Plausible Denial (13 page)

Khun
Ut spun out of his chair and walked to the expanse of windows across the front
of the room. He studied the village below and then lifted his gaze toward the
towering Doi Tung Mountain on the other side.

He
thought back to the first time he had played in this room as a small boy with
Khun Sa’s son.

Khun Ut was
born Duangdee Khemmawongse in Ban Hin Taek. His father was pure Akha, and his
mother was half-Chinese, half-Akha. His family lived on the outskirts of the
village, in a thatched roof hut with a dirt floor, among the pigs and chickens.
As long as he could remember, they had worked in one capacity or another in the
opium trade.

As
is the custom in Thailand, he was given a nickname shortly after his birth.
While most Thai nicknames reflect what the baby looked like at birth, his parents
chose Ut, which had no particular meaning. They just liked the sound of the
name.

Ut
had a vague recollection of the time when Khun Sa first arrived in Ban Hin
Taek. He remembered Khun Sa as a handsome, charismatic man who gave the dirt
poor villagers hope of better times in the future: a future where opium would
be more than just a remedy for their ills and an escape from their troubles,
but one which would bring them heretofore unimaginable wealth and prosperity.

Khun
Sa came to the village with his wife and three children, one of whom was a
three-year-old boy, the same age as Ut. The boys quickly became inseparable,
and they grew up as brothers while Khun Sa built up his opium empire and
brought prosperity to the small village.

By
the time the boys reached the age of thirteen, they were constantly at his
side, collecting opium from farmers and delivering it to refineries deep in the
jungle.

And
as Khun Sa’s empire expanded, the boys took on ever increasing responsibility,
and their power and wealth increased commensurately.

Ut,
the smarter boy by far, reveled in his newfound status and soon began to
overshadow Khun Sa’s natural son, much to the chagrin of Khun Sa at first, but
soon with the resignation that the two boys complimented each other and would
always be together at his side.

When
the forces of the Thai army and border patrol attacked Khun Sa’s Ban Hin Taek
stronghold, Khun Sa lost many of his men, including his son, in the fighting.
He also lost guns and ammunition worth more than two million dollars.

Ut
was badly wounded in the right leg by shrapnel, making it impossible for him to
retreat with Khun Sa. The injury left him with a permanent limp and the resolve
to recover his former lifestyle and climb back to the top of the heap, with or
without Khun Sa.

By
then Ut was twenty-one years, a seasoned veteran of the opium trade. While Khun
Sa roamed the hills of Burma trying to avoid capture with the remnants of his
SUA army, Ut remained in Ban Hin Taek and quietly began to rebuild Khun Sa’s
empire.

He
adopted the name Khun Ut and took up permanent residence in Khun Sa’s mountain
retreat overlooking Ban Hin Taek. No one challenged his right to be there.

Khun
Sa remained on the run, hounded by Burmese authorities, for the next ten years.
He finally surrendered in 1996 and was held in house arrest in Rangoon until
his death in 2001.

The
drug trade under the direction of Khun Ut was by this time restored to the
point where it was once again becoming a nuisance to the Thai and Burmese
governments, and a particular menace to the U.S. government. It had reached a
point where its production amounted to forty-five percent of the U.S. heroin
supply, rivaled only by Afghanistan.

Under
pressure from the U.S., the Burmese started shelling the border region around
Ban Hin Taek and made preparations for an invasion to wipe out the drug trade.
But the Thai government protested the invasion of its territory vigorously,
forcing the Burmese to call it off and leaving Khun Ut to manage his revived
drug empire with minimum resistance.

Ut shook
himself out of his reverie and returned to the moment.
That is the answer.
She was meeting with some outside CIA people. That is why she didn’t meet with
them at the consulate in Chiang Mai. It is an outside team. Maybe paramilitary.

He
turned to face the Cambodian and gestured with his cheroot. “The filthy maggots
sent a team in to get us. But the Thais will not help them this time, and they
can not do anything without the consent of the Thai government. They must respect
Thai sovereignty. Double up on the surveillance of Blackburn and the other
suspected CIA officers at the consulate.” He pumped his cheroot at the
Cambodian. “And get me a list of everyone registered at the Wangcome Hotel on
the night of the incident. I will bet you a million Baht that if we concentrate
on registrations of single, non-Thai
farangs
we will find our CIA team.”

The
Cambodian smiled broadly, which only made him look more grotesque. He dug into
his pocket and unfolded two sheets of paper. “I anticipated your request.
Eleven rooms are occupied by single male
farangs
. Five of them are
Americans.”

“Good
work, Ung Chea. You know what to do next.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

S
antos
and MacMurphy returned to their hotel to consider their next move. They
showered and changed out of their sweaty clothes and spent the remainder of the
afternoon going over the maps and casings of Khun Ut’s warehouse and
headquarters.

They
discussed possible operational approaches and agreed that whatever approach
they decided to take would, regrettably, have to exclude the use of Charly
Blackburn and her Hmong asset, Vanquish.

Using
Vanquish would clearly be the easiest and best route to take, but it risked
exposing Charly and the CIA hand. Since Edwin Rothmann had made it clear that
he did not want any connection to the CIA, they would have to do it without
her.

Charly
Blackburn could only be used as a conduit for information. No more personal
meetings would be held, if they could be avoided. Their one face-to-face
meeting had already demonstrated the risks involved in meeting with her.

They
were up against a ruthless adversary, but one that was also astute and
professional.

Efficiency
gives way to security to some degree in clandestine tradecraft. It was like a
child’s seesaw.When security was highest, efficiency was lowest and vice versa.
They would err on the side of caution and security for the time being.

By
six o’clock their brains were saturated with studying maps and photos and
casings. Mac decided he needed a drink, so they made their way down to the bar
before heading out to dinner. Both men wore short-sleeved, untucked shirts to
conceal the .45 caliber H&K weapons they carried in the small of their
backs.

Santos
nursed a frosty Kloster beer while MacMurphy downed two vodka martinis on the
rocks. Santos had decided he had had enough spicy Thai food for awhile and
suggested they grab a steak someplace. He explained that he needed the
fortification that only red meat would bring him for the day that lay ahead of
them.

They
got directions from the bartender to an American-style steakhouse on the south
end of the city and headed down to the garage to retrieve their car. Culler
drove and Mac, feeling relaxed with the effects of the two martinis, did not
object.

On
their way to the Texas Steakhouse, Culler asked Mac if tomorrow was too soon to
launch their operation at the Mae Chan warehouse.

Mac
replied, “Everything we need is in the back of this car and there’s nothing
more we can do in Chiang Rai, so I guess tomorrow’s as good a day as any,
unless you want to sleep in.”

“Yeah,
right. I’m not the one who sleeps like a teenager.”

MacMurphy
leaned back in his seat and massaged his temples. He gazed out the window as
they sped past bicycles, Honda 50cc motorbikes with whole families aboard, and
thatched roof shacks on bamboo stilts lining the side of the road. “Sleep is
good for the soul, my friend. Perhaps you should get more of it. Maybe then you
wouldn’t be so cranky.”

“There
it is,” said Culler. “Up there on the right. The Texas Steakhouse. Finally
we’re going to get some real sustenance.”

Aside
from the exterior surroundings, the interior of the Texas Steakhouse looked
like something you would find anywhere from Tysons Corner to SoHo—dark paneled
walls lined with burgundy banquets under racks of wine bottles. A stuffed Angus
bull guarded the entrance.

Culler
Santos devoured a bloody, sixteen-ounce New York Strip steak and sipped on
another bottle of the local Kloster beer while Mac picked on a six-ounce filet
mignon with pepper sauce and quashed it down with most of a sixty dollar bottle
of French Bordeaux wine.

Both
shunned the desert cart, but Mac selected a chunk of ripe Camembert cheese from
the cheese cart to accompany the remainder of the Bordeaux. Then he ordered a
cognac to settle everything down. Santos topped off his meal with a sweet
cappuccino coffee.

Mac
was quite mellow by now, relaxed and talkative, while Culler mostly listened
and observed his surroundings. When he responded to a question from Mac, he
noticed that Mac seemed distracted, swirling the cognac in his glass.

“I
can see you’re sorry you sent Charly back,” Culler said.

“That
obvious?”

“Finish
the drink and let’s head back before you talk me into chasing women.”

On
the drive back to their hotel, they agreed to check out of the Wangcome in the
morning, not too early so Mac could get his beauty sleep, and drive up Route
One toward Ban Mae Chan and Khun Sa’s warehouse.

They
had selected a spot on the map where they could drive in, cache the car and
enter the jungle. The spot was at the edge of the ravine along an old logging
trail about four miles south of Ban Mae Chan. From there they planned to make
their way north on foot until they hit the bottom edge of the ravine. Then they
would make the steep climb up to the warehouse.

After that they
would have to wing it.

Chapter Thirty-Six

M
acMurphy
slept like the dead. The martinis, wine and cognac put him out as soon as his head
touched the pillow. Santos was a different story. He tossed and turned and
listened to the street noises and planned the next day in his mind. When he
finally did fall asleep, he slept fitfully.

At
one forty-seven in the morning, Santos heard loud pounding at the door of the
room directly above him, then muffled voices, then louder voices and then the
sounds of a struggle and then a thud. The thud brought him fully awake, and he
reached for his pistol on the nightstand. The silencer was already attached.

The
muffled sounds of a struggle and shouted commands continued overhead. It
sounded like someone had been rousted from his bed and was being interrogated.
He could not hear what was being said, but it was clearly in English.

Santos’s
mind raced. He quietly slipped out of bed and padded across the room to the
doors which separated his room from Mac’s. He opened the door on his side and
knocked softly. He could hear Mac’s snoring coming from inside. He called to
Mac in hushed tones through the door but the snoring continued.

Cellphone
,
he thought, and darted back across the room to the nightstand. He picked up his
phone and punched Mac’s number on the speed dial. He heard the door to the room
above him slam shut and the noises stopped. He returned to the adjoining door
and listened for ringing, but heard nothing but Mac’s continued snoring.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
he
Cambodian exited room 1150 with his two broad-shouldered cohorts, slamming the
door in frustration behind him. The thugs were dressed alike in black slacks
and tee-shirts with SECURITY written across the back. Both looked like weight
lifters with bulging biceps, although one of them had gone to seed and wore his
pot belly like a proud pregnancy.

The
Cambodian whispered into his lapel microphone. “This is base. It is not Levine
either, but he put up a struggle. He thought we were busting him. He is just
another long-haired, hippy pot-head here to smoke our
gunsha
. Definitely
not a CIA operative.”

He
pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and read from it. “There are two
more Americans in rooms 1048 and 1050 below. We are heading down there to check
them out now. You check out room 922. That will be the lot of them. Over.”

Ung
Chea and his cohorts took the stairs down one flight to the tenth floor. The
hall was quiet as they made their way down the carpeted hall. When they reached
the rooms, the Cambodian stood back and motioned to the heavier of the two men
with his 9mm pistol. “Udom, take the door on the right. Boon-Nam, you take the
door on the left.”

The
two thugs, each holding a .357 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver at the ready,
listened at the two doors. Udom spoke first. “Someone is inside 1048; I can
hear snoring.” 

The
smaller man, ear pinned to the other door, said, “I cannot hear anything here.
No sound.”

“Okay,”
whispered Ung Chea, “Take the snorer first.”

The
Cambodian joined Udom and Boon-Nam at the door of room 1048 and quietly
inserted a key card into the lock. He pushed it all the way in carefully and
then withdrew it. The lights on the lock beeped and signaled green, and he
pushed down on the door handle, opening the door a crack. With the door
partially open, he stepped back into the hallway to let Udom at the door.

Udom
put his ear to the crack and, hearing the continued snoring, signaled okay to
the others. He stuck his .357 in his ankle holster and inserted a wire tool
into the opening, running it up the crack until it hit the security chain. He
closed the door as far as it would go and manipulated the tool up against the
security chain until the chain dropped free and clanged against the door.