Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  While the exterior of the lodge was designed and built to convey a rustic simplicity, the interior was something else entirely. Immediately behind the exterior façade, all walls, ceilings, and floors were lined with a material that resisted penetration by infrared, ultrasound, or any other known surveillance techniques. The Lodge’s communications facilities were designed, installed and maintained by the same techies that supplied the CIA, NSA, and private sector. They were regularly upgraded to remain superior to anything available to the planet’s top security agencies.

  The interior was furnished in homage to the style of a luxurious western ranch. The lodge had eleven separate bedrooms and bathrooms, a large dining hall, ultra modern kitchen, library, gymnasium, and boardroom. A separate facility, connected to the main lodge by a tunnel, housed staff, sheltered motor vehicles, and provided spare bedrooms and bathrooms for occasions when the main lodge was fully occupied.

  In the library, stone floors were overlaid with Southwestern-style throw rugs. It was the most impressive room, though not for reasons that were apparent. A light switch on the wall beside the door turned on recessed ceiling lights providing accent for the fireplace and bookcases. But, if flipped five or more times in rapid succession, the switch activated an electrical motor. The motor caused a three-foot by three-foot stone plate in the floor to recess and pull back under the adjoining flooring, revealing a set of steps that descended into a chamber under the library. Inside the room sat a long, well polished mahogany table and several comfortable chairs. Bottles of fine wine were stacked in specially crafted shelving designed to keep each bottle in a prone position so its contents could work on the cork. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the chamber were lined with lead and other materials that further defied attempts to probe the activities occurring there.

  The lodge was owned by a company that was owned by another company that, in turn, was owned by yet another entity, and so on through a mind-boggling chain of domestic and foreign shell corporations. It was impossible to unravel. The ultimate owners were three billionaire brothers with a hardline conservative bent. Alfred, Hermann, and Tomas Mueller also were among the founders of the Society of Adam Smith.

  * * *

  While Whelan was in San Diego recruiting Almeida, Clifford Levell rode from his home in Georgetown to the Lodge in Fairview Beach. Along the way, he had his personal assistant and driver, Rhee Kang-Dae, stop near Quantico to pick up General McCoy. The men were aware that government satellite surveillance could, and undoubtedly would, track their movements. Until they entered the Lodge.

  There were no legitimate grounds on which government agents could arrest them. They were members of the private club that operated the Lodge. In the unlikely event government agents picked them up for questioning, Levell, McCoy and the other members of the Society knew that the Mueller brothers would have the best civil liberties attorneys on the matter in minutes. In the minds of most members of the Society, such lawyers were part of what was wrong in America, but they were the best money could buy when you needed them. But such an arrest was highly unlikely—members of the Society enjoyed positions of prominence in all relevant government agencies.

  After cocktails and a magnificent dinner of roasted elk loin in an elderberry sauce served with pureed sweet potatoes, Levell, McCoy and the other members who were present convened in the chamber beneath the library. Although he was the titular head of the Society, Levell always made it a point to sit at a chair in the middle of the table. He knew that the positions of greatest power were at the ends of the table. The seats closest to them were next in line in the power game. The weakest seats were the ones in the middle.

  Such was Levell’s confidence and charisma that he purposely chose the weakest position. Not surprisingly, McCoy always sat at one end of the table. Harriman Floyd of the NSA and Chester Sturges of the CIA invariably fought for the seat at the other end of the table. To stifle their squabbling, whichever one of the Mueller brothers was in attendance purposely took that seat. Tonight it was Tomas, the youngest at seventy-eight. Most of those in attendance tonight were men. The lone female was the chief executive of one of the largest and most successful technology companies on the planet. The other members present, in addition to Sturges and Floyd, were the secretary of one of the nation’s military departments, and a senior senator from a western state who was ranking minority party member of the senate’s select committee on intelligence.

  Levell looked calmly around the room, making eye contact with each member. The room quieted quickly, and he called the meeting to order. “Since our last gathering, a lot has happened.”

  “And there’s a hell of a lot of work to be done,” the NSA’s Floyd said in a voice louder than necessary.

  Levell nodded and silently held Floyd’s gaze until the other man looked away. Interruptions wouldn’t be tolerated. “I believe all of you are aware of the incident that occurred in Georgetown a few mornings ago. A former Agency employee named Harold Case was shot and killed, along with his bodyguards.”

  The others around the table nodded.

  “They were all victims of a single individual, who probably didn’t break a sweat doing it.” Levell said, smiling at the thought.

  “How do you know this?” the senator said. “Do you know the individual’s identity?”

  “Know him? Hell, Buster and I created him.” He motioned toward McCoy at the end of the table, who beamed proudly.

  The CEO from the private sector, Maureen Delaney, had a puzzled look. The others at the table shared it. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Levell shrugged. “There’s no reason why any of you would. He was part of the most elite special ops unit this world has ever seen.”

  “How does that concern us, our plans?” Floyd said.

  Levell turned slowly toward the NSA man. “These men are exactly the assets we need.”

  McCoy said, “What Cliff is suggesting is that these men—the unit was known as the Sleeping Dogs—are the final and most important piece of the pie. They are the scalpel for excising the tumor afflicting this country. It’s what we’ve been missing.”

  “Our adversaries’ plan to assassinate their own president and replace him with an even worse stooge is very far along,” the senator said. “The election is in the fall. Can anyone, even your former special ops people, stop it?”

  “There is no other option, Senator,” Levell said. “But if anyone can do it, it’s the Sleeping Dogs.”

  “Cliff is right about no other options. All the resources we’ve expended, all the risks we’ve taken; it comes down to this. If the assassination attempt is successful, we will be implicated in it. We will no longer provide viable opposition, and our adversaries will win it all,” the CIA’s Sturgis said. “Every member of the Society, those of us here tonight, and the many hundreds of others who are not, have risked everything in this endeavor. If we’re discovered, in all likelihood we will be convicted and executed for treasonous activities. As it is, it’s a challenge each and every day to keep our activities and identities off the radar screen. And we are able to do that only because the positions we hold provide us with the ability to operate in the most sensitive areas and filter, amend, and redact, as appropriate, information that otherwise might register on that radar screen.”

  “Treason?” said Floyd. “How can you suggest that our actions might constitute treason? We’re not trying to overthrow the government of the United States. We’re trying to save it.”

  Sturgis fixed his NSA counterpart with a cold look. “Remember who the government is. Our actions would be considered treasonous to them.”

  Levell looked around the room. “Is there anyone at this table who has reservations about our mission? If so, now is the time to speak up.”

  The room was silent. Those around the table looked at each other as if hoping someone else would speak first. After awhile, Maureen Delaney said. “I don’t have any reservations whatsoever. I am living the American Dream.” She smile
d warmly at Levell.

  He blushed slightly, a reaction noted by Tomas Mueller who smiled at the thought that there might be something romantic developing between Levell and Delaney.

  “I don’t know whether any of you knows this, but when I was little, we lived in a trailer. Not a mobile home, an honest-to-God trailer. We were very poor. I applied myself in school and with a scholarship and part time jobs I became the first in my family to earn a college degree. And later a Master’s.

  “After college, I worked harder than anyone else…partly because of the constraints of the glass ceiling and partly because of a fear of returning to poverty. Today, as you know, I’m president and CEO of one of the largest and most financially successful electronics and technology companies in the world.

  “I’ve worked hard, but I’ve also been fortunate; fortunate to have been born in this nation at a time when hard work, risk-taking, and a little luck could take you beyond your wildest dreams. I want succeeding generations of Americans, native born as well as immigrants, to have those same opportunities. It’s part of what makes this nation so special.”

  She smiled again at Levell. He returned the smile shyly. Samson, the hirsute warrior, shorn by a beautiful woman.

  Delaney looked pointedly at Floyd. “I, for one, am willing to take these risks in the hope of preserving these same opportunities for future generations.”

  “Well put, Maureen.” Tomas Mueller took a sip of tea from a delicate bone china cup. “This country has provided generations of people with opportunities that exist nowhere else in the world. My grandfather immigrated to this country as a young man more than a century ago. He arrived alone, penniless, and spoke no English. By the time he passed away, he was a wealthy man. He vertically integrated his original farming operations into packaging, distribution and wholesaling. My father grew the business further by acquiring competing interests.

  “My brothers and I have moved onto the global stage and now have significant interests in mining, manufacturing, shipping, and a host of other enterprises. In the process, we have generated enormous wealth, yes. But we also have created many thousands of jobs, resuscitated failing companies to preserve more jobs, and generated substantial revenues for the coffers of local, state and federal governments.”

  Mueller paused and looked pointedly at each of the others, one by one. “But times have changed. Now, it seems clear that an ideological authority has gained positions of control in our government. And its actions are not in the best interests of the country we love. Witness the destruction of individual responsibility with, among other things, mandatory health coverage dispensed by bureaucrats, not physicians. Patronage in the form of expanding entitlements for members of unions, minority groups, and others. Ever increasing minimum wage laws that cripple business expansion and job creation. Even for those who still are ambitious and entrepreneurial, the opportunities our forebears and we had are rapidly disappearing.”

  He paused and, looking at Levell, said, “I pray these Sleeping Dogs of yours can help us.”

  34 New Orleans, Louisiana

  Whelan took a late afternoon flight from San Diego to New Orleans connecting through Dallas. It was well past midnight when he arrived at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. Even with the six-hour difference in time zones, it was still too early to call Caitlin. But it wasn’t too late to call Levell. The man seemed to thrive on little sleep. Whelan used a pay phone in front of a convenience store between the airport and the hotel. He let it ring three times then hung up.

  He was bothered by the thought that if the Bureau or another government agency was tapping the phone at Levell’s end, it wouldn’t take a lot of brain cells to figure out the incoming call had been placed near the airport. The Bureau would alert local authorities and they would circulate his likeness all over the area. Fortunately, he didn’t have to check in with the car rental office. The vehicle had been waiting for him, unlocked with key in the ignition. But the desk clerk at the hotel might be a different story. Still, with his fat clothes, facial prosthetics and funky hairstyle, he didn’t at all resemble the person Mitch Christie had sat next to on the San Francisco flight.

  His cell phone rang as he was sliding back behind the wheel of his rented Chevrolet Impala. He asked Levell to call him back in thirty minutes. That gave him a chance to check into the hotel and settle into the privacy of his room. Former Marine that he was, Levell called precisely thirty minutes later.

  “What’s your situation?” the older man said.

  “Tired, hungry, in need of a good workout.”

  “Stensen in the fold?”

  “He only lives in the moment. Hard to say what he’ll do, but I think he wants some new action. Paradise is beginning to bore him.”

  Levell changed the subject. “Why did you fly out of Hilo and not back through Maui?”

  “I was involved in a small dust-up at a fitness center in Kahului. It wasn’t wise to go back there.”

  “No doubt a woman was involved”

  “Wars invariably are fought for economic reasons. Brawls are always about women.”

  “No shit,” Levell said dryly. “What about the Colonel?”

  “For the record, he doesn’t like being called Colonel anymore. And no longer likes fried chicken.”

  Levell whistled. “Well, there’s a news flash,” he said. “Is he on board?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s still an obnoxious little bastard.”

  “More so than before?”

  “Yeah. And he looks like hell. Booze, drugs, the whole nine yards. He’s fat and appears to have aged rather badly.”

  “Did you have a problem with him?”

  “A couple of times I thought seriously about dropping him on his ass.”

  This time Levell actually laughed. “That’s the Irish. Rather fight than drink or screw.”

  “Not entirely true,” Whelan said dryly. “We like to sing and dance too.”

  “Tomorrow you’re going to speak with Kirkland?”

  “Yeah.”

  “After your reunions with Stensen and Almeida, I think you’ll enjoy your visit with Marc.”

  Something in the way Levell said it roused Whelan’s curiosity. “Why’s that?”

  “You’ll see.” Levell changed the subject again. “After that, your last stop is in Nashville.”

  “Yeah, Thomas is the last one.”

  “Did I tell you he has a Ph.D. in philosophy?”

  “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. He always was a deep thinker.”

  “He’s a tenured professor.”

  This time it was Whelan who chuckled. “Glad I don’t have any daughters going to school there.” He thought briefly about Caitlin and the two boys at home in Ireland. The tight feeling in his chest returned.

  Levell seemed to read his mind, a scary talent that he’d always had. “Speaking of family, there’s something you should know.”

  The tight spot in his chest suddenly turned to ice. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing for you to be concerned about, but one of our people in the Bureau advised us that they’re using assets from the Bureau’s legat in London to look for leads in Ireland.”

  “And why am I not to be concerned?” Whelan said. There was an edge to his voice. “They have a photograph of me—old, sure, but the Bureau will have a sketch artist update it. Christie will add information to enhance it. And, from records that weren’t destroyed as they should have been, they know about my origins in Ireland.”

  “We know that, and we’ve got people closely following the situation. I personally guarantee your family’s safety, Brendan.”

  “Yeah, Cliff, and you personally guaranteed that the Agency’s records would be destroyed.”

  “Dammit! Until Case started nosing around, I thought they had been destroyed.”

  “If there’s any hint that my family’s in danger, I’m gone, Cliff. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” Levell said.

 
“Look, I think it would be wise to change IDs again and pick up a new ride.”

  “Jesus! You go through IDs like a dose of salts.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, it’s an old metaphor.”

  “I guess I’m not that old.”

  “Fuck you, smart ass. Look, you’ll have to travel through Houma. I have a contact there. An ex-Marine who Buster and I trust. He runs a martial arts studio. His wife is a beautician. I’ll arrange for her to alter your appearance again.” Levell gave Whelan the address and directions.

  “The car?” Whelan said.

  “It’ll be waiting for you when you get there. Call me after you speak with Kirkland.” Levell hung up.

  * * *

  Whelan paced around his small room. It was late and he was weary and jet-lagged. But he also was amped up with anger that his family might now be involved. He was struck by the irony of his situation. For almost twenty years he’d been able to lead a mostly normal life, despite having to glance over his shoulder from time to time. Now, he was strongly tempted to abandon this mission that had been thrust on him without invitation and return immediately to Ireland. It occurred to him that perhaps that was what the Bureau expected him to do. Wouldn’t they be watching the airports in Dublin and Shannon? Even Belfast?

  He knew that no one, not even Caitlin’s brother and father could protect his loved ones quite like he could. He also knew there was nothing he could do at the moment, and that he needed to sleep in order to be at his physical and mental best. He showered and sat quietly using a meditative technique for twenty minutes. When he was finished, he was calm and relaxed. In a few more minutes he was asleep, but troubled by dreams. In them, he was being pursued by parties unseen through a dense and very dark forest. The trees seemed to be animated, reaching out at him, clawing and clubbing him with their branches, slowing him down as his pursuers drew ever closer.