by Bradley West
* * * * *
Bert had learned in school that the US-Canada demarcation used to be the longest unguarded frontier in the world. That was true pre-9/11, but even the notionally open border abutting North Cascades National Park now featured cameras along the forty-ninth parallel. So when he hiked across at 3 p.m. local time, the bells rang in the park’s CCTV room. Within minutes, facial recognition software matched Bert’s Washington State driver’s license headshot photo with that of the young man working his way through the woods. The red tag flashing on screen signaled that park security were to observe, but not attempt to apprehend unassisted. The head of security picked up the handset and dialed the FBI.
Special Agent in Charge of the Seattle office Myron Fillmore redeployed the two nearest agents from Marblemont to the park entrance and told them to put a move on. Special Agents Sanborn and Washburn would arrest Nolan and return to Seattle to process the prisoner.
Meanwhile, fraternity brother and roommate Michael McGirty was already inside the park behind the wheel of his pickup truck. He had only two bars showing on his cell.
* * * * *
“Son of a bitch! You look like shit!”
“Nice to see you, too.”
The three intravenous drips, numerous injections and radiation exposure had done a number on Ryder. His complexion was a variation of something more commonly seen in a zombie movie.
When Hecker shared the glad tidings, Ryder’s whoop echoed through the ward prompting a “Shuuusssshhhh!” from two nurses. “Fuckin’ A! His head on a stake. That’s really something. Are Earl and Lair all right?”
“Yep. And we took a prisoner, too. Maybe one of the hijackers. It fits the profile: old American, self-described commercial pilot but probably an ex-military aviator. He claims he was a hostage, but tried to kill himself a few hours ago. We’ll keep him under wraps off-site until we find out who we can trust.”
“Damn. That’s good news. Now do you have something for me? When Hanny called for my passwords yesterday he filled me in.”
“I do, indeed. Let me have your phone, and I’ll swap you straight up. I’ve taped Gonzalez’s new password for you to the back of this one.”
“I’ll tidy everything up, don’t you worry. Can you show me the photo I supposedly took?”
Hecker obliged.
Ryder said, “That guy’s something else. You know he forges Picassos in his spare time and sells them weekends at the Rangoon flea market?”
* * * * *
Joanie was optimistic despite the late hour and the lack of tea in the MSS’s low-grade detention center in Guangzhou. Mei Ling tried to moderate her mother’s enthusiasm without disheartening her. There was a strong possibility that what Dad was trying to pull off wouldn’t actually happen. And if it didn’t come to pass, they would be parked at the Changi Airport gate while the plane filled up with passengers for the return leg. If they were returned to MSS custody, it would not be to this Club Med detention center, either.
Mei Ling decided that once they landed in Singapore they would stay there, come what may. Her mother held a Singapore passport which had to trump whatever mumbo-jumbo the China authorities would have prepared. She had about six hours to figure out how to make certain that at least Mom’s passport prevailed, irrespective of what happened to her and her US travel document.
* * * * *
Flynn was out of breath from his run to Constantine’s office. Fortunately, the boss was unoccupied. Unfortunately, he was still irritable. “What is it?” was the nicest thing he could muster.
“I just received a printout of Barling’s phone call with Hecker. An hour and forty-five minutes ago, Hecker called him from a cab in Singapore. He’s in transit to Tokyo—” Constantine snatched the page out of Flynn’s hand and stared at it while Flynn fell silent.
“Mary, Mother of God,” Constantine said. Calling out of his door he said, “Get Melissa in my office, right away. Call Compliance and see if Lucy Kellogg is in. We’ll need her, too.”
“What, what does this mean?” Flynn asked.
“It means MH370 was hijacked by Americans, as I suspected. The DEA with Nolan will try to pin it on the CIA in Asia, and that cannot be allowed to stick. I certainly had nothing to do with it. However, that’s not what Nolan’s concluded after the last few days.”
* * * * *
The first FBI agent writhed on the ground, anterior crucial ligament in his left knee torn and his right testicle ruptured. The second agent was missing two front teeth and bleeding out of one ear as he sat on the grass in front of the picnic table, legs sprawled in front of him. He glared at the fighter standing over him and aimed his 9mm service pistol at Bert’s chest.
“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right—”
“Put down the gun and let’s finish this like men,” Bert Nolan countered. “If I lose, you can take me in and I won’t resist. Promise. If you lose, you give me seventy bucks for the shirt.” Behind them a vehicle pulled up and a door opened.
Agent Sanborn stared in disbelief. This Eurasian college boy had kicked his and his partner’s asses at a picnic area where they’d been waiting. Now the punk was fuming that he’d ended up with a bloody nose and a torn polo shirt in the fracas? “Turn around and kneel on the ground. Clasp your hands together on top of your head.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Bert turned around, and as he did so, lashed out with his right leg. His heel caught Sanborn flush on the chin, snapped his head back and knocked him unconscious. The nine fell with a thud.
“You lose.” Bert turned back around and faced Sanborn’s African-American companion, who had made it up to one elbow. “I didn’t get your name, but your friend over there owes me seventy bucks. You gonna arrest me?”
Agent Washburn managed to work his gun free. “No, I’m going to shoot you,” he said as he unsteadily raised his weapon.
* * * * *
Chumakov hadn’t slept well despite the Park Street’s king-size bed and whisper-quiet air conditioning. That he had too many vodkas with Gregoriev wasn’t the problem. What if supplying the NSA files from Watermen and Nolan in return for a US hands-off in Crimea and Ukraine wasn’t enough? Maybe he wouldn’t be shot or jailed, but he still might be fired, or demoted and transferred somewhere horrible, like Uzbekistan. He’d come too far to leave anything to chance.
He sat down at his chic desk and turned on his laptop. As it was still the middle of the night in Moscow, an email would have to suffice. He canceled the leasing arrangement. The go-between’s $80,000 would be refunded. It simply wasn’t worth the risk if that Lebanese fixer working for the Iranians was lying. And of course, he was lying. He was a filthy Beirut peddler, and the son, brother and cousin of every other crooked Lebanese trader who’d ever walked the earth. There was no way the Iranians were building a cyber arsenal to attack some hapless bunch of dishdash-wearing Bedous. The Persians were hitting the US, and the US would trace the DDOS to Russia, and Chumakov’s head would end up mounted over the fireplace at Foreign Minister Greyg’s dacha.
He felt better as soon as he sent the cancellation notice to his own staff and the IT department. After this business in Colombo was over, he’d return to Abouzeid the remaining $20,000 that at present resided in Chumakov’s Vienna bank account. He didn’t want that souk trader slandering his good name. It wasn’t about the money; it was about peace of mind and, of course, his career.
* * * * *
From where he’d watched Brother Bert dropkick a fellow with a gun, McGirty took two steps and launched a roundhouse kick at Agent Washburn. Washburn felt rather than saw the menace behind him, and could only grunt as the blow dislocated his shoulder, sending his gun tumbling across the grass. McGirty finished the move by planting his right foot, pivoting and stomping Washburn’s face with his left boot heel. Washburn’s nose crunched underfoot and split open. Blood gushed down the now unconscious man’s face. It was carnage that would have done any cage fighter proud, even a colleg
e sophomore wannabe.
Bert squatted and retrieved the nearest weapon. Rising to his feet he said, “Well, Big Duck, we’re in it now. Your truck gassed up?”
“Yeah.”
“Protein powder?”
“In the back seat, fresh from the store.”
“Hand me that other pistol. Help me take the radios, phones and keys off these two. We’ll dump them down the road. In the rig, we’ll turn off our cell phones and pull the batteries and SIM cards.”
“Bert? Your shirt’s torn to hell, and your nose is broken.”
“Unless you brought a change of clothes and some cotton balls, I don’t see what this has to do with the price of tea in China.”
“Just mentioning it in case you didn’t know. You pretty much have a sign on you that reads, ‘Fugitive from Justice.’”
“In that case, we’ll have to be extra careful on our way to California.”
“California?” McGirty finished searching an unconscious agent.
“Redding. I’ll tell you why on the way. Let’s roll.”
On their way out of the park at speed, they passed two police cruisers, lights flashing, headed in the other direction. No one tried to stop them, and they drove the next seven hours without even seeing another cop.
* * * * *
Despite not having a phone or internet connectivity, Watermen’s Park Street Hotel stay was pleasant. Unlike Moscow, the electricity worked, he wasn’t cold and room service supplied decent food. He slept intermittently, half expecting to be rousted in the middle of the night. The bedside alarm at 7:30 offered a whiff of hope. He showered and shaved quickly, just in case.
It seemed Chumakov’s Abu Dhabi office had accepted the veracity of whatever speculations he’d typed into the master index he’d worked up on the flight from Moscow. The last hurdle was to match the contents of whatever Godpa supplied. If it did, in theory he would be a free man. He didn’t know whether he could evade the Americans long enough to obtain permanent asylum in Sri Lanka.
On the other hand, Chumakov and his thugs were fully capable of shooting the two of them on sight and taking the disk off Bob Nolan’s corpse. He hoped Godpa’s plans covered that contingency.
There didn’t seem to be a lot of middle ground. He flossed away. He’d read on the flight that flossing added two years to your life expectancy. His gums bled like hell, unused to the waxed white string. He spat a bloody mouthful into the sink, rinsed and spat again. He had to stop living only day to day and make longer-term plans.
* * * * *
An email marked Urgent hit Constantine’s cell as his driver raced to Changi Airport. Bertrand N. Nolan, age 22, was wanted for assaulting federal officers in Washington State. With the help of an accomplice, he’d hospitalized two FBI agents and fled with their weapons, mobile phones and radios. State and federal authorities were cooperating in the manhunt. Did Constantine have any thoughts as to where they might be headed?
The entire Nolan family was full of criminals: bad genes and upbringing passed down father to offspring. They were all descendants of Cain, Constantine concluded.
* * * * *
Lloyd Matthews crossed the aisle to look for seat 12G. Singapore Airlines Flight 12 to Tokyo’s Narita Airport should take about six hours, putting them on the ground at just after 5 p.m. local time. That would give him ample opportunity to prepare answers to the most likely lines of after-dinner questioning. He sat down with the Asia edition of the Wall Street Journal while he waited for those flying cattle class to board. His concentration wavered as he wondered what had happened to Teller. All he knew was that the old junkie Charlie Meursault had aborted the landing, and had emailed a blurred photo of a burning vehicle on its side and what looked to be scattered bodies. Robin Teller was remarkably hard to kill. Matthews needed to be absolutely sure Teller was dead if he hoped to get a solid night’s sleep ever again.
He recognized a voice—that voice. There he stood, unshaven, unkempt and grinning like a monkey: the DEA’s Uber flunky. Hecker’s grin disappeared when he spotted Matthews. Hecker made his way back three rows behind and took his seat in the middle section. But even Matthews’s presence couldn’t ruin his mood. Robin Teller was dead and Lloyd Matthews was on his last journey as chief of station.
Slightly breathless, the final passenger in the business class cabin boarded with only a laptop and briefcase. Dick Constantine headed to the back of business class.
“Hello, Sam.”
“Hi, Dick. Pull up a chair.”
“What are you smiling at? You can’t be that happy to see me.”
“Certainly not, but with Robin Teller dead, the world is a better place today.”
Constantine acted surprised. There was no need to tip Hecker that he’d already read the transcript of Hecker’s call to Barling.
Matthews breathed a sigh of relief, pulled out his phone and texted Burns.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
PARTY PLANNING
FRIDAY MARCH 14, KUNUNURRA, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; COLOMBO; GUANGZHOU, CHINA
Johnson piled a power drill, nail gun, side-cutting pliers, vice grips, blunt nose pliers, machete, ice pick, a dozen D-cell batteries, acrylic goggles, veterinarian’s full-length rubber sleeves, and two pairs of work gloves on the counter of Red Sun Hardware.
“Crikey! I might close early today,” said the proprietor. “How do you blokes want to pay for this kit?”
Johnson shrugged, deferring to his older companion.
“Cash,” said Frank Coulter. “We’ll pay in cash.”
* * * * *
Nolan jumped when Kaili touched his arm. He’d spent the last few hours in that in-between land where restful sleep was out of reach, replaced by an endless cycle of the same bad dream replayed through semi-consciousness. She stroked his upper arm. “Do you want breakfast?” she asked.
The plan for the exchange was now set, for better or worse. He had to think of a way off the island that didn’t involve driving back to the airport and attempting to board the Gulfstream. Food was far from his mind. “No thanks,” he said. “Is your embassy cell secure?”
“Certainly. Why, don’t you trust your phones now?”
“Not any longer. The CIA knows where we are. They’re waiting until Watermen arrives before they pounce. The NSA will be trying like hell to tap everything coming out of the Racquets Club, so they’re likely to have a drone up right now acting as a phony cell site to capture all the mobile traffic in the vicinity. If your phone encrypts voice and data, presumably it decrypts only when received by a paired device?”
“I’m not free to discuss that,” she said coyly, rubbing the top of his cropped head while he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. “But assume for the moment that you’re right.”
Glasses in place, the world came into sharper focus. Even with her hair mussed, she was still perfect. She moved her hand down and caressed his cheek. He lightly grasped her wrist, enjoying the feeling of her palm on his jaw.
“Once this exchange takes place, I have to leave Sri Lanka very quickly. You’re welcome to come, but the Gulfstream will be crawling with CIA.”
“Come with me to China. You can stay for as long as you like. Be reunited with your family. I can have MSS people safely take us from the Cinnamon Grand Hotel to the embassy, and out on a military flight later today. The Americans can’t touch you in Sri Lanka, certainly not if you’re under China’s protection.”
“That doesn’t work on several levels, starting with I have zero interest in being interrogated by your friends for the next couple of years. The only things I like about China are the women and some of the food. The other reason is those Gulfstream pilots know how to fly to Truscott Field, somewhere in the Australian Outback. That’s where the MH370 mystery will be solved. The people who came off that plane are being interrogated there. If you want, come with me. You’ll be a national hero if we can figure out what happened, assuming we get out of there alive.
“What I really need is a secur
e way to call Nishimoto or Jenkins, and your encrypted phone is the only option. Next door are the clothes Balendra bought yesterday that we’re wearing this morning. You won’t like it, but I had him purchase identical outfits for the three of us.”
“Wonderful. That way the snipers have to shoot all of us to ensure they get Watermen.”
“Well, I’m assuming it’s either a China or US sniper team. Presumably your side doesn’t want to shoot you, and my side would prefer not to shoot me. So we’re pursuing the safety in numbers approach.”
“For a logical man, you just made the most illogical statement.”
“Kaili, if someone wants all three of us dead, once Watermen’s with us, they’ll set off a bomb or throw a grenade and be done with it.”
“Ah, perhaps you are right. As for grenades, what do you expect me to do with the one from last night?”
“Chumakov is likely to have at least two men with him. I don’t know what his play is, but it doesn’t include letting us walk away. I have a gun hidden where the exchange will take place. I have a shooter who will take out one FSB man. I’ll get the second. The third gunman will kill us, unless you or I use that grenade or my sniper gets lucky.”
“What, you want me to detonate a grenade in a hotel lobby? It will kill us all.”
“We’re not meeting in the Cinnamon Grand Hotel any longer. We’ll be downstairs by the pool here at the Racquets Club. Now, before you go into the bathroom and text your embassy, have them send one of your fancy encrypted phones to Nishimoto and ask him to call you. Please hurry. We don’t have much time.” She stepped inside the bathroom and shut the door.
Since the Chinese were now in the loop, better let the other players know the new drill. He dialed Chumakov’s local cell number. It answered on the first ring. “There’s been a change in plans. We’re meeting at ten o’clock in the lobby of the Colombo Racquets Club. Watermen must be present or there’s no deal. No more than two men with you, or no deal. I will be with a Chinese woman who is senior in the MSS. Neither of us will be armed. We’ll have coffee and make the exchange. You authenticate the files and leave. If you try anything else, proof of your corruption will be in every newspaper and news website in the world. Any questions?”