Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (58 page)

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“It’s in a safe place, but not on me. If you’re thinking you might be able to save yourself by pulling it out of my pocket if I’m lying dead by the tracks, the answer is no.”

“We do think alike, don’t we?”

He gave her a hug, which she reciprocated.

*  *  *  *  *

Special Agent in Charge Fillmore grew frustrated. The FBI now knew that Nolan and McGirty were in a gray 2012 Chevrolet Silverado. The license plate had been broadcast statewide, as well as passed to their Canadian colleagues, but cloud cover blinded the satellites. The Silverado lacked an OnStar, and both suspects had disabled their phones to preclude tracking. Even so, Bertrand or his buddy would poke their heads up sooner or later, and they would nail them. Thumbing through the files, he saw that the baby of the Nolan family looked like a football player, with a thick neck and big traps on top of impressive shoulders. Even in his high school yearbook photo, the insolent youth staring into the camera wore a “just try me” expression. Bert Nolan was a Singapore Army Commando until early 2013, named best trainee in his company of one hundred twenty and tapped for officer training. “Good in the woods” according to his ex-commanding officer. So much so that Nolan trained with the British SAS in the jungles of Brunei for four weeks, a rarity for a conscript doing his mandatory stint in Singapore’s armed forces.

Nolan’s University of Washington accomplice Michael M. McGirty was a Microsoft millionaire’s slacker child in addition to being Nolan’s mixed martial arts training partner, roommate and best friend. Constantine couldn’t figure out how McGirty was tied up in this other than coming to the aid of his fraternity brother. Nonetheless, he still faced five years in a federal penitentiary for aggravated assault on Washburn. With two weapons missing, the FBI designated both as armed and dangerous.

The sophomores had given his agents first-class beatings. The FBI really had gone to hell in the past two decades: it needed more ex-military men and beat cops rather than the forensic analysts and criminology PhDs currently recuperating in the hospital. 

*  *  *  *  *

At 9:55 a.m. there was a tap on the door. “Your guests have arrived,” came Balendra’s voice.

With caution, Nolan let him in.

Balendra looked at the turquoise-clad pair approvingly. “I can barely tell you apart, other than height and Bob’s ugliness.”

 “Remember to block the front gate at exactly 10:25. What did you steal?” Nolan asked.

“A concrete mixer. The driver will dump the load, pull the distributor cap and take the keys. On that slope, it will take a tank to tow it. I’ll be up here watching your doors from across the hall. Last night I installed a new peephole angled toward 109.”

Nolan shut the door, hung the
Do not Disturb
signs outside Kaili’s and his rooms and grabbed the shopping bag with Watermen’s scrubs. He carried only his phones, a paperback and money jammed into the cargo pants he wore under the aquamarine pantaloons. He’d sealed everything in plastic. It would be a wet ride. They went downstairs to find three hoodlums and an edgy Mark Watermen.

Nolan waited for the Agency to spring its trap, but nothing happened. I’ll be damned, he thought. He exchanged a greeting and a brief hug with Mark, and said simply, “Good to see you.” Watermen replied in kind, both men tense.

Nolan sized up the leader: a clothes horse wearing gray flannel pants unsuited to the tropics, a long-sleeved white shirt already sporting pit stains, and a red power tie. He didn’t look like how he’d imagined Chumakov. This fellow was pasty-faced, acne-scarred, beetle-browed and nearer fifty than forty. The other two hoods looked like they’d come from KGB central casting: dark synthetic pants, white short-sleeved shirts unbuttoned one button too far, thick gold necklaces intertwined with copious chest hair, and heavily muscled arms. Each was in his early forties; either would be more than a physical match for Watermen or him.

Nolan addressed the leader. “Let’s have some coffee and order breakfast. The exchange will take place in thirty minutes, and the service here is very slow.”

Chumakov said, “The exchange takes place now.”

The voice was off, but Nolan had to stay focused. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. The information you want isn’t here, but it’s coming. I won’t leave your sight until you have it in your hands. So why don’t we relax and have something to eat?”

Chumakov turned and looked at one of his henchmen, who nodded a millimeter. Pit-stains turned back and said, “Fine,” and with that the deception was broken. Watermen’s knowing look at Nolan confirmed Pit-stains’ attempted deception.

Nolan led them through reception to the edge of the outdoor dining area and under the overhang, as per Fernando’s instructions. The near end of the long lap pool was thirty feet away. Another twenty feet toward the ocean was a three-foot-high white concrete retaining wall. Behind the wall was a thirteen-foot-wide strip of hard dirt, two sets of railroad tracks, a steep gravely beach and the ocean. It was already hot, headed for 100 degrees Fahrenheit. They sat down, three on each side, with Watermen at the end between Nolan and the genuine Chumakov.

Nolan handed Watermen the plastic bag. “Take your time, but put these on over your clothes.”

“Why’s that?”

Chumakov said, “Because your fellow spy, godfather and savior knows that when you walk out there you’re likely to be shot dead.”

Startled, Watermen looked at Chumakov and then Nolan.

“Don’t look at me. I flew you here first class. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so when you were busy destroying state property yesterday morning, or any other day over the last nine months. It’s your very own CIA and NSA who wish you dead, or maybe they are actually after Godpa Bob, and you need to be in disguise to keep him alive a little longer. May I ask why a senior Ministry of State Security officer is at this table? It’s all quite farcical.”

Watermen turned and stared at Kaili. “MSS? Jesus, Bob. What’s the MSS doing here? I’m not going with them.”

“Oh, don’t be so certain, young Watermen. Godpa could have sold out to China, or he might have just sold
you
out, or maybe he doesn’t quite know yet himself.”

This was the Chumakov Nolan had expected: intelligent, sarcastic and a grandstander. Nolan discerned a fourth FSB man standing just inside reception at the doors leading out onto the patio. He was huge. Balendra would need to be vigilant to protect Fernando from across the hall. Nolan wondered if the rich-kid hacker would be able to pull the trigger when the time came.

The waiter took their beverage order. No one figured they’d be there long enough to eat a proper breakfast.

Chumakov was in control. “If you and Miss China would be so good as to stand up, Yuri will ensure you’re unarmed.”

Nolan and Kaili stood. He didn’t know where she’d secreted the grenade and didn’t want to know. Yuri gave him a rough, expert frisking, forcing him to show
Ocean of Deceit
, packets of wrapped hundred-dollar bills and his bagged phones.

Chumakov laughed. “You’re an old friend of the Israelis, aren’t you? They’re famous for doctoring cell phone signals to attract drone-fired missiles. You want me to confiscate your phones, is that it? Keep your fucking phones.” He tossed them back. Nolan fumbled the catch and they clattered on the tabletop. Chumakov was similarly contemptuous of Nolan’s money, but paused for a second to read the title of the paperback before pushing that across, too.

Nolan re-pocketed his belongings. His real interest was in what was happening to his left. Kaili had spun and slapped Yuri when his hand lingered near her bosom. Chumakov chortled. Yuri completed his search, paying particular attention to her groin and inner thighs.

Yuri said something in Russian and took his seat. Their beverages arrived. The waiter left and the floor was Chumakov’s once again. “Bob, it is ten minutes until kickoff. Describe what you’re proposing, or maybe Yuri shoots you now and I hand Godson over ahead of schedule so I can shop before I fly home tonight.”

*  *  *  *  *

Tony Johnson watched the plane take off from a bench in the sun, a pile of soon-to-be-repurposed paraphernalia beside him. Another two stacks contained the food and the drink they’d offloaded. Associate Deputy Director of Operations for Covert Operations (retired) Coulter was off to the side, watering two-billion-year-old rocks. Truscott Field might have been a big deal in WWII, but now it was simply a decrepit runway on a desolate, baking plateau.

Coulter ambled back. “Let me get on the satphone to Wollam and call in that chopper if it’s not already inbound. It’ll probably take two trips, so we’ll be at the beach around 2 p.m. If you can fashion a couple of sandwiches out of those fixin’s in the ice chest, that will save us time when we get to the fishin’ camp. I bet you’re as anxious as I am to find out what the scientist can tell us about Iran’s A-bomb program. I have a few spots marked on maps I need him to confirm. I’d appreciate it kindly if you didn’t chop off both of his pointin’ fingers right away.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief and sat down.

Johnson was surprisingly hungry after a big breakfast, but his head remained fuzzy from yesterday’s many beers. He roused himself to take a look in the various ice chests stacked in front of him. He would kill for a decent ham and cheese.

*  *  *  *  *

At 09:45 hours, the two Navy commandos left their posts outside the Racquets Club. They jogged down a lane running from Galle Road to the beach barely one hundred yards past the hotel construction site. There they found the eight-man inflatable boat their boss had secreted the night before. The chief was holding the boat at the waterline as the tide rolled in, standing sentinel between two rock piles. The three of them quickly had the 75 HP Honda outboard motor mounted. A tarp on the rocks shielded field glasses, a two-way radio, six life jackets and a first-aid kit. Two 9mm pistols, plus a pair of Heckler & Koch MP5A3 submachineguns and spare magazines comprised their armaments.

The Sri Lanka Special Boat Service duo were told to prepare for small arms fire and, perhaps, wounded passengers. Nevertheless, if all went according to plan, they would be operating a ten-thousand-dollar water taxi without firing a shot. The two corporals headed a half mile out to sea, keeping the boat parallel to the coast. They were looking for a northbound train. When they spotted it, the commando on the helm swung the boat toward shore and reversed direction, using the train to shield them from the sight lines of anyone on the ground.

The nineteen-year-old Jarhead scanned the sea through binoculars from the top floor of the US embassy. An hour ago, the inter-forces liaison alerted the embassy gunny that there was a Sri Lanka Navy training exercise that morning. A simulated beach extraction would occur and an inflatable running full-out would pass three hundred yards offshore from the embassy’s seawall. Any firing the embassy occupants might hear would be blanks. The Marine thought the drill should be a lot more interesting than the typical tedious assignment of looking in vain for al Qaeda suicide divers’ bubble trails.

The driver slowed the boat down to match pace with the train. The wind freshened with the waves from the bow, creating little rainbows in the mist that lasted a second. His companion commando still found the evanescent colors fascinating. Thinking back to the previous morning, he was pleased that his silent killing skills were still sharp, even after years of disuse following the destruction of the Tamil Tigers. Being a Navy commando was fun when there was a little danger involved.

*  *  *  *  *

McGirty had the good sense to stay off the interstate, using Nolan to navigate county roads via a combination of an old Rand McNally atlas and a handheld GPS. They hadn’t seen more than a few cars, and would soon be facing the challenge of crossing the Columbia River into Oregon.

“Remind me again. How did you get the nickname ‘Big Duck’?”

“It was back in high school. I played linebacker and was at KFC after a Friday night game. I was hungry as hell, so I ordered six pieces all to myself. Sat down and scarfed that fucker while my teammates were having like three-piece meals. When I finished, I was still hungry. The guys were giving me shit about eating so much—I was bigger then, about two hundred thirty pounds—and I said the chickens KFC was cooking were too small. They needed to serve larger birds, something duck-sized. Some girls from our school were at the next table flirting. One of them said, ‘Ooh, Michael wants a big duck.’ So of course I was Big Duck from there on out.”

“That’s a lame handle, but it’s different. Did you get any action that night?”

“Nah. They were all teases. Blew us off after we wasted another hour.”

“Sucks, but I got an idea. Let’s take a detour through Appleton.”

“Appleton?”

“You remember my girlfriend second semester last year, the senior? Jenny graduated and went back to Appleton to help in the family business. I’m guessing she still loves me enough to lend us a car so we can cross the Columbia at The Dalles.”

“You’re showing up unannounced on a Thursday night, and she’s going to give us her
car
?”

“She was pretty into me. You know that every time I saw her, all she wanted to do was lay me down.”

“I remember it a little differently, but yeah, for a while I guess you two were tight.”

“Let’s see if the ole Bert Nolan magic is still working.”

“I don’t consider that a plan. It’s more like one last piece of ass before we end up prison bitches in federal lockup. But let’s give it a go: I got nothing but time.”

*  *  *  *  *

Gonzalez had to hand it to himself. Based on how he appeared in the mirror, he passed muster as a legit clergyman. As a former altar boy, he still knew the Latin phrases, too.

One of Zaw’s men stuck his head in the clinic’s bathroom and gestured for him to follow.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

TRAIN IN VAIN

FRIDAY MARCH 14, COLOMBO; FLIGHT SQ12 FROM SINGAPORE TO TOKYO; TOKYO