Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(65)

“You ask too many questions for a man on the wrong end of a gun. Turn around so I can see your back.”

He obeyed.

“Now,” she instructed, “touch your hands to your shoulders, pinch the fabric of your shirt, and lift it up so I can see your waistband.”

As Harvath did, he revealed the pistol tucked at the small of his back. She then had him turn all the way around, which exposed a smaller pistol—a Sig Sauer P365—he was carrying as a backup, the top of the Taser he had slipped into one of his pockets, as well as a folding knife. After checking the tops of his boots, she had him slowly discard everything and put his hands back up in the air.

“Based on all of that,” she continued, alluding to the pile of gear, “it’s obvious you didn’t come to cut the grass. So who are you and what are you doing here?”

Good-looking and a smartass. If she hadn’t been pointing a gun at him, he might have liked her. “I came to have a chat with Landsbergis.”

“About what?”

“It’s private.”

The woman smiled—two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. Adjusting her aim, she said, “I think we’re beyond keeping secrets at this point.”

“Can I put my hands down?”

“No. Answer my question. What did you come to chat about?”

Finally, Harvath had pegged the accent and decided to give the truth. “I came to find out whether or not he killed a friend of mine.”

S?lvi Kolstad looked at him. “And who was this friend?”

“I don’t think it’s an accident that we’re both here at the same time. I actually think you know who I’m talking about.”

“Say his name.”

Harvath met her gaze as he stated, “Carl Pedersen.”

A flash of grief rippled across the woman’s face. Whether she couldn’t hide it, or didn’t bother to, Harvath wasn’t able to ascertain. All he knew was that as quickly as the emotion had appeared, it was gone.

“I know who you are,” he said. “At least I think I do.”

“Really?” she responded. “Who am I?”

“Turn around and I’ll tell you.”

Considering the power dynamics of the situation, it was a ridiculous request and S?lvi couldn’t help but chuckle. “Would you be willing to hold my gun while I do?”

She was growing on him. “You’ll have to hold it yourself,” he said, indicating the position he was being made to stand in. “My arms are starting to get tired.”

“Why do you want me to turn around?”

“Because, if I’m right, you have some sort of a tattoo down your back. A quote from Rousseau, if my memory serves.”

“It’s Sartre,” she said, correcting him.

Harvath smiled. He had been testing her. “It could have been from Ibsen and Carl still would have hated the idea of anyone working for him, much less his protégé, being inked.”

During her recovery, she had started jogging again. On one particularly nice day, Carl had shown up to check on her just as she was returning. She had been wearing a sports bra and he had not only noticed the tattoo, but he had also given her hell for it.

He hated tattoos because they were a visible identifier, and identifiers were deadly for spooks.

Making matters worse, unlike a man with a limp or a man with a facial scar, hers—a woman with the tattoo along her spine—was a self-imposed vulnerability.

He had chalked it up to her descent into drug-induced darkness, but there was one other thing about it that pissed him off. Of all the quotes she could have chosen, she had chosen Sartre. That probably bothered him the most. He didn’t see Sartre as a brilliant philosopher or existentialist, Carl viewed him—as he viewed everything—through politics. Sartre had been a Marxist and that had made him Pedersen’s enemy.

On every complaint about the tattoo, she had humbly acknowledged his points. The Marxism stuff was just stupid and she had told him as much. Politics had nothing at all to do with why she had chosen it and she informed him that they were done discussing it. Permanently.

Carl apparently, though, hadn’t seen it that way.

“I’m surprised he told you,” she said.

“I’m surprised I still have my hands up,” replied Harvath. “Can I put them down, please?”

S?lvi nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his arms. “And for the record, Carl never told me about your tattoo. He mentioned it to my boss, who said something to me.”

“Your boss being Reed Carlton.”

“Yes,” replied Harvath, extending his hand. “Scot Harvath.”

S?lvi lowered her pistol, stepped forward, and they shook hands. “S?lvi Kolstad.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Carl was a very good man.”

“And I’m sorry for yours,” she offered. “I heard you also lost your wife and a colleague in addition to Reed.”

Harvath nodded and changed the subject. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“How’d you get around the alarm system?”

“I have my ways,” she replied.

He didn’t doubt it. “I think we should get some things straight before Landsbergis gets home.”