Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  They sat down. Walsh’s new peroxide dye job gave his cropped hair a greenish cast. Nolan delivered the news in bullet points. As of today, Walsh was responsible for IPPL. Joanie and Nolan were resigning from the IPPL board of directors, so Walsh needed to accelerate the paperwork. Walsh was now one hundred percent in charge of every IPPL project and the stable of hackers.

  Walsh spent the next hour asking redundant and inept questions country by country, contractor by contractor, without taking a single note.

  When Walsh finished, Nolan told him straight. “I never thought you were the right person to take over this operation. After two-plus months, I still don’t think you have the maturity, attention to detail and discretion required to run it. I’m coming back here at the end of March, and if you’re screwing up I will make it my final act to have you fired, even if I have to postpone my retirement.” While the last bit was a bluff, Walsh didn’t know it.

  “Look, I never said I had it all figured out. I need more time on these projects and with these hackers. I only met them once with you, and that’s not enough.” Walsh had gotten by on his looks, physique and University of Virginia degree so long that he’d lost most of his powers of persuasion and interpersonal relations unrelated to Tinder swipes or Facebook chats.

  “I’m full time on the MH370 task force. Melissa Shook needs my help keeping the Children’s Crusade on track. However, I’ll do you a favor. There are two tricky characters working for us in Sri Lanka. I’ll set aside a couple of hours each day to work with the Lankans to straighten them out. At the very least, I’ll sort out payments, expenses and current project deliverables by the end of this month. I’ll need their files, of course. That will give you a clean slate from April onward.” The Sri Lankans were notorious for missing deadlines and then asking for more money to finish something for which they’d been paid in full three months prior.

  With body language bordering on gratitude, Walsh returned from his office with manila folders. It was the height of irony that a company employing computer snoops kept the most sensitive hacker information solely in hard copy format. Nolan stood up. “We’re done here. No need to copy or forward any communications in the future, particularly relating to these two. You’ve got your own Tor portal up and running. Make certain the IPPL hackers know it’s a clean break handover from me to you. I’m forwarding to you every IPPL email I receive from here on out without reading it. The less you contact me, the better my report will be at the end of March. Oh, and one final thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t talk about what you think my—or anyone else’s—social life might be. You don’t know what you’re talking about, and it’s a quick way to make long-term enemies. And lose the smirk. You’re big, but someday your alligator mouth is going to put your hummingbird ass in harm’s way. Just a word to the wise.”

  “Got it.” Walsh flushed slightly, though shame wasn’t an emotion Nolan had thought him capable of expressing. “And thanks, Bob. Really.”

  No, thank you, Nolan thought as he walked to the elevator, thick files cradled under his arm. He was dozing even before the taxi had pulled into traffic. The cabbie awoke him outside the embassy main entrance. Nolan paid him and sleepwalked through the employee’s security check before taking the elevator deep into the bowels of the building.

  * * * * *

  Colonel Peter Mullen, USAF (Ret.), was fed up riding around town behind dark windows with a shawl over his head. Hiding out for the last four days was exhausting. He was pleased they were leaving Rangoon just as soon as Teller could see a specialist. Teller looked like death warmed over. Mullen figured him for a goner if the crate contents were radioactive, as they now suspected. Mullen was already in a big SUV well down the runway before the cargo door ever opened. Teller supervised the forklift when the metal bands strapping the crate to the pallet snapped, toppling the big box ten feet to the ground and splintering it on impact. Immediately thereafter, the plane had rolled forward into the darkness next to where Mullen was parked. A four-man crew pumped jet fuel from a waiting tanker truck to top up MH370’s tanks.

  Teller had never been one to complain, even back in ’73 when he was half dead and needed an emergency evac out of a hot Mekong Delta landing zone. Teller’s crew of ARVN Rangers were mostly in the smash-and-grab business after sundown, but this time the Victor Charlies had managed to surround their exfil site. Mullen still got goose bumps when he thought about the AK fire taken by the two Hueys as they approached at treetop level and then flared to hover over the elephant grass. There came Teller’s team, carrying their wounded and dragging their dead, taking and giving fire all the way. The first bird lifted off and barely made it back to Bien Hoa where they auto-rotated onto the runway, breaking the copilot’s back in the crash. Mullen was at the controls of the second Slick, ready to power up and fly for their lives, when Teller turned and ran into the tree line for a third time. God-a-mercy what had that man been thinking? It was forty yards through tall grass and sucking mud with bullets flying and the first mortar rounds walking toward the LZ. The flex gunner later told Mullen that he fired five hundred rounds supporting Teller on that last run. The ARVNs who could still hold a weapon were at the doors laying down M-16 fire. There came Teller hauling another body, one of their own, but well past caring. He made it aboard and they just got out of there in one piece.

  At the Officers’ Club later that night, he had asked Teller what he was doing risking his life, the lives of Mullen’s helicopter crew and his own team just to retrieve a dead ARVN. Teller had downed his whiskey, slammed the glass onto the bar and said, “No man left behind!” Mullen bought Teller another round, finished his beer and got the hell out of the bar before Teller tore him limb from limb. Teller was a man best befriended from afar.

  Of all the Spec Ops men Mullen had ever ferried into combat, Rob Teller was the bravest and best of them all. There were no more than a handful of American advisors to the F-6 program still alive who’d served deep in the Mekong Delta. And now, Mullen reflected, there was one fewer for certain and possibly one more, depending on what the doctor could do for his old comrade in arms.

  Mullen praised God every day that somehow he’d survived Indochina and finished his USAF commitment stateside in relative tranquility. He thanked the Lord that, as he approached his seventy-third year, he had been given one last chance to serve the country he loved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BERSERK

  TUESDAY MARCH 11, RANGOON; SINGAPORE; GUANGZHOU, SOUTHERN CHINA

  Nolan was barely back in the task force section when Millie rushed over to him. “I’ve been calling you like crazy the last fifteen minutes. There’s been an attack on Club Avatar. It’s over now, but Sam wants you to call him ASAP.”

  Now it was Nolan’s turn to fret as Hecker’s cell went unanswered. Ditto for Ryder’s. He didn’t have that many phone numbers, and was about to try Abraham’s next when his landline rang. Hecker’s welcome voice greeted him.

  “Holy shit! Can you believe someone fired a rocket-propelled grenade through the perimeter wall? They shot the second RPG through the living room window and blew up the downstairs. Sally’s wounded, plus three of Zaw’s men. One prisoner escaped and a second died, but we wasted all five of Teller’s gunmen. Tony Johnson, the Ranger from Afghanistan? He’s one tough bastard. He was upstairs questioning Teller’s people when the shooting started.

  “Johnson picked up an M-4 and in twenty seconds had killed or wounded three of the scumbags as they tried to infiltrate the grounds. He had the others pinned down behind our wall. Meanwhile, Zaw called in the cavalry and inside fifteen minutes there was a gunship overhead. One of Zaw’s men translated while Johnson directed fire. It was over in thirty seconds. The Hind just hosed the back side of the wall and every vehicle parked on the street. Apparently, there’s nothing left intact bigger than license plates and engine blocks. Our four wounded have shrapnel wounds from that RPG, but everyone will make it. Thanks to Johnson they never go
t off a third grenade or fired for effect.

  “After Zaw called off the gunship, Johnson went back to work on the three live ones. I hope to shake his hand in about five minutes, but from what Hanny said when he had Johnson on the line a minute ago, there’s some serious screaming in there.” Nolan heard the glee in Hecker’s voice.

  “Tell Johnson not to overdo it. If he tortures them enough, they’ll confess to having shot JFK, but that won’t necessarily make it so.”

  “Good point. I’ll mention it. Eventually. Once I find out if one of those fuckers pulled the trigger on Dara.”

  Jesus, Hecker was turning into a vigilante. “Where were you, Sam? You OK?”

  “Hell, I’m fine. I was at Dubern Park having lunch with Sophie when all this happened. Zaw called it in so I got on the satphone to Travis and told him we had the friggin’ Alamo in progress. In fifteen minutes, Zaw called back and said it was over. So the Wild Bunch didn’t even leave the port. Travis sent the two Deltas back to organize security at Avatar and our next safe house, but everyone else stayed at Thilawa. At Avatar we put out the fire on the ground floor with hand extinguishers and started administering first aid. I’m told the building’s fine other than needing a new wall, living room and kitchen. The fire department should arrive fairly soon, but two cars out front are burning pretty good: we’re close now and I can see the flames and heaps of smoke.

  “Looks like they’ve got a platoon of the presidential guards surrounding Club Avatar. Just out front, ambulances are loading up Zaw’s men. I can see Zaw and he’s with his wounded. He just gave me a thumbs-up, so that’s good.

  “We’re shutting down and moving out of here. The only other DEA safe house is Hogwarts. It’ll be cramped, but otherwise we’re fine. Those Spec Ops boys are used to sleeping rough. We’ll salvage what we can here at Avatar and destroy the rest.”

  Hecker continued, “If your theory is that the nearer we come to finding the evidence, the harder Teller hits, then we must be damned close.”

  “Just keep searching the SS Bandana. That’s where those boxes will be. Don’t let him push you out of the port.”

  “Unless he can trump the Vice President Biden, you can count on it. By the way, two crew members tried to sneak out and Zaw’s undercover men nabbed them. Johnson wants to speak with them, too, once he’s done with Teller’s shooters. It’s been quite a day. What the fuck? Goddamnit, if Matthews isn’t standing in the driveway giving orders and waving his arms like he’s in charge. Let’s talk later. I’m dealing with this once and for all.”

  Nolan hung up and turned to Millie. “Quite a day, indeed. How much of that did you hear?”

  “The way Hecker was shouting, about ninety percent. It sounds very exciting. I sure wish I was there.”

  “Wish you were there? The Burma government just used a gunship to fire thousands of rounds into a residential area, killing or wounding civilians and setting cars on fire. There are troops on the streets, wounded police and DEA officers, and the COS and DEA head are probably at drawn knives right now outside a no longer secure safe house. I’m not certain which part of that scene you’d want to be in. We don’t even know if the US or Burma governments even want to find Teller.”

  A prissy male voice on the other side of the partition piped up. “Quiet, please. Some of us are trying to work.”

  Nolan ignored the interruption. “I can tell you one thing. Whoever decided to take a shot at Sophie and CJ badly underestimated Hecker. A dozen Special Forces soldiers can bring down the hammer in a hurry. This will be very interesting, particularly if the eavesdropper who just spoke wants to stand up and be counted.” Millie gave him a sidelong glance and wondered if she’d miscalculated her assessment that Nolan was soft. Was there a berserker buried under that placid front?

  From over the partition came the sound of a chair being rolled back and someone crawling on all fours across the carpet. At least one task force member wanted no part of Big Dog Bob Nolan.

  * * * * *

  “Matthews here.” His cell phone’s ring was a welcome interruption. Hecker’s incessant objections and threats irked him as they stood outside this joke of a DEA safe house, arguing over chain of command.

  “It’s me. The doctor confirmed radiation poisoning. I got a blood transfusion and feel better, but I’ll need a bone marrow transplant. I’m headed up north and will work my way over to Thailand. I had nothing to do with this MH370 bullshit. The plane Saturday night was a DC-9 and it was supposed to be straight dope for guns and money. The overseas dickhead shipped in nuclear waste for a dirty bomb without telling us, and my forklift driver cracked the lead containment vessel when he dropped the crate. That’s why I’ve got men dropping dead and there’s that fucking mess at the port.”

  “I never doubted you. And never again call me on this number.” Matthews hung up and looked for his adversary. Hecker, too, had tired of the shouting match and huddled with his own people as well as some local cops.

  Seeing he was outnumbered, Matthews decided to withdraw and return to the battle once Washington suspended Hecker. As he had recorded their fiery exchange, all he’d have to do was upload the voice file and count down the hours remaining in pathetic Samuel Hecker’s DEA career.

  * * * * *

  Joanie wasn’t certain why the MSS had moved her to Guangzhou yesterday, but she presumed it had something to do with Bob. At least they had fetched her bag from Auntie Por Har’s home, though the poor woman must be frantic with worry given that Joanie was whisked away at night and never heard from again. With no phone access, contacting Auntie to say she was all right wasn’t possible.

  The new detention center wasn’t much worse than Mei Ling’s or Bert’s first-year college dorms, truth be told. The single bed sagged, the skinny pillow made her neck ache and the lighting was dim. But China could provide far worse accommodations for a prisoner. The modest upgrade in housing signaled what she’d suspected all along. No one was after her; this was about Bob. Not everything was rosy, however. The imbecile who picked up her clothes hadn’t bothered to visit the toilet. All her expensive skin care items and cosmetics were still gracing Auntie Por Har’s bathroom vanity. Nevertheless, she had on clean clothes for the first time in two days. The shower had a little water pressure so she removed the remaining fingerprint ink from her hands.

  With no TV and a solitary James Patterson novel, Joanie had plenty of time to think. Since Monday, when they told her to check her email, she had kept the presence of mind to steer clear of the secured Safe-mail account. There was no doubt the MSS had filched her password. Her iPhone battery had also run out. She was incommunicado, quite an unusual sensation.

  One of her principal disappointments lay in not receiving daily chat messages and emails from the children. Her number two regret was the inability to check up on Juanilla’s latest folly, or for that matter, Bob’s. He had fallen off the virtuous path at least once before, and she was damned if she would suffer the whispers and humiliation a second time.

  Her husband’s Monday email had told her to stay calm and he’d work something out, but not to expect a visit until at least next week. There were a couple of code words in that message, too, but damned if she could remember what they meant. Vacation was good, so something positive was going to happen. What, she wasn’t sure.

  Surprisingly, no one seemed interested in questioning her further. She’d seen her interrogators once when she was eating in the cafeteria under escort, which meant she was now in a Ministry of State Security building rather than with the police.

  The experience was bearable, aside from being locked up by China’s espionage agency, cut off from her children and mother, and lacking her toiletries and helper. It gave her lots of time for silent contemplation. One of her prime questions was, why was she still with Bob after he’d cheated on her? It might have been almost two and a half years ago, but “once a cheater, always a cheater” was her motto. She’d managed to stop hating him, but was always on the lookout for a sign, a
scent or a scrap of paper. Any proof he was being unfaithful, and he’d be out for good.

  She’d kept slim, spent a lot of time on looking good and was better preserved than her European and American menopausal counterparts. If her husband had strayed, it certainly wasn’t because of any deficiency on her part. However, Bob had started out like that, screwing that Watermen woman even when Joanie was pregnant with Mei Ling. At least Bob had had the decency to marry her, although that turned out to be slim consolation given all the overseas travel. The State Department was full of divorced people, drunks and womanizers. She’d met them all and wondered if any of Bob’s colleagues pitied her or laughed behind her back as they did with so many other spouses.

  Bob wasn’t a bad husband or father. Lord knew she had plenty of friends and acquaintances whose husbands were serial adulterers. Of course, their husbands tended to be either much wealthier or more handsome. Her mother often observed that those who married for money had to work to earn it. Bob was in no way, shape or form someone who got a free pass to cheat because he was rich, although he was still moderately attractive despite being over fifty.

  The other big surprise in her quarter-century with Robert was that, for the first seventeen years of their union, she thought she was married to a US Foreign Service IT professional. Only in 2006 did she find out that his real job involved codebreaking and malicious software development. That Bob was a senior spy intrigued her and contributed to her decision to stay with him after her original divorce target date, Bert’s departure for college almost a year and a half ago.

  After that woman Prentice so-and-so’s hideous death in 2012, Bob needed her support to survive the gossip spread by his putative friends in the embassy. And oh, did he worry about having enough to send the two children to college, graduate school and still have sufficient savings for them to retire on. The CIA pension was certainly a good one, worth at least US$140,000 per annum to start and inflation-indexed. But to collect it, you had to make it to retirement: fifty-five with thirty years’ service in Bob’s case.