Thai Horse (30 page)

‘What is a Thai Horse?’ Hatcher asked. My God, could the reference to the Thai Horse at the Wall have meant a statue, a simple gift? he wondered.

‘The mythical ghost horse,’ Cohe
n
said. ‘Supposedly stolen from the King of Siam, Acc
o
rding to legend, it carried Thai heroes to heaven after the great wars. Legend has it that a Chinese brigand stole the horse and brought it here to the first emperor of China in exchange for a pardon. They renamed it the Celestial Horse, the
Tian Ma.
It was the
Tian Ma
that delivered the first seven emperors of China to the mountaintops around the colony when they died, then the gods turned them into dragons. When the rule of the Han Dynasty ended, the horse disappeared and was never seen again’

Hatcher whispered, ‘Where’d you
g
et it?’

‘From an artifacts museum in Peking,’ he said with a wink. ‘Don’t ask me how much I paid to get this little darling lifted.’

Hatcher stroked the smooth sides
0±
the handsome ivory horse. Could there be any significa
n
ce to the reference other than as a statue? he wondered. Finally he said, ‘Well, that doesn’t add anything to what I know, which is damn little.’

‘Have you got anything else on the fire?’ Cohen asked.

‘I’ve got a man doing some checking for me in Washington,’ Hatcher said. He looked at his
w
atch. ‘I can call him now. If he comes up with anything,
I’m
going to play out the hand.’

‘Or—’

‘I’ll trash the job and go home.’

‘Then I hope the son of a bitch doesn’t even turn up
your
name,’ Cohen said. ‘I’d sure as hell rather have you gone than dead.’

FLITCRAFT

Sergeant Flitcraft was waiting in the reception room of computer operations in the Pentagon when Sergeant Betz arrived at work. Betz was a tall, pa
u
nchy man in his late forties, a short-sticker with a cushy job and less than two years to go before retirement, The broken blood vessels in his nose attested to his penchant for scotch, particularly Dewar’s. He and Flitcraft went back a long way. Bragg. Korea. Nam. Betz scowled at Flitcraft, the smiling, tough black sergeant, who had somehow managed to stay in the service although he walked with a limp, supported by a cane. Flitcraft, too, was close to retirement. Betz knew Flitcraft wasn’t there on a social visit.

‘Got some confidential entries for you this morning, Sergeant,’ Flitcraft said, standing as Betz entered.

‘Yeah, right,’ Betz said. ‘C’mn down.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘Give Sergeant Flitcraft a class-three permit,’ he said.

She reached in a drawer and pulled out a blue name tag, filed its number on a registry and handed it to Flitcraft. She knew him and assumed he was there to give Betz classified information for the general computer. The blue pass permitted him to go only as far as the general offices, a bank of small windowless boxes, through a door to the left of reception. The door to the right opened into the general computer system and was guarded by a marine.

Flitcraft followed Betz into his office, a small cheerless cubicle with just enough space for a desk, a file cabinet, a computer terminal and one other chair.

‘You got some entries for me there, Sergeant?’ Betz asked, easing open a desk drawer.

He knew Flitcraft, knew he worked for a special unit known only as Shadow Section, and that he was trustworthy. Since Flitcraft did not have a C-
1
classification, he did not have access to secret computer files. Flitcraft took a quart of Dewar’s White Label from his briefcase and slipped it in the drawer, which Betz eased shut with his knee. Because the office was under constant surveillance by a roving video camera, they played this game of charades.

‘We’ve got some low-grade classified reports here for general entry,’ said Flitcraft, sliding a sheaf of immaterial reports across the desk to Betz.
B
etz looked at them, casually lifted the cover sheet and read on a slip of paper on page two: ‘Classified POW files.’ Betz looked at Flitcraft as if to say, ‘Who cares?’

Flitcraft raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to answer, ‘Who knows? You know how the brass are.’ Silent looks exchanged between noncoms ‘who had been in the system a long time and knew that a lot of information was classified simply to prevent the news media from gaining access to it through the Freedom of Information Act.

Betz slid open the tray on his desk and checked a list of code names and numbers. He wrote several down on a slip of paper and attached the slip to the top of the file. He set it aside in plain view of Flitcraft ‘while he filled out a receipt, which he signed.

Flitcraft memorized the list immediately:

52-767-52116

Sidewinder

9696

Cherry

Monte

Cristo

Zenda

Betz handed the phony receipt to Flitcraft, who put it in his briefcase.

‘See ya,’ Flitcraft said. They shook hands and he left the office.

So far, so good. Flitcraft went straight to the men’s rest room on the same floor, entered a stall, and wrote the list down before he forgot it. Then he left the Pentagon and hailed a cab.

The office of Shadow Section was in a private office building near the White House. To the casual observer, it was a small personal communications company in the private sector. Very few people kne
w
that it was a branch of military intelligence.

Inside the office, which was identified only by the name Interplex on the door, was a bank of computers and interconnected communication systems that gave the three men, who dressed in civilian clothes, access to satellite and computer information all over the ‘world.

Flitcraft ran the operation with the help of two other noncoms. All three had served Sloan in the past, and all three had suffered wounds that should have resulted in medical discharges from the service. But Colonel Harry Sloan protected his men, and they, in turn, were thoroughly devoted to him. They would have given up their tongues rather than discuss the work they did.

Flitcraft got a cup of coffee and sat down in front of one of the computers.

Flitcraft was accustomed to the complex entry and silent codes needed to gain access to the government’s general computer and then into specific classified files. These were a series of numbers and names that had to be entered upon prompting from the terminal. The system also had a double-entry silent code series
that
had to be entered without prompting. If these were not entered, the main computer immediately triggered a hack tracer. Within seconds the base computer registered the phone number and identity of the interrogating computer and then denied further access to the system
-

It was a clever double-entry system designed to prevent hacking into these confidential f
il
es. In addition, each specific file category had its own s
e
t of bypass codes that were changed weekly, adding still another deterrent to hacking.

Flitcraft entered the modem program, permitting him access to other computers over regular phone lines. He typed in the general number for computer records and then a prompt requested his access number. He checked the list Betz had given him. Tue access number was 52-767-52116. A second prompt appeared immediately, requesting the code name for general files. Flitcraft entered ‘Sidewinder,’ the code name for entry into all classified files.

Now came the touchy part, for the computer did not ask for the ID number of the bypass code; it simply prompted a response to the question ‘Specific File Number.’ Without knowledge of the anti-hacking system, a hacker would have entered the code name requested and immediately sent an alarm to the tracer.

Flitcraft entered the ID number Betz had provided, 9696, followed by the code word ‘Cherry’ and bypassed the hack tracer. The computer repeated the question ‘Specific File Code,’ to which he entered ‘Monte,’ which was followed by a second prompt. He entered ‘Cristo.’

Bang, he was in the general POW file. On the next prompt he typed in ‘Zenda,’ and the menu of all subdirectories appeared, followed by two questions: ‘Subdirect or subject,’ permitting him either to enter directly into a specific file or to search for one under general subject matter.

The sergeant smiled. Now the detective work began.

For the next three hours, Flitcraft typed in questions, seeking the answers Sloan had requested at 3 A.M. that morning. He checked under North Vietnam, POW camps, temporary camps, unverifie1 reports, individual air sightings, reports from POW debriefings. Flitcraft was an expert at digging out obscure information.

When he was finished, Flitcraft had a list of temporary holding camps, none of which seeme
d
to fit the description Sloan had provided, and several cross-referenced POWs. He had narrowed the list several times through cross- referencing.

But four returning prisoners had reported they had been held in what appeared to be the same temporary camp at different times between 1969 and 1972. The camp’s commandant was identified as ‘Thysung,’ ‘Taisung’ and ‘T’sung,’ all close enough to be the same man.

The locations, which Flitcraft pinpointed on a map, were all close to the Laotian border and generally within fifty miles of one another, although the exact location was hardly accurate. None of the four P
O
Ws had stayed in the camp for more than a few weeks. There was also a report from a
B-52
crew that had sighted what it believed to be a POW camp in the same area. And another report of a recon flight over the location two weeks later that reported the camp no longer existed.

Significantly
, however, all four of the POWs had reported that there were half a dozen men who were prisoners in the camp when they arrived, and were still there when they left. One stated he ‘had heard there was a VIP being held in the camp,’ and another had reported a rumor that at least one of the permanent prisoners was ‘collaborating with Charlie.’

Flitcraft ran a check on the four POWs. One was deceased, one was in a mental institution, the other two had been discharged. He traced them down and got current addresses and phone numbers.

For various reasons, none of the information was considered credible or significant by the Army. That was understandable, since the reports were isolated and not verifiable, and since the locations seemed to be those of temporary holding camps. But the four locations and the B-52 sighting were all on the Laotian side of the mountain range called the Chaine Annimitique, and all mentioned the village of Muang, which was six hundred miles north of Saigon.

Flitcraft also checked out Murphy Cody. As far as the computer was concerned, Cody was dead.

Flitcraft answered on the first ring.

‘This is Hatcher, N3146021,’ he said. ‘Do you need a voice print?’

‘You’re clear, sir,’ Flitcraft answered.

‘Did you turn up anything?’

Flitcraft rather proudly told Hatcher that his information indicated that the ghost camp did exist on the Laotian side of the Cha
i
ne Annimitique near the village of Muang. Four debriefed prisoners had stayed in it for various periods between 1971 and 1973, the longest for five weeks. And the four had reported the name of the commandant or warden, variously, as ‘Thysung,’ ‘Taisung’ and ‘T’sung,’ all close enough to imply that it was the same man. The locations, too, indicated it was the moving camp Schwartz had called Huie-kui.

Flitcraft had also phoned an ex-Hanoi POW who had known a man who was in the camp at one time. ‘He had the impression there were several prisoners being held there on some kind of permanent basis,’ Flitcraft said.

‘Any mention of Murphy Cody?’ asked Hatcher. ‘No, sir,’ said Flitcraft. ‘The name never came up.’ ‘Did any of the reports mention that a VIP was being held in the camp?’

‘Yes, sir. But the closest to anything specific was that there were several prisoners who were segregated from the rest of the group. Like maybe they were permanent party, something like that.’

‘Any reason why?’

‘I could only reach this one subject,’ said Flitcraft. ‘He said they might have been collaborators, but he was guessing. Besides, what would the percentage in that be? One prison camp is as bad as the next.’

Flitcraft had a point, although the possibility of collaboration certainly was not out of the question.

‘I wonder why the MIA commission never followed through on these reports?’ Hatcher wondered out loud.

‘I pieced this together from a bunch of scattered reports,’ said Flitcraft. ‘There were a lot of these transient camps, and nothing to pin them down. After the war, they just vanished.’

Maybe not,
thought Hatcher.

‘Thanks,’ he told Flitcraft. ‘You tumble on anything else, feed it to the colonel in Bangkok. I may be hard to reach for a couple of days.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Nice job, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir. Good luck.’

Hatcher cradled the phone. It wasn’t much, he thought. But it was enough to make the upriver trip a necessity.

Someone up there would have dealt with the Huie-kui or at least have heard about it. And now he had a name
—
or three names.

He told Cohen the news.

‘Someone upriver had dealings with this camp,’ said Hatcher, ‘and I’m going to find them.’

‘Well,
I
never heard of it,’ Cohen said.

‘Hell, China, the Ts’e K’am Men Ti knew your sympathies were with America. They did business with the Chinese, the Vietcong, the GIs in Saigon, the Khmer Rouge, but they wouldn’t talk about it with a
mei gwok yahn.’

‘You’re also on Sam-Sam’s list, too. Something about a gun deal that went sour.’

Hatcher took a sip of his drink and didn’t answer.

‘Well, you just
answered
that
question,’ said Cohen.

‘He was dealing with the Khmer Rouge. The whole mission was to bust up that little party..’

‘He’s sworn to cutout your tongue and have it for lunch.’

‘The old
Hatcher
gwai
will
pull me through.’

‘Sure,’ said China, ‘I’ll tell you something
—
when the old Hatcher luck runs out, they’ll feel the earthquake in New York City.’

‘It’ll work,’ Hatcher said, ‘Trust me.’

‘Humph,’ Cohen mumbled again. Hatcher was heading for deep trouble and he was going it alone, stubborn as usual. He hadn’t changed a bit. Sing ended his consternation by appearing suddenly at the doorway.

‘The car belongs to the Island Catering Service,’ Sing said.

Cohen turned to Hatcher. ‘That company belongs to the White Palms. There it is. Fong’s bunch is on to you.’