Rattlesnake

by Andy Maslen

  “You have met death before? Many deaths?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have found bones before. The head bone. Forgive me, I do not know the English word.” He turned to Lina. Gabriel caught a word that sounded like “chengokbal.”

  “Skull,” Lina said to the abbot. He turned back to Gabriel.

  “You have found skulls before?”

  Gabriel thought back to the moment he had retrieved Smudge’s bleached skull from the bole of a baobab tree in Mozambique.

  “How did you know? Did you read my mind?”

  The abbot grinned, revealing yellow teeth, then his face became serious, and Gabriel sensed a bottomless well of compassion.

  “No, no! But I have been watching you. Maybe you reveal more of your experiences in your face than you know, yes?”

  Something about the abbot’s facial expression reminded Gabriel of Zhao Xi. He felt a sudden urge to cry but coughed, and choked back the tears.

  Outside, Lina turned to Gabriel.

  “Were you OK in there? At the end?

  “He reminded me of someone I loved very much.”

  “Loved?”

  “He’s dead now.”

  They walked away from the monastery until, at a crossroads, Lina disengaged her arm from Gabriel’s.

  “I have to go. I’m meeting a source. I don’t think I’ll have time to see you again before you go. If you’re ever back in Cambodia, look me up, OK?”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?

  “Promise. And will you try to get a story out about Flowers of Hope?”

  She nodded.

  “I will if I can.”

  He watched her back as she threaded her way through the crowds, until she was lost from sight.

  Gabriel spent most of the day sightseeing. His heart wasn’t in it, but until the rendezvous with Davey and Jack later that evening, he was at a loose end. He wanted to send a message to Terri-Ann. But now he knew the CIA had pursued him to Cambodia, using his phone was out of the question. Maybe they’d set up a watch on Terri-Ann’s phone and email too. Either way, he was taking no chances. He knew she’d be anxious, but hoped she’d understand the need for radio silence. Then he experienced a flash of inspiration. In a world of high-tech options for everything from direction-finding to looking up recipes, there were still old-fashioned ways of doing things.

  At nine that evening, he entered an internet café and paid for a cappuccino and thirty minutes at one of the ageing PCs. A quick search took him to the website of the San Antonio Express-News. A couple of clicks and a call, and he was through to a saleswoman in the advertising department. In a voice that made Gabriel think “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” she delivered an unpunctuated speech that sounded as though it was the ten thousandth time she’d uttered the line:

  “San Antonio Express-News advertising department this is Chantal how may I help you today?”

  “I’d like to place a classified ad, please.”

  “All righty. Do you know what you want to say or do you have the copy ready to email?”

  “Can I just read it out to you?”

  “Sure! Go ahead.”

  “OK. Calling Annie Oakley. Keep a lookout for a wolf in your backyard. But don’t shoot. It found out the name of the coyote.”

  The line went silent while Chantal finished typing his copy, directly into some sort of production software, he assumed. She said nothing about the message itself. Maybe it wasn’t that outlandish by the standards of people who placed small ads in their local paper.

  “That’s it?” she asked after a few more seconds.

  “Yes. How much is that?”

  She quoted him a price, which he paid by credit card.

  It wasn’t perfect. He hadn’t been able to include anything concrete, but he remembered seeing a copy of the Express-News on Terri-Ann’s kitchen table one morning and she’d told him that since Vinnie’s murder, she’d become obsessed with reading every single article and ad. If she sees it, at least she’ll know I’m coming back with good news, he thought.

  He finished his coffee and stepped out into the night. He really wanted a drink, but decided to wait until the business with Jack and Davey was concluded. He returned to his hotel and changed into black jeans, a T-shirt and his navy windcheater. Despite the heat, he laced his feet into the heavy-soled black boots that accompanied him on all his travels.

  At 11.15, he left the hotel and made his way to The Happy Kangaroo. He heard the bar well before he saw it. A sound system was blasting out AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell," and what sounded like a sports team were supplying backing vocals. Turning into Street 117, he saw that the players were actually a crowd of men and women, all under thirty to judge from their faces, and wearing an assortment of green-and-yellow T-shirts, rugby shirts and, for about half the women, bikini tops. Their faces were painted with green-and-yellow stripes.

  “All right, mate?” one of the men shouted as Gabriel drew closer. “Coming in to celebrate, are you?”

  He was drunk, eyes swimming off in different directions, but he wore a broad smile.

  “Something like that. I’m meeting a couple of friends.”

  The man turned to the other members of his group.

  “Fuck me! He’s a bloody Pom!” To a chorus of laughter and good-natured jeers, he turned back to Gabriel. “Too bad you lot got fucked over in Sydney, then?”

  “Which lot?”

  “England! Your fucking rugby team just lost 48-17.”

  The scoreline drew a wild cheer from the other drunk Australians, and one of the girls came over to plant a kiss on Gabriel’s cheek.

  Gabriel realised how out of touch he’d become since arriving in Cambodia. He’d not seen an English-language newspaper or watched a news channel. He shrugged.

  “Oh, well, better go in and drown my sorrows, then. Well done Wallabies!” he ended with a shout.

  To a discordant rendition of “Waltzing Matilda,” Gabriel struggled through the crowd and into the bar. The place was dark and cavernous, thronging with more Australians and a fair few Brits, their own faces painted in the red-and-white St George’s cross of the English flag. Figuring Davey and Jack would have got there early and snagged a table somewhere in one of the corners, Gabriel didn’t bother trying to fight his way through to the bar. Instead, he struck off to the side of the room. He made three-quarters of a circuit before he saw them hunched over pints in a dimly lit corner.

  He took a seat with his back to the wall so both men were to his left. That way he wouldn’t have to keep switching his gaze from one to the other as they briefed him. The noise inside was as loud as it had been out on the pavement. Keeping their voices down wasn’t an option. Heavy rock at 110 dB was a reasonable substitute for privacy. They could have been plotting the overthrow of the government for all the difference it would have made.

  “You all set?” Davey asked Gabriel.

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Where do you want me?” he shouted, leaning closer so he could direct his voice straight at Davey’s right ear.

  “On the door with another lad. Nick. He’s ex-Royal Marines like me. You up for taking out the door staff?”

  “Only temporarily, yes?”

  “Of course! They’re just hired muscle. It’s the customers we’re after.”

  “Then yes, I’m fine with that.”

  As he leaned forwards, he felt the pistol digging into his flesh again and pulled the back of the windcheater down in a reflex action. He had no intention of using it, but it was comforting to know he had a little extra in reserve if things got kinetic later on.

  “Good,” Davey said. “So, listen. They don’t carry weapons, OK, on account of having police protection. But that means we have to be in and out really quick. We’ll try to stop anyone calling backup, but we have to assume someone’s going to hit the panic button.”

  Jack spoke up.

  “You and Nick go in first, posing as customers. There’ll be anoth
er four lads a few yards behind you. You deal with the doormen and take their places, and the others’ll stash them out of the way. Then you keep guard while the rest of us go in and grab as many of the beasts as we can. We come out, call for the truck, get them inside then you and Nick disappear and we take it from there.”

  “What are you going to do with them? The beasts, I mean?”

  “Worried about them, are you?”

  “Not really. Just interested.”

  “Get yourself to the Royal Palace at seven tomorrow morning. You’ll see the fun.”

  Davey checked his watch.

  “It’s time to get going.”

  Eight miles east of The Happy Kangaroo, Orton took his seat in the First Class cabin of a Korean Air Boeing 777 and accepted a glass of champagne from the flight attendant.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said before taking a sip of the deliciously chilled wine.

  52

  Snatch Squad

  AT the corner of the street, a second man fell into step beside Gabriel. Jack and Davey had dropped back to a distance of thirty feet and were mingling with the late-night crowds. Gabriel turned his head to get a look at his fellow doorman. Nick was taller by a head, dressed all in black, including that standby of the doorman’s wardrobe the world over, a black nylon bomber jacket. His head was shaved, and in his blue eyes Gabriel caught the watchful, alert look he’d seen on so many missions. They nodded at each other.

  Davey had explained that a truck would be waiting at the end of the street with its engine running, ready to roll as soon as the driver received a one-character text. Gabriel looked left as he and Nick started across the road towards the plain-fronted building that contained the targets. Just visible was the radiator grille of a white truck of some kind.

  Ahead, he could see the two Cambodian doormen. They stood each side of an unmarked door painted a dark colour that blended into the equally dark walls to either side. Neither was particularly tall, or heavily built. But that meant nothing. They could have knives or just a decent set of martial arts skills. It would do them no good.

  Within two feet of the men, Nick switched on a wide, toothy grin. In a broad Welsh accent, he spoke the code phrase they’d agreed on.

  “Evening, boyos. We’re after a little fun.”

  On fun, he and Gabriel struck. Fast and hard. The first blows went straight into the men’s throats, silencing and disabling them at the same time. They staggered back against the wall, clutching their smashed windpipes and gasping for breath.

  Gabriel struck hard at the base of his man’s neck, sending him, unconscious, to the ground. Next to him, from the corner of his eye, he saw Nick dealing an identical blow to the second man.

  As he and Nick spun to adopt the “at ease” stance, four men including Davey ran up and dragged the two bouncers away to the right and down a narrow alley. Within a few seconds, they reappeared along with four more tough-looking men in black. Gabriel leaned sideways to twist the doorknob and let them in.

  He began counting. And listening.

  One … two …

  From beyond the door, which he’d closed again as soon as the snatch team were inside, he could hear shouting. Above all the deep male voices, a single woman’s scream ended abruptly, as if someone had switched off a recording.

  … seven … eight … nine …

  More shouting, only this time protesting voices had entered the mix.

  … ten … eleven …

  He glanced sideways at Nick. He was standing like a sentry outside Buckingham Palace, except his eyes were flicking left and right and across the street, noticing who was passing, who was loitering, who might be a threat and who might be just curious. His vigilance was largely redundant. The street was virtually deserted. Those people who were passing were either stoned, drunk or heading home, heads down, eyes averted.

  … thirteen …

  From the right, a uniformed police officer was striding towards them, hand on the holstered pistol at his waist. He was frowning and speaking rapidly in Khmer.

  From their position in the small of his back, Gabriel’s hands gently unfolded. He grasped the butt of the Makarov, easing off the safety at the same time. The cop was standing right in front of Nick and yelling at him, left hand outstretched. Nick was shaking his head but not speaking.

  In a flash, Gabriel understood what was happening. The cop had come by to collect his protection money. Or else he was after a little extra something for turning a blind eye to the evil being perpetrated beyond the front door.

  With a wide smile plastered onto his face, Gabriel stuck out his left hand and tapped the yelling cop on the shoulder. He whirled round to face Gabriel, continuing his harangue.

  “Suostei,” Gabriel said.

  Then he whipped his gun arm round and stuck the snub barrel of the Makarov into the cop’s face.

  By the time the cop had registered that he’d been played, Nick’s right fist was heading towards its target.

  As the cop crumpled, two things happened at once.

  The front door opened behind Gabriel, and the white truck at the end of the street, engine racing, hurtled down the centre of the road towards him.

  The truck screeched to a stop just beyond the front door. The driver stayed behind the wheel, but a second man jumped down from the cab, sprinted round to the rear and lifted the shutter, which rose with barely a sound. Gabriel had time to think that someone had bothered to oil the door mechanism, then Davey and the other seven members of the snatch squad were frogmarching their captives out of the building and into the back of the truck. Some of the men were protesting, and received sharp blows or kicks to quieten them down. Others, heads down, looked semi-conscious. At least one was leaving a trail of blood spots on the pavement from cuts to his face.

  Then it was done. The shutter was yanked down and secured with a heavy steel lever. The truck pulled away. And Nick nodded once to Gabriel before striding away into the darkness.

  Gabriel didn’t wait around. He marched off in the opposite direction, head down yet aware of the few pedestrians coming his way, seeing nobody in uniform. He took a few turns at random, though maintaining a trajectory of travel that took him further from Street 117 with every step.

  He checked his watch: 12:04. The whole operation had taken less time than it took to boil an egg. He reached his hotel at 12:27, and was inside his room and pouring a stiff gin two minutes after that. Now he did switch on the TV. He found what appeared to be a 24-hour rolling news channel. The hosts were Cambodian versions of the standard news-anchor duo of older, statesmanlike man and younger, glamorous woman. He sipped his drink as he watched them, not understanding the rapid-fire Khmer but on the lookout for a particular set of visuals. After an hour, he gave up and switched channels again. Somewhere in the upper-forties he found a channel showing Casablanca. As Humphrey Bogart as Rick took a drink for himself, Gabriel poured another gin and settled down to watch. The gin was doing a good job of neutralising the adrenaline that had been coursing through his bloodstream since about eleven that evening, and at some point, he fell asleep.

  The following morning, he woke at six. Remembering what Davey had said to him in The Happy Kangaroo, he showered, shaved and dressed, then packed and checked out. He had six hours until his flight. More than enough time to see whatever it was that Davey and the other hunters had arranged for their captives.

  At six fifty, having grabbed breakfast at a pavement café, Gabriel made his way to the Royal Palace, pausing in a side street to drop the pistol down a drain. It was clear from the crowds milling about and the mixture of jeers, catcalls and laughter that the hunters had put on a show. He wove through the press of bodies until he found himself in the front row of this spontaneous audience. What he saw brought a grim smile to his face.

  Sitting in a circle around a statue of the Cambodian prime minister since 1985, Mr Hun Sen, were the men Davey and the others had captured the night before. Their wrists had been shackled with cable ties. E
ach wore only his underwear and a cardboard placard dangling from his neck. Each placard bore an identical message, neatly printed in black marker.

  I am a paedophile.

  I came to Cambodia to rape small children.

  #PhnomPenhPaedos

  Below these three lines, each placard carried its wearer’s name, humdrum pairings in English, German, Swedish and Dutch. Judging from the bruised and battered faces, torsos and hands, the hunters had extracted these during the early hours of the morning.

  All around these improvised stocks, people were taking photos and video on their phones. Before long, a squad of five Royal Gendarmes pushed their way to the front, brandishing batons and shouting. Confronted with the sorry-looking group of perverts they stopped and consulted the man who was clearly the squad commander. He barked out an order and as one, the five about-turned and shouldered their way out through the pushing crowds. Not ready to become social media stars for the wrong reasons, was Gabriel’s judgement.

  He followed the gendarmes before the gap they’d created in their wake closed again. Using the temporary pathway, he reached the edge of the crowd and headed to a nearby taxi rank.

  At a little after 11.00 p.m., with the air conditioning cooling the cabin to a bearable temperature after a stifling wait to push back from the stand, an All Nippon Airways Boeing 787-8 accelerated to take-off speed along the runway at Phnom Penh airport. Enjoying a champagne cocktail in seat 3A, Gabriel Wolfe watched the dust-choked city recede beneath him. Perhaps, he thought, the hunters had made it a little less dangerous for its youngest and most vulnerable inhabitants.

  The plane banked to starboard, and the chief steward informed his passengers that they should keep their seatbelts fastened for another few moments. Gabriel leaned back in his seat, finished his drink and closed his eyes. Figures swam into view behind his eyelids. Christie, gut punctured by a borrowed switchblade, disappearing beneath the T-54. The CIA agent back in Texas, exsanguinated in the boot of his own car, white-faced like a cave-dwelling creature that had never seen the sun. And overlying these two, the owners of all those skulls that had risen from their mass grave out in the paddy field, murdered in cold blood by their own countrymen in pursuit of the dream of a madman.