Rattlesnake

by Andy Maslen

  “Don’t be daft, man. We probably make up half their profits. They’d let us in if we were dressed like clowns. Which, come to think of it,” he put a finger to his chin, “isn’t actually a bad idea for a future run.”

  Sprawled in the bar, the harriers displayed varying levels of post-run fitness, to judge from the spectrum of skin colours, from rose pink to boiled-lobster scarlet. Gabriel raised his hand in the air like a schoolboy and waited until he had everyone’s attention.

  “Er, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Hashers, I just want to thank you for making me welcome. As is my right as your newest member, I’d like to buy you all a drink.”

  To cheers, Gabriel signalled to a waitress.

  “It’s my round,” he said, offering her some bills. “Please put whatever’s left behind the bar. It’s for you and your colleagues.”

  She smiled and bobbed a tiny curtsey.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mun eye tay,” he replied. You’re welcome.

  Her smile broadened as she bent to begin taking the drinks order.

  The evening turned into night. Bar snacks were ordered, though thankfully no more fried spiders. Instead, sizzling strips of chicken cooked with ginger, garlic and fiery chillies; battered vegetables and balls of minced fish; and plates of fragrant rice and noodles, speckled with prawns, pink peppercorns and coriander leaves.

  Gabriel emerged onto Mao Tse Toung Boulevard at midnight, thoroughly drunk, but also happy that he’d met people who mainly seemed to enjoy life, didn’t carry guns and had no desire to beat, torture, maim or kill other human beings. It had seemed unusual at first, and then he’d realised. This is what normal looks like. The conversation was in turns hilarious, filthy, nostalgic and argumentative, especially when the subject of the government arose. But throughout, it remained good-natured, and Gabriel felt sure that this was a natural by-product of the group itself and not the shallow, bleary bonhomie created by excess alcohol consumption.

  Had he been more alert, he might have noticed a dark figure following him on the other side of the street. But the combination of post-run endorphins, a bottle of wine and several gin and tonics, and the entirely welcome attention of a very pretty accountant from one of the big global firms, had disabled his situational awareness to the point that a bent-backed granny with a bag of groceries could have mugged him for his phone and watch without breaking sweat.

  The dark figure was tall, and of a physical type known as mesomorphic. Even in his loose black cotton trousers and shirt, the bulk and definition of his muscles was clearly apparent to anyone curious or foolish enough to get close. Even though the temperature was still in the midseventies, the figure wore a black baseball cap with the peak pulled low over his eyes. Not that she would have dared, but had the bent-backed granny attempted to roll this particular barang for his wallet, she would have found herself suffering the kind of injuries western doctors would describe as “life-changing.”

  Having tracked Wolfe to his hotel, Christie peeled off, searching for a particular bar. He didn’t know its name. Or its location. What he did know was its type, and clientele. It took him half an hour hanging about outside the Royal Gendarmerie headquarters on Veng Sreng Boulevard before his guides appeared. A group of black-uniformed military police officers laughing, slapping each other on the back and clearly coming off shift. Maintaining a discreet distance, he followed them as they took a series of narrow streets until they entered a neon-lit doorway festooned with dangling strips of black and white plastic.

  Inside, the bar was much like cop bars the world over. A long wooden counter punctuated by trios of beer taps. Rows of bottles reflected in a full-width mirror behind the bar. Dim, red lighting, tables and chairs in haphazard groupings. And loud rock music pounding from overstressed speakers screwed to the walls. The cops he’d followed were standing at the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s eye. She was busy serving another quartet of cops: plainclothesmen.

  Christie took up position just on the elbow of the cop on the right-hand edge of the group.

  “Miss! A little service here, please?” he called loudly, as the bartender handed change to the detectives she’d just poured beers for.

  She, and everyone else in the bar, turned to see who owned this loud, booming, American voice.

  “Drinks for these fine gentlemen,” he said as she came over. “On me.”

  He turned to the cop beside him.

  “Massive fan. You guys are doing great work.”

  He stuck out his hand, which the bemused cop shook. Then he placed a hand flat on his chest.

  “I’m police, too. American.” Just in case they hadn’t already got the message.

  “American police!” the cop said in English. “You kill many bad guys?”

  Christie laughed loudly and mimed firing a pistol.

  “You betcha!”

  The four cops were all laughing now, taken in by Christie’s hamming.

  “Miami Vice!” one called.

  “Hill Street Blues!”

  “Law and Order!

  “CSI!”

  The drinks arrived, and the men all saluted Christie with their beer mugs before drinking.

  After a few more rounds, during which Christie nursed a single beer, the five bonded over stories of takedowns, shakedowns and firefights, negotiated in a mixture of English, which the cops all spoke to a degree, the odd word of Khmer, which Christie had studied in transit between Langley and Phnom Penh, and hand gestures.

  Judging his moment, Christie leaned closer to one of the cops. He pointed down at the pistol holstered on his belt.

  “Nice weapon. What is it?”

  The cop smiled broadly, and a little drunkenly. He unsnapped the holster’s retaining strap and drew the pistol. He held it out in the palm of his hand.

  “Makarov. Nine mil.”

  “Nice. In America I have Glock 17.”

  The cop’s colleagues, eager to chat to this giant American, joined in.

  “Glock plastic gun! Makarov steel!”

  Christie lowered his voice.

  “Listen. I’m going up country. Out of the city. I need to protect myself. You know?”

  The cop with the gun, which he reholstered, shook his head.

  “Bad idea. Bandits out there. Rob you. Maybe kill you. Better stay in Phnom Penh. Get a nice girl, maybe two girls. Have some fun, yes?”

  Christie shook his own head, massive in comparison with the diminutive Cambodian’s.

  “No, man. I want to see the real Cambodia. But like I said, I need protection. Something like that pretty little Makarov there would be just right. Could I get one here?”

  “No. No guns for sale in Phnom Penh.”

  “How about that one? I could pay good money. Four hundred dollars. You could replace it.”

  The cop shook his head, but not before Christie caught a brief slip of his eyes sideways. He followed the man’s gaze and spotted a side door next to the doors for the restrooms.

  “Not possible. Tourists not permitted guns.”

  Christie shrugged his shoulders.

  “No harm in asking. OK, guys. Look, I have to go. Have another beer on me. Here.”

  He handed over four twenty-dollar bills, which disappeared into hip pockets as if drawn there by magnetism. To a chorus of “Book him, Danno!” he left the cops to enjoy their drinks.

  The rear of the bar was quiet. Just a place for rubbish bins and, judging by the butts on the concrete, for the staff to enjoy a cigarette. Christie had the space to himself for now, though, and he settled in to make himself comfortable. He wadded up a couple of cardboard boxes into a makeshift seat pad, laid it on the ground and sat down to wait.

  After ten minutes, he heard soft footsteps and looked up. Approaching from his left was the cop who’d shown him his pistol. He didn’t look nervous. No twitchy shoulders, no looking over his shoulders. Instead, a smile on his face, and with his hand resting on the grip of his pistol, he strolled over to where Christie
was getting to his feet.

  “Six hundred dollars,” the cop said.

  “I can go to four seventy-five,” Christie replied.

  “Five-fifty.”

  “Five’s my limit, man. Five or I ask somebody else. Maybe one of your buddies back there.”

  Christie took out his wallet and fanned twenty-dollar bills where the cop could get a good look. The deal was worth four months’ salary. Christie was in no doubt as to the outcome.

  The cop nodded, once.

  “OK. Five hundred US.”

  “That includes the magazine. It’s full, right?”

  The cop dropped out the Makarov’s magazine and showed Christie the open slot in its pressed steel side. Steel-cased rounds with copper tips were squashed back against the spring.

  “Eight rounds. You kill many bandits.” He laughed.

  Christie counted out twenty-five of the bills and handed them over, taking possession of the pistol while the cop counted his loot.

  38

  City of Gangsters

  AT five minutes to eight, Gabriel emerged from the hotel and took up a position on the curb. The traffic was already buzzing past the hotel, emitting noisome clouds of exhaust from poorly maintained engines. Everywhere, the Honda 50s, like oversized insects, wove perilous paths through the nose-to-tail cars, trucks and tuk-tuks, each rider keeping one thumb permanently on the horn button. The discord was not solely composed of air horns, exhausts and vehicle engines. Woven into the sonic tapestry were the lowing of oxen, the crowing of cockerels, and the furious yapping and snarling of street dogs, fighting over food scraps, or just fighting. Red dust swirled everywhere, and every human with an ounce of common sense or local smarts – which now included Gabriel – wore a black bandanna over their nose and mouth. To fit in, he had bought a pair of the simple black cotton pyjamas with which many Phnom Penh natives clad themselves. Despite their colour, they were surprisingly cool. He felt better than he had done since he arrived in the humid city.

  A cheery beep behind him made him look up. Lina was sitting behind the wheel of an open-top, red, four-wheel-drive that at first glance he took to be a Willy’s Jeep. It shared the vertical slots in the grille and twin circular headlamps. Then as he took in its stunted proportions, as if it had been squeezed fore and aft by bigger, heavier vehicles, he realised it was a knock-off. Lina waved and from the crinkles at the corners of her eyes he guessed that behind the black face mask she was smiling. He jogged back to where she’d pulled the car out of the swirling traffic and climbed in. The car wasn’t a Jeep after all. The logo embossed on the grey plastic steering wheel was Kia. For a disconcerting second, Gabriel read it as KIA – killed in action. He shuddered. The black cloth roof was rolled up into a fat sausage on the rear seat.

  She pulled her mask down and leaned towards him. He did the same and they exchanged a kiss. Not chaste, but not passionate, either. A signal of a shared experience that both, maybe, wanted to reappear in their lives.

  “How are you Gabriel? Are you ready to meet Visna?”

  “I’m fine. And yes, absolutely. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know, good but could be better. Unlike you, I have no western wonderland to go home to. Cambodia is my home.”

  Gabriel shrugged.

  “I have no western wonderland either. If I have a home, it’s in Hong Kong. So we both have Marxists looking over our shoulders.”

  “Technically, they’re Maoists, but I’ll let that go.”

  She pulled her mask back up and Gabriel copied her. She put the car into first gear and pulled straight out into the traffic without a backwards glance. The overladen Hondas, the tuk-tuks and all the other jostling, hooting, fume-spouting traffic simply veered out of her way like flocking birds avoiding mid-air collisions.

  “Nice driving,” Gabriel said.

  “It’s called the Phnom Penh can-can. A legacy of our French overlords. You’ve seen the way they drive in Paris, right?”

  “And how they park, too.”

  Lina laughed.

  “Yes. They use the bumpers as parking sensors.”

  As Lina jostled for position, lanes being strictly an abstract concept in this part of the city, Gabriel gave himself up to observing the scene unspooling in front of him. Something kept nagging at him, something about the bandannas and face masks, and the preponderance of black clothing. The people all looked like they were hiding their identity from him. In training, he’d been told always to remove sunglasses when talking to tribal elders, partly as a sign of respect and partly because humans need to see each other’s faces before they can trust each other. Here in Phnom Penh, the eyes were the only features visible. He turned to Lina and shouted over the cacophony.

  “Everyone looks like a bandit. Or a gangster.”

  “Ha! When you’ve lived here a while, you know that’s not just a look. It’s a city of gangsters. Private and public sector. We’ve got local gangs, Russian mafia, triads. But they’re the new kids on the block. You know who the real gangsters are?”

  “Who?”

  “He’s one,” she shouted, jerking her head in the direction of a white-gloved traffic cop whirling his arms in a crazy semaphore. “So are they,” she added, nodding at a group of gendarmes lounging against the side of a blue-and-white 4x4. “Politicians, generals, civil servants: they’re the biggest gangsters of all.”

  “They’re ex-Khmer Rouge, is that right?”

  “Lots are. They’re still in control. Extorting money, taking bribes, dishing out government contracts to their cronies in exchange for kickbacks. There’s not a whore in Phnom Penh who isn’t paying protection to a cop. That’s if the cop isn’t their pimp. Free enterprise!” she finished, tossing her head and swearing in Khmer at a particularly wayward Honda rider who’d swerved almost under her front wheels.

  After the encounter with the bike rider, the road opened out. They were beyond the downtown area, and Gabriel once again marvelled at the speed with which the urban landscape gave way to something much more rural. Corrugated iron shacks lined the road, squeezed in between modern concrete and brick buildings. As the number of motorised vehicles decreased, ox-drawn carts and bicycles filled their place. Livestock – chickens, goats, cows – were everywhere and free to wander, though most seemed to prefer to stay close to home. That was apart from those hanging by their hocks over buckets brimming with damson-coloured blood.

  Lina drove with aplomb, sweeping in graceful curves to avoid sleepy-eyed cows and strutting chickens. The air was a little clearer out here in the countryside, and Lina and Gabriel had both removed their face masks. After half an hour, during which the road deteriorated into a hard-baked mud track, Lina took her right hand off the wheel to point.

  “See the tree up ahead?” Gabriel nodded. “That’s the turn for Tom Boh.”

  Barely slowing, she swung the wheel and let the car drift a little as she negotiated the sweeping turn. The new road was even less well cared for than the country road they’d followed all the way from Phnom Penh. Gabriel held on to the grab handle on his door to prevent himself being slung either into Lina’s side or possibly out of the car altogether. If the manufacturers had fitted seat belts, they had long since disappeared; stubby remnants of dirty grey webbing hung uselessly from fixings behind the front seats.

  Occupying the centre of a vast, tramped-flat courtyard maybe two hundred yards to a side, the brick-built orphanage glowed orange in the sun. Ahead of them, children ran this way and that, screaming and laughing as they played with balls and skipping ropes, chased chickens or squatted in groups of three or four, chattering and drawing in the dust. One child, a little girl with long black hair held back with a white band, noticed the car. Within seconds, the word had spread, so that as Lina rolled to a stop at the edge of the courtyard, dozens of children, faces alight with curiosity, were rushing to greet Lina and the barang she’d brought with her.

  “Suostei, Ming!” they chanted.

  Lina turned to Gabriel.

 
; “Do you understand?”

  “Hello, auntie?”

  She smiled.

  “La nasa. Very good.”

  The children’s smiles were infectious, and Gabriel smiled back, allowing his hands to be taken by as many of the grinning boys and girls as could find a space. They looked up at him and all began speaking to him at once.

  “Hello! Hello!”

  “Suostei,” Gabriel said, over and over again in response to the children’s delighted attempts to try out their English on him.

  “Come on,” Lina said. “Before they eat you alive.”

  Sitting in Visna Chey’s office, Gabriel was thankful for the cool breeze being wafted his way by a large floor-mounted fan. The black cotton jacket was sticking to his back and arms.

  “Lina says you’ve come all the way from the US to find me,” Visna said. He was a short man, a little over five foot six, with straight black hair combed forward over his forehead. Though he worked with some of the country’s poorest children, he still had smiling eyes.

  “That’s right. I think you knew a friend of mine. Vinnie Calder?”

  Visna smiled.

  “Oh yes, I knew Vinnie. The kids loved him. He helped out here and on some of our other projects.”

  “How did he come to find you? It’s not an obvious place to find an ex-US Marine.”

  “Isn’t it? There were plenty of them around in the seventies, you know.”

  Gabriel smiled back.

  “I know. But now, I mean. How did he find you?”

  “How does anyone find anything these days? The web. I think he said he was looking for some voluntary work, and he wanted to explore this part of the world. Well, one thing led to another and there he was, a giant US Marine with cropped hair letting Cambodian orphans use him like a climbing frame.”

  Gabriel paused before speaking again.

  “I think he found something out. Something here that got him killed in America. He was shot and thrown from an aircraft.”

  Visna passed a long-fingered hand over his face.