Final Answers (31 page)

Kate navigates from another of Timothy’s maps, leading the way along unpaved roads, past rice paddies and freshly tilled farmland. We walk in tense silence for about twenty minutes, finally coming over a bluff to see the river snaking across the landscape below.

Lights wink in the darkness on the opposite shore, beckoning us. Taunting us. Laos is less than a half mile away. Vientiane barely ten.

We make our way through tall reeds and bullrushes to a sandy cove below the bluff, and open the trunk. Two striped handles protrude from within. Kate and I each grab one and lift out the Zodiac.

At the moment, it’s a volume of precisely folded, feather-light, and indestructible space-age fabric. But the instant I pull the inflation ring, the vessel begins taking on its distinctive shape with a steady hiss. Its sharply veed prow and cylindrical sidewalls spring forth from a rigid transom that not only connects them, but also contains a small propulsion system and tiller.

According to Timothy, who compulsively recited the nomenclature, this compact, two-man model was specially developed to enable Navy SEALs to infiltrate inland waterways after being airdropped into the jungle. Like Noah’s ark, it has two of everything: flashlights, binoculars, nylon ponchos, packets of greasepaint, collapsible paddles, emergency rations, and first-aid kits. Due to the ingenious design and use of materials, the entire package weighs just over forty pounds.

Kate and I start by blackening each other’s faces with the grease-paint. When finished, we sink the trunk in the river, then don the ponchos, more for camouflage than warmth, and push off in the Zodiac. Our supply of fuel is limited. Instead of using the motor, we paddle into the channel, letting the current take us.

This is the closest I’ve ever felt to being back in-country. Compared to this, the trip up the Chao Phraya to Timothy’s was like a Sunday afternoon sail in Santa Monica Bay. This is the Mekong. The infamous river that not only separates Thailand and Laos, but snakes thousands of miles south through Cambodia and the southernmost part of Vietnam to the delta where it empties into the South China Sea. The infamous river in which I’d bathed, fought, and almost died.

It narrows in this short north-south leg, the sharp bends at either end slowing the current that still sweeps us along at a steady clip. We use the paddles to change direction and avoid the occasional piece of floating debris.

Soon, far ahead in the darkness, where the Mekong turns west again, the lights of Vientiane appear. All we have to do now is
make it to the opposite shore before the current accelerates and takes us past our target—a small shipping canal that branches north on the outskirts of the city. Kate is huddling beneath her poncho with a flashlight, checking the map, when a powerful beam of light suddenly splits the darkness and sweeps past overhead.

An instant later, the distant outline of a boat emerges from the blackness. The gun turret in the bow eliminates any chance it might be a fishing vessel or ferry. Kate and I slouch under our ponchos to present as low a profile as possible. I begin guiding the Zodiac closer to the shoreline. She works herself into a prone position in the bow to search for the buoy that marks the mouth of the canal. The beam comes sweeping back toward us. A surge of adrenaline hits me as the circle of light races across the choppy surface, passing perilously close to the Zodiac. The patrol boat is bearing down on us when Kate spots the buoy’s purple light bobbing in the darkness ahead. I fire up the Zodiac’s propulsion system and jam the tiller hard left. The bow kicks sharply toward shore as the tiny vessel breaks free of the current. The sudden acceleration sends sheets of water spraying over us. I maneuver around the channel buoy into the canal moments before the onrushing boat glides past, unaware of our presence.

We continue to motor upstream against the current in search of the next landmark, a small bridge where we’re to go ashore and ditch the Zodiac in favor of ground transportation. But the river valley is draped with fog. It soon becomes so dense, Kate and I can hardly see each other, let alone the passing terrain. We continue on, weaving through an area overgrown with reeds and water grasses. A short time later, we notice a ghostly form looming just ahead. The bridge emerges from the mist and is suddenly upon us. I punch the throttle and angle toward the bank, sending the Zodiac skimming across the surface onto a muddy flat directly beneath the narrow span.

For better or worse, we’re in Laos.

We hide the Zodiac in a grove of bamboo next to the bridge, then shed the ponchos and use water from the canal to wash the greasepaint from our faces.

A shallow embankment leads up to the road that winds through a farming area. Kate and I hurry to a thicket of eucalyptus trees off to one side. Deep within the overgrowth, as Timothy promised, is an old left-hand drive Peugeot sedan. The paint is faded and the
tires are bald, but the keys are in the ignition, and a street map of the city is on the seat. The locations of the bridge and the Pepsi-Cola plant are clearly marked, as is the most direct route between them. I uncap a marker and go to work on it.

“What are you doing?”

“Being paranoid.”

“Afraid they might be waiting for us?”

“Uh-huh. A very smart lady once taught me to beware of locals who sell info to the enemy.”

I quickly work out an alternate route, then turn the ignition key. To my relief, the Peugeot’s engine kicks over on the first try. I maneuver it through the trees to the road, keeping the headlights off. We head west across the bridge, its aging timbers thumping loudly in protest. The road is narrow, poorly paved, and unfamiliar, and I turn the headlights on as soon as I’m certain we aren’t being followed. The closer we get to the city, the more the pavement and signage, which is now in French as well as Lao, improve. We drive several miles west on Rue Tha Deua, making a right where it angles past Wat Ammon, a steepled temple encrusted with centuries of moss.

The sun is still below the horizon when we spot a large warehouse-type structure in the distance. There’s nothing to suggest it’s a heroin refinery, nor is there anything else distinctive about it, other than the huge, dimly illuminated bottle cap on the roof that proclaims PEPSI.

The infamous symbol of fizz, fun, and free enterprise—fully endorsed by Madonna and Michael Jackson—is a strange sight in this country where, despite the name Lao People’s Democratic Republic, tyrannical Communism rules. I’ve consumed a lot of Pepsi in my day, but, until now, it never really dawned on me that its colors are red, white, and blue.

We continue to the top of the next hill, then leave the road and pull into a grove of trees that overlooks the plant. Kate fetches the binoculars we took from the Zodiac. Both pairs. We begin checking the place out. It reminds me of the manufacturing plants in the San Fernando Valley: painted steel, flat-roofed, surrounded by a parking lot and high chain link fence. The entrance and exit gates flank a security kiosk where a guard is posted. An electronic box, with a slot into which drivers insert a card to open the entrance gate, is atop a post adjacent to the kiosk. Probably to avoid calling
attention to itself, the building is poorly maintained, the grounds unkempt.

“That guard is armed,” Kate notes with concern.

“I wish he was our only problem.”

Despite adhering to our plan, despite arriving at an hour when the plant should be shut down, the lights are ablaze and the parking lot is filled with cars, scooters, and bicycles.

“They get started early around here. Don’t they?” Kate observes glumly, getting the message.

“The upside is, they probably knock off early too. We’ll just have to hang around until they do.”

Kate sighs and makes a face. “It’s going to be a long day.”

I nod thoughtfully as a different and much more troublesome scenario occurs to me. I’ll know one way or the other soon enough and decide not to alarm her. A couple of hours later, at precisely 8
A.M.,
my fears are confirmed when a whistle blows and the shift changes. They weren’t early starters, they were the night shift. Though Tickner said the heroin operation is going to be scrapped, it’s going round the clock now. It obviously never shuts down. Our plan is a bust. If getting into Laos was a bitch, getting into this place is going to make it look like a piece of cake.

T
ime and time again, I drummed it into my squad, my staff, my daughters, and myself: If something can possibly go wrong, it will

And it has.

Twice.

Not only hasn’t the plant shut down, but also, despite being parked at this vantage point for almost eight hours, we’ve seen no sign whatsoever of Chen Dai. Considering his occupation and hefty profit margin, I figure he wouldn’t arrive in anything less than an armored limo. So, unless he’s driving a dusty compact, he isn’t here.

I’ve been watching the comings and goings and thinking about those cop shows I’ve seen where weary detectives spend days in their cars, living on cold coffee and stale donuts. Right about now, I’d give anything for a Winchell’s maple-glazed, not to mention a way to get inside the plant. I’m staring at the huge bottle cap on the roof and working the problem for the umpteenth time, when Kate returns from a visit to some nearby bushes.

“Anything?” she prompts, sliding into the seat.

I shake my head no.

She tears open a bar of survival rations from the Zodiac, takes a bite, and scowls. “I thought the DEA said Chen Dai spends most of his time here.”

“When he isn’t at his compound in Pak Seng.”

“Well, we can’t wait forever. Sooner or later somebody’s going to spot us.”

I nod grimly, a hollow sense of defeat growing in my stomach. I can’t believe we’ve come this far, come so close, only to come up empty.

“Besides,” Kate goes on with a grin, “I may be a farm girl, but peeing in the woods has never been my idea of a good time.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Making me laugh. Got any ideas?”

“I’m in real estate, remember? The closest I get to anything like this is an open house where nobody comes.”

“Vietnam.”

“What about it?”

“That was the closest I got. Engaging the enemy was always a problem. Charlie’d hit and run, hit and run. Drove us crazy.”

“How’d you flush him out?”

“Took something that was important to him. Then he’d come running to try and take it back.”

“I don’t think it applies.”

“If we took over Chen Dai’s office, it might.”

“I’m sure that’d get his attention. But we can’t even get through the gate, let alone—”

“Maybe we can,” I interrupt, reflecting on the shift change, on cars pulling up to the gate, on the hands pushing cards into the slot to open it. I get my gym bag from the backseat and start rummaging through it. “I hadn’t thought about going through the gate.”

“What are you looking for?”

“The wallet I took off that gunman.” I find it and begin sorting through the contents. “He was working for Chen Dai. Maybe he had a gate card.”

“And if he did?”

“Not if, Kate,” I reply, holding it up to her. I’ve no doubt that’s what it is. It’s almost identical to the one I use to get into the underground parking garage at my office.

“I don’t see what it gives us. I mean, we can’t just go driving in there.”

“Not at the moment. But if we wait till four . . .”

“The next shift change,” Kate says, seeing where I’m headed.

“Uh-huh. All that coming and going, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance one more car won’t be noticed.”

“Maybe not, but
we
will.”

“I don’t know. Chances are we won’t be the first Westerners to tour this place. The trick is not to go sneaking around. If we look like we belong, they’ll think we do.”

Restless and tense, we spend the next few hours in the Peugeot clock-watching. At precisely 4
P.M.,
the blast of a whistle announces our wait is over. As soon as the shift change is in full swing, we head down the hill toward the refinery. My window is open, and, as we approach the entrance, I ease the Ingram from its holster and tuck the snub-nosed muzzle in the corner formed by the sill and doorpost. My right hand is on the grip and trigger, my left on the steering wheel, elbow bent and resting casually on the sill to conceal the weapon.

I let the car in front of us proceed completely through before advancing toward the gate. The less time the guard has to scrutinize us the better. He waves to one of the departing cars, then glances in our direction. I tighten my grip on the Ingram with one hand, then reach out the window with the other and push the card into the slot. Kate stiffens apprehensively, then sighs with relief as the gate arm raises. I remove the card and slowly drive through into the parking lot, holstering the Ingram beneath my wind-breaker. We cross the grounds unnoticed by the arriving and departing workers, who wear ID badges and use a secured personnel entrance. I park at the opposite end of the building where some broad steps, double doors, and a row of windows suggest the lobby and administrative offices are located.

An armed guard is posted at the entrance. Like the one at the gate, he has military bearing, a neatly pressed uniform with name tag above the pocket, and a walkie-talkie riding his hip along with his sidearm. Will he assume we’ve been cleared at the gate? Assume we have a reason to be here? Or will he challenge us? Kate and I leave the car and approach at a casual pace. The knot in my gut tightens as he blocks our way and addresses us in French.

Kate responds in Thai. As Vann Nath explained, Thai and Lao are mutually intelligible and they have no trouble communicating. From their tone and gestures, it’s obvious the guard is giving her a hard time, and she’s standing her ground. The give and take
continues until something Kate says gives him pause. There’s another brief exchange before he nods and steps aside.

“What was that all about?” I ask, as we cross toward the entrance.

“He said state your business. I made up a story about having important information for Chen Dai. He said he wasn’t here and insisted we leave. I asked him what he was going to say when the DEA shows up and Chen Dai finds out he turned us away.”

“You’ve got a lot of chutzpah, kid.”

“I’m going to need lots more,” she says anxiously. “We still have to get through a security check inside.”

The lobby is a typical industrial space: terrazzo, fluorescents, and metal partitions that funnel us to the checkpoint dead ahead. It’s more of a corridor than an office. Visitors enter at one end and, if they’re cleared by the guard posted in an alcove at the midpoint, exit the other. Judging from the epaulets on his tropical tans, he’s an officer. The only way into this place is through him.

“Same story and ask to see Chen Dai?” Kate prompts in a tense whisper as we approach.

“Asking’s no longer an option,” I reply, eyeing the airport metal detector that frames the doorway. I reach inside my windbreaker for the Ingram. “This guy’s going to personally escort us right into Chen Dai’s office. You understand?”

Kate nods, then reaches into her shoulder bag and grips the pistol. The instant we cross the threshold, the detector beeps, startling the guard. He looks up from some paperwork to see the Ingram pointed at his head, and freezes. While Kate closes the door, I step forward and slip the sidearm from his holster.

“Ask him if Chen Dai will be here tomorrow.”

The guard responds to the translation with a defiant glare.

“Tell him we want a meeting. A peaceful one.”

He smirks and shifts his eyes to the Ingram. I lower the muzzle slightly to reassure him. “Make sure he understands we won’t hurt him or Chen Dai if he cooperates.”

The guard studies me warily but finally responds, causing Kate to scowl in disappointment.

“He said, Chen Dai’s up north this week.”

“Shit. Can he be reached by phone?”

The guard nods.

“Okay, tell him we’ll be setting up shop in Chen Dai’s office. All three of us. He’ll make the call from there.”

Kate translates, eyeing me curiously as I remove the clip from the officer’s sidearm and give the gun back to him. “I wouldn’t want somebody wondering why he’s walking around with an empty holster.”

“Or wondering why he left his post.”

“Hadn’t thought of that. Tell him to get a subordinate to cover for him.”

“I did.”

The guard handles it over his walkie-talkie, then leads the way from the checkpoint. We take a staircase to the second floor and enter a large executive office. It reminds me of a skybox in the Astrodome. Except that the window wall, which usually overlooks the playing field, has a view of a heroin refinery.

It’s a stunning sight.

In contrast to the rundown facade, the interior is a slick, high-tech operation. A row of huge stainless steel vats, used to distill the super-pure heroin from opium, are linked by miles of ducting and pipe chases that snake between them in perfect alignment. A network of catwalks used to service the equipment hangs overhead. One wall is a mass of dials, gauges, and electrical panels. Another is lined with fifty-gallon drums of chemicals. White, spotless, and with glass partitions between work stations where personnel toil in lab smocks, surgical masks, and gloves, the vast space resembles a cross between a brewery and one of the clean rooms at Cape Canaveral.

Kate and I exchange incredulous looks.

The guard is stone-faced.

“Okay. Tell our friend here to make the call. Points to be covered are: our names, our reason for being here, our peaceful intentions, and our location.”

Kate translates, then monitors our side of the telephone conversation, nodding occasionally to indicate the guard is following instructions. After several exchanges, he pauses and offers me the phone. I’m surprised and hesitate. He nods several times, insisting I take it.

“Yes?” I say, my voice cracking with tension.

“Mr. Morgan? My apologies for not being there to extend a
proper welcome,” Chen Dai enthuses. “Suffice it to say, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. It gives me great pleasure to tell you your bearded friend blew the assignment.”

“Evidently so. You’re an admirable and tenacious adversary. I’m more than intrigued by the prospect of meeting you and Mrs. Ackerman. Unfortunately I am, at minimum, several hours’ journey from Vientiane.”

“Take your time. We’ll be here.”

“Very well, Mr. Morgan. Please feel free to make yourselves comfortable.”

His English is refined. The syntax straight out of Oxford, the accent more French than Asian, the pace measured, and, as Tickner mentioned, the attitude disturbingly confident. I hang up feeling a little disarmed and settle down to wait.

In marked contrast to the scene out the window, the office is like something out of China in the fifties. The walls are sheathed in silk and hung with ethereal landscapes. An ornate oriental rug covers the floor. All the seating is upholstered in intricate brocade.

The guard has a woman bring tea and rice cakes.

Darkness falls.

Several anxious hours pass before I hear a distant whisk. It sends a chill through me as it gets louder and segues to a haunting
whomp.
The room starts to vibrate. I cross to a window just as two parallel shafts of light come over the building and sweep across the parking area. Suddenly a helicopter appears, its purple and white strobes winking in the darkness as it circles around to the entrance, landing out of view.

Chen Dai is here.

The security officer takes up a position off to one side of the door. Kate and I take seats facing it, weapons at the ready. Several minutes pass before we detect approaching footsteps. Rather than the thumping, stormtrooper cadence I anticipated, they fall with surprising softness, and are accompanied by an intermittent click.

The door creaks open, slowly.

An elderly man enters alone, paying no attention to the guard who closes the door after him. He’s short and lean, and dressed in a gray military suit with a mandarin collar like those worn by Chinese political leaders. His posture is slightly stooped, and though he appears much older than the photograph on Tickner’s
board, there’s no doubt it’s Chen Dai. He crosses the room at a geriatric pace, using a cane to keep his balance, and slowly settles into a wingback chair opposite us. His feet barely touch the floor. When he’s comfortable, he glances to the security officer and dismisses him with a flick of his cane.

“You have me now,” Chen Dai explains, reading my mind. He smiles thinly and studies us in silence.

I return his gaze, at long last face-to-face with the notorious drug lord who gave the order to kill me, who’s responsible for Nancy’s death, who bought—
bought
—Kate’s husband and had him executed. But he looks more like Confucius than Genghis Khan. More like somebody’s grandfather than the legendary nasty piece of work. His face is tired and hollow, the skin pale and translucent with age, yet his eyes are alert and without a hint of malice, or fear, for that matter. It bothers me: He knows who we are, knows we’re armed, knows we have an axe to grind, yet he walked in here alone and unarmed.

Finally, Chen Dai’s eyes shift slowly to the Ingram. “I was under the impression your intentions were peaceful.”

“They are,” I reply sharply. “We ask questions. You answer , them. We leave. Agreed?”

“Agreed. You won’t need that, I assure you.”

“I might if I decide to tell you what I think of you and your operation.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Morgan, but I think what you’re implying is unfair. This is a purely humanitarian endeavor.”

“Spare us the propaganda speech, okay?”

“That’s what you Americans always say when the truth doesn’t suit your purpose.”

“The truth?”

“Yes. For your edification, thousands of decent, hardworking people depend on this operation for their survival. Families, for the most part, who spend their days eking out livings from harsh, unforgiving land.”

“I grew up on a farm,” Kate says, seething. “My family struggled through droughts and blights. More than once they almost lost everything. Some of their friends did. But not one of them used their hardships to justify criminal behavior.”

“Is it criminal to exploit one’s sole resource?” Chen Dai challenges rhetorically. “I think not. No, Mrs. Ackerman, in Houa Phan
Province, opium is the equivalent of wheat to Kansas, petroleum to Saudi Arabia.” He pauses, reflecting on a thought. “The Saudis are the perfect analogy, you know? They have two things in abundance: sand and petroleum. We have rice and opium. Need I say more? If I could sell the former for the price of the latter, I would gladly be in the produce business.”