Plausible Denial (42 page)

The
van ground to a halt at the front entrance and she switched her attention to
Vanquish. He appeared to have drifted off to sleep. His chin was resting on his
chest and his head rolled back and forth like his neck was broken.

She
jumped out of the van, stuffing the .357 magnum pistol into the back pocket of
her jeans, and rushed around to the other side. She ripped the door open and
unbuckled the Hmong, who fell limply out of the door and into her arms.

She
cried out for help, but when no one came she eased Vanquish to the ground and
ran into the clinic. She returned a few moments later with two men, a female
nurse and a stretcher. She quickly explained that Vanquish had been shot and
asked them to care for him. While he was being carried inside, she slammed the
side doors shut, jumped back into the van and headed south, out of town.

Near
the edge of town she saw the roadblock in the distance and knew she could not
bully her way through it. She pulled off to the side of the road to think. Her
mind raced. Where could she go? She was certain the other end of the road would
be blocked as well.

And
then she remembered. The Porter. The plane had been shot down and crashed on
the mountainside across from Khun Ut’s villa. She had heard the staff talking
about it and saw the smoke still coming from the site when she made her escape.
Mac and Culler Santos were on the mountainside as well. Maybe…

She
turned the van around on the highway and headed back toward the center of town,
all the while scanning the mountainside up to her right for signs of the
wreckage. Two Huey helicopters circled around in the distance on the side of
the mountain. Surely they were looking for Culler and Mac.

It
was almost dark and the looming black mountain made it difficult to see the
smoke that would be still emanating from the wreckage.

She
saw a small dirt road off to her right. An emergency vehicle and several other
cars and trucks were parked at the base of the road near the highway. Her mind
raced. Rescue workers, paramedics, firemen, maybe even American embassy or
aviation officials might be up there at the site of the wreck. The Porter was
an American owned plane…

She
pulled off the road and parked next to the emergency vehicle. She opened the
door and stood on the running board of the van, looking up the side of the
mountain for signs of smoke or the wreckage. Nothing. Then she noticed what
looked like a wisp of smoke about a mile from where she was standing.
That’s
got to be it.

She
made a mental note of the location, sat back behind the wheel of the van and
headed up the dirt road. She bounced and skidded up the rutted road, wanting to
get as close to the location as possible. One of the Hueys passed overhead,
causing her to duck instinctively.

The
road ended about four hundred meters up at an old barn. Several cars, probably
belonging to rescue workers and investigators working at the crash site, were
parked in front. She pulled the van in and parked beside the other cars. She
looked up at the mountain, got her bearings, and headed off on foot into the
jungle in the direction of the wrecked Porter.

As
she came close to the people, some in uniform, mostly civilian Lao and Thai, a
Marine at the edge of the crowd happened to turn around. His face lit up when
he saw her.

He
stepped toward Charly and reached for her hand. But Charly stumbled and fell
forward into his arms.

“Ma’am,
I’m sure glad to see you.” He was flustered and embarrassed at holding a senior
embassy officer in his arms. “Are you alright, Ma’am,” he said, trying to hold
her at arms length.

Charly
straightened up and smiled. “I’m fine, Corporal. I didn’t mean to attack you.”
She brushed her hair back out of her eyes, which were welling up. The relief at
feeling safe at last begin to hit her.

“Ma’am,
you kind of look like shit.” He was immediately contrite. “I mean, I wasn’t, I
mean…”

Charly
laughed and grabbed the young embassy guard by the elbow. “I’m sure we both
know exactly what you mean, Corporal. Let’s head down and get me back to the
nearest safe phone.”

The
Marine called over his shoulder, “Swanson, come with me and Miss Blackburn.
Henricks, you and White stay here with the counsel. Don’t let ‘em out of your
sight. And get ‘em out of this fucking jungle before dark.” He winced and
pulled slightly away. “Jesus, I apologize, ma’am.”

Charly
pulled him back to her side, as the other Marine joined them. “Get me out of
this fucking jungle too, Corporal.”

Chapter One
Hundred-Thirty-One

I
t
was well after midnight when Culler and Mac arrived back near the top of the mountain
where they had cached their excess gear. By all appearances, the search, at
least on the mountainside, had been called off. The Hueys had returned to the
villa and no other search parties had been deployed on the mountain – none that
they could detect, anyway.

They
were bone tired, dehydrated, and needed rest, food and drink. Mac spread out a
green shelter sheet on the ground and the two men plopped down on it. They lay
there, using their packs as pillows, looking up at the star filled sky.

Culler
drank heavily from his Camelbac and munched on a power bar. “So what’s the plan
now, general? Steal another car?”

“I
don’t know. I can’t think any more. It’s a big mountain. I think we’re pretty
safe as long as we stay under cover and away from the populated areas. I’m not
worried about getting us out of here and back across the border into Laos.
Colonel Sunthonwet is not the only friend I have in Northeast Thailand. We’ll
get out okay.”

“Well,
truth be told, I’m looking forward to getting back to Ft. Lauderdale and the
routine work at GSR. I’ve had enough excitement for awhile. This is a
comfortable spot. It’s cool, no bugs, nice breeze, I suggest we spend a
relaxing evening right here, camping out under the moon and stars.”

Mac
yawned, “You’re right. This is as good a place as any to rest up. I don’t think
I could stand up anyway.”

“Me
too. Do you think Charly and Vanquish made it out okay?”

“My
guess is as good as yours. Vanquish didn’t look too good. I don’t know, maybe…”

Culler
pulled more power bars from his backpack and tossed one over to Mac. “Well,
there’s nothing more we can do for them. I’ll never forget the look on her face
when she looked up at us and mouthed ‘thank you Mac.’ She knew we were here and
she knew we could see her. That was truly amazing.”

“Yeah,
gives me goosebumps. I hope they’re okay. Charly’s a ballsy woman. If anyone
can make it out of there safely, she can. And if she makes it out okay, I guess
you could say we accomplished everything we came here to do.”

“Yeah,
that’s right. Even if Khun Ut recovers from his wound, I think he and his
operation are finished. That mission has definitely been accomplished. Getting
Charly and Vanquish out of harm’s way would be a real plus. I hope they make
it, I really do…”

They
lay there quietly, looking up at the stars, and slowly drifted off into deep,
dreamless sleep.

Chapter One
Hundred-Thirty-Two

Postscript

K
hun
Ut survived his gunshot wound, but the publicity over the shooting down of the
CIA Porter, and the deaths that resulted from people using his heroin, ended
his reign in the Golden Triangle.

On
direct orders from the Thai Prime Minister, he was arrested at the hospital and
brought to Bangkok where he was tried and convicted of heroin trafficking and
multiple murders. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of
parole and was incarcerated in the infamous Bang Kwang maximum security prison
on the banks of the Chao Phraya River north of Bankok.

Bang
Kwang is called the “Big Tiger” by the Thais. It got the name because it ate
all the people who entered it.

Ung Chea moved
into Khun Ut’s mountain villa in Ban Hin Taek where he attempted to pick up the
pieces of Khun Ut’s much diminished heroin business. With the distribution
networks in shambles, he concentrated on the opium growing part of the
business, selling the raw opium to other distributers.

Vanquish died
quietly at the clinic in Ban Hin Taek moments after he was dropped off by
Charly Blackburn. Months after his death a young American man appeared at the
home of his widow and, without explanation, delivered an envelope containing
$50,000 in cash. On the same day, another courier delivered a package
containing $100,000 to Linda Peoples at her home.

Edwin
Rothmann, the DDO, personally traveled to Chiang Mai to award Charly Blackburn
the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the CIA’s highest honor for extraordinary
heroism.

Culler Santos
and Harry MacMurphy walked out of the jungle two days later in Ban Mae Sai.
They waited for the cover of darkness at the edge of the town and stole an old
Toyota pickup truck parked behind a seedy apartment complex. Culler finally got
to use his technical skills to hotwire the truck.

Early
the next morning they ditched the pickup in a busy parking lot in Nong Khai,
and Mac called an old contact of his who was engaged in smuggling all sorts of
people and things back and forth between Laos and Thailand.

The
smuggler took them across the Mekong River in a small fishing boat and then
delivered them personally to the familiar Settha Palace Hotel where they
relaxed for two days before flying back to Ft. Lauderdale.

They
both looked forward to resuming a life of routine in the GSR offices, and hoped
that Edwin Rothmann would not call again too soon.

Exactly one
month after the shooting of Khun Ut, the seemingly unrelated murders of Police
Colonel Chatchai Sunthonwet and former Police General Sawat Ruchupan were
reported in the Thai press.

Sunthonwet
had been shot once in the side of the head at close range while sitting alone
in his police cruiser in downtown Nong Khai; Sawat was found floating face down
in his swimming pool in Chiang Mai. His throat had been slashed.

There
were no suspects in either killing.

******

Acknowledgments

F
rom
the time the first word hit a page to publication, my first novel,
The Case
Officer
, was more than thirty years in the making. In that context, the
writing of
Plausible Denial
was a snap.

The
reason was because I learned so much from so many during that lengthy first
writing.

Many
of the same people who helped bring that first novel to print, at least in the
final stages, also helped in the creation of the sequel.

One
of these people – I really can’t remember who – told me long ago that it takes
two things to be a successful fiction writer. First you must have something
interesting to say, and second, you must be able to say it well.

Spending
almost a quarter of a century in the CIA’s clandestine service certainly gave
me lots of interesting things to write about, but telling these stories well
required a lot of help from a lot of people with a lot more knowledge about the
literary word than I possess.

So
once again I want to thank my old friend Phil Jennings for his tutelage and
fine editing skills; John O’Melveny Woods for his wizardry in bringing a
well-designed book to print; David Smith for his masterful cover art work; and
Bill and Richard Parker for their guidance on the use of sophisticated military
arms and sniper gear.

And
a special shout-out goes to Phil Noreen, the designer and manufacturer of the
Noreen “Bad Boy” .338 Lapua semi-automatic sniper rifle, a photo of which is
displayed on the back cover.

About the Author

F.W. Rustmann, Jr.
is a twenty-four year veteran of the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He
retired as a member of the elite Senior Intelligence Service (SIS), with the
equivalent rank of major general. One of his assignments was as an instructor at
the CIA’s legendary covert training facility, “the Farm.” After retiring from
the CIA, he founded CTC International Group, Inc., a pioneer in the field of
business intelligence and a recognized leader in the industry. His numerous
articles on intelligence and counterintelligence have appeared in the Baltimore
Sun, Miami Herald, Palm Beach Post, Newsmax and elsewhere. He has been
frequently quoted and interviewed in many national and international
publications including Time Magazine, USA Today, New York Times, New York Daily
News, Far East Economic Review, CNN, FNN, Reuters, Newsmax and the Associated
Press, among others. He is the author of the best selling non-fiction book
CIA,
Inc.: Espionage and the Craft of Business Intelligence,
and the novel,
The
Case Officer
. He lives in Palm Beach, Florida.