Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  A soldier in black quick-stepped inside the hut and put his weapon on him. “You Nolan?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Best come outside, mate. Your lady friend’s been shot.” The soldier pulled a knife and freed his feet.

  Nolan rediscovered the phone. “Bert, looks like we’ve been rescued. Coulter’s in handcuffs. Let Mrs. Coulter go and drive away as far and fast as you can. I’ll be in touch. Love you, and thanks.” The SAS squaddie confiscated the phone.

  He ran outside to find Kaili shot in the abdomen, already on a saline drip, and a combat medic working on her wound. One guard lay dead nearby. Another body was sprawled outside the shed Wollam shared with the pilot.

  Down the beach there was a burst of gunfire. Nolan flinched and ducked. A young TAG soldier laughed and said, “No worries. They’re just putting down a big croc. Looks like he has a couple of half-eaten bodies in a cage. Some kind of strange place, eh?”

  “The strangest ever,” said Nolan. Kaili was naked save for running shoes and a bloody oversized yellow tee shirt pushed up to her chest. He knelt down to offer comfort, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

  She opened her eyes and said, “I’m glad I didn’t kill you, Robert Nolan. You were my first wai guo ren.”

  He looked down at her and said, “Read the Asian Wall Street Journal every day. And don’t forget the good book, either.” He stood up and walked outside to see if he could find Coulter.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  SLIPPERY BOB

  WEDNESDAY MARCH 19, SINGAPORE; TUESDAY MARCH 25, WASHINGTON, DC

  “When Chit said Bob Nolan was on the line, I thought it was Travis playing a joke,” Hecker said from his Rangoon office.

  “No, it’s me alright. The Aussie SAS showed up at the eleventh hour. Coulter had me in a chair with your friend Tony Johnson about to get ugly.”

  “Whoa! Tony Johnson is Travis’s big buddy, not mine. And speaking of the devil, Ryder will be back in Rangoon in early April. He emailed earlier today to ask if you were in Singapore next week, as he’ll be in transit for one night. It seems you owe him a big night at an Orchard Towers whoopee palace, Paradise-something. If you give me your personal email address, I’ll pass it along.”

  “I’ll be here, probably living in a refrigerator box under an overpass. My wife has me in the guest bedroom for another night. When our daughter Mei Ling heads back to California tomorrow, Joanie’s going to throw me onto the street.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I earned her scorn. Every last drop. This isn’t a social call, though. I heard you were arrested in Tokyo last Friday night after we spoke?”

  “Yeah, I was detained on various charges. That kept me there over the weekend. I first thought it was Matthews from beyond the grave. Now it seems it’s more serious. David Leung, COS Hong Kong and acting head of Asia, is putting my balls in a vice. I’m on paperwork duty until this is settled. A couple of the charges are serious. I may transfer back to Miami to get out of the clown car Asia’s become.”

  “David Leung? That’s out of character. He’s a mild-mannered nice guy from my limited dealings,” Nolan said.

  “Maybe he is, but as of an hour ago, Justice emailed a settlement agreement that the CIA’s already signed off on. I’m not able to go into details, but they offered a clean slate if I keep my head down and my mouth shut. After the better part of a week acting like they wanted me in a federal penitentiary, I’ll admit I was surprised by the offer.”

  Hecker continued, “I’m glad you called. I won’t accept their deal if it results in prison for you. I have the transcripts from the special interviews. The Agency knows about them, but they don’t know where I’ve stashed them. If they try to find them, they’ll end up on the internet. I learned that trick from an old friend.”

  Nolan chuckled.

  “I’m pushing hard to get resources to track the remnants of Teller’s Golden Elephant mercenaries. They attacked the infirmary outside Einme, killed Mullen and burned the place down. Later the same day they bushwhacked Hanny at his home and took the phone off him that he’d used to record Mullen’s confession. Otherwise they didn’t harm Gonzalez, and that really has me puzzled. After killing everyone else, why settle now for a robbery and leave a witness alive?”

  “It’s a sign they want a ceasefire: if you stop killing theirs, they’ll stop killing yours.”

  “If you put it that way, we could use a truce around here. Travis thinks he’s sterile, Zeya is still in a hospital in Bangkok and Zaw has resigned. I’m working on the papers to get Zaw and family expedited clearance to live in the US. We owe him that.”

  “And then some.”

  “I also owe you, pal. The global PR from your week’s escapades makes it very hard for Uncle Sam to prosecute anyone involved in this ungodly mess, starting with you. And extending to me, too, I hope.”

  “When we next meet, there’ll be plenty of time to give thanks over the death of a bottle of good scotch.”

  Hecker asked, “So what’s the state of play at your end?”

  “It’s all hush-hush. I’m not under arrest, but I don’t have a passport, and I’ve been told to sit at my desk and speak to no one, absolutely no one, until after March 31, when I’m officially retired or arrested.”

  Nolan drew a breath and continued, “The second question is whether you contacted anyone in Australia on Friday night after we spoke. I’m still trying to piece together the sequence.”

  “Yeah, I called my DEA counterpart in the Australian Crime Commission and gave him the backstory, plus an urgent request to get the posse to the Mitchell Plateau ASAP. I assumed that was who was behind the SAS showing up and saving your ass?”

  “No, the SAS lieutenant at the Lizard Cage said it was the ATC call late on Friday from the Gulfstream pilots that mobilized the anti-hijacking team. Mid-briefing that night, they received supplemental orders that identified me by name and gave a blanket shoot-to-kill order. Fortunately, Lieutenant McCullough thought it was fishy. He reached out to the retired Air Marshal who runs the MH370 search out of Perth. The old boy countermanded the kill order, which is why I’m still alive.” Nolan wondered if the Agency listeners on this call knew this part of the story. He hoped they were all gossips.

  “That’s the damnedest thing. So do you think there’s still a set of crosshairs on you?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to work out. Let’s see what the Agency severance package looks like. I’m not so naïve as to think I can spurn whatever the government offers, go to Hollywood and cut a movie deal.”

  “Well, keep me posted. I’m not signing anything until you’ve settled.”

  “Thanks, Sam. That’s a big help. I’ve one final piece of the puzzle for you. The pilots from the Harcourt Aviation jet I chartered weren’t the ones at Airstrip One. They put down in Krabi Saturday midmorning, where they met a white commuter jet with a gold elephant painted on the vertical stabilizer. They took on two passengers and about nine million dollars in poly bags, and then flew on to Australia to where I ended up.”

  “The Golden Elephant corporate Citation? That makes no sense. The DEA has zero evidence that Myat Noe is, or ever was, in the drug trade. You think she was in on MH370 with Teller?”

  “I really don’t know. I do know I wouldn’t want her unhappy with me. Use or discard the info as you see fit. I’m not mentioning it to anyone other than the wire tappers on this call.”

  “Let me mull it over. I’m not certain the DEA needs a dead hero. A truce is appealing, particularly as I already owe the lady a couple of favors for leaking the HR records and home addresses of Teller’s mercs.”

  “Let me know how things turn out. I’ll also drop Travis an email and get him out on the town when he’s through. I’m trying to rehabilitate my image, so maybe the Union Bar at the American Club is somewhere we could go for quality West Coast microbrews. Sadly, I’ll be on short rations, as they loaded me up with antibiotics after pulling a bunch of s
hrapnel out of my chest and sewing up my forearm.”

  “Heal fast, Bob. My nose tells me there are a few people out there who would like a word in private.”

  * * * * *

  “I’m telling you, the PR fallout from prosecuting Nolan would be far worse than the blowback from making him a hero.”

  “What have we got?”

  “Let’s talk first about what we don’t have. There’s no hard evidence linking him to Watermen’s stolen NSA files.”

  “What about the so-called yellow drive, the thumb drive taped to the cricket ball found on the Sri Lanka beach?”

  “NSA analysis shows it to be a China fabrication, nearly identical to what Watermen stole. It seems to have been constructed for Russia’s and our consumption. The files support China’s intelligence coup, playing back the Stuxnet 3.0 worm against us in an operation called Dolphin by the Ministry of State Security. It may take us years to sieve fact from fiction, but Nolan’s fingerprints aren’t on any of it.”

  “What about the murder of the CIA officer in Colombo? If that actually wasn’t Nolan, he ordered it or was at least complicit.”

  “The Sri Lankans produced one of the Navy Commandos involved. He passed a polygraph vowing that his deceased colleague killed Agency staffer Patrick Long outside Nolan’s bungalow. Long was installing eavesdropping equipment at a window. The commandos didn’t know what Long was up to. As it was 4 a.m. and their job was to protect Nolan, they slit his throat. At the time, Nolan didn’t even know the commandos were there, much less sanction their actions.”

  “What about air piracy? Hijacking is life without parole.”

  “Neither of the Harcourt pilots is willing to testify. In truth, Nolan actually chartered the plane and paid for it with his life savings . . . the hijack story was to cover the pilots’ asses and Nolan played along. The China agent who was shot claimed diplomatic immunity and said nothing. She flew from Darwin back to China four days ago.”

  “Yeah, well, she won the lottery. Her MSS ex-boss went from being one step away from prison to president of China in the space of five days. I just read a brief that says she’s in line to run all of Ministry of State Security overseas intelligence operations at age forty-three. She will be certain to shake things up.”

  The speaker continued, “What about espionage? Spying for China?”

  “Based on what? The Chinese detained his wife and daughter to put leverage on him, but there’s no proof he passed confidential information to any foreign power.”

  “So what do we have on Slippery Bob?”

  “Misuse of Agency-provided identification, basically using CIA-generated fake US passports to travel on personal business. Illegally leaving Singapore. Taking leave without permission. Destroying CIA property. The worst offense was allowing a subordinate to use his credentials to access confidential files above her security clearance. That’s probably prosecutable, but a conviction would result in probation and look petty. If he talked to the media, hoo-boy.”

  “That won’t play well in the press: the hero of the MH370 hijacking brought up on charges of exceeding his authority when researching the disappearance of the flight while incompetent CIA colleagues tried to thwart his every move.”

  “No, sir.”

  “So, Director Perkins, it seems I’m pinning another medal on Nolan’s chest.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I think you will be, but it’s not that simple.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nolan understands the PR value. In return for signing a nondisclosure agreement, he wants a full presidential pardon for any and all crimes committed by himself—”

  “Which you’ve just said are none, at least in terms of what we can prove.”

  “Hear me out, sir. It’s his family as well.”

  “His family?”

  “Son Bertrand put two FBI agents in the hospital when they tried to arrest him at a national park just south of the Canada border. At the time we had a flawed warrant out on young Nolan. The Agency had the FBI go after Bertrand to try to gain leverage on his father. Justice has already advised us to let this one go. If it gets to court we’re skewered. However, there’s a probable case of kidnapping former ADDCO Coulter’s ninety-six-year-old mother.”

  “Kidnapping? I’m not pardoning a kidnapper.”

  “Well, sir, it’s conjecture on our part. Mary Coulter declined to press charges, despite the allegations of her son. We have NSA intercepts of young Nolan’s call to Coulter that support a kidnapping thesis. But with Watermen still viewed as a martyr by thirty percent of voters, I’m not certain we have a lot to gain by taking that approach, especially if it results in Frank Coulter taking the stand.”

  “I’m still not certain of the damage a retiree who’s been out of the CIA for over five years can do, but I’m not going down that road again with you. Where is Bertrand Nolan?”

  “Still a fugitive as of this moment, sir. The FBI is looking for him and his college roommate. Just a couple of kids out in the Northern California woods. We should have them in custody in a day or two.”

  “So let’s say we fly the Nolans to the White House from Singapore to coincide with his last day at the Agency at the end of March?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s five days from now.”

  “And on Sunday afternoon in the Rose Garden, when there’s nothing on TV but the end of the NBA regular season, we reunite the happy Nolans with their wayward son Bertrand. I put a medal around Bob’s neck, issue a blanket pardon and we have a big happy family photo op. What kind of ratings would that get, Billy?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, Mr. President. Probably pretty high.”

  “Bob Nolan’s America’s next hero. What medal do I give him?”

  “Well, uh, here we’re stuck, sir. You see, back in 2009 you awarded Nolan the Agency’s second-highest honor, the Distinguished Intelligence Medal, for his work on the original Stuxnet. So the only thing we can give him that tops that is the DIC, the Distinguished Intelligence Cross. The award is for a voluntary act or acts of extraordinary heroism involving the acceptance of existing dangers with conspicuous fortitude and exemplary courage. Nolan would be the thirty-eighth recipient, the majority of them posthumous and all of them awarded in secret until now.”

  “So instead of locking him up for life for treason or trying him for murder, we’re giving Bob Nolan the CIA-equivalent of the Medal of Honor?”

  “It would appear that way, Mr. President.”

  “You have to have a sense of humor to do this job. Have Justice draw up the papers and ask your secretary to send over one of those DIC medals. Make certain it’s nice and shiny.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  ROSE-TINTED

  FRIDAY MARCH 28, UA804 FROM SINGAPORE TO WASHINGTON, DC; SUNDAY MARCH 30, WASHINGTON, DC

  Nolan’s arm was healing well, while his marriage was probably beyond repair. His daughter wasn’t talking to him, but at least Mei Ling and Joanie had consented to fly to DC for the dog and pony show at the White House. He leaned back in the business class seat. United Airlines long haul was damned good these days, though it was still a crapshoot as to whether you ended up being served by sixty-five-year-old battle axes or comely Asian stewardesses half their ages. He’d won the lottery on that count. One of the young ladies pushing a cart reminded him of that magic night twenty-six years earlier when he’d met Joanie. Oh, to have those times back and see the sparkle in his ex-Singapore Airlines stewardess’s eyes one more time.

  He had no one to blame but himself, and feeling sorry wouldn’t help. He put down Ocean of Deceit. It was believable, but damned complex and just good enough to be worth plodding through.

  The International New York Times rehashed the big story, Israel’s bombing of Iran’s nuclear facilities. The liberal op-ed editorialists were split. The pro-Israel lobby was in favor, while the peace-in-our-time faction smelled a US-led conspiracy. Many commentators questioned whether the raids were successful. From the damage assessments circulati
ng at the embassy yesterday, Nolan knew several bombed facilities weren’t particularly well shielded or previously known as military installations. Iran cried that these were peaceful research centers and bemoaned the civilian death toll, but Nolan was inclined to believe that the Israelis had hit the right targets.

  Two days ago, the Nolans had received their clemency declarations in writing. With Bob Nolan’s guidance, Bert and Michael McGirty turned themselves in at the Mendocino County Sheriff’s office in Ukiah. After some understandable skepticism, the presidential pardons passed muster with the cops, and the two sophomores were given fresh clothes, a night in a decent hotel, and plane tickets to Seattle for McGirty and DC for Bert. The only thing that enticed Joanie onto the flight was that Bert was jetting to the capitol ahead of them. Also, Nolan mollified her somewhat by explaining that the US$328,600 of their life savings spent on chartering the jet would be reimbursed. They were absorbing a US$50,000 shortfall for the hiring of the Sri Lankans, hospital and legal bills for the surviving hacker, and reimbursing the Company a few Bitcoins. Nolan suggested Joanie focus on the future: they had an inflation-indexed US$142,000 annual pension kicking in as of April 1.

  Nolan was willing to sign a comprehensive nondisclosure agreement in return for a pension that would educate his children and allow his wife and him to live comfortably if she deigned to keep him. He understood that any violation of the agreement would mean the forfeiture of same. But the pardon was irrevocable, with all crimes committed prior to March 15 wiped clean for the Nolans and McGirty.

  The dark cloud was Mark Watermen’s death, just one God-awful situation. In hindsight, they’d never had a chance. Mice shouldn’t dance with elephants, but that was scant consolation.