Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  “How long to Ratmalana Airport?” Nolan asked.

  “It’s a thirty-minute drive this time of day. We’ll be there in twenty.” The driver introduced himself as Chanakya and said he was taking a day off work where he was a junior analyst at a capital markets outsourcing company. Balendra recruited him ostensibly for his superior driving skills. With all the weaving in and out of traffic, Nolan thought they were owed a refund. That they didn’t suffer a scratch was due more to blind luck than skill. As the adrenaline wore off, his arm hurt more and he felt lightheaded. Nolan leaned back and closed his eyes. Kaili pulled bits of cloth and shrapnel out of his arm and chest, sprinkling the medicated powder the commando had passed to her. The deep six-inch gash on his left forearm bled constantly, and the SBS man handed back a length of latex tubing for her to cinch just below his elbow to curb the bleeding.

  Nolan’s head had been lolling around while she worked on his superficial chest wounds. He jolted awake. “Does your embassy cell still work? If so, I need to call Nishimoto and tell him to take off.”

  “I think it does,” she said. At least the text function was working. She was staring at a message in Chinese characters: kill Nolan now.

  * * * * *

  The CIA officer watched the big Russian race over to one of those bloody bodies by the seawall, check for a pulse and cry out, “Alive! Alive! Ambulance! Ambulance!”

  Peter Allen kept his gun drawn and gestured as he spoke. “United States embassy security. Take out your weapon with two fingers of your left hand and throw it toward me.”

  Boris Vladimirovich Ustinov didn’t understand all the words, but surmised the meaning. He looked up and determined that he could draw and shoot faster than the American could aim and pull the trigger. However, with his boss alive and grievously wounded, he needed help, not confrontation. He flicked his gun away, looked at the American and said in his best TV cop show voice, “Help! Ambulance! Medic!”

  Allen phoned the embassy and requested the Marines to double-time a stretcher down the beach. As it was only five hundred yards distant, it was quicker on foot than by car. Allen told them to ready the embassy ambulance and alert Nawaloka Hospital to prep for emergency surgery. He would stay with the giant Russian and his unconscious compatriot; the locals were too distracted by the number of wounded outside and on the train to pay the Westerners any attention. The first Sri Lanka regular police were now on the scene, along with paramedics. Two helicopters emblazoned with red crosses hovered overhead.

  Allen kept his gun trained on the giant. He picked two weapons off the beach of the same Soviet-era make and model. A red ball with a yellow patch sitting on the ground drew his attention. Squatting down, he saw a thumb drive in a baggie taped to the ball. As Allen put the ball in his shirt pocket, he looked up just in time to see an enormous fist. He fell over without a sound. Ustinov freed the two 9mm pistols by tearing them out of Allen’s pants pockets. He looked at the downed American. He was on his back and breathing regularly. Good: no need to kill anyone who didn’t deserve it.

  * * * * *

  “That was easier than expected,” said Jenkins as they eased the wheels up on the Gulfstream, Bandaranaike International Airport receding below. The Gulfstream headed out to sea and swung to the south.

  “The rules of engagement must have been tightly drawn. If Nolan’s not with us, don’t interfere.” Jack Nishimoto was all business. “It’s time,” he said to Jenkins, and the first officer throttled back on both engines and dropped the flaps to simulate dual engine failures. The nose pitched down from the loss of power, and Jenkins trimmed the plane for the best glide.

  Nishimoto picked up the handset and channeled his inner Gregory Peck, a portrait of baritone calm. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. Gulfstream five fifty November one six eight tango tango. Request emergency landing Ratmalana. Total engine and intermittent hydraulics failure. November one six eight tango tango.”

  “November six—er—tango tango mayday acknowledged,” the tower replied after a pause. “November tango tango is radar-identified. Cleared direct Ratmalana. Note wind two four zero at five. QNH one zero zero eight. No conflicting traffic. Emergency services on standby. Clear to land runway two two and hold, wind two four zero at five. Do you have airport in sight?”

  “Clear to land and hold, have visual. November tango tango.” Nishimoto went off mike and said, “All yours, John.”

  Jenkins took the controls with an “All mine” in acknowledgement.

  To prevent the fire department from coating the plane in fire retardant that would render it inoperable, in addition to adding a million-dollar cleaning bill to his expense account, Nishimoto said, “Ratmalana tower, managed to restart engines, but maintaining mayday. November tango tango.” Jenkins throttled up and trimmed the plane.

  “November tango tango, roger, visual contact. Clear to land and hold.” Jenkins clicked the radio twice, a nonverbal signal that he was too busy to talk. Despite fire trucks veering down the runway and nearly colliding with one another, the copilot landed the G550 with a perfect squeaker and rolled all the way to the far end, where he turned the jet around and idled the engines.

  Nishimoto turned to Jenkins. “Nice job. Sure hope Adam Birch and Mimi Chan are here soon, otherwise we’ll end up covered in foam and airport security.”

  The two pilots worked on their post-flight checklist, knowing they might be minutes away from taking off again, with or without permission.

  * * * * *

  Nolan had to shut his eyes. He was carsick from Chanakya’s weaving in and out, the feeling exacerbated by anguish and his wounds. He couldn’t get out of his mind the image of half of Mark’s head vaporizing. He’d killed his godson just as certain as if he’d held the gun to Mark’s temple and pulled the trigger. He’d lost a son. And the deaths didn’t stop at Mark. Pit-stain, the Navy commando, Yuri, the locomotive driver, Pathmarajah—who probably bled out on the beach—Chumakov . . . damn, maybe Chumakov was still alive. They were still shooting when they’d evacuated that fatal shore. He hoped Balendra and Fernando were unscathed and not in custody.

  He downed in one long gulp a bottle of water handed back from the front seat.

  “I never did get your name,” he said to the SBS man.

  “Corporal Naveen Kulatunga, Special Boat Service, sir.” From the tone, Nolan knew he was dealing with someone wondering why he was sitting in the front seat of a getaway car driven by a teenage madman.

  “Are you certain you can get us onto the runway at Ratmalana Air Base? We need to board a private jet to go after the people who shot your friend, and tried to kill us as well.”

  “His name was Corporal Sanjay De Soysa. He wasn’t my friend; he was my brother. The blood of the brethren is thicker than the water of the womb. I will make certain you board that plane.”

  Nolan shifted focus. “How far are we from the base?” he asked their driver. With his too-long arms and hunched posture, Chanakya looked like a mutant praying mantis, shaved head swinging to and fro to assess traffic threats.

  “Under ten minutes,” he said, and blasted the horn for emphasis as he jerked the steering wheel to miss a tuk-tuk.

  One of Nolan’s phones had survived the turmoil and buzzed twice in its Ziploc bag. He read the text and noted the 11:31 a.m. time stamp. “My wife and daughter have landed in Singapore,” he said. Turning to Kaili, he said, “Now’s the time to make your call.”

  “I don’t have the authority to have your family released. What do you expect me to do, call President Gao?”

  “No, I want you to call the Singapore Internal Security Department. I’m sure they’ll be able to help.”

  * * * * *

  Gonzalez wore a huge grin as he sat in Zaw’s makeshift command center at the same medical clinic Nolan and Kyaw had driven past on Saturday night. The major was polishing his sunglasses as an inch of cigarette ash dangled from the butt hanging from his lips.

  “I walked over and sat down next to him and asked, ‘What’s you
r name?’ The old guy croaked out, ‘Peter, Peter Mullen.’ I said, ‘Peter Mullen, if you wish to avoid eternal hellfire and damnation, you will confess your sins to me here and now. Let us ask for our Lord Jesus Christ’s blessing and pray together. Then I’ll read you the last rites, as the doctor told me you’re dying.’ Can you believe Mullen started out in 1960 when he petted his high school prom date? I had to say, ‘I’m not interested in fifty-year-old sin. Tell me what you’ve done the last two weeks.’

  “For an old guy, he sure has a detailed memory. I hit the record app on my Blackberry and have a solid thirty minutes of nonstop confession to mass murder and hijacking.”

  Zaw looked up at him and said, “Do we need this man alive?”

  “Yes, as a witness.”

  “But you have recording, yes?”

  “Right here on this phone.”

  “You leave now for embassy. Stay there for protection.”

  “I-I don’t understand,” Gonzalez stammered.

  “Toffer’s men coming,” Zaw said, looking at his stainless steel Rolex, “in few hours to kill old man. You need to go.”

  “And you and your men are going to fight them?”

  Zaw laughed. “No, we leave after you drive away. Why get killed for no reason?”

  * * * * *

  Ambassador Stiles issued another order. “Have Allen photograph and fingerprint the dead man in scrubs on the beach and forward everything to you for identification. It’s probably Watermen, though Nolan dyed his hair brown or black, so it might be him instead.”

  Doyle’s tone was measured. “I just told you, Agent Allen is not answering his phone.” Doyle’s cell phone rang and she turned her head away from Stiles as she answered.

  “Gospodin Gregoriev, what can you tell me? Three of your men are dead and one badly injured. Is that Director Chumakov? He’s on a helicopter with his bodyguard? Yes, yes, I understand. No . . . no, we didn’t find any drives or disks at the scene. I was hoping your team recovered those.

  “Of course the US didn’t have anything to do with this tragedy. I have no idea who fired, but it was two snipers in opposition, one up in the Grand Hyatt construction site and one from the Racquets Club. Nolan would have been controlling one of the shooters. The other . . . China? China? Look, I don’t have time to speculate. We are in pursuit of Nolan. No, we don’t know where he is, but he won’t be hard to find. No, there won’t be any interference from the United States in respect to the repatriation of Russian citizens involved, wounded or not. Yes, yes, let’s do that. Next week, then. Keep us abreast. Thank you, Vladimir.”

  Doyle turned to Stiles and the assembled team. “That was the SVR rezident, Vladimir Gregoriev. The man Peter Allen had in custody—the big Russian—knocked him unconscious with what Gregoriev described as ‘a deliberately sublethal blow to the head.’ As Chumakov needed critical medical care, the Russian felt he had no other choice but to escape custody. It seems their man coldcocked Allen, took back their weapons and commandeered a medical helicopter. It landed at the Russia embassy, and just took off again with Chumakov and his bodyguard on board.

  “That chopper has to be headed to Lankan Hospital, as they have the only helipad in the country.” Turning away from the ambassador, she shouted out to her deputy, “Get two men over to Lankan Hospital. Put one on the roof at the helipad, and one in the ER.”

  “Chief, we don’t have any spare officers. Allen’s down and three are watching the Gulfstream, plus Long’s dead—”

  “What about our men at the hotel site?”

  “On their way back to the embassy. They evaded the police.”

  “Use them. Send them straight to the hospital. Don’t detain anyone. Observe and discreetly photograph. Try to get mikes in the OR, the recovery room, and Chumakov’s hospital room. Get over there yourself. You’ll have to work fast.” Her assistant dashed out of the room, Doyle’s last instruction trailing behind.

  Sheila Stiles stood up. “I’d better get on the phone to the secretary of state. The way this situation has unfolded, he’ll want to hear it firsthand.”

  “Good luck finding a secure line to make a call. Everything’s down and has been for the last two hours. You don’t seem to be in the loop, Madam Ambassador. You also have a press conference to host about now, do you not?”

  Stiles rose and stormed out of the room.

  * * * * *

  The Harcourt charter jet sat at the southwest corner of the Ratmalana runway, ready to take off were it not for the fire engine blocking its path. Nishimoto called Kaili. “Where are you?” both asked simultaneously.

  “Safely on the ground at the far end of the runway at Ratmalana. Turn south when you drive in, we’re about a half mile from the gate. You can’t miss us because we’re hemmed in by emergency vehicles.”

  “We have just pulled up to the entrance. We will see you soon.” Kaili hung up.

  The SBS commando was at the sentry gate arguing their case. Chanakya idly revved the engine while they waited. Nolan’s forearm was killing him, and his chest was on fire. He turned to Kaili and said, “I’m asking you one last time to make that call to ISD. You’re the new head of station. Richard Lum can pull strings with whoever is responsible for Changi Airport security. You tell him two Singapore nationals are on that flight from Guangzhou, and they’ve been kidnapped. ISD can assist Singapore citizens in distress without causing an incident. This is a goodwill gesture from the MSS to the ISD. Also, you should alert Lum to expect the CIA to put in a claim on the same two individuals, but they’ve committed no crime.”

  “That is stepping way beyond my authority. There will be repercussions.”

  “Have you figured out yet that the sniper team was from China? That it was targeting Mark and me, and probably you, too?”

  “I thought you said the snipers were Americans?”

  “That was for the commando’s consumption, as we need him to get us aboard the plane. China is Sri Lanka’s biggest ally, so I didn’t want to antagonize him. The US-Russia plan called for the FSB or SVR to snatch Watermen and me, and hand us over to the US. And China’s play was to kill Watermen and me, though I don’t know why I’m on the list. I think the Chinese may have shot you, too, since you’re a loose end right now. Any trouble back at head office these days? Anyone out to get you? Your life depends on what you do next.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “If you don’t call Inspector Lum, get out of the car now and take your chances. And if you try to kill me, you may succeed, but the commando I just gave ten thousand dollars to will cut you down. If you come with me, at a minimum you’ll find out what happened to MH370. But it will be dangerous. Where we’re headed, diplomatic immunity doesn’t necessarily offer protection.”

  “How long have you been waiting to tell me this?”

  “Longer than you want to know.”

  “Give me the number, I’ll make the call.” Kaili’s phone buzzed with another message from the embassy: confirm when Nolan is dead.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  FREEDOM

  FRIDAY MARCH 14, SINGAPORE, COLOMBO

  Joanie was antsy. The return flight was reboarding. They hadn’t been permitted to deplane with the other Singapore-bound passengers, and now an hour later it looked like she and Mei Ling were headed back to China and prison. Bert was still hiding in Canada and Bob was on the run in Sri Lanka, helping Mark. What on earth was happening to her family?

  Mei Ling fell into a deep sleep. After being so vigilant the last few days, she was exhausted. Joanie heard a scuffle in the forward cabin. Muffled voices in Mandarin became louder as they neared. She heard her name among the babble and cried out in Mandarin and English, “I’m here! Back in row 56!” Mei Ling was now awake, out of the aisle seat next to her. Their mainland guard leapt up as well and barked for Mei Ling to sit. She adopted a fighting posture and squared off against a surprised opponent who realized he was on the brink of an ass-kicking. Two beret-wearing Police Task Force members carrying st
ubby submachineguns rushed down the aisle. Mei Ling’s captor backed away in a mixture of relief and concern, and whipped out his cell phone which a PTF officer promptly confiscated, ordering the man to retake his seat, put his seatbelt on and keep his hands visible at all times.

  “Mei Ling Nolan? Lam Shao Yin?” asked the first PTF officer.

  “Yes, yes!” came their voices in unison.

  “Welcome home! Take your personal belongings and follow us.”

  “But that man has our passports.” Mei Ling pointed at their MSS minder, who reached inside his jacket pocket and surrendered their travel documents to the second, glowering Police Task Force officer.

  “Come on, Mom. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I’ll say,” said Joanie. “I can’t tell you how good our own beds are going to feel.”

  * * * * *

  “Say that again.” Doyle was excited. “Allen found a 64GB thumb drive in a plastic bag taped to a cricket ball? And the drive appears to be intact? Bring it here immediately. Great work!”

  Chargé d’affaires Tom Malaki entered her office. “Here’s what we have on the Russians. Anatoly Chumakov, director of surveillance for the FSB, was the one wounded by a grenade. He’d flown in last night with Watermen and was supervising the trade-and-snatch op when it went bad. He has shrapnel in the brain. He may live, but he’ll need more sophisticated surgery than they can perform locally. They’re stabilizing him and hope he will survive the flight. The Russia ambassador asked to borrow an air ambulance to fly Chumakov to Singapore, as they don’t have anything in the region. I was looking for Ambassador Stiles, but she’s not on premises. What do you think?”

  “Hell, you’re in the State Department, not me. With our secure comms down, and given how high a priority was assigned to the hands-off edict on Nolan, I’d say we’re trying to be buddies with Russia. So let’s fly the plane in from Singapore and give them a ride.”