Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  He types in the first address, clicks on a link leading him to the second, then taps a button that takes him to the third: Jeffri’sGarden.com. The website comes up on Mehran’s screen, the photos of the flowerbeds appear, then the photograph of the smiling woman holding her clippers and basket of freshly cut flowers. With her welcoming smile Jeffri Adams could be a red-haired Martha Stewart hosting a site dedicated to the cultivation of flowers, their care, planting, all the details involved in creating a bountiful and beautiful garden.

  While the Americans have the latest satellites and the most cutting-edge technology, millions of powerful computers, giant radomes positioned all over the world to track satellites and instantly relay information, his cell’s operation on the other hand is homespun, almost rudimentary—basic codes, off-the-shelf electronics, commonplace computers—all neatly tucked in under the radar of the Americans.

  The American intelligence geniuses and their thousands of analysts and experts would never suspect that the pleasant-looking middle-aged lady with the straw sunhat and gardening website is actually the cover for Mehran’s cell and the other cells assigned to the mission.

  Mehran only knows his own codes: anything involved with dahlias. He has never been told what the other plants on the site might mean to other cells—chrysanthemums, orchids or daylilies. Maybe they are decoys, Mehran guesses, distracting context for the thousands of cryptographers and analysts sitting in cubicles at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade listening to telephone calls and downloading emails and information on websites.

  When someone posts a message on the site to visiting gardeners in Zone 5, a coded message is instantly conveyed to the slim Rutgers engineering student.

  Mehran sits forward in his chair reading the post. Dahlia lovers know that despite the wonderful weather we are having, it is time to locate your dahlias and set aside some time to dig them up. Leaving them in the ground over the winter, even in Zones 5, 6, 7 and 8, will expose them to more cold and frost than most dahlias are able to handle.

  Mehran’s eyes widen as the post continues. I heard from Cindy in Virginia that she got a call from her friend in Pennsylvania telling her that there might be dahlias she had overlooked. Cindy is going to double-check with her friend. Remember, gardeners, every dahlia bulb you carefully store over the winter will rebloom in the spring.

  Mehran cannot believe what he is reading. Cindy in Virginia is the code designation for his assignment, the person named Howard Collyer, the man with the website. He checks the time on the post: 1:03 p.m. He bends over the screen and carefully interprets the coded message: Someone in Pennsylvania called to alert Cindy, means Collyer has been notified of some information about a lost bomb.

  In his training in Jakarta, Mehran had been drilled on the code words and phrases so thoroughly they have become a second language to him. Mehran and his cell members could sit in a restaurant and practice conversations in dahlia speak. Each part of the dahlia—bloom, petals, tuber and stem—is assigned to a component of an H-bomb. And each of the twelve groups of dahlias—singles, mignons, duplexes, anemones, etc.— specifically identify bomb models. A mignon stands for an Mk-15, an anemone, an Mk-39. The language is complete and precise yet so veiled and obscure that no one in the restaurant overhearing their conversation would have suspected they were anything but botany grad students. And the master codebreakers in Washington, even if they could unscramble the code words and break down the firewalls to gain access to the site, would inevitably overlook a bunch of dahlia lovers chatting about their favorite perennial.

  He continues decoding the post. “Dahlias she might have overlooked” translates to “there could be a bomb that can be located.”

  “Cindy is going to double-check with her friend” tells him Collyer will be debriefing someone who might have information about a bomb. He is going up to Pennsylvania to follow up on some information—to find out from some yet unidentified person about a lost nuke.

  Mehran knows if Collyer proves to be on the trail of a bomb, the operation will ramp up fast, the money to undertake the operation will flow into the cell member’s accounts, the necessary equipment will be delivered, and people will contact him to carry out his assignment.

  So far the news is encouraging. The zones mentioned in the post are in Mehran’s assigned area—the Middle Atlantic States. That could change, but for now Mehran knows he stands a chance of being the lucky one. He sits back, arms clasped behind his head, reveling in his good fortune.

  All of a sudden, Mehran’s computer screen blinks and goes dark. He checks his Internet connection, fumbles around in back of his machine to make sure it is plugged in. He is immediately relieved when his screen comes alive again. But he is shocked to see the message spelled out across the screen: This website is down for repair and redesign. Please check back in three days.

  He restarts his computer, examines the cables again. But when he logs onto the site, the screen comes back with the same message: down for repair and redesign. What does that mean? Has the website been discovered? Or did it crash again? Mehran suddenly feels isolated, out on a limb. For three years, Jeffri’s Garden has been his refuge, the one place he knew was safe.

  He checks the companion site based on American crafts, a backup in case Jeffri’s Garden becomes compromised. DownhomeCrafts.com is the address and Mehran’s subject is quilting. He opens the quilting section looking for posts. Same message: This portion of the website is down for repair and redesign. Please check back in three days. He logs on to sleepingdogs.us. No new posts. At least it is business as usual on Howard Collyer’s site.

  Mehran has a frightening thought. What would he do if FBI agents showed up at his door? Or would they follow him first? Try to find out who his friends are, who he talks to, would they detain Melanie? Fortunately, he only knows the code names of his fellow cell members—not their locations or responsibilities. If the Americans interrogate him, he could reveal little about the entire operation. Still, he did not want to even entertain the thought. Though he has been trained, put through hours of arduous grilling and intimidation, he fears what he might reveal under duress. He’s heard stories about the tortures Americans use on terrorists. He once shared a meal with an interrogation victim. The man’s nerves were so shot he could barely manage to get food to his mouth.

  He hears a knock on his door. Mehran turns to look at it, not sure of what to do. Then silence.

  Mehran gets up and tiptoes to the door. He leans in close to it and listens.

  “Denny Zarif?” At first he does not recognize the voice.

  His body relaxes as he hears Melanie say, “If you can’t sleep, Denny, I can do something that will help.”

  13

  Georgetown, Saturday evening

  Buttoning his coat and flipping up his collar, Winn Straub hunches his shoulders to shield himself from the biting wind as he stands on a Georgetown street waiting for Sparky to find the perfect hydrant. Sparky’s almost fifteen and Straub has to carry him down the steps of his brownstone to walk him, morning and night, his housekeeper attending to the dog’s needs the rest of the day.

  For two days after Thanksgiving, it’s much too cold for this time of year and now the temperature’s threatening to plunge into the low twenties. He’s the only one out on the street. If they have any sense, his neighbors are curled up in bed with a book or sitting by a warm fire.

  Sparky rejects the first hydrant. Straub tugs his leash in the direction of another. A carload of Georgetown students whizzes by on the way to a local watering hole, the booming hip hop seeping through their rolled-up windows.

  “Winn—that you?” he hears a voice call out. He looks across the street. Someone is standing on the curb waving at him.

  “It’s Steve—Steve Lubell, Winn,” the man calls, his voice echoing down the empty street. “What are you doing out on a night like this?”

  “At least I have an excuse,” he says as Lubell crosses toward him. Straub’s professional curiosity kicks
in. He immediately questions why Lubell has chosen to stop him. Normally people with sensitive jobs in the intelligence community don’t acknowledge each other out of the office. When he thinks about it, Lubell doesn’t even live in Georgetown, Straub is sure he lives somewhere in the burbs.

  Lubell takes off a glove and extends his hand. “Good to see you, Winn. Nice dog you have there.”

  Straub looks down at his aging Jack Russell, mangy, swayback, arthritis in his hips—the last word anyone would use to describe him is nice. Lamest attempt at small talk Straub’s heard in a long time. “This is Sparky. He’s a good old guy,” he says as he and Lubell shake hands. “Just takes him a while to get the urge going.”

  Lubell works for DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency. And Straub has always suspected him of being involved in a black program. He had to have friends in high and dark places. No other reason for the guy to have gone that far, he’s a jackoff with nothing but space between his ears. If Straub were to take a stab in the dark, he’d guess Vector Eleven since Lubell had worked at Oak Ridge earlier in his career. And those nuclear guys are tight as ticks. Straub’s imagination immediately starts spinning, Is Lubell a night messenger carrying some warning from Vector Eleven? If Vector Eleven’s the group Howie’s managed to rile up, he’s in more trouble than I thought.

  “So how’ve you been, Winn?”

  “Fine. What brings you to Georgetown on a night like this?”

  “Just moved in right down the block. Margie and I separated six months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She ran off with her physical trainer. Fifty-year itch, I guess. So after thirty years I’m back to batching it again. Live in that apartment building on the corner.” There’s an awkward pause, then Lubell asks, “Mind if I walk the block with you?”

  “Of course not. But when Sparky finds his hydrant, I’m heading home.”

  “You bet. Say, I’ve been meaning to ask—whatever happened to your old college roommate—Collyer?”

  Lubell is smiling innocently, as if his question is no more than friendly chitchat. But it’s clear to Straub that Lubell has something on his mind. Howie Collyer is Lubell’s subject of interest. All the talk about the weather and his wife has only been a warm up. Straub can feel his heart start to drum, he’s suddenly glad he lost the argument with his doc about the blood pressure pills.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. Guess he came to mind when I was watching a UVa game on TV. I know he retired from the Pentagon, just curious where he ended up.”

  Straub plays along with him, hoping he can lead him into showing his hand. “Howie’s back down in Charlottesville. He and his wife bought a farm outside of town, used it as a weekend place until he retired. Howie plays a lot of golf, putters in the garden, bush hogs his fields, gentleman farmer-type.”

  “Still searching for lost nukes?”

  His question is a fingernail on a blackboard, Straub struggles to keep his voice calm but his words give him away. “What’s your point in asking that?”

  Aside from his suspicions about Lubell’s questions, Winn Straub has never liked Lubell’s style. Clumsy, with the grace of an elephant, Lubell is mean-spirited on top of it. Though he’s only had one professional encounter with Lubell, it left Winn with a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Don’t go getting your back up. There are two things that stand out about Howie Collyer—his kick and lost nukes. As far as I’m concerned, both are fair game.”

  “I think he’s put the bombs issue to bed. But I don’t know for sure. You’d have to ask him yourself. Give him a ring, he’s in the phone book.”

  “I just might,” Lubell says, his voice now sarcastic, almost taunting. Straub wonders if they have intercepted his email to Howie. He’s glad he sent Howie the address of another server.

  “We had dinner early last spring but I haven’t seen him in months.”

  They walk six more steps before Sparky pauses to anoint a hydrant.

  “That’s it. You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m going in, Steve, too damn cold out here,” he says as Sparky drops his leg. His mission finally over, Straub wheels around, jerking Sparky’s leash toward home.

  “You bet,” Lubell says. “Good to see you. And say hello to The Boot for me when you see him next.” Lubell pauses and over his shoulder delivers a Parthian shot, “Tell him I’m glad he’s staying out of trouble.”

  Straub knows he doesn’t have to answer. He has all he needs to know. Reaching the stairway to his house, he leans down to scoop the dog off the sidewalk.

  To Winn Straub, Lubell’s message is crystal clear. Vector Eleven has their eye on Howie. Lubell was tapped to convey it to me. He was obviously watching my house and when I came out with Sparky, he started his little stroll.

  Straub enters the warm front hall, kicking the door shut and setting Sparky down. The dog immediately scampers into a corner, lifts his leg, and before Winn can grab him, pees a steady stream down the hand-printed French wallpaper. A puddle the size of a small saucer collects on the parquet.

  Normally he’d be cursing at Sparky but he has other things on his mind. Straub hustles off to the kitchen for a wad of paper towels. Returning, he squats and sponges Sparky’s liquid gift off the floor as his mind sorts through the options. If they sent a blundering fool like Lubell out in the middle of the night to send an inept and awkward signal, they are obviously shooting in the dark. Warning me not to help him, hoping they can shut Howie down before he does any more damage.

  Straub clicks off the first-floor lights and creeps over to one of the front windows. Sneaking back the drape, he peers up and down the street. Sure enough, there is a tan raincoat standing at each end. One of them is smoking a cigarette, looking like he’s playing a part in a John le Carré novel. They don’t have any more idea of where Howie Collyer is than I do. And they’re hoping I can lead them to him.

  Straub has sat in his office in the D ring for four years watching the Pentagon capitalize on the CIA’s misfortunes. Humiliated by a series of major intelligence failures, the CIA’s stock has hit new lows and morale is in the dumps.

  And the Pentagon, the CIA’s main rival in the intelligence game, is not only gloating over the civilian agency’s bumbling but rapidly extending its influence, using the war on terror to strengthen its hand internationally and domestically.

  Finished mopping up after Sparky, he stands and looks around at the lavishly furnished interior of their brownstone, French antiques, chintz and brocade, yards of gold roping, oriental carpets costing as much as a Mercedes. Years ago, his wife’s family made a killing in Alaskan oil rights. No CIA official could afford a house on S Street. Barbara’s money made it possible for Straub to have a career as a spook while living a lavish lifestyle. Ten years ago he was one of the best. Now he’s regarded as another superannuated Cold Warrior waiting to be put out to pasture, parked in an office in the Pentagon to watch as the military extends its reach and builds dominance in the intelligence community.

  But if Howie can flush them out—

  Straub stops and smiles as he marvels at his own capacity for duplicity. A career in espionage has taught him to turn every event or situation over and carefully examine the flipside for the unexpected advantage. Good or bad, things are never what they seem. The worst situation can have a silver lining while the best can go belly up and turn sour in a second.

  The last thing he wants is any harm to come to Howie. He will go to any end to protect him. But if Howie’s going to doggedly continue his quest in disregard of the danger, is there any reason why he shouldn’t try to turn it to his own account? As they say at the CIA, you can take the spy out of spying, but you can’t take spying out of the spy.

  “Winn, is that you?” his wife calls from their upstairs bedroom.

  “Yes, dear, it’s me,” Winn responds—just scheming, double-dealing, deceitful and devious me.

  14

  Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Sunday morning


  With a faded downtown full of boarded-up buildings, Lancaster, Pennsylvania is a once prosperous city in the middle of Amish country. Its centerpiece is a massive eight-story brick factory that cranks out flooring for the thousands of subdivisions sprouting up and down the Eastern Seaboard.

  A half mile out of town sits the campus of Franklin & Marshall, a highly regarded liberal arts college bordered by Lancaster’s fashionable residential district where many F&M faculty members reside.

  As they drove through the college in the middle of the night, Sharon pointed out blocks of stately brick homes illuminated by turn-of-the-century streetlights, bordered with generous plantings and surrounded by neatly manicured lawns.

  “I bet every other house in this neighborhood has a Wi-Fi setup. They’re all academics and spend all kinds of time on the Internet.”

  Though Sharon attended Franklin & Marshall, she didn’t graduate so Howie thought Lancaster would be a safe spot, at least for a while. And the no-tell motel four blocks off campus that Sharon recommended would be the last place anyone would think of looking.

  The lights were blazing at the Nite Owl Motel when they pulled in at three in the morning. Howie struck a deal with the owner, a birdlike septuagenarian lady with a screechy voice and a lit Pall Mall dangling from her lip who padded around in terrycloth slippers and a housecoat, for three adjoining rooms on the ground floor for a hundred bucks. No secret the Nite Owl is a hot sheets motel, threadbare carpets, weeds growing in the courtyard, mangled window blinds and sheets worn so thin you can see your hand through them, but the rooms are clean and the baseboards crank out enough heat to keep the cold at bay. And with a C-store down the block, a short order place around the corner and an easy walk to campus, they can stay out of the car. Though they lifted new plates, he wants to drive it as little as possible. So at least for a day or two, the Nite Owl fills the bill.

  Thorsen laid out her plan for Major Risstup on their way over. First she was going to make her patient comfortable.