Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  “We tried that once before, Freddy. I’m here to see the job is done right this time.”

  When they cruised past the building, there were no police cars in sight. The unit assigned to watch Benjamin’s building had responded to a shots-fired call just as Carver planned. He led the way back down the street toward the target building and reached into his pocket for the key to the building entrance. A local locksmith on contract with the building’s owners was glad to provide it for a price that Carver was glad to pay. He wanted this thing to go as smoothly as possible. He was no stranger to this kind of work, but killing a guy like Spike Benjamin was going to create a shit-storm, especially after a first attempt failed. Freddy Carver wanted to be long gone out of St. Louis before that happened.

  When they were parked, Halley went over his check-list one last time. “You got the bag?” Freddy Carver jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the backseat. “And I got the weights and the furniture box and the hand-truck.” The plan was to put the victim in a standard rubberized body bag, then slip it into a box that looked like something a freezer would come in when delivered from an appliance store. Weighted with dumbbells from a local sporting goods store, the entire package would be dumped off the Chain of Rocks Bridge outside the city and wind up at the bottom of the muddy Mississippi River. They gathered what was needed plus a roll of duct tape and walked casually up the block. Not a cop car in sight, and all was quiet except for a few sirens wailing in the distance.

  There was a chain lock that barred their entrance after Carver silently and easily picked the lock on Benjamin’s townhouse door. Carver expected that and snipped the chain with a pair of wire cutters. They eased into the foyer and Carver drew a sanitized 9mm pistol he’d bought from one of his street sources. It was loaded with sub-sonic ammo and equipped with a suppressor screwed onto the muzzle. The gun would wind up at the bottom of the river with the bodybag. Freddy Carver had figured all the angles. Now they needed to find Benjamin and get it done.

  They had hoped the reporter would be in bed at this early morning hour which would make it a snap, but they heard the rattle of a keyboard coming from a room off to the right of the entryway. Their target was working late. Carver nodded in that direction and led the way. They stopped shoulder-to-shoulder outside the door and Carver motioned for Halley to deal with getting it opened. Freddy Carver wanted to keep his focus on shot placement.

  There was a muted rattle as the knob was turned and the door swung open to reveal Spike Benjamin seated at his desk. Smoke from the cigarette hanging from his lips curled around his face as he spun in his chair. The last thing Spike saw in this life was the tube of a suppressor as Carver’s pistol spat two well-aimed rounds into his chest.

  “I’ll deal with him,” Halley said snapping the bodybag open. “You police up the brass and get the computer.”

  They were away in just over 20 minutes and driving sedately out of the city. Freddy Carver glanced at Halley who seemed fairly shaken and kept glancing toward the back of the truck as if he expected Spike Benjamin to suddenly pop up like a jack-in-the-box.

  “You really think Emory’s kid might still be alive?”

  “I don’t know, Freddy. But it seems obvious to me that they do. Why else would Pudarski head for Thailand? I think that fool is going to search for evidence over there and he might find it.”

  “Which is why we’re gonna stop him.”

  “That’s correct, Freddy. We are going to shut this thing down once and for all.”

  THAILAND

  While they negotiated the rain-slick surface of a paddy dyke, leading an interpreter hired to translate their questions into Vietnamese, Bob Terranova cautioned Willy Pud about offering Dinh anything more than the equivalent of 30 or 40 dollars. “He gets fifty from you, he can buy himself another damn rice paddy. Then he becomes another tyrannical landlord. They got enough of those up here.”

  Willy promised to keep the cash flow to an absolute minimum. He wasn’t anywhere near broke, even after the cash he’d shelled out for equipment purchases, but if Bob Terranova said to hold the price down, that’s what he’d do. The USAID man had proven to be a reliable confidant, mentor, and friend over the past week. While Terranova demonstrated all the skills of a Mafia don and a mercantile hustler in getting the items on Willy Pud’s list, he’d also spent valuable time going over the situation on the ground in post-war Southeast Asia. Willy Pud sucked it all up like a sponge.

  “How much farther?”

  “Not too far...anyway, you’d better get your walking muscles back in shape.”

  “Still no word from your buddies over in Laos? I really need to be in the right spot before I start humping.”

  “Phone service is spotty up in that area, Willy Pud. Don’t sweat it. I think I’ve got you a Huey ride that will save a pot-full of travel time. That would be a little bit of déjà vu, right?”

  “Who’s it belong to?”

  “Don’t ask. There’s this cowboy up in the Vietnamese border area name of Keo Kittiphan, a former Royal Lao Army officer. The first name is pronounced like K-O. Your guess is as good as mine about how he says his last name. Anyway, he worked with the CIA and anyone else fighting the Pathet Lao and somehow wound up with a Huey that the Air America guys left behind.”

  “He’s a pilot?”

  “I don’t think so. These days he’s just a local warlord who commandeered a helicopter. That’s a big status symbol in that part of Laos. Anyway, he’s sharp and motivated. I’ve known him for years. He speaks passable English and three or four other languages. And last I heard, he’s still got the helicopter.”

  “What good does that do us with no pilot?”

  “Well, I also heard old Keo was learning to fly it. Some of the locals told me they actually saw the bird flying. Maybe he’s got enough stick time to get you near where you’re going.”

  “Or crash me into a smoking hole in the jungle.” Willy Pud caught sight of a wood and thatch hut perched on an island of land in the middle of four flooded paddies. “I kind of had it in mind to arrive in one piece.”

  “Well, I’ll check in with him and make a deal. The rest is up to you. If you think he’s capable, you guys can figure out something and maybe he’ll fly you across the border. If not, well, there’s always the bus or you could hire a car. If you go that route, better leave the weapons and anything that looks like military gear behind. One way or the other if you want to get across that stretch of Laos in one piece, you’ll need Keo.”

  Dinh’s daughter met them and led around to the back of the house where her father was negotiating with another farmer over the price of a water buffalo calf. The deal was at a stony impasse with the hagglers glaring at each other over a bamboo fence as Terranova motioned for the translator they brought from Bangkok to interrupt.

  The old man was glad for something to divert him from the aggravation of business and led his visitors to a shady spot on the porch of his new house. The oldest daughter swept the kids out from underfoot and then served green tea. Terranova made the introductions and explained to Dinh that Willy Pud was inquiring about the American who gave him the gold ring.

  “Yes...” Dinh nodded over his tea. “I thought there might be more questions about that.”

  “Mr. Dinh, I’m willing to pay you for more information about the man who gave you the ring, but I must have the absolute truth. I want to know every detail you can remember.”

  Dinh nodded, pondering how well his fortunes were improving. And perhaps these men who looked capable and determined just might rescue poor Di Anh from his situation. “Ask your questions. I will tell you what I know.”

  Willy Pud put a stack of colorful Thai baht on the table and then dug in his bag for the picture of Salt and Pepper. “Please look very carefully at this photograph. Remember that it was taken several years ago. I want to know if this is the man who gave you the ring in Vietnam.”

  Dinh examined the photo closely, even walking out
of the shade and looking at it in better light. The picture showed a younger, stronger man but the features and facial structure could easily belong to Di Anh, he decided. And the American he knew in Camp 413 was a veteran of the kind of combat unit like the one in the picture. The man he knew wore glasses, but they were different than the ones on the man in the picture. Di Anh wore glasses with wire rims, but what he could see of the man’s eyes looked the same. Dinh walked back up on the porch, handed over the photo and sat.

  “That is the man we called Di Anh. That is the man I knew at Camp 413.”

  “Why was he at the camp, Dinh? Why was he not returned with all the other American prisoners?”

  “I don’t think he was a prisoner…at least not at first. I don’t know for sure why he remained behind.”

  “But you mean he is a prisoner now?”

  “He was moved to a different location in the camp just before I left. They put guards on him then. I was one of those guards, but he knew me from the time before and he knew I was going to run away. I think that’s why he gave me the ring and the paper with his name on it.”

  Willy stared into the man’s dark eyes. He didn’t seem to be lying or holding anything back. “Mr. Dinh, I know that this man is an American who fought with the Northern Army and Viet Cong.”

  Dinh shrugged and looked up from contemplating the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup. This man is angry, he concluded. He was also a soldier and he is searching for a traitor. This one knows there is right and wrong even in war.

  “You are correct.” Dinh tapped the photograph with his index finger. “This one fought with the Liberation Front. According to the stories I heard from other guards, there were two Americans who did that. One is this man and the other was a black American. I know nothing of him.”

  “Can you tell me anything else?”

  Dinh shrugged and examined the photo again. “This one was wounded in an air attack. He has a stiff leg and a withered right arm so he is given easy work in the camp. He is always complaining to the cadre that he should be sent somewhere else. He thinks he is being mistreated because he fought for our side in the war, but he is still kept in the camps.”

  “Do you think that’s why he wants to leave, why he told you he wanted to get out of Vietnam?”

  “I suppose so. I can’t read his mind. But I think he wants people in your country to know he is in the camp. I think he probably wants someone to come and take him away from there.”

  Willy Pud spread the large scale tactical map of the area on top of the photograph and pointed to the location where Shifty Shaeffer had penciled in a box containing the number 413. “And this is the location of the camp?”

  Dinh studied the map, tracing terrain features and water courses. “This is Camp 413. My militia unit was responsible for security here and for patrolling the area around the camp.”

  “So you know the area well?”

  “Yes, I went on many patrols in this place. We often escorted engineers who were clearing jungle. The camp is perhaps fifty kilometers from the Chinese border—perhaps eight or ten kilometers from the Laos border.”

  Dinh’s daughter brought more tea and they waited for cups to be refilled before turning their attention back to the map. Willy opened a notebook and leaned toward Dinh. The old man also leaned over the map. They sat hunched, concentrating and looking like two veteran field commanders plotting an operation.

  “Now you must tell me everything you can remember about Camp 413. I would like to know about guard and work schedules, the exact layout of the camp, how many cadre guards there are…every detail is important to me.”

  Dinh glanced up at the determined look in his visitor’s eyes. He knew what the man had in mind. “And when I tell you these details, am I to think like an observer…or like a soldier?”

  “Please tell me all the things you think a soldier would want to know.”

  j

  An incessant purr from the phone by his bed dragged Willy Pud out of a sound sleep. He’d gone to bed early after a long day of final equipment preparation, planning sessions with Bob Terranova, and several hours on a remote range test firing a couple of very costly weapons. This would be his last night in a civilized bed, and he had intended to make the most of it.

  “Willy Pud? It’s Eddie, man. You awake? I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Yeah, go ahead.” Willy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and let the cold jet from a nearby air-conditioner wash over his naked skin. Something about Miller’s tone made him instantly alert. “What’s up?”·

  “Look...maybe you’d better come home.”

  “What are you talking about, Eddie. I’m due to head up-country in the morning.” He glanced at his watch. “This morning, I guess. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Spike’s dead, Willy Pud.”

  “Oh, my God!” Willy sat numb, squeezing the phone and feeling like someone had just dropped an anvil on his chest. “What happened?”

  “He disappeared on Tuesday. No message, no nothing, no response to calls. I went by his place and his computer was missing, so I figured maybe he just went somewhere to be alone and write, you know?”

  “He wouldn’t do something like that without letting you know.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. I was frantic and looking everywhere. Then this morning we got a call from the Corps of Engineers dredging out near Chain of Rocks. They hauled up a bodybag. Spike was in it. Two rounds in the chest.”

  “Halley…” Willy whispered into the phone with venom in his voice.

  “Had to be…either him or somebody he hired to finish what he started over in the projects. I’m all over it with NYPD and everyone else I can think of but the New York cops are saying he’s on an overseas trip probably got an iron-clad alibi. We’re checking…”

  Willy Pud jammed a cigarette in his mouth and flicked his lighter, trying to get control of the emotions that were coursing through him. “I loved that guy, Eddie. Goddammit, I really loved Spike. And he gets killed over this fucking Salt and Pepper deal?”

  “We’re all volunteers, Willy Pud. It’s not your fault.”

  “I can’t help feeling that it is.” There was a tear trickling down his cheek and he wiped at it idly. “If I hadn’t insisted on chasing this thing, we’d still have Spike with us.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort, I’m out for Halley’s hide. We’ve got a murder investigation opened up and the FBI is in on it…which is another reason I called you. They want you back for a deposition. I’m gonna give ’em everything we’ve got on this.”

  Willy Pud took a deep breath and looked around the hotel room where all his field gear was packed and stacked. “I’m not leaving here, Eddie, not until we get to the end of this thing. I owe that to Spike.”

  Over Eddie Miller’s protests, Willy hung up the phone and headed for the shower. Standing under the hot spray, he let the tears flow. And then he opened up an old stand-by communication channel he used too seldom.

  God, its Pudarski checking in on the net. Please take care of Spike. He was a good man, a good Marine, a guy who cared about right and wrong. Hold him in the palm of your hand, God, and please help me with what I need to do now.

  j

  Freddy Carver paid the extra wad of baht required to secure the round table in what customers knew as the Business Corner of Lucy’s Tiger Den off Patpong Street. Several of the old hands he’d contacted from the hotel were already bellied up to the long, battered bar, but he waved them off and ordered a pair of Singha beers over ice from the waitress.

  Two more candidates wandered into the smoky interior of Bangkok’s most notorious émigré hangout while he savored the familiar bite of the beer. He just nodded and pointed at the bar. They’d have to wait until Halley arrived from the hotel where he was on an overseas call.

  Carver knew most of the men they were here to meet, either personally or by reputation in the Special Operations grapevine. Several of the
m were fellow Khaki Mafia operators who made a fortune in the black-market sale of U.S. equipment and commodities when they were in Vietnam. All were confirmed Asiatic, bush-beasts of varying skill and experience, addicted to the post-war intrigue that permeated Southeast Asia. More importantly for his present purposes, they were all out of productive work, down at the heels, hanging on to a bare-bones existence in Thailand, ravenous for two things: money and a chance to charge fading batteries.

  Justin Halley entered before Carver had finished his beer. He waved and watched the colonel snake his way around the crowd and over to the table. Carver pointed at a chair, noting Halley had managed to bribe the hotel tailor into a rush order for a form-fitting khaki safari suit. Some guys never learn what undercover means. The guy looked like a CIA spook trying not to look like a CIA spook.

  “Are you OK with the call?”

  “I’m relatively reassured that I’m covered if that’s what you’re asking. The New York Police want to interview me, but they’ve been told I’m on an extended overseas business trip.”

  “You can’t hide over here forever, Colonel.”

  “Nor do I intend to, Freddy. When we’ve concluded our business, I’ll return to New York and go back to work.” He slid a hand-tooled passport case from his pocket. “There’s a date-time stamp in here that puts me in Taipei, Taiwan at the time of the unfortunate incident in St. Louis.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  Halley rubbed a finger and thumb together in the worldwide symbol for cash and smiled. “What was it we used to say in SOG, Freddy? I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  The first man to occupy the third chair at the table had a long scar running from somewhere under his scalp down the right side of his face to the point of his chin. He was overweight for a line trooper, but his handshake was firm. Halley eyed him critically while Carver made the introduction.

  “Breed Toliver…White Star in Laos…Fifth, Group in Nam. Ran A Teams out of III Corps. Speaks Vietnamese. He did some line-jumping stuff in Cambodia for Project Delta late in the war.” Carver motioned for a waitress to buy an old friend a beer, but Toliver shook his head.