Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  Johnson gave Nolan a curious look and turned his attention back to Coulter. “Write down your questions and let’s get a fresh memory card in the camcorder. I’m taking an early lunch, and then Bob and I will have a conversation.”

  * * * * *

  Macca raised Air Marshal Finch again on the radio and apprised him of recent developments. Macca’s immediate superior Captain Ben “Willbo” Willard stood next to him. Finch didn’t mince words. “I want you to capture unharmed as many people as you can. I have no idea what’s really happening, and I doubt anyone else here does either. We don’t want a blue-on-blue, but I’ll be buggered if we sit back and let the Americans run amok in our backyard.”

  “So we’re no longer to shoot Nolan on sight?” Macca asked, looking at Willbo as he did.

  “Hello no!” the Air Marshal thundered. “If anything, you’ll be looking to shoot whoever has taken Nolan captive. Even so, let’s try to keep everyone alive, and we’ll sort it out once we have them in custody. Time is short. I’ll ring your Colonel Jones at SASR HQ. You chaps get on with it. Do the right thing, Lieutenant McCullough. Make Malcolm and the Regiment proud.”

  “Yes, sir!” His late father worshipped Finch from his time in Borneo during konfrontasi, and then later on in Vietnam. He realized now that the respect was mutual.

  Captain Willard was already on his comms set. “I want the pilots and unit commanders to come here on the double. Bring your maps. We’re going in blind, and we’re going in now.”

  Macca used the lull to post two men to guard in the plane proper, and directed the snipers to find a place of concealment from which they could cover any approaches from the northeast. For now, the pilots remained under house arrest, though they posed no threat, and he’d ordered their bracelets removed.

  * * * * *

  Coulter liked the latest generation compact satphones: candy bar–sized with outsized folding antennas. It startled him to receive a call, as maybe five people in the world had his number. Teller was dead and Joanna wished he were, too. So that left Posner and . . . oh, hell. He answered, “Hello?”

  “Hello? Frank? Is that you? It’s your mother.”

  “Momma? I’m fine. Are you all right? How did you get my number?”

  “I’m here at home with two young men. One of them tells me you have his father Bob . . . Bob Nolan in custody. Now I’m sure you have a good reason for—”

  “Momma, don’t talk to those people. They are criminals. Did you press the panic button?”

  “Yes, of course I did. Right when I fetched them milk and cookies about fifteen minutes ago, but they’re polite young fellows and quite convinced you are up to no good, so I sent the police away, as I wanted to hear your side as well. I told those officers I just wanted to see a human face, while the boys stood quiet in the dining room. You know, son, I do get lonely because no one but you ever visits me. And when was the last time that happened?”

  “Momma, I can’t talk—”

  “Bob Nolan’s son Bert says that you will kill his father before he exposes you as a mass murderer. He’s right here and would like to speak with you.”

  “Bob Nolan is a criminal. His son is a criminal—”

  Bert took the cordless phone and walked back into the dining room where he could speak in private. “I’m Bert Nolan. I’m wanted for maiming two Federal agents and have nothing to lose. I’m sitting next to your mother until I hear my father’s voice telling me he’s safe. So don’t hang up, or your mother dies. Don’t send police to the house again, or your mother dies. Just bring my father to the phone now.”

  “Son, don’t you threaten me. Don’t you ever threaten my mother. I have a long reach.”

  “Hold on a second. Your mother’s in the kitchen, and she’s saying something to my friend.” Bert’s voice was now more distant. “Is that right, Mrs. Coulter? You were supposed to take your high blood pressure and arrhythmia pills at eight and it’s getting late? Gosh, that doesn’t sound good.”

  Back on the line, Bert said, “I promise I won’t lay a finger on her, but it won’t make any difference. Maybe we triple up on the dosages, or skip the meds entirely. So stop threatening me, and put my father on the line.”

  “I’ll have to call you back. He’s—he’s busy right now. Call me back in ten minutes.”

  “Stay on the line. If you hang up, I swear I’ll be the one who shuts your momma’s eyes.”

  “I’m walking over.” Coulter seethed, clenching the phone until his forearm ached.

  * * * * *

  Kaili’s arms were numb from bearing Zhao’s weight as he gaily raped her for the second time. His body forced enough of a depression in the thin mattress to create slack between her taped wrists and ankles. She’d been able to untie the rope that had her hogtied. And Kaili knew how to free herself from duct tape, an overrated hostage restraint, but first she had to get her hands in front of her. Normally, she would have scooted her bound wrists under her butt and then under her feet, but her arms had no feeling from the elbows down.

  She lay naked on Zhao’s bed while he masturbated to try to achieve another erection. Zhao gave up after a last flurry of strokes, his withered stalk hanging limp. He looked down on her and waggled his pathetic cock before turning around to dress. It was now or never. She forced herself to a seated position and rocked back on her arms, yanking down with all her might and rolling forward, knees to her chest. She felt her wrists and hands under her glutes. Quickly she rolled on her back and brought her wrists behind her bent legs and under her feet. Her duct-taped wrists were now in front. She was sweating with exertion, unaware of her captor.

  Zhao stood in front of her in his Jockeys with a wide grin and demonic eyes, pistol pointed at her. She moved her hands up and took the gag out of her mouth. In Mandarin, she said, “Not so fast. I’ll give you the best blowjob of your life.”

  “Yes, I bet you would. Up to the point where you bit it off. Let’s go. You MSS bitches are all the same: nothing but dry holes.”

  She noticed his penis stirring through his briefs. “I can’t believe you haven’t fucked my ass. I’d love a big cock in my ass. Oh, yeah. You’re getting hard. Come on, Admiral, don’t you want to come in my ass? This will be my first time: all nice and tight just for you.”

  Zhao flipped Kaili around, forced her facedown on the bed and stripped off his underwear. She propped herself on her elbows and waggled her butt as an inducement. In order to enter her, he’d have to put down the gun. Zhao had spat on his erection and was spreading the saliva in lieu of lube. In an instant, she rose up on her knees and then brought her taped wrists up as high as she could before slamming them down together while simultaneously spreading her elbows to exert quick, extreme force. As she knew from prior practice, even reinforced duct tape split when this happened. Her hands were free. Too late, the rapist lunged for the gun. Kaili grabbed it first, rolled to the side and pulled the trigger as his body came down on her. The gun sounded loudly with the weapon flat against his body. He put his hands on her throat and squeezed. Her hand was still numb and the gun was between them, pointed where she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. If she didn’t shoot him again, he’d strangle her. If she shot herself, so be it. She pulled the trigger again, and this time there was a more muffled report.

  Zhao fell away to the floor, hands flying to his groin. He lay on his back, rolling in blood. Her first shot had only grazed his abdomen, leaving little more than a bloody furrow. That Zhao had doctored the bullets to do maximum damage was apparent from her second shot that entered his belly and exited through his genitals. She sat watching Zhao moan and squirm, one finger held to pursed lips as the other pointed the gun. She picked the knife off the nightstand and cut off the duct tape around her ankles, never taking her eyes off his face until he died two minutes later.

  Her clothes were destroyed. His clothes didn’t fit. She made do with one of his tee shirts and discovered that his sports shoes were only half a size too large for her unladylike size eight
s. She looked in the mirror at something out of a horror show: a bruised neck, broken fingernails, torso covered in Zhao’s blood, her own blood on her inner thighs, and shreds of duct tape hanging from her wrists and ankles.

  She checked the gun. It was a Beretta 25 with six dumdum shells still in the magazine. That would take care of most of them. It was time to get Bob, or what was left of him, out of the cage. Then she’d pay a visit to Coulter and the others.

  * * * * *

  Coulter pulled the phone away and more of Bert Nolan’s hollow threats faded from earshot. From the look on Wollam’s face, he had bigger things to worry about.

  A breathless Wollam reached his side. “Andy’s been scanning the military frequencies. In less than ten minutes we’ll have three Black Hawks inbound with an SAS Tactical Assault Group on board. There are thirty men staging at Truscott Field. I’ve just five men under arms. We can’t fight them. We don’t have a big enough head start to run. What do we do?”

  “We clean up our mess and go quietly. I have the proof that shows I was right all along about Iran. What’s left of the Iranian? Get the body out of the cage. Feed it to your pet sharks.”

  “Elvis is letting the last half of the good doctor ripen. I don’t reckon he’s parting with him without a tussle.”

  “Open the cage. Let the croc go. We can’t be discovered with bodies and have a crime scene here.”

  “What about Nolan and the Chinese Sheila?”

  “We’ll use them as bait and let the Black Hawks do the rest.”

  “I’ll go see about Elvis and what’s left of the mad scientist.”

  Coulter put the satphone to his ear. “You still there, Bert?”

  “I’m here, asshole. Where’s my father?”

  “Watch your mouth. I’m putting him on.” Coulter was wondering how long it would take the NSA to put a trace on his satphone and send proper law enforcement to his mother’s home . . . or here. Too long, he concluded.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  SANGUINE SHORES

  SATURDAY MARCH 15, ADMIRALTY GULF, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; TRUSCOTT FIELD, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

  Kaili peeked out of Zhao’s cabin. The glare forced her to look down until her pupils adjusted. Just shy of the interrogation hut, Wollam and Coulter conferred before splitting up. Coulter was on a satphone and Wollam was headed toward the cage. She looked around, didn’t see anyone else, and stepped across the burning sand toward Elvis, grateful for the footwear. Wollam was one hundred feet ahead and stopped to unlock and open the gate. He didn’t even look up before walking down to the other end, waving his arms and shouting. “Come on, you bloody watchstrap! You big set of luggage! Get out of the cage! I need what’s left of your friend. Move out. You’re free!”

  Elvis had a brain the size of a walnut, but he was bright enough to see daylight and no bars uphill at the other end. He left the half-eaten weapons expert entangled with the gamey water buffalo haunch and reversed his considerable bulk so he now faced the open gate.

  “That’s it! Let’s go! Git! Git!” Wollam cried out as Elvis took the first steps toward freedom. Then Wollam saw something unexpected: that Chinese bird Kylie, or whatever her name was, walking up with a gun pointed at him. She was a mess, a Medea in an overwrought Perth Drama Society production. Whatever had happened to Jack, it wasn’t pretty.

  “Where is Bob?”

  “He’s fine! He’s up in a hut. Frank’s gone up there to set him loose. We’re turning the both of you free. Let’s go up. You can see for yourself.”

  “Use your left hand to pull out your weapon. Two fingers only. Throw it far away.” He did so.

  “I’ll see for myself that Nolan is all right. You get in the cage. When Nolan is safe, I’ll come back and let you out.”

  “Can’t do that, darling. Elvis is almost out the door.”

  Kaili turned and saw that Elvis already had his enormous head outside. She was barely twelve feet away, and he was sizing her up. She took two quick steps toward the croc, raised her arms and let out a “YAH!” For the second time that day, Elvis backed away from a crazy pink mammal.

  Quick as a cat, she had the gun back on Wollam. “Up here, now! In you go!”

  All things considered, Wollam figured he was safer with a well-fed Elvis than reasoning with a lunatic. He entered the cage.

  She closed the door and padlocked it. “Give me the key.”

  “I, I don’t have—”

  “Give me the key, or I will shoot you down there,” she said, gesturing toward his groin. He fumbled in his pocket and handed over the key ring. Attention momentarily diverted, Wilbur Wollam looked up to find Elvis right next to him, mouth agape and angled, one great jade eye fixed on his own.

  * * * * *

  “OK, Bob, break’s over. Sandy, start the camera. Robbie, take a breather, but thanks for helping Bob get into the chair.” Johnson was a portrait of calm as he put the sandwich crusts into the wastebasket. Nolan was anything but collected. Despite the super cool air conditioning, generous disinfectant and air freshener, the room smelled of blood and fear.

  “Weren’t you in Seletar Airport on Wednesday night? With a Chinese woman, a hottie?”

  “Yes, I was on my way to Sri Lanka to try to save my godson Mark Watermen.”

  “Watermen? How did that work out?”

  “The Chinese shot and killed him. The Russians had us in their custody, but in the gun battle most of the FSB men died. The CIA didn’t know what was happening until it was over.”

  “And what brings you here? Travis and his boss were singing your praises in Rangoon.”

  “You were the hero when Teller’s men stormed Club Avatar. Your interrogations produced a complete description of what happened on Airstrip One that night. That information is enough to hang Coulter. So why help him?”

  “The Iranian scientist was a bad actor. He was also a tough SOB. I really had to be firm to get him to talk, and cross-check the transcripts to get his stories sorted. I’m the only person in the East who could have extracted the information in under twelve hours. Coulter requested me by reputation. It’s the first time we’ve met. I pride myself on being able to crack the tough ones. Coulter doesn’t really figure in it. I’m just helping the cause as best I can.”

  “Congratulations, Tony. Well done on breaking the Iranian. But isn’t it odd that I’m next on Frank Coulter’s interrogation list? Surely I’m not the same caliber of threat?”

  “Yeah, that occurred to me. Particularly as Coulter’s questions have little to do with gathering usable intel. He wants to know what you know about MH370 and Teller, and who you’ve told. If that’s all, I don’t get the angle.”

  “Don’t end up in jail by supporting an ex-CIA criminal. You know he won’t get away with this. And if he does, he can’t afford to leave any loose ends.”

  The door opened, and silhouetted against the midmorning sun was the diminutive frame of Deputy Dog. That drawl was unmistakable. “Bob, sorry to interrupt.” Coulter stepped into the room. “Telephone call for you. It’s Bert in California.”

  * * * * *

  “The sat photos are out of date, but they are all we have, lads. There’re a half-dozen corrugated metal huts. Some will be sleeping quarters. One will likely be guarded and hold Nolan if he’s still alive. We’ll use smoke, gas and flash bangs to disorient and incapacitate. We will fire only if fired upon. Our focus is finding Bob Nolan and Kylie Yu, alive. Nolan is aged fifty-four, cropped black hair, 6’1”, two hundred pounds. Yu is Chinese, early forties, 5’6”, one hundred twenty pounds, black shoulder-length hair. Achieve surprise through speed and we will save their lives.”

  “Cap’n Willard, every time we’re on an op where we try to save anything other than our own lives, someone in the Regiment ends up dying.”

  “Steady, Cosgrove. I know this goes against our standard operating procedures, but time is short.”

  “Can we at least wait until sundown, sir? We own the night.” There was a murmur of approvals from Co
sgrove’s companions.

  “That’s almost six hours. The hostages won’t live that long. We leave in five minutes. Let’s move.” Willbo’s tone brooked no further discussion.

  * * * * *

  The two guards cut Nolan’s wrists free. He left arm was still useless. With his right hand he accepted the handset proffered by Coulter. “Hello?”

  “Dad, it’s Bert. Are you OK?”

  “For now, yes.”

  “Can anyone hear us?”

  “Only my end, son. Where are you? Why are you calling?”

  “I’m in Weaverville at Coulter’s mother’s home. She’s ninety-six years old and needs her meds. She doesn’t get her pills until you tell me you’re safe.”

  “Son, as soon as I’m out of Coulter’s eyesight, he will send people to kill you.”

  Nolan looked over at Coulter, who had been standing nearby. Coulter smiled through tight lips and edged farther away.

  “So take him with you.”

  “Take who?”

  “Coulter.”

  “And do what?”

  “When you’re far enough away, kill him. By now, you have to know that it’s either him or you.”

  Outside, a man screamed. Sandy and Robbie ran from the hut toward the sound. Three shots followed, then a burst from an automatic weapon followed by three more pistol shots. Johnson grabbed a tactical rifle and scuttled out the door in a half crouch, coming up in a firing position and disappearing from view. Nolan heard two more bursts, then nothing.

  Coulter and Nolan were the only two left in the charnel house. They heard muffled whomp-whomp-whomp of inbound helicopters, coming fast.

  Coulter turned to him. “Leave our families out of this. You tell your boy to leave my momma alone, and I’ll leave him be. I’ll leave both your children be. But stay away from mine, you hear? That’s my momma, my cheatin’ wife Joanna and Frank IV. Harm those heads and your children will be diced and fed to hogs.” Coulter walked outside, knelt in the sand and put his hands behind his neck. In less than a minute, black-clad men armed with suppressed submachineguns had him cuffed and on his feet. Nolan sat mute, Bert asking him repeatedly what was happening while his right arm hung limp at his side, satphone forgotten.