by Greg Dinallo
“Anything?” she prompts, sliding into the seat.
I shake my head no.
She tears open a bar of survival rations from the Zodiac, takes a bite, and scowls. “I thought the DEA said Chen Dai spends most of his time here.”
“When he isn’t at his compound in Pak Seng.”
“Well, we can’t wait forever. Sooner or later somebody’s going to spot us.”
I nod grimly, a hollow sense of defeat growing in my stomach. I can’t believe we’ve come this far, come so close, only to come up empty.
“Besides,” Kate goes on with a grin, “I may be a farm girl, but peeing in the woods has never been my idea of a good time.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Making me laugh. Got any ideas?”
“I’m in real estate, remember? The closest I get to anything like this is an open house where nobody comes.”
“Vietnam.”
“What about it?”
“That was the closest I got. Engaging the enemy was always a problem. Charlie’d hit and run, hit and run. Drove us crazy.”
“How’d you flush him out?”
“Took something that was important to him. Then he’d come running to try and take it back.”
“I don’t think it applies.”
“If we took over Chen Dai’s office, it might.”
“I’m sure that’d get his attention. But we can’t even get through the gate, let alone—”
“Maybe we can,” I interrupt, reflecting on the shift change, on cars pulling up to the gate, on the hands pushing cards into the slot to open it. I get my gym bag from the backseat and start rummaging through it. “I hadn’t thought about going through the gate.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The wallet I took off that gunman.” I find it and begin sorting through the contents. “He was working for Chen Dai. Maybe he had a gate card.”
“And if he did?”
“Not if, Kate,” I reply, holding it up to her. I’ve no doubt that’s what it is. It’s almost identical to the one I use to get into the underground parking garage at my office.
“I don’t see what it gives us. I mean, we can’t just go driving in there.”
“Not at the moment. But if we wait till four . . .”
“The next shift change,” Kate says, seeing where I’m headed.
“Uh-huh. All that coming and going, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance one more car won’t be noticed.”
“Maybe not, but we will.”
“I don’t know. Chances are we won’t be the first Westerners to tour this place. The trick is not to go sneaking around. If we look like we belong, they’ll think we do.”
Restless and tense, we spend the next few hours in the Peugeot clock-watching. At precisely 4 P.M., the blast of a whistle announces our wait is over. As soon as the shift change is in full swing, we head down the hill toward the refinery. My window is open, and, as we approach the entrance, I ease the Ingram from its holster and tuck the snub-nosed muzzle in the corner formed by the sill and doorpost. My right hand is on the grip and trigger, my left on the steering wheel, elbow bent and resting casually on the sill to conceal the weapon.
I let the car in front of us proceed completely through before advancing toward the gate. The less time the guard has to scrutinize us the better. He waves to one of the departing cars, then glances in our direction. I tighten my grip on the Ingram with one hand, then reach out the window with the other and push the card into the slot. Kate stiffens apprehensively, then sighs with relief as the gate arm raises. I remove the card and slowly drive through into the parking lot, holstering the Ingram beneath my wind-breaker. We cross the grounds unnoticed by the arriving and departing workers, who wear ID badges and use a secured personnel entrance. I park at the opposite end of the building where some broad steps, double doors, and a row of windows suggest the lobby and administrative offices are located.
An armed guard is posted at the entrance. Like the one at the gate, he has military bearing, a neatly pressed uniform with name tag above the pocket, and a walkie-talkie riding his hip along with his sidearm. Will he assume we’ve been cleared at the gate? Assume we have a reason to be here? Or will he challenge us? Kate and I leave the car and approach at a casual pace. The knot in my gut tightens as he blocks our way and addresses us in French.
Kate responds in Thai. As Vann Nath explained, Thai and Lao are mutually intelligible and they have no trouble communicating. From their tone and gestures, it’s obvious the guard is giving her a hard time, and she’s standing her ground. The give and take continues until something Kate says gives him pause. There’s another brief exchange before he nods and steps aside.
“What was that all about?” I ask, as we cross toward the entrance.
“He said state your business. I made up a story about having important information for Chen Dai. He said he wasn’t here and insisted we leave. I asked him what he was going to say when the DEA shows up and Chen Dai finds out he turned us away.”
“You’ve got a lot of chutzpah, kid.”
“I’m going to need lots more,” she says anxiously. “We still have to get through a security check inside.”
The lobby is a typical industrial space: terrazzo, fluorescents, and metal partitions that funnel us to the checkpoint dead ahead. It’s more of a corridor than an office. Visitors enter at one end and, if they’re cleared by the guard posted in an alcove at the midpoint, exit the other. Judging from the epaulets on his tropical tans, he’s an officer. The only way into this place is through him.
“Same story and ask to see Chen Dai?” Kate prompts in a tense whisper as we approach.
“Asking’s no longer an option,” I reply, eyeing the airport metal detector that frames the doorway. I reach inside my windbreaker for the Ingram. “This guy’s going to personally escort us right into Chen Dai’s office. You understand?”
Kate nods, then reaches into her shoulder bag and grips the pistol. The instant we cross the threshold, the detector beeps, startling the guard. He looks up from some paperwork to see the Ingram pointed at his head, and freezes. While Kate closes the door, I step forward and slip the sidearm from his holster.
“Ask him if Chen Dai will be here tomorrow.”
The guard responds to the translation with a defiant glare.
“Tell him we want a meeting. A peaceful one.”
He smirks and shifts his eyes to the Ingram. I lower the muzzle slightly to reassure him. “Make sure he understands we won’t hurt him or Chen Dai if he cooperates.”
The guard studies me warily but finally responds, causing Kate to scowl in disappointment.
“He said, Chen Dai’s up north this week.”
“Shit. Can he be reached by phone?”
The guard nods.
“Okay, tell him we’ll be setting up shop in Chen Dai’s office. All three of us. He’ll make the call from there.”
Kate translates, eyeing me curiously as I remove the clip from the officer’s sidearm and give the gun back to him. “I wouldn’t want somebody wondering why he’s walking around with an empty holster.”
“Or wondering why he left his post.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Tell him to get a subordinate to cover for him.”
“I did.”
The guard handles it over his walkie-talkie, then leads the way from the checkpoint. We take a staircase to the second floor and enter a large executive office. It reminds me of a skybox in the Astrodome. Except that the window wall, which usually overlooks the playing field, has a view of a heroin refinery.
It’s a stunning sight.
In contrast to the rundown facade, the interior is a slick, high-tech operation. A row of huge stainless steel vats, used to distill the super-pure heroin from opium, are linked by miles of ducting and pipe chases that snake between them in perfect alignment. A network of catwalks used to service the equipment hangs overhead. One wall is a mass of dials,
gauges, and electrical panels. Another is lined with fifty-gallon drums of chemicals. White, spotless, and with glass partitions between work stations where personnel toil in lab smocks, surgical masks, and gloves, the vast space resembles a cross between a brewery and one of the clean rooms at Cape Canaveral.
Kate and I exchange incredulous looks.
The guard is stone-faced.
“Okay. Tell our friend here to make the call. Points to be covered are: our names, our reason for being here, our peaceful intentions, and our location.”
Kate translates, then monitors our side of the telephone conversation, nodding occasionally to indicate the guard is following instructions. After several exchanges, he pauses and offers me the phone. I’m surprised and hesitate. He nods several times, insisting I take it.
“Yes?” I say, my voice cracking with tension.
“Mr. Morgan? My apologies for not being there to extend a proper welcome,” Chen Dai enthuses. “Suffice it to say, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. It gives me great pleasure to tell you your bearded friend blew the assignment.”
“Evidently so. You’re an admirable and tenacious adversary. I’m more than intrigued by the prospect of meeting you and Mrs. Ackerman. Unfortunately I am, at minimum, several hours’ journey from Vientiane.”
“Take your time. We’ll be here.”
“Very well, Mr. Morgan. Please feel free to make yourselves comfortable.”
His English is refined. The syntax straight out of Oxford, the accent more French than Asian, the pace measured, and, as Tickner mentioned, the attitude disturbingly confident. I hang up feeling a little disarmed and settle down to wait.
In marked contrast to the scene out the window, the office is like something out of China in the fifties. The walls are sheathed in silk and hung with ethereal landscapes. An ornate oriental rug covers the floor. All the seating is upholstered in intricate brocade.
The guard has a woman bring tea and rice cakes.
Darkness falls.
Several anxious hours pass before I hear a distant whisk. It sends a chill through me as it gets louder and segues to a haunting whomp. The room starts to vibrate. I cross to a window just as two parallel shafts of light come over the building and sweep across the parking area. Suddenly a helicopter appears, its purple and white strobes winking in the darkness as it circles around to the entrance, landing out of view.
Chen Dai is here.
The security officer takes up a position off to one side of the door. Kate and I take seats facing it, weapons at the ready. Several minutes pass before we detect approaching footsteps. Rather than the thumping, stormtrooper cadence I anticipated, they fall with surprising softness, and are accompanied by an intermittent click.
The door creaks open, slowly.
An elderly man enters alone, paying no attention to the guard who closes the door after him. He’s short and lean, and dressed in a gray military suit with a mandarin collar like those worn by Chinese political leaders. His posture is slightly stooped, and though he appears much older than the photograph on Tickner’s board, there’s no doubt it’s Chen Dai. He crosses the room at a geriatric pace, using a cane to keep his balance, and slowly settles into a wingback chair opposite us. His feet barely touch the floor. When he’s comfortable, he glances to the security officer and dismisses him with a flick of his cane.
“You have me now,” Chen Dai explains, reading my mind. He smiles thinly and studies us in silence.
I return his gaze, at long last face-to-face with the notorious drug lord who gave the order to kill me, who’s responsible for Nancy’s death, who bought—bought—Kate’s husband and had him executed. But he looks more like Confucius than Genghis Khan. More like somebody’s grandfather than the legendary nasty piece of work. His face is tired and hollow, the skin pale and translucent with age, yet his eyes are alert and without a hint of malice, or fear, for that matter. It bothers me: He knows who we are, knows we’re armed, knows we have an axe to grind, yet he walked in here alone and unarmed.
Finally, Chen Dai’s eyes shift slowly to the Ingram. “I was under the impression your intentions were peaceful.”
“They are,” I reply sharply. “We ask questions. You answer , them. We leave. Agreed?”
“Agreed. You won’t need that, I assure you.”
“I might if I decide to tell you what I think of you and your operation.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Morgan, but I think what you’re implying is unfair. This is a purely humanitarian endeavor.”
“Spare us the propaganda speech, okay?”
“That’s what you Americans always say when the truth doesn’t suit your purpose.”
“The truth?”
“Yes. For your edification, thousands of decent, hardworking people depend on this operation for their survival. Families, for the most part, who spend their days eking out livings from harsh, unforgiving land.”
“I grew up on a farm,” Kate says, seething. “My family struggled through droughts and blights. More than once they almost lost everything. Some of their friends did. But not one of them used their hardships to justify criminal behavior.”
“Is it criminal to exploit one’s sole resource?” Chen Dai challenges rhetorically. “I think not. No, Mrs. Ackerman, in Houa Phan Province, opium is the equivalent of wheat to Kansas, petroleum to Saudi Arabia.” He pauses, reflecting on a thought. “The Saudis are the perfect analogy, you know? They have two things in abundance: sand and petroleum. We have rice and opium. Need I say more? If I could sell the former for the price of the latter, I would gladly be in the produce business.”
“The way I hear it, you are, now.”
“Will be,” he corrects smartly. “Or so it seems. I’m very hopeful the new program will work out.”
“And in the meantime, business as usual?” I gesture to the window and refinery beyond.
“Well, of all people, I imagine you, as a management consultant, would have a special appreciation for the concept of contingency planning.”
“Come on, you’re not a businessman. You’re—”
“I agree,” Chen Dai interrupts calmly. “To be honest, I find the term demeaning. I much prefer philanthropist.”
“That’s funny, I was about to say you’re nothing more than a glorified dope pusher.”
His eyes remain dispassionate, but I notice his bony fingers tighten around the handle of his cane in anger. “It’s never been my goal to transform American teenagers into heroin addicts, if that’s your point. The DEA is more than equally responsible for allowing this to go on as long as it has.”
“Are you suggesting they’re incompetent, or involved?”
“Neither. They’re incorruptible to a fault, which, I hasten to add, was the root of the problem. More than once I’ve offered to sell them our annual crop of opium for a third of what they’ve been spending to eliminate us. Each time they turned me down.”
He’s caught me unawares. The perfect rejoinder comes to mind, but there’s no timing or bite in it by the time I deliver it. “To their credit.”
Chen Dai smiles knowingly. “My friend Mr. Tickner failed to mention that, didn’t he?”
I nod grudgingly. “You’re a pragmatic son of a bitch. I give you that.”
“Innovative. As I said, Mr. Morgan, it isn’t business, it’s a matter of survival. And I find I’m all the more creative when threatened.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Enough jousting. We have a lady here whom we’re neglecting. My apologies, Mrs. Ackerman. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I find your disregard for human dignity far more offensive.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Chen Dai counters, feigning ignorance.
“You bought human beings. You let your—your savages defile their remains to smuggle your filth. How could you commit such atrocities? How? I’ve been trying to imagine what kind of a person could do that? I still can’t.”
“That was many years ago. We were at war. It wasn’t personal.” He pauses thoughtfully, then adds, “Though I sense it was for you.”
Kate glares at him and nods. “Twenty-one years ago my husband was executed and brought here.”
“I’m very sorry,” Chen Dai says, solemnly. “I imagine you’re in search of a final answer, as I believe your people call them.”
“Yes.”
“And you, Mr. Morgan?”
“My wife was murdered because I threatened you. I need to know why.”
“Fair enough. I have the utmost respect for people who have their thoughts in order.”
“We’ve had lots of time to think.”
“Well, I’ll spare you the inaccuracies of an old man’s fading memory. As one of my anonymous ancestors so long ago observed, one picture is worth more than a thousand words. Come, I’ll show you.”
Chen Dai inches forward in the chair and gets to his feet, pausing to secure his balance with the cane while Kate and I stand ready to follow. He takes several uncertain steps toward the door, then, as he crosses behind Kate, he pauses again, and with a lightning-fast flick of his hand, produces a small chrome-plated pistol, which he points at her head.
She gasps and recoils at the sight of it.
“Please don’t move, Mrs. Ackerman,” he says calmly.
I’m stunned. I can’t imagine where the weapon came from. His hands went neither into a pocket nor inside his jacket. I’m wishing I’d taken his dig about contingency planning more seriously, when I notice the top of his cane is missing. The pistol’s ornate grip formed the handle; the muzzle, which nested inside the hollow sleeve, is now pressed against Kate’s temple.
“Place your weapon on the floor, Mr. Morgan,” Chen Dai goes on in a sharper tone.
I’d like nothing better than to cut him in half with the Ingram, but he’s shrewdly put Kate between us. She’s right in the line of fire. Even if she wasn’t, he could put a bullet in her head long before I could swing the Ingram into firing position, let alone get off a burst. I let it slip from my fingers.
Chen Dai kicks it aside and calls out in Lao.