Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Levell was one of those present. Whelan and his colleagues made up another six. The remaining man, short and rotund with curly red hair and a full beard that matched, was a professor of Slavic languages and literature at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. He had been flown the sixty-five miles to this meeting by private helicopter at the request of his old friend, Clifford Levell. Professor Allan Nowicki was part of a plan Whelan and Levell had devised. They were concerned that if Maksym was expected to report in and didn’t, his handlers would try to find him. They likely would start with a call to his cell phone. If they couldn’t raise him, they would suspect he had been compromised, abort their plans, and cover their tracks. This would be a substantial setback to the Society’s long and diligent efforts to identify and neutralize their country’s enemies.

  To avoid this problem, Levell and Whelan planned to have Professor Nowicki, who was fluent in Polish, Russian, and Ukrainian, among other eastern European languages, answer Maksym’s phone and pretend to be him. It was something of a long shot, but Levell and Whelan had a few tricks designed to deflect suspicion.

  The cell phone lay nearby on a corner of the table. Maksym had been shackled and confined in the rock chamber beneath the manor home. It was the same one where Whelan had fought and killed the Ukrainian who had tried to abduct Mitch Christie’s family. Whelan and the others, especially Thomas, had favored killing Maksym at the warehouse. There was something about Maksym, however, that intrigued Levell. He wanted to learn more about him. He even had blood and DNA samples gathered from the man and sent for analysis at a lab in Alexandria that frequently did contract work for government agencies.

  Whelan was running ideas by Larsen and Stensen for the following day’s actions, including the planned assault that would follow on Laski’s lavish and heavily guarded compound in Potomac. Thomas sat at the far end of the table applying ice to his swollen jaw. Sitting in lotus position on the hard stone floor in one corner of the room, Kirkland meditated and practiced breathing exercises. Almeida was trying unsuccessfully to convince Levell that he worked harder than the others, and thus deserved more compensation when the mission was complete. Professor Nowicki was eating a large sandwich. Much of it was clinging to his beard and the front of his shirt.

  When Maksym’s cell phone rang, it immediately refocused everyone’s attention, including Kirkland’s. He sprang effortlessly to his feet and switched on two devices on the table next to the phone. One was designed to produce an electromagnetic interference that would create static in the phone call, helping to disguise differences in Maksym’s and Nowicki’s voices. The other device, an IMSI catcher, was a beta version of the latest military and intelligence equipment for intercepting cell phone calls and capturing phone ID data and content. The device imitated a GSM tower, enticing cell phones to send it data by emitting a stronger signal than legitimate towers in the area.

  The phone number of the incoming call wasn’t one that Levell or the others recognized. Levell planned to send it to a Society member at the Bureau for identification.

  Nowicki had put down his sandwich and waddled along the table to the spot where Maksym’s phone was. Levell nodded at him and he picked it up and pressed the answer icon. “Yes?” he said in Ukrainian.

  There was a momentary pause, then Laski said in Russian, “Why is there so much static on the line?”

  Nowicki glanced at Levell, then said, also in Russian, “It’s this damn warehouse.”

  “You sound a little strange. Are you all right?”

  Nowicki was beginning to sweat and his hand shook a bit. “Yes, I am having an allergic reaction to the dust and the chemicals that were stored here over the years.” He coughed for effect.

  There was the sound of a snort. “I thought you were supposed to be all but invincible. Unfortunately, I need you to remain there until you receive Federov’s call that the operation has been successful. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  Laski shifted the subject. “How is our guest doing?” He was referring to Levell, whom he supposed was still a captive.

  “Fine.”

  “Excellent, but I trust you will not let him be too comfortable.” Laski laughed at his own attempt at humor. When there was no response from the other end, he added, “Well, Maksym, I have come to accept that it is not your nature to be a conversationalist. When you receive Federov’s call, see that our guest departs.” He paused. “And to be on the safe side, see that your two associates depart with him as well. I will see you back here tomorrow afternoon.”

  Laski disconnected the call, and Professor Nowicki pressed the ‘End’ button on Maksym’s cell phone and placed it back on the table. All eyes turned toward Levell. He looked at Kirkland and said, “What was the calling number?”

  Kirkland read it off the IMSI catcher.

  Levell pulled his own cell phone from the holster clipped to his belt and dialed a number from memory. When the call was answered at the other end, he repeated the number and added, “I need that number immediately. And don’t share this with anyone else just yet.”

  Three minutes later his phone rang. Levell listened for a few moments and hung up. Turning toward Nowicki, he said, “Thanks for your help, Doctor Nowicki. The chopper’s standing by to return you to Charlottesville.”

  Nowicki smiled. “Nice to see you again, Cliff, and to be able to be of service.”

  Once the professor had left, Larsen closed the heavy, ornate oak door behind him and all eyes swung once again to Levell.

  He shook his cell phone a couple of times for emphasis. “What a surprise,” he said sarcastically. “That call to Maksym was made from a phone located at Chaim Laski’s estate in Potomac, Maryland.”

  A grin of smug satisfaction spread slowly over Levell’s face. “It’s party time, men.”

  64 Washington, D.C.

  Federov sank back into the soft, slate gray leather of the Lincoln’s rear seat. The chauffeured limousine was one of the Russian Federation Embassy’s newest. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the new car scent and the smell of the leather. The quality wasn’t on a par with Chaim Laski’s Bentley, which he had ridden in once or twice. Still, in his mind it was much more comfortable than the overpriced Russian Zil, even though that car was hand-built in limited production. There was nothing wrong or criminal in luxury, he thought. It was only when fools like those in the nations of the West valued luxury over power and control that the line was crossed. Encouraging the masses to seek careers so they could pursue luxuries like the Lincoln was the weakness that was destroying the West. Individuals used flawed judgment. They needed to be guided, forcefully if necessary, by the State to engage in labor that was most beneficial and productive. As determined by the State.

  Federov felt confident that change was at hand. He had Levell. Those weak fools known as the Society of Adam Smith were desperate to get him back. Levell was the real force behind their organization—they were nothing without him. They would even sacrifice their precious Sleeping Dogs in an attempt to get him back.

  The Russian’s near-reverie was interrupted as the limo pulled to the southbound curb on 4th Street NE about one hundred meters north of its intersection with East Capitol Street. He exited the vehicle onto the sidewalk in a smooth, fluid motion as the limo pulled away. As previously instructed, the driver would turn around and park at the curb on Third Street Northeast next to the Hotel L’Orange.

  Federov walked the half block to East Capitol Street and paused on the northwest corner. He looked around casually, as a tourist might do in order to get his bearings. In reality, he was looking for anything that didn’t fit. The gray painted Corner Market was to the east, across 4th Street from him. He turned and looked across East Capitol Street. Traffic was thin at this hour of the morning. He was surprised. The Capitol Hill district was the largest historic residential neighborhood in D.C., and one of the most densely populated.

  A fortyish man on a road bike passed through the intersection wearing
black cycling shorts and a neon green jersey covered with names and logos of bike equipment manufacturers. His shoes were clipped into his pedals for power and speed. Across the street a young woman was walking west toward Capitol Hill. Her short black skirt emphasized her long legs. The low cut neckline of her sleeveless red blouse displayed considerable cleavage. Federov admired her for a few moments, although he disapproved of her bare legs and low, black sandals. In Russia, no woman would go to her workplace without wearing pumps and pantyhose. He assumed she was a staffer for a member of the House or Senate. It didn’t surprise him that, with such blatant sexuality and lack of modesty, congressmen often became romantically involved with their staffers. More evidence of the weakness of the West.

  He turned further to his right and looked back toward the north past Grubb’s Pharmacy and up 4th Street NE. Satisfied that nothing seemed amiss, he began walking west along tree-lined East Capitol Street. Little more than halfway down the block he turned right and passed through an opening in a low wrought iron fence. A short red brick walkway led to a dark-stained oak door. A brass plate on the door said Hotel L’Orange. Federov climbed two short steps, opened the door and entered the building.

  * * *

  The hotel was located in the Capitol Hill district. Development of the area had begun in the late 1700’s and gained distinction as a community in the very early 1800’s. Predominantly, its surviving buildings were row houses in a mix of Federal and Victorian architecture.

  The hotel itself began life in the late 19th century as a series of individually owned common-wall row houses. In 2005, a hotel company specializing in small boutique establishments had acquired title to five of these classic row houses, converted them into a small hotel, and restored them to the glory they enjoyed in the Gilded Age.

  Two of Laski’s operatives, Ukrainians who spoke passable English, had been in residence in Room 333 for the past few weeks. What made that particular room special was its location on the top floor of what had been the westernmost row house. That particular section of the building had an oriel jutting streetward from the rest of the hotel. It provided a largely unobstructed, above-treetop view of the east front of the Capitol Building.

  Federov moved through the small lobby area of the hotel. His pace was not too fast, not too slow. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The lobby carpet was pale green and thick. Its walls were painted in a matching shade above the chair rail. The lower part was papered with gold and brown vertical stripes. Dark-framed portraits of long-dead Washingtonians were spaced evenly about the room. There were two groups of three overstuffed chairs clustered around small coffee tables that held copies of avant-garde magazines focusing on the cultural attractions of Washington. The chairs were upholstered in a plush, deep pile fabric. The western wall of the lobby featured a large Victorian landscape overmantle mirror with ornate crossed ribbon moulding and decorative corners. It was centered above a love seat covered in the same fabric as the chairs. Matching end tables paired with identical Tiffany lamps flanked the love seat.

  Opposite the entrance from the street were an elevator door and a small registration area. The lobby area was empty except for the desk clerk and a chubby man wearing cargo shorts, sandals, a sleeveless tee shirt and a white bucket hat. He was asking the clerk for advice about sightseeing tours. Hallways led away from the lobby to the west and east. Federov chose the hallway to his left that led toward the west. Partway down there was a narrow staircase on the right. He climbed it to the top floor. Suite 333 was at the very end of the hallway. He paused in front of the door and knocked.

  There were several moments of near silence. The only sound was the soft hiss of air being forced through conduits by the HVAC equipment located on the roof of the building. Federov imagined that the two Ukrainians were getting edgy and nervous at this late point in the operation. Finally he sensed the presence of one of them on the other side of the door, peering at him through the fisheye lens of the glass peephole. A moment later a heavily accented, deep voice said, “Who is it?” It was the first test of a two-part passcode arrangement.

  “Jefferson Smith,” Federov said, a reference to a character portrayed by James Stewart in a 1939 film. Jefferson Smith was a naïve citizen appointed to fill a vacancy in the United States Senate. Being Russian, Federov was delighted by irony.

  “Who sent you, Mr. Smith?” the voice said.

  “The travel agency.” This was the second part of the passcode.

  A moment later Federov heard the security chain being released from the track, and the door swung open. He stepped inside into a small antechamber that separated the two major rooms of the suite. Without glancing at him, he brushed past the hulking man who had opened the door and entered the room to his left, the bedroom. A queen-size bed was on his right and beyond it an ornately carved armoire. The walls were paneled below the chair rail, and covered above it in wallpaper rife with pastoral scenes. A small, cut glass chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling.

  The far end of the room was in the part of the building that jutted out almost to the sidewalk. It had a large window facing East Capitol Street and two side windows. The curtains were drawn on each of the windows. Two side tables, borrowed from the suite’s sitting room, had been pushed together in the center of this space. Positioned on the tables and facing the western window was a Remington Model M24E1, a weapon of choice for the world’s best snipers.

  The other Ukrainian was hovering over the weapon making some minor adjustments. Federov shoved him out of the way and sat down in a chair facing the butt of the weapon. He pulled a pair of thin latex gloves from his pants pocket, tugged them on and examined the rifle. It had a ten-inch, titanium Titan-QD Fast Attach suppressor attached to the hammer-forged, stainless steel, Rem-Tough powder-coated barrel. Federov knew that the barrel's unique 5-R rifling offered reduced bullet deformation, metallic fouling, and pressure curves, while providing higher bullet velocities. The suppressor was designed to eliminate ninety-eight percent of muzzle flash and sixty percent of recoil. It reduced sound by thirty-two decibels.

  A Leupold Mark 4 6.5–20×50-millimeter ER/T M5 Front Focal variable power telescopic sight was mounted on the barrel. In daylight, in the hands of an expert marksman, it provided an effective range to twelve hundred meters, or almost four thousand feet. The distance from the room to the steps of the Capitol Building was six hundred and twenty meters, or just over two thousand feet.

  The Remington was bolt-action operated and promoted a twenty-eight hundred feet-per-second muzzle velocity. It was chambered to fire .300 Winchester Magnum 190 grain hollow-point boat tail rounds from a five-round internal magazine.

  The stock was made of a composite of Kevlar, graphite and fiberglass, featuring an aluminum bedding block and adjustable butt plate. A detachable bipod was mounted to the stock’s fore-end for stability. All in all, Federov approved of the weapon and the job the Ukrainians had done in setting it up. For a lesser distance, he would have preferred to use a Barrett M107 that was chambered for a more destructive .50 caliber round. However, without a strategically placed spotter following the target through his own scope and calling out adjustments in trajectory and windage as needed, the Remington was the better weapon for today’s job.

  When he was satisfied with the results of his inspection, Federov glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes to nine. He turned and looked at the two Ukrainians. One was sitting on the bed; the other was standing by the door that he had locked and chained after Federov entered. The one on the bed quickly broke eye contact and stared at the floor, never raising his gaze beyond Federov’s shiny black wingtips. The one by the door was another story. His face devoid of emotion, he returned the Russian’s stare. This angered Federov. He considered Ukrainians to be a lesser race. It was disrespectful for them to lock eyes with a superior Russian.

  “Listen,” he said, “the Americans will arrive very soon. You know what to do?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Whe
re are your weapons?” he said.

  Each man reached into the rear waistband of his jeans and retrieved a Beretta 92FS, designated M9 by the U.S. military. They were semi automatic pistols with magazines that held twenty rounds of 9mm ammunition. Each had a SWR Trident L.C.D. suppressor attached. Federov carefully inspected each weapon to make certain the factory recoil spring had been replaced with a Nielsen device. In this case, it was a Wolff fourteen-pound spring designed to temporarily relieve the weight of the suppressor from the barrel, thus avoiding interference with its recoil action. He removed a magazine from the butt of each pistol and determined that each was fully loaded with Alabama Ammo 147 grain "Special K" 9mm ammunition.

  “Good,” he said as he handed the weapons back. “As soon as they are all in the room, I will identify the one called Stensen. He is to be spared. Temporarily. But immediately shoot the other five at in the chest at close range to avoid a crossfire situation or send any errant shots through the walls. When they are down, put a second round in each man’s skull to be safe. Stensen will be our shooter. Once he has completed the task, I will shoot him in the head with one of your weapons. His fingerprints will be on the rifle. Wipe your pistols down and place one in the hand of one of the others. The second gun will be placed in Stensen’s hand. It will appear there was a falling out among them and Stensen killed them, then took his own life. Understood?”

  The two men nodded.

  Time continued to pass without sign of Whelan and his colleagues. Federov felt his anger rising ever higher and looked at his watch several times. When the minute hand ticked around to nine-thirty, he pulled his cell phone from a trouser pocket and pressed the speed dial number for Maksym’s phone. Voicemail was activated after several rings. This further enraged the Russian. Where the hell was Maksym? Zero hour was at hand. He should be standing by for this call. It was just one more example of the unreliability of Ukrainians.

  Federov took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Maksym,” he said into the recorder, “I trust you are still on the job.” There was a mix of anger and sarcasm in his voice. “We have been deceived. It appears our expected guests are not coming.” He paused, then said through clenched teeth, “I will take care of things here myself. Complete the job at your end, and do it in a fashion that sends the proper message to his colleagues who have deceived us.” He disconnected the call.