Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (46 page)

That meant Mom
and
Dad were in trouble. Meanwhile he was stuck here in the woods with a stack of textbooks for company.

A chorus of coyotes sounded. He remembered that 30-06 bolt action and box of hollow points.

*  *  *  *  *

Sergeants Gerard and Michaels sipped coffee and pored over sat photos of Mong Hsat Airfield while Hecker and Zaw spoke on the phone. From Hecker’s end, it sounded like Zaw had secured a Pilatus PC-6 Porter. Michaels, startled, looked up from his topo map. “A PC-6? That’ll land halfway up Everest.”

Hecker nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. “Well take it. When do we have to be at the airport? Should be there by 11:00 hours no problem. 11:30 hours ETD and three hours thirty minutes flying time? That works.”

Gerard started rolling up maps, rubber-banding them as he went.

Hecker had hung up. “Mount up. You have a ride north on a plane paid for by the UN Office on Drugs and Crime. Zaw says the Air Force usually uses the Porter to haul dope. We’re in luck because today’s an off day, and for twenty thousand dollars and a butt-load of aviation gas, we landed ourselves a wet lease including unrecorded takeoffs and landings from the international airport. You gotta love Major Zaw.”

Michaels interjected, “The Pilatus is slow as balls, boss, and only carries ten.”

Hecker ignored the interruption. “I have to stay and cover our tracks. Gonzalez is still on the ground in Bangkok. I’ll get back on the phone and see if Abrahams can get his Marines to the airport in mufti with weapons stowed. It’s an hour’s drive, more if it rains. That gives you ten to fifteen minutes to move. We don’t know how many you’ll be up against.”

“As of the last sat photos, Mong Hsat looks abandoned. There’s been no Army presence for at least six months. No planes parked there; just a windsock, runway and an ATC building with a radio set and a dead radar dish on top. If we arrive early, control the airfield and lay out the welcome mat, it won’t matter how many men Teller has. There’s only one road in and one road out.” Gerard could have been listing electric utilities dividend yields.

Michaels pitched in. “We’ve been through Ryder’s weapons locker, sir. There’s more than enough for the job. Not all of that SEAL shit is up to standards, but we’ll make do.”

One corner of Gerard’s mouth turned up in a quarter smile, so Hecker knew Michaels must have said something pretty funny.

Gerard said, “We can do the business with the two SCAR CQCs Ryder had in the back. They have FN40 grenade launchers slung underneath for more punch. We also have a couple thousand rounds of 7.62 ammo, ordinary and tracer, plus a GPMG with a bipod and ammo belts for our USMC brothers. The comms sets are all good, as is the field first-aid kit. Michaels and I are both combat medics. While we’re in the air, you’ll need to set up a trauma unit as close to the airport as possible to handle my wounded. We’ll need plasma and whole blood, plus an operating room staffed and on standby.”

Hecker said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Michaels asked, “Can you give us the final rules of engagement? What happens if Teller’s accompanied by regular Army?”

“Teller’s worth much more alive than dead. The civilians he’s with—if any—are probably worth even more. Teller’s ill, maybe dying. I’m guessing he’ll be guarded by uniformed troops, but they are likely to run off when the shooting starts. Teller has a Praetorian Guard that wear Ranger fatigues and carry M-4s. If you see any of them, shoot to kill. If you don’t see fake Rangers, I’m guessing well-placed grenades will send his conscript escorts scurrying.” Even to Hecker, it sounded like a muddle.

“Sir, depending on when they get to the airstrip, it could be almost dark. We might be engaging at two hundred meters. We won’t be able to tell uniform types or weapons at those ranges,” Michaels explained.

“Use the methods that safeguard your lives,” Hecker said.

“Then we’ll set an ambush and execute the plan,” Gerard said.

Hecker stared at the coffee cup in his hands as the two men gathered their belongings and awaited a reply. This was a screwed-up situation, to be certain. The borrowed Special Forces operators weren’t even supposed to be in-country. Tonight he was flying to Singapore en route to Tokyo on Friday for the showdown that might cost him his job. Bob Nolan was on the run, either because he was part of the Watermen NSA conspiracy or because he was damned close to solving MH370 with the blame aimed at the heart of the Agency. Nolan didn’t have a leg to stand on if Teller was dead. Still, Teller tried to kill Hecker’s wife and son. He was an animal. A rabid dog.

“Sir?” prodded Gerard.

Hecker looked up. “Shoot anyone who doesn’t surrender. Bring back anything you can salvage from the site: bodies, clothes, equipment, papers. Thank you for everything. Stay safe, gentlemen.”

The Delta Unit operators bared their teeth in lupine smiles and left.

*  *  *  *  *

Constantine hadn’t slept well—not at all, truth be told. He’d sought refuge in his office since before sunup, reading Nolan’s file and pondering whether Nolan was doubling for Russia or China, tripling for both, or clean. Monday the SVR tried to kidnap Nolan. Wednesday night Nolan flew to Sri Lanka with “Mimi Chan,” whom they’d not yet identified. She could well be from China military intelligence or even the MSS. In between, Nolan claimed to have solved the MH370 mystery, implicating the CIA. There was a highly radioactive centrifuge missing and inexplicable orders from HQ not to interdict Nolan’s flight to Sri Lanka. The dirty station chief in Burma. And it was likely, but not certain, that Nolan had fled to Sri Lanka to try to ransom Mark Watermen at the cost of US national security. Constantine took comfort in knowing Nolan was now on a very short tether, but he also accepted that this awful man could have been playing Singapore station for quite a while.

He shifted tack and picked up another folder on this desk. Nolan had a daughter, Mei Ling; she was an interesting character study. She paid cash for a one-way ticket on Monday afternoon at the Vancouver Airport. Her work colleagues had no idea she was visiting China. They thought she had picked up her brother in Seattle for a big sister pep talk. There was a single distress text from the Guangzhou airport to her father’s cell, presumably from her, as the originating phone number was from BC. She vanished from there: no phone calls or internet traffic according to the NSA.

Constantine tried hard to keep his personal dislike of Bob Nolan from clouding his judgment. Nolan was an adulterer, with two new conquests this very week, and now he was holed up in the honeymoon suite of a Sri Lanka beach hotel. That spoke to a complete absence of decency, but maybe that wasn’t the proper focal point. Mei Ling was now in the same city as Joanie Nolan. Maybe Nolan’s wife hadn’t left him. She could be picking out furniture for the new family home, assisted by her daughter. If true, then the next step would be to bring the son, Bertrand, to China, too.

Hellfire!
Bob Nolan was defecting to China
. The Agency needed bargaining power, and Bertrand Nolan was the last chip on the table. Constantine picked up the phone and dialed Tokyo.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

BAIT AND SWITCH

THURSDAY MARCH 13, NEGOMBO AND COLOMBO, SRI LANKA

Nolan’s alarm trilled. Turning it off made his whole body ache. A night on the sofa bed had left him feeling like he’d fallen down a flight of stairs. He hauled himself to the desk and was relieved to see that Deshan Pathmarajah, his second Lankan hacker, had confirmed arrangements overnight. Pathmarajah and Balendra each didn’t know the other existed, and he aimed to keep it that way for another day.

Balendra’s surprise retention of two SBS commandos as bodyguards was welcome on one level and a source of dire concern on another. Friday’s plan was taking on ever more complexity. It wouldn’t do for Pathmarajah’s man to get tangled up with Balendra’s commandos . . . .

Through the bedroom door, he heard Kaili speaking animatedly in Mandarin. According to several academic studies, Nolan’s gift for mathematics made him a prime candidate for virtuosity in languages and music as well. In truth, he was awful at everything but numbers, codes and poker. After twenty-five-plus years of marriage, he had only the rudimentary ability to discern the guttural Cantonese from the mother country’s lingua franca, Mandarin. Conversational Cantonese sounded to him like two fishmongers arguing. Mandarin was positively soothing in comparison. Kaili’s voice was indistinct, but as she didn’t sound like she was cursing the taxi driver who had just run over her dog, she wasn’t speaking Cantonese.

Kaili came in, dressed for high-powered shopping on the streets of Paris. Last night’s kerfuffle seemed forgotten, but Nolan knew better. She was just adjusting her role to suit the current circumstances. If he didn’t destroy or hand over those microSD cards on Friday, then Kaili and her MSS compatriots would treat him as an adversary. Which, after all, he was.

She had a room service menu in her hand. “I’ll have the Sri Lankan chicken curry with
roti prata
,” she said.

“That’s a fiery way to start your day. I’ll aim for something less spicy. Could you call room service? I have a few more emails here. I’ll have a bowl of mixed berries, granola and yogurt.” He sensed her stiffen. She was used to giving the orders. Kaili retreated into the bedroom and in a loud English-as-spoken-to-non-speakers voice, placed the order. “Thirty minutes,” she announced before shutting the bedroom door a tad forcefully.

The encrypted Safe-mail account had one fresh message. Bert was back at the Kamloops cabin after dropping Mei Ling at the airport. It was a short, angry note designed to hurt, and it did. Nolan urged Bert to stay put for another week, and not do anything to draw attention. With any luck, Hecker would neutralize Teller while proving the CIA was behind the MH370 hijacking. Once the story made international headlines, there would be no further need to remain in hiding. He advised Bert to consider his Safe-mail account dead and wipe all prior communications. Nolan passed along the two Sri Lanka phone numbers Bert could use for the next thirty-six hours, and told him to use WhatsApp for his text comms henceforth. He sent the message and immediately regretted the decision. A hot-headed twenty-two-year-old wouldn’t stay put after discovering his sister was in detention along with his mother. Eventually, Bert would take matters into his own hands.

A third interesting email was posted to his old IPPL hacker inbox from Director Central Intelligence Admiral William Perkins. Perkins ordered him to produce Watermen and surrender any and all NSA files in his possession. There was no need to throw away a distinguished career; Nolan simply had to render Watermen into custody and all would be forgiven. Failure to do so would result in a charge of treason.

Really?
Nolan thought it over. Then he thought some more. What if he didn’t want to forgive the CIA back? What if he didn’t want absolution bestowed by an organization that murdered 235-plus passengers in return for secret access to a handful of offloaded people and cargo? The CIA forgave, condoned and sponsored a murderous son of a bitch like Teller. Nolan didn’t feel he belonged in that same category. What was an email worth promising forgiveness without a signed presidential pardon stapled to it? He thought about replying to Perkins and copying
The New York Times
and
Washington Post,
but that wouldn’t set free his family in China.

He showered and shaved while mulling over matters. He still wasn’t used to his new look; with glasses and a crew-cut, but sans mustache, he looked vaguely menacing. Based on Hecker’s feedback, it was a coin flip as to whether Nishimoto was taking orders from Teller. Chances were high, however, that the bogus CIA Harcourt charter would be discovered well before it was time to fly on Friday. If Nishimoto really was allied to Teller, he had missed his best chance to kill or capture Nolan last night. On balance, Nolan figured he had a long way to go before the disposition of the Gulfstream pilots made it onto his top three worries list.

One disheartening aspect of aging was that the hair you nurtured fell out, while the hair you didn’t need sprouted. He was doing a little trimming when it struck him that the CIA must have had Watermen under surveillance in Moscow. With Watermen on the move, they’d surmised that he and Nolan were meeting. Maybe they knew Watermen was headed to Colombo, putting Nolan on the scene as well. That meant he would have to lie even lower than planned. He still had to figure out how to incorporate the MSS’s needs without blowing up tomorrow’s swap. The last thing he needed was either the MSS or CIA crashing the party.

A knock on the front door brought him back to the present. The room service attendant presented the breakfast bill in the name of Vishnu Balendra. Two hundred rupees tucked behind the receipt ensured that nary an eyebrow was raised when the paleface signed Balendra’s name and sent the young man on his way.

The next order of business was securing the releases of Mei Ling and Joanie. Kaili sat across from him at the newlywed table for two and ate. Her breakfast looked a lot better than his tasted. He launched straight in. “We have to agree to the steps that lead to the release my family.” He took a spoonful of yogurt and looked at her with fresh eyes.

She’d applied makeup and lipstick while he’d been in the bathroom. Kaili was quite a temptation, pouting lips and full bosom with that lustrous hair and expensive clothes. “You have another proposal?”

“You’ll have to trust me that the disk I pass to the Russians will be rubbish. A mixture of truth and fiction, with many of the more sensitive files edited in ways they won’t be able to track. The past nine months, I’ve spent over two hundred hours doctoring those files in anticipation of this day. If I don’t give the FSB what looks like the entire trove, then Watermen won’t be released, and both of us are likely to be killed on the spot. If you’re there, your life will be in danger, too.”