Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  General Lucas White was a soldier.

  And, of course, no historical gallery would be complete without pictures from his private life. From that outside world where celebrities, stargazers, and other notables worshipped the successful, and who, regardless of their own degree of fame, felt the need to reach out and make a connection.

  A connection with him, General Lucas White, soldier.

  There was Lucas pictured with Rocky Marciano. With Sinatra and Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. on a movie set in Vegas. Getting a kiss from Angie Dickinson at a Palm Springs charity golf event. Pictures of him with Murrow and Bogart and Bobby Kennedy. There was one—his favorite—of him sitting at a poker table with Churchill, Hemingway, and a very young Norman Mailer. Yet another showing him with JFK and Pierre Salinger in the Oval Office during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  He had been there. Stood shoulder to shoulder with the great men of the twentieth century. Served them, advised them, elevated them.

  They knew. They understood. More than understood. They bore witness to his past.

  His glorious past.

  He swiveled his chair and looked at the wall directly behind the desk. Hanging there was his most cherished possession, his greatest treasure: an original Picasso presented to him by the master himself shortly after the end of the Korean conflict.

  Yes, he, Lucas White, had truly walked with giants.

  He sipped more Scotch, eased back into the leather chair and scanned the room. So many memories, so much history. His life. Without his realizing it, his eyes came to rest on a framed 5×7 black and white photo on his desk. It showed him standing with another great soldier, perhaps the greatest he’d ever known.

  Cain.

  God, how he loved that kid.

  Lucas closed his eyes, shutting out the present, keeping it at a distance as if he were trying to fight off some insidious disease.

  He had no use for the present.

  Now, at this moment, more than ever, he needed the past. His glorious past.

  Precious memories swirled inside his head, tossed by wave after wave of uncertainty and confusion. The present, he knew, was rapidly encroaching, threatening to erase his past like footprints in a desert sandstorm. His past was in danger of being blown into the void of nothingness.

  Lucas quickly opened his eyes and looked around the room. The photos, letters, gifts, mementos—they were still there. Reassurances that his past was real.

  It was … had been.

  And they could never take it away.

  Nor could they ever fathom his deepest secrets.

  By the mid-1960s, rogue elements within the CIA were conducting a secret war inside the borders of Laos, which was in the middle of bloody civil unrest. This off-the-books operation, unauthorized by CIA officials, and far removed from any hint of military or Congressional oversight, was undertaken for the purpose of helping warlords like General Vang Pao fight against the North Vietnamese and the local Communist Pathet Lao. It was a fight the CIA believed in wholeheartedly.

  This secret war was funded by the opium poppy, thanks primarily to a financial crop planted by the CIA a decade earlier. Top CIA officials, going back to the days of Allen Dulles, had long dreamt of finding the means to finance covert operations without having to beg for Congressional funding and support. In Laos, Cambodia, and later Vietnam, illegal drug production, distribution, and sales provided the answer to this problem. The war, now essentially privatized, paid for itself, thus eliminating the necessity of dealing with Washington red tape bureaucracy.

  Lucas White, with Ted Shackley’s blessings, trust, and confidence, was the point man for the operation’s disinformation campaign. Lucas, highly respected within the Pentagon and the halls of Congress, had one simple goal: to convince those in Washington that we were winning the war against the Pathet Lao.

  “When you testify before Congress, use the terms Communist and Communism as many times as you can,” Shackley advised Lucas. “Toss in dominoes while you’re at it. Same thing when you’re talking to the media. They eat that shit up like it was pudding. No politician in Washington will dare withhold support if they think we are keeping the reds away.”

  What the decision makers in Washington were not aware of was Lucas’s deep involvement with covert operations, or that he had been a valuable CIA operative since the Agency’s earliest days, having been recruited by Allen Dulles immediately after the Korean War ended. Lucas was so deep undercover that his Army superiors had no clue to his covert involvement. Even Richard Collins, his closest friend, didn’t know.

  Lucas served lengthy assignments in London and Berlin prior to being sent to the Far East. Being in the military provided him the perfect cover to perform his covert duties. From the beginning of his career, he demonstrated a special talent for making friends in high places, earning their trust, then recruiting them into the Agency. Within the Agency’s inner circle, Lucas was known as “Little Caesar.”

  This special talent enabled Lucas to recruit Quane Rattikone, the Laotian General who, with CIA backing and funding, was responsible for constructing a series of large-scale heroin-processing refineries in the “Golden Triangle,” the area where Laos, Burma, and Thailand converge. Landing Rattikone was considered a coup for Lucas and an important “get” for the Agency.

  Rattikone proved to be immensely valuable, both as a warrior against enemy forces and as a drug producer. He was instrumental in beating back the Communist insurgents, while at the same time adding millions of dollars to the CIA coffers. His involvement was a double-sided victory for Lucas.

  It was perhaps inevitable that such enormous profits would draw the attention of others in the worldwide drug business. Among those who took a keen interest was Lucas’s close friend Santos Trafficante, the Mafia boss who had often been linked to JFK’s assassination. Trafficante, already doing business through Hong Kong, took control of several Saigon bars and immediately began selling heroin to American soldiers at cut-rate prices. The result was inevitable—more and more American G.I.’s returned home hooked on drugs.

  Large quantities of high-grade heroin were also shipped back to the United States, oftentimes in body bags containing dead soldiers. Dover Air Force Base, which served as a mortuary, was reputed to have been the primary Mafia drug pickup point on the East Coast.

  By late 1970, Lucas and Shackley had become convinced that the “poppy problem” was spiraling out of control and that their drug operation was in danger of losing its secrecy. Prying eyes from the national media and the politicians in Washington were beginning to look long and hard at what was already a costly and unpopular war. Given the growing antiwar sentiment in the United States, Lucas and Shackley knew it was only a matter of time before an investigative light would be shone into the dark corners where the Agency operated. That was not acceptable. Something had to be done.

  Trafficante’s operation was ruled off-limits; neither Lucas nor Shackley had any interest in antagonizing the Mafia. There was another practical reason for leaving that partnership untouched—financial considerations. They didn’t want to shut off the steady flow of money coming in. As Lucas once remarked, “Profits make for strange bedfellows.”

  There was, however, a second major drug operation—this one headed by a notorious Cambodian warlord who demanded to be called Hank—that was not considered to be sacrosanct. Though Hank’s operation was equally lucrative financially, he was deemed to be expendable for two reasons: he sold poor heroin, and he supplied money and arms to the North Vietnamese.

  “He needs to disappear from the world stage,” Lucas said, adding, “and I will see that it gets done. Hank will trouble us no more.”

  Shackley grinned and nodded. “Once he’s history, we will take over his operation. He has people begging us to move in and provide proper leadership.”

  One hour later, Lucas met with Cain. “Dispatch one of your men—Houdini would be best suited for the task—to meet with Hank in Prey Ling. Houdini will inform Hank that
a high-level meeting is to take place at the Army base outside Tay Ninh. Hank is naturally wary, so Houdini will have to be especially persuasive. Hank also has a gigantic ego, which Houdini can use to—”

  “Why not send me?” Cain asked. “Then there will be no need to worry about Hank’s ego.”

  Lucas chuckled. “Hank has to vanish, not simply be eliminated. I understand you can make that happen. However, in this case, I have something special in mind for our friend Hank.”

  “What? Now you’re telling me how to do my job?”

  “My boy, only a fool would dare do that. And I’m no fool. But Hank is an especially loathsome creature, one I have disliked and distrusted for many years. Because of my disdain for him, and my desire to give him a unique sendoff, I plead for your indulgence in this matter. In short, humor me, my boy.”

  “Why Tay Ninh?” Cain asked.

  “Because there is a wonderful yellow bridge overlooking a small pond,” Lucas said, smiling. “You will understand what I’m hinting at once you get there.”

  “And I’m to take Hank out onto that bridge, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Who’s my contact there?”

  “Colonel Dunlap.”

  Cain stood. “I’ll dispatch Houdini this afternoon,” he said, opening the door.

  “Let me know when it’s done. And, my boy …”

  “What?”

  “Enjoy this one.”

  The yellow wooden bridge extended like a misplaced McDonald’s arch across a circular, cement-bottom pond about two hundred feet from the main base camp. Running along either side of the walkway was a handrail fashioned from two long, steel pipes, gleaming now in the sun like a pair of silver snakes. At its apex, the bridge rose twenty feet above the water, which was fifteen feet at its deepest point. Draped to the east side of the bridge, the side facing the gate that allowed entrance to the pond area, was a large Confederate flag.

  Concrete, bleached bone-white by the sun, extended out around the pond like a priest’s collar and ran halfway up a fifteen-foot embankment, eventually giving way to another ten feet of burnt-out grass, dirt, rubble, and weeds. Wrapped around the entire setting was an eight-foot-high wire-mesh fence, topped off by a thick, black wire that, according to Colonel Dunlap, had once provided the death current in “Old Sparky,” the Kentucky state prison’s electric chair.

  The pond area had been excavated almost three years ago out of necessity after its two inhabitants—Samson and Hercules—had outgrown their previous home, an old washtub kept in the mess tent. No washtub could possibly house one full-grown alligator, much less two.

  Cain and Dunlap spent much of the afternoon entertaining Hank, who was dressed in jeans, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots. Completing the Western ensemble was a red bandana tied around his neck. Hank’s drink of choice was straight tequila, and he became louder and more boisterous with each downed shot.

  After an hour of listening to Hank expound on the greatness of American movies, Dunlap suggested they take a walk. Hank reluctantly agreed, but only after being persuaded that the subject of their conversation was for his ears only. Cain helped Hank to his feet and led him out of the tent.

  “What do you think of that pair down there, Hank?” Dunlap asked, as the three men reached the center of the bridge. “The one lounging on the cement, the larger one—that’s Samson. The smaller one is Hercules. Pretty impressive, huh?”

  Hank shrugged indifferently, then flicked ashes from a thick cigar. “They’re just alligators,” he mumbled. “I’ve seen gators before.”

  Cain pointed at Hank’s pistol. “Nice six-shooter, Hank. What is it? A Colt .45?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a real cowboy, Hank.”

  “Exactly like John Wayne,” Dunlap said.

  “The Duke,” Hank said, flipping his cigar into the water below. “I watch all his movies. He is great American.”

  “Amen, brother,” Dunlap said.

  Cain put both elbows on the railing and looked down at the water. “Colonel Dunlap, looks to me like Samson and Hercules need to be fed. They appear to be famished.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting close to their chow time.”

  “What do you think, Hank?” Cain asked. “They look hungry to you?”

  “I am not here to discuss alligators,” Hank barked, his face beet red and dripping sweat. “You said we were meeting to discuss a different financial arrangement. Why is it going to be different?”

  Cain shot a quick glance at Dunlap, giving a slight nod of the head. Dunlap nodded back, then eased closer to Hank’s left side. Cain slid a foot closer to Hank on the right, pushed away from the railing, and looked down at the gators.

  “Here’s the difference, Hank,” Cain said. “You’re out.”

  “Out? What? I cannot be out.”

  “Out, Hank. For good.”

  Cain and Dunlap, in a perfectly coordinated attack, lunged at Hank, Cain going for the arms, Dunlap for the legs. Hank knew a fraction of a second before the attack that they were coming after him, yet despite his instincts and training, he was powerless to prevent it. Cain and Dunlap were on him in a flash, moving quicker than two NFL linebackers bent on destroying the opposing quarterback, their powerful arms like four pythons, encircling him, applying extreme pressure, squeezing the breath out of his lungs, freezing his arms and legs, pinning them together, rendering them useless.

  Lifting him.

  Over the railing, out into space, above the water.

  Releasing him.

  Hank hit the water butt first, went under, staying submerged long enough that Cain and Dunlap both thought he’d died in the fall. “Damn, I hope the bastard survived the plunge,” Dunlap said, adding, “Samson and Hercules prefer live prey.”

  Samson, tail thrashing wildly, shot past Hercules, hitting the water before Hank did. Hercules quickly followed his partner, submerging completely within seconds, disappearing beneath the water like a nightmarish submarine. Moments later, Samson went under, and for an instant, the pond was serene, undisturbed, a postcard picture of bright sun reflecting on still, peaceful waters.

  Hank was the first to disturb the calm, coming up, shooting half a body length out of the water, gulping for air, looking around, trying to get his bearings. Once he did, and once he refilled his lungs with oxygen, he began swimming frantically toward the bank opposite where the gators had been lounging.

  He made it less than five feet before being pulled under, disappearing in the water like a rock dropped from the bridge. In a split second the pond became a whirlpool, water churning, whipped into a violent frenzy as the two gators bit into Hank’s body, then began turning and turning in the classic gator death roll, ripping off huge chunks of flesh, swallowing, going back for more. The water quickly turned dark, bloody red, and small pieces of human tissue and bone soon began to appear on the surface.

  “Bastard never screamed once,” Dunlap said, admiringly. “Gotta give him credit for that. He handled it just the way John Wayne would have.”

  The two men watched as a denim-covered arm floated to the top, only to be swallowed whole by Samson. Seconds later, a cowboy boot with Hank’s foot still inside, was gulped down by Hercules.

  “Damn, I sure wish I’d taken that Colt .45 before we sent him over,” Dunlap said, shaking his head. “That was a genuine classic, a collector’s item.”

  “If you want it that bad, jump down there and get it,” Cain said.

  “I’m crazy but not insane.”

  Cain laughed. “You know, you just might make general yet.”

  “Well, my boy, fill me in on the details,” Lucas said between sips of Chivas Regal. “Was it as deliciously gory as I imagine it?”

  “Not really.”

  “What was your impression of Samson and Hercules? How did they behave?”

  “They were efficient,” Cain answered.

  “I’m sure they were. And Hank. What did you think of him?”

  “I killed him
, Lucas. I didn’t think about him.”

  “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Not particularly. Feeding someone to alligators isn’t my style. If he needed to be eliminated, I would have preferred to do it my way.”

  “My boy, sometimes one jungle predator must give way to another jungle predator. It was my intention for Hank to suffer greatly and to experience extreme fear prior to his final breath. That would not have happened had I left his termination to you.”

  “Why Hank? Why take him out? He’s not a player in this war.”

  “There are many wars, my boy.”

  “What are you into, Lucas?”

  Lucas paused for a long time, then said, “Shadows that even you, the great Cain, can never penetrate.”

  Seneca found the package addressed to him when he arrived at Dr. Nastasia Ivanovna’s West 54th Street apartment, along with a note from her saying she was having lunch with a friend from the Russian Embassy and wouldn’t be back until after two.

  He checked the clock in the study: 12:10. Perfect. Two uninterrupted hours to digest the contents of the package. More than enough time to memorize the details.

  Seneca ripped it open and dumped the contents onto the kitchen table. Inside were photographs of five men and a note attached to a much thicker piece of quarter-folded paper. He removed the photos and shuffled through them.

  Four of the faces were instantly recognizable; the fifth man was unknown to him. He put the four familiar faces on the table, keeping only the stranger’s photo in his hands. He flipped it over. Written on the back was the man’s name: Daniel Abraham Cohen. Seneca stared at the face, studied it hard, committed it to memory. Never would he forget what Daniel Cohen looked like. Never. Not even after he killed him.