Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(17)
In 1973, President Nixon presented Leonid Brezhnev with a dark blue Lincoln Continental—donated by the Ford Motor Company. The Soviet leader was so excited, he had Nixon hop in, and they sped off—without their protective details.
Barreling down one of the perimeter roads at over fifty miles an hour, Nixon tried to warn his guest of a dangerous curve up ahead. Brezhnev either didn’t hear him or didn’t understand. He kept accelerating. Only as they entered the curve did he realize his mistake. Slamming on the brakes, he managed to steer through it, but just barely. Once safely out of the turn, Nixon paid him a wry compliment on his “excellent” driving skills.
Camp David was also the secure location Vice President Cheney was evacuated to on 9/11. Three days later, President Bush arrived with several cabinet members, advisers, and generals. The mood, as one would imagine, was said to have been quite dark. The next night, before dinner in the Laurel cabin, Attorney General John Ashcroft joined National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice at the piano where they sang hymns.
Despite that mournful period, the camp’s overall history was quite positive and uplifting. It was the one place the President and other influential world leaders could truly relax—even if just a little—and deal with the weighty issues of the day.
One of Harvath’s favorite quotes about the retreat came from a book about President Ronald Reagan, who, after having left office, said, “The days I liked best were those Fridays when 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 because there’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 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.