Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Levell lied. “You give me too much credit and underestimate the others. The operation is so far along that it is virtually failsafe.”

  Federov shook his head in disagreement. “I can permit an old man the pleasure of his fantasies,” he said.

  Ignoring him, Levell said, “I’m not a national political figure. I’m not surrounded by Secret Service agents. You could have had me taken out at any time, why now?”

  Smiling, Federov said, “Because now is the appropriate time.”

  “How so?”

  “You have done us the very big favor of reassembling these Sleeping Dogs of yours. They are the perfect weapons for our purpose.”

  “To assassinate the president.”

  Federov seemed surprised. “Yes. What better propaganda than the appearance of a band of renegade special operatives trained by an illegal CIA unit. Men who have no respect for laws and a grudge against their country. Clearly they are right wing extremists who will have killed the sitting president.”

  “What a shame,” Levell said in mock sympathy. “After all the trouble and expense you went through to get him elected.”

  Federov shrugged. “No one is more surprised or disappointed than are we. Nevertheless, he has gone, as you would say, off the reservation and must be dealt with.”

  “Still seems to be pursuing an all out socialist agenda to me.”

  “Yes, but it is his agenda. He has forgotten to whom he owes allegiance. We have instructed him to step down, but he refuses to do so. He insists he will stand for reelection.”

  “Considering how unpopular he has become with the American public,” Levell said, “I thought you and your comrades were grooming Senator Morris to run against him in the primary.”

  “That is true, but it would be very divisive; undoubtedly handing the White House to another warmongering capitalist imperialist like Reagan. That would set our plans and timetable back substantially. We cannot allow that.”

  Levell snorted in derision. “You call Reagan’s Pax Americana and the peace and prosperity it created ‘warmongering capitalist imperialism’?”

  “Reagan was a great leader and a visionary, but from our side of the politico-economic spectrum he was the devil incarnate. We had achieved so much by the time we were able to engineer Jimmy Carter’s election, then Reagan set us back a full twenty years.”

  “And how is it you envision the Society being instrumental in realizing these plans of yours?” Levell said.

  Federov tilted his head back and seemed to study the bare metal beams that supported the roof. After a few moments, he looked at Levell and smiled. “Your Sleeping Dogs are going to do our wet work for us.” He paused for effect. “Through our comrades in the news media, they and the other members of your organization will be portrayed as right wing fanatics who sought the violent overthrow of your constitutionally elected government. Given the background of these men as highly trained CIA assassins working in concert with this Society of yours, a pseudo-patriotic right wing organization, it will not be a difficult sell. Brilliant, yes?”

  Levell thought for a moment about what Federov had disclosed to him. “How do you propose to pull this off?”

  “Very easy, my friend, and you are going to be instrumental in making it happen.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Levell said. He had endured a great deal of pain and suffering in hot and cold wars, first as a Marine and later as a field operative for the CIA. He was prepared to die, no matter how painfully, before he would cooperate in any fashion with Federov and his colleagues.

  “Actually,” Federov said, “the plan already is underway. We have contacted your good friend, General McCoy, to arrange to release you as soon as our instructions have been carried out.”

  “You’re a bunch of fools,” Levell said. “McCoy and the others won’t hesitate to sacrifice me for the good of the overall operation. They’re smart enough to know that you have no intention of sparing my life under any set of circumstances.”

  Federov smiled in self-satisfaction and said, “We’ll see about that.”

  “And furthermore, you’re beyond foolish if you think the Sleeping Dogs will assassinate the president and other public officials. They wouldn’t do it even if I ordered them to.”

  Federov glanced at his Rolex. Lifting his foot off the table and putting it back on the floor, he sat up in his chair and said, “It is time for me to go. It has been an enjoyable conversation and, in some ways, I will miss you, Levell.”

  “Are you familiar with the sport of baseball?” Levell said.

  “It is something capitalists use to divert the attention of the proletariat from their miseries.”

  “Really? Have you expressed that opinion to your comrades in Cuba?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because Cuba fields the top amateur baseball teams in the world.”

  “What is your point?” Federov said impatiently.

  “A beloved icon of American baseball, Yogi Berra, once famously said ‘it ain’t over ‘til it’s over’.”

  Federov shook his head. “What kind of foolishness is this?” he said. “More silly, confused capitalism?” He stood abruptly and spoke to the guards in Russian. “Stay alert.” He jerked his head toward Levell. “At the appropriate, time Maksym will kill him. You are to assist him in disposing of the body. Understood?”

  The two guards nodded. Federov turned and walked away, slamming shut the heavy metal door behind him. The noise echoed throughout the warehouse. It seemed to punctuate the finality of Levell’s situation.

  55 Washington, D.C.

  Following Whelan’s call, Christie was on an emotional rollercoaster. Many years of investigating the seamier side of life had annealed him to the plights and misfortunes of others. But this time it was different. This time his own family members’ well being was involved. Questions whirled through his mind: Were they injured? Were they even alive? Was this his fault? Could he have done a better job of protecting them? Where were they now? How could he find them? How much time did he have before they were harmed? Why had they been abducted in the first place? Who was responsible?

  Christie knew that in abductions time always was of the essence. He tried not to think about the Bureau’s statistical timeline for recovering the kidnap victim alive. He needed to stay cool and act quickly and effectively.

  He grabbed the phone off his desk and punched in the numbers for the Bureau’s equivalent of a motor pool. “This is Special Agent Christie. I need a vehicle and I need it now. I’ll be down in sixty seconds.”

  He slammed the receiver back on its cradle, then called the Frederick Police Department.

  “This is Special Agent Mitchel Christie with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I want you to find Chief Raitt wherever he is. This involves my family. I want a Special Response Team to my home immediately.” He gave the dispatcher his street address and said, “I also want a Crime Scene Unit standing by when I get there. No one goes into or out of the house until I arrive. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the dispatcher said. Her voice sounded as if she wanted to ask further questions, but Christie hung up and ran out of his office and down the hall to the elevator banks.

  Just as he reached the elevators, Special Agent Rickover also arrived. “This working late sucks, doesn’t it?” Rickover said cheerfully.

  Christie looked at him for a moment while punching the down button nonstop. “Come with me, I may need you for something.”

  Rickover looked bewildered. “But my wife expects me home for dinner. It’s Wednesday. That’s our date night…kind of.” His face colored slightly.

  “Dammit, Rickover, call her on your cell phone and tell her you’re on assignment.”

  The elevator doors opened and Christie grabbed the younger man by an arm and yanked him into the compartment.

  “But…but what do I tell her? What kind of assignment is it? When will I be home for dinner?”

  As the elevator descended, C
hristie stared at Rickover. A crimson flush of anger spread upward from his collar to his forehead. “You tell her anything you want to tell her,” he said through clenched teeth. “And I hope for your sake you never talk to her about any of your work at the Bureau.”

  “No, no…never.” Rickover had paled in contrast to Christie’s flush.

  A large, black Tahoe was waiting for them. Christie sprang behind the wheel, activated the lights and alarm, and they were on their way to Frederick, Maryland. It was a drive that normally took more than an hour. At speeds exceeding ninety miles per hour on the Beltway and I-270, Christie made the trip in thirty minutes. Throughout, Rickover sat wide-eyed and ramrod stiff, his white knuckled hands clutching the edge of the seat cushion as if it were a security blanket.

  The Tahoe slid to a halt in front of Christie’s house, blocking the street. It was lined with police cars on both sides. Christie leaped out and immediately took in the scene. A brown delivery truck was parked directly in front of the house. His wife’s minivan was still in the garage.

  A heavyset man wearing a police uniform and chief’s insignia walked over to him. “Special Agent Christie?” he said. “I’m Lamar Raitt, the Chief of Police.”

  “Yeah,” Christie said and flashed his Bureau ID at the man. Motioning at his companion, he said, “This is Special Agent Rickover.”

  Raitt said, “What’s this about your family having a problem?”

  Christie filled the chief in on what he knew about his family’s abduction, but did not mention Whelan’s name. Instead, he said he had received a call from a man claiming to be involved, but the Bureau hadn’t been able to trace the call successfully.

  When Rickover realized what was going on, he said, “Mitch, I think you ought to report this to our people at the Bureau.”

  Christie gave him an icy look and said, “I will, Rickover, but the local PD was able to get an SRT here and seal the area sooner.” He turned to the chief and said, “I want your CSU to comb the house. Look for anything, prints, blood or any other possible source of DNA evidence.” He paused and looked at the delivery truck. “And this vehicle too. Let’s go.” He turned and walked quickly into his dark and empty home.

  Behind him, Chief Raitt said, “Wait a minute. Are you saying this isn’t even official Bureau business?” He turned and looked at Rickover, who shrugged. “Hell,” he said in disgust. “And the Bureau wonders why local police don’t like working with you heavy-handed jerks.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning following a sleepless night, Christie showered, dressed and caught the 5:12 a.m. MARC train to Union Station in downtown Washington. He had sent Rickover home in the Bureau’s Tahoe and spent most of the night attempting to oversee the Frederick Police Department’s CSU investigators. They gathered evidence, including blood samples and strands of hair for DNA purposes and impounded the brown delivery truck. When they left around three in the morning, the Chief had taken Christie aside and said, “We will do all we can, Special Agent, and we’ll keep you in the loop on anything we turn up. But let’s be clear on something. This is our investigation, and unless and until someone with proper authorization from the Bureau advises us otherwise, it’s going to stay that way. Understand?”

  Christie did understand, and his intention was to speak to his boss, the Assistant Director of the Bureau’s Criminal Investigative Division, as soon as the man arrived at work. Instead, he was called into the office of his boss’s boss, the Executive Assistant Director of the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch. Over the years, he had met the man on occasion, but didn’t really know him well. From the scowl on the man’s face, Christie wished he had gotten to know him better.

  The EAD was standing behind his desk hunched forward, fists resting on the desktop. He didn’t indicate that he wanted Christie to sit in one of the comfortable looking side chairs.

  “You want to see me, sir?”

  The EAD straightened until only the tips of his fingers were touching the desk. The scowl stayed firmly planted on his face. “Christie, what the hell were you thinking when you scrambled the Frederick PD last night? It was a personal matter, but you played it like it was Bureau business.”

  “It concerns my family, sir. They were abduc….”

  The EAD cut him off. “I don’t give a crap about your family, Special Agent Christie. You did not have authorization to commandeer the resources of a local police department for your own purposes.”

  Christie could feel his anger beginning to surge. He stared long and hard at the EAD before saying, “And if it had been your family, sir, I think you would have done the same thing.”

  “You think, Christie? No, that’s the problem; you weren’t thinking. If you had been thinking, you would have notified your superiors in the Bureau and let us coordinate the investigation.”

  “I understand, sir, but the Bureau couldn’t have mobilized resources on the scene as quickly as the Frederick PD. You and I both know that time is the most critical element in situations like this.”

  The EAD stared at him, neither man willing to be the first to break eye contact. “We have assumed jurisdiction and I have so advised Chief Raitt. I’ve assigned Lou Antonelli as the agent in charge of this investigation.”

  “Antonelli? Why Antonelli, sir? It’s my family. I have personal knowledge regarding the victims, and that can be immensely valuable. I should be in charge of the investigation.”

  “It’s precisely because it is your family that I want you as far removed from the investigation as possible. If I hear that you’ve attempted to meddle in any way, directly or indirectly, I will suspend you without pay until I determine whether you should be reinstated. Am I getting through to you?

  “Look, I understand how you’re feeling,” the EAD said more gently. “And we’ll keep you advised of all developments in the matter. But go back to your office and find something to keep you occupied…other than the investigation into your family’s disappearance. In fact, to keep you occupied, I’m putting you in charge of the investigation into that shootout and alleged abduction yesterday in King George County, east of Fredericksburg.”

  * * *

  Given his personal situation, Christie had a difficult time focusing on the apparent abduction of Levell and the shootings of his two companions. He toyed with the connection between Levell and Whelan for quite a while, but couldn’t find anything of relevance that wasn’t already known. Finally, late in the afternoon, he gave up and walked down to Antonelli’s office. He was deeply disappointed when he saw that it was empty.

  He stuck his head into Rickover’s office next door. “Hey, Aaron, got a minute?”

  The younger man looked up from the file he was reading. “Sure, but I have to tell you, my wife is really pissed at you about last night.”

  “Yeah, look, I’m sorry about that. I really wasn’t thinking clearly. I hope you got home in time for your date night.”

  “Not exactly. She made me sleep on the couch.”

  Christie winced. “Sorry. Look, has Antonelli said anything to you about the investigation?”

  “No,” Rickover said and paused, glancing out the doorway to his office, “but he just walked by.”

  Christie spun around and caught up with Antonelli in the hallway. “Lou, is there anything new on my family?”

  Antonelli waved him to one of the chairs in his cramped office space. “It’s a helluva thing, Mitch. What’s this fuckin’ world comin’ to when lowlife trash kidnaps the family of an FBI agent?” He shook his head in disgust.

  He went around behind his desk and sat down, leaning back in his chair. “I was gonna call ya’. We got a coupla’ things. First the good news. We looked at medical records and none of the blood samples matched up with anyone in your family.”

  “As a favor to me, would you have Forensics check them against the old records we have for that outfit, the Sleeping Dogs.”

  “I’m way ahead of you, pal,” Antonelli said. “There’s no mat
ch there either.”

  Christie had a momentary flashback to something Whelan had said the previous evening about someone wanting to harm his family and the Sleeping Dogs preventing it. “So what’s the bad news?” he said.

  “Well, that delivery truck was reported hijacked. The driver’s body was in the back covered up with boxes and such.”

  Christie’s mind was racing. “Then another vehicle was used for the extraction. Have the neighbors been questioned? Did anyone see anything unusual?”

  Antonelli reached into one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a cigar. He removed the wrapper, bit off one end and stuck it in a corner of his mouth. “This little beauty is pure Cuban,” he said.

  “I thought those were illegal contraband in this country.”

  “Yeah, but every man’s entitled to one vice.”

  “I understand they’re expensive as hell, too,” Christie said.

  “Like I said, entitled.” Antonelli took the cigar out of his mouth and admired it for a moment or two before replacing in the same corner.

  “Back on topic, the neighbors?”

  “Yeah, we had people interview everyone on your block and a block in either direction. An old guy, lives several houses north of you, was waterin’ his lawn. Says he remembers seeing a white van of some kind pullin’ outta your driveway.”

  Christie’s heart began to race. “Did he describe the van?”

  “Only what I just told you. But the gas company uses white vans. They reported one of them was stolen yesterday afternoon. Two of their guys went in to some joint for a late lunch. When they came out, the van was gone. It was recovered in the parking lot of one of those regional malls over in Tysons Corner.”

  Christie leaned forward in his chair. “Did Forensics check it over?”

  Antonelli nodded. “Clean. Not a stray hair. No blood or sweat. Not a smudged print. Nothin’. It was cleaner than a new one rollin’ off the assembly line.”

  Christie trudged back to his office, head down, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his pockets. He was angry and depressed. And he felt helpless. Who, he wondered, doesn’t leave a single clue or piece of evidence behind? Just who in the hell were these people, Whelan and the other Sleeping Dogs? What was their game? Who was helping them? More important, what could he do to help his family? There didn’t seem to be a clear place to start.