by Greg Dinallo
“And the mortuary out-processing NCO took over from there,” the colonel declares.
Tickner nods.
“A member of the Ajacier family,” I prompt.
Tickner nods again and smiles thinly in tribute. “He prepared shipping manifests and made sure the DD thirteen-hundreds— which triggered next of kin notifications, insurance benefits, etc.— were inserted into the flow. One form, eight carbons, a relatively simple matter.”
“The name Pettibone mean anything to you?” I ask.
“Not until I spoke with the Colonel the other day, which prompted me to go back into our files.” He turns on a heel and heads for the door. “It’s well over twenty years,” he goes on as we follow him down the corridor to his office. “But we’ve managed to piece together a scenario.” He pauses long enough to find a file on his desk. “According to this, our people were hot on Pettibone’s trail when he went AWOL. Lost track of him completely. They checked every flight, every passenger manifest. They concluded he was using someone else’s identification.”
“Yes, mine. He stole it. That’s what got me into this mess in the first place. He died with it.”
“Really? That’s something we didn’t know.”
“That’s because they yanked his body from the mortuary to keep you from poking around.”
Tickner’s brows go up. “That’s two for you, Morgan.”
“Let’ s try for three. Did you know he and Surigao flew together?”
“That’s not news. They’re the ones who ferried the T-cases containing the contraband from Vientiane to Ton Son Nhut.”
“Very good. As I understand it, they used to call those flights Pepsi-Cola runs, didn’t they?”
Tickner’s chin lifts curiously. “How much do you know, Mr. Morgan?”
“Not enough yet.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Fine. Whatever you say. Now, answer the question. Why were they called Pepsi-Cola runs?”
Uncomfortable looks dart between him and Nash.
“Come on, dammit,” the colonel chimes in. “I didn’t fly fourteen hours to have you holding back information.”
“Well,” Tickner says, still clearly uncomfortable, “Chen Dai splits his time between his compound up north in Pak Seng and a Pepsi-Cola plant in Vientiane.”
“A Pepsi-Cola plant?!” the colonel exclaims.
“Yes, that’s the facility I mentioned earlier.”
“The heroin refinery?”
“Uh-huh. It’s the perfect cover for buying ether and acetic anhydride,” Nash explains. “You can’t turn opium into heroin without ‘em. Of course, the place never capped a bottle of Pepsi. Been a state-of-the-art junk factory from day one. When the crack craze hit, they started making what we call ‘ice.’ That’s crystalline methamphetamine. It’s as addictive as crack, but when you mix it with heroin, you get a much better high without the crash. And you smoke it. No needles. No threat of AIDS. Real big market.”
“The catch is,” Tickner concludes, “this Pepsi-Cola plant was built in the mid-sixties—with funds provided by the United States Agency for International Development. Needless to say, neither PepsiCo nor the USG knew anything about a heroin refinery. Unfortunately, in light of the current program, it’s still a highly sensitive issue.” He pauses and locks his eyes onto mine. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave this whole thing be.”
“Ask Ajacier to leave me be.”
“As I hinted the other day, we’re not so sure it is Ajacier.”
“Then who? You guys?”
“That’s not funny, Mr. Morgan. We suspect Chen Dai may have decided to wipe the slate clean to make sure there aren’t any black eyes.”
“That means Ajacier’s a target too.”
“It’s possible.”
“And you’re going to let Chen Dai do it?”
“That’s his business.”
“Jesus.”
“To be brutally frank, Mr. Morgan, it certainly makes our job a whole lot easier.”
I’m stunned. Am I supposed to be reading in between the lines here? Is he sending me a deadly message? I take a moment to settle. “One more question, Mr. Tickner, if you don’t mind?”
“Would it make any difference?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“This crop substitution program. It’s all worked out, right?”
“Yes. All but the formalities. It’s a matter of scheduling and logistics now.”
“And the drug smuggling is going to stop.”
“Like a bug hitting a windshield.” He makes a sharp, chopping motion with his hand. “Your question?”
“Why have they been trying to kill me?”
“That’s not such a mystery. Your pursuit of Surigao provoked them.”
“No, he came at me first. Months ago. Right after I made an inquiry to the CIL.”
“What’s your point, Mr. Morgan?” Tickner asks impatiently.
“What did I endanger? I mean, I must’ve threatened something for Chen Dai to sign my death warrant.”
Tickner muses thoughtfully.
“It sure wasn’t his drug smuggling operation.”
Tickner nods.
“Then what? There must be more, Mr. Tickner. There has to be.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“I always overreact. I’m a number cruncher. My friends are always teasing me about things having to add up.” I pause and burn him with a look. “And I’m not letting go of this until they do.”
31
It’s pouring.
In sheets. A tropical monsoon.
The last time I saw rain like this I had to crawl out of my foxhole to keep from drowning. A half hour ago when I got into a taxi at the embassy, the sun was out. Now, I can hardly see the cars up ahead. I’m listening to the wipers slapping at the windshield, wrestling with what have become the core questions: What have I threatened? What’s the significance of the list? Are they connected? If so, how? What do the names have in common? Despite my parting shot at Tickner, I’m starting to wonder if he isn’t right. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe it never will add up. Maybe the list is meaningless. Surigao was desperate, needed money, he’d have said anything.
The deluge has eased to a steady drizzle by the time the taxi pulls up in front of the hotel. A short time later, I’m prowling the tiny room still trying to sort it out when Kate arrives.
“I got it,” she announces effusively, as she comes through the door spattered with rain.
“Got what?”
She fetches a towel, quickly dries her hands and face, then takes a folded sheet of paper from her handbag and tosses it to me.
It’s a map of the Chao Phraya River extending well north of the city where it branches off into a complex network of khlongs along which are numerous neatly printed directions. A route is outlined in red marker. It reminds me of the recon maps we used to make on patrol in the jungle.
“Timothy?”
“Timothy. Vann Nath said Timothy’s expecting us tomorrow.” “Great,” I say, unmoved. For all my mouthing off about getting firepower, I’ve little enthusiasm for it at the moment.
“What’s that all about? Am I picking up on something here?”
“I’m sort of at a dead end. No matter how I look at it, I still can’t come up with a reason why they’ve been trying to kill me.”
“I thought it had something to do with the list.”
“It might. But what? I’m a blank. I finally get a key piece to the puzzle and I can’t find where it fits. It’s infuriating.”
“You show it to the DEA?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“How come?”
“I’m not sure I trust them. If Surigao wasn’t putting us on, if the list really will blow the lid off this thing—”
“It might never see the light of day if they get hold of it,” Kate interjects.
I nod glumly. “I’m starting to feel like none of this is
going to see the light of day.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“The farm collective. Vann Nath found out where it’s located.”
“Pak Seng,” I say matter-of-factly. “Smack in the middle of Houa Phan Province.”
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
“DEA.”
“You found a connection.”
I nod apprehensively. “It looks like your husband was sold to a drug lord.”
“A drug lord?”
“Yes. His name’s Chen Dai. He runs the opium growers up there.”
Her eyes cloud momentarily, then brighten with an idea. “Maybe that’s what the list means. Maybe they were all sold to this guy.”
Crossed my mind. What if they were?”
“Then there’s a chance Vann Nath was right.”
“About what?”
“About John being sentenced to hard labor.”
“Sold into slavery’d be more like it, but I—”
“That’s not as crazy as it sounds. It’s possible they’ve been forced to work as field hands.”
“I don’t think so, Kate.”
“Why not?”
I hesitate as it dawns on me that despite logic, despite her protestations to the contrary, despite her years counseling other families to do otherwise, she’s been clinging to the hope of finding her husband alive.
“I’m pretty sure he was killed,” I say softly.
“Because that photographer remembered hearing some shots? That’s not proof of anything.”
“No, it’s not. But, when you start factoring in other data, the probability curve gets pretty high.”
“Factoring? Probability curve?” she flares. “We’re talking about my husband. A person. Not some calculation on your computer.”
“Occupational hazard. Sorry.”
She cools, her eyes narrowing in reflection.
I see the question forming. I have no doubt what it will be. And I dread answering it.
“What other data?”
“Sit down, Kate.” I direct her to the small sofa, pull up a chair for myself, and as gently as possible, explain about smuggling heroin inside GI cadavers.
She gasps, horrified, the words of condemnation catching in her throat.
“I’m sorry.”
She looks off, taking a few moments to recover, then finally, still unwilling to let go, she turns to me and reasons, “But if that’s what they did to him, wouldn’t John’s remains have been repatriated during the war? I mean this . . . this animal . . . this Chen Dai, he would have made sure of it. Wouldn’t he?”
“I’ve thought about that.”
“But they weren’t. Why? Maybe John escaped. You heard Vann Nath. Maybe they shot and missed. Maybe he was able to get away and—”
“Kate. Kate, come on, you’re not being realistic. We both know he hasn’t been living on nuts and berries in the jungle for twenty years.”
“Twenty-one.”
“Whatever. You know better than that.”
Her face reddens in protest, then she lowers her eyes and nods resignedly.
“You told me all you wanted was an answer. I’m giving you one. Accept it.”
“It’s not enough. I said a final answer. If I can’t have John, I want his remains.”
“Of course. And, God willing, one day you will. You know, Kate, somehow you gave me the idea that repatriations are victories, not defeats.”
“They are.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to start practicing what you preach?”
She nods contritely. “Down deep, I guess I know John’s . . . dead. But every time there’s even the slightest glimmer of hope, I just want to grab it and never let go.”
“You have to let go, Kate. For yourself. It’s not healthy to keep doing this.”
“It’s so hard sometimes. If anyone should be able to understand, it’s you.”
“Of course.”
She drifts off in thought for a moment. “So, John was taken to Pak Seng?”
“No. That’s where the stuff’s grown,” I reply, explaining about the Pepsi-Cola plant in Vientiane where it’s refined.
“That’s where he was taken?”
“The bodies of American servicemen used to smuggle drugs were taken there,” I reply, driving the message home. “Yes.”
“Then that’s where I’m going.”
“Whoa. Want to run that past me again?”
“I’ve been after this kind of information for twenty-one years, Morgan. You don’t really think I’m going to ignore it?”
“This is Laos we’re talking about. Not France or Italy. You can’t just go to the airport and hop on the next flight.”
“Sure you can. All you need is a visa. I used to do it all the time.”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
“So? We still have an embassy there.”
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t restrictions.”
“I’ll call the embassy here and find out.”
“No. Tickner and these guys are joined at the hip. He gets wind of this we won’t stand a chance.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s see what the Laos have to say.”
We head downstairs to the lobby. It’s crowded with locals keeping out of the rain. Compared to the Soi 12, this place is a luxury resort. Not only does it have an elevator, but also a small coffee shop and public phone booth. One. Naturally, someone’s in it. Kate gets us some soft drinks while I wait my turn. I finally get hold of someone in the Lao embassy who speaks English and he gives me the information.
“Well?” Kate prompts as I exit the booth.
“The good news is there are no U.S. travel advisories or restrictions.”
“And the bad?”
“Visas. Two to three months to process them.”
Kate scowls, disappointed.
“Of course, that’s if we make the mistake of applying to their embassy in Washington.”
“We can apply here?” she asks, brightening.
I break into a broad grin and nod.
“It never used to be that way. You sure?”
“That’s what they said. We fill out the forms, they telex Vientiane, and we have visas.”
“Then I was right.”
I smile.
“But it’s killing you to say it.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m not sure which way to take that.”
“I know.”
She’s laughing as we hurry from the hotel.
It’s still raining, so we leave the scooter and take a taxi to the Lao embassy opposite a broad khlong on Sathon Tai Road in the business district. The application form is short, the approval process swift, the response devastating. The clerk seems embarrassed when he reports we’ve both been denied visas. He has no idea why. They don’t give him reasons. They didn’t have to. It’s Tickner. I know it is. He didn’t waste a minute. We ride back to the hotel in silence.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I say glumly, as we enter the room.
“What kind of an attitude is that?”
“I don’t know. I think I’ve had it with this thing.”
“Had it? You saying you’re throwing in the towel after all you’ve been through? After dropping ten thousand bucks on that list?”
“The list is useless.”
“Why? Because you haven’t figured it out yet?”
“It’s a lot more than that. This whole thing is a bust: Surigao’s dead, Ajacier’s getting off, the drug lord’s getting a windfall. And I don’t know what’s going on with my daughters or my business.”
“You’re the one who said we have to light the fuse. And I’m going to find a way to do it. With you or without you.”
“You have to get into Laos, first.”
“There has to be a way to get across the border.”
“There’s also a little obstacle called the Mekong River,” I ret
ort, referring to the natural border between Thailand and Laos. “It’d be a real bitch. I’m just not up to it. I’m out of gas.”
“Out of gas? Whatever happened to ‘A stands for adamant’?” I shrug glumly.
“Ah, I can see, it stands for apathetic now. I spent a year doing this. A year. We haven’t been at it a week. You know what your problem is, Morgan? You can’t handle spontaneity. You’re too used to predicting everything before it happens. Take away your computer and you fall apart.”
“I am what I am, Kate. I can’t change. And I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“That’s not what I want. Just hang in there for a while and roll with the punches.”
“It’s the bullets I’m worried about. I’m tired of people trying to kill me.”
“You really think they’ll stop?”
“Not as long as I’m provoking them. That’s for sure. That goes for you too.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I may not have all the answers but I do know that list is a death warrant. Your husband’s name’s on it, remember? You push, they’re going to push back.”
“How else are you going to get answers? What do you want to do? Snap your fingers and have them handed to you on a silver platter?”
“No. I want to snap my fingers and have Nancy sneaking into my bed at night instead of you.”
She stiffens, clearly stung, then whirls and walks off across the room.
I flush with remorse and go after her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
She stares out the window ignoring me. I can see her reflection in the rain-dotted panes. She bites at her lip, then glances over her shoulder, challengingly. “How did you mean it?”
“I didn’t mean it at all. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I guess this whole thing is just getting to me.”
“It’s been getting to me for a lot longer, Morgan.”
“I’m aware of that. By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. My name’s Calvert. All my friends call me Cal.”
“I would hope so.”
“So what’s with this Morgan business all the time?”
“No special reason.”
“It’s kind of impersonal, don’t you think? I mean, sometimes I get the feeling it’s your . . . your . . . It’s none of my business. Forget it.”
