Near Dark

by Brad Thor

  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.

  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.

  Now, here was Nicholas, on the verge of being given that priceless gift, yet the downbeat tone with which he delivered the news suggested he was anything but happy.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Harvath. “That’s wonderful news. You make it sound like you’ve just been diagnos
ed with a terminal illness.”

  “What’s wrong with me? All you have to do is look,” he said, waving his hand over his body, emphasizing how small he was. “What if the baby is born like this?”

  “What if it isn’t?”

  “What if it is?”

  Harvath understood his friend’s concern, but the chances that Nicholas and Nina’s baby would also suffer from primordial dwarfism were so small they were almost nonexistent. The condition required a mutant gene from both parents and therefore was incredibly rare.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” said Harvath as he chose a cigar. “When is she due?”

  “In seven months. Give or take.”

  “Your baby is going to be beautiful. Trust me. You’re going to be a great father.”

  Nicholas began laughing so hard, he nearly dropped the box. “From Marquis de Sade to Mother Goose. Sounds like a seamless transition.”

  Again, Harvath smiled. He had missed him. “I didn’t say it would be easy. I said you’d be great at it. And you will be. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he replied. Selecting a cigar for himself, he then placed the box on the small table between them and offered Harvath the cutter.

  “You first,” his friend said.

  After Nicholas had snipped his cigar, he tossed the cutter over to Harvath followed by the lighter.

  The tips of their cigars glowed a bright orange as the men puffed away in the semidarkness of the porch and blew heavy clouds of smoke into the air.

  Nodding toward the bourbon, the bottled water, and the ice, Nicholas intimated that it was time for Harvath to pour.

  Once the drinks were made, they quietly clinked glasses and then settled back in their chairs. There was no toast. Neither wanted to break the silence that had settled over them. For the moment, they enjoyed not saying anything at all.

  It could last only so long. Finally, it was Harvath who spoke. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”

  CHAPTER 9

  With the Old Man dead, Lydia Ryan dead, and Harvath not interested, the management of The Carlton Group had fallen upon Nicholas. Right after the murders, when Harvath had gone missing, he had proven himself more than worthy of the challenge. He had worked tirelessly to get him back. This new threat they were facing, though, frightened him even more—and he didn’t scare easily.

  Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he asked, “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Who was the assassin in Key West?”

  “We don’t know, yet.”

  “Is it the same person who killed Carl Pedersen?”

  “We don’t know that either.”

  “Chase said there may be more than one assassin. He also said we have intel the Norwegians don’t.”

  Nicholas set his cigar in the ashtray and looked at his friend. “It’s only RUMINT. Nothing confirmed.”

  Harvath was familiar with the term. RUMINT stood for Rumor Intelligence. He waited for Nicholas to fill him in, and when he didn’t, he cocked an eyebrow as if to say, spill it.

  “Allegedly, someone, or some organization, took out a one-hundred-million-dollar contract on a single individual. At this point, it’s just whispers. Barely audible chatter on the Dark Web and in other remote places. We didn’t share it with the Norwegians because in our opinion it was too vague.”

  “And you think the subject of this contract is me?” asked Harvath.

  Nicholas nodded. “That’s my concern. That’s why we brought you here.”

  “But why not one of our safe houses? Or one of the Agency’s?”

  “Do you want the tactical or the practical answer first?”

  “Tactical,” Harvath replied.

  “One hundred million dollars can buy even the worst kind of person a lot of friends. It’s such a huge bounty, we didn’t know whom we could trust.”

  “Even within our organization?”

  “Somehow, an assassin picked up your trail and tracked you to Key West. Only a handful of us knew you were in Florida.”

  “I had my cell phone. Used my credit cards now and then. I wasn’t exactly trying to disappear.”

  “Nope,” said Nicholas. “But if there really is this kind of a contract out on you, we have to assume it’s only being shopped to the best.”

  “More than one assassin, though? That’s not normally how this is done.”

  “That’s part of the RUMINT as well. Supposedly, the contract was put out to a pool. Whoever closes it out first, gets the bounty. That’s why we came so hard and fast to get you.”

  “So, out of an abundance of caution, you said no to our portfolio of safe houses, no to the CIA’s, but yes to Camp David?”

  “That’s the practical side of this. I wanted one location with no additional movements. None of the ‘different bed every night’ scenarios like some sort of Mexican drug lord or Middle Eastern dictator. Place you and encase you. That’s the plan.

  “What’s more, I didn’t want to be cooped up in some house, especially not with the dogs. Here, we’ve got two hundred of the most secure acres in the world. A squirrel can’t even get within one hundred feet of the perimeter without the Marines knowing about it.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of one of them being bought off?”

  “A, no, and B, by whom? No one knows we’re here except for McGee, who made the request, and President Porter, who gave his approval. I guarantee you, neither of them is going to be bought off.”

  Nicholas was right about that. Bob McGee was the Director of the CIA and Lydia Ryan’s boss before she had moved over to The Carlton Group. Harvath trusted McGee. He also knew that the Marines who served at Camp David were not only exemplary, but also rigorously vetted.

  “Plus,” Nicholas continued, “only if we were camped out at the NSA or the Situation Room back at the White House, could we access faster and more secure networks. This is the perfect bolt-hole.”

  Harvath agreed. It made sense on several levels. Nodding, he steered the conversation back to his earlier questioning. “Let’s say the contract does exist and I’m the target. Who’s behind it? Who have I pissed off badly enough to put up one hundred million dollars to take me out?”

  “Even at their most flush, bin Laden and al Qaeda wouldn’t have been able to come up with one hundred million, much less give it away. ISIS, though, is a different story.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re the Goldman Sachs of the terrorism world. They may have lost the land that made up their caliphate, but they didn’t lose their bank accounts. According to an Iraqi Intelligence report, they still have access to over two and a half billion dollars. And, they hate your guts.”

  Harvath began to make a mental list. “Okay, they’re contestant number one. Keep going. Who else?”

  “As far as terrorism organizations?” Nicholas asked. “Ones that have those kinds of funds and enough reason to want to spend that kind of money on you? That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

  “How about non-terrorism-related organizations?”

  “There are various crime organizations around the world that could launch a hundred-million-dollar contract. But to be honest, I can’t think of one you’ve pissed off badly enough to warrant it.”

  “So what does that leave us with?”

  “You’ve dispatched some exceedingly wealthy bad actors. These people left behind enormous sums of money. If their heirs were smart, they’d be out living it up, but sometimes heirs aren’t smart, they’re vengeful.”

  Harvath swirled the ice in his glass and said, “You could probably track that money, though, correct?”

  “I’ve already started looking into it.”

  “Good.”

  “Which brings us to state actors,” said Nicholas. “And there’s one country in particular that jumps right to the top of my list.”

  Harvath took a long pull off his Cohiba and then slowly blew the smoke into the air. “Russia,” he stated.

  The little man n
odded. “They hate you even more than the jihadists.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Believe me.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, though.”

  “Why not?” asked Harvath. “I killed the Russian president’s son.”

  “And he was a sociopathic monster. He deserved it—as did the rest of them. But you had been absolutely clear what would happen to President Peshkov if he sent anyone after you. You even put it in writing to him.”

  “We’re still watching all of his money, aren’t we?”

  “Day and night, but that’s the thing. None of it has moved. Not a ruble, a dollar, a euro, a rand—none of it.”

  “Could he have a hundred million we don’t know about?” Harvath asked.

  “Is it possible? Sure. Anything’s possible. He’s been stealing from his country for decades. But is it likely? With how hard we’ve worked to uncover every single one of his assets? I just don’t know.”

  “What about a cutout? Somebody close to him. An associate of some sort.”

  Nicholas thought about it. “Someone willing to put up one hundred million dollars of their own money?”

  “It would definitely get his attention. Who knows what kind of favor that would curry?”

  “In Russia, doing the president that kind of a service could buy almost anything—a ministry position, mining rights, who knows?”

  “This sure feels like the Russians to me,” said Harvath, refilling his glass. “Carl Pedersen helped me to not only halt their Baltic plot, but also to snatch their chief of covert operations for Eastern Europe.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Two for one. They got whatever intel they needed to track you down, and they killed Pedersen.”

  Harvath felt the pain over his losing friend stab at his heart once more. He took a long sip of bourbon before responding. “Why put out a contract then? Why not just assign it to Russian Intelligence—GRU or FSB—and let them handle it?”

  Nicholas shrugged and picked his cigar back up. It had gone out and he needed to relight it. “If,” he said as he activated the lighter, “Peshkov really didn’t want this to look like it came from him, he’d have to carry the charade all the way through—a cutout for the money and a cutout for the killing.”