Aclaim for the novels of
F.W. Rustmann, Jr.
Plausible Denial crackles with a degree of authenticity possible only from an experienced CIA case officer who relies upon his knowledge of operations, not his imagination, to craft a compellingly readable book. Over the last two decades, I have reviewed carloads of intelligence books for The Washington Times. Fred Rustmann laps the field.
Joe Goulden is the author of The Dictionary of Espionage" Spyspeak Into English.
“Too many spy novels are written by those with little real-world espionage knowledge or experience. Fred Rustmann, a career CIA operations officer, steps out of the shadows in a book steeped in tradecraft, espionage, betrayal, and the life-and-death risks an officer or his agent face. Novel or thinly-veiled nonfiction? Like the profession itself – you will be caught up in the action with little time to ponder the question. Nor will you care. Authentic and fast-paced.”
S. Eugene Poteat
President
Association of Former Intelligence Officers (AFIO)
“Chockfull of real tradecraft tricks, written by a master spy, engrossing page turner inhabited by folks I knew when I was in the clandestine world!”
William Askins
Best Selling Author and
CIA Case Officer (Ret.)
“If you want to know how to make a martini or woo a woman, read James Bond. If you want to know what it’s sometimes like in the real world of espionage, read…Rustmann … he lived it. From the first page you can tell this author is writing from experience. In real life, CIA operatives get their hands ‘dirty.’ This is James Bond’s tougher, gutsier younger brother.”
Phillip Jennings
Author of Nam-O-Rama and Goodbye Mexico
“There are very, very few novels that have been written by very senior officers of the CIA since its founding over 50 years ago. There are very few, I suspect, as accurate in fact and as compelling in fiction… If you want to read about how tradecraft in intelligence is done and the price of service in an area more gray and stressful than can be imagined, this book might be one worth your time.”
James Oshea Wade
Editor
“How do CIA field operatives find clandestine sources? Answer: with patience, hard work, and above all - smarts. Street smarts and people smarts…You’ll accompany a master operative step by step in his tradecraft-rich pursuit of a high value target. But be prepared for surprises as Rustmann’s brisk narrative hurtles along to its unexpected but all-too-realistic resolution.”
Peter Earnest
Executive Director
International Spy Museum
PLAUSIBLE DENIAL
F.W. Rustmann, Jr.
DoubleTap Books
Copyright©2013 F.W. Rustmann, Jr.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.
ISBN: 978-0-9883190-9-7
Published in the United States by:
DoubleTap Books
DoubleTap Books
330 Clematis Street, Suite 220
West Palm Beach
Florida 33401
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This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
The CIA’s Publications Review Board has reviewed the manuscript for this book to assist the author in eliminating classified information, and poses no security objection to its publication. This review, however, should not be construed as an official release of information, confirmation of its accuracy, or an endorsement of the author’s views.
It is ten thousand times cheaper to pay the best spies lavishly, than to pay even a tiny army poorly.
Sun Tzu
The Art of War
For Carolyn
PLAUSIBLE DENIAL
F.W. Rustmann, Jr.
PROLOGUE
Macau
MacMurphy watched the speck on the horizon grow into a full-sized hydrofoil. The sleek craft arched around the breakwater and throttled back, splashing down from its pontoons onto its hull as it entered Macau harbor.
He walked slowly toward the ferry terminal and watched the boat maneuver into its docking position. He felt run down and tired, and couldn’t shake the butterflies from his stomach – that horrible feeling of trepidation. He did not like the feeling at all.
His condition was worsened by the physical injuries he had received in the fight with Lim. His left arm was held in a loose sling. Broken ribs scraped across his lungs with each breath. The sunglasses he wore did not completely hide the ugly bruise on the left side of his face. He wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a short-sleeved denim shirt. He looked a mess and felt like shit.
He was also quite certain that the news the courier was bringing from the DDO was not going to make him feel any better.
He saw him first as he passed through the double doors of the customs area and entered the main terminal. He wore baggy blue jeans, a rumpled white shirt with an open collar and an unbuttoned blue blazer. His graying hair was tosseled and he walked with a familiar limp. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Mac’s eyes widened and his heart quickened. He realized the news couldn’t be as bad as he had expected—not if Edwin Rothmann was the courier delivering it.
The DDO flashed a weary smile when their eyes met. He hefted the backpack slung loosely over one shoulder and quickened his pace. When they met, the big man enveloped Mac gingerly in a loose bearhug, frowning at his condition. “You look terrible,” he growled.
“You should see the other guy,” Mac replied sheepishly. “But you know all about that by now. I guess you’re here to tell me what happened after I left, and what’s going to happen next.”
They entered the first cab in the queue and Mac directed the driver to take them to the Pousada de Macau. They made small talk during the short drive to the inn, not wanting the driver to overhear anything he shouldn’t.
When Rothmann saw that the driver was concentrating on weaving his rattletrap through the traffic around the gaudy Lisboa Hotel and surrounding casinos, he decided it was safe to break the silence and assuage Mac’s greatest concern. Mac was gazing thoughtfully out the window. The DDO leaned close and spoke to him in a low, gravelly voice. “Lim’s alive; he made it—what’s left of him.”
The taxi dropped them in front of the old Pousada de Macau. Mac paid the driver and led the big man up the old wooden steps of the inn, through the small entrance hall and directly out to the veranda overlooking the bay. The sun hovered a few feet above the horizon, casting a crimson spell over the sparkling blue-green waters.
They chose a table a discreet distance from the other people. A stately old waiter in starched whites arrived instantly. Rothmann ordered a scotch and Mac a vodka-tonic. When the waiter returned with their drinks, Mac lifted his in a toast. “Kam-bei, boss, thanks for coming.” The rim of his glass touched the DDO’s slightly below its rim, honoring him in an ancient Chinese way, like a deeper bow from a Japanese.
Mac leaned forward and touched Rothmann’s arm. “Okay, let’s have it...all of it...from the beginning. How about starting with why you came yourself.”
The DDO looked up at him wearily. “I came because I like you, Mac. I wanted you to hear this from someone close to you, someone who respects you, not from one of the assholes who are taking over this fucking outfit.”
The DDO sipped his scotch and gazed out over the water. The red sun was slipping slowly into the cool and soothing sea. “Anyway, I decided the best thing was for me to come personally. The fact that no one else could figure ou
t where the hell you had gone when you bugged out also helped a lot. You really had them doing back flips.
“I got the back channel cable you sent via Rodney and didn’t tell another soul about it. I just called in sick and beat my way out here A-S-A-P to see you.
“And let me tell you, we’re both damn lucky Lim didn’t check out, because if he had, the Director would have had an excuse to crucify me and push me out. Not to mention what he would have done to you.”
MacMurphy adjusted his position, grunting as one of his cracked ribs stabbed him. “What about Lim? When I left him, I thought he was dead. I thought I had killed him.”
“Well, from what I hear, it wasn’t from lack of trying. When the police found him, he was indeed at death’s door. But he survived. The Chinese have already returned him to Beijing. Only problem is he suffered extensive brain damage from the loss of blood and oxygen and the pounding you gave him. So not only will he be the ugliest guy in his neighborhood—I guess you really did do a job on his face—he will also be the village idiot.”
MacMurphy grimaced. “You must think he got what he deserved.”
“You better believe I think he got what he deserved. I’ve got no sympathy for that murdering SOB whatsoever. I’m just glad you’re not facing a murder rap.”
“What about the police?”
“It was reported as an attempted robbery.” His large finger spun the ice in his drink absentmindedly. “They think Lim caught someone trying to rip him off and decided to take the law into his own hands. Only problem was he obviously bit off more than he could chew.” He grinned.
“And he’s in no shape to tell them any differently…even if he wanted to…and from what I heard, he never will be. Actually, that’s the way it is with your entire theft operation at the Chinese embassy. The French know nothing, the Chinese won’t say anything, and the Agency will deny everything.
“So the Chinese would prefer to let the whole matter drop. They don’t want the news to get out that they smuggled 50 million Euros into France through the diplomatic pouch -- especially if people were to find out the money was to be used to fund illegal covert operations in Europe to support Iran’s terrorist activities and efforts to replace the U.S. in Iraq.
“Furthermore, they are thoroughly embarrassed by the defection of one of their senior MSS officers and want that kept quiet too. For our part, we agreed to keep mum about the defection—no publicity—and to give Huang a new identity so he can live out his years in the U.S. in anonymity.
“And you can be sure the Company won’t be jumping to advertise the fact that one of theirs pulled a heist right under the noses of the French and then pulverized a friendly third country diplomat.”
“So Huang did defect,” said MacMurphy.
“You knew he would. He had no choice. Losing fifty million Euros of the people’s money and allowing Lim to run amok the way he did would not win him any medals in Beijing. He would have spent the rest of his days in whatever the Chinese equivalent of Siberia is.”
He thought a moment before continuing. “But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, that’s only part of it. The induced defection of Huang was so important, the Director’s putting you in for the Intelligence Star. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. Huang is the highest-level MSS officer ever to defect to the west.”
Mac was not surprised, but he expressed obvious pleasure.
“I’m glad everyone is so pleased,” his voice was laden with sarcasm. “But it all didn’t come without cost. The lives of François and Le Belge and Wei-wei…”
“Well, yes, but don’t be too proud of yourself. The medal is just half of it—the good news. The bad news is you’re…fired. The Director wants you out of there.” He looked at Mac levelly, watching for his reaction, but Mac didn’t return the gaze.
MacMurphy stared into his drink pensively. “Can’t say as I didn’t expect it. So...I guess it’s really over....” His voice verged on cracking.
“Yes Mac, it’s over. At least this part of it…” He reached over and patted his arm gently. “People like you and I are dinosaurs. The cold war is over. They castrated the Agency through budget cuts and all the rest, and now they want to reorganize it out of existence. It’s just not the same organization anymore. You said it yourself. It’s time to leave anyway, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I suppose…” Mac looked out over the calm, moonlit bay. Shards of silver moonlight glinted on the nearly still waters, broken only by an occasional small wave or the wake of a boat. “Let’s take a little stroll along the quay before dinner.”
MacMurphy paid the check and led the DDO down to the quay. The bright full moon, competing with the flashy neon lights of the distant Lisboa Casino, danced on the bay. A gentle breeze came off the water. Mac took a deep, painful breath, and inhaled the fresh salt air. They walked silently along the path on the water’s edge.
Mac broke the silence. “What about the money?”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the money. No one wants to hear about it. As far as the Agency is concerned, there is no money.”
“No money? There’s fifty million Euros sitting in that Swiss bank!”
“Yes. The money’s a problem. A big problem for all concerned. The Agency can’t return it unless the Chinese government asks for it, and they won’t even admit to ever having it. And we can’t give it to the Treasury without having to explain how we got it. So, there simply is no money…”
“You’re joking!” exclaimed Mac, grunting from the pain in his ribs. “Just what the hell do they expect me to do with the 50 million Euros?”
The DDO stopped and turned to face him. He spoke very softly. “This is serious, Mac. We’re not done. Not by a long shot. Listen, I want you to set up some sort of a cover business and wait for me to contact you. Keep the money safe because we’re going to need it to fund operations this politically correct outfit can’t do anymore. We’re going back into business.”
Chapter One
Chiang Mai, Thailand
(Several Months Later)
Khun Ut directed the operation from the balcony of an apartment building directly across the muddy Mai Ping River from the sprawling US Consulate General in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
As the protégé and successor of the notorious drug warlord Khun Sa, who ruled the Golden Triangle for three decades with his 20,000 man Shan United Army, he was no stranger to meticulous military operations. And like his predecessor, he was a hands-on leader.
Observing the gate of the consulate through powerful binoculars, he spoke into his lapel microphone. “One, what is his location?”
The voice in his earpiece responded. “I am behind him, just passing the Muangmai market on Wichatanon Road. You should be seeing us shortly.”
Khun Ut scanned his binoculars to the right. “I see you. Two, pull out when I tell you. Five, four, three, two, one, go-go-go-go…”
The ten-wheel dump truck pulled out of Witchayanon Road at the corner of the consulate compound and headed south toward the entrance, falling in behind a grey Toyota Corolla driven by young, first-tour CIA case officer, Jimmy Steinhauser. The surveillance vehicle dropped back to follow the truck. “Two, drop back a bit more. Make space. You are too close.”
The truck slowed, leaving three car-lengths of separation between the two vehicles. It was past mid-day and traffic was light along Wichatanon Road, the north south thoroughfare running along the bank of the peaceful Mai Ping River.
It was hot in Chiang Mai in the summer; people tended to stay indoors during the siesta time. Except for the Americans at the consulate. They were on American time—always.
The Consulate General and the ConGen’s residence were located on a ten-acre, manicured compound that once belonged to the last Prince of the Lanna Kingdom. Stately palm trees and lush banyans shaded its historic sand colored buildings, covered with red barrel-tile roofs. The compound was surrounded by a beige, twelve-foot concrete wall topped with identical red tiles.
Co
ils of razor wire to deter would-be wall jumpers were strung on top of the wall. Security was tight among drug lords and terrorists.
The sliding gate at the main entrance was strong enough to stop a small bulldozer, and if a vehicle made it past the gate, a pop-up two-foot high pneumatic barrier was raised by the ever-present Marine Security Guard installed in the bullet proof gate house next to the entrance. The only chink in the security armor occurred when the gate had to be opened and the barrier lowered to let a consulate vehicle through.
Khun Ut had learned this from weeks of observation, and he was counting on it today.
Chapter Two
At that moment a Country Team meeting was being held in the Consul General’s office on the second floor of the main Chancery building at the far end of the compound. The office was in an L-shaped, two-story building that once housed the prince’s stables and servants’ quarters. Present were the ConGen and his deputy, the head of the DEA, the CIA base chief and his deputy, the Army and Air Attachés, the AID chief and several other ranking consulate officials.
The group sat around a large conference table. The CIA base chief, Marvin Sadosky, was giving an intelligence briefing on the latest overhead photography of the poppy fields taken by the CIA’s Porter STOL aircraft. Map-like photos covered the conference table and PowerPoint images were flashed on the screen to his side. The country team was discussing Khun Ut’s increasing boldness.
“Next slide, Charly,” Sadosky said to his deputy.
An aerial view of Khun Ut’s heavily guarded palatial villa in the highlands north of Chiang Rai, in the area of the famed Golden Triangle, was displayed on the screen. “This is where the bastard lives,” he said, circling the villa with a laser pointer. “Not bad for a half Akha, half Chinese peasant from Ban Hin Taek, eh? The sonofabitch has more than doubled the acreage of poppy fields under cultivation since the last estimate was done two years ago.”
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