by Bradley West
Before he and Joanie left town, they always sent their Filipina maid Juanilla to stay with her sister, who looked after a mansion for absentee Hong Kong owners. In theory, his home should be locked up tight. His house keys were in the bottom of a duffel bag last seen in the Rangoon Airport arrivals men’s room.
Joanie had always said Juanilla was the most forgetful maid in Singapore. Bless her heart, Juanilla was equal to the challenge. The first kitchen window he tried slid open. The next scramble was less formidable in terms of height, but trickier with respect to noise abatement. Nolan no longer had the flexibility of a gymnast. Cutlery clattered to the floor as he stepped on the edge of a plate. Another barker joined the chorus.
He limped his way upstairs in the dark without further mishap, stopping in the bathroom to wad up toilet tissue to stanch the bleeding of his throbbing toe. He found a penlight in the desk drawer and used a cupped hand to shield the illumination. Nolan ran down his well-rehearsed mental list, stuffing a carry-on bag with clothes, toiletries, cash, keys and a false US passport.
Downstairs he donned running shoes, put on biking gloves and doused the penlight. Latching the kitchen window, he left by the back door and locked up. The dogs were silent on the return trip through the drain, but dragging the bag was a nuisance. Surprisingly, the driver was awake and seemingly unfazed by his changed appearance.
“York Hotel, please,” he said, and the driver complied while Nolan peeled off the sweaty gloves.
He called on the house phone and Millie answered on the first ring. “Room 838. Come on up,” she said before he could speak. Nolan wondered what would have happened had he been Teller, but when he knocked on 838, he was surprised to hear the door open behind him and her voice say, “Over here.” Nolan spun around and hustled into 837 before the occupant of 838 could rattle the chain off the door.
She shut the door behind him, and he barely had time to drop his bag and take a step back before she crushed her breasts against his lower ribcage and pushed him into the corner. They kissed passionately, Nolan grabbing her round butt while she deftly dealt with his shirt buttons. He was wondering where all this affection was coming from, and figured he was the beneficiary of the Ryder-Millie breakup.
After thirty seconds of tongue dancing that would have done a pair of fifteen-year-olds proud, Nolan broke off long enough to ask, “What’s the latest on MH370? Any news?”
“The US destroyer Kidd is headed for the South Indian Ocean for reasons unexplained. No wreckage found off Vietnam, although there are people on TV who claim to have seen a plane on fire. Nothing from Shan or Kachin States, according to Matthews’s last email. Ryder’s raid on Teller’s office and home turned up only a few documents, but no people and no smoking gun.” She paused for breath and continued. “The airport police caught Zeya and beat him, how badly we don’t know. Hecker’s working on getting him back, saying you were the one who assaulted the airport policeman. The policeman has a fractured skull and is still unconscious. The plan is to smuggle Zeya out of the country before the cop wakes up and fingers him instead of you. The embassy general counsel confirmed that Burma doesn’t have an extradition treaty with either Singapore or the US, so you should be safe even if they make a demand for your return. That’s one hour of emails in one minute. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.”
She’d finished with his buttons and stripped off his shirt while reciting the News at 11. Now she was working on his trousers, nimble fingers more than up to the task.
“Jesus. That’s not great news. I hope Zeya isn’t hurt too bad and gets out in time. Look, I need to check my email to see if Joanie and—”
“No, what you need to do is get into the shower. You can check email in an hour.”
Nolan hadn’t fallen off the fidelity wagon in many moons. He prided himself on controlling his baser instincts, but he hadn’t knocked on 838 just for the spare bed, either. Dressed in only his socks and boxers, he retreated to the bathroom and showered while his thoughts caromed crazily. One last time, he thought. Just one final time before retirement, and then he was done being unfaithful to a fine but unforgiving woman.
Nolan stepped out of the steam and bright lights and into 1001 Arabian Nights. Over the next forty-five minutes, Miss Mukherjee licked and sucked every appendage and inch of his body save for the bits that were crying out most for attention. Her stern voice established control and he was eager to obey. By the time the exquisite foreplay ended, he would have orgasmed if a feather had brushed him in the right place. Instead she used her mouth, and he deliriously exploded in the most intense climax he’d had in years, maybe decades. When she returned from the bathroom, she kissed him deeply and they hugged while he contemplated that last ecstatic eruption. Maybe they were to disentangle and go off to sleep in separate beds, but he knew better. “Honey, that was absolutely unbelievable. Tell me what I can do for you.”
Soon after, Nolan went through the same toe sucking, belly licking, back massaging erotic exercises that would have made a Tantric shaman blush. He enjoyed the labor, as she was curvier than he’d ever experienced, with large and sensitive nipples and an exotic aura to her black cat body. Even so, after thirty minutes, he was flagging.
Finally she consented to a climax of her own, giving him detailed instructions as to how he was to deploy his tongue, lips and fingers until she spasmed with shouts that must have awakened more than just the people in 838. Nolan collapsed, both of them covered in sweat. They kissed again, the taste of her sex all over his face and now transferred to her as their tongues thrust and twirled. He cupped her firm, sweaty breasts and sucked her hard nipples as she writhed and nipped at his neck. He dozed off, sated and thinking that he hadn’t really cheated on his wife, at least not according to President Bill Clinton’s rules. With a start, he awoke as the bathroom door shut and the shower sounded. The bedside clock read 2:50. He was tired, but couldn’t afford to sleep.
Millie came out of the shower and gave him a kiss. “We might have to put you on Viagra.” Noting his recovered condition, she added, “Or maybe just No-Doz.”
He sidestepped that topic as he sat up to look for his boxer shorts and said, “Can you let me use your computer? I have to check my emails.” She’d already had the laptop set up on the desk, so he went online and into his emergencies-only backup Safe-mail account.
“When you’re done, wake me if you’re in the mood for round two.”
He turned out the light on the nightstand and began scrolling down emails in the dark. First up was Mei Ling, writing that she’d taken two weeks’ leave from her job at a San Francisco–area real estate investment bank, Good Earth Advisors. She was on the way to Seattle to pick up brother Bert, and from there they’d take a puddlejumper to Vancouver and then drive to the family cabin outside Kamloops, BC. Joanie was fine as well, reporting in from Guangzhou. She was taking a train later on Sunday that, with several switches and inevitable delays, should get to within taxi distance of the duck farm later that night. He reminded his family to stay off their cells, get new phone chips and furnish the numbers only among themselves. Ignore their regular email accounts for the time being, too, and use WhatsApp for texts.
It was after 3:30 and Millie was sleeping heavily. She was anything but the demure Californian librarian he had taken her for on first meeting. This was one hell of a one-night stand, but that’s all it could ever be. He regrouped and logged onto the dark web for his Agency email: nothing new beyond what Millie mentioned. Over on his private encrypted email that he used with Watermen in addition to sundry unsavory hackers, he saw an email subject line containing Housecat. That was their pre-agreed code word for extreme danger. He opened Watermen’s email and read with increasing dismay:
Godpa, I’m sorry for what I did earlier. Dad arrived in Moscow midday. I was upset when he told me about your long affair with Mom. He’s never been the same after the divorce, and blames you for Mom’s leaving him. I know that this is not completely true, but I was shocked to learn
what happened when you were a guest in our home.
My FSB handler is ex-KGB and named Chumakov. He’s arrogant and cunning. I don’t know what his real job is other than spending an hour every week saying I’ll never leave Russia if he doesn’t get the NSA files, but his title is Director of Surveillance. After Dad told me about Mom and you, I snapped and told Chumakov that you probably had the only copy still in the wild.
I said you were CIA, but like me, didn’t care for the system these days. He has your address in Singapore. I think he’ll send his people from Moscow rather than use the local SVR staff. I spoke with him today around 13:00 Moscow time, Sunday 9 March.
I’m sorry I did this. Please don’t hate me. Good luck and let me know when you receive this email.
Godson Mark
Un-fucking-believable. In addition to Rob Teller, he now had the FSB after him? Singapore time was four hours ahead of Moscow. He Googled the Moscow-Singapore direct flight time and it came in at just under ten and a half hours. Mobilizing a snatch team and briefing them would take a couple more hours, plus travel time to the airport. Call it another four hours cumulative. He added nineteen hours to 1 p.m. Moscow time and ended up with 6 a.m. Monday local time. He had maybe two hours to figure out how he would handle a situation that could end up compromising US national security, cause the death of his godson, prompt his own murder, or all three.
“Get a grip, Bob. Get a grip,” he spoke aloud in a low voice. Millie stirred. He went back to Google and searched for flights. Singapore Airlines had the only direct flight on Sundays, and it left at 3:20 p.m. Moscow time and arrived at 5:40 a.m. local time. There was no way Chumakov could have had his hoods on the SQ flight in less than three hours. The drive to the airport alone was an hour. Well, maybe . . . but highly improbable.
He needed to clear his head. He logged out and limped toward the bathroom. There was something wrong with Watermen’s email, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.
A discreet yet forceful knock on the room door startled him.
* * * * *
It was now 5 a.m. and she was slumped in a Public Security Bureau interrogation room somewhere outside Guangzhou. Joanie Lam had never been so frightened in her life.
She’d known Bob’s profession for certain ever since that six-month tour of Iraq in 2006 and 2007. On pain of divorce, he’d eventually told her. She’d heard enough dubious stories about last-minute business assignments over the years, and with Mei Ling in high school and Bert in junior high, they needed more continuity on the home front. Additionally, Bob had twice returned to Arlington, Virginia with ill-defined urinary tract infections that kept them conjugally apart for weeks. Joanie accused him of infidelity, which he’d vigorously denied. The Iraq posting was the final straw. He acquiesced and told her he was working on top-secret cryptography in DC, but had expertise in surveillance techniques as well. When the best Agency wiretapping specialist in Iraq fell to a sniper’s bullet, Nolan was the one they had turned to in desperation. She didn’t believe him until he’d brought her to his office, where she’d been sworn to secrecy by a middle-level dodo from legal, and met his boss. He was an old-school cold warrior who praised Bob in the strongest terms. Joanie was left feeling unpatriotic for ever doubting Bob’s vital role in safeguarding national security. With her blessing, he deployed the next night.
Bob returned home not needing antibiotics, a testament to either his single-minded mission or her misplaced suspicions. He was invigorated like she’d not seen him since the wedding, Mei Ling already on the way. Bob’s career took off from Iraq, after which he virtually disappeared for six months in 2008 at the Laurel, Maryland NSA headquarters. He next received a promotion to Asia in 2010, where Bert spent his senior year at the Singapore American School. Mei Ling majored in Classics at Pomona College outside LA. Those were good times, at least until Bob made the three of them fly on zero notice to Vancouver where Mei Ling met them at the airport. Bob instructed his family on how to transact only in cash and use fake identification to thwart tracing. As the Larson family, they drove a rental 4WD many hours to a cabin deep in the woods. There Bob explained that not only was he in the CIA, but his team’s activities had provoked the US’s enemies in the Middle East to try to find out who they were and kill them.
The CIA had neither the resources nor the intelligence to protect the families of its people, he’d explained. So the Nolans were taking their own steps against the day—however unlikely—when he would alert them via prearranged code words that they must disappear. The alternative encrypted Safe-mail accounts, lack of mention anywhere of the existence of their British Columbia survivalist cabin (that was what Bob called it—it was still a shack to Joanie), and the absolute need for silence on this subject were drilled into their heads. Bob secretly arranged for authentic cover passports and driver’s licenses for the family, using up a lifetime of accrued favors with friends in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Under cover, they would always be the Larsons.
On Sunday, Bob had given the prearranged signal that he was fine but the family was in danger. So she’d taken her prepacked bag to the airport soon after sending the maid away. The plane ticket was outrageous–even with two days’ advance booking, she could have halved the price–but as per Lord Bob’s decree, she had paid cash and hadn’t quibbled.
Immigration wasn’t a problem for a Mandarin- and Cantonese-speaking Singaporean on a short holiday of fifteen days or less. She’d taken two trains a total of three hours before disembarking in Xinhui, the end of the line just outside Jiangmen. The final thirty miles were by cab until she reached Kaiping, her mother’s natal village and the home of her uncles and aunties, only one of whom was still alive.
Joanie arrived unannounced after nine o’clock, relieved to find that Auntie Por Har still remembered her niece and was of sound mind despite an eight-year absence. Por Har’s eldest son’s family had long since dined and were preparing for bed, but the duck rice from the refrigerator reheated nicely. No one questioned Joanie’s story of having mailed two letters ahead announcing her intention of visiting for two weeks in March. China Post was notoriously unreliable. So why hadn’t she called? Pulling out an out-of-date phone number, Joanie said she had but it had been disconnected. Silly Shao Yin, Auntie had chided.
Joanie was settling down for the night in the spare room, musty but otherwise spotless, when there was a knock on the front door and a man’s voice inquiring about Lam Shao Yin. Joanie heard Auntie’s voice quaver so she double-timed it to the foyer. His uniform wasn’t police or army, but it looked official, as did his ID card. Speaking in Mandarin in a tone midway between maid and village idiot, she asked this young man to state his business, because she was tired after a long day. His reply was sharp. “You are required to accompany me at once to answer questions at the Ministry of Public Security.”
Joanie figured it was a shakedown. China’s peasants historically needed a second, honest police force to protect them from the predations of the first. Under the Communists, circumstances were supposed to have improved. She offered the man a thousand renminbi—about Singapore $200 and probably a week’s wages—to just go away. The policeman shouted at her that bribery was a serious offense. Chastened, Joanie said nothing more during the drive to Xinhui.
It was almost midnight when she found herself alone in a windowless room furnished with a table and two chairs. She slept intermittently until dawn, her head supported on crossed arms. She’d get a pinched nerve in her neck, or one arm or the other would go to sleep, and then wake up and swap sides for a spell.
When the door finally opened, an older official with oiled black hair combed over a bald spot walked in with a thick file under his arm. “Lam Shao Yin, you are hereby detained on suspicion of having committed espionage against the People’s Republic of China, and for attempting to bribe an officer of the Public Security Bureau. Have you any questions?”
“Yes. I’d like to speak with the Singapore Consul in Guangzhou, and I’d like a lawy
er.” Joanie used her most formal Mandarin on this flunky, mocking his faux-Beijing tones. Poseur.
Comb-over replied in the Cantonese spoken by duck farmers in rural Guangdong province, “You will wait,” then turned and walked out. A guard shut the door.
Joanie was scared; they had her confused with Bob. How would she explain this without involving him? Oh, how she wished she could call him; Bob always knew what to do. However, they’d taken her purse and phone away when they left her in this room. All she had was a cold cup of tea, a ceiling fan and a bright overhead light. Her behind ached from the hard chair. She decided to get some rest, and shut her eyes as she leaned back, stretching a stiff neck.
* * * * *
“Who is that?” Millie hissed. Nolan bundled up the same clothes he’d shed two hours ago under happier circumstances and hobbled back to the bed. It was dark save for the glow from the laptop. He bent over and pressed his fingertips to her mouth. She bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her neck. He gave her the slashed throat sign and threw on his pants as the knock repeated.
“Room service,” came a timid voice. Nolan walked up and silently swung the security bar into place. He put his eye to the peephole. Sure enough, someone in a hospitality uniform was standing in what otherwise appeared to be an empty hallway.