Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  An older man with closely cropped iron gray hair, bushy eyebrows and a strong jaw line sat in a wheelchair in front of the desk, a heavy robe across his lap. The disability had no effect on his military bearing. Whelan had known Clifford Levell, now in his early seventies, before the automobile accident had robbed him of his mobility. With his size, voice, features and mannerisms, Levell had always reminded Whelan of Clint Eastwood. Even more so now. He remembered Levell from an earlier time—strong, vigorous, hard-living. A warrior’s warrior.

  Whelan placed the attaché case on the floor and the two men looked at each other for the first time in almost twenty years. Rhee stood silently in the background, like a faithful guardian—prepared for any exigency.

  After a moment, Levell spoke. “Brendan Whelan, the Prince of Wolves!” He’d always been intrigued by the Irish Gaelic meaning of Whelan’s names. His voice was clear and strong, retaining a familiar raspiness. “Son, you are a sight for these aging eyes.”

  Whelan leaned over and hugged the old man, surprised at how strong Levell seemed despite his handicap. “It’s been a long time. How are you, Cliff?”

  “Long? Hell, it’s been an eternity. And I’m doing all right considering I’m confined to this damn baby buggy.”

  “I heard about that,” Whelan said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Look, son, sooner or later life kicks all of us in the ass.” He smiled as he said it. “But I have no regrets; it’s been a good life. And it remains so.” He motioned for Whelan to sit in one of the overstuffed leather desk chairs. “I heard sirens. That have anything to do with you?”

  Whelan nodded. “On the way here, I literally ran into someone from our past.” Whelan paused for a moment then said, “It was Case.”

  Levell sat forward suddenly in his wheelchair. “Harold Case?”

  “The same.”

  “Given what I know about his recent activities, he may have been on his way here.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To try to persuade or bribe me to help him corroborate certain Agency files that were supposed to have been destroyed nearly twenty years ago.” He shook his head in disgust. “Damn bureaucrats. Nothing ever seems to get destroyed, burned, erased, or deleted as it’s supposed to.”

  Leaning back in his wheelchair, Levell said, “Harold Case, was a miserable sonofabitch. Did he recognize you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, along with some hired muscle.”

  “His departure was long overdue. Wish I had done it myself.” Levell rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

  “Any witnesses to the scene? Anyone who could identify you?”

  “None living.”

  Levell smiled. “Chaucer was right. Never wake a Sleeping Dog.”

  “What was Case up to?” Whelan said.

  “He was working for someone who wants to expose the old Sleeping Dogs operation.”

  “Why?”

  “To discredit this country, a popular position on the far left.”

  “Who was he working for?”

  “The senior senator from New York, Howard Morris.”

  Whelan nodded in recognition of the name.

  “We know Morris is being bankrolled by a certain multibillionaire with a one-world view.”

  “Chaim Laski?” Whelan said. He’d been in Ireland nearly two decades, but had stayed current on America’s current foreign and domestic issues.

  “You still connect the dots well,” Levell said. “The far left’s end game is to fundamentally transform the nation from a constitutional democracy governed by duly elected representatives of the majority to one that better fits their one-world format. Laski’s their money manager.”

  “How is that possible? Isn’t American the home of rugged individualists who like to think for themselves?”

  Levell scoffed. “That’s a dying breed, son; replaced by a generation or two of weak-kneed, over-pampered quitters. Looking for a free ride and expecting the government to provide it. Easy pickin’s for socialist candidates looking to merge the U.S. into a global nanny state.”

  The older man sat ramrod straight in his wheelchair. His anger was palpable. “They believe that goal can be achieved by ruining the economy, causing widespread panic. Hell, just look at current events. Profligate spending by an ever-expanding government that covers it with borrowed funds. Requiring fiscally unsupportable programs like mandatory universal health care. Running up the price of oil through bans on domestic drilling, all while our enemies are afloat in cheap carbon fuels.

  “Eventually the nation’s creditors will accept that we’re bankrupt. That will collapse the economy. Capitalism will be blamed for the mother of all depressions that follows, and the populace will turn to a ‘savior’ with a different plan. Then the transformation is complete.”

  “Sounds like a socialist’s nirvana,” Whelan said.

  Levell nodded grimly. “One ruled by a self-styled intellectual elite. People who think they can make better decisions for us than we’re capable of making for ourselves.”

  “Ironic,” Whelan said. “And just when European states are beginning to realize socialism isn’t working.”

  “It’s worse than you may think,” Levell said. “The administration has reduced our military’s size, funding, and technological superiority. It’s soft-soaped terrorism, calling it man-caused disaster or workplace violence, and avoided combating jihadists on their own turf. It’s apologized all over the globe for the U.S. role as peacekeeper. Now when trouble develops, it brags about ‘leading from behind’, and lets itself be outwitted by the Russians and other dangerous foes.”

  “A weakened America is easier to absorb into a one-world order.”

  “Bingo,” Levell said. “Look, I’m not saying that some change isn’t merited from time to time. And it doesn’t matter whether the Left or the Right produces constructive changes like racial equality, sane environmental standards, or workplace safety. But it’s like someone said, the great political failure of progressivism is it always goes too far.”

  Whelan said, “Who’s behind this, Cliff?”

  “It’s supposed to look like it’s the Ruskies. But we believe they’re being gamed by domestic loons and certain greedy members of our own über rich. Sadly, they’re on the verge of realizing the fruits of their long labors. They now control one of the two major political parties in the U.S., as well as the news media. They’re a single appointment away from controlling a majority on the Supreme Court. They’ve twisted reality and molded public perception. And, naïve, self-absorbed fools that we are, most of us paid no attention.”

  “So, you’re saying Case, Morris—they’re part of a long-term strategy,” Whelan said, “to bring the country down from within.”

  Levell nodded vigorously. He clearly was worked up. Whelan saw Rhee, who had been standing silently in the background, move a step closer to the old man.

  “Bastards thought they’d struck pay dirt back in the seventies with Carter’s election,” Levell said, “only to watch the bumbling fool inflame patriotism. That ushered in Ronald Reagan and a brief retaking of the direction of the country. Probably thought they were back on track with Clinton, but overestimated his dedication to leftist dogma and underestimated the size of the ego that drove him to the center for the popular acceptance he craved.”

  Levell’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down as if he had bitten into something rancid. “They must have thought they’d hit the jackpot with the current president. Under this administration, they skirt the Constitution in a number of ways. Running the government by a series of executive orders. Appointing czars who bypass cabinet offices and report only to the administration without the required congressional vetting. They refuse to enforce laws they don’t like; and sue states if they pass such laws on their own. They abuse power through recess appointments even when Congress isn’t in recess. And when the federal courts overturn the appointments, t
hey ignore them. Under Articles I and II, Congress holds all legislative power. Yet they issue a tsunami of regulations that strangle capitalism and entrepreneurship, such as the EPA’s regulations advancing Cap and Trade that Congress specifically voted down.”

  Levell smiled. “Ironically, in spite of that, the president has alienated his own far left base because they don’t think he’s ‘progressive’ enough, that he’s too enamored with his rock star status to be manageable. They don’t want him to run for reelection. In fact, they have a replacement puppet in the wings.”

  “Howard Morris,” Whelan said.

  “Exactly.”

  “I understand your concerns, but what does it have to do with me? Has Case’s meddling exposed me and the other members of the old unit? You could have communicated with me in the usual fashion. It doesn’t seem to require a face-to-face.”

  “Maybe, but it’s more important than that.”

  “What’s more important than protecting the anonymity of six men who’ve served this country and were rewarded for it by a PDD calling for their deaths?”

  Levell waived a hand impatiently, as if to cut Whelan off. “It’s far larger than you six surviving members of the Sleeping Dogs.”

  “What is? Pax Americana?”

  “Yes, that and more. The reason I wanted you front and center is to help us put the unit back together. We need the services of you and your former colleagues. And you’re going to round them up.”

  “You’re the point of contact with each of us. Why aren’t you rounding them up?”

  Levell looked at his wheelchair. “Travel is a little difficult. And a phone call isn’t going to get it done.” He gave Whelan a squinty-eyed smile. “You were their leader. They respect you. A message from you, delivered in person, will have the most impact.”

  “What’s the mission?”

  “There’s going to be an attempt to assassinate the president.”

  Whelan let that sink in for a moment. “Are you suggesting we’re going to do it? I don’t care for the son-of-a-bitch, but not strongly enough to kill him.”

  Levell shook his head impatiently. “No, not us. His own party. We want to stop it.”

  “Why? You were clear about the danger his agenda poses. Why not let the effort succeed?”

  “Because, inevitably, it will be spun to make it seem that we did it.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Later. There’s something more pressing at the moment.”

  3 J. Edgar Hoover Building

  FBI headquarters were housed in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, a massive, multistoried structure on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue between 9th and 10th Streets Northwest. Deep in its bowels, eighteen people were crammed into a small conference facility designed for a maximum of ten. All were beginning to perspire as their collective body heat raised the temperature in a room that was already overheated by the building’s HVAC system. Some sat scrolling through messages on their smart phones; others were engaged in animated conversations or phone calls. A few were watching a very large black man, the district commander of the Metropolitan Police Department’s Second District. He was leaning over the conference table and bellowing at the Bureau’s Supervisory Special Agent, Mitchel Christie.

  Ordinarily, Christie was officed in the Bureau’s D.C. Field Office a few blocks away. To compensate for overcrowding there, some agents had recently been relocated to the Hoover Building. In Christie’s case the move had been sudden and very recent. When he had left his office last evening it had been in the Field Office building. The Harold Case affair changed that. He received a call at his home around three thirty that morning. His boss told him he was being assigned to head up the investigation, and would be relocated to the Hoover Building. Christie didn’t like surprises and he didn’t like change. But he was a company man and did as he was told.

  The SSA sat calmly at the head of the table, his eyes focused on the district commander’s angry face. The only outward sign of tension was the soft drumbeat of Christie’s fingers slowly tapping in unison on the tabletop. He was working very hard to keep his temper under control despite the steady shower of spittle flying in his direction. It mixed with the perspiration beginning to bead up on his face. Finally, nearing the end of his patience, he held up a hand, palm outward, and said, “Steve.” That didn’t seem to have any effect. He paused for a moment, then raised his voice a notch and said, “District Commander Williams, screaming and shouting won’t accomplish anything. It’s seven o’clock in the morning and the event happened barely four hours ago. Everybody here was yanked out of bed to come in and work on this thing. Let’s not waste any of their time.”

  Williams’ eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as he struggled to control his rage. “This massacre occurred on my turf! You have no idea what my office is like right now. Phones ringin’ off the fuckin’ hooks, frightened citizens crapping their drawers, media hammering away at me for details I don’t have. And my boss calling me every fifteen minutes expecting answers when I’m not even sure what the fuckin’ questions are. What I do know is I got three dead people and one vegetable on my hands. This meeting should be happening in my office instead of me having to drive across town to watch you clowns having a circle jerk.” He straightened and took a deep breath.

  “Forensics ran the victims’ prints. Three of those men were in this country illegally. They each have extensive police records in Europe.” He looked pointedly at Williams. “We’ll work closely with your people, but the Bureau has been assigned primary jurisdiction of this investigation.”

  The district commander slammed a very large palm down on the table sending a shock wave all the way to its far end. “You better hope you don’t fumble the ball on this.” When he lifted his palm, it left a large wet mark on the tabletop.

  All other activities in the room ceased as the SSA rose to his feet. He was a tall, lean man, but at six feet three inches he was a good three inches shorter than the district commander. And almost one hundred pounds lighter. The tense moment was interrupted as a small woman with short blonde hair and wire rim glasses approached the SSA. She whispered to him, “One of our forensics people is on the line, sir. I think you’re going to want to hear this.” She handed a cell phone to Christie.

  “Christie,” he said. “What have you got?”

  The voice on the other end said, “It’s Billingsley, sir. We’ve found something that could identify one of the perps.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a very small blood sample, but it doesn’t appear – preliminarily anyway – that it came from any of the victims.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Actually, we found two samples, on the right wrist of each of the two victims who were nearest the Jeep. But their skin wasn’t broken in those areas.”

  “On their wrists?” Christie paused for a moment and thought about what the evidence might mean. “Any theories yet?”

  “Not really,” Billingsley said. “Might be that one of the assailants was injured and the blood was transferred in close quarters combat. Judging from the injuries suffered by those two victims, it was hand-to-hand at some point.”

  “Has the sample been sent to the lab for DNA testing yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good work. Keep me posted.” The SSA pressed the disconnect button and handed the phone back to his assistant. “Charlotte, I wanna know the minute the DNA results are available.” She nodded and returned to her seat near the other end of the table.

  Christie turned toward the others gathered around the table and raised his hands, signaling for them to pay attention. “All right, people, let’s get focused.” The room suddenly quieted. Only the district commander remained standing, glaring at Christie, who said, “It’s only been a short while since the event and we still don’t have much to go on, but let’s recap what we do know.”

  The SSA sat down, purposely ignoring the smoldering gaze from the district commander, who,
with an undisguised snort, finally lowered his massive frame into a chair.

  “At approximately three a.m. an event involving fatalities occurred in a residential section of Georgetown. It appears to have involved a collision between a late model rented Jeep Grand Cherokee and a limousine. A man identified as Walter Bailey of Omaha, Nebraska, rented the Jeep earlier this morning at Dulles. The limousine was under lease by a Delaware corporation that’s in that line of business. It was hired for the evening by a senate investigative subcommittee for a retired CIA employee named Harold Case. Mr. Case was seventy-two years old and was working as a private contractor for that subcommittee. There were three fatalities and a potentially fatal injury. The men accompanying Mr. Case all were Ukrainian nationals who were in this country illegally. They apparently were working for a private security firm organized and headquartered in the Cayman Islands.”

  The SSA glanced at some sheets of paper on the table in front of him. “Bailey appears to be an assumed name. There’s certainly no trace of such an individual in Omaha. Agents from our Atlanta office are checking into it, but it appears that the real Walter Bailey, on whom the identity is based, died at the age of twenty-eight while undergoing heart surgery in Georgia a decade ago.”

  A chubby man with glasses and thinning hair, who was sitting next to Charlotte, raised his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but can the car rental people at Dulles identify the man who rented the Jeep?”

  “Unfortunately, no, Chuck,” Christie said. “The car was rented from Hertz over the Internet from a public access computer in a library in Palo Alto, California. It was rented under the Walter Bailey name on a Hertz Number One Gold account. That means the car was waiting for him in the company’s lot with no check-in required. He just got in and drove it off. It was late and raining. No one saw him. The Hertz account was bogus; a dead end.”

  “Didn’t Hertz’s surveillance cameras pick him up?” Chuck said.

  “Yes, but the conditions were poor. He was wearing a cheap-looking raincoat with the collar turned up and a hat pulled low on his face. All we know is that he had longish hair, wore glasses, and was somewhat pudgy. We’re putting together a sketch of what we think he probably looks like and will get a copy to everyone here.”