Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  Of course, Mei Ling! She’s back in Singapore. I can count on Mei Ling.

  “Kaili, I’m too sore to move. Could you borrow the captain’s satphone? I need to make some calls.”

  * * * * *

  Gregory leaned into Weill’s office at NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland. “As of 06:17 Eastern Daylight Savings Time, we are baaack.” Despite the jocular tone, both men looked like extras in a vampire movie. The haunted eyes and disheveled clothes spoke of the last six hours of frenzied work supporting the NGA as they took servers offline, debugged them and rebooted the machines while monitoring for re-infestation or a fresh attack. Ensuring the NSA downloads of the NGA feeds were secure and reliable was almost as stressful as fighting off the damned DDOS.

  Intriguingly, Director of National Intelligence Morris had ordered NGA head honcho David DeVore to have their systems continue to play dead for the time being. Passively monitor what had changed while they were off the air. Superficially, the DDOS had Iran’s fingerprints all over it, but there was no way the Iranians could have let themselves in through the back doors and side entrances. Russia was Weill’s suspicion, while Gregory’s money was on China. In the conference room, DeVore brought the house down when he blandly stated that Homeland Security’s routine software upgrades were to blame.

  For now, the NGA was playing possum, comparing the pre- and post-DDOS data feeds, but not shifting substantial volumes of data to customers such as the NSA, or otherwise signaling that they had their eyes back. The one area where they risked making a few ripples was over the Senkakus and along the China coast. The initial reads were contradictory and disturbing, with the latest satellite intel at odds with what the NSA’s Acapulco data captures had been telling them overnight. If one believed the exports from Acapulco, the tapped PLA coastal network, China’s defense readiness level was one notch above the bottom, and that was only after Ambassador Sturgis had read them the riot act a few hours ago. The NRO’s infrared passes coupled with the first processed images from the last six hours in arrears revealed a maelstrom of activity, with both offensive and defensive military systems approaching a war footing.

  Morris, DeVore, Perkins and NSA head Madeline Rance were huddled down the hall on a call to the joints chiefs and the president. As Gregory observed, it was much better to be dishing out the mushroom treatment than be on the receiving end. “Come on, you bastards. Make a move. Anything at all. We will crush you,” he said to Weill, and they clacked wilted paper coffee cups in a fraternal toast to the pending destruction of . . . of . . . well, whoever was responsible.

  * * * * *

  Hecker stepped away from the briefing table with his boss to privately take the call. He was nervously awaiting news from Gonzalez, but hadn’t been able to reach him since receiving the lone email at Narita Airport. Instead, it was another familiar voice. “Bob? How the hell are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m on a jet headed to Western Australia, Sam. Mark Watermen’s dead, shot by a sniper in Colombo earlier today. I was wounded by a grenade, the same one that killed an FSB senior officer named Chumakov. It was a bloodbath on the beach, and many people died. We were lucky to escape.”

  “I’m speechless. I’m glad you’re alive. Isn’t the best thing for you to surrender? We confirmed that the hijacker in custody is Colonel Peter Mullen. He tried to commit suicide, but we have him stashed in an infirmary out in the boondocks guarded by Zaw’s men. Gonzalez recorded Mullen’s confession. I hope it’s being transcribed as we speak. I also have the readings on the radioactivity released when the SS Bandana dumped that hot container. Plus we have the photograph of the MHS logo on the crate. So the evidence is mounting up. And, as the cherry on top, the CIA just suspended Matthews, Constantine and Burns. David Leung, chief of station Hong Kong, is now acting head of Asia.”

  “Tell me more about the ocean radioactivity. How much has it spread? Will we be able to recover the container?”

  “I don’t know. You may not be aware, but the NRO’s birds were blinded earlier today after a gigantic DDOS attack. It’s the largest cyberattack in history by a factor of five, according to CNN. I’m in Tokyo right now meeting Mary Steinlager. The one question I have has to do with those missing NSA files. Did you have anything to do with what Watermen stole? Do you have a copy of the files?”

  “Sam, you’re telling me the NRO’s eyes and ears are down right now? So this call isn’t being monitored?”

  “Well, I have no idea what the satellites are doing, but as long as the DDOS is in force, there’s no way for the NGA analysts to retrieve or interpret satellite data. You need to focus on straightening out your situation, though. You can trust the DEA. We’re on your side. But we have to know the full story, too.”

  “I had nothing to do with Mark Watermen’s theft of those NSA files. I don’t have a copy of those files. I was in Sri Lanka to trade a fabricated bundle of public-sector NSA files for his freedom. It was a double-cross two times over with the Russians aiming to keep Watermen, capture me and hand us both over to the CIA. China’s involved as well, but I don’t know why. All I know for sure is that the CIA is trying to shut down the MH370 investigation by using the missing NSA files to discredit me. You have my word on that.”

  Nolan made his life-or-death pitch. “If you really want to help, alert the Australia federal police and your anti-narcotics counterparts—everyone in law enforcement outside the ASIS and ASIO, as they’re too close to the CIA—and send them in force to Truscott Field on the Mitchell Plateau in Western Australia. We’ll be landing in less than two hours. I know they can’t be there by then, but even tomorrow morning might be soon enough. Otherwise, I’m dead by lunchtime.”

  “What’s so important about this particular airfield? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “There’s a CIA interrogation site at or near Truscott Field. They’re questioning one or two people they offloaded from MH370 before the plane disappeared. Once we know the identities of the prisoners and their captors, we’ll have the answers to all our MH370 questions.”

  “Alright. I’ll see that help gets there.”

  “Thanks. That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. I have to go now, the battery is low.” Nolan hung up. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way back to the light. Now for the tough call. He dialed Singapore.

  * * * * *

  A medically induced coma helped control the swelling from the brain trauma. That was the best the neurosurgeons could do for Chumakov. The thoracic team patched punctured lungs and extracted the metal fragments from a mangled left kidney. The facial-maxillary team couldn’t save his eye, but reassembled the crushed socket. The surgeons agreed he was lucky to be alive, and even luckier if he stayed that way without ending up semi-vegetative and wheelchair-bound. The Americans gingerly loaded the FSB director of surveillance into an ambulance, aided by a very large Russian with limited English. The giant was also on the air ambulance bound for Singapore, as no one had the courage to tell him to deplane.

  * * * * *

  “Hello?” Mei Ling was cautious. The only phone call she’d received since landing was from the watchers. She half expected this caller to tell her that her bra lines were visible through her tee shirt.

  “Mei Ling? It’s Dad.”

  “Dad? Where are you? This line is bad.”

  “I’m on a chartered jet flying from Sri Lanka to Australia. Mark was killed earlier today in Sri Lanka, shot in the head. I was injured in the attack and barely escaped. I’m flying to the Outback to find out the truth about MH370, and then I’m coming home to clear my name. How’s Bert? How’s your mother?”

  “Bert is wanted for injuring two FBI agents. It seems he crossed into the US from Canada, and they tried to arrest him. Did you have anything to do with this?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Mom took a sleeping pill given to her by Dr. Chan next door. Juanilla’s told her everything. Mom’s really angry that you used her Hermès scarves to tie up your Indian girlfrie
nd to screw in her bed. Oh, and she’s even more upset that you emptied the retirement savings account. So I don’t think coming back home is an option.”

  “Look, I have an important favor to ask of you. It’s very easy and involves—”

  “You’re asking the wrong person for favors. Maybe someone else will help you, but I won’t. Don’t call back, because I won’t answer.” Mei Ling put the phone down. As much as she disliked her father, she didn’t hate him enough to let him incriminate himself over a tapped line.

  * * * * *

  Bert decided to check his Canada burner one last time before throwing it away. He inserted the battery and turned on the phone. Within a minute, it rang.

  McGirty was in the motel bathroom and called out in surprise. Bert shushed him and answered. “Dad? Are you kidding me? It’s you? And no one’s listening in? Hell yeah, I can talk. There was a scuffle at the border, but I made it to goddamn Redding.”

  * * * * *

  Nishimoto looked ahead at the cockpit avionics panel. “Just turn off the satphone and put it down on the jump seat. Your charter fee covers incidentals like food, booze and the odd phone call, especially the untapped kind, but we’ve another problem right now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When we landed at Truscott earlier in the week, there were visual and infrared beacons lining the runway. I expected them to be on for us tonight, too. I’ve overflown the runway and there’s no one down there. You can see that there aren’t any lights visible. The closest airport is Kununurra, but that’s not certified for night operations. I’d have to call in a mayday before landing there. The Australia military is tracking us, and we’ve been reminded that we don’t have permission to land anywhere but here. We can still reach Dili, but if we’re changing destinations we’ll have to make that call right now, and I’ll need to sweet-talk the military ATC.”

  Nolan said, “Even if we do manage to reach East Timor, I doubt if we can get refueled and off the ground before sunrise to put us back here before eight o’clock. I called the DEA a while ago, and they’re asking the Australians to send the cavalry. If we want to find out what happened to MH370 and your nephew, we’ll have to be on the ground when they arrive. They won’t be waiting for us before they move.”

  Jenkins spoke up. “Captain, we have our night-vision glasses, there’s a full moon and this has to be the longest, widest runway I’ve ever seen. I have excellent night vision. I can put us down even if it’s oiled gravel.”

  “Maybe so, but if there’s a buffalo or kangaroo on the blacktop, it would be a bad experience for Harcourt Aviation shareholders and an even worse one for us.”

  “Let’s buzz the runway first to scare any animals.”

  “I don’t want to try to be cute and fly us into the hard deck chasing jackrabbits off the airstrip. If you think you can make a safe landing, take us around and put her down.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  Nolan retreated out of the cockpit and went back to ensure that a sleeping Kaili had her seatbelt on. His chest hurt so much he could only breathe shallowly. To his own ears, he sounded like a dog panting. A week ago he was standing around a keg of beer in Rangoon at old classmate Walt Macasaet’s place, enjoying a preretirement party and bullshitting with new acquaintance Sam Hecker. And now he was wounded, bankrupted and wanted for treason. Kaili had a vague smile on her face as she slept. Maybe in another week that would be him, back with his family and smiling in his sleep. And the moon is made of green cheese, he mused.

  The plane dropped a couple of feet and his ears popped. The engine whine increased and they leveled off. They hadn’t come all this way only to die in a plane crash, of that he was confident.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  BIG BANG

  FRIDAY MARCH 14, BEIRUT; TOKYO; SINGAPORE; SENKAKU (DIAOYU) ISLANDS, JAPAN

  Mormoroth was sipping coffee five hundred fifty yards from where the truck bomb detonated. The café’s front window rattled, alarm cries sounded and patrons poured into the street. Several people jostled him to the point that his kahva nearly spilled into his lap. He and Colonel Gilani remained seated; they already knew the source of the explosion was five hundred fifty pounds of TNT and aluminum oxide powder loaded into the back of a battered white paneled van. The four-story office building in south Beirut should now be a two-story pile of rubble with all traces of the hackers’ clandestine underground complex buried. The cost? A few score street-side passersby with maybe another hundred wounded. The six Unit #61398 hackers were either dead or choking out their last breaths.

  “It may be a ten-minute walk, but this has to be the best coffee in Beirut,” said the colonel, smacking his lips even as the sky darkened from the blast. He refilled their cups. In the street out front, people surged toward the scene. The first sirens wailed in the distance.

  Mormoroth was lost in his thoughts. Having to ignore the pleas of the dozen Christian and Sunni university students disturbed him. Their Hezbollah kidnappers did a professional job of matching the sexes, ages and approximate appearances of the Iranian hacker team. If the rescuers eventually dug down to the decomposed bodies, he doubted anyone would ever be identified from anything more than their doubles’ IDs in their pockets. He didn’t understand, much less speak, the Lebanese-inflected Arabic several of the students directed at him. He appreciated their bewilderment as guards removed blindfolds and cut zip-ties while handing them cups of tea to drink at gunpoint. The students knew something wasn’t right, their anxieties heightened by the shouts in Mandarin, English, and Farsi (sneaky Chinese bastards) bleeding through the wall of the adjacent conference room where the PLA unit was similarly imbibing at gunpoint. Eventually, everyone in each room drank their tea and passed out. Strangers in life now joined together forever two stories underground.

  For a quarter of a million dollars, the grubby Hezbollah commander had truck-bombed his own people and ruined the neighborhood. The stated reason was to generate more anti-Israeli and US propaganda, but Mormoroth saw the greed in his eyes when the suitcase of cash arrived.

  Gilani filled Mormoroth with both fear and disgust. The Pasdaran Quds colonel had demanded the support staff be left behind as well, much as ancient noblemen’s tombs contained sacrificed household servants to assist their masters in the afterlife. Those same powerful doses of GHB, a popular date-rape drug, were mixed with tea and forced on their own clerical staff, then the incomprehending staff marched back to their usual stations to sit until they fell unconscious. “We can’t take the risk that rescuers excavate to this level someday. If our enemies or the Chinese count bodies, there must be the right number. If the Israelis truly blew up the building, there would be office staff inside.” Mormoroth didn’t question the colonel’s logic, only the humanity.

  He asked why not just poison them and be done with it, and was surprised to hear the colonel declare that he wasn’t a murderer. If Allah wanted to call these martyrs to paradise, he’d do so at a time of his choosing. If not, then they’d wake up and find their own ways to the surface. Yet another example of Gilani’s sanctimonious posturing, but Mormoroth kept that thought to himself, lest he become yet another corpse in basement two.

  The ambulance sirens from nearby Bahman Hospital competed with the fire engine and police car klaxons. Mormoroth’s mouth tasted like copper and was dry even after his third cup. The supposedly dead Iranian hacker team was being exfiltrated via different routes. Once back home, they’d lie low until the Americans and Chinese stopped looking for anyone who could implicate the PLA hackers in the DDOS. Mormoroth considered the negative implications for his social life that came with being officially dead. After three-plus months living underground in Beirut, he supposed it couldn’t get much worse.

  He wondered if Gilani appreciated that he was now one of China’s assassination targets, too. He doubted this knowledge would bother the man at all. There the colonel stood at the back of the shop, finger in his ear to drown out the cacophony, his other hand pressing the phone
tight against his jowls. Gilani couldn’t wait to call Tehran to tell everyone the good news, ignoring security protocols. Even with the DDOS underway, they had to assume the US satellites would record every unscrambled Farsi-language phone conversation in the Middle East. Gilani was just another criminal who wore a Pasdaran Quds uniform when he was in Iran.

  It was time for Mormoroth to take a walk to the nearby safe house and assume yet another identity. He had changed his hairstyle so often, he’d forgotten what he looked like. From teen hacker prodigy lorded by Iran’s High Council of Cyberspace for his authorship of the malware that shut down Saudi Aramco, to leader of the most secretive program in Iran’s cyber espionage history, Operation Menander, to dead and vanished. Poof. So much for the Mormoroth cyber terrorist brand he’d nurtured. At least he’d have a chance to see his mother once he made it back to her hometown of Bam in eastern Iran.

  * * * * *

  Head of Legal, Asia, Martin Posner spoke on an untapped line to new Acting Head of Asia David Leung. “The plan worked better than expected. I didn’t even have to present evidence linking Burns and Matthews to Teller. Apparently, no one in Singapore knew Constantine signed the Mukherjee woman out of detention and stashed her in his own home these past two nights. So I didn’t need to bring that up, either. All three self-destructed based on what Kellogg and Shoenstein already knew, gifting the CIA in Asia to you.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “First, find or manufacture evidence that Hecker is shielding or abetting Nolan so we can lock him up. Right after this call, have Hecker detained for questioning. He’s at the Okura Hotel in Tokyo. Don’t let him get on the plane back to Rangoon tomorrow. Use your legal team in Hong Kong to review Matthews’s complaints and draw up a warrant.”