by Bradley West
Lloyd Matthews, dressed to play bridge with English peers, entered with a portly, red-nosed contemporary of Nolan’s, attired in the IBM sales uniform circa 1978: blue suit, white shirt and red tie. The only modern touch was the post-9/11 American flag lapel pin. The two conversed in hushed tones. Nolan thought it strange that the recently arrived station chief didn’t get a last-minute briefing from his own troops prior to meeting the ambassador.
Everyone sat at the imperial wave of Martin’s arm, which demonstrated his authority while failing to deflect attention from the beads of sweat on his brow. The update from upcountry Shan and Kachin was neither long nor illuminating. Almost half the agents hadn’t been heard from. Three were under arrest for trespassing, the Army’s way of discouraging people from standing near fences where money was being made on the other side. Several reports of unlogged flights had been received, but nothing on runways or roads with the requisite one-mile straightaway and one-hundred-foot easements on each side. No rural folk had admitted to seeing a commercial airline overhead or on the ground. The investigation was ongoing, with the northern Shan and Kachin State investigators yet to report in. Matthews assured the attendees that the Agency would complete their inquiries in the next thirty hours.
The ambassador interrupted to ask what the difference was between the NRO and the NGA. Didn’t they both operate satellites? One of the Agency analysts patiently explained that the National Reconnaissance Office designs, builds and operates imaging, infrared and telemetry satellites that produce imaging (IMINT), electronics (ELINT) and much of the signals (SIGINT) intelligence. The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, or NGA for short, is the arm of the Department of Defense that interprets the NRO data and in turn supplies its customers at the National Security Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, CIA and a dozen others. From Martin’s perplexed face, his mind had shorted out with an overload of acronyms. The Company analyst gave up and went back to working on his crossword puzzle.
Eyes turned to their special guest star, known to a few as the former head of Southeast Asia cryptography and cybersecurity, and to the rest as the old salt who had tried to make the suicide of a part-timer into a homicide back in 2012. Nolan’s continued existence within the Agency was proof that the CIA was too bureaucratic to fire anyone for any offense short of capital treason. In a monotone, Nolan told Saturday’s story of his exploratory drive with Kyaw. He omitted a few details; the audience was already aware of Kyaw’s wound and grisly fate, punctuated by the fiery end to an embassy Hyundai and its custodians.
Matthews didn’t say a word, while Martin interrupted nonstop in an attempt to regain stature after his loss of gravitas over that alphabet soup satellite business. None of the ambassador’s loopy comments or inattentive suggestions forced Nolan to do more than pause before one underling or another parried the concern. His narrative ended early Sunday morning at the unnamed DEA safe house.
Hecker picked up the tale, leaving out the assistance provided by Police Major Zaw and his men. As per plan, he further omitted mention of the samples from the burned shed. Ambassador Martin’s inanities reached new levels of absurdity. Was this the makings of a coup? Could they justify landing US aircraft on Airstrip One to conduct their own investigation? Why didn’t they call the local police and have them visit Toffer’s home to arrest him at once?
This last question merited an answer, to which Hecker replied, “We’ve already put in an urgent request and are awaiting a reply. It’s Sunday, so it’s hard to reach people, much less get them to act quickly. We are doing our best, Mr. Ambassador.”
Millie revived her laptop and showed yesterday's array of photos of possible airfields in varying degrees of clarity. There were several proper military runways bristling with buildings and activities juxtaposed against what looked to be unpaved airstrips more familiar with Cessnas than Boeings.
Up last was the grainy snap of Airstrip One. Everyone agreed that Millie had done good work in identifying a building under netting, given the poor resolution. It seemed like a big-time smuggling operation in a part of the country not known for clandestine activities. Perhaps just a stillborn infrastructure project in the delta, but likely something more.
Matthews was waiting at the other end of the banal discussion. Nolan remembered two more reasons he disliked Matthews. The station chief dressed like a Brooks Brothers mannequin and when he spoke, every third word had a mist of saliva floating above it. Talking with Matthews at close quarters made Nolan want to stick his face under a hand disinfectant dispenser.
The COS said, “This is all well and good coming from our very own Ancient Mariner, but in a country where processing and exporting narcotics is the number one business, no one has explained why another smuggling operation—even a new one evidently costing several million dollars—would resort to extreme violence once it had been detected. Toffer didn’t need to threaten Nolan or kill an embassy driver, much less those rural people. Irrespective of whether Golden Elephant is involved, he’s head of security for the children of the world’s former preeminent heroin smuggler. They know where to make the phone calls that stop these investigations cold. As Hecker has told us many times, this is why the DEA never gets convictions in Burma.”
Everyone tensed for Hecker’s retort. “Contrary to what you just said, the DEA has enjoyed considerable success in Burma, and would be doing even better if we were mounting joint overflights once again with the national police. Thanks to your efforts, we are not, but that’s a topic best left for another time. We had informers in Golden Elephant for years until late last year. It’s clean. Toffer has gone rogue and he’s scared of being found out. Therefore, he’s trying to kill or intimidate anyone who might tell his boss what’s he’s been up to.”
Matthews pounced. “What he’s been up to? Toffer’s built a damned two-mile-long runway using Golden Elephant’s money and equipment! So don’t tell me no one at GE knows what’s been going on.”
“Let’s not confuse the construction project, which obviously was preapproved, with what Toffer’s been doing with the strip. Since it finished a month or so ago, there have been late-night flights in and out. We’ll ask what the locals know, but I’ll wager that these flights were probably Toffer’s—or his patron’s—personal shipments. At some future date, GE is going to hand the airfield over to the Army, get paid and go away. The new owner will take over and maybe the Army stays on to provide security.”
Millie surprised herself—as well as everyone else in the room—with the sound of her voice. “If you were making a passenger plane disappear, Burma might be the single best place in South Asia. The ordinary people live under a near-Stalinist dictatorship. The government tells the people when they can see something and when they can’t. Aid agencies can’t get eyewitnesses to speak even after military vehicles roar through villages and run down children playing in the road.
“Added to the above, China also wants direct access to a port on the Indian Ocean. Occupying Shan State gets them another two hundred miles closer, while natural resources keep flowing north. As a bonus, once in-country China will burn the poppy fields, opium stores and meth labs that are addicting their citizens. Maybe even shell the Burma Army as payback for all those junkies in Yunnan and Kunming.”
While winning top marks for chutzpah, Nolan doubted that anyone in the room other than Martin had been enlightened by young Millie’s minor oration. Even so, whether by accident or design, Matthews and Hecker fell silent. Nolan found himself fixated on her perfect smile, pleasant face and earnestness as she looked down and fiddled at her laptop keyboard, face burning at the silence that greeted her outburst.
The ambassador broke the spell. “Gentlemen, Monday I shall call on the minister of home affairs and insist the police arrest this man Toffer if they haven’t done so by the end of today. Once they’re done interrogating him, we will know what this is all about.” Nolan decided Warren Martin was that all-too-common breed of political appointee who was wealthy enough to buy an
ambassadorship, but not smart enough to do something useful with it. He despaired at how the US could entrust a strategically and economically important post to a super PAC founder.
Nolan said, “Mr. Ambassador, I’m probably the only one who could testify against Toffer. He did threaten my wife and children, but I didn’t actually see him stab Kyaw. The embassy car’s been burned, so there’s no evidence Toffer stabbed him from that. I don’t know how good Burma’s criminal court system is—”
“Appallingly slow, incredibly corrupt and egregious in every way.” Hecker’s tone was measured.
“My life is in danger here. I should leave Rangoon as soon as possible.”
Martin was unconvinced. “Why do you think you’re at risk now that you’ve revealed this man’s actions to everyone here? Killing you doesn’t change that fact.”
“Toffer is an intimidator; that’s why he killed Kyaw. If I stick around and testify, he will come after me and perhaps my family as well.”
Matthews butted in, spittle flying. “Nolan’s right. He’s less than a month away from retirement. This isn’t an IT department matter. He should leave it to the professionals in Clandestine Services. I’m sure his family will be safe from the clutches of this bloodthirsty murderer Toffer just as soon as his arch-antagonist Nolan leaves the country.”
Matthews’s sarcasm hung in the poisoned air. Nolan said nothing; however insulting the words, the COS endorsed his wishes. He looked at Hecker and moved his head an inch in either direction. The ambassador filled the gap in the dialogue by wondering why the local police didn’t operate like they did back home in Illinois.
The meeting broke up. Hecker suggested Nolan wait in the Vault as the attendees filed out. Nolan saw Hecker buttonholing Matthews outside the door. Soon their voices were competing, fading into the distance. So much for that private word with Hecker.
CHAPTER NINE
RANGOON HEAT
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, RANGOON
Millie stayed behind, disconnecting cables and tidying up. “When was the last time you checked your Agency email, Bob?”
“Damn. Thursday afternoon. Why do you ask? Can you get me logged in?”
“This morning there’s an ASEAN- and South Asia–wide request from Head of Asia Burns for researchers to go to Singapore for up to two weeks to work on an intra-agency MH370 task force. I’m going to lobby Lloyd. I was wondering if the task force is something you’d be interested in joining, too.”
“Of course. If they let me, I’ll postpone my retirement until this thing gets settled. They certainly aren’t going to find the plane in the Gulf of Thailand.”
“Where do you think it could be? Still in Burma?”
“Possibly upcountry, but based on the briefing, there may not be any landing strips. We know the plane couldn’t have flown undetected into India or China, as their radars are too formidable. If China hijacked the plane, it will be in Yunnan Province or northern Shan State. Teller’s involvement points to someone other than China being behind it. To me, the simplest explanation is that the plane took off and flew back out to sea, staying off radar.”
“Out to sea? Where?”
“Maybe the Maldives. Maybe Bangladesh or Oman. If it had the fuel, Diego Garcia would be a possibility and would immediately mean US sponsorship. DG is notionally British, but the Brits lease most of the island to the US, where we run a huge spy base. There are hundreds of US servicemen based there, operating listening antennae, satellite stations and lots of long-range aircraft. I have no doubt someone would talk eventually, and there would be hell to pay. So DG isn’t a very likely destination.”
“Do you think the White House or Pentagon knows more about MH370 than they let on? If so, could they have run a hijacking without the CIA knowing? Surely the NSA would have to be in on it?”
“Not necessarily. MH370’s abduction could be closer to an old-time act of piracy. Blackbeard loots the ship and doesn’t leave any witnesses. That would fit Teller’s style.”
Hecker stepped back in with a rare smile in place. “Matthews gave us the satellite for the rest of today. His people are asking the NRO to re-task it now. If we get lucky, you’ll get a usable photo. You’ll be OK here for an hour or so? I need to check in on the home front.”
“That’s fine. Millie is setting me up on Agency email, but that shouldn’t take too long.”
“Understood. I want you to brief me further on Toffer/Teller. Let’s meet at the front gate at noon sharp and I’ll give you a ride back to Club Avatar.”
Nolan slumped in the chair across from Millie while she logged herself out. “How in the hell did Hecker get Matthews to agree to anything? I thought they were going to go twelve rounds in there.”
She smiled. “Hecker and Matthews each play to the crowd, are ambitious and know that if they want to win their personal war, they can’t afford to look like bad guys all the time. Besides, that’s an NRO bird. Lloyd’s not using many CIA chips when he makes a request.”
Their meeting Saturday morning had been a rushed one, but the good vibrations of her background briefing session still reverberated. Maybe Millie saw some of Nolan’s former luster, maybe she had a father fixation, or maybe he was imagining things. In any event, he wanted to know more about her and offered up a variant on “What’s a nice girl like you . . . .”
Millie was happy to oblige. “The most surprising thing when I arrived was that I was the only Agency US passport holder with more than a working knowledge of Burmese. I supervise a team of locals who do public domain local languages research and translation. Lloyd comes by my office three or four times a day to ask me about our findings.”
Nolan suspected Matthews’s avuncular attentions weren’t entirely research-related, but said nothing.
“I’ve been working seven days a week since arriving. Now that something exciting has happened with MH370, I’m dying to get on that task force and try to make a positive impression. Maybe that can be the fast track into covert ops.”
Millie displayed such enthusiasm that his mind drifted back to Thailand in 1985. Nolan’s first posting after training was in the embassy as a cipher clerk and gofer. Heady times, though Nolan’s initiation to the CIA turned ugly just months later. While she sorted email, he examined the large map hanging on the wall behind her. Giant Shan State dominated the upper right-hand corner, abutting China’s Yunnan Province to the north and Laos and Thailand to the east. Kachin State was even farther north and to the west, a dagger jabbing into Yunnan’s underbelly.
“Tell me why the search of Burma is focused on Shan State?” he asked.
Millie looked up and followed his gaze over her shoulder. “In recent years, the number of methamphetamine labs has exploded. It’s a ten-billion-dollar a year export business. Burma is also the number two heroin supplier in the world, trailing only Afghanistan. The Army is the biggest heroin producer with warlords, rebel militias and politicians also involved. It’s pretty much a free-for-all even today. China is the most important consumer, and therefore hates the drug trade the most.”
“Hmmm,” Nolan grunted in a noncommittal voice. He heard the exuberance of youth and wondered what Millie would think of Burma if she spent quality time in Iraq, Saudi Arabia or Iran.
“And until last night, you’d never heard of Jay Toffer or Robin Teller?”
“No, those names are both firsts for me. Remember, though, that I’ve only been in-country since January this year and as staff head of research I function more as a librarian than as an intelligence analyst.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. My first overseas assignment, I mostly ran a shredder and built spreadsheets for a bankrupt arms dealer. When you’re new, you should be happy just to earn an assignment away from Langley. That alone counts for a lot when it comes time for the next posting to be decided.”
Millie stood and bent over the desk, arms supporting her ample infrastructure as she leaned closer. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on Teller,” she cooed.
�
�My theory is that he’s behaving like this to get everyone focused on him, and not on whatever HVTs came off MH370. Wherever Teller goes next, you can be certain that whatever he’s trying to protect will be moving fast in the opposite direction. I don’t know if it means he’ll send people after you, my family or me. If I’m right, he will go hard only while his treasure is at risk.”
Millie stood up straight and gestured for him to take her chair. “So when he stops trying to kill us, we’re really in trouble, because whatever he took off the plane will be out of our reach?”
“Something like that, yes.” Nolan resisted the temptation to run his hands over her shoulders as they squeezed past. He took a whiff of her hair and smelled fresh shampoo. Millie took his just vacated seat as Nolan started tapping away at her keyboard.
“So what should I do?” she asked.
“You get out of here today or tonight with me. I’ll have Hecker arrange for a friggin’ Marine Honor Guard to take me to the airport and onto the plane. I want Teller to know I’ve left. Short of shooting it down or putting a bomb on board—both of which he’s capable of—I think I’ll be OK on a commercial flight. If you come with me, you’ll be safe as well.”
“Yes, I’ll be safe with you.” Millie’s smile was the best thing about this rotten country.
“This morning I sent my wife to China to hide. She’s going to visit her mother’s family on a Guangdong duck farm so remote the locals don’t even speak Cantonese, much less Mandarin. She’ll be there up to the fifteen-day maximum for someone on a Singapore passport, or until things cool off.” Realizing how that sounded, Nolan winced and looked down at the keyboard.