Plausible Denial (3 page)

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

R
ising
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

T
he
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