Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  “What will we do now?” said the man sitting on the bed. He still did not make eye contact with Federov.

  “It is not your concern,” Federov said. “I will take care of it myself.”

  The man standing by the door spoke. “But this is a very difficult shot and requires the skills of an expert marksman to be successful.”

  “Listen, you idiot,” Federov said, “I competed for Russia in the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta. I am one of the best marksmen in the entire Russian military. I will make this shot!”

  The man on the bed nodded his head vigorously. The other man continued to stare impassively at the Russian.

  “Come with me,” Federov said. “I need both of you to wait in the other room so that you do not distract me.”

  He led them across the antechamber and into the sitting room. He turned to the man who had been sitting on the bed and said, “Let me see your weapon again.”

  The man looked puzzled, but after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled his suppressed SIG from the waistband of his jeans and handed it to Federov. The Russian chambered a round, spun and shot the other Ukrainian in the middle of his forehead.

  “What are you doing?” the remaining Ukrainian said, taking a step backward. Federov closed the gap and shoved the suppressor under his chin. A nanosecond later he was dead, as a bullet tore upward through his tongue, the roof of his mouth and through his brain.

  Federov bent down and removed the pistol from the waistband of his first victim’s jeans. The large western belt buckle caught his eye. Fucking cowboy, he thought.

  He stepped quickly over the corpse of the second victim and went into the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel and wiped both weapons down. He placed a gun in the hand of the last man he killed. It was the same one he had used to kill both men. He manipulated the dead man’s hand to fire another shot into the carcass of his late colleague. Now, when the police investigated the crime scene, they would assume it was a murder-suicide. Forensics would find traces of gunpowder on the presumed killer’s hand. Ballistics would show that all slugs came from the same weapon. He placed the second pistol in the waistband of his own trousers.

  Federov ripped the hand towel into four pieces and flushed them one-by-one down the toilet. He went to the door and stood there for a few moments listening for any sounds that might indicate the shots had been heard. The suppressor only dampened the sound by about twenty-five percent. Satisfied that nothing was out of the ordinary, he returned to the bedroom and sat in the chair by the rifle.

  * * *

  When his watch told him it was few minutes before ten o’clock, Federov cracked the shades on the west-facing window. Using powerful binoculars that had been brought to the suite by the now-dead Ukrainians, he gazed down East Capitol Street toward the steps of the Capitol Building. He was careful not to get too close to the window lest he be spotted. The Secret Service and other local and federal agents were out in force, surveying the area around the East Front of the Capitol Building. He was aware of the presence of helicopters in the area, undoubtedly staffed with expert marksmen equipped with powerfully scoped rifles of their own.

  Federov swept the glasses up the approach to the steps of the Capitol, past the bollards designed to prevent motor vehicles from proceeding beyond the foot of East Capitol Street. Jersey barriers had been temporarily placed for additional security and crowd control purposes. A podium flanked by teleprompters had been centered on the steps. Two rows of chairs for dignitaries were set up behind the podium. Most were already occupied. A few hundred chairs had been placed on the brick pavers of the broad approach to the Capitol steps. These were for the general public and few of them remained unoccupied. Television crews had set up shop in the space between the front edge of the platform and the seating for members of the public.

  He looked behind the dais and swept his gaze across the front of the building. There were three sets of enormous bronze doors, one for the House entrance, one for the Senate and a central entrance to the Rotunda. The bronze doors of the House and Senate were equal in size and motif. Each consisted of two valves containing three panels and a medallion depicting significant events in American history. The bronze doors to the Rotunda, also known as the Columbus Doors, were almost seventeen feet high and weighed twenty thousand pounds. They also were divided into two valves but contained four panels each.

  Federov noted the sculptural pediment centered over the east central entrance of the Capitol, called Genius of America. He knew the central figure represented America, pointing to the figure of Justice, who was lifting scales in her left hand and holding a scroll in her right hand. To America's left were an eagle and the figure of Hope, her arm resting on an anchor. Federov was not impressed. In his opinion, this jumble of Greek, Roman, and other architectural styles could not hold a candle to the vastly more impressive Kremlin.

  At precisely ten o’clock, the Secretary of Labor rose from his seat on the dais and walked to the podium. He spoke for approximately seven minutes, then introduced the President of the United States. As the president approached the podium, a thought ran through Federov’s head: Party time.

  He returned to the chair and placed his eye against the sniper scope. The interior of a scope is purged with nitrogen to create a humidity and fog-proof environment between the lenses, thus maintaining clarity of vision. But beyond approximately six hundred yards, there are a number of variables that affect the bullet on its path to the intended target. Accordingly, where the sniper is aiming is not where the bullet will impact. Snipers must line up the point of aim with the point of impact by dialing a number of fine adjustments into the scope once range, heat and windage have been factored into the shot.

  Federov didn’t have the benefit of a spotter to advise him of these crucial data. He knew the range and could see the temperature on a small device the Ukrainians had placed on a ledge just outside the window. He had to estimate wind speed and direction from the flag flying from a pole located at the base of the Capitol dome. Using the scope’s mil-dot reticle, Federov made the calculations and dialed in the scope to line up the crosshairs. These were not ideal conditions, complicated by the fact that he had only limited practice with this particular weapon. The plan had called for Stensen, the finest marksman among the Dogs, to make the shots. Still, he was confident he could accomplish the mission, but would limit his efforts solely to the president. The others would have to wait for another day.

  He focused in on the president, who’d begun delivering his speech. Federov watched in disgust as the man’s head swiveled back and forth nonstop. He never looked to the center, because there wasn’t a teleprompter there. He can’t utter an intelligible word without the damn prompter, Federov thought.

  He watched as the president pedantically shook his finger at his audience, as though lecturing small children. He despised the man as a traitor, someone who had become a legend in his own mind, a self-involved rock star pursuing his own agenda at the expense of those, including Federov, who had worked for decades to prepare the way. The man was the worst kind of fool. Blinded by his own sense of self-importance, infallibility and divine right of authority, he ignored the dictates of those who had put him in power. He deserved to die.

  Federov struggled to get his anger under control. He regulated his breathing and, in a meditative fashion, forced his heartbeat to slow. He felt calmness returning and refocused on the target. His goal was to strike right between the president’s eyes, but the constant twisting of the man’s head further complicated the situation. Leaning forward in the chair with the butt plate solidly against his right shoulder, his finger slowly tightened on the trigger. It was stiffer than Federov would have liked and he gradually increased pressure until it discharged.

  He watched through the scope as the bullet just missed its intended target, clipping off a small piece of the president’s left ear. It sped on and ripped into the throat of the attorney general, who was sitting behind the president. The magnum slug nearly tore the m
an’s head off his shoulders. It snapped forward and his body flipped over backwards, landing in the bloodied lap of a chubby, dour middle-aged woman sitting behind him.

  The Russian swore in anger and frustration. There was no opportunity for a second shot. The President had been swarmed under a crush of Secret Service agents. Other agents and law enforcement officers were pointing up East Capitol Street.

  Federov strode quickly to the door and left the room. He ran down a stairwell and exited onto Third Street Northeast through a side door. The limousine was waiting at the curb. He slid in, pulling the hot, uncomfortable gloves off as he settled into his seat. The driver immediately accelerated, heading north. The diplomatic plates on the vehicle would provide it with safe passage through the streets of the capitol.

  Federov was enraged. His plan had been a brilliant one, but something had gone very wrong. Who was responsible? he wondered. Was it that damn Maksym? And why hadn’t he answered his phone? A typical Ukrainian fuckup, he thought angrily. Then he remembered: although Maksym had grown up in the Ukraine, his country of origin was a mystery. And there also was the matter of Whelan and his colleagues not showing up at the hotel. Why had McCoy deceived him when he knew it would cause Levell’s execution?

  Federov retrieved his cell phone from a trousers pocket and speed dialed Laski’s personal cell phone number. After two rings, he heard the other man’s raspy voice.

  “The package was not properly delivered,” Federov said.

  “I am aware of that. Television is quite useful in covering such events.”

  Federov swore vehemently and said, “What the hell happened to the deliverymen who were promised?”

  “It was a deception from the very beginning. Somehow our customers discovered the whereabouts of the goods we offered in trade.”

  “And they knew this how?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They have stolen them from us.”

  “What of this formidable Maksym of yours? It was his task to safeguard those goods.”

  “True. Unfortunately he was…ah, detained.”

  “Detained?”

  “Yes, but he managed to free himself.

  “How?”

  “I do not know at this time. He is in the process of returning home.”

  “And what of you?” Federov said.

  “Me? I am perfectly safe,” Laski said defensively. “There is nothing to associate me with any of these activities other than your testimony. And you will not be required to provide such testimony because you have diplomatic immunity. Nevertheless, I strongly suggest you cloister yourself in the embassy until you can safely travel home.”

  “Don’t patronize me, you old fool,” Federov said angrily. “I have no concerns for myself.” Federov hung up, turned and glanced out the rear window of the limo, then said to the driver, “Have you noticed anyone following us?”

  The driver shook his head.

  The limo turned right on Tunlaw Road, headed toward the gated entrance to the compound where the Russian Embassy was located. It had taken twenty minutes to cover the five miles from the Hotel L’Orange.

  Federov had always enjoyed roaming the sprawling Russian compound. It contained a number of buildings. In it, he was treated with great deference because of the nature of his work, as well as his rank and reputation. Many people lived and worked there. Almost all of them regarded him with fear, and he enjoyed the sense of power it gave him. Now, however, as the limo eased through the gates at the entrance to the compound, he wondered if he would become a prisoner within its walls.

  65 Potomac, Maryland

  In the late afternoon of the same day the attempt had been made on the life of the president, Chaim Laski’s Potomac, Maryland residence took on the look and activity of an armed camp. The twenty thousand square foot, three-story home was positioned inside a ten-acre estate. It was protected twenty-four hours a day by a fortune in electronic surveillance equipment. Tonight every one of Laski’s eighteen remaining Ukrainian security people was fully armed and on duty. Ordinarily, two guards accompanied by watchdogs individually patrolled the grounds round the clock. Tonight the number of patrols had been beefed up to four.

  Laski was concerned, but not overly alarmed at the prospect of physical danger. After all, only Levell and his genetic freaks knew of his involvement, and he had this small army of very nasty and brutal men protecting him. And he was expecting Maksym, the worst of all of them, to arrive at any moment. He waited in his library, sipping a glass of one of the rarest and most expensive Scotch whiskies in the world. He slowly savored each sip of the Chivas Regal 50-year Royal Salute. It had been released in 2003 as a special edition to celebrate Queen Elizabeth II’s fifty years on the throne. Only two hundred and fifty-five bottles had been produced and each featured a hand-engraved 24-carat gold plaque. Laski had paid forty thousand dollars for the bottle, and had been saving it for a special occasion. He’d expected to open the Scotch in celebration of the successful removal of the president. While it didn’t turn out that way, he refused to let Federov’s incompetence force him to postpone this pleasure.

  He rose from his seat and, holding the tumbler of precious Scotch almost lovingly, he walked to the window, pulled aside the heavy drapes and looked out. The moon was in the new phase of the lunar cycle, positioning it between the earth and sun. It would be a very dark night.

  He was aware of movement and turned toward the door to the library. Maksym filled the doorway looking at the impressive bottle of Scotch on the library table. Laski smiled, but didn’t offer him a drink. Maksym was his most valuable employee, but this Scotch was not for sharing with the hired help. He waved the head of his security to a chair and returned to his own seat.

  “So, Maksym,” he said in heavily accented Ukrainian, “tell me about your misadventure.”

  Knowing that Laski was much more comfortable in Russian, Maksym responded in that language. “Levell’s comrades surprised us at the warehouse.”

  “How were they able to locate him?”

  Maksym shrugged his thick shoulders. “It appears we underestimated their resourcefulness.”

  Laski nodded. “That was foolish of us. And how is it you managed to evade capture?”

  “Actually one of the guards and I were captured, the other was killed. We were bound with nylon restraints, hooded, driven somewhere, and thrown into a cellar of some sort.”

  “And where exactly was this place?”

  Maksym shrugged again. “I don’t know the exact location, but it’s near Fredericksburg. It was a large and, except for the cellar, luxurious country estate.”

  “Interesting. We were not aware of this place. Can you locate it again?”

  “No. My goal was to escape, not reconnoiter.”

  “That’s understandable. So, how did you manage to free yourself?”

  “I ordered the other guard to chew through my restraints.”

  “And he did this?” Laski seemed surprised.

  “I told him that if he did not, I would find some other means and then I would kill him.”

  “I suppose you killed him anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you were locked in the cellar. How did you escape?”

  Maksym smiled. “I feigned sleep with my hands behind my back as though still bound. When one of their security people came to check on us during his next round, I sprang upon him and snapped his neck.”

  Laski nodded approvingly.

  “I took his keys and his cell phone, locked the cellar door behind me and slipped out of the house. Using the remote on his keys, I located his vehicle parked behind the building and drove back here. Along the way I used his cell phone to let our men know I was coming.”

  Laski’s eyes widened in alarm. “Do you still have the phone with you?”

  “No. I am familiar with how these things can be traced. I threw it and the jailer’s keys into a roadside canal.”

  “And what of the automobile?”

  “When I called
to let our men know I was coming, I told one of them to pick me up in Tysons Corner. I left the car in a shopping mall parking lot. Wiped clean.”

  Laski took another sip of the Scotch and rolled it around slowly on his tongue. As he did so, he regarded Maksym—the extremely muscular build, the icy blue eyes that rarely, if ever, displayed emotion. He knew the man to be strong to the point of super human. His quickness defied logic. He also was brilliant, with the rare ability to connect the dots as fast as Laski himself could. Sometimes faster.

  All in all, Laski knew the younger man to be an extraordinary human being. He prided himself on having found him in the slums of Kiev after hearing rumors about him from others in his employ. Recruiting him had not been difficult. He simply offered him wealth and a lifestyle beyond his imagination. It had proven to be a wise move. Maksym ran all aspects of security and kept the brutish Ukrainian thugs under control, meting out discipline as required. Laski had high regard also for the other man’s observations. In fact, he often confided in Maksym on the affairs he was involved in with the Russians.

  He poured another two fingers of the Scotch into the tumbler, and paused to savor another sip. “As you can see, I have placed all security personnel on high alert and doubled the patrols on the grounds. That, and a king’s ransom in electronic surveillance equipment, should prevent Levell’s minions from harming us. What is your opinion?”

  “It is possible Levell will send his pet attack dogs. But from what I saw of them in the warehouse, they are highly overrated.” He smiled darkly. “I hope Levell’s people do come. I will enjoy killing them myself.”