Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  The second he sees the Honda, Perini’s on his secure phone to the Pentagon.

  Before Watt can react, Williams reaches for the ringing stew. “I’ll get it, sir.”

  Watt’s hand is on the receiver before Williams can grab it. “If it’s good news, Williams, I want to be the first to know.”

  “Captain Perini, sir. We’re at the car,” Perini says over the secure line as they pull up alongside the Accord. “We’re going to canvass the area. This is a tiny burg, sir, it shouldn’t take us long, only eight or ten motels.”

  “This is General Watt, Captain Perini. Good start,” Watt says into the stew. “You understand you are to use any means necessary. There will be no questions asked.”

  “Made clear in the briefing. Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Detain them and bring them back to Belvoir for questioning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing—“

  “Sir?”

  “The car, the Honda, I don’t want to hear about Collyer escaping in it,” Watt tells the team leader.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Perini signs off and snaps his secure phone shut.

  They made it down from Camden to Front Royal in record time, staying just over the speed limit to make sure some overzealous cop looking to make his monthly quota didn’t pull them over. No one in the cab talked as they took the Beltway around Baltimore, then skirted DC and headed west toward the small town in the Virginia countryside.

  Wearing stained and torn work clothes and needing shaves, the five look like the migrant workers who flock into the area every fall to pick vegetables. No one in Front Royal would suspect that their yellow Checker, scratched, dented and in need of a paint job, carries enough munitions and weapons to equip a platoon and that under their coveralls and parkas the men are armed to the teeth. The coded communication they had received gave them the information they needed.

  Although his car was parked on the other side of town, they were to go directly to the coffee shop. The busboy had seen Collyer heading in the direction of a small motel two blocks away.

  Parking down the street, three of the men establish a perimeter around their cab, widening out to secure the immediate area. Odeh and Ahmed head toward the motel, hands in pockets, ambling down the street casually.

  Tacked to the jamb of the motel office door is a small handwritten sign with the name of the motel owner. Odeh knocks on the door. No answer. He bangs harder. The door creaks open and one suspicious eye appears in the slit.

  “What do you want?” Dede Ferry asks, peering warily out at the two foreigners—one with nappy hair you couldn’t comb with a rake, the other the color of a pecan.

  “We’re looking for a room.”

  “Ain’t got none,” he snaps.

  “We’ll pay in cash, upfront for a week,” Odeh says, flashing a handful of Benjamins at the beady-eyed face staring through the crack. Dede Ferry’s pupils bulge at the sight. He opens the door a bit to look the two over.

  “One of you come in, the other stays outside,” he says, swinging the door partially open. Before he can react, Odeh is all over him, whirling Ferry around and hammerlocking his left arm up behind his back. Running him across the room, he slams him against the front desk, pinning his head down and jamming a Glock into his temple. Ahmed’s right behind him, closing the door and moving quickly to check the rest of the office.

  Odeh flips Ferry on his back and clamps two hands on his neck, his sharpened thumbnails hovering over his Adam’s apple, ready to give him an instant tracheotomy. “Where are they? The three, what room are they in?”

  “Seven, eight and nine, five rooms down,” Ferry rasps.

  “Are they in there now?” Odeh starts to apply pressure, his thumbs compacting Ferry’s windpipe.

  “Chances are, don’t go out much,” now Ferry is gurgling.

  “Are they in there?” Odeh repeats, his fingers compressing the cartilage so much crackling noises are heard.

  “Yes—”

  Odeh eases up. “Do you have a fire alarm?”

  Ferry shakes his head, “Just smoke detectors.”

  Odeh mutters in Arabic to his partner. Ferry’s eyes bug out when he sees the other man heading toward him, sliding the gleaming blade of a knife and a roll of duct tape out of his parka.

  While his team quickly fans out down the main drag, the Alpha Orange demo man carefully wires Collyer’s Honda, setting the pressure-sensitive fuse so that only a dramatic change in weight would trip it, insuring that a bird perching on the antenna or a car kissing its bumper would not set it off.

  The SUV keeps up with the team as they check every motel along the strip, constantly updating Perini by radio.

  “No sign of them at the Shenandoah, sir.” Perini crosses off the motel on his map.

  “Good, go to the next one. Hurry it up.”

  He glances at his watch. Seven minutes. Four more motels. Perini wonders if he shouldn’t have started on the other side of town. But it made sense to begin the search where Collyer had left his car. Would he think to leave his car in a separate location? Perini isn’t going to take a chance. He keys his radio to talk to the SUV driver, “Take two men and head over to the other side of town. Start searching from that direction just in case.”

  Dede Ferry looks like a mummy with the duct tape wound around him. Lying helpless on the floor behind the front desk with his hands and feet wrapped tightly, a slit left for his eyes and a narrower one for his nostrils, Ferry’s barely able to inhale but lucky to be alive.

  As Odeh and Ahmed make their way through the tall grass behind the motel, Odeh counts the windows until he finds room number 8. One peek is all it takes. Collyer is sitting at a computer, back to the window, the woman standing alongside, the old man on Collyer’s left. He knows he needs to move fast. His people with the cab had spread out to check for cops. What his partner Ally had discovered was worse.

  The motel is cheaply built, wood frame up on concrete piers, open crawlspace underneath. Ahmad went to bring the jerry cans from the cab and Rahman is stealing a backup vehicle. He checks his watch. Ally had seen men going from motel to motel. The blue windbreakers and the wraparound sunglasses were a dead giveaway. Right off the bat, they knew they weren’t selling Girl Scout cookies. Odeh and his people aren’t the only ones looking for Collyer.

  Ahmed hustles up with the two cans and they quickly douse the ground under the joists, making sure gas splashes on the wood. With the dregs, Odeh dribbles a line though the dry grass down the hill. He checks with Ally, Rahman and Abdullah. Everything is set but there is no time to waste. The black Suburban is now five blocks away. Crouching, Odeh strikes a match and holds it against the glistening grass. The gasoline ignites with a dull pop and the flame snakes up the hill toward the motel.

  Dede Ferry is the first to smell smoke winding up through the floorboards, wafting up in thin wisps. Soon he feels the heat, his left side is broiling. Trussed up in duct tape, flames crackling beneath him, barbeque is the first word that pops into the motel owner’s mind.

  Sharon’s head quickly snaps to the side as she cocks an ear. “Did you hear that?” she asks.

  “What?’ Howie answers, eyes glued to the computer screen. Risstup’s sitting at his side, staring at the simulated B-52 cockpit on Howie’s laptop.

  “It was a whomp, a dull thud.”

  “You’re hearing things.”

  “Now I smell smoke. Can’t you smell it?”

  “Now you’re smelling things.”

  “Holy shit, look!” Sharon screeches as she points to the wall of flames licking up outside the window.

  “You get the major out, I’ll grab whatever I can,” Howie shouts.

  “C’mon, Major,” Sharon says, steering his wheelchair toward the door. Howie quickly changes his mind when he sees the raging fire outside. On second thought, I’m not grabbing anything. Picking up his laptop, he hurries out the door after her. It’s not until they get to the street before they
turn around. The motel’s ablaze, flames leaping twenty and thirty feet into the air, windows popping and shattering in the searing heat, the fire tearing through the structure.

  “That was meant for us?” Sharon asks.

  Before Howie can answer, five sharp cracks ring out, followed by three more.

  Sharon instinctively ducks, “What the hell was that?”

  Howie knows exactly what it was—multiple discharges of a large bore weapon, maybe more than one, but he doesn’t want to freak Sharon out. “Whatever it was, we’re getting out of here.”

  “Which way’s your car?”

  “Forget about it.” Howie knows if someone’s shooting up Front Royal, there’s no time to retrieve the Honda. Just as he’s trying to figure out what to do, he sees a taxi turn the corner.

  “Are we in luck?” Howie says, raising his arm to flag it down. Sharon sees the yellow cab coming down the street, veering over to the curb in their direction. “C’mon, hop in,” he says, opening the door and quickly breaking down the wheelchair.

  “Head out of town,” Howie says as the doors slam and the driver puts the cab in gear. Howie scans the streets around the motel as they head out of town. Everywhere sirens are wailing. His mind is reeling. He needs to talk with Straub.

  The cabbie asks, “Any direction you want, sir? North, east, south or west, take your pick.” The driver’s looking in his rearview mirror, scanning the mismatched threesome in his backseat. Howie can tell he’s trying to decode the relationship.

  He knows they need a bigger city, more anonymity. Not DC—that would be walking into the thick of it. Baltimore will provide them some cover. He knows the town like the back of his hand.

  “Baltimore, head toward Baltimore,” he tells the driver.

  “Is a hundred miles to Baltimore. Rush hour there. Much traffic. Very much fare, sir.”

  “I said Baltimore, please,” Howie says. “And make it fast.”

  “Very well, sir, your money,” the driver slaps down the flag and steps on it.

  24

  Solo, Indonesia, early Thursday morning, EST + 12

  He’s dripping sweat. To keep the moisture from playing havoc with his machine he keeps sponging off his keyboard. The mosquitoes are everywhere and the fans are whirring like they’re going to take off. He’s been scanning the posts for hours, knowing he’s losing his edge but also aware that El-Khadr could come storming out of his office at any minute.

  Three Red Bulls and four cups of strong tea later, he’s still seen nothing from the team in Northern Virginia.

  After five minutes, an email jumps into his inbox. Naguib’s face brightens as he catches a glimpse of the message. Blinking the perspiration out of his eyes, he reads the email aloud, Cindy has joined us to help dig up the dahlias.

  He jumps up, shouting the good news toward El-Khadr’s office. “They have him!” Naguib is astounded at what their network has accomplished—directed from the other side of the globe, a sleeper cell has snatched Collyer out from under the Americans’ eyes.

  El-Khadr comes out of his office yawning and blinking, smoothing out his wrinkled dishdasha, his crop snugged under his arm.

  “They found him,” he turns and announces to his boss. “They found Collyer. He is in a cab heading east.”

  “They are following him?”

  “Even better.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We are driving.”

  For the first time in two days, as the two stand in front of the screen hurriedly scanning the emails, El-Khadr relaxes enough to muster a faint smile. Allah has favored them. The bet El-Khadr had placed on his special list had paid off. Within ten hours, Collyer was spotted in the tiny northern Virginia town. The cell was dispatched to protect Collyer at any cost. And they have done more than he could have imagined—not only have they safeguarded him, they have him in custody.

  El-Khadr dispenses a rare compliment, “You have done well, Naguib,” then orders, “activate the next phase—alert Mehran.”

  She’d never seen him so rattled. Storming out of his study, he demanded she drive him down to Philly. Melanie did her best to stall so she could finish an assignment but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, insisting they had to leave immediately.

  An hour plus from New Brunswick to Philadelphia. Denny said little, seemed preoccupied.

  In a seedy area, he surprises her by suddenly motioning to the intersection ahead, “Stop here,” he orders. As she pulls over, he opens the door and hops out.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? It’s pretty scary around here,” she says, peering out at the gritty industrial area on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

  He stands holding the door, “You should have seen where I grew up. I’ll call when I’m finished. If you’re not busy maybe you can drive down and pick me up.”

  “Give me some idea when you think it will be.”

  “I’ll have to call you,” Denny’s backpedaling away from the car, eager to get on his way.

  “Be careful,” Melanie says, pulling the door shut. He can act so strange at times, she thinks. Does things that don’t make any sense. And what in the world is he doing in an area like this? Rundown, winos slumping in doorways, dive bars and porn shops, razed buildings, it’s a part of Philly she’d prefer not to see again. She puts the car in gear and accelerates, watching Mehran shrink in her rearview.

  He waves back at her, hustles down the street two blocks and stops, waiting until her Range Rover disappears around the corner. He carefully checks one direction and then another. Though his destination is only five blocks away, his predetermined course takes him a half hour to complete. Go down two blocks. Stop. Take a right, go to the fourth intersection, cut through an alley. He’s rehearsed the route more times than he can remember. Nothing is left to chance, every possible precaution taken to keep the destination secret.

  He thinks back two hours. The post appeared to be routine: Be reminded that care and experience gained in digging up dahlias for the winter will pay dividends in the spring. Consult experienced gardeners to make sure you are prepared and have the proper tools and supplies to store your dahlias over the winter so they will blossom next season—an ordinary message to his cell to stay alert and maintain the training regimen.

  But when he read the last sentence his heart started pounding: By the way, Cindy in Virginia is back caring for her dahlias.

  Collyer has been found! For all its clumsy amateurishness, the notice must have worked. Mehran’s instructions are precise. The next phase has been activated. One step closer to fulfilling his destiny, he has a chance to go down in history as a martyr for his heroic feat.

  He completes the steps taking him to his destination. Though he’s never been to the building, he’s viewed it a hundred times in satellite images and digital photos—brick four-story, faceless and unremarkable, another of the hundreds of commercial buildings in this area of Philly.

  Seeing his destination at the end of the block, he pulls his collar up and hustles down the street. Fortunately the traffic is light, no one to notice him.

  Passing under the security camera mounted above the entrance, Mehran mounts the steps leading to the door and presses the bell. No answer. He pushes the button again. Wait, what’s that? He hears a car pulling up behind him, rolling slowly to the curb and stopping, its engine idling. He freezes, doesn’t dare to turn and look.

  Slowly reaching out, he presses the button a third time. He can feel the presence of the car, its motor rumbling in the still air. Holds the button down for four, then five seconds. No answer.

  The car door opens, the sound of footsteps, clack, clack, clack, on the frozen sidewalk, coming closer. Despite the cold, bands of sweat bead up on his forehead. This is not in the plan. No one told me anything about a car.

  “Excuse me, sir?” he hears from over his shoulder. He feels lightheaded all of a sudden, his heart tomtoming in his chest. Slowly turning, he sees a man in a suit and topcoat standing at the
bottom of the steps. Hands in his coat pockets. He does not look Arabic. Is he a detective? FBI? Does he have a gun? Should I take off running? What has gone wrong?

  “What are you doing here?” the man asks. His tone is factual but there is an undercurrent of menace, as if a wrong answer could be fatal.

  Mehran knows only one response. Looking the man in the eye, he says clearly and assertively, “I am looking for dahlias to plant in the spring.”

  Without responding, the man glances up at the security camera over Mehran’s head and nods. Behind his back, Mehran hears the lock on the door click open.

  Scooting through the open door, Mehran doesn’t look back. He slams it shut, leaning back against the wall and breathing for the first time. It is pitch black inside.

  He hears footsteps, then a voice echoing out of the darkness, “I hope we did not cause you too much alarm.”

  Lights blink on. A two-story loft space filled with worktables, lathes, drill presses and grinders—it looks like a machine shop but so pristine and shipshape it might as well be an operating room. An older man in gray coveralls approaches, his arms open wide and a broad smile on his face.

  “I am Jamal. Please, come and sit with me and enjoy some coffee.” Jamal embraces him, his face pressing against Mehran’s cheeks one at a time, then leads him to a seating area off to the side of the shop.

  “I am glad to see you.”

  “I have been anticipating this moment.”

  “Come, let us not waste any time.”

  Jamal is in his late sixties or early seventies, Mehran guesses. Salt and pepper hair, meaty face and dark complexion, slightly overweight, most likely Saudi, though he could be Yemeni. He pours Mehran a cup of coffee and sits down beside him. His English is accomplished, yet laced with the stilted accent and curious diction of someone who has learned the language overseas.

  “As you can see,” he gestures back at his machine shop, “we have much important work going on here. We had to be certain of your identity.”

  “I am honored to be with you,” Mehran says, gazing around the expansive workshop filled with rows of benches and machinery.