by Bradley West
“Let me get on the road before the traffic turns the city into a parking lot.”
“Thanks, Sam. Take care.”
* * * * *
Charles Tecumseh Burns didn’t know what to do. Curtis Llewellyn, the flunky running the DEA, had awakened him in the middle of the night. Burns had not long ago joked that the DEA was the place for political appointees who found FEMA, the agency behind the disastrous rescue and cleanup operation after Hurricane Katrina, too challenging.
The call was beyond the pale. Llewellyn started right in on Matthews before he segued onto the topic of who the hell was the CIA to try to dictate who, where and what the DEA was doing with its people in South Asia, starting with Samuel Hecker? It took Burns three tries to break into Llewellyn’s rant to tell him he had no idea what he was talking about. Then the conversation turned ugly.
“You don’t know? Do you run the Central Intelligence Agency in Asia? Does Asia include Burma? Do you have any idea how inappropriate it is for a chief of station to secretly tape a fellow intelligence officer—?”
“Intelligence officer? Who are we talking about?” Burns had asked.
“Hecker! Sam Hecker! The DEA number one for Southeast and South Asia. Stationed in Rangoon. The officer some ex-CIA mercenary has been trying to kill, along with his family, for the last five days.”
“Oh, so you don’t mean intelligence officer, you mean hippie buster.” If Burns had to be awake at 4:10 in the morning, he at least wanted to enjoy it.
And so it went for another ten minutes. Burns had tired of it and eventually hung up while he was speaking—a good trick one needed in this job—and went back to bed after disabling every comms device he owned.
He logged into his email at eight o’clock and picked up the various threads ricocheting around the bureaucracy. The most recent one grabbed his attention. The DEA had enlisted Vice President Biden’s support in having Matthews recalled immediately. Lloyd Matthews might be an ambitious suck-up, but he was also reasonably capable and extremely discreet. In Burma, discreet was often more important than capable.
This had gone far enough. Burns called Llewellyn back, and they agreed that Matthews and Hecker would be in Tokyo Friday early evening for an in-person meeting with Burns and the DEA’s Asia head. Llewellyn would conference in. They’d resolve the issues without the Justice Department, FBI, NSA or Walt Disney Corp getting involved. Just lay it on the table and figure out a modus vivendi. In the meantime, he’d call for an interagency ceasefire in Rangoon. Matthews and embassy security would handle all aspects of the Airstrip One murder investigations. The DEA would pursue the sniper who fired on Hecker’s wife and kid, and continue to manage the ongoing nuclear contamination and cargo issues in the container port. For now, neither side was to devote any resources to tracking Robin Teller. He could wait until after Friday. He was sixty-seven years old: how far could he get?
WWIII averted, Burns hit the intercom and spoke with his secretary. “Get me Frank Coulter on the phone, but before doing that, pull up everything we have on Robin Teller, a.k.a. Jay Toffer, a.k.a. Alan Tellerman. I want to see the file first. Thanks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SPINNING WHEELS
WEDNESDAY MARCH 12, SINGAPORE, TOKYO, RANGOON
It took Nolan forty-five minutes to withdraw his family’s life savings in US dollars at the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank branch just down the street from the American Club. This was after he’d called ahead and agreed to a surcharge to take his funds in US circulated hundreds. He went through the stacks and rejected every bill with excessive wear or a smurf mark. From here on out, he was playing by the rules of Asia cash business: nothing easily traced and US dollars only.
He caught a cab downtown, figuring it would be harder for pursuers to snatch him than if he used the subway. In Raffles Place, he took the high-rise elevator to the twenty-third floor of Republic Plaza II. He took a right out of the elevator and found the understated marble-clad entrance of Bank Suisse Privé Asia. Inside he explained his needs to the receptionist and produced a Colorado driver’s license for Adam Birch, the name he’d used to make the booking. Within ten minutes, he was out the door lighter by $201,400, but with a receipt noting payment into Harcourt’s account.
Nolan had the remaining $178,000 and change in the backpack slung over his shoulder. He needed thirty minutes unobserved to hide the money. The easiest thing would be to take the subway, meaning only one man would be following him directly, while the other traced their route by car on the surface. Within two stops he’d spotted the trainee on his tail. He exited at the last second at the Orchard Road MRT station, waving to the kid from the platform as the train pulled out. That should give him the time he needed as long as the pursuit car wasn’t on top of him when popped out of the ground. The game clock was winding down.
* * * * *
“Frank, how the hell are you?” Chuck Burns put on his hale and hearty voice for an old comrade in arms, despite his rancorous departure.
“Ah, shucks. I’m gettin’ along alright for an old man. Ankle’s all swelled up and a little rheumatoid arthritis, but nothing that Vitamin Eye can’t handle.” Frank Coulter might sound like Deputy Dog, owing to his childhood in Muskogee, Oklahoma, but he owned a Harvard MBA to go with a career spent flip-flopping between Spec Ops and clandestine work. He’d been mustered out of the CIA in 2009 at age sixty-nine, well past ordinary retirement age. Then again, Frank Coulter had once held the title of Associate Deputy Director of Covert Operations, the Agency’s top job in clandestine affairs.
Burns didn’t recall all the details of the flap, but ADDCO Coulter had been aligned with Pentagon hawks who endorsed the Israelis’ desire to hit Iran’s nuclear weapons program preemptively. Presidents Bush and Obama had both opted for the nonviolent route, backing Stuxnet to try to achieve the same objectives without producing multiple propaganda opportunities for the international media. Burns agreed the networks were filled with bloodsuckers who would rather show grieving parents hugging lifeless children in rubble-strewn streets than provide a serious assessment of risk to the West posed by a nuclear-armed Iran. The ADDCO had gone down swinging and then disappeared.
“Where are you these days?” Burns inquired, his file indicating Weaverville, California, wherever the hell that was.
“Up in the Trinity Alps, northwest of Redding. Say, is this a social call, or can I help you with somethin’?”
“Always to the point, Frank. I like that about you. It seems Robin Teller of Double Llama Trading infamy may have turned up in Rangoon about seven years ago. You were his handling officer when we reprocessed his identity in the mid-eighties.”
“Well, hell’s bells. That was almost thirty years ago. We parked Rob in South Africa for a spell. He was restless and moved to South America, either Paraguay or Uruguay, as I recall. I lost touch when my responsibilities changed. I haven’t heard from Teller in at least twenty-five years. Are you sure it’s Teller? I figured him for dead.”
“I don’t think we’re sure of anything, which is why I’m calling. A person of interest using the name Jay Toffer runs security for Khun Sa’s children. Old Prince Prosperous left behind a savvy daughter who owns a conglomerate called Golden Elephant. Toffer/Teller supervised Golden Elephant’s construction of a two-mile-long runway for the army. Maybe Teller had a side business smuggling drugs off that airstrip prior to the army handover.”
“Sounds farfetched. Rob Teller was a decorated Ranger, not a drug smuggler. But even if he was runnin’ narcotics, surely that’s not an Agency matter?”
“Bob Nolan, one of your old colleagues, I believe, saw someone he swears was Teller out at the airstrip last weekend. Nolan retires at the end of the month. He banged a gong that MH370 landed on Golden Elephant’s runway; therefore, Toffer/Teller must be involved. Toffer/Teller went on a rampage that left several people dead. According to the DEA, a sniper employed by Teller attempted to assassinate the local DEA chief’s wife and little boy. There’s a major s
hit-storm in Rangoon right now. The army and police are in an uproar, and the DEA and Agency are at drawn daggers.”
Coulter let out a whistle. “Isn’t Lloyd Matthews the Rangoon COS?”
“Yes, since 2012.”
“Let Matthews sort it out; he’s a sneaky one. Look, I have to be somewhere and you’ve found me on my home phone. The cell reception isn’t worth a hoot up here. If you need anything else, send me an email and I’ll see if I can help.”
“Thanks, Frank. You’ve already helped a lot.” Burns hung up. How did Coulter know Matthews was COS? That appointment dated from three years after Coulter had left the Company. And what did he mean by suggesting that Burns tell Matthews to sort it out? At the very least, Coulter confirmed that Toffer was indeed Teller.
Across the Pacific, Frank Coulter called out to his second wife, Joanna, the one his mother referred to as Jezebel. “When did the car service say they would be here? My flight is at 2 a.m. You know the drive to SFO can take five hours, ’specially if thar’s a pileup or fog.”
“I told you it’ll be here at seven o’clock. You have time to finish your dinner.”
“Darlin’, there’s gonna be a lot better food on the plane than what’s on this plate. Trust me.” Coulter double-checked his travel documents. Everything was in order for the journey that would see him rightfully restored as the ADDCO and the history of the Middle East irrevocably reordered.
* * * * *
Hecker’s cell rang. “Sam? It’s Mary. You’ve had a remarkable last few days. How's the family?”
“Fine. Where are you?” Hecker didn’t hear much from his boss, as East Asia matters consumed most of her time. Hecker appreciated the loose reins, especially as Ms. Steinlager was a stickler for political correctness and adherence to every picayune rule.
“In the office in Hong Kong. Is this a bad time to speak?”
“I’m in the car on the way to a clinic where this big time smuggler Robin Teller may have sought treatment for radiation poisoning. Cell connections are spotty at best, so this call might drop.”
“I’ll be brief. Friday, fly to Tokyo to meet me. Together we’ll see Charles Burns and Lloyd Matthews. We’ll also conference in Curtis Llewellyn in DC.”
“Mary, the last thing I need now is a trip to Tokyo. We’re about ready to break this case and probably solve the disappearance of that Malaysia Airlines flight. There are a dozen US servicemen in-country helping us, but they leave this weekend. I’ve got to make the most of them while they’re here.”
“Yes, that’s another thing. On whose authority did you fly anyone into Rangoon, much less current and ex-Special Forces operatives? Or for these men to carry arms and fire—or threaten to fire—on Burma nationals in the name of the DEA? This has escalated well beyond us versus the CIA. The minister of home affairs is now asking Ambassador Martin these same questions. I’m getting heat from all sides.”
“Fine. We can talk, but there’s no way I’m meeting Matthews in Tokyo. I believe he’s been sheltering Teller for several years, and may even be involved in the hijacking of MH370. He’s completely untrustworthy and—”
“And there’s nothing you or I can do about it, at least not until Friday. Burns and Llewellyn spoke earlier today, and Llewellyn is livid. If you have anything on Matthews, bring it to Tokyo. If Matthews is dirty, Llewellyn will go all the way to Director of National Intelligence Morris to get him removed. Burns feels the same way about you. In the meantime, get those servicemen out of Rangoon before we end up with an international incident or give the CIA even more ammunition against you. That’s an order.”
The call dropped, saving Hecker’s job in light of what he was about to say next. The driver pulled into the A-OK Clinic’s driveway abutting Inya Lake, midway between the Dubern Park annex and the US embassy proper. Hecker hopped out and stalked up the steps into reception. Chit was there with one of the local DEA clerical staff. Two perplexed nurses manned a counter, but the area was otherwise empty.
Nodding to his secretary, he turned to the DEA clerk and with a measured intensity that made the underling recoil, commanded, “Tell me again what you just said over the phone.”
“Dr. Yap is part owner of A-OK and works here afternoons. Yesterday Dr. Yap see old American around two. I have medicines list: two antibiotics, anti-nausea drug, and pint of blood. The old man pay one thousand US dollars cash. Dr. Yap not in clinic today. Yesterday he leave normal time at five. He say today he is at Aung Yadana Hospital. I call hospital one hour ago. They say he cancel all surgeries Monday. On leave. I ask here but nobody know where.”
Hecker pulled out a grainy enlargement of Teller’s Golden Elephant security headshot. He showed it to the women at reception. “Is this the person who came in yesterday afternoon?” One of the nurses slowly shook her head yes while the other continued to stare at the photo, silent and unmoving.
“This is unbelievable! Yap sees Teller for radiation exposure and eight hours later he’s working on Ryder. And Yap never mentions that he’s treated a patient with similar symptoms earlier in the same day? And now he’s gone?” Hecker ran his right hand through his thick brown mop while making chopping motions with the photo folder still clenched in his left. He looked like Tom Cruise’s angry big brother. “Where does Yap live?”
Chit silently handed over a piece of paper. Hecker looked at it and exploded, “Victoria Apartments? The same condo complex as half the embassy!
“You stay here to make certain the nurses don’t contact Yap. Chit, come with me. We’ll visit Victoria Apartments and try to find out where Yap’s gone on such short notice. See if you can get Zaw on the phone while we’re on the way.”
* * * * *
“So glad to meet you at long last.” Damien Barling was pumping Nolan’s hand like he expected three cherries followed by a cascade of quarters. After hiding the extra cash, Nolan had taken a cab from the tourist belt back to the embassy. Nolan was giving basement levels three and four a wide berth in case Constantine, Flynn, Melissa or anyone else came looking for him. A personal introduction to the Singapore DEA’s top man Barling was long overdue. Nolan had wandered through a maze of desks and partitions on basement two until he found his office in the corner.
“Really, the pleasure’s all mine after what you did a couple of days ago. Whatever happened to those two Russians?”
“ISD still has them in custody. The Russian goons were due to be expelled this morning for conduct incompatible with their diplomatic statuses, but I received an email from my contact that Constantine sent over a CIA interrogator to take a last crack.”
“Any idea when that request went out?”
“Hmm, looks like 8:35 a.m. Why?”
“Just curious,” Nolan said. “Speaking of curiosity, any reason given as to why the SVR wanted to snatch me?”
“From what the ISD’s Inspector Lum said, it was a rush job. Early Monday morning the head of the rezidentura, a lush by the name of Novikov, issued an emergency summons and gave them your photo, a York Hotel address, and said you were a CIA code breaker and enemy of Russia. Novikov told them to snatch you out of the hotel room, but if you weren’t there to make it look like a microchip burglary. Then they staked out the embassy until you left around lunchtime. They were to bring you in, cable Moscow and hold for further instructions. Other than that, they either don’t know squat or they’re not talking. The Singaporeans have had the SVR men awake since Monday afternoon, and they keep passing out on their feet so they’re not making a lot of sense at this point.”
“That’s the damnedest thing. My Agency work doesn’t have anything to do with Russia, and barely brushes up against the SVR.”
“You’re not the only one who’s puzzled. Lum would like you to drop by ISD for a chat. Nothing official, just a courtesy call since they rescued you.”
“Not a problem. Hey, I need to put in a call to Burma. Travis Ryder should be at the airport now. Before he flies I want to speak with him about what he saw on the docks.”
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“Yeah, Travis’s quite a character. Tell him I said get well soon. I’m surprised he even borrowed an exposure suit. He’s about as eager as they come. I’ll sneak some beers into the Sembawang infirmary when I see him tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan. Great meeting you. If you could forward Lum’s contact details, I’ll make an appointment to see him on Friday or early next week.”
“Will do.” Nolan headed to his cubicle wondering if Constantine had had embassy security tailing him at the time, and if so why they’d done nothing to stop the kidnap attempt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CRATERED
WEDNESDAY MARCH 12, BEIJING, SINGAPORE
This was only Yi Xiubao’s second Politburo Standing Committee meeting since President Gao had elevated him to one of the nine seats. It was a tough crowd. Gao Xiang only controlled six of the nine positions, which meant every meeting was played for keeps. What made Yi even more nervous was that Monday’s sacking of MSS Head Liu Zhenchang had more than just the recalcitrant Politburo members up in arms. Two of the president’s loyalists expressed concern. After the Iran ambassador’s bombshell on Tuesday—Yi winced at his own mental poor choice of words—the president ordered the PSC to clear their calendars for this eleven o’clock gathering. Several flew back to Beijing and most appeared in ill humor, having had far less time to scheme than normal.
The first hour was boisterous. MSS Head Liu had exited fighting, speaking to at least two PSC delegates and hinting darkly that Yi (and by implication Gao) was on the verge of making catastrophic misjudgments. Liu’s life of secrecy left him unwilling to articulate his precise concerns, but the loyal opposition was probing on several fronts. China’s actual military capabilities were under the microscope, with the resolve of the United States to respond if attacked receiving the bulk of the remaining discussion.