Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller Read Online Free

spoke in Burmese. She looked incredulous. Nolan held out the bills. She turned away from the doorway and called. The house was dark and not much cooler than outside.
    Nolan wanted to step into the shade, out of the setting sun and the gunsights that might be at this very moment settling between his shoulder blades.
    A disheveled man in his forties wearing a tank top and a longyi wrapped around his waist shuffled toward them barefoot. He rubbed his eyes and smoothed his rumpled hair and gestured for Kyaw and Nolan to enter. The living room had wooden chairs around a homemade table, a floor fan, a battered sofa and two kerosene lanterns. There was a TV in the corner hooked to a VCR. Nolan deduced that they fired up the generator occasionally, and maybe ran it to screen the latest Bollywood blockbuster or turn the lights on when friends or relatives came to dinner.
    Kyaw repeated the offer. The husband’s tone hinted at incredulity. The two spoke for several minutes. Nolan was antsy; either the fellow wanted to make two hundred US dollars, or he didn’t. Time was short, and Nolan didn’t have a backup plan: they’d have to keep looking.
    The wife returned with tea. Nolan drank too soon, scalding his lips and tongue. Kyaw left his untouched to better conceal his bloodied wrist.
    “Ask him to start his truck so we can see if it runs.”
    “He hasn’t agreed to your offer. He thinks that Hyundai could be stolen, and he will get in trouble.”
    “Tell him I’ll leave my US passport as a guarantee that we’ll bring the truck back.”
    As Kyaw translated, Nolan pulled out his passport and opened it to the photo page. The husband looked as if he’d been offered a splinter of the True Cross. A US passport was solid gold everywhere in the developing world. It had passed Nolan through many a checkpoint, although it had also nearly gotten him killed a couple of times. He hated leaving the real deal behind while he had a perfectly good forgery in his pocket identifying him as Toronto’s Derrick Larson, but a Canada passport didn’t have the same cachet.
    Kyaw and the husband sealed the deal with a final animated exchange. “He wants to hold the keys to the Hyundai, too.”
    “Sure. Fine.” They walked outside. “Be sure to check the gas,” Nolan said.
    Nolan did the pre-rental walk-around out of habit, but he wasn’t in any position to ask for another car off the Hertz lot. The tires needed air. The right rear brake light cover was broken. The bed had a couple of buckets, a stepladder, a toolbox and four 50kg bags of cement. Nolan noted that the bags had yellow elephants printed on them: another quality product from the employer of the man who wanted to kill them.
    Kyaw started the pickup with a throaty rumble then shut it off.
    “Tell our host he should clear out the back except for the bags of cement.” Kyaw did so, and the owner got busy. Nolan slid the bags back over the wheel wells. Empty pickup trucks didn’t corner at speed worth a damn. The extra weight would help if they were driving for their lives.
    Nolan handed the farmer his passport and those two big bills. Kyaw held his bloody left forearm behind his back as he passed Nolan the keys to the Hyundai.
    Nolan watched the one-armed Kyaw clamber in on the passenger side. Good luck if you’re looking for a seatbelt, Nolan thought as he got behind the wheel. “Listen carefully. I’m going to put it in gear. Only then do you tell the farmer to pull the Hyundai behind his house and hide it. Tell him not to drive it, as there are bad people looking for it. We will send out someone from the US embassy tomorrow to return his truck, take back the car and collect my passport.”
    They started forward with a lurch, Nolan rusty with the clutch. Kyaw hailed the man and spoke earnestly as Nolan jounced at a walking pace toward the road. Kyaw paused for breath. A glance out the side window told Nolan their savior was having second thoughts.
    He slammed into second gear