“Two. Marine Corps Major General Roscoe C. McCoy, head of Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command, or MARSOC, and a retired Agency operative named Clifford Levell. There was a third…Harold Case.”
With the mention of Case’s name, everyone around the table except Christie sat a little straighter. Christie had heard this story earlier.
Antonelli looked at Christie and said, “So, the theory is that Case’s investigation into this old Agency project is what got him killed.”
Christie nodded. “At this point, we assume there’s a connection.”
“What about McCoy and Levell?” Antonelli said. “Is anyone talking to them?”
“They’re at the top of our list to interview, along with the surviving geneticist, Nishioki, but they couldn’t have killed Case personally. Levell is retired and wheelchair-bound because of injuries suffered in an automobile accident. McCoy was at MARSOC headquarters at Camp Lejeune when this thing went down.”
Antonelli examined his knuckles for a moment, then looked at Christie. “Who’re you assigning to do those interviews?”
“I’m doing that myself,” Christie said evenly.
“Okay. Let’s go back to that black ops unit for a minute. What was its purpose?” Antonelli said.
“They were utilized for very special wet work that remains too highly classified to discuss here,” Franconia said. “All I can tell you is they were operative for less than two years before the project was terminated.”
All of the Bureau people looked at Christie.
“Even I don’t have that level of classified access,” he said.
“What happened to them when the project was scrapped?” Antonelli said. “You mentioned a plane crash.”
“Of the original fifteen, nine died on missions,” Franconia said. “Then the order was given to terminate the six remaining members with extreme prejudice. Unfortunately, it seems that someone involved with the unit—rumor has it that it was Levell—was having an affair with the wife of a deputy director at the Agency. The DD foolishly let it slip in a conversation with her. She told her lover, and the Dogs vanished.”
“That’s it?” said Antonelli. “They just vanished? Did anyone ever look for them?”
Franconia shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “But we didn’t have to look for very long. Two weeks later they showed up in Puerto Rico and stole a C-130 Hercules from Coast Guard Air Station Borinquen, the old Ramey Air Force Base.” The plane crashed right after takeoff. Into the ocean off the north coast of Puerto Rico.”
He paused, watching the agents seated around the table lean forward. “Where they crashed was the Puerto Rican Trench. It’s the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean, more than five miles deep. There was no wreckage to examine and no survivors to worry about.”
15 Potomac, Maryland
The city of Potomac, Maryland, was located about fifteen miles northwest of Washington, D.C., along the marshlands that border its namesake river. Nestled among its rolling hills and population of about fifty thousand were some of the region’s most affluent neighborhoods. Many highly successful, wealthy executives, professional athletes, and politicians resided in the area.
On a good day, it was about a thirty-minute drive from the nation’s capitol. Today, the mid-afternoon traffic on the Beltway and its arterials was heavy. Howard Morris, sitting in the heated rear seat of a Bentley Mulsanne limousine, began to fidget. In contrast, Shepard Jenkins, seated next to him, was the picture of calmness.
Jenkins glanced over. “Why so antsy?”
Morris didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window at the passing scene, his fingers nervously twisting the edge of his overcoat. After a while he said, “I’m not antsy. I just don’t understand why Laski wants to see us. Right now, I mean. Case was just killed this morning. Doesn’t Laski trust me to properly handle the information Case dug up?”
“More likely he wants to congratulate you on your success.”
“He could do that on the phone.”
Morris turned from the window and glanced at the back of the limo driver’s head. He didn’t know how much conversation the man listened to. Likely, Morris thought, he reports everything back to Laski.
The man was large, well over six feet tall and north of two hundred and fifty pounds. He looked to Morris like a very rough customer. One ear was cauliflowered, his nose was flattened, and he had a number of facial scars. One particularly gruesome scar ran from the left side of his forehead through his eyebrow, across what there was of his nose, and down his right cheek almost to the jawbone. He was typical of the people Chaim Laski surrounded himself with, at least the ones Morris had seen. These people frightened him. He assumed they had the same effect on everyone. That was part of their purpose in Laski’s employ. Morris didn’t want to think of the other duties they might perform.
To distract his concerns, he ran his hand over the full grain leather covering the seats. He felt the warmth coming through from the seat heaters and knew that in warm weather the seats were cooled. The heat felt very good on this cold, wintry day. Morris didn’t know how much Laski had paid for this custom commissioned Bentley, but he knew these incredible machines could easily cost more than three hundred fifty thousand dollars. He also had heard it was one of the few cars in the world built entirely by hand. He admired the man’s taste. It certainly was impressive and fitting for a man worth many billions of dollars.
The driver exited the Capitol Beltway onto River Road and drove west through the town of Potomac. Laski lived in an enormous French country-style mansion that sprawled comfortably on several acres of land off River Road just west of the town. As they neared their destination, Jenkins reached over and tapped Morris on the leg to get his attention. “Buck up, Howard. His wanting to see us can only be a positive.”
Morris glanced again at the back of the driver’s head and as his eye caught the rearview mirror, he was unnerved to see the driver looking back at him. He subconsciously pressed himself back in his seat as if to put distance between himself and the man’s frightening countenance.
The tires on the Bentley’s twenty-one inch wheels crunched heavily on the gravel as the car passed through an electronic gate set between high, solid looking walls. Morris noticed the surveillance cameras mounted on the walls. Armed guards patrolled the grounds with the largest, ugliest dogs he had ever seen. The limo wound down a long, twisting driveway and stopped in front of Laski’s palatial home. Morris had heard he owned several in the United States and other parts of the world. When the car rolled to a stop in the motor court, another Laski employee, also large and menacing-looking and wearing an earbud, opened the door for Morris. The driver did the same for Jenkins on the other side of the car.
“You will please to follow me,” the second man said and began striding toward the steps that led to the front entrance of the rambling structure. Morris had been here before and, although Laski’s mansion was impressive, he didn’t particularly like it. It was too big – thirteen bedrooms and sixteen bathrooms. All told, it housed more than twenty thousand square feet. This did not include the separate caretaker’s bungalow or the additional guest cottage located on the other side of a one-acre man-made lake.
As they reached the top step, an older man in butler’s livery opened the door. In a clipped British accent, he said, “Please follow me, gentlemen” He led Morris and Jenkins through the entryway and down a wide hall that was all glass on one side overlooking an enclosed garden area. The other side of the hall was lined with a series of double doors all of which were closed, except for the last one. It housed a well-stocked library. At the end of the hall was a glassed-in sunroom. The butler stopped at the entrance to the room and motioned for the two men to enter, then turned around and retraced his steps down the hall.
Laski was sitting in an armchair, talking on a cell phone. He broke off the conversation when he saw Morris and Jenkins and laid the phone on the table beside his chair. He was in his late seventies, short and stout
with a roundish face and gray hair that twisted unnaturally in several directions. It gave him the look of someone who had just gotten out of bed. But Morris had heard that Laski slept only three hours a night, rising at four every morning to start his day with reports from the markets in Europe and Asia.
“Senator and Shep, is good to see you both. Please sit down,” Laski said in his thick, guttural accent. Morris knew Laski was a Polish immigrant, but somehow his accent seemed to defy placement in any particular Eastern European country. He always seemed to reverse the pronunciation of his v’s and w’s. His voice and speech pattern reminded Morris of Henry Kissinger. In some ways it also reminded him of his own immigrant father’s accent.
Laski always gave off an unhurried air that implied that everything would simply happen in the time he needed it to happen. Even so, from time to time, he glanced at his Patek Philippe World Time Platinum watch. Morris had heard that Laski also owned the original, one-of-a-kind World Time Platinum produced in 1939. It kept time in forty-two cities around the world and its last known price had been more than four million dollars paid at an auction in 2002.
The two men sat and Morris got right to the point. “Chaim, while it’s always a pleasure to see you, I have to admit I’m puzzled why you called us here on such short notice.”
Laski laughed. It was cold and shallow, like an echo from a grave. “Not to worry, Senator. I only want to hear results of Mr. Case’s efforts directly from you.”
“Well,” Morris said, “prior to getting himself killed, Case managed to find what we were hoping he would. We have copies of documents from the CIA’s files.” Morris described them briefly. “I’m planning to present that information to our friends in the press, and perhaps through an organization like WikiLeaks.” Morris ran through the information that Case had sent him.
Laski sat quietly for several moments, going over the information in his mind. Eventually he looked at Morris and Jenkins and smiled broadly. “Gentlemen, this is good information. Is what we are seeking,” he said. “Tomorrow, Senator, you will call meeting of your committee with press present. You personally will release this information. Is not for WikiLeaks and such. That does not have same effect for benefit of your presidential aspirations.” He made a stabbing motion with his right hand. “Tomorrow we drive big stake in fantasy of American exceptionalism.”
Jenkins shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had come a long way from his humble beginnings in the projects of Birmingham, Alabama. In some measure, he believed the American system had greatly contributed to his success in escaping the slums. He wasn’t sure how he would have fared in Laski’s view of a single world order. He had heard enough over the past few years to suspect it was a vision of global Marxism to be presided over by a small intellectual elite endowed with every privilege imaginable. The remaining global mass of humanity would subsist according to the directives of this superior order of beings. Dissidents would not be tolerated. By hitching his fate to Laski’s organization, which included Morris, Jenkins hoped he would be included among the ruling elite. It offered a possible solution to his most pressing issue—massive gambling debts. And those markers were held by some very nasty people.
16 Frederick, Maryland
Frederick, Maryland, was about an hour and a half from downtown Washington, D.C., whether by car or the MARC light rail line. Christie preferred to commute by train. But the last returning trip on the Brunswick line had left Union Station at 7:15. He had still been in conference with Franconia and the Bureau personnel assigned to him on the Harold Case affair. He’d been fortunate to catch a ride with a coworker who lived in Braddock Heights, a few miles farther north on I-70.
Christie’s home was on a side street a few blocks from the town’s historic district. Although the house had been renovated many times since it was built in the early part of the twentieth century, it retained its original look. He and his wife, Deborah, had moved there before their first child had been born. Now they could afford to upgrade, but they’d never developed a desire to move. It was home. And it was comfortable. Their son and daughter, Brett and Samantha, went to nearby schools that had excellent ratings. They all genuinely liked the neighborhood.
Bone weary and cold, he checked his watch as he slipped into the dimly lit house. Deborah had left the outside light on over the front door, as well as a small lamp in the living room. After all these years, she had grown accustomed to the unpredictable hours imposed by her husband’s employer.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning. Christie had been up for nearly twenty-four hours and he could feel it. He was not looking forward to the next day. He had an early meeting scheduled with the Bureau’s Deputy Director and various functionaries of the Metropolitan Police Department. Later that morning he was scheduled to fly to Georgia to meet with special agents in the Bureau’s Atlanta field office. He had always believed his career path in the Bureau was based on his attention to detail and micromanagement of investigations. He planned to fly to the West Coast after the meeting in Atlanta. He wanted to personally conduct the interview with the surviving geneticist, William Nishioki, whose name had surfaced in the CIA records uncovered by Harold Case. But first, he thought, I have to find another bottle of antacid.
Just inside the front door he slipped off the shoes he’d been wearing since four o’clock that morning. His feet immediately felt better. He quietly crossed the living room floor, and paused to look at a framed photo on the coffee table. It had been taken several weeks earlier as the family celebrated Thanksgiving. Christie stared for a long time at each face: his wife’s, his son’s, and his daughter’s. He felt a sense of anxiety in the middle of his chest. Time was passing rapidly, too rapidly. His kids were growing up too fast and he wasn’t spending as much time with them as he wanted to and knew he should. And he missed his wife. He knew he needed to make a change, but he wasn’t sure what it was or how to do it.
Christie showered in the downstairs bathroom to avoid disturbing his family’s sleep. Deborah had left his pajamas and a blanket and pillow on the couch in the living room, knowing from experience that he would sleep there rather than chance waking her.
Afterward, as he lay on the couch waiting for sleep to take him, he thought about what Franconia had said about leaving the Bureau. About taking a cushy job in management with a private security firm. It was beginning to hold some genuine appeal. He could lead a normal life like so many other husbands and fathers in his neighborhood. There would be time for his son’s soccer matches and his daughter’s swim meets. He actually could plan to take his wife out and know that nothing would come up abruptly to interfere with it. Maybe, he thought, after this current situation was resolved.
PART 2:
THE DOG CATCHER
17 Tampa, Florida
The flight to Tampa took just over four hours including a change of planes at Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta. Whelan mingled unobtrusively with the thousands of other travelers, moving just quickly enough to make his connecting flight, but not so abruptly as to call attention to himself. On the other hand, nothing escaped his notice.
In Tampa, he moved easily with the flow of passengers through the concourse to the tram station. The tram shuttled passengers to the Main or Landside Terminal. Once there, Whelan located the arcade that led to the Marriott Tampa Airport Hotel and turned into it. He had been awake and on the go for thirty-six hours and knew he needed to sleep if he was going to be fully operative for what lay ahead.
Along the arcade he paused at a clothing shop and purchased two pairs of clean socks and underwear, a dress shirt and a tie. A few doors down he stopped at a sundry shop and picked up a toothbrush and disposable razor as well as travel-size containers of shaving cream and toothpaste. He moved on to the hotel and, using the Murkowski ID and cash, he checked in for the night. After dropping his purchases off in his room, he went upstairs to the revolving restaurant at the top of the hotel and had poached salmon, steamed broccoli and two beers.
Later, he used the cell phone to call a number Levell had given him. He arranged with the party on the other end to meet him the following morning in front of the Delta arrivals area outside the Main Terminal. After that, he showered, slid into bed and slept a deep and peaceful sleep.
The next morning Whelan wiped down anything in the room he might have touched, bagged up his dirty clothes and checked out of the hotel. He crossed back to the Main Terminal and descended to the baggage claim area. Along the way, he stuffed the bag with his old clothes into a trash can. Just outside the exit to the curbside pickup he spotted a man with a military bearing. He was wearing jeans, a white turtleneck sweater and brown leather jacket, and was holding a small, handmade sign with the name “Mr. Murkowski” on it.
Whelan approached him and said, “I’m Murkowski.”
The man offered his hand and introduced himself. “Major Pederson. Tom Pederson.”
Whelan shook hands and said, “You’re one of General McCoy’s people.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re with USSOCOM at MacDill?” The United States Special Operations Command, part of the Department of Defense, was charged with overseeing various joint Special Operations Commands (SOC or SOCOM) of the Army, Air Force, Navy and Marine Corps. USSOCOM was headquartered at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. Major General Roscoe “Buster” McCoy commanded MARSOC, the Marine Corps component of USSOCOM.
Whelan gave Major Pederson the address of his destination on Orient Road. It was about a twenty-two minute trip via Dale Mabry Highway and Interstate 275. Pederson led him to a beige late model Dodge Caravan in the short-term parking area. Whelan knew it was the Major’s personal vehicle from the scattering of youth sporting gear that cluttered the interior.
Whelan hadn’t been in Tampa in almost two decades. The town was bigger, glossier, more heavily trafficked, but still dirty and industrial at its core. Orient Road was part of that core. Dusty and rutted, it was lined mostly with tired, ugly, squat buildings that had not aged well. The principal offender was the Hillsboro County jail, a huge, rambling, multistoried mass of concrete. Its asphalt parking lots were losing the battle with the weather despite recent repaving. The landscaping was as ugly as the buildings—brownish grass and large bare areas where only the hard, nutrient-free Florida soil showed. The trees, what there were of them, were spindly and stunted, struggling to survive in the anemic dirt. This was a part of Florida that its Chambers of Commerce didn’t want tourists to see.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 7
