Endanger Species: Part 3: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller

by John Wayne Falbey

  “The Musketeers are fictional characters. These guys are more real than they should be.”

  “At least you’re all still alive. I wish I could say the same for Buster.”

  “Do you have any leads yet?”

  There was momentary silence at the other end. “No…not so far.”

  “Got any suspects in mind?”

  “Sure. Could have been the AGU or some domestic leftwing loon.”

  “What about Maksym?”

  “Doubtful. He’s unquestionably behind the attempts on the lives of you and the others, but I don’t see him having any interest in McCoy. He’d come after me before he would Buster.”

  “The Russians?”

  “That’s a possibility. Particularly that Federov character. Buster set him up, promising that you and the others would deliver yourselves to him at that hotel in DC, so he could frame you for killing the president. He was lucky to get out of the States after he botched that job. I’m sure he paid for it when he got back to Russia.”

  “I’m not going to go to Russia,” Whelan said, “but if you find out he’s somewhere else, let me know. I’ll be glad to have a talk with him.”

  Levell chuckled. “There wouldn’t be much talking. Just Federov screaming his guts out like a little bitch.”

  “Back to the moment,” Whelan said. “I’ve got a B&B to run and a houseful of bored hunter-killers with too much time on their hands. What’s the purpose of your call?”

  “You’re in luck. I’ve got a proposition for you that will get all those rowdy friends of yours out of the house. For a while.”

  Whelan was silent for a few moments. Levell must have a dangerous mission in mind if it involved the Dogs. “Whatever it is, don’t include me, Cliff. I’m retired from the slicing-and-dicing business.”

  “What’s your problem? Isn’t this the slow season for tourism?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And wouldn’t you like some extra cash to spoil that beautiful wife of yours with? Oh yeah, and to serve your adopted country in its time of greatest need?”

  “What’s your problem, Cliff? Can’t you find enough homegrown Yanks to do this kind of work? I’ve got the five deadliest genetic freaks on the planet frightening my townspeople and filling my kids’ heads with visions of special ops glory. Let them do whatever it is you have in mind.”

  “I would, but the problem with those genetic freaks, as you call them, is they’re loners. They don’t work well as a team…with one exception. With you as their leader. There’s no way around it. We need you.”

  Whelan sighed. “What is it, when does it begin, and how long will it take?”

  “That’s the spirit. Buster would be proud of you.” The warmth left his voice, replaced by a hard edge. “Now listen up. You’re going to have to relay this to the others.”

  Levell filled Whelan in on the pact with the Saudis to wreck the Russian economy and the effect it should have on global affairs. He explained that part of the price demanded by the Saudis involved the assassination of a certain jihadi leader whom they saw as a threat to the Kingdom. There was another piece to the Saudi demand, but he purposely saved discussion of it for another time.

  Like the other Dogs, Whelan’s intellect connected dots faster than any Norm’s could. “Wait a minute, Cliff. There already are assets in the region that have more intel on jihadis and their whereabouts than anyone. And they’re experts at taking them out. They’re known as the Mossad.”

  “I know that, smartass,” Levell said. There was snappishness in his voice. “I already tried that route.”

  “And?”

  “And the agent I was dealing with was gunned down in Zermatt right after Maureen and I spoke with her. Word filtered back from her boss, an old friend of mine, that they are going to sit this one out. They don’t see a direct benefit to them.”

  “So that leaves us as your backup plan.”

  “Well, shit, don’t make it sound like I asked another girl to the prom before asking you. The Dogs always were my first choice. I just didn’t think I would be able to get all you guys back together. But it appears that Maksym has done it for me.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, after discussing the situation with Caitlin, then filling in the other Dogs, the six men went down to a favorite pub. Things were tense between Whelan and Caitlin. He had promised her after the last mission that he was finished with that part of his life. But life was sometimes like a baseball game—curve balls were legal. It had been necessary to replace much of the plumbing and electrical systems and put a new roof on the farmhouse-turned-B&B. Parts of it were 150 years old. That had taken a large chunk out of the compensation he’d received for the last mission.

  Caitlin was upset, but she knew the Mueller brothers would be generous—even if her husband didn’t survive the mission this time. That was the part that had her so upset. She alternated between bouts of fierce Irish anger and dread at the thought of living without Brendan Whelan in her life. She knew there was no one else like him on earth. No one could begin to fill the void he would leave.

  Pubs in Ireland were different from their cousins in the U.S. They were family gathering places; more like the old Howard Johnsons, but with good beer, home-cooked food, and darts. There were over fifty-two pubs in Dingle—more than one for every week in the year—but the Mairnéalach Pub was the Whelan family’s favorite. The name meant sailor in Gaelic, an homage to the town’s historic past as a seaport.

  The Dogs gathered around a table. Five of them ordered Guinness, all but Larsen, and marveled at how much it differed from the same product in the United States. Almeida used his beer as a chaser for a series of shots of Irish whiskey. Larsen, as usual, sipped a diet soda.

  When the first round arrived, Almeida raised his shot glass and said, “Here’s to the good ol’ US of A.”

  “What’s so good about it?” Larsen said. His tone was dark, almost surly.

  Stensen looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “What’s this, anti-patriotism?”

  Whelan grunted in exasperation. Stensen couldn’t resist bear-baiting. Even someone as dangerous as Larsen. “Give it a rest, Nick.”

  “Hey, dudes, maybe the man doesn’t share Rafe’s redneck, Tea Party view of politics,” Thomas said.

  “So let me get this straight,” Stensen said. “Love of country is akin to a troglodytic view of politics?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Look, dude, I’m just saying there’s a lot wrong with America. Not all of us are in this because of something as provincial as ‘love of country.’”

  “Other than the fools that elected the pro-Marxist, pro-Islam bastard currently occupying the White House, what’s wrong with the USA?” Kirkland said.

  “For one thing, it’s racist,” Thomas said. “And you’re a Jew. I thought your people were among those ‘fools,’ as you call them, that elected the current president.”

  Kirkland shook his head slowly, smiling all the while. “Number one, not all Jews have Marxism in their DNA. Number two, racism is alive and well because the black population won’t give it up. It’s their security blanket in the event they fail at anything.”

  “Dude, you’re not black. You have no idea what racism is like.”

  “Bullshit! I’m Jewish. I damn sure know what anti-Semitism is. If Jews used that as an excuse the way blacks use racism, there’d be a hell of a lot fewer Nobel Prize–winning economists, scientists, researchers, and others, not to mention titans in every industry.”

  Almeida reached over and clapped Kirkland on the back. “My man,” he said approvingly, “I never gave much of a shit for Jews, but you’re all right in my book.”

  Kirkland shrugged off the hand.

  Whelan had been watching in silence. The Dogs’ political and cultural persuasions came from all over the spectrum—that’s America. Considerable tension had built up in each man because of the attempts on their lives, then being forced to hide out in a foreign land. Still, he wasn’t about to let th
ings get out of hand.

  Larsen had a sour look on his face. He turned in his chair and waved at the waitress. “Bring me one of those,” he said and pointed at a glass of Guinness.

  “This is interesting,” Stensen said. “Our teetotaler is ordering a beer. What gives?”

  Larsen shrugged. “Listening to you freakin’ Republicans is giving me a stomach ache.”

  Kirkland turned to Whelan. “Brendan, you’re the only one who hasn’t said anything. Is it because you’re Irish and don’t have a position on politics in the U.S.?”

  “No, man,” Thomas said, “You grew in America; you must have a position. Where do you stand?”

  Whelan made eye contact with each man around the table. “I stand with the America I grew up in—a constitutional republic.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Larsen said, still surly.

  “You asked, so I’m going to tell you,” Whelan said. “There’s a war in America today between statists and those who believe in the sanctity of the individual. Statists—the Left—believe that individuals are fools, incapable of making sound decisions. They also believe that those few, other than themselves, who accumulate wealth through their own efforts and initiatives, are ‘robbing’ the mindless many. They want to destroy this ‘income inequality’ and ‘redistribute’ this wealth and the means of producing it. They call it ‘social justice’.

  “But examine every socialist or communist state that has ever existed. The wealth and the means of production end up in the hands of an elite, all-knowing governing few. And they never relinquish it or the power to govern. The middle class disappears, replaced by a two-tier society. The vast body of society ends up living, at best, on a bare subsistence level.”

  “To insure their strangle hold on power, they control the sources of information—news media and particularly the Internet. They gain and maintain control of the military, education, and industry.”

  Thomas was nodding his head thoughtfully. “Are you saying that society doesn’t have a responsibility for its less fortunate members?”

  “No. A society should provide care for those whose physical or mental challenges prevent them from fending for themselves. What a responsible society does not do, however, is shield otherwise capable members from making dumbass decisions or ignoring opportunities for work or education. Generations of immigrants—including my family—have proven how great America is as a land of equal opportunity. And we didn’t need government mandates to make it so.”

  “That all sounds good,” Larsen said, “but, in reality, I think Levell and his bunch are rightwing zealots, and it bothers me to be doing their dirty work for them.”

  Whelan took a long pull on his beer before speaking.

  “The president, whom you seem to admire, Sven, and his party are clear about their goal. They want to fundamentally transform the U.S. into their concept of a Marxist nirvana—an enormous lower class being wisely shepherded by an elite cadre of intellectually superior savants. The reality is the mass of humanity will exist at subsistence levels, ruled by an authoritarian iron hand, and severely disciplined if they overtly object. The weak-kneed opposition party is a bunch of whiney bastards. Their goal is solely to achieve reelection.

  “Cliff and ‘his bunch’ are doing what the government won’t do—the ‘dirty work’ of keeping America from crumbling in the face of countless global challenges. They’re all that the vast majority of freedom-loving citizens have to protect them at this point.

  “If that’s too ‘rightwing’ for you, Larsen, I’ll drive you to Shannon and put your ass on the next plane to anywhere.”

  Chapter 29—Washington, D.C.

  May in Washington, D.C. is the most schizophrenic month of the year. While temperatures generally were pleasant, ranging from lows in the mid-fifties to highs in the upper seventies, the manic-depressive traits were demonstrated in the wetness of the month. More rain, hail, and damaging high winds occur then than in any other month.

  None of that mattered to those working inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue. The efficient climate control system kept the ambient temperature at a comfortably cool and dry seventy degrees. The thick walls and bombproof glass effectively repelled Mother Nature’s frequent mood swings.

  Special Agent Mitch Christie was standing in one of the coffee rooms talking with Lou Antonelli. The two of them had formerly worked together on the Harold Case murders—before Christie had taken the hit as the scapegoat in the whole affair and been shipped off to Albuquerque.

  “Good to see you back at HQ,” Antonelli said, gazing over the rim of a coffee mug. “Heard you were in Albuquerque. How was that?”

  Christie finished filling his mug and added a shot of cream. “Ever spent an evening with a life-insurance agent?”

  “That bad, huh?” The other man grimaced.

  “It’s like that, but went on for a whole fucking year.”

  “What, nothing fun to do in the desert?”

  Christie thought about Camila Ramirez, and smiled. She breathed real life into the expression ‘Desert Rose’. For an instant, he thought ahead to the coming weekend. They were planning to spend it together in Denver, a direct, nonstop flight for each of them. They even had been discussing the possibility of her moving to Washington.

  He became aware that Antonelli was staring at him and said, “No. Nothing fun in the desert.”

  “That’s too bad,” Antonelli said without much sympathy. “Well, it’s good to have you back.” He took a sip from his mug and said, “So, how’d you manage to get back here?”

  Christie knew that Levell and the SAS had somehow pulled strings high up in the Bureau, but that wasn’t something he wanted to share with Antonelli. “Guess they figured I’d paid my dues and served my time in Hell.”

  Antonelli winced at the clichés. “So, what are you working on now?”

  “I’ve been assigned to the International Operations Division.”

  “Yeah? I thought all of those guys worked overseas at the legats. What do we have now, sixty-five of them or so?”

  “Thereabouts. Every major embassy and consulate has a legal attaché office.”

  “So why aren’t you assigned to one?”

  Christie poured another dollop of cream into his mug and blew across the top. “Every major embassy and consulate has a legal attaché office, but they’re managed by the International Operations Division here in D.C. The focus is global, but we liaise with other federal agencies, Interpol, international law enforcement associations. No matter what happens in the legats, everything still comes through HQ.”

  “Yeah? You working on anything interesting?” Antonelli raised a questioning eyebrow

  Christie had developed an uneasy feeling about Antonelli during the Harold Case investigation. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he wasn’t comfortable sharing anything other than small talk with the other agent. “No. I just do whatever the AD asks me to.”

  Antonelli eyed him while he finished his coffee. Then he shrugged. “Too bad. Maybe after the Harold Case thing they don’t have enough confidence in you to send you over the pond.” He put his cup on the drain board, unrinsed, and walked out. “See ya around.”

  Christie felt his anger rising at the intentional barb. There was a time not so long ago when the incident would have sent a searing bolt of lightning slicing through his gut, doubling him over. But now his stomach troubles seemed to be a thing of the past. He hadn’t taken any medication in several weeks. And he’d started a regular exercise routine. He even took yoga lessons two nights a week, and had begun meditating at bedtime and first thing in the morning.

  He rinsed his mug in the sink and set it in his special place on top of the refrigerator. On his way back to his office, his mind began to sift through the pieces of the principal matter he was working on. It had been specially assigned to him by his boss, the Assistant Director of INTOPS. While a great many matters crossed his desk, this one was par
ticularly critical. Intel from a source in the Middle East had warned the legat in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, that someone—possibly U.S. operatives—was planning to cripple the Russian economy. The current administration had been clear about establishing a reset of relations with the Russians. The participation of U.S. nationals in an assault on the Russian economy didn’t serve the best interests of that goal. Word had come directly from the Oval Office that any such activity must be prevented. Christie had liaised with his counterparts in the Tel Aviv legat, hoping they would be able to glean something from Israeli intelligence. But word had come back that if the Mossad or others knew anything, they had built a firewall around it.

  Similar word also had come from an anonymous source in the international banking community. Christie had been assigned the task of tracking down the source and verifying the information. Where to begin? he wondered.

  Chapter 30—Mosul, Iraq

  The two men looked the part of professional soldiers. They had the battle fatigues, openly displayed sidearms, short hair, and leathery skin of those in their occupation. They also had the scars.

  Federov and his old comrade-in-arms, Andrei Ulyanin, were sipping strong coffee outside a small shop in Mosul. It was on the west side of the Tigris River near the ruins of the Umayyad Mosque. The mosque was the oldest in the city, built in 640 AD by Utba bin Farqad Al-Salami who conquered Mosul during the rise of Islam. The only part remaining was a tilting minaret, fifty-two meters high. Locally, it was called Al-Hadba, meaning The Humped.

  Neither of the two men gave a damn about the ruins or Mosul. Or the entire Middle East, for that matter. Federov was there because his superiors in Moscow had ordered him to work with the Iranis in their efforts to arm and train jihadist terrorists. But somewhere along the way, things had changed. Iran was primarily Shiite, but didn’t have a problem supporting Sunni terrorists in their jihad against Israel, the Great Satan, and the remainder of the West. Iraq also was primarily Shiite, but an ever-growing Sunni army was waging an intense and bloody struggle for a large swath of the Middle East, including major parts, if not all, of Iraq.