didn’t want to be remembered. She had ways of downplaying everything, including her height. When she wanted to slip by unnoticed, she wasn’t half bad. On the occasions when she wanted to catch someone’s attention and stand out, she was exceptional.
Her table was in the back corner. It had both privacy and amazing views. The glass doors had all been retracted, lanai style, as had the long fabric awnings above. Planter boxes filled with herbs and wildflowers ran along the edges of the roof and provided a riot of color as well as a sweet perfume.
After she had sat down, the manager unfolded her napkin and handed it to her, followed by a menu and a wine list. Before he had even finished wishing her a good lunch, her waiter had appeared, but stood a respectful distance away. Once the manager had departed, he stepped forward and introduced himself.
They chatted pleasantly, Sølvi ordered a kokekaffe, and the man disappeared to place her order. Norwegians were the second largest consumers of coffee in the world—imbibing over twenty-one pounds per capita annually. Only the Finns drank more. And when it came to how Norwegians liked their favorite caffeinated beverage prepared, they were rabidly passionate.
Kokekaffe was one of the most popular methods and came from coarsely ground beans steeped in boiling water. Because it used a lighter roast, it produced a lighter coffee than most of the world was used to, but Norway’s citizens loved it.
As she waited, Sølvi looked out over the fjord. Weekends were always the busiest, especially when the weather was nice. Sailboats, with their bright white sails, tacked back and forth as gleaming motorboats and large passenger ferries pushed through the light chop. If she had to be stuck on land, she couldn’t think of a better place with a better view in which to be stuck.
When the waiter returned with her coffee, she thanked him, took the porcelain cup in both hands, and continued looking out over the water. It was a good thing, she mused, that her office was surrounded by trees. If she could look at boats all day, she probably wouldn’t get any work done.
As much as she enjoyed taking in the fjord, she was still a professional intelligence officer who had been trained to maintain her situational awareness. Therefore, she made sure to keep one eye on her surroundings.
A few minutes after her coffee arrived, she saw her guest step out onto the deck and approach the host stand. Catching her CIA colleague’s eye, she waved. Her old friend waved back and, thanking the manager, headed her way.
Sølvi sat up straighter. She was nervous and suddenly wished she had ordered something alcoholic. As she watched her colleague getting closer, she knew it was too late. The moment of truth had arrived.
CHAPTER 13
Holidae H. Hayes was who Sølvi Kolstadt wanted to be. The raven-haired CIA Oslo station chief was not only exceedingly attractive, but she was also whip-smart, highly respected, and, after the next American election, was actually being considered for an ambassadorial post. Langley’s loss would be the State Department’s gain—and it was the right move.
“Triple H,” or “H3” as she was known, was eminently qualified. She had paid her dues in some of the best, as well as some of the worst postings around the world. She had steered ambassadors with half her intelligence and a fraction of her experience through moments of great crisis, never once taking credit, nor asking for any recognition. All that had ever mattered was the mission as she zealously served the United States abroad. She was a legend in D.C. and the President had taken notice.
Sølvi had no idea how much she had missed her until she walked up to the table, opened her arms, and said, “Carl was one of a kind. I am so sorry for your loss.”
Without giving it another thought, Sølvi stood and embraced her friend. She thought, alone in the privacy of her office, that she had exhausted herself of tears, but there were still a few more left. Quietly, she let them out.
They stood there together for several moments, not caring what anyone else thought. Then, it was Sølvi who stepped back and invited her friend to sit.
As they did, she touched her napkin to the corners of her eyes, drying the remaining tears, just as the waiter walked up.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?”
Sølvi looked at her colleague. “The usual?”
“Are you okay with that?”
It was a well-intentioned question.