal life in a box, slam the lid shut, and not let it intrude on his thinking while he was downrange on a mission.
He had an iron will. It was the only way she could describe it. Only half-joking, she had teased that she hoped to grow up and be just like him one day.
She made a lot of jokes at Harvath’s expense, especially about his being older, but he took them all in stride. He was like the older brother she never had.
Harvath made his share of jokes at her expense as well. One of his favorites was that she was just young enough and good looking enough to be a rich country-club doctor’s perfect idea of a third wife.
That had cracked Sloane up. Outside their age difference, she and Harvath were very similar personality-wise. Both had been accomplished winter athletes before joining the military. They were also hard chargers who employed a lot of take-no-prisoners humor to buoy morale in order to get through tough assignments, as well as just the day-to-day.
It had always impressed her that he had never come on to her. Many men, even in leadership positions, had, but not him. It was one of the many reasons she respected him.
“I have it on good authority,” Sloane joked, “that he sleeps with a light on and leaves the toilet seat up. You can do better. Much better. Believe me.”
Jasinski laughed and tried to appear blasé. He was off the market. His teammates liked his significant other and apparently the two were a good match. She had been foolish to allow her mind to even explore the possibility.
You got one really good chance in life and she’d had hers. It had been wonderful, while it lasted. That kind of person didn’t come around twice. She consoled herself with the thought that at least she had her work.
Concentrating on the scene unfolding outside, the two watched as Harvath descended the airstairs and approached the man in the leather coat flanked by the pair of police officers.
Despite the jokes that had been made at Harvath’s expense, suddenly the situation didn’t seem funny anymore.
CHAPTER 21
* * *
Halogen lights illuminated the revetment area. The man in the leather coat had stepped away from the uniformed officers and was making his way forward. He met Harvath halfway across the tarmac. Removing a set of credentials, he held them up and asked, “Pratar du svenska?” Do you speak Swedish?
Harvath shook his head. “English.”
The majority of Swedes were bilingual, and the man seamlessly switched over. “My name is Chief Inspector Anders Nyström. Swedish Police, Gotland.”
Nyström was thin, like a distance runner, and stood about five-foot-eight. He had a head of short blond hair and a closely cropped blond beard—both shot through with streaks of gray. He wore a trendy pair of glasses, behind which a pair of green eyes took everything in. On his right wrist was a large digital watch.
Harvath knew that in any encounter with law enforcement, the first test was the attitude test. If you failed the attitude test, everything went downhill from there.
Smiling, he extended his hand and replied, “Nice to meet you. Is everything okay?”
“That depends,” said Nyström. “May I ask your name, please?”
Harvath didn’t want to give this guy anything. The man in the hat had not only failed to meet their plane, but had also failed to answer his phone. Something was wrong. And until Harvath knew what was going on, he was going to be very careful about what he revealed. “My name is Stephen Hall.”
The Hall alias was one Harvath had created in honor of a courageous OSS member who had been murdered by the Nazis.
“May I see some identification, please?” the Chief Inspector requested.
“I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “Did we come in on the wrong runway or something?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Having come from Belgium to Sweden, this was an inter European Union flight. That meant no border controls, passport checks, or customs inspections. Being met by national police like this was highly unusual.
Harvath removed his own set of credentials, which had been fabricated for him back in Virginia, and showed them to the officer.
“NATO,” the man remarked as he examined them. “Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe. Interesting. What is your purpose in Sweden?”
“I collect ABBA memorabilia.”
The joke made the Chief Inspector chuckle. “I see.”
“Can you please tell me what this is all about? You’re obviously here for a reason,” Harvath said.
“I was hoping you could tell me. There was a car accident tonight. The driver was carrying a piece of notebook paper with the Visby airport code, a time of arrival, and the tail number for your aircraft. I assume the driver was on his way here to meet you.”
A bad feeling began to build in the pit of Harvath’s stomach. “Is the driver okay?”
“Unfortunately, no. He was killed in the accident.”
“Have you identified him?”
Nyström nodded.
“And?” asked Harvath.
“First, please tell me. Were you expecting someone to meet you here tonight, and if so, whom? Their name.”