by Andy Maslen
35
P2H3
LINA had promised to call Gabriel once she had set up the meeting with Visna. Meeting the expats had given him an idea for some much-needed stress relief and intelligence gathering. He booted up his laptop and Googled “Hash House Harriers Phnom Penh.” Throughout his army career and then in civvy street, he’d always looked for a local chapter of the club dedicated to cross-country running. The original Harriers were a running club who’d named their group for the building where they’d first met – the Hash House in Selangor, Malaysia. Billing themselves as “drinkers with a running problem," they’d expanded from that single original group to a global network. The general principle was, no membership required, just turn up and run.
He grinned with pleasure at the very first search result. Phnom Penh did have its own group, niftily named P2H3. If a simple game of hare and hounds could flourish even in post-genocidal Cambodia, maybe there was hope for the world after all. The club’s Facebook page announced that they met every Sunday at Phnom Penh Railway Station at 2.45 in the afternoon. He changed into running clothes, tucked some dollars into his phone case, then fixed it to his right arm with a wide Velcro strap.
At 2.40 p.m., Gabriel jogged up Preah Monivong Boulevard, weaving between honking taxis, trucks sagging beneath vast loads of building materials, tuk-tuks and the ever-present Hondas. The railway station loomed out of the red-brown dust, a formal arrangement of verticals and horizontals in white-rendered concrete. Outside and to the left of the main doors, a group of men and women in running shoes and a variety of athletic garb from skin tight Lycra to baggy khaki shorts, stood in a loose circle, chatting, stretching, laughing and in a couple of cases, smoking.
Gabriel trotted up to a pair of men who, from the way the others were clustered around them, seemed to be in charge. They resembled nothing so much as a TV double act. One man appeared to be in his midfifties, with grey hair and thin, in-turned lips. He was tall and gangling, with his spreading baldness disguised by a shaved skull. His companion was younger, maybe forty or so, shorter and stouter, with round glasses sitting above a purple drinker’s nose. Gabriel nicknamed them Beanpole and Pudgy.
“‘Ello, ’ello, what do we ’ave ’ere then? Name, rank and serial number, if you please, sah?” This was Pudgy. His comedy cockney accent only reinforced Gabriel’s initial impression.
The other members of the group turned to see the stranger who had occasioned this bit of banter.
“Wolfe, Gabriel. Private. Forgot me number, sarge. Here for a run.”
This response drew an appreciative laugh from the others. Beanpole addressed him next.
“Excellent. Welcome aboard. Done this before?”
“Once or twice.”
“Good. Then you’ve got a Hash name.”
“Wolfecub.”
Beanpole smiled and offered his hand.
“Excellent fellow. I’m Heron. This is PoohBear. The others’ll introduce themselves as we go round. The hares have already gone so when you’re ready, everyone?” he raised his voice to a sub-parade-ground bawl for this last phrase, “We’re off!”
Gabriel felt good as they ran through the streets of Phnom Penh’s eastern edge. Over the Tonlé Sap river on Chroy Changvar II and towards the countryside. Within a half a mile or so, his heart and lungs had adjusted to the new demands being placed on them, and he began to relax into his stride. Even the foul-smelling air seemed less noxious as they put mile after mile between them and Phnom Penh.
As he negotiated a street corner transformed into a farmyard by several oxen plodding before a Cambodian couple and their children, one of the other men in the group caught up with him. He turned to say hello and recognised Davey from the hotel bar the previous evening.
“Hello again,” Davey said as the oxen cleared the street corner and they moved off again.
“Hi. Small world.”
“Or not. Phnom Penh’s a pretty tight place for expats. Only so many places to go. The InterContinental, the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, this bunch of reprobates, couple of gyms, that’s about it.”
Running made conversation easier, Gabriel found. Especially with strangers. No need for disconcerting eye contact, just the steady beat of running shoes.
“What do you do out here, then? Much work for ex-Royal Marines?”
“I’m an electrician now, like I was before. Plenty of construction going on in PP. Hotels, luxury flats. Fuck knows who for, mind, the locals don’t have any money. Russians, I suppose, or Chinese.”
“That all?”
Gabriel counted twenty paces before Davey answered.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just wondering whether our sort of skills are ever in demand. I mean, it feels a bit of a frontier town in places.”
“You looking for work, are you? I thought you said you were trying to track down a friend or something.”
“No, I mean I am. Well, a friend of a friend.”
“You said you were in the Paras last night. That all, was it?”
“Why, don’t I look the part? We weren’t all six-footers with muscles out to here.”
“It’s not that. You do look the part. It’s just a mate of mine went from the infantry into the SAS. He had your build. He had your look, too. You know what I’m talking about. Like, ‘Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone. Fuck me around, and I’ll pull your spine out of your arse.’”
Gabriel laughed at the graphic picture Davey had conjured up. Time to come clean.
“OK, fine, you got me bang to rights. Maybe I served in the Regiment with your mate.”
“I knew it,” Davey said with a grin. “You lot are such cautious fuckers.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So, do you come across people who need our sorts of skills out here?”
They were running down a wide avenue leading out of the city. A few shacks of corrugated iron dotted one side of the red-dirt road. Apart from them, and a few goats and chickens rooting around for scraps in the tall grass, there were no signs of human habitation at all. Davey slowed. Gabriel matched him pace for pace until they were standing beneath a tall palm, its serrated trunk canted over at forty-five degrees like a drunk in search of a lamp post.
“There are plenty of executive types who wouldn’t mind hiring some protection. Yanks, Japs, Chinks, Ivans. I’ve been approached tons of times. It’s officially banned. The jokers who run this country say there’s no street crime in Cambodia, so no need for private security companies. The reality is, they’re all ex-Khmer Rouge. The politicians, the cops, the civil servants. I mean, who else was going to do the plum jobs? They slaughtered all the poor fuckers who were doing it before. Now we’ve got fucking Marxists-for-hire. You want a fishing licence, saamnauk. You get caught speeding, saamnauk. You want to get married, or divorced, saamnauk.”
Gabriel didn’t need a translation. Everything depended on a bribe. He’d seen it before. Wherever civil war or insurgency or just the brutality of the government corrupted civil society, everything turned on bribery. Davey sounded authentically angry about the regime in charge. But he still hadn’t answered Gabriel’s question. He decided to try to win Davey’s trust with a different tack.
“I met a guy at the airport when I flew in. He could have been ex-Army. He had the right tattoos. Said he was a hunter. You ever hear of them? They’re doing a valuable public service as far as I can tell.”
Instead of answering, Davey came closer and stared hard at Gabriel. Gabriel could smell his sweat. He wasn’t cowed by this invasion of his personal space and simply stared back.
“You a cop, are you?” Davey said in a low voice.
“Do I look like a Cambodian cop?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Well I’m not, OK? And even if I was a cop, I’d be more likely to be congratulating you, don’t you think?”
“Congratulating me? For what?”
“Come on, Davey. It
’s what you do, too, isn’t it? The guy at the airport gave me his card. It said Jack Hunter. I’m guessing that’s a code, though it’s not a very good one. Who are you – Dave Hunter?”
Davey’s breathing had steadied after the exertions of the few first miles running. Now he inhaled deeply before letting it out in a sigh.
“They’re fucking evil, Gabriel. Beasts, that’s what we call them. I mean, we’re not talking young girls like some sixteen-year-old in a knocking shop. We’re talking twelve, eleven, ten, right down to little kids. Boys and girls. Where the fuck their parents are, I’ve got no idea.”
“Maybe after what happened, they got the idea life is cheap.”
Davey’s eyebrows shot up.
“What?” he blurted out. “You’re not saying you understand, are you?”
“I’m saying life is complicated. But as for the men you and Jack go after? Fuck ’em.”
“Thank Christ for that. For a moment there I thought you were one of those bleeding hearts who think everyone can be redeemed.”
As Davey uttered the final word, Gabriel’s concentration slipped. Could everyone be redeemed? Could he, Gabriel Wolfe, be redeemed? Is that why I’m here? In search of redemption? Fariyah would probably say yes. Seeking forgiveness for Master Zhao, Daisy, Dusty, Elaine? “Remember me as well, Gable,” – a small boy’s voice. “You actually wanted me dead. The others were just to make you feel sad.”
Gabriel sighed.
“You all right?” Davey said, his forehead creased.
“Come on, let’s get going,” was Gabriel’s answer.
They ran along a muddy track alongside a paddy field dotted with farmers planting rice. New shoots were poking up through the mirror surface of the water, vibrant green spears against the reflected lead-grey clouds. Gabriel spoke.
“Did you ever meet an American out here? Guy called Vinnie Calder. He was an ex-Marine like you.”
“Tall bloke, built like a brick shithouse, spoke like a cowboy?”
“Sounds like you did meet him.”
“It was about six months ago. I remember because I did some wiring for a school where they take in kids rescued from the sex trade. He was there reading them a story. They all used to hang on his arms like he was a tree. Called him tom proh – it means big brother. Is he why you’re here?”
“He was shot through the chest by a nine mil then chucked out of an aircraft. He ended up in the middle of the desert in Texas. It was pure fluke they found his body. I’m trying to find out who killed him and why.”
“Bloody hell! Look, if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know. I know people here and, you know, the hunters. We’ve got useful skills.”
Gabriel nodded his thanks. Ahead he could see another pair of hounds, bright against the mud in fluorescent pink Lycra and a lemon-yellow T-shirt. They converged at a meeting of the two tracks and ran on together, chasing the quarry.
36
A Man Without Conscience
THREE hundred miles northwest of the group of harriers, Clark Orton sipped from a glass of beer and smiled. The man opposite him was an ex-Khmer Rouge commander. Yun Mok had served Pol Pot – “Brother Number 1” – faithfully from 1975 to 1979. When the North Vietnamese Army invaded, he had escaped to the north with suitcases full of dollars looted from the Cambodian treasury.
“You have a beautiful house here,” Orton said, waving his right hand in an arc that took in the spacious sitting room with its French art on the walls. “Must have cost a fortune.”
Mok smiled, showing nicotine-stained teeth.
“People happy to help me build it. I bring wealth to village.”
“Tell me something. How many people did you kill? Personally, I mean?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“One thousand? Two? I do not remember. They were enemies of the state.”
“Wow. That is truly impressive. So I guess a few dozen children doesn’t bother you.”
“Cambodia is not short of children. Did you bring my money?”
Orton finished his beer and set the glass down on the low table in front of him. He reached down to his left and lifted his briefcase onto the table. He undid the catches, lifted the lid then swivelled the case round to face Mok. He watched as the older man’s narrow eyes glanced into the case, before widening, just a little. Money tended to have that effect on people, Orton had found. Especially when it came in the hundred-thousand-dollar-plus range.
“I trust that is satisfactory. It’s what we agreed.”
Mok closed the lid and pushed the catches home before taking the case off the table and placing it behind his chair. When he had turned back to face Orton, he smiled again.
“Money is OK. You are man of your word. In return, I call people in Phnom Penh. Make sure no trouble for you when you run trial.”
They shook hands and Orton stood.
“Thank you, General,” he said.
Mok stood and straightened his jacket, an olive-green, military-style number with red shoulder boards decorated with gold stars. He pointed at the door.
“We caught two men yesterday. They raped village girl. Unlike our government down south, up here we retained death penalty. You can watch if you like,” he paused, then grinned, revealing those brown incisors again, “or help.”
Orton looked the old general in the eye, trying to discern whether, behind the dark brown irises, the man had a soul. Nothing there, he concluded. What would you expect in someone like him? He spread his hands wide.
“I am a guest in your country. In your village. It would be rude not to offer my assistance.”
Outside, two men were kneeling in the centre of the village square, a tramped-flat expanse of red earth fringed by palm trees and dotted with small piles of animal dung. The men were bound, their wrists crossed behind their backs, and kneeling, head down. Their eyes were swollen shut, just slits in puffy, reddened flesh. The rest of their faces were bruised and disfigured with jagged cuts.
Standing some thirty yards off were the rest of the villagers. Some looked afraid, others curious, and a few had a gleam in their eye that Orton recognised: hatred. Maybe they’re the family of the victim, he mused. Men, women, and children hiding behind their parents’ knees or sitting drawing stick figures in the mud. Old and young, all had turned out. Or do you insist, General Mok? Do old habits die hard?
Mok stood between the two condemned men and the villagers, hands on hips, chin lifted. He began to speak, in a high-pitched, monotonous voice that seemed to carry beyond the village and away into the trees. Orton had never bothered learning more than a few words of Khmer, but he picked up the gist, using Mok’s body language as an extra layer of meaning.
The men were criminals, disrupting the smooth running of the little community that Mok ran deep in the jungle as his fiefdom. Violating a young girl. He jerked his head back towards them. They deserved no clemency. He spread his hands wide at his sides, palms upwards. What was he supposed to do? Let animals like them pay a fine and walk away from their crime? No! Justice demanded more.
He drew a pistol from his belt holster. It was an old-looking Colt 1911 with a blued barrel. Captured, presumably from an American soldier, or possibly bought on the black market. It was identical to the gun Orton had used on the captured NVA officer all those years before. Turning to his left he pointed to Orton and barked out another few words, ending in a sharp laugh that the villagers echoed, whether dutifully or not Orton couldn’t tell. Then he beckoned Orton over and held out the pistol, butt first.
Orton took it, flicked off the safety and racked the slide.
He walked over to the two men.
With slow, deliberate movements, and feeling a perfect stillness inside, he shot each man in turn, a double-tap to the head. The men jerked backwards and toppled sideways, blood jetting from the monstrous head wounds created by the point-blank shots.
Mok raised his hands and the villagers applauded. He took the pistol back from Orton and reholst
ered it.
“Very good. Very good,” he said. “More beer?”
“Yes. Just one. Then I have to leave. I go back to America tomorrow and there are a few things I need to take care of before I go.”
37
Free Trade
THE hares had laid a trail of piles of flour. After following a couple of decoys that petered out after a few hundred yards, Gabriel and the other three hounds emerged from a hamlet of small reed-roofed houses to see half a dozen more hounds standing and stretching in a loose grouping beside a thick-trunked palm tree. They ran up to whistles and good-natured catcalls, mainly addressing the fact that apparently ex-soldiers weren’t able to keep pace with secretaries, diplomats, sales managers and engineering consultants. As the banter continued, Gabriel felt his phone vibrate against his bicep. He pulled it free, checked the display and walked a little away off the group. The display said “LL.”
“Hi Lina, how are you? Did you get your article away on time?”
“I did. And I’m fine. How are you?”
“Good, yes. I found a running group. We’re out in the countryside somewhere.”
“You mean P2H3. They’re a fun crowd. I go with them sometimes. So, I have good news.”
“About Visna?”
“Exactly. He wants to meet you tomorrow at nine o’clock. Said you should go out to Tom Boh and meet some of the children. I’ll come with you.”
“Thank you so much. That’s great. Where shall we meet?”
“I’ll bring a car. I’ll pick you up outside your hotel at eight, OK?”
“OK. See you tomorrow.”
The ragtag band of runners jogged back to Phnom Penh at an easy pace set by the slowest member. Their destination was the InterContinental.
“And they’ll let us in dressed like this?” Gabriel asked Beanpole.
