Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  From their Indonesian base in Solo, Hamil was assigned to coordinate the cells and monitor Collyer, checking his website and watching his every move.

  Honored for his brilliant discovery, Mehran Zarif was selected to be the point man on one of the cells assigned to the operation. Trained on the Gulf and at their base outside Solo, Zarif is now under cover, waiting for the call.

  The Americans left the movement the ultimate destructive gift. A nuclear weapon lay waiting for them somewhere in the United States. The teams were in place. It was El-Khadr’s sole responsibility. Now having lost track of Collyer, it is no surprise he is out of his tree.

  Hamil toggles back and forth between Jeffri’s Garden and DownhomeCrafts.com. Nothing. No one is responding. Collyer seems to have disappeared

  But Hamil knows the trail has gone cold for the Americans as well. It wasn’t until Sunday that the Americans had a team tapping Collyer’s phone and intercepting his email. They inadvertently stumbled on his bug as well, but Hamil hastily disabled it before the Americans could trace it. They now know Collyer was the driver of the car used to kidnap the pilot. But there is no reason to think that they know where he is hiding any more than Hamil does.

  The Americans constantly underestimate Collyer. To them he’s a former football star turned whistleblower—a nuisance, a bothersome bug that needs to be swatted down and tossed in the trash.

  Hamil knows differently. He’s gone to school on Howard Collyer for the past two years. Knows him so well he feels like he could step into his skin and live his life for him. He has respect for his intellect, his determination and his conviction that lost nuclear weapons pose a threat to his country’s security. Having hacked into Collyer’s computer files, Hamil has read and catalogued every piece of information Collyer has assembled about the eleven lost bombs in the United States. To the Americans, the bombs are ancient history, artifacts of another era, rusting away out of sight and out of mind. To El-Khadr and his mission, the lost bombs are gifts from Allah, ready to be turned against the Great Satan.

  Hamil smiles. While the Pentagon ridiculed Collyer and ran him out, to them he is a saint and savior. If Howard Collyer manages to lead them to a nuke, his name will go down in history along with the other martyrs to the cause.

  Hamil types into his computer, “Does anyone know Cindy from Virginia’s address or phone number? I want to ask her a question about a dahlia I want to dig up.”

  “I’ve heard Cindy is on vacation,” is the first response he receives.

  Hamil mutters a curse in Arabic and shakes his head. He tosses his paper cup in the trash. Patience is one virtue anyone who works in electronic media learns right off the bat. They have put an extensive network of cells and operatives in place, all linked with cutting-edge communication. Someone will find Howard Collyer. It is only a matter of time.

  He’s still staring at the screen when the door to the private office opens and El-Khadr steps out followed by his mysterious visitor. Distracted by the unfamiliar smile on El-Khadr’s face, Hamil doesn’t notice the visitor is wearing a tan jacket, a loose-fitting garment hiding the telltale bulge under his left arm. Nor does he pick up on the beads of sweat gathering on the visitor’s forehead or the jittery look on his face.

  El-Khadr steers the stranger over to Hamil’s computer station and says, “Hamil, I’d like you to meet your replacement. This is Naguib.”

  Hamil does not understand. How could this be happening? He stutters as he stands and shakes Naguib’s hand. “My replacement? You said nothing about this. Where are you assigning me?”

  El-Khadr beams another uncharacteristic smile as he answers, “We have a glorious new mission for you, Hamil, my friend. Now please join Naguib for lunch and fill him in on your tasks. When you return, I will outline your opportunity.”

  El-Khadr throws an arm over the two men’s shoulders in a fatherly gesture, gathering them to him and escorting them toward the door saying, “I want you to enjoy your lunch together. Get to know each other. And do try the duck curry, my friends.”

  Hamil is not as alarmed as he should be by the sudden change in El-Khadr’s tone of voice. More of a technician than a politician, he’s not inclined to see behind appearances, taking things at face value and always confident he can find a fix for every glitch. Now all he feels is a sense of relief that someone else will be shouldering the responsibility of finding Collyer.

  As they head out the door into the thick, humid air toward the restaurant, Hamil’s horizon is limited to looking forward to a good lunch with a new friend and the glorious new opportunity awaiting him.

  Little does he know it will be his last meal and his new opportunity will be in another world.

  17

  Georgetown, late Sunday afternoon

  You’re not on that damn computer again, Winn—for god’s sake— it’s Sunday and you promised you wouldn’t work on Sundays,” Straub’s wife whines.

  “I’m not working.”

  “C’mon, that’s a bunch of BS.”

  When Winn looks up, Barbara Straub can tell she’s lost him. She’s seen the expression hundreds of times and heard all the explanations that accompany it: agency business, can’t talk about it, national security, classified.

  Barbara’s stock response when someone asks her what it’s like to be married to a top CIA employee is, “It’s like your husband is having an affair. You have to listen to all the lame explanations of why he comes home late, leaves the house at the crack of dawn, why he has to duck out of parties early and misses Christmas dinner, but instead of shacking up with some floozy, my husband’s having an affair with a bunch of spooks in Langley.”

  “I’m going into the library and watch the last half of the Redskins,” she huffs, counting on the fact that her husband’s devotion to the Skins will speed up whatever he’s got his nose buried in.

  “I’ll be right with you, just give me a minute,” Winn answers. Barbara harrumphs for she’s been married to him long enough to know his minute is her hour.

  Winn Straub reads the email for the third time.

  Winn, Spare me the sermons, please, buddy. There’s a former B-52 pilot in a VA hospital who might know something about a lost bomb. The Pentagon has kept him drugged up and locked away in a ward. If we hadn’t gotten him out of there, he would be dead by now. You would have done the same thing. Now we’re under cover. It’s best I not tell you where we are. We’ll be okay for a day or two and then we’ll have to move. Two things. I’m worried about Sylvie. Can you check on her for me and make sure she’s okay? Don’t tell her what I’m up to, I’m sure she’s worried enough as it is. Just reassure her I’m all right. Second, I need a bunch of stuff from you . . .

  He listens to the play-by-play of the game coming from the library. Barbara has turned up the volume. The first thing he did was to arrange for the software Howie needed to be forwarded to him. That was easy. The second will be harder. He’s sure the Collyer house is being watched. If they are surveilling my house, chances are they’ll be all over Howie’s as well.

  “Barbara, can you turn that damn thing down?”

  “What, dear?” he hears her shout back. The Redskins score. His wife whoops. He looks down at the email message from his college roommate. For years it seemed Howie was concocting his theories about lost bombs and conspiracies out of thin air. With little hard evidence and a concerted campaign on the Pentagon’s part to smear him, everyone had written off his lost bombs. But now he’s got his hands on a B-52 pilot who may have some hard information. No wonder they’re doing backflips over at the Pentagon.

  Straub makes sure there’s sunlight on the window so no one can see in before he peels back the drape and peeks outside. No raincoats but I bet they’re still out there.

  Conflicted. Straub hates the word as much as he disdains the feeling but he can’t help but acknowledge it. He winces at the thought. A conflicted spy is worse than a major league batter who flinches at a knuckleball coming across the plate. Or as a fr
iend who played nose-guard for the Redskins once told him, “Once you start to think about getting hit, it’s time to quit.” Normally he’s decisive, recognizing all the shadings involved in a decision but knowing that in this business you have to move fast and take risks or the opportunity is lost. The course of action is clear but with a friend involved all of a sudden it’s complicated and ticklish. Will it cause him to hesitate, waffle, stumble—or worse?

  Yet if Howie is determined to drag Vector Eleven out from beneath the veil of secrecy they’ve been operating under for years, expose some of the skeletons they’ve locked away, he realizes there’s little he can do about it. It isn’t as if he can talk Howie out of it. So his old friend inadvertently ends up as a stalking horse. Straub had been there before. He’d set up double agents with elaborate stories that led the Russians or East Germans to show their hands and reveal their agendas. Then he hurriedly pulled the agents when things got too hot. His timing had been off only once. Winn had chalked it up to the cost of doing business. But with a friend involved, it’s a new game—with unpublished rules and an unfamiliar scoring system.

  Straub touches the reply window and types:

  Howie, everything you asked for is on its way. I’m going to try to give you as much cover as I can. How much time do you need? Obviously, the longer you’re exposed, the more problematic the situation becomes. And rest assured I will take care of Sylvie. You shouldn’t worry about that. Talk to me soon, Best, Winn

  The clock over the stove reads 3:32. The Skins score again. Straub makes a decision. Calling Sparky’s name as he walks through the living room, he heads for the coat closet. He hasn’t felt the effects of adrenaline in over ten years. The rush is nice, a pleasant change from feeling rusty. The raincoats won’t follow him if he’s walking Sparky, assuming he will return with the dog. His bet is that he can duck into the garage, leave the dog there and escape in his car. He’ll be over the Key Bridge before they figure out he’s ditched them.

  Sticking his head into the library, his topcoat over one arm and Sparky in the other, Winn announces to Barbara, “I’m going out for a while.”

  “You’re missing one hell of a game.”

  “You can give me an update when I get back. I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

  He doesn’t let his wife know he’ll be lucky if he returns before dawn.

  The water is running so Grace Collyer doesn’t hear the tires crunching in the courtyard. She is standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes when she hears a knock at the front door. She turns off the water and listens. Another series of insistent thumps. Someone’s there.

  “Who’s at the door, dear?” she hears her mother call from the living room followed by the patter of bare feet on the floor as she scurries to answer it.

  “I’ll get it, Mother,” Grace says, beating her mother to the door.

  The two women crowd the doorway jockeying to see who’s on the other side, Grace trying to take charge, Sylvie eager for any information about her husband.

  “It’s the Raymonds!” Sylvie announces, breathing a sigh of relief that it isn’t someone with bad news. Tom and Beth Raymond are neighbors, living on the adjoining farm, not close friends but across-the-fence acquaintances, ready to loan a piece of equipment, share mulch or pitch in to dispose of a downed tree. Roly-poly and friendly to a fault, Beth holds out a glass platter with waxed paper over something inside.

  “We made a cake for you,” Beth Raymond says, cocking her head sympathetically to one side, as if someone in the Collyer household had died.

  Tom Raymond adds, “We heard you’re concerned about Howie so we just thought we’d offer a little moral support.”

  “I hope you don’t think we’re meddling . . .” Beth adds.

  “Oh, no. Not by any means,” Sylvie says, reaching to take the platter. “You’re so kind to think of us.”

  Grace notices Tom Raymond’s eyes keep dropping to a small envelope tucked alongside the cake. She’s puzzled about how the Raymonds would know Howie is missing. But then news travels fast in the country, everyone loves to gossip.

  “Beth wrote a card,” Tom explains.

  “Don’t read it ’til we’re gone,” Beth apologizes, “I can get pretty sappy.”

  “This is very sweet of you.”

  “It’s chocolate fudge. Double fudge, my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “I hope you enjoy it,” Tom says, dipping the brim of his hunting cap as he turns to leave.

  “Thank you, you’re so sweet to do this for us,” Grace says, backing away from the door. She can’t wait to get her hands on the card. There were signals from Tom Raymond, the self-conscious way he glanced down at the card, then back up at Grace. As if he was letting her know there is something unexpected inside.

  “Can’t you come in?” Sylvie asks.

  “We’d love to but my daughter’s making dinner, we’ve got to run.”

  After a second, then third round of thank yous, Grace snatches the card off the platter and reads it as Sylvie gives the Raymonds a last gracious wave and closes the door.

  Right off the bat Sylvie and Grace know who’s behind the card. The directions are detailed and explicit, Winn Straub could not have been clearer. Or more disconcerting. There’s a chance the house is being watched, maybe bugged, so don’t say anything, the card reads. Act like you’re going out for coffee. Head for Starbucks at the mall. Go through the store and out the back as quickly as you can. See you soon.

  They obeyed his instructions to the letter. Clamping down on conversation in the house, they piled into the Volvo and headed for Starbucks. Before the counter people noticed, they hustled through the storeroom and out the back door.

  “You girls did great. You both deserve Oscars,” Winn Straub says as he pulls away, leaving Sylvie’s Volvo and the Starbucks behind. “Sorry for all the spook stuff but I couldn’t take the chance that someone was watching.”

  He’d met the Raymonds from the next farm a couple times at Howie’s and knew they were the kind of people who would bake a cake and deliver it to a neighbor in need. A call on his cell as he drove down from DC was all it took. He gave the couple the note and a quick coaching, drove to the back door of Starbucks, parked and waited.

  Twenty minutes later, Sylvie and Grace snuck out, eyes wide as saucers and both relieved to see Straub sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Sylvie barely has the door shut before she’s asking, “I need to know everything you know about Howie, you’ve got to tell me.”

  Straub heads toward I-64, taking a circuitous route to make sure no one is following. He knows he’s going to have to be at the top of his game to deal with these two ladies, antsy and anxious, they are a handful.

  “He’s fine, ” he tells her. “But he’s worried about you and that’s why I’m here.” Having driven all the local roads in his student days, Straub knows them like the back of his hand, also knows that headlights stick out like sore thumbs. He checks the rearview—nothing. They are probably just figuring out the two women ducked them.

  “You positive he’s okay?”

  “I talk with him every day.”

  “Can you tell me where is he?”

  “Somewhere in Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s a big help.”

  “Keeping his head down.”

  “It’s those people from the Pentagon who are after him, isn’t it?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “C’mon, Howie talked about them all the time. Ghost programs, black programs. And the person who called him during Thanksgiving dinner? The nurse? That’s all she could talk about—them. Can’t you just tell him to stop this and come home?”

  “I’m doing everything I can to help.”

  “Sorry, that’s not enough.”

  Straub tries to change the subject. “Let me tell you where I’m taking you. The CIA has an installation outside of Williamsburg a couple hours away. It’s called Camp Peary.”

  “I know all about The Fa
rm,” Grace says, a smirk in her voice. “It’s your top-secret spook training ground with its own airport. You fly rebel leaders and heads of state in there in the middle of the night for meetings that never officially take place. You going to lock us up there?”

  “Howie asked me to take care of you.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I think you’ll find it more than comfortable.”

  Sylvie interjects, “What about Donald and Bridey?”

  Straub realizes Howie’s son and his family slipped his mind. “I’m less worried about them. But I’m assigning security to them just in case.” He makes a mental note to do that.

  Straub checks in the mirror. Grace is leaning forward in the seat, ready to pounce.

  “You’re stage managing this whole thing, aren’t you, Mr. Straub?” she says. He’s heard Grace Collyer is a tiger. In Howie’s own words, his daughter is tough as nails and afraid of nothing.

  “I don’t know why you’d think that, Grace.”

  Sylvie silently cheers her daughter on.

  “C’mon, it’s written all over your face. You’re isolating us at Peary so you can have free rein.”

  “I’m only doing what Howie asked.” Winn settles his voice and calmly says, “You’ll be safe there, it’s more secure than Camp David.” A few seconds pass, he lets his eyes wander back to the mirror again. Grace slumps down in her seat. For the moment, Straub senses she’s backing down.

  Grace’s next question has none of the edge of her earlier one. “And what about Howie? What are you going to do about him?”

  Straub knows he’s back in control. “Leave it to me. I’ll bring him in as soon as I can.”

  Sylvie is sniveling, close to tears. “The pilot at the VA hospital knows where a bomb is and Howie’s gone after it. That’s what’s going on, isn’t it?”