Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  “Fine, Abner, just fine.”

  As he rounds his massive desk, Straub can see Dickson’s eyes dropping to a cheat sheet in front of him. “And your lovely wife, Barbara?” He’s met Barbara Straub only once and wouldn’t recognize her if the two were alone in the same elevator.

  “Barbara’s doing very well, thank you.”

  Dickson wastes no time. “So give me the lowdown on what your buddy Collyer’s up to.”

  “I haven’t talked to Howie in months.” He’s going to make Dickson work for this.

  “Look, Winn, I know everyone around here thinks I’m one brick shy of a load when it comes to the intelligence game, but I sure know when someone is giving me the runaround. We had people over in Front Royal, it was definitely Collyer’s car. He’s playing some role in this—whatever it is.”

  Dickson tosses a color glossy across the desk of the two women standing in front of a cabin. Straub instantly recognizes the setting. He’s stayed in it many times.

  “Plus, you’ve brought Collyer’s wife and daughter in. Hear they are at Peary. You know the CIA’s not permitted to do that.”

  “C’mon, Abner. Everyone’s running domestic ops these days. You’re doing it up in Front Royal.”

  Dickson’s not about to argue, tries a different approach. “Level with me, what’s going on with Collyer? I know he’s been missing since sometime last Friday. Then the motel where he was staying goes up in flames and his car gets blown up. It’s all over Washington.”

  “What are people saying?”

  “Collyer ran afoul of someone high up at the Pentagon and that they are out to get him.”

  “That’s old news, Howie ticked off the top brass years ago. I’ll tell you what is new though.”

  “Be my guest,” Dickson settles back in his chair and crosses his legs, trying not to look too curious. Straub drags out his answer, turning one way in his chair, then the other. He imagines what it must be like to be the director of the Central Intelligence Agency and not have a clue about what’s going on.

  He gazes out the window at the gardens below before abruptly turning toward Dickson and announcing, “Howie Collyer might have the goods on a black program at the Pentagon.”

  “You’re kidding me?” Dickson’s eyes gleam. In the seesaw world of Washington politics, Straub knows the second the chum’s in the water the sharks start to circle.

  “It’s going to take some time to see how it unfolds. But if Collyer plays it right, he could end up giving the Pentagon a black eye.”

  “So you brought his family in to give him breathing room.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good move.”

  “No skin off the Agency’s back if we house a couple nice ladies for a week or so.”

  “Absolutely not.” Straub doesn’t mention he practically has them under armed guard.

  “So how much time before we get some hard info on this?”

  “That depends . . .” Winn shows his palms. “There are a lot of players involved and the ground is constantly shifting.” Straub instructed his secretary to call him at 7:15. Like clockwork, his cell phone chirps.

  “Excuse, me. Abner.” He listens carefully for a minute, says, “Yes, yes. Okay. Thank you,” then flips the phone shut and stands. “Abner, would you mind if I excused myself? Something is breaking and I need to get on a secure phone.”

  “Use mine if you like.”

  “Thanks, but I better get back to my own office. Sorry to rush out like this.” He reaches across the desk to shake Dickson’s hand.

  “No, please, go take care of whatever it is.”

  “I’ll keep you in the loop on this, Abner,” Straub says as he hustles out of Dickson’s office.

  “I’d appreciate that. And let me know what I can do to help.”

  “Keep it to yourself that we’re hiding the ladies down at Peary,” Straub says over his shoulder. “And give me cover if anyone starts sniffing around. I could be ruffling some feathers in the next few days.”

  “Good as done, Winn.”

  Straub stops at the door, “One more thing—”

  “Name it.”

  “I need a secure meeting place,” Straub looks at his watch. “Pretty quick, say in the next twelve hours. And it has to be local.”

  “I’ve got just the place. We set it up for an operation last week and as far as I know it’s still standing. Speak to my assistant outside. Tell him you want to go shopping.”

  Straub thanks Dickson and leaves his office. He recognized his assistant on his way in. Kid that he interviewed a couple years ago when he first came to the CIA. Sharp as hell, summa cum laude fresh out of Harvard.

  “The director said I should talk to you about going shopping,” Straub says to the tall, gangly young man in the dark suit sitting at one of the desks in Dickson’s outer office.

  “Certainly, sir. Aren’t you Winston Straub? I interviewed with you three years ago when I interned here. Good to see you again, sir,” he says, hopping up out of his chair and reaching out to shake Winn’s hand, eager smile on his face as if he’s honored to again be in the presence of a man who’s close to being one of the CIA’s living legends.

  For a moment Straub basks in the respect as the director’s assistant solicitously makes the arrangements for him to use the secure location.

  Perfect, Winn thinks. The last place Pentagon agents or terrorists would think of staking out is the women’s department of Neiman Marcus.

  28

  Baltimore, Thursday morning

  If I remember correctly, there’s only a slight variation from the human formula. Vets often use it as a pre-surgery sedative,” Sharon explained to Howie as they hustled out of the apartment building toward the veterinarian’s office her fingers had found in the Yellow Pages.

  Ten blocks away, the office of Dr. Vincent Horder, DVM, is a modest bungalow at 1315 Juanita Avenue. They waited across the street, keeping an eye on the building, watching a figure moving around inside. A half-hour later, a middle-aged man wearing a suit came out carrying a black leather doctor’s bag. He carefully locked the door, taped a sheet of paper to it, turned and hustled off down the street.

  As soon as he turned the corner, they were at the door.

  Howie reads the note: Out on house calls. Back at 11:15. Call cell phone if emergency, followed by a scribbled number. Howie checks his wristwatch, 10:35. Then rings the bell just to make sure. No answer.

  “Around back, c’mon,” he tells Sharon. There’s a chain-link fence with a gate. The backyard is right out of Disneyland. An obvious marketing stunt to attract business, the vet has created a backyard crowded with conifers manicured into shapes of animals. Two dogs, three cats, a pony, even a bear up on its hind legs.

  “Can you believe this?” Howie whispers. “It’s a mini theme park.”

  Sharon’s all business, heading for the back door with the nail file she found in a drawer in the apartment. He made a pick for her out of it and taught her how to jimmy. The evergreen animals give Howie excellent cover. He ducks down behind a bush clipped into the shape of a German shepherd as he watches Sharon work the lock. A quick study, turning back to Howie and nodding, she sticks the file back in her pocket, slowly creaks the door open and slips inside.

  Howie records the time. So far, so good. He scans the sides of the bungalow carefully. Then turns and checks the alley. The neighborhood is part residential, the rest commercial, low buildings, empty lots full of weeds, chain-link fences, squalid and forlorn. An angry dog howls in the distance. He can hear a train whistle, the hum of traffic on a nearby interstate, a low chorus of car horns.

  He glances at his watch. Sharon has been in the vet’s office for just under two minutes. He looks back toward the alley.

  C’mon, Sharon. Two and a half minutes. Howie hears a sharp sound, a twig snapping? Three minutes. He listens for movement behind him. Checks his watch again. Then he sees the door open, Sharon quietly slides out.

  Good girl. She care
fully pulls the door shut behind her and makes her way across the yard, an object in her right hand.

  She comes up to him with an index finger raised to her lips.

  Whispering, sounding tense and anxious, turning back to check over her shoulder, she says, “I got the pills but I saw a reflection in a window. Couldn’t be sure but I think someone might have been watching me.”

  “I heard a noise in the alley too.”

  “I’m getting the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Let’s take a walk. If anyone’s there, we’ll find out soon enough what they are up to.”

  “Exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  “If they were going to do us any harm, they’ve had plenty of chances before now.” Howie stands and takes her arm, hustling her down the walkway, through the gate, along the side of the bungalow toward the street. “Just act like nothing’s the matter.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Sharon counters.

  “At the next block, we’ll split up,” Howie tells Sharon.

  “Do we have to? This place gives me the creeps.”

  “You take a right and I’ll go left. Go to the next block, turn left, walk three blocks north and then hang a left again. We’ll meet back on this street. When you catch sight of me, check carefully on both sides to see if anyone is following.”

  “Can’t we just head back to the apartment?”

  “Next left, three blocks, and take another left. Get going, see you in five blocks.”

  Howie heads across the deserted street. Looking back over his shoulder, he can see Sharon hesitatingly stepping off the curb, looking around warily.

  Even though it’s a commercial area, people have hung Christmas lights in a few of the storefronts. He passes a waving Santa in the front window of a sanitary supply business with a plastic reindeer posed alongside, his red nose merrily blinking, the two figures looking strangely out of place amidst the jumble of pipes and plumbing fixtures.

  Glancing back down the block in the direction Sharon’s heading, he sees someone quickly step out of a doorway a hundred feet behind her. Still in the shadows. Howie can’t see his face. He looks both ways, then turns and briskly starts down the street in her direction. Sharon turns the corner, taking the left as Howie had instructed, disappearing down the next block.

  I can’t see her anymore, and now he’s coming to the corner, Howie thinks, in a few moments I won’t be able to see either one of them.

  Howie breaks into a sprint, racing toward the intersection. Dashing around the corner, he runs into a newspaper box that clatters to the pavement and sends Howie sprawling ass over teakettle.

  Hearing the racket, Sharon whirls around. For the first time notices the person coming toward her. Howie’s way back on the corner, picking himself up. She lets out a panicked shriek. Howie scrambles to his feet and takes off.

  Sharon whips her head around to look at the man closing on her. Dark, skinny and getting nearer. She screams again, turning to make a mad dash down the street. Not more than fifty feet ahead of him.

  Howie’s flying now, closing the gap. Can’t tell if he’s armed. Dashing through the pools of light from the streetlamps overhead, Howie can see he’s small, dark haired, but he’s fast as hell. Mugger? Terrorist? Does he want to kill her? Rob her? Rape her? Now he’s twenty feet away from her. He can hear Sharon’s terrified panting. Howie knows he won’t catch up with him before he reaches her, he’s praying she doesn’t stop.

  Knowing he’s running out of options, he pulls up short and screams, clasping his hands together and holding them up as if he had a gun, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  The man comes to an abrupt halt, glances over his shoulder at Howie, decides he doesn’t want to take any chances and quickly slinks into an alley, disappearing into the darkness.

  Howie runs up to her, “I’m going after him—”

  Sharon grabs his shirt and spins him around, “The hell you are, you’re staying right here with me.” She blurts, shaken and furious at the same time. “That scared the shit out of me.”

  “I need to find out who’s after us.”

  “You used me as bait. Christ, you’re more heartless than your buddy Straub.”

  Howie gently takes her arm and steers her across the street, “Come on, let’s get back to the apartment.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell’s going on. Who was that guy?”

  “This is a pretty sketchy neighborhood.”

  “So you tell me to wander off by myself?”

  “We have to figure out who they are.”

  “You figure it out, I’m getting the hell out. It was nuts enough when we were playing cat and mouse with a black program at the Defense Department. But if you’re thinking some terrorist group is after us, that’s it, I quit.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the pills and slaps the bottle into Howie’s hand, “Here, take your damn medicine. Go grill the major yourself.”

  Sharon turns and stalks off down the street.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he calls, hustling after her.

  Sharon whirls around and glares, “I’ve had it, Collyer. I’m heading back to Pittsburgh. This is absolutely whacko to be messing around with terrorists.”

  “It is scary, I’ll grant you that.”

  “Give me a frigging break! Leading terrorists to a hydrogen bomb, are you out of your mind?”

  “Let’s talk about it, c’mon,” Howie says, chasing her down the street toward the apartment building. She’s walking at a brisk pace, he’s beginning to breathe hard, barely keeping up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a smear of yellow flash through the intersection ahead. Could that be the cab that brought us here? Howie asks himself.

  “You can talk all you want,” she snorts over her shoulder, flinging open the door to the building and stomping into the hallway. “I’m getting out of here.”

  “Hear me out first,” Howie’s chasing her up the stairs.

  At the second-floor landing she whirls around, as distraught as he’s ever seen her. “You can talk until you’re blue in the face but this girl is history.”

  “It never occurred to me they’d pick up on my website.”

  “C’mon, Collyer, get real. I found it in a matter of minutes. They’ve probably been watching it ever since you put it up. It was like bears to honey. ‘Hey, get your nuclear weapon, get your free hydrogen bomb.’”

  “They must have followed me up to Pittsburgh, then tracked us down in Front Royal.”

  “Right!” jabbing Howie in the chest with her finger. “And when you find out from Mark where they jettisoned the bomb, they’ll follow us to it. And the minute they’ve got their hands on it, we’re expendable— chopped liver.” Sharon pokes him again. “And then the whole East Coast gets vaporized. Don’t you get it, Collyer? This is nuts! That’s why I’m getting the hell off this train. And you should too—before something horrible happens.”

  “Sharon, I’m only worried about where you can go that will be safe. If I thought you’d be okay somewhere, I’d tell you to scram.”

  “I can take care of myself. I’m a big girl,” she says. “This time I’m not buying this crap about being in too deep to quit. I’m going right straight to the cops. And then I’m calling my congressman.”

  Howie shrugs his shoulders, holds up his hands, “What are you going to tell them—that you’re being chased by a bunch of terrorists because you know the location of a lost hydrogen bomb? They’ll laugh right in your face. I wouldn’t be surprised if they toss you in the loony bin.”

  For the first time, Sharon Thorsen is at a loss for words. She’s fuming, eyes flashing. She turns and starts up the stairs, taking them in twos. Howie hustles after her. At the landing, he pulls up short when he sees her standing at the door to the apartment, hand up to her mouth, eyes wide as dinner plates.

  “Did you leave the door open?”

  “No. I’m sure I locked it,” he answers, rushing up to join her.

  �
�Major Risstup?” she says, slowly nudging the door with her foot. “Are you okay?” On the hallway floor, Howie notices a cigarette butt. That wasn’t there when we left.

  Sharon creeps through the doorway, as if she expects to find a bloody scene, “Oh my God,” she gasps, “he’s gone.”

  Howie rushes in after her. No sign of Risstup. He looks around for the wheelchair, then remembers they left it in the cab, checks behind the daybed. Sharon’s in shock, little yelps of horror coming from deep in her throat. In the short time they’ve been out, Howie can’t imagine someone could have broken in and kidnapped him.

  He reaches for his laptop, lifts the cover. Opens the program he was using earlier. Checks to see when it was last activated, 10:58. His watch reads 11:03. Someone’s been on my machine. Someone has been here not more than five minutes ago.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Howie notices the bathroom door is shut. His hand is almost on the handle when all of a sudden he hears the toilet flush.

  “Major Risstup?”

  Silence. Howie grabs Sharon’s hand and swings her around behind him, putting his body between her and the bathroom. “Major Risstup? Are you in there?”

  Another pause.

  “I’ll be right out,” Howie hears from behind the door. His shoulders relax, bad enough for someone to have been in the apartment. He knows if they had abducted the major, it would have been the end of the game.

  As she twists away from him, Sharon snaps, “That’s the last time we’re leaving him alone.”

  Risstup peeks out of the bathroom, sees the look on their faces. “Is something wrong?”

  “We came back to find the door wide open. We were worried.”

  “I’m fine. Aside from that cheeseburger I had that didn’t agree with me.”

  “How did the door get open?”

  “Didn’t one of you leave it that way?”

  “How long were you in the bathroom?”

  “A while, I guess, stomach was pretty upset. How long have you been gone?”

  “No one came in when you were in there?”