Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (9 page)

SATURDAY, MARCH 8, MOSCOW

“Ecuador is still willing to take you despite pressure from the US. The Aeroflot flight from Moscow to Quito through Havana is best, because the US won’t dare to force it down.” Eric Watermen’s concern showed in his voice, ragged features and rumpled clothes. He’d driven straight from the airport to the Lubyanka Square head office of the FSB, the equally oppressive successor to the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, before heading to his son’s apartment.

The fugitive was impatient. His father had flown eleven hours to read him the airline timetables? “Dad, I told you before, I’m stuck here. Technically, I have asylum for another four-plus months, until the end of July, but they could kick me out anytime. Alternatively, they could lock me up. They want what I took before they let me go.”

“So give it to them.”

“I don’t have a copy. China’s goons stripped me clean before they let me out of Hong Kong ahead of the CIA snatch team. I landed here with the clothes on my back and a couple of wiped laptops.”

“What about those journalists? You gave them copies.”

“Dad, every intelligence agency in the world was after those files. MI6 and the CIA told them they would be killed for what I’d given them. To their credit, Greg, Marjorie and Alex destroyed their copies in front of witnesses. They were as paranoid as I was. The original plan was that, if something happened to me, each journalist would publish his or her copy. This was to keep the US from killing me. But now that I’m in Russia, the reverse is true. If my friends still had copies with instructions to release them on my death, the Russians would have pulled the trigger long ago.”

 “So why give you asylum? Russia caught a lot of heat for that.”

“Putin loves jabbing a stick in the US’s eye. And the FSB seems convinced that there’s a fourth copy.”

“Is there?”

“There was, but I hid it and it’s not there anymore. I don’t know who picked it up. I’m probing old channels.”

“Oh, Lord, no. You don’t mean you told—”

“‘Maybe’ is all I know. Maybe he has it. Maybe he’ll give it to me if I ask, but I just don’t know.”

“If it’s who I think it is, you can’t trust him.”

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I’ll tell you the whole story someday. But not now. Here are my notes of what Director Chumakov said about ninety minutes ago.” He read, “Mr. Watermen, we’ve paid for your air ticket and issued a forty-eight-hour visa because we believe you can talk sense into Mark. He needs to tell us where we can find certain information. Once we obtain this information, we will fly him anywhere in the world. If we don’t receive the information, he faces imprisonment as a foreign intelligence officer. We will hold your passport and ticket for safekeeping. Have a pleasant stay.”

His father looked at him like he was sixteen again and had been caught violating curfew. “You and I need to have a private talk. Is there any place here that isn’t bugged?”

“Are you kidding? We can pass notes written under a blanket. That’s about it.”

“Go get a bedspread and something to write on.”

Twenty minutes later, his father was burning paper over the toilet bowl while Watermen walked over to the 1980s telephone handset and picked up the receiver. Without dialing, he said, “Chumakov, I will tell you who has the fourth copy, but I want out of this country.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

PITCH PERFECT

SUNDAY, MARCH 9, RANGOON

Hecker was on the line. “Hanny? Where are you? Look, I need you to work out a twenty-four-by-seven sentry rotation for the safe house. I want an armed guard on the gate until the bad guy is in custody. Let’s assume that if our location isn’t already blown, it will be by tomorrow. We’ll stay put and hope for the best. If we attract unwanted attention, we’ll move to the smaller safe house, Hogwarts. Be sure to get hold of a half-dozen fire extinguishers. These guys love playing with matches. Out.”

Hecker turned and looked at Ryder in the back seat. “Ask our police friends to focus one hundred percent on either looking for Teller or checking the port, airport and roads toward Thailand. Bob and I will cover the ambassador. Look for those K-Line containers.”

Nolan wasn’t so certain now after previously being confident that the containers were the key. “Teller’s smart. I can see him driving three empty containers around Rangoon while the real prize is in a shoebox or blindfolded in the trunk of a car somewhere else. We need a handle on what we’re looking for. Can you put up a plane or a surveillance drone?”

Ryder chuckled darkly, knowing what was coming.

Hecker twisted around in the passenger seat, pulled off his sunglasses and jabbed a finger at Nolan. “That politicking cocksucker Matthews is the reason we risked our asses driving up and down unlit backroads in the middle of the fucking night! Last year, when Zaw was based in Lashio, we teamed up and took down two meth labs and
yaa baa
—meth pills—warehouses. This cost the Army serious money and the junta withdrew cooperation on most anti-drug initiatives. I expected that shit, but when you have a chance to stop thirty million dollars’ worth of crystal from leaving the country, you do it. Zaw had the idea of burning everything in place rather than see it recycled out of evidence and onto a DC-9. Everyone from President Thein on down was plenty excited. That’s why we love this job. Every so often, we put the fear of God into the crooks and hurt them in their wallets.

“Matthews decided that the ambassador and he were in line to achieve a diplomatic breakthrough by offering to voluntarily suspend the DEA’s overflight program. It took my predecessor three years and millions of dollars to allow us to put unmanned surveillance vehicles—USV drones—with cameras, not missiles, overhead. And in one afternoon Martin and Matthews shut us down.”

“That’s the short version,” Ryder chortled. “Get a couple of beers in him and ask Sam what he really thinks.”

Hecker barely broke stride. “The only upside for us from this morning’s meeting with the gasbag ambassador and scumbag Matthews will be the latest on the MH370 search. Maybe they’ve found wreckage off Vietnam and this was all a fool’s errand. I still think Teller could be dealing big-time narcotics or arms on the side, just not through Myat Noe. Right now, I admit I’m in a muddle. Bob has me halfway convinced we’re sitting on a conspiracy out of a Jason Bourne movie.”

Nolan managed a word in edgewise. “Can you suggest what we should say in the briefing?”

“You CIA types are the professional liars. We’re just humble anti-narcotics flunkies. We leave out all references to Robin Teller. That will cause a sideshow all by itself, and this circus doesn’t have enough clowns to go around. There’s a six-lane fake toll road being used as an airstrip by Golden Elephant’s Jay Toffer. For what, we don’t know. However, we expect it’s the usual mix of drugs, guns and money. You went out to take a look at Matthews’s request, and the rest of Saturday happened as already reported.”

Hecker continued, “Kyaw was stabbed. You swapped cars and drove him to a hospital back in Rangoon. We thought there might be a haul of weapons or money sitting in that disguised outbuilding next to the runway, so we went out last night. All burned up and no one home. This is a drugs-arms situation that falls within DEA remit. We don’t mention MH370, or we’ll all be working for Matthews. Did I miss anything?”

“A couple of things, starting with the three or four baggies worth of soil samples, ashes and sundry banana cream pie fillings that Zeya and Gonzalez took out of the rubble,” Nolan said.

“You can kiss a DEA exclusive goodbye if that comes up. Trust me. We’re going to run everything through the lab in Singapore and see what we have before bringing in the Agency. We’ll give you the first look when the results come back.”

“Fair enough. You do need to mention that Toffer seems like a homicidal maniac, so we’ll need to call in favors to have the Burmese take him into custody. He’s not an ordinary ten-million-dollar-a-cargo drug smuggler who has the middle-level politicians or an Army colonel in his pocket. They have to know he’s an order of magnitude worse. Millie is in danger because—”

“Millie
may
be in danger. There’s no evidence that Toffer/Teller ID’d her from those reports he took out of the car. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Ryder.

“Maybe you’re right. Let’s aim to get out of there in less than an hour. I’d like to see my wife and kid before packing a bag for Club Avatar.”

“Is your family safe where they are?” asked Nolan.

“Yes. Since I arrived in 2012, I’ve averaged a death threat a week, while Sophie and CJ probably get one a month. We live in the government-owned apartments inside Dubern Park. Ours is the building just behind the first-base dugout. You should come by for dinner once this blows over. But don’t try to force the door downstairs or climb a drainpipe, or a Marine will put a hole in you. Travis lives in the same building, which adds to the comfort level. You know he was a SEAL sniper with confirmed kills in Afghanistan at one mile?”

“No, I didn’t, but he’s comfortable around guns.”

Ryder cleared his throat to prod the conversation elsewhere.

“I need to get back to Singapore where I can put some thoughts together regarding MH370 and Teller. Do we have the passenger list and cargo manifests yet?”

“That’s something you can check with Matthews when you see him. I try not to speak to that asshole unless necessary,” said Hecker.

Ryder smiled at Nolan and took another phone call. Nolan was impressed to hear snippets of what had to be Burmese interspersed with the Pidgin English phrases militaries use worldwide when speaking with local counterparts. Ryder hung up after twenty seconds of incomprehensible exchanges.

“Travis, since you’ll be working with the natives, best you use the embassy annex as your base. That way you won’t lead Teller's gunmen to our safe house. For now, let’s just tell the locals who might ask that I’m overseas on other DEA business.”

“OK, boss.”

They were now in the middle of Rangoon with the morning sun promising another blistering day. Even upscale residential areas featured alternating piles of lumber or gravel spilling into the streets, vacant lots full of tall grass or rubbish, and abandoned buildings. Where there were sidewalks, the pavement was either smashed or obstructed by dead branches, or bags of trash awaiting collection.

There was enough traffic that the driver began to change lanes and take sharp turns to shake off possible pursuers. Nolan was impressed by the swift downshift and acceleration that shot the Range Rover between a decrepit bus and an open-air LPG cooking gas truck, a bomb on wheels. Five minutes later, they pulled into the safe house driveway. Nolan still had no idea where he was.

*  *  *  *  *

Joanie picked up on the first ring; she was finishing breakfast and watching some crime drama or soap opera.

“Honey, it’s me. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Is everything OK?”

“Most certainly not! Yesterday, the gardener didn’t come and our stupid maid broke a glass. Can you believe Juanilla wants to borrow another four hundred dollars? That poor woman’s relatives in the Philippines are milking her dry. She’ll end up owing me money when her contract’s over. We’re out of kale and she didn’t tell me, and . . . .”

Joanie’s stream-of-consciousness babble told him all was well, but time was short. Once he had her attention, his brief took two minutes. He used code words to indicate he was safe and not under duress (“golf”), but that the family was in danger (“swimming”). She could go from domineering matron to chief of staff in the blink of an eye. When he hung up, he knew she and the children would soon be out of Teller’s reach. Nolan plodded to the shower to collect his thoughts.

Asia was full of competent women. Until recent times denied access to college, discriminated against at promotion time and cut off from equal inheritances, the Southeast Asia female showed herself resourceful and capable. Running the household and the Tiger Mom spiel covered the domestic engineer part of the description, but serving as the brains and organization behind the success of the homegrown firms fueling Asia’s economic rise was the true testament to her quality. Every country in Asia was much the same: women made the place run and men posed for the PR photos.

He dried off with the still-damp towel, his second shower in seven hours. He mused that he needed lower hygienic standards and more sleep. Hecker’s people had checked Nolan out of Rangoon’s Traders Hotel and his duffel bag was by the bed. This time he enjoyed all of a half hour’s rest before Hecker shook him awake. His mind was as fuzzy as his teeth. The conference table now doubled as a breakfast spot. The BBC was off mute, but they learned nothing from the incessant droning other than the addition of more planes and vessels to a search of empty seas and skies.

Hecker sauntered up while Nolan was buttering a piece of toast. The DEA boss’s fresh-shaven face, dimples and clean clothes made him look office-ready for Silicon Valley, save for the pistol now in a nylon cross-draw holster
.
“Let’s roll,” he said as he wrapped two muffins in a napkin.

Nolan took Ryder’s relatively clean spot in the back of the Range Rover while regarding his former perch with a mixture of disgust and grudging admiration; mud, blood and mire obscured all but a few swaths of blue fabric. Nolan still ached everywhere and his fatigue was such that the motion of the vehicle hypnotized him every few blocks until the driver's next evasive maneuver snapped his head upright again.

“No matter what that idiot ambassador or conniving bastard Matthews say, don’t share the MH370 Burma hijack hypothesis or the Teller idea. Not if you want the DEA to run the investigation,” Hecker said.

“Do you still think Matthews is tied up in this?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t afford to take the chance. Let’s keep the focus on Airstrip One.”

“If we don’t tell them that the plane probably landed in Burma, then half a dozen satellites, thirty ships and a hundred aircraft will keep looking in the wrong places.”