Still down on the floor, Bobby screamed, “Amber, you fuckin’ little slut, I’m gonna make you fuckin’ pay for this. You’ll see!”
Larsen grabbed one of the bar stools and walked back over. “Bobby-boy, you’re a menace to society. It’s time to reform you.” With that, he raised the stool, then slammed it down, one leg crashing into Bobby’s mouth, smashing out several teeth. It jammed his tongue back, ripping it partially free and stuffing it down his throat.
Bobby, wide-eyed and panicked, tugged desperately at the object lodged in his throat. Just before he choked to death, Larsen yanked the stool leg free. Bobby rolled over on his stomach and began vomiting blood and pieces of teeth. He was gagging, screeching in agony, and sobbing all at the same time.
“It’d be good if you stay the hell away from Amber,” Larsen said calmly. “If not, I’ll be back. And, if there is a next time, I won’t let you off this easy.” His good smile was back.
Larsen collected the cell phones and motor vehicle keys from Bobby and his comatose friends. Whelan did the same with the county workers, Amber and the biker. They put it all in Whelan’s briefcase. Whelan also went behind the bar and yanked the landline out of the wall. “We’re going to wait outside for a while. If any of you sticks his or her head out that door, you’re going to lose it,” he said. None of them looked like they wanted that to happen.
Amber looked like she was going to be ill. “Is Bobby gonna be all right?”
“He’ll probably survive,” Larsen said. “But he’s not going to be talkative for a while.” Amber had come out from behind the bar. Larsen walked over to where she was standing and said, “Just a suggestion, Amber. You should stop settling for second best when it comes to men.”
“I know. I always end up with losers, but I don’t know why anyone else would have me. Look at me, I’m a fuckin’ mess.” She started to cry.
Larsen put an arm around her shoulders. “You’re a pretty girl when you aren’t all battered and bruised. Get out of bartending. Go to night school and learn new skills. Get an office job. Join some social groups and meet a better class of men; guys who are going someplace in their lives. Men who know how to treat a lady.”
She nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. Larsen and Whelan glanced at each other. They both knew how her story was likely to turn out. Each individual was responsible for his or her own life. When it didn’t turn out well, there was no one else to blame.
The two men left the bar. “Where’s your car?” Whelan asked.
“Behind the bonding office, next to Ross’s.”
“Leave it there. Won’t take long for the police to be onto us for this little scuffle at Earl’s Place. We’ll take Ross’s Caddy.” He smiled and said, “I’m sure he’d want it that way.”
Larsen smiled his good smile.
21 Hart Senate Office Building
Senator Howard Morris leaned over the 7th floor railing, peering down at the ground floor of the atrium. He was feeling an adrenal rush. In just a few moments, he would call to order the most important press conference of his nascent presidential campaign. This was to be the launch pad and he was the rocket. With a liberal media that distrusted and disliked the CIA, Morris would be the hero who exposed their crimes, and he would be in prime position to ride the surge of outrage to his party’s nomination.
What would his late father, the immigrant tailor, have thought of all the media scurrying around seven floors below, waiting for his son? They were all gathering for his big announcement. He was elated, but not nervous, thinking about how important a player he was becoming on the national scene. Morris adjusted the sleeves of his navy wool Armani suit. He’d surpassed even the businessmen who’d come to his father for their bespoke suits.
He held his hands out in front of him and admired his well-manicured nails and deep artificial tan. His personal stylist had made a visit to Morris’s office and had trimmed and coiffed his hair. What an incredible specimen I am, he thought. Ladies, form a line. Lost in his reverie, he jumped slightly as Shepard Jenkins tapped him on one shoulder
“’Bout time we headed down to the conference room, don’t you think, Senator?” Jenkins was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit that complemented Morris’s. This was a big day for him too. The day his dog got into the hunt.
The two men took the North elevator down to the large central hearing facility on the second floor. It was designed for high-interest events when crowds couldn’t be accommodated in other conference rooms in the building. The facility offered more seating, better acoustics, and movable side panes where television cameras could operate without distracting the participants or audience members.
Morris entered the room through a side door and strolled confidently to the dais where other members of the subcommittee were sitting. He nodded at them and took his place at the podium in front of the Senate seal affixed to a white and gray marble wall. He waved to the various members of the press corps, calling out their names as he did so. A young female member of the press was sitting near the back because of her lack of seniority. Morris not only waved at her, but also blew her a kiss.
* * *
Standing to the side of the dais, Shepard Jenkins winced as Morris pranced and preened. There had been other successful politicians like Jack Kennedy who couldn’t leave the ladies alone. But they at least had been discreet in these activities. Morris made little effort to conceal his extramarital affairs. And these were different times. In the transparent 24/7 world of the Internet, it was more difficult than ever to cover one’s tracks. Jenkins had spoken to Morris about these concerns and it was clear he’d have to do so again.
* * *
The media crew supervisor gave Morris a thumbs up signal. Morris tugged on the hem of his jacket, straightened his silk tie and strode purposefully to the podium. The room became still as everyone’s attention focused on him.
The senator cleared his throat. “My dear friends of the print and broadcast media, I deeply appreciate your presence here today. I guarantee you will find what I am about to disclose to you to be of great significance. I have worked diligently to uncover this information.” There were sounds of papers being shuffled, throats being cleared, and people moving about in their seats behind him. He glanced at the other members of the subcommittee and added, “And, of course, I have been ably assisted in these efforts by my distinguished colleagues on this Select Subcommittee who are seated behind me.” Morris emphasized the word “Select”.
“As you know, we are charged with the responsibility of monitoring the covert activities of this country’s Central Intelligence Agency. Throughout the past several decades, the CIA has, on occasion, been guilty of heinous criminal acts, all supposedly in the name of national security. As a result, Congress has found it necessary from time to time to enact laws designed to control this sort of behavior.”
Morris again paused and lowered his head, wagging it slowly back and forth, as if in disappointment and sorrow. “Today, ladies and gentlemen, it is my sad duty to report to you that I—we,” he corrected himself, “have uncovered indisputable evidence of the CIA’s treachery and blatantly criminal behavior.”
Morris felt powerful, in command. He was on a roll. “Thanks to this Select Subcommittee’s hard work and exhaustive investigatory skills, we have discovered the existence of an illegal covert operation set up years ago by the CIA. Its purpose was to create and train a special group of superhuman men to assassinate world leaders, disrupt foreign governments – including those of our allies – and perform other hideous acts of warmongering. I ask you, is it any wonder that the United States has so few friends on this planet?”
He paused to savor the whispers of the audience and the clicks of the cameras—he couldn’t wait to see himself on front pages in the morning. “While we are not at liberty at this time to reveal documentation on this matter, we are prepared, within certain constraints, to answer a few questions. More information will be revealed in the next few days.”
Several hands shot up. “Yes, Marc,” he said and pointed at a man from ABC News who had long been instrumental to the success of Morris’s career.
“Senator, how long has this operation been going on?”
“We have evidence that it began just prior to the First Gulf War.”
“And can you tell us the names of the persons at the CIA who are responsible for the operation?” Marc said.
Morris shook his head. “Not at this time, but all that will be disclosed in due time.” He pointed to the young woman sitting at the rear of the audience, whose hand had not been raised, and with a big smile said, “Yes, Janie, I believe you had a question.”
She reddened and made a nervous gesture with her hands.
“I believe you were going to inquire whether there was a name for this unit, were you not?” She nodded her head vigorously. “It appears that the unit was known as the Sleeping Dogs, although I’m not exactly sure why.”
A man from the New York Times, sitting in the front row, said, “What did you mean when you called them ‘superhuman beings’?”
For the first time in a long while, Morris was somewhat flustered. He clearly didn’t want the media focusing in on that subject, and made circular motions with his hands while he searched for the right words. “I may have used too strong a term. Let’s just say that these people were alleged to have been genetically superior in certain ways. He shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I am not at liberty to discuss that issue further at this time.”
The man from the Times persisted. “Have those individuals been brought to justice, Senator?”
“Yes, divine justice. They all were killed in a plane crash several years ago while trying to elude capture.”
“Can you tell us what their purpose was, Senator?” It was Marc again.
“From what we’ve uncovered so far, they were the most clandestine unit in the government; part military, part intelligence. Highly trained in the use of deadly force, and completely without morals or conscience, they were turned loose upon any person or government that had the misfortune to be deemed a threat to America’s goal of world domination.”
He pointed to a woman from another media outlet who had been vigorously waving her hand.
“Senator,” the woman said, “has there been any reaction from the CIA?”
“Absolutely, Marge, and it has been frightening and barbarous. It appears they may have been responsible for the cold-blooded murder of a former employee of the Agency who, working for this Select Subcommittee, was instrumental in assisting us in locating the evidence of these activities.” There was an audible and collective gasp from the audience and everyone’s hand shot into the air accompanied by yells of “Senator, Senator,” in an effort to get Morris’s attention.
“My friends,” he said, “I realize there are many questions, and we don’t have the answers to all of them yet. But we will. And as we learn them, we will share them with you. You have my word on that.”
He beamed at the audience. “In closing this session, I want to share this comment with you. Our great nation has been disgraced once again by its trusted servants. We have stooped to a new low in the eyes of the rest of the world. We have allowed a cancerous organization to be fostered within our own government. This no doubt is the result of poor leadership in the Executive branch.”
Morris pounded his fist onto the podium. “But I pledge to you today that I will not rest until this wrong has been righted. I will ferret out the guilty parties and see that they are punished to the full extent of the law. I will see that the Central Intelligence Agency and all similar agencies are brought into full compliance with our laws and remain there. I will provide the missing leadership that has allowed us to be dragged down this ruinous and disgraceful path. You have my word on it.”
After a brief pause, Morris added, “Thank you so very much, ladies and gentlemen, for your kind attention and for sharing your valuable time with us.” He motioned toward the other Subcommittee members seated behind him. He walked over to them to thank them and to measure their response to his presentation. The two members from the minority party already were walking toward the side door behind the podium. Morris refused to see that as a reflection on him, preferring to chalk it up to partisan politics. He shook hands with the remaining members and thanked them for their participation, although they were as surprised as the press by his revelations today.
He left the dais and exited through the side door, where Shepard Jenkins intercepted him. Morris rubbed his hands together and said, “Well, Shep, what did you think?”
“I believe we achieved exactly what we wanted to at this point, Senator. Or should I get used to calling you Mr. President?”
“It does have a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it?” Morris slapped the other man on the arm and began walking down the hallway in the opposite direction from the elevators that would take him back to his office.
“Where are you going? I thought we were going to discuss our strategy for moving forward on this CIA issue.”
“Not now, Shep,” Morris said over his shoulder. “I have a meeting with little Janie Gottlieb. I told her I had something big to give her.” He flashed a lascivious grin.
* * *
“Shit,” Jenkins said under his breath and shook his head in disgust. “It’s no wonder Beltway insiders nicknamed you ‘Senator More-Ass’. And members of the opposition party refer to you as ‘Senator Morass’.” As he turned to walk toward the elevators, he quietly muttered, “Be discreet, Howard, for God’s sake be discreet.”
22 Potomac, Maryland
Dimitri Nikitin shifted uneasily in the overstuffed chair. Although it was covered in the finest top-grain leather and surrounded his tired body like a cloud, the direction of the conversation was making him uncomfortable. He tried to distract himself by gazing around Chaim Laski’s den. It was as opulent as the rest of the sprawling mansion. From the towering vaulted ceiling to the smallest accessories, the entire home was a shrine to the excesses of Western decadence and capitalism. God, how I envy Laski’s lifestyle, Nikitin thought, comfortable that his Russian bosses hadn’t developed a means for reading his mind. Yet.
He lit another cigarette from the embers of the last, took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling high above. The three men had been in this meeting for more than two hours and Nikitin was getting bored and restless. He held the important office of Counselor and reported directly to the Minister-Counselor for Trade at the Russian Embassy in Washington. He was only two steps removed from the Ambassador himself. But at this meeting, he was simply window dressing, a diversion for the prying eyes, and more, of the American intelligence community. The real power here, in addition to Laski, was Kirill Federov, a mere attaché at the Embassy and ostensibly Nikitin’s underling.
It galled Nikitin to be ordered around by Federov, but Federov reported to the Director of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki or SVR, Russia’s primary external intelligence agency. The director in turn reported to the president of the Russian Federation.
The conversation, conducted in Russian, was becoming heated. Federov leaned forward and pounded the arm of the chair to emphasize his point. “Comrade Laski, do I need to remind you that your success”, he said the word as if it had a bad taste, “is due to the efforts, planning and expenditures of the SVR, not your self-indulged belief in your own prescience and acumen? Without us, you would still be pimping whores in Gdansk!”
Laski’s face was deep red, indicating his own fury. Somehow, he managed a conciliatory smile and turned his palms outward in an effort to disarm the angry Russian. “My dear Colonel Federov, Kirill, I am well aware of the assistance so generously provided to me by the SVR.”
“Assistance!” Federov spat the word out. “To the world you are a billionaire wizard of international finance and investment. We made and destroyed markets internationally to provide you with the appearance of having earned all that nice, clean money. Do you forg
et so easily?”
“No, Kirill, I may be getting older, but I am not yet senile.”
“Are you not also aware that it was through our international network, and many more billions of dollars, that we created and have advanced global unrest? Over the years, we have fostered and linked a vast array of organizations abroad and here in America for the purpose of destroying this country from within as well as externally. It is we who have organized and funded the jihadist movement globally. And it is we who control it.”
“Have you ever thought you could be playing with fire, Colonel?”
The Russian scoffed. “What? With those ragheads? Don’t be ridiculous. They are imbeciles. They believe they are running the show. They are fools and are under our control. And, when the appropriate time comes, we will deal with them in the manner they deserve.”
With a sly smile, Laski said, “And did you also control the Taliban in Afghanistan and the Chechens who slaughtered the students in one of your schools and many others in the opera house?”
The comment so enraged Federov that he was speechless for several long moments. Finally, between clenched teeth he said, “That is a different matter. It is personal between them and us. You are not capable of understanding.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “What you must understand is that we are very close, Comrade Laski, so very close to succeeding here in America.”
“Yes, of course,” Laski said. “I am well aware of that. And have I not wisely kept up appearances with my business activities while also funneling moneys to the appropriate unions, political causes, and various dissident groups both here and abroad? Have I not earned my reputation as the chief financier of the far left political movement in America?”
“And you have spared no expense indulging your every fantasy. Private jets, a fleet of the world’s most expensive automobiles, homes in a dozen locations.”
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 10
