by Bradley West
“My assignment now is to stay with you until you’re dead. If someone else doesn’t kill you, then I’m supposed to.”
“You could have killed me in my sleep just now.”
“I thought about it, but could not see the logic. At least not until I heard the rest of your plan.”
“Plan? What plan? There’s no plan beyond what I just said to Nishimoto. Fly to Truscott Field. If we’re forced down in Singapore, there’s a chance that someone honest in the CIA may be interested in what really happened to MH370. If the authorities allow us to land at Truscott, we draw one of two conclusions. The more likely one is that the CIA involvement goes all the way to the top. If that’s the case, it will be a one-way trip for me, and maybe you. Alternatively, there’s the less likely scenario that someone wants to track the flight to see where we go and follow us to investigate. That’s what I’m hoping for. I’m out of ideas otherwise.”
“So you’re saying there’s a good chance that I will die as a result of taking this journey with you?”
“Oh, it will be worse than that. If the black CIA is running an off-the-record interrogation facility, we will be tortured and questioned before we’re killed.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you could be so stupid as to actually fly to your own death without a contingency plan.”
“I’m making it sound worse than it is. It’s probably fifty-fifty we’ll have support behind us if this plane lands at Truscott. Had the black CIA been running the Colombo end, there would have been US snipers on-site and they would have shot me first instead of Mark or you. That I’m still alive points toward MH370 being an off-the-books operation. If we’re forced down in Singapore, I’m certain you’ll be released unharmed. Overall, I’d say your chances of surviving this are good, maybe seventy-five percent.”
“Thank you, but I’m not comforted by your probabilities.” She stood up and went to the food and drinks cabinet.
“Can you see what kind of medical supplies are back there? I need disinfectant and superglue to close the gash on my forearm. And could you please explain why your country is trying to kill me?”
“I’m at a loss. If I knew the reason, maybe you would be dead already. The two possible reasons are MH370 and the NSA files you took.”
“Let’s talk about the NSA files. The snipers shot Watermen first, either by design or accident. They killed him rather than have the CIA take him, and me, into custody to find out what was in the files Watermen traded in Hong Kong for a plane ticket to Moscow? Surely the CIA knew that already. Meanwhile, I presumably have a copy of the NSA files, the same copy China has. So China wants to kill me to prevent who, the Russians, from obtaining a copy? That’s a possibility, but it sounds more like something the CIA would attempt rather than China.”
“What about MH370? Why would China want to kill you rather than have the truth come out?” she asked.
“Consider the options. China could have been behind the hijacking. I dismiss this possibility, as the plane landed in southern Burma where China has no sway, and because the principals were all US ex-military and/or CIA with no obvious China connections. Next theory: China could be embarrassed if the plane were actually found. The high-value cargo on the plane—starting with a radioactive centrifuge used to produce weapons-grade U-235—shouldn’t have been there, and provides proof that China is spreading nuclear weapons technology. So, despite one hundred fifty-two nationals on board, the senior leadership may have decided it would be better if the fate of MH370 remained unknown. That makes some sense to me, particularly given that Teller actually did pull a centrifuge out of the cargo hold when the plane landed. Teller presumably had his people dump the centrifuge at sea between Rangoon and Penang, so now there’s no hard evidence other than what I might have gathered.”
“Is there anything else you’ve done to anger China?”
“The past year, I coordinated the creation of hacker software programs that infiltrate low-level China government, PLA and security services networks. I must be one of fifty CIA contractors and analysts doing the same thing. These are nuisance strikes and tit-for-tat retaliations to keep Unit #61398 from running amok through the Fortune 500’s IT architecture. None of these minor actions warrants a kill order. My death would put over eight hundred Unit #61398 operatives at risk of being the target of the retaliatory assassination that would follow.”
“Based on what you have said, it has to be the MH370 cover-up. That is why my superiors are adamant that you must die.”
“If that’s true, then by killing me, you’re signing your own death sentence. They’ll have no idea what we’ve discussed on this flight.”
She leaned over him with an evil-looking bottle of bright-red antiseptic, bottle-top applicator clutched between delicate thumb and forefinger. “Shush. I will brush Mercurochrome on your cuts. It’s going to hurt a lot. If you die, it would save both of us a lot of trouble.”
“You sound like my wife.”
* * * * *
“Let me go. Unhand me!” Chuck Burns wasn’t leaving without a fight, despite the presence of two Marine sentries, the head of security and Lavigne. “This is the most important day in the Pacific since we dropped Little Boy on Nagasaki back in August ’45, and you aren’t taking me away!”
A note of exasperation in her voice, Lavigne said, “Admiral Perkins and DCI Morris have already signed off. Either you walk out of here under control, or the Marines will shackle and carry you.”
The descriptions of burly Marines expelling sixty-four-year-old Head of Asia Burns with handcuffed hands and manacled feet swiftly made the rounds, supplying much-needed levity on an otherwise tense day.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
PRIMED FOR LAUNCH
FRIDAY MARCH 14, SINGAPORE; GULFSTREAM 550 N168TT FOR TRUSCOTT FIELD, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; REDDING, CALIFORNIA; BEIJING; FORT MEADE, MARYLAND; TOKYO
Mei Ling walked out of ISD headquarters somehow heartened by the news that Bert had put two FBI agents in the hospital. Her smile turned into a frown when she recalled that Bert was now a federal fugitive. Should Bob Nolan set foot in Singapore, he would be handed over to the Americans to face serious charges, perhaps espionage and treason. If Mei Ling ever wanted to be left in peace in California, she’d best stay out of Bert’s predicament until he was in custody. As a practical matter, Mei Ling should expect all her communications were monitored. Based on this last episode, Mei Ling felt the house had already been wired in Dolby stereo.
Reflecting on her just-concluded forty minutes in quasi-custody, she noted that Lum first had picked her brains on her father’s situation and timeline. Mei Ling recounted her father’s initial command for her brother and her to take refuge in the Kamloops, BC cabin. Next came his request for Mei Ling to fly to China to free her mother. Mei Ling had no idea why Bert had decided to cross the border illegally. She informed Lum that she had no intention of helping her father, as she only wanted to escape this chaos and return to the US.
“You are a filial daughter and caring sister. Think carefully, Mei Ling, before you agree to do anything to assist your father or brother. You would be jeopardizing your own freedom.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. My father cheated on my mother years ago, and knew if he ever did again she would leave him. Well, this week apparently he committed adultery in their bed. Dad spent as much time with Mark Watermen, not even his real godson, as he did with Bert or me. I don’t expect to take orders or advice from my father ever again. I am not helping him. As for Bert, I’d aid him if I could, but there’s no way he can contact me without everyone knowing, leaving me no choice.
“Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Where did my father go the night he left Singapore? How did he escape in the first place?”
Lum smiled and said, “Your father’s clever. He fled on a bicycle; he pedaled to Orchard Towers where he’d earlier rented a room in a fifth-floor brothel. We found his bicycle locked to a rail outside the parking lot. He f
ailed to show up later when he was supposed to meet someone at the Shangri La Hotel lobby. Instead he made his way to Seletar Airport, where he boarded a private jet to Sri Lanka with a woman from China’s Ministry of State Security.”
“A woman spy? Or do you mean a girlfriend or whore?”
“We know she’s an intelligence agent, but don’t know the exact nature of their relationship. This woman very recently arrived in Singapore. I think they met for the first time in Paradise Alley in Orchard Towers, a high-end brothel on Wednesday night. They did not have sexual relations that evening. If, on the other hand, they met previously, that would indicate he’s spying for China.”
“Oh, no.” Mei Ling shook her head in dismay.
“If you’d like, I’ll have one of the officers get Robert’s bicycle out of the property room. We have no further use for it.”
“Yeah, sure. It will save me taxi fare home.”
So that explained why she was now pedaling up Tanglin Road re-running the latest chapter in her father’s lurid story. Orchard Towers was barely a mile away. Rather than turn left toward home, she took the right fork to see what attraction Paradise Alley might have held for her father.
Mei Ling knocked on the unmarked blue steel door. She didn’t know if it was even open, but from the tenants list, unit #05-01 was the place. She knocked again, and the door opened out to reveal a heavily made-up prostitute. Before Mei Ling could say a word, the mama-san exclaimed, “You must be Bob Gladstone’s daughter! The spitting image, with a touch of Asian blood. Come on in. I’m Linda, Mr. Gladstone’s friend.” She smiled coquettishly.
Mei Ling felt ill. Did every hooker in Orchard Towers know her father? She stepped into the gloom as the spring-loaded door snapped shut behind her.
* * * * *
The captain walked back into the cabin scratching his chin. “Well, here’s the latest. We passed Singapore thirty minutes ago in radio silence. There’s been nothing received from military air traffic control and no aircraft on scope. I’d have bet my house we’d have had a fighter escort by now if Bob Nolan, international spy, was really on someone’s arrest list. In the absence of a military escort, I had Jenkins file an amended flight plan changing Dili to Truscott Field, Mitchell Plateau, Western Australia. Australia actually granted the change request, which further confuses me. This plane is then grounded: no more destinations, domestic or international, without specific permission. Any attempt to take off without clearance will be treated as hostile, and you know how that story ends. What do you say to that?”
“Sounds awful,” Kaili said.
“I agree. Seems like we will land right in the middle of the spider’s web,” Nolan said.
Nishimoto said, “I know this is self-serving, but our alibi is that Jenkins and I were forced to pilot this aircraft under threat. If we land anywhere with an extradition treaty with the US—and East Timor is one of the few out here that doesn’t have one—Bob is headed to jail, followed closely by Jenkins and me.”
“So you’re saying our options are East Timor or Truscott Field?” Nolan asked.
“No, Papua New Guinea also has no extradition treaty. We might be able to scrape into Port Moresby on vapors.”
“Let’s settle this one way or the other. Set us down at Truscott Field. Put out a mayday to the Western Australia police, the federal police and anyone else you can think of. Tell them al Qaeda’s at Truscott, anything to get their attention. Even if the black hats are running the MH370 cover-up, we might still get out of this alive.” He turned to Kaili for her views.
“Yes, let’s do that. And I’ll call the China embassy in Canberra. I need diplomatic immunity.”
* * * * *
Linda told a bitter tale. Paradise Alley was closed down. The girls—each of them properly registered and all with clean health records—had been deported nonetheless. Linda herself had been jailed for a night until a senior police officer friend had arranged her release. She was there collecting her personal belongings. It was pure chance that anyone had answered Mei Ling’s knock.
“By the way, your father left something with me for safekeeping. It’s a backpack with a bicycle helmet, gloves and things like that. Do you want it?”
“Sure. I rode his bike here, so I may as well wear the helmet home.”
Linda returned with the bag. Mei Ling took a look: a few clothes, a helmet, gloves and a water bottle. It was no surprise the police hadn’t taken it into custody when they’d ransacked the place. Linda hadn’t told them the backpack belonged to Dad, and a cursory glance showed nothing of value.
* * * * *
Goddamn, it was late. Bert’s butt was numb and he wasn’t even driving. True to his Ironman reputation, McGirty had relieved him four hours out of Appleton and hadn’t relinquished the wheel since. They’d only stopped for gas and a bag of Mexican food from a cantina in southern Oregon. It was 3:30 in the morning, and they were now on the outskirts of Redding.
Bert said, “You said back in Oregon you knew how to get fake IDs?”
“I can make anything you want, except maybe a passport. There’s a dark web, sort of an underground internet. I sell fake IDs through a hidden website I run called NuYu.”
“Whoa. You’re a history major at U-Dub and you sell fake IDs on the dark web?”
“I make hella money off that, ten large some months. I paid cash for that Silverado we left in the woods. My dad retired from Microsoft before he was thirty. My sister and I have been coding since third grade. You knew that. If we can get decent headshot photos, I’ll set us up with new identities complete with Social Security numbers, drivers’ licenses, school transcripts, credit ratings: the works. We can do it online, but I can’t do the production side from a motel room. We’ll have to outsource that and have other forgers send the docs via FedEx.”
“How come I never knew you weren’t cruising porn for hours at a time?”
“How come I never knew your dad was a spy?”
“Fair enough. So tomorrow let’s do the extreme makeovers and order the new IDs. I brought ten thousand in cash from the cabin, so we’re not short on dough.”
“I grabbed about five large from our room before I left to pick you up, so I’m in good shape. You stay in the car again, since your shirt’s torn to shit and has dried blood all over it. I’ll pay for a room and be back in five. Hang loose.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll eat that last half a burrito, though it’ll be soggy as hell.”
“You are such a pussy, Nolan.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to those two morons at the park.”
* * * * *
President Gao paced up and down in the small office off the war room at PLA headquarters in Beijing. Chief of Staff General Yao Chanming walked in without knocking, knowing the president was expecting him. “The US ambassador wasn’t lying. A battle group of nine warships led by the George Washington was headed north from Okinawa to their home port of Yokosuka. They’ve turned around and are three hundred miles from the Diaoyus. Another eight hours and they'll be within optimal range of our ASBMs, though with the newly extended ranges in theory we can strike the ships starting in two hours. The US satellites will not be blind for eight hours, so our likelihood of a killing strike will be less than ideal. So if we want to ensure we'll be able to launch over the longest period, we need to load the missiles now and have them ready to launch on your orders, sir.”
“Go ahead. Get the missiles ready to fire on my command.”
“Yes, sir.”
“General, when our missiles sink the George Washington, it will end one hundred seventy-two years of humiliation at the hands of Western imperialists. A century from now, schoolchildren will know your name.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Thank you, Mr. President.” It was time to set the injustices right, starting with the Treaty of Nanking that ended the First Opium War in 1842. I’ll probably have a statue in the Forbidden City, Yao thought as he walked back into the war room. Fancy that.
* * * * *
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Nolan recalled Julius Caesar’s reply in 49 BC when the Roman Senate commanded that he halt his army and return to Rome alone to talk about career next steps. “The die is cast. I have crossed the Rubicon.” Had Nolan sealed their fate by persisting in landing on the Mitchell Plateau rather than in safe Singapore? What was the point of curiosity—even if you were right—if you died and your insights died along with you?
On that somber note, for the two hours he’d been writing out his suppositions longhand, hoping one of the pilots might survive to pass them along . . . to whom, exactly? Who cared what Bob Nolan thought about MH370? Hecker. Sam Hecker and Travis Ryder were the only two who gave a damn. Certainly not Millie, wherever she was. Burns was probably a black hat. Constantine was weird and increasingly hostile. Melissa Shook? Hated him and anything he stood for. Frank Coulter? Coulter was the key to unraveling the plot, one way or another.
The CIA was convinced he had a copy of Watermen’s NSA files, which he did indeed collect in Hawaii last May. Nolan calmed his hyperactive brain, momentarily set aside the pain, and gathered his thoughts.
Mark’s dead. By the time he reached Moscow, he no longer had a copy and was now in no position to tell anyone he’d left a thumb drive encased in plastic wrap for me to find hidden in a bottle of beer in the fridge of his Oahu home.
At Kaili’s behest, in Sri Lanka I destroyed the two copies I had of the NSA files.
The version taped to the cricket ball was either destroyed by the grenade or was left on the beach. Even if it was found, it was a China fabrication. There’s no connection to me.
So there’s nothing that ties me to the Watermen NSA files except . . . except what I told Millie . . . but I can explain that away . . . and, and, DAMN!
Nolan put his forehead into his upturned righ palm as he knitted his eyebrows. There’s the copy I taped inside my bike water bottle and left with Linda Leong. That uncorrupted original was going to be my parting gift to Watermen and a retirement hedge for me. Mark or I could have sold files piecemeal over the next ten years. That microSD card is now damning evidence. I have to make certain it’s destroyed, too. But how?