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EUGENE — Friday 07:00

Jeremy Wilson was Duncan Harris's stockbroker. Being a stockbroker on the West Coast meant living your life three hours ahead of the local environment. Jeremy hated getting up at four-thirty every weekday morning, in time to be at his terminal when Wall Street's trading started in New York.

He stared in frustration at the terminal screen on his desk. The many stocks for which he had sell orders were headed down. Those few for which he had buy orders were headed up. Today would be no better than the rest of the week.

When his phone beeped, he glanced at which line was blinking and hit the button, energizing his telephone headset. “Jeremy Wilson speaking.”

“Jeremy, Duncan Harris here. What's the matter? The market down?”

Jeremy regretted his voice having betrayed his irritation. Duncan was a friend as well as his biggest client, and Jeremy had been present at the memorial gathering for Duncan's family. “You got it, and I forgot to put on my cheery voice. Sorry about that. What can I do for you, Dunk?” he said.

“I've got an opportunity overseas that I want to take maximum advantage of. I want you to sell everything. Close out both the joint trading account I had with my dad and my IRAs. Sell at the current market value and transfer all the proceeds to my Zurich account. Don't hold anything back for taxes. I'll handle the tax liability later.”

It took Jeremy a few moments to grasp the meaning of Duncan's request. “Ah, okay. Sure you don't want to wait a few days? I mean, with the market down ...”

“No, I need to move the money overseas as soon as possible.”

“Alright. Ah, the IRAs. If you sell them, there's a ten percent penalty if you don't roll them over, and we have to withhold twenty percent for the IRS right off the bat.”

“Do whatever's legal. Look, I realize this is an unusual request. I'm in San Francisco, and I'm leaving the country today. A friend from here will be in Eugene on Monday. I'll put these instructions in writing, and he'll get them to you. You'll have them before the settlement date. Also, I'll be talking to Bill Batteman in a few minutes. I'll alert him to the transaction. You can verify the legality of closing out the joint trading account if you like.

“That's not necessary. Both you and your father had authority to buy and sell, and you listed each other as the beneficiary.” Along with Ellie, he thought, but decided not to mention her. “Do you want to empty them for now or close them for good? They can be left open if you leave a few hundred in them. Am I losing you as a client? I hope not.”

The other end of the line was silent for several seconds. Jeremy was about to speak again.

“You're losing me as a client, Jeremy, but not as a friend. I expect to be out of the country for an extended period.” There was another pause. Jeremy couldn't think of anything to say. Duncan finally continued. “Give Bill Batteman a call this morning if you like, and for sure next week ... when the transactions are settled and the money's in Switzerland. I'll be in touch with him. What's your best estimate of when the funds will be available in Zurich?”

“Ah, four working days for settlement, that'd be next Thursday morning, nine hour time difference ... if they close at five, I'd have to do the transfer before eight a.m. our time. Settlement might be a little after that, so we're probably looking at first thing Friday morning. There's never been any hurry before. I've always done it the day following when I hit the office at five‑thirty. That's mid‑afternoon there.”

Bill Batteman was drinking his morning coffee when his telephone rang. He hoped it wasn't one of his Friday golf partners canceling out. So it was raining; it might clear by afternoon. Besides, you couldn't be a golfer in Oregon if you were going to let a little rain stop you.

He answered the phone and heard Duncan's familiar voice. Duncan talked non-stop for five minutes. Judy Batteman, across the table from her husband, asked in a whisper who it was. He raised his hand to put her off.

“I think you should sue Air Cargo, the DEA, and the CIA,” he said when Duncan stopped, and then became silent for another three minutes as Duncan continued.

“That was Dunk?” Judy asked after her husband hung up.

“Yeah. Jesus, I wish he'd at least give the legal system a try before doing things on his own,” he said and told her what had happened to Duncan.

“What does he want you to do?”

“Nothing except to put his house on the market. He wants it priced to sell quickly.”

ZURICH — Friday 16:20

Hans Söbel answered his phone in German but switched to English when Duncan Harris identified himself. “How may I be of service, Mr. Harris?”

“Every time we talk, you always start by calling me Mr. Harris, and I always remind you my name is Duncan, Dunk for short. We have known each other for over twenty years now, Hans, and besides, you're older than I.”

“But this is Europe, Duncan.” Hans couldn't bring himself to use a client's nickname, but he now knew he was talking to Duncan Harris. “And I'm not much older than you.”

“I need a favor and some information. Thursday morning I'll have funds available in Oregon for transfer to your bank, but it may be after your closing hours in Zurich. I'd like to arrange for an after-hours transfer rather than waiting for Friday morning. Is that possible?”

“Yes, of course, we are happy to make such arrangements for a client such as yourself. Whom shall I contact?”

Duncan gave him Jeremy Wilson's name and number.

“I have dealt with him before. It will be a pleasure talking with him again. You mentioned information.”

“I understand there have been recent changes to the Swiss banking laws that allow foreign governments to more easily trace transactions.”

;This is true. However, the changes are concerned with the opening of accounts and the receipt of money whose origin is unclear. You have had your account with us for years, and there would never be any question about money transferred from a securities exchange. The changes do not affect you. You will be free to dispense your funds in any way you choose in complete confidentiality.”

“That's what I wanted to hear. Take care, Hans.”

SAN FRANCISCO — Friday 08:00

Duncan didn't believe it unsafe to use the apartment's phone to make his phone calls, but he decided to take no chances and went looking for a pay phone. He walked several blocks, bypassing three phones, hoping the added exercise would make him feel better. But it didn't; the headache from lack of sleep and a hangover wasn't responding to the aspirin he had taken. Just because alcohol was legal didn't mean you could abuse it without penalty, he thought.

By eight a.m. he had completed his calls, the last two being to two separate airlines to make reservations to Hong Kong. The departure time for the first reservation was eleven forty-five. He planned on Richard taking it. The second, Duncan's flight, was at two twenty p.m.

Though it was early in a city famous for morning fog, the sun was shining. Duncan allowed himself to accept the good weather as a favorable omen for the beginning of his plan. Returning to the apartment, he kept to the sunny side of the street.

What is it, he thought, in the human mind that triggers ideas? All his life his mind had been flooded with ideas—bizarre, obscene, noble—they came in all flavors. From where did they come? They existed for a moment and were discarded—usually. Occasionally he allowed one to remain for awhile, but even most of those were finally put aside. With great rarity he acted on the remainder, but he knew that, as little as he did, his fellows often considered his behavior outrageous.

From where did his present idea come, this plan? The couple last night? She started the discussion on legalization. Her companion talked of voting on the issue. That might account for part of the idea. And the rest of it? It didn't matter. What did matter was that it would focus national attention on Ellie and Tom's death. With that done, Greg Ballantine and his DEA bosses would throw their underlings to the wolves, of that Duncan was certain. And the world would know that his wife and father were innocent victims.

The plan needed fleshing out, but he knew it could be done, and he knew he would do it. It was outrageous, more so than anything he had ever done. It would be expensive, taking every bit of money he had, but that didn't matter. They had already taken from him everything of real worth.

The next step was to wake Larry and Richard, enlist their help, and get Richard and himself on airplanes. Duncan quickened his pace.

HONG KONG — Saturday 22:15

Kai Tak International Airport was in the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong, but not on the island of Hong Kong. It was in Kowloon, a slice of mainland China belonging to the Crown Colony. The single runway crowded up against the city at the water's edge, much of it resting on landfill. The airport had an eleven p.m. to six a.m. curfew to allow the hundreds of thousands of tenement dwellers abutting the airport boundary to get minimal rest. But even with the curfew, Kowloon knew a good night's rest would only come when the new airport at Chek Lap Kok replaced Kai Tak.

The flight would land before curfew—barely, and even though Duncan wasn't flying, he kept track of the time. He hated being late, and he knew Richard was waiting to observe his arrival.

Duncan was in a race with the blinking low battery light on his laptop computer. He had used the machine periodically through the day, working on his plan. During this current session he had stared at the aircraft's ceiling for several minutes, thinking. He looked down to see the light in its fast‑blink mode—shutdown was imminent. He needed to know one thing before arrival, whether it would be better for him to enter Hong Kong as a uniformed crewmember or as a passenger. The answer was in a file that listed the entry requirements of each country in the world for a U.S. citizen.

Duncan saved the file on which he had worked and started a search for the entry requirements.

Uniformed airline crews were routinely afforded special privileges throughout the world insofar as exit and entry procedures were concerned. At Kai Tak they were waved through passport control without being checked. Duncan was in civilian clothes but had his uniform and airline ID with him, and he could change in one of the airplane's toilets. There was a risk. At some point Air Cargo International would notify IATA, the International Air Transport Association, that a captain they had terminated had not returned his ID. IATA would alert immigration and customs authorities throughout the world, and it was possible that whatever agency had dosed him had already done so.

He found the file and ordered it loaded, hoping he had another minute's worth of battery power.

Duncan wanted to keep his movements untraceable. He needed to know if as a passenger he would be given a visa on arrival. If so, he would enter as a crewmember.

Duncan started a search for the character string Hong Kong. The line of text containing Hong Kong appeared on the last line of the display. Duncan pressed the page-down key. The entry requirements flashed on the screen... and the machine switched off, its battery exhausted. But Duncan had seen what he needed to know, visas were not required for a tourist stay of up to fifteen days. He remained dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and running shoes.

An enclosed, air-conditioned footbridge connected The Regal Hotel lobby to the Kai Tak passenger terminal. Pedestrians had to walk, but each side of the bridge had a conveyor belt for luggage. Duncan considered the belts to be running in the wrong direction. As a British Colony, Hong Kong traffic drove on the left side of the road, but the belt moving into the hotel was on his right as he walked, maintaining a pace that kept him alongside his two bags.

He pulled both bags from the conveyor as they were about to be dumped onto the outer lobby floor. As he straightened up and turned toward the registration desk, he saw Richard sitting in the lobby, looking down the footbridge.

After checking in, Duncan held his room key with the room number showing outward and walked toward the elevators. His path took him past Richard, who looked at his watch as Duncan neared him. Duncan scratched his ear after passing him.

On reaching his room, Duncan emptied his bladder. He would have to do something about this. It was ridiculous that a healthy body should have to piss so often. It took too long to get the stream started, and then it dribbled on interminably. Duncan was in the middle of the third shake trying to make sure everything was out when the phone rang. The Regal was a considerate hotel; they had a phone alongside the toilet. He ceased shaking and answered Richard's call.

“No one followed you over the footbridge and nobody seemed interested in the lobby or checked with registration after you got on the elevator. Larry says he doesn't think anyone spotted you at the San Francisco airport. He copied both of us on a e-mail message. You're in the clear.”

“I agree, but we'll make one more check. In five minutes I'm going to leave the hotel from the level below the registration lobby. I'll turn right out of the door, walk to the end of the block, and turn right again. On the third cross street, I'll turn left. Midway down that block is a small restaurant on the left side. It's a hole-in-the-wall place with aquariums outside on the street, the only place like that around. Give me a couple minutes inside before joining me. If you don't come in, I'll know you've spotted a tail.”

“What's the name of the restaurant?”

“I don't know. There's no English on the sign.”

After hanging up, Duncan tore off a single sheet of toilet paper to soak out the last bit of urine and buttoned himself up. I shouldn't have to do this. Women use toilet paper after pissing, not men.

Duncan paused in front of the restaurant to look in the aquariums. There were three of them, each about two feet long, one foot wide, and eighteen inches deep. They were empty of water and dirty. Two of them had nothing in them but a sand-covered bottom; it was late and the restaurant was about to close. The third still contained a few coiled snakes in the middle of the bottom, and a single snake stretched lengthwise along the backside.

One of the waiters saw Duncan through the grime on the window and appeared at his elbow. “Good evening, Captain, good to see you again. You have come just in time.”

“It was a late flight ... I'll take that one,” Duncan said, pointing to the snake stretched along the back. “Another person will be joining me in a few minutes. He may want a menu, and I'll wait until he arrives before starting.”

The waiter nodded and led Duncan to a table midway back in the long, narrow establishment. Duncan saw the old man sitting in back in his usual place. Duncan sat down and, as always, nodded deferentially in his direction. There was no response; the man appeared to be asleep.

The waiter reappeared with the day's edition of the South China Morning Post for Duncan to read while waiting. He had scanned most of the first section when Richard appeared in trail of the waiter.

“No problems?” Duncan asked.

“Nope,” Richard replied, taking the menu and looking at the surroundings. Duncan nodded toward the waiter.

“No English on the menu and the place is dirty,” Richard said. “They don't cater to tourists here.”

“I've never seen a round-eye in here besides myself.”

The waiter returned with a small glass of liqueur on a tray. He placed it on the table and went toward the front.

“What are you drinking?” Richard said, looking at the glass of liqueur.

“I don't know what it is. It comes with the order. It's strong, tastes terrible.”

Richard was puzzled. “If it tastes bad, why do you drink it?”

Duncan thought before answering. “Just to prove that I can do it. Besides, it's comes with the meal, part of the custom.”

“Custom?” Richard asked.

Before Duncan could answer, the waiter returned with the snake and a small shears. Duncan focused his attention on the reptile. The snake's fate would be hard to follow; the waiter's action would be quick, and Duncan's part required haste.

Richard saw the snake and the apparatus and edged his chair away from the table. “Oh, no, not this. God, my father used to do this.” He turned and looked away.

The waiter forced the snake's mouth open, breaking the jaws, and attached its head to a clip on the wall. He forcefully ran his thumb down the snake's body, clearing the creature's digestive track. The rush of fluid shot through the dilated anus. With the shears he sliced the snake length- wise up the belly, made a slice around the neck, and peeled off the skin. Two series of quick snips extracted the heart, still beating, and the gall bladder into the liqueur. The waiter shook the glass lightly and served it to Duncan, who downed the contents in one swallow.[REF2201] He felt the beating heart tickle his throat as it went down, but the burning of the liqueur swiftly replaced the sensation. As he set down the glass, he saw the old man's eyes closing, the faintest of smiles on his face.

The waiter addressed Richard in Chinese and he replied in Chinese, pointing to the menu. The exchange switched back and forth several times before Richard closed the menu.

“I have relatives in San Francisco,” the waiter said in English as he took the menu and left the table.

Richard waited a few moments before speaking. “I didn't mention San Francisco. All I did was ask how they prepared some of their dishes and ordered. Did you say something to him about San Francisco?”

“No, my guess is he's very good at spotting accents. This is an unusual place. I discovered it by accident. I was walking around on my first trip here and saw the snakes out front. I stood around and watched them cut the head off one and take it inside. On the following trip I decided to eat one. I've been coming back ever since. One night I saw them serve the heart to a customer; next time I asked for that. They don't bother giving me a menu any more.”

The waiter came with tea. Duncan continued when he left.

“There's an old man at your five o'clock position, sitting way in back. He's always there, always looks like he's sleeping. People come in to talk with him. A Rolls Royce or a Mercedes drops off one or two guys in expensive clothes and then circles the block. The old man never gets up. His visitors stand and a waiter draws a curtain to give them privacy.”

“Chiu-chau?” Richard said. It was half question, half assertion.[REF2202]

“I think so. And if not, I'm betting he can put us in touch with them.”

“The Chiu-chau are a closed society. They're all Chinese, all speak the Swatow dialect. My father used to say they make the Mafia look like boy scouts. They'll do business with anyone, but they don't let outsiders know much about them. If this place is Chiu-chau, they might feel your having guessed it is a danger.”

“I don't think so. The first few times I came here, they were polite but remote. Then one day the waiter addressed me as Captain Harris, and they were all smiles. I hadn't told them my name. It was their way of telling me they had checked me out—probably followed me back to the hotel, found out who I was, and went from there. Anyway, it's a chance I'll have to take. Hong Kong is the only Air Cargo station usable as a staging area, and nothing illegal happens here without Chiu-chau involvement... or at least permission. If they don't want to help me, maybe they'll point me to someone who will.”

Duncan poured the tea for himself and Richard.

“I'm going to ask to speak to the old man. How do I refer to him respectfully in Chinese?”

Richard thought for a moment. “Lo Dai might work, literally it means old big.[REF2203] But I think you should use English. You'd never get the Chinese tones right; you'd be just as likely to insult his ancestors as you would to show respect. If he's willing to talk to you, they'll give you his name.” Duncan tried the phrase a few times, Richard shaking his head and correcting him each time. Duncan decided to stick with English.

When their food arrived, he made his request. “I need help in Hong Kong on a private matter, and I've noticed that people often come to talk with the elderly gentleman who sits in the back. Would it be possible to speak with him ?I am hoping that with his wisdom and years he can guide me to someone who can help.”

The waiter said nothing, but after setting the food-laden plates on the table, he went to the old man, leaned, and whispered in his ear. The old man's head nodded ever so slightly, and the waiter returned to Duncan's table.

“We will be closing in a few minutes. Li Wah will speak to you then. Please take your time eating. Li Wah says that a meal begun so well should not be hurried.”

Duncan and Richard were still eating when their waiter closed and locked the door. Duncan ate slowly but deliberately, knowing the old man, though appearing to be asleep, watched. Richard, not wanting to be the cause of delay, ate quickly.

When Duncan pushed away his plate, he belched lightly. The waiter appeared. “Please come this way.” One empty chair had been placed in front of the old man. The waiter indicated Duncan should take it. The curtain at the back remained open, but another had been drawn across the front of the restaurant.

Duncan bowed slightly toward the old man and sat, wondering why he had been accorded the courtesy of a chair. Richard stood behind and to Duncan's left.

Duncan started to ask if an interpreter was needed, but the waiter preempted him. “Li Wah understands English, but he does not speak it well. I will interpret for you.”

Duncan nodded in agreement and spoke. “First, I apologize for my ignorance of Chinese etiquette. Like most Americans of European origin, I am unschooled in the ways of the Orient.” That was not entirely true, but Duncan wanted to cover himself in case he made a faux pas. The old man smiled and nodded.

“Two weeks ago my father, an honorable man of eighty-five years, was unjustly shot and killed by agents of the American Drug Enforcement Administration, the DEA. They also killed my unborn son and his mother. I have no other family.” Duncan deliberately referred to his father and son's death before Ellie's, that would be the old man's ordering of their importance.

“The DEA killed them during a drug raid. The raid was staged when an informant falsely accused my father of dealing cocaine. He was shot in his bed while my wife was caring for him, and he was unarmed. The agents who killed him put a gun in his hand after he was dead. The DEA knows this but has chosen to go along with the cover-up to avoid embarrassment. Thus they have dishonored my father's name.” Duncan saw the old man's eyes harden.

“I have a plan to make the truth known, to restore my father's honor, but it requires bringing contraband into Hong Kong, repackaging it, and then shipping it to the United States.”

The old man spoke. “What kind of contraband?” the interpreter asked.

“Drugs, but they will not be sold in the U.S.; they will be given away as part of a political protest. The protest will command nationwide attention. The media investigation that will follow will be intense. When that happens, the leaders of the DEA will not risk their careers to protect those who killed my family. The DEA will be forced to admit my father was innocent.”

The old man and the interpreter engaged in conversation. Richard leaned down. “I don't know their dialect, but I don't think he understood the word media,” he said into Duncan's ear.

“Our apologies, a confusion of terms, Captain Harris, please continue,” the waiter said.

“From here we'll fly to Bangkok and travel north. I hope to arrange a meeting with Chan Shee-Fu through his representatives in Mae Hong Son.” Duncan used the Chinese name for Khun Sa, the most powerful of Southeast Asia's drug lords. This caused several exchanges between the old man and the waiter.

“Li Wah is most curious as to why you wish to speak to Chan Shee-Fu personally. Drugs can be bought through his representatives; that is why they are there. Or, if you wish, we can sell you whatever you need.”

Duncan now knew he was talking to the Chiu-chau. “Years ago I met Khun Sa—that's what we call him. I think I can persuade him to sell me the drugs very cheaply. I have only limited resources, my own money and that my father left me. The more drugs I can give away in the States, the greater will be the outrage.” Duncan waited for a response.

The old man sat staring for a full minute before conversing with the waiter. “When are you leaving for Bangkok?” the waiter asked.

“Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep.”

Duncan and Richard walked back to the hotel together. Richard wanted to know about Khun Sa.

“Do you really know Chan Shee-Fu?”

“He was on some of the Air America missions I flew. I talked with him a few times twenty years ago.”

“Do you think he'll remember you?”

“Doesn't matter. It's the idea I want to sell him on. He's an innovative guy with an eye for publicity. He once sent President Bush a videotape inviting narcotics agents to his camp. He wanted to show them the deforestation caused by Thai logging companies. And several times he's offered to sell the U.S. government his entire opium output. He wanted $500,000,000 for six years of output.[REF2204]

“That's a lot of money.”

“Not really. That's roughly eighty million a year, one percent of the DEA's annual budget. Even the DEA admits it intercepts only ten percent of the drugs coming in, so one percent of the DEA's cost stops one tenth of one percent of the drug flow. From a business standpoint, if Khun Sa's production is greater than that one tenth of one percent, it would be a great deal.”

“Is it greater than that?”

“From what I've read, it's a lot more. He controls forty percent of the opium coming out of the Golden Triangle, and the triangle accounts for over half the world's opium production. I estimate he ships ten percent of the heroin coming into the U.S. , that's one hundred times more than what the DEA interdicts with what they would have had to pay him.”

“They should have taken the deal,” Richard asserted.

“Yeah, if their first priority was stopping drugs.”

Duncan and Richard took the precaution of entering the hotel separately. Duncan's phone rang as he entered his room. He answered and recognized the voice of Li Wah's interpreter.

“Captain Harris, you said you would be flying to Bangkok tomorrow and then traveling north. May I ask how you plan to go from Bangkok to Mae Hong Son?”

“We'll take a flight to Chiang Mai, stay there the night, and then rent a car or take a bus the next morning on into Mae Hong Son.” Duncan saw no reason to lie.

“Have your purchased your tickets yet?”

“No, I prefer to buy them just before the flights. Makes it harder to follow us.”

“May I recommend a travel agency we often use? I am certain they can make the arrangements you require, and I can assure you that if you are followed, we will know it and will alert you.”

Duncan paused before speaking. “We would be happy to accept any help you can give.”

“Is there any reason you wish to avoid flying directly to Mae Hong Son?”

“Chartered aircraft attract attention, and they're expensive.”

“Mae Hong Son now has scheduled air service. There are two flights a day.”

Duncan hadn't seen Northern Thailand for twenty years. Mae Hong Son had been a small village with a dirt strip. “Ah, no... a direct flight would be fine. My knowledge of the area is a little dated.”

“I understand. May we make reservations for you at the Holiday Inn?”

Duncan wanted to ask if the man was joking, but he knew the Chiu-chau never joked when doing business. “That will be fine.” A Holiday Inn in Mae Hong Son? Duncan felt old.

“Good, the tickets will be issued in your names as you have registered at The Regal. What time would you like them delivered?”

“I'll be getting up at eight.”

Duncan hung up and immediately called Richard. “Forget about taking an early flight to watch me come into Bangkok. We're being handled.”


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[REF2201] “A live snake is removed from the cage by the 'chef', and its jaws forced open (generally by breaking it). The snout and top of the head are then attached to a clip which either hangs from a line or has been nailed to the wall. Using his thumb, the cook then grabs the snake by the throat and squeezes it, running his thumb down the length of the body. The purpose of this is to clear out the creature's digestive tract, which it does by forcing the entire contents out the anus. The snake's anus is generally just a slit, but when it receives this powerful gush of internal fluids, the anus is forcibly dilated to about the diameter of a pencil.

“It is now that the fun begins. The cook takes a pair of shears, and starting at the anus, slices the snake length-wise up the belly. He then peels the skin back, and makes a slice around the neck. The snake's skin then peels away easily. (Remember, the snake is still theoretically alive at this point.) He then locates the heart, and snip, snip go the shears. The organ is then cut up a couple more times (to make it easier to swallow), and dropped into a glass of Chinese liquor (distilled millet spirits, something akin to grain alcohol or EverClear, but it tastes even worse). The cook then locates the gall bladder and repeats the process. He shakes the glass of liquor, which has by now taken on a pale reddish or dark pinkish tint, and serves it to the customer. What remains of the snake is then tossed into a pot to make soup, which also served to customers.” Christopher Slaughter [100204,1437] e-mail 08-Mar-94 from Tokyo.

[REF2202] “Chiu-chau are Chinese from the Swatow region of southern China, and Chiu-chau syndicates have controlled much of Asia's illicit drug traffic since the mid-1800s and have played a role in China's organized crime similar to that of the Sicilian Mafia in Italy and the Corsican syndicates in France.” Alfred W. McCoy, The Politics of Heroin: CIA Complicity in the Global Drug Trade (New York: Lawrence Hill Books, 1991), p. 226.

[REF2203] “Godfather types are sometimes referred to as ‘Lao Da,’ which means ‘older brother,&rsquos; but unless your man speaks Cantonese, this seems a little dicey. If the capo in question speaks English, then you wouldn't mix in any Chinese. But if you follow my suggestion, it should work.” William Cross 71610,3455 CIS message 3/6/94.

[REF2204]“Khun Sa was born to a Shan mother and a Yunnan Chinese father at Loi Maw in the Shan states in 1933. He was raised in a Shan aristocratic household when his mother remarried. Reflecting his mixed origins and mingled politics, he is known by two names—his Chinese birth name, Chan Shee-Fu, and his Shan nom de guerre, Khun Sa, or Lord Sa. He had a base at Ban Hin Taek, Thailand north of Chiang Mai from 4/77-1/82 which served as his headquarters for the management of 40% of Burma's opium exports and the collection of $850,000 per year in transit taxes from other caravans.” Alfred W. McCoy, The Politics of Heroin...., pp. 426-435.

“Khun Sa's camp is in Ho Mong, Burma, approximately 20 km from his representatives in Mae Hong Son, Thailand. The camp has become a city with 9 schools and guarded by 15,000 of his troops. Khun Sa sent a video tape to President Bush inviting narcotics agents to his camp to witness the widespread deforestation caused by Thai logging companies. He has repeatedly offered to sell his entire opium supply for $500,000,000 over a 6 year period. Khun Sa was indicted by a U.S. court in 1990. Burma is already grooming Lo Hsing Han in case Khun Sa has to be replaced.” Carl Parkes, Thailand Handbook, pp. 358-359


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