Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (41 page)

The driver slammed on the brakes. They’d just passed a familiar sight.

*  *  *  *  *

Nolan exited Rikki’s car almost a mile away from the front gate of Seletar, a decommissioned military airport now used by flying clubs and private pilots. He told her to U-turn and take the long way home. She should expect to be questioned in the next day. With road cameras all over Singapore, her alibi should include driving at knifepoint.

Not ten minutes later, a white Nissan Maxima passed and screeched to a halt. The rear window came down.

“Hello, Bob. Get in.”

Damn, that woman had a seductive voice. He put his stuffed backpack down at the side of the road. The airport lights shone up ahead.

He leaned in the window. “Is this an embassy car?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there will be an incident if you drive in; the vehicle will be photographed and later ID’d as belonging to China.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Get out here. Let me call for a pickup. Send your driver back.”

Using her drill instructor’s voice, in short order, Kaili had the driver out of the car and her luggage arrayed.

“Let me get on the phone to the charter company. Post-9/11, the US flew dozens of terror suspects through Seletar as part of the extraordinary rendition program. The Singaporeans gave the CIA a private gate to preserve deniability in case any of this ever hit the papers. We’ll go through—no questions asked—once they send an airport car.”

“What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?”

“The same thing.”

“Surprised to see me?”

“Yes. I told a crazy story and I wouldn’t have blamed you for thinking it was a lie or a trap. Nevertheless, if you had called before we were airborne, I’d have sent the car back. I’m very happy to see you.”

“Me, too,” she said, wondering if she should notify
Meng
.

*  *  *  *  *

Tony Johnson hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder for what he hoped would be the last time today. The plane was now fueled up and had flight plans filed for
Kuna-Kuna, Cunta-Nora
, damn, somewhere in the Outback. He would cool it there at the Kuna Cunta-Kinte Country Club for a day, and have dinner with someone he’d heard a lot about. Friday they were flying out for an off-the-books interrogation. The sort he liked, the kind without Geneva Convention guidelines and no Abu Ghraib photo albums, either. More like the Salt Pit in Kabul back in 2002–2004 when he started out: no-holds-barred focus on fast results and damn the niceties.

As he walked the last fifty yards across the tarmac to the Citation XL, a black Expedition with darkened windows raced by him to stop next to a G550 that was warming up. That vehicle was the type they used to tool around in back in LA when he worked counterterrorism with Jack and the boys. Jack had gone off his nut and was now a fugitive, but for a few years they’d had some grand times.

A crew-cut, black-haired Caucasian exited, followed by an Asian good-looker from the other side. The driver hopped out and opened the back to help with her bags. These two must be fat cat gamblers at the end of their junket. Man, would that be the good life. Even so, nothing beat making $42,500 a year tax-free. He got to pull out fingernails with pliers as a hobby, and shoot bad guys as his day job. The best work on the planet. He looked up and corrected course toward his ride.

*  *  *  *  *

“Mr. Birch, welcome aboard. I thought there was just one passenger outbound.”

“There’s been a change of plans. Madam Chan is working with me.”

“Of course. For charter confirmation purposes, could you please show me your copy of the bank deposit slip and a photo ID?”

“No problem.” He handed the Bank Suisse Privé
Asia receipt and the Adam Birch passport over for inspection.

“We are cleared for takeoff, if you’re ready. Flight time tonight to Bandaranaike Airport is approximately four hours ten minutes.”

If there were Agency people on board, this was where they’d move. If they were on their way, it would be best if they were airborne soon. “Let’s get the wheels up. Do you have anything to eat? We’re starving.”

“There’s a selection of mezze and sandwiches in the refrigerator. Drinks are in the chiller. We don’t have an attendant, just Captain Nishimoto and me. I’m the copilot, John Jenkins.”

Nolan shook First Officer Jenkins’s hand. He was about thirty-five, with sandy hair and the sinewy body type and height of a basketball guard. “I’d like to meet Captain Nishimoto if I may, to say hello and thank him for accepting a last-minute charter. The Agency is grateful.”

Hearing his name, the pilot rose out of his seat to meet Nolan at the cockpit door. Aside from a resemblance to the late Japanese auteur Akira Kurosawa, the captain was distinguished by a weather-beaten face, barrel chest, gray hair and black eyes that bore straight through Nolan. Nishimoto had to be seventy if he were a day, and looked like he wrestled stumpy grizzly bears in his spare time.

They shook hands, with Nishimoto doing his best to crush knuckles. Nolan locked eyes with him.

“Oh, shit,” Nolan breathed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

YOU GOTTA BELIEVE

WEDNESDAY MARCH 12, BURMA; SINGAPORE; MOSCOW

“It’s me,” Teller rasped.

“Damnit, I told you not to call me on this line.”

“You didn’t answer on the other two.”

“It’s not secure. The line is tapped in real time.”

Teller’s laugh degenerated into a wet cough. “I have seven people a shift working night and day monitoring the two hundred English-only speakers of interest to the government or me. My people translate some of this back into Burmese, and I hand over enough good intel that everyone’s happy. Plus my friends at Myanmar Telecom give me the tapes of all the other foreign language calls from overseas businessmen and diplomats. We don’t transcribe those in real time, but I can retrieve conversations by the phone number on demand. How do you think I know everything that goes on in this stinking country? Trust me. No one will be reading a transcript of this call.” Teller’s cough sounded like a death rattle.

“I’ll be damned. I had no idea that you were behind all the Big Brother snooping. You sneaky bastard,” Matthews said.

“Even in shithouse Rangoon, I couldn’t have stayed underground for seven years without an edge.”

“I thought
I
was the edge.”

“
You?
Thank Christ, no.” Teller hocked up another gob of mucous.

“You sound like hell. Why the call?”

“I need a plane at Mong Hsat airstrip on Thursday around midday that’s cleared into Thailand. See if Harcourt Aviation has anything in the area, though I really don’t care at this point. Three passengers, including an undocumented North Korean doctor who’s crippled. Try to fly in a paramedic and a gurney as well. I want to fly to Bangkok, or if worse comes to worst, on the ground via ambulance”—Teller hacked uncontrollably and resumed—“or whatever vehicle you can arrange. I’ll need private access to a first-rate hospital for specialist treatment.”

“What in particular?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. A bone marrow transplant. Some very serious antibiotics. I’ll have the doctor make a list and give it to the pilot tomorrow. Oh, and one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“That doctor probably broke his back. I don’t know if he can even sit in a wheelchair. He looks like he’s on the way to becoming a junkie. They’ve been pumping morphine into him three times a day.”

“That’s wonderful. And I suppose you need a passport for this cripple?”

“Not if I can get treatment in Bangkok. The doctor will end up in a
khlong
when we’re finished.”

“Good. Strap him to something that doesn’t float and take him swimming.”

Teller’s gurgling laugh was still going when Matthews hung up. Maybe Mother Nature would tie up the anachronism that was Robin Teller.

He picked up the secure line—the one Teller didn’t have ears on—and dialed Tokyo. Burns should be done with dinner by now and would be interested in what was new in Jay Toffer’s fascinating life.

*  *  *  *  *

Constantine scowled at his desk as he looked at the transcripts Flynn had just handed him. “Who is Mimi Chan?”

“We don’t know. It’s a new phone, just activated yesterday. I’ve asked the Singaporeans, and they’ll have a tap on it in the next hour. Of course, NSA’s already on the job as well.”

“What else did surveillance come up with regarding Nolan?”

“Collins and I just this morning installed the taps in his home office. There’s nothing usable from them. We already agreed not to use anything from the cafeteria conversation at lunch—”

“I want you to tear his house apart, down to the floorboards. Find every scrap that connects Nolan and Watermen. What’s happening with Mukherjee?”

“She’s being interrogated as we speak. The polygraph will take two more hours.”

“Do you believe her story about Nolan having a copy of Watermen’s stolen files?”

“She lied when she said they discussed it at lunch today—Nolan wouldn’t mention something like that inside the embassy. But she’s been screwing his brains out this week, so it could have surfaced in pillow talk. So, yeah, I believe her.”

“She’s a harlot and can’t be trusted.” Looking up, he shifted gears. “How many men do we have at the Shangri La?”

“By 9 p.m. we’ll have seven of our own, plus a handful of Internal Security Department people. More than enough to cover the lobby, the public spaces and most of the approaches. The hotel seems like a bad place for a covert meeting.”

“I agree, but Nolan’s a desk jockey. He said whatever popped into his mind. Once we pick him up, you can ask him yourself about his peculiar choice of venue.”

“Did you read what Nolan said in the cafeteria? Some of it is paranoia, but he mentioned Frank Coulter, the ex-ADDCO, as possibly being behind MH370. That’s a serious accusation. Should we take a look? Using your clearance, we should be able to tell pretty quickly whether Nolan’s lying about the alleged tie-in between Teller and Coulter. Or maybe between Matthews and those two?”

“That’s something to look into when we have a little less on our plates. Right now we need one hundred percent focus on Nolan. You can sift fact from fiction once he’s in custody.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you think is best.”

*  *  *  *  *

Nolan and Kaili sat silently awaiting take off. Cut off from Agency databases, he couldn’t get the lowdown on the Captain. He texted Hecker, asking whether a Jack or John Nishimoto had flown in Vietnam in the early 1970s, or been affiliated with the CIA since 1970. Nolan wrote he was fleeing trumped-up charges and was working to clear his name. He asked him to not to believe the lies and to stay on Teller’s trail. Teller needed to be taken alive: he was a big part of unraveling MH370.

Nolan hit “send” and felt a flutter. It was one in a million that Hecker reported him to Matthews, but still a coin flip if Hecker contacted someone in the Agency. Maybe Hecker would help him out for a little while longer, but that would end once the Company’s propaganda mill was done smearing him.

He next called Independent Programming Lankan lead hacker Vishnu Balendra. Under IPPL’s auspices, the CIA had used Balendra off and on the past fourteen months. While Balendra was only in his mid-twenties, that was middle-aged by hacker standards. Nolan found Balendra’s coding average but his ambition considerable. He was one of the few extrovert hackers around, well connected and always asking for more challenges. Whether Nolan stayed alive over the next two days, much less remained free, would be a stern test of Balendra’s abilities.

Balendra answered in a deep voice that hinted at his 6’4” linebacker’s physique. “May I help you?”

“It’s me. I’m on the ground in Singapore and taking off soon. Should be in the air for four hours and ten minutes. I have one change of plans. I’m traveling with a PRC national, Mimi Chan. She doesn’t have a visa.”

“Not a worry. Taxi up to the VIP building, next to the control tower. I know everyone who will be on duty tonight until four o’clock. That gives you a big cushion, as you should land around midnight local time.”

“I’ll need an adjacent room for my guest, preferably one with a connecting door.”

Nolan heard mild surprise in Balendra’s voice. “Oh, really?

“Plus we need three burner phones with plenty of prepaid minutes and international roaming. Two Samsung S4s, and one iPhone 5. Fully charged.”

“Right. I got it. I’ll supply preloaded clones.”

“Make certain you have the apps loaded that I described in my email. What did you come up with for a laptop?”

“I couldn’t find either of your top two choices, so I went with the Lenovo Y50 Touch. I’ve loaded a Tor browser and Firefox. Everything’s up to date, firewalls up and awaiting your personal configuration.”

“
Lenovo?
Every one of them comes with a built-in backdoor for the Unit #61398 hacker crew. Alright, I guess there’s no other choice on short notice. Can you pick up a bottle of Moet White Star champagne from duty free? Gotta run,” Nolan said and hung up. That text to Hecker had set a time bomb ticking, so he removed the SIM card and battery. He was discarding phones at a rapid clip. Kaili had already done the same, as her cell was compromised the moment she’d answered his call from Paradise Alley.

“Did my file say nice things about me?” he asked as the plane started forward.

She smiled wanly. “Only that you were a man who strayed from his marriage from time to time. You appeared vulnerable to a honey-trap.”

“So that’s why you were so friendly. You really
were
going to blackmail me with sex?” he said in mock surprise, smiling eyes fixed on her lovely face.

“At present, trouble with the wife appears to be one of your smaller problems.”

“You sure got that right.”

*  *  *  *  *

Hecker sat alone in the Hogwarts safe house’s office upstairs. Ryder was tucked into the Sembawang base infirmary in the Navy Region Center Singapore, no doubt asleep given how drowsy he’d sounded on their just-concluded call. Hecker was relieved that his deputy wasn’t likely to need a bone marrow transplant. The latest prognosis was a week, maybe ten days, in Hawaii undergoing tests and observation, and then back to Rangoon. That was plenty fast, but not soon enough to help Hecker out of this predicament.