Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  McCoy smiled a thin smile that stretched the corners of his mouth straight out rather than up. There was a gleam in his eyes. He opened the laptop in front of him and said, “I hope you boys don’t have any plans for this afternoon, ‘cause we got work to do.”

  60 J Edgar Hoover Building

  It was late. The massive FBI headquarters building at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW was virtually empty. The clock on Mitch Christie’s credenza ticked and tocked with metronomic ennui. The sound filled the silent office space with a mind-numbing certainty. If anything, the carpeted floor and acoustical ceiling tiles seemed to amplify it. It rebounded off the walls, the furnishings, and Christie’s eardrums.

  He hadn’t been home or slept or showered or shaved in two days. His appearance showed it. He sat slumped in his desk chair in the darkened room, elbows propped on armrests, fingers interlaced, eyes closed, chin resting on his knuckles. Troubling thoughts flashed over and over through his mind. His wife and children were victims of a kidnapping. So why did Deborah seem so calm, even at peace, with the situation? Why was she letting his son play soccer with members of the Sleeping Dogs unit? They were stone killers. Surely she must realize that.

  He shifted his elbows, dropped his folded hands onto his stomach and leaned back in his chair, head against the backrest. Still the questions raced and spun through his mind, almost playing tag with each other. Who was Maksym? He didn’t have Christie’s family. Whelan did. Why was Maksym claiming he had them? What was it he expected Christie to do in the belief that compliance would get them back?

  Christie was exhausted but he couldn’t sleep. He was running on black coffee and Red Bull. And antacid. Try as he may, he couldn’t get the pieces to fit. He knew with a cop’s intuition that there were connections. The shootout resulting in the apparent abduction of Clifford Levell was one. The comings and goings at the lodge in Tidewater Virginia was another.

  He reached for his cup, took a sip of cold, hours old coffee and grimaced.

  The abduction of Deborah and the children also was connected. She and Whelan both told him it was done to prevent a kidnapping by Ukrainians. Gangsters, she had called them. Was Maksym one of them? A Ukrainian bodyguard employed by Chaim Laski had been literally beaten to death at the club near Georgetown. Was there a connection to Laski? But why would a socially prominent and politically powerful person be involved in murder and intrigue? It was true that he was politically active, pursuing his one-world government vision, but this situation was too bizarre.

  Christie believed he was close to fitting the pieces together, but somehow the end game continued to elude him. Unconsciously, he reached for the bottle of antacid on his desktop. At the same time, his cell phone rang. Thinking, hoping, it was his wife, he dropped the antacid and grabbed the phone off his desk. The small screen showed an incoming call from a number with a 301 area code. He didn’t recognize the number, but his home in Frederick was in that area.

  “Hello, this is Mitch Christie.”

  “Christie, it is Maksym. You remember me, yes?”

  Instantly, Christy recognized the somewhat raspy voice with its trace of an accent. “Yes.”

  “You are ready to have your family returned unharmed, yes?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That is good. They are missing you very much. Do exactly as we tell you, and they will be released.”

  Christie’s mind was racing. He knew Maksym didn’t have his family. They were with Whelan. Was there a connection between Whelan and Maksym? If not, Maksym was bluffing, and Christie knew how to call his bluff.

  “I need to know they’re safe. Let me speak to them.”

  Maksym never hesitated. “That is not possible.”

  “Why? If you have them, and if they’re safe, as you say, then let me speak to my wife.”

  Maksym suddenly turned angry. “You are not in a position to make these demands. You will shut up and listen carefully. Otherwise, you are signing a death warrant for your family. You understand, yes?”

  For just a second or two, Christie toyed with the idea of telling Maksym to go fuck himself. Yet he wanted to know what Maksym’s ploy was. He abruptly shifted gears. “Let’s quit the bullshit. I just spoke with my wife. You don’t have her. She and the kids are safe with someone else.”

  Again there was no hesitation at Maksym’s end. “We know exactly where she is and who has her. We are watching them. If you do not cooperate, we will swoop in and kill them all.”

  Christie thought about it. Maksym hadn’t missed a beat. Maybe he was telling the truth. He didn’t have a means of contacting Deborah, or Whelan for that matter, to warn them about Maksym. He made a decision to err on the side of caution. “Okay,” Christie said. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “You are a smart man, Agent Christie. Now, listen carefully. Here is what you must do.”

  “I’m listening,” Christie said tersely.

  “A bad thing is going to happen.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Who is going to do this ‘bad thing’?”

  There was exasperation in Maksym’s voice. “Quiet! The men who will do this thing are evil. They seek to destroy your country. I will tell you where and when you can find them. It will be your duty as agent of the FBI to stop them.”

  “When are you going to give me this information?”

  “At the appropriate time. Until then, you must not speak of this to anyone. If you do, your family will be killed. Their deaths will not be pretty. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” With that, Maksym terminated the call.

  Christie sat and stared at his cell phone for a few moments. He tried to imagine a person to match Maksym’s disembodied voice. His gruff tone conjured up a large, formidable man. The calm manner in which he promised to kill Christie’s family members suggested ruthlessness. Whatever his physical appearance might be, Christie assumed Maksym was a very dangerous man.

  He left his office and descended two floors to the communications lab. He was almost surprised that the woman with the tortoise shell glasses wasn’t there. Then, he remembered the hour and realized there had been a shift change. There was only one person in the room. He was a thin young man with short, dark hair that was combed forward as if to cover a hairline heading south. He wore round, wire rim glasses and a white shirt open at the collar, revealing a t-shirt with a frayed collar. His khaki pants looked as if they had been purchased off the rack at The Gap. In keeping with his generation’s look, he had a two-day’s growth of beard. He also had a mild case of acne.

  The young man looked up from a Marvel comic book he was reading and said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Special Agent Christie.”

  “I’ve been wondering,” the young man said, “what’s the difference between a special agent and a just plain agent?”

  Christie was almost dumbfounded. After a moment, he said, “Look, there’s a woman who works in here on an earlier shift. She set up a tracer for me on my cell phone. I just got a call and I want to follow up. Can you do that?”

  “I can do just about anything. You got identification or something?”

  Now, Christie was dumbfounded. And angry. “Listen, you Gen Y twit. How the hell could I be inside this building if I wasn’t an authorized Bureau employee? Now, get off your prepubescent ass and check the tracer.”

  The young man sighed and slowly got up. “Some day I’ll be running the whole show and you’ll be just another old fart FBI person wasting away in a nursing home.”

  Christie was tempted to slap the kid hard enough to separate teeth from jaw. He held his temper in check. Barely.

  The tech walked slowly over to the equipment the woman with the tortoise rim glasses had used and said, “What’s your number?”

  Christie gave him his cell phone number. After several moments the kid said, “The call came from a cell phone that was being operated from 7570 River Rill Drive in Potomac, Maryland. Anything
else you want?” He sounded bored.

  “As a matter of fact, Sherlock, there is. What is 7570 River Rill Drive?”

  The man smiled somewhat insolently and said, “It’s an address.”

  With great personal restraint, Christie resisted the temptation to strangle the little shit. Through clenched teeth, he said, “That’s very observant, kid. What’s at that address?”

  The man sighed again and turned back to his equipment. After a few more minutes he turned back to Christie and said, “It’s a house. A big one, apparently. High rent district.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Look,” the young man said in exasperation, “I’m not your personal search engine. You’re the hotshot FBI agent. You should be figuring this out.”

  Christie had had enough. He drew his sidearm, a Glock 17, and snapped the slide back, chambering a round. He stepped forward and placed the weapon’s muzzle hard against the young man’s forehead and said, “I’m tired of your effete impudence. Get me the information or I’ll blow your entitlement delusions clean out the back of your paper thin skull.”

  All the color drained out of the young man’s face and he began to tremble. Christie pressed the muzzle harder into his skin and he quickly turned and busied himself with the equipment.

  “It’s owned by someone named Laski, Chaim Laski.”

  Christie was stunned. There was a connection with Laski! “Chaim Laski? Are you sure about that?”

  The young man’s head bobbed up and down. His prominent Adam’s apple yo-yoed in response.

  Christie eased the hammer down and holstered his weapon. He spun around and walked back to his office. The young man sagged to the floor in front of his equipment and began quietly sobbing. He had wet himself.

  When Christie reached his desk, he sat and began thinking about this shocking new element. Chaim Laski was a very powerful man politically. Christie couldn’t simply order a raid on the man’s home in Maryland. He needed to take this up the chain of command. It was midnight. He would have to wait until morning. He trudged down the hall to a lounge area and stretched out on a sofa. After a long while, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, looking like a drunk coming off a long bender, he brushed his teeth and went upstairs to the EAD’s office. Christie didn’t particularly want to speak to the EAD again, but now that Laski appeared to be involved, he didn’t see any viable alternatives. He purposely hadn’t told anyone in the Bureau about the calls from Whelan and Deborah. He’d worry about breach of Bureau procedure later. When his family was safe. He didn’t want any slackening of the investigation simply because his wife appeared to be enjoying herself. Stockholm syndrome, he thought.

  The EAD was standing behind his desk, glancing through what appeared to be routine reports. He was short, thin and balding. An accountant by training, he looked the part with a large, bony head and small body.

  After several moments, he looked up at Christie. “Are you having problems with your dry cleaner or razor, Special Agent Christie?”

  “No sir, I haven’t been out of the building in over forty-eight hours. Sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Special Agent. The Bureau has standards. We all are expected to conform to them regardless of our situations or workloads.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The EAD stared at him for a few more moments, then said waspishly, “Well, get on with it, Christie. I don’t have all day.”

  “Yes sir.” Christie told the EAD about the calls from Maksym, including the possible involvement of Chaim Laski.

  The EAD walked slowly over to a window and stared pensively out for several minutes. Eventually, he half-turned toward Christie, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand pinching his chin. “You’re asking me to authorize a raid on Chaim Laski’s home in Maryland?”

  Christie nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “Are you insane? Do you not understand the kind of political power that man wields?”

  Christie nodded again. “Yes, I do.”

  The EAD fixed him with a look of disgust. “I am not going to authorize any such thing. We will continue to monitor phone calls made by this Maksym person. But for the time being that is the extent of it.” He dismissed Christie with a wave of his hand.

  * * *

  As soon as Christie had left his office, the EAD picked up his phone’s receiver and punched five numbers into the keypad. A moment later, the executive assistant for his boss, the Deputy Director, answered his call and patched him through. He explained to the DD what he had just learned from Christie, and what his instructions to him had been.

  “That’s very interesting, Richard,” the DD said. “I think your actions are appropriate for the moment. We’ll get back to you later if we want to go in another direction.” He hung up.

  The DD stood and walked out of his office. As he passed his assistant, he said, “Virginia, I’m going out for a few minutes. I need to pick something up at the pharmacy.” He took the elevator to the lobby and exited the building. A few blocks down the street he entered a CVS and walked to a pay phone near the rear of the store.

  Less than a minute later he was speaking with a Marine major, the personal assistant to General Buster McCoy. He shared with him what he had just learned from the EAD via Mitch Christy. He knew the Society would want confirmation of Laski’s involvement.

  61 Richmond, Virginia

  With assistance from several influential members of the Society, both civilian and military, McCoy had quickly gathered a wealth of information on the warehouse where Levell was being held. Whelan and other members of the Sleeping Dogs pored over building plans for the targeted warehouse and surrounding buildings, transportation maps, satellite imagery, and ground level photographs of the neighborhood generated by Google Earth. Word had been sent from a top government law enforcement agency to the Richmond Police Department advising that the agency would be conducting a training exercise vital to national security in the area of the warehouse. The Chief agreed the Richmond PD would avoid the area until notified that the operation had been terminated. High level officials in the Bureau and the DEA had ordered those agencies’ satellite surveillance to be directed away from the area for the same reason.

  Approximately twenty-four hours earlier, the Society had placed the warehouse and its neighborhood under round-the-clock surveillance. Using satellite thermography provided by one of the entities controlled by the Mueller brothers, it was easy to determine how many people were in the building at any time and where they were positioned.

  The few small, papered-over windows set high on the walls of the warehouse made it unlikely those inside could observe activities outside the building. The main problem would be approaching the warehouse without being detected electronically by the guards inside. There were three issues that had to be confronted. The first was the video camera surveillance system set up on the four corners of the building. It was a wireless system, undoubtedly being monitored within the warehouse itself. Second was the need to prevent the guards from being able to use cell phones once they became aware of the assault. The final challenge was determining how to avoid cutting or climbing the sensor-armed barbed wire fence that surrounded the building site.

  Whelan solved all three problems, again with assistance from the Mueller brothers. One of their offshore companies, an electronics manufacturer in Taiwan, produced a device that jammed wireless video transmissions in the three standard ranges: 900MHz, 1.2GHz, and 2.4GHz at a range of up to one hundred meters. It also was capable of jamming cell phones at distances less than one hundred meters.

  The sensors on the fence were hardwired. This called for a low tech solution. Again, the Mueller brothers provided the necessary equipment, a mobile crane. It was being used by one of their construction enterprises for the renovation of a commercial property in Reston. One of their most trusted lieutenants, an executive of the construction company, drove it down to the warehouse site. All commercial markings and other potential means of
identification had been removed or covered. It had a hydraulic truss or telescopic boom, mounted on a turntable, which could be extended up to fifty meters. At Whelan’s request, the driver parked the crane on a side street behind the warehouse. Whelan and the other five Sleeping Dogs were crammed into a gray Toyota Tundra Crew Max parked behind the crane. They watched the front of the building via satellite surveillance on a large MacBook Pro. A separate device displayed satellite thermography.

  The Dogs knew from surveillance of the site when the guards, working in pairs, changed shifts.

  Following the morning shift change, Whelan and the others watched the thermographic display as both guards appeared to settle in at the small card table near the office section. A third person, about thirty feet away, was immobile. Levell. Whelan was about to give the signal to begin the assault stage of the operation, when the MacBook showed a black Mercedes GL pulling up to the gate in front of the warehouse. The driver, a bulky man in an ill-fitting suit, got out and opened the gate. He got back in, drove up to the front of the building and used a remote to activate the motor that began raising the large metal door. In less than a minute, the SUV pulled inside and the door was lowered back in place. Kirkland, sitting in the middle in the backseat, was operating the jamming device and monitoring the thermography imagery. “Looks like two more unfriendlies just arrived,” he said to Whelan, who was riding shotgun in the front seat.

  “Good,” Whelan said. “There’s no bag limit on these guys.”

  * * *

  Thermography showed that the man on the passenger side of the SUV got out and walked over to Levell. He appeared to speak to him for a moment, then turned and walked over to the table where the guards were seated. They immediately vacated their chairs, as if in the presence of a superior. The driver of the Mercedes stayed near the vehicle.

  Whelan turned to face the others - Larsen seated next to him, Stensen in the driver’s seat, Thomas and Almeida flanking Kirkland in the back. “Party time,” he said and opened the front door.