by Bradley West
Hecker gathered his thoughts. “So MH370 gets hijacked, lands in back-of-beyond Burma in the middle of the night where they offloaded a centrifuge. It falls off the forklift, cracks the lead casing and they manage the next day to stuff it into a container. From there, it’s back to Plan A. They try to ship it out on the SS Bandana, bound for Malaysia and Australia. Damn. This is beyond my pay grade.”
“There's more. Millie’s also found that Frank Coulter suggested to Khun Sa that he hire Teller into Golden Elephant in 2007. Coulter was forced out of the CIA in 2009, and Millie’s now trying to find out where he is. If he’s still active, this puts the plot squarely inside the Company. If he’s mounted a rogue operation, Coulter would be well placed given his former position as head of covert operations, huge networks and substantial Asia experience.”
“How old is Coulter?”
“He’d have to be at least seventy-five.”
“So his big Rolodex contains a bunch of people of his generation, like Teller, Windham or Cyrus Crowley?”
“Yes, of course,” Nolan said. “Can you tell me anything more specific about what you learned from those conversations Johnson had?”
“Well, the bastard who shot Dara was the one who escaped when that second RPG blew out Avatar’s living room wall. We had him in our hands and he slipped away. The runway seems to have been built by North Korean prisoners, people who fell afoul of the regime. How they made it to Burma, I’m not certain. Over eighteen months, Teller’s gunmen stood watch while these prisoners worked on that phony six lane road. That’s why so few locals know much about Airstrip One. None of them were involved in the construction. About a month ago, they finished painting lines on the runway, and Golden Elephant trucked the surviving Koreans back to wherever they came from. One of Teller’s men told us that several of the Koreans used Wa phrases. So maybe they came from Northern or Southern Wa districts.”
“The Wa? Aren’t they headhunters?”
“Used to be, but taking heads died out in the sixties. The Wa tribes are mean, independent and loosely allied with China in the north. In the south, they’ve paired up with the Army. The Army lets ’em do their own drug production and trafficking, plus operate a militia styled as the United Wa Army. This hands-off approach is in return for the Wa fighting a bigger group struggling for an independent Shan State. Unfortunately, we have no informants in Wa territory: they are very tight-knit.”
“Damn. Well that’s an interesting wrinkle. Maybe there’s a North Korea tie-in with the centrifuge. What else?”
“Even before it was finished, Teller was definitely using the runway for the last six weeks for drug runs at night, about seven or eight flights in all. Until early Saturday morning, the aircraft were the same, either DC-9s or similar. Some planes were unmarked and some had Burma armed forces liveries. Tons of product went out in return for bales of dollars and arms. One of the gunmen did periodic sentry duty in the shed near the runway. On flight days it was filled with bags of powder trucked in, and afterwards, with gunnysacks of notes. Teller brought in non-GE people to do the counting, packaging and palletizing of mounds of hundred-dollar bills. Like millions and millions of dollars in shrink-wrapped bundles on skids moved using forklifts. Sounds like something out of the movies.”
“What happened to the money?” Nolan asked.
“I’m getting to that. The plane landed around 3 a.m. and it was a commercial jet, huge and noisy in comparison with the others they’d serviced. They’d lit Airstrip One up with flashlights and infrared beacons, and used Klieg lights to direct the pilots. The engines stayed on while it was on the ground.
“Teller had a skid-mounted wire basket that people stood in while a forklift raised it to the level of the passenger door. Several people exited that plane and rode down. No one but Teller and the forklift driver ever had a close look at the VIPs as the Klieg lights were moved to keep them in the shadows. Best guess is that it was two or three people only, though one interviewee swore there were four. Everyone taken off the plane was hustled into a big SUV and the vehicle drove up the runway and out of sight.
“The cargo took about a half hour to unload. Then there was the accident with a crate toppling to the ground. The big forklift almost flipped. That crate was much heavier than they’d expected. Teller was furious when the wooden case split and waved the jet up the runway. Someone on board shut the forward door. Teller’s people pulled the wheel chocks, and the jet rolled down the airstrip in the same direction as the SUV. The repairs and cleanup occupied a dozen people for the better part of an hour. Teller flitted back and forth between the crate, and up the runway where those VIPs were in the vehicle, working a walkie-talkie all the while.
“No one could tell if anyone re-boarded the plane. About an hour later, the jet flew off in the same direction as the landing so none of Teller’s guards saw it again. There were people paired up on either side of the runway, spaced fifty meters apart and holding flashlights for at least a kilometer. As soon as the plane was up, those lights went out. This was a major production with lots of local participants, yet no one is talking, not even to Zaw’s men. The locals are beyond scared. Petrified is more like it.”
“What did Teller’s men see on the plane when it was on the ground? Were there people looking out the windows?”
“Every window shade was down. The plane was dark save for landing lights and the internal light from the open forward passenger door.”
“Just what we suspected.” Nolan’s tone was somber. “The passengers were all dead before it landed.” Nolan took no joy in learning his dire prediction proved true.
Hecker said, “There’s more. Both Kliegs focused on that clusterfuck of a broken crate. Teller’s men threw ropes around it, pulled it upright, and tried to maneuver it back onto the forks so they could move it. This went on for some time, maybe ninety minutes. Then less than twenty minutes after MH370 had taken off, a small commuter jet landed, guided in by the same flashlight crew. It, too, taxied to the shed, but Teller waved them up the runway into the darkness, where the SUV was parked. None of the interviewees were up that far so they don’t know what happened. But—you’ll love this—one of the forklifts made three trips from the shed up that road, each time carrying a cube of money. No more than thirty minutes after landing, the jet flew out with millions of dollars and maybe new passengers.”
“Did anything out of the cargo hold of MH370 go up the runway via vehicle or forklift?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if that question was even asked. One of the forklifts moved the cargo they’d offloaded from the plane to the shed. I don’t know what happened from there other than the three cubes of money.”
“Did anyone at the runway ID the first plane as being MAS?” Nolan’s exasperation was beginning to show.
“None of Teller’s storm troopers read English, and we didn’t think to show them MAS colors or logos. So no positive ID on the plane as being a Malaysia Airlines Boeing.”
“What happened next?”
“Teller deduced that what they were handling was dangerous. They moved the crate into the shed, shut the door and pulled the guards back fifty yards or so. Within hours most of the people who had worked directly with the spill were vomiting, blistered and burned, and had huge headaches. They started dying on Saturday afternoon and more died on Sunday.”
Hecker continued, “Here’s a cheery aside. One of Teller’s gunmen told us the only reason he was talking was that he was dying anyway. There wasn’t anything we could threaten him with that Mr. Toffer couldn’t and wouldn’t surpass if he squealed. Quite a reputation, Uncle Jay.”
Nolan was amped. “You’ve cracked it! Can you get a summary of all this typed up and circulated? Spread it throughout the DEA senior echelons and see how they want to play the CIA’s possible involvement. Just get the word around so that when the clamps come down—and you know they will—the CIA won’t be able to suppress what you discovered.”
“That’s not happening. I’m
under tremendous pressure from my boss to get all the Special Forces people out of the country ASAP. She has ordered me to fly Friday to Tokyo to meet Burns, Matthews and her. Matthews wants me fired. I want to see that slimy fucker put away for twenty years for shielding Teller and Lord only knows who or what else. The conversations that sourced the information were off the record. We can speak more when you’re not on a party line.”
“I just remembered something. After Teller stabbed Kyaw, Teller said something about the toll road being abandoned because the free labor was gone. The North Korea prisoner angle was what he was talking about. If you can find the people who built the runway, they will talk. We need to find that prisoner camp, and most of all, we have to find Teller. Any ideas?”
“Let me get Zaw on it. He’s been trying to figure out who Teller’s local protector is. That will get us closer.”
“Please email me if you get anything more out of those conversations.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.” Hecker hung up and stared at the phone. He’d been at the DEA seventeen years. He had outlasted and outthought more rivals than he cared to recollect. Since taking up this position in 2012, he finally had a good posting, one far enough away to offer independence and close enough to the bad guys to provide action. He wasn’t sure he was willing to put it all on the line over what might or might not have happened to MH370. What if the CIA really did hijack the plane? If they had, they wouldn’t be lax in dealing with those who exposed them. Lloyd Matthews, however, had to go. And Robin Teller had to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
UP IN THE AIR
WEDNESDAY MARCH 12, SOUTHERN SHAN STATE, BURMA; RANGOON; MOSCOW; SINGAPORE, GUANGZHOU, SOUTHERN CHINA
Twenty-five hours after leaving Rangoon, the Toyota Crown carrying Colonel Mullen and Major Teller arrived at the final checkpoint. It was formidable, offering egress only through double ten-foot-high chain-link fences, coiled razor wire adorning each fence top and a fifteen-foot-wide water-filled moat in between. This time the driver’s credentials didn’t get them through.
Five minutes later a jeep roared up to the guardhouse with a uniformed major in command. He spoke with the sentry and examined their letter of transit, then walked over. A half-conscious Teller lowered the electric window and said something in Burmese. The major broke into a wide smile and took off his dark sunglasses. In fair English he said, “Welcome, Mr. Toffer. Is there anything I can do?”
“We’re hungry. We need to shower, shit and shave. I need to see Dr. Wang, that MD who used to work on the Great Dictator’s nuclear program. Short fellow, about fifty years old. Good English.”
The major’s smile vanished. “That man died last week in warehouse accident.”
“Well, then I’m fucked for sure.”
* * * * *
Hecker’s cell rang. Police Major Zaw had been busy. Teller’s patron was none other than General Hkwang, Army Chief of Staff and feudal overlord of Southern Shan State. Zaw guessed that Teller had most likely fled to Southern Wa territory if he was still in Burma. Hecker briefed Zaw on the North Korean slave labor angle, and asked him to check for concentrations of Koreans in-country.
“I never heard of Korea prisoners. I know someone on general’s staff. I will ask him,” Zaw said. “But don’t drive to Shan State to look for Toffer. General controls the roads sixty miles from Yangon and north. Let me find white man and Koreans. Then you fly.”
Hecker said, “Great. I really owe you for all your help since Saturday.”
“You told me when I moved from Lashio to Einme that you send my family to USA if I wanted to leave Myanmar. I want to leave soon, this place no good for me now.”
“Not a problem once Toffer is in jail or dead. Don’t try to capture him yourself. Let the DEA handle it.”
Zaw’s reply was instantaneous and forceful. “I’m not crazy. Toffer is for DEA.”
Hecker couldn’t help but laugh as he hung up. Zaw was quite the bantam fighting cock, but behind the bravado he had a strong self-preservation streak. While Teller hadn’t fazed him before, Zaw was now worried. A rising, honest police major could not afford to be on the wrong side of any general, particularly the chief of staff. Zaw figured it was time to book those plane tickets to Disneyland and Hecker didn’t blame him.
When Hecker ducked in, the conference room was empty save for Michaels and Gerard, who were watching CNN and sharpening their TOPS Anaconda knives.
“The noose is tightening. Hang loose and expect a plane or helicopter ride soon.” Hecker picked up a nod each from the taciturn duo.
God was he ever tired. Just an hour’s shut-eye, thought Hecker. One hour was all he asked.
* * * * *
Watermen wasn’t sure if the temperature outside was any colder than in the apartment. Ice cream would keep in either place. He stuck to his normal routine, heading north up Tverskaya Street. Without his glasses, everything farther away than ten yards away took on a glaze. Chumakov’s standing instructions were to vacate the apartment for at least an hour every day. It gave the FSB minders time to confirm that their bugs were all in good working order, and dick around with his laptops.
The wind out of the east put a sting in his cheeks as he crossed the road and walked into Strastanaya Square. Most days he walked about three miles, the majority in loops around interconnected parks. Strastanaya Square was the focal point with a subway stop nearby. But today, of all days, where should he walk? The answer stood in front of him, the centerpiece of the square: the gigantic bronze statue of poet Alexander Pushkin.
* * * * *
Dick Constantine’s ire was palpable. Melissa Shook, Ho Ee Ling and in-house counsel Maury Shoenstein had assembled at his order. “Let me make certain I have this straight. Yesterday morning, Nolan agreed with Melissa that he’s off the task force. He and that Indian researcher, Millie whatshername.”
“Millicent Mukherjee. Correct. We nearly came to blows in the conference room after the morning meeting. There was nothing I asked for from that man.” Melissa’s voice trembled with emotion.
Turning to Ee Ling, Constantine asked, “And yesterday morning shortly after the meeting with Melissa, Nolan came to you and said he needed maps of police stations in small towns in Guangdong Province outside Xinhui, wherever the hell that is?”
“Yes. He said Melissa wanted them because she was chasing a VIP MSS official on MH370 who was from around there. Nolan told me Melissa was holding back the details because she wanted to claim the credit when we made an ID.”
“And you believed him?” Melissa asked.
“Of course I did. That sounded like you.”
Constantine ignored Ee Ling’s accusation. “And you emailed him the maps later yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes I did.”
He turned to Melissa and said, “And Nolan didn’t forward these to you? You’re certain of this?”
“Of course I’m certain. What, you think I’d delete something he sent me without reading it simply because it came from him?” Hearing herself, she hastily added, “He didn’t send me an email. Ask IT to check it out.”
“I will,” said Constantine. “Maury?”
“We don’t have grounds to detain Nolan until we can review yesterday’s email traffic. Pulling and reviewing those records will take one to two hours. We first need clearance to read his emails and review the phone transcripts once Legal and Compliance go through them. That means maybe two hours more before we’ll know what Nolan has.”
“For Pete’s sake, I’m chief of station! My security clearance is higher than everyone's in the building, including the ambassador’s. I want those emails on my desk and I want Nolan picked up!”
“We can’t do that without exposing the Agency and you to lawsuits. Play it by the book, even if it takes a couple of hours more. You already have men on Nolan: he can’t do anything without our knowing.”
* * * * *
The Beechcraft King Air made a smooth landing. The Paya Lebar mil
itary airport on the eastern end of Singapore wasn’t far away from Changi Airport, home to the busiest runways in the world. Ryder slept most of the way, knocked out by strong antibiotics and fatigue. Johnson was awake the entire flight, still wired from Tuesday’s Battle of Club Avatar and the interrogation sessions. The grunge music through his headphones kept him amped.
SPC Johnson pulled off his headset and grabbed Ryder’s wrist. “I’m off. I’ve got a few hours to kill before I’m due over at Seletar Airport around midnight. I’ll be away no more than ten days, then back to Khost. By the time you return from Hawaii, I’ll be ready for epic intercourse and intoxication. I’ll rent a big Benz and you supply the women. Pussy and gasoline are a great combination.”
Ryder grinned. “You need to meet Bob Nolan. He’s based here and has been driving the MH370 investigation along with Hecker. Nolan’s promised me a big night in Orchard Towers. Join us for the Fifth Floor Special.”
“That’s affirmative. We’ll make it a threesome with Buddy Boy Bob.” Johnson slapped Ryder on the arm and crossed the blacktop under leaden skies, duffel slung over his shoulder.
“Lay back, Mr. Ryder. We have to get this gurney down so we can transport you to Sembawang.” Ryder stared at the ceiling. Lord, how he hated being flat on his back. At least this time his eardrums were intact and both his legs weren’t full of shrapnel.