they’re going to be able to find any of the storage units, much less find them in time.”
“They’ll find them. Trust me. That’s what they do. In the meantime, start packing. I want to be wheels up within a half hour.”
The Logans had already been sent home, surveillance of the Cool Springs Marriott had been handed back over to the FBI, and Chase and Sloane were now sacked out on the couches in the hangar office. No one held out much hope that Deng was coming back to the hotel, not after everything that had happened. In fact, Harvath doubted that the man was even still in Tennessee.
They had turned over every imaginable stone. Even that gnawing discomfort Harvath had had about the photocopied driver’s license had finally clarified itself. He asked himself how, if he had been renting storage units under different aliases in different cities, he would have done it. The exercise had shaken an idea loose. It was a tiny needle in a big haystack, but it wasn’t impossible, so he had passed the idea on to the Old Man.
“Where are we going?” Nicholas asked.
“Back to D.C.”
CHAPTER 48
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MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
The National Counter Terrorism Center was located in a stone and glass complex near Tysons Corner. It was part of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence and as such, fell under the responsibility of DNI General George Johnson.
The NCTC brought together experts from all of the alphabets in the soup, including the FBI, CIA, DIA, NSA, and DHS. Their goal was to prevent terrorist attacks on the United States as well as American interests abroad by making sure all available intelligence was being shared and no clues were being overlooked.
Entering the main building, Harvath saw Nicholas without both of his dogs for the first time. Reed Carlton had made an exception for the animals at the Carlton Group offices. It was a private business and he could make that call. He had explained to Nicholas, though, that federal buildings were a completely different story and that at some point, his job would require that he visit one of those buildings. When that happened, he wouldn’t be able to bring Argos or Draco.
Nicholas, being Nicholas, had, within twenty-four hours, both dogs officially recognized as certified service animals. Old habits died hard and Harvath could only wonder whom he had blackmailed, and with what, to secure the designation. Carlton, though, had had no idea.
The minute he saw the enormous dogs outside the NCTC with their bright red vests emblazoned with the words “Service Animal,” and patches proclaiming Working Dog and Don’t Pet Me Please, I’m Working, he lost it.
Without missing a beat, Nicholas removed a card from a zippered pocket on Draco’s vest and handed it to him. On one side was written the corresponding portion of the Americans with Disabilities Act that applied to service animals and on the other was written, “If you have been handed this card, you have very likely already violated the Americans with Disabilities Act.”
“You’re not even American,” Carlton countered.
“I’m still protected,” said Nicholas, his hand on Draco’s shoulder.
No one was sure if he meant protected by the ADA or by the dog. Harvath figured it was probably both.
Carlton wasn’t in the mood. It was a con, and he didn’t like it. There were people with legitimate needs for service animals. Nicholas, in his opinion, wasn’t one of them. But with so many returning service members now using service animals, federal agencies were used to seeing dogs in their buildings. Granted, they were breeds like German shepherds or golden retrievers, not monsters the size of Nicholas’s Ovcharkas.
The Old Man caved and they came to an agreement. “You can bring one of your service animals,” he said, making air quotes around the word “service.”
With the issue settled, Argos returned to the Carlton Group offices with Sloane and Chase while the rest of the team walked past the flagpole and its puzzle-piece surround, and into the main building.
By the looks on many of the faces inside, one would have thought that the circus had come to town. The huge dog accompanied by a man less than three feet tall was certainly part of it, but the true draw for the employees of the NCTC was the two highly accomplished and highly respected warriors in their midst. There wasn’t a single analyst who didn’t harbor superspy fantasies of killing and capturing bad guys. From the Cold War to the War on Terror,