Christie had a friend, a former FBI colleague, who had transferred to INTERPOL Washington and now worked in its State and Local Liaison Division. The division’s major purpose was to support the exchange of information between foreign law enforcement authorities and state, local, and tribal law enforcement agencies in the United States. Christie needed INTERPOL’s assistance in gathering certain information, and this was the best way he could think of to get it. He had told his friend in INTERPOL Washington that the OCDETF in Albuquerque was investigating a major drug trafficker who may be operating from Ireland. The friend was in a position to request information and assistance from INTERPOL National Central Bureau for Ireland in the Dublin headquarters of An Garda Síochána.
Whelan and the other five surviving members of the Sleeping Dogs officially had been pronounced dead by the Bureau, victims of an explosion aboard a commercial fishing boat near the Pacific Island of Guam. But Christie never bought into that story. It was too cute, too perfect. The Bureau got to blame the mess surrounding Laski’s death and the attempt on POTUS’s life on the men, and neatly wrap up the investigation. Score another one for the Bureau.
But Christie had a different theory. These same men supposedly had been killed twenty years earlier in an airplane crash off Puerto Rico. But it turned out they weren’t dead. They had faked their deaths and gone to ground for two decades. They likely would still be there if it hadn’t been for that idiot senator, Howard Morris. His efforts to dig up evidence that would humiliate the country and further endear him to his far left constituents had backfired. Instead of simply proving that the United States had at one time maintained a special black ops force that surreptitiously brought havoc and death to its enemies, the damn fool’s actions had loosed the Sleeping Dogs, awakened them so to speak.
The irony of the analogy amused Christie, but the sound came out more like a snort than a laugh. The cleverest, most dangerous men on earth had faked their deaths once before. If the Bureau wanted—no, needed—a fairy tale ending, it could have it. But Christie knew better. Brendan Whelan was alive. Somewhere. But where? It was a big planet and the man could be hiding anywhere on it. Christie had worried with that issue for months, and then it had come to him. He knew from Whelan’s old military file that he had been born in Ireland. Christie wasn’t sure why, but he sensed that was the place to search. His next problem was trying to figure out how to gather relevant information without quitting his job and traveling to Ireland. Then he remembered his friend at INTERPOL Washington. He invented the story about the OCDETF investigating a drug lord with Irish ties.
While there were no current photographs of Whelan, Christie had access to the likeness a Bureau sketch artist had drawn during the Harold Case investigation. It was based on an old photograph from Whelan’s military record. Christie knew it was a good likeness because he unknowingly had sat next to Whelan on a cross-country flight. For quite a while he had thought Whelan purposely had done it to mock him, but finally accepted that it was simply a weird coincidence. He had contacted his friend at INTERPOL Washington, spun his OCDETF story, and asked him to liaison with INTERPOL National Central Bureau for Ireland. He had provided the sketch of Whelan.
Several weeks had passed, tonight an email had arrived while he was at the bar with Burkhardt. His friend in Washington had something for him. Christie wasn’t worried about using the Bureau’s facilities for these purposes. He believed the demands of his FBI duties had contributed significantly to the failure of his marriage. In a real sense, the Bureau owed him. Big Time. Besides, these activities would appear to be a normal part of his responsibilities as cochair of OCDETF. Neither was he concerned that Wojakowski would catch him in this deceptive behavior. Not that she wouldn’t love to, he thought. But he knew that she didn’t have the time, or cleverness for that matter, to check with anyone at OCDETF to see if it actually was investigating a drug trafficker with Irish connections. He was comfortable that the plausibility of the story was cover enough.
He keyed in the code and entered the ultra secure chat room. It had been designed and was maintained by a group of techno-wizards the Bureau and INTERPOL had lured away from NSA. A member of the INTERPOL Washington staff could reserve it. A code would then be randomly generated which could be distributed by the member to whoever was to participate. No one else could access the room during that period, and the context of the conversation automatically was destroyed when the reserving member exited the room.
His friend was waiting for him, and welcomed him to the chat room. “Hi, Mitch, good to ‘see’ you.”
“Thanks, you too.” Christie got right to the point. “What do you have for me?”
“This turned out to be a bit more challenging than I might have imagined.”
“How so?”
“An Garda Síochána, the Irish National Police, seemed fully cooperative at first. Guess they weren’t too happy that some drug-dealing bastard might be operating from their shores. Then, for no apparent reason, they backed off and said there were too many matters on their plate and they didn’t have the manpower to get involved in this.”
“You think that was legit?”
“Apparently not. This morning I got a call from a guy with the Irish cops. Wouldn’t give me his name. Said the guy you’re looking for had connections with An Garda Síochána.”
“No shit.” Christie was getting a sick feeling in his stomach, and it wasn’t the usual savage case of heartburn.
“Not to worry. The guy apparently wanted to build some brownie points with us. Said your guy lives on the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry. Couldn’t be more specific. Hope that helps.”
Christie’s fingers were still for a moment then he typed, “Yes. Very. More than I had before. Thanks.”
“A pleasure to help a friend and fellow law enforcement officer. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment. Just clarify – the record of this chat will be destroyed, right?”
“Yes, soon as I log out.”
“Great. Talk to you soon.” Christie exited the chat room and shut down his computer. Leaning back in his chair he said aloud to himself, “I’m getting closer, Whelan. It’s only a matter of time before I find you.”
Chapter 5—Dingle, Ireland
Whelan watched as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was a sudden loud explosion. Whelan didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t feel the powerful force of a slug tearing into his body. The Bizon was an automatic weapon with dozens of rounds in the magazine. He knew there should have been more than one explosion. It took a nanosecond for him to realize that the man hadn’t fired the Bizon. In fact, the weapon was falling from the man’s hands. The front of his jacket was bloody. Blood was beginning to run from his open mouth. His knees sagged and his head tilted back, eyes rolling up. He fell face first at Whelan’s feet. Sean stood three feet behind him holding the Kel-Tek KSG shotgun. Smoke was wafting softly from its barrel.
The remaining man was slow to react. But disbelief and shock quickly wore off, and he reached for the butt of the Makarov in the waistband of his trousers. Two shots rang out. A double tap. The first slug caught him low, in the pelvic area, left of center. It spun him 180 degrees. The second slug hit him in the middle of his back, tearing through the spine between the L-2 and L-3 vertebrae. Messages from his brain could no longer reach his legs and he collapsed hard against the counter, sliding gracelessly to the floor.
Whelan turned to trace the path of the slugs in reverse. Caitlin stood in the doorway. She held the Glock 23C he had bought her in both hands, arms extended straight in front just as he had taught her. Although he had converted the weapon’s barrel from .40 caliber to .22 to dampen the rise and make it easier for her to handle, it still was capable of deadly force.
Whelan walked slowly over to Sean and gently removed the Kel-Tek from his son’s hands. “Good work, Sean,” he said. He blew Caitlin a kiss and turned his attention to the surviving intruder. He wasn�
��t sure just how much survival time the man had left, and there were questions that needed answering.
Caitlin laid the Glock on a counter top and ran to Sean, who had been joined by his younger brother, Declan. She swept both of them into her arms and embraced them tightly. The boys squirmed self-consciously. This was girl stuff, and they were uncomfortable having their dad see them being hugged and kissed like this. It wasn’t manly.
Whelan smiled at their reaction. At sixteen and fifteen, respectively, his sons were in that awkward transition period from boys to men. He understood. He’d been there himself. He gently kissed Caitlin on the top of her head, and inhaled deeply. The clean, sweet smell of her deep black, raven hair flooded him with emotions, as dozens of memories flashed through his mind in a second or two. She was his true love, his mate, his partner, his best friend. He realized how close he had come to losing all of that and more tonight. He closed his eyes and felt a profound sense of relief and gratitude wash over him. When he opened them, Caitlin was looking at him, her cobalt blue eyes framed by the long lashes, dark hair and ivory colored skin. There was no moisture in her eyes and no trembling or other evidence of post-traumatic shock. He had known from the beginning of their relationship that, as gentle and feminine as she was, Caitlin was tougher than most men he had known. And he had known many ruthless and savage men. He had killed several of them.
“I’ll get the boys back up stairs,” she said, “then I’ll help you clean up.” She paused for a moment then said, “There are two bodies in the second floor hallway. Their throats have been ripped out.”
Whelan nodded. “I know.”
“We saw that they’ve dispatched poor Miss Tankersley. I’m sure they deserved what they got, but they’re making a terrible mess. We’ll have to replace the flooring if it’s bloodstained.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Caitlin looked around the kitchen, spattered with blood and gore. “Would you look at this place. I don’t know if I can ever prepare food in it again.”
“We’ll not be tellin’ the health inspector,” he said with a wink.
She rose on the tips of her toes, and pulling his head down, kissed him softly on the lips. “Thank God you’re safe, Bren.”
“Wouldn’t have been if not for you and the boys.”
“I always understood why you insisted on the boys and me learning to use weapons properly, but tonight really drove that point home.” She paused and searched his eyes.
“But I thought I taught you to aim better,” he said with a grin and nodded toward the surviving intruder.
Caitlin placed her hands on her hips and said in mock defensiveness, “I hit exactly where I aimed.”
“Oh, did you now?’ Whelan was still grinning good-naturedly. “You seem to have missed the kill zones and hit him closer to his private areas.”
“And if I had killed him, who would be left for you to interrogate?” She grew suddenly serious and said, “Who were these men, and will there be more of them?”
Whelan glanced at the wounded man who was bleeding out on their kitchen floor. “I plan to get that information out of this one. Thank you for not killing him, but it would be best if you and the boys didn’t watch.”
She understood fully what he meant and gently shoved Sean and Declan toward the stairs. “Come along, lads. Tomorrow’s a school day.”
“But I want to help Da haul the trash out,” Sean said in reference to the dead home invaders.
“Me too,” Declan said.
Caitlin said nothing, but gave each of the boys “The Look”. Generations of Irish youngsters have known full well what The Look means. Sean and Declan sighed. They were sighs of frustration mixed with resignation. Each boy turned and trudged up the stairs, purposely stepping on the corpse at the bottom of the stairwell.
“It would be good if you gave Paddy a call,” Whelan said in reference to Caitlin’s brother, the Sergeant in Charge of the Dingle station of An Garda Síochána. “We’re going to need his help.”
He waited until he heard them reach the top floor. He turned and walked over to where the last intruder lay. The man’s upper body was contorting in pain, motionless from the waist down. He lay moaning in a pool of his own blood and gore. The bullet’s path through his spinal column had destroyed the nerves governing actions in his lower body, including his sphincters. He was surrounded by very unpleasant odors.
Whelan squatted beside him while the man stared at him, his eyes pleading for help. After several moments, Whelan said in Russian, “I can help you.” He paused for emphasis then said, “But you have to help me.”
The wounded man squeezed his eyes shut tightly in pain and shook his head. Between clinched teeth has said, “I cannot. He will kill me.”
“You’re bleeding out. Not much time left before you’ll die anyway. Tell me what I want to know and you’ll at least have a chance to live a bit longer.”
“No.” The response was almost a grunt.
Whelan stood and walked over to a section of kitchen counter. He pulled a knife from a wooden block that rested on it. It was a 9½-inch fillet knife. The blade was long, thin, and very sharp.
Returning, he again squatted by the dying man. “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with George R. R. Martin’s magnum opus A Song of Ice and Fire?”
The man shook his head back and forth a few times.
“There’s a line in it, something like ‘A naked man has few secrets; a flayed man has none.’” He held the fillet knife in front of the man’s eye. “What I’m going to do is peel your skin off. Slowly. The bad news is that it won’t kill you; it will cause far worse pain that anything you can imagine.”
He let the man stare at the blade for several seconds. Despite his pain, the man’s eyes grew wider in horrid fascination.
“Try to imagine what it’s going to feel like as I loosen it with this knife and then tear strips off with my bare hands.” He paused. “And there’s more bad news. You have a lot of skin. We’re going to be here for a long time.”
The man vomited. It was clear that he’d had some kind of fish for dinner. And potatoes.
Whelan placed the edge of the blade lightly against the flesh of the man’s forearm. Even with the slight pressure, the sharpness of the blade split his skin. Blood began to ooze from the new wound. He looked at the man’s eyes; he had begun to sob.
“Please, I will tell you. I don’t want to die.”
Whelan left the blade where it was. “Give me names. Who sent you?”
The man hesitated and Whelan applied a bit more pressure to the blade. The cut deepened and lengthened.
The man screamed. “It is one whose name cannot be spoken.”
“Listen,” Whelan said with a quiet growl. “This isn’t some damn fantasy or sci fi movie. Give me the name.” The knife dug deeper. Whelan used the tip to begin peeling back enough of the man’s epidermis to be able to rip a piece of it off his arm.
“Yes, yes, I will tell you,” the man screamed between sobs. He hesitated for a moment, caught between Scylla and Charybdis. He knew that if he didn’t provide the intel Whelan sought, he would die tonight. His departure would be unimaginably painful and drawn out. If he did reveal who had sent him and his associates to kill Whelan and his family, it would betray a man he feared as much as he did Whelan. Maybe more. He thought momentarily about lying to Whelan, giving him false information. But he sensed the Irishman would know, and the torture would begin in earnest. Ultimately, he opted in favor of a slim chance to live a little longer.
“His name is Maksym.”
Chapter 6—Tidewater Virginia
The trip from his Federal-style home in the Georgetown suburb of Washington to The Lodge was about an hour and thirty minutes by car. There were two routes. One was mostly on Interstate 95. The other was more scenic. Cliff Levell had instructed his driver and personal attendant Rhee Kang-Dae to take the scenic route. It was almost exactly the same distance as the other route. Mostly utilizing H
ighway 301, it took a few minutes longer. As part of the pre-Interstate highway system, it wound through the business districts of a multitude of towns and small cities in Maryland. Eventually it crossed the Harry Nice Memorial Bridge into the rolling green hills of Tidewater Virginia.
It had been a pleasant trip, although the scenery had been wasted on Levell. He used the time to review the latest intel bulletins and briefings assembled by the organization he led. He was on his way to meet with other principal members of that organization, The Society of Adam Smith. These meetings usually were held at The Lodge near Fairview Beach, Virginia. Located in dense woods and accessed by an unmarked gravel road, it was less than a mile from the wide Potomac River. The location had been chosen carefully.
Fairview Beach was isolated and small. Only a few hundred people lived within the town limits. The countryside around the town was heavily wooded in many areas and sparsely settled. A few narrow, paved two-lane roads connected the town to Highway 218, also known as Caledon Road.
A few dirt lanes led back into the woods from the sparse collector roads. At the end of one of them, sitting in the middle of an eighty-acre tract and isolated by dense woods from its few neighbors in the area, was a fifteen thousand square foot, two-story building with the appearance of a hunting lodge. It’s exterior was made of large logs with a brick chimney at either end of the lodge. It was clearly posted as private property and signs in five different languages cautioned would-be trespassers not to enter. An ultra sophisticated electronic and video system provided twenty-four hour surveillance of the entire tract. Nothing moved in the eighty acres that wasn’t instantly detected. A staff of very professional, highly trained security people would respond immediately.
While the exterior of the lodge was designed and built to convey a rustic, masculine simplicity, the interior was something else entirely. Immediately behind the exterior façade, all walls, ceilings, and floors were lined with materials that resisted all efforts to penetrate with infrared, ultrasound, and all other surveillance devices. The technology and communications facilities were designed, installed and maintained by the best minds in the CIA, NSA, and private sector working on their own time. They were upgraded continually in order to remain superior to anything available to the planet’s top security agencies.
Endangered Species: PART 1 Page 4
