Harvath didn’t know who he was there to see. He also didn’t know what piece of intelligence The Carlton Group had that the Norwegians didn’t. According to his teammates, they didn’t either. All they had been willing to say was that this was for his safety, and everything would be explained once they got to their destination.
Pulling up to the Hawthorn cabin, Lance Corporal Garcia put the golf cart in Park and said, “Here we are, sir. Would you like me to walk you inside and demonstrate how everything works?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine,” he answered.
“There’s a phone on the nightstand, along with a list of extensions, if you should need anything. Stewards are available twenty-four/seven.”
“Roger that.”
“Have a good stay.”
“Thank you,” Harvath replied as he stepped out of the golf cart and walked up to the cabin door.
He thought about asking if the Shangri-La Bar in the Hickory Lodge could still be accessed, after hours, via a bad window in the back, but that had been a Secret Service “secret.” They were the ones who, long ago, had rigged the window in the first place. He wasn’t sure the Marines had been read in on the caper. Better to keep it to himself.
Stepping inside Hawthorn, the first thing he noticed was the smell. Oranges. Back when he had been working the President’s detail, all the cabins had smelled like soap. Irish Spring to be exact. This was definitely an improvement.
The furnishings, though, were still the same—simple and understated. The bed had crisp linens. There were bottles of water. The bathroom, though dated, sparkled. It wasn’t the Ritz. Not by a long shot. Harvath didn’t care.
Inside the slim wardrobe, an array of clothes had been left for him. Someone had obviously been alerted that he would be arriving without luggage.
What they hadn’t been alerted to was that in addition to needing something to wear, he would also be needing something to drink.
Just because he hadn’t wanted to step off the Black Hawk with a roadie in his hand, didn’t mean that now that he was in his cabin he didn’t want to recommence his pain management routine.
Walking over to the telephone, he was about to ring for a steward, when there was a knock at his door.
The stewards at Camp David were good at anticipating guests’ desires, but he doubted they were that good.
Crossing to the door, he opened it. There, standing between two enormous dogs, was the person he had been brought to see.
CHAPTER 8
The dogs whined, eager to get at Harvath. Their owner, though, was having none of it. He issued a quick, one-word command and the incredible animals fell silent.
Standing less than three feet tall, the little man—who suffered from primordial dwarfism—didn’t even come up to the shoulders of his two, massive Caucasian Ovcharkas. The physical juxtaposition was impressive. Even more impressive was the intelligence, discipline, and fealty shown by the creatures.
“I thought you might want a nightcap,” said the little man. “Along with some answers.”
“I could use both,” Harvath replied.
Nicholas smiled and, with another quick, one-word command, released the dogs from discipline and allowed them to rush Harvath.
Throughout global intelligence circles, the little man was known as the “Troll.” To his friends, he was known simply as Nicholas.
He had once been one of the world’s leading purveyors of black-market intelligence. He had also once been Harvath’s nemesis. Time and circumstance had a way of changing things, as well as people.
It was an odd, crooked path—filled with treachery, deceit, retribution, and penance—that led to where they were now. They had gone from being directly opposed to each other; combatants to comrades in arms. As their mutual respect and appreciation had grown, they had formed an unbreakable bond. They had become like brothers. Family.
After greeting Argos and Draco, and doling out plenty of head patting and behind-the-ears scratching, Harvath let Nicholas know he was ready for that drink.
Their party decamped for the cabin next door where Nicholas and his dogs had been installed.
Per their training, Argos and Draco stayed close to their master as they traversed the short distance through the trees. The little man had made powerful enemies over his career. The fact that he had joined The Carlton Group and had changed many of his ways made no difference to them. There were certain grudges, certain wrongs that could never be forgiven. Lives had been destroyed by the information he had trafficked in. The dogs were in place to protect him should anyone show up on his doorstep looking to settle an old score. As Harvath was currently being hunted down himself, he completely understood.
They made small talk as they walked—Harvath dreading the inevitable question he knew was coming. How are you doing?
It was why Key West—and Little Palm Island until he had been kicked off—had been good. No one knew him. No one asked him difficult, painful questions. In a way, it had felt as if he had outrun his old life. Then, just like that, it had caught up to him again. And now here he was.
Nicholas, who had been born in Soviet Georgia, abandoned by his parents, and raised in a brothel, was no stranger to pain either. He had no desire to inflict any, unnecessarily, on Harvath.
The Carlton Group had become the little man’s home. The losses of Reed Carlton and Lydia Ryan had been devastating for him too. He had also cared very deeply for Lara and his heart broke for his friend at losing his new wife. With that said, they had a serious problem to deal with—and Harvath needed to face it head-on.
Entering the Holly cabin, Nicholas led his friend out onto the screened-in porch. There, he had an ice bucket, bottles of water, a bottle of Blanton’s Gold bourbon, and a box of Cohiba cigars.
“You got the best berth at Camp David,” Harvath remarked as they sat down.
“I wanted Aspen,” Nicholas joked, “but President Porter said no.”
A brief smiled flashed across Harvath’s face. He wouldn’t have put it past Nicholas to have asked for the President’s personal cabin. He was a man of incredibly fine taste and boundless appetites—particularly when it came to food, wine, and, until recently, extremely expensive women. He had been tamed—or so it had appeared—and Harvath felt terrible for not having asked about his girlfriend, Nina.
They had been on again, off again so many times, it was hard to know what the exact status of their relationship was. Before everything had gone upside down at The Carlton Group, Lydia had told Harvath that, in her opinion, the volatility in the relationship was what drew Nicholas and Nina so passionately to each other.
“How’s Nina?” Harvath asked.
Nicholas paused for a moment before responding, searching for the right words. Finally, he replied, “She’s good.”
There was something about the little man’s expression, something that caught Harvath’s attention. “Just good?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“What does that mean?”
Nicholas picked up the box of Cohibas and offered him one. “It looks like I’m going to be a father.”
Harvath was dumbstruck and, for a moment, didn’t know how to respond. All Harvath had ever wanted was a family of his own. He had almost, finally, had one with Lara and her son, but it had been snatched from him.