Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  35 New Orleans

  Whelan woke up the next morning feeling stale and listless. He knew the cure was a hard workout. The fitness equipment in the hotel was far too inferior for what he needed. He checked out of the hotel and drove a few miles down Veteran’s Parkway to a facility. It occupied two floors and offered the equipment he sought. It even had an outdoor track that circled the roof. His disguise would have impeded the workout, so he took a chance that Levell was right about his calls being secure, and left it in his suitcase. He spent two hours on the weights and machines; being very careful not to draw attention to himself by the amount of weights he hefted. He topped the workout off with another thirty minutes on the track doing sprint work. In spite of the cool January temperature, sweat was running off him in small, steady rivulets when he was finished.

  He showered and dressed at the fitness center, then stopped for a late breakfast at a pancake house on Veteran’s Boulevard. Afterwards, as he navigated the rental car onto the access ramp for I-310, he was surprised to learn it was almost one o’clock in the afternoon. That meant it was going on seven p.m. in Ireland. He picked up his cell phone and dialed.

  His older son picked up on the third ring. “Hello, the Fianna Bed and Breakfast. Sean speaking.” He spoke with a distinctive Gaelic accent, which the boys affected whenever they spoke to guests at the B and B or around Caitlin’s family. Other times, the boys spoke American accented English like their father

  The name, the Fianna House, had been Caitlin’s choice. In Celtic mythology, the Fianna were a caste of elite warriors who protected the high king of Ireland. They were thought to be almost godlike in their martial prowess. Caitlin thought of her husband as a contemporary version of a Fianna warrior. It had become something of an insider’s joke. Tourists generally thought Fianna was a lady’s name and frequently asked if she was about. The boys, Sean and Declan, had grown weary of trying to explain its meaning, so when asked, simply would say, “She’s on holiday”.

  A warm glow spread through Whelan’s chest. “Hi, son. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Dad! Where are you? Are you coming home?”

  Whelan felt a mixture of homesickness and guilt. “No, Sean, not yet. There still are some business details that need to be wrapped up.”

  “Oh.” There was disappointment in his voice. “Then when will you be coming home?”

  “As soon as I can, son. But I’m not sure just when that will be.” He shifted the subject. “How are you and your brother doing in school?”

  “Well, I guess you heard about the fight.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seamus O’Donnell picked a fight with me and I finished it.”

  “I’ve always told you and Declan not to start fights. But if someone else does, it’s good to be the one who finishes it.”

  “Seamus won’t be picking another one with me.”

  Whelan smiled at the thought of Sean taking down the much larger O’Donnell boy. He knew the O’Donnell family, and knew that Seamus was a bully. His father, Aidan, was a mean drunk who sometimes started problems in the local pubs, especially with tourists. Now that the main industry of the town of Dingle had changed from commercial fishing to tourism, Aiden O’Donnell’s behavior was viewed as a threat to the economy. Whelan’s brother-in-law, Padraig, sergeant-in-charge of the sub-district, spent much of his time keeping a tight lid on O’Donnell’s antics.

  Aidan even came at Whelan with a cricket bat on one occasion. Whelan beat him so badly that he needed two weeks in the hospital in Tralee, the nearest town of any size. The thirty-eight inch bats typically are made out of solid willow and weigh about three pounds. Used as a cudgel, it can be lethal. To send a message to any other would-be assailants, Whelan snapped the bat over his knee in the crowded pub, a feat thought to be humanly impossible.

  “I’m sure the lad has learned a valuable lesson,” Whelan said. “But keep your eyes open. You don’t want him creeping up behind you and splitting your handsome skull.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. Declan and I can handle ourselves.”

  “I know you can.”

  He heard Caitlin in the background asking Sean who was on the phone.

  Sean handed it over to her. “Bren, are you all right?” she said. There was concern in her voice.

  “I’m fine, Cait,” he said. “I’m just homesick for you and the boys.” They spoke for several minutes. Whelan told her what he’d heard from Levell about the Bureau sending people through Ireland looking for information on him. He didn’t want her or the boys to be shocked if they heard it from someone who had been approached. With a population of about four and a half million people in Ireland, he assumed the Bureau would simplify their search by limiting the inquiry to law enforcement agencies. He asked Caitlin to let Paddy and her father, the Superintendent of the District Police Force, know about the Bureau’s actions.

  “It’s probably going to be several more weeks before I can come home, but if I can do anything to get there sooner, you know I will.”

  “Just promise me you’ll do nothing foolish, Bren.”

  “You know you can count on that, Cait. If it makes you feel better, I’ll be in the company of a group of old friends.”

  “Old friends?” she said. “Then they’re people I’ve never met.”

  “True, but not to worry. They’re very much like me.”

  She laughed and said, “More people like you? God help us all.”

  36 New York City

  Dimitri Nikitin and Kirill Federov rode in silence in the private elevator that was whisking them soundlessly to the top of the tallest residential structure in Manhattan. Nikitin, First Deputy Counselor to the Minister-Counselor for Trade at the Russian Embassy in Washington, had never ridden in such an elevator. It cost more, he thought, more than his humble dwelling in Moscow. He was uncomfortable in the silence, but had grown to expect it. His companion rarely spoke to him. Clearly, Federov considered him unworthy of conversation. Perhaps he was correct, Nikitin mused. After all, while he was merely a career bureaucrat, Federov was one step away from the president of the Russian Federation.

  Nikitin’s role tonight, as usual, was to provide cover for Federov’s meeting with Laski. It was designed to appear as though he, Nikitin, and Laski were meeting to discuss some international trade situation, and that Federov was merely accompanying him as his aide. In reality, the discussion would take place between Federov and Laski and had nothing to do with commerce or Nikitin.

  Seemingly motionless, the elevator had ascended almost nine hundred vertical feet above Fifth Avenue in New York’s Upper East Side. The door opened and the two men stepped out into an extraordinarily large foyer. They were met by a liveried servant who welcomed them to Chaim Laski’s primary residence in the city. Nikitin had never been here, but he had heard about this opulent penthouse that occupied the top three floors of the glass-skinned building. It contained almost fourteen hundred square meters, or more than fifteen thousand square feet, of living space, and included ten bedrooms, a large library, indoor/outdoor pool, sauna, two bars, private roof garden, movie theater, and a full gym. Nikitin knew the gym got a lot of use. Not by Laski, of course; he was in his late seventies. But he employed a number of husky, younger men for security purposes.

  The servant led the two Russians across the foyer, highlighted by a huge chandelier with thousands of cut glass droplets, and down a hallway. Nikitin was awed by the simple, yet elegant, Neo-Georgian motif of the place. The furniture was of dark woods. Some of the fancier pieces displayed ivory marquetry. The Toile de Jouy style of design was repeated in the upholstery of several winged armchairs and sofas. Many of them had ball and claw feet. Nikitin didn’t doubt the furniture was original Chippendale, Sheraton, and Hepplewhite.

  The high walls of the hallway and those of other rooms that opened off of it were divided into three sections. A paneled or decorated lower part was defined by a horizontal stained oak molding. A middle section was wallpapered in some p
arts, covered with fabric panels in others, or painted rich but muted golds, yellows, reds, or deep blues. An upper area with picture rails was hung with expensive looking artwork and elaborately carved friezes. Even the ceilings were painted. There were classical style busts, statues and silhouette pictures at various points along the hallway. Although it was not to his personal and somewhat proletarian tastes, Nikitin conceded that a fortune had been invested in the design and furnishing of the place.

  Like a good Marxist, Dimitri Nikitin had been dutifully raised to despise Western capitalism as the scourge of civilization. Yet, as he looked around, he could not avoid feeling envy and a wistful desire to experience even a fraction of the wealth and opulence that surrounded him. How is it, he wondered, that it was Chaim Laski who was chosen for this role? Why not him? Laski enjoyed the life of a multibillionaire, while he, Dimitri Nikitin, was relegated to the ignominy of a mid-level bureaucrat. One whose career involved little more than shuffling papers and following orders.

  Nikitin admired the flawlessly waxed natural wood flooring and rugs in neo-classical or Turkish designs that had to be impossibly expensive. He glanced into other rooms as they passed by. Each seemed to have a fireplace of what appeared to be white marble. The rooms along the exterior walls of the building were floor to ceiling glass.

  Eventually the hallway opened into another large area. In the middle, a marble and wrought iron staircase spiraled up three stories in a glass-topped atrium. Nikitin couldn’t resist the urge to gaze up through the glass at the night sky above. He regretted the action almost instantly and could feel Federov’s contempt toward him for behaving like a tourist. He despised Federov. But the man also frightened him. Federov was a tall man, almost two meters in height – Americans would say he was about six feet three inches tall. He had broad shoulders and the trim physique of an athlete. Nikitin knew that Federov, like Putin, was an expert judo-ka, and that he also was a former Olympic marksman. He’d heard the rumors circulating in the embassy that Federov was a former member of the Spetsnaz GRU, Russia’s top Special Forces group. If the rumors were true, and he believed they were, Federov indeed was a man to be feared.

  They were led across the room and around the staircase to another elevator on the far side. This second elevator serviced the three floors of the penthouse as well as the garden and pool area on the roof. The servant pressed a button and the door slid open. Federov shouldered his way past Nikitin. The butler reached in and pressed the top button on the control panel. “Mr. Laski is awaiting you by the pool, gentlemen,” he said in a clipped British accent.

  Again they rode in silence. Nikitin was relieved when the door opened and they exited the elevator onto the rooftop garden area. It was glass enclosed and temperature controlled. The verdant plant life seemed to thrive in the warm, humid atmosphere.

  A very large man, larger than Federov, was waiting for them. He wasn’t wearing servant’s livery, but instead wore an ill-fitting wool suit in a badly dated style still common in Eastern European countries. The large man raised an arm and pointed down a walkway that wove through a lush green area. “He is waiting there.”

  The two men followed the path to the pool area. Beyond it, Central Park spread out below. The pool was both indoors and outdoors, with a glass wall separating the two sections. The outdoors area was enclosed in a glass dome. There also were bar areas on both sides of the glass partition. A man was sitting on a stool in the outdoor bar area sipping a drink of some kind. He wore light gray slacks and a dark blue polo shirt with thin red horizontal stripes. The man’s neck and shoulders were thickly muscled and his arms bulged against the fabric of his shirtsleeves. He regarded the two Russians for a brief moment, then turned away almost contemptuously. Federov bristled at the effrontery, but Nikitin simply shrugged. What do I care, he thought; this man is just another member of Laski’s hired muscle.

  Near the pool was a custom-built granite hot tub. Laski, naked, sat on the edge. A young woman, also naked, was on her knees with her head between his wrinkled, saggy legs, performing oral sex on the elderly man. Laski saw the two Russians and waved them over. He tapped the young woman on top of her head and she looked up. He motioned for her to leave. She dove into the pool, swam under the glass partition and disappeared into the interior part of the house.

  Federov appeared to be oblivious, but Nikitin was horrified at the scene. It is an outrage, he thought, that this flabby, wrinkled old man engages in such an act with an attractive young woman. He looked at Laski, who had just stood up. His penis is all shriveled up, he thought. Why, then, does the man do these things? Because he likes to humiliate the woman? Because he can afford to do it? Because he is a sick old bastard? All of the above? It was a mighty struggle on Nikitin’s part not to show anger or revulsion. He never had cared for Laski. Now, he added loathing to dislike.

  Laski had wrapped himself in a thick Turkish towel. He walked over to a table near the bar. When they all were seated, Laski pointed to the man who was sitting at the bar, and in Russian said, “That is Maksym. He is in charge of my security matters.” He smiled darkly and added, “He is a most unusual man.”

  “How so?” Federov said.

  Still smiling, Laski said, “Let us pray you never have to find out, my dear comrade.”

  Federov shrugged and lit a cigarette, the first of many, but Nikitin turned to look at Maksym. The man was sitting motionless on the bar stool again staring at the two Russians. It was a look of unmistakable arrogance. Nikitin shivered in the warm, moist air. There was something deeply malignant and frightening about the man. He hurriedly lit a cigarette of his own.

  “So,” Federov said, “we are having this meeting so you can report on the progress you are making in achieving our next set of goals. What do you have?”

  Laski picked up a pair of glasses off the tabletop and put them on. “We are progressing as planned, everything is on schedule.”

  “Tell me about this new scheme of yours,” Federov said.

  “Our source within the Society”—Laski scoffed at the word—“tells us that some members of the special operations group uncovered by Howard Morris are still alive. Further, the Society intends to employ these so-called Sleeping Dogs in their efforts to stop our progress. In doing so, they will provide us with the perfect cover for our own activities.”

  “How?” Federov said.

  “We will make it appear that they are crazed right-wing anarchists on a massive spree of terrorism at the direction of the military and intelligence communities. Moderate and independent voters will swarm to our candidates, seeking protective action. With the White House and a super majority in both houses of Congress, we will complete the dismantling of traditional American society.”

  He paused, then said, “There is, however, a small, unanticipated problem.”

  Federov snorted derisively. “Another problem? You seem to have a talent for attracting such things. First, Harold Case’s information ends up in Levell’s hands. Following that, you engaged in some foolishness in the UK that resulted in two of our operatives, posing as agents of the FBI, disappearing. With the Society’s assistance, the FBI could add up the dots…”

  “I believe you mean connect the dots, Kirill,” Laski said with a patronizing smile. “And I was able to derail the FBI’s efforts, was I not?”

  Federov exploded. “Fuck the dots! And do not address me as Kirill. I am Colonel Federov to you.”

  Laski made a dismissive motion. “This is a small matter. By now, I would hope you would be well enough aware of my acumen in business and elsewhere that you would have confidence in my ability to deal with problems.”

  Federov again snorted in contempt. “Your acumen! Do not make me sick, you old fool. You give yourself undeserved credit. Mother Russia created your wealth, and it was done for one purpose. World order under Russian leadership. It is not to be used for having sex with young women.”

  Laski sat back in his chair, his face reddened slightly. “Surely you would permit
an old man a vice or two.”

  “You should be careful, comrade, how you spend the funds that are provided. You may appear to the world to be an investment genius, a titan of international finance. But, in reality, you are nothing more than a money distributor. We provide you with the means and the opportunities to acquire wealth, and we direct you where to apply it.” He pointed his finger at Laski and said, “It has taken us decades to co-opt critical American institutions such as labor unions, educational institutions, news media, entertainment industries, and others. We are close, very close to destroying American global power. It is not your job to indulge your vices and,” he opened his arms wide and looked around, “live like the fucking Czars. What we provide, we can take away as easily.” Federov allowed the threat to linger. “Now, what is this new problem you have ‘unexpectedly’ encountered?”

  “As I said previously, my dear Colonel, it is a minor thing and I already have put into motion the means for the solution. I shall be joined shortly by our good friends Senator Howard Morris and his strategist, Mr. Jenkins. It is Mr. Jenkins who is the actual pawn in my scheme, so we must take care to set him up properly.”

  “What is so special about this man Jenkins?” Dimitri Nikitin said. As usual, Federov and Laski ignored him. He slid lower into his chair and lit another cigarette.

  “Minor or not,” Federov said impatiently, “what is the nature of this problem?”

  Laski smiled benignly. “There are two aspects. Our adversaries, Mr. Levell in particular, are somewhat more astute than we originally credited them. Left unchecked, it is possible they could interfere significantly with the success of the plans that have been nearly a centuryin the making.”

  “And the second aspect?” Federov said.

  “The FBI’s Supervisory Special Agent for the Harold Case matter, a man named Christie, could become a problem.”