Plausible Denial

by Rustmann Jr. , F. W.

  Mac remained where he was until he saw the boy climb off the packs, walk over to the Hmong and shake him awake. The boy and the Hmong exchanged places, the boy on the tarp and Vanquish on the pile of packs. The Hmong lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and settled in for the rest of the evening.

  Mac gently backed out of his position and quietly returned to the boulders where Culler was waiting. “It’s about time you got back here,” said Culler. “You missed dinner.”

  “What? You ate without me? Shows what kind of a friend you are.”

  “Okay, tell me what happened out there while I was laying in the dark on this God forsaken rock protecting your sorry ass.”

  Mac briefed him while munching on a granola bar and drinking from his Camelbac. He suggested they try to get some rest before heading for the campsite at zero three-thirty.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  They dozed, but neither one of them could sleep. They were actually relieved when three-fifteen finally rolled around. They were anxious to get on with it.

  They left everything behind with the exception of their weapons, night vision gear and the vials of ricin. The night was cloudy with a half-moon, and the only sounds were created by the light breeze rustling through the branches and the occasional scream of a monkey.

  The night vision gear illuminated their way, and the “green line of death” of their assault rifles danced in front of them. They moved stealthily in the direction of the campsite with Mac in the lead.

  When they reached a spot near where Mac had done his earlier observations, they dropped into the prone position, side by side and surveyed the campsite. Vanquish was sitting on the packs smoking a cigarette.

  “There’s the campsite,” whispered Mac, indicating the area at the south end where a small campfire was burning and the tarps were strung. They could see the two guards sleeping and could clearly hear the drunken snores from the older man.

  “Sounds like that bottle of Mekong was put to good use,” whispered Culler.

  “I like Vanquish. He’s bold, resourceful…a terrific asset. Charly got herself a real good one this time. Let’s make sure we pull this of without a hitch. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  Culler turned his attention to the makeshift corral where the horses and donkeys were tethered. “Things look pretty quiet on the other end as well. The animals make less noise than that drunk over there.”

  They laid there quietly for a few more minutes, observing the campsite and waiting for their watches to slowly tick down to three-thirty.

  Vanquish did the same and at exactly three-thirty he took one more long look in both directions and then removed his hat in a sweeping, theatrical motion and wiped the inside of the sweatband. He replaced the hat on his head in another sweeping motion and stood up stiffly by the side of the pile of packs.

  They watched him for another few moments while he squinted in their direction, clearly not seeing anything.

  Mac nudged Culler and they stood up quietly, advancing slowly toward Vanquish, weapons at the ready with green infrared laser lines, visible only to them, bouncing around the site.

  They spread out and approached Vanquish from two sides. With the darkness of the trees behind them, he did not notice them until they were less than fifteen feet away from him.

  When he finally saw the two shadows moving toward him, he jumped back and shouted a startled whisper at them: “Damn, where did you guys come from? Whew, you are like a couple of ghosts.”

  Holding up a hand, Mac moved closer to him and whispered. “It’s okay. We got your signal. Everything looks great. The other guys are asleep, and it looks like one of them is going to have a huge hangover in the morning. Good work.”

  Culler waved at him, gave him the ‘okay’ sign making a circle with his thumb and index finger, and moved silently to the pile of packs and dropped to his knees. Sliding the pack containing the boxes of vials from his shoulder, he looked up at Mac and Vanquish.

  Mac put his arm around the Hmong’s shoulders and guided him back toward the corral area. “Let’s go over there so the animals can get used to us and let him do his work in private.”

  “Scrapings, right?” said Vanquish with a smirk.

  “Right. Scrapings.”

  Culler worked rapidly and methodically. The heroin bricks were individually sealed in a heavy plastic wrap. They were then wrapped, twenty bricks to a pack, in heavy burlap-like plastic material. Each donkey carried two packs, one on each side, in a heavy leather saddlebag-like sling which fit over the donkey’s back.

  While Vanquish and Mac chatted quietly near the corral, Culler began sliding the packs up and out of the saddlebags one by one to prepare them for their injections.

  Moving to the first pack of twenty kilos, he began injecting each of the ten bricks on the outer side with one cc each of the ricin. He plunged the needle through the outer plastic burlap wrap and through the heavy individual plastic wrap deep into the center of each chalky brick to allow the poison ample room to be absorbed without a trace.

  He worked rapidly, emptying one ten-cc syringe in the outer ten bricks of the first pack and placing the empty syringe carefully back into its Styrofoam container.

  He decided it would be quicker to do only the outer bricks; after all, the entire shipment of heroin would be sent to Hong Kong where the chemists would mix it in exacting proportions with acetic anhydride and ethyl alcohol in vats to turn it into pure heroin base. He slid the first pack back into its saddlebag pouch and reached for another, repeating the process with the next pack.

  At first the needle slid easily through the heavy plastic burlap outer covering and through the plastic wrap deep into each brick, but while he was working on the third pack the needle almost broke off while he was trying to push it through the thick burlap-like outer packing.

  He cursed under his breath. His greatest fear was to break off a needle and spew the highly toxic ricin on his hands. He remedied the situation by taking out his knife and poking a small hole in the outer wrapping with the point. The needle then slid easily into the center of the chalky heroin brick.

  Santos continued to work silently and methodically, using his knife to open a tiny slit in the outer burlap-like wrapping before injecting the ricin into the bricks, while MacMurphy kept the Hmong occupied in light conversation while petting the horses at the edge of the corral.

  No one noticed when the heavy snoring stopped.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Khun Ut and the Cambodian listened intently while Paiboon briefed them in the dimly lit local restaurant. They were drinking cool Amarit beer served in frosted mugs and enjoying a light lunch of Tom-yan soup, sticky rice and Phat-Thai noodles with assorted curries.

  Paiboon had hardly touched his food but Khun Ut and Ung Chea ate ravenously as they listened, shoveling the aromatic spicy food into their mouths by the spoonful and guzzling their beers.

  Paiboon gestured with his spoon. “Noi hates the farangs, that is why she is so talkative. We can use that to our advantage.” He thought a moment. “Actually, to be more precise, she only hates one of them. She described him as a big brute with a scar on his lip that turns red when he snarls, which is often, she said.”

  “She actually likes the other guy. She said he is polite and speaks some Thai and knows Thai customs very well. She said he is taller and slimmer than the other guy and handsome for a farang, with grey hair which makes him look older than he is. He is the one who is in charge. He acts like the boss.”

  “What is General Sawat to them?” asked the Cambodian between loud slurps of his Tom-yan soup.

  “He is like some kind of liaison. They picked up heavy boxes of guns and ammunition and other military type gear at Sawat’s villa in Chiang Mai. All that stuff was shipped ahead to General Sawat. That was the first time Noi met them.”

  Khun Ut pushed back from the table and lit a cheroot. “So that is where they got their fancy weapons, through Sawat. Hmmm. What else?”


  “The next day Sawat took them on a tour of the Golden Triangle in his plane. They flew over Ban Hin Taek and our warehouse in Mae Chan.”

  “How does she know that?” asked Khun Ut.

  “She was with them. The General takes her everywhere. She is always at his side, along with her Shih Tzu named Ling Ling. That is why she hates the big farang. He threatened to kill her dog.”

  The Cambodian laughed. “I’ve seen that yappy mutt. I understand why he would want to wring its scrawny neck.”

  Paiboon said, “She is very attached to her dog.”

  The Cambodian nodded, “Yeah, she suckles it at her breast like an infant. Disgusting.”

  “What else?” asked Khun Ut.

  “This is the best part. The General and Noi met them at the airport last night and drove them up to a small village on the Burmese border named Wan La-ba. They dropped them off behind an old junkyard and they walked into the jungle carrying their gear in duffle bags.”

  “That means they are up to something right now,” said the Cambodian. “What could they be doing up there?”

  Khun Ut shook his head and blew out a long stream of smoke in exasperation. “I know Wan La-ba. I had an aunt who used to live up there. It is in the middle of nowhere. Not close to anything. What could they be doing way up there?”

  Ung Chea massaged his scar in thought. “Could they be hunting? You are right, there is nothing up there.”

  Khun Ut’s eyes widened. “Oh yes there is. They are hunting all right. They are hunting for one of our heroin shipments. They go right through that area on their way down to Mae Chan.”

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Phom sia jai, khrap. What you doing?” said bandana guy. He stood over Culler Santos, not ten feet away, with his assault rifle at his hip, leveled.

  Culler looked up startled, straight into the muzzle of the AK-47. His own rifle was out of reach at the edge of the packs. He had the knife in his hand and instinctively pointed it toward his assailant in a defensive posture.

  Bandana guy blinked his bleary eyes and shook his head. “You gonna get me scared with that little knife?”

  Then Culler remembered the kind of knife he held. He brought his other hand up to the round metal handle of the Spetsnaz and removed the round safety pin with his thumb. He raised the knife out in front of him, holding it with both hands and pointing it directly at bandana guy.

  The bandana guy looked at him quizzically. “That knife do you no good, asshole. Put down, stand up and get away from packs.”

  Culler pressed the trigger button in the handle. The blade shot out and hit bandana guy square in the middle of his chest, piercing his breastbone, penetrating his heart and knocking him backward with the force of a karate punch. He let out a surprised grunt and hit the ground dead with a thud.

  “Holy shit!” muttered MacMurphy, hurrying toward Santos, the Hmong close at his heals.

  The trio huddled around the dead bandana guy, looking down at him in astonishment. “That is some knife you got there,” whispered Vanquish.

  “Never bring a knife to a gunfight, unless its one of those…” whispered Mac to no one in particular. He turned to Vanquish, placed his hand gently on his shoulder and whispered, “Please go check on the kid while we try and figure out what to do next.”

  The Hmong walked to the campfire and looked down at the boy. The kid was curled up in a fetal position hugging his pillow and breathing heavily, deep in sleep. When he returned he found Santos quickly finishing his job of injecting the remaining vials of ricin into as many heroin bricks as he could readily access. Santos did not try to hide his actions. He didn’t even look up.

  MacMurphy walked over to the dead man, pulled the Spetsnaz blade out of the man’s chest and wiped it clean on the man’s shirt. He turned to Vanquish and asked, “What are we going to do now? How are we going to cover this up and protect you?”

  The Homng looked over at the body and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Seemingly in no hurry to respond, he shook a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke in a long sigh.

  “Well, I very happy you did not shoot him. That be very, very hard to explain. A knife wound is different. He was fighter and a drunk. Maybe I tell them he got out of control and we fought and I had to kill him, or maybe he fell on his own knife during our struggle, or something like that…”

  “What about the boy?”

  “Yes, the boy. He did not see nothing. He was sleeping. And, well, he is my nephew. He will say anything I tell him to say.”

  Culler stood up and joined them. “That’s it. We’re done. Now what are we going to do about bandana guy over there?”

  “We were just discussing that,” said Mac.

  Vanquish took another deep drag on his cigarette. “I take care of this.” He walked over to the body and removed the man’s knife from its scabbard. He glanced back at the two farangs momentarily and bent over, plunging the knife deep into the man’s chest at the exact spot where Mac had removed the Spetznaz knife. Then he kicked the body over onto its stomach.

  “That should do it. Now you guys better get out of here before my nephew wakes up. Seeing two farangs standing here would not be good thing. I will take care of everything here. Do not worry…”

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Santos and MacMurphy shook hands with Vanquish and vanished into the jungle undergrowth. They flipped down their night vision goggles and moved rapidly back to their staging area by the rocks, retrieved their packs, checked their GPS and headed off toward the place where they had cached their duffle bags and clothing

  They stopped only long enough to bury the Styrofoam boxes of empty syringes. While they were scraping out a hole with their knives, Culler said, “I sure hope what we just did won’t harm any innocent people.”

  Mac stopped digging and looked up at him. “I know. That would be too bad. But we’ve got to expect some collateral damage. It’s inevitable. We can’t control the results… But I do know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whoever touches this stuff – this heroin – is not innocent. There may be degrees of innocence or guilt, but no one using this shit is totally innocent. People who play with this kind of fire are bound to get burned.”

  “That may be true, but still…”

  “No buts about it, Culler, this operation has the potential to bring Khun Ut and his entire drug syndicate down. That’s a good thing. No doubt about it. And no one is going to die who doesn’t first shoot some of this shit into his veins. That’s also a good thing.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re right. I just wish we could control the outcome a little better…”

  “Can’t believe you of all people are going soft on me…”

  They finished burying the boxes in silence and when they were done and satisfied that the spot was well camouflaged, Culler asked, “You got any of Barker’s anti-animal stuff with you? We don’t want anything digging up this stuff.”

  “Right, good idea.” Mac sprinkled the area thoroughly and, satisfied that no one would ever find evidence of what they had done, they took off into the night, rapidly heading east in the direction of Wan La-ba.

  Chapter Ninety

  The next morning, the Cambodian was sitting across from General Sawat on the veranda of the general’s villa when Sawat’s cell phone rang. The questioning had not yet gotten nasty.

  They were having breakfast. Noi was still upstairs in her bedroom, putting on makeup and dressing. Two of the Cambodian’s husky bodyguards stood with arms crossed, backs against the double entrance doors that led to the pool deck and veranda.

  Sawat glanced at the number on the caller ID and repelled. He tried to regain his composure but knew the Cambodian had seen his reaction.

  “Who was it?” the Cambodian asked.

  “Um, no one,” replied Sawat, rejecting the call and putting the phone back into his pocket.

  “Who was it?” the Cambodian repeated, more
forcefully now, staring menacingly at Sawat.

  The General stuttered, “It is nothing. Nothing. A client. It can wait. Would you like some more coffee?”

  Ung Chea took advantage of the moment. “It is them, isn’t it? Those two farangs you have been helping. They want you to pick them up somewhere around Wan La-ba, where you dropped them off. Isn’t that right?”

  The general’s eyes grew wide. He fidgeted, his palms were sweaty and his mind raced. How much does the bastard know? I must remain calm. I can talk myself out of this, but I must find out how much he knows. How could he know about the farangs?

  “Yes, I dropped off two farangs near Wan La-ba the night before last. They paid me well for the lift. But I have no idea who they are or what they are up to. It is my business not to ask questions.”

  The sudden backfist knocked Sawat off his chair. Coffee, croissants and dishes crashed across the pool deck.

  The Cambodian jerked the old man to his feet by the front of his shirt, righted the toppled chair with his other hand and slammed him back into it.

  “What about the guns you delivered to them? What about the plane ride to Ban Hin Taek and Mae Chan? Tell me you don’t know anything about these things.”

  He crashed another fist into the old man’s solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs. He followed up with a left cross to the side of the head which sent the old man sprawling to the floor once again.

  Noi came running and screaming down the stairs and out onto the veranda, the dog yapping in her arms. Ung Chea motioned the guards to stay where they were and stopped her before she could reach the General. He ripped the dog from her arms by the back of its neck and tossed it high across the veranda and into the pool. Then he hit her with an open handed slap that sent her sprawling as well.