Page 33 of Spymaster

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.Muchbetter. 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.”

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