Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  Johnson noted that Coulter’s accent had nearly disappeared now that he wasn’t in character. The interrogator said, “I’ll take a straightforward approach and aim for quick results. What’s the payload of the airplane?”

  “Just us, three hundred fifty pounds of victuals to keep the team fueled, and another fifty pounds allowance for whatever you buy locally.”

  “Alert the pilot that we won’t fly tomorrow morning until the local hardware store opens.”

  “I think we can arrange that.” Coulter wondered where the Agency found these types. Still, Johnson’s track record was second to none.

  * * * * *

  Gonzalez’s forged photo was a minor masterpiece. He’d matched the details down to finding a brown K-Line box to shoot inside, even though the picture didn’t even show the container’s exterior. Hecker liked the way he’d used natural light—arranging the box north-by-northwest, just like the original out at Thilawa Port. Hecker could see the top half of a crate poking over stacked sandbags, and a Malaysia Airlines blue-and-red angel fish on a white background partly obscured in the shadows.

  “You take care of the time and date stamp?” Hecker asked Gonzalez, already knowing the answer.

  “Of course, but we’ll have to convert my old phone to look like it’s his. I’ll do a factory reset on my Blackberry. Where’s Travis now?”

  “Delayed by a day in Singapore. Flying out tomorrow to Hawaii. If you can finish the work by tonight I’ll drop the phone off while in transit in Singapore.”

  “I’ll call and alert him. I’ll also need a couple of passwords so I can sync my old Blackberry to his contacts and calendar, and download and log onto his apps. For good measure, you need to get Travis’s real phone off him and take it to the beach.”

  “The beach? Why?”

  “Oh, a little snorkeling or scuba diving. That sort of thing,” Gonzalez said.

  “Will do. Find out what’s happening at Mong Hsat. Call Zaw and see if he can raise the pilots on the radio. I need all the evidence I can get ahead of Friday night’s Tokyo meeting. If I still have a job, I’ll be back on Saturday evening.”

  Gonzalez whistled. “It can’t be that serious.”

  “Oh, but it is. We really need to produce Robin Teller alive. That’s the one rabbit that saves my ass and Bob’s.”

  * * * * *

  Michaels finished patting Mullen down. “What’s your name, and what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “My name’s Vaughan Lee. I was on that Malaysia Airlines flight. I’m an ex-commercial airplane pilot. I survived a cabin depressurization engineered by the hijackers by deploying an oxygen mask that ran off a bottle in an overhead bin up in the front of business class. When the plane landed in Burma, they were surprised to find anyone alive in the back. I told them I was certified to fly jets, prop planes and helicopters, so they decided to keep me alive. I think they wanted me to pilot your plane to take Teller to Thailand for radiation poisoning treatment.”

  “Whoa, whoa! You’ve lost me. Look, we have to get the hell out of here before dark. It’s one hundred and fifty yards to that plane. You and I need to double-time it over there. Can you walk all right?

  “Walk, pshaw! I’ll run to that plane just as soon as you tell me that Teller is dead.”

  “Near ’nuf as far as I can tell, though my partner is doing his best to plug the bigger holes. Let’s get moving, Mr. Lee.”

  While Vaughan Lee emptied a canteen, Michaels dealt with an insurrection. Sai was so distraught at the news of Lazum’s death that he’d refused to help carry the wounded Teller to the plane. In disgust, Michaels gave Sai a tarp, saying, “Go put the pieces of your friend in this.” Michaels was barely able—just short of pulling a weapon—to convince the copilot Hpan to accompany him back to where Teller was lying inert on the pavement among the corpses, weaponry and Land Rover pieces.

  Collecting Mullen and cockpit negotiations couldn’t have taken ten minutes. Michaels was surprised to look up only to see a big truck pulled up next to Teller, with a dozen more soldiers wearing yet another funky uniform arrayed in battle formation. Gerard had retreated at the truck’s approach and stood with hands outstretched maybe fifty yards away, weapon slung as he stepped steadily backwards down the runway toward the Porter.

  Michaels put his own hands up and started toward Gerard. Two minutes later he said, “Help’s coming, Earl. Just walk toward the sound of my voice. Be ready to take the six on your right.” Michaels figured once the two of them were side by side, they could kill all the soldiers with a pair of grenades and judicious SCAR work.

  Sai came running up from where he’d been working on his butcher’s chore. “It’s the Wa Army!” he said.

  “Is that good or bad?” Gerard asked as he reached Michael’s side and stopped, their fingers hovering over triggers.

  “I am Wa!” Sai said with pride, providing proof with shouted greetings in a strange tongue. Whatever he said worked, because the commander barked a few words and his men lowered their weapons.

  “Brother Earl, you say the word and we’ll go to work.” Larry Michaels was as smooth as the Tennessee whiskey that hailed from his hometown. Flaxen-haired and sandy-bearded, he stood just under six feet and had a powerlifter’s physique. Before the lanky Gerard could reply, the Wa commanding officer walked over to Robin Teller’s prone body and delivered a ferocious kick. Teller roared in pain, and the soldiers laughed. The CO spat red betel nut juice on Teller. Teller used his left hand to draw his KA-BAR and made a futile swipe that the officer sidestepped. Another forceful kick sent the knife skittering down the runway.

  “Lair, I believe we’re among friends,” said Gerard. “Let’s watch the show and if it goes bad, follow my lead.” As a gesture of solidarity, he gave the soldiers a friendly wave, pulled off his amber Oakleys and shouted Hooyah! for good measure. As one, the Wa responded with their own Hooyah! The officer demonstrated the same team spirit by standing on Teller’s maimed right hand, eliciting a piercing scream.

  “Well I’ll be darned if these aren’t a bunch of no-good, US Navy-loving Wa Squids,” deadpanned Michaels.

  “Ain’t anyone gonna believe us back in country, that’s for damned certain.”

  In his excitement, Sai ran up to the CO, gesticulating and jabbering. The soldiers formed a semicircle around Teller, who had flopped over on his back, chest matted with blood. He was still conscious. Sai aimed a kick that thudded into Teller’s head, prompting an animal groan.

  Sai turned to the two Deltas who had finished their saunter. “This man very bad! He steal from Wa. He kill Wa soldiers. He rape Wa women. Everyone afraid of Toffer! Now no one afraid!” Sai spat on Teller for emphasis. It was a heartfelt gesture.

  The CO spoke, and two of the Wa dropped their weapons and sprinted to the truck. Dusk was falling and the Deltas were uneasy as the soldiers rattled around in the back. With a whoop, they came charging back with a seven-foot wooden pole and a jeweled sword case.

  The CO held out his hands, and a soldier laid the engraved scabbard across his upturned palms. The officer unsheathed the weapon and offered it to the Delta sergeants. They smiled and shook their heads no. Without further ceremony, the officer stood by while two of his men forced Teller into a seated position. A third grabbed him by his shaggy crew-cut and pulled his head up.

  The old pilot walked up to observe the commotion. Teller’s eyes opened wide. “Colonel Mullen! Mullen! Help me!” he cried. Mullen said nothing.

  The Wa hated Teller. That was apparent from the slow, sawing motion the CO used to decapitate him. Teller was half dead, but he struggled mightily. In the end it took five soldiers to hold him. The CO impaled Teller’s dripping head on the sharpened end of the pole, mouth agape in silent agony. The soldiers competed to see who held the pole while their companions roared excitedly and took turns either spitting on or kicking the headless corpse.

  Several of the Wa had stripped off their tunics, which were covered in Teller’s blood, and began a rhyth
mic chant punctuated by wild shouts as they swung the dripping shirts around their heads. It looked like the celebrations were far from over as other Wa decapitated the dead Burma Army soldiers.

  Gerard snapped a quick photo of the gang holding the pole and head aloft. “Damn! This is intense.”

  Michaels, unsure of the protocol, nodded toward the CO and smiled as he waved goodbye. Gerard did the same, and both men backed away as casually as they could feign. Sai defiled the corpse one last time, zipped up, and then Hpan and he trotted the two hundred fifty yards to Lazum’s remains. Gerard, Michaels and Mullen watched the Wa scavenge weapons before climbing into their deuce and a half and driving away.

  Eventually Sai and Hpan finished the grim task and dragged the folded-over tarp back to the plane. Michaels helped them wrestle the makeshift body bag up the steps.

  As the plane taxied, the men strapped themselves in. Michaels said, “So, Colonel Mullen, I guess you want to change that lame-ass story you gave me just now?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  COLOMBO SHUFFLEBOARD

  THURSDAY NIGHT, MARCH 12, COLOMBO

  Balendra and Nolan returned from their cocktail hour sojourn around the Racquets Club grounds, including a walk up the short staircase leading over the rear retaining wall. They spent a few minutes pacing up and down the railroad tracks that separated the club from the beach. A five-car commuter train rumbled past, lit from within. The few passengers hung out the doors or looked from the glassless windows as the local from Kollupitiya Station to Slave Island chugged along. Anyone riding this train about fourteen hours from now will see quite a show, Nolan thought.

  The pair made final arrangements, then re-crossed the tracks and retired to their respective rooms. Chumakov and Watermen would be landing soon, and Nolan wanted his new computer to be online for a possible email exchange. He fondled the Glock 19 Balendra had produced, more compact than Ryder’s Glock 17. It was funny how on Sunday he’d wanted nothing to do with a weapon, and yet four days later, he’d have traded the keys to his car for this pistol.

  * * * * *

  Etihad Flight 126 from Abu Dhabi landed six minutes early at Bandaranaike International Airport. Watermen struggled to keep up as Chumakov speed-walked to the empty immigration counters. Oleg Gordievsky, Russia citizen aged twenty-nine, didn’t trigger any interest from the white-uniformed attendant and received a ninety-day stamp.

  Watermen’s FSB captor and minders didn’t share his fleeting concern that he might be arrested if he lingered in the airport. Chumakov insisted on buying him a bottle of Stolichnaya to complement the bottle he’d picked out for himself. “Godpa Bob and you can toast your freedom tomorrow night,” he said at the counter while peeling off US twenty-dollar bills.

  Watermen figured there were two chances—slim and none—that on Friday night he would be sitting in a hotel room swigging vodka with Bob.

  Chumakov’s ebullient mood drained away as his phone began humming. “Come now, we have a car waiting outside,” he said and redoubled his already manic walking pace. Watermen practically had to jog to keep up. They slowed down to walk past customs, staring at and daring the officers to inspect their carry-on bags. Their party exited the airport, navigated through the meet-and-greeters outside and entered the lead of a pair of black SUVs. The thuggish-looking driver handed their two FSB guards automatic pistols. The sound of magazines being dropped and reinserted and slides racking had Watermen’s nerves on edge. “Are you expecting trouble?” he asked Chumakov.

  “A CIA officer had his throat slit outside Nolan’s hotel room last night. The killer is still at large. I didn’t know Godpa Bob was a knife-murderer, so we are taking precautions.”

  From the middle seat, Watermen strained his eyes to try to spot an ambush, but the nearly one-hour drive to the Park Street Hotel was uneventful. Chumakov made it clear that Watermen would die if he were stupid enough to leave his room. The room phone would be disconnected, too, so no calls.

  Chumakov took the car to the Russia embassy to confer with Vladimir Arturovich Gregoriev, the head of the rezidentura, and check his email. He’d not met Gregoriev previously and was surprised at his youth and intelligence. Chumakov figured Colombo as an SVR dead-ender’s assignment, but apparently not with China in the ascendancy. Chumakov perused his email and activated a local cell phone. Nolan sent him the most bizarre email of his twenty-two-year intelligence career. He’d attached a file listing the table of contents of the disk he was proposing to swap for Watermen, which was unusual enough. But it was his cover email that was simultaneously infuriating and intriguing:

  The Park Street Hotel is unacceptable. If these files aren’t of interest, don’t bother coming to the Cinnamon Grand Hotel. Do with Watermen as you wish. If you do show up at the exchange, be advised that I’m with a senior Ministry of State Security officer and under China’s protection.

  I remind you that, if all doesn’t go smoothly, proof of your corruption already resides with third parties and will be released to FSB head Andrei Portnikov, Vladimir Putin and the international press.

  Please confirm receipt of this message on 0793-748-744, and provide a number where you can be reached Friday morning.

  Robert Nolan, Central Intelligence Agency

  Chumakov’s earlier threat against Nolan’s children no longer carried any weight. Either Nolan didn’t love his children, or they were already lost to him.

  He didn’t even bother opening the attached file claiming to contain the master index. All that would do was expose their networks to the CIA’s latest malware. There was no reason to forward it to the SVR IT forensics teams in Abu Dhabi or Moscow. Only the delivery of a disk plus Watermen and Nolan—dead or alive—to the Americans would win Russia a free hand in Crimea and Ukraine. And only a foreign policy coup of that magnitude would be sufficient to induce his superiors to overlook his soon-to-be-public $20,000 transgression. Twenty thousand? Every oligarch steals more than that from the people every hour. However, Chumakov wasn’t an oligarch, and that was the rub. His ticket out of lowly surveillance and into high society would be the Watermen and Nolan package.

  He left the guest office and went into Gregoriev’s room where the rezident had thoughtfully poured two stiff vodkas. He looked up from where he’d been reviewing floor plans of the Cinnamon Grand. “This place he’s picked is good for us, not even a kilometer from the US embassy. Come, sit and have a drink. I’ll explain how I will deploy our men.”

  “Comrade, you’re wasting your time. Nolan will wait until the last minute and switch venues. Count on it.” Looking at his younger colleague, he said, “Get Gretchen Doyle on the phone. We need to speak with our CIA friends and see if they can tell us why the MSS is now in the middle of our affair.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  BEDTIME STORIES

  THURSDAY MARCH 13, RANGOON, COLOMBO, BRITISH COLUMBIA, SINGAPORE

  Hecker felt like a kid on Christmas morning. The Pilatus PC-6 Porter was inbound with a 22:00 hours ETA. Zaw had called to say the two US soldiers were fine, one of his men was dead and they had one uninjured prisoner in custody. In his haste to leave Hogwarts, Hecker had almost forgotten his passport and overnight bag, not to mention the interrogation transcripts and the NRO’s oceanic radiation readings.

  If the traffic stayed manageable, he would have about ten minutes with the Deltas before he’d have to get to the check-in counter to make the last flight to Singapore. Someone from the Agency would come looking for Ryder’s phone, and Hecker had better be damned sure Travis had the right one.

  It would be a game-changer if the PC-6 landed with Robin Teller on board. Hecker’s vehicle pulled up to a restricted entrance gate and found one of Zaw’s officers waiting. After a minute or so dodging baggage wagon trains and jetfuel tankers, they found Zaw’s jeep. It was parked next to an ambulance waiting for a plane straight out of the 1930s.

  The door opened and a grim-faced Michaels stepped down, leading an old gray-haired man wearing dirty civilian c
lothes. Hecker could scarcely believe this skinny geezer was the infamous Robin Teller.

  * * * * *

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Nolan’s mouth made the right noises, but Kaili grabbed the small of his back and felt his hardness pressed against her belly as her full lips sought his mouth once again. Her tongue darted in and out as they kissed. He grabbed her derriere as she shifted her hands up to massage the base of his neck. One of his new phones buzzed, and he used the interruption to pull out of her grasp. It was a WhatsApp message from Hecker:

  Teller is dead! Decapitated by Wa tribesmen. Someone named Colonel Mullen or Vaughan Lee involved in MH370 hijack in custody, but refuses to speak. CIA not apprised yet. Please advise.

  “Kaili, I need some time alone.” Nolan’s phone trilled again. It was Chumakov texting him a local number and confirming the Cinnamon Grand lobby at ten o’clock. Godson Mark had made it to Colombo. He shared this news with her.

  “Will you be awake later?” he asked.

  “I’ll chill that champagne you’ve been saving.”

  “That reminds me, your embassy will convince Sri Lanka to grant Mark permanent asylum, right? That’s part of our deal.” Nolan gave her the duty free bag.

  “Why don’t we talk about it later when you come over?” She gave his hand a squeeze before departing via the balcony.

  His first order of business was to reply to Hecker’s text, hoping the NSA was still unable to read WhatsApp messages:

  Imperative that CIA not know of Mullen/Lee for now. Suggest questioning in DEA safe house. Alert DEA seniors once role in MH370 is confirmed, or I am captured or killed.