Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (15 page)

“I didn’t know what I could do to help him. Flying to Hong Kong wouldn’t work because I’d end up arrested, too. On the spur of the moment, I took leave and flew to Honolulu for a quick look around. I’d already met Watermen’s girlfriend Gillian, and we were on good terms. She had the presence of mind to leave their Oahu home untouched even after the waves of searchers photographed, dusted, ransacked, drilled and then abandoned it. I went looking for Mark’s dead man’s switch, the copy of whatever it was he’d taken from the NSA and something that could be traded for his life, if it ever came to that.

“I spent twenty-four hours searching with Gillian, and the third time through the kitchen it finally dawned on me: Watermen didn’t drink beer. So what was a big bottle of Pliny the Elder
craft beer doing sitting on the refrigerator door? I opened it and poured a glass. Through the dark brown bottle, I saw objects floating inside. Later it turned out there were two thumb drives in there, protected by plastic wrap.”

“Who did you show them to?”

“No one. If I gave them to the NSA, CIA or FBI, there would have been no way to help Watermen down the road if he needed it.”

“So where are they now?”

“Somewhere safe. I would have uploaded and hidden them on the dark web, but if the NSA had cracked Tor even partially, most of their efforts would be directed at tracking large data transfers. I didn’t look at the contents before I sent the USB drives somewhere Watermen can collect them.”

“Did you have any problems getting them out of Hawaii?”

“In practice, no. I figured the FBI had miked Watermen and Gillian’s house when they were searching it. I didn’t know whether they’d installed pinhole cameras, but the working assumption had to be yes. So Gillian and I spoke while I drank a glass of that exquisite designer beer. I told her I was exhausted—which I was, after traveling seventeen hours airport to airport and straight to their house for another twenty-four—and was leaving for the night. I said I had heard a lot about Pliny the Elder and was taking the rest of the bottle to finish at the hotel. Gillian called a cab and I walked out with it in plain sight.

“I never did go back to the house. At the hotel, I poured another glass of Pliny and rinsed the bottle, freeing the two memory sticks. I thought it would be too suspicious if I left straight away, so I slept a few hours before I went to the Honolulu airport, paid a rebooking fee and took the next flight to Singapore.

“When I boarded the flight and we sat on the runway for an hour, I got nervous. I had no idea what was on those thumb drives, only that it was of national importance. I was certain the FBI would stop the takeoff or force the plane to turn around once we were in the air. But nothing happened. When we landed for refueling in Guam, I mailed the thumb drives somewhere safe and got back on the plane. And that was it, other than a few questions during the annual Agency polygraph.”

“They knew about Watermen and you being friends?”

“Of course. I’d known him since birth. It was no secret.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Well, ah, I’d hinted that Gillian Hurst and I were more than just friends, and that I’d paid her a visit because Watermen probably wasn’t coming back anytime soon and she seemed to be in need of comfort.”

“Bob, you dog! You screwed her?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I
hinted
that we’d been together.”

“Did you have an affair when you went to Hawaii?”

“I wasn’t going to, but she was so stressed out by what had happened that one thing led to another. Besides, it was good cover for the visit and—”

“You dirty old man!” With that she gave him a full-on leg squeeze.

Nolan shifted the conversation, but he was embarrassed on two counts. First, he’d lied about bedding Gillian—they’d only kissed and had broken off their embrace out of mutual guilt. Second, he was thirty years Millie’s senior, yet here he was, out to impress her with his sexual prowess. Had his self-esteem sunk so low just because his wife had kicked him out of their marital bed? He suppressed both thoughts and asked, “Where are you staying?”

“The Agency spread us around town. I’m in the York Hotel. Do you know it?”

“Yes, it’s fine. It’s a three-star hotel and a ten-minute taxi ride to the embassy. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to stay in your room tonight. I don’t know if Teller’s people are watching my home, but I’m not staying there until we can get either the Agency or the DEA on site. It’s Sunday night and will be midnight by the time we get out of baggage claim and into a cab. That’s too late to be messing around on the phone trying to arrange guards.”

“I’ll ask for twin beds at check-in,” she said, straight-faced, but met and held his gaze when he looked up. She saw right into his heart of darkness and he turned away, face flushed.

He tried to get a grip on his thoughts and emotions, but how in the hell did his life get so screwed up? Until a few days ago, his major problem was that he held Watermen’s files, the so-called Fourth Policy. He never imagined there was something worse than being the illicit custodian of the NSA’s deepest secrets. There it was, looming in the form of sixty-five-plus-year-old Robin Teller, someone who would kill him without remorse. And twenty-six-year-old Millie, who might just kill him in a more pleasant fashion if this went any further.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ALL FOURS

SUNDAY NIGHT, MARCH 9, MYANMAR AIRWAYS FLIGHT 8M 331 RANGOON TO SINGAPORE; SINGAPORE; SOUTHERN CHINA

Nolan was thinking aloud. “Teller’s a sick murderer, but he’s a geriatric. And sooner or later even monsters have to get their prescriptions renewed. That’s his Achilles’ heel. There can’t be more than a few expat clinics in Rangoon. We’ll get the DEA to stake them out and eventually they’ll get him at the doctor’s office.”

“Where did that come from? Does your mind ever stop?”

The purple-clad hostess rolled the serving cart by and collected Nolan’s scraped-clean tray. The PA came back to life, alerting arriving passengers that Singapore imposed severe penalties for trafficking in narcotics.

She giggled. “Since when does
Hang you for having a joint
qualify as a
severe penalty
?”

“They don’t hang you for one joint anymore. I think it’s thirty grams, about an ounce, before it’s a capital offense. It’s loosened up quite a bit, and one thing you’ll like about Singapore is that there’s very little drug-related crime. No junkies breaking into houses or tweekers stealing car stereos. It might be an authoritarian democracy, but you get damned good law and order in return.”

“And that was a public service announcement from the Friends of Singapore Society,” she quipped.

He started to unwind a little as the plane landed and rolled toward the gate. As travelers switched on their cell phones, he remembered that he was phoneless, something else to do on Monday.

Immigration at the efficient Changi Airport meant that Mr. Derrick Larson and friend cleared formalities and claimed luggage inside of fifteen minutes. The York Hotel driver collected Millie and her backbreaking two suitcases. Nolan escorted her to the exit, promised to see her in about ninety minutes and joined the taxi file.

The taxi parked up the road from his house on a side street. Nolan told the driver to keep the meter running with the lights off, and to call the police should he hear any loud noises. The modest two-story house sat on a corner plot with a six-foot wall on three sides. On those same three sides, three-foot-deep monsoon drains ran along the base of the walls. The plan was simple, the execution painful. He dropped into the dry storm drain next to the cab and started crawling and crab-walking to save his tortured kneecaps. Already tender palms took a further beating as he made his way down Watten Drive adjacent to his neighbor’s wall. At the junction of two drains, he turned left to crawl between the walls separating the houses. Along the way he stubbed a big toe, opening a gash. Five minutes later he was around the back of his home, hauling himself up and over the wall. He dropped to the backyard tiles, knocking over an errant pail with a clatter that roused a nearby dog.

Before he and Joanie left town, they always sent their Filipina maid Juanilla to stay with her sister, who looked after a mansion for absentee Hong Kong owners. In theory, his home should be locked up tight. His house keys were in the bottom of a duffel bag last seen in the Rangoon Airport arrivals men’s room.

Joanie had always said Juanilla was the most forgetful maid in Singapore. Bless her heart, Juanilla was equal to the challenge. The first kitchen window he tried slid open. The next scramble was less formidable in terms of height, but trickier with respect to noise abatement. Nolan no longer had the flexibility of a gymnast. Cutlery clattered to the floor as he stepped on the edge of a plate. Another barker joined the chorus.

He limped his way upstairs in the dark without further mishap, stopping in the bathroom to wad up toilet tissue to stanch the bleeding of his throbbing toe. He found a penlight in the desk drawer and used a cupped hand to shield the illumination. Nolan ran down his well-rehearsed mental list, stuffing a carry-on bag with clothes, toiletries, cash, keys and a false US passport.

Downstairs he donned running shoes, put on biking gloves and doused the penlight. Latching the kitchen window, he left by the back door and locked up. The dogs were silent on the return trip through the drain, but dragging the bag was a nuisance. Surprisingly, the driver was awake and seemingly unfazed by his changed appearance.

“York Hotel, please,” he said, and the driver complied while Nolan peeled off the sweaty gloves.

He called on the house phone and Millie answered on the first ring. “Room 838. Come on up,” she said before he could speak. Nolan wondered what would have happened had he been Teller, but when he knocked on 838, he was surprised to hear the door open behind him and her voice say, “Over here.” Nolan spun around and hustled into 837 before the occupant of 838 could rattle the chain off the door.

She shut the door behind him, and he barely had time to drop his bag and take a step back before she crushed her breasts against his lower ribcage and pushed him into the corner. They kissed passionately, Nolan grabbing her round butt while she deftly dealt with his shirt buttons. He was wondering where all this affection was coming from, and figured he was the beneficiary of the Ryder-Millie breakup.

After thirty seconds of tongue dancing that would have done a pair of fifteen-year-olds proud, Nolan broke off long enough to ask, “What’s the latest on MH370? Any news?”

“The US destroyer
Kidd
is headed for the South Indian Ocean for reasons unexplained. No wreckage found off Vietnam, although there are people on TV who claim to have seen a plane on fire. Nothing from Shan or Kachin States, according to Matthews’s last email. Ryder’s raid on Teller’s office and home turned up only a few documents, but no people and no smoking gun.” She paused for breath and continued. “The airport police caught Zeya and beat him, how badly we don’t know. Hecker’s working on getting him back, saying you were the one who assaulted the airport policeman. The policeman has a fractured skull and is still unconscious. The plan is to smuggle Zeya out of the country before the cop wakes up and fingers him instead of you. The embassy general counsel confirmed that Burma doesn’t have an extradition treaty with either Singapore or the US, so you should be safe even if they make a demand for your return. That’s one hour of emails in one minute. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.”

She’d finished with his buttons and stripped off his shirt while reciting the
News at 11
. Now she was working on his trousers, nimble fingers more than up to the task.

“Jesus. That’s not great news. I hope Zeya isn’t hurt too bad and gets out in time. Look, I need to check my email to see if Joanie and—”

“No, what you need to do is get into the shower. You can check email in an hour.”

Nolan hadn’t fallen off the fidelity wagon in many moons. He prided himself on controlling his baser instincts, but he hadn’t knocked on 838 just for the spare bed, either. Dressed in only his socks and boxers, he retreated to the bathroom and showered while his thoughts caromed crazily. One last time, he thought. Just one final time before retirement, and then he was done being unfaithful to a fine but unforgiving woman.

Nolan stepped out of the steam and bright lights and into
1001 Arabian Nights.
Over the next forty-five minutes, Miss Mukherjee licked and sucked every appendage and inch of his body save for the bits that were crying out most for attention. Her stern voice established control and he was eager to obey. By the time the exquisite foreplay ended, he would have orgasmed if a feather had brushed him in the right place. Instead she used her mouth, and he deliriously exploded in the most intense climax he’d had in years, maybe decades. When she returned from the bathroom, she kissed him deeply and they hugged while he contemplated that last ecstatic eruption. Maybe they were to disentangle and go off to sleep in separate beds, but he knew better. “Honey, that was absolutely unbelievable. Tell me what I can do for you.”

Soon after, Nolan went through the same toe sucking, belly licking, back massaging erotic exercises that would have made a Tantric shaman blush. He enjoyed the labor, as she was curvier than he’d ever experienced, with large and sensitive nipples and an exotic aura to her black cat body. Even so, after thirty minutes, he was flagging.

Finally she consented to a climax of her own, giving him detailed instructions as to how he was to deploy his tongue, lips and fingers until she spasmed with shouts that must have awakened more than just the people in 838. Nolan collapsed, both of them covered in sweat. They kissed again, the taste of her sex all over his face and now transferred to her as their tongues thrust and twirled. He cupped her firm, sweaty breasts and sucked her hard nipples as she writhed and nipped at his neck. He dozed off, sated and thinking that he hadn’t really cheated on his wife, at least not according to President Bill Clinton’s rules. With a start, he awoke as the bathroom door shut and the shower sounded. The bedside clock read 2:50. He was tired, but couldn’t afford to sleep.