The Khmer Kill_A Dox Short Story

by Barry Eisler

  At just after seven, his mobile buzzed. He picked up. “Hello.”

  “We’re on our way to dinner. A place called Khmer Borane, 389 Sisowath Quay. In front of the Royal Palace, with an open-air patio right on the riverfront. So I think you’ll want to set up on the other side of—”

  “Don’t you worry about where I set up. That’s my end.”

  “Right. I can’t guarantee we’ll be seated outside, but the weather’s good and I’ll suggest it. If we’re not, the restaurant is small and you should still have a clear view of most of the inside. Worst case, you can take care of it when we leave.”

  “You want me to buzz you just beforehand?”

  “Yes. I’ll excuse myself to take the call.”

  “It’s just going to be the two of you? I don’t want to send my very best to the wrong address.”

  “Just the two of us. There’ll be a couple of bodyguards, but they won’t be at our table. And they’ll be fore and aft when we exit. The principal and I will be side-by-side.”

  “Good enough. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

  He clicked off and headed out. The hotel staff had thoughtfully parked the Honda right out front, and it took him less than twenty minutes to make sure he wasn’t being followed and then to cross the Friendship Bridge to the east side of the Tonlé Sap River. He buzzed briskly along the pavement, past gated two-story riverfront residences, the lights inside warm and glowing. Evening insects flew spot-lit through the beam of the bike’s headlight and occasionally smacked invisibly into his facemask. Farther along, the houses grew more modest and the road tapered off to dirt. He slowed and rode along until he reached the water’s edge. A hotel construction site, which he’d seen earlier in the week, was to his right, its skeletal framework of I-beams looming against the night sky. The good news was, the developers had obviously chased off any squatters who might have been living in shacks here. The bad news was, the site was guarded at night.

  He cut clockwise around the site and put-putted along an even narrower and more rutted dirt road, swerving periodically to avoid a crater or a broken cinder block, the river now to his left. To his right were giant mounds of dirt, most of them covered in weeds, and he assumed the dirt was dumped here after being excavated for the hotel’s foundation. Unlike the site itself, this area wasn’t guarded because even in Cambodia, nobody was going to steal dirt. And none of it was inhabited, because by day the developers would shoo squatters away. From the top of any of the mounds, he’d be at a slight elevation to the riverbank, with perfect line-of-sight to the opposite side.

  He cut the engine and pulled off the helmet. It was quite dark, with just a little light reflecting off the surface of the river from the restaurants and bars on the other side. The air was perfectly still. He wiped his face with a shirtsleeve, then waited while his eyes adjusted. He listened. He could hear, faintly, the sounds of traffic and conversation from the other side of the river. Other than that, nothing but the chirping of insects.

  He parked the bike alongside a tree fifty yards back from the river. Then he walked off and got prone in the weeds atop one of the dirt mounds. He took out the rifle, popped in the magazine, racked a round, and sighted across the river. It took him less than a minute to find Khmer Borane, and he saw immediately he was in luck. Gant was sitting outside, with—

  What the fuck?

  He looked away, then back. No, there was no question. It was the Khmer guy from breakfast, the one who looked like the Dalai Lama, the one the staff treated like a big shot, who was greeting all the foreign guests. That guy was Sorm?

  Gant and the Khmer were both seated on the same side of the table, facing the river, presumably so they could both enjoy the view. He scanned left and right and saw the two bodyguards from the restaurant, positioned at the front corners of the patio.

  He watched Gant and the Khmer for a moment. From their expressions and gestures, they seemed to be chatting easily though earnestly, each in his own way exuding an aura of relaxed confidence. But while there was something faintly smarmy about Gant’s manner, the Khmer had that air of… shit, what was it? Good humor? Good will? Beneficence?

  This guy was former Khmer Rouge, now running dope and trafficking kids into sex slavery?

  No. No way.

  He put in an earpiece and punched Gant’s number into his mobile from memory, then went back to the scope. A moment later, Gant reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his phone. He glanced at the readout, offered what must have been an “excuse me” to the Khmer, walked out to the sidewalk, and stood to the side of the restaurant.

  “Fire when ready,” he said, his tone droll.

  “Who’s that you’re with?” Dox said.

  There was a slight pause. “Sorm. Take the shot.”

  “No, sir. Whoever Sorm is, that ain’t him. Something’s rotten here in Denmark, and I want to know what it is.”

  Gant looked out across the river, his eyes darting left and right.

  “No, you’re not going to see me,” Dox said. “But I see you. That’s a nice shirt, by the way. Red becomes you. Did you wear it in case you were standing close by at the moment of truth?”

  “I did, in fact. Just a precaution. We’re wasting time.”

  “That’s right, we are. Anytime you make me ask you something twice you’re wasting my time. So again. Who the fuck is that you’re with?”

  Gant furrowed his brow and glanced in Dox’s direction again. He looked more irritated than afraid. “What difference does it make who he is?”

  Christ, what did the guy think, he was bulletproof? “You lied to me, Mr. Gant. We’re not well acquainted, so maybe you don’t know that kind of thing makes me stubborn. Regardless, unless you can figure out something mighty convincing to tell me in the next few seconds, I’m just going to keep your deposit, wish you a lovely evening, and ride on out of here.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Gant said. “The people who hired you for this aren’t the kind you want to play around with.”

  “Oh, are you threatening me now? That doesn’t just make me stubborn. It makes me angry. Did you know, through this fancy Leupold scope you got me, I can see the individual beads of perspiration on your forehead? Like that one that just rolled down your left temple. Go ahead, wipe it away, I’ll wait.”

  “Damn it, what is your problem? This is business. The assignment is real. The money is real. You accepted your part. Now hold up your end. Take the shot.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s really going on here and who that hombre really is.”

  “No.”

  “Fine by me. Hasta la vista, shit-for-brains.”

  “Now you wait one goddamned minute—”

  Dox clicked off. He put the earpiece and the phone back in his pocket but, out of an abundance of caution, dialed the rifle back to one hundred yards and kept it locked and loaded. He decided not to approach the bike from the river head on, but rather from behind, a direction that wouldn’t be expected. Maybe he was being paranoid, but the fact that Gant had tried to bullshit him had him spooked. He stood and circled back toward the bike, slowly, toe-heel, sighting through the night scope as he moved, scanning left and right.

  He came around one of the dirt mounds twenty yards from the bike. There were three young Khmer guys skulking in the shadows under the tree, all in dark pants and dark tee shirts.

  Each of them held a blade.

  His heart rate kicked up a notch and he felt a welcome surge of adrenalin spread out from his trunk to his limbs. He breathed in and out, slowly and silently, watching them through the scope. No sign they’d detected him. He checked his flanks and his back. No other problems. He looked back at the Khmers. Had he been followed here? He’d been damned careful on the way. He glanced at the rifle. Gant. He must have put some kind of tracking device in it. The adjustable butt stock. Of course. And here he’d thought the man was just doing his job, providing him top equipment. He felt his face flush with anger.

  All right. One probl
em at a time. He moved in until he was only thirty feet away. “Hey,” he called out softly, watching them through the scope. “Did Gant not tell you I had night vision?”

  They all jumped at the sound of his voice and started glancing left and right, squinting into the darkness.

  “No,” Dox said. “It seems he was remiss.” He shot each of them in the forehead, the SR-25 kicking just slightly with each round, the crack of each shot no louder than the clack of a sewing machine. In the dark, they seemed unaware of what was happening, and it was all over in just a few seconds regardless.

  For two minutes, he listened and scanned. Nothing. All right, then.

  He returned to his position atop the dirt mound, adjusted to five hundred yards, and sighted in on the restaurant. Gant and the Khmer were still there. Dox was pleasantly surprised. If he’d been Gant, he would have gotten the hell out of Dodge the moment their conversation turned sour. The man just didn’t have any sense. Well, on the other hand and to be fair, he did expect Dox to be dead about now.

  Somebody should have told him that in these matters, it paid not to assume too much.

  He put the earpiece back in and called Gant. This time, when Gant took out the phone and glanced at the number, he paled. Instinctively, and uselessly, he scanned the far bank of the river again. Dox smiled.

  Gant got up and excused himself. He walked quickly to the front of the restaurant. He peered at the street, then back at his ringing phone, then back to the street.

  Finally, he raised the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he said.

  “Well, hello there, Mr. Gant. It’s been too long.”

  Gant swallowed. “Did you change your mind? There’s still time.”

  It was a hell of a bluff and Dox had to admire the man’s coolness. “As it happens, I have changed my mind, in a manner of speaking. You see, before I was prepared to just walk away. But I’m afraid we now find ourselves in a different set of circumstances.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your three Khmer friends, who I’m sorry to report are no longer among what are commonly referred to as ‘the living.’ Also, you forget how well I can see you through this scope. When you saw my number on your caller ID, you looked like a man in sudden need of an adult diaper. Why would that be?”

  Gant glanced at the street again. Damn, but it was satisfying to see him finally losing his cool. A man just wouldn’t be human if he didn’t find at least some small pleasure in taking a fucked-up attitude and un-fucking it.

  “Hey,” Dox said, “like Clint Eastwood said in his fine film Dirty Harry, I can read your mind, punk. You’re wondering whether you should run for it. Well, there’s something I think you should know before you try.”

  Gant said nothing. That was all right. In the end, it was all about communication. Like his daddy liked to say, sometimes you just have to explain things to people in terms they understand.

  “Which is,” Dox continued, “you can’t move directly into a run from the way you’re standing. You have to tense first, plant one foot, load your body, and launch yourself. Some people’s movements are subtler than others, but the physics are always the same. And we former jarhead snipers are trained to see that sort of thing as it’s getting started, and to put a stop to it before it goes anywhere.”

  He paused and waited. Gant said nothing. He was very pale.

  “So you can try to run your way out of this, or to talk your way out. I’d advise Door Number Two. You’re a pretty good talker, and no offense, but you don’t look like much of a runner. And even if you were, I’m guessing my bullets are faster than your legs.”

  There was a long pause. Gant wiped his hand across his forehead and dried it on his pants.

  “His name is Vannak Vann. The UN GIFT task force I told you about. He’s the head of it.”

  Dox was genuinely confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s not Sorm. He’s put together a dossier and a team that is finally poised to prosecute Sorm.”

  “You’re saying Sorm is real?”

  “Yes, he’s real. I’m not stupid. Most of what I told you is the truth. Sorm is real but he isn’t the target. There are a lot of pieces to this thing, and Vann is on the verge of putting them together. This week. At the meeting. We had to act now.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Sorm. And the elements of the US government that protect him.”

  This wasn’t getting any clearer. “Why would the government protect someone like Sorm?”

  “For a lot of reasons, and we don’t have time to go into them all right now. When I told you Sorm has a lot of people in his pocket? I wasn’t just talking about locals.”

  Dox wasn’t buying it. “I want to know why the US government would protect a child trafficker. To the point of assassinating a UN official at his direction.”

  “I told you,” Gant said. “The empire is dying. Dying empires become obsessed with minor threats. Like the threat of Islamic terror. Sorm understands we’ll pay dearly for intelligence we believe will help combat that threat. So he passes on what he learns in the course of his work about cells like Jemaah Islamiyah and others in Southeast Asia. In return, he gets all the get-out-of-jail-free cards he wants.”

  “That’s what this is about? Protecting a source?”

  “Fundamentally, yes.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you just tell me all this up front?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you anything, remember? But you insisted. And when you did, I realized there was only one reason you were asking. You wanted to know if this was the kind of job you’d be willing to take. Which told me you’re… unusual among snipers.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you might have moral qualms that could have complicated things. We didn’t have time to bring in someone new. So I made a decision on the spot. I misled you.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “Whatever you want to call it. I didn’t think it would matter.”

  “The hell you didn’t. A UN representative assassinated while on official business in Phnom Penh? You knew I’d learn about who I’d actually dropped when it got reported in the news. That’s why you put those three locals on me. I drop Vann, they drop me, problem solved, and all the loose ends tied up. And what were you going to do, keep the balance you owed me for yourself? Yeah, why fight the system, isn’t that what you said? Why not profit from it while you can, right?”

  Gant was sweating harder now. His breathing was rapid. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

  “Look,” Gant said. “This is business, right? You came here on business. Let’s not make this personal.”

  Dox thought about that. There was something appealing about it. Wasn’t it the very thing he’d been clinging to since arriving in Phnom Penh?

  But all at once, he felt he’d been lying to himself.

  “I’m sorry, son. I guess I’m just not built that way. I can’t always keep business and personal separate. I don’t even know if I should. A better person than you made me aware of that recently.”

  “Hey,” Gant said. His eyes were wide and darted back and forth across the river. “I told you, the people who hired you, you don’t want to cross them. Bad enough you don’t do the job. If something happens to me on top of it, they’ll come after you.”

  “Two things,” Dox said, still relishing Gant’s loss of composure. “First, I don’t believe you. I think you’re a pissant. You’re just a cut-out hired to hire other cut-outs. You carry yourself like you’re a made man, but in the end you’re just dog shit on a boot heel. I don’t think anyone’s going to care much one way or the other if somebody scrapes you off on a curb.”

  Gant swallowed. “What’s the second thing?”

  “The second thing is, even if you were someone special? I still wouldn’t care.”

  He eased the trigger gently back. The SR-25 recoiled smooth and hard into his shoulder. He heard the soft crack. Almost simultane
ously, a small hole blossomed in Gant’s forehead. He jerked, dropped his phone, and slid to the ground. On his face was an expression of utter surprise.

  Dox headed back toward the bike, sighting down the barrel through the night vision as he moved. This time he approached from the opposite direction. The changeup was just a precaution—he didn’t expect any more opposition after the three he’d dropped. So he was surprised to see another Khmer, this one barely a teenager from the look of him, squatting in the dark at the side of the dirt road. In one hand he held a cell phone, in the other, a knife.

  Dox’s finger started to ease back on the trigger. But good lord, he was just a kid. A kid.

  He circled silently behind the boy, walking toe-heel, the soles of his sneakers soundless in the dirt. When he was directly behind him, he raised a leg and kicked him hard in the back of the head. The boy sprawled facedown, the knife and the phone hitting the deck alongside him. Dox kicked them out of the way. The boy cried out and tried to rise. Dox planted a foot between his shoulder blades and drove him back into the dirt.

  He scanned through the night vision and detected no problems. He looked down at the boy. “What the fuck are you doing out here, son?”

  The boy moaned and coughed, then spat out something in Khmer. It didn’t sound like Pleased to meet you.