Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Laski interrupted him. “No! Only seven. And as a recognized billionaire investor am I not expected to live up to that reputation?”

  Federov shook his head. “Once a pimp always a pimp. In Poland you ran sexual whores. Here you run political ones. But even pimps get lucky. This new scandal involving the CIA is good political theater for us. It brings further disgrace on America, embarrasses its citizens, weakens its relationships with its allies and generates even greater hatred for it across the globe. Nurture it, Comrade Laski. Use it to help win the nomination for that preening, weak-kneed puppet of yours, Howard Morris.”

  “I shall, Kirill. You need not be concerned.” With that, the meeting ended.

  23 Tampa, Florida

  Sven Larsen, who had been living in Tampa for the past several years, was driving the bail bondsman’s older model Cadillac with Whelan riding shotgun. They had bound and gagged Ross, the bondsman, and stuffed him in a closet in his office.

  Larsen was driving north on Orient Road toward Interstate 4. “What’s the plan?” he said.

  “The people back at Earl’s Place will be singing like birds any minute now. They know you worked with Ross. The cops will go to the bond office and find him. Then they’ll be looking for this car. We need to get you out of town in a hurry.”

  “What about Sharon and the boys?”

  “They go too. It’s been a long time, but Levell told us always to have a safe haven available in case something like this should occur. I assume you have one.”

  “Sure,” Larsen said. “One of my uncles was a bachelor. Had a cabin in the Green Swamp. It’s the part that isn’t in the state’s wildlife management area. I was his favorite nephew. When he died, he left it to me. That was a long time ago; pretty much everyone has forgotten about it.”

  “You check on it lately?”

  “Every six months or so. It’ll do for now.”

  “How fast can you get Sharon and the kids in gear?”

  “Are you kidding? We’re talking about Sharon, you know. When has she ever done anything in a hurry?”

  “Sharon and the boys need to leave now. Call them.”

  Whelan pulled the cell phone Levell had provided from an inside pocket of his suit coat and handed it to the other man.

  Larsen glanced at it. “I got my own phone.”

  “Yours is easily traceable. This one isn’t.”

  The Man With No Neck took the phone and dialed a number. After a moment or two he said, “Hey. Remember the line of work I was in when we met and got married? And remember how that ended, but we knew that someday it might come back to be a problem for us?” He paused, then said, “Today’s the day. You and the boys need to get the hell out of the house right now. Do not stop to pack anything or waste a minute of time.”

  As he listened to his wife’s response, his jaw muscles tightened visibly. “Dammit, Sharon, don’t argue with me on this! Do you remember why we’ve been living under assumed identities for damn near twenty years? Once the government knows I’m alive, they’ll come after me to complete the death warrant, and they’ll start with you and the boys. Now get your asses out of there!”

  Larsen turned and looked at Whelan. “She wants to know where she should go.”

  “Tampa International, long-term parking, southwest quadrant, level three near the elevators.”

  Larsen relayed the information to his wife, then terminated the call. “Women,” he said, as he handed the phone back to Whelan.

  The Irishman studied an image he had punched up on Google Maps, then dialed the number given him by Major Tom Pederson. After three rings, Pederson answered.

  “Major, it’s your acquaintance from the airport. I need you to drive a friend of our mutual friend and his family somewhere, about two hours round trip. Use your personal vehicle.”

  Whelan gave him the same directions they had given Sharon Larsen, then punched the disconnect key.

  Larsen already had turned west on Interstate 275 toward the airport. “How long do we stay holed up in the cabin?”

  “I’ll let Levell know your situation. He’ll see that the Society provides you with the necessary identities, location, and funds. He’ll let you know when and where the Dogs will reunite. In the meantime, here’s some cash to tide you over.” Whelan handed Larsen a thousand dollars from the money he had received from Rhee. Then he opened his briefcase and took out the revolver he had acquired at the bail bond office. He slipped it under the front seat. “It’s Ross’s weapon. Just in case you need it.”

  “What about you? What’s your agenda?”

  “After my adventures here, I should cover my tracks. I’ll catch a direct nonstop flight to Charlotte on US Airways. The Society will have a car waiting for me. I’ll drive down to Atlanta and catch a plane from there.”

  “Where to?”

  Whelan smiled. “Hawaii,” he said.

  “Hawaii? Damn. You do have the luck of the Irish. Which one of us is in Hawaii?”

  “Stensen.”

  “Stensen? I’m surprised he’s still alive. You suppose he’s still crazy?”

  “Always was, always will be.”

  Larsen shook his head. It seemed to swivel on the neckless shoulders. “Watch yourself around him,” he said.

  24 Travel Companions

  Mitch Christie had worked late at the Bureau’s Atlanta field office then spent a restless night at a hotel near the airport. The room had been comfortable enough, but Christie couldn’t get his mind off the case he was working. There were so many pieces, but what did they mean? How many pieces were still missing? He sensed that timing was essential, but things just weren’t moving fast enough to suit him.

  He was groggy the next morning when he checked out of the hotel and cabbed to the terminal. The two cups of coffee he drank while waiting to board his 8:20 a.m. flight to San Francisco only soured his stomach. He hoped to get some sleep on the five and one half hour flight. He wanted to be sharp for his interview with the geneticist, William Nishioki.

  Flying Business Class, Christie was among the first to board the Boeing 767. He stuffed his briefcase in the overhead bin and settled into his window seat, hoping the aisle seat next to him wouldn’t be occupied. He wasn’t in a mood for chitchat. He was soon disappointed. A tall, good-looking man with an athletic build and an air of quiet confidence about him slipped his carry-on suitcase into the overhead bin above Christie. He slid into his seat in what seemed to Christie to be a single fluid motion, and stowed a small briefcase under the seat in front of him.

  Christie, his cop instincts always in play, sized up his traveling companion. He judged the man to be a few years younger than himself with smooth, even features, light brown hair that was well groomed, neither long nor short, and a trimmed moustache. His blue eyes were the color of Alpine glacial ice, striking but cold. Christie had never seen eyes like that. There was a physical presence about the man that Christie couldn’t identify—he looked like he could have been a professional athlete or Hollywood action hero. Unhappy with his own physical appearance due to the rigors of his job—insufficient sleep, eating on the run, and little time for physical exercise—Christie felt pangs of envy. The man was well dressed, and Christie appreciated that. He, too, was wearing a dark suit, the Bureau’s standard dress code. It seemed to him that airline passengers today, even in First and Business Classes, competed to see who could dress most like a slob.

  * * *

  Whelan had caught a flight directly from Tampa to Charlotte, North Carolina. Before leaving Tampa, he had spoken by phone with Levell following the instructions given him by Rhee, and brought him up to date on Larsen’s situation. In turn, Levell had arranged to have a car available for Whelan at the airport in Charlotte along with additional cash. He had driven the two hundred and fifty miles from Charlotte to the airport in Atlanta and spent the night at the Atlanta Airport Marriott Gateway. He left the car in the hotel parking lot, and one of Levell’s people picked it up.

  The next morning,
Whelan wiped down the hotel room, checked out and cabbed to the terminal to catch his flight to San Francisco, the first leg of the journey to Hawaii. In the airport, he found a men’s store and acquired fresh clothing. At a runner’s shop, he bought a comfortable pair of Brooks running shoes. He picked up a small carry-on suitcase at a luggage shop and packed it with his purchases. After a blueberry scone and a single cup of coffee with cream, he bought a Wall Street Journal and walked to his boarding gate, arriving as the First and Business Class passengers were boarding.

  Moving through the mob of fellow travelers crowding the entryway, he took in the scene with the eyes of a well-trained operative. And those of a man who had lived the past twenty years looking over his shoulder for possible pursuers. As the boarding line moved slowly forward, he pondered the human condition. Why, for example, did passengers whose tickets clearly had them boarding in later stages, crowd tightly around the boarding passage and all but block the way for those who had earlier boarding privileges. He also wondered what had happened to Americans in the past two decades that caused them to dress so shabbily for air travel.

  Boarding the plane, he assisted an older woman in stowing her luggage in the overhead bin. It gave him a chance to check out the plane and passengers already seated in First Class. It seemed a fairly nondescript group, but there was something about the tall, lean man sitting in the seat next to 3F, the one assigned to Whelan. It was as if he wore a sign proclaiming him a government cop. From his rumpled dark blue suit with mismatched green tie and brown shoes to his slumped posture, he looked the part of a career bureaucrat. There also was something about his expression, a sort of glum look as if he didn’t feel well. Was it his stomach? Although Whelan thought him to be about his same age, maybe a few years older, the man’s dark hair was graying and thinning, and his face was lined more than it should have been at that stage of life.

  Whelan sat down and nodded at the other man. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” the other man said, but it came out more as a grunt than a statement.

  A flight attendant appeared next to them. He was a chubby young man with decidedly feminine mannerisms. Placing a hand on Whelan’s shoulder he leaned in and said “Oooh, don’t you two gentlemen look handsome in your suits. I so wish more people saw fit to dress up for their air travel.” He smiled at Whelan who didn’t return the gesture. “May I get you gentlemen something to drink before we depart?”

  Whelan nodded at the other man, indicating he should go first. The man ordered soda water. The stomach thing, Whelan thought.

  The attendant turned to Whelan. “What may I get for you?” He squeezed Whelan’s shoulder.

  Whelan didn’t like being touched by anyone who didn’t have his express invitation. That was a short list populated solely by the members of his immediate family. “Water,” he said.

  “Seems a little light in his loafers, doesn’t he,” said the man next to him after the flight attendant left.

  “At least he’s cheerful.”

  The other man stuck his hand out. “I’m Mitch Christie,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mitch.” Whelan shook his hand. “Mike Murkowski.”

  “Not that you look like a talkative kind of guy, Mike, but I thought I’d tell you that I have some sleeping to catch up on. Hope you’re not offended.”

  “Nope. I plan to bury myself in the Journal.” He held up the folded newspaper.

  “Good reading,” Christie said, then patted the breast of his coat, where his phone had started vibrating. He pulled it out of an inside pocket, looked at the screen, then pressed the receive button. “Yeah, this is Christie.”

  Whelan pulled the first section of the Wall Street Journal away from the remaining three and placed them in the seat pocket in front of him. He opened the paper and began to read the op-eds while eavesdropping on Christie’s phone conversation. There was something about the man that shouted, “Fed”.

  “Yeah, Deutch, has Forensics got good news for a change?” Christie said. He listened for several moments, then said, “That is good news, John. So there were DNA records at the Agency and you got a DNA match with one of those supposedly dead guys. Which one?”

  Christie listened to Deutch’s reply, then suddenly leaned forward in his seat. “Whelan? Are you certain about that, Deutch? If he’s still alive, maybe more of them are, too. Maybe the crash was staged.”

  It was all Whelan could do to stifle a reaction. Suddenly, the ambient temperature wasn’t as cool and comfortable as Whelan would have liked. He reached up and fully opened the air conditioning valve above his seat. So much for the theory that there are no such things as coincidences, he thought. Of all the seats on all the planes going to San Francisco today, I end up sitting next to a Fed who’s involved in the investigation involving Harold Case.

  “All right, good work, John,” Christie said into the phone. “What other information do we have on this guy? Photos? Next of kin? Background materials?”

  Christie was silent for a moment, then said, “Okay, see if you can switch me over to Lou Antonelli at HQ.”

  A few more moments passed, then Christie said, “Lou, you know we got a match on the DNA?” He listened to the response from the other end, then said, “Yeah, Brendan Whelan. What else do we have on him?”

  He began to repeat what Antonelli was telling him.“ A twenty-year-old photo of a young guy in combat gear, face covered in camo paint. Some bio info. Born in Ireland, raised in the U.S. Parents are dead. Not much to go on. Most of the files with personal information on these guys was lost or destroyed over the years.”

  Christie stared at the back of the seat in front of him for a few moments. Whelan could almost hear the wheels turning.

  Christie made a decision and said, “Lou, get me a copy of that photo. I’m on my way to San Francisco. Wire the photo to the field office there and have someone bring it to me at the airport when I get in around ten-thirty their time.”

  Christie hung up just as the flight attendant returned with the beverages. He unscrewed the cap from the small bottle of club soda and took a swig. He tried to politely disguise the resulting belch. “You ever have stomach problems, Mike?” he said to Whelan.

  “I think I’m about to develop some,” Whelan said.

  25 San Francisco

  Seated next to the FBI agent—Christie, Whelan watched him throughout the flight. The agent slept fitfully on the flight to San Francisco, waking frequently and struggling to find a comfortable position. By the time the plane landed, his suit, rumpled when he got on the plane, looked as if he had engaged in trench warfare in it.

  Whelan coolly reviewed his situation. The Bureau knew he was alive, and that he had killed Case and his bodyguards. Worse, they seemed to have a photograph of him from the CIA’s files. An old photograph to be sure, but it added to the risk factors. He had options. He could kill Christie and prop him up in his seat to look as if he were in a deep sleep. But the deed would be discovered before he could safely exit the airport. He could tail Christie in the airport and hope to find an opportunity to terminate him. But he had overheard him planning to be met at the arrival gate by someone from the Bureau’s San Francisco field office. Escaping after killing two or three agents in a crowded airport terminal didn’t seem realistic.

  Whelan realized this unscheduled turn of events required a change of plans. He was to have caught an afternoon flight from San Francisco to Honolulu. The ticket would be waiting for him at the Delta Airlines counter. Instead, he would have to call Levell and arrange alternate travel plans. Levell also would have to arrange to change the Delta flight to another destination and get someone to fly using the Murkowski name. To mislead the Bureau, it had to appear as if Murkowski actually had flown to the new destination.

  * * *

  As the plane taxied toward the arrival gate, Christie sat up from his slumped position and attempted to straighten his jacket. He fished his cell phone from his pocket, checked the directory for the number of the FBI�
�s San Francisco Field Office, and punched it. When the call went through, Christie said, “Newell? This is Mitch Christie. Has Lou Antonelli from HQ been in communication with you?”

  “Yes. We got the photo. I sent an agent, Dave O’Connor, to meet you at your arrival gate. You need a car or anything from us?”

  “No thanks. I have a rental lined up. Just need that photo. I’ll be looking for someone at the arrival gate.” He disconnected, checked his email for anything that might seem urgent, decided there wasn’t any and put the phone away.

  When the plane docked at the arrival gate, both men stood in the aisle and retrieved their respective bags. “It’s been nice traveling with you, Mike,” Christie said. “I hope my tossing and turning didn’t disturb you.”

  “Not at all. It reminded me how hard it is to get any decent sleep these days.”

  The First and Business Class passengers deplaned first. The two men walked up the gangway in silence. At the top, Christie spotted a man holding a small sign that said “Mr. Christie” and went over to him.

  * * *

  Whelan kept walking, even picking up the pace briskly. He wanted to call Levell, but knew he needed to get clear of the terminal without delay. He took the escalator to the ground transportation level, walked past the baggage claim areas and exited the building. He was in luck. There was a very short line at the cabstand. In moments he was on his way to the Red Roof Inn south of the airport on Anza and Airport Boulevards.

  The driver let him off in front of the hotel. He entered the lobby and was relieved to see the desk clerk was preoccupied with a check out. Striding confidently and purposefully as if headed to a specific room or location, he went across the lobby and exited the building on the other side. He went across Anza Boulevard and entered the Crown Plaza. Once inside, he located a pay phone and, using the thin leather gloves, picked up the receiver and called the number he had memorized. He let it ring three times and hung up. Less than a minute later his Smartphone rang. It was Levell.