He put his arms around her and pulled her close, held her in a tight embrace. He felt her firm, supple body pressed against his, and didn’t want to let her go. His return to the States was only a day or two away. He kissed her slowly, deeply, passionately, as he slid his hands slowly down the small of her back, savoring every second of intimacy.
As they separated, she said, “Was that your interest I felt rising?”
“Indeed you did,” Whelan said.
They both laughed and, arm in arm, they strolled into the inn.
* * *
Tom and Ciara Murphy lived in a cozy, centuries-old farmhouse a few miles outside of Dingle. It was a two-story structure with dormer windows on the second floor and a chimney at either end of the house. The original thatched roof had long since been replaced with slate tiles. It sat along the coast road surrounded by the famous lush, verdant fields of Ireland. Growing up, it was the only home Caitlin and her brother, Padraig, had known.
Whelan enjoyed visiting the Murphys. They had accepted him as if he were their own son, something that didn’t seem to trouble Padraig at all. In fact, he and Padraig had grown close, almost as brothers. He knew there was nothing the Murphys wouldn’t do for him, and he felt the same about them.
Ciara greeted them at the door with warm embraces. In her early sixties, she remained a striking woman. She was not as tall as her daughter, but it was clear where Caitlin had gotten her raven hair, cobalt blue eyes, alabaster skin, and slender curves`.
Outside Ireland, some people may have assumed the women inherited their dark hair from the ‘Black Irish’, ironically a term unknown in Ireland. Some believe the misconception may based on the assumption that survivors of the Spanish Armada, destroyed off the shores of Dingle Peninsula in 1588, swam ashore and intermarried with the indigenous Celtic peoples. In reality, the numbers of such survivors wouldn’t have been significant. More recent genetic research suggested that any connection with the Spanish is attributable to the original Celtic peoples migrating to Ireland from Northern Spain twenty five hundred years ago.
Padraig, Caitlin’s older brother, and his family had arrived earlier. His wife, Megan, and their two boys were sitting in the large family area near the fireplace. Even in August, the nights often had a chill to them. When Sean and Declan spotted their cousins they fist-bumped them, then all four boys ran outside to play soccer. It would keep them occupied until dinnertime.
Tom and Padraig were in the small, but well organized and spotless kitchen. They looked up as Whelan entered. Each gave him a bear hug. Both men were about six feet tall and brawny. Tom, in his mid-sixties, was ramrod straight. He had sandy brown hair flecked with gray, a square chin, and large hands. Padraig was the image of his father, but without the gray flecks.
“So,” Tom said, “my daughter tells me you’ll soon be off to the States again.”
“Regrettably,” Whelan said. “There’s unfinished business there.”
Tom reached into a cabinet and brought out three tumblers, placing one in front of each of the them. He pulled a bottle of Old Bushmills Black Bush Irish whiskey from a cabinet next to the sink and poured a generous amount into each tumbler. He held his glass up to the light and looked admiringly at its contents. “No one distills whiskey as well as the Irish,” he said.
All three men took a large sip and rolled it around on their tongues before swallowing.
“As good as life gets,” Padraig said, and the three of them drained their glasses.
When Tom had poured another round, he said, “Brendan, as a father, I thought there would never be a man good enough for my Caitlin.” He paused and took a sip of his whiskey. “When you first started courtin’ her, I thought you were just some damned American ex-pat lookin’ for a barroom brawl and a wench to bed…. I was wrong. Truth is, she couldn’t have done better.”
“That means a great deal to me, Tom, but I doubt any man is worthy of Caitlin,” Whelan said.
Tom raised his hand as if to cut him off. “What I’m trying to say, Brendan, is that you are as much a part of this family as any of us. You’re like a second son to Ciara and me, a brother to Padraig. You’re the love of my daughter’s life, the father of two of my grandsons. If you’re in some kind of trouble, there’s nothin’ any of us wouldn’t do to help you.”
Whelan digested this last comment as he savored another sip of Black Bush. After a few moments, he said, “Tom…Paddy, I’m an Irishman. I was born here. This is my home.
“But I’m also an American. That country was very generous to my family and me. Gave us wonderful opportunities we might not have had anywhere else. Close friends of mine, people I care a great deal about, are struggling against a cancer they fear could destroy the country. They’ve asked for my involvement and I feel an obligation to help them.”
Tom looked into his tumbler and slowly sloshed the contents around. “Loyalty’s a powerful thing.” He looked up, unwaveringly into Whelan’s eyes. “I know Caitlin and the boys mean more to you than anythin’, but I also know that a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Paddy and I will see to your family while you’re away.”
Whelan nodded. “They couldn’t be safer. Thanks for understanding.”
Tom said, “Sometime back, while you were away, the Yanks’ Federal Bureau of Investigation sent a request for information to the Garda Síochána - the Irish National Police force. It was about you. Fortunately, Paddy saw it and notified me. I deleted it from the District records.” Tom paused and took a sip of his drink. “Right after that, no more than a few days, we learned through security channels that the Yanks had called the whole thing off. Apparently that order came from very high up in the U.S. government.”
“Interesting,” Whelan said.
“More so than you may think, Tom said. “I have a friend who is the District Superintendent in one of our northern counties in Leinster. We were in the SBS together. I saved his life in that bit o’ nastiness in the Falklands in ‘eighty-two.” He nodded at Paddy, indicating he should contribute to the conversation.
“Less than a week later,” Paddy said, “Da and I learned from our friend in Leinster that two gents claiming to be FBI agents would be travelin’ south from Belfast. We knew the FBI had rescinded their request to the Garda Síochána, so these men were imposters.”
“What was their purpose?” Whelan said.
“Using some nicely forged credentials, they claimed they were looking for a rogue Yank Special Ops person who had gone to ground in Ireland. That sound like anyone you might know?” Paddy grinned as he said it.
“In retrospect, I should have adopted an alias like my colleagues who stayed in the States. What happened to these imposters?”
“They were…shall we say, intercepted just before they crossed the border.”
“Intercepted?” Whelan said. “And after they were ‘intercepted’?”
Tom and Paddy glanced at each other. “They were kind enough to answer some questions before they went swimmin’ in a deep lough not far from Castleblaney on the Brits’ side o’ the border. It was made to look like the deed was done by the Northerners,” Tom said, referring to the citizens of Northern Ireland.
“A permanent swim?” Whelan said.
“Yes.”
“What did you learn from them?”
“We wanted to know if they already had any information that would lead them or their colleagues to you here in Dingle.”
“And?”
“Well now,” Tom said with a slight shake of his head, “turns out they didn’t know a bloody thing, just followin’ orders, it seems. They were sent here based on old records that showed your family immigrated to America from the area around Shannon in County Clare.” He paused and looked directly into Whelan’s eyes with a steady gaze. “Seems they knew you were in the States. They were after any family you might have.” He paused. “Like Caitlin and the boys.”
An icy chill shot through Whelan. It was slowly replaced by a mixture of concern for hi
s family and rage against those who might harm them. “There may be more of them as time goes by. Under these circumstances, I can’t go back to the States and leave my family.”
Tom shook his head. “As you just said, you’ve got a job to finish there. You can rest assured that someone is always watching your family here.”
“But there’s only two of you,” Whelan said.
“Look, everyone in this whole bloody area loves you and Caitlin and the boys. Many of them are relatives of ours or dear friends. There are armed men watchin’ over the Fianna day and night, as well as wherever your family members go. No strangers will get near them, I can assure you of that. Not live ones leastways.”
Paddy, who had remained silent in deference to his father, said, “Clearly, you’re a man with an interesting past, Brendan. It would appear that you’re caught up in something that has to do with that past.”
Tom put his empty tumbler down on the countertop. He seemed to search for his next words. “Just about the time you went to the States back at the first of the year, some senator over there made a big deal of exposing an old CIA-military special operations unit. Paddy and I”—he shot a glance at his son, who nodded—“have been wonderin’ if you were a part of that.”
Whelan stood silently for a long time looking back and forth at the other men. Finally, he said, “Yes.” He thought about his next words for a moment. “I have some…associates with me in this venture.”
“And are these associates also part of the same special ops unit?”
“Yes.”
A sense of relief seemed to come over Tom. “Christ,” he said, “I feel better already. C’mon, lads, let’s eat.”
* * *
Late that evening, after Whelan and his family had returned to the Fianna House, he lay awake with Caitlin wrapped in his arms. The boys were long in bed. He and Caitlin had made long, slow, patient, yet passionate love. They were intimately familiar with each other’s bodies and the ways that pleasured each of them to the point of ecstasy and beyond. It was much more than lovemaking. It was a breathless, dizzying sojourn on Olympus.
Afterwards, an exhausted Caitlin quickly fell asleep in his arms. Whelan, though, lay there in the dark pondering the question marks swirling around his future. That future would start immediately with his return to the United States and the final reunion of the Sleeping Dogs.
Chapter 42 Hart Senate Office Building
Howard Morris sipped his coffee and listened to his political strategist, Shepard Jenkins, discuss his thoughts for their next move. “The election is little more than a year away, Howard. We want to continue to build momentum leading up to your announcement as a candidate for president.”
Morris set his cup down angrily. “That damned incumbent still hasn’t given any sign he’s not going to run for reelection. How do we deal with that?”
Jenkins spoke soothingly. “That’s Laski’s area of responsibility. He’s assured us the president won’t run again, and I take him at his word. He got the man elected the first time around. Let him deal with this. What we need to focus on is enhancing your image on the national stage.”
“The sonofabitch is taking his sweet-assed time. I need to be in full campaign mode. When…and if, the president does step aside, there will be a shit load of others in the party who will covet the job.”
“Maybe not. Laski is the power behind the throne. If he says you’re the one, anyone else is just going to be wasting money running against you for the party’s nod.”
Morris took a deep breath and exhaled a long sigh. “Alright, Shep, what’s next on the agenda?”
“Although you’ve been busy with public appearances and related PR work, the media hasn’t been giving you enough coverage lately. We need to change that.”
“How?”
“You got quite a boost some months back when you revealed information on the old CIA Sleeping Dogs operation.”
“So? That’s stale news now.”
Jenkins smiled. “It’s time to breath new life into it.”
Morris had a puzzled look. “And just how do we do that?”
“Not surprisingly, Laski’s organization has someone at the FBI who’s been leaking information to it. According to this source, the plane crash that was supposed to have killed the remaining members of that unit was staged.”
“Staged?”
“Yes. They’re still alive, Howard.”
Morris sat back in his chair slowly. “My God. Are you sure about this?”
Jenkins nodded vigorously. “The FBI has sufficient evidence to believe it. They were in the process of tracking them down, but were told to back off.”
“Back off? Why?”
Jenkins shrugged. “I was told by Laski’s people that they have something in mind for these survivors; something to do with your campaign. They don’t want them apprehended just yet. They sent word through the AG’s office to step it down.”
“So what are you suggesting I do?”
“It’s time for another presser. Let the media know that you have discovered the crash was a sham and these guys are still alive.”
43 Western North Carolina
Less than a week later, Whelan was back in the States. He lay awake in his bunk in the drafty old cottage that had been home to the Dogs during their training exercises over much of the past six months. Levell had carefully selected the site for its remoteness and rugged environment. Determining who owned the property would require a lifetime of effort by a skilled title searcher. The dwelling was made of fieldstones mortared together many decades ago. The sagging trusses supported a roof of cedar shake shingles that were warped with age and darkened with the accumulation of mold. The interior was chilly and damp, and smelled faintly of mildew. It sat in a small clearing in the midst of a thick, old growth forest in the mountains adjacent to the Pisgah National Forest, not far from the town of Brevard. An umbrella of tall Fraser firs and red spruces, trees that only grew above the four thousand foot mark in the Southern Appalachians, blocked much of the sunlight. A few small, grimy windows filtered out most of the sparse light trickling through the thick canopy of branches. It created an atmosphere of perennial gloom. Although officially referred to as “the Cabin”, Whelan and the others had redubbed the place “the Cavern”. Almeida referred to it as “Hotel California”. He said the place reminded him of a line in an Eagles song: “You can check out anytime you like/but you can never leave”. The Cabin was part of a larger encampment known simply as “the Camp”.
It was four-thirty in the morning and Whelan could hear the other Dogs stirring restlessly in their beds. The late geneticist, Jacob Horowitz, had suggested that their difficulty achieving deep slumber was a trait of their genetic construct. He proposed that, because they were disposed to be warrior-like in attitude and physicality, it was their nature to be alert and ready to respond to threats at all times, even when sleeping.
The long six months of conditioning and training exercises had had the desired effects on their bodies, knowledge bases and reflexes. But it also had become boring, the day after day repetitiveness of the exercises and assignments. Even the benefits of the brief ten-day respite allowing them to visit their families—those who had families—had quickly worn off. When he thought of Caitlin and his sons, the familiar ache welled up deep within his chest.
All of the men were growing restless, including Whelan. They wanted to carry out the mission, whatever it would be, and get on with their lives. Like the others, he’d grown weary of the endless exercises. Some Dogs had been in better condition than others. Despite his expressed desires to the contrary, “Colonel” Rafe Almeida had been rounded up forcibly by Larsen and brought into the fold. After a few days, he’d realized that it was the only thing he had going—the promised payoff at the conclusion of their mysterious mission was substantial. Just the same, Almeida rarely stopped grousing or whining.
Even the philosopher, Quentin Thomas, had undergone a change of heart and showed up in th
e second week, on a year’s sabbatical from the university. When Whelan had asked him why he changed his mind, Thomas said, “Guys like us need to live our lives on the surface of our bodies, not hiding deep in its interior like wusses. I felt myself withdrawing from the surface, growing stale. I need this challenge. I need to know that I’m still good enough.” With the exception of Almeida, they all had arrived in excellent physical condition. Even Almeida had improved noticeably in the past six months—part of that was due to the rigor of the program and part was due to the particulars of their genetics.
Finally, Whelan kicked off the thin blanket that was ineffective against the mountain chill, and stood up. Padding into a small bathroom, he brushed his teeth and stared at his unshaven countenance in the mirror. He affected a snarl and was reminded of an old movie. The Wolfman returns, he thought. He pulled on a pair of ragged cargo shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes, and went outside. Although it was still dark, he could see the small glows of gas grills in the mess tent a hundred yards away. The smell of coffee and breakfast foods sifted through the trees and he realized he was hungry. Breakfast was at five o’clock. Those who were on time ate. Latecomers had to wait until lunch.
As he approached the tent, he could hear sounds of bacon sizzling in frying pans and saw the cook and her helper moving about. He was almost to the tent when he noticed someone sitting on an old tree stump, holding a cup of coffee. The steam wafted slowly up in the chill air, creating a dancing pattern above the rim. The man held the cup with both hands as if to capture the warmth. It was Buster McCoy. “Morning, Whelan,” he said from behind the cup.
“General.” Whelan nodded at him as he took a cup from the stack on one of the long wooden folding tables. He drew some coffee from the urn that was next to the cups.
“Come and sit over here,” McCoy said. “I’m glad to have a chance to talk with you one-on-one.”
Whelan sat on the damp, cold ground near McCoy and leaned back against a red spruce that was at least eighty feet tall. The cook was several generations a southerner and had added chicory to the coffee. It brought a distinct bitterness to the already dark, potent brew. He blew across the top of the cup to cool the surface, then took a sip and savored the strong taste.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 21