Authors: Greg Dinallo
“That’s inhumane, for Godsakes,” I protest. “It’s slavery. It’s against every article of the Geneva Convention.”
“Yes, but to their way of thinking no different than your migrant farm workers, for example.”
“How can you say that?”
“My parents owned several plantations, Mr. Morgan. They sent me to the United States to be educated. UCLA ‘68. I wrote my thesis on the political impact of Caesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers. Perhaps a better analogy would be criminals who have been sentenced to hard labor. My point is that when it comes to these matters, I think it’s very important to be aware of the other side’s mind-set.”
“Can’t hurt,” I reply grudgingly.
“Ask him if he knows where this collective was located,” Kate suggests, fighting to maintain her composure.
“No, he doesn’t,” Vann Nath responds after a short exchange. “It was in Houa Phan Province, in the area around Sam Neua. That’s all he remembers.”
“Opium-growing country,” I say.
Vann Nath nods sharply.
Pha Thi asks a question, gesturing to Kate. He lowers his eyes sadly at Vann Nath’s reply, then goes on at length with heartfelt concern.
“He asked if you were the man’s wife,” Vann Nath explains. “He said he is very sorry to cause you such pain and unhappiness. Furthermore, though he knows it will increase the weight of your sorrow, he thinks you should know that he recalls hearing several shots fired as the patrol was leaving the area.”
Kate pales and lowers her eyes.
“I don’t understand. Is he saying those farmers executed Captain Ackerman?”
“He doesn’t know. It’s possible. It’s also possible the Captain tried to escape, which was his duty. On the other hand, the gunfire may have had absolutely nothing to do with him.”
Kate looks at me forlornly and shrugs. She’s emotionally drained, torn by the uncertainty. I’m on the verge of exhaustion. There’s no more to be said, no more questions to be asked. Vann Nath leads the way down the stairs and out a side door to the street.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” he says, as we near his car.
“Don’t be. It’s something. It’s a start.”
“I’ll talk to some of my contacts about locating that farm collective and give you a call.”
“That’s brings us to another matter,” I say solemnly. “It’d be better if we call you.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up on my tone. “What haven’t you told me, Kate?”
“We’re not at the Oriental anymore,” she replies. “There was an incident today just after you left.”
“The bombing . . . ?”
She nods gravely.
“It was all over the news tonight.”
“The room they blew up was assigned to us. I was the target,” I explain.
“My God. Why?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out. You recall if our names were mentioned?”
“No. No, I don’t believe they were.”
“That’s a relief. You made me an offer today, Mr. Vann Nath.”
“Of course.”
“We’re walking around here unarmed. We have to get our hands on some firepower.”
He nods and thinks for a moment, then turns to Kate. “Have you thought about contacting Timothy?”
Kate sighs. “I tried his number when I was in Hawaii, but I got a silk factory or something. There was no other listing.”
“Who’s Timothy?”
“Timothy Roark,” Kate replies. “You remember I told you I had two contacts here? Timothy was the other. He took me to crash sites.”
“I haven’t seen him in years,” Vann Nath resumes. “I hear he’s become a bit of a recluse, taken to living on a
khlong
north of the city. I’ll see if I can find out where.”
“Listen, I don’t want to put you to a lot of trouble. You sure it’s worth looking this flake up?”
Vann Nath’s eyes flare and lock onto mine like a gun turret ready to fire. “This flake, Mr. Morgan, has two silver stars, four bronze stars with additional citations, and several purple hearts. It would be your privilege to know him.”
“I’m sure it would. This man—he’ll know where we can get weapons?”
“No.” Vann Nath replies with a dramatic pause. “Timothy will have them.”
He hugs Kate, gets in his car, and drives off. We’re standing in the darkness beneath a pair of neon lips sucking on a neon lollipop.
A half hour later we’re back at the hotel.
Kate and I fall on our beds without undressing, the decision to sleep in our clothes prompted as much by exhaustion as modesty. But try as we might, neither of us can fall asleep. I don’t know how long we’ve been tossing and turning. I imagine she can’t get that photograph of her husband out of her mind. I can’t. I’m finally dozing off when I think I hear her getting up. I assume she’s headed down the hall to the bathroom, but a few seconds later, I feel her burrowing in next to me. Like a child sneaking into her parents’ bed during a thunderstorm, she’s frightened and wants the comfort of human contact. To be honest, so do I. It’s a strange feeling being this close to a woman again. A pleasant one. I wrap an arm around her and close my eyes. For the first time, I’m aware of the smell of her perfume.
“Morgan? Come on, Morgan, wake up.” I haven’t been asleep an hour when I hear Kate’s voice and feel her shaking me. I roll over. Daylight’s blasting through the window. It’s morning. I can’t believe it. I slept like a rock. Over eight hours without moving a muscle. I sit up, rubbing out the cobwebs.
Kate is standing at the foot of my bed, smiling like she knows something I don’t. Then she hands me a toothbrush.
I glance across at the other bed. She’s been shopping: A tube of toothpaste, a razor, a can of shaving cream, shampoo, hair brush, and a few pieces of clothing are neatly arranged on the cover.
“There’s a street market around the corner,” she explains, tossing a pair of Jockey shorts on the bed in front of me. They’re custard yellow. “I figured you were a 34/36. Sorry about the color. It’s all they had.”
I grunt unintelligibly, gather a few things, and stumble down the corridor to the bathroom. Twenty minutes or so later, fully reconstituted and dressed, I return to the room.
“I’m starving,” I announce brightly as I sweep through the door.
“What do you say we get something to eat and figure out what we’re going to do next?”
Kate nods stiffly. She has this funny expression on her face. Then her eyes shift slightly to one side of the doorway behind me, the side against which the door hinges open.
I’m about to turn when I hear the floor creak and feel a gun muzzle pushed into my back.
“Don’t move, Mr. Morgan,” a man says sharply.
I freeze. Ajacier’s thugs have found me. I’m waiting for him to pull the trigger, waiting for the searing bullets to tear through my body, when a second man comes around in front of me. He’s a Westerner in his early thirties, casually dressed with neatly combed hair and a hard professional face. He holds his gun on me while the other frisks me from behind. I’m glaring at him, frightened, my mind racing for a way to overcome them, concerned about Kate.
“He’s clean,” the frisker says.
“United States Drug Enforcement Agency, Mr. Morgan,” the one in front says coolly, showing me his identification. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”
I
’m in an office in the United States Embassy on Wireless Road, a broad boulevard where many diplomatic missions are located. In contrast to the architecture prevalent in this area, the building has severe lines. And, in keeping with this modern style, the office is cool and austere. A place for everything and everything in its place.
“Have a seat, Mr. Morgan,” the DEA agent says. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
What will be a few minutes?
I wonder. I’m prompted to ask, but I know it will be futile. These are terse, dispassionate men. The questions I asked during the drive here elicited polite replies.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s this all about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Then drop me at the next corner.”
“Can’t do that, sir.”
The chair the agent offers me is in the middle of the room in front of the desk. I’ve always disliked sitting with my back to the door, especially in these circumstances. I pull the chair around to the side, but before I can sit down, the agent returns it to its original position, making certain the legs match the marks in the gray carpet precisely. I take my seat, wondering why? A hidden microphone? A camera? Am I being secretly videotaped? More than a few minutes pass before a blind panel in the wall off to one side of the desk slides open.
A short, energetic man steps through it smartly and crosses to the desk, paying me no mind. His polka-dot bow tie, brass-buttoned blazer, and crew cut combine to give him him a boyish, 1950s Ivy League quality. He lifts the phone and buzzes his secretary. “No calls,” he says curtly, replacing the receiver with obsessive precision. After a pause, during which he cleans a fingernail, he cocks his head in my direction.
“Mr. A. Calvert Morgan,” he says, drawing it out while he takes his measure of me. “Management consultant. Los Angeles, California.”
I nod sullenly.
“My name’s Tickner, Mr. Morgan. Clive M. Tickner. I’m the ranking DEA agent at this mission.” He locks his eyes onto mine disapprovingly. “You’re in way over your head, sir.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I hold his look, undaunted. “Either way, I don’t need you to tell me that.”
“Oh, yes you do. Believe me. You’re involved in things you know nothing about.”
“You’d be surprised how much I know. What do you want? Why am I here?”
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Morgan. We both have the same questions. Guests first. Just why are you here?”
I’ve seen his type in corporate boardrooms and government offices: Exeter, Princeton, Wharton—no, probably the Fletcher School at Tufts in his case. Meticulous, brainy, an excess of starch, he makes no effort to hide his conceit.
“I don’t have to answer that, Mr. Tickner. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m the victim here. I haven’t done anything illegal.”
Tickner folds his hands and sits very still, like a feline about to pounce. His eyes shift knowingly to one of the agents. He opens a desk drawer, and removes a small plastic bag. A red tag is affixed to the closure. He studies it for a moment, cupping it in his hands so I can’t see the contents, before placing it on the desk in front of me.
My jaw slackens. The wind goes out of me. I feel like a kid caught stealing a candy bar. Despite the reflections on the plastic, I’ve no doubt the pistol inside the bag is a .25-caliber Beretta, nor have I any doubt that it’s mine.
“Oh, yes, we were there, Mr. Morgan. We’ve been watching you
from the moment you and Mrs. Ackerman set foot in Bangkok. We weren’t exactly sure what you were up to, so we observed for a while. When you started to interfere with our plans—”
“Someone interfered with mine,” I interrupt angrily. “Up until a couple of months ago I was planning to grow old gracefully with my wife.”
“Yes, I’m very sorry. Colonel Webster briefed us on your story.”
I feel betrayed. It shows.
“No, the Colonel isn’t working with us. He merely called one of our agents in Washington to discuss your mutual concerns. Someone whose judgment he trusts.”
“He said he was going to do that.”
“And that’s all he did. The agent had the presence of mind to call us. I’m sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you, but we can’t very well have American citizens coming over here and settling personal vendettas with guns.”
“I wasn’t going to kill Surigao. I was going to—”
“Someone shot and killed his wife, Mr. Morgan,” Tickner interrupts. His tone is suddenly sharper, accusatory. “You were in the car with her.”
“Yes, but I didn’t shoot her.”
“Whoever it was shot him too.”
“I know that. Check the pistol. Only one shot’s been fired. If you check the car you’ll see the round went through the roof. I heard him tell his wife he was being double-crossed. He said a man named Ajacier was trying to kill him.”
“Yes,” Tickner says matter-of-factly. “We know all about Mr. Ajacier.”
“So do I. As a matter of fact he and I had a chat yesterday. But he’s not my primary target. Surigao is. I would’ve caught him, too, if a tourist hadn’t gotten in the way.”
Tickner smiles in amusement, then presses one of the buttons on his communications console.
A moment later, I hear a door opening behind me. I turn to see a big man lumbering forward. He stands next to my chair, towering over me.
“Is this the gentleman?” Tickner asks.
The camera and gadget bag are gone. The flower-print shirt has been replaced by a button-down oxford, striped tie, and sportcoat, but the friendly smile remains.
“Yes, it is.”
“Agent Nash is in charge of this case. He—”
“He’s with you?”
“I believe I just said that.”
My outrage has been building with every word and condescending inflection. I get to my feet to confront Nash. “I don’t get it. Surigao ran right past you. Why didn’t you stop
him?"
Nash clears his throat and glances to his boss.
“He was doing his job,” Ticker replies. “Which, among other things, was to keep you from harassing Mr. Surigao.”
“Look, I told you I wasn’t out to kill him. I just wanted the satisfaction of catching the son of a bitch. I was planning to turn him over to you.”
Silence. A look passes between them.
“What? What does that mean?”
“We wouldn’t want you to do that either,” Tickner finally replies evenly.
I’m flabbergasted. “Why the hell not?”
“Because it goes against policy.”
“Against policy? The man’s a killer, a drug trafficker. Call Colonel Webster. Call the Los Angeles Police. Sergeant Daniels. I have his number right here.”
“We know what Mr. Surigao is.”
“Well, if it isn’t your policy to nail these bastards, what is?”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Mr. Tickner. Much better. I lost my wife to this. Nothing’s going to make me walk away from it. I’m warning you. I want answers.”
“I don’t have any for you.”
“I think you do. And one way or another, I’m going to get them. Don’t think you can ignore me. I have contacts in Congress. People I do business with all the time. You can answer my questions or you can answer theirs. Now, what the hell are you doing here if not busting these guys?”
Tickner runs his fingertips over his temples, thinking it through, then nods. “Frankly, Mr. Morgan, we wonder ourselves on occasion. We spend a lot of time walking a tightrope. Every once in a while someone knocks us off. Sometimes it’s their side, sometimes ours. Unfortunately—this time it was ours.”
He signals Nash, who crosses to the wall and rolls back a panel revealing diagrams of Asian drug rings. He slides several aside until he finds the one he wants. It displays maps, charts, and handwritten lists. Cities: Bangkok, Manila, Honolulu, San Francisco. Organizations: Golden Gate Mortuaries, Franco-Asian Enterprises, and the CIL among them. Photographs with names beneath: Ajacier, Messina, Surigao, Webster, along with others that I don’t recognize.
“For what it’s worth,” Nash explains, “We’ve been planning to roll up the whole damn net—growers, manufacturers, distributors—I mean, the whole kit and kaboodle. Matter of fact, your friend Surigao gave us a call yesterday. Sounded real desperate. Claimed he had something to sell that’d blow this whole thing sky-high.”
“No wonder they want to kill him.”
“That’s one theory,” Tickner says indulgently.
I shudder at the thought that occurs to me. All I want is justice, but reading between the lines, I have a feeling justice is the one thing I’ll be denied. “We talking a deal here? Are you going to offer this creep immunity from prosecution in exchange for his testimony?”
“That’s usually the way it works,” Nash replies.
“He’s getting off scot-free?”
“Oh, they all are,” Tickner replies coolly.
I’m rocked. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, we don’t want to blow it sky-high, Mr. Morgan. We wouldn’t need Surigao’s information if we did. Being prudent, we suggested he come by for a chat anyway. He refused. Demanded money. Immediately. That was the end of it. We have little incentive to make deals with people we aren’t prosecuting. As I said, he’s off the hook and we told him so.”
“Just like that.”
Tickner nods.
“I have a feeling we’re talking policy again.”
“And its implementation, to be precise.”
“They both stink.”
“You asked. You wish me to continue or not?”
“Please.”
“Our mission is to prevent narcotics from being exported to the
United States. Now, despite what you see on TV, apprehending and prosecuting drug traffickers is but one way policy is implemented. Diplomatic and financial pressures are also used to induce governments to cooperate. And successfully so. However, in this case, as Agent Nash just mentioned, the preferred method was to apprehend and prosecute.”
“Now it’s changed?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Tickner pauses to recall something. “Economics major, Cal Tech, Seventy-two. MBA, Stanford, Seventy-four,” he says rapid-fire, emphasizing each with a jab of his forefinger. “I believe I have that right?”
The son of a bitch has pulled my file. Military? FBI? I wonder what they have on me. I nod warily, feeling vulnerable again.
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble understanding the dynamics of this marketplace. For starters, as you may know, opium is the cash crop in certain parts of Southeast Asia.”
“The Golden Triangle.”
“Correct.
“And heroin’s their most important product,” Nash chimes in. He steps to the panel and points to one of the photographs. A fierce-looking Asian man. “We’re up against a nasty piece of work named Chen Dai. He’s chief honcho of a bunch of Meo guerrillas in the Golden T. Threw in with the Pathet Lao during the war. The man sells pure heroin, Mr. Morgan. I mean, we’re talking six nines pure, what we call Double U-O Globe. Chen Dai claims he uses the money to fight his miniwars and border skirmishes. He’s been fighting ‘em for thirty years; he’ll be fighting ‘em for thirty more.”
“He wouldn’t be fighting them in Houa Phan Province, would he?”
Tickner raises a brow in tribute. “You have done your homework, haven’t you?”
“I plan on doing lots more.”
“It’s my job to dissuade you. Prevent you, if necessary.”
“Dammit, why?”
“Your favorite word again.”
“Policy.”
Tickner nods. “Getting back to our economics primer, all the farmers work for Chen Dai in exchange for protection. It’s like a Mafia extortion racket. He runs it out of a mountain compound.
It’s totally isolated. No highways, airstrips, or other effective means of transport, which means it’s highly defensible. This also means the farmers can’t grow crops that need to be rushed to market before they spoil.” He pauses and plucks a bulbous, long-stemmed pod from a vase on his desk. “Enter the indestructible poppy seed—which makes narcotics the bedrock of Chen Dai’s economy.”
“See,” Nash concludes, “the bottom line is the bottom line. Only thing he cares about is his GNP.”
“Just a guy trying to make a buck.”
Tickner nods smartly. “And despite the daunting logistics, some bored Foggy Bottom economist came up with what they call a crop substitution program.”
“All you have to do is convince him he can make more money planting edible crops instead of opium.”
Tickner nods and eyes me curiously.
“
The Colonel mentioned it.”
“Understand, we’re not providing seeds to grow carrots and peas here. We’re talking a massive aid package. An infusion of capital sufficient to build highways, airstrips, railroads—”
“It didn’t sound that grand when the Colonel was talking about it.”
“Well, the Colonel’s mission makes his view of this rather narrow.” Tickner pauses, then pointedly adds, “And we’ve kept it that way.”
He crosses to the panel of graphics, peels off the colonel’s photo, then uncaps a broad-tipped marker, and goes about blacking out the name Webster.
“This is an insidious business. No one gets the benefit of the doubt. Everyone is guilty until proven innocent. In the Colonel’s case, these people have been using his facility for years, and we weren’t sure of him.” He pauses and winces as if it pains him even to think such things. “However, his forthright call to Washington, and several follow-ups, which I initiated, were sufficient grounds for acquittal. He’ll be here tomorrow to review the situation.”
“Then as far as you’re concerned, the CIL is being used to smuggle drugs.”
“Definitely. We’ll come back to that. I was about to say, there are two conditions attached to this program. The first is a deficit guarantee. Opium is a very cost-effective crop. There’s no way
bean sprouts or snow peas will outperform it when it comes to producing income.”
“And Uncle Sam’s picking up the difference.”
“Precisely.
“That economist wasn’t bored, Mr. Tickner, he was incompetent.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But more important, the second condition—the one that impacts
our
relationship—guarantees there will be no black eyes in Laos. In other words, neither the government nor any of its citizens will be tainted by even the hint of a drug scandal.”