Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (4 page)

Nolan’s thoughts turned toward their adversary. The incongruous reappearance of long-dead-to-the-Agency Robin Teller was a shock. Teller had to be sixty-five years old, but he was still menacing. “What was Teller doing hiding out in Burma?
And what explanation could there be for his presence at an abandoned toll road site on a Saturday afternoon with two Special Forces troops in tow?” Nolan spoke aloud to combat his fatigue.

He looked over at the driver, who had his head against the passenger window. Kyaw’s brown skin was now a pasty olive. The tourniquet looked like it had finally staunched the flow. Nolan wondered if he should loosen it a little so Kyaw didn’t lose his hand. Instead, he kept driving fast.

 Teller went even deeper into the dark in 1973 when CIA supremo William Colby handpicked him to head Phoenix’s successor, the super-secret F-6 unit. Pursuing much the same agenda as the Phoenix Program, F-6 was headquartered in the Mekong Delta and survived to the bitter end of the Vietnam War. Teller was one of the original hard men, an action junkie who couldn’t get an adrenaline fix behind the desk, so he insisted on leading reconnaissance squads and fronting the nighttime door-kicking the Phoenix/F-6 boys specialized in. Teller was one of the best at sniffing out Viet Cong collaborators in the delta. His Army of the Republic of Vietnam Rangers worshiped him. After the fall of Saigon, through force of personality, Teller convinced three South Vietnam Spooky gunship pilots to fly the surviving ARVN Rangers and their families to Thailand minutes before the NVA rolled in. Teller had never gone back to the US, staying on in Bangkok and getting into ever more CIA-inspired mischief under the aegis of Double Llama Trading.

Everyone Nolan knew back in Bangkok in late 1984 and early 1985 had given Teller a wide berth, especially if he was drinking or something went wrong in his day. Double Llama Trading employees were delighted that Teller had relocated out of Bangkok in 1978. Teller found the life of an arms dealer too dull, even one who catered to drug runners and was the principal armorer to the CIA’s covert wars in Asia. Teller first took DLT’s flag to Tehran to organize what proved to be a too-little, too-late rear-guard action to prop up the Pahlavi dynasty. Another narrow escape compliments of a CIA rescue squad, but not before the revolutionaries had spent a day experimenting with different wiring configurations involving car batteries, alligator clips and Teller’s testicles.

Nolan flicked on the overhead light again. Kyaw looked cadaverous. Nolan spotted a red cross and “24 Hours” on a white background on a sign hanging off one of the shophouses ahead to the right. Pulling off the main road, he looked for a parking space near the well-lit entrance. At that moment two pairs of doors opened simultaneously on the vehicles parked side by side in front of the clinic. He accelerated away with tires spinning and gravel flying. This was the first clinic they’d come across: too obvious. He had to get sharper fast, or they were dead men. However, changing cars seemed to have worked, as no one had followed them, best as he could tell. It didn't matter; Nolan had to get out of there in a hurry. He accelerated to seventy-five miles an hour, almost killing them twice while passing. He calmed down several miles later and throttled back. No one seemed to be on their tail. He took a deep breath.

Teller was maniacal, vindictive and deadly. He was also a well-organized, meticulous planner and implementer, as evidenced by the rapid expansion of DLT to Beirut, Istanbul, Malta and Singapore. Everything changed in late January 1985 when DLT cofounder Daniel Kranz turned up dead in his Oriental Hotel Suite, naked, with his hands tied behind his back and a silk bathrobe belt looped around his neck and a closet door. The Bangkok coroner judged his death accidental via autoerotic asphyxiation. Ex-Director Central Intelligence William Colby’s name was on paper in Kranz’s wallet. There were handwritten lists of who’s-who in defense ministries across Asia with numbers against them in Kranz’s briefcase, alongside Bank Credit and Commerce International (known to Agency wags as “Bank of Crooks and Cocaine International”) account numbers. The international press and Thai newspapers asked questions.

Teller flew to Bangkok from Singapore and ferociously micromanaged the cover-up. Senior Agency covert operators Ned Windham, Paul Hattemer and Frank Coulter—the few people who could handle Teller—arrived as well to minimize Teller’s mischief and keep matters out of the press. Nolan had been the low man on that particular latrine detail, but just from being on the scene, he knew to take Teller seriously.

CHAPTER THREE

HELP IS ON THE WAY

SATURDAY NIGHT, MARCH 8, RANGOON, BURMA

Kyaw was unconscious and didn’t reply to Nolan’s loud exhortations to wake up. Nolan didn’t know where they were headed other than into town. He followed the traffic east looking for a hospital. They crossed the Yangon River, the western city limits. He had no clue as to where the embassy was, and doubted if Kyaw could find it even if he were conscious. Ten minutes later, he drove up to the main entrance of the halfway-decent-looking Hotel Yangon. He put the truck in neutral, then thought better of it and pulled past the main entrance. There weren’t any free parking spaces. Saturday night was in full swing. He stopped and blocked three luxury cars parked in parallel. An attendant was on him before he even climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“Sir, you cannot—”

“Forget that. We need a doctor. My friend is hurt. Here.” He turned on the overhead light and the attendant gasped. He handed over the key and ten
kyat
thousand notes, a little more than ten dollars, equivalent to about three days’ pay. “Wait here. Don’t move the truck. I’ll be back.”

He appreciated how sore he was after the first step. What was that old Aussie expression?
Stiffer than a honeymoon prick.
He walked into the lobby, wincing at every step. The well-dressed locals politely ignored him. He found the concierge counter, hoping they’d understand English.

“My friend had an accident. He has cut his wrist very badly. He has lost a lot of blood. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Sir, I call ambulance.”

“No, we need a hotel car to take him to the hospital. He is from the United Nations. I will go with him.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like deluxe car Mercedes Benz for only US$30 per hour or would you like Toyota Camry at—”

“I don’t care. Just get a car and driver out front now by the white Toyota pickup truck past the entrance. I will meet you there.”

“Sir, I will need credit card—”

“My friend needs a blood transfusion or he will die. I’ll pay you when I come back from the hospital.”

“I still need credit card or cash.”

Nolan handed him a card in silent contempt.

It took the attendant, hotel driver and Nolan to pull the unconscious Kyaw out of the pickup and into the Camry’s back seat. Kyaw was a sight with so much blood on his shirtfront and pants he looked like he had been shot. Nolan told the attendant to park the truck somewhere in the back and that he would return for it later.

On the drive to the hospital, he let his mind unwind for the first time in seven hours and tried to figure out the next move. He’d entered Burma under his own name, giving the Traders Hotel as his address. If Teller were working for the Army, he would have ready access to Immigration Department records now that they were computerized. He needed to get a new room under a different name at another hotel, pronto.

If Millie had put her name on any of those reports, she was also on Teller’s list. Although Agency standard practice used work names and Foreign Service staff signed off by job title, she’d given him her card. He felt physically ill and clawed for his wallet. Upon opening it, he saw
Samuel Hecker, Police Liaison, United States Drug Enforcement Agency, Burma.
Millie’s card—
Millicent Mukherjee, Research Associate, Economic & Political Affairs, United States Embassy, Burma
—was nestled behind it. His stomach was still knotted, but at least he could start breathing again.

They pulled up in front of the ER entrance at the Alexandra Hospital. It dated from the colonial era and sat on an impressive piece of land. The hotel driver gave the horn a blast and orderlies came running. Nolan watched them slide a limp Kyaw onto a gurney. He played the ugly American by shouting, “United Nations! United Nations! This man is very important. Get more doctors.”

A British-accented voice replied over his shoulder, “Your friend is in shock and needs a transfusion. Can you donate blood? The hospital’s supply may be contaminated with hepatitis.”

He turned around to find an ethnic Chinese doctor in his forties clutching a clipboard. “Yes. I’m O-negative.”

“Wonderful, a universal donor. Please follow me.” The doctor spoke Burmese to the ER staff and Nolan’s vein was soon draining into a big bag. The needle sticking into the inside of his elbow hurt like hell. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the curtained cubicle to find Kyaw gone.

“Where is my friend?” he asked two attendants, but the Brit doctor wasn’t in view, and no one else spoke English.

Admissions was down the corridor. He commandeered the phone on the desk and someone picked up on the second ring.

“Sam? It’s Bob Nolan. We met last night at Walt’s . . . yes, that’s right. Sorry to trouble you late on a Saturday night, but I’m in big trouble. I’m at the Alexandra Hospital with a US embassy driver who’s been stabbed. I think the people who did it are after us. I don’t want to talk over an open . . . . Right. Got it. I’ll look for Travis in thirty minutes, white Toyota SUV. Thanks.”

Police—or worse—monitored ER phones worldwide. He was at hospital reception, an even more likely place for the government to record phone calls. He decided to risk it anyway.

“Millie? It's Bob Nolan. You were right about the site, but Kyaw and I were attacked. We’re back in Rangoon. I’m fine, but someone last seen thirty years ago put a knife through Kyaw’s wrist. We’re in a hospital, but I’m leaving soon to come get you.”

“Oh, my God! How’s Kyaw?”

“I don’t know. He’s in surgery. He lost a lot of blood. Where are you? And I need you to do three things for me. Make a list of the contents of those files—”

“Slow down. I’m still at work. What files? The files I gave you earlier today?”

“Someone took your files out of the car. He stabbed Kyaw when he tried to stop him.”

“I can print out another set of files for you right now.”

“Good idea, but make it two sets. Is your name or any other identifier on them?”

“No. Only
US Embassy Burma Economic Research
as a footer and
Secret
as the header,” she said.

He winced at the indiscretion, but said nothing. “OK, that’s great. I need you not to tell anyone about this call until after we meet later tonight. We might have a problem on campus. Can you stay near your cell and wait for my call?”

“Yes, of course. When do you want to meet?” she said.

“In an hour or less. We’ll call you when we’re outside.”

“The boss left a few minutes ago, so I’m free,” she said. “I was just leaving to grab dinner.”

“Dinner may have to wait. See you soon.” He hung up. Looking at his black plastic watch, he turned off the timer: 1:20. With digital switches, call traces were instantaneous; analog switches still required three minutes on the line. They should be all right even if trackers were actively monitoring the call.

Nolan found the men’s toilet and cleaned up as best he could. He felt faint. “Never give blood on an empty stomach,” he advised the mirror. He wandered into the ER where the Brit doctor was back, making his rounds.

Spotting Nolan, he came over. “Your friend is in luck. Our vascular surgeon was visiting a sick relative here when the emergency call went out. He’s scrubbing up, and will be operating any minute. We’ve transfused two liters into your friend. His vital signs are weak but stable. He’s out of shock, so it’s now safe to operate.”

Nolan thanked the doctor and stepped outside the ER to wait for Travis Ryder, head of regional security in the DEA, Hecker’s bodyguard and an ex-SEAL. Within ten minutes, a full-sized UN peacekeeping-style SUV pulled up and Ryder hopped out, biceps veins visible through his black compression undershirt.

Nolan started talking even before Ryder shook his hand. “We need to get an embassy driver named Kyaw registered here under a false name, and put a guard outside his door. We have to go by the embassy annex to pick up someone, and we need to meet Sam as soon as possible. We—”

“Whoa, Nellie,” Ryder said in an East Texas lilt. “Let’s do these one at a time.”

He opened the near passenger door, and a neatly dressed bronze-hued man exited and said, “Special Agent Gonzalez, DEA, at your service.”  Relieved, Nolan repeated his request. Gonzalez said something in Burmese, and yet another man emerged from the back seat. The two men entered the ER. Kyaw was covered.

Nolan started; he’d left out something important. “Travis, another thing—”

Ryder interrupted him, “It’ll be faster if we only have to do this once. Zeya, come over here.” The other rear door opened and a local with a welterweight’s physique double-timed it to their sides. Damn, Nolan thought. Ryder came loaded for bear.

“A gray Camry and a hotel driver are somewhere out there,” Nolan said with an arm sweep. “I have a white Toyota pickup truck parked at the Hotel Yangon. The jockey has the key. Please ride back to the hotel with the Camry driver. Let them charge my credit card for two hours and retrieve my card. Then drive the pickup over to wherever we’re meeting Mr. Hecker later. You’ll know the truck. The front seat is covered in blood and it smells of stale piss. If someone could clean the upholstery, that would be helpful, too.”

Ryder let out a low whistle. “Bob, you’ve been a busy boy since the beer ran out. Tell you what, why don’t we talk while we drive to the embassy annex?”

Nolan eased into the back, half expecting more DEA agents. The vehicle was empty save for the driver, but the rear deck had enough weapons, mags, scopes and goggles to do a small gun show proud. Ryder rode up front and Nolan figured he’d be packing the Glock with the seventeen-round magazine that was on display last night at his friend Walt’s house where he’d pounded too many whiskeys.