by Bradley West
“Bob, is that you?” Joanie’s voice was full of anticipation. “Dad, you there?” came Mei Ling’s voice. They were on speaker.
“Yes, it’s me. Hi, guys! Are you OK?”
“Yes, yes we are. A little bored and concerned about you, but otherwise we’re fine. Have you heard from Bert?” Joanie was speaking thirteen to the dozen, words spilling over one another.
“I’m fine. I’m safe. Bert’s free and more or less fine. He’s emailed me in the last few hours, but obviously he’s anxious, too. Look, the reason for the call is that the MSS is letting you go home to Singapore.” Joanie and Mei Ling babbled excitedly. Nolan made eye contact with Kaili, and she signaled with her hands for him to tone it down.
“It’s not straightforward. What I’ve negotiated is that the two of you will board a commercial airline bound for Singapore late tomorrow morning. The flight will take just under four hours. If everything goes as planned, by the time you land you’ll be free to deplane and enter Singapore. If there are glitches—and there certainly could be—there might be a delay in exiting through passport control, or they may put you on the return flight to Guangzhou. However, I thought it sufficiently high probability that you’d be free that I suggested this approach to the Chinese, and they agreed.”
“That sucks,” Mei Ling said.
Joanie countered, “Don’t talk like that to your father. Do you know how hard he’s worked to free us? Don’t be an ingrate.”
Nolan didn’t know whether to swell with pride or cringe in shame at his wife’s loyalty. “Guys, just relax as best you can the rest of today, get a good night’s sleep and be ready to fly around 10:30 or 11 tomorrow morning.”
“We love you,” Joanie said. “Try to find out more about what’s happening with Bert, please. Tell him to get in contact.”
“Honey, that wouldn’t be wise. Bert has to remain invisible. We’ll bring him over once you guys are safe.”
“Dad, what about you? When are you coming home?” Mei Ling asked.
“I’m not certain, darling. Take care of your mother and it will all be fine. I love you guys.” Nolan hung up, eyes brimming.
Kaili took her phone back. “OK, let me take another look at your Russia NSA disk before you destroy it in my presence.”
Nolan was probably delivering his family from a mainland prison to either a US or Singapore equivalent. As long as he was on the run, adversaries would continue to apply pressure through the people he loved. One step at a time, one step at a time, he told himself. First, he’d free godson Mark, and next he’d get his family. The Ranger motto No man left behind was going on the Nolan family coat of arms, or he would die trying. He brushed his eyes with the back of his hand and fetched a cufflink.
* * * * *
When Grand Ayatollah Ali Khamenei convened the Supreme National Security Council, the members were used to listening rather than speaking. While today’s meeting was no different, the enormity of what had already been decided struck many as overstepping even the Supreme Leader’s authority.
“My brothers, today Iran is on the verge of returning to greatness. Of overturning over sixty years of shame since the CIA overthrew Mosaddegh and installed their godless puppet Pahlavi. We have suffered ever more indignities at the hands of the Americans with economic boycotts, innocent lives lost through the destruction of an Iranian airliner, and attacks on our sovereignty via computer viruses. We have tolerated the Zionist filth in our midst long enough. Those days are now over!
“In the next three days we will blind the Great Satan, destroy the Little Satan and take our deserved place as the preeminent power in the Middle East. The Saudis, the Jordanians, the Syrians, the Gulf States and many more will all acknowledge Iran’s greatness and pay tribute!”
The dozen members of the NSC applauded politely and looked up and down the table for the nod or gesture that would tell them that someone, anyone, understood what the Grand Ayatollah was talking about. Instead there was nothing, just blank faces meeting quizzical looks. The Supreme Leader stood up and exited, trailing aides in his wake.
President Hassan Rouhani was in the chair. His comments were only slightly more enlightening. “Brothers, we are poised to strike a mighty blow against the United States and its vassal Israel. These are steps not taken lightly, and there will be both military and economic repercussions, but Inshallah, we shall prevail and return this country to a pinnacle not reached since Darius the Great oversaw an empire that dwarfed anything Rome ever ruled.” If Rouhani had uttered his canned words with conviction, the other NSC members might have left the room feeling more confidence than dread.
* * * * *
After almost three hours dodging thunderheads and suffering numb eardrums as high-velocity raindrops tattooed the plane’s thin skin, the four passengers on the Pilatus Porter preferred combat to continued flight. The plane skidded to a stop halfway down the runway at Mong Hsat field, the door popped open and out charged Gerard, Michaels and the two policemen. They took up defensive positions while glassing the strip, but the airport was deserted with neither a plane nor vehicle in sight. Two hundred twenty yards away stood a single-story cinderblock building with a silent radar beacon on the roof. The Delta team sergeants advanced in leapfrog fashion while Zaw’s men stayed back and guarded the plane. The rain died out and steam rose up off the hot blacktop despite the overcast conditions.
The flimsy padlock yielded on the first kick and from the musty smell, the office hadn’t seen a visitor in many months. There was a generator set with about a gallon of fuel in a nearby can, but they didn’t bother. By their reckoning, they had little more than an hour to arrange the welcome party for Robin Teller and his merry men.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MANEUVERING FOR POSITION
THURSDAY MARCH 13, BURMA; ABU DHABI; KUNUNURRA, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; COLOMBO; SINGAPORE; SHAN STATE, BURMA
Matthews put in the call. The old man seemed to be in better spirits as evidenced by his hearty, “Yeah?”
“How far are you from the airstrip?”
“I don’t know. Let me check.” Matthews could hear Teller speaking with someone. “The major says we’re fifteen minutes away.”
“There’s still time. I’ve just received intel that there’s an ambush set up at the airfield.”
“An ambush? How can there be a fucking ambush out here? By who?”
“Did you see or hear a plane fly overhead?”
“No. It just stopped raining and there’s low cloud cover. I haven’t heard anything.”
“Acting on a tip, the DEA and embassy Marines flew in ahead and are waiting. You can’t go back, either. The same source reported that US Spec Ops troops were en route to assault the camp you just left. You’ll have to fight your way onto one of the planes, either theirs or yours.”
“How in the hell did anyone find out where I was?”
“I have no idea, but I suggest you start worrying about the future and not the past. Call me when you get airborne.” Matthews hung up. Damn it! He’d called too early. Five minutes would have been the right lead time, not fifteen. A man with Teller’s background could come up with a new order of battle in a quarter hour.
A few hundred miles to the north, Teller’s driver spoke into his walkie-talkie and both vehicles stopped. Teller gathered the soldiers around him while he jabbed at different points on the map he’d scratched in the mud. Bourey translated while Mullen looked on, the realization dawning that Teller might be sufficiently busy that he wouldn’t have time to kill him until after the battle. In a gunfight, anything could happen.
* * * * *
Chumakov’s swarthy complexion reddened visibly as he read Nolan’s insolent email. Blackmailed. Unbelievable. Abouzeid must have double-crossed him. How he would enjoy pulling the nails out of that filthy Lebanese go-between’s manicured fingers . . . .
Watermen’s voice jolted him from his vengeful thoughts. “Do you want me to reply? They’ve already issued the last call for transit passen
gers.” Most of the last hour was taken up with Chumakov’s quizzing him on the documents index he’d typed on the first leg. It had only been five minutes since Chumakov had passed the thumb drive over to one of the flunkies, who even now was lining up at immigration before making a beeline to the local SVR outpost to process the contents.
“Tell Nolan I agree to his terms, but I want to meet at the Park Street Hotel instead of the Cinnamon Grand Hotel. The Park Street is quieter and much smaller. It will be easier to do our business there.”
Yeah, easier for you to put a bullet between my eyes, Watermen thought. He typed a few lines first warning Nolan that their disk TOCs had to match. He then passed along Chumakov’s agreement to the deal, provided it was at the Park Street Hotel, not the Cinnamon Grand. He hit “send” and closed down the laptop.
Chumakov was already having his boarding pass inspected at the gate. The Tartar turned and called, “Hurry, Oleg, the lamb shashlik is to die for!”
* * * * *
Tony Johnson fished another can from the bedside ice bucket and stuffed it into the neoprene cozy thoughtfully provided by the Kununurra Country Club. He used the remote to surf between crummy rerun movies and even crappier rerun Australia cricket matches. He popped the top on his third XXXX Gold. It tasted marginally better than American light beer, but that wasn’t saying much.
Clicking off the TV, he put on his headphones and plugged the jack into his cell phone. He listened to the interrogation recordings for the second time. First would come his question in English, then the translation from Zaw’s man Lazum, and finally either silence or gibberish in Burmese. Next Johnson went to work. You could hear the drill, the hammer or the gas jet lighter firing up followed by the screams—oh the screams—then tears and babbling before talking between sobs. Between the two of them—Johnson’s reading faces and body language, and Lazum hearing what they’d said—he either smashed another toe, scorched a nipple, or decided the subject had had enough for the time being before turning his attention to another unfortunate detainee within earshot.
Johnson had deployed enhanced interrogation methods for the past dozen years. Torture was as much a science as an art. Only with practice did one strike the balance between the prisoner taking the interrogator seriously and the rapid removal of body parts such that the subject became indifferent to his fate. In March 2003 alone, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was waterboarded 183 times over his role as the 9/11 mastermind, and yet he hadn’t talked. What his interrogators didn’t know was that al Qaeda Pakistan held Khalid’s children. The Sheikh was prepared to die, not because of his loyalty to bin Laden and al Qaeda, but because cooperation meant the death of his children. That was how leverage could alter the balance of power between detainee and interrogator.
Johnson dozed off listening to the playback. He awoke and was bored. He wished for Netflix. He was in the mood for Marathon Man, the thinking man’s Deliverance. There was something about excruciating dental agony and rectal sanctity that made indelible impressions on adolescent minds. No matter where he went in the Commonwealth, every white man had seen at least one of those two movies. Having a translator render “You have a purdy mouth” into Pashto, and now Burmese, had never produced usable intel.
Sitting up, he decided to head to the gym. He still had three hours before dinner with a name he’d heard around the campfire for many years.
* * * * *
The exchange between Kaili and the China embassy was a brief one. She confirmed that the exchange was scheduled for ten Friday morning in the lobby of Colombo’s Cinnamon Grand Hotel. In reply, she was instructed to stay by Nolan’s side and to find out the names and locations of the high-value people from MH370, even if it entailed accompanying him into danger, US custody or overseas.
She reported that Nolan had destroyed both of his versions of the NSA files, and would feed the Russians the MSS’s adulterated copy. She would stick with Nolan until Watermen was dead, and she knew who and where the high-value people from MH370 had ended up.
The exchanges stopped and she paused to reflect. If you had asked her last night at eight, she’d have told you Bob Nolan would be eating out of her hand right now. Yet today he was distant to the point of aloof. It was a matter of professional necessity, as well as personal curiosity, that she bridge that divide.
* * * * *
Teller ordered Bourey, “Get a chopper here, preferably a gunship. Or fly in troops and land them alongside us.”
Bourey replied, “My walkie-talkie has three-mile range. Give me satellite phone.”
Teller turned on his unit and frowned. “The battery’s almost dead. Be quick.”
Bourey dialed Rangoon, spoke rapidly and hung up. “We wait five minutes,” was his cryptic comment. The satphone rang soon after, and Bourey answered with a series of grunts and nods. He hung up and handed the phone back. “No helicopters. Low ceiling and poor mechanicals in Southern Wa. Most helicopters in Rangoon or in northern Shan, closer to poppies.”
Teller said, “We’re staying here until our plane from Thailand lands. We’ll adopt a defensive posture and make them come to us. No fucking way we’re driving up that road into an ambush.” Teller’s already foul mood darkened visibly. He punched a phone number, waited for Matthews’s voice and began shouting, “You cocksucker! You don’t think I know you set me up? I’m coming back to Rangoon to gut you! I’ll choke you to death on your own tongue! You fucking traitor!” A coughing spasm shook him for a good ten seconds.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we’re both in deep trouble here. The plane from Thailand is inbound and landing in thirty minutes. Charlie Meursault is piloting as a personal favor. I strongly suggest you get to Meursault’s Piper and fly out with him.”
“Any idea what firepower we’re up against?”
“It’s the DEA and the Marines. One can’t shoot straight, and the other can’t think straight. Do the unexpected and you’ll be fine.”
“You say they flew in ahead? They have a plane on the runway?”
“Yes, that’s my under—” The satphone’s battery died with a beep. Teller flung the phone down in frustration, cracking the screen. He pocketed the device while Bourey and the troops watched uneasily.
They turned as one in response to commotion from the first vehicle. Doctor Wang awoke and called out. Teller told Bourey something in Burmese, and Bourey barked at his soldiers. Two attended to the physician while the rest regrouped.
“Is there any other way to the airfield other than this road? Can we get to the runway from the northeast rather than the southwest?” Teller asked.
Bourey creased his brow in concentration. “Yes! A two-wheeled track. Very rough. Need four-wheel drive, not this.” He gestured dismissively at the Toyota Crown.
Teller had the solution. “Pull the doctor out of the Land Rover and put him in the Toyota. We’ll leave the driver and Colonel Mullen here. When the fight’s over, we’ll come back for them. Mullen, you OK with this?”
Better than two bullets in the back of the head. “Sure, Rob. If there’s no room in the other vehicle, I’ll stay here.”
In heavily accented, atonal Burmese, Teller said, “We don’t have much time. Let’s move out, people!”
Bourey started shouting and his troops double-timed it, shifting weapons and ammo from the Crown to the battered Land Rover before they placed a semiconscious and groaning Dr. Wang into the back seat of the Crown. His feet hung out the open door as he moaned in pain. A soldier roughly forced his legs inside and slammed the door.
Throughout this quick-change operation, Mullen had kept his eye on his carry-on bag with the Sig to ensure it remained on the floor of the back seat. Teller, Bourey and their men reversed course and headed back to look for the turnoff into the jungle.
* * * * *
The flight from Abu Dhabi to Colombo departed on time. Watermen was exhausted from both the stress of the first leg and having to second-guess Godpa as to which files he’d leave in, which ones he’
d delete and which ones he’d doctor before handing anything to their enemy. It was like playing telepathic bridge. That Herculean ordeal over, he steeled himself for Chumakov’s next torment. Disconcertingly, Chumakov didn’t do anything untoward save reclaim the laptop. The FSB director made a big show of pulling out an English language paperback, one of those pulp spy novels with exploding airplanes on the cover, Ocean of Deceit. Watermen figured it for trash, but Chumakov was reading keenly to the point of underlining certain passages.
With four hours to kill before landing, Watermen’s first-class flatbed hummed a siren’s song he couldn’t ignore and he was soon fast asleep.
Chumakov stumbled on a Chinese word denoting a computer infected with malware. According to his espionage page-turner, PLA Unit #61398 dubbed these compromised machines rouji, “meat chickens.” That’s what the slumbering Watermen was right now: a big, juicy rouji.
* * * * *
Doyle called Constantine. “Your hunch was right. Nolan’s using one of his Agency hackers, Vishnu Balendra, age twenty-six, unemployed rich kid. Bit of a jack-of-all-trades. No overt intelligence ties, but he practices anti-surveillance routines that suggest some instruction, probably from Nolan. In any event, we’ve traced Nolan to the Colombo Racquets Club. Talk about hiding in plain sight—it’s practically next door to our embassy. What do you want me to do?”
“Absolutely nothing. Do not touch Nolan, his hotel or his companions. Nothing that might tip them off. Tail Balendra and that’s it. Try to pick up all the phone calls in and out of the building, but otherwise leave things alone. I can now call Burns and tell him about Pat Long’s death.”
“What about the G550 at the airport? I have three-man shifts there around the clock.”
“Leave that in place, though I’d wager Nolan never sees that plane again as a free man. If he surprises us by showing up, make certain the plane doesn’t move and detain everyone on board.”