Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller by Bradley West Page A

conclusions,” said Ryder.
    “Maybe you’re right. Let’s aim to get out of there in less than an hour. I’d like to see my wife and kid before packing a bag for Club Avatar.”
    “Is your family safe where they are?” asked Nolan.
    “Yes. Since I arrived in 2012, I’ve averaged a death threat a week, while Sophie and CJ probably get one a month. We live in the government-owned apartments inside Dubern Park. Ours is the building just behind the first-base dugout. You should come by for dinner once this blows over. But don’t try to force the door downstairs or climb a drainpipe, or a Marine will put a hole in you. Travis lives in the same building, which adds to the comfort level. You know he was a SEAL sniper with confirmed kills in Afghanistan at one mile?”
    “No, I didn’t, but he’s comfortable around guns.”
    Ryder cleared his throat to prod the conversation elsewhere.
    “I need to get back to Singapore where I can put some thoughts together regarding MH370 and Teller. Do we have the passenger list and cargo manifests yet?”
    “That’s something you can check with Matthews when you see him. I try not to speak to that asshole unless necessary,” said Hecker.
    Ryder smiled at Nolan and took another phone call. Nolan was impressed to hear snippets of what had to be Burmese interspersed with the Pidgin English phrases militaries use worldwide when speaking with local counterparts. Ryder hung up after twenty seconds of incomprehensible exchanges.
    “Travis, since you’ll be working with the natives, best you use the embassy annex as your base. That way you won’t lead Teller's gunmen to our safe house. For now, let’s just tell the locals who might ask that I’m overseas on other DEA business.”
    “OK, boss.”
    They were now in the middle of Rangoon with the morning sun promising another blistering day. Even upscale residential areas featured alternating piles of lumber or gravel spilling into the streets, vacant lots full of tall grass or rubbish, and abandoned buildings. Where there were sidewalks, the pavement was either smashed or obstructed by dead branches, or bags of trash awaiting collection.
    There was enough traffic that the driver began to change lanes and take sharp turns to shake off possible pursuers. Nolan was impressed by the swift downshift and acceleration that shot the Range Rover between a decrepit bus and an open-air LPG cooking gas truck, a bomb on wheels. Five minutes later, they pulled into the safe house driveway. Nolan still had no idea where he was.
    *  *  *  *  *
    Joanie picked up on the first ring; she was finishing breakfast and watching some crime drama or soap opera.
    “Honey, it’s me. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Is everything OK?”
    “Most certainly not! Yesterday, the gardener didn’t come and our stupid maid broke a glass. Can you believe Juanilla wants to borrow another four hundred dollars? That poor woman’s relatives in the Philippines are milking her dry. She’ll end up owing me money when her contract’s over. We’re out of kale and she didn’t tell me, and . . . .”
    Joanie’s stream-of-consciousness babble told him all was well, but time was short. Once he had her attention, his brief took two minutes. He used code words to indicate he was safe and not under duress (“golf”), but that the family was in danger (“swimming”). She could go from domineering matron to chief of staff in the blink of an eye. When he hung up, he knew she and the children would soon be out of Teller’s reach. Nolan plodded to the shower to collect his thoughts.
    Asia was full of competent women. Until recent times denied access to college, discriminated against at promotion time and cut off from equal inheritances, the Southeast Asia female showed herself resourceful and capable. Running the household and the Tiger Mom spiel covered the domestic engineer part of the description, but serving as the brains and organization behind the success of the