Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  As many PSC members didn’t know Operation Polar Bear’s specifics, the president talked them through the various permutations. Yi noticed that Comrade Gao omitted mention of the Dolphin C2 double-cross and misinformation campaign. The president only brought Operation Menander into the picture when General Yao Chanming, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, alluded to the NGA’s pending loss of satellite imaging processing capabilities. Details of Operation Menander’s planned outcomes converted the skeptics. With a solid majority behind the president, Liu Zhenchang’s forced retirement became a matter of record.

  However, there was a second, yet equally delicate topic before them. Yi took the lead in explaining the outline of China’s latest joint venture with an outlaw state, this time Iran. There were gasps when he described how six of the PLA’s officers from Unit #61398 had been detained in Beirut last week.

  “That’s outrageous! Send troops to their embassy and take the ambassador and five senior diplomats to prison until our team is safely back in China. Then bomb those smelly devils back to where they’re tending camels and living in tents again.” General Yao was no fan of President Gao, but he absolutely loathed the Arabs (as he referred to all Muslims, irrespective of Iran’s Persian population), despite being allied against an even greater evil of world Jewry as exemplified by Israel.

  Yi explained that, as of yesterday’s meeting with Ambassador Ghorbani, the Iranians would repatriate their colleagues immediately. He returned to his narrative, “But I’m afraid our story gets worse, Comrades. It seems that Iran now has well beyond the fifteen kilograms of twenty-five percent pure U-235 it needs for its first bomb. Their bottleneck seems to be a nuclear trigger small enough to fit into a missile warhead casing. Officially, the Iranians say they’re self-designed. As of yesterday, Ghorbani confirmed that their triggers are based on North Korea’s designs that, of course, were sourced from China.”

  Ren Biao, the most astute business mind on the PSC, spoke next. “The defective trigger diagrams we foisted on them two years ago for fifteen million dollars?”

  “Precisely. Apparently, the North Koreans sold their designs and the Iranians have figured out that they don’t work well, if at all. Since the design was sourced from China, the Iranians are looking to us for the fix.”

  “And if we repair the Iranians’ defective triggers, not only will Iran have a usable bomb for the first time, but also—”

  “They are likely to share the perfected design with North Korea,” Yi finished Ren Biao’s sentence.

  “So that crazy thug Kim Jong-un then would have nuclear missiles that worked?” asked General Yao.

  Yi was eager to demonstrate he was now in the intelligence inner sanctum. “Presumably so. Maybe twelve warheads would be operational if they upgraded their triggers to correct the error we inserted in the measurement to determine the cross-section of tritium—”

  “Yes, yes, we get the point,” Yao interjected to keep Yi from spilling more classified information. “Which means the US will preemptively strike North Korea’s launch sites and research facilities, including the use of tactical nuclear weapons. They’ve promised us this for years if China failed to rein in Jong-il. Now we are left to deal with his imbecilic, violent son.”

  Gao spoke, “I met General Webb, Army Chief of Staff, in Washington in November last year. He was a rude man and waved his finger at me as if I were a misbehaving child. Stop those puppets of yours or we will do it for you, was what he said. At the time, our MSS colleagues assured them that three-quarters of North Korea’s nukes would never work. We guaranteed that the North would not resort to nuclear weapons unless attacked. Webb said the US would hold us to those promises. I was both shamed and angered that the United States could speak to China’s leader in such a manner. I remained silent, and the meeting ended shortly thereafter.”

  Now it was Yao’s turn to be annoyed. “How dare the US dictate to us what happens in our own sphere of influence? No longer will China be humiliated by the US. As soon as Polar Bear plays out we’ll see who is the one great military power in Asia.”

  Yi trod delicately. “Comrades, there is another complication I became aware of only yesterday when I went to see Iran’s ambassador. It seems we were unaware that the missing Malaysia Airlines flight carried two important persons. Most significant among them was Rear Admiral Zhao, Head of Unit #61398. The rear admiral was our senior liaison to Menander. Zhao was in Beirut and Tehran last week. While in Tehran, he persuaded a Dr. Farrokhzad, Iran’s leading nuclear weapons research scientist, to accompany him back to Beijing. The Iranian brought with him two defective nuclear triggers and one of the centrifuges sabotaged by the Zionist-US Stuxnet worm. Apparently, Zhao said China would help Iran repair these devices provided Iran supplied irrefutable proof that it was already a nuclear power. We suspect this was a ruse by the rear admiral to give China a hostage in Dr. Farrokhzad to gain the leverage needed to ensure that our own six staff were promptly repatriated. Unfortunately, we may never find out with the plane vanished and all on board presumed dead.

  “The Iran ambassador told me his country was no longer interested in learning how to repair those damaged centrifuges or even retrieve the missing U-235. He was most displeased at what he claimed was the quasi-abduction of the head of their nuclear weapons program. While he didn’t blame China for the plane’s disappearance, he does expect us to repair their faulty nuclear triggers.”

  “Even so, we can’t help Iran with the triggers. China is a signatory of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaties for starters.” Professor Lai Huating was the moderate on a decidedly hawkish PSC. The professor had clashed with the president before on military policy matters. “No one in this room, even Comrade Gao”—he nodded toward the head of the table—“has the authority to create another nuclear state. That these nations would be Iran and North Korea makes even contemplating such action reckless.”

  “Comrade Professor,” President Gao replied, “that North Korea is already a nuclear power is not in dispute. I convened this emergency meeting of the PSC, rather than the Joint Chiefs, precisely to deliberate such matters in a full and forthright manner. But if you don’t let Comrade Secretary Yi conclude his briefing, you’ll just keep blathering without being in command of the facts.”

  Chou flushed crimson. He and the rest of the old men turned toward Yi. Gao Xiang’s protégé suffered stage fright. He felt the sweat run down his armpits, further wetting his already damp dress shirt. “Gentlemen, there was one other item in the cargo hold. In anticipation of such deliberations, the Iranians included a shielded crate containing the centrifuge and a kilogram of weapons-grade U-235. In their eyes, helping North Korea is legally no different from helping them. Furthermore, if we don’t assist them with the trigger designs, they’ve threatened to denounce us at the next United Nations Security Council meeting.”

  The room exploded in shouts and waving arms. Even the president was taken aback. Yi lost his train of thought. Where were his notes? He fumbled for another thirty seconds. The hubbub diminished, but his brain was still empty. His patron let him twist for a few seconds longer and then stepped in. “Gentlemen, the situation is straightforward. Operation Polar Bear cannot succeed unless the NRO’s imaging satellites are offline, and this act is not attributable to China. For that we need the Iranians to execute Operation Menander to perfection. Well, as close to perfection as these sorts of people ever get.

  “As we’ve just heard, the Iranians have attempted to blackmail China. Let us set aside their methods, which serve only to reinforce the different levels of civilization attained by our respective cultures. I submit that enabling Iran to deploy short-range nuclear missiles is an acceptable price to pay for pushing the US Pacific Fleet out of China’s coastal waters.” The president’s emphatic slap on the table concluded debate.

  The vote was unanimous, with Professor Lai among the first to raise—as well as lower—his hand.

  There was one more off-the-record item to discuss. Yi knew his futur
e on the PSC hung in the balance. He offered a silent prayer to his grandmother’s god. For all my sins of omission and commission, Lord Buddha grant me grace the next ten minutes of my misspent, overreaching life. It calmed him a little, despite his atheism. He waited for the president to adjourn the meeting. Standing up, Yi held up both palms in supplication and asked that the attendees remain seated. In a low voice, he explained to his colleagues that everyone on that ill-fated flight had perished. Therefore, it was no longer in China’s national interest to recover the remains of MH370, the cargo or the bodies of the passengers. The last thing they needed was evidence that China was helping Iran repair faulty nuclear weapons designs and triggers. As fissionable material had been aboard, any international investigation would leave China in an untenable position. Therefore, it was best for all concerned if the plane were never seen again.

  There was a general mumbling of assent, and then Ren Biao raised his voice. “Just be damned certain that everyone on that plane did die.”

  President Gao’s blasphemous “Amen” signaled that the meeting was over.

  * * * * *

  Nolan was surprised that the Agency guard let him through the checkpoint on basement four. His sleep deficit shuffled his mind from dull indifference to hyper-alert paranoia. He had to nap for a couple of hours this afternoon, come what may. Ducking into the first vacant small meeting room, he fished Ryder’s cell number off his phone and dialed on the landline. He wanted this call recorded for posterity.

  “Travis? It’s Bob. Oh, hi, Hanny. Is Travis there? Yeah. Great. Thanks. Travis? How are you feeling, big guy?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a dump truck.”

  “This won’t take long. Hecker and I talked, but I wanted to hear it straight from the big swinging dick himself. Can you tell me in as much detail as possible what was in that hot container last night?”

  “Sure. I’m afraid I don’t have much to add beyond what I already told Sam. After Gunny clipped the lock, we waited two minutes to see if anyone inside wanted to come out to play. I sent the other three back behind the safety line and swung the door, shining a light and putting my Glock down the beam while I looked for movement, wires or explosives. There was a big forklift right at the entrance.”

  “Any color or brand?”

  “Yellow is all I remember.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The next thing I saw was a wall of sandbags across the container that must have been almost six and a half feet high. Well over my head, and I’m five-nine. There was the top of a wooden crate, a big one, poking over the top. At the end of this box was a red-and-blue fish label on the wood.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about the label?”

  “Positive. Last night while some doctor was treating me, Sam showed me a bunch of Malaysia Airlines logos. The one I pointed to was their current version. So it wasn’t on some used crate that had been laying around empty for a couple of years until someone requisitioned it.”

  “How big was the box?”

  “The crate had to be over six feet wide. I don’t know how deep it was, but I’m tempted to say it was near enough a cube. That’s when I saw the Geiger counter was going ballistic, and I backed out of the container pronto. I called out the rad readings, the DOE tech yelled at me to get back and I ran down the dock.”

  Millie opened the door and said, “I need to speak with you right away.” Gone was any hint of affection.

  Nolan turned his attention back to Ryder. “Anything else come to mind?”

  “No, nothing. Sorry about that. I’ve been pretty sick, but I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything you can use.”

  “Well, look, you’ve been one of the heroes of the past few days. We need you healthy. So hang out in Hawaii for surfing therapy, and when you transit town through Singapore I’ll take you to Orchard Towers for the Fifth Floor Special.”

  “I thought Orchard Towers had only four floors of whores. What’s the Fifth Floor Special?”

  “Everyone needs a little mystery in their lives. And with Paradise Alley in your future, you have something to live for, my man.” Nolan hung up and turned to Millie. She was about to speak, but he wasn’t paying attention. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “U-235 hexafluoride gas and a big crate. There must be a nuclear weapons centrifuge in that box. Where in the hell did it come from, and why was it being shipped to China of all places?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SECRETS

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12, SINGAPORE, RANGOON, MOSCOW, BEIRUT

  “I think that does it,” said rat-faced Bob Collins as he replaced the earpiece on the receiver of the landline in Nolan’s home office.

  Flynn said, “Let’s go down the list. You miked this room and the landline. The Singaporeans are tapping his cell as of about now. You installed key logging software on his desktop PC, and you swapped out the hard disk on his backup drive so you can examine it back at the embassy?”

  “Yes to all. We’re done,” Collins said.

  “Let’s get out of here before the maid comes back. If Constantine’s convinced Nolan’s dirty, why not arrest him now and search this house properly? All the incriminating evidence will be deeply encrypted on his desktop PC. He might not even have a copy on his backup drive.”

  “You said it yourself on the way over. Nolan’s a small fry. They need him to get at the sponsors. What I don’t get is, why are Nolan's puppet masters having him make a big fuss over a supposed hijacking of MH370 and this Robin Teller character?” Collins had only been brought into the loop earlier in the morning.

  “Misdirection, my friend. Distract people’s attention from what’s really happening. The first lesson at magic school.” In truth, Flynn had no idea what his old friend Nolan was up to, if anything. However, he was savvy enough to see the tide of in-house opinion flowing one way. Time to cut his losses: he had alimony and child support payments to make.

  * * * * *

  Millie was upset with Nolan, but she couldn’t contain her excitement either. “I don’t know what a centrifuge is, but let me tell you what I found out. The file entries on Robin Teller peter out in the late 1980s. A few unsubstantiated sightings in Canada, the US, Britain and South Africa. Then nothing until 1992, when Teller’s wife successfully petitioned a judge to have him declared legally dead so she could claim his life insurance.

  “Next I did a search on Jay Toffer, but nothing came up. A dead end, right? But when I cross-referenced Double Llama Trading and Frank Coulter, a couple of interesting things surfaced. Coulter was definitely suspected of being part of an in-house group calling themselves the Secret Team. Ned Windham, the ex-CIA senior behind the Bay of Pigs and spirit guide to the Phoenix Program, led a cast of unsavory people including your old friend Cy Crowley. The Agency suspected Windham or his people diverted some or all of the twenty-five million dollars that went missing when Daniel Kranz died. It turns out that the Secret Team was the rebadged Task Force 157, a CIA-within-the-CIA created by Kissinger to handle the off-the-books dirty tricks. Substantial funds expropriated by the Secret Team ended up reimbursed to Khun Sa, with the remainder eventually traced to either BCCI or the Caribbean, and used for arms purchases or Iran-Contra. I found it hard to tell the criminals from the patriots at the end.”

  Bob liked seeing her enthusiasm for work, hoping against hope that last night’s fireworks and the budding romance were now behind them. “Outstanding. Coulter was the likely bagman who returned Khun Sa’s missing funds, so it mostly jibes with what I recall from the time. I didn’t know about stolen DLT money being used for Windham’s Secret Team or Iran-Contra, though it’s certainly interesting given that Cy Crowley’s old company is behind the SS Bandana charter.”

  “I’m not done. One of the Secret Team couriers in Africa is identified as Alan Tellerman. It seemed too obvious, but I pulled his file anyway. It was only half a page, but Tellerman went on the CIA payroll in 1987 and off in 1990. It listed his status as ‘contractor’ and said the
Agency paid him one hundred thousand a year. Frank Coulter was listed as Tellerman’s case officer. Coulter’s entry is the last one in Tellerman’s file and he wrote ‘Relocated to Bolivia, 1990. Inactive.’ I know what you’re going to say: ‘1990 was a long time ago, and a lot of people inside the Agency could have been Tellerman’s handlers, yada, yada, yada and blah, blah, blah.’”

  Nolan remained mute. He was thinking along very different lines.

  “So I went back and cross-referenced Khun Sa and Frank Coulter. Those two first met in the 1970s. Did you know Coulter played golf in the 1990s with Khun Sa on his private golf course in Homong, Burma near the Thailand border? Coulter helped broker the deal in 1996 that led to Khun Sa’s surrender, coughing up a billion dollars to live out his days in Rangoon under house arrest with three Shan teenage mistresses and a second billion to have his children left alone.

  “The files went quiet on Khun Sa until 2007. He was dying and afraid that his children’s businesses would be confiscated. He reached out to Coulter, who was by now running the Agency’s black ops. Coulter directed one of his staff to recommend that Khun Sa ‘Consider employing Alan Tellerman, a South African living in South America, and already known to you.’ Hah! How’s that for a smoking gun?” Millie was triumphant, eyes wide.

  Nolan blinked rapidly in surprise, brain racing. “This is a real breakthrough. I thought you researched Khun Sa last week in Rangoon and didn’t come up with anything.”

  “I didn’t have your secure token, laptop and password then, did I?” she said.

  He blushed at the recollection of that mock-interrogation session he’d undergone in bed. Millie certainly had an imagination. It reminded him of the games he used to play with Nancy Watermen back in the day.

  Millie’s voice snapped him back to the present. “I bet there will be plenty of surprised faces when I send in my report.”