Plausible Denial (4 page)

Suze-La-Rousse, Southern France

M
acMurphy
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

T
hey
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

B
ack
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?”