Hard Road: Deadly Horizon (Dark Plague Book 2)

by Bradley West

  Joanie nodded and Flynn stepped aside. Nolan shed his shoes and walked into what had been the family home for almost five years. Despite no change to the furnishings, it felt different, alien. It didn’t smell right: different foods and strange odors. Maybe it was pheromones, or maybe Flynn had pissed in the corners. He sat uneasily in the indicated armchair.

  Their Filipina helper Juanilla emerged from the kitchen and beamed in recognition. “Hello, sir,” she chirped in the characteristic singsong English of her homeland. “Would you like coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “No, he won’t be staying long,” Flynn proclaimed. “Now run inside the kitchen and make my breakfast—the usual, and don’t over-butter the toast.”

  Joanie and Flynn stood side by side while Nolan contemplated crushing the man’s instep as a prelude to shredding his knee. After a lifetime riding a desk and assaulting keyboards, physical fitness and adolescent fantasies of kicking asses had come to him forty years later than in most men. But however much he wanted to stomp Flynn into the ground, he knew it wouldn’t win his wife’s affections.

  “Joanie, I’m back and want to be with you. I turned myself around: no more women, no more booze. I even turned down a job working for Obama because I wanted to be here with you.”

  “Bob, you signed the separation papers three months ago. It’s over.”

  “I only signed those papers to mollify you. I’d screwed up and all our money was lost, our children were under threat from that gangster Chumakov, and I was struggling to understand how our government could be behind something as terrible as the MH370 hijack.”

  “Struggling? You left your wife in a Guangzhou jail, fucked your way across Asia, blew the family retirement funds, and turned your CIA colleagues against you,” Flynn said.

  Nolan gripped the armrests so tightly his hands ached, but he spoke in a deadpan. “Your man is a fraud. The only thing true about him is that he occupies at a dead-end Agency job. He’s probably a traitor. I haven’t figured out who he works for, but it was his boss who told him to cozy up to you to keep tabs on me.”

  “I’m not the fraud, Bob. You’re the failure. Everything you touch turns to shit, tainted by your ego, sexual perversions and recklessness. You’re hollow, a little man who puffs himself up to try to compensate for his inadequacies.”

  “You’re describing yourself.” Nolan rose as Flynn took a large step back. “You don’t know anything about what I’ve done since MH370 disappeared. I found that plane not once, but twice. I’m free and have the full confidence of the president. Don’t talk to me about failure. Instead, look in the mirror and decide if your hair weaves, Botox, bleached teeth and phony muscles make up for treason.”

  “That’s twice you’ve called me a traitor. You do it a third time and I’ll break your hands and you can code with your nose.”

  Joanie stepped between the two men and faced Nolan. “What about the Russians who threatened my children and me?”

  “One’s dead and the other is back in Moscow, either dead or in prison. I took care of that in April before I left for Pakistan. That other killer, Coulter, is confined to his mountaintop home and can’t hurt you. Besides, we agreed to a hands-off on each other’s families.”

  “And what about the China spy-whore?” Joanie asked. “Didn’t I read in People that you were with her in Sri Lanka in the penthouse on top of that airport? That article said you might be a double agent.”

  Nolan snorted. “You’re too smart to believe anything you read in a gossip magazine. I was Yu Kaili’s prisoner. I escaped and took Coulter and her hostage, then—”

  “That’s bullshit,” Flynn interrupted. “I’ve read a classified report listing your Bob as a suspected car bomber, murderer of innocent civilians, and complicit in the targeted assassinations of CIA operatives. He’s also to co-star of the wildest fuck sessions ever recorded on audio.”

  “Bob?”

  “Those are lies, Joanie,” he said through clenched teeth. “Most of them are lies. It’s complicated. That was months ago, and things are different now. I’ve changed for starters. I put country before family and paid the price. I don’t expect you to take me back, not right away. I want to spend time with you, share my ideas for our future together. I’m sorry I was away when your mother passed, but I was in D.C.—”

  “—Spare me the false sympathy,” Joanie snapped. “Where can I reach you when the divorce finalizes?”

  “Yes, you have every right to divorce me, but tell this man that you don’t want to marry him. He’s a phony and if he’s not spying on you under orders, then he’s after your money.”

  “Money? I had to work as a receptionist to get by after you bankrupted us! If it hadn’t been for Jerry, the Singapore authorities wouldn’t have released the funds to repay the second mortgage and I’d have lost my home. He’s the most generous man I ever met. I have a million dollars in the bank thanks to him.”

  “Him?” Nolan exclaimed over Flynn’s attempt to interject. “He told you that? I explained everything in my emails.”

  “Bob, you haven’t sent me an email in three months.”

  “What do you mean?” Nolan turned on Flynn. “You son of a bitch! You intercepted my emails and made it look like you were behind everything good that’s happened to my family’s finances.”

  “That’s preposterous! How could Jerry do something like that?”

  “The CIA built its own version of the NSA while no one was watching after Mark Watermen stole those NSA files back in 2013. There are programs that he can use to screen your email. I wondered why I never heard back from you but didn’t want to push it because of all the senseless things I’d done. But I was surprised you didn’t even acknowledge the U.S. million dollars I wired to your account.”

  “You need to leave and not come back,” Flynn said.

  “Let me give you another scenario. I’ll go find a computer. Within two hours, I’ll know exactly what’s happened to my wife’s email. I’ll come back here to show her what you did, starting with deleting my emails and committing fraud.”

  “Jerry?” Joanie asked, eyes wide.

  “Don’t believe him. Don’t believe anything he says. In two hours, he can create a false trail—”

  “—Joanie, if you let me use the computer upstairs, you can watch everything I do.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she stammered.

  “No!” Flynn shouted. “He fooled the Iranians, the Chinese, the Sri Lankans and even his own people. He’s an arch manipulator. Don’t let his lies convince—”

  “—You win, Jerry.” Nolan held up his hands. “I’ll produce proof of origin for all the funds transferred to my wife’s accounts. And I’ll have Obama sign off on a letter confirming that the restoration of my pension was his idea. Just for kicks, I’ll also prove that you’ve read my wife’s email for a long time, well before you two started dating. Maybe you can explain that one away and she’ll marry you anyway. At this stage, I don’t care.” Nolan stood up and left the silent room. Once in the street and out of sight, tears of frustration and regret flowed. How could he have been such an idiot? He had to leave Singapore. There was nothing for him here.

  He flagged a cab on the main road and in twelve minutes he’d cleared out of the flat and was headed back to the airport with his toupee in place to match Jimmy Stewart’s passport photo. Running through the earliest departures, the best match was the Garuda flight departing for Jakarta in two hours, and then nonstop to Amsterdam. Indonesia was one of the few countries in Asia that didn’t have an arrest warrant on him, and extradition treaties were either non-existent or unenforced. In Amsterdam, he’d gather his thoughts and perhaps move funds around to diversify geographic risk. He’d also spend a few hours skewering Flynn and passing the evidence to Joanie in case she was interested in the truth.

  * * * * *

  Joanie sat in front of her computer, the screen full of celebrity malfeasances, paparazzi snaps and tattle. She’d had a feeling abo
ut Jerry for the last six weeks, ever since he proposed. The man in person was kind enough, but he didn’t exhibit anywhere near Bob’s intelligence or commitment to a cause, any cause. Yet he was the most generous man she’d ever met, showering her with gifts culminating with what he claimed was one million dollars in inherited funds from a despised uncle. Jerry had said that he couldn’t accept the funds in good conscience, so he’d decided to donate them to charity, his favorite cause being Joanie. She tried to refuse, but he insisted. She hadn’t touched it—there was no need after the previously sequestered monies were released back into her accounts and Bob’s pension was restored. She also harbored doubts as to its provenance.

  Where Jerry shone was in his empathy, his understanding of her needs, her moods, her desires. Bob was miserable in all those categories, a passive personality given to long hours at work, long hours at the computer and long trips abroad. This past March and April, Bob had disappointed, infuriated and amazed her at every turn. The hero of the MH370 investigation, recipient of the CIA’s highest medal and a presidential pardon. Then other close calls in the Pakistan desert and Sri Lanka that ended in his disappearing for three months only to show up an hour ago. Bob wasn’t above lying—his pathetic attempts at covering up his dalliances with bar girls spoke to that—but she was sure that what he’d just said about Jerry was genuine. That he’d spent the last ten weeks working for the president told her he retained credibility in the places that mattered. And if Jerry was reading her emails—and presumably everything else in her computer and phone—then that explained his emotional clairvoyance.

  What she wanted now more than anything was to sit down with Bob one-on-one and talk everything through. But how to reach him without tipping off her live-in boyfriend? Her sibling Rikki lived a ten-minute drive away. She could drop by and send an email from an unmonitored account to set something up for later today or this evening. If Jerry had to dine alone, so be it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Crime of the Century, Part II

  Thursday, July 17: Amsterdam Schiphol Airport

  In Changi Airport Nolan read Joanie’s email asking for a meeting, and he replied that he had to leave Singapore or face arrest. Could she come to Jakarta for a day? If so, he’d defer his onward flight. But he heard nothing before Garuda closed the door, and again nothing on arrival in Amsterdam last evening.

  James Stewart’s room in the four-star Sheraton Amsterdam Airport didn’t disappoint, and neither did the gym. Cutting out the booze and eating better had had more of an effect on how Nolan looked and felt than did exercise, but in combination it was unbeatable. His current existence lacked flair, but at this rate the actuarial tables would add a decade to a life expectancy recently measured in hours or minutes. He’d already seen the world through the bottom of a whiskey glass, and the results were mixed . . . no, make that fuzzy.

  Nolan was surprised to see a fresh message on the dark web from Obama himself instead of his cut-out General Payne. He read with trepidation, anger and then resignation. After months of resistance, the Malaysians had agreed to permit the FBI to discreetly investigate the Director Central Intelligence Perkins’ murder on April 22 in Putrajaya. The list of people to be interviewed totaled a half-dozen. As Nolan was already next door in Singapore, would he mind hopping up to Kuala Lumpur for a day-and-a-night to join the interrogation team? The president would very much appreciate the old spy’s take, particularly in light of Coulter’s testimony that then-Malaysia PM Izran Rahim had ordered his bodyguards to shoot Admiral Perkins for reasons unknown. Rahim had even offered to host a meal for the hero of MH370 before the inquiry kicked off. Could he be in Malaysia in time for Friday lunch at the former PM’s home?

  Three minutes online confirmed that Malaysia Airlines flight 17 left just after noon Amsterdam time and landed in Kuala Lumpur Friday morning at 6:10. That would give Nolan time to clean up and buy decent clothes before the midday photo op. He sure as hell wasn’t eating or drinking in Rahim’s presence, not after Coulter’s admission that he’d left a vial of ricin with the PM. Nolan already held Rahim culpable in the hijack of MH370 and wouldn’t be surprised if Rahim pinned the blame on a convenient foreigner, followed by a quick trial and a short drop on a long rope. The problem with egomaniacal politicians was that they stayed in power too long. Even as a retired PM, Rahim would operate beyond the reach of the law so long as his handpicked successor remained in power.

  Nolan replied that he’d arrived in Amsterdam earlier that morning but would board the next plane back and participate as requested. He’d write his eyes-only report for Obama on the return trip. He pulled on his crumpled travel clothes, packed a meager carry-on with eight thousand in cash secreted under the false bottom and placed the remaining ninety-two thousand in his suitcase. Then he had second thoughts. Instead, he stood on a chair, unscrewed the cover of the HVAC vent and slid inside the bags containing the surplus cash. Then he replaced the screws, careful not to nick the paint.

  At checkout, Nolan again reserved Room 812 for Sunday night. The woman at the desk with the green-tinted blond hair and Central Europe accent pointed out the only sights from that vantage were of the access roads, terminal buildings and the odd landing or takeoff. Nolan smiled and said he’d always been a bit of a plane spotter. At that, she suggested that he instead consider either Room 801 or 802, as they were at the other end of the floor and afforded superior vantage points from which to observe Piers D and E. He insisted on 812 anyway. To save time at either end, he also left his large suitcase with the concierge, pressing a twenty-Euro note into the man’s hungry palm.

  Nolan skipped the lounge and instead used the forty minutes before boarding to flex his new tradecraft. He started by picking out airport security cameras, rent-a-cops, store CCTVs and entrances and exits. He walked and timed several routes, being careful not to heat up an area by appearing too often. The techniques that FBI trainees used these days were a far cry from what he’d learned as a CIA fledgling on the Farm back in the early Eighties. Nolan was surprised when he spotted a man surreptitiously taking photos of him. Another up-and-back saunter detected two more loiterers taking an unnatural interest. Six months ago, Nolan would have been oblivious to anyone out of uniform, but circumstances had forced the former desk man to recast himself as a trainee field operative.

  He decided that the best way to shake the tails was to walk through an intrusion point to force the hands of the surveillants. In his nervous excitement, Nolan chose poorly as the laptop and peripherals shop he walked into had only a single entrance. He was trapped at the back and stood next to the register with two goons out front and a third moving in. In the background, a recorded voice in English announced last call for MH17. If these three were from the Netherland’s Domestic Security Service, he had nothing to worry about. If they were from another outfit—and the busiest international airports were full of competitors—he was in trouble. The man on the shop register looked like he hailed from the Indonesia archipelago.

  “Teman,” Nolan said in Bahasa Indonesian, “Saya dalam masalah.”

  The shopkeeper looked at him in shock. “Trouble?” he replied in English. “What sort of trouble?”

  “Terrorists. If you have a silent alarm, trigger it. Otherwise, signal distress to the nearest CCTV camera. We don’t have time.”

  The merchant reached under the till, then straightened and stared at the camera while tugging on his right earlobe. An announcement in urgent Dutch came over the loudspeaker and one of the men on the entrance barked an instruction at his advancing companion. The man turned and exited the store, following his two compatriots. Less than twenty seconds later, two putative tourists, a man and a woman, came running into the shop with weapons drawn. A woman outside Nolan’s peripheral vision screamed. An older man, also dressed in mufti, trotted in and made a beeline for the back. Nolan knew the drill and put his hands on his head and sank to his knees, grateful for Dutch efficiency. Two armed security agents ensured that the other shop patrons d
idn’t make any sudden movements and kept their hands within sight.

  “Are you DSS?” Nolan asked.

  “Airport police. Please stay still,” said Gray-hair. He turned and spoke rapidly in Dutch to the diminutive merchant who pointed at Nolan with a quavering arm.

  “Let me explain,” Nolan began. “I’m a former State Department employee working as a consultant in national security. I have credentials in my wallet. There were three men in this shop less than one minute ago. They were photographing and following me. They’ve run off, but they must still be in the terminal. If you check the video footage, you’ll see who I mean. They may be SVR, as I heard one of them speak in a Slavic language.

  “I need to board Malaysia Airlines flight 17 for Kuala Lumpur and the doors are shutting. My wife is already aboard. I didn’t know what those three men were planning, so I asked storekeeper to sound the alarm.”

  Gray-hair pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Look at the camera over your shoulder, and take off your hat,” he said to Nolan. “Give me your passport, security I.D. and boarding pass. Is your wife seated next to you? We’re taking her off the plane. Do you have any checked luggage?”

  Nolan smiled for the camera, wondered if his expensive toupee passed muster, and re-thought his tactics. “My wife has several pieces of hand luggage. She also panics easily, and it would be easier if I went on the plane to escort her off. We also have checked luggage.”

  “We’ll go to her, but don’t attempt to flee or you will go to prison.” The two men set out at a trot for the gate. Two Malaysia Airlines employees stood at the empty gantry as they approached. Gray-hair showed his identification and they stood aside. As they raced down the aerobridge, Gray-hair’s phone rang. He slowed to answer and listened, then stopped, replied in Dutch and hung up. From the look he gave Nolan, the former spy knew the game was up. “There’s no one related to James Stewart on the flight, and you checked no luggage. What did you hope to accomplish by boarding the plane?”