Endangered Species: PART 1 Page 8

  “Maksym,” he said.

  “How kind of you to remember me, Special Agent.”

  “Cut the shit. What do you want?” Christie activated the call tracer mechanism, but didn’t have much confidence that it would be of use in this situation. After all, the Bureau’s sophisticated number pinpointing software hadn’t been able to provide much information.

  “We have a common foe, you and I,” Maksym said.

  “Yeah? And that would be?” Christie had a premonition that he knew what the answer would be and he was right.

  “A person named Brendan Whelan. Yes?”

  “What’s your point?” Christie said warily. What the hell was this Maksym person up to now? And how could he know how much Christie hated Whelan?

  “We have a mutual contact in the An Garda Síochána.”

  Christie felt a chill run through him, and the pain in his stomach ramped up several degrees. He fumbled one-handedly to open the top right-hand drawer of his desk. There had to be a pack of Rolaids in there. He didn’t know what to say. How could Maksym know about his connection with INTERPOL Washington and the link with the informant in An Garda Síochána? Was Maksym trying to blackmail him again into doing something criminal, maybe treasonous? He found the Rolaids, squeezed three of them from the pack and tossed them into his mouth.

  “You are surprised that I know this, yes? Not to worry, Special Agent, I am assuming you are still interested in catching this man, Whelan. And I will not share the information I’m about to give you with anyone.”

  Struggling to find something to say, yet reveal nothing, Christie said, “I’m no longer directly assigned to that particular investigation, but I’m happy to pass along relevant information. It’s part of my job.”

  “Yes, of course it is.” Was that sarcasm in Maksym’s voice? “I am aware of your new status with your employer,” Maksym continued. “Yet, I am certain you would like to see justice done, given all the effort you put into this matter, not to mention your own personal suffering.”

  Yes, Christie thought, the man definitely was mocking him. “So what exactly do you expect to get in exchange for this information?”

  “Nothing,” Maksym said. “I simply am a man doing his civic duty in helping a criminal be brought to justice. That and the satisfaction of knowing that a hard working civil servant will finally get the credit that is due him.”

  Christie was silent for several moments. Maksym’s patronizing attitude infuriated him. Finally, he said, “What’s this information you want to share with me.”

  “I am going to tell you exactly where Brendan Whelan is.”

  Chapter 9—Naples, Florida

  Naples, Florida, or, as the local Chamber of Commerce preferred, Naples On The Gulf, drifted past the darkened windows of the limousine. The town had long banned billboards, and the poorer areas were carefully screened from sight. Local business and tourism interests liked to tout the town as the wealthiest in Florida, but that wasn’t quite true. The entire county, Collier, sometimes topped the list for highest per capita income in Florida, higher than Palm Beach or Sarasota Counties.

  In terms of net worth, Forbes Magazine ranked the town at 20th, pegging the net worth of its wealthier class of citizens at $16,000,000. But that put it behind six other areas in the State. The problem with that math, the local swells might claim, was that it factored in ordinary working stiffs whose annual income just happens to exceed $200,000 per year. Instead, they would point to the enclave known as Port Royal, occupying a mostly man-made peninsula between Naples Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. The original developer named it after the legendary sunken city in Jamaica. The names of its narrow winding lanes reflected that theme—Rum Row, Spyglass Lane, Kings Towne Drive. Even in times of economic recession homes still sold for sums that reached well into the millions. Massive Gulf-front estates, on the infrequent occasions when they were sold, commanded prices of $50,000,000 and higher.

  A home in Port Royal often is regarded as the top choice in the flight to quality by the wealthiest business and industrial tycoons – old money and nouveau riche alike. And why wouldn’t they? Golf, boating, and tennis in a year-round temperate climate. Palatial homes in the Addison Mizner-inspired style of Spanish revival architecture, surrounded by immense lawns fronting on the Gulf, the bay, or both. Lush green landscaping and impeccably manicured lawns.

  The sole passenger in the limousine, Harland Phillip Edwin Fairchilde, IV, was not impressed. He often thought that if the late Walt Disney had tried, he wouldn’t have been able to replicate such a fairy tale setting as contrived as Port Royal was. For God’s sake, he thought, it wasn’t even gated and its streets were publicly maintained. That meant that anyone could use them. Despite the fact that his family was among the wealthiest in the nation, he wouldn’t even consider buying a home in such a place.

  He stared dispassionately out the window at the seemingly endless string of lawn maintenance vehicles lining Gordon Drive, the wide avenue that formed the spine of the peninsula. An army of workers was swarming over the immense yards trimming trees, mowing, edging, gathering the debris and hauling it away in large vans towed behind even larger trucks. The trucks and vans all had various landscape companies’ names on them. Most were Hispanic. That brought a trace of a smile to his thin, almost bloodless lips. These were good people, he thought. They worked hard, did what they were told, and didn’t cause problems outside their own more humble areas in the county. And they voted the way they were instructed to vote; that is, the ones who managed to be here legally. To him, they were the perfect citizens in the evolving world. Do as you are told and you will be taken care of. Cradle to the grave. Stray from the reservation and there would be a very steep price to pay.

  The limo moved south on Gordon Drive paralleling the Gulf. Port Royal had been pumped from the bay bottom in the late 1940s, before mangrove swamps were recognized as marine fisheries and defenses against erosion caused by storms. Also before state and federal agencies spewed forth reams of regulations to ban dredge-and-fill activities. Homes and homesites in the enclave were coveted by the über wealthy, but there were still a few unimproved sites left. Fairchilde knew they were referred to as Club Lots. The greatest symbol of wealth and status in Port Royal and beyond was membership in the Port Royal Club. Membership was available only to those who owned real estate in the privileged neighborhood.

  It was late in the season and traffic on Gordon Drive was not too heavy. But there were enough tourists motoring slowly along the street to annoy Fairchilde. They stopped and started, slowed and sped up, all the while yammering on their cell phones and streaming narrated videos to their friends and relatives back north. The fact that they were awed by the discreet display of enormous wealth didn’t faze him. His great grandfather has been an original robber baron, a railroad magnate. The family’s wealth had grown exponentially over succeeding generations. How they had managed to do that, and how they intended to further increase it were the reasons for his visit to Naples.

  The driver slowed the limo and turned off Gordon Drive onto an elegant brick paved entranceway divided by a median beautifully landscaped with queen palms. A discreet sign was attached to the open wrought iron gate. It said “Port Royal Club”. The driver wheeled the limo around a well-landscaped center island and under the portico. The Club was housed in a rambling one-story building that sprawled along a priceless stretch of beach. Opened in 1950, it was painted a soft pink and topped by a shake shingle roof. Fairchilde was from very old money and had always been a member of a the most privileged class. He knew the drill, and waited patiently as the Club’s valet trotted eagerly down the entrance steps and opened the limo’s door for him. It was April in Naples and the noonday temperature was in the mid-eighties.

  Inside, the Club was very cool and dry, decorated with impeccable taste. From the front entrance, visitors could see the pool through large glass panels on the other side of a sunken reception area. Beyond the pool the Gulf of Mexico sparkled in the
noontime sun. Fairchilde paused briefly before descending the few steps to the reception area and gazed at the pool. The beautiful people were on full display. Mostly, they were young mothers or mistresses with long legs, tight butts, flat tummies and large, perfect breasts. Another benefit of great wealth - personal trainers, dieticians, and the very best plastic surgeons.

  A hostess appeared and led him to the left along the floor-to-ceiling glass panels. She turned right and led him through a small bar area and into a cozy dinning room. She brought him to a table at the far end of the room overlooking the pool and the Gulf. There was a single occupant at the table, a pudgy, florid-faced man about Fairchilde’s own age. Unlike Fairchilde, who still had on the suit he wore on his private jet for the flight from New York to Naples, the other man was wearing Bermuda shorts, a Tommy Bahama polo shirt and sandals. It was noon and the man was sipping a martini. Fairchilde doubted it was his first of the day.

  The man, Henry Malcolm Ellsworth Martin, III, stood and extended his hand to Fairchilde. They shook and the man motioned toward an empty chair. “You’re looking quite well, Harland. Have a seat, please.”

  “And you’re looking fit as well, Henry. I trust Cora and the other members of your family are well.”

  “Indeed.”

  Fairchilde picked up the menu from the table and glanced at it. The Club maintained a staff of top chefs and nothing on the menu was less than tempting. He selected a seafood salad and placed his order with the hovering server.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to remove your suit coat, Harland? Regardless what you left in New York, it’s summer here.”

  “No thank you. I won’t be here that long.”

  “You know you’re welcome to stay overnight. Cora would be delighted to see you.”

  “No, there are a number of pressing matters that require my presence back in New York. I’m here solely for this meeting.”

  “You were quite mysterious on the phone in setting it up. I assume this concerns the affairs of AGU?” Martin said in reference to the Alliance for Geopolitical Unity.

  The server, an appealing young blonde girl, brought Fairchilde’s iced tea. He waited patiently for her to withdraw.

  When she was out of earshot, Martin, whose eyes were still fixed on her well-shaped butt, leaned in toward the other man and said, “ Wouldn’t you like to get some of that? Can you imagine how tight and juicy that must be?”

  Fairchilde regarded him for a few moments; the expression on his pale face was as cold and as hard as his dark brown eyes. “I’m glad you have time for sexual fantasies, Henry, but my time is more valuable and somewhat limited. Let’s get down to business.”

  The other man sat back in his chair and looked away. “Fine,” he said and began pecking at his tropical salad with a small fork.

  “The purpose of our meeting today is to ensure your support for a change in strategy. As you are aware, there is an AGU Board of Governors meeting next week. Your active support could help to influence other members of the Board.”

  “What is this change in strategy you mentioned?”

  Fairchilde sipped his tea for a moment before answering. “With the loss of Laski, it’s become apparent that placing all of our financial activities in the hands of one person is not terribly efficient. In lieu of that, I’m proposing that we utilize a number of our members to distribute funds to the requisite organizations.”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Very wealthy, but naïve, do-gooders. All of them are members of AGU.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  Fairchilde regarded the other man with an expressionless gaze, as if measuring the pros and cons of disclosing additional information. After several moments, he said, “Two of them are from the entertainment industry, one is a tech tycoon, and the other one is a former senator who ran unsuccessfully for president.”

  “And their names are?” Martin said hopefully.

  “In good time, Henry. In good time.”

  Martin’s disappointment showed, but he said, “I agree with the concept and will support it. We’re better off without Laski anyway, that fat old bastard. He was a sexual pervert and an arrogant fool.”

  “Yes, well we certainly don’t want any sexual perversion in our ranks, do we, Henry?”

  Martin reddened slightly at the thinly veiled reference to his comment about the young waitress. “What about our foreign friends? Are the Muscovites still cooperating fully?”

  “They believed Laski was their operative and are less forthcoming now that he is gone. Not to worry, they’ll come back around in good time. After all, they have global ambitions and a one-horse economy. They need us.”

  “But,” Martin said, “they still are Russians and that leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “True, they are a nation of peasants, and very low grade ones at that. But that simply makes them easier to manipulate.”

  Martin took a sip from his second martini, set it back on the table and said, “Where do we stand with our ‘friends’ in the Society?”

  “I admit, eliminating Laski was a minor victory for them, as was interfering with the planned assassination of that irritating presence we foolishly placed in the White House. In the scheme of things, however, I don’t think they’ve gained any advantage. They aren’t a serious threat as long as we don’t get careless again.”

  “Not a serious threat? Their group of super commandos, or whatever they are, you don’t consider them a serious threat? As I understand it, those bastards have faked their deaths twice. Is it even possible to kill them?” Martin sat back in his chair and stared across the table.

  Fairchilde put his fork down and smiled at the other man. “They are only as dangerous as we permit them to be.”

  “You seem quite smug about all this, Harland. Why? I thought those men were super beings or something.”

  Fairchilde shook his head. “Not super beings, Henry. True, they are stronger, faster, and more intelligent than most other humans. Apparently, for whatever reason, they are genetically evolved, sort of like beta models of human beings in the distant future. We don’t know why that is, yet.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want those sonsofbitches chasing my ass! Not after what they did to Laski and his private army of thugs.” Martin paused and finished his martini. “You may not think they are dangerous, but others of us do.” He stuck the fancy toothpick with two bleu cheese-stuffed olives in his mouth and pulled the empty pick between his teeth.

  Fairchilde smiled a cold, mirthless smile. “Those troublesome individuals you seem so frightened of, are known rather quaintly as the Sleeping Dogs.”

  “I suppose there’s some clever reason behind their name?”

  “Of course, isn’t there always? In this instance it’s in reference to a line from the tragedy Troilus and Criseyde by the medieval English poet Geoffrey Chaucer. He cautioned against waking a sleeping hound for fear you would be rather savagely bitten. Actually, the phrase is recorded a bit earlier than that in the French Proverbia Vulgalia et Latina, where it’s worded, ‘Ne reveillez pas le chien qui dort’ or ‘Do not wake the dog that sleeps’. Some even believe it may have been based on chapter 26, verse 17 from the Book of Proverbs.”

  Martin sighed and said, “Thank you for sharing, but that really was more than I cared to know.” He was well aware of Fairchilde’s intellect and extraordinary classical education. He disliked being reminded.

  At sixty, Fairchilde’s face still had firm features and near perfect skin, a benefit of being well born. Now, there was a look of smugness on those features. “You needn’t waste time being concerned with these Sleeping Dog fellows, Henry.”

  “Really? How is that?”

  “It seems that the man who ran Laski’s ‘private army’, as you called it, has been successfully recruited into our fold. Interestingly, the Russians think he’s their man, which provides us with yet another mole inside their operations.”

  “Pardon me for interru
pting,” Martin said, leaning forward, “but on the subject of moles, I understand we have managed to place one inside the Society?”

  “Yes, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this time, Henry.”

  “Then tell me more about this fellow who formerly worked for Laski.”

  “Most significantly, as it turns out, he’s like these Sleeping Dogs, genetically speaking. And he has a personal vendetta to fulfill. He believes their successful action against Laski was a personal humiliation, a failure on his part. He intends to hunt them down and kill them, one by one, as well as Clifford Levell and General McCoy.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a daunting task, given that these ‘Sleeping Dogs’ are at least on an equal footing with this man, and there are more of them?”

  “There are two factors involved here, Henry. First, by tracking them individually, it becomes an even match. Actually, it favors our man because he has the element of surprise on his side.”

  “And what is factor number two?

  Fairchilde smiled the empty smile again. “One of these Sleeping Dogs is the leader. He’s the most dangerous one. He absolutely must be eliminated. But in his case, we have the luxury of a backup plan, a second assassin.”

  “And he is...?”

  “You no doubt will be surprised to learn that he is an agent of our Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Fairchilde sat back and watched the other man’s reaction.

  Martin’s eyes widened and he blinked twice in rapid succession. “An FBI agent? I don’t understand.”

  “It appears that the chap believes this leader of the Sleeping Dogs, a man named Brendan Whelan, is responsible for alienating his wife, who subsequently divorced the FBI fellow. It seems he now has a very strong desire to kill Whelan. Apparently, our new friend has something of a history with him, and is assisting in that endeavor.”