Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  “I’d say this would raise several thorny issues, not least of which is why Bob Nolan no longer has his Agency laptop or cell phone, why the CIA isn’t looking into it themselves, and finally, if Nolan has been a bad boy? Have they already tried and failed to crack the encryption?”

  “I’m guessing the latter. Maybe Bob’s gone off the reservation and they don’t want any of his friends in Langley knowing about it.”

  Weill scooped up the laptop and handed it to Gregory. “This is our way off Perkins’s hatchet list. Assign our best people and see if we can break in. We know Nolan’s clever with plenty of old-school moves. Think outside the box in addition to throwing brute force at it. Time seems short, so make the PC your focal point.”

  “Gotcha. Right. Should I drop everything else?”

  “For now, yes. Grab the whole team if you have to. And don’t mention to anyone outside our group that these are Nolan’s. Once we crack them, it will be our cue to hand the PC and phone over to Langley. Of course, if a folder or three happened to be copied onto a backup drive, I’m sure that would be fine for the sake of maintaining data integrity.”

  “Absolutely. Data integrity.” With a wry grin, Gregory turned and walked out.

  * * * * *

  The sleet dissipated into a cold rain, and fog wreathed the land. Mei Ling pulled into a parking spot at a Vancouver car rental lot and handed the keys to Bert. “I need to buy my ticket. I have about three hours before departure, so I should be fine. I’ll call your burner if anything comes up.”

  “OK. I’m going to the nearest gym to work out, and then hit Costco before driving back up to the woods later today,” Bert said.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Just gas up, grab lunch and pay cash. Head back to the cabin. Hang out there until you hear from Dad. We have no idea what kind of surveillance the Canadians run. Bouncing around Vancouver will get you filmed, or worse.”

  “This all feels like make-believe to me.”

  “Well, I’m taking a cab to international departures to stay off camera. The least you can do is stay out of sight for a week or two. Once I have a boarding pass, I’ll let Dad know I got here alright. If anything comes up, let me know before I board at 3:30 p.m. Text me using WhatsApp; Dad says it’s more secure than ordinary text messaging. Anything major, use your burner.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Bert growled. “Just free Mom from wherever she’s being held. This is not good. If you need help, let me know and I’ll come running. Well, as soon as I get a visa.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Drive safely and stay invisible. We’ll get through this.”

  * * * * *

  Mei Ling slouched into her seat on the China Enterprise Airlines nonstop flight to Guangzhou. It was scheduled for thirteen hours, but could feel like thirty given how flimsy the upholstery was. They hadn’t even taken off and already she had a sore tailbone.

  Her review of the encrypted Safe-mail account at the airport came up empty: no more instructions from Dad. She had really taken a risk by stepping on this plane. At least her boss understood when Mei Ling informed him that this unplanned two-week holiday was now taking her to China.

  The questions that nagged at her had to do with her father. Dad often praised Mom to Bert and her, but whether he loved her or not was hard to say. Bob Nolan was a born poker player with no expression most of the time. Maybe he loved Mom, but not enough to stay faithful. Of that she and Bert had heard plenty over recent years. Yet Mom stood by his side the last two and a half years, even after that awful entanglement with the woman at work. And while the Nolans weren’t wealthy, Mei Ling finished Pomona without substantial debt. Dad had provided, and he was footing the bill for Bert’s college costs, too. Maybe that’s why Mom hung in there. After all, she often called Dad golden tortoise, Cantonese slang for rich husband. But Mei Ling was almost certain Dad wasn’t rich. A few years ago when they bought that cabin in BC, he’d mentioned that the funds came from Grandma’s estate. Maybe Dad was going to become rich. Then it made sense for Mom to stick with him.

  She opened the thick book she’d purchased less than an hour ago. She had no interest in bin Laden, and had bought the book only because it was on sale and she’d dated an ex-SEAL at Pomona. It hadn’t worked out, but Brad had been super fit, with abs to die for. He’d introduced her to Brazilian jiu-jitsu and she’d continued with the rigorous thrice-weekly training even after Brad was off the scene. It was a great way to stay fit, though the men in her class were mostly bloated adolescents, tatted weirdos, or married and twenty years her senior. Lately she’d been dabbling with the older crowd and was becoming more aware of her boss’s attentions at work. Bruce was in shape—if slightly effeminate—but being one of her father’s best friends made him both off-limits and suspect.

  * * * * *

  Nolan returned to the desk in his home office. The next item on Nolan’s agenda was Millie’s research packet on extraordinary rendition flights. It was a blockbuster.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TURNABOUT

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, MARCH 12, SINGAPORE, BURMA, TOKYO, BEIJING

  To hell with Bob Nolan! Who was he to throw her out into the street? He was just another in a long line of disappointments, starting with her father. Millie forced herself to concentrate on the files in front of her to keep from letting loose a primal scream that would have the safe house guards up the stairs in a hurry.

  There was nothing to be gained by next looking into Frank Coulter, Khun Sa and the aftermath of the Double Llama Trading collapse of 1985, something she’d already researched. Remembering Melissa’s threat if Millie used Nolan’s higher security clearance ratings, a delicious plan took shape. Nolan didn’t think she remembered the details. Hot sex always stamped her memory, including the pillow talk. A playfully tied-up Bob was quick to tell her his work password. Sometimes even a scarf could be an implement of torture, she mused. All she needed was his laptop and network secure access token.

  * * * * *

  Harcourt Aviation had been the principal CIA contractor for the go-anywhere jet charters used to transport terrorist suspects to various offshore interrogation sites after 9/11. While Millie hadn’t been able to obtain intermediate stops, the most recent booking in Asia had concluded on Sunday, March 9 at “Truscott.” The plane was a Gulfstream 550, and the US$5,300 cost per hour included a two-man crew and fuel. As of eight hours ago the plane was on the ground in Dubai, awaiting assignment.

  With effort and his life savings, Nolan would solve a mystery or two. Or maybe end up dead or in jail for a long, long time. By 4:30 a.m. he was asleep, safe in the knowledge that no one outside Harcourt Aviation knew what he’d done. Ah, the benefits of compartmented information and need-to-know, especially when it came to transporting international terror suspects.

  * * * * *

  Peter Mullen needed a bed. Robin Teller needed a bone marrow transplant. They both needed food. They’d left the A-OK Clinic thirteen hours and almost six hundred miles ago and buzzed straight through a dozen checkpoints, with Teller’s driver flaunting a credential that never failed to induce a snap salute and an onward wave. It was the middle of the night and they were now in Loikaw, almost at the Shan State border. The potholes in the gravel road jarred Mullen’s aching back as the Toyota Crown bounced along at thirty miles per hour.

  Teller was slumped across from him in the back seat. “Rob, you awake?” Mullen ventured.

  “Yeah. I feel like vomiting. I can’t sleep.” Teller upchucked into a bag.

  “Can you tell me where we’re headed now that we’re well away from Rangoon?”

  “Colonel, have I asked you one question about how you and Major Griggs took command of the aircraft? No. Did I ask how the decompression of the main cabin was accomplished, with the resulting deaths of all passengers and crew save the four of you in the cockpit? No. The success of our mission didn’t require me to possess this information, so I didn’t ask for it. Now you want to know where we’re headed? Why? Do you have another idea? Perh
aps an alternative route?”

  “No, Rob, it’s just that . . . that . . . .”

  “That what?”

  “That you look really sick. Heck, until now you hadn’t said a word in five hours. Do you remember a couple of hours ago? The driver and I had to hold you up by the side of the car while you peed in a ditch. You’re awfully weak.”

  “Weak? That’s bullshit! I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”

  “You’ve got radiation sickness, possibly a fatal dose. If you die and I don’t know what the plan is, then I can’t complete the mission. I don’t even know how to contact Coulter. I don’t know where we’re bound, how long we’re staying or how you’re planning on getting me back to the States. So it’s completely appropriate, Major, that I obtain the information sought.”

  “We’re driving north and a little east into southern Wa territory inside Shan State. It’s controlled by my friend the general, and patrolled by the Wa Army. The general supplied the narcotics I exported to fund the mission. There’s a facility in the middle of southern Shan that the general operates. We’ll rest there for a few days. One of the occupants there is a doctor who I think can fix me. When the time comes, I’ll make a call and a plane will land at a nearby airbase. I’ll get you back to the US, but it will take some zigging and zagging.”

  “What about contacting Coulter? Or the pilot of our exfil aircraft?”

  “I have a satphone here. It’s not powered up to save batteries. Coulter’s number is in my wallet on a piece of paper with the handwritten label ‘BCC accounts.’ His number is across from ‘DD’ on the list. The number for the air charter company is after ‘HA.’”

  * * * * *

  Nolan walked into Constantine’s office at the stroke of 7:30 a.m., lightheaded from lack of sleep. They were alone, except for the myriad hidden recording devices mapping his every gesture and intonation. Constantine launched straight in like a falcon on a rabbit. “There’s enough evidence to suspend you without pay until the end of the month. And pending the outcome of a formal review, you could be dismissed for cause.”

  Nolan hid his doubly-deep relief. Constantine had omitted inviting an Agency lawyer and wasn’t talking about a possible criminal prosecution. Nolan played poker anyway. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “Bull crap! I’ve had men on Mukherjee since Monday night and on you since yesterday afternoon. Most of the time they’re parked across the street from one another.”

  “She does work for me on the MH370 Burma angle of the investigation. I cleared that with Melissa yesterday.”

  “Cleared? Is that how you phrase it? Shook wants you drawn and quartered. She hates you with a vengeance.” Constantine’s tone suggested he shared the sentiment.

  “Dick, I thought that was all water under the bridge. Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen Melissa since 2011. If she still hates me, that’s her prerogative. I’ve used poor judgment since Joanie’s been away in China. I admit that, and my marriage will suffer because of it. You should know that I ended the affair last night. We need to focus our energy on finding out what happened to that plane and—”

  “That’s quite an about-face. Hearing that the station’s most infamous adulterer has now sheathed his sword comes as a surprise. You’ll forgive my skepticism when I read that she was around your place again last night.”

  “She was dropping off research I’d asked her for. She’s found out—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stow it. It’s March 12. You’ve got less than three weeks to keep your head down and your dick in your pants. Can you manage that?”

  “Of course. But I have a few questions for you, too. First, did Matthews’s people take radiation readings yesterday from behind the fence at the airstrip? Or outside the main gate? If so, why haven’t they been reported? If not, why not? Second, is or was Matthews protecting Robin Teller’s cover? Third, if so, does this make the MH370 hijacking a CIA conspiracy?”

  “Enough! We covered this nonsense two days ago. You still don’t have any proof of anything. And you aren’t going to find any—”

  “What about the CNN report of the airliner at the bottom of the Bay of Bengal? The site is about one hundred fifty miles from southern Burma, well within MH370’s range if it landed on Airstrip One before taking off again. What about the mangosteens in the samples from the burned shed, versus the mangosteens in the airliner’s hold as per the cargo manifest? What about the highly radioactive container at Rangoon’s Thilawa Port?”

  “What are you talking about? Radioactive container? What radioactive container?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Last night a DEA agent carrying a Geiger counter pried open the door of a K-Line forty-foot container identical to the three I saw on the road last Saturday. The radiation readings were barely sub-lethal. That fellow is an ex-SEAL and the DEA security chief for South and Southeast Asia, so he’s tough. But right now, the DEA in Rangoon is medevac’ing Travis Ryder to Singapore, and then onto the US for specialist treatment.”

  Nolan played his phony ace. “Travis Ryder photographed a Malaysia Airlines packing label on the large wooden crate holding the radioactive object. That airplane was carrying nuclear materials, and it landed in the Irrawaddy Delta. You can deny it, but my suggestion is that you get up to speed before the news hits the papers.”

  “Let me see the photograph. I’ve not heard anything about this. If it’s true, then of course we’ll investigate.”

  Getting up to leave, Nolan pushed his bluff, but kept it on an even keel. “A few of us have been investigating since Sunday. It’s not too late for you to join the winning side. I have work to do. It would be easier if I had my regular security clearances restored, starting with Top Secret/SCI for anything relating to MH370, Robin Teller, Frank Coulter, Khun Sa and Double Llama Trading.”

  Constantine grunted something inaudible as Nolan left the room, but it didn’t sound encouraging.

  Back in the task force bullpen, he booted up the new laptop and unlocked his desk. Around him, underlings in cubicles were gathering their papers and heading off to Melissa’s morning master class in treading water. He wondered which one had crawled away yesterday afternoon rather than confront him.

  He heard a couple of voices but didn’t bother to look up. “Did you hear the latest on the BBC on MH370?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “They’re now calling it the single greatest mystery in the history of aviation.”

  “No kidding. It’s certainly the greatest mystery in my history.”

  “How long have you been in the Agency?”

  “Twenty-six months.”

  Nolan tuned out. Mercifully, Millie was nowhere to be seen. His desk phone rang. “Nolan here.”

  “It’s Sam. I’m at home and checking in. You said you would look for Teller and Agency connections in the files. Have you found anything yet?”

  “Not really. Millie is working on the Khun Sa-DLT-Teller angle, with Frank Coulter thrown in for good measure. Maybe the Agency placed Teller into Golden Elephant as part of their relocation program for doubles, defectors and old boys with permanent enemies. That would explain Matthews: the last on a long list of COSs who helped Teller live undetected around the world for almost thirty years. What’s new on your end?”

  “A US Navy air ambulance arrives from Singapore around ten this morning to fetch Ryder. He’s sleeping now but if you want to speak with him live, give him a call around noon your time. If he’s well enough to talk, his cell should have good reception at the airport. We’ll be transferring him in a wagon train that would make John Wayne proud.”

  “I’ll make a point to call, or have him call my cell or the office whenever he’s up.”

  “I’m heading over to Hogwarts to figure out what we do next with the Wild Bunch. Matthews seems to have kept his job overnight. At least, he wasn’t able to get me fired or recalled, though Lord knows he tried. So it’s 0-0 at halftime in the Death Match.”

  Hecker was rambling. “
Martin hasn’t been able to get us back on the docks, but it doesn’t much matter anymore. They’ve already moved that damned container, and both the Korea Star and SS Bandana sailed last night after midnight! There’s a higher power than President Thein calling the shots, and it isn’t Aung San Suu Kyi.”

  It was Nolan’s turn to be surprised. “Unbelievable. They let the crew back on the SS Bandana, restacked the boxes and let it sail as if nothing had happened? Let’s get the Navy to board it in international waters.”

  “And do what? Offload the radioactive container and put it on their deck? Turn the SS Bandana around and tow it back to port? Sink it if they don’t stop? We’re trying to get NRO to track the ship, but all the imaging capacity is currently focused on looking for debris fields in the Southern Indian Ocean. For some reason, everyone’s convinced that the plane ditched out in the middle of nowhere. There’s some guff in the press about Inmarsat using the Doppler effect to track MH370’s locational pings. I’m not buying it any more than you are.”

  Hecker continued, “But even with a bird overhead, we won’t have a nonstop visual all day and will see nothing at night. The crew will have ample opportunity to dump the container undetected if that’s their goal. If, by some chance, it’s still on board when the SS Bandana hits Penang tomorrow evening, we’ll ask the Malaysians to let our people go over it with a Geiger counter. I’m sending Gonzalez with the DOE lead tech, a Mr. Howard, down to Penang tomorrow morning to handle the inspection.”

  “What did you learn from the interrogation transcripts?”

  “Nothing as of yet. After this, I’ll check. If it’s earthshaking stuff, I’ll call you. Otherwise expect a highlights email over a translation that’s likely to look like Pig Latin until one of our expatriate secretaries does a heavy edit. But that could take another day. I’m also checking out the foreigners’ medical clinics this morning.”

  “If you can, look at their patient records for the last three days. Teller may have already been there.”