“Fuck Chaucer.”
Franconia looked at Christie for a second or two then thrust the middle finger of his right hand in the direction of the speakerphone. Both men grinned.
Sensing that the conversation was digressing, Christie said, “It appears that Case was digging up these old records in the employ of Senator Morris. The assumption is that Morris had some sort of interest in this black operation.”
“And whatever it was,” Williams said, “it resulted in a gang-style killing of the old fart, as well as three other pieces of human garbage.”
“For the record,” Christie said, “the Bureau does not yet consider this to be an ambush or a planned assassination. There is no evidence to indicate this started out as anything other than a collision.”
“Horseshit!” Williams said.
“Also for the record,” Christie said, “the evidence, including testimony of witnesses, such as it is, places only one perp at the scene.”
“So now you’re telling me there’s some kind of one-man wrecking crew running loose in the city killing people for running stop signs? You been watchin’ too many fuckin’ Jet Li movies, Christie.”
Franconia involuntarily held his hands up, palms out. “Before we jump to any conclusions, we need to find out what was in the files Case was digging up, and what Morris’s involvement is.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time the Agency shit itself and some half-assed politician rubbed your noses in it to further his career,” Williams said. There was a certain element of satisfaction in his voice.
Franconia let out a long breath and looked at Christie. He made a slicing motion across his throat with a finger
Christie nodded. “We’ll let you know what we learn going forward, Steve.” He pushed the button and disconnected the call, then leaned back in his chair and looked at Franconia.
“The guy is such a prick,” said Franconia. “How do you deal with people like him?”
Christie looked wistfully at the empty bottle of antacid in the trash basket and said, “I have my ways.”
10 Hart Senate Office Building
Howard Morris and Shepard Jenkins were in the small conference room just off Morris’s office. There was an open laptop on the table and the wrappings from the small package that had been delivered earlier. The flash drive it had contained was plugged into a USB port in the laptop.
Morris sat back in his chair and stretched. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Turns out there was truth in the rumors after all.”
“Appears so”, said Jenkins. “Have to give ol’ Harold credit. Though I must admit, I didn’t believe him when he first approached us with the story. Sounded like a load of crap.”
Morris leaned back over the laptop and continued scrolling through the documents on the screen. “This is incredible. It’s exactly what I’ve been hoping to find.”
“Should give your campaign efforts a big boost once we release it to the media.” Jenkins paused. “Too bad Case isn’t around to enjoy it with us.”
“At least he had the foresight to download the materials onto this thumb drive. Otherwise, all this shit would have died with him.”
“Sad truth is, it’s almost certainly what got him killed.”
Morris’s head snapped around and he stared at Jenkins. “He’s dead, so fuck him. What about us? Now that we’ve seen the files, are we gonna to be murdered, too?” Despite the efficiency of the HVAC system in the building, Morris was beginning to perspire.
Jenkins rubbed the soul patch beneath his lower lip. “Let’s think our way through this. Case originally approached me because he knew you’d be interested in evidence that implicated the government in embarrassing clandestine activities. It was common knowledge inside the Beltway that you were chairing the special subcommittee investigating…shall we say ‘government indiscretions’, and that Case was working for the subcommittee. So, there’s a connection between us and Case, but not necessarily with what he specifically accessed in the Agency’s archives.”
“Bullshit! That’s easy enough to figure out if the spooks know he was digging around at Langley.” A small trickle of sweat ran down Morris brow. It slowed as it started down his ample jowl. He moved the cursor to a document in the tray at the bottom of the computer screen and clicked on it. A typed memo popped up. “Worse yet, according to this note that Case sent with the other stuff, the damn fool was going to pop in unannounced on his old CIA chum, Levell, before coming here.”
“Really?” Jenkins said. “Did he think Levell would be interested in providing corroborative testimony? Against a project that was Levell’s baby from day one?”
“I don’t know what the dumb bastard was thinking. If he was thinking. I just know he’s dead, and I don’t want to be next.” A few more trickles of sweat had joined the first one tracking slowly down his jowl.
“If Levell didn’t know Case was coming over, then who killed him—a couple blocks from Levell’s house—and why?”
“Must have been the Agency. They’re the ones who stand to lose the most when this story comes out.”
“That’s true, as far as we know. But it seems to me that the Agency is better at fucking up a one car parade than pulling off an operation like the one this morning. Besides, why Georgetown? Why three a.m.? The Agency could have whacked Case anywhere, anytime.” Jenkins gave Morris a questioning look.
Morris just shook his head. Beads of sweat flew off. “I don’t know. I don’t know. So what are you saying? That there’s someone or something other than the Agency involved in this?”
“I’m not sure what I’m saying. It just doesn’t add up. If the Agency didn’t whack him, who did? Levell is no longer physically capable of those acts.”
“What about that fuckin’ Chinaman that works for him?”
“He’s Korean,” Jenkins said, “and while rumor has it that he’s a martial artist, I don’t see this as something one man could have accomplished.”
“So? Maybe he brought a whole gang of his slant-eyed buddies to help him.”
Jenkins grimaced at the irony of Morris’s bigotry: the senator himself was no stranger to bias in the form of anti-Semitism. He was the only child of Russian Jews who had immigrated to this country before he was born. He had grown up as Haim Moskowitz in Brooklyn, where his father had owned a small tailor shop. Somewhere between college and law school at NYU Morris had determined that he wanted to build a career in politics, and had Anglicized his name to Howard Morris.
Starting as a ward heeler in his law school days, Morris had risen through the ranks of the Democratic party, and now he was a legitimate prospect for his party’s nomination for president. As objectionable as Jenkins found the man’s shortcomings, he’d hitched his career to Morris’s in the belief that he had a good chance to become Morris’s White House Chief of Staff. When Morris left office, Jenkins surely would get a high paying job as a political analyst.
Morris was staring blankly at the computer screen. “Harold had an attaché case that he took with him everywhere. He must have had it with him when he was killed.” He looked at Jenkins. “I wonder if he had a copy of these files in it, digital or otherwise.”
“Bureau’s been all over that scene like flies on shit,” Jenkins said. “If Harold had the attaché case with him, the Bureau has it now.”
“And when the FBI examines the contents and finds these documents, how will that affect me?”
Jenkins shrugged. “As head of the select subcommittee, you had every right to hire Case as an investigator. If he broke some laws along the way, that doesn’t implicate you. Just deny that you gave him any encouragement or even knew how he proceeded to get the information. You have the information and that’s what’s important.”
Both men stared at each other for a few moments. The only sounds were the low whirring sound of the HVAC system and the barely perceptible traffic noise beyond the thick windows.
After awhile, Jenkins said, “Look, you’ve been handpicked by Chaim Laski to r
un for the party’s presidential nomination. He’s spent years and who knows how many hundreds of millions of dollars building his political organization to reach this point. He’s a freakin’ kingmaker. And you’re his guy.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Morris nodded slowly. “We’ve done what Laski asked us to do: found evidence of an illegal black ops project that should effectively humiliate the government.”
“Right. And with the backing of Laski and his loonies, you should have no problem getting the nomination and winning the election.”
Morris let loose a rumbling sigh. “I still need a corroborating witness or there will be substantive issues with whether this information actually came from Agency files. Case was supposed to be that witness. Now he’s gone. What do I do?”
Jenkins stood. “Cut a deal with Levell. He was a much bigger part of this black ops project than Case ever was.”
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” Morris said. “Levell fancies himself a patriot. Old school. This project was his baby. He’d never agree to testify.”
“Everybody’s got a price, Senator. Even Levell. Just figure out what it is and cut a deal.”
11 Washington, D.C.
Rhee pulled the black Cadillac Escalade to the curb in front of a popular Washington restaurant. He left the engine running and slipped out of the car with the grace of a gymnast. A valet approached and Rhee handed him a generous sum. “You not move car. I back soon.”
Despite his slight build, Rhee easily assisted Levell from the car into his wheelchair. He began pushing him through a small entranceway that opened into a heavily landscaped courtyard. Ignoring the chilly temperature, a few clusters of people sat in cushioned wrought iron chairs beneath gas operated patio heaters. Some chatted casually, and some appeared to be engaged in more serious discussions. In Washington, politics afflicts every human endeavor.
The restaurant was housed in a structure that originally had been two separate townhouses. The main entrance was several steps up from the sidewalk level. Inside, just beyond the hostess desk, a wide, elegant staircase led up to the main dining area on the second floor. Alternatively a patron could descend a few steps into the bar area that was on the same level as the courtyard behind the restaurant.
Rhee rolled Levell across the courtyard and through a rear entrance. It was still early for dining, but the cocktail lounge was already crowded with politicians, lobbyists, and assorted bureaucrats of all pay grades. The latest installment of the Beltway cocktail ritual was underway.
With some difficulty, Rhee managed to get the patrons in the crowded bar to make room for the wheelchair’s passage. Eventually, they reached the elevator and ascended to the main dining area on the second floor.
As Rhee pushed Levell through the thicket of food service employees and diners coming and going, many of the wait staff recognized the old man as a frequent patron and smiled. Levell nodded to each of them in return. He considered this to be Washington’s finest restaurant and couldn’t recall ever having been disappointed in the food or the service. The smell of the meals being prepared and cooked in the open kitchen area mixed with the sounds of conversations and clinking of wine glasses at tables and booths filled with affluent looking patrons.
Levell and Rhee crossed the main dining area and entered a much smaller room that was designed for more intimate or confidential conversations. The corner booth was Levell’s favorite spot: It was isolated from the other booths and afforded less opportunity for conversations to be overheard. As they approached, Levell studied the man who already was seated in the booth.
Major General Roscoe C. McCoy was about Levell’s age. Even seated, it was obvious he was more than six feet tall, broad shouldered and lean with the weathered skin of someone who had spent a lifetime in the outdoors. Tonight he was in civilian attire, a dark blue three-button suit. He rose and, with a broad smile, extended his hand. “Good to see you, Cliff. No Ironside comments tonight. I promise.”
Levell returned the warmth and sincerity with a broad smile. “Sit, sit,” he said, motioning. “And in return, Buster, I’ll stop referring to you as the Ancient Mariner.”
“Good. I left the albatross at home tonight.”
With Rhee’s assistance, Levell moved from the wheelchair to a banquette opposite McCoy. Once he was comfortably seated, he said, “That’ll be all for now, Mr. Rhee.” He tapped the cell phone in the breast pocket of his camel hair sport coat and said, “I’ll call you when we’re finished.”
“So,” he said once Rhee had left and the waiter had brought their first round of drinks, “any word on your prospects for receiving that third star?”
McCoy’s face formed a leathery frown. “Making Lieutenant General isn’t in the cards for me. Particularly given the current political environment.”
Levell nodded. “Speaking of which, thank God for the Society”.
“But it’s taken us such a long time to get to this point,” McCoy said ruefully.
“Vetting the right people and getting them into position requires a great deal of caution,” Levell said. “Consider that it’s taken our adversaries three or four generations to establish their current advantage.”
The waiter, a tall, spare, middle-aged man with a Haitian accent, checked to see if they needed anything. McCoy signaled for another round. Both men lapsed into silence until he left.
Levell spoke first. He raised his scotch. “Here’s to the success of the venture.” McCoy raised his glass too and each man took a large swig.
“The Dogs,” McCoy said. “It’s good you’ve kept in communication with them since they went to ground.”
“I couldn’t let them fend for themselves entirely. I always suspected that project or one of its missions might resurface someday. The original edict to terminate them was never rescinded, even though it’s commonly believed they died years ago.”
“Whatever happened to those two scientists whose research and theories formed the basis for the project?”
“Jake Horowitz died some years back, but Bill Nishioki is still around. Lives in a retirement community down the coast from San Francisco. Santa Cruz, I believe.”
“Then, except for him, we’re the only ones left from that operation, Cliff.”
“We are now that Harold Case is dead. I assume you heard about that?”
“It’s all over the news.” McCoy arched one shaggy gray eyebrow. “It happened near your house. You know anything about it?”
Levell looked down at the table for a moment and smiled, then he raised his head and said, “It was a delicious coincidence. Of all the people for Harold to encounter, he ran smack dab into Whelan, literally.”
McCoy let that sink in for a moment. “Brendan Whelan. Christ! What the hell were the two of them doing in your neighborhood at that hour?”
“Case, as you’ll recall, was the bastard who provided the testimony that got the program shut down and the termination notice issued on the Dogs.”
McCoy nodded. “Hard to forget that.”
“Apparently, he was on his way to ask me to provide some corroborative evidence for his work with Senator More-Ass.”
McCoy shook his head in disgust.
“Case recognized Brendan at the crash scene. He probably couldn’t believe his luck in finding one of the Dogs alive. He sicced his muscle, three of Laski’s big Ukrains, on him.”
McCoy interrupted. “If Whelan’s anything like he was, those poor bastards were badly outnumbered.”
“Under the circumstances, Brendan had no option but to take out the goons, and, when he recognized Case in the limo, kill him, too.” Levell paused to take another sip of his scotch. “Harold had an attaché case and with him.”
“What was in it?”
“Photocopies of materials from the files on Operation Sleeping Dogs. Pretty damn clear and convincing evidence that the Agency was operating illegally. All over the globe. Just what Morris wanted.”
“That sonofabitch.” Then McCoy shook
his head admiringly. “Three bodyguards and Case. Sounds like the Prince of Wolves still has some remarkable skills.”
“Why wouldn’t he? After all,” Levell said with obvious pride, “it was the two of us who trained him and the other Dogs. You made such an impression they modified your nickname to Buster the Ball-buster.”
McCoy roared with laughter, then lowering his voice said, “I damn well earned that name, the shit I put those boys through.”
Levell’s expression came as close to wistfulness as his innate toughness would allow. “We were a hell of a team, Buster. You with the Corps and me with the Agency. We created something very special with the Dogs.”
“Hell, Cliff, you were a Jarhead too, before the Agency lured you away with promises of fame and riches.” McCoy flashed a wide grin. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
“Semper Fi,” Levell said, as the waiter returned. The conversation paused while they placed their orders.
“So,” McCoy said, “Whelan’s alive and in rare form apparently. Where has he been all these years?”
“Ireland.”
“Ireland? Why Ireland?”
“He was born there. Parents immigrated to the U.S. when he was an infant. He speaks Gaelic, has relatives there, and blends in extremely well. It was a safe place for him to be.”
McCoy got a faraway look in his eyes. “Do you remember the story about how Whelan and Larsen met? They played football at different high schools in Florida. Played both ways—offense and defense. Their accomplishments towered above those of all the other top talent in the state—hell, the nation. Their teams met in a non-conference game their senior years.”
“Yeah,” Levell said. “They came into the game the two top ranked high school teams in the land. And played to a scoreless tie. I remember that.”
McCoy chuckled. “Each of them played every second of that game. Beat the shit out of each other on every play. Afterward, when the stunned fans stumbled to their cars, the two of them lay in the mud at midfield, too spent to even stand up. After a while, Larsen says to Whelan ‘you decided which college you’re going to commit to?’. Whelan says ‘Yeah. Why?’. Larsen says ‘because I want to go there too. I don’t ever want to do this again’.”
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 5