liked best were those Fridayswhen I could break away a little early, three or three thirty, and take off for Camp David.” Those were some of Harvath’s favorite days at the White House as well.
As they drove from the helipad, they passed the Aspen cabin, which was reserved for the President and his family. None of the lights were on. This didn’t come as a surprise to Harvath. Not only because of the late hour, but also becausethere’d been no sign of the President’s Marine One helicopter, as well as all the other security measures that got put in place when the President was on the property.
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 wasthat 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 werethe 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 andunderstated. 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 thatin 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 atCamp 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
T he 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 impressivewas 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
As they drove from the helipad, they passed the Aspen cabin, which was reserved for the President and his family. None of the lights were on. This didn’t come as a surprise to Harvath. Not only because of the late hour, but also becausethere’d been no sign of the President’s Marine One helicopter, as well as all the other security measures that got put in place when the President was on the property.
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 wasthat 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 werethe 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 andunderstated. 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 thatin 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 atCamp 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
T he 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 impressivewas 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
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