by Andrew Grant
As Sami brought the image in even closer, I could make out razor wire adorning the fence and machine guns in the watchtowers. I didn’t need him to explain who owned this particular real estate.
‘Lowland,’ said Sami. ‘A basin between the mountains. Virtually all swamp and surrounded on three sides by water, so the only clear access is by air or water. He has the water and shore mined, as is the land approach. We know he’s got radar and we suspect a bunch of Stingers, so there’ll be no sneak helicopter attacks on this camp.’
‘Tidy,’ was all I could think of to say.
‘We have to have him come to us,’ Sami said, ‘and I think we can arrange that very easily. His desire to get to you will ensure that,’ he added.
‘Where have you been?’ Bernard sounded as pissed off as I’d ever heard him.
‘In hiding,’ I replied. ‘Remember that hit on the Russian, Dimitri Chekhov?’
‘Vaguely,’ the old bastard muttered.
‘He didn’t die. He’s here in Thailand and he’s raising havoc. It was Chekhov’s people out in the Andaman,’ I said.
‘Chekhov,’ Bernard mused as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘Dimitri Chekhov?’ The old bastard was playing his senility card.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘He’s very much alive and he’s taken out friends of mine and he’s after me. I’m heading out of Bangkok until Tuk Tuk or the CIA get him,’ I said, feigning an urgency I was far from feeling, and all the while marvelling at the old bugger’s acting ability. Hell, he was almost as good as I was. I wondered what his GPS would be showing.
I was sitting in one of Sami’s boats on the Chao Phraya about mid-way between Bangkok and Ayutthaya. Sami, Jo and I were going upstream to check out the destruction on Chekhov’s base personally. The news on the Russian was that he had definitely gone to his northern base. Sami was thinking he’d been tipped off by one of Tuk Tuk’s people. ‘Trust is hard to come by in our business,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want you by my side.’ He wasn’t letting up in his efforts to get me to join him.
Because Chekhov was in the north we had no choice but to go there as well, but not yet. Karl, through his people, was busy putting some things in place. In the meantime we three went sightseeing. The call on my mobile was to keep Bernard happy and unsuspicious without putting a big bull’s-eye on Sami’s palace.
‘Call me when you get to where you’re going,’ Bernard said.
‘I will. Wish me luck,’ I said, trying to sound at least a little apprehensive.
‘I do, Daniel, I certainly do. Call when you get there,’ Bernard said in his most fatherly tone. Even given the distance and electronic filters, I could hear the relief in his voice as he cut the contact. I congratulated myself on having masterfully played dumb with him. Sir Bernard Turncoat was convinced that no matter what, his boy, Danny Swann, had no idea he had been set up. In his perfect little scenario he would give Chekhov my location and Chekhov, in turn, would finally get me. Then Bernard’s double-play secrets would be safe until he went to his grave.
Officially, of course, the story which would do the rounds would be that he, Sir Bernard Randolph Sinclair, arsehole and bar, had despatched his agent to collect a package. Despite all odds the agent had been successful but unfortunately been killed in a later event. How sad! Bernard would probably get a fucking bar on his knighthood or something. As for failing to get the anthrax for his real bosses or his partners in crime, that would be unfortunate for Chekhov but, on the other hand, Her Majesty’s Government would be well pleased. In Bernard’s book he would be thinking that, ultimately, Chekhov had a sticky end coming at the hands of Tuk Tuk or the CIA and he could quietly slip into retirement to enjoy whatever millions he no doubt had in his Swiss bank accounts.
‘I don’t know whether or not he’s spoken to his old mate Dimitri today,’ I said to Sami as I switched off the phone, ‘but it’ll be an interesting call when they make contact.’
‘I’ll believe that,’ Sami said as he kicked the big boat into action and sent us racing upstream.
32
Too many cooks and this broth will be turned into blood soup. The thought crossed my mind as we sat in Sami’s study for what amounted to a mission briefing. Karl, Jo, Sami and I were there, so was a big, hard-faced s.o.b named Alex. Alex was, Karl informed us, commander of a Special Operations unit. His squad had flown in from the Pakistan–Afghan border just for our little party, all thanks to the CIA paymasters. Karl and Alex had flown in by Jet Ranger just as we three musketeers had arrived back at Sami’s compound from our excursion upriver. Coincidental timing? I thought not. Coincidence didn’t have a place in the game we were playing. I was beginning to feel like a spare cog.
We were gathered in front of a large-scale glass-framed wall map. The map was of Thailand and the countries that shared its border. Sami illuminated the map panel at the touch of a button. ‘We go here!’ He tapped the glass, pointing to an unmarked spot on the map in the northeast, close to the border with Laos. The place he indicated wasn’t far from Vientiane, the Laotian capital. I’d spent quite a bit of time there once, officially as a tourist recovering from a bout of malaria. The true facts had been a little different, however.
‘Chekhov has his base here.’ Sami pointed to a red dot on the glass. Then he moved his finger a few inches. ‘Here is where we will be.’
‘A village?’ I said, squinting at the dot he was indicating.
‘On a hill,’ Sami replied. ‘It’s the perfect spot. There is only one road in or out.’
‘What about the villagers? We don’t want them caught in a firefight!’ That was the big reality clause for me. I didn’t want any more dead and injured innocents on my already overloaded conscience.
‘No problem,’ Sami said. ‘They’ll be gone when we get there.’
‘They’re just going to pack up and go?’ Karl muttered, an incredulous expression replacing his habitual poker face.
‘You could say I own the place,’ Sami said with a shrug. ‘It’s one of several I have along the border.’
‘Does Chekhov suspect that you know where his base is?’ I asked.
‘Undoubtedly, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll come after us,’ Sami said. ‘The urge to kill Daniel is too strong. He won’t be able to resist it.’
‘Does he realise that this place belongs to you?’ Karl was asking.
Sami shrugged. ‘I would say probably. We’re only twenty clicks apart, but there are a lot of other operators in the area as well. We watch each other from afar,’ he added mirthlessly.
‘And you’re positive he’ll come to us?’ I asked, worrying that question to death because I just wasn’t sure.
‘He wants you dead, badly, so he’ll come calling,’ said Karl. ‘The double whammy is that he won’t realise that you’ve got America’s finest on your side.’ The newcomer almost smiled at that—almost. ‘He’ll figure you have what, maybe fifteen to twenty men on the hill?’ Karl asked and Sami nodded in agreement. ‘Okay, and he’s probably got about the same?’
‘Maybe thirty,’ Sami replied.
‘That’s okay,’ Karl came back. ‘We’ll have a crew of ten Special Forces plus whatever else you’ve got on site.’
‘Six in the village, all fighters,’ Sami said, ‘and ourselves—say twenty. Is that enough?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Karl. ‘Agree, Alex?’
‘That’s enough,’ the Special Ops man replied in a tone that ended any argument. I had no idea what Alex and his team were going to bring to the party, but I figured I had no choice but to go along for the ride. It was the only game in town. I knew that when it came to technology and killing equipment, the Yanks would come up trumps.
‘Okay, so I confirm with Bernard that I’m in this village here.’ I leaned towards the map to look for a name.
‘Bang Sai Deng,’ Sami supplied for my benefit.
‘Bang Sai Deng,’ I repeated. ‘I speak to him and he alerts Chekhov. Chekhov comes calling and we finish it.’
‘Right,’ ag
reed Sami as the others nodded. ‘As I said before, there is only one road to it from this point here.’ Sami tapped the glass again, indicating a village at a crossroads down the valley from Bang Sai Deng. His hand traced a route back to Chekhov’s base away to the west. ‘Chekhov has vehicles at the road’s end here where the swampland starts. He has to come this way unless he flies in.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Bang Sai Deng is where I’m hanging out. I’m waiting for Tuk Tuk or the CIA or anyone to take Chekhov out. I’m ready to flick across the border, just like old times, if there’s any attempt on my life, blah, blah,’ I finished. We all knew the plot.
‘Let’s go do it,’ said Karl.
33
As we flew in to Bang Sai Deng, I was all eyes. A map and a distant memory were not enough to go on when you were about to put your life on the line. The pilot brought us down almost to within tree-hugging height as we came in on a circuit from the north. We were trying to keep our arrival as low-key as possible. Despite the lack of height there was a lot to see, including a shit load of jungle. We brushed past the shoulders of hills and flashed over little patches of agriculture. A few small villages were dotted around. We could see Vientiane off in the distance and the mighty Mekong showed as a dark ribbon against the green of the jungle just a few hundred yards north of us.
Behind us the borrowed Iroquois kept just as low. Although painted in civilian livery, the old Huey was actually a Thai Air Force machine, one probably used for Black Ops work.
We flew up the northern side of a flat-topped, jungle-covered hill and came over the crest low enough to send dust flying. We were here. The Huey hovered back down below the crest of the plateau as our pilot set up for landing.
Bang Sai Deng hadn’t been sited on a hill by accident. The occupants enjoyed the 360-degree panoramic view—a view that was a prerequisite for a village whose cottage industry was processing raw heroin. The top of the hill was about the size of a football field and pear-shaped, the thick end facing southeast. The jungle on the hilltop had been cleared back to where the flat but slightly sloping plateau dropped away towards the valleys below. There were half a dozen large trees left standing, either to provide shade or to make landing anything other than a single chopper really difficult.
The village itself was typical of those anywhere in the north. I could see a dozen bamboo and thatch huts of various sizes on stilts. The only building to break the mould was a long, low corrugated-iron shed situated at the top end of the village on the narrow neck that pointed up into Laos. It was as far from the rest of the village as it was possible to get. A fringe of trees grew around the shed, breaking its outline from the air. I didn’t need a degree to figure this was one of Sami’s drug labs. It was the place where the raw opium tar was cooked before being sent south for further refinement and cutting.
Beyond the lab the terrain dropped away steeply, and the green carpet of bush rolled back towards the Mekong five or six miles in the distance. The river was effectively the border between Thailand and Laos running down to cut through the heart of Cambodia into Vietnam and then to the South China Sea. I’d seen a lot of that particular piece of water over the years gone by.
There was a welcoming committee of half a dozen hard-looking guys, each bearing a semi-automatic weapon. They were standing motionless in a loose knot by the hut nearest the landing zone. The only things in motion apart from the debris thrown up by Jet Ranger’s rotor blast were a few dogs and some scrawny-looking chickens. Upon our arrival, pigs squealed indignantly from half a dozen pens scattered around the plateau. I figured the families had already shipped out otherwise the place would have been swarming with kids.
As soon as we had unloaded our gear with the help of Sami’s resident team, the Jet Ranger took off and slid back down the northern side of the hill to be replaced at the landing site by the Huey.
Alex’s team was ten, including him as leader. They were a hardened, competent-looking group of young men. As usual they were dressed in the Special Ops mish-mash of casual clothes and combat gear. The common denominator for them all was a pair of dark glasses which each man wore. We were all wearing them but these guys made them look like part of their uniform.
Using my usual method of categorising everyone and everything, I decided Alex’s lot were from The A Team. Thank god there wasn’t an obvious Mr T amongst them, and as for the George Peppard character, there wasn’t a cigar in sight. These guys would be using real bullets and there wouldn’t be a Hollywood temper tantrum to be seen.
The A Team all had the look of guys who had done a lot of time out in the hard lands. Each of them carried a big pack and wore a sidearm. They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to because they’d obviously done this many times before. They laid their kit to one side of the chopper and returned to the Huey to haul out several large olive-green, hard-shell holdalls. Within two minutes both helicopters had gone back towards the border. I knew they would skirt the hills and split up, the Huey heading due south to its Bangkok base while the CIA Jet Ranger would head for Udon Thani, fifty or so miles to the southeast where it would remain on standby in case we needed it. That was reassuring to me.
Sami had gone into the village followed by Jo. Each of them wore a holstered pistol and a belt knife and Jo had an M16 over his shoulder. Instead of a carbine, Sami carried a long wrapped bundle of leather and cloth. I had no idea what he had in it. Given the speed of our final preparations, I’d concentrated on what I had needed to do. As personal armament, in addition to the Walther, I carried a Colt Commander, a shortened, telescopic-stocked version of the M16.
While Karl went to consult with The A Team, I walked to the edge of the drop-off where the dirt road started or ended, depending on your point of view. I found a convenient log, checked it for wildlife, then sat and started scanning the countryside with the binoculars I’d borrowed from Sami.
The road, or rather the track, dropped away out of sight immediately below me as it passed into the jungle. It reappeared on the valley floor three or four hundred feet further down. Here it followed the black ribbon of the stream that split the valley floor on its way to join a larger river maybe four miles further down. A hundred yards before the rivers converged there was a village and a crossroads of sorts. A crude log bridge carried another dirt road across the river. This track ran left to right across the foot of the valley. Anyone attempting to reach us by road would need to cross the bridge.
As I sat contemplating the lay of the land and the logistics of the whole deal, I could make out an old green and blue bus rolling away from the bottom village, east in the direction of Vientiane. ‘My people taking a holiday,’ said Sami as he sank onto the log beside me. ‘Nice long approach road,’ he said.
‘He won’t just drive on up here when he comes,’ I replied. ‘Not Chekhov.’
‘No he won’t, Daniel,’ Sami said. ‘I figure they’ll come at night on foot from the bridge and use the bush and the ridge.’ He almost chuckled. ‘Just like old times, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Just hope we do it right this time.’
‘We will,’ he promised. ‘Hopefully by coming in the way we did, any spies he has in the village won’t have seen or heard us. There’s a lot of aerial traffic up this way. So, with luck, Chekhov won’t know we are anywhere up this way until tomorrow when you call Sir Bernard.’
‘You got home base covered?’ I asked. That had been nagging at me. I was nervous about who in turn was minding the store.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘Uncle has added significantly to my garrison.’ I relaxed a little at that and we sat there in companionable silence and waited, two old friends at ease with each other, each contemplating the hours ahead and his own mortality. At least I was. I had to surmise that Sami was as well, but with Sami Somsak, who could tell?
I glanced at my watch. It was only a few minutes before 15:00. We had time to kill. Right on cue a pig squealed. Sami and I turned. Up at the drug lab two guys had one of the village’s many pi
gs by its hind legs and were wheelbarrow-walking the indignant beast down towards a bamboo and thatch shed that sat alone at the edge of a plateau.
‘Dinner,’ said Sami simply. ‘And breakfast and lunch tomorrow,’ he added. ‘Shall we get ourselves organised?’ I agreed. We stood and strolled over to where Karl and The A Team had gathered in front of the veranda of the largest hut. Karl and Alex were on the deck and a large photographic satellite image of the entire immediate area was attached to the thatch wall.
‘Jesus,’ I muttered under my breath as I got up close to the photo image. The detail was incredible. It had been taken in the middle of the day because the shadows were short. We were looking directly down on the plateau. I could count the chickens and pigs and virtually name the dogs. There were people in the garden plots and smoke or steam was rising from the lab chimney and cooking fires. The road showed as a vivid brown–yellow slash through the jungle to where it met the black of the stream.
‘Delivered half an hour before we were airborne,’ Karl told me. ‘We know Chekhov won’t be able to get detailed current reconnaissance when he identifies this location.’ The CIA man gave Sami and I a wolfish grin. ‘We can’t rule out an intelligence agency from a friendly country requesting up-to-date imagery from our birds. However, should such a request come in the official story is that we have a malfunctioning satellite.’ I grinned at that. Karl had effectively shut down any thoughts Sir Bernard might have had about supplying Chekhov with up-to-date images of Bang Sai Deng and its surrounds. ‘So here’s the plan,’ he continued, nodding to Alex who stepped up to bat. I paid attention. I was the bait, but my life might depend on knowing as much as I could about the trap.
The plan the Special Ops man outlined was simple. In the first instance, his team was preparing to put out sound and heat sensors, cameras, decoy devices and Claymore mines at strategic locations on the probable jungle approaches to the plateau. They would install their monitoring equipment in the big hut they’d designated as HQ. They would also check and, where necessary, augment the system of bunkers and trenches Sami had created around the perimeter and under the huts as a defence against drug bandits.