Endanger Species: Part 3: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller

by John Wayne Falbey

  Now the ayatollahs in Iran were shoring up the Shiite majority and its government in Baghdad. Their real goal, as Federov and Ulyanin well knew, was the absorption of Iraq and its mineral wealth into a new Persian Empire. Personally, the two of them couldn’t have cared less about any cause. Their skills were for sale to the highest bidder. At the moment, that was Omar Kamel al-Bakr, the man who commanded the Holy Army of the Caliphate, or HAC. Bakr called himself Nadir Shah in honor of his idol, a Turkic Afshari who, in the eighteenth century, created a vast empire that stretched from Turkey to India. The original Shah often was described as "the last great Asian military conqueror” and the “Second Alexander”.

  A Libyan by birth, the ersatz Shah was a former general army officer in Mubarak’s Egypt. Fearing for his life when Mubarak’s regime fell, he’d fled to Riyadh and ingratiated himself with certain ambitious members of the royal family. Fed by their endless supply of petrodollars, along with additional funds from the UAE, Qatar, and other oil-rich Middle Eastern nations, he had raised an army of veteran jihadi warriors. He’d grown their numbers with thousands of disgruntled young Muslim men who had no jobs, educations, or hopes of ever getting them.

  Ulyanin, who had served in the Spetsnaz Vympel with Federov in Afghanistan and Chechnya, had been the first to sign on with Shah’s HAC. He’d quickly recruited Federov, but that move had not been so easy for Federov. Vasilyev had assigned him to work directly through the Iranis, Russia’s chief ally in the Middle East. Ostensibly, the HAC was Iran’s adversary in the largely overblown Shiite-versus-Sunni conflict. In the end, money, and the chance to take control of his own destiny, had pushed Federov to his new employer. He knew he would never achieve his goal of running Directorate KR for External Counter-Intelligence, and ultimately replacing Vasilyev, but the HAC offered the promise of something bigger ahead.

  Ulyanin signaled the waiter to refill their cups. When the man left, he said, “Pig slop is better than this shit. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of vodka.”

  Federov, whose eyes never stopped surveying the area, grunted. “Fat chance of that. These fucking ignorant, unwashed ragheads and their moronic religion. I’d probably be willing to swear off vodka for the chance to kill every fucking one of them.”

  “Yeah,” Ulyanin said with a sly grin. “But the money’s better here than anywhere else we could find.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just keep your eyes open. When the time is right, follow my lead.”

  * * *

  An hour later, the two Russians were sitting in a conference room in a hotel in downtown Mosul. Five other men, all Arabs, also were at the table. Four of the men were Shah’s lieutenants. The other was Nadir Shah himself. He was thick bodied with severe acne scarring on one of the cruelest-looking faces Federov had seen.

  Shah was perusing at a report in his hands. “Our latest intel has confirmed the buildup of Kurdish troops. They are slipping into Mosul Province from Makhmur to the east and Hamdaniva to the north.”

  “The greedy bastards aren’t satisfied with their own oil reserves; they want the new strike near here, too,” Federov said.

  All heads at the table, except Ulyanin’s, turned to look at him. Five pairs of cold, black eyes. The men all were dark skinned Arabs and, except for Shah, were clothed in loose-fitting, black Islamic battledress. They had different body shapes and facial features, but to Federov, they all looked alike—wild-eyed, bushy-bearded zealots. Only Shah was clean-shaven. He also was the only Arab in the room wearing a Western-style battle-dress uniform.

  “The point,” Shah said, “is not what they seek. It is to stop them from achieving it.” All four of the other Arabs nodded in agreement.

  “It is one thing,” Federov said, “to slice through the Iraqi army with ease. It is another to fight the Kurdish troops, the peshmerga. Evidence of their skills and dedication is found in the fact that not a single coalition soldier or foreigner has been killed, wounded or kidnapped in Kurdistan since the invasion of Iraq in 2003. Compare that to the rest of the country in that time period. Kurdish elite units, the Cobra forces, are as good as anyone. American Special Forces have lived among, trained, and fought beside them for decades. They are very good. Not as good, of course, as the Spetsnaz Vympel, but good.” A sneer curled his lips as he stared down the four Arab lieutenants. “Your ragtag buffoons won’t match up very well.”

  Shah’s face darkened. “These ‘ragtag buffoons’ are in your charge, are they not? Are we not paying you well enough to train them to be fighters?”

  Federov could see Ulyanin’s head wagging back and forth, signaling him to back off. Beneath the table, Federov tightened his grip on the butt of the Makarov holstered at his waist. “Oh, we are training them, all right. It is the material we have to work with that leaves much to be desired.” He paused and looked pointedly at each of the jihadis. “Do not expect miracles. No amount of money or training can turn these fanatics into true soldiers.”

  “Then what is it you suggest we do about the Kurds?” Shah said, clearly measuring his words to hide his anger.

  Federov shrugged. “Buy them off.”

  “What! Pay tribute?”

  “Call it what you want. Offer to share oil revenues with them, to honor an agreed-upon boundary so long as the new oil strike is on your side.”

  Shah slammed a fist onto the tabletop. “That is absurd! I am creating the long-awaited Holy Caliphate. I am uniting all Sunnis and other sons of Islam who wish to follow us. I will not be extorted by mongrel dogs such as the Kurds!”

  “And you will never see the creation of this ‘caliphate,’” Federov spoke the words with disdain, “if you engage in wars on more than one front. The Kurds are masters of guerilla warfare. With them hounding your flank, you will not succeed in pressing your expansion into Iraq, Iran, and other nations.”

  There was a long period of silence. All other heads in the room swiveled back and forth between Shah and Federov. At last, Shah said, “You are right. My strategy is to set all other parties against each other to weaken them while my army grows stronger. I do not want others to work together in a war against me. I cannot succeed that way.”

  Shah stared at the ceiling for several moments, his right hand slowly rubbing his upper lip. Eventually, he looked around the table, his eyes coming to rest on Federov. “I will give this more thought, and we will have further discussions.”

  * * *

  Federov and Ulyanin returned to the room that had been commandeered for them at a rundown lodging house around the corner from the coffee shop they’d visited earlier. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Ulyanin screamed, “Are you fucking crazy? Your contempt for our employers is going to get both of us killed.”

  Federov shrugged. “These little monkeys are more of a danger to themselves than to us. The Kurds will slaughter them.”

  “Agreed. The only worse fighters I’ve seen are the Iraqi troops. But these people are fanatics. They truly believe their bullshit about heaven and virgins. And, more important, for most of them an early death is more attractive than the lives they were born into.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Dammit, Kirill, you’re making it my problem!” For emphasis, Ulyanin grabbed a dirty towel off one of the cots and flung hard to the floor. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, and neither do you. Did you see the way those other ragheads looked at us?”

  “Fuck them. Fuck all of them. I’ll kill them all.”

  Ulyanin shook his head in disgust. “You are an egomaniacal ass, Federov. If you piss off Nadir Shah again, he will turn his people loose on us. We’ll kill some of them—provided we see them coming—but there are thousands of them and they will win.”

  Federov fixed the other man with a cold look. “Are you saying, comrade, that you want to go home to Russia?”

  “You know we can’t do that. Vasilyev knows we disobeyed his orders to work with the Iranis. He�
�ll consider it disloyalty, maybe even treason, and have our heads.”

  “So, you can’t go back to Russia. You can’t go back to the Iranis. What is it you hope to do?”

  Ulyanin was silent for a few moments. “I hope to make enough fucking money with Nadir Shah to be able to retire to a quiet corner of the world and live out my life in peace.”

  Federov snorted. “Quiet corner of the world? Peace? A quasi-religious war is about to ravage the entire globe. No place will be left untouched by it.”

  “Quasi-religious?”

  “Yes. Left to their own devices, most people could tolerate divergent points of view, even religious ones. But there have always been, and always will be, cruel and ambitious men who lust after power. They will manipulate those differences under the guise that there is only one true perspective and all others must be crushed.”

  Ulyanin stared back at Federov. “So in this black world of yours there are no winners.”

  “Wrong. There are winners. It is men like us. Men who are capable of taking advantage of the situation by teaching the art of war to the highest bidder.”

  Both men continued to stare at each other. The silence was broken by a sharp knock on the door. Both men unholstered their sidearms, then opened the door to a soldier in the loose-fitting black battledress, balaclava in place. He spoke to them in Arabic, but each man had a working knowledge of the language: Nadir Shah wanted to see them.

  They exchanged glances, holstered their weapons, and followed the man out the door.

  The two guards at the door eyed the Russians coldly as they entered the room. The door closed behind them. Shah was still sitting at the head of the table, but the other four jihadi commanders were gone. In their place, sitting to Shah’s right, was a tall, thin Arab with a large hawk nose. He was wearing a lightweight tan suit with a white shirt and no tie. There was a red-and-white-checked gutra on his head, held in place by the double black-corded igal. The rings on his fingers and large watch on his wrist looked expensive. His swarthy face was clean-shaven. His cold, black, smallish eyes never left the two Russians as Shah waved them to seats on his left.

  When they were seated, Shah said, “This is His Highness Prince Khalid bin Salmon al-Rahman.”

  The other man’s head inclined slightly.

  “His Highness is a member of the Saudi royal family and he is that country’s minister of finance.”

  The Russians glanced at each other, clearly wondering what this man could want of them..

  “Although you are outsiders, because of your experiences in Chechnya and Afghanistan, he is most interested in your perspective,” Shah said.

  Chapter 31—Dingle, Ireland

  It was Ireland and it had rained all afternoon and into the evening. But it had stopped an hour earlier. The Fianna House was quiet. Larsen, Thomas, and Almeida were in their rooms on the second floor. Above them, The Whelan family had gone to bed. Sean and Declan were asleep dreaming of football, the game their father called soccer.

  Stensen and Kirkland were somewhere in the neighborhood, patrolling. With all of the Dogs gathered in one place, it was no time to let their guard down. Friends and members of Caitlin’s family were stout protectors, but the situation called for the ultimate defense. In his secret heart of hearts, Whelan almost allowed himself to wish their enemies would come for them. What the intruders would find was death and mutilation—Kirkland with his katana and the ultimate knife fighter, Stensen.

  Spent from their lovemaking, Whelan and Caitlin were nestled in bed. She was curled against him, her head on his shoulder. One of his thick, sinewy arms circled her protectively. He could tell by her breathing that she was asleep. Long ago, he had decided that these were life’s best moments. The warmth of her body next to his, the sweet fragrance of her hair, her smooth, firm skin against his. He would have given anything to avoid spoiling the moment. But there was something he had to share with her, and it wasn’t something that could wait.

  He began to slowly stroke her softly rounded hip. After several moments, her eyelids fluttered once or twice and she tilted her head to look at his eyes. “Are you ready to talk to me now?”

  Whelan smiled and shook his head in amazement. He thought of her as the perfect female—beautiful, flirtatious, genuine. But there was more. She had that mysterious feminine intuition his father had told him about. Somehow she seemed always to know what he was thinking. There were never any secrets that could be kept from her.

  She sat up and turned to face him, sitting cross-legged in the bed. “I know what it is, Bren. You’re going away, aren’t you?”

  He nodded and sighed. “Yes.”

  Caitlin was silent for a few moments. “And it involves these men downstairs, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded again.

  “Well, I suppose the bright side is that the townsfolk will be relieved. Your friends frighten them.”

  “Anyone with good sense would be frightened.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “I know they’re your closest friends, and I think I understand the bond. It’s based on your common genetics and unique experiences.”

  Whelan smiled. “Are you becoming my shrink?”

  “No. I just know you’re different from them.”

  “Not so different. Have you forgotten I ripped the throats out of the men who came here to kill us?”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “I can’t speak for other wives and mothers, but this woman is grateful to have an alpha wolf in her life. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  He reached out and pulled her close to him.

  “Can you tell me where you’re going and how long you’ll be gone?” she said.

  “Levell has something he needs us to do.”

  She thought about what he’d said. “Are you doing this for the money? Is it because you think we need it?”

  “It is a considerable amount of money.”

  “If you survive.”

  “I’ll survive. I always survive. But it’s more than money.”

  “You feel an obligation to the United States. Don’t you?”

  “I do. America took us in when things were really bad for my parents in a lot of ways. It changed our lives for the better. It will change anyone’s life for the better, if they’ll let it.” He paused and she felt a certain tension within him.

  “One of the things Levell taught me is that the incredible liberties the Yanks enjoy are not self-sustaining. In America and elsewhere, greed, fear, insecurities, or any combination will always corrupt some people. Free men must fight to remain free from devils like that.”

  “Genetics aside, Bren, I’ve always known you were an unusual human being. Is there nothing that frightens you?”

  He shifted uneasily and turned more fully toward her. “Sure, I’m human. There are things that frighten me.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Such as?”

  “Something happening to you or the boys; and things like EMPs, Ebola…”

  “Because they’re things over which you have no control?”

  Whelan nodded.

  Caitlin quietly said, “How long will you be away?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then can you tell me where you’re going, what you’ll be doing?”

  He rolled over on his side, facing her, and rested his head in his hand, elbow propped on a pillow. “Cliff is sending us to the Middle East, to Dubai. It’s complicated, but his organization is trying to hurt the Russian economy. They need the cooperation of the Saudis. In return, the Saudis want someone assassinated, a jihadi leader.”

  “In Dubai?” Her eyes betrayed her concern.

  “Yes. It’s kind of a neutral territory for all sides when they want some R and R. It’s like Las Vegas—what happens in Dubai stays in Dubai. The unwritten rule is that everyone leaves their issues at home and doesn’t bring their guns in Dubai.”

  “I recall reading that the Israelis assassinated a terrorist leader there some years back. The Moss
ad agents were very fortunate to escape. It will be even more dangerous now.”

  Whelan shrugged. “Cliff and his connections are the best in the world at setting these things up. They’ll have covered all possibilities and will have countless contingency plans.” He reached out and took her hand. “We’ll be just fine.”

  Chapter 32—Tehran

  Maksym Kozak listened impatiently to the rantings of Vasilyev on the other end of the encrypted Sat phone. He wasn’t used to being yelled at like some low-level employee. He wasn’t used to being yelled at by anyone, whether it was the head of Russian external intelligence or some damn fool having a bad day. He thought back to his last meeting with Vasilyev in the general’s office in Moscow. I should have killed you then, old man.

  Vasilyev had paused for a moment. When he resumed, his tone was less harsh. “Alright, the situation is what it is. You’ve lost Federov and believe he has joined the Sunni jihadi who calls himself Nadir Shah.”

  “It’s more than conjecture. I have it on reliable authority that Federov and Ulyanin have hired on as military advisors to Shah.”

  “That miserable son of a whore,” Vasilyev screamed. “He’s making me look a fool to the Iranis, our supposed allies?”

  “Supposed?” Maksym said. “Either they are or they aren’t. Which is it?”

  The old general laughed. It had a hollow ring to it. “You are an amazing man, Maksym—your strength, your intellect, your absolute fearlessness. But in spite of all that you can be surprisingly naïve at times.”

  “Then disabuse me of my naivety, General.” Maksym’s jaws were clenched so tight in fury that it was difficult to get the words out.

  “We are Russians!” He paused for an instant. “Well, you aren’t. You are Ukrainian or Roma or Irish, I don’t know, some kind of European mongrel. But I, my people, we are the greatest race of people on this planet—superior to all others. We do not recognize ‘allies’ on any permanent basis. Sometimes, for our own purposes, we encourage others to believe we are united with them in some cause. But always it is to benefit us. And always there comes a time when we no longer need them.”