Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (55 page)

“I’m sure you’re right, but I barely know how to operate a gun. The first one I’ll get through surprise. You’ll be following my lead and will shoot the second. After that, I’m not certain that I can hit a moving target, particularly if he’s shooting at me.”

“If you don’t, he’ll kill you if he can shelter behind that seawall out of my line of sight. Why don’t you use a grenade?” Fernando plunged his hand into his canvas bag and came up with a smooth plastic orb with a familiar pin and spring-handle. “Take this one. It’s US-made. Kill zone of thirty feet. The only downside is that it has a three–and-a-half-second fuse: far too slow for your needs.”

“Thirty feet? We’re likely to be no more than thirty feet away even if we’re on that train. Innocent people will be there, too.”

“If you don’t kill all three, the last one will shoot you. It all depends on how much you want to live.”

Nolan realized he was right and shrugged in resignation. “Will it bother you if I sleep here?”

“I’ll be working for thirty minutes more, but I won’t make much noise. Then I’ll get a couple hours of sleep on your spare bed.”

“That’s fine. On second thought, I’m going back next door.”

The dark assassin gave him a sly grin as Nolan stepped out onto the balcony, grenade in hand. Fernando dug into his lunchbox and extracted a grilled fish sandwich, his favorite.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

COUNTDOWN

THURSDAY MARCH 13, NORTH CASCADES NATIONAL PARK, WASHINGTON STATE; FRIDAY MARCH 14, BEIJING; COLOMBO; SINGAPORE; GUANGZHOU, CHINA

President Gao sat in the situation room surrounded by PLA seniors and intelligence cadres. The president stood and spoke without notes. “Comrades, today marks the beginning of the end of a struggle that China has waged for decades. The US will pay the price for its aggression and insolence. After the events of the next three days unfold, no longer will the United States—much less any country in Asia—believe in the wisdom of antiquated security pacts with Asian nations. No longer will the hegemonists mouth ‘win-win cooperation’ when their every deed hems our Navy against the coast. No longer will the US make five hundred reconnaissance flights a year over Hainan Island that intrude into China’s airspace and mock our sovereignty. For China to be safe, for Asia to be truly for Asians, we must push the United States back across the Pacific. The coming invasion of the Diaoyu Islands so brazenly claimed by Japan will be but the first step.

“Our actions in the coming conflicts have been contemplated for many years. They carry risk, but these risks have been minimized. I expect you to obey your orders without question. For the glory of China and the Party!”

The military men and women roared their approval. Absolutely right, thought Gao. Not like those closet pacifists on the Politburo Standing Committee he’d dealt with the day before. In ten years, the world would be a safer place with China dominant in the Eastern Hemisphere. However, for the time being,
Menander
and
Polar Bear
would place his country in mortal peril.

*  *  *  *  *

Kaili wasn’t taken aback to find Nolan pawing at the balcony door, but when she let him in, he surprised her. “Can I sleep in your spare bed? My room’s occupied. And can you set the alarm for 7:30?”

“Of course. What’s that in your hand?”

“Oh, this. It’s a fragmentation grenade. You need to hide it on your person tomorrow, somewhere a frisker won’t find it. We may have to use it against Chumakov and his gunmen.”

She took the green plastic device, which was about the size of an apple, locked the balcony and went back to bed. The CIA officer was almost asleep by the time she slid under the sheet alongside him. Kaili draped an arm over Nolan and whispered in his ear, “I’ll set the alarm for 7:30, but right now we need to wake up your little brother.”

*  *  *  *  *

Bert had learned in school that the US-Canada demarcation used to be the longest unguarded frontier in the world. That was true pre-9/11, but even the notionally open border abutting North Cascades National Park now featured cameras along the forty-ninth parallel. So when he hiked across at 3 p.m. local time, the bells rang in the park’s CCTV room. Within minutes, facial recognition software matched Bert’s Washington State driver’s license headshot photo with that of the young man working his way through the woods. The red tag flashing on screen signaled that park security were to observe, but not attempt to apprehend unassisted. The head of security picked up the handset and dialed the FBI.

Special Agent in Charge of the Seattle office Myron Fillmore redeployed the two nearest agents from Marblemont to the park entrance and told them to put a move on. Special Agents Sanborn and Washburn would arrest Nolan and return to Seattle to process the prisoner.

Meanwhile, fraternity brother and roommate Michael McGirty was already inside the park behind the wheel of his pickup truck. He had only two bars showing on his cell.

*  *  *  *  *

“Son of a bitch! You look like shit!”

“Nice to see you, too.”

 The three intravenous drips, numerous injections and radiation exposure had done a number on Ryder. His complexion was a variation of something more commonly seen in a zombie movie.

When Hecker shared the glad tidings, Ryder’s whoop echoed through the ward prompting a “Shuuusssshhhh!” from two nurses. “Fuckin’ A! His head on a
stake
. That’s really something. Are Earl and Lair all right?”

“Yep. And we took a prisoner, too. Maybe one of the hijackers. It fits the profile: old American, self-described commercial pilot but probably an ex-military aviator. He claims he was a hostage, but tried to kill himself a few hours ago. We’ll keep him under wraps off-site until we find out who we can trust.”

“Damn. That’s good news. Now do you have something for me? When Hanny called for my passwords yesterday he filled me in.”

“I do, indeed. Let me have your phone, and I’ll swap you straight up. I’ve taped Gonzalez’s new password for you to the back of this one.”

“I’ll tidy everything up, don’t you worry. Can you show me the photo I supposedly took?”

Hecker obliged.

Ryder said, “That guy’s something else. You know he forges Picassos in his spare time and sells them weekends at the Rangoon flea market?”

*  *  *  *  *

Joanie was optimistic despite the late hour and the lack of tea in the MSS’s low-grade detention center in Guangzhou. Mei Ling tried to moderate her mother’s enthusiasm without disheartening her. There was a strong possibility that what Dad was trying to pull off wouldn’t actually happen. And if it didn’t come to pass, they would be parked at the Changi Airport gate while the plane filled up with passengers for the return leg. If they were returned to MSS custody, it would not be to this Club Med detention center, either.

Mei Ling decided that once they landed in Singapore they would stay there, come what may. Her mother held a Singapore passport which had to trump whatever mumbo-jumbo the China authorities would have prepared. She had about six hours to figure out how to make certain that at least Mom’s passport prevailed, irrespective of what happened to her and her US travel document.

*  *  *  *  *

Flynn was out of breath from his run to Constantine’s office. Fortunately, the boss was unoccupied. Unfortunately, he was still irritable. “What is it?” was the nicest thing he could muster.

“I just received a printout of Barling’s phone call with Hecker. An hour and forty-five minutes ago, Hecker called him from a cab in Singapore. He’s in transit to Tokyo—” Constantine snatched the page out of Flynn’s hand and stared at it while Flynn fell silent.

“Mary, Mother of God,” Constantine said. Calling out of his door he said, “Get Melissa in my office, right away. Call Compliance and see if Lucy Kellogg is in. We’ll need her, too.”

“What, what does this mean?” Flynn asked.

“It means MH370 was hijacked by Americans, as I suspected. The DEA with Nolan will try to pin it on the CIA in Asia, and that cannot be allowed to stick. I certainly had nothing to do with it. However, that’s not what Nolan’s concluded after the last few days.”

*  *  *  *  *

The first FBI agent writhed on the ground, anterior crucial ligament in his left knee torn and his right testicle ruptured. The second agent was missing two front teeth and bleeding out of one ear as he sat on the grass in front of the picnic table, legs sprawled in front of him. He glared at the fighter standing over him and aimed his 9mm service pistol at Bert’s chest.

“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right—”

“Put down the gun and let’s finish this like men,” Bert Nolan countered. “If I lose, you can take me in and I won’t resist. Promise. If you lose, you give me seventy bucks for the shirt.” Behind them a vehicle pulled up and a door opened.

Agent Sanborn stared in disbelief. This Eurasian college boy had kicked his and his partner’s asses at a picnic area where they’d been waiting. Now the punk was fuming that he’d ended up with a bloody nose and a torn polo shirt in the fracas? “Turn around and kneel on the ground. Clasp your hands together on top of your head.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Bert turned around, and as he did so, lashed out with his right leg. His heel caught Sanborn flush on the chin, snapped his head back and knocked him unconscious. The nine fell with a thud.

“You lose.” Bert turned back around and faced Sanborn’s African-American companion, who had made it up to one elbow. “I didn’t get your name, but your friend over there owes me seventy bucks. You gonna arrest me?”

Agent Washburn managed to work his gun free. “No, I’m going to shoot you,” he said as he unsteadily raised his weapon.

*  *  *  *  *

Chumakov hadn’t slept well despite the Park Street’s king-size bed and whisper-quiet air conditioning. That he had too many vodkas with Gregoriev wasn’t the problem. What if supplying the NSA files from Watermen and Nolan in return for a US hands-off in Crimea and Ukraine wasn’t enough? Maybe he wouldn’t be shot or jailed, but he still might be fired, or demoted and transferred somewhere horrible, like Uzbekistan. He’d come too far to leave anything to chance.

He sat down at his chic desk and turned on his laptop. As it was still the middle of the night in Moscow, an email would have to suffice. He canceled the leasing arrangement. The go-between’s $80,000 would be refunded. It simply wasn’t worth the risk if that Lebanese fixer working for the Iranians was lying. And of course, he was lying. He was a filthy Beirut peddler, and the son, brother and cousin of every other crooked Lebanese trader who’d ever walked the earth. There was no way the Iranians were building a cyber arsenal to attack some hapless bunch of dishdash-wearing Bedous. The Persians were hitting the US, and the US would trace the DDOS to Russia, and Chumakov’s head would end up mounted over the fireplace at Foreign Minister Greyg’s dacha
.

He felt better as soon as he sent the cancellation notice to his own staff and the IT department. After this business in Colombo was over, he’d return to Abouzeid the remaining $20,000 that at present resided in Chumakov’s Vienna bank account. He didn’t want that
souk
trader slandering his good name. It wasn’t about the money; it was about peace of mind and, of course, his career.

*  *  *  *  *

From where he’d watched Brother Bert dropkick a fellow with a gun, McGirty took two steps and launched a roundhouse kick at Agent Washburn. Washburn felt rather than saw the menace behind him, and could only grunt as the blow dislocated his shoulder, sending his gun tumbling across the grass. McGirty finished the move by planting his right foot, pivoting and stomping Washburn’s face with his left boot heel. Washburn’s nose crunched underfoot and split open. Blood gushed down the now unconscious man’s face. It was carnage that would have done any cage fighter proud, even a college sophomore wannabe.

Bert squatted and retrieved the nearest weapon. Rising to his feet he said, “Well, Big Duck, we’re in it now. Your truck gassed up?”

“Yeah.”

“Protein powder?”

“In the back seat, fresh from the store.”

“Hand me that other pistol. Help me take the radios, phones and keys off these two. We’ll dump them down the road. In the rig, we’ll turn off our cell phones and pull the batteries and SIM cards.”

“Bert? Your shirt’s torn to hell, and your nose is broken.”

“Unless you brought a change of clothes and some cotton balls, I don’t see what this has to do with the price of tea in China.”

“Just mentioning it in case you didn’t know. You pretty much have a sign on you that reads, ‘Fugitive from Justice.’”

“In that case, we’ll have to be extra careful on our way to California.”

“California?” McGirty finished searching an unconscious agent.

“Redding. I’ll tell you why on the way. Let’s roll.”

On their way out of the park at speed, they passed two police cruisers, lights flashing, headed in the other direction. No one tried to stop them, and they drove the next seven hours without even seeing another cop.

*  *  *  *  *

Despite not having a phone or internet connectivity, Watermen’s Park Street Hotel stay was pleasant. Unlike Moscow, the electricity worked, he wasn’t cold and room service supplied decent food. He slept intermittently, half expecting to be rousted in the middle of the night. The bedside alarm at 7:30 offered a whiff of hope. He showered and shaved quickly, just in case.

It seemed Chumakov’s Abu Dhabi office had accepted the veracity of whatever speculations he’d typed into the master index he’d worked up on the flight from Moscow. The last hurdle was to match the contents of whatever Godpa supplied. If it did, in theory he would be a free man. He didn’t know whether he could evade the Americans long enough to obtain permanent asylum in Sri Lanka.

On the other hand, Chumakov and his thugs were fully capable of shooting the two of them on sight and taking the disk off Bob Nolan’s corpse. He hoped Godpa’s plans covered that contingency.