Endanger Species: Part 3: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller

by John Wayne Falbey

  He stepped back a pace and looked at the other three men. “It also is clear that you are not CIA, SEALs, or agents of any Western government. No, you are not professional enough for that. You are working for a shadowy American group that calls themselves the Society of Adam Smith.” The police chief smiled broadly.

  Whelan’s three companions all glanced at each other, wondering how their captors knew so much about their operation.

  Still smiling, the general said, “Ah, but there is more. Your mission was to assassinate Nadir Shah, a great man—a Sunni warrior, and a guest of the Sheikh’s—here on our own soil.” The smile vanished, replaced by a look of rage. “You dare to violate our sovereignty! I will enjoy attending your executions, which, incidentally, will be by beheading.”

  He nodded toward the police van, and his men shoved the prisoners into the back, shackling their ankles and attaching the chains to large eye bolts protruding from the floor. In seconds, the van was underway.

  * * *

  Ten police stations were scattered around metropolitan Dubai. Al Barsha was the one closest to the Marina District where the Dogs had been arrested. It took about ten minutes to travel the 10.5 kilometers. Because of the presence of the armed guards riding with them, the prisoners didn’t speak to each other. Instead, they listened to the conversation among the guards. Thomas spoke fluent Arabic. Whelan and Stensen were proficient in it. Larsen had a rudimentary grasp. None of the men showed any sign of understanding the language.

  The guards couldn't resist taunting and threatening their prisoners. Apparently, they considered it part of their jobs. They described in detail the sadistic torture they would receive. Maybe they would be beaten to death. It was such a big desert, no one would ever know. The younger cops each tried to outdo the other, seemingly to impress the older ones.

  The jail was every bit as bad as Whelan and the others imagined it would be. It was grossly overcrowded, with two prisoners to every bed and many others sprawled on the concrete floor. Most of them were asleep because of the late hour. The ones who weren’t stared sightlessly into space. All showed signs of beatings and physical abuse.

  The Dogs were shoved roughly along a narrow corridor lined with cells on both sides. The ankle shackles required them to quickstep shuffle to keep up. Their cell was at the end of the corridor. The good news was that it was empty. The cops had cleared out the other prisoners in order to isolate the Dogs. The bad news was the sheer degree of filth. Former occupants had relieved themselves in the beds. Excrement covered the floor, mixed with dried blood and unidentifiable human detritus. The stench was overwhelming. In one corner was a simple hole in the ground—the toilet, festering with green mold.

  As soon as their shackles had been removed, the other Dogs crowded around Whelan to examine his wound.

  “Whoa, dude, that thing needs stitches,” Thomas said.

  “Either way, it’s gonna leave a mark,” Stensen said.

  Whelan shrugged. “Like the man said in the movie, ‘chicks dig scars.’”

  “I don’t know whether Caitlin’s going to like it or not,” Stensen said with a grin. “I just hope she doesn’t hold us responsible.” That brought a chuckle from each of them.

  Whelan grabbed a thin, filthy mattress off a lower bunk, threw it on the even filthier floor, and sat on the edge of the metal frame.

  “We’ve got a lot more to worry about than bumps and bruises. If we don’t get out of this place, we’ll soon be transferred to the central jail. It’s huge, far worse than this shithole, and out in the desert.”

  “Got any ideas?” Larsen said.

  “Not any that we can use from inside. The fact that Marc and Colonel Sanders aren’t in here with us is encouraging. I trust Marc to set something up that’ll give us a chance to react.”

  “Yeah,” Stensen said, “but there’s a fifty-fifty chance Almeida will screw it up.”

  “Nah, you’re too hard on the little shit, dude. Have a little faith,” Thomas said.

  “Gonna take more than faith to get out of this mess,” Stensen said. “Supposing we do manage to get sprung, we’re still in their country. We don’t look like them. We don’t sound like them. And there are cameras on every street corner and in every building. Plus, they’ve got drones. This whole stinking country is one vast prison.”

  “Levell,” Whelan said.

  The other three looked at him.

  “Cliff has access to assets we can’t even imagine. He’ll come up with something. In the meantime, I’d like to know how the Dubai heat knew about our mission. I don’t believe it was someone in the SAS. But there has to be a leak somewhere.”

  Chapter 37—Dubai

  Early the next morning Whelan and the three other Dogs received a visitor, a tall, broad-shouldered man with unkempt dirty blond hair and cold, hard blue eyes. The newcomer stood just beyond the reach of the men in the cell. “So, at last we get to meet,” he said. There was more than a trace of a smirk on his face.

  Larsen got up from his seat on one of the lower bunks and strolled over to the front of the cell. He stared at the stranger. Anger smoldered in his gaze. “Who are you?”

  “We were supposed to meet about a year ago, in Washington, D.C., but you—how do you say in America—stood on me?”

  “Stood you up,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, stood me up. You are Thomas, the professor.” He looked at Larsen. “And you are Larsen, the ‘man with no neck.’ An appropriate name for you.” He turned and looked at Stensen. “You are the serial killer. The craziness in your eyes gives you away.” Finally, he turned to Whelan. “You are the Irishman, Whelan.”

  “Your English is good, but there’s a trace of an accent. Eastern European?” Whelan said without rising from his seat on another of the lower bunks.

  The man feigned disappointment. “And I trained so hard. I thought my speech was pure American.”

  “Ukrainian?” Stensen said.

  “No!” The man spit the word out. “Do you take me for some filthy peasant?”

  Thomas slid off a top bunk and walked to the front of the cell. “Frankly, we don’t know what to take you for. Why don’t you tell us.”

  A sardonic smile easily spread across the stranger’s face. “I am the one who is on the outside and you are not.” He seemed pleased with his repartee.

  “You said something about meeting you in Washington last year,” Whelan said.

  “Yes, at the Hotel L’Orange.”

  “Kirill Federov,” Whelan said.

  “Very good.”

  “Someone has made attempts on all our lives over the past year, Federov,” Stensen said. “Was that you?”

  Larsen was pressed up against the bars of the cell as tight as he physically could be, hoping Federov would carelessly inch just a little closer. Whelan knew if he did, Larsen literally would rip him apart with his hands.

  “No,” Federov said, and looked at Larsen. “I am not the one who killed your family. Originally, I had only two people I wanted to kill. Now there is only one name left on the list.”

  “Cliff Levell,” Whelan said.

  Federov nodded. “He and his late friend, General McCoy, deceived me. They ruined my perfect plan for the assassination of your president. That has caused me much grief with my former employers.”

  “You killed Buster McCoy,” Thomas said.

  Federov shook his head. “Not personally. I had it done by a connection in America, a member of what you call the Russian Mafia.”

  “We think the attempts on our lives are related to the Laski deal last year,” Thomas said. “If you didn’t try to kill us, do you know who did?”

  “Ask him.” Federov nodded at Whelan.

  “Why?” Thomas said.

  “Because the man who has been trying to kill you is his knuckle-dragging brother.”

  Larsen’s mass tensed and a thick vein in his forehead stood out prominently. “When we get out of here, I’m going to find him and kill him slowly; very, very slowly.
”

  Federov laughed. It sounded more like a snort. “Get out of here? You cannot be serious. At nightfall, you will be driven into the desert, tortured, and killed. Maksym has nothing to worry about from you.”

  “How do you know what’s going to happen to us?” Whelan said.

  “Yeah,” Thomas said. “And what are you doing here in the first place?”

  “I came to gloat.” Federov smiled. “I am the one who arranged to have you apprehended.”

  Whelan casually leaned his right shoulder against the bars and smiled guilelessly. “If, as you say, we have less than twenty-four hours to live, what’s the harm in telling us how you knew about our mission?”

  Again, the sardonic smile. “Someone had loose lips.”

  “It wasn’t Levell,” Whelan said.

  “In a way, it was. Your boss betrayed you. He foolishly shared the information with a Saudi colleague.”

  Three of the Dogs glanced quickly at each other. Larsen never moved, never looked away from Federov.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Whelan said with a smile to hide his surprise. “Why would he do that?”

  “The SAS has a plan that requires Saudi participation. In return, the Saudis wanted Nadir Shah eliminated. Your ‘brilliant’ leader thought it was prudent to keep this friend of his in the loop. It was the friend who arranged for the boat that transported you to the marina last night.”

  “And he double-crossed Cliff.”

  Federov laughed—a short, mirthless snort. “Not intentionally. The Saudi fool likes to confide in one of his favorite cousins, Prince Khalid bin Salmon al-Rahman, the Saudi finance minister.”

  “And Khalid betrayed us. Why?”

  Federov had moved slightly closer to the bars, just outside Larsen’s reach. Whelan wondered if the Russian was becoming careless, or simply taunting them.

  “Prince Khalid had the good fortune to be born into the royal family, but not the line from which the kings are chosen. But he is an ambitious man. He is arranging circumstances that will allow him to usurp the throne.”

  “That doesn’t explain what your involvement is,” Whelan said. “What’s a Russian operative have to do with this?”

  Federov’s eyes narrowed. “Unlike your foolish leader, Levell, my lips have never been loose.”

  Tapping his wrist where a watch would be, Whelan said, “Less than a day left. What’s the harm in telling us?”

  Federov shrugged. “What the hell. I am no longer employed by the SVR. I got what you Americans call ‘a better offer.’”

  “From Khalid?” Stensen said.

  “From Nadir Shah. I am currently ‘on loan’ to Khalid to assist him in stopping your plans. As you can see”—Federov swept his arms around the cell—“I have been successful. My only regret is that not all of you are here. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me where your friends Kirkland and Almeida are?”

  “They’re dead,” Whelan said flatly. “Maksym’s people killed them.”

  “Ah.” Federov considered this. “I can understand Almeida’s death. He is a natural fuck up. But Kirkland’s surprises me. I thought he was more capable than that.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I must leave now. I am due to return to Mosul in Khalid’s private jet.” He turned to walk away, then turned back. “Enjoy your evening. Try not to lose your heads over it.” He laughed heartily at his joke as he strode briskly back up the corridor.

  Chapter 38—Washington, D.C.

  The photos were black and white, and grainy. They had arrived minutes earlier, as part of an encoded message sent by the Bureau’s legat in Abu Dhabi. The office had jurisdiction for the entire UAE, including Dubai. The assistant director who ran the division had directed the message to the section chief for the Middle East, who, in turn, had assigned it to the unit chief for the UAE, for analysis and follow-up if necessary.

  Taking a sip from his second cup of coffee of the morning, Mitch Christie spread the four photos out on the countertop in the coffee room. Since he was the newly appointed unit chief for the UAE, this buck had come to a stop on his desk. The decoded message identified the four men in the photos as terrorists who had been captured by the Dubai police while in the act of attempting to assassinate the infamous Nadir Shah.

  The legat in the UAE had found it interesting that the Dubai police suspected the men might be from the U.S. Two of the men had Canadian passports, one had an Australian passport, and the fourth man supposedly was Senegalese. The passports came up as belonging to real people, but the Dubai cops had determined that the records were the handiwork of skilled hackers. So, who are these guys?

  Christie picked the photos up one at a time and studied them. The first man clearly was extraordinarily powerful. His head seemed to sit squarely on his shoulders without need for a neck. He put the photo down and picked up the second one. It was of a man who also was muscular, but not nearly as much as the first man. There was something strange about this man’s eyes, though. An unsettling strangeness. He picked up the third photo. The coffee cup fell from his hand and shattered on the floor.

  It was a poor photo and there was a serious-looking wound on the man’s left cheek, still there was no doubt about the man’s identity. He had seen that face up close and personal only a few weeks earlier. In Ireland. He was staring at the face of Brendan Whelan.

  He quickly glanced at the fourth photo. The man in it was black, and like the others, powerfully built. The names came to him in a rush—Whelan, Larsen, Stensen, and Thomas.

  Christie felt slightly dizzy. He sat down in a nearby chair while his thoughts swarmed. What the hell were the Sleeping Dogs doing in Dubai? Had they really intended to kill Nadir Shah? Why? And who were they working for?

  This had the potential to be a foreign relations nightmare. After taking slow, deep breaths, he gathered up the pieces of broken cup and deposited them in the trash, then wiped up the coffee. When he was finished, he picked up the four photos and the decoded message and went to speak with his boss.

  Fortunately, the section chief was in his office alone and not on the phone. He waved Christie to one of the client chairs in front of his desk.

  “Whatcha got, Mitch? You said something about a developing situation in the UAE?”

  Christie chose his words carefully. “I’m not sure what to make of this, sir, but on it’s face it appears that it could develop into a problem for us.” He explained the situation, leaving out that he’d recognized Whelan. After the misadventure in Ireland, he figured he owed him that much. Besides, no one other than he knew what Whelan looked like. And even he had never seen the other men’s faces before today.

  The chief swiveled his chair and looked at a framed reproduction of a Frederic Remington painting hanging on the wall. Absentmindedly, he picked up a pencil from his desktop and began gnawing at the eraser. Turning back to Christie and said, “These guys clearly aren’t who their passports say they are. The Dubai police have a much better handle on them than we do, so maybe they are U.S. Did you check with our liaison with the Agency?”

  “Jim Franconia, yes. He says they’re definitely not his people. I also checked with our liaison at DIA. It’s not their guys either.”

  “So what do we have here? Four American cowboys trying to take out the most polarizing figure in the Middle East?” He shook his head. “Shit, there has to be more to it than that. Someone or something is sponsoring those guys. This is the kind of thing that could cause even greater problems for us in that part of the world and beyond.”

  The chief swiveled again and stared at the Remington for several more moments. When he turned back around, he looked at Christie across the desk and said, “Mitch, I want you to get over there right away. Get the legat in Abu Dhabi to assist, but we need to get a handle on this ASAP. If it’s what it looks like, then damage control is a top priority.”

  “I understand. I’ll get right on it.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Christie was on United Flight 9
76, a Boeing 777, from Dulles to Dubai International Airport. It was a nonstop flight of thirteen hours and twenty minutes. Allowing for the eight-hour time differential, he would arrive in Dubai at 3:35 p.m. the following afternoon.

  He had made a hurried call to Camila Ramirez, cancelling their planned weekend together in Denver. The disappointment he’d heard in her voice was a match for his own. He realized that the time he spent with her was the most enjoyable of his life. He reflected briefly on his first marriage and how his career had destroyed it. If it became a problem in his relationship with Camila, he knew which way his decision would go.

  Christie settled back in his business-class seat with a dry vodka martini and waited for the flight attendants to serve dinner. As he relaxed into the long flight, a troubling thought emerged from his subconscious. Four photos. But there were six surviving members of the Sleeping Dogs unit. Where are Kirkland and Almeida? Were they no longer members of the unit? Had they been left off the mission on purpose? Or were they also in Dubai?

  Christie stirred restlessly, spilling part of his drink on his suit coat. Shit! It’s the story of my life—questions, questions, questions—but so few answers.

  Chapter 39—Dubai

  Being fully rested would be an advantage for what might lie ahead, and so Whelan and the others tried to sleep most of the day. They took turns as sentries, in the event the Emirati came for them. But, other than a serving of lunch, they saw no one.

  The meal itself was all but inedible—stale khuboos bread and a paste-like curry sauce with unidentifiable lumps that may have been vegetables. They were also provided a bucket of water, but its source was unknown. By midday, the temperature in the cell was 50 degrees Celsius, or 120 degrees Fahrenheit. The water started to look pretty good.

  “We’ve been in plenty of tight spots before, but this is beginning to look like the granddaddy of them all,” Thomas said.