Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (57 page)

“Teller had all the passengers but one or two killed, landed it one hundred miles outside of Rangoon, offloaded those few people and cargo, and then the plane took off and disappeared. I’m sorry to report that your nephew is dead, Captain.”

“Oh, God! Do you know that for a fact?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent certain, and with each passing hour and no word of survivors, the odds lengthen. Do you want to help me find the people who did this?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Do you and First Officer Jenkins have direct access to the plane?”

“We do, but our jet is under surveillance. Jenkins and I come and go, but there are three men within one hundred yards of the G550 that weren’t there yesterday morning. I’d say that there’s a greeting party waiting for you.”

“Precisely why we needed to speak. I’m convinced that the answer to MH370’s disappearance will be found at Truscott Field. If you can get this plane to some other airfield in Sri Lanka, I’ll try to meet you there. Then you fly us to Truscott and we’ll see what happens.”

“You said before you’d be bringing Mark Watermen. Is he still coming?”

“He may or may not, but I doubt it. I’ll be coming, and Mimi Chan is likely to be with me. Do you have a runway in mind? Hambantota down south is only a three-hour drive. Can I meet you there?”

“Hell, why not meet me in the city? The military has an airport south of Mount Lavinia in the Colombo suburbs. It’s called Ratmalana, and they’ve just opened it up to civilian air traffic. Part of the first family’s privatization program.”

“How far is it from the center of town?”

“I don’t know, but it’s closer than the international airport. So if you’re in a hurry, I should aim to meet you there. What time?”

“Plan on being on the ground from 11:30-12 today. If I’m not there by noon, fly to Hambantota and wait there until I come, or the charter expires.”

“OK, Mr. Birch. I’ll figure out how Jenkins and I will get airborne, and declare an emergency so I can land at Ratmalana without having filed a flight plan.”

“Sounds good. Thanks very much, Captain.” Nolan hung up.

“That went well,” Kaili said.

“I’m not so sure. He sounded like he was telling the truth, but how can it be that he doesn’t know MH370 was on the ground in Burma if he was the one flying the money and prisoners from there to Truscott Field? The planes could have overlapped on the runway.”

“Maybe he landed after MH370 had taken off. Maybe his plane did not make the pickup in Burma. That would explain why he didn’t know about MH370.”

“Maybe he’s straight, or maybe he’s playing us. Can you ask your people to investigate the passenger list and look for a Thomas or Tom Nishimoto, an employee of Eagle Claw Semiconductor?”

“Do you think this will be necessary?”

“If he wasn’t on the plane, or doesn’t exist, Nishimoto’s lying and—what’s this?”

Kaili showed him the screen on her smart phone. “Take a look. Everyone who’s an officer of a publicly listed company is listed in regulatory filings and probably has his photo on the corporate website, too. I Googled him while you were talking. Here is Tom Nishimoto’s picture: handsome man, probably late thirties.”

“We’ll I’ll be damned. China blocks Google. How are you an expert?”

“Oh, Bob. We don’t just sit around all day at the MSS and play with our abacuses. Give us a little credit.”

He said, “When this is over, I want to keep this cell phone. Hey, give it back!” They play-tussled.

In a low theatrical voice, she mocked him. “‘Bob Nolan, CIA master spy, shares his technology acquisition techniques tonight on the Discovery Channel.’ Now tell me, what is the plan?”

“For one thing, one of us is throwing a grenade just before it explodes in our hands. Come to the window and let me talk you through it.”

*  *  *  *  *

The two East Asians wearing contractors’ overalls and yellow hard hats were carrying flat black cases of the type used by professional billiards players. They wore sunglasses and said nothing as they waited at the foot of the external elevator. Accompanying them was the shift foreman for the Grand Hyatt Colombo contractor. The elevator cage juddered to a halt and the foreman opened the door. “After you, gentlemen.”

“Podium top,” said the older of the two.

“Yes, I know,” answered the foreman. “There’s no one working on the top of the podium block this morning. I made sure of it.”

The elevator began its ascent.

*  *  *  *  *

One hundred yards to the north and seven stories below, another man who owned a pool cue case also prepared to go to work. Fernando positioned the stepladder on the balcony far enough under the eaves to shield him from the sight lines of the Grand Hyatt building site. Anyone up high enough in the shell and facing the southwest quadrant closest to the Racquets Club could look almost straight down on the open patios, pool and adjacent railroad tracks. It would be shooting fish in a barrel, but at least the Grand Hyatt shooters wouldn’t be able to see him.

The sniper caressed the sausage sandbag on the top step of the ladder until he had a furrow in which to rest the barrel of his marksman’s weapon. Using the spotting scope and then his weapon’s telescopic sights, he jotted down distances to the target areas. Standing at his firing position, he checked the field of fire one more time before retiring to Nolan’s bedroom to finish the rest of his fish sandwich.

*  *  *  *  *

Nolan’s backup Sri Lanka cell buzzed. The old hand read Balendra’s WhatsApp message with curiosity, then consternation:

US embassy press liaison alerted BBC journo to a pending press conference announcing globally important event locally. Target time is around noon. Is this us?

Damned straight it was. The embassy was already planning the victory party. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

Kaili was in the bathroom experimenting with grenade concealment options. “What was that?” she called out.

“Nothing, dear,” he replied.
Dear
? My goodness, he was getting familiar.

*  *  *  *  *

Coulter clambered into the back of the Piper Cherokee and closed the door. Tony Johnson was crammed into the adjacent seat. Piled behind them was enough food and drink for a small army. The tools of persuasion were stored aft.

The pilot ran them through the safety checks, obtained clearance from the tower and took off. The bright sunlight and blue sky accentuated the orange of the unforgiving earth below. They were flying two hours west-by-northwest to the Mitchell Plateau. After the end of the wet season, there would be precious little to drink down below, and even less to eat.

*  *  *  *  *

“What if they stop the plane and take us off?” Joanie asked.

“Mom, the doors are closed and we’re moving. It’s possible, but not likely. I will text Dad that we’re on board and headed for Singapore. That’ll be his signal to go ahead with whatever his plan is.”

“OK, sweetie. Do whatever you think best.”

Mei Ling hit the “send” button on her pre-composed message. She mentioned they had played golf on their vacation and were headed home. Dad would know they weren’t under duress when he saw the family code words.

Twenty-five hundred miles away, Nolan’s phone buzzed. “They’re on board China Enterprises Flight 138 nonstop to Singapore. They should be landing in a little under four hours, around noon our time.”

Kaili replied, “Yes, I know.”

Within twenty minutes, Gretchen Doyle had Mei Ling Nolan’s message printed out in front of her.
Had a great time on vacation playing golf. Now on CEN138 to SIN arriving 15:45.
It had come from China and was delivered to Nolan’s local cell phone near or inside the Colombo Racquets Club. Constantine was already in the air. She called to her secretary, “Get me Jerry Flynn. His people need to meet a plane in Singapore.”

*  *  *  *  *

“What are you looking so cheerful about?” Chumakov asked Watermen in the lobby of the Park Street Hotel. “You could be attending a funeral for all you know.”

“Yes, and it could be yours, Anatoly. That thought keeps me going.”

Chumakov had to smile. He would very much enjoy handing over this upstart and his fake godfather. “Our car is outside. Thank President Putin for paying the bill.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

MIND YOUR MANNERS

THURSDAY MARCH 13, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON; BACKROADS OF WASHINGTON STATE, USA; FRIDAY MARCH 14, TOKYO; EINME, BURMA; COLOMBO; TRUSCOTT FIELD, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

Burns fumed. As if his life wasn’t already complicated enough. In addition to Bob Friggin’ Nolan, MH370, Robin Teller and the 8 p.m. dance of the prima donnas in his conference room, the PLA-Navy decided to invade the Senkaku Islands. That was according to the last sat photos as of two hours ago, supplemented by Japan’s voluminous inputs.

But now the NGA reported being the target of an enormous DDOS attack. Until Burns looked up “Distributed Denial of Service,” he didn’t even know what a DDOS was. On paper a DDOS was straightforward. Bombard a website or websites with millions upon millions of IP addresses trying to connect simultaneously until the target crashed. In the case of several prominent international banks, when the websites failed the contents lay exposed, resulting in the loss of user account data, stolen passwords, public embarrassment and empanelment of congressional select committees. That was if the target was a bank. If the target was the Pentagon’s sole interpreter of satellite intelligence, and your organization was assured by its very own IT experts that you were impervious to a DDOS attack, then apparently you ran around in circles and wondered how hackers had accessed offline network servers. Meanwhile, your sightless customers fretted lest their adversaries launch nuclear missiles or invade an ally or two.

The president put America’s forces on Defense Condition 2 prior to the NRO’s secure communications channels failing, on par with the Cuban Missile Crisis and the start of the second Iraq War in 2002. DEFCON 1 was the next step, indicating imminent nuclear war. If the birds didn’t come back online, DEFCON 1 would be the default setting unless the president lost his stones. Strategic Command would have the ground crews loading nuclear weapons on the B-2 and B-1B heavy bombers while CINCNORAD would be warming up the ICBMs in their silos. The boomers—the ballistic missile subs—had surely slipped out of port already. Russia and China next would put their own forces on high alert in case the US contemplated a first strike. A thin margin for error, especially for a country now blind in the skies.

Billy Perkins had slammed the phone down on him, frustrated that Burns didn’t know what the Agency’s human assets inside China were seeing. Burns was waiting to hear as well, but he’d told the DCI not to expect HUMINT while the NGA scrubbed and rebooted its servers. For the time being, the CIA in Asia couldn’t access agents’ secured comms channels. Burns’s stomach hurt. He swallowed another Zantac.
Damn!

*  *  *  *  *

DEA Agent Hannibal Gonzalez was more than a gifted forger; he was also an actor. Reading Peter Mullen’s military file last evening gave him an idea. Mullen had been unconscious when Gonzalez had called on him and so wouldn’t know him from Adam. Gonzalez was also a deeply religious Catholic and knew his way around the liturgy. On his way to the office, Gonzalez stopped by St. Mary’s Cathedral and borrowed Father Cecil’s vestments, a crucifix on a chain, candles and the parish Bible. He’d return them to the holy man’s cupboard before the priest even knew they were missing.

Gonzalez drove out to Einme, where Major Zaw’s men had taken Mullen last night. If the colonel was in a confessing mood, Gonzalez wanted to be on the receiving end, but he wouldn’t pursue the charade for too long. That sonofabitch Mullen was responsible for two hundred thirty-nine deaths, plus Zeya’s savage beating and Ryder’s irradiated state. One way or another, Gonzalez was leaving Einme with a recorded confession.

*  *  *  *  *

Nolan was careful to make noise coming in through the balcony. Aja Fernando looked like a brown emu on holiday in a flowered shirt, Dunstan board shorts, Hannibal Lecter Fedora and Crocs. Only his large black-dialed military wristwatch was out of place.

“I calculated the distances and zeroed the optics,” Fernando said.

“The action will start around 10:35 when the train passes out front from left to right. The man you’ll be targeting first is the boss, and he may even be wearing a suit or a shirt and tie. If not, I’ll try to walk closest to him. Unfortunately, I have no idea what he looks like.”

Fernando cautioned, “Stay under cover until you must be in the open. I don’t like that we’re next to that building site. Stay under the veranda to the right. When you get out in the open, get behind that train and stay close to it. That will shorten the angle.”

“I’m not planning on getting shot. I think it will be a straight abduction.”

“Humph. Maybe.”

*  *  *  *  *

While Nolan was next door, Kaili reflected on her standing orders to kill Watermen. MSS already had a hit team in Colombo. The order to terminate with
extreme prejudice meant the snipers would fire even it meant killing innocents. The chances were high that the pros from Beijing would do her job for her. However, mistaken identity was a major risk if the three of them dressed identically.

She fiddled with her hair and an elastic headband to create a stable perch for the grenade above a swiftly fashioned bun. The turquoise scrub cap was fluffy enough that the bulge didn’t show in the mirror. If she were frisked up high, it would be discovered, so she would need a diversion. Once they were near the train, she’d pull off her mask and cap to let the snipers know who she was, thereby averting friendly fire and giving access to the grenade.

Nolan came in through the balcony and interrupted her thoughts. “What are you doing staring in the mirror?

Kaili broke eye contact with her reflection and turned to face him. Instead of a sweet kiss, she lofted a barbed question. “Can I see our thumb drive?” she asked.