Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (21 page)

“What gave you the idea that you were the target of the hotel room break-in?” Now even Flynn was kicking him. “You told me at the York that you slept in the spare bed and had nothing of yours in the room. There shouldn’t have been any way of tracing you to Mukherjee’s room.”

“Yes, but I can’t see what Millie Mukherjee might have had that would have been of interest to anyone. She’s brand new and runs the Rangoon newspaper clipping unit as best as I can figure. Teller is more likely going after me, especially after our encounter Saturday and that sat photo with the camouflaged building highlighted.”

“Mukherjee’s head of research for Rangoon station. She could have files with her that a dozen possible targets would be interested in reading, in addition to the usual competitors,” Finegold said.

“I’m out of spare bodies. I’m sure Jerry will shift Millie to a more secure location—”

“Sure enough, Dick,” Flynn said in an eager-to-please tone. “We’ll move her luggage to a safe house once we clean up the room.”

Flynn was over fifty, although his full head of dyed chestnut hair and line-free face made him look a decade younger. A good haircut, the gym, skin care products and divorce-induced poverty could do wonders for a man’s appearance while doing nothing for his backbone, Nolan thought.

“Dick, I can put a man on her, too, if you want,” said Flynn.

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll give her an armed escort to and from the embassy,” Constantine intoned.

Turning to Nolan, the COS’s manner hardened. “I’ve been waiting the last hour for you to tell me a nuclear weapons or radioactive materials story, and I’ve not heard one word.”

“Nuclear weapons? Radioactivity? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Nolan said with genuine befuddlement.

“Are you sure? The diplomatic bag from Burma arrived about ninety minutes ago and triggered the embassy hazmat alarm. It seems the DEA’s samples from that airstrip registered a nifty 790 rad count. Not enough to kill anyone, but certainly not from a radium wristwatch dial, either. Hecker’s involved in a shooting fracas and not answering his phone. Matthews didn’t know anything about it either. He suggested I ask you since you’re now the DEA’s best friend.”

“All I know is that Hecker’s people took samples from the ashes of the burned building next to the airstrip. I wasn’t there and never saw, much less examined, the samples.”

“That’s all well and good, but you’ve had ample opportunity to mention that the DEA took samples and acted on your suggestion to run WMD screens. Ever since the Dupree fiasco, you’ve had a credibility issue. If you withhold information, I will feed you to the many people eager to see you fired. Now go to the clinic to check your radiation exposure and copy me in on that report you promised Matthews.”

Nolan didn’t have to be told twice. Outside the clinic, he bumped into an uncharacteristically dour Millie. “Are you all right? Did you hear about the radiation in the DEA sample bags?” he asked.

Her countenance brightened. “Yes, they swabbed me and took blood. Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but I don’t feel well. And it’s very uncool that my personal belongings were thrown around the hotel room. That’s a story that will make the rounds. Now I’ll spend my nights locked away in a safe house.”

He blurted out, “Forget those people. Let’s still have dinner tonight, but at my house.” While Millie wrote her local phone number on a scrap of paper, Nolan’s conscience was already second-guessing his last utterance. Why on earth would he invite a fellow CIA employee to his family home? Millie’s coy smile provided the answer.

“I’m buying a new phone as soon as I’m done here. We’ll have a good meal and make it an early night.”

“Sounds sensible,” Millie replied as she sashayed toward the elevator bank, leaving him torn between what was right and what was on offer. Nolan left the clinic twenty minutes later and two vials of blood lighter, with a thumbs-up pending additional test results.

Next up was a new passport photo and application to replace his burnt offering. In the fresh photo his face looked like a mug shot for a Sinaloa Cartel courier. The IT department was sympathetic regarding his lost laptop and hoped to be able to configure a replacement by the day’s end. The lost property report alone was eleven pages of boxes to tick and places to sign digitally. How many times did he have to write, “Armed airport police had taken me prisoner, and in the process of escaping, I had to leave the laptop behind. As it was turned off and has the best encryption the CIA owns, we should be all right”?

Nolan looked in on the task force to learn that no one seemed to know anything about MH370 other than a lot of ships were headed to the Southern Indian Ocean, the opposite direction from where the plane was last seen on radar.

He was waiting for an elevator to head for lunch and to pick up a new phone when he heard his name being called out in the task force area. He had an urgent phone call.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ON TARGET

MONDAY MID-MORNING, MARCH 10, RANGOON, SOUTHERN CHINA, SINGAPORE

“Bob, is that you?” Hecker’s voice came through on a bad line. “Teller tried to kill Sophie and CJ! Dara was driving. He’s dead, but he saved their lives. They were on their way to play group about two hours ago. As they pulled up in front of the school, a sniper fired through the windshield. Thank God he missed Sophie, but the round struck Dara in the chest. He managed to drive away, maybe a half mile, before he died at an intersection. It’s a miracle no one else was killed. Sophie and CJ are back in Dubern Park, in the apartment. Travis is there and said that he’s amazed Dara stayed conscious, much less was able to drive, with a fatal chest wound. A doctor had to give Sophie a sedative; she was hysterical.”

“Christ! Are you sure everyone else is all right?”

“Everyone except Dara. He died just east of Dubern Park. He’s a hero, a real hero.” Hecker’s voice cracked. “That sonofabitch Teller attacked my family! The man has no honor. He made it personal: make no mistake, I will stand over his corpse.”

Nolan felt the venom. “Try to calm down. Remember, Teller is smart. If he’s coming after your family, your team must be close. It means he hasn’t got his HVTs out of the country yet, maybe not even Rangoon. Just stay focused and find out what he’s hiding.”

“I need manpower right now. My current team’s exhausted, dead or injured. We bribed the locals to issue Zeya a phony passport and he’ll travel overland to Thailand today. But help is on the way. I just got off the phone, and we have active duty troops and contractors inbound from Special Forces bases in Pakistan and Afghanistan. These are current or ex-Spec Ops men like Ryder. I’ve called in all favors and Ryder has hand-picked the men. They will be here by tomorrow morning, and then it’s Teller’s turn. Ryder even lined up two Delta Unit members.” Hecker wasn’t dropping the vendetta against Teller regardless of what Nolan said.

“Did you hear about the radioactive dip bag?” Nolan asked.

“Yes, that’s also why I’m calling. What the hell does this mean? A dirty bomb? Suitcase nuke? Matthews has taken over the Airstrip One investigation. Fissionable material is out of the DEA’s remit. But as I still have those dozen door-kickers looking for a fight, what do you suggest?”

“Get hold of Geiger counters, hotspot detectors or scintillation counters and use whatever influence you can to delay every ship from sailing from the container port until you’ve checked cargos. If you can lock down the port, we have a chance to find whatever radioactive goods Teller had in those containers.”

“Great idea. Martin’s in with the minister of home affairs right now discussing the low probability of the minister’s sons, nephews or nieces attending US colleges when the family of a senior US government official was an assassination target. Martin will ask Obama to call President Thein with the same message. The NSA, however, hasn’t told us what’s in Hutchison International’s computers. Either they don’t know or won’t say.”

“Forget the NSA. Ever since Watermen, the NSA has been afraid of its own shadow. If Martin can swing a call from Obama, use it to shut the container port until you can run the detectors over every locally sourced outbound box. If the HVTs aren’t already gone, they will be nearly out the door. It shouldn’t take too long to do the search, but you’ll need to fly in a couple of nuclear experts. Fukushima cleanup crews or the Department of Energy will have that expertise. Just hurry if that’s the plan.”

“We’ll do it. I’m going to nail this maniac. Imagine going after a mother and infant.”

“He wasn’t, Sam. His men can probably shoot as well as Travis. He wanted to wound Dara to tie up the rest of the DEA team to get you off the trail. If Teller had really wanted to kill your wife and son this morning, they’d be dead. Keep focused on the HVTs.”

“Jesus, Bob. No wonder the world’s a sick place. There are people in it who think like Teller and you.”

“I mentioned mangosteens in that email last night. MH370 was carrying four crates. I’m certain the fruits Travis reported that Hanny and Zeya found in that burned-out building will turn out to be mangosteens. Teller unloaded the mangosteens to get at the cargo he wanted and didn’t bother—or didn’t have time—to reload them before the plane took off. So they left them and torched the fruit, along with anything else surplus to needs.”

“You may be on to something. I’ll try to lock down the container port. I’ll go over there myself.”

“Be careful. If you go to the port Teller is likely to come at you, and his men won’t be aiming at the driver this time.”

“I have a surprise for Teller. I had to ransom my soul, but we pulled copies of the personnel records from Golden Elephant with twenty-seven names, ID cards and photos of everyone employed in the security detail. Our local staff had a read and every one of them is ex-military, with most from Burma Special Forces. I’ve put in a call to Zaw, and he’s en route to Rangoon with his best men. Zaw also knows a couple of trustworthy local police senior officers we can count on. We’ll give Zaw the files and have him round up as many of Teller’s mercenaries as we can. Failing that, we’ll take their families into custody. Two can play at this game. I’ve asked our Singapore friends to look after you. Gotta dash.”

The line was dead before Nolan could ask what that last comment meant. Nolan had omitted the “Millie’s hotel room was ransacked by FSB agents around sunrise” part of his briefing. That break-in had nothing to do with Teller and everything to do with Watermen selling Nolan out. If asked later about the omission, he could justifiably claim fatigue.

*  *  *  *  *

“Bob? Bob? Oh, hell! It’s his voicemail.” Joanie was secretly pleased he hadn’t picked up. She left a message. “I need to speak with you urgently. Last night I was locked in an interrogation room and questioned this morning for over an hour. I want to leave China, but the Ministry of State Security people who questioned me told me I can’t. I need you to come to China to get me out. Check your email. I love you.” Joanie hung up. She was still at the Public Security Bureau station, but at least she was out of that room and had her purse back. “Was that alright?” she asked.

“Very nice,” the female interrogator said. The trap was baited.

*  *  *  *  *

Nolan almost fell asleep over a bowl of noodles in a shopping mall food court. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days. Down in the basement phone store, the electronic pings signaling the next customer weren’t loud enough to keep him awake. It was after two when a youthful assistant woke him to ask if he had a service number. The “Now Serving” board showed he had been passed nine people ago. The teen escorted him to the next available cubicle, and through the miracle of credit cards, he soon had a replacement phone with a half-charged battery in hand. After twenty minutes of fiddling around, he restored internet connectivity and basic services.

He was perplexed by Joanie’s voicemail. She knew not to call him under any circumstances unless she used an anonymous phone. That the MSS was questioning her was arguably even worse, but since she knew nothing of his work, she couldn’t be of much assistance. . . unless they were after him . . . but for what? Knowledge of a dozen projects attempting to hack into mainland-based computer networks? Hiring antisocial techies to probe their cyber defenses? That wouldn’t be news to the MSS.

Tellingly, she had said “I love you,” before hanging up. Joanie hadn’t said those words in thirty months, ever since that disastrous affair with Melissa. The thaw had been a long time coming, and it was only recently that they’d begun to have relaxed conversations and couple’s nights out. So maybe she did love him, and was now regretting whatever trouble she’d caused. Or maybe she didn’t love him, but wanted to warn him . . . which meant that she at least
liked
him . . . . Maybe she didn’t love him at all and wanted him out of the way . . . . Women. Nolan could never figure women out. One thing was for certain: Joanie’s timing was awful.

He checked the family’s emergency Safe-mail account. Mei Ling and Bert were ensconced in the BC cabin, watching satellite TV and old DVDs. Nothing from Joanie. He checked his personal Gmail, and there was Joanie’s email telling him what she’d said over the phone. The woman was turning fifty and a little forgetful, but not to the point where she’d send this email to a public address unless she was under duress. And yet she didn’t use any of the pre-agreed alarm words.

The low battery icon lit up. Nolan needed to recharge everything in his life. He went to the taxi line and waited behind a dozen people lingering after lunch hour. He thought he might pass out upright as he swayed in place. A firm hand on his shoulder steadied him. He was about to offer thanks when the grip tightened and he was moved out of the taxi rank.

“Robert, we are old friends. Say nothing and smile. I have a suppressed weapon aimed at your spine. Keep walking.”

Nolan’s mind was so dull he wasn’t even surprised by the Russian accent. He shuffled along the sidewalk toward the curb, where a new black BMW 5 Series pulled up. “Get in the back,” said his abductor as he reached to open the door.