Aclaim for the novels of

F.W. Rustmann, Jr.

 

Plausible Denial crackles with a degree of authenticity possible only from an experienced CIA case officer who relies upon his knowledge of operations, not his imagination, to craft a compellingly readable book. Over the last two decades, I have reviewed carloads of intelligence books for The Washington Times. Fred Rustmann laps the field.

Joe Goulden is the author of The Dictionary of Espionage" Spyspeak Into English.

 

“Too many spy novels are written by those with little real-world espionage knowledge or experience. Fred Rustmann, a career CIA operations officer, steps out of the shadows in a book steeped in tradecraft, espionage, betrayal, and the life-and-death risks an officer or his agent face. Novel or thinly-veiled nonfiction? Like the profession itself – you will be caught up in the action with little time to ponder the question. Nor will you care. Authentic and fast-paced.”

S. Eugene Poteat

President

Association of Former Intelligence Officers (AFIO)

 

“Chockfull of real tradecraft tricks, written by a master spy, engrossing page turner inhabited by folks I knew when I was in the clandestine world!”

William Askins

Best Selling Author and

CIA Case Officer (Ret.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“If you want to know how to make a martini or woo a woman, read James Bond. If you want to know what it’s sometimes like in the real world of espionage, read…Rustmann … he lived it. From the first page you can tell this author is writing from experience. In real life, CIA operatives get their hands ‘dirty.’ This is James Bond’s tougher, gutsier younger brother.”

Phillip Jennings

Author of Nam-O-Rama and Goodbye Mexico

 

“There are very, very few novels that have been written by very senior officers of the CIA since its founding over 50 years ago. There are very few, I suspect, as accurate in fact and as compelling in fiction… If you want to read about how tradecraft in intelligence is done and the price of service in an area more gray and stressful than can be imagined, this book might be one worth your time.”

James Oshea Wade

Editor

 

“How do CIA field operatives find clandestine sources? Answer: with patience, hard work, and above all - smarts. Street smarts and people smarts…You’ll accompany a master operative step by step in his tradecraft-rich pursuit of a high value target. But be prepared for surprises as Rustmann’s brisk narrative hurtles along to its unexpected but all-too-realistic resolution.”

 

Peter Earnest

Executive Director

International Spy Museum

 

 

 

 

 

PLAUSIBLE DENIAL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

F.W. Rustmann, Jr.

 

 

 

 

DoubleTap Books

 

 

Copyright©2013 F.W. Rustmann, Jr.

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.

 

ISBN: 978-0-9883190-9-7

 

Published in the United States by:

 

 

DoubleTap Books

 

DoubleTap Books

330 Clematis Street, Suite 220

West Palm Beach

Florida 33401

 

13.0K

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

 

The CIA’s Publications Review Board has reviewed the manuscript for this book to assist the author in eliminating classified information, and poses no security objection to its publication. This review, however, should not be construed as an official release of information, confirmation of its accuracy, or an endorsement of the author’s views.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is ten thousand times cheaper to pay the best spies lavishly, than to pay even a tiny army poorly.

Sun Tzu

The Art of War

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Carolyn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PLAUSIBLE DENIAL

 

F.W. Rustmann, Jr.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

Macau

 

 

MacMurphy watched the speck on the horizon grow into a full-sized hydrofoil. The sleek craft arched around the breakwater and throttled back, splashing down from its pontoons onto its hull as it entered Macau harbor.

He walked slowly toward the ferry terminal and watched the boat maneuver into its docking position. He felt run down and tired, and couldn’t shake the butterflies from his stomach – that horrible feeling of trepidation. He did not like the feeling at all.

His condition was worsened by the physical injuries he had received in the fight with Lim. His left arm was held in a loose sling. Broken ribs scraped across his lungs with each breath. The sunglasses he wore did not completely hide the ugly bruise on the left side of his face. He wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a short-sleeved denim shirt. He looked a mess and felt like shit.

He was also quite certain that the news the courier was bringing from the DDO was not going to make him feel any better.

He saw him first as he passed through the double doors of the customs area and entered the main terminal. He wore baggy blue jeans, a rumpled white shirt with an open collar and an unbuttoned blue blazer. His graying hair was tosseled and he walked with a familiar limp. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Mac’s eyes widened and his heart quickened. He realized the news couldn’t be as bad as he had expected—not if Edwin Rothmann was the courier delivering it.

The DDO flashed a weary smile when their eyes met. He hefted the backpack slung loosely over one shoulder and quickened his pace. When they met, the big man enveloped Mac gingerly in a loose bearhug, frowning at his condition. “You look terrible,” he growled.

“You should see the other guy,” Mac replied sheepishly. “But you know all about that by now. I guess you’re here to tell me what happened after I left, and what’s going to happen next.”

They entered the first cab in the queue and Mac directed the driver to take them to the Pousada de Macau. They made small talk during the short drive to the inn, not wanting the driver to overhear anything he shouldn’t.

When Rothmann saw that the driver was concentrating on weaving his rattletrap through the traffic around the gaudy Lisboa Hotel and surrounding casinos, he decided it was safe to break the silence and assuage Mac’s greatest concern. Mac was gazing thoughtfully out the window. The DDO leaned close and spoke to him in a low, gravelly voice. “Lim’s alive; he made it—what’s left of him.”

The taxi dropped them in front of the old Pousada de Macau. Mac paid the driver and led the big man up the old wooden steps of the inn, through the small entrance hall and directly out to the veranda overlooking the bay. The sun hovered a few feet above the horizon, casting a crimson spell over the sparkling blue-green waters.

They chose a table a discreet distance from the other people. A stately old waiter in starched whites arrived instantly. Rothmann ordered a scotch and Mac a vodka-tonic. When the waiter returned with their drinks, Mac lifted his in a toast. “Kam-bei, boss, thanks for coming.” The rim of his glass touched the DDO’s slightly below its rim, honoring him in an ancient Chinese way, like a deeper bow from a Japanese.

Mac leaned forward and touched Rothmann’s arm. “Okay, let’s have it...all of it...from the beginning. How about starting with why you came yourself.”

The DDO looked up at him wearily. “I came because I like you, Mac. I wanted you to hear this from someone close to you, someone who respects you, not from one of the assholes who are taking over this fucking outfit.”

The DDO sipped his scotch and gazed out over the water. The red sun was slipping slowly into the cool and soothing sea. “Anyway, I decided the best thing was for me to come personally. The fact that no one else could figure out where the hell you had gone when you bugged out also helped a lot. You really had them doing back flips.

“I got the back channel cable you sent via Rodney and didn’t tell another soul about it. I just called in sick and beat my way out here A-S-A-P to see you.

“And let me tell you, we’re both damn lucky Lim didn’t check out, because if he had, the Director would have had an excuse to crucify me and push me out. Not to mention what he would have done to you.”

MacMurphy adjusted his position, grunting as one of his cracked ribs stabbed him. “What about Lim? When I left him, I thought he was dead. I thought I had killed him.”

“Well, from what I hear, it wasn’t from lack of trying. When the police found him, he was indeed at death’s door. But he survived. The Chinese have already returned him to Beijing. Only problem is he suffered extensive brain damage from the loss of blood and oxygen and the pounding you gave him. So not only will he be the ugliest guy in his neighborhood—I guess you really did do a job on his face—he will also be the village idiot.”

MacMurphy grimaced. “You must think he got what he deserved.” 

“You better believe I think he got what he deserved. I’ve got no sympathy for that murdering SOB whatsoever. I’m just glad you’re not facing a murder rap.”

“What about the police?”

“It was reported as an attempted robbery.” His large finger spun the ice in his drink absentmindedly. “They think Lim caught someone trying to rip him off and decided to take the law into his own hands. Only problem was he obviously bit off more than he could chew.” He grinned.

“And he’s in no shape to tell them any differently…even if he wanted to…and from what I heard, he never will be. Actually, that’s the way it is with your entire theft operation at the Chinese embassy. The French know nothing, the Chinese won’t say anything, and the Agency will deny everything.   

“So the Chinese would prefer to let the whole matter drop. They don’t want the news to get out that they smuggled 50 million Euros into France through the diplomatic pouch -- especially if people were to find out the money was to be used to fund illegal covert operations in Europe to support Iran’s terrorist activities and efforts to replace the U.S. in Iraq.

“Furthermore, they are thoroughly embarrassed by the defection of one of their senior MSS officers and want that kept quiet too. For our part, we agreed to keep mum about the defection—no publicity—and to give Huang a new identity so he can live out his years in the U.S. in anonymity.

“And you can be sure the Company won’t be jumping to advertise the fact that one of theirs pulled a heist right under the noses of the French and then pulverized a friendly third country diplomat.”

“So Huang did defect,” said MacMurphy.

“You knew he would. He had no choice. Losing fifty million Euros of the people’s money and allowing Lim to run amok the way he did would not win him any medals in Beijing. He would have spent the rest of his days in whatever the Chinese equivalent of Siberia is.”

He thought a moment before continuing. “But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, that’s only part of it. The induced defection of Huang was so important, the Director’s putting you in for the Intelligence Star. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. Huang is the highest-level MSS officer ever to defect to the west.”

Mac was not surprised, but he expressed obvious pleasure. 

“I’m glad everyone is so pleased,” his voice was laden with sarcasm. “But it all didn’t come without cost. The lives of François and Le Belge and Wei-wei…”       

“Well, yes, but don’t be too proud of yourself. The medal is just half of it—the good news. The bad news is you’re…fired. The Director wants you out of there.” He looked at Mac levelly, watching for his reaction, but Mac didn’t return the gaze.

MacMurphy stared into his drink pensively. “Can’t say as I didn’t expect it. So...I guess it’s really over....” His voice verged on cracking.

“Yes Mac, it’s over. At least this part of it…” He reached over and patted his arm gently. “People like you and I are dinosaurs. The cold war is over. They castrated the Agency through budget cuts and all the rest, and now they want to reorganize it out of existence. It’s just not the same organization anymore. You said it yourself. It’s time to leave anyway, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I suppose…” Mac looked out over the calm, moonlit bay. Shards of silver moonlight glinted on the nearly still waters, broken only by an occasional small wave or the wake of a boat. “Let’s take a little stroll along the quay before dinner.”

MacMurphy paid the check and led the DDO down to the quay. The bright full moon, competing with the flashy neon lights of the distant Lisboa Casino, danced on the bay. A gentle breeze came off the water. Mac took a deep, painful breath, and inhaled the fresh salt air. They walked silently along the path on the water’s edge.  

Mac broke the silence. “What about the money?”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the money. No one wants to hear about it. As far as the Agency is concerned, there is no money.”

“No money? There’s fifty million Euros sitting in that Swiss bank!”

 “Yes. The money’s a problem. A big problem for all concerned. The Agency can’t return it unless the Chinese government asks for it, and they won’t even admit to ever having it. And we can’t give it to the Treasury without having to explain how we got it. So, there simply is no money…”

“You’re joking!” exclaimed Mac, grunting from the pain in his ribs. “Just what the hell do they expect me to do with the 50 million Euros?”

The DDO stopped and turned to face him. He spoke very softly. “This is serious, Mac. We’re not done. Not by a long shot. Listen, I want you to set up some sort of a cover business and wait for me to contact you. Keep the money safe because we’re going to need it to fund operations this politically correct outfit can’t do anymore. We’re going back into business.”

 

Chapter One

 

Chiang Mai, Thailand

(Several Months Later)

 

 

Khun Ut directed the operation from the balcony of an apartment building directly across the muddy Mai Ping River from the sprawling US Consulate General in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

As the protégé and successor of the notorious drug warlord Khun Sa, who ruled the Golden Triangle for three decades with his 20,000 man Shan United Army, he was no stranger to meticulous military operations. And like his predecessor, he was a hands-on leader.

Observing the gate of the consulate through powerful binoculars, he spoke into his lapel microphone. “One, what is his location?”

The voice in his earpiece responded. “I am behind him, just passing the Muangmai market on Wichatanon Road. You should be seeing us shortly.”

Khun Ut scanned his binoculars to the right. “I see you. Two, pull out when I tell you. Five, four, three, two, one, go-go-go-go…”

The ten-wheel dump truck pulled out of Witchayanon Road at the corner of the consulate compound and headed south toward the entrance, falling in behind a grey Toyota Corolla driven by young, first-tour CIA case officer, Jimmy Steinhauser. The surveillance vehicle dropped back to follow the truck. “Two, drop back a bit more. Make space. You are too close.”

The truck slowed, leaving three car-lengths of separation between the two vehicles. It was past mid-day and traffic was light along Wichatanon Road, the north south thoroughfare running along the bank of the peaceful Mai Ping River.

It was hot in Chiang Mai in the summer; people tended to stay indoors during the siesta time. Except for the Americans at the consulate. They were on American time—always. 

The Consulate General and the ConGen’s residence were located on a ten-acre, manicured compound that once belonged to the last Prince of the Lanna Kingdom. Stately palm trees and lush banyans shaded its historic sand colored buildings, covered with red barrel-tile roofs. The compound was surrounded by a beige, twelve-foot concrete wall topped with identical red tiles.

Coils of razor wire to deter would-be wall jumpers were strung on top of the wall. Security was tight among drug lords and terrorists.

The sliding gate at the main entrance was strong enough to stop a small bulldozer, and if a vehicle made it past the gate, a pop-up two-foot high pneumatic barrier was raised by the ever-present Marine Security Guard installed in the bullet proof gate house next to the entrance. The only chink in the security armor occurred when the gate had to be opened and the barrier lowered to let a consulate vehicle through.

Khun Ut had learned this from weeks of observation, and he was counting on it today.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

At that moment a Country Team meeting was being held in the Consul General’s office on the second floor of the main Chancery building at the far end of the compound. The office was in an L-shaped, two-story building that once housed the prince’s stables and servants’ quarters. Present were the ConGen and his deputy, the head of the DEA, the CIA base chief and his deputy, the Army and Air Attachés, the AID chief and several other ranking consulate officials.

The group sat around a large conference table. The CIA base chief, Marvin Sadosky, was giving an intelligence briefing on the latest overhead photography of the poppy fields taken by the CIA’s Porter STOL aircraft. Map-like photos covered the conference table and PowerPoint images were flashed on the screen to his side. The country team was discussing Khun Ut’s increasing boldness.

“Next slide, Charly,” Sadosky said to his deputy.

An aerial view of Khun Ut’s heavily guarded palatial villa in the highlands north of Chiang Rai, in the area of the famed Golden Triangle, was displayed on the screen. “This is where the bastard lives,” he said, circling the villa with a laser pointer. “Not bad for a half Akha, half Chinese peasant from Ban Hin Taek, eh? The sonofabitch has more than doubled the acreage of poppy fields under cultivation since the last estimate was done two years ago.”

The CIA base chief was a tall, athletic man with a shock of longish blond hair hanging over one eye. “It’s not back at the level it was when his step-father, Khun Sa, was running the operation back in the seventies and eighties, but it’s getting there.”

He paused until the next chart appeared on the screen. “As you can see, the opium production from the region amounts to ten percent of the worldwide supply, with the rest—or most of it—coming from Afghanistan. At last count it was over 2,500 tons, but that ten percent accounts for almost half of the U.S. heroin supply. He sends most of his shit straight to us.”

A frustrated Sadosky tossed his notes on the table. “And the worst part is that he’s becoming more and more aggressive, attacking Thai and Burmese police forces, eliminating his rivals, openly bribing officials—you name it. Chiang Rai is becoming Dodge City.”

The DEA chief, a brash, balding former New York cop named Peter Wollner, was sitting at the foot of the long conference table. He raised his hand, got a nod from Sadosky, and said, “He rules his empire like Gengis Khan – far worse than Khun Sa ever did—taking out his enemies with a brutality never before seen in this part of the world.

“And that’s accelerated ever since his new Cambodian security chief joined him a couple of years ago. Guy by the name of Ung Chea. He’s a vicious snake. You never see him around town because you would recognize him on sight. Story is he took some shrapnel from an RPG round when he was fighting the Vietnamese with that Khmer Rouge bastard Ta Mok in northern Cambodia. Took off one of his ears and left a gash in his face to the corner of his mouth. He’s an ugly sucker alright. Can’t smile—face just screws up in a menacing scowl when he tries.” Wollner screwed up his face in a mimicking snarl that drew snickers from the rest of the group.

He continued with the briefing. “Okay, okay, I’m a bad actor, but no kidding, Ta Mok, the most brutal Khmer Rouge leader of them all, was his mentor – like a father to him. Story is Ung Chea’s mother was a nurse who saved Ta Mok’s life when a land mine blew off his leg at the knee. He’s known in these parts simply as ‘The Cambodian.’”

“That’s right,” said Sadosky. “We’re going to have to deal with that bastard along with Khun Ut. We’ve got a pretty good dossier on him. Couple of good surveillance photos as well.”

He turned to his deputy, an attractive thirty-ish Eurasian woman sitting at the back of the room, operating the projector. “Charly, would you do me a favor and go grab Ung Chea’s file off my desk? I want to show the group what a pretty bastard he is.”

They exchanged smiles as she rose and he winked at her.

“You bet.” Charly Blackburn pushed her shiny black hair back away from her face, and hurried across the room to the exit. Sadosky watched admiringly as her hips bounced under her light summer dress.

The entire Country Team had the same thought as they turned their attention back to Sadosky. You are one lucky bastard, Marvin.

She walked to the end of a long corridor, turned left to the CIA wing of the building, and punched in the three digit code on the cipher lock on the entrance door. She entered the office suite, turned into the COB’s office, located the file on his desk, and went back into the hall. Then, full of the morning’s coffee and anticipating another hour in the meeting, she made a lifesaving decision to make a brief bathroom break before returning.

She was there when she heard the first sounds of gunfire and screams coming from the direction of the compound entrance. Almost immediately, she heard a deafening explosion and the building erupted, tossing her hard against the wall and showering her with plaster from the ceiling.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

The Cambodian slowed the ten-wheeler to allow more distance between him and Jimmy Steinhauser’s vehicle. “We are about one hundred meters from the entrance. He has right turn signal on,” he said into his lapel mic. “I will let another car pass. Do not want to get too close.”

“Okay, Unit two,” said Khun Ut, “I see you. Wait until the rabbit is almost through the gate before you hit him.”

“Yes, okay… Hold on, hold on, gate is opening. Turning in now. Hold on…there he goes…”

The Cambodian hauled the wheel to the right, hitting the gas and horn at the same time. The case officer’s Toyota was mid-way through the gate when the dump truck slammed into his rear bumper and accelerated, pushing him through the entrance, the blaring horn adding to the shock and confusion of the moment.

 The Marine in the gate house stood, stunned, for a moment too long before he uttered, “Oh, fuck!” and hit the switch to raise the internal barrier. He screamed into his microphone: “May Day, May Day, May Day, intrusion alert, intrusion...”

The pneumatic barrier began to rise and caught the back wheels of the truck, raising them off the ground. The truck slammed over it, hit the ground hard and screamed into the compound, engine revving, pushing the Toyota in front of it.       Steinhauser spun the wheel of the Toyota in an attempt to pull away from the charging dump truck, but the truck’s bumper caught the left rear fender and flipped the car on its roof. The truck ran over the rear end of the up-righted vehicle, its rear wheels crushing the Toyota and rupturing its gas tank. The car burst into flames, leaving the young case officer trapped and screaming inside.

The Cambodian yelled, “We’re in, we’re in. Bail out now. Go-go-go.” He pushed a heavy cement brick against the accelerator, set the wheel to continue the truck on its journey toward the main building, opened the door and rolled to the ground. He came up firing back towards the gatehouse with his AK-47 rifle, taking out two local guards before they could raise their pistols.

There were better automatic weapons, but the AK-47 was the one he had used since joining Ta Mok’s Khmer Rouge army as a teenager. It was like an extension of his arm. What he aimed at, he hit.

The passenger hit the door, rolled on the ground and came up shooting with his automatic weapon. Several more men leaped out of both sides of the bed of the truck, hitting the ground and firing their weapons at whatever moved inside the compound.

The Cambodian screamed, “The guards, get the guards,” concentrating his fire on the area around the front gate. Two of the local guards returned fire with side-arms but were quickly cut down by the intense automatic weapons fire.

The ten-wheeler reached the end of the driveway, crashed through the front entrance of the chancery building and exploded, bringing the second floor of the building and all that it contained, including the entire Country Team, down upon it.

The Cambodian’s men directed their fire up at the windows of the office buildings that cirled the courtyard. People inside, foolishly drawn to the windows by the firing and explosion, were hit with bullets and flying glass.

The Marine on duty returned fire with his M-16 from behind the bullet proof guard shack. He stepped out into the open to optimize his shooting and hit one of the Cambodian’s men before several rounds stitched across his chest, sending him flying backwards, killing him.

Several of the insurgents directed their fire toward the fleeing visa applicants, who moments earlier were standing patiently in a line that wound like a snake in front of the consular section. People were screaming and crawling through bloody trails in their attempts to get away from the chaos.

Three more Marines came out of their barracks firing M-16 automatic weapons. They took out another one of the Cambodian’s men in a fusillade of automatic weapons fire. Chaos reigned, and then the Cambodian screamed over the din and into his mic, “Out, out, out, out…”

Khun Ut watched intently with great satisfaction through his binoculars. He heard the Cambodian’s signal to retreat and spoke into his microphone: “Vans up now. Move, move, move…”

Two white vans were waiting about a half-block down the road from the entrance of the consulate. Upon receiving Khun Ut’s command, the drivers screeched away from the curb, rushed toward the consulate and skidded to a halt in front of the consulate gate.

The gate was wide open with no guards in sight. Smoke, fire, and screams accompanied the withdrawal of Khun Ut’s men as they backed out of the gate, firing their weapons at anything that moved within the compound.

The men turned, ran, dove into the van’s open doors and were gone, tires screeching, down Wichatanon Road.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, the sounds getting stronger and stronger, but Khun Ut’s men were gone.

Khun Ut stood at the window of his observation post and watched the escape with the smile of a man proud of his work. He glanced down at his watch. The whole operation, from the time the truck crashed through the front entrance to the time his men jumped into the waiting mini-vans, had taken less than three and one-half minutes.

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

Rising from the floor, a dazed Charly Blackburn pulled a pistol out of her handbag. She was bleeding from a scalp wound and had a splitting headache. Shaking cobwebs from her brain and trying to stop the ringing in her ears, she hurried downstairs and out into the courtyard in time to see the Cambodian’s men backing out of the front entrance, firing at anything that moved in front of them.

She dropped to one knee, took careful aim holding the pistol with two hands, and emptied the .380 Walther PPK at the retreating terrorists. She slapped in a fresh magazine and prepared to fire off a few more shots, but they were gone, speeding off in identical white mini-vans.

One of the CIA communicators, a lanky Texan, came out of the building behind her and laid a hand on her arm. “You won’t be doin’ any good with that little pea shooter, Charly. They’re all gone anyway,” he drawled.

She spat back, “The hell I won’t. I hit what I aim at and I just hit one of those monkeys in the back as he was running for the van. I saw the sonofabitch hop.”

Heart racing, she sat down heavily on the steps of the building and surveyed the courtyard around her. Blood matted her hair and stained her dress, and her shoulder ached. The terrorists were gone and all that remained was carnage. The communicator sat down beside her.

They watched as the chancery building burned, timbers creaking and crashing to the floor. Dozens of dead and injured were strewn about the courtyard. Cries and moans from the injured replaced the cacophony of shooting and screaming.

Police and militia forces began arriving, sirens blaring, pouring through the main gate. Charly thought about her colleagues and realized that no one could have survived. There was only a huge burning hole where the chancery building once stood. No human sounds came from the wreakage.

She stood up slowly, glanced around the courtyard one more time and walked purposefully back to the CIA’s suite of offices on the second floor. “Come on, Gene,” she said to the communicator, choking back the emotion, “We’ve got to report this to Headquarters right away.”

They hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The communicator worked the dial of the combination lock on the vault door. He heaved the heavy door open and they entered the commo room lined with whirring communications gear.

“Send a flash precedence cable back to Headquarters. Make it ‘eyes only’ to the DDO with an info copy to the COS in Bangkok.” 

The CIA communicator sat down at a console, typing the message as she dictated. “Say the following: ‘Consulate attacked by unknown terrorists at approximately 1100 hours. Truck bomb exploded under ConGen’s office during Country Team meeting. All presumed dead including ConGen and COB. Small arms fire in courtyard inflicted additional casualties among staff and locals. Details follow shortly.” She choked up again and paused briefly before regaining her composure, such as it was, and continued, “Sign it: ‘DCOB Blackburn Acting.’”

“Got it,” he said.

The message would be automatically encrypted and arrive in the CIA operations center within seconds. It was approximately 2330 hours–eleven thirty in the evening—in Langley. The Ops Center would call the DDO, Edwin Rothmann, at home on a secure STU phone, and he would head into the office. It would be a long night for him and several key case officers and analysts in the CIA’s East Asia Division.

Charly Blackburn headed back down to the courtyard to help with the wounded and to assess the damage. Two of Khun Ut’s men lay dead. One had been shot in the face by the Cambodian as he lay wounded, crying for help—the Cambodian wanted no potential prisoners left behind for questioning.

Directly in front of the entrance to the consular section, just north of the front gate, was the worst carnage. A dozen or more bleeding bodies of innocent Thai visa seekers were strewn about. Whole families mowed down as they waited in line for permission to visit America. 

A third severely wounded terrorist sat near the guard shack beside the gate. The dazed and dying man was being interrogated by one of the Marines who stood over him with an M-16 jammed in his face.

The Marine screamed, “Who do you work for you fucking little maggot? Who sent you here?”

Charly Blackburn got there in time to hear the terrorist wheeze; hands held out in front of his face, “Please, please, no, no shoot” he begged, “Khun Ut is boss. Please not shoot...”

Charly put a hand on the Marine’s arm. “Don’t kill him Corporal. He’s more valuable to us alive.”

The Marine lowered his rifle. “I understand what you’re saying Ms. Blackburn, but I’d really rather kill the dirty little sonofabitch right here and now. Anyway, probably don’t matter none anyway, the way the little shit’s wheezing and oozing blood like he is. He won’t last long from that chest wound anyway. Fuck the little maggot. Let him die, real slow and painful like.” 

Nothing in Charly Blackburn’s background had prepared her for this moment. She was now the thirty-five year old Acting Chief of a decimated CIA base amidst a ruined consulate general. It would be her job to pick up the pieces and bury the dead, including her lover, Marvin Sadosky.

She would have to get on with the business of collecting intelligence on the narcotics business in the region and bringing down Khun Ut. She steeled herself; she could do it. She would get that sonofabitch.

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

The Cambodian’s white mini-vans sped out of the area. One turned right on Thywang Road and headed west toward the outskirts of town. The other continued down Wichatanon Road before crossing the Mai Ping River heading east. When their drivers were certain they weren’t being followed, they slowed to the posted speed limit and took circuitous routes out of town before heading north toward Khun Ut’s main warehouse, in a forested area north of Chiang Rai.

There were nine of them left, including the Cambodian. Two received minor gunshot injuries. One took a .380 round in the right buttocks as he was running toward the mini-van. Three were left behind in the courtyard and presumed dead. One had been shot by the Cambodian during their retreat because he didn’t have time to drag out the wounded man. The Cambodian was not aware that a third man was left alive in the courtyard.

They joined up at Khun Ut’s heavily guarded warehouse. After driving their vans inside, they stood in the middle, surrounded by bales of marijuana and pallets of heroin and raw opium.

Khun Ut, dressed handsomely in his signature uniform—a grey, short sleeved safari suit, starched and tailored to perfection—surveyed the remaining nine fighters, two of whom were on cots receiving medical first aid.

The one who had been shot in the buttocks moaned loudly on a cot as a medic probed the wound and retrieved the .380 round from his right butt cheek. A dozen members of the security staff and warehouse workers surrounded the group, listening intently to Khun Ut’s words.

“I am very proud of what you men accomplished today.” His voice echoed through the vast room and he liked the sound of it. “We have taught the Americans a well-deserved lesson. They will think twice before meddling in our affairs again.

“You have struck a huge blow against the DEA and the CIA who have tried to disrupt our business. And they have no way to retaliate against us. They are impotent. The United States is tied down fighting wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and their erstwhile allies, the Burmese and Laotians no longer fear them or support them.

“And as for the Thais,” he paused for emphasis, “the Thais have been bought and paid for by us. We own them. There is nothing they can do, or will do, to stop us. They will ring their hands and cry foul. But they will stop meddling in our business.”

He paced among his troops, chin up and limping on a stiff right leg, drawing strength from their presence. “Before my dear father died in that stinking Burmese prison, he had built an empire in these hills. Twenty years ago Khun Sa was responsible for seventy percent of the heroin consumed in the U.S. But pushed from behind by the stinking Americans, the Thai government went after my father with a vengeance and all but destroyed his empire.”

His troops nodded and muttered in agreement. Many had heard this speech before but none of them dared let on. 

Khun Ut turned to face them and raised his voice. “In their assault on Ban Hin Taek they killed his natural son, my closest friend in the world, my brother, and destroyed my leg.” He reached down and rubbed his right knee with both hands for emphasis. 

“With your help we have regained much of that lost ground and are now well on our way to once again cornering the U.S. heroin market. Leave the cocaine to the Colombians. We are once again the kings of the heroin trade. Khun Sa would be proud of what we have accomplished in such a short time. He would be gratified, just as I am.”

By now Khun Ut was sweating profusely. The air was still in the warehouse, despite dozens of whirling ceiling fans. “We left three fine men on the battlefield today and they will be remembered. Their families will be well taken care of. I will see to that personally. And the rest of you will be generously rewarded as well. We have struck a hard blow at the Americans. This has been a glorious day for which you should all be very proud.”

He turned to the Cambodian. “Ung Chea, I have a special note of thanks to you. Your father would have been extremely proud of you today. Your operation was executed perfectly, absolutely precisely. Your keen attention to detail during the planning stages was clearly well worth the effort, and your men performed with precision. You left nothing to chance. I am honored to have you with me and I am grateful that you traveled all the way from Anlong Veng in Cambodia to join me here in the hills of Northern Thailand. I recall vividly how sad you were at the passing of Ta Mok in that filthy Phnom Penh prison. We shared the grief of losing both our fathers that same year. You have become my right hand, and I thank Buddha every day for bringing you to me.”

The Cambodian did his best to look stern, but his scarred face glowed red from the praise that was being heaped upon him by Khun Ut. He had indeed found a new home here in the Golden Triangle, and a new mentor in Khun Ut. The crowd erupted in applause as Khun Ut limped victoriously past them and out the main door.

Khun Ut may have been right about the impotence of the U.S., but what he did not count on was the wrath of the CIA’s deputy director of operations, Edwin Rothmann, the DDO. 

 

Chapter Six

 

 

Suze-La-Rousse, Southern France

 

 

MacMurphy paced nervously at the edge of the ancient town, his eyes flicking to the old Roman stone bridge that separated the village from the highway. It was six minutes past noon. He was late, which was unusual for a case officer coming to an operational meeting.

Then he saw a taxi pull to the side of the road and discharge a big man.

The man headed directly for the bridge, his feet crunching on the gravel at the side of the road. He walked with a John Wayne swagger, one shoulder dipped lower than the other, and with a slight limp.

He wore a white, button down shirt and an open blue blazer over tan slacks. A computer case was slung over one shoulder. His hair was receding and graying, but still mostly dark despite his sixty-odd years.

They made eye contact when the big man reached the crest of the bridge and the man’s face broke into a wide grin. They greeted each other warmly on the town side of the bridge.

“Mac, it’s so good to see you again.” The DDO embraced the smaller man in a bear-like hug and then stepped back and held him by the shoulders, examining him. “You look great–lean, mean, tanned and rested. What are you doing so far from home? Writing a book like so many of your other detached former colleagues?” 

Dressed casually in blue jeans, a powder-blue polo shirt and running shoes, MacMurphy stood just under six feet tall. He had an athletic build, dark eyes, handsome chiseled features and short, prematurely gray hair, which made him appear older than his forty years.

“No, no exposés,” he replied, grinning broadly. “I just love this place. Lots of old rocks and stones. This village has been here since the twelfth century, and I’ve been coming here regularly since my Paris assignment way back when. I rent a small condo in the village.”

They walked slowly toward the center of town, chatting amicably. Mac pointed toward a hill on the far side of the town. “See that castle on the hill up there. It’s the Chateau de Suze-la-Rousse. Built between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries and maintained in perfect condition. There’s even a sixteenth century jeu de paume tennis court built for Catherine de Medicis and her son Charles IX. So much history here. The castle is now the home of the L’Université de Vin where sommeliers and just normal folk like you and me can learn about the great wines of the Drôme region.”

The two colleagues continued to get reacquainted as they walked. The last time they had seen each other was at Wei-wei Ryan’s funeral service at the Trinity church in McLean, Virginia, shortly after Mac had been separated from the Agency. At the time the DDO had reiterated to Mac what he had told him in Macau: that he would be calling on Mac from time to time to help out with some “sensitive, non-attributable things.”

MacMurphy knew that Edwin Rothmann’s visit to Suze-la-Rousse was not to chat about renaissance castles.

He was here on a mission.

 

Chapter Seven

 

 

They found a café in the village square next door to the ancient Chapel Saint-Sébastien. It was a sunny August day with a light breeze, and there were plenty of empty tables outside, but the two case officers opted for a banquette inside the restaurant where they would have more privacy.

“So, what mischief brings you to Suze-la-Rousse, Ed?” asked MacMurphy.

Edwin Rothmann was examining the menu. “First, let’s get a glass of local wine—red for me. What do you suggest?”

Without looking at the menu, MacMurphy replied, “Let’s get a bottle of the Domaine du Jaz. It’s grown right here in the vineyards surrounding Suze-la-Rousse. Can’t get much closer than that. You’ll like it.” 

He motioned to a passing waiter carrying a tray and wearing a starched white shirt and black bow tie and ordered the wine. Then he turned his attention back to Edwin Rothmann. “I expect you’re here to help me spend some of my ill-gotten wealth. Must be really important to bring you all the way out here.”

Rothmann sat silently while the waiter brought the wine, popped the cork loudly and poured their glasses. When he set the bottle down and left, Rothmann pulled his bulk closer to MacMurphy and spoke in low gravelly tones. “I’ve got a problem in Thailand. Chiang Mai to be precise.”

 “You mean last week’s attack against the consulate. It’s all over the press.”

“That’s it.” Rothmann took a sip from his glass, savoring the wine. “Yeah, Chiang Mai. What the papers didn’t say was who was behind it. No one took responsibility for the attack. But we know that bastard Khun Ut did it. He’s out of control. Killed one of our finest officers. Problem is, we’re pretty impotent as a nation, and as an Agency, at the moment. Our ass-kissing DCI won’t let us do anything about it. Zilch. They’re all a bunch of scared pussies.”

“I head the FBI’s been called in. Have they got the lead on this?”

“Yes, they do, and they’re treating it like a crime, which of course it is, although an act of terrorism. Those Fibbies are swarming all over the place. They’ve even taken over our dead COB’s office.” The DDO shook his big head. “Bunch of arrogant bastards running around trying to uncover as much evidence as they can to link Khun Ut to the attack. Hell, we know he did it. We should just take him out. The sooner the better. That’s the only way to handle a situation like this. That’s what I suggested…”

He looked down at his wine, sighed, and took another sip from his glass. “The most the administration will agree to do is to exert more political pressure on the Thai government—to try to force them to take some military action against the guy. But we know it won’t work. The Thais won’t do anything because Khun Ut has everyone in his pocket. Bought and paid for.”

“There’s no question Khun Ut was behind the attack?”

“Absolutely. One of his wounded was left behind along with two dead. We got a confession from him and were able to trace all three back to Khun Ut.”

The waiter returned and dropped a basket of sliced baguette on their table. He hovered over their table, twirling his tray, impatiently waiting to take their orders.

“What’ll you have, Ed? Something to go with the wine?”

“You bet. I’m hungry. How about a nice steak frites medium rare?”

“You got it. I’ll have the same.”

Mac placed the orders in perfect French and when the waiter left he turned back to the DDO. “So you’re frustrated. This Khun Ut guy is running amuck, the administration is treating it like a simple crime to be solved by the FBI, and without the help of the Thais nothing will be accomplished. Is that about it?”

“That’s why I love you, Mac. You always cut right to the chase.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Rothmann peered into his wine glass thoughtfully and then looked up.

“Let me tell you a story...”

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

Back in Vietnam in the late sixties, I was assigned as a liaison officer to MACV-SOG. Ever hear of that outfit?”

“Sure. SOG, Army Special Operations Group, right?”

Rothmann smiled. “Well, you’re half right. I keep forgetting how young you are or, I should say, how old I am. MACV-SOG stood for Military Assistance Command Vietnam—Studies and Observation Group, an outfit that conducted highly classified, deniable covert ops and sabotage missions behind enemy lines in Vietnam. The teams were made up of Army Special Forces, Air Force Air Commandos, and Navy Seals. They worked directly for the Joint Chiefs, and the commander at the time was a real smart Army guy named Jack Singlaub.”

The waiter returned with their steaks and a heaping platter of chrispy frites. Rothmann speared a frite and held it up like a prize. “Jack was a colonel back then, already a legend due to his exploits in World War Two and Korea. He was one of the original OSS ‘Jedburgs.’ That’s how he latched up with the Agency. He’s worked closely with us ever since, and he’s a real good friend of mine.”

Mac said, “I’ve heard of Jack Singlaub. He commanded our troops in South Korea. He was a Major General at the time I believe.”

The DDO sliced into his steak. “That’s the guy. Anyway, Jack had this idea to lead the Viet Cong and the NVA to doubt the safety of their guns and ammunition—make their guns explode. He called the operation ‘Project Eldest Son.’ He came to us and we arranged for CIA ordnance experts to conduct a feasibility study, which we did. A few weeks later, Jack and I watched one of our techs slide a 7.62mm cartridge, loaded with high explosive rather than gunpowder, into a bench mounted AK-47. The explosive round blew up the receiver, projecting the bolt backwards. Jack whooped when he saw that. He said he could just imagine that bolt flying back into the face of some shitass VC.”

Mac said, “Sounds like something that crusty old guy would say.”

 The DDO twirled his wine and emptied the glass. “Yep. So what the SOG teams did was to identify VC and NVA ammunition caches, mostly along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, break into them clandestinely, and replace a few of the 7.62mm rounds with substitute rounds provided by us. The explosive they used so resembled gunpowder it would pass inspection by anyone but an ordnance expert.” 

“You know, I have heard of that operation. From my dad. He was a Marine Gunny in Vietnam. He said it made the Marines wary of shooting AKs for fear they’d blow up in their face, and some of them preferred the AK to the M-16 before that came to light.”

“That’s right. Everyone feared using 7.62mm ammunition by the end of the war. By that time it was an open secret that the ammunition was tainted. Project Eldest Son was one of the most successful covert operations of the Vietnam War.”

“That’s a great story, Ed, but what’s Project Eldest Son got to do with your visit? I don’t get the connection between that and the attack on our consulate.”

“Eldest Son… Just an idea I had.” The DDO paused, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What would be the best way to take down Khun Ut? Think about it for a moment. Destroy his empire, break down his distribution network, and create havoc in his ranks. Make people fear using his narcotics.” The big man sat back and gave MacMurphy time to let it all sink in.

The wheels spun in Mac’s head. He looked up at his mentor and former boss. “You want to doctor Khun Ut’s heroin. Make it unsafe to use. Then, if nobody buys his shit, his empire will crumble from the bottom up. Am I close?”

The DDO reached for the bottle and refilled both glasses. “You’re on the right track. I’m thinking Project Eldest Son on steroids. I haven’t discussed this with anyone but you. If we move ahead with this plan, it has to remain strictly between us. Agreed?”

“Of course, Ed. But whatever I do for you will have to involve my team—Culler and Maggie at the minimum. I’ll have to brief them, right?”

The DDO pushed his plate away from him and then popped a last French fry into his mouth. “Culler and Maggie are fine, but strictly use the ‘need to know’ principle with anyone else you chose to enlist. The point is this--if we decide to proceed, there can be no blowbacks to the CIA. We’re going to need complete deniability. Nothing can be traced back to the Agency. Understood?”

“Understood. And no one else in the Agency is aware of this?”

“Right. This is strictly between you and me, Mac. I’d never get approval for an operation of this sort in this day and age. Everyone is looking over their shoulders these days. That’s why I came all this way to see you. If you’re successful all fingers will naturally be pointed at the CIA.”

“But you will have plausible denial,” MacMurphy interjected.

“Yes, plausible denial. No links back to the CIA, unless someone is watching and recording us right now,” the DDO gazed around the room and laughed.

“No chance of that, boss. Nobody comes to Suze-la-Rousse but me. And I know you made sure you weren’t followed here.”

“Right, I wrangled a boondoggle to Paris and then told the guys I wanted the day for some shopping and sightseeing. I hopped the bullet train to Montélimar and took a taxi to here. It took less than three hours.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be back at the station in Montélimar by three-thirty to catch the train back to Paris, and we’ve still got some things to cover.”

“I guess that means you won’t get to see any more of my quaint little town while you’re here.”

“Next time, Mac. Now, why don’t you get the check, my wealthy friend, and we can talk some more while you walk me back to the bridge.”

“You bet. We need to figure out how to get to his stash and doctor it. It won’t be easy.”

MacMurphy signaled the waiter for the check and finished his wine. He paid with cash and the two men walked out into the warm summer air of Southern France. They strolled slowly back toward the ancient Roman bridge at the entrance of the village, enjoying the sun and summer breezes.

“Too bad you can’t stay longer, boss. I’m disappointed.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to get together when this is over, plenty of time.”

They crossed the main square and Rothmann looked back at the imposing Renaissance castle on the hill behind him. “That is a beautiful sight. I really will have to come back here some day. When this is all over.”

“Yes indeed. You’ll be my guest. I’d love to show you this part of France.” They continued to walk while Mac thought about what he was being asked to do. Finally he asked, “So, how do we sabotage Khun Ut’s heroin shipments?”

The DDO stopped and shook his head. “You’re going to have to figure that one out for yourself, but I’ll give you a couple of resources to help you come up with a plan. The first is a guy down in the Florida Keys. He’s done some good work for me in the past. Bill Barker’s his name. He’s a bit of a rogue. An arms dealer who’s always working on the fringes of the law. But he knows his shit. He’ll fix you up with whatever you need in the way of weapons and get them safely delivered to Thailand. He’s also a chemist. Knows everything there is to know about poisons. He can advise you on what you need to put into Khun Ut’s shipments. I’m thinking something that will make people who shoot up really, really sick. Kind of like Eldest Son.”

Mac said, “What if the stuff we put in kills someone? Like Project Eldest Son.”

“Collateral damage…can’t help it. That’s something we may have to struggle with.”

“Okay, we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. But what about access?”   

“You’re going to have to be real careful with this one, Mac. There can be no connection to the Agency at all. That said, you’re going to need a way to get access to Khun Ut’s heroin in order to sabotage it. And I’ve given it a lot of thought. I don’t see any way around it, so I’m going to put you in touch with our ACOB in Chiang Mai, Charly Blackburn. You may even remember her. She says she met you in Bangkok a couple of years ago. She was stationed there when you visited from Hong Kong to attend some sort of a narcotics conference.”

“Of course, I remember her well. Real smart gal. Eurasian. Very pretty. An expert on the Golden Triangle heroin trade.”

“That’s Charly all right. I knew you’d never forget a beautiful face like that. Anyway, I named her the new acting chief in Chiang Mai after Sadosky was killed. She’s a little young for the job, but I think she’s up to it. Real bright and no one in the DDO knows more about that part of the world than she does. Speaks fluent Thai too, which is a big plus. Her mother was Thai. Dad was an Air Force officer. Bombardier on a B-52 out of U-Tapao, if memory serves. I hate to create a link to the Agency, but you’re going to need some support. She’ll be your contact in country—funnel intel to you. She’s also got an asset who might be able to help get you access to Khun Ut’s heroin shipments. Guard that connection with your life. She’s totally loyal and reliable, the only other CIA employee who knows about you and me. That also makes her the weakest link in our little daisy chain, so be careful about meeting with her.” 

They reached the foot of the bridge and Rothmann stopped, reached into a pocket of his computer case, pulled out an envelope and handed it to MacMurphy. “This contains contact instructions for Barker and Blackburn. Note that Barker only knows me as an arms buyer named Tom Willet. It’s important we keep it that way. I vouched for you and told him you would be contacting him, so your bona fides is established, but I didn’t give him a name. I assume you’ll use an alias with him and, for that matter, for anything you do in Thailand. There’s also a cell phone number you can use to reach me in an emergency. It’s an untraceable throwaway phone. I suggest you get a similar phone. Make sure it’s an international quad-band, so we can reach each other in an emergency.”

“Okay, boss, I’ll be in touch.” They hugged each other warmly and said their goodbyes. MacMurphy watched the big man walk over the old Roman bridge, limping slightly with his signature swagger, On the other side of the bridge, Rothmann hailed a taxi, entered awkwardly and disappeard into the late afternoon traffic.

MacMurphy had his instructions, and funding for the operation was understood. It would come out of the stash sitting in MacMurphy’s alias bank account in Bern. There would be no traceable connections back to the CIA. There would be total deniability.

      

 

Chapter Ten

 

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

 

 

When Harry Stephan MacMurphy had separated from the CIA after thirteen years of service as an operations officer, he did two things right away. He moved to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, and he rented a suite of offices on the eighth floor of a towering glass building overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway on Las Olas Boulevard. The sign he hung on the door read, “Global Strategic Reporting.”

He financed GSR with the money he had taken from the Chinese embassy during his last gig with the CIA. Access to the account could only be gained by a U.S. citizen named Frederick Martin, and MacMurphy had the alias U.S. passport to show he was Martin.

Now he had a mission.

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

 

MacMurphy, Maggie Moore, and James “Culler” Santos sat huddled around a small marble conference table in the GSR offices. One wall of the conference room was glass from ceiling to floor; the view offered the sparkling Intracoastal Waterway, sprinkled with white yachts and marinas, and the office buildings and condominiums lining historic Las Olas Boulevard. Beyond spread the expansive blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

MacMurphy, dressed casually in jeans and a white, short-sleeved, button down shirt which accentuated his deep, Florida tan, was winding up his briefing on his meeting with the DDO in Suze-la-Rousse two days earlier.

“So that’s about it. We’ve been given wide parameters to complete this job. Even Ed Rothmann doesn’t know exactly how to accomplish it. He just gave us the goal and told us to run with it.”

“How is this arms dealer down in the Keys going to fit in?” asked Santos in his slow, South Boston drawl. “We can find enough weapons in Northern Thailand to start a revolution. What do we need him for?”

Santos was a brute of a man. Not tall, he stood only about five foot seven or eight, but he weighed in at a solid two hundred pounds. Although he looked like a brawling lumberjack, he possessed two engineering degrees from MIT and was one of the CIA’s best upcoming audio technicians until the fiasco in Paris left him and MacMurphy without jobs. He was wearing a dark polo shirt that accentuated his muscular frame.

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Maggie, twiddling her pencil and leaning back in her chair. She was a career CIA officer “of a certain age,” recently retired as one of the highest ranking women in the clandestine service. She had known and mentored MacMurphy almost since the day he entered the Agency. When Rothmann told Mac she had retired and was living in South Florida, Mac immediately contacted her and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. She sat at the head of the table, looking at them sternly through pale, wolf gray eyes over steel granny glasses. “If we bring him in on this, won’t it just be one more person to worry about?”

MacMurphy flexed muscular arms behind his head, trying to relieve the tension in his shoulders and neck. “Right. You’re both right. If we decide to use Bill Barker, he’ll have to be compartmented from the rest of the operation. I agree we probably don’t need him for guns and such, but it might be more convenient and secure if we don’t have to go running all over Northern Thailand looking for illegal weapons. We certainly can’t take them with us on the plane, and I wouldn’t think about attempting any mission in the Golden Triangle without being armed like a Navy Seal.”

“I guess the point here is that if Ed Rothmann thinks it’s a good idea, then it probably is,” said Santos. He massaged his temples and swiveled his chair to face Mac. “We don’t need to tell him much, and Rothmann has already set everything up with him. And we can pay him in cash. He only needs to know that we need certain equipment to be delivered securely in Thailand. And he’s got the connections to do that, right?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” said MacMurphy. “But there’s also the question of the way we sabotage the heroin. In Project Eldest Son, they substituted gun power for high explosive, so the guns would blow up when fired. The DDO is thinking along those same lines for this operation. That’s part of the reason he wants us to see Bill Barker. Barker’s also a chemist, and the DDO believes he’ll be able to give us something to put into the heroin. We’re going to have to explain this to him. That’s a problem.”

 Maggie looked up at the ceiling, brought her hands up to her head and ran long, thin fingers through her graying, unruly auburn hair. She peered at them over her glasses. “Wait a minute, guys. Hold on. Yes, there is a problem here. When the AK-47s exploded and made the bad guys eat the bolts, it was a good thing for our troops because it killed enemies. But let’s not kid ourselves. We’re talking poison here, whether it makes the users sick or kills them, and I don’t know how we’re going to control that. The users are going to be the victims, not Khun Ut or any of his merry men. That’s troubling to me. A lot. That’s a problem.”

“Good point,” said Santos. He leaned forward thoughtfully and drummed his large fingers on the conference table. “There’s an ethical question here, particularly if we end up killing some innocent person… But I’d like to point out that heroin users aren’t exactly saints. It isn’t like they’re innocent kids puffing on a little pot, or some slick yuppie snorting a little cocaine in his Beemer with some hot little cutie. We’re talking heroin here. People who use that shit are hard core druggies. They’re shooting up in the ghettos before they go out and rape and pillage the world. So I say, screw them. What’s the difference if we kill a couple of those worthless bastards?”

“Okay, okay, Culler, we get it,” said Maggie, “We all know how you got your nickname. ‘Culler,’ the guy who wants to ‘cull’ the world of undesirables. Eliminate all the assholes and the world will be a better place. Right?”

“Yep. And it’s true, too. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he had made his point, and then continued to pontificate. “And furthermore, that’s the root problem with us Americans. We’re always so damned concerned about collateral damage. That’s why we’re losing the war on terrorism. We’re afraid to bomb the little fuckers when we have them dead in our sights because we might kill a couple kids or women along with the bad guys. Hell, do you think the Israelis worry about that shit? No way. They just pull the trigger when they get one of the bastards in their crosshairs and worry about the little kiddies and moms later.” 

MacMurphy chuckled. “Okay Culler, we know how you feel, but Maggie’s right. We do have a bit of a conundrum here. But at this point we don’t really know if it’s even going to present a problem. So let’s just get all of our facts together and decide what we will do and what we won’t do later. I’m all for heading down south to the Keys tomorrow. We’ll know a hell of a lot more after we meet with Bill Barker. What do you say?”

Culler nodded and Maggie said, “Fine, but I’ll do some checking before you head on down there. I’ll run the databases and see what I can come up with concerning his background. Then we can regroup and discuss it some more before you leave.”

 

Chapter Twelve

    

 

The following morning Mac and Culler did their regular workout at the Ultima Fitness Center a block away from their office. Culler, beast that he was, worked out exclusively on the heavy weights, while Mac stretched, did a fast three-mile run along the quay bordering the Intracoastal Waterway, and finished up with light weights and some vicious beating on the heavy bag. 

Mac had been a champion wrestler at Oklahoma State University and had been studying karate and mixed martial arts since he was three years old. His father, an amateur boxer and tough Marine gunnery sergeant, had pushed Mac hard ever since he was big enough to stand.

After their workout they returned to the office to check in with Maggie who was busy getting the weekly “CounterThreat” newsletter out to GSR’s ever-growing client subscription base. It was a particularly important issue this week because it highlighted growing unrest and a deteriorating security situation in Algeria and Morocco, two places where GSR had an active client interest.

In the nine months since their departure from the Agency, the three of them had built a growing and somewhat lucrative small business. They published a weekly subscription “CounterThreat” newsletter which profiled the security situations in selected countries around the world and kept its corporate clients up to date on the world’s hotspots—where they could go, where they shouldn’t go, and what precautions to take if they must go. They also offered international consulting services—business intelligence and due diligence investigations for individual clients in the corporate sector.

They had hired two employees to work exclusively for GSR, a bright, recent college grad named Christy White as a receptionist and a middle-aged, bookish ex-journalist named Wilber Millstone to do the writing. Neither of them had a clue about the other, more clandestine, activities that Maggie, Culler and Mac were about to undertake. GSR, like the CIA, worked on a strict “need to know” compartmented policy.

The three former CIA officers jokingly called the undercover embedded company within GSR, “CIA Inc.”

The trio gathered in MacMurphy’s office and Culler shut the door.

Maggie said, “I called Bill Barker on the blind line and made an appointment for you guys for later today. He sounds like a friendly guy and responded immediately when I mentioned the name Tom Willet. He said he was expecting our call and has assembled some gear he thinks you might need. I didn’t go into it with him, but it sounds like the DDO may have already tipped him off about where you’re going.”

“Hmmmm,” said Mac, flicking perspiration from his forehead, the after effects of his workout, “no telling what Ed may have told him. Never mind, we’ll find out soon enough. When can he see us?”

“He said to arrive late in the day and plan to stay into the evening,” said Maggie.  “He wants to show you some night vision gear after it gets dark.”

“Okay, let’s figure on heading on down right after lunch then,” suggested Santos. “That’ll give us time to eat, get our alias docs together and rent a car at the airport.”

“Always thinking about lunch, Culler,” chided Mac. “Let’s get some work done before we take off for the Keys. Have you got the address, Maggie?”

“It’s just ‘Islamorada, mile-marker seventy-two, turquoise gate, ocean side.’ He says you can’t miss it.”

“Did you get a chance to check him out, Maggie?” asked Culler. “We’d kind of like to know what the guy’s background is before we go traipsing down there.”

“Sure did, Culler. He’s got quite a reputation. And except for a lot of allegations of arms smuggling—nothing concrete, no arrests or convictions—which we already know, he’s quite the marksman. He’s got a ton of awards and certainly knows his weapons. It says here he’s a founding member of the Fifty Caliber Shooters Association, and that he’s a leading competitor in both regional and national ‘extreme caliber’ competitions, whatever that means.”

She flipped through a stack of pages fresh from the printer. “Also, he seems to be persona grata with the Navy SEALs because he is an annual invitee at their Seal Team Eight .50 caliber qualification shoot at Camp Atterbury. They shoot out to 2500 meters at that match.”

“Twenty-five hundred meters!” exclaimed MacMurphy. “That’s like…what…a mile and a half!”

“That’s what it says, and there’s more. According to press reports he’s a co-developer of the ‘ceramic barrel’ M2HB program, whatever that is, for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.”

“Pretty heavy stuff,” said Santos. “That’s a first class outfit. High speed, low drag. I’ve worked with those DARPA guys a lot in the past.”

Maggie pushed her glasses back up and continued: “He’s also been a shooting instructor for several police departments, a range master, a legitimate automatic weapons procurement officer for the Colombian Secret Service, a consultant to the Naval Surface Warfare Center and to USSOCOM on combat assault rifles. Whew, the list goes on and on.”

“Sounds like we’ve got a winner,” said Mac. “I’m ready to rock ‘n roll with this guy.”

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

Islamorada, Florida Keys

 

 

After a quick lunch with Maggie at their favorite sandwich shop, Culler and Mac rode together to the Ft. Lauderdale airport in Mac’s new 6 series BMW coupe. They parked the car in the short-term parking and headed to the Avis counter in the terminal building and Mac used a Florida driver’s license and Amex credit card in the alias Robert T. Humphrey to rent a car. If anyone spotted him meeting with Bill Barker and ran the plate on the vehicle, it would not lead back to MacMurphy.

The drive to Islamorada in the nondescript white Chevy Impala rental took a little over two hours. They drove west to the Ronald Reagan Turnpike, known in the state simply as Florida’s Turnpike, and then south through Miami where the turnpike turned into US Route 1, running along the entire east coast all the way from Maine to Key West.

They drove through the Keys on a two-lane road that was often clogged with traffic and slowed by mom and pop campers, heavy trucks and trailers carrying large boats and yachts. Mac drove silently while Culler chilled out listening to classical music on his I-Pod.

It was just after three in the afternoon when they reached mile marker seventy-two on Islamorada Key. At a divided road, they took a u-turn and came back on the ocean side of the Key for a block until they reached the bright, turquoise gate.

They turned into the drive, honked, and the automatic gate slid open. They drove up the gravel drive to a sprawling flat roof, modern glass-and-stucco home, built typically high on concrete stilts to protect it from hurricane tides, and pulled into the shade on the south side of the house.

A big, heavy, middle-aged man—dressed in olive shorts and matching short-sleeved safari shirt—stood on the second level balcony waving down at the arrivals.

Bill Barker was once a powerful weightlifter, but now in his mid-fiftys he’d gone a bit soft. His hands were large and callused, with dirty, broken nails from working with weapons. The hands of a working man.  He looked like a former Sumo wrestler and smelled faintly of gun powder and lubricating oil. He flashed a ready smile and spoke with a soft, slow South Florida drawl, not what Mac expected from a covert arms supplier.

Beside him stood his wife, a pleasant looking woman dressed in shorts and a tee shirt. She had short dark, wispy hair and a broad smile. Bill Barker greeted them warmly with friendly eyes. “How y’all doin’ guys. This is my wife Ruth. Did y’all have any trouble findin’ the place?” They mounted the stairs and he held out a large hand in greeting.

“None at all,” said Mac. “We’re the friends of Tom Willet you’ve been expecting. I’m Bob Humphrey and this is Ralph Callaway.” They mounted the stairs and shook hands.

“Pleasure meetin’ y’all.” He turned to his wife, “Sweetpea, would you be so kind as to fetch us some of that fresh brewed tea of yours? These guys look parched.” He turned back to Mac and Culler. “It’s a lousy drive down here from Miami. Come on inside fellers. It’s hot out here.”

The back of the house was floor to ceiling glass with a wide porch that extended the length, overlooking the sparkling blue-green ocean beyond.

At a long, white rattan bar inside the living room, Ruth served tall glasses of iced tea with fresh key limes and then excused herself to leave the men to talk business.

“Tom didn’t tell me very much other than I could trust you fellows and that you wanted to purchase some arms and other equipment for an operation in the jungles of Southeast Asia. That about it?”

“Yep, that’s it,” said Mac sipping his iced tea. “He spoke highly of you, too, saying we could trust your discretion one hundred percent. He also said you had a good contact in Northern Thailand who could receive the stuff we purchase and get it delivered to us securely in Thailand.”

“Yep, sure can. Gotta fellow out there who used to be a police general. Very well connected. Knows just about everyone out there, including the drug dealers and smugglers and politicians. Works for a lot of them too, but one thing is for sure, he never crosses wires. If he does a job for you, he’s yours—for that one job anyway.” He laughed. “One hundred percent discretion. That’s how he stays in business. So what is it exactly you guys are looking for?”

“We’re going to be in the jungle up there for a few days, and there may be some bad guys in the same area.We need survival gear and weapons. Tom said you were one stop shopping. That true?” asked Mac.

“Oh yeah,” replied Barker. “I can fix ya’ll up with just about anything you need, top-of-the-line stuff. I don’t deal in any crap. And every gun I sell I’ve personally sighted in and fired at least a hundred rounds through. A lot more on the automatic weapons. Now, Tom said you’d by paying in cash. If so, I can give you a good discount.”

Mac nodded. “It’ll be a cash deal. We can wire the money anywhere you like or give it to you in a sack. Whatever you want.”

“Wire transfer will do just fine,” Barker giggled in a high-pitched way that didn’t fit his large frame. “I’ll give you wire instructions for my bank in the Bahamas.”

Santos, who had been sitting quietly at the bar nursing his iced tea during the conversation, asked bluntly, “I need a SAW. Can you get me a SAW?”

“Well, Ralph, you certainly look strong enough to lug a big, heavy Squad Automatic Weapon around in the jungle, but I wouldn’t recommend it. How long have you been out of the military?”

“More than ten years. Army Special Forces.”

“What about you, Bob?”

“Me? I led a Marine sniper platoon and later a Marine Security Guard detachment, but I’ve also been out a long time. Why do you ask?”

“Because a lot has changed in ten years. Sure, they still use SAWs in the conventional forces, and they still use the M40A1 sniper rifle, which is probably what you were trained on, Bob.”

“Yeah, that’s right, I love the M40. When fitted with a night vision scope and suppressor, it’s absolutely deadly at night. I used one on an operation in Africa. It’s sweet.”

“Of course you love it. It’s a great rifle, just like the SAW is still a great weapon, but I’m gonna show you fellers some guns that’ll knock your socks off. Go ahead and fill up y’alls drinks and take’em with you.”

Barker led them into his ocean front office. The cluttered L-shaped desk faced sliding glass doors that led out to the porch. Barker pointed out three fishing pole racks loaded with poles and baited lines leading out to the ocean. “That’s so I can fish and work at the same time. Life’s laid back here in the Keys.”

Barker sat behind his desk and motioned for Culler and Mac to take the two chairs in front of it. He leaned back in his executive chair and studied his large fingers. “Now I don’t need to know exactly what you guys’ll be up to there in Northern Thailand, but I do know that the Golden Triangle’s up here. That’s a pretty dangerous area, especially if you’re goin’ to be runnin’ around in the jungle like you say. So, I’ll give you my unsolicited philosophy about things like this—Go light, use the darkness, be silent and be invisible. If we can all agree to that, I’ll fix y’all up real good.”

Mac and Culler nodded their agreement.

“Now, Bob, you said you were a Marine sniper at one time, and you’re familiar with the use of night vision gear and suppressors, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Mac.

“I am too,” said Culler. “The Army Special Forces isn’t that far behind the Marines.” He glanced at Mac and smiled.

Barker pulled out a pen and yellow pad and slipped a pair of reading glasses low on his nose. “As long as we’re on the same page, let’s get started making a list of the gear you’ll need for this here junket.”

 

Chapter Fourteen

 

 

Let’s get y’all started with the simple stuff. Then we’ll get into the guns. You need to be invisible in the jungle, so you’ll need Ghillie suits. I’d go with the standard Marine sniper Ghillie which you can adapt when you get in the field by adding some foliage and leaves and such. I’m sure you guys are familiar with them.” Barker glanced over at Culler Santos. “We’ll order one for you in extra wide, Ralph,” he snickered.

“Yeah, about your size except wider in the chest and smaller in the belly.”      

“Touché, touché.” Barker laughed.

“Then y’all are going to need a couple of handheld GPS devices with maps covering the Burma, Laos and Thailand area. And about a case of granola bars and power bars. We don’t want you to starve, but we also don’t want you to be pooping all over the place out in the jungle. You guys know the drill, right? Leave nothin’ behind and travel light. ‘Specially if someone is lookin’ for y’all. And I suspect that might just be the case. I’ll also throw in a couple cans of my special concoction that erases the odors of poop and pee. Use it faithfully and even a good hound dog won’t catch the scent. Do y’all need boots?”

“No,” said Mac. “We’ll bring that kind of stuff with us. But we’ll need a couple of Camelbacs and some purification pills just in case we run out of water.”

“Of course.” Barker looked over his glasses. “I was comin’ to that. I wouldn’t let y’all go into the jungle without plenty of water.” He looked down at his yellow pad. “That’s about it for the personal gear. I’ll throw in some camping gear as well, shelter sheets and that sort of stuff to make y’all comfortable. Now let’s git down to the important stuff.”

He dropped his glasses on the desk, pulled himself out of his chair and walked across the room to a closet. Spreading open the bi-fold doors, he pushed hangers of shirts and jackets to each side and stepped into the closet. Once inside he unlatched a panel in the rear wall and revealed a hidden, four-foot by eight-foot room filled with racks of rifles and pistols and knives, boxes of ammunition, and a small desk loaded with gun cleaning gear.

Culler gave a low appreciative whistle. “You’ve got a bloody arsenal in there.”

“Just a few of my favorite things, and this is my absolute favorite.” He took a rifle from one of the gun racks and held it out to them, beaming. “It’s a thing of beauty, a Noreen 338LM Lapua sniper rifle with an 8 x 32 variable power day/night scope. I can drop rounds in a four-inch bull at fifteen hundred meters with this baby. An average sniper can do it at one thousand meters. It’s the finest sniper rifle ever made, and this model’s a semi-automatic to boot. Never know when that might come in handy.”

MacMurphy took the rifle and sighted it toward the ocean. “Fifteen hundred meters?”

“Sure, that’s normal for the best snipers. Nothin’ strange about that. She’ll take out a target at twenty-five hundred meters. I mean, you can take a guy out at that range—a far cry from that old sniper rifle you’re familiar with. Check out the sights.” He held the gun out to MacMurphy.  “You zero the gun with the ‘day’ eyepiece. At night you just push the release button on the eyepiece, pull it off and put on the light intensifying ‘low light’ eyepiece. Easy as one, two, three, and bingo, you’ve got night vision.”

Culler said, “I’ve heard of those guns. The Delta teams and SEAL teams use them in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’re even dribbling down to the Special Forces and Marines these days.” Culler took the gun from Mac. “You ever shoot one of these, Bob?”

“No, never had the pleasure,” said Mac. “I was long gone from the Marine Corps when these were introduced. But I’ve heard of them. And of course I’ve fired the .50 cal. Is it true they pack a punch like a .50 cal?”

“Sure can, with the right ammo,” said Barker. “The .338 caliber is the first and only bullet designed specifically for sniping. The bullet will arrive at one thousand meters with enough energy to penetrate five layers of military body armor and still make the kill.

“Effective range is about sixteen hundred meters, that’s about a mile, but under the right shooting conditions it’ll reach out beyond the two thousand meter mark with no sweat.”

“Unbelievable,” said Mac, taking back the rifle from Culler, sighting it and caressing it admiringly. “I want this gun.”

“We’re not planning to be doing any sniping on this trip,” Culler chided, “and we don’t need to be carrying around any extra baggage.”

Mac sighed. “You never know. Does it come with a suppressor, Bill?”  

“Got one right here.” Barker removed a Sierra suppressor from its box and screwed it onto the gun’s barrel. “It fits on like this, easy. And like a lot of suppressors, it actually improves the ballistics of the rifle and the ‘crack’ sound becomes a soft ‘poof.’ I’ll give ya’ll a chance to try it out tonight with a little test firing in the dark.”

“I sure do like that rifle. You sure we can’t find some use for it on this trip, Ralph?” Mac joked. 

Culler said, “You sniper dudes are all alike. You fall in love with your guns. Buy it if you want it, but I’m not carrying the sonofabitch.”

    

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

      

Putting up the Lapua, Barker selected a short automatic rifle from one of the gun racks.

  “This here is a POF 416. POF stands for Patriot Ordnance Factory. Fires a 5.56mm round and looks kinda like an M4 submachine gun, but it’s a whole hell of a lot better. And it don’t gunk up like the M16 and M4. I’ve put fifteen hundred rounds through it non-stop without any malfunction.

He handed the gun to Mac who examined it and passed it over to Culler.

“This is more to my liking,” said Culler. “Short, light, and lots of firepower.”

“That’s because you can’t hit anything, Ralph,” chided MacMurphy. “You need to spray things like a garden hose.”

“And if that’s what you like to do, this is the weapon for you,” said Barker. “The one you’ve got in your hand has a twelve-inch barrel. It also comes with a fourteen and a half inch barrel which will give you a little more accuracy, but this will definitely do the trick. The regular magazine holds thirty rounds, but I’ll give you three Beta C-Mag drums for each gun. They hold a hundred rounds each, so you’ll have plenty of firepower. One drum’ll last you a long time.”

As Culler was sighting the rifle in the direction of the ocean, Barker said, “It’s got three separate sighting mechanisms on it. The sight on top is for shootin’ in the daylight. It’s the darling of the sandbox. See the red chevron in there? Well, no matter where the chevron is within the scope, when the tip of the chevron is on the target, that’s where the bullet goes, every time. Very fast to acquire target. And over here is the built-in iron sight backup.”

Both Culler and Mac paid close attention.

“Now, for night shootin’ this is really neat. On the top of the grip’s forearm is an infrared laser. It works with head mounted night vision which I’ll give you. It’s very, very effective. The laser beam is invisible at night unless you’re wearing your head mounted night vision gear. But with that gear you see a green line of death. That’s what the guys in the sandbox call it. And whatever the green line touches, fire the gun and bullets impact there—just like that garden hose of yours, Ralph. Unless the bad guys are equipped with similar night vision, they’ll never know they’ve got death kissing their brows.”

“Damn, that’s cool,” exclaimed Culler.

“And not only will they not see what is hitting them, they won’t hear nothin’ neither,” said Barker with a big grin. “Here at the end of the muzzle we’re going to screw on this here Gemtech suppressor. It’ll add another seven and three-quarter inches to the length of the gun, but you’ll be happy it’s there when the shootin’ starts. All they’ll hear is a bunch of poofs, if anything.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” said Mac. “We’ll take a couple of these with all the accoutrements and six hundred rounds of ammo. You got any more stuff we should take with us? I want to talk to you about side arms and chemicals. Willett may have mentioned that we needed some chemical advice. He said you were a chemist.”

“Yep, I am indeed, and Tom did mention somethin’ about that to me. I’ve got just what the doctor ordered, I think. But first let’s get through the gear you’ll need, and then we’ll get to that business. What about grenades? I’ve got some neat concussion and fragmentation grenades to show you if you want.”

Mac shook his head. “We’re not going to war out there. At least I hope not. We may have to use the automatic weapons, but I don’t see any use for heavy artillery. We’ll pass on the grenades, but we will need pistols and knives. I’ve got a good hunting knife at home and I carry a Kahr PM45 sidearm. Maybe you could just ship those out to Thailand for me.” He turned to Culler. “We could ship your 9mm Glock out there as well.”

Barker thought a moment and then responded. “As I understand it—and I don’t need to know everything, just enough to get ya’ll equipped properly—you’re goin’ to be out in the jungle doin’ some suspicious stuff with a lot of bad guys runnin’ around in the same general area. That about the size of it?”

“That’s about it,” said Culler. “If we need to shoot our way out of a bad situation, we’ll need to be able to do that, but we’re not going to be out looking for any trouble.”

“Right,” said Mac. “We need to be invisible and silent, but if someone steps on us we need to be able to strike back.”

“Okay, got it. Then leave your Kahr at home, and that goes for the Glock as well. I don’t go anywhere with less than a .45, but yours is too small for what you guys need. I mean, the PM45 only has a three inch barrel and only holds five rounds. Great for concealment but no good for this. And the 9mm doesn’t have enough hittin’ power.”

Barker went back to his closet and returned with a pistol in hand. “This here’s a Heckler and Koch MK 23. Leave it to the Germans to make an awesome, offensive .45 caliber handgun.”

“The .45s definitely pack a punch.” said Culler.

“My favorite caliber too. This here gun was developed for U.S. Special Operations Command in the late nineties, probably after you left, Ralph. It’s pretty big, certainly not the best for concealment, but you guys won’t care much about that where you’re goin’. And it’ll shoot two-inch groups out to fifty yards. It’s a mean sonofabitch.”

“What about a suppressor?” asked Mac.

“Oh, yeah, you bet. It’s a quick detach suppressor. On and off in an instant.” He demonstrated. Mac and Culler nodded their heads in approval.

“One more thing. Wait’ll you see this…” Barker walked back through the closet and returned with a sheathed knife in his hand.  He pulled the knife from its sheath and held it out in front of him.

“It’s a Russian made Spetsnaz Ballistic knife, a real good fighting knife under normal circumstances, but this one has a special characteristic. See here on the handle?” Culler and Mac moved closer. “That’s a safety pin. And see here on the blade guard? That’s a trigger. Now, if I remove the safety pin like this, and then press the trigger, the blade flies out. No shit, I mean it flies out with a lotta speed and energy. Damn accurate too. It’ll penetrate a two-by-four at twelve feet but makes absolutely no sound. Great for takin’ out a sentry real quiet like without havin’ to get too close. Real nifty.”

MacMurphy shook his head. “Amazing. Really amazing stuff. I want all of it. Go ahead and talley up the bill, pack everything up and get it shipped out to your guy in Thailand. I’ll get your money transferred as soon as I get back home.”

“You want me to include the Lapua and spotter gear?”

Mac glanced over at Culler with a longing look and then turned back to Barker. “Aw, what the hell, you never know. Go ahead and stick it in the box with the other stuff.”

“Well then, let’s join Ruthie at the bar for a cocktail or two before dinner. She and I are goin’ to take you down the road a piece, so you can taste some of our local delicacies. Then we’ll come back here after dark and I’ll let you guys fire off those weapons you just bought. Best to have a little familiarization before you gotta use’em for real.”

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

    

 

It was dusk when they left the restaurant and headed back to Bill’s place. Except for becoming more jovial and relaxed, Bill did not seem too impaired by the three martinis he had consumed. He drove two miles back home along the narrow, two-lane road without a waver.

Ruth busied herself brewing a pot of coffee and setting out cups and saucers and desert cookies on the bar while Bill Barker assembled the rifles and pistols. When he had everything together in his back yard, he joined the group at the bar and helped himself to a cup of coffee and a handful of cookies.

“Ruthie makes the best damn chocolate chip cookies this side of heaven, and her coffee’s not too bad either.”

 Once back at the house, Barker sobered up completely and began to inventory all of the weapons and gear.

“Once I get this list together and the prices, how am I goin’ to communicate with you fellers?” said Barker..

“Jot this down,” said Mac. “RobertHumphrey123@hotmail.com. Send me an Email with a list of the gear and prices along with your wiring instructions. I’ll get the money off to you right away. Also, don’t forget to send me the contact instructions for your police general friend in Chiang Mai. Send everything air freight so we can pick it up within the next week or so.”

“No problemo. I’ll see how fast I can get everything out to you and let ya know.”

Culler nudged Mac. “There was one more thing,” he said.

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Mac lowered his voice. “The chemist thing. You said you could give us something that would make people sick if they swallowed it. We need something untraceable, tasteless and odorless.”

“That’s right, I can cook you up just about anythin’ ya want, but I’ll need to know a little more about what you need it for before I can give you a good answer. I’ve got lots of concoctions that’ll make people sick, if that’s what you want to do, but a lot depends on what you want to put it in and how sick you want to make the people.”

 “How much did Tom Willett tell you?” asked Mac.

“Not much. He mentioned something colorless and odorless that could be put in something somehow that would kill or make seriously ill anyone who ingested it.”

“And what did you say?” asked Mac.

“Told him ricin would do the job nicely. First thing that jumped to mind. I told him there were lots of things that could make people sick, but then they’d recover and wonder what made them sick and then go on about their business without thinking much more about it. But if what ya’ll want to do is take down a couple a drug lords,” he lowered his voice, “and that’s what I suspect you want to do, then makin’ some people a little sick won’t do it for you.”

“What then?” Mac asked.

“Then you need something stronger, like ricin. A little bit of that and, well, shit, they’d be dead, and then there’d be hell to pay. That would be the end of the drug lords who produced the shit that caused the deaths.”

Culler said, “Ricin. That’s what the KGB used to kill that guy on the bridge in London. Remember that Mac? They stabbed him in the leg with an umbrella.”

“Georgi Markov. He was a Bulgarian defector,” said Mac.

“Yep, that’s the stuff. I know the story. It only takes five hundred milligrams to kill you. That’s about the size of a half a grain of sand. Stuff’s made from castor beans. You can buy them anywhere and I can mix you up a batch in no time at all, powder or liquid—your choice. Just depends on what you’re gunna put it in.”

Culler and Mac considered how much to tell Barker, though Barker had clearly figured out what they wanted to do. Maybe Rothmann had told him more than he would admit. In any event, if they were to succeed, they would need Barker’s help.

Sensing their dilemma, Baker decided to jump in with both feet. “Look guys, I’m here to help y’all. I think I got a pretty good idea of what y’all want to do out there, and I can tell you straight out there ain’t no half measures in this business. Either go big or stay home. That’s what my ole daddy used to say. Do it right the first time or don’t do it at all. Y’all look like good guys to me, and Tom and I go back a long way. You’re on the right side and that’s the side I’m on, too. We all wear the same color hats. You want to fuck up the drug lords and turn their own people against them. That’s a good thing. I’d like to have a part in that. Just tell me what you want to do and I’ll help you do it.”

Santos glanced at Mac and nodded.

“Okay, you’re right, of course,” said Mac. “You’ve figured it out. We’re planning on getting into to a shipment of heroin bricks and salting it with something that will make the users never want to buy any of the druggie’s shit again.”

Barker nodded, “Yep, figured.”

 “And if they get sick enough, they will turn on the pushers and eventually on the drug lords themselves—right up the ladder until the entire network is disrupted. That’s our goal.”

“Yep, well then, ricin’s what y’all need.” Barker took a theatrical sip of his coffee. “Untraceable and easy to make. Only problem is you’ll kill anyone who ingests even a tiny bit of it. But that’ll sure as hell get their attention.”

“And Tom seemed okay with that?” asked Mac.

“Yep, suspect so.”

Culler looked over at Mac. “Can’t say as I disagree with him, and if the goal is to get their attention, that’s the way to do it.”

“If we decide to go that route, how would you get it into the heroin bricks?” asked Mac.

“Well, I’d probably use a liquid form and either pour it on the bricks and let it soak in or, if they’re wrapped up in paper or something, y’all could use a syringe and inject the ricin through the packing to the center of the brick. The heroin would absorb the ricin nicely.”

Barker scratched his head. “Heroin bricks are much like cocaine bricks. They’re a chalky substance and weigh about a kilo each when they come out of the hills. The bricks are actually made up of morphine hydrochloride, a fine white powder that they press and dry in the sun before they take it out for more processing where they have real chemists. That’d be Hong Kong in that part of the world.”

Culler and Mac exchanged glances. Anyone using the tainted heroin would die, and many of the users would be innocent people. Well, maybe not so innocent. They were contributing to the drug trade, but they weren’t actually profiting from the drug trade. They were simply users. Could they afford this kind of collateral damage, and if not, was there an alternative—one that would still allow the operation to succeed? They were on the horns of a dilemma.

Mac broke the silence. “I don’t know if we can afford to do this. We’ll be killing a lot of innocent people. Isn’t there a better alternative?”

“None that I can see.” Barker was leaning over the bar toward them, studying his nearly empty coffee cup. “Not if y’all want to succeed in this.”

“You know my thoughts on the subject,” Culler said to Mac. “This is war and in war you’ve got to accept some collateral damage, and anyone dumb enough to be shooting up on heroin doesn’t deserve to live anyway.”

“Okay, okay,” said Mac. “Tell you what. Bill, go ahead and mix up a batch of ricin for us. Fill up a dozen or so syringes for injection, so we can put a couple cc’s into each kilo brick. Then put’em into our shipment with the other stuff. We can decide later whether to use them or not.”

“I can certainly do that. But I’d better dilute the ricin a bit so it can absorb better into the bricks. If we put only a couple of cc’s into each brick, it might not saturate enough of the brick to do the job. How about I make up about fifty syringes of about ten cc’s each?  If you inject five cc’s into each brick in two or three places, it should do the trick nicely and be totally unnoticeable. After all, the shit is going to have to go through another refining process anyway when it gets to the chemists. That ought to spread out the ricin really good.”

Mac looked over at the unperturbed Santos and said, “Okay, let’s go with it. Go ahead and assemble all of the gear and the ricin and get it ready for shipment to your contact in Thailand. Now we’ve got to hit the road.”

“Don’t ya want to shoot them weapons and check out the night vision gear.” Barker was clearly disappointed.

“I’m sure everything will work just as advertised. We should get back,” said Mac.

Barker called to Ruth who was watching TV in another room. She joined them at the bar and they said their goodbyes.

Culler and Mac spoke very little on the drive back to Ft. Lauderdale. Culler dozed in the passenger seat listening to his music on his I-Pod, while Mac was left alone with his thoughts. Knowing Maggie would not approve of what was being planned, he was not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation.

 

 

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

 

It was after midnight when they got back home to Ft. Lauderdale. Mac dropped off Culler at his apartment and drove east toward home. He entered the access code at the entrance of a new gated community a few blocks from the ocean and drove through the gates down a tree-lined winding road to the two-story Mediterranean town home he had purchased shortly after his separation from the Agency.

The house was dark and lonely. He turned on the TV for noise, showered, brushed his teeth and went straight to bed. He didn’t like to sleep alone, but being single meant he did it a lot. The scent of his most recent girlfriend, Cindy Keskiner, a bright, attractive psychiatric nurse at Ft. Lauderdale General Hospital, was still on the sheets and pillow. He wished she were there now and thought of their last night together in that bed while inhaling the scent of her familiar soap and shampoo. He had thought about calling her after he dropped off Culler, but knew it was too late and she would already be in bed.

MacMurphy knew it was about time to settle down with one woman and start raising a family, but his career in the Agency had always precluded that. He recalled one of his instructors down at The Farm telling a group of students that if CIA case officers devoted too much time to their careers, their family life would suffer, and if they devoted too much time to their families, their careers would suffer, and if they tried to do both, both family and career would suffer.

For now he satisfied himself with cyclical affairs with local women and with colleagues in the CIA and State Department. He was an attractive, exciting and charming man with an exceptionally strong libido, who never had trouble finding attractive and exciting women to join him in bed. He moved easily from one woman to another, and frequently back again, as he moved from post to post within the CIA.

The closest he had ever come to marrying and settling down was with Wei-wei Ryan. They had been together, off and on, for more than ten years. MacMurphy first met Wei-wei when he was assigned as a case officer to Udorn Base in Northeast Thailand, and she was a branch secretary at the CIA’s station in Bangkok.

Their romance progressed through subsequent overseas posts in Paris, Tokyo and back again to Paris with Wei-wei attempting to follow him wherever he was posted. But the Agency finally put its foot down when Mac was posted to Hong Kong as chief of station and Wei-wei tried to follow him. Rules were rules, and the Agency was not about to permit the wife or girlfriend of any COS to work with him in the same station. That would give “the appearance of impropriety,” in Agency lingo.

When Wei-wei couldn’t follow Mac to Hong Kong, she requested to be assigned back to Paris where she had lived as a child and became fluent in the French language. Her request was granted and she landed the much coveted job of secretary to the COS.

When Mac showed up in Paris on temporary duty a year later to run the operation against the Chinese embassy, their relationship was rekindled. But when the operation went bad and Wei-wei Ryan became the victim of Lim’s rage, and Mac was forced into early retirement, Mac moved to Ft. Lauderdale alone

Mac should have protected her. He was wracked with guilt over the mess he had caused. He should have kept her out of the operation. He should have married her. She would still be alive now and would be with him now in Florida. But for some reason he did neither. He had always put career and duty ahead of his personal life, and so, more out of habit than anything else, he moved on once again.

Soon the events of the last few days, beginning with Rothmann’s visit which cut his vacation short in Suze-la-Rousse, took over his thoughts.

He was excited about being back in the game with Culler Santos at his side, but worried about the ethical aspects of what he and Culler were planning to do. Mostly he worried about what Maggie Moore would think. She had the reputation of being a straight-shooter in the Agency, and had kept many a young case officer from making egregious errors in operational judgment. Being torn between Edwin Rothmann and Maggie Moore was not a good place to be.

    

 

Chapter Nineteen

 

      

MacMurphy awakened early. He had slept fitfully during the night, his mind churning with ideas, possibilities, different approaches, arguments. He drove to the airport, turned in his rental car, and retrieved his BMW from the parking lot. He called Santos and they agreed to meet for breakfast before heading to the office. Mac wanted to go over the events of the previous day one more time before briefing Maggie.

“She’s not going to go for it, Culler. I can’t lie to her, and I don’t know how to do this without her.”

Culler surprised Mac with compassion. “There’s no way around it, Mac. You’ve got to tell her the truth. She’ll never accept some cockamamie story about making people sick. She’s too smart. And I agree, you can’t lie to her. Actually, she probably already knows that the only way to do this is to kill a few people in the process. You’ve just got to convince her that a little collateral damage is worth it.”

“I know, I know. But what if she doesn’t go along? What if she puts up a stink?”

“She won’t. Anyway, we don’t really know how this is going to play out until we get there. Tell her what might happen, that some people might die, but leave everything kind of open to adjustment depending upon what happens when we get out there.”

MacMurphy was silent for a long while and then he looked up at his friend. “Yeah, good advice. I’ll be as smooth as I can, but I’ll tell you what I think. I think if we get an opportunity to poison some of Khun Ut’s heroin, we’re going to do it.

Culler pushed his chair back and hit Mac on the shoulder.  “That’s what I like to hear, Mac.”

 

 

Chapter Twenty

 

Chiang Mai, Thailand

 

 

The discussion with Maggie had not gone well. She acquiesced only after Mac appealed to her loyalty to Edwin Rothmann and asked her to reserve judgment until after he got on the ground in Thailand and got a better feel for the situation. She had no compunctions about taking down Khun Ut and his empire, only about the collateral damage that would inevitably result.

So it was with mixed emotions that MacMurphy landed at the rural airport in Chiang Mai, Thailand, with Santos. 

Culler had been a rock for MacMurphy ever since they met at the CIA’s covert training base, The Farm. Santos was one of the smartest and toughest men Mac had ever known. Trained as an electrical engineer at MIT, he was a mathematical genius and a skilled artist locked in the body of a brute.

His sensitivities to those around him astounded MacMurphy. Always calm and unflappable, he had a knack for relieving tensions and cooling things down when tempers rose. But if confronted, he would destroy anyone who threatened him or those he cared about.

Mac had seen Culler erupt only once. They had been hanging out with a small group of Farm students at a nearby bar called the Tumble Inn. Everyone was feeling mellow, and the beer and camaraderie were flowing freely when one of the female students slapped one of the townies who was slobbering all over her.

The townies hated the CIA students. The whole town knew that the facility was a CIA training base, despite the CIA’s futile efforts to maintain its cover. They considered the students pompous interlopers on their territory.

The townie was a huge, pot-bellied, tattooed beast accustomed to bullying people in “his” bar, and he was surrounded by an entourage of similar low-lifes who egged him on.

Culler had calmly stepped between his female colleague and the townie, politely asking the townie to leave his friend alone and take his smelly group of pig farmers to the other side of the room.

The townie responded by smacking Santos in the face with a beer bottle, splitting open his lip. The blow had not seemed to faze Culler. He had stepped back away with his left foot, crossed his right foot over in front and brought it up and around to meet the townie’s right cheek with such force that teeth and cheek bone shattered, sending the huge man careening across the room and into la-la land. Without missing a beat, he had turned on the others, swiftly taking out two of them with rapid-fire, vicious kicks and punches while the remaining thugs beat a hasty retreat toward the door.

Mac was reminded of this fight every time he saw the angry scar on Culler’s upper lip. Santos was the meanest, toughest guy MacMurphy had ever known, and he was totally loyal to Mac and Maggie and Edwin Rothmann.

 

Chapter Twenty-One

 

                  

At the Avis counter at Chiang Mai airport Mac rented a dark Toyota Corolla in the alias Bob Humphrey. He and Culler drove north to Chiang Rai along a newly paved, four-lane highway. On the way they stopped at a roadside local restaurant and had a lunch of Mac’s favorite Thai gueyteow lad na noodles with sauce, pork, and vegetables as well as a couple of local Kloster beers.

They arrived at the center of the town less than an hour later and pulled up in front of the modern Wangcome Hotel. Again using their aliases, they checked into adjourning rooms on the tenth floor overlooking the bustling city.

Mac recalled Chiang Rai as the Thai city closest to the famed Golden Triangle, formed by the confluence of the Mekong and Ruak rivers where Burma, Laos and Thailand came together. The town was infested with people involved in one way or another in the drug trade. A modern day Dodge City, much like Medellian in Colombia. It was equally infested with police—some who were not even on the take. 

The tourist business was also booming in Chiang Rai, with excursions to the surrounding ancient temples, mountain villages and the poppy fields, and an abundance of first class hotels. There were also hundreds of low cost hostels frequented by hippies and youth interested in trekking and hanging out and sampling Thai gunsha – the best marijuana in the world. There was also an abundance of heroin in all forms, and more earthy Oriental delights.

Culler and Mac chose to pitch up in one of the first class hotels for reasons other than just comfort. These hotels offered better security and fit well with their use of tourist cover.

Once they had settled into their hotel rooms, Mac used his non-attributable cell phone to call Bill Barker’s Thai contact, retired policeman General Sawat Ruchupan.

While not perfect security, prepaid cell phones could not be traced back to owners, and cell phone records were not kept by the companies because there was no billing. MacMurphy knew that all security was a tradeoff with efficiency, and the convenience in this case outweighed more stringent security measures.

 Since it was getting late in the day, General Sawat suggested they meet at his villa in Chiang Mai the following morning. He informed Mac the shipment of gear had arrived and was awaiting opening and inspection.

Tired and jet-lagged, Culler and Mac had an early dinner at the hotel, took two melatonin each to assist in getting over the jet-lag, and retired for the evening.

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

Mac and Culler arose early, had a light breakfast at the hotel and headed south for Chiang Mai. They easily found Sawat’s spacious villa overlooking the Gymkhana golf course in a beautiful residential section of Chiang Mai, located in the posh southeast quarter. From the looks of his palatial villa, General Sawat Ruchupan was clearly a man of some means.

A thin, balding man in his mid-seventies, he met Culler and Mac at the door. Dressed impeccably in long white trousers and a long-sleeved, white shirt, he bowed deeply in the traditional Thai wai with his palms pressed together in a prayer-like fashion, showing respect to his visitors. “Sawatdee khrap,” he said.

Both Culler and Mac returned the wai and spoke the sawatdee khrap greeting in unison. They removed their shoes at the door and left them on the threshold. The general led them through the hotel-like foyer, padding barefoot over the polished teak floor, through sliding glass doors at the back of the house and onto a patio pool deck beyond.

They took seats around a white patio table shaded with an umbrella to shield them from the morning sun. A tanned, bikini-clad young Thai woman was lounging by the pool nursing a yapping Shih Tzu at the obviously augmented breasts that threatened to burst out of her bikini top. 

“Quiet Ling Ling,” she chastised the mutt, “these are farangs from America. They won’t hurt you my baby.” But the dog continued to yap incessantly, regarding the interlopers with canine disdain.

“Noi, my darling, this is Mr. Humphrey and Mr. Callaway.” The dog continued to yap as they greeted one another with wai’s across the pool deck. “Sawatdee kha,” she said in a sweet, little-girl voice, “happy to meet you.”

An elderly Thai servant arrived to take their drink orders and then disappeared back into the house. After lighting a local Krong Thip cigarette, the general blew a lungful of foul smelling smoke up into the air. He didn’t bother to offer one to his farang guests, assuming all Americans were health nuts who distained smoking. It was just one more thing he could not understand about these strange foreigners, but their money was good.

Returning with a large pitcher of lemonade, glasses, and cookies on a silver tray, the servant quietly placed them on the table in front of them. He poured the glasses and, without asking, he poured one for Noi and brought it and a cookie on a napkin to her by the edge of the pool where he served her with a bow. She fed the dog a piece of her cookie and the mutt finally settled down in her lap contentedly.

The general took a long, last pull on his Krong Thip cigarette and crushed it out in his cookie dish. He spoke in excellent American accented English with smoke oozing from his mouth and nostrils. “Your shipment arrived two days ago. I have not opened it but I have seen the manifest. It appears you fellows are going on a hunting expedition—hunting men, from the description of the automatic weapons in the box.”

He smiled knowingly, lit another rancid Krong Thip and continued. “I hope I can be of further service to you in that regard. Mr. Barker surely must have told you that I stand ready to offer a wide range of discreet services to my clients. I am more than just an arms merchant.”

Culler, wearing a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, placed his hands behind his head and stretched, displaying massive biceps and forearms. “Can you get us transportation, like, maybe an airplane?”

“That can be arranged easily,” said the general. “I am a pilot and I own a small Cessna 172 four seater. It is a very reliable plane for, shall I say, surveillance of certain places in the area.” He smiled knowingly.

Mac didn’t know how far he could take this but decided the general could be useful in leading him to Khun Ut’s heroin. “What about a helicopter? Can you fly one of those as well?”

“Yes, of course. I have part interest in a Bell Ranger which has room for four people and some luggage. Very reliable. We use it mostly for tours up and down the Mekong and around the native hill tribe villages.

“That’s good to know,” said Mac. “Bill said you were both trustworthy and resourceful. It appears that he was right on both counts.”

“It goes without saying that all of this has to be held in the strictest confidence,” said Culler. “We don’t want anyone else knowing our business. No one.”

“Understood. You will not have to worry about me. It is like the American saying, ‘Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’” The general laughed loudly at his own joke, displaying a mouthful of nicotine stained teeth and gold.

“Okay,” said Mac, standing, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s go see what Bill Barker sent us.”

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

 

 

The three men padded in their stocking feet back across the polished teak floor of the foyer to the general’s study in the front of the house.

The general opened ornately carved teak double doors to reveal a warm, paneled room with masculine leather couches and chairs. A huge, beautifully carved partner’s desk dominated the center of the room. The room was impeccably organized, but it reeked of stale cigarette smoke. In one corner, two wooden shipping boxes were stacked neatly.

“The larger box contains the weapons and other gear,” said the general, reading from the manifest, “and the smaller one contains the ammunition. I am sure that both can’t be shipped in the same container.” He handed the manifest to MacMurphy. “Please check to see that everything is in order while I open the boxes.”

Santos walked over to help the general.  After he picked up a claw hammer and the general grabbed a crowbar, they went to work on the boxes.

They inventoried the gear, examined each piece of equipment and found that everything had arrived as planned and paid for.

Sawat puffed on another Krong Thip. “That is quite an arsenal you’ve got there, gentlemen. Those automatic weapons are beautiful. I don’t think I have ever seen anything like them. May I see one?”

Culler handed him one of the rifles.

The general set down his cigarette, caressed the rifle and sighted down the barrel. “Very nice,” he said.

“It’s a POF 416 5.56 mm assault rifle. State of the art. Treat us right and we’ll leave one behind for you when we leave.”

“Oh,” said the general amidst a gust of smoke, “I will treat you right. No doubt about that. I would not want you coming after me. Not with those weapons.”

Mac grabbed an armful of the gear and headed towards the door. “Let’s start moving this stuff to the car,” he said over his shoulder to Culler, “but leave the H&K pistols and a couple boxes of the .45 mag ammo out. We should keep them close from now on.”

Culler removed the two H&K pistols and suppressors from their boxes and set them aside. He found the correct ammo and set a couple of boxes of those aside as well. Hunting for the holsters, he found that Barker had sent two holsters for each gun. One was a thigh holster suitable for carrying openly on military type missions, and the second was a mid-back, belt clip-on holster for concealment under a long shirt.

Barker had thoughtfully included two green military duffle bags in the shipment. They placed the loose weapons and gear into the bags before carrying everything to the trunk of the car.

The general watched intently from the door as Culler and Mac loaded the rental car. Noi padded across the foyer on bare feet about half-way through the loading operation. She was wearing a diaphanous top unbuttoned over her bikini and was still clutching Ling Ling at her breast. Her tanned skin shone from suntan lotion, and she smelled like cocoa butter. She regarded the activities with bored disdain.

“Daddy,” she said kissing the general on the cheek and snuggling his arm, “I’m going upstairs to shower and change for lunch. I won’t be long.”

Culler appeared and the dog began to yap frantically. He glared at the mutt until Noi and the dog disappeared at the top of the stairs. “Can’t stand yappy mutts,” he muttered to Mac. “But I do love lazy, floppy-eared dogs. You know, the kind that sit at your feet and look up at you adoringly. I like my women that way too...”

“You wish,” said Mac, “You wish.”

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

 

 

Mac drove while Culler busied himself with loading ammo into the pistol magazines, wiping down the guns and breaking in the waist holsters by sliding the guns in and out of the form fitting, hard leather. He popped a loaded magazine into each gun and placed one next to Mac and kept the other for himself.

About half way back to Chiang Rai, Mac grabbed his cell phone. “We should call to set up a meeting with Charly Blackburn.” He had earlier programmed the blind cell numbers of Culler, Charly, Maggie and Edwin Rothmann into his phone and had added the general’s number that morning.

 He pressed the speed dial for Charly Blackburn, but her phone went immediately into voice mail. “Hi,” he said, “This is Bob. We’re in Chiang Rai staying at the Wangcome Hotel. We can meet anytime after work in room 1048. Please give me a call and let me know what time you can meet. Thanks. Talk to you later.”

Mac had decided to meet in Chiang Rai rather than in Chiang Mai because Charly was well known as a consulate official in Chiang Mai. He knew the weakest link in any operation was usually the officially covered case officer. They were the most likely to be under surveillance by the opposition.

Security was never perfect, but he thought it would be good enough under these circumstances.

Charly Blackburn called a little over an hour later and left a short message on his phone. “Hi Bob. Good to hear from you. See you at nine. Okay? Ciao.” 

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

 

At eight-thirty Mac sent Culler Santos down to the hotel’s lobby to provide counter-surveillance for the meeting. In the lobby bar, Culler selected a bar stool with a good view of the revolving doors at the front entrance.

At eight fifty-six a woman who met the description of Charly Blackburn spun through the revolving door and hurried purposefully toward the elevators at the rear of the lobby. Her shoulder-length, black hair was pulled back away from her face and tied at the nape of her neck. She wore a black, short-sleeved, silk blouse, black slacks, and black pumps.  She carried a large black leather shoulder bag.

The ninja lady, he thought as she breezed through the lobby in front of him. She entered an empty elevator and disappeared from his view.

His eyes moved back to the revolving doors at the entrance. Only moments behind her, a harried looking, balding Thai in a wrinkled white shirt, dark slacks and old tennis shoes entered the lobby through the revolving doors and stopped, frantically looking around the lobby for something or someone. Bingo, that’s the surveillance, thought Culler.

Culler watched the man move through the lobby, eyes darting about and clearly anxious.  The man dropped into a comfortable armchair in the middle of the lobby and made a call on his cell phone. He spoke into it while still rubber necking around the lobby.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

 

 

The knock on the door of room 1048 came at exactly nine o’clock. Mac greeted Charly at the door and quickly ushered her into the room. After glancing up and down the hall to make sure no one observed her entering the room, he shut the door and bolted it. When he turned to face her, he caught the hard slap on the side of his face.

“You bastard!”

He stood rubbing the sting out of his cheek with his left hand and holding his right up in front of him as if to say she had made her point. When it was clear there would be no follow-up strikes, he reached out to her. She slipped into his arms and they hugged tightly for a long time, rocking back and forth without saying a word.

They had first met almost ten years earlier. She had just finished her training at the top of her class at The Farm and had been assigned to Bangkok Station as a junior case officer.

He was visiting Bangkok on temporary duty to attend a narcotics conference. She followed him back to his hotel after a dinner party at the home of the Bangkok station chief, and that was the start of an on-again, off-again affair that lasted until Mac rotated out of Hong Kong and dropped completely off of her radar screen. He made no attempt to contact her after that.

Charly Blackburn was known as a “comer” in the Agency. Although her initial interest in Thailand was due mostly to her heritage, she honed that interest by majoring in Far Eastern History, earning a masters degree in the subject in her home state at the University of Oklahoma.

Her thesis on the history of the drug trade emanating from the Golden Triangle was widely published and received kudos from the academic community. The thesis was also the deciding factor in her selection into the elite clandestine service of the CIA, and in her subsequent posting to Thailand.

But it wasn’t just her academic achievements that helped to advance her budding career in the CIA’s clandestine service. She was blessed with native fluency in the Thai language and oriental good looks which allowed her to move gracefully throughout the Thai community as well as on the diplomatic scene.

And she never missed an opportunity to use these God-given feminine charms to advance her career. Ever since that night after the senior prom in Midwest City , Oklahoma, when she finally agreed to give Bobby Jack Spencer her virginity in the parking lot behind the Baptist church, she knew how to manipulate and control men. And she thoroughly enjoyed that power.

She learned to use that newfound power over men to advance her career in the insular community of the CIA. Indeed, the CIA management encouraged its officers to link up with one another. Better to sleep with the good guys than the bad guys. This was the philosophy. Keeping affairs in-house kept things more secure. 

So she slept her way through the ranks of the CIA’s East Asia Division management and picked up a number of influential supporters along the way. Her targeting of MacMurphy was one such effort, but she ended up falling for the guy. Not what she had planned at all.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

Seeing her again brought back emotions and memories that Mac had long buried. She was as beautiful as ever, despite the black eye and angry red scar closed with a butterfly bandage on her forehead, wounds she received when slammed against the wall during the explosion

The feel of her in his arms again aroused him. His hands began to explore first her hips and then further down. He kissed away her tears and she raised her face to meet his. They kissed deeply and longingly.

Memories of past trysts flooded their minds, and their hips pressed together hotly.

His cell phone rang, interrupting the moment.

They broke apart and he answered. “Hey… Okay…You’re certain?  Okay… Good idea…Okay, but make it look like a robbery if it comes to that. Don’t do anything that that will bring attention back to us. ... Right… Okay… Stay there and keep an eye on him. We’ll be about an hour… Right, I’ll call when she leaves… Okay, bye.”

Charly was still breathing heavily, regarding him with misty, lustful eyes. “What’s wrong? What was that all about?”

“You were followed.”

“Impossible!”

“No, it’s pretty clear. He came in right after you, but you had already disappeared into an elevator. He knows you’re in the hotel. Santos is keeping an eye on him in the lobby.”

“They must have picked me up on the outskirts of Chiang Rai. There’s no way anyone could have followed me from Chiang Mai to here. I had the pedal to the metal all the way.”

“That’s it. They probably lost you on the highway and called ahead. There’s only one road between Chiang Mai and here. Where’d you park?”

“In a garage about three blocks from here.”

MacMurphy turned away from her and walked to the other end of the room where a bottle of Pino Grigio was chilling in an ice bucket on a coffee table sitting between two chairs. He busied himself opening the wine. “Sit down and let’s think for a moment.” He poured two glasses of wine and sat beside her.

“There’s only one way out of here, and that’s back through the lobby.” He was thinking out loud and his mood was all case officer now. “So, let’s figure this out. They know you’re meeting someone here. They just don’t know who. They may also have someone else staking out your car in the lot. But then again, they’ve already gotten as much as they’ll get out of this surveillance. They probably suspect you’re having an important meeting here, otherwise you wouldn’t have attempted to lose the surveillance, but they have no idea who that might be. So they’ve failed in that regard. The surveillance is already a bust. It’s lucky you got into that elevator so quickly.”

She took a long drink of her wine, sat back and crossed her legs. “I guess I blew it. Sorry Mac.”

“Happens to everyone at some time or another. Let’s just deal with it. My main concern is maintaining the integrity of the operation, and our connection with you is our weakest link. We’ve just got to get you out of here safely and make sure they don’t find out who you were meeting here.”

She held out her glass and gave him a sorrowful look. He refilled their glasses and continued. “Actually, when you think about it, there’s no need for them to surveil you any longer. They know you’ll be leaving here and going back home to Chiang Mai sooner or later. They know you’re meeting someone but don’t know who. It could be anything, a clandestine meeting with an asset or just a simple tryst. I just don’t want them to do anything stupid to you. These guys play for keeps.”

She lowered her head and looked up at him with her most sultry look. “Can we make it later rather than sooner?”

He reached over and caressed her cheek pushing her silky black hair away from her face. “Not tonight, Charly. You’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible. Culler is downstairs watching your surveillant, and he’ll make sure you get back on the road safely. And you’re armed, right?”

“Got my trusty PPK right here.” She tapped her shoulder bag. “And this little ‘ole Oklahoma gal definitely knows how to use it.”

“I know you do. Just keep it close when you leave here. In your hand would be good.”

“I’m just happy you’re so concerned about my safety. I hope that’s a personal concern and not just a professional one.”

He smiled, looked her over from head to foot, and took a slow drink from his wine glass. “You’re a piece of work Charly. A real piece of work. Now let’s get down to business. We’ve got a lot to cover in a very short time.” 

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

                             

Mac pulled a pen and yellow pad out of a briefcase next to his chair. “As you know, without going into any great detail, we’re here to neutralize Khun Ut and bust up his heroin network. How we go about doing that depends greatly on the assistance we can count on from you.”

She leaned forward, all business now. “I handle an asset I recruited nine months ago. We use him to track Khun Ut’s heroin shipments from his jungle refineries to his main warehouse north of here in Mae Chan.

“Yes, Ed told me. Do you know the exact location of the warehouse?”

“Sure do. My guy has been there many times. I have the exact coordinates. But it’s heavily guarded, and those guys are a trigger happy bunch of thugs.”

“But it’s the logical place to start, the warehouse I mean, don’t you agree?”

“Depends on what you want to do.”

“We want to get into one of Khun Ut’s shipments of heroin. All we need is a few minutes. The warehouse where the heroin is stored would be the best place, right?”

“Well, that’s where the heroin is stored, lots of it, and tons of marijuana all stacked up in neat bales.” She took another long drink from her wine glass, re-crossed her legs, and continued.

“The opium is harvested in the mountain villages and then brought to movable refineries in the jungle and in the highlands where they turn it into white, chalky one-kilogram bricks of low grade heroin.

“The bricks are then assembled in a small warehouse near Khun Ut’s mansion on the outskirts of Ban Hin Taek, an Akha village in the highlands where Khun Sa—Khun Ut’s father, of course—used to have his headquarters.

“From there the heroin bricks are loaded onto donkeys and sent by caravan down through the hills on narrow trails through the jungle to Khun Ut’s main warehouse on the outskirts Mae Chan, a few kilometers north of Chiang Rai. As you would expect, the warehouse is heavily guarded at all times with the guards living on the premises. The heroin is trucked, mostly concealed in shipments of charcoal, to the seaports in southern Thailand. There it’s concealed in shipments of one thing or another and loaded unto ships bound for Hong Kong for further, final refinement. Once the refining process is complete it’s smuggled to the United States and other parts of the world.” 

Mac said, “We need to get access to it at some point after it has been turned into the one kilogram bricks but before it’s concealed and loaded onto ships bound for Hong Kong.”

“What are you going to do with it when you get your hands on it?” she asked.

“We’re going to poison it.”

She smiled admiringly. “You are a treacherous son of a bitch, aren’t you? Whose idea was that, yours or Edwin Rothmann’s?”

“Ed’s. That’s why he’s the DDO. The idea came from an operation he was involved in during the Vietnam War. He got into VC and NVA arms caches clandestinely and salted the 7.62 ammo boxes with rounds filled with high explosives rather than gunpowder.”

“I heard of that op at The Farm. The AK-47s exploded in the enemies’ faces when one of the explosive rounds was chambered. It was very effective as I recall.”

“Sure was. Made the VC afraid to use its own weapons and ammo.”

“And once you kill a few people using Khun Ut’s heroin, the word will get out that he’s selling bad shit, and people will stop buying it. His distribution network comes tumbling down, is that about it?”

“That’s about it. Got a problem with that? The collateral damage, I mean?”

She shook her head and chuckled. “Not at all. Sounds like a great plan to me.” 

“So who’s the treacherous one, you or me?”

“That’s why I love you, Mac. We’re cut from the same cloth.” She ran her tongue over her lips.

“Knock it off Charly. We’ve got serious work to do and I need your help. We can’t risk any more meetings, not until this is over at least. You’re under Khun Ut’s microscope; if anyone makes the connection between you and me, all of the DDO’s ‘plausible denial’ will dissolve into mist. This can’t be a CIA op. That’s the whole point. You understand that, right?”

She put on her most doleful look and gave him a deep wai, with her prayerful hands touching high on her forehead, and replied with resignation. “I know. I get it. Don’t worry. Rothmann needs to deny any connection between this operation and the CIA, and I’m the weakest link in that plan. You can count on me, Mac. Just tell me what you need and I’ll deliver it.”

“Okay, now we’re on the same page. Tell me about this asset of yours.”

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

 

She collected her thoughts, took another swallow of her wine and proceeded to brief him.

“He’s a low level security guy who works for Khun Ut and the Cambodian. He and a team of armed guards accompany the heroin shipments from Khun Ut’s collection point in Ban Hin Taek down through the jungle to the main warehouse near Mae Chan. He’s a Hmong tribesman who fought alongside of General Vang Pao and the CIA’s Bill Lair in Laos during the Vietnam conflict. He’s a wily old cuss—smart, tough as nails, and totally loyal to the United States, thanks in large part to the rapport he had with his case officer, Bill Lair. And this is despite the fact that the U.S. abandoned the Hmong tribesmen after the war.

“What a disgrace. Anyway, I met him through his son, a bright graduate student at Chiang Mai University. The kid serves as a spotter for us among the academic community in Thailand. Spotting his dad was by far his crowning achievement. It paid for his education.”

Mac was taking notes furiously on his yellow pad. “So he’s been to both warehouses and knows the routes between them.”

“Right. The information the guy has given us has been invaluable. It was instrumental in our recent crackdowns on Khun Ut, which of course led to his retaliatory attack on our consulate in Chiang Mai.”

“And you have casings of the warehouses and have mapped the donkey routes.” “The warehouse casings are not a problem.” She dug down into her large black bag, pulled out a folder and handed it to him. “Here they are. I Xeroxed them on water-soluble paper so you can flush them after you study them. I also included Khun Ut’s villa in Ban Hin Taek and GPS coordinates for all three locations.”

“That’s terrific, Charly. You’re way out in front of me.”

“I usually am. Anyway, when you read them you won’t be so pleased. The security around all three locations is tight. They’re surrounded by guards armed with automatic weapons. They’ve also got a couple of Huey gunships with mini guns to protect them. You can’t get within a thousand meters of any of them.

“The donkey routes are less clear. There’s no one route they take each time. They just wander down through the jungle on animal trails. I solved that problem by giving VANGUISH– that’s his cryptonym, you don’t need to know his name – a stainless steel Rolex watch with a GPS built into it. Pretty neat, eh?”

“Very neat. Go on.”

“Well, actually we had his son give it to him. He needed to be able to explain how he got such an expensive item. So now we can track his every move through the jungle, in real time, from Ban Hin Taek to Mae Chan.” She sat back, proud of herself, and drained her glass.

“Good work. Excellent. That must have taken some convincing on your part.” He refilled their glasses. “How did you get him to agree to all that? How’d you recruit the guy?”

“Truth be told, it wasn’t hard at all. I was just lucky to find him. He’s a brave old cuss who sees his cooperation with me and the Agency as an extension of what he did with Bill Lair and the Hmong hill tribes in Laos way back when. You’ve heard of Bill Lair, right?”

“Of course. Met him once right after I joined the Agency. He spoke to us down at The Farm. We had a reception for him afterward. A good ‘ole Texas boy who married into Thai royalty and spent most of his career in Thailand, a true legend in the CIA.”

“Yes, and his legend lives on in Vanguish.”

“Fitting. Did you pick out that cryptonym?”

“I did indeed.”

“Nice touch. So, you think we should stay clear of the warehouses and concentrate on the donkey trails.” 

“That’s the way I see it. The only way to get to the warehouses is to bomb them, but we can’t get the Thais to agree to that. But if you can intercept one of the donkey caravans…well, that’s probably your best shot, and Vanguish and I can help with that.”

“One more thing and then I’ve got to get you back on your way to Chiang Mai. Tell me what you know about General Sawat Ruchupan.”

“How do you know about him?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story. Rothmann put us in touch with an arms dealer down in the Florida Keys, the guy who outfitted us with our weapons and the chemicals.

“He in turn put us in touch with the general, the one who received the shipment. He turned the stuff over to us yesterday and offered his services in other ways as well. He’s a pilot. Has a helicopter and a plane. I thought he could be useful to us because we have no support structure out here.”

“I’d be very careful when dealing with General Sawat. He profited greatly from the drug trade under Khun Sa. He was known at the time as one of the most corrupt police generals in Thailand, and—believe me—that’s saying something.

“Then, when General Prem Tinsulanonda took over as Prime Minister, back in the early nineteen-eighties, things changed rapidly. Prem and the DEA decided they had had enough and decided to push Khun Sa out of Thailand. By then, Khun Sa had built up his empire to the point where it was providing more than seventy per cent of the heroin consumed in the U.S.

“So Prem leaned on General Sawat and persuaded him to change sides. Sawat did and the rest is history. The Thai army and police attacked Khun Sa’s headquarters in Ban Hin Taek with tanks and planes and, after several days of violent fighting, managed to force Khun Sa and his SUA army to retreat across the border into Burma. That ended Khun Sa’s rule in the Golden Triangle.”

“So how’s the relationship between Khun Ut and General Sawat today?”

“Not great, but word has it that the general still benefits from Khun Ut’s drug trade, despite the fact that he’s retired now and out of the chain of command. They’ve apparently reached some sort of a modus vivendi.”

“Damn…so he’s not trustworthy.”

“No, I didn’t say that. To the extent that any former corrupt police general can be trusted, General Sawat has the reputation of being a straight shooter. He works for anyone who will pay him. The word is he keeps his clients compartmented and tries not to cross wires.”

“So we should trust, but verify, in the words of Ronald Reagan.”

She laughed. “Something like that.”

“Okay Charly, you’ve got to get out of here. You’ve been here over an hour already.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun. Are you sure we can’t stretch this out just a little bit longer?” She gave him a look that promised everything.

He shook his head. “I’d love to, Charly, and I mean that. Just keep your phone handy in case I need some more of your help on this. Okay?” He grabbed his cell phone and punched in Culler’s number.

She stood up and flipped her hair back from her face. “Okay Mac, I’ll stand by the phone. Just like the old days.”

MacMurphy spoke into his phone. “She’s on her way down.”

She gathered her things and Mac walked her to the door, but before he could open it she put her hand on his outstretched arm and stopped him. She turned and took his face in her hands, brushing his lips with hers.

He hesitated. “No, Charly, you’ve got to leave.”

She pulled open the door and was halfway into the hall when she turned back to him and uttered, “You really are a mean bastard.”

 

Chapter Thirty

 

 

Santos dropped a one hundred baht note on the bar and prepared to leave. He was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes and a blue, short-sleeved Thai silk shirt that barely covered the large Heckler and Koch .45 caliber handgun holstered in the small of his back.

The Thai surveillant sat awkwardly in the same chair in the middle of the lobby. He pretended to read a magazine, but his eyes never left the elevator banks at the rear of the lobby.

Exiting the elevator, Charly briskly crossed the lobby between Santos and the surprised surveillant, her high heels clacking rhythmically on the marble floor.

The surveillant fumbled with his magazine, dropped it on the floor, lurched out of his chair, and fell in behind her, stuffing his cell phone in his pocket as he hurried to keep up.

She pushed through the revolving door and headed out into the night with the Thai close behind her, and Santos close behind him.

One behind the other, the three of them hurried through the city streets of Chiang Rai until they reached the two-story parking garage where Charly had left her car.

Two blocks off of the main strip made a huge difference in both foot and vehicular traffic. Aside from the well lit parking garage, the surrounding streets were quiet and dark. She stopped at the kiosk at the garage entrance, paid her bill, and one of the valets went running up the ramp for her car.

The surveillant stepped into the shadows at the corner of the garage and watched. When she had finished paying and moved to the waiting area, he darted across the dark street toward a lone black, beat-up old Toyota parked illegally in a fire zone a half block down the road across from the garage entrance.

A red and white, official-looking permit was visible on the dashboard. Santos guessed it gave the owner permission to park in restricted zones. Incipient corruption, he thought.

Santos figured that, since the surveillant had made no effort to use his cell phone to alert anyone else to Charly’s movements, he was probably alone on the job. That was a good thing. He only had to worry about neutralizing one person.

Santos circled around and darted across the dark, tree-lined street behind the surveillant. He moved quietly but rapidly in a low crouch and came up behind the unsuspecting Thai just as he rounded the car on the curbside and was about to put his key in the car’s door.

The surveillant was so intent on keeping his rabbit and the garage in sight that he never noticed the big farang moving up behind him.

The surveillant leaned toward the car, fumbling in the dark intently focused on trying to fit his key in the door. Santos slipped up behind him and brought both hands out and around and cuffed him on both ears in a powerful clap. The surveillant went down like a stone.

Santos stood motionless for several moments and surveyed the area around him. The attendant in the parking kiosk looked up momentarily and went back to reading his magazine. Two young Thai strollers, walking hand in hand further down the street, looked back in the direction of the sound but, seeing nothing, continued on their way. A car drove by, illuminating the empty street.

Santos kneeled down in the shadow of the car and quickly removed the surveillant’s watch and wallet. He pulled a money clip with about five hundred baht in small bills out of one front pocket and his cell phone from the other. He stuffed everything into the side pocket of his shirt.

He rolled the unconscious man off of the curb down into the gutter, partially under the car. Spotting the car keys laying in the gutter, he put these in his pocket as well.

Santos reached down and felt the jugular vein for a pulse. Well, you’re alive you little fucker, he thought, but you’re going to have one hell of a headache when you wake up, and your ears will be ringing like a Christmas string quartet for a month.

Santos stood up, watched Blackburn’s car exit the garage and turn south, took another look around him, and casually strolled back to the Wangcome Hotel. He walked straight through the lobby to the elevator bank, up to MacMurphy’s room, and knocked quietly on the door.

Opening the door, Mac saw Santos standing there with a big, shit-eating grin. His big outstretched hands contained the surveillant’s belongings. “Brought you a present, Mac,” he said.

“Pretty good haul for your first mugging, Culler. Now get in here before you get arrested. Tell me all about it, and then I’ll brief you on my meeting with Charly Blackburn.”

 

 

Chapter Thirty-One

 

 

The next morning Mac called General Sawat and arranged for an airplane tour of the Golden Triangle. He wanted to get a feel for the topography of the area and a look at the two warehouses and Khun Ut’s headquarters from the air. They agreed to meet at the restaurant of the general aviation section of the Chiang Mai airport at noon.

Noi met them at the entrance of the restaurant, greeting them with a respectful wai, revealing her deep cleavage. “Sawatdee kha,” she purred.

The men returned the wai and greeted her in Thai, “Sawatdee khrap.”

She spoke to one of the waiters who led them to a table at a window overlooking the airstrip. The table was already set with a tray of Thai appetizers, gueyteow noodles, assorted satays and a pot of tea. She served them with typical Thai grace while Ling Ling, peeking out of the top of Noi’s oversized bag, yapped at Culler, who glared back at the mutt. “General Sawat will join us shortly,” she said. “He is preparing the plane for our tour.”

The dog continued to yap at Culler and Noi muzzled the mutt with her hand, quieting the obnoxious animal momentarily.

“Will little Ling Ling be joining us on our little tour of the Golden Triangle?” Santos asked.

“Of course Ling Ling will join us,” she purred, clucking at the dog. “She is my baby.” She snuggled the dog, kissed it on the snout, and fed it a piece of spring roll from her dish. “Aren’t you, my little sweetie?” she said.

Santos forced himself to smile, leaned toward her, and said in a calm, controlled voice, “But, my dear, if you can’t control little Ling Ling’s incessant yapping, I will personally wring her neck, skin her and eat her for dinner.”

Noi’s eyes widened and the dog whimpered as she squeezed it tightly to her breast, muzzling it with a hand to protect it from the huge farang monster.

Mac looked over at Culler with a combination of disapproval and admiration. Santos had echoed his thoughts precisely, but MacMurphy would never be so confrontational in a situation like this. He needed Noi as an ally, or at least neutral. If she turned on them, she could turn the general against them, and that would not be good for the mission.

The tension of the moment was broken with the arrival of the general.

He approached the table with a spring in his step, greeting them with a wai and in a jovial voice, “My friends, I am happy to see you are enjoying your lunch. I hope you enjoy the food. This is not the finest restaurant in Northern Thailand, but I have selected items from the menu that are within the chef’s capabilities.

“The plane has been prepped and is ready to go whenever you are, but first let us finish our lunch. I have an excellent tour mapped out for you.”

If he noticed the pout on Noi’s face, he didn’t react to it at all.

They finished eating, with Noi only picking at her food, and followed the general down the tarmac to the aircraft. The general did a final inspection and removed the chocks from the wheels and the tethers from the wings. Then they all began to climb aboard the aircraft.

Sawat said, “Noi, you and Ling Ling sit in the back with Mr. Ralph. Bob, you come up front with me. It is a beautiful day for a tour of the mighty Mekong and the Golden Triangle.”

Seeing the expression of shock and discomfort on Noi’s face, Mac smiled and suggested that he and “Ralph” sit in the back, with Noi and Ling Ling up front next to the general.

Visibly relieved at the new seating arrangements, she bowed deeply to Mac. The general was oblivious to the whole act being played out before him.

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Two