False Flag

by Jay Tinsiano

  The big man wrapped a black blood pressure armband around his left bicep and attached two monitor devices to his chest.

  Fowler glanced at Grant, "Ready to rock and roll?"

  Grant gave the devices attached to the Chinese man one more glance, "Yes, go ahead."

  "I want to see my lawyer," said the suspect, giving the two intelligence officers a steady glare.

  "Fuck your lawyer," smiled Grant. "With respect," he added. The Chinese exhaled slowly, it was the same answer he'd received on the previous four times of asking.

  The questions began with the regular familiarity. What is your name? Where do you live? Did you place the bombs at Causeway Bay or Chun Yeung Street market?

  The Chinese had not answered anything and had refused to speak, however he was beginning to deny some of the questions, which the polygraph machine seemed okay with. Grant chain smoked as he ran through the routine questions and felt a rising sense of frustration, even though he knew that this was a long ball game. There had been many deaths on their turf and there was still a distinct lack of progress as far as the public was concerned, although the finger had very much swung in the direction of Beijing.

  "Who planted the bombs?"

  "I don't know anything about the bombs," he said quietly. Fowler glanced at the monitor line, which remained steady.

  "Did you plant the bombs?"

  The Chinese man, Mu Heng, who had not revealed his name, kept his eyes on the wall behind his interrogator and his breathing and heart beat steady. Beating a polygraph machine wasn't easy, there was a distinct method. Polygraph examinations looked for significant involuntary responses in a person's body when they were subjected to stress. Stress associated with deception.

  "Who is Orchid?"

  Mu Heng blinked quickly. He knew of Orchid. He shouldn't have been aware of that codename, but he had heard stories from fellow operatives. Something about that question had surprised him and Fowler noted – with satisfaction – that the monitor line darted erratically up and down.

  Both men made their way back upstairs to the main operations room and studied the monitor print-out.

  "He's definitely lying or hiding something," Fowler said.

  "Yes, I know he's involved in the bombing, you know he’s involved. But why does nothing show up in the graphs for that line of questioning?" asked Grant, clearly not satisfied.

  "He wasn't expecting us to ask about Orchid though. He was expecting the bomb questions and has been ready for them from the beginning, but this clearly threw him. Maybe he's not specifically trained for long term interrogation. We've had him for four days. Maybe the lack of sleep is kicking in?"

  Fowler saw that Grant looked unconvinced. "Don't worry about it. This is good. Orchid could be the link."

  From briefings with the Hong Kong police and the Special Unit, Fowler had begun to string together what they were dealing with. The prisoner had worked as a watchman at the train terminal for just over a year, where all the trains on the island were serviced, refuelled and checked. After a tip off, he had been taken by officers of the MI6 Hong Kong station before the police could get him. He had traces of explosives on his hands. At his address they found bomb making equipment as well as a whole pile of other evidence. In Fowler's mind, he was guilty as surely as the sun rose in the morning. It was the network behind the watchman Fowler needed to break. As soon as possible.

  The phone rang and Grant took it before handing it over to Fowler. He listened to the voice for several moments and uttered a thank you before putting down the phone.

  "Cody hasn't turned up to his job again."

  Cody was a codename for one of their agents who had been missing and uncontactable for several days, and it was beginning to seriously concern Fowler.

  Chapter 40

  Frank and Maria sat on the top deck of the aqua green painted ferry that transported locals and the odd traveller from Parapat across to Samosir Island, a volcanic landmass that sat in the middle of Lake Toba in Sumatra. The air was fresh at this higher level and clouds hung low, obscuring parts of the mountains in the distance. They disembarked at a small drop off point that consisted of a wooden platform and walked to the reception and restaurant area that rented out traditional Batak houses that sat alongside the lakes.

  The proprietor was a short, stocky Indonesian with a jovial face that reminded Frank of the British comedian Benny Hill. "For you I have lovely Batak house just available," he had said with unbridled enthusiasm and charm. He had led them back down to the lake, ushering them into one of the beautifully painted Batak houses at the end of a row. It stood so close to the lake it was possible to dive in right from the door. Frank and Maria decided to take it straight away and settled in, unpacking their bags before sitting outside on two fold up wooden chairs to take in the scenery.

  Sunlight skimmed across the surface of the water, the only sound seemed to be the squeak of a water pump some distance behind them.

  "I spoke to my father, rang him from the station in K.L.," Maria said suddenly, staring out at the lake, "I just wanted to check he was alright with everything that was going on. I'm sorry, I should have told you. He said he loved me very much," she looked at Frank, her eyes wide and glistening.

  Frank nodded, remembering his suspicions. "I'm glad he does love you Maria, wouldn't be much of a father if he didn't."

  "I know, but you don't understand. He has never told me that in my entire life," she said. Her face seemed etched with questions.

  "Oh? Well, maybe he thought it was overdue? He was worried about you," Frank offered.

  Maria shook her head in disagreement. It had played on her mind directly after the phone call, but she had pushed it to the back of her consciousness. She felt now, more than ever, something was wrong.

  After a few days, they took the highly recommended walk to a village a few miles up the road. As the road climbed higher into the hills, they admired the breathtaking view of the rice fields stretching into the distance that resembled a patchwork quilt.

  When they returned to the restaurant, the owner beckoned Frank over and Maria went ahead to the house. Frank had asked that he let him know if anyone came snooping around.

  "Man with grey hair, English man. He ask for you. He not stay here, came after you left," he said, excitedly.

  "Did he say who he was?" He had not.

  Several hours later, Frank sat outside the Batak house and watched a figure walk towards him. He wore a black shirt – that was in a military style, with shoulder lapels and two pockets across the front – and white slacks. His hair was grey, swept back, and he wore black rimmed glasses. Frank guessed he was in his mid-forties. The man nodded at Frank as he approached and then stopped in front of him.

  "Frank Bowen?" Frank froze and narrowed his eyes. "I'm Douglas Brown, detective inspector at the Royal Hong Kong police force. Don't worry, I'm here unofficially. I just want to talk."

  "I don't suppose you have I.D. to prove that, do you?"

  "Yes, of course." He fished out his wallet and flapped it open, revealing the badge. He held it towards Frank to give him a clear view.

  "Something you bought in Bangkok?" Frank asked, eyebrows arched. The inspector laughed out loud. "Well I know you can pretty much buy anything there nowadays but, no, it is genuine, trust me." Frank decided to do just that. Trust him. He wasn't in a position to do anything else and, besides, he hoped this inspector had some answers.

  "How did you find me?" asked Frank.

  "Indonesian customs reported it. There were no arrest warrants in place but we wanted notification. I've spent quite a while tracking you down. Have to admit it's been an interesting experience, running around Sumatra after your tail. It wasn't that difficult though," he smiled, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  They sat at the water’s edge, on a makeshift wooden platform that acted as a diving point to the Lake. The inspector dangled his feet over the edge, hovering just above the water.

  "It's a beautiful spot," he sa
id, gazing over towards the far mountains. A cloud of mist hung, obscuring the far side.

  "It certainly is. Quiet and peaceful, something I've been badly in need of recently," said Frank, a hint of regret in his voice as if he'd been sloppy in covering his tracks.

  Brown looked at him and smiled. "Yes, I can sympathise with you there," he said.

  Frank leaned forward, turning to face the man from Hong Kong, “What happened to me exactly, inspector? I've got my theories, but I'm dying to hear yours,” he said.

  "Off the record," he paused to take a gulp of beer that Frank had brought from the house, "You were set up, we know that now."

  Frank laughed, "Yeah, that's one thing I do know."

  "Some element in MSS decided to carry out a false flag operation. By launching attacks, they made Hong Kong look weak and incapable when it came to their own security. Among other reasons it was to give the Chinese an upper hand in the takeover negotiations."

  "Jesus, that's crazy," Frank almost spat in the water.

  "Maybe, but hardly surprising," said Brown. "Emperors, governments and intelligence agencies all have a long history in false flag operations, including our own. In fact, we pretty much pioneered it. A British Army Officer, Frank Kitson, wrote a book on it: 'Low Intensity Operations - Subversion Insurgency & Peacekeeping.' He wrote that if there's an organisation or group and you want to discredit them, you create your own parallel organisation. You send them out to commit atrocities which will be blamed on the original relatively benign group, and they'll be discredited, demonised, and you gain political advantage. It's on my bookshelf at home."

  "Intelligence agencies, Governments and their power plays," said Frank quietly.

  "What I don't understand is Richard Desmond's involvement. He's just a criminal, no intelligence links that we know of," Brown said.

  "I think I can help you there," said Frank, peeling off the beer bottle label. "I met someone calling himself Theo Kampala in Goa. He suggested I go to this guesthouse in Bangkok, which I did, and that's where I met Richard Desmond. Theo turned up in Krabi and admitted his involvement before he died. That's all I know."

  Brown nodded slowly. "Yes, I saw a report on that. Theo’s real name is, or was, Amith Kumar and he worked for Chinese intelligence as a scout based in India. From what we know, it seems his job was to pick suitable patsies—Western travellers with few, or no, family connections. He put you in touch with Desmond and fed your information, as well as Jimmy’s, back to the Beijing station."

  Frank shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Frank, you were pretty unlucky."

  Frank managed a laugh and took a swig of beer.

  "So, by putting out false information on you and your friend, making out you were connected to MI6 and so forth, they created a story, an illusion," Brown continued. "Rogue operatives, backed by British intelligence or a terrorist group, whose plan was to plant the timed explosives on public transport—except, in your case, you were to go up with it. The story would be it was an accident and that you hadn't timed it right."

  "So they weren't going to paint us as some kind of kamikaze suicide bombers?"

  Brown sighed, adjusting his spectacles. "I don't think so, but I could be wrong. We'll never know, probably. The big picture is that it was all to deflect attention away from the Chinese. But you survived. You should have been blown to pieces on that train, but by missing it they had to find you. It seems to me, once they tried to clean up the loose ends, things went from bad to worse for them. The main culprit was their agent: Tian. The one hunting you."

  "Yeah, what a bloody psycho he was!"

  The inspector glanced at Frank. "His body was found besides a train track near Alor Satar. So he's out of the picture, you'll be pleased to know."

  Frank smiled thinly, his heart racing as he forced himself to keep a calm exterior.

  "That's great news to me, Douglas," he said, a little too loudly. Brown looked at him quizzically for a moment, before looking back across the lake at another brightly painted ferry coming in from the mainland.

  "Someone at MI6 was responsible for setting you up, you realise that, Frank?" Brown's tone was deadly serious again. Frank frowned at the inspector.

  "The reports we received about you and Jimmy, as well as the tip offs about the exact location and time of the attacks, all came from within MI6."

  "Shit!" Frank's head slumped downwards, his eyes staring at his own reflection in the dark water.

  "The exact agent source was unidentifiable. We double checked officially and an intelligence officer confirmed that the information sent was not bona fide. Essentially, it was false information."

  Frank jerked his head to face the inspector, "Who?"

  "We don't know. But it's got to be a mole. There has to be a Chinese agent deep within their organisation."

  Chapter 41

  Orchid picked up the phone and thought he heard a click but wasn’t sure. Replacing it back in the cradle, he moved to the window, which was covered by a closed blind, and peeked through it, out of habit more than anything. He paced around the back room, churning the situation over in his mind. It wasn't good.

  There had been no response from Oracle to his last three messages. Even if he had to bail out, he wanted assurances that he could defect back to the nest, but none were forthcoming.

  Keep calm, he told himself, but deep down he knew it was only a matter of time before he was uncovered.

  He had done everything they had required and more and this is how they repaid years of service? He had filed constant reports right up to letting them know where to find Frank Bowen's passport contact.

  The obvious way was to disappear and yet there was a loose end that he could not ignore, one that pulled at his stomach, tying it into knots, making him feel sick.

  The tall man slumped down in an armchair, mulling through his decreasing options, and poured the Jim Beam bourbon into the thick crystal glass before taking a lug, gratefully swallowing the burning liquid that eased down his throat. It gave him solace and, at the same time, courage. Courage for the decision he now knew he had to make.

  Chapter 42

  Frank sat still for a moment, letting it all sink in. He was half thinking of smoking a cigarette, but quickly cast it out of his mind. He was proud of his whole month without having one.

  "Is there anything you can tell us? It might not have seemed important at the time but could certainly help." Fowler said, studying Frank carefully. They sat in Detective Brown's office at the Royal Hong Kong police headquarters, where Frank had agreed to come back for questioning. He had been offered a deal by Brown which was; help with their investigation for which there would be no charges.

  Frank had already covered everything he knew; his movements from Goa to Bangkok to Hong Kong. He told them who he had met from Richard Desmond, to Theo Kampala and the Thai police chief—all of whom were now dead, except one, as far as he knew … the man they called Mr Whiteman, who had seemed to be the brains behind the so called drill. Whiteman was not one of the faces in the photographs strewn over the desk, most of which Frank had identified one by one. He leaned back slowly, feeling the fan cut through the air, chopping through its methodical rhythm.

  Frank described Whiteman again, the silver white hair, the aura of authority. "He said he worked for the Legislative Council of Hong Kong. The same crew Maria's Dad said he worked for."

  Fowler exchanged a glance with Grant.

  "You met Maria's father?" asked Fowler, cautiously.

  "Yes, briefly. At her house, after the attacks," said Frank.

  "You didn't mention that before," Grant frowned at him.

  Frank shuffled in his chair with impatience. "I forgot. He gave me the passport contact; Li. Detective Brown, here, said Li was murdered."

  "Will you excuse us for a moment?" said Fowler and the two men left the room, shutting the door behind them. Fowler shook his head and looked at the floor as Grant stared at him as though his world had just caved in aro
und him.

  "Are you thinking what I 'm thinking, Ben?" Grant said quietly.

  "What? That Cody is a Chinese plant?" Fowler couldn't bring himself to believe it. Cody had worked as an agent with the Hong Kong station for over ten years, his cover with the Legislative Council had been a perfect front. Now it seemed he had been using that position as a two way channel with the Chinese.

  "Yes, that he's the mole," Grant couldn't take his eyes off Fowler. Neither man wanted to believe it.

  Frank sipped his black coffee from a paper cup and grimaced at the taste as he watched the two MI6 men outside behind the frosted glass. The pieces had all taken time to slot into place like a dovetailing line of parallel roads in his mind. There was something there, just out of grasp, its shape unclear as if a fog hung in front of him… Something Maria had said…

  Detective Inspector Brown sat in the corner, where he had been observing the interview in a white shirt that stuck to his skin with the sleeves rolled up. He looked up at Frank, curiously, as if trying to read his thoughts.

  The two intelligence officers re-entered the room and sat down in their seats, barely hiding their perplexed shock.

  "Can I ask you a question?" Frank asked, glancing from Grant to Fowler. Fowler nodded.

  "Does Peter Chapman – Maria's father – work for you, by any chance?" Again, the two men glanced at each other furtively.

  "We can't answer that, I'm afraid. Confidential," answered Grant abruptly, focusing on a report in front of him.

  "Because if he does," Frank leaned forward, "He's probably a good bet for being your mole."

  Fowler stood up, banging his fist on the table. "How the hell do you know about a mole?" His voice was loud with barely restrained anger, but he was staring, wide eyed, at the detective inspector. The Detective Inspector held out his hands in a defensive gesture. "What does it matter now? Are you going to find him or not?" he asked.

  "The fact that we have a Chinese double agent in MI6 is a national security issue, Brown. And you tell a civvie?" He gestured towards Frank. "That was confidential information!" Fowler was yelling now, shaking with anger.