Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  His fortunes changed when Mark Watermen ended up under his watch last July. The top brass now knew his name, nodding and making small talk when they crossed paths. He cultivated anyone who might be able to give him a leg up, including Foreign Minister Greyg. Just three weeks ago, Chumakov pushed past colleagues in a rush to congratulate Greyg after a lackluster speech, an ingratiating gesture that came in handy yesterday when Greyg took his call.

  The slightly larger salary that accompanied his promotion was insufficient to support Chumakov’s lifestyle, certainly not in Putin’s Russia. One night out with aspiring oligarchs was enough to have him subsisting on cup noodles and vodka for the next two weeks. So he’d agreed to lease surplus Surveillance Directorate server capacity to a Lebanese hacker go-between whose client was willing to pay $100,000 for seventy-two hours of a distributed denial of service attack aimed at an unnamed Gulf State. There was certainly precedent for the FSB’s off-the-books servers to be rented to those who sought to harm Western interests. Chumakov had trimmed the FSB stipend to $80,000 and pocketed a $20,000 commission: not a large sum, but sufficient to get him imprisoned or shot if the DDOS blew up. The size of the planned DDOS attack and the anonymity of the target were troubling. The FSB was accustomed to a dozen or two of its two hundred cloaked servers providing the firepower for a DDOS, but this setup was another order of magnitude with one hundred servers initially requested.

  Two weeks ago, the truth dawned on him. No hacker group could organize, much less finance, such an attack. And no nation-state actor other than the US intelligence services or military would have defenses formidable enough to justify deploying over one hundred servers. His moonlighting foray had landed the FSB—and Anatoly Chumakov—in the middle of a budding cyberwar.

  Under intense questioning, the intermediary finally revealed that the end customer was a young hacker operating out of Beirut calling himself Mormoroth. Chumakov’s surreptitious checks revealed the real client was the government of Iran. He further learned that Mormoroth had spearheaded the hack and destruction of Saudi Aramco’s computer networks eighteen months ago. Whatever Mormoroth did next, it wouldn’t be small potatoes. Chumakov lost his nerve and tried to cancel the server sublet. However, the filthy Lebanese fixer threatened to expose Chumakov’s corruption unless he continued to cooperate.

  Chumakov finally found a way out of this mess. Foreign Minister Greyg liked his idea of gifting the traitor Watermen and his accomplice Nolan to the US in return for NATO granting Russia a free hand in Crimea and Ukraine. Greyg wanted to obtain the files for the FSB to study, booby traps and all. The trove was likely to provide valuable information if only in the negative. Just now, Chumakov had received an email confirming that the Americans and Greyg had reached an agreement in principle. If he could snatch Nolan and then hand Watermen and him to the Americans, he was certain his masters would overlook a $20,000 discrepancy regarding the server sublet. He fondled the knotted silk tie at his throat. The collar felt tight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE TAKING OF MH370

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT, MARCH 12, SHAN STATE, BURMA; SINGAPORE

  “Rob?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “What happens if . . . what happens if neither of us makes it back?”

  “Then we’re both fucking dead. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m three-quarters of the way.”

  Mullen was no doctor, but he knew a sick man. Robin Teller had aged twenty-five years in five days. He now looked sixty-seven, with hollow eyes and gray-green folds of skin hanging off his face. Teller grasped both arms of the chair as the cough shook his upper body. He paused, spat into a handkerchief and took a couple of wheezy breaths. “Didn’t the doctor give you antibiotics?” Mullen asked.

  “Yeah. They weren’t worth a damn so I threw ’em out.” Teller coughed hard, hocked and then stared. “Don’t worry. Coulter knows the deal. One million for the mission and another mil if you’re KIA or captured, as long as you stay mum. Nothing if you talk. Coulter collects the cash once he lands in Australia. He’s inbound now. Don’t you fuckin’ say a word, or your wife and addled daughter don’t get a cent.”

  Teller gave him a maniacal grin. “We’re both worth more dead than alive. I called our air taxi and we’re flying out tomorrow. We’ll probably end up in Bangkok, though we might have to drive thirteen-plus hours from Mae Hong Son.”

  Mullen sighed. His backside throbbed from their recently completed journey. “Vince Griggs did a heckuva job from start to finish. He’s worth more than two million, in my humble opinion.”

  “Two million was what was agreed. A lot of people have to get paid. I’m not making a dime here!” Teller slammed the armrest with an open palm, triggering another fit. “Yet I took all the risk selling the Wa product and flying it off that unfinished airfield. Do you appreciate that I had to give away fifty percent of the gross profits for those flights, even though the buyers were small-timers previously not worth the generals’ time? Instead of one big load, before MH370 I had to hang my ass in the breeze six different times feeding those mice. I had to organize and fund security, transportation and storage, and take the fall if it all went south.” Teller turned red, missed a breath and expelled yet more bloody mucus. The wet handkerchief was now on the floor. He spat at it, missed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “Now I have to reimburse Coulter—he fronted the airfield rental costs and sundry expenses—pay out Griggs’s wife and you, plus three charters—a C130, a G550 and a Citation—and that Chinese joker who was in the cockpit. Twenty million doesn’t go very far.” Teller’s sentence ended with a wet gargling cough as a huge clump of mottled expectorant landed on the floor. Mullen put his feet back into his flip-flops and tucked his legs under his chair.

  Mullen’s dismay showed, but he pressed on. “Maybe if I told you more about how we handled the entire situation, you’d appreciate Vince’s role. I know he was hoping you could top him up. Maybe just another $250,000?”

  “You’re free to allocate some of your share, Colonel. But as I have to stay up another half hour before I can take the next handful of horse pills that quack gave me, fill me in. How did you and Captain America take over Flight 370 and baffle the world with the disappearing act?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Mullen warmed to his tale. “It started with the lax security at the Kuala Lumpur airport . . . .”

  * * * * *

  Rikki whipped the yellow Bimmer to the curb and cut the engine in front of her Kings Drive corner terrace home. Since dropping Bob off near Seletar Airport, she’d driven the back roads at speed and then meandered home, sticking to the posted limits. Anyone piecing together traffic surveillance footage would have trouble connecting the dots.

  Her cell buzzed. “Hello?”

  “Rikki Lam Shao Me?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Inspector Richard Lum, Internal Security Department.” The voice was smug. “Would this be a convenient time to speak?”

  “What is this about?”

  “Robert Nolan is a fugitive wanted by the United States and the Republic of Singapore. We are assisting the FBI in their queries locally. Have you seen Robert recently?”

  “No, not in a while. I usually see Bob at family gatherings with my sister, but she’s in China now—”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that trip. So you’ve not seen Nolan in how long?”

  “At least three weeks. Maybe a month.”

  “You realize there are severe penalties for lying to a police officer, particularly an inspector?”

  Rikki figured if they had video of Nolan and her together, she wouldn’t be on the phone right now. “I should hope so. Lying is a bad thing.”

  “Yes, it is. Please let me know immediately if Robert contacts you. I will text you my direct line.” On cue, Rikki’s phone vibrated.

  “Inspector, if we’re done, I’d like to go to bed.”

  “Certainly, Ms. Lam. Don’t forget to lock your vehicle. Oh, and one other thi
ng. You left your parking lights on.”

  * * * * *

  “We carried aeronautical charts, zip ties, a big roll of fiberglass-reinforced duct tape, and night-vision goggles through airport security and no one even looked in our bags.”

  “I took care of that. Your shit smelled of roses in the Kuala Lumpur Airport.”

  Mullen fixed him with a look of incredulity, but continued. “The fake passports worked like a charm, too. Damned if I could tell they were forgeries. On board, we were in the mostly empty business class. I was nervous but Vince was confident as always. Twenty minutes in, the flight leveled out and the seatbelt lights went off. Right away, Vince stood up and went to the galley. As per plan, one minute later I followed him. A steward pointed me to the big bathroom, so I gave the door a couple of taps. Vince opened it a crack and in I went. He had a pair of Sig Sauers.” Mullen pulled an automatic out of the carry-on bag sitting next to him on the chair.

  Teller shot him a killer look and made a speed-up motion while he coughed.

  Mullen shook his head and put the weapon back in his bag. “Anyway, Vince tucked the second Sig into his belt and untucked his shirt. I went up front and he strolled down the back. The same steward took me up to the cockpit door. He knocked and explained that I was a retired USAF colonel on a farewell Asia tour. I was flying business class, and had never seen the inside of a Boeing 777-200 Extended Range cockpit. Could I have a look? At least I think that was what he was saying as they spoke in Malay.”

  “Hurry up,” intoned Teller. “I’m not planning on living to ninety.”

  “Once I was inside, I confirmed the bird was on autopilot. I showed the Sig and moved the pilots to the adjacent jump seats while the steward closed the door on his way out. I had them pass across their cell phones. The pilot looked calm. The first officer wasn’t but a kid, and he was nervous. I watched him extra close. A few minutes went by, and Vince gave the prearranged knock.

  I opened the door and in he came with two passengers. Up front was a scowling sixty-year-old Arab in a safari suit with a Saddam mustache. Behind him was a dapper Chinese businessman, around fifty I’d say. Not a line or crease on his tanned, superior face. This fellow was dressed in an expensive suit, but no tie. I could never figure that out. Why wear a nice shirt, belt, shoes and suit and not have on a good silk tie, too? Anyway, in good English the Chinese fellow introduced himself as Wong. Mr. Wong was on our side and all smiles, though I hadn’t known that beforehand.” He paused and looked at Teller questioningly.

  “Need to know. Get on with it.”

  “Vince gave his gun to Wong, who pointed it at the Arab. Vince muscled Saddam’s brother into the solo jump seat. It was cramped in the cockpit with the six of us. I moved into the pilot’s seat, but turned around so I could cover the prisoners. The Arab was mouthy and said he was a very important person in the Iranian government. Vince taped his yap shut, and then zip-tied his wrists and ankles, wrapping them in duct tape for good measure. Vince told Wong to shoot him in the knee if he moved a muscle. Wong found that amusing.

  “The plane flew on autopilot another fifteen minutes. We had to get the pilot up twice to speak to air traffic control. The captain was composed, considering Vince had the Sig in the small of his back. After the handover from Malaysia to Vietnam ATC, Vince and Wong zip-tied and duct-taped the pilot and copilot.

  As soon as we were off the air, I disabled the cockpit ATC transponder. Next I tripped the circuit breaker for the VHF and SATCOM channels. This also disabled the door lock override. It was a bitch to find it under the cockpit avionics deck, down where the pilots’ legs go. Flight MH370 was now invisible from a signals perspective.

  “Vince took the pilot’s seat and I sat down in the first officer’s chair. Wong stood with his back to Vince, waving his pistol at those three. Vince put the plane in a long turn, doubling back west toward Penang, and started a gradual climb from 33,000 to 44,000 feet.

  About this time, the cabin staff twigged it was a hijack and started hammering on the door. This pissed off Vince. So I took the controls while Wong and Vince opened the cockpit door, Sigs cocked and pointed. Vince said one more word or noise meant a pilot was taking one between the eyes. The way he said it, I believed him. Vince gave me his Sig and Wong knelt behind Vince with a waist-high weapon aimed through the door. I covered the three prisoners. Vince bunny-hopped the older pilot up to the door and pushed him out, telling him to have a nice meal.

  The younger fellow, the first officer, wasn’t having any of it and fought like hell. He knew the game was up once he was out of the cockpit. Vince had to hit him in the temple with the Sig to get him outside. The moment Vince slammed and locked that cockpit door for the last time, I heard the senior pilot shout, ‘Suicide hijackers! Break into the cockpit!’ The crew began hammering a serving trolley into the armored door. With the door lock override out of commission, we knew no one was joining us on the flight deck. The noise was annoying and Vince was fuming when he sat back down. The 777 was now at 44,000 feet. Cool as anything, Vince deployed the four oxygen masks in the cockpit. No sooner had we put them in place than Vince depressurized the main cabin. May God have mercy on their souls. And mine, because I could have stopped it, but didn’t.” Mullen stared at his toes and the globules of bloody phlegm on the floor around Teller and his noxious handkerchief.

  “Griggs did what he was supposed to do. That’s why I put him in charge even though you held a higher rank. I knew he’d carry out his orders like a true patriot. And he did.”

  Mullen looked up and realized Teller was completely indifferent toward human life. He wasn’t a patriot, but a monster. “The cockpit has its own oxygen supply, but it’s not airtight. Everyone else on the plane was unconscious within a few minutes, and then suffocated. See, in the newer Boeings, the pilots can disable the emergency oxygen to the passenger cabin. The oxygen masks don’t deploy to prevent the rapid spread of a fire in the main cabin if there’s an electrical short in the ceiling—”

  “I’m not taking a fucking aeronautical engineering exam tomorrow.”

  “I thought you might be interested, as it was two hundred thirty-five lives we ended. After ten minutes, we brought the plane back down and re-pressurized the main cabin. I kept us below 10,000 feet for a while to stay under the longer-range regional radars. Wong moved the trolley and a pile of bodies away from the door, and shut all the window shades. Eventually, Wong brought up the Arab’s and his carry-on bags. The Arab smelled. I think he crapped himself. I went out and fetched Vince’s and my cases from the overhead bins. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep another night through without seeing those tortured faces.

  “While I held the Sig on the Arab, Vince looked over and said, ‘Not bad for a terminal cancer patient, eh?’ You know how those Minnesotans are, eh-this and eh-that. Until then, I didn’t know there was anything wrong with him. I swear he could still do fifty push-ups and wasn’t an ounce overweight. He looked great. Heck, he was only sixty-eight. What was the diagnosis?”

  “Inoperable brain tumor. Discovered four months ago and given six months tops. He was a crappy investor and didn’t have much savings.”

  “We flew for another two and a half hours until we were close. Then we put on our night-vision goggles and landed on your new runway. It was lit up like the Fourth of July with all those infrared beacons and flashlights. Once we’d come to a halt, Vince kept the engines running just to be safe. Wong cut the Arab free so he could walk. The Arab didn’t utter a word, even when Wong ripped off the duct tape and took half his mustache along with it. The glare the Arab gave Wong was pure hatred. Anyway, we three stepped into the basket and the forklift lowered us down to the ground where you met us. Your men opened the cargo hatch, Vince rolled the 777 up the runway to where we were sitting in that SUV, and the ground crew refueled the plane. Vince took off solo a little after four o’clock. Since no one’s found a spare 777, I guess he ditched the plane over somewhere deep.”

  Teller grunted in assertion.
“Deep enough.”

  “Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Tell me why you chartered a C-130 to dump 33,000 pounds of bricks at sea, and how you made MH370 disappear off radar in Malaysia, Thailand and Singapore.”

  “Consider those trade secrets for the time being.” Teller’s death rattle was becoming his trademark signoff.

  * * * * *

  A surveillance camera had spotted Nolan on a bicycle at the top of Orchard Road around 7:30 p.m. That was less than a half mile from the Shangri La, so all seemed primed for the 9:30 p.m. rendezvous with the Chinese woman. Constantine had arrayed his operatives to ensure Nolan had no chance of escape once he walked into the lobby. But Nolan was a no-show, and they’d learned nothing since then. Flynn was right: the hotel meeting had been a ruse all along.

  Mukherjee’s interrogation didn’t yield anything specific enough to be actionable, either. She confirmed that Nolan had taken a short trip to Hawaii in May last year after Watermen had bolted to Hong Kong. There he’d slept with Watermen’s girlfriend and took a copy of the stolen NSA documents with him. Without Watermen’s thumb drive, that story wouldn’t hold up even in Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court based on her dubious testimony.

  The FBI reopened the Hawaii side of the Watermen case and agents combed through the files. By 11 p.m., Constantine’s foul mood meant his staffers were busy working leads, real or imagined, anywhere far from his office. However, several developments created an improvement in the chief of station’s demeanor. Friends in the Singapore intelligence community noted that Nolan closed out his personal and joint accounts earlier in the day, a sum of US$380,000 withdrawn in cash. Nolan was definitely planning to run. An NSA intercept provided a solid lead. At 19:45 Nolan called “Mimi Chan” and changed their meeting. They had Nolan’s new cell number, but he’d likely already trashed it. Flynn’s security team had found Nolan’s bicycle chained to a railing outside Orchard Towers. Flynn was leading a mixed detail of Agency and Singapore operatives against the fifth-floor bordello. With any luck, Nolan was holed up there.