by Greg Dinallo
“Sleep tight.”
“You too, Cal.”
She goes to her compartment, pauses in the doorway and leans back, planting a soft kiss on my cheek, then closes the door without locking it.
I stand there for a moment, taken by the warmth of her gesture, then slip out of the shoulder holster and hang it on the coat hook behind the door. It’s within easy reach of the pint-sized berth beneath the luggage rack where my gym bag and the trunk are stored. The pullman cushions that serve as a mattress are lumpy and hard, the pillow about an inch thick, the bedding coarse and itchy. I pull it up to my chin anyway, listening to the rhythmic clacking, thinking about Kate, and feeling like I did when I was fifteen and had a crush on Nancy. I was emotionally immature and afraid she’d have no interest in a nerd, so I started smoking French cigarettes to impress her, which had the opposite effect. I doze off, smiling at the memory. I’m not sure exactly how long I’ve been asleep when I’m awakened by a knock on the door.
“Morgan? Morgan, it’s Kate,” she says knocking again. Harder this time. “Hey, Morgan, it’s Kate. Open up.”
I swing my legs over the side of the berth, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with one hand and reaching for the door with the other. As I unlatch it, it strikes me that Kate’s knocking on the corridor door instead of the one between our compartments, and, for whatever reason, has reverted to calling me Morgan.
I’m about to grab the Ingram and cross to the other side of the compartment, which would put me behind the door when it opens, but it damn near explodes off the hinges before I have the chance.
The distinctive silhouette of a pistol with a silencer lunges into view. An eye blink later, as Kate shouts a warning and wrenches from the gunman’s grasp, the bearded Asian charges through the doorway.
My brain is screaming Go for the Ingram! But it’s sandwiched between the door and the wall. There’s no way I can get to it. I go for the gunman instead, diving just below the machine pistol as it fires, emitting a wild burst of flashes and muted pops. I slam into his midsection and come up between his arms, knocking the weapon loose. We tumble to the floor of the dimly lit compartment grappling for an advantage.
He comes out on top, and with practiced speed drives a knee into my groin and a fist into the side of my head. I double up in excruciating pain, barely able to move. He’s climbing off me in search of his pistol, when Kate reappears in the doorway behind him with hers. She aims, then instead of firing, freezes, her eyes wide with terror at what she’s about to do.
I know what’s going through her mind. He beats them! Dammit, he beats them! Shoot! Shoot! They killed your husband! I’m screaming to myself, not wanting to alert him to her presence by calling out. I struggle to my hands and knees and crawl to the door. I’m reaching behind it for the Ingram when the gunman finds his pistol. He scoops it up just as the door to the other compartment explodes open.
Timothy charges through it with his Beretta.
The door momentarily blocks his view of the gunman, who fires a burst from the machine pistol. The rounds hit Timothy square in the chest with tremendous force, driving him across the compartment. He slams into the exterior door, knocking it open, and tumbles out of the train and into the night.
Kate screams and pulls the trigger a split second after the gunman. He’s hit, but manages to stagger around and level his gun at her. I’ve got the Ingram, but before I can fire, she coolly shoves her pistol into his bearded face and fires again. The round rips through his cheek just below his left eye. The life goes out of him and he drops to the floor between us. Kate lowers the pistol and stands there, staring down at him.
It seems like an eternity, but no more than ten or fifteen seconds have passed since she knocked on the door. I set the Ingram aside and quickly go through the gunman’s pockets, confiscating keys, wallet, and pistol, then drag his body across the compartment and shove it out the door.
“God. God, I’m sorry,” Kate says, distraught. “I was coming from . . . I was . . .” The words come in halting bursts, choked off by sobs.
“Easy. Take it easy.”
“I—I was coming back from the bathroom,” she stumbles on. “The guy was waiting—he was waiting for me. I didn’t know what to do. I—”
“Was he alone?”
She nods, anguished.
“You sure?”
She nods again, emphatically. “He’s dead, Cal. Timothy’s dead. I should’ve—I—”
“Don’t go blaming yourself. He knew better than to come blowing in here like that. His brain was on ‘off,’ Kate. He—”
She shakes her head inconsolably.
“Kate. Listen to me. Listen. The guy was a pro. Look what he did to me.”
“I should’ve shot him before Timothy ever got in here.” She turns away, sobbing, and curls up in the corner of the berth, head buried in her hands, knees pulled up under her chin.
I check the corridor to see if anyone heard the commotion. It’s clear in both directions. Evidently the compartments on either side of mine isolated most of the noise; the train drowned out the rest.
Kate lays her head on my shoulder when I join her on the berth. I gently run a hand over her hair as the train slithers through the blackness, climbing ever steeper grades. The clack of the wheels drones on as villages go flashing past: Ban Bua, Muang Phon, Nam Phong. I think she’s asleep when she looks up and softly says, “You were right.”
“What about?”
“Threatening them.”
“Yes. I don’t know what, but there’s something—something else.”
The exchange prompts me to start going through the gunman’s wallet. Along with the cash and credit cards are several pieces of personal ID. One, sealed in plastic, has his photograph. All the information is in an Asian alphabet.
“What’s this? A driver’s license?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thai?”
“No, Lao,” she replies, pointing to the heading that reads Kamphaeng Nakhon Wieng Chan. “That says Vientiane Prefecture.”
“Then you were right too.”
“You mean, about going there?”
“Uh-huh. They say Pepsi-Cola hits the spot. I think we hit it dead center.”
She nods uneasily. “This animal—”
“Chen Dai.”
“Yes, he knows we’re coming, now. Doesn’t he?”
“Not yet. Not until he starts wondering why his bearded friend hasn’t checked in. We should be there before then. God willing.”
“Maybe we should leave Him out of it,” she says with a grin. “I think I’ve had all the mysterious ways I can handle for a while.”
“I’m going to tell your father you said that.”
“I never should’ve told you that story.”
She smiles, then reaches out and touches my cheek, letting her fingertips graze my lips. Her eyes are soft and vulnerable with a longing that I haven’t seen before. She takes my face in her hands and softly presses her lips to mine. She kisses me like this again, then again, more passionately. We’re staring deeply into each other’s eyes when the moment is shattered by several blasts from the whistle, which announce the train is approaching the next station. Kate turns slightly and glances out the window. Signs proclaiming Udon Thani flash past outside. I wrap my arms around her waist from behind and kiss the nape of her neck. Her body tenses and stiffens in protest.
“Not now. Not here,” she whispers. “Just hold me, Cal. Hold me. Okay?”
I hug her tightly, resting my head against hers, trying to imagine what upset her, when I recall she once mentioned her husband was stationed at the U.S. Airbase in Udon Thani during the war. I pull the blanket over us and stare out the window into the darkness. Light from distant villages flashes between the trees, providing glimpses of the rugged terrain.
It’s well after 4 A.M. when the train slows and finally grinds to a stop in the Nong Khai yards. We remain in the compartment as the shunt is made and the local starts chugging west along the Mekong River past
a row of rundown buildings that remind me of the French-Chinese architecture in Saigon. About forty-five minutes later, we’re pulling into Tha Bo.
It’s more of a siding than a station.
A cool mist hangs in the air as we disembark with several other passengers. Kate and I sling the gym bags over our shoulders and begin walking along a gravel path next to the tracks, carrying the trunk between us. We’ve gone a short distance when I hear footsteps crunching behind us. Kate’s heard them too. She eyes me apprehensively and reaches into her purse for the pistol. I steal a glance over my shoulder. There’s a man walking swiftly in our direction, hands jammed into his pockets, collar turned up against the chill. I signal Kate to stop walking, then drop to one knee as he approaches, pretending to tie a shoelace, while slipping the Ingram from its holster. The footsteps get louder. A shadow darkens the gravel next to me. The man trudges past, paying us no mind. We wait until he’s a distance away, then cross the tracks, heading north toward the Mekong.
Kate navigates from another of Timothy’s maps, leading the way along unpaved roads, past rice paddies and freshly tilled farmland. We walk in tense silence for about twenty minutes, finally coming over a bluff to see the river snaking across the landscape below.
Lights wink in the darkness on the opposite shore, beckoning us. Taunting us. Laos is less than a half mile away. Vientiane barely ten.
We make our way through tall reeds and bullrushes to a sandy cove below the bluff, and open the trunk. Two striped handles protrude from within. Kate and I each grab one and lift out the Zodiac.
At the moment, it’s a volume of precisely folded, feather-light, and indestructible space-age fabric. But the instant I pull the inflation ring, the vessel begins taking on its distinctive shape with a steady hiss. Its sharply veed prow and cylindrical sidewalls spring forth from a rigid transom that not only connects them, but also contains a small propulsion system and tiller.
According to Timothy, who compulsively recited the nomenclature, this compact, two-man model was specially developed to enable Navy SEALs to infiltrate inland waterways after being airdropped into the jungle. Like Noah’s ark, it has two of everything: flashlights, binoculars, nylon ponchos, packets of greasepaint, collapsible paddles, emergency rations, and first-aid kits. Due to the ingenious design and use of materials, the entire package weighs just over forty pounds.
Kate and I start by blackening each other’s faces with the grease-paint. When finished, we sink the trunk in the river, then don the ponchos, more for camouflage than warmth, and push off in the Zodiac. Our supply of fuel is limited. Instead of using the motor, we paddle into the channel, letting the current take us.
This is the closest I’ve ever felt to being back in-country. Compared to this, the trip up the Chao Phraya to Timothy’s was like a Sunday afternoon sail in Santa Monica Bay. This is the Mekong. The infamous river that not only separates Thailand and Laos, but snakes thousands of miles south through Cambodia and the southernmost part of Vietnam to the delta where it empties into the South China Sea. The infamous river in which I’d bathed, fought, and almost died.
It narrows in this short north-south leg, the sharp bends at either end slowing the current that still sweeps us along at a steady clip. We use the paddles to change direction and avoid the occasional piece of floating debris.
Soon, far ahead in the darkness, where the Mekong turns west again, the lights of Vientiane appear. All we have to do now is make it to the opposite shore before the current accelerates and takes us past our target—a small shipping canal that branches north on the outskirts of the city. Kate is huddling beneath her poncho with a flashlight, checking the map, when a powerful beam of light suddenly splits the darkness and sweeps past overhead.
An instant later, the distant outline of a boat emerges from the blackness. The gun turret in the bow eliminates any chance it might be a fishing vessel or ferry. Kate and I slouch under our ponchos to present as low a profile as possible. I begin guiding the Zodiac closer to the shoreline. She works herself into a prone position in the bow to search for the buoy that marks the mouth of the canal. The beam comes sweeping back toward us. A surge of adrenaline hits me as the circle of light races across the choppy surface, passing perilously close to the Zodiac. The patrol boat is bearing down on us when Kate spots the buoy’s purple light bobbing in the darkness ahead. I fire up the Zodiac’s propulsion system and jam the tiller hard left. The bow kicks sharply toward shore as the tiny vessel breaks free of the current. The sudden acceleration sends sheets of water spraying over us. I maneuver around the channel buoy into the canal moments before the onrushing boat glides past, unaware of our presence.
We continue to motor upstream against the current in search of the next landmark, a small bridge where we’re to go ashore and ditch the Zodiac in favor of ground transportation. But the river valley is draped with fog. It soon becomes so dense, Kate and I can hardly see each other, let alone the passing terrain. We continue on, weaving through an area overgrown with reeds and water grasses. A short time later, we notice a ghostly form looming just ahead. The bridge emerges from the mist and is suddenly upon us. I punch the throttle and angle toward the bank, sending the Zodiac skimming across the surface onto a muddy flat directly beneath the narrow span.
For better or worse, we’re in Laos.
We hide the Zodiac in a grove of bamboo next to the bridge, then shed the ponchos and use water from the canal to wash the greasepaint from our faces.
A shallow embankment leads up to the road that winds through a farming area. Kate and I hurry to a thicket of eucalyptus trees off to one side. Deep within the overgrowth, as Timothy promised, is an old left-hand drive Peugeot sedan. The paint is faded and the tires are bald, but the keys are in the ignition, and a street map of the city is on the seat. The locations of the bridge and the Pepsi-Cola plant are clearly marked, as is the most direct route between them. I uncap a marker and go to work on it.
“What are you doing?”
“Being paranoid.”
“Afraid they might be waiting for us?”
“Uh-huh. A very smart lady once taught me to beware of locals who sell info to the enemy.”
I quickly work out an alternate route, then turn the ignition key. To my relief, the Peugeot’s engine kicks over on the first try. I maneuver it through the trees to the road, keeping the headlights off. We head west across the bridge, its aging timbers thumping loudly in protest. The road is narrow, poorly paved, and unfamiliar, and I turn the headlights on as soon as I’m certain we aren’t being followed. The closer we get to the city, the more the pavement and signage, which is now in French as well as Lao, improve. We drive several miles west on Rue Tha Deua, making a right where it angles past Wat Ammon, a steepled temple encrusted with centuries of moss.
The sun is still below the horizon when we spot a large warehouse-type structure in the distance. There’s nothing to suggest it’s a heroin refinery, nor is there anything else distinctive about it, other than the huge, dimly illuminated bottle cap on the roof that proclaims PEPSI.
The infamous symbol of fizz, fun, and free enterprise—fully endorsed by Madonna and Michael Jackson—is a strange sight in this country where, despite the name Lao People’s Democratic Republic, tyrannical Communism rules. I’ve consumed a lot of Pepsi in my day, but, until now, it never really dawned on me that its colors are red, white, and blue.
We continue to the top of the next hill, then leave the road and pull into a grove of trees that overlooks the plant. Kate fetches the binoculars we took from the Zodiac. Both pairs. We begin checking the place out. It reminds me of the manufacturing plants in the San Fernando Valley: painted steel, flat-roofed, surrounded by a parking lot and high chain link fence. The entrance and exit gates flank a security kiosk where a guard is posted. An electronic box, with a slot into which drivers insert a card to open the entrance gate, is atop a post adjacent to the kiosk. Probably to avoid calling attention to itself, the building is poorly maintained, the gr
ounds unkempt.
“That guard is armed,” Kate notes with concern.
“I wish he was our only problem.”
Despite adhering to our plan, despite arriving at an hour when the plant should be shut down, the lights are ablaze and the parking lot is filled with cars, scooters, and bicycles.
“They get started early around here. Don’t they?” Kate observes glumly, getting the message.
“The upside is, they probably knock off early too. We’ll just have to hang around until they do.”
Kate sighs and makes a face. “It’s going to be a long day.”
I nod thoughtfully as a different and much more troublesome scenario occurs to me. I’ll know one way or the other soon enough and decide not to alarm her. A couple of hours later, at precisely 8 A.M., my fears are confirmed when a whistle blows and the shift changes. They weren’t early starters, they were the night shift. Though Tickner said the heroin operation is going to be scrapped, it’s going round the clock now. It obviously never shuts down. Our plan is a bust. If getting into Laos was a bitch, getting into this place is going to make it look like a piece of cake.
35
Time and time again, I drummed it into my squad, my staff, my daughters, and myself: If something can possibly go wrong, it will
And it has.
Twice.
Not only hasn’t the plant shut down, but also, despite being parked at this vantage point for almost eight hours, we’ve seen no sign whatsoever of Chen Dai. Considering his occupation and hefty profit margin, I figure he wouldn’t arrive in anything less than an armored limo. So, unless he’s driving a dusty compact, he isn’t here.
I’ve been watching the comings and goings and thinking about those cop shows I’ve seen where weary detectives spend days in their cars, living on cold coffee and stale donuts. Right about now, I’d give anything for a Winchell’s maple-glazed, not to mention a way to get inside the plant. I’m staring at the huge bottle cap on the roof and working the problem for the umpteenth time, when Kate returns from a visit to some nearby bushes.
