Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  “Oh, Lord, no. You don’t mean you told—”

  “‘Maybe’ is all I know. Maybe he has it. Maybe he’ll give it to me if I ask, but I just don’t know.”

  “If it’s who I think it is, you can’t trust him.”

  “Where’s that coming from?”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story someday. But not now. Here are my notes of what Director Chumakov said about ninety minutes ago.” He read, “Mr. Watermen, we’ve paid for your air ticket and issued a forty-eight-hour visa because we believe you can talk sense into Mark. He needs to tell us where we can find certain information. Once we obtain this information, we will fly him anywhere in the world. If we don’t receive the information, he faces imprisonment as a foreign intelligence officer. We will hold your passport and ticket for safekeeping. Have a pleasant stay.”

  His father looked at him like he was sixteen again and had been caught violating curfew. “You and I need to have a private talk. Is there any place here that isn’t bugged?”

  “Are you kidding? We can pass notes written under a blanket. That’s about it.”

  “Go get a bedspread and something to write on.”

  Twenty minutes later, his father was burning paper over the toilet bowl while Watermen walked over to the 1980s telephone handset and picked up the receiver. Without dialing, he said, “Chumakov, I will tell you who has the fourth copy, but I want out of this country.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PITCH PERFECT

  SUNDAY, MARCH 9, RANGOON

  Hecker was on the line. “Hanny? Where are you? Look, I need you to work out a twenty-four-by-seven sentry rotation for the safe house. I want an armed guard on the gate until the bad guy is in custody. Let’s assume that if our location isn’t already blown, it will be by tomorrow. We’ll stay put and hope for the best. If we attract unwanted attention, we’ll move to the smaller safe house, Hogwarts. Be sure to get hold of a half-dozen fire extinguishers. These guys love playing with matches. Out.”

  Hecker turned and looked at Ryder in the back seat. “Ask our police friends to focus one hundred percent on either looking for Teller or checking the port, airport and roads toward Thailand. Bob and I will cover the ambassador. Look for those K-Line containers.”

  Nolan wasn’t so certain now after previously being confident that the containers were the key. “Teller’s smart. I can see him driving three empty containers around Rangoon while the real prize is in a shoebox or blindfolded in the trunk of a car somewhere else. We need a handle on what we’re looking for. Can you put up a plane or a surveillance drone?”

  Ryder chuckled darkly, knowing what was coming.

  Hecker twisted around in the passenger seat, pulled off his sunglasses and jabbed a finger at Nolan. “That politicking cocksucker Matthews is the reason we risked our asses driving up and down unlit backroads in the middle of the fucking night! Last year, when Zaw was based in Lashio, we teamed up and took down two meth labs and yaa baa—meth pills—warehouses. This cost the Army serious money and the junta withdrew cooperation on most anti-drug initiatives. I expected that shit, but when you have a chance to stop thirty million dollars’ worth of crystal from leaving the country, you do it. Zaw had the idea of burning everything in place rather than see it recycled out of evidence and onto a DC-9. Everyone from President Thein on down was plenty excited. That’s why we love this job. Every so often, we put the fear of God into the crooks and hurt them in their wallets.

  “Matthews decided that the ambassador and he were in line to achieve a diplomatic breakthrough by offering to voluntarily suspend the DEA’s overflight program. It took my predecessor three years and millions of dollars to allow us to put unmanned surveillance vehicles—USV drones—with cameras, not missiles, overhead. And in one afternoon Martin and Matthews shut us down.”

  “That’s the short version,” Ryder chortled. “Get a couple of beers in him and ask Sam what he really thinks.”

  Hecker barely broke stride. “The only upside for us from this morning’s meeting with the gasbag ambassador and scumbag Matthews will be the latest on the MH370 search. Maybe they’ve found wreckage off Vietnam and this was all a fool’s errand. I still think Teller could be dealing big-time narcotics or arms on the side, just not through Myat Noe. Right now, I admit I’m in a muddle. Bob has me halfway convinced we’re sitting on a conspiracy out of a Jason Bourne movie.”

  Nolan managed a word in edgewise. “Can you suggest what we should say in the briefing?”

  “You CIA types are the professional liars. We’re just humble anti-narcotics flunkies. We leave out all references to Robin Teller. That will cause a sideshow all by itself, and this circus doesn’t have enough clowns to go around. There’s a six-lane fake toll road being used as an airstrip by Golden Elephant’s Jay Toffer. For what, we don’t know. However, we expect it’s the usual mix of drugs, guns and money. You went out to take a look at Matthews’s request, and the rest of Saturday happened as already reported.”

  Hecker continued, “Kyaw was stabbed. You swapped cars and drove him to a hospital back in Rangoon. We thought there might be a haul of weapons or money sitting in that disguised outbuilding next to the runway, so we went out last night. All burned up and no one home. This is a drugs-arms situation that falls within DEA remit. We don’t mention MH370, or we’ll all be working for Matthews. Did I miss anything?”

  “A couple of things, starting with the three or four baggies worth of soil samples, ashes and sundry banana cream pie fillings that Zeya and Gonzalez took out of the rubble,” Nolan said.

  “You can kiss a DEA exclusive goodbye if that comes up. Trust me. We’re going to run everything through the lab in Singapore and see what we have before bringing in the Agency. We’ll give you the first look when the results come back.”

  “Fair enough. You do need to mention that Toffer seems like a homicidal maniac, so we’ll need to call in favors to have the Burmese take him into custody. He’s not an ordinary ten-million-dollar-a-cargo drug smuggler who has the middle-level politicians or an Army colonel in his pocket. They have to know he’s an order of magnitude worse. Millie is in danger because—”

  “Millie may be in danger. There’s no evidence that Toffer/Teller ID’d her from those reports he took out of the car. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Ryder.

  “Maybe you’re right. Let’s aim to get out of there in less than an hour. I’d like to see my wife and kid before packing a bag for Club Avatar.”

  “Is your family safe where they are?” asked Nolan.

  “Yes. Since I arrived in 2012, I’ve averaged a death threat a week, while Sophie and CJ probably get one a month. We live in the government-owned apartments inside Dubern Park. Ours is the building just behind the first-base dugout. You should come by for dinner once this blows over. But don’t try to force the door downstairs or climb a drainpipe, or a Marine will put a hole in you. Travis lives in the same building, which adds to the comfort level. You know he was a SEAL sniper with confirmed kills in Afghanistan at one mile?”

  “No, I didn’t, but he’s comfortable around guns.”

  Ryder cleared his throat to prod the conversation elsewhere.

  “I need to get back to Singapore where I can put some thoughts together regarding MH370 and Teller. Do we have the passenger list and cargo manifests yet?”

  “That’s something you can check with Matthews when you see him. I try not to speak to that asshole unless necessary,” said Hecker.

  Ryder smiled at Nolan and took another phone call. Nolan was impressed to hear snippets of what had to be Burmese interspersed with the Pidgin English phrases militaries use worldwide when speaking with local counterparts. Ryder hung up after twenty seconds of incomprehensible exchanges.

  “Travis, since you’ll be working with the natives, best you use the embassy annex as your base. That way you won’t lead Teller's gunmen to our safe house. For now, let’s just tell the locals who might ask that I’m overseas on other DEA business.”

/>   “OK, boss.”

  They were now in the middle of Rangoon with the morning sun promising another blistering day. Even upscale residential areas featured alternating piles of lumber or gravel spilling into the streets, vacant lots full of tall grass or rubbish, and abandoned buildings. Where there were sidewalks, the pavement was either smashed or obstructed by dead branches, or bags of trash awaiting collection.

  There was enough traffic that the driver began to change lanes and take sharp turns to shake off possible pursuers. Nolan was impressed by the swift downshift and acceleration that shot the Range Rover between a decrepit bus and an open-air LPG cooking gas truck, a bomb on wheels. Five minutes later, they pulled into the safe house driveway. Nolan still had no idea where he was.

  * * * * *

  Joanie picked up on the first ring; she was finishing breakfast and watching some crime drama or soap opera.

  “Honey, it’s me. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Is everything OK?”

  “Most certainly not! Yesterday, the gardener didn’t come and our stupid maid broke a glass. Can you believe Juanilla wants to borrow another four hundred dollars? That poor woman’s relatives in the Philippines are milking her dry. She’ll end up owing me money when her contract’s over. We’re out of kale and she didn’t tell me, and . . . .”

  Joanie’s stream-of-consciousness babble told him all was well, but time was short. Once he had her attention, his brief took two minutes. He used code words to indicate he was safe and not under duress (“golf”), but that the family was in danger (“swimming”). She could go from domineering matron to chief of staff in the blink of an eye. When he hung up, he knew she and the children would soon be out of Teller’s reach. Nolan plodded to the shower to collect his thoughts.

  Asia was full of competent women. Until recent times denied access to college, discriminated against at promotion time and cut off from equal inheritances, the Southeast Asia female showed herself resourceful and capable. Running the household and the Tiger Mom spiel covered the domestic engineer part of the description, but serving as the brains and organization behind the success of the homegrown firms fueling Asia’s economic rise was the true testament to her quality. Every country in Asia was much the same: women made the place run and men posed for the PR photos.

  He dried off with the still-damp towel, his second shower in seven hours. He mused that he needed lower hygienic standards and more sleep. Hecker’s people had checked Nolan out of Rangoon’s Traders Hotel and his duffel bag was by the bed. This time he enjoyed all of a half hour’s rest before Hecker shook him awake. His mind was as fuzzy as his teeth. The conference table now doubled as a breakfast spot. The BBC was off mute, but they learned nothing from the incessant droning other than the addition of more planes and vessels to a search of empty seas and skies.

  Hecker sauntered up while Nolan was buttering a piece of toast. The DEA boss’s fresh-shaven face, dimples and clean clothes made him look office-ready for Silicon Valley, save for the pistol now in a nylon cross-draw holster. “Let’s roll,” he said as he wrapped two muffins in a napkin.

  Nolan took Ryder’s relatively clean spot in the back of the Range Rover while regarding his former perch with a mixture of disgust and grudging admiration; mud, blood and mire obscured all but a few swaths of blue fabric. Nolan still ached everywhere and his fatigue was such that the motion of the vehicle hypnotized him every few blocks until the driver's next evasive maneuver snapped his head upright again.

  “No matter what that idiot ambassador or conniving bastard Matthews say, don’t share the MH370 Burma hijack hypothesis or the Teller idea. Not if you want the DEA to run the investigation,” Hecker said.

  “Do you still think Matthews is tied up in this?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t afford to take the chance. Let’s keep the focus on Airstrip One.”

  “If we don’t tell them that the plane probably landed in Burma, then half a dozen satellites, thirty ships and a hundred aircraft will keep looking in the wrong places.”

  “What proof do you have of anything? After midnight there are more planes landing and taking off without flight plans than fly during daylight hours.”

  Nolan’s silence softened Hecker’s tone as the DEA boss shifted perspective. “Look, Bob, I’m not saying you’re wrong. After all, the international airport closes down from 1 to 6 a.m., and they shut off their commercial radar between 2 and 5 a.m. daily, sometimes longer. Burma’s military radar is arrayed in the northwest toward India and the north and northeast toward China; very little in the east toward their partners in crime in Thailand, and none at all to the west toward Bangladesh or out to sea to the south. If MH370 flew into Burma air space, as long as it didn’t overfly Thailand or come within two hundred miles of either the Thailand or China borders, it would have been invisible.

  “A Boeing 777 could have flown into the delta, landed and took off in the early hours and no one would be the wiser. I’m just saying that because it might have happened doesn’t mean it did happen.”

  Nolan’s jaw dropped. “You have to be kidding. Turn off the radar at the international airport?”

  Hecker gave him a tight-lipped smile and raised his eyebrows a fraction in feigned amazement. “Over a year ago after our brothers at the embassy grounded the DEA overflights, I was sufficiently pissed off I compared after-midnight radar tapes with ghost flights out of Air Force bases. The US and UN put the heat on the government to crack down on the armed forces’ involvement in drug shipments. Did you know that a C-130 carries a 45,000-pound payload? That’s a lot of money at $700 a pound for opium and $9,000 a pound for heroin. No radar traces means maybe another undetected $100-million-plus flight. So the radar is now switched off in the name of energy conservation, and the generals’ sons drag race their Italian sports cars up and down the runway all night.

  “You have to think about the audience, Bob, before you start down this path. What is Matthews going to say? A big plane may have landed and taken off early Saturday morning a few hours after MH370 went missing and suddenly we’ve found Amelia Earhart? That won’t convince many people. We need to come up with something other than Teller is a mean roller skater who may or may not have ordered several people hacked or burned to death.”

  Nolan reluctantly concurred. “Agreed that we shouldn’t tell Matthews until we know whether he’s protecting Teller. So let’s leave it at Toffer in the briefing session. I’ll shut up about MH370, too, but we need to receive the real-time search feeds as they come in. It could shed light on what we need to be doing.”

  “The DEA will be privy to anything the CIA gets or brings in on this. Plane crashes, hijackings, terrorist attacks and the like are more or less free to view across the board. Disasters are one of the few times when everyone shares.”

  “I’ll go along, but if Millie spoke with Matthews, we’re already blown out of the water.”

  “I called her an hour ago and she’s on board. She hasn’t spoken with Matthews as he wasn’t at the office.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Hecker was back on the phone. “Travis? Yeah. We’re almost at Dubern Park. You coming up with anything yet? Crap. Here’s one for you to think about. Can you cook up a story that would justify re-tasking one of the imaging birds to look for containers on the road today? It’s a Sunday, and traffic should be light. Mmm hmm . . . yeah, well, maybe we can make that stick. Talk to you later.

  “Bob, we’ll ask Matthews to request that an NRO satellite take a few snaps of the major roads between Rangoon and Thailand. Maybe we get lucky and spot those containers en route, but if there’s any cloud cover, we’ll be SOL. We’re only going to get a photo op every ninety-plus minutes, which leaves us blind most of the time. We’ll earmark the boxes as arms shipments destined for caches over the border. The Thai generals do good business in leasing bunkers to anyone in need of discreet storage on short notice. They also rent their military airfields by the hour. T
he really expensive bit is having the radar archives doctored.”

  “Does a suspected arms shipment still make it a DEA case?”

  “Ah, good point. Most of the time it would be OK, but with Matthews potentially dirty, he could pull this back to the Agency on a technicality. So let’s re-badge the suspected contents as acetyl anhydride, destined for a heroin lab along the Thailand border.”

  “Do the traffickers typically fly in the chemicals before loading them onto trucks?”

  “Hell, no. That stuff’s trucked end-to-end from India across Kachin and into Shan State. There’s a tidy collection business up there that keeps the Army brass in new golf clubs. We need a DEA angle, though, and that’s the best I can come up with on short notice.” The guard shut the Dubern Park gate behind them.

  Hecker introduced Nolan to Agatha, the COS’s matronly secretary. She confirmed that the debriefing was in the Vault. The embassy and annex were layered in anti-snooping devices and checked weekly for bugs. The offices of the senior Agency officers and the most secure meeting rooms were swept daily with sophisticated anti-eavesdropping countermeasures. The Vault was one such extra-secure room. It was invariably a source of wonder to Nolan that anyone was surprised when counter-surveillance found a listening device on embassy premises. Hell, in the old days, when he ordered a room bugged, he made certain at least two microphones were easy to locate to take the pressure off the opposition’s team to find others.

  The Vault’s conference table sat fourteen down a long rectangle illuminated by underpowered fluorescent lights. Dark paneling, stained mahogany, black desk chairs and thick brown carpet contributed to an atmosphere that only lacked stale cigar smoke, brandy decanters on the sideboard and a stock ticker in the corner to be the picture of a 1929 Wall Street club meeting room.

  They were among the last to arrive. Half a dozen CIA types, including the curvaceous and demure Ms. Millie Mukherjee of yesterday morning’s delightful acquaintance, were already in place. Nolan picked out Captain Abrahams from his demeanor, but couldn’t avoid the obligatory knuckle-crunching handshake. From the two vacant chairs at the head, he surmised that the ambassador and station chief were still expected. Millie plugged the laptop into the projector and waited for the blue screen to morph into her Crab Nebula home page. With a few clicks, she set up the slideshow and put the laptop on standby. Hecker and Nolan looked up as the stars arrived.