For Laski’s own peace of mind, a fully equipped hospital was maintained onboard. Certain specifications inherited from the Russian oligarch who formerly owned the ship were even more reassuring. These included bulletproof windows and armor plating. In addition, there were two helipads, each equipped with a brand new Sikorski S-76D chopper. But even more important, the prior owner’s insecurities had led him to equip the yacht with an escape submarine that had the capacity to sleep eight guests and spend up to two weeks underwater. There also was his omnipresent phalanx of Ukrainian bodyguards. Most important was the man he had placed in charge of the bodyguards—Maksym. Laski felt confident that regardless what dangers might come his way aboard this ship or elsewhere, he would survive quite nicely.
On this particular day in late August, the Feral was cruising off the coast of Southeast Florida near its homeport of Fort Lauderdale. Laski’s guests included several young blonde women currently lounging scantily clad or nude in and around the infinity pool. Also aboard were the Chief Operating Officer and Chief Financial Officer of his parent holding company. They were there to provide a cover of legitimacy. His special guest was Colonel Kirill Federov. Laski had flown all of them except Federov to Fort Lauderdale in his recently purchased Gulfstream 650 business jet. Federov had taken a commercial flight under the pretext of attending an international trade show.
While the COO and CEO teleconferenced underlings at various company offices around the globe, Laski and Federov held a private discussion in the ship’s elegant boardroom. Behind the walls, richly paneled in Honduran mahogany, was a lining of a material designed to thwart efforts to penetrate with infrared, ultrasound, and other surveillance devices. The same material underlay the deck beneath their feet. Even the tray ceiling was lined.
Federov stared out a large glass panel at the distant beach. The panel, too, was impregnated with the same anti-surveillance material. After several moments he swiveled slowly in his chair, rested his elbows on the rare Bubinga wood conference table, and looked across at Laski.
“Well, my friend, what do you think of my little boat so far?” Laski said in Russian.
“I am not your friend,” Federov said. It came out almost as a snarl. “As for this floating whorehouse, I am as disgusted by it as I am by all of the other toys on which you piss away the money of the State.”
If the remark stung Laski, he didn’t show it. “My good Colonel, it is all part of the charade I must play in order to be in a position to optimize my services to the cause.”
Federov shook his head slowly back and forth, but never broke eye contact with Laski. “So, what is the meaning of this silly name Feral?”
A smile spread slowly over Laski’s face. “A feral animal is one that has escaped from a domestic or captive status and has returned to that of a wild animal.”
Laski had been a child of nine when the Germans invaded and occupied Poland. Prior to that time, his father had been a wealthy banker, but that ended with the invasion. Being Jewish, the members of his extended family were rounded up by the Nazis and eventually sent to the Auschwitz death camp. Only Laski escaped a similar fate.
Fearful of what was happening, his parents had sent him to live with the family of one of their servants, a Polish girl who was Catholic. The family protected him throughout the war and hid him from the Nazis. After the war, Laski, now a gaunt and undersized fifteen year-old, had found himself alone and destitute in a ravaged land. But some of the things his father had taught him stuck in his mind. One of them had been that the key to success was to provide a product that the market demanded. Another was to align with those who held power.
He utilized the first bit of advice very quickly. The Soviets occupied post-war Poland. Their soldiers were everywhere. They were his market. What did soldiers want? Women. In that devastated economic environment, Laski had little trouble finding women, even young girls, who would consort with the Soviets in order to feed themselves and their families. The problem was that older, larger, stronger men were going into the same business and saw Laski as needless competition. His life was threatened on more than one occasion. He hired off-duty soldiers as bodyguards, many of whom were Ukrainians. They were gleefully proficient at their task, and soon Laski had little competition.
In response to the second bit of fatherly advice, Laski plied the Soviet administrators, almost all of whom were Russian, with his youngest, most attractive girls and fine Polish vodka. He eventually built valuable relationships with the highest-level Soviet administrators. They found him to be extremely intelligent and able to process complex data, including financial data, almost instantaneously. Although he was mostly self-educated, he spoke a number of languages, including Russian and English, and had a remarkable grasp of geopolitical affairs.
The attribute that most impressed his Soviet masters, however, was that he shared their perspective that the mass of humanity consisted of little more than drones. Individuals were incapable of clear thinking and rational decision-making. They needed to be confined tightly within a strict, all-encompassing regulatory framework. All decisions needed to be made for them by the more intellectually gifted. If necessary, and it always was, brute force in the form of the police power of the State was to be used to enforce those decisions. In essence, the masses needed to be told what thoughts to form. And forced to observe them.
Some of Laski’s Russian acquaintances rose through the hierarchy of the Soviet apparatus. They remembered the intellectually gifted whoremonger they had met in Poland. Eventually, they realized he was the missing key piece in their strategy to destroy the West, especially the United States. He was the perfect choice to manage the cash flow that supported the efforts to undermine that bastion of capitalism. And so, he had risen from a starving orphan in a bombed-out Polish ghetto to become one of the wealthiest individuals on the planet.
He was jarred from his remembrances by the sound of Federov’s palm slapping sharply against the table.
“Are you listening to me, Comrade Laski?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I asked you why you chose this strange word, feral, for the name of this vessel. You did not answer. Instead, you seem to be daydreaming.”
“Please indulge me. It is a personal conceit. I have gone from being someone who depended on the charity of others for my daily bread to a man who controls the fate and fortunes of so many. I am like the animal that once was domesticated, but has returned to a place of prominence in the wild.”
Federov snorted. “You are an arrogant fool.”
Laski felt his face redden, but nodded to Federov in deference. He purposely held his tongue.
“Stop wasting my time. We are here to finalize the details of our plan for the holiday the Americans call Labor Day.”
Laski nodded again. “All has been arranged. Everyone knows what they are to do, and will do it perfectly.”
“You had better be right this time, Comrade. Those Ukrainian idiots you employ botched the kidnapping of the FBI agent’s family.”
The color deepened in Laski’s face. “That was not handled well, I admit. But the agent’s family is missing and Maksym has advised him that he is the one who has his family. As long as Agent Christie doesn’t know otherwise, he will do exactly as we ask.”
“And you are confident that McCoy and the others will exchange these Sleeping Dogs of theirs for that old cripple, Levell?”
“Yes. In their conceit, they will believe that these assassins of theirs somehow will overcome us.”
“And you are convinced they will not?”
“Not with Maksym in charge. And Levell, of course, will be killed along with the Sleeping Dogs when our operation is completed.”
Federov stared thoughtfully at Laski for a few moments, unconsciously rubbing his chin with the back of his thick right hand. “So you believe that these men, these Sleeping Dogs, can be made to participate in the killing of the president and the others?”
A smile of confidence spread acro
ss Laski’s face. “Yes, the deaths of the president, the senate majority leader, the publisher of the very liberal Daily Times, the chairman of the Progressives for Fair Government—one of the chief fundraising and propaganda arms we’ve used over the years, and, particularly fitting on Labor Day, the president of the Service Industry Union will lend credence to this being the act of right-wing extremists. The authorities will discover the bodies of the Sleeping Dogs at the scene of the shootings. It will appear that they had a falling out and killed each other. ”
Now it was Federov’s turn to smile. “How nice of that fool we manipulated into the White House to bring them all together for another of his empty speeches.”
“And in such an accessible place, the steps of the Capitol Building.”
“You have your people ready to do the actual killing?”
“Of course. Two Ukrainian technicians have been rooming at the Hotel L’Orange for the past two weeks. They are using the cover that they are on a month long business trip. The hotel is the closest accessible point to the Capitol, and there is a clear line of sight to the steps of the building. We have other people staying at the hotel as guests. They will describe to the authorities seeing men who resembled these Sleeping Dogs loitering near the hotel. Our Senator Howard Morris will insist it had to be them, and claim credit for being the one who uncovered their existence.”
Federov rubbed his chin again and said, “The FBI and Secret Service will find the bodies of these Sleeping Dogs in the hotel room. With the weapon. How do the Americans say it, a gift wrapping?”
Laski nodded. “Indeed they will, Colonel, indeed they will.”
59 Fredericksburg, Virginia
Whelan gathered the Dogs in the library of the country manor. Thirty minutes later McCoy pulled up in front of the portico. He was dressed in civilian clothes and driving an unmarked, late model Ford Taurus. Although they were not military, all of the men except Almeida rose to their feet when McCoy entered the room. He placed a slim Apple laptop on the table in front of his chair, then gestured for them to sit down.
Whelan studied McCoy’s weathered face, trying to read him. It was, he thought, like sampling a fine wine and identifying the essences on the palate. There was a grim set to his curbstone jaw line. Determination showed in his clenched lips. His body language reflected his famous no-bullshit attitude. But it was his eyes that stole the show. There was fieriness there, the anger of a man too long frustrated and yearning for revenge.
Almeida sat at one end of the long, stained oak library table. The others sat along the sides. The chair at the other end had been left vacant for McCoy. But he didn’t take it. Instead, he chose a chair in the exact middle of the table, the weakest position. It was what Levell would have done. So powerful was the force of Levell’s personality, that McCoy consciously, purposely chose such a position.
“I shared with the men what you told me on the phone, General,” Whelan said.
McCoy nodded. “Thank you.”
“What do you want us to do, General?” Larsen said.
McCoy fanned out the fingers of both hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, using them for support. “Since I made that call to Whelan, there have been some new developments.”
The others around the table glanced at each other.
“How so?” Stensen said.
With both elbows on the arms of the chair, McCoy brought his large, ruddy hands up near his chin, left palm over right fist. There was a gleam in his eyes and a slight smile of satisfaction on his lips. “We know where Cliff is,” he said.
As if on cue, all of the others leaned forward involuntarily, staring at McCoy.
“How?” Thomas said.
“Where?” Whelan said.
McCoy’s smile broadened. He relaxed his hands and placed them on his gut. “The one thing the Society does well, that no one in the government seems capable of doing, is to assimilate information from a wide variety of resources.”
“Like processing information gathered by entities like NSA, the Agency, and the Bureau, which they don’t share with each other,” Kirkland said.
“Exactly. Top people in those agencies and others are a part of our efforts. They share with us. We compile it and interpret it.”
Thomas said, “I thought all that infighting and turf war crap was supposed to have been prohibited after nine eleven.”
McCoy shook his head, “It was a great idea, but old habits die hard among the entrenched egos in a bureaucracy.”
“Not to be abrupt, General,” Whelan said, “but where is Cliff?”
“In an old warehouse in the middle of an industrial area northwest of Richmond.”
“And we know this…how?” Stensen said.
“It should come as no surprise to you that the NSA maintains photographic surveillance of much of the planet via a system of satellites. As luck would have it, one of their satellites happened to videotape the tail end of Cliff’s abduction. By coincidence it partially tracked the truck the bad guys used.”
Kirkland interrupted. “Wasn’t the truck that was used to kidnap Cliff abandoned a short distance away?”
“Yes, but the NSA tape showed them changing vehicles. Then VDOT cameras unintentionally picked up that other car farther along the way.”
“What’s VDOT?” Almeida said.
“Virginia Department of Transportation,” Thomas said.
“There’s more,” said McCoy. “VDOT cameras eventually lost the car after it left the Interstate and entered the back streets of Richmond. But we got lucky again. DEA has been using their satellite surveillance system to track vehicles they suspect are involved in drug trafficking.”
“So, how did you establish the connection between the NSA, VDOT and the DEA?” Thomas said.
“With a helluva lot of man hours on the part of the Society and its resources. We specifically tracked down all government agencies’ surveillance materials, looking for a match to the car. We hit pay dirt with the DEA.”
“What did their stuff show?” Whelan said.
“I’m getting to that if we can shit-can the interruptions,” McCoy said with a growl. “The DEA has been following up on suspected involvement in drug trafficking by some Ukrainian gorillas. They provide muscle for some rich bastard who lives in a mansion in Potomac, Maryland. His name is Chaim Laski.”
“I don’t get it,” said Thomas. “Laski’s a billionaire financier and investor. Why would he get involved in something as dangerous and stupid as drug trafficking?”
“He probably isn’t involved – at least not directly. For security purposes, he surrounds himself with these goons, mostly Ukrainians with lengthy criminal records. They’re probably picking up cash on the side by moonlighting in the drug trade with their cousins in the Russian mob.”
“So,” Whelan said, “the DEA tapes connected this car with the warehouse in Richmond.”
“Yeah. It made several trips back and forth. DEA thinks it’s probably where they store the drugs.”
“It does sound like a good place to stash Levell,” Thomas said. “But do you think Laski knows anything about Levell’s abduction?”
McCoy scoffed. “Know about it? Hell, that commie bastard likely arranged the whole thing.”
“Why?”
“Remember that previous phone call I had, offering to release Cliff in exchange for certain unspecified services by your unit?”
“And we still don’t know what the nature of those services might be?” Whelan said.
“Makes sense that Laski wants us to solve a problem for him.”
“How do we even know Cliff’s alive?” Larsen said.
McCoy smiled slyly. “Satellite thermography. Thermal imaging cameras. We’ve been able to establish what appear to be two ambulatory human beings in the warehouse, probably guards, and a third one who appears to be immobile. We believe it’s Cliff in his wheelchair.”
“When do we extract him?” Larsen said.
McCoy shook his head impatiently
. “There’s an additional wrinkle.”
“Isn’t there always,” Stensen said.
McCoy ignored him. “The Bureau also had some surveillance footage that raises a whole different issue.”
“Well, what the hell is it this time?” Almeida said impatiently.
McCoy fixed him with a hard gaze. “It seems there’s also a Russian involvement.”
“As part of the drug dealing?” Whelan said.
“Maybe, but not necessarily. The Bureau keeps its eye on members of foreign diplomatic corps posted to this country, particularly those from nations that are not friendly to ours.”
“That certainly would include the Ruskies,” Larsen said.
“Right. Well, in this instance a certain lower level attaché named Federov made a visit to the warehouse. The DEA and Bureau tapes both show it. Except that he’s not your average bureaucrat. This guy is a colonel in the Spetsnaz. The Bureau has recorded him making numerous trips to visit Laski, usually in the guise of a lackey accompanying a Russian trade counselor.”
“Not so lower level,” Whelan said.
“Not according to the Agency. Their dossier on this guy indicates he’s highly placed in the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR, Russia’s primary external intelligence agency. He reports directly to the SVR Director, who, in turn, reports directly to the Russian president.”
“Did the CIA share this information with the Bureau?” Thomas said.
McCoy looked at him with a pained expression. “What the fuck do you think? If it wasn’t for the existence and efforts of the Society, none of the dots would ever get connected. America would just assume the position and our enemies would shove their red hot branding irons clear up our collective ass.”
Whelan said, “I don’t think any of us gives a damn who or what may be involved. Let’s get back to Sven’s question: when are we going to go after Cliff? With his life on the line, every second counts.”
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 31
