by Greg Dinallo
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 wa
s 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.”
“What’s it got to do with Surigao, Ajacier, and all those other guys on your chart there? They aren’t citizens of Laos.”
“Indeed, they aren’t. The problem is, arrests mean trials, testimony, congressional hearings, and that means the first-amendment folks.”
“The media.”
“The media. There’s no way we could initiate criminal proceedings without seriously endangering that guarantee.”
“So you’re saying that despite identifying the players, and despite having the goods on them, nobody’s going to be prosecuted.”
Tickner’s lips tighten. He nods imperceptibly.
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the groin. “Chrissakes, come on, those bastards murdered my wife. They tried to kill me. And they’re still trying. They put a bomb in my hotel room yesterday.”
Silence. Looks dart between them.
Nash finally leans his weight against the corner of the desk. “They pulled the rug out from under us, too, Mr. Morgan,” he says with profound disappointment. “I’ve been busting my hump on this for years. Just when I’m ready to roll these fucks up, they cut themselves a sweet deal. And if that’s not enough, we get the job of covering their asses.”
I just glare at him. How dare he equate his loss with mine, with Nancy’s death.
“The bottom line,” Tickner concludes, toying with his bow tie, “is that prosecuting drug traffickers has never been our primary goal. Stopping the flow of drugs is. If locking these people up works, fine. If this crop-sub program works, then that’s good policy too. And we’re the instrument through which that policy is implemented.”
I’m seething, staring at the floor, hoping to God Surigao is dead. “What a fucking travesty.”
Nash nods glumly.
“Call it what you like, Mr. Morgan,” Tickner says. “That’s the way the game is played. Always has been, always will be. I hope you’ll accept that.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. Neither do we. The man took us on and beat us. The thing that bugs me is Chen Dai played it like he always knew he would I win. Even when we had his back to the wall, he seemed totally unthreatened. Too calm, too cool, too collected.” He shakes his head, baffled. “I’ve always had the feeling he had an ace in the hole or something. It’s irrelevant now.”
“Would you mind answering a question for me?”
“Hard to say until I hear it.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out why they want to kill me. I know it has something to do with my inquiry to the CIL. But I—”
“What makes you say that?”
“Surigao had his wife on the lookout for my name. I was wondering if you had any idea why?”
Tickner’s eyes cloud. He’s seems genuinely puzzled. “No, none whatsoever. This is the first I’ve heard of that. As far as I know, he was the liaison between various way stations: Bangkok, Manila, Honolulu, San Francisco.”
“That’s it?”
Tickner nods.
“Let’s go back to the CIL. You said Chen Dai’s people were using it to bring the stuff in.”
He nods again.
“How?”
He studies me for a moment, deciding. “It’s concealed in transfer cases.”
That’s the last thing I expected. “No. No way.”
“Yes. Twenty kilos per case, as a matter of fact.”
“Twenty?!”
“Twenty.”
“That’s more than forty pounds! The Colonel and I weighed dozens of cases. Each one was right on the money. A hundred twenty-one pounds.”
He smiles, pleased with himself. “I’m sure they were, Mr. Morgan. There’s no need to feel inadequate. It took us years to figure it out. It’s nothing short of brilliant, believe me. As I mentioned, I’ll be reviewing the entire situation with the Colonel tomorrow.”
“What time tomorrow?”
He smiles knowingly. “He’ll be here at eleven. I guess you’ve earned the right to join us, if you like.”
“You bet your ass I like.”
29
I leave Tickner’s office with mixed emotions. I’m curious as hell to find out how they used the transfer cases—impossible as far as I’m concerned—and I’m fuming that those responsible for Nancy’s death are not only getting off, they’re being awarded a fat financial aid package. It’s small comfort, but it appears the latter doesn’t extend to Ajacier. On the contrary, he just had a major source of income go down the toilet. No wonder he welshed on the payoff to Surigao.
I make my way through the maze of corridors and bound down a short flight of steps to the embassy’s lobby, planning to take a taxi back to the hotel.