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.
Coils 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.”
The CIA base chief was a tall, athletic man with a shock of longish blond hair hanging over one eye. “It’s not back at the level it was when his step-father, Khun Sa, was running the operation back in the seventies and eighties, but it’s getting there.”
He paused until the next chart appeared on the screen. “As you can see, the opium production from the region amounts to ten percent of the worldwide supply, with the rest—or most of it—coming from Afghanistan. At last count it was over 2,500 tons, but that ten percent accounts for almost half of the U.S. heroin supply. He sends most of his shit straight to us.”
A frustrated Sadosky tossed his notes on the table. “And the worst part is that he’s becoming more and more aggressive, attacking Thai and Burmese police forces, eliminating his rivals, openly bribing officials—you name it. Chiang Rai is becoming Dodge City.”