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Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

Page 3

by John Wayne Falbey


  “What about ballistics at the crime scene?” Chuck said.

  “Nothing. Shell casings match bullets in spare clips carried by the Ukrainians. It appears that one of them was used to kill one of the Ukrainians as well as Mr. Case who, incidentally was shot execution style. Head shot. Close range. There are severe powder burns around the entry wound. The Jeep, being a rental vehicle, had been occupied by dozens of people. So far none of the fingerprints, fibers or other forensic evidence recovered from the Jeep have been identified with anyone in our data banks. There were no credible eyewitnesses. No anything at this point.” He didn’t mention the blood samples Billingsley had told him about—he needed this team focused on what they could make of the evidence on hand.

  Williams intervened. “Do we know what Case was working on for the subcommittee?”

  Christie closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple. He knew from his years of experience with the Bureau that there would be little rest for him in the foreseeable future. “We’re trying to gather that information now, Steve. Apparently it’s a matter of considerable national security. The only person who appears to know much about it is the committee’s chair.”

  “And that would be?” Williams said.

  “Senator Morris.”

  “Howard Morris?”

  “Yes.”

  Williams snorted loudly. “Shit! That political hack is the biggest self-serving prick in a town full of them. Always grandstanding for his left-wing base by finding ways to embarrass this country.”

  Christie nodded. “And generally succeeding.”

  “He won’t tell us shit unless he stands to gain from it,” Williams said.

  Christie nodded again. If there was anything worse than a turf war, it was a turf war with politicians. The burning sensation in his stomach was turning into something much sharper—he’d had several cups of coffee on an empty stomach since the first call had come through at three thirty that morning. He wondered how much liquid remained in the bottle of antacid in his office, and when he would have an opportunity to get to it.

  4 Georgetown: The Society

  They were still in Levell’s study. Whelan had wolfed down a sandwich and was nursing an IPA. He put it down and said, “Cliff, if you want my involvement, tell me who this ‘we’ is that you keep mentioning?”

  “We refer to ourselves as the Society of Adam Smith, or just the ‘Society’. I can see you nodding. Yes, that Adam Smith, the father of modern capitalism and free markets,” Levell said. “Individually, we’re highly placed in the senior ranks of the military, the intelligence community and private industry. We formed around the nucleus of the group that led to the creation of the Sleeping Dogs project. When it was shut down and we saw which way the political winds were blowing, we realized the need for a shadow government of sorts; one that works behind the scenes to counter the efforts to throw a sovereign America under the one-socialist-world bus. The next four years are critical. If Morris is elected, it will mean the proverbial end of days for the America we love. For now, that’s all you really need to know.”

  Levell glanced at a large antique grandfather clock and said, “Given the unexpected difficulties you ran into earlier this morning, we need to be more cautious than ever. Debrief your trip up to the time you arrived here. Leave nothing out.”

  Whelan took another pull from his beer. “The plane and car reservations were made by one of your contacts. I flew into Dulles from Shannon using a fake British national’s ID.”

  “Luggage?”

  “Just a small carry-on.”

  “You were in disguise?”

  “Yeah, three piece business suit, cordovan lace-ups, goatee and mustache, Julius Caesar bangs, glasses. Pretty much kept my face buried in a newspaper or head turned toward the cabin hull, as if sleeping. Being in First Class, everyone pretty much minded his or her own business. I encouraged that with a certain aloofness.”

  “What about Dulles?” Levell said.

  “Put a cap on as I deplaned and went into the first head I came to. Changed into the clothes I’m wearing now, added a cheap raincoat, shaggy wig, rain hat, different glasses, glove liners and wrapped the three piece suit around my waist for extra padding. Packed everything else, including the glasses and fake whiskers, in the carry-on.”

  “The car pick up?”

  “Took the Hertz shuttle from the airport.”

  “Driver notice you?”

  “Yeah, but given the hour and the fact that no one else was onboard, there wasn’t much I could do. I was careful to keep my head down and touch nothing, even with the glove liners on. Made no conversation. I sat behind the luggage rack that’s immediately behind the driver. Gave him two bucks when he dropped me off. That’s pretty standard. Any more or less can get you noticed.”

  “Surveillance at the car lot?”

  “Sure, there are cameras everywhere today. But I took care not to give them much to record.”

  “And the carry-on and extra clothes?”

  “Dropped the clothes in one Goodwill drop-box, the carry-on, raincoat and hat in another. Tossed the wig and glasses out the window in separate places.”

  Levell nodded in approval. “That should have the boys and girls at the Bureau chasing their tails. Unless there was blood, the only evidence they’ll have from the scene is the car.”

  Whelan drank the last of the Dogfish Head and set the empty bottle on a side table near his chair.

  Levell ran a hand across one cheek. His face was lined by age and the stress of the life he’d led, but he still had a full head of hair, gray and close cropped, every bit the Marine officer he once had been. “Isn’t it the height of irony that, after all these years, you and that sonofabitch run into each other when you’re on your way to see me.” He shook his head. “Do you think his ramming your vehicle was a deliberate act?”

  Whelan thought about the question for a moment or two, then shook his head. “As much as neither of us believes in coincidences, I think that’s what this was; just one incredibly unfortunate coincidence.” He paused. “Why Ukrainians, though? There’s a lot of domestic muscle available on the street.”

  Levell snorted. “Under the Soviets, most Ukrainians were treated as third class citizens, something less than human. Abusing them made the Ruskies feel better about their own sorry asses. After the USSR dissolved, most Ukrainians were able to move on with their lives and better themselves in honest work.

  “These guys who work for Laski are something else entirely. They did the Ruskies’ dirty work, and don’t give a flying fuck for an honest day’s effort. They’re ruthless, conscience-free, and cheap. Exactly what a scum-sucking pig like Laski would need.”

  Whelan nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “How did you know Case recognized you?”

  “Right after I got out of the truck, the driver of the limo and his associate appeared to get some kind of information on their earbuds. The driver said something along the lines of me being ‘one of Levell’s people.’ Case must have guessed I was on my way here.”

  Levell rubbed his cheek again and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Whelan. “Case, that old sonofabitch, must still have had decent eyesight in spite of his decadent lifestyle. Did you speak to him?”

  “Wasn’t much time.” Whelan stood and picked up the attaché case and held it out toward Levell. “But Harold had this with him. Might contain worthwhile intel.”

  “You’ve done well,” Levell said. “Now, let’s have a look at what Harold dug up on you and the others. But we’ll have to be quick about it. Case was an asshole, but a well connected one. His killing will set off a shit storm. Add to that the number you did on the three muscle heads. The Feds will be combing through this neighborhood for days. We’ve got to get you out of here, and fast.” He reached for a cell phone on his desk.

  5 Hart Senate Office Building

  About one mile east of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, in the shadows of the Capitol, was another massive, mu
ltistoried structure, the Hart Senate Office Building. Named for the late Senator Phillip Hart of Michigan, it was home to the offices of fifty senators, three committees and several subcommittees. Among the several structures of the United States Capitol Complex, it was the farthest from the Capitol Building, but one of the nicest. It featured a ninety-foot high sky-lit central atrium bridged by walkways on every floor. In the center of the atrium on the first floor was a massive statue that reached upward fifty-one feet into the open space. One of the late Alexander Calder’s final efforts, the towering abstract piece combined black aluminum clouds suspended above black steel mountains.

  Howard Morris didn’t like the statue. He thought it was pretentious. He didn’t like the atrium either. It was like the Senate Gallery—filled with common people.

  Morris enjoyed a large, seventh floor corner office with a killer view of Capitol Hill. Despite that, he had arranged his desk to face the door that opened from the office of his assistant, Janine, leaving his back to the windows. He liked to see who was entering his presence. The office had been tastefully furnished by one of the most expensive and sought-after interior designers in the city. Although members of Congress had certain budget constraints on the furnishing of their offices, Morris was savvy in the ways of the federal bureaucracy. He had spared no taxpayer dollars in establishing an oasis of comfort and luxury for himself.

  Besides, he believed he’d earned the privilege. Serving his fourth term in the senate, Morris was the chair of the select committee on intelligence. He also chaired a special subcommittee probing Central Intelligence Agency covert operations. The subcommittee’s existence was considered a matter of national security and few people knew of it.

  He had come to the office early, expecting Harold Case to provide him with the elements of a huge story; one that would further erode the myth of American exceptionalism. It would show the citizenry that their nation’s position of global dominance had been built on intrigue and black ops savagery rather than any unique qualities. That would further weaken America’s global standing as well as its ability to avoid the formation of a single world order. It also would strengthen his base on the far left and gather more support for his planned, but as yet unannounced, bid for his party’s nomination for president. To his dismay, he’d discovered from the morning news that Case indeed had produced the elements of a huge story, but it wasn’t the one Morris had expected.

  He felt his anger and frustration rising. He stood, strode from behind his massive desk, and began to pace nervously back and forth across the thick, plush carpet. As usual, his feet were beginning to ache. He was several inches short of average height, and sensitive about it. The orthotics he wore to add stature came at the price of comfort. His endless tour of the Beltway cocktail circuit had added more than a few extra pounds, but was largely disguised by the work of a talented tailor. The very expensive, bespoke suit coat he wore masked his narrow shoulders. It was made of charcoal gray silk, and he had paired it with a pale pink shirt and pink and gray rep tie. He ran a hand through the long gray hair that he wore brushed straight back. Morris noticed the back of his hand looked paler than he preferred and made a mental note to apply a new coat of the tanning gel at the first opportunity.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Senator,” his assistant said. “Mr. Jenkins is here.”

  “Good, send him in, Janine.” He walked back to his desk and stood behind it. A moment later, the door opened and a tall, lanky black man walked through it. He was wearing a long-sleeved yellow cotton shirt with a solid navy blue tie and navy trousers and carrying a heavy overcoat. He nodded to Morris. “Senator.”

  Morris waved Shepard Jenkins, his chief political strategist, toward one of the overstuffed leather client chairs. “Shep.”

  “You heard about Case, I presume,” Jenkins said.

  “Shit, by now, everyone’s heard about him. You know anything that’s not already been on the news?”

  “Not yet, Senator. My concern right now is how anyone could have known what he was up to. We’ve kept this strictly on a need-to-know basis. Other than the two of us and Case himself, who the hell else could have known?”

  “Maybe the sonofabitch had a loose lip. He was a self-aggrandizing bastard,” Morris said. “My biggest concern is the loss of the information he was gathering. Now what do we do? Give up on this project?”

  “Dunno, but that’s certainly one option.”

  Morris didn’t like the sound of that. He tugged nervously at the collar of his expensive shirt and stepped away from the windows. “Jesus, it was supposed to be so simple Do we even know whether Case found those old records from his days with the Agency?”

  “Whether he did or he didn’t, I’m guessing that’s what got him killed,” Jenkins said.

  “Of course that’s what got him killed!” Morris said. “If only I could have gotten my hands on those fucking files and released them to my contacts in the news media. The ensuing shit storm would have played well on the left and likely elevated me as the party’s frontrunner in next year’s presidential campaign. Assuming that pompous, arrogant fuck-up of an incumbent doesn’t try to stand for reelection. Laski keeps assuring me that he won’t, but I’m not convinced the sonofabitch intends to step aside.”

  He walked around the desk and sat in the other client chair. “You’re my fucking strategist. What do we do now?”

  “First, we stay calm. Then we figure out whether anyone else knows about what Case was doing and whether they might be able to trace it back to us.”

  Morris shook his head in despair. “They assassinated the sonofabitch. Fucking assassinated him. Laid in wait and ambushed him.”

  “Along with three presumably capable bodyguards,” Jenkins said. “Whoever is behind this is pretty damned good. The dead guys were part of Chaim Laski’s private army. Did you know that two of the bodyguards were killed in hand-to-hand combat?”

  Slamming his fist down on the desktop, Morris said, “I don’t give a flying fuck how they died. They clearly weren’t worth a shit at protecting anyone.”

  The intercom on his desk buzzed again. He shouted angrily at it. “What is it, Janine?”

  “A courier is here with a small package of some kind,” she said. “Should I sign for it?”

  Morris stiffened in fear. Was it a bomb? Were the same people who had killed Harold Case going to assassinate him next? The day had barely started and already it was rapidly worsening.

  “Senator?” Janine said.

  “Who sent it?” he said at last.

  Janine said, “A Mr. Case.”

  6 Georgetown

  In the hours following the early morning incident in Georgetown, SWAT teams of FBI and local law enforcement officers began conducting a house-to-house campaign. Branching out concentrically from the scene of the incident, they searched each house and surrounding property. Farther out, police cars patrolled the neighborhoods looking for anything or any person of a suspicious nature.

  Shortly before eight o’clock, a brown Ford Econoline 350 box truck pulled to the curb in front of Levell’s home. Its markings indicated it was a delivery vehicle for a chain of appliance stores. A man climbed out on either side of the cab. They were wearing brown work uniforms, jackets, and brown ball caps, all bearing logos that matched the one on the side of their truck. They went to the front door of the home and spoke to Rhee for a moment, then returned to the rear of the truck and raised its roll-up gate. One of the men climbed into the cab and backed the truck into the driveway. Rhee opened the garage door from inside the house.

  The men wrestled a Frigidaire 19.7 cubic foot commercial deep freezer from the back of the truck to the hydraulic liftgate. Lowering the freezer to the street, they maneuvered it onto a heavy-duty four-wheeled dolly, then rolled it into the garage. Rhee closed the garage door behind them.

  Approximately ten minutes later the garage door reopened and the deliverymen rolled an older looking deep freeze out to the truck. As they loaded it ont
o the hydraulic liftgate, a police cruiser with two cops in it rolled to a stop in front of the truck. The deliverymen glanced at each other and kept moving.

  The officer driving the car rolled his window down and said, “Morning, men. Kinda early to be working so hard.”

  “Yeah, well a job’s a job. We got no say in what gets done or when,” the truck’s driver said.

  “You guys seen anything that don’t look right to you in the neighborhood this morning?” the cop said.

  “Like what?” said the truck driver.

  “Well, like any fuckin’ thing that don’t look right.”

  The truck driver looked at his partner. “I ain’t seen nothin’. What about you. You seen anything?”

  “Nah, I ain’t seen nothin’ either. But I wasn’t exactly lookin’ for nothin’. It’s fuckin’ early, it’s cold, and I ain’t exactly wide awake yet.”

  The cop turned and looked at his partner, who shrugged. He turned back to the deliverymen. “Well, you see somethin’,” he said, “you flag down the first unit you see and tell ‘em about it.”

  “Yeah, sure, we’ll do that,” the truck driver said.

  The cruiser slowly moved off to continue the assigned search pattern. The deliverymen looked at each other again. The driver said, “Let’s get moving.”

  Working as fast as they could, they maneuvered the freezer onto the hydraulic liftgate, hoisted it into the back of the truck, and secured it. They lowered the roll-up gate, climbed back into the truck’s cab, and drove off.

  7 The J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Supervisory Special Agent Christie stood in one corner of his new office space, looking out its single, narrow window. It really was just a half a window. The other half was on the other side of the partition that separated his cramped space from the one next door. Christie’s office was furnished in what he called Government Gothic; standard issue even at his pay grade.

 

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