Harvath punched his code into the pad and stood still as biometric reader scanned his face. There was a hiss of air as the locks released, the light changed from red to green, and he was able to open the door.
Inside were three of the greatest players in the world of intelligence, and two enormous white dogs that looked like wolves on steroids.
The dogs belonged to Nicholas, the Carlton Group’s digital guru. He was an amazingly talented little man who suffered from primordial dwarfism and stood less than three feet tall. Argos and Draco, as the dogs were named, were Russian Ovcharkas — the breed favored by the Russian Military and the former East German border patrol. They were highly intelligent, incredibly fast, and fiercely loyal. The dogs made excellent companions and even better protectors. That last part was especially important for a man who had spent his previous career buying, selling, and hacking black market intelligence used to blackmail some of the most powerful figures in the world.
In global intelligence circles, Nicholas was known only as “The Troll.” Not much was known about his upbringing. Even less was known about where he was now, and whom he was working for. The fact that the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency was sitting in a chair next to him, petting one of his dogs, said a lot about how far Nicholas had come. It also said a lot about how far Carlton and his relationship with the CIA had come.
The Old Man had worked at the Central Intelligence Agency for three decades. One of his proudest accomplishments during that time had been establishing its Counterterrorism Center.
But over the years, he had watched as the CIA had become more bloated and bureaucratic. Middle managers more concerned with protecting their own careers rather than the country they had sworn to serve fueled a risk-averse culture that was more focused on avoiding failure than securing success.
There were great men and women at the CIA, tons of them, but desk jockeys better suited to IBM than the world of international espionage were hamstringing them. When the Agency began paying foreign intelligence agencies to run ops for them, Carlton had had enough.
Tendering his resignation, he left and created his own company. Based on the CIA’s precursor — the OSS, the Carlton Group hired the best intelligence and special operations people it could find. They broke all the rules with only one goal in mind — to keep America and her citizens safe, no matter what the cost.
Thanks to the frustration with the CIA’s broken culture and the Agency’s inability to conduct effective espionage, government contracts rolled in, especially from the Department of Defense.
But when a new President entered the White House, things at the CIA began to change. He named two highly respected operatives to take the number one and number two slots. Along with the Oval Office, they had begun to repair that broken culture and turn things around.
It was an amazing snapshot to see Nicholas, Reed Carlton, and Lydia Ryan all sitting there in the SCIF together.
Harvath liked Ryan. The product of an Irish father and a Greek mother, she was a tall, beautiful woman in her early thirties with dark hair and intense green eyes, but that wasn’t why Harvath liked her. He liked her because she was smart; off-the-charts smart and a hell of a field operative.
The fact that she was good-looking didn’t hurt, but Harvath had always found intelligence incredibly attractive. It was what drew him to Lara, and was part of what had created a spark with Decker. He could never be with a stupid woman. As a rule, though, he worked hard to keep his business and personal lives separate.
Stepping into the SCIF, the dogs leapt up to greet Harvath first, and he scratched both of them behind the ears. He had not only fought to get Nicholas his job, but he had also fought to get Carlton to allow him to bring the dogs to work. It was obvious from the start that Harvath had appointed himself the little man’s guardian.
When the Old Man had resisted Argos and Draco coming to the office, Nicholas had threatened to sue him for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act, claiming they were “service animals.” It was patently ridiculous, and they all got a good laugh out of it. In the end, Carlton relented and made a special exemption for Nicholas. The dogs quickly became unofficial mascots of the company.
That wasn’t to say that Nicholas’s transition into the Group had been without incident. Before Harvath had brought him in, Nicholas had been a full-on criminal. He had dealt in the theft and black market sale of highly sensitive, often classified information. From heads of corporations to heads of state, he had developed an impressive list of both clients and enemies.
The day after he started work at the Carlton Group, the sign identifying his SCIF as Digital Ops had been replaced with one that read THE LOLLIPOP GUILD, an insulting reference to the munchkins from The Wizard of Oz. When Harvath had heard about it, he went ballistic.
It had taken him less than fifteen minutes to track down the man who had done it. Harvath cornered him in the men’s room, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to beat him to a pulp right there.
The man was indignant and made it clear what a mistake he thought it was to bring a criminal like Nicholas into their midst.
Harvath didn’t care and told him that if he ever got near Nicholas again, he would put a bullet in his head and dump his body where his family would never find it.
Immediately after Harvath had left the men’s room, the man had bolted to his superior to register a complaint. A no-bullshit Iraq war vet, the superior director told him that if he didn’t shut up and get back to work, he’d save Harvath the bullet and shoot him himself.
Word quickly got around that anybody who screwed with Nicholas would have to answer to Harvath, and that Harvath had carte blanche to do whatever he wanted.
“Look who’s here,” Nicholas exclaimed as Harvath coaxed the dogs back so he could shut the door.
“About time,” remarked Carlton in his heavy New England accent. “What do we got, Nicky?”
Theirs was another relationship that had come a long way — a really long way. The Old Man had originally been dead set against hiring Nicholas. Now they sounded like bowling buddies.
“Why don’t we start with the drone footage?” Nicholas replied.
“What drone footage?” asked Harvath as he grabbed a seat.
“Clifton Farm. Virginia. Northwest of D.C.”
He looked at Lydia Ryan. “Whose drone? Yours or ours?”
“Yours,” she replied. “The Central Intelligence Agency is forbidden from conducting domestic surveillance operations.”
Harvath smiled and then looked back at Nicholas. “What were we doing with a drone there?”
“Paying a visit to Mr. Pierre Damien.”
After Harvath had learned about the Ngoa lab, he had pressed Hendrik for information about who he was working for and where his Laissez-Passer had come from. It took a lot more water, but he eventually gave up a name — Pierre Damien.
Before leaving Bunia, Harvath filed his report and asked Carlton about Damien. The Old Man ran his name and came back with his dual Canadian/U.S. citizenship, his business background, the companies he was involved with, his current posting as Under-Secretary-General of the United Nations Population Fund, and then all of his anti-America, anti-Israel, save the planet stuff. There was nothing that pointed to an involvement with bioweapons or terrorism of any sort.
When Harvath had said as much, the Old Man had replied, “They don’t normally take out ads in the paper.”
He was right. It normally wasn’t until after, but a man like Damien would never publically take credit for any sort of outbreak or attack.