Plausible Denial (2 page)

“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)

K
hun
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

A
t
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

T
he
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.