Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller (73 page)

“Make it fifty cents a point. This is a lucky day; of that I am certain.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

THE LIZARD CAGE

FRIDAY MARCH 14, FORT MEADE, MARYLAND; WEAVERVILLE, CALIFORNIA; SATURDAY MARCH 15, ADMIRALTY GULF, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; TRUSCOTT FIELD, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

“Director Weill?” The NSA in-house postman was out of breath.

“Yes, what is it?” Weill was still reeling from the events of the last twelve hours: the euphoria at thwarting the DDOS, the
Acapulco
double-cross that could still cost him his job, the defeat of China in the shortest war in US history, and the cornucopia of new information that NGA and their NSA customers were processing, both in arrears and real time . . . well, he was overwhelmed.

“I need you to sign for an
Eyes-Only
courier packet from our Sri Lanka embassy.” Weill initialed and took the small box into his hands. Dispensing with security protocol on this auspicious day, he decided to open it himself. Inside multiple cardboard boxes was bubble wrap, and inside that, a yellow 64GB thumb drive. The accompanying handwritten note was signed
Gretchen Doyle, Chief of Station, Colombo,
and attested to this drive’s having been found inside a small plastic bag taped to a cricket ball on the very beach where Mark Watermen had died. It was likely to contain some version of Watermen’s NSA files. Could he see if there were any links to Watermen’s accomplice?

Of course he could. With pleasure. Weill turned on the squawk box. “Buster! Come in here. I have something new for Team Nolan to work on.”

*  *  *  *  *

Zhao decided he didn’t want to play gin rummy after all. He stepped outside and trailed the guard and two prisoners down the beach. Inside the high-tide line on the gently sloping sand was a cage wrought from three-quarter-inch steel reinforcement rod, bent and welded into a giant box thirty-three feet long by ten feet wide by five feet high. Inside was an enormous crocodile. Zhao knew Wollam called it Elvis “because he’s the King,” although he didn’t understand the humor that others found in that explanation.

It was low tide, so the cage was dry. Flies swarmed around the remains of a water buffalo’s hindquarters. The crocodile looked as if it were fifteen feet long and four feet wide across its shoulders. It was lying next to the carcass, mouth open to shed heat. The croc ignored their approach.

Zhao stood silently while the guard instructed the two prisoners on the opening of the cage door. “Right-ho! In you go, both of you. Come on now.” Nolan seemed more accepting of his fate than the woman. He hunched and went in without quibble. She resisted and twisted.

Catching sight of Zhao, the two antagonists stared each other down. Finally he broke the silence, speaking in Mandarin. “Come with me. It won’t save you, but after I’m done I promise you a quick bullet rather than being torn apart in this filthy cage.” She nodded and Zhao said, “One at a time, Sandy. Later, come get her in my cabin. For now, I will play.”

Sandy’s eyes lit up. “Fair dinkum, Jack.” Kaili closed the gap toward Zhao, leaving Nolan behind without a word or backward glance. Zhao walked up the beach, left hand clutching his prize above her right elbow, small automatic pistol in his right hand pointed casually at her midriff.

The guard slung the cage door closed and added a large padlock. Nolan stood stooped near the entrance, making his peace with a long-neglected God. Elvis faced the ocean, oblivious to his presence. How long that serendipitous state would last was anyone’s guess. It was already hotter than Hades. Nolan’s mouth was dry and his left arm useless. His only weapon was a plastic knife he’d secreted inside his sling earlier that morning.

*  *  *  *  *

For the wife of a retiree, Joanna Coulter was young and attractive. Bert put her in her early forties. He rationalized that you couldn’t be ugly or poor and own a wellness center, even if it was in Bumfuck, California. From the front porch of an imposing timber, stone and glass house, she beckoned the young men inside. The living area was breathtaking, featuring a twenty-foot cathedral ceiling, a glass wall with a view down a timber-covered hillside, and a two-story flagstone fireplace fronted by a grizzly rug and heavy wooden furniture. Joanna had a fire burning to ward off the evening chill. They declined the proffered array of spirits, mostly ancient bourbons. She nursed what looked like a Martini.

Bert felt awkward given that he had duct tape, rope, gags and blindfolds in his day pack, and a 9mm automatic lodged in his waistband. The gun was obscured by one of his Walgreens acquisitions, a two-season out-of-date Oakland Raiders jersey.

“I thought I might be getting visitors this weekend, but I was imagining they’d be wearing different uniforms."

At a loss for words, Bert stammered a question: “Uh, why . . . why did you think that, ma’am?”

“Well, my husband is a criminal, so I was thinking he could either be arrested, or else he might be dead. But you two here makes me think there’s something else going on.”

 “Well, um, I, um, well, this is my friend Michael McGirty, and I’m Bert Nolan. We go to college at U-Dub, uh, that’s the University of Washington. We’re wanted by the FBI. There’s probably a reward out for us, but we didn’t do anything wrong. All we did was defend ourselves from an illegal arrest in Washington State. The FBI is trying to shut up my father before he can find out the truth about MH370. We’re trying to help him.”

“Wait a sec. Did you say your last name was
Nolan
?”

“Yes, ma’am. My dad’s Bob Nolan. He’s in the CIA, based in Singapore. Yesterday in Sri Lanka, the NSA man Mark Watermen was shot and killed in front of my father.”

“I know about this. I’ve been watching it on CNN. Your father is the most wanted man in the world. Apparently he’s hijacked a private jet and flown it somewhere no one can find him. And the US has just fought a short war with China. I’m wondering if he had something to do with that, too.”

“I don’t know anything about that China-US war, Mrs. Coulter. What I do know is that there’s no way my father would have hijacked a plane, and even if he did, the US government could track it anywhere it went. So if that’s what’s on TV, then it’s bullshit.”

“So why did you come here?”

McGirty couldn’t help himself. “Bob Nolan thinks your husband is behind the MH370 hijacking. He’s flown to Australia to confront Frank. If he’s right, Frank will likely take him hostage. We thought that if we kidnapped you, it would force your husband to let Bert’s father go.” Bert gave McGirty a fatal look.

Joanna Coulter laughed in a voice that reminded McGirty of Anne Bancroft’s Mrs. Robinson in
The Graduate
. She lit a cigarette without taking her eyes off her prey. “Well, I can tell you my husband is involved in something illegal, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was MH370. But if you kidnap me, he’s likely to light a big cigar in celebration. We’re divorcing. I’m taking this house and what’s left of his bank account, and he can keep his crappy wellness center. I may even say some things that put him in jail for the rest of his life.

“There are only two ways to exert leverage over Frank: either through his mother or his son, Frank four-sticks. Frank IV is at boarding school in Texas, so that leaves his mother.”

“His
mother
? How old is she?” Bert asked.

“Ninety-six and still spry. Curses me like I’m a common call girl.”

“And where might we find her?”

“Why, she’s right in Weaverville off Main Street. I’ll write out the directions. Oh, and you’ll need Frank’s satphone number for the ransom call.” She sauntered off to look.

Nolan watched her backside swish away, putting on a show in stretch denims. “After this is over, I want to come back up the mountain.”

“You gotta get Jen out of that cabin first, Brother Bert,” McGirty said, staring in the same direction. “I’ll handle things from this end.”

*  *  *  *  *

It was hot inside the G550 and warming up by the minute. Toby sat next to the open door, F88C Austeyr automatic rifle across his lap. The guard paid his captives no heed as he combatted the urge to doze.

In the back of the cabin, Nishimoto and Jenkins deliberated in whispers. “Jack, I say we shoot him. We get on the radio and call in a mayday. If there’s anyone in the area standing off from last night’s hijacking call, that will bring them in.”

“Yes, and if anyone’s monitoring our radio, that alerts whoever has Nolan and Kaili and likely triggers their deaths. Besides, it seems he checks in every hour. That doesn’t give us a lot of breathing room.”

The guard’s head snapped upright. “Shut yer gobs! I told you two, no talking back there.
You
, go across the aisle and stay put.” His radio crackled before the pilots moved. Their captor reported all was well to home base, then clicked off and fumbled with the radio handset.

Jenkins sidled over to where he’d secreted the Walther. He looked at Nishimoto, who gave him the go-ahead. Jenkins drew the pistol and fired three times, their guard falling to the floor. The noise was deafening, followed by silence as smoke and the smell of cordite filled the plane. They hustled up front to disarm the guard who now lay facedown. Jenkins knelt by him and felt for a pulse while Nishimoto removed his radio and patted him for other weapons.

“Captain, grab a pair of latex gloves out of the first-aid kit and I'll try to stabilize him.” Nishimoto hadn’t even finished turning around when Toby made a guttural noise and died, blood gushing out of his nose and mouth.

“He’s gone. What do you want to do now?” asked Jenkins.

“I don’t care, just as long as he doesn’t bleed any more on the carpet. Let’s get him down the steps and outside. Tie a white flag to a stick.”

“I’m not convinced there’s anyone within three hundred miles of here, other than those fellows in the Bell helicopter and at the Eco-Camp.”

“We’ll see soon enough.”

*  *  *  *  *

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Coulter said to the hunched form in the cage. Elvis was close now, his gaping mouth showing off a perfect set of conical teeth and breath that could knock a buzzard off an outhouse seat.

Nolan didn’t bother turning around. Elvis held all of his attention; he’d noticed Nolan’s presence and slowly reversed polarity. Now his head was barely five feet away, jaws still wide open to help him cool off. The flies might have been worse than the stench.

“I’m open to offers. If you unlock the cage, let me out and surrender, that would be acceptable.”

“Be serious. Only a fool thinks he can solve the world’s problems. You’re not leaving here alive; we both know that. There are a couple of hard ways, and this isn’t even the worst. If you don’t tell me everything you’ve shared about MH370, I
am
gonna slow walk you up the beach to the interrogation shed. There’s someone inside who will make you beg for death before he’s done.

“Tell ya what. Cooperate and we’ll leave your body somewhere it can be found so your family can collect on the life insurance payout. Otherwise you’ll be just another missing person with a seven-year wait before you’re declared legally dead. So what do you say, pardner?”

“Get stuffed, Frank.”

Let’s get this over with, Nolan thought, plastic knife gripped in his right hand. He clenched his teeth, let out a strangulated war cry, and charged Elvis from his doubled-over position.

*  *  *  *  *

“Shots heard! Confirmed shots fired on board the jet!” Chonga relayed the message back to HQ. The reply was instantaneous. “It’s a go, Macca!”

McCullough’s men had already split up and encircled the parked aircraft. On the signal two pairs went running, weapons up as they rushed the far side of the Gulfstream, one toward the cockpit and the other the tail. Grappling hooks in hand, they were ready to climb onto the wings and up onto the fuselage before using shaped charges to punch holes for flash bangs and gas grenades. Chonga and Macca covered the team’s flank. The sniper and his spotter would have the door covered.

The door of the G550 swung down and revealed the steps of the gangway. A white flag on the end of an umbrella poked out. Someone unseen tossed a handgun and an assault rifle onto the runway.

“Stand down, stand down! This is Mad Max to Thunderdome. Stand down. We have a white flag.” Switching channels to speak just to the TAG sniper team, he said, “Stay tight on that door, Paddy. If you don’t like what you see, put a round innit.”

“Macca, the choppers are ready. They can be on target in seventy seconds.” Captain Willard had the three backup Black Hawks prepped, and Chonga monitored their comms.

“Tell them to stay where they are. We will advise. Repeat, will advise.”

A tall blond Caucasian in a white shirt backed down the gangway holding a limp body under the armpits. His similarly dressed companion, an older Asian, held the legs. Together they pulled and pushed the blue-uniformed deadweight down the stairs, and then the lead man dragged the body under the plane, into the shade.

The TAG team cuffed the two pilots and had them kneeling on the ground by the time Macca chugged up, trailed by Chonga and the Bowman VHF radio set. One of the TAG squaddies confirmed the man on the ground was dead.

He addressed the older of the two pilots. “So what’s your story, mate?” Macca asked.

“Captain Jack Nishimoto, USAF retired, Harcourt Aviation. Our plane was hijacked yesterday in Sri Lanka. This is my first officer, John Jenkins. He’s also ex-USAF and Special Forces. We called in the hijacking last night when we landed and triggered the EPIRB late last night.

“So is that the hijacker over there?”

“No, sir. Another group took our hijackers prisoner this morning at first light. They flew to the east in a Bell Ranger heli—”

“Yes, yes. My men and I were on-site for that small drama. So who is this?” He pointed toward the body.

“We don’t know. He was on guard with instructions to kill us if we left the plane. His boss called him Toby. We had a weapon hidden, and First Officer Jenkins accessed it.”