“How do we know this?”
“We know this, dear Colonel, because we have our own source within the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“I distinctly remember you telling me that you had arranged to have this man Christie put on a short leash. Is that not so?” said Federov.
Nodding, Laski said, “The orders came directly from the president through the attorney general. This man, Christie, however, is like a bulldog. On the surface, he appears to have eased his investigative efforts. But he quietly continues to work the case.”
“How so?”
“Understand, he’s not plunging ahead with subpoenas and search warrants, but he and his team continue to interview witnesses, gather evidence, and maintain surveillance on people such as Levell and McCoy.”
“I do not understand, comrade Laski. Were we not responsible for the election of this president? And did we not also direct him to appoint the current attorney general?”
Laski turned his hands palms up and shrugged. “Yes, this is so. But the man we arranged to have elected as president seems to have forgotten that we were responsible for his success. His ego is far worse than we imagined. He follows his own agenda, not ours. He is so pitiful as a leader that he probably could not win a majority of the American electorate. It has forced us to take steps to ensure that he will not run for reelection. You are aware of those steps.”
Federov and Nikitin nodded in unison.
“And the attorney general? He runs the Department of Justice, of which the FBI is a part. Is he not able to muzzle this FBI agent?”
Laski sighed and said, “He is as incompetent as his president. Infatuated with his self-importance. He will be replaced immediately following the election…assuming we are able to co-opt another election. That remains to be seen, given the incumbent has alienated much of the Jewish vote with his antagonism of Israel. His incompetence regarding job creation and the economy has rebuffed the youth and the independents. We cannot rely on the rank and file union members, as we have in the past.”
Federov waived his hand in dismissal. “Morris is a Jew. That will keep their votes in our pocket. Union members will do what their leaders tell them to do. Also, we still have our allies in the media, education, and entertainment. And we own the Negroes. And let us not forget the sympathy vote that will follow the misfortune soon to befall the current president. The election may be close, but we will win.”
“I’m sure we will, dear comrade,” Laski said.
“Should we have this rogue FBI agent terminated?”
“Killing an FBI agent would be foolish. Think of the furor it would occasion.”
Federov’s eyes narrowed. “We will make it appear to be an accident.”
Shaking his head, Laski said, “His death would only focus unwanted attention on the matters he is working on, specifically the Harold Case affair.”
“Then what do you propose?” Federov said impatiently. And lit a new cigarette off of the embers of the previous one.
A sly smile spread across Laski’s wrinkled face. “He can be made to do whatever we require of him if he believes his family’s well-being is in danger.”
“So you have a plan to achieve this?”
“I do. It is being worked out even now. I have not completely exhausted my efforts to have this FBI agent reined in, but I have a Plan B in the event he is not.”
“And the problem with this man, Levell, and his comrades?”
“Ah, that, my dear colonel, is something I will share with you later. It is time now to bring Senator Morris and, particularly, Mr. Jenkins into the picture.”
Federov looked long and hard at Laski. “How exactly is Jenkins to be involved?”
“Because of his position with Morris, we have delved deeply into Mr. Jenkins’ background. It seems he has a certain weakness.”
“Drugs, prostitutes, alcohol?” Dimitri Nikitin said. “Black people are famous for having these vices.”
Laski and Federov both turned their heads and looked at Nikitin. “You are an idiot,” Federov said. “Your role is to sit with your mouth permanently shut. I do not want to remind you of that again, Comrade Nikitin. Do you understand?” There was an unmistakable threat in Federov’s voice.
Nikitin bobbed his head up and down and fumbled for another cigarette. His face reddened as he felt Maksym’s eyes drilling into the back of his head. No doubt the man held him in contempt for allowing Federov to speak to him in such a way.
“As I was saying,” Laski said to Federov, “Mr. Jenkins has a weakness. It is gambling. He likes horse races and bets on them in a spectacularly unsuccessful fashion.”
Federov snorted and said, “Americans are fools. They have the highest incomes and quality of life on the planet, yet they piss it away as fast as they can.”
“In any event, he has accumulated considerable debt. This presents him with certain issues involving the organized criminal element. As a result, Mr. Levell and his comrades have been able to turn him.”
“So,” Federov said, “he is now their mole in our midst.”
“This is so, but it is a good thing, because we are able to feed him whatever information or misinformation we want Levell and the others to have. We now can manipulate them.”
“And this somehow factors in to the troublesome situation involving the agent for the FBI?”
“Indeed,” Laski said, “but at this time, it would be advisable for you and Mr. Nikitin to withdraw. It is not necessary for Morris and Jenkins to know that two members of the Russian Federation’s diplomatic corps are involved in what I am about to disclose to them.”
“Agreed,” Federov said and stood. Nikitin followed suit immediately. “I expect you to keep me informed of all developments in a timely manner, Comrade Laski,” Federov said. He turned and strode back through the garden toward the elevator, purposely ignoring Maksym. Nikitin, however, couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Laski’s security man. He immediately regretted it and hurried after Federov like a frightened child racing to catch up with a parent.
Laski watched the two Russians until they had disappeared into the elevator, then, turning to Maksym, he said, “Have the senator and Mr. Jenkins brought to me.”
37 Bayou Country
The chill in the temperature had eased, but the sky remained gray and leaden. There was a sodden quality to the air, permeating everything, including clothing. It made it feel colder than it was. Whelan drove west on Interstate 310 through what looked like farm country gone to seed. Large formerly cleared areas now were being swallowed up by sickly looking weeds. There were occasional patches of brownfield industries. The ones that hadn’t failed looked like they were on their last legs. The dingy brown shades of the land matched the somberness of a dreary gray sky.
In a short time, he crossed the Mississippi River between New Sarpy and Destrehan. A few miles farther, the farmlands and industrial uses began to give way to the wetlands of Bayou Country, also known as Acadiana. It extends through the twenty-two parishes in South Louisiana, settled in the seventeen hundreds by the Acadians, political refugees from French Canada. Acadiana makes up about one-third of Louisiana. The region also is called "Cajun Country".
He exited I-310 onto U.S. 90 west, the main transportation corridor prior to the advent of the Interstate highway system. He began passing through enclaves of trailers and homes. All had seen better days. There were industrial and commercial operations scattered along the old highway. The survivors were struggling, the rest had folded.
He drove through the town of Paradis, surrounded by scrublands and more abandoned farmland. The area seemed barren of hope. In the majority of dwellings visible from the highway, the yards were overgrown and the homes unkempt. Whelan wondered if real grass, the green kind, was unable to grow in such a depressing environment. Even the ubiquitous churches, Catholic and Southern Baptist, seemed forlorn, with treeless parking lots and weeds growing up through cracks in the asphalt. Paradis seemed to him to be a stereotypic
al dusty, dirty, poor Southern town. Then abruptly he was through the town and back out in the empty countryside, interrupted only by an occasional intersection with a narrow country road.
He knew most travelers would be using Interstate 10 to the north, so the local traffic was sparse. Oil tankers, freight haulers, and battered pickup trucks hauling small bayou scows or farm products. Outside of Des Allemands, Route 90 curved south with a sluggish brown river on one side and rusty, weed covered railroad tracks on the other. It struck Whelan that the overall atmosphere was one of hopelessness and despair. He wondered at the magnitude of the Cajuns’ sins for God to have exiled them to this sad, wretched purgatory.
There were no crops of any kind to be seen, and he wondered if cotton, sugarcane and rice were still grown in the area. He knew that forestry was Louisiana’s chief industry, but doubted it played much of a role in the economic fiber of the surrounding wetlands and scrublands.
Eventually, he exited Route 90 and soon entered the outskirts of Houma. Using his smartphone, he’d earlier looked up the meaning of the name. The Houma were an apocryphal tribe of Native Americans who supposedly inhabited the area before the Europeans arrived.
Whelan noted the sagging electrical distribution lines and stretches of missing sidewalks. The road was lined with rundown motels, dingy-looking gin mills, auto repair shops, and empty storefronts where businesses had failed. The boarded up gas stations were a reminder of the days before Interstate 10 had siphoned off most of the traveling public.
In the downtown area, West Main Street was narrow and metered for parallel parking. There were plenty of empty spaces available. The street was lined on both sides with one-story buildings, most of them in need of painting and maintenance. There were tattered awnings on some, patched up windows on others, and a lot of spaces that had gone dark.
The dojo, or martial arts studio, that Whelan was looking for was wedged between a sports bar and a printing shop. It stood out with a fresh coat of paint and a new sign announcing the Paul Fontenot Academy of Martial Arts. Painted on the window was the dojo’s martial arts style: Shotokan. Whelan was a student and practitioner of many different styles of martial arts, and considered Shotokan to be one of the best of the linear, or “hard” styles, in terms of practicality and effectiveness. He knew that Gichin Funakoshi, an Okinawan who immigrated or was forced to come to Japan prior to the Second World War, had developed the system.
He parked the car in front of the dojo and went inside. It was mid-afternoon on Sunday. A few students were stretching or working on kata—detailed choreographed patterns of movements designed to simulate unarmed combat. One student was pounding a Makiwara, a padded wooden post used to develop striking power and toughen the hands. All of the students wore white gis—the heavy cotton canvas uniform of the karate-ka or practitioner. There was one black belt working out with them. The others wore obis, or sashes, of other colors, indicating lesser rank.
The dojo had a hardwood floor and white walls. The obligatory photo of Master Funakoshi was hung in a central place of honor. Three neon light fixtures running in a line from front to back were hung from the exposed ceiling.
The black belt noticed the powerfully built stranger with the odd reddish blonde, curly hair respectfully removing his shoes by the entrance to the dojo. Aware that guest karate-ka occasionally visited, he walked over and introduced himself to Whelan.
“Sensei Fontenot’s expecting me,” Whelan said.
The black belt nodded and walked over to a small office cubicle that had been partitioned off from the rest of the dojo. In a moment, a large man wearing a black gi and a worn and tattered black obi emerged. His hair was cut short in a military buzz cut.
Figures, Whelan thought; once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper Fi.
The man was an inch or two taller than Whelan and heavier, probably in the range of two fifty.
“You the fella Cliff said to expect?” He had a slow drawl.
“Yes.”
The man stuck his hand out and said, “I’m Paul Fontenot. Cliff’s an old and very good friend. Tell me what you need and I’ll see that you get it.”
The students had stopped their activities and were staring at the two men. “Thanks,” Whelan said and shook the man’s hand. “Is there a place we can speak in private?”
Fontenot motioned with his head for Whelan to follow him. He strode across the floor to the rear of the building and exited into an alley. He opened a door on the other side and entered what turned out to be the backroom of a beauty salon. It was Sunday and the place was closed, but there was a buxom, dark haired woman inside. Her long, black hair was pulled back behind her ears and held in place by two tortoise shell barrettes. She wore a lot of make-up and a lot of cheap jewelry. The deep red polish of her long fingernails matched the color of her lipstick. She was wearing a mauve blouse that displayed an admirable amount of cleavage. The tight black skirt stopped well above her knees.
“This is my wife Leonie,” Fontenot said. “Honey, this is Brendan Whelan, the man Cliff Levell told us would be coming.”
Whelan nodded. “A pleasure.”
She graced him with a sultry smile.
“Cliff said you need a new look, new ID, and a car,” Fontenot said.
“I do.”
The shades over the front window had been drawn. Fontenot motioned toward the rearmost chair in the salon and said, “Have a seat. Leonie will get started creatin’ the new you. The car’s out front. I’ll bring it around to the alley when you’re ready. Meantime, I’ll work on your new ID.” He exited through the rear door.
Leonie spread a sheet over Whelan below his neck to protect his clothes. She squeezed his left bicep. “My,” she drawled, “are you this hard all over?”
“I train a lot.”
“I’ll bet you do, darlin’, and I’ll bet you’re really good at it, too.” She winked at him. Leonie made a production out of dropping her comb and bending over to pick it up, giving Whelan a deeper view of her impressive cleavage.
She smiled. “Like what you see, darlin’?”
A few minutes later, she reached over him as if to get something from the shelf and pushed her breasts into the side of his face. Stepping back, hands on hips, she said, “Why aren’t you the little dickens. Ah’m jest gonna’ have to keep mah eyes on you.” Another provocative smile.
By the time Leonie finished, Whelan’s hair was jet black and combed straight back in the fashion favored by male movie actors in the ‘thirties. She also had raised the level of his sideburns and used a small amount of gray dye to create a salt and pepper effect on the sides. He had had a three-day growth of beard; she trimmed it down to a pencil-thin moustache and soul patch. “Darlin’, you look like you been born and raised in N’Awlins,” she said and turned to get something from a low cabinet behind her.
Instead of kneeling, she bent at the waist. It had the effect of hiking up her short skirt, exposing a lot of leg. Whelan had to admit it all looked good. She stood and handed him a tube of lubricating jelly. “Keep your hair slicked back with this stuff,” she said. “And it’s good for other things too, darlin’.” She winked.
Leonie had just finished blowing his hair dry when her husband returned. He had a new driver’s license, credit cards and other indicia of identity for Whelan. He took a small camera off a shelf in the back room of the salon, lined Whelan up against a dark green curtain and took his picture. He removed the card from the camera and stuck into a slot on the front of a small photo printer. He cut the print down to size, glued it on the license and ran it through a laminator. Whelan offered to pay them for their services, but they refused, saying that Levell had already taken care of it.
Fontenot had brought an aging red Dodge Charger around to the alley between the salon and the dojo. As Whelan started to slide into the driver’s seat, Fontenot said, “Cliff told me you’re ‘bout the best fighter he’s ever seen. It’s a shame you can’t spend a little time here. Don’t get many guest martial arti
sts around here, least any with real skills. Would’a been good to work out with you.”
“If I’m ever in these parts again, consider it a done deal.” Whelan hesitated, then said, “Do you put a lot of hours in the dojo, Paul?”
“Yeah, seven days a week. Nights too. Why?”
Whelan studied Fontenot, considering how to phrase what he wanted to say. He knew how much Caitlin missed him when he was away only for a short time. He could only imagine how lonely she’d be if he was there every day, but not really present. “I think you need to find a way to spend more meaningful time with Leonie.”
Fontenot didn’t respond immediately. He stared at Whelan, then said, “Cliff told me you were smart. Pick up on things quickly.”
The two men looked at each in silence, then Fontenot offered his hand and said, “Thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best.”
* * *
Whelan drove off to continue his mission to find Marc Kirkland. He retraced his path down West Main Street for a few blocks before turning west on his way to the town of Dulac. As he plunged deeper into Bayou Country, the woeful farm fields gave way to wetlands and an increasing number of drainage canals. Whelan remembered reading that Louisiana contained nearly half of the wetlands in the United States. A canal paralleled the road to the west. In some places, brackish water came almost to the edge of the road. He wondered how often the road flooded, and how people managed when it did.
Driveways and unpaved side streets ran off to the east. In lieu of houses, sagging, rusted trailers were set back off the road. Their yards filled with pieces of cars and other machinery. Where there were houses, they were built on pilings.
Now, land was beginning to give way to backwaters filed with rotting debris—tires, buckets, tarps, pieces of Styrofoam coolers, cans, bottles, fragments of wood, partially sunken derelict boats and more. Spanish moss drooped limply from the scraggly branches of trees scattered clique-like in clumps along the road. He passed a small two-story elementary school that was next to a cemetery fronting a Catholic church. All of the graves were aboveground crypts because of the high water table.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 18
