by Bradley West
“You can’t send in a report based on information classified beyond your security clearance. I’ll have to reproduce your research from scratch and leave you off those cc’d on the write-up, as it’s all sourced beyond Secret. If you file a report, Shook will see us fired for cause.
“Let’s get back to the Coulter-Teller links. Coulter put Teller into Golden Elephant in 2007, just when Teller said he joined. Coulter was one of the most powerful men in the CIA when that hiring took place. That means Frank Coulter has to be involved in the Airstrip One business. Did you find out his current address?” Nolan asked.
“No. Only that he retired in 2009. Seemed like a weird time to retire. In 2007 he received a congressional waiver to serve until he was seventy-five, but two years later he quit at sixty-nine. He took a couple million out in a lump-sum retirement settlement and dropped off the grid.”
“Coulter lost his job because of me,” Nolan confessed. “But that’s a story for another time.”
* * * * *
Tony Johnson stuck his head in the door of Hecker’s Hogwarts bedroom office. “I’m off to a new gig in Australia. I wanted to say thanks for the wild party, boss.” Hecker jumped out of his chair to pump Johnson’s hand. “You saved the day yesterday. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“You won’t, but Travis will.” Johnson leered. And with that he hefted his olive duffel bag and headed for the stairs.
“Tony! Why don’t you fly with Ryder as far as Singapore? You can connect from there.”
“That’s the plan. Catch ya on the flip side.”
Johnson slipped his dark wraparounds down off his forehead and onto his nose. He looked like a venomous snake, thought Hecker. Strike that: Tony Johnson was a viper.
* * * * *
Mark Watermen was cold. It was now light enough that he could find his way without a flashlight around his power- and heat-free apartment. The landline was dead and he’d never had a cell phone in Moscow. He had cold running water and the toilet flushed, but that was all. He made a sandwich for breakfast and sucked on orange sections. Nolan would send him a message, of that he was certain. How would he do it? Watermen would buy the day’s Wall Street Journal when it came out at the newsstand, but surely Godpa couldn’t have placed an ad in the last few hours. The only thing he could do was to stick with his routine and keep his eyes and ears open.
* * * * *
In a city lacking quality housing, the Victoria condo complex was one of the few decent places even in Rangoon’s Golden Valley neighborhood. Less than ten years old, it was five stories of white-tiled, well-finished apartments. The sixteen-hundred-square-foot, three-bedroom condominiums wouldn’t have wowed many other ASEAN capital cities, but in Rangoon they were the epitome of expatriate luxury and priced accordingly. Little wonder that the US embassy staff, both legitimate and covert, comprised more than a quarter of the tenants. Hecker knew it well, having played poker before at Abrahams’s bachelor pad.
Apartment #03-04 differed from the others on the floor only in that it had less shoe clutter outside. The building superintendent opened the door after Hecker showed him a DEA ID and a five-thousand kyat note. It seemed no one was home, even the helper. The lights were out. A pair of ceiling fans orbited lazily in the living room.
Hecker wandered from room to room until he found himself in the master bathroom where the doctor lay dead in a bloody bathtub half full of water. A white sock was stuffed far into Yap’s gaping mouth. Bruises at the base of his neck indicated where he’d been held down and there were a series of parallel deep cuts on his right biceps. Dried bloody splashes marred the porcelain. Ten seconds later, Chit’s scream had them both running toward the kitchen. She stood in the doorway of the maid’s quarters, hand over her mouth. The gagged helper was sprawled on the bed with her throat slit, a bloody spatter across the sheets. Flies buzzed.
Hecker wrapped his arm around Chit and left after telling the building super to call the police anonymously and leave Hecker out of it.
* * * * *
Nolan and Millie ate lunch in the embassy cafeteria. The food was lousy, but it was a quick meal. He said her new remit was to locate Frank Coulter. She had half a mind to tell him what a creep he was for not having the decency to invite her inside after he dumped her last night. Instead, she bit her lip and silently smoldered. Taking orders from this man wasn’t something she planned on doing for much longer.
They watched CNN from their table. Still nothing concrete on the plane, but the US concentrated search efforts in the mountainous seas over nine hundred miles off Perth, Western Australia. The story about the sunken airliner found in the Bay of Bengal by a reprogrammed mining satellite had already disappeared. The cause célèbre was the day-old news that staff at Inmarsat, the international shipping satellite company, used the Doppler effect to track a series of pings from the missing airplane with the last known direction south, toward Antarctica. Nolan knew several MI6 code breakers who worked under Inmarsat cover. He smelled misdirection.
Nolan asked, “Do you think everyone’s in on this?”
“What do you mean?” Millie replied.
“Look at the news. It’s as if they’re deliberately ignoring evidence and reporting only what they’re being told.”
“Do you think that the US government is behind this? Coulter maybe, but he’s been out of the Agency for five years. Teller and Burns could have been in on it, maybe helped by Matthews. The mainstream CIA still seems farfetched, especially if what you think is true and all those passengers are dead.” Millie was looking for reassurance that she knew wouldn’t be forthcoming.
“You have no idea what kind of animals we’re dealing with. Intelligence services are run by ruthless people who don’t think twice about trading innocent lives against the promise that there won’t be another 9/11. The Constitution is so far out of the picture that middle-level servicemen order drones to kill US citizens abroad with no charges even filed, much less proven. These are the people who wanted to kill Osama bin Laden so badly that they designed a phony child vaccination program designed to extract DNA from the children in bin Laden’s compound. Polio is now resurgent in Pakistan since the government cancelled all foreign-sponsored immunization programs when they found out what the CIA had been up to. These intelligence careerists don’t lose sleep over the deaths of 239 people. Not if they can get a medal and a photo op with a Cheney, Bush or Obama. Realpolitik didn’t die. It’s how the game’s still played.”
“You are a twisted old bastard.” It felt good to say it. “What could they possibly be after that was worth mass murder?”
“Ah, that question, the one that haunts my nights. At the very least, a nuclear centrifuge and maybe a lot more.” He stood up. “Look, I have to go out for a while. If my desk phone rings, pick it up. If it’s Hecker, have him try my cell. Watch out for yourself. If MH370 had any CIA connection—current or past—everyone will be in cover-their-asses mode. If it’s not the CIA, then it’s Russia, Israel, Britain, or maybe China. Each of them would be willing to kill to keep its secret.”
As he stood up, she looked at him in open disbelief at this theatrical statement. Was she supposed to be impressed just because Bob had declared that their lives were now endangered not just by Teller, but by every major spy agency?
Nolan left the cafeteria, sandwich half eaten. He stopped by his cubicle to scoop up the laptop and bag, quietly retrieved his secure token from Millie, and headed for the elevators as casually as he could manage. He imagined telephoto lens crosshairs bouncing around the base of his neck as he walked.
Out in the street, Nolan figured there would be two tails while the eavesdroppers transcribed the just-concluded conversation with Millie. If Constantine wasn’t in on it, what he had said should provide food for thought. Maybe that would buy him the half day he needed.
He still had some doctoring to do on the Russia version of Watermen’s NSA files, so he took a cab back to Watten Drive. First, however, he needed sleep.
The Pasdaran Quds colonel and officer in charge of Operation Menander spoke with finality to Unit #61398’s Beirut supervisor. “I don’t care what you claim Ambassador Ghorbani said to some Politburo member. I’ve received no such communication. Until I do, no one leaves. The Supreme Leader, the Grand Ayatollah Khamenei, told me himself only last month in Tehran that America and her allies must know and fear the cyber might of Iran. Your team stays in this building until the project is over.”
Deputy Assistant Director Kuo Po Lum said, “My comrades and I haven’t been aboveground in three months. We have rechecked the Menander uploading sequences several times, and confirm that the project is viable. I’m afraid we must leave Beirut today to return to China.”
Gilani was brusque at the best of times. His jowls quivered with rage. “You’ll not leave Beirut until the mission is complete. Those Hezbollah guards serve two purposes. Now get back to work!”
Kuo rose and left the room, eyes downcast.
The colonel motioned for Arshad to remain behind. “How much more time do you really need?”
“We’ve been done for two weeks. With a few minor tweaks, I lifted the screenshot of the American flag burning from the Saudi Aramco program I wrote back in early 2012. It should work fine, though unfortunately I don’t think we’ll infect thirty thousand PCs like we did last time.”
“Do the Chinese think you’re stalling?”
“Inshallah, no. They think we’re fools. They’ve been here since December and haven’t realized that Darab and Armeen are fluent in Mandarin.”
“How do you know they don’t speak Farsi?”
“Colonel, we never speak anything but English around them. We don’t want to raise suspicions. I’ve also spent a lot of time with Kwok Ying, the woman. She thinks I’m flirting with her.”
Gilani snorted.
“Kwok Ying confirmed that the programmers speak only Mandarin and English, and I believe her. Being chosen for Operation Menander was not a prestigious assignment, more like a punishment. They don’t think there’s anything they can learn from Iranians.”
“The High Council of Cyberspace assigned the eleven best programmers in the country to Operation Menander and made you, the legendary Mormoroth, their leader. And China sent us six people who are being punished? That’s beyond insulting.”
“We needed the Chinese to help set up the five-hundred-server global network that we’re now managing. That is the basis for the biggest distributed denial of service attack ever seen by a factor of five. The China programmers developed the software that synchronizes the massive data transfers that will crash every US satellite surveillance server. The Americans will need months to sort through the terabytes of nonsense we will feed them. Most importantly, the Chinese coded the worms that will disable the satellite downloads, and appear to have already uploaded them onto the NGA servers. They now only await activation. We have worked hard to try to determine how the coders accomplished these formidable tasks. To date, we have few clues.
“If the DDOS attack is as big as we’re hoping, the malware disabling the satellite imaging feeds will ruin their data processing capability for days. China’s programmers tell us the worms are coded to self-erase after a few hours. Iran will take credit for all of this.
“I inserted into the DDOS scripts many allusions to the Holy Koran to make certain the Zionists and their American puppets know we exacted our revenge for Stuxnet. They swear by Allah that they said nothing [evil], but indeed they uttered blasphemy.” Arshad, a.k.a. Mormoroth, wasn’t religious, but he knew how to play to an audience. What he lacked in piety, he more than made up for in loathing for the US.
“Why do we still need the Chinese here? Kuo is certain to call headquarters in Shanghai, and Ambassador Ghorbani in Beijing begged me to release them, but my orders from Tehran are that no one leaves.”
“We may still need their help, but won’t know until we go live. In theory, we could tap their expertise even if they were back in China. Even so, from the first meeting the Chinese said Iran would be on its own once the PLA programmers left Beirut. We will have zero leverage once they go.”
Gilani smiled and grabbed Arshad by both shoulders. “Mormoroth, this will be Iran’s greatest triumph. The Grand Ayatollah was clear in his instructions: we will launch Operation Menander on the Lailat al Miraj to commemorate the Prophet Muhammad’s ascension to heaven.”
“But Colonel, the Isra is over two months away, at the end of May.”
“In the meantime, see if you can find out more about the architecture of the worms they’ve uploaded. And do what you can to deepen the destructiveness of the DDOS.”
“Certainly, sir. The beauty of a DDOS attack is that there can never be too much. Just when all their efforts are diverted to reversing the DDOS, the worms will activate and strike them blind, Inshallah.”
As he watched the young man walk out of his office, Gilani wondered if Arshad had really bought the nonsense story of delaying Menander to coincide with an Islamic holiday. The Grand Ayatollah might be a religious man, but he was also pragmatic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ZERO HOUR
WEDNESDAY MARCH 12, SINGAPORE, RANGOON
Nolan knew something was wrong when he entered his home office. The computer case was missing the fleck of dust he’d positioned on a hinge. That would be the transmitter for the key logger. The backup hard drive on the desktop had been tampered with. Fortunately, he’d never put anything of value into that decoy. The room and his landline would be wired. He assumed there was a camera installed, especially with Constantine as the authorizer. For all he knew, Dick Constantine would get his jollies watching Millie and him go at it. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
And with his tails presumably parked down the street, he knew that if he did anything on camera that looked suspicious—say, retrieving the microSD cards with Watermen’s purloined NSA files—he would hear the sound of boots on his staircase within minutes. So that would have to wait until dark.
Nolan pulled down the blackout curtains, set the alarm for 6 p.m. and put on eyeshades. Once Mei Ling landed, he would be working nonstop if they were to free Joanie tonight. He would have to pack and evade his tails before getting to the airport. He put his cell on silent and disconnected the landline.
* * * * *
Hecker had sent Chit home after visiting Yap’s apartment. It was a grisly scene even if you were a veteran of the Miami field office, where messy drug murders were a weekly occurrence. He called the office and asked for two support staff to come to Hogwarts to sort out flights for the Wild Bunch. The DEA could get Team Ryder safely to Immigration, but from there they’d be on their own until departure—not ideal, given that the Zeya-Nolan airport fiasco had cost the DEA whatever minimal influence it once wielded. Gonzalez and a couple of locals were outside the terminal on standby, but given Steinlager’s admonition, there wasn’t a lot of latitude for an armed response unless circumstances were dire.
He summoned Gunny Tanner and gave him the news that all were to leave Rangoon as quickly as possible. Hecker assured Gunny that everything good that had happened in the last day and a half was due to the Wild Bunch’s efforts: finding the container at the port, interrogating Teller’s men, thwarting the attack on Club Avatar, and managing the evacuation of people and materiel to Hogwarts.
On merit, Gunny would have ended up an officer if not for his outspokenness, affinity for redeye whiskey and passion for brawling. He offered Hecker an unvarnished opinion. “I appreciate the kind words, but let’s not blow any smoke. Once we leave, you don’t have enough combat-ready men to protect this safe house. Gonzalez is ex-Corps, but there’s not another professional soldier here. Mr. Hecker, you’re SOL.”
Hecker knew Gunny was right. It was unrealistic to think there would be no repercussions after a week’s worth of assaulting airport security guards, kidnapping Burma nationals employed by the powerful Golden Elephant group, shooting up the nei
ghborhood around Club Avatar, defying the Army at Port Thilawa . . . and the list went on. “Fair assessment. What can we do?”
“Cut off the head of the snake. Find and kill Teller. The pressure will either cease or it will come to a boil. Leaving things as they are invites retaliation at the time and place of your foe’s choosing. That’s a bad situation, sir.”
“We’ve been trying to find Teller for almost a week. We know he was exposed to high levels of radiation and is on the run.”
“Look harder, but know this: a wounded man doesn’t run very far before he turns and makes his stand. Who do you have that can handle his security detail in a gunfight?”
“Who do you suggest?”
“Sergeants Earl Gerard and Larry Michaels of Delta Unit, sir. Both are on a week’s leave and sick of doing fuck-all at Firebase Lilley now that the politicians have decided the war in Afghanistan is over. Corner Teller and let these two finish him.”
“Thank you, Gunny. Can you ask Michaels and Gerard to come see me? I’d like a private word.”
* * * * *
His cell rang. “Nolan here.”
“Bob, it’s Sam. Where are you?”
“I’m at home. The Agency has tapped my phones, so speak clearly; transcribing audio costs the taxpayers a hundred and eighty bucks an hour.”
“I’ve just come from the apartment of the doctor who treated Travis for radiation sickness. It turns out this Dr. Yap also saw Teller yesterday for the same symptoms.”
“So what did Yap have to say?”
“Nothing. He was dead in the tub, probably suffocated, but also cut. Someone just about decapitated his helper as well.”
“Teller’s vicious, that’s for certain.”
“That’s not the reason I called. I’ve just seen the first draft of those special conversations. I’d say your suspicions ring true about a passenger plane in the delta.”
“I’m keen to hear more, but let me fill you in from my side first in case we are cut off. I spoke with Travis a couple of hours ago. Based on the lab reports and high U-235 radiation readings and the large size of the crate, I’d wager that it held a centrifuge used to refine bomb-grade uranium. The new nuclear powers like Pakistan, India and North Korea use these. It takes thousands of centrifuges hooked up in a series called a cascade, but eventually you end up with twenty-five percent pure U-235 in large enough quantities to make a starter A-bomb. Iran probably has the most centrifuges of all. Libya used to have a couple hundred when they had a weapons program. Egypt is rumored to be in the market. So there’s no shortage of possible countries of origin. What we need is a look at the actual machine to determine where it came from.”