Rattlesnake

by Andy Maslen

  At 9.45, he rode into Lenh Bat Nam from the south. A couple of street dogs gave chase as he passed between the low-built houses. They were barking like they meant it, but their hearts clearly weren’t in it and they gave up after thirty yards. A couple of children, their cheeks smeared with the yellow paste Cambodians used as sun block, waved as he passed them, shouting “Hello! Hello!” Gabriel shouted “Hello!” back, and rode on.

  As he cleared the village, the first drops of rain spattered the ground, raising puffs of dust. Their size and intensity multiplied rapidly, and by the time Gabriel reached the paddy fields to the north, the road was liquefying under a relentless onslaught of water. Swiping his left palm over his eyes he looked first left then right, searching for the Russian tank. He found it amidst long rows of bright-green rice plants. A rusting T-54, sunk up to the middle of its tracks in an area of unplanted soil that was turning to red mud as he watched. The massive steel hulk had presumably been left at the end of the Cambodian civil war when the Vietnamese arrived to kick out the Khmer Rouge. Now it sat, becalmed in an ocean of mud, like an exhibit at the gates of an as-yet-unbuilt war museum.

  Gabriel braked, killed the engine, heeled out the side stand and dismounted.

  Well. Here’s the rendezvous. Now, where’s Cray?

  From behind the rear of the tank, a figure emerged, raised a hand and waved. Gabriel’s vision kept blurring as fresh blasts of rain sheeted down from the darkening sky. He wiped his eyes again and held up a hand to return the greeting. The figure beckoned him and pointed at the tank.

  Maybe he’s got it open. At least it’ll be dry, if a little cramped, Gabriel thought, as he set off towards the tank along a dyke growing slimier with each step. He slipped a couple of times and ended up holding his arms out for balance like a tightrope walker. As Gabriel reached the tip of the T-54’s main gun, Cray slipped behind the rear of the tank.

  Was he hiding something or just being extra-cautious? Gabriel couldn’t decide. He instinctively patted his pocket. Then he stopped walking for a moment. He removed the switchblade from its nylon pouch and placed it in his right trouser pocket, leaving his hand curled around it.

  He rounded the rear of the tank to be confronted by the toughest-looking freelance journalist he imagined he would ever meet.

  Cray was well over six feet, probably a good four inches over. He had the bulked-up build of an American football player. You’d never make it in Special Forces, Gabriel thought, incongruously. Too heavy. Too slow. The pockets of Cray’s khaki cargo pants bulged. Notebooks, or maybe a camera, Gabriel assumed.

  He extended his hand and Cray enfolded it in a massive paw of his own.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said in a low voice. “Phnom Penh’s too dangerous for this kind of thing. Secret police, informers, street kids spying for a few bucks.”

  “How did you know I was in Phnom Penh? And how did you know what I was doing here?”

  “That’s funny. Place like this? The expat community is like one big happy family. Brits, Americans, Germans, Swedes. We all know each other. Drink in the same places. Live in the same hotels. You know what the three essentials of this life are?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Alcohol, gossip and oxygen. In that order.”

  Cray sounded right but something was off about his look. The way he held himself, his physical poise. Journalists spent the greater part of their time hunched over laptops, or sitting around in bars pumping contacts for information. Great posture wasn’t what that life bestowed on you. Gabriel had met men who looked like Cray before. Had encountered men who moved like Cray before. A bright flash of lightning lit Cray’s face, revealing appraising blue eyes deep in their sockets. Thunder followed almost immediately. Gabriel looked up as the clouds, previously so jealous of their burden, now let it go in a hurtling downpour that turned the air white. As he stared skyward, he heard Britta’s voice in his head: 200 BC. Burton Cavanagh. Brian Cray. You got it yet, Wolfe?

  Cray made no move to get under cover, not that there was any. The nearest stand of palms was over a hundred and fifty yards away. Their broad leaves thrashed back and forth in the wind. Within seconds, Gabriel’s thin black cotton outfit was waterlogged. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders.

  “So what’s this information about Marie-Louise Hubert you have for me?”

  “She’s involved in trafficking kids.”

  “So I heard.”

  “You get the prostitution angle? That she pimps them out to westerners here for some sex tourism?”

  Gabriel nodded, wondering whether the trip had been a waste of time.

  “I heard that too.”

  Cray raised his voice over the noise of the rain splashing into the mud around them and took a couple of steps closer until the two men were six feet apart.

  “OK, good. That tells me you’ve done your research. That you’re serious. So tell me. Does the name Ross mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “It should if you’re serious about doing some good out here. How about Orton Biotech? That ring any bells?”

  Gabriel had to make a decision. Fast. Reveal to Cray what he knew and risk seeing the story go public before he could get to Orton himself. Or keep quiet and chance losing a decent lead. Blinking away rain, he decided.

  “My mate worked for Orton. Head of Security. He found something out while he was over here that got him killed. I’m trying to find out what it was.”

  Cray wiped his own face. A futile gesture, as the rain was pounding down so hard now it was as if they were conducting a conversation under a waterfall.

  “So he never told you about Project ROSS?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “When you asked, I thought you meant Ross was a person. What kind of a project is it? And whose?” Though I’m beginning to have a horrible idea I already know the answer.

  “Biological warfare. They’re going to test it out here on kids.”

  Despite the warmth of the rain coursing over his skin, Gabriel felt a cold weight settle on his shoulders then seep into his bloodstream.

  “What’s Marie-Louise Hubert’s connection?”

  “What do you think? She’s got sixty kids in that place of hers out in the boonies. Tell me something. I need to get the exclusive on this story. I could get a Pulitzer for it. Have you spoken to anyone about what you’re doing out here? Anyone back home? Media? Bloggers?”

  “No. This is a personal thing for me. I haven’t told anyone.”

  Cray’s face changed. The smile appeared to dissolve in the rain streaming over his cheeks. A hard look transformed his eyes into gunsights. He straightened and rolled his shoulders back.

  “Well, that’s a real shame for you, Wolfe.”

  He pulled a squat black pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the centre of Gabriel’s chest.

  Gabriel’s pulse jerked upward. More from a need to prepare than surprise. He realised in a flash that he’d not really trusted Cray since the moment he stepped out from behind the tank.

  “You’re not a journalist, then?” He looked past Cray at the paddy field. Then down at the sea of red mud that had formed around their feet.

  Cray, or the man calling himself Cray, barked out a laugh, then added to the doglike effect by shaking his head violently so that raindrops spun away from his cropped hair and the tips of his ears.

  “Those scumbags? Get real. I’m CIA. We’re the ones who set up the fucking trial, you moron. You’re playing in the big leagues, only you’re about to go down.”

  “At least tell me your name. I deserve to know who’s about to shoot me.”

  “It’s Christie. Now, say goodnight, Gracie.”

  Gabriel pointed at the pistol.

  “What is that, a Makarov? You do know there’s every chance it’ll misfire and blow your hand off?”

  “Nice try. I test-fired it while I was waiting for you to arrive on your white charger over there. Now let�
��s do it for real.” He extended his right arm, not even bothering with a two-handed shooter’s grip. “Just think, while you’re sinking into the mud here, I’ll be watching a video feed of the successful test of America’s next-generation, counter-terror weapon.”

  Gabriel looked up into the boiling yellow-purple-grey sky. At the white flashes backlighting the clouds. Turned back to face his killer.

  44

  And the Dead Shall Rise

  CHRISTIE’S right index finger tightened on the Makarov’s trigger.

  Gabriel looked down at a white dome that had broken the surface of the slime a few inches behind Christie’s booted feet.

  Using the simplest of all Yinshen fangshi moves, he looked left, then right, watching Christie’s eyes track the movements, then moved half a step forwards. Christie instinctively moved back to maintain the safe distance he’d allowed himself.

  His right boot heel came down on the white dome and slid off it, turning it upwards to reveal two empty black holes above a second narrower pair and a row of grinning white teeth.

  Everything happened fast. And slow.

  Christie’s gun arm went up as he strove to regain his balance.

  And Gabriel’s right foot lifted clear of the sucking mud and rose in a slashing arc to connect with Christie’s right wrist.

  Christie pulled the trigger but his arm was already swinging up from the impact of Gabriel’s kick and the bullet sang away into the air. The noise of the bullet exploding from the muzzle was drowned out by a metallic shriek that seemed to come from all directions at once.

  A flash of light turned the scene black and white.

  Gabriel’s nose filled with the smell of ozone as the lightning bolt made landfall.

  The newly electrically charged ground trembled violently and Christie jerked his head round to see who had opened fire on him.

  In that moment, Gabriel closed the remaining gap between them and punched down on his right shoulder. The blow paralysed the nerves controlling Christie’s grip and he dropped the pistol. It disappeared beneath the mud. He staggered back and drew a knife.

  Gabriel turned and ran, splashing through the almost liquid mud. He retreated around the front of the T-54. Without pausing, he leapt for the top of the track and hauled himself up onto the front deck. He clung to the base of the gun barrel, which pointed skywards as if protecting the land from aerial attack, then swung himself up and onto the roof of the turret.

  The rain was so fierce it was as if the landscape itself was becoming water. Clambering onto the top of the turret, Gabriel stood and revolved a full 360 looking for Christie. What he saw shocked him.

  All around the tank, human skulls were bobbing to the surface like white eggs. Christie had arranged to meet him in a killing field. And there was the man himself, on his hands and knees and sunk up to his thighs, plunging his hands down into the mud searching for the Makarov.

  Gabriel got out his own knife and thumbed the switch. He climbed down from the turret onto the rear deck, took three short steps to the edge, then jumped onto Christie’s back, slamming him face first into the mud. He knelt on his kidneys and pushed the point of the knife into the right side of his neck. Christie had to struggle to raise his face out of the slime, using all the force of his brawny arms to stop himself from drowning. He was coughing and choking, trying to free his throat of the mud that now covered him.

  “When?” Gabriel yelled above the noise of the storm. “When’s the attack? Tell me!”

  “You’ll never get there. It’s a done deal.”

  “Tell me, you motherfucker, or I’ll cut your throat.”

  Gabriel pushed the point in, drawing blood.

  Christie reared up, taking Gabriel by surprise. He fell backwards into the mud and scrambled away on heels and elbows. Christie lumbered to his feet like a grotesque clay model animated by the bolts of electricity arrowing down from the corpse-grey sky.

  Lightning was flashing every few seconds, lighting the paddy like a strobe. Christie jerked towards Gabriel, arms extended, a curved combat knife gripped in his right hand.

  As the first thrust came in, Gabriel rolled to his side, slashing upwards at Christie’s face and opening a long cut on his left cheek. The curved blade of Christie’s knife stabbed in as he rolled away. Gabriel felt the impact as a cold punch to his arm.

  Christie staggered back, wiping his face free of blood, which was running down onto his chest in a spreading sheet that quickly turned pink as the rain diluted it. He leaned back until his hand met the T-54’s steel flank. Chest heaving, he pointed his knife at Gabriel.

  “Those kids are as good as dead. You’ll never—” he shouted.

  His last words were inaudible over the sizzle of the lightning bolt.

  Electricity has no personality. It does not seek out evil rather than good. It is undiscriminating in who, or where, it makes landfall. It’s a simple matter of physics. Out there, in a flat landscape, the bolt of electricity arcing down from the clouds at the speed of light was attracted to the highest positively charged point. The skyward-pointing muzzle of the T-54’s main gun.

  Still travelling at the speed of light, the thirty-thousand-amp current surged through the tank’s metal parts. Its guns. Its smoke grenade launchers. Its radio aerials. And its armour plating.

  It found Christie. And it earthed itself through his largely water-based body.

  The shock hurled him outwards, like a thrown starfish, straight towards Gabriel, who brought his right arm up reflexively. The force of the impact as Christie’s body hit Gabriel threw him backwards into the mud. He was aware of a flood of hot liquid between their torsos. With a grunt of effort, Gabriel rolled Christie off him. Gabriel’s right hand, still clutching the switchblade’s hilt was pushed hard against Christie’s side. He pulled the long thin blade out, releasing a torrent of dark-red blood.

  Christie’s massive frame was sinking into the mud but he still mustered enough strength for another attempt to kill Gabriel. His right hand came round in a short arc, combat knife aimed at Gabriel’s throat. But his strength was fading and the blow lacked force. Gabriel simply leaned back and let the wickedly sharp blade pass harmlessly in front of his face. He caught Christie’s wrist as the swing came to an end and twisted it hard. The knife fell into the mud and disappeared.

  Gabriel leaned down and shouted at Christie.

  “Did you kill Vinnie?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “I can get you to hospital. You don’t have to die out here.”

  Christie paused. Gabriel didn’t have time for pauses. He stood and put his foot on Christie’s neck and pushed down hard. Christie resisted, but on his back, half-submerged in mud and with a knife wound in his side, he hadn’t the strength of five minutes earlier. Gabriel watched the mud close over Christie’s nostrils and mouth, then his eyes, counted to three and then released him. Christie pulled his head free and gasped for air, sucking mud in along with it and coughing and retching as he fought for oxygen.

  “I didn’t kill him. That was Orton. He used a nine. I helped him load the body into the F-15, that’s all. I swear it.”

  It was what Gabriel had been waiting for. He pulled his phone out and launched a voice recorder app. He shoved the mic into Christie’s face and thumbed the red ‘record’ icon.

  “State your name, rank and agency, then repeat what you just told me.”

  Christie didn’t even hesitate. Dying men usually don’t, Gabriel thought.

  “My name is Baines Christie. I am a paramilitary operations officer with the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America. Clark Orton killed Vincent Calder with a nine-millimetre Glock.”

  “Why?”

  Christie grunted, maybe from the pain, or maybe from a sense of defeat.

  “Calder discovered Orton was involved in a CIA plan to test a bio-weapon on Cambodian orphans.”

  Gabriel ended the recording and pocketed his phone.

  “Did you go to see
Terri-Ann Calder posing as a man called Burton Cavanagh?”

  “Yes. I had to find out what she knew, what she suspected. She told me about your little jaunt over here.”

  “Good. Now, last question,” Gabriel held the switchblade against Christie’s throat. “When is the attack going to happen?”

  Christie coughed, spraying Gabriel with a fine spatter of blood. Maybe the stab to his side had clipped a lung.

  “Noon today. You’re too late.”

  Gabriel checked his watch. The glass was smeared red with Christie’s blood and the ever-present mud. He wiped it on his trouser leg and looked again. It was only 10:30. Everything that had happened had taken just half an hour.

  “No I’m not. Not if I leave now.”

  Christie’s eyes widened, the whites stark in his red mud-mask.

  “You can’t leave me here, man.”

  “Why not? You were going to leave me.”

  You have to take me to the hospital. You promised. I’m going to bleed out.”

  “No, you’re not,” Gabriel said, standing.

  Then he replaced his foot on Christie’s neck and leaned hard. The CIA man’s head sank beneath the mud. Gabriel leaned down harder. Christie’s hands fluttered and flapped, trying to find Gabriel’s leg and pull him off. Bubbles swelled on to the surface and burst with obscene wet pops. Christie’s hands fell back.

  Gabriel staggered away from Christie’s body, head turned upwards, letting the rain wash the blood from his skin. Gasping for breath he looked back towards Christie. Just another corpse in a field of thousands.

  But unlike the Cambodian dead, whose skulls were rising to the surface now in increasing numbers, Christie had people looking for him. Or would have very soon. Briefly, Gabriel considered trying to weight his body down and push it beneath the surface. The skulls breaching the mud all around him whispered the same thing: “Nobody stays down here forever.”