Added together, these relatively small investments produced as much income as the warehouse and freight handling business he owned in Long Beach. Huay enjoyed being the bank to his fellow immigrant entrepreneurs, it was a way for him to give back to the community. Lending at this level was a very personal and sometimes tedious business, but there was no other way to do it right. Since most immigrants didn’t qualify for traditional American credit, he had tremendous leverage, but to be profitable you still had to look into the eyes of the people you were in business with. Face Time the magazines called it -- Huay believed in it and had been incredibly successful. But it had all been merely an education, a warm-up for the path he was now, after years of planning, finally starting down - the path that would restore Cambodia to the peaceful, prosperous place he remembered from his childhood. A place he desperately wanted Dominique to see. But he quickly reminded himself that he couldn’t look too far ahead. One step at a time.
The young man droned on. Huay could see his lips moving, but he couldn’t make his mind concentrate on what he was saying, “…spirulina…bee pollen…wheat grass flats. Commercially wheat grass flats cost twenty dollars a flat, but I can grow it at home, with ultra violet grow lamps and hydrophonics, thus cutting eighty-percent of wheat grass overhead…”
A large hairy fly landed on the rim of Huay’s iced tea. He made the smallest annoyed flick of his wrist, and the fly took off slowly, re-alighting on the picture of King Norodom Siranouk that hung above the booth, right on the upper lip of his ever-present smile. The owners were still, even after all of the King’s evil alliances and desperate impotent years in exile, royalists. This had not stopped them from going into business with him – a known Khmer Rouge veteran. And it pointed out an important fact that was often overlooked by outsiders. Political distinctions in Cambodia were subtle. Pol Pot was created from the fears and aspirations of nationalists, imperialists and communists. But he had been the lucky recipient of opportunity more than a charismatic political leader or master coalitionist. Learning how to use the most basic weapon of manipulation – fear -- was not a rare skill. Jones, Guzman, Koresh, Surkuyu, Manson, it wasn’t hard to find egomaniacal cult leaders who understood how to create enemies and manipulate fear into anger. What created real madmen was opportunity.
Huay had met Pol Pot in Paris when he was a first year student and Pol had visited his campus as a guest lecturer. At the time, Pol Pot was just an angry intellectual named Saloth Sar who held delusions of being the next Ho Chi Mihn and a reputation of being someone who never paid for his coffee. But he had proved he understood how to be patient. Pol Pot struggled and organized in the jungle for ten years, waiting for the all wheels to line up. And when he finally saw his opportunity, he didn’t hesitate. When Kissinger sent the B-52’s and their raining death, he created a gigantic fear that accelerated through the countryside like a plague, and Saloth had shaped it, mastered it. And then ruthlessly turned it loose on corrupt General Lon Nol, at the precise moment that the U.S. Congress decided that it had finally lost its stomach for military aid anywhere in Southeast Asia. For most Cambodians, like everyone in history who had looked to the wrong person when they got scared and desperate, by the time they realized they had embraced the devil, it was too late.
No, Huay decided, there would not be any power sharing with the royals – King or Prince. The future was not in benevolent graft, it was in market capitalism. Rapid economic development. His partners were in place. Not bandits, capitalists, people who would show the world what Cambodians were truly capable of. All they needed was him, his catalyst.
Huay looked down from the fly to his watch – a genuine Swiss chronograph with a sweeping second hand. Even though his next appointment was only twenty minutes away on 91 in Yorba Linda, he didn’t want to be rushed. The Richard Nixon Birthplace and Presidential Library, his next target, closed at five. Huay stood up and cleared his throat, cutting off the dreaming pitchman just as he said “Protein powder profit --”
“I don’t think people genuinely crave smoothies.” Huay said. “I think they just drink them because they’re afraid to die.” Keeping his eyes on the man across from him, Huay snapped his wrist and backhanded the slothful fly against the cheek of King Siranouk. It stuck to the glass for a moment and then fell, lifeless, into the iced tea of the speechless, would-be smoothie tycoon. The meeting was over.
11000 WILSHIRE BOULEVARD – 4:30 P.M.
Major Lane waited for his taxi outside the doors of the Federal building. There was no shade, and he was getting hot and irritable. He had been waiting nearly twenty-five minutes. He had decided to go home early, although technically he didn’t have specific hours. There just wasn’t a lot for him to do. They had no new evidence, no tips, and apparently zero new leads. Also he sensed that he had become something of a task force pariah after his demonstration. Even Alan had been trying to avoid him. But he felt he was doing his job. He wasn’t a cop, he didn’t enforce rules or arrest people, he was the landmine guy. If his tactics made them scared, well, that was probably a good thing. Most of them had no idea what mines could do.
There was another reason Lane wanted to go back to the hotel. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was already looking forward to his next one gram hit of synthetic morphine. He was trying his best to ration his supply by only taking one to get to sleep, but last night he had taken two. The first one at about six o’clock.
A horn honking interrupted his thoughts. A silver Lexus had pulled into the circular drive. The window hummed down revealing Catherine Mills in the driver's seat. She dipped her chin slightly and looked over her sunglasses at him. She looked good in her car.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
Lane blinked twice in the sun and then opened the door. It was clearly a superior option to the taxi.
“Thanks. I’m at the Sofitel.” He was grateful to be out of the flaming heat.
“I don’t know where that is,” she said, accelerating aggressively onto Wilshire.
“It’s right across from the Beverly Center.”
“Oh, I know where that is.”
“I thought you might.” Lane said. “Everyone seems to.” He looked around the car. He had never seen so much leather in a vehicle before. It covered every surface, even the ceiling. It was like he was inside a giant air-conditioned catcher’s mitt -- only with a hint of perfume. He couldn’t help commenting.
“It’s pretty leathery in here.”
“Yeah, it’s the Coach Edition. I kind of had to get used to it at first. But I got a great deal on it.”
“What do you mean Coach Edition?”
“You know, the famous leather goods store. They designed the interior. You’ve never heard of Coach leather? It’s terrific stuff.” Lane had never heard of cars designed by stores before. He figured it was a L.A. phenomenon.
“It’s nice. Very luxurious.” Lane said. Catherine nodded, not sure if he was being sarcastic.
“Thanks.”
They drove in silence. Catherine hadn’t commented on his rat trap demonstration. Lane could feel the topic hanging above them like a thought bubble.
“So,” he said “I guess you’re headed home early too.”
Catherine smiled. “There’s not a whole lot going on. I’ve barely gotten four hours of sleep the past two nights, I figured it was best to use this time to recharge. I decided I’m actually going to make my spa appointment tonight.”
Lane turned the second air-conditioning vent on himself. “Where’s your spa?”
“In my backyard. Spa is a fancy name for a hot tub, you know, a Jacuzzi. Mine has a timer; it heats up for an hour every day starting at five o’clock. It hits the perfect temperature at six. I bought the timer to give myself an incentive to leave the office on time.”
“Has it worked?”
“No. I’ve only used it once in the last year. It’s always cold by the time I get home. And I pay sixty dollars a month to keep it cleaned and serviced. That includes
the pool, but I don’t use that either.”
“How can you get in a hot tub when it’s this hot?”
“It cools down pretty fast around here at night. You’ll see. Plus the heat relaxes your muscles no matter what the temperature is outside.”
Lane wondered if he was about to be invited to his first hot tub party. But she didn’t say anything more. They turned on La Cienega and cruised ten blocks in deep silence. The Lexus was a quiet car. Lane felt the streets were deserted without the cyclos and bicycles of Southeast Asia. When they got to the Fat Burger, two blocks from the hotel, Lane decided he had to ask.
“So what did you think of my safety demonstration?”
Catherine took a second before responding. “It was entertaining. But I think you came off as kind of a smart ass. Cops don’t like to be patronized.”
“Nobody does. But over-confidence is the first thing mines take advantage of. I was just attempting to point that out in a way people would remember.” They were pulling into the driveway of the Sofitel. A young Latino valet in a purple vest was waiting for them near the front doors.
“Well, it was definitely memorable,” Catherine said. “But I don’t know if I’ll make your demonstrations a regular thing. I think it might give me personnel problems I don’t need.” She stopped the car, but kept the transmission in D.
Lane smiled and put out his hand. It was an unnecessary gesture, but he felt a sudden compulsion to be closer to her. “Thanks for the ride.”
She took his hand.
“Anytime.” She squeezed his knuckles together and their eyes locked. “I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow.”
“Right. Enjoy your jacuzzi.”
“Count on it.” She said, and let his fingers slowly slip away.
Lane exited and turned to watch Catherine and her Lexus pull away. He noticed the valet in the purple vest intently watching her as well. After she peeled out onto Beverly (clearly flooring it), the suave valet looked over at Lane, raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Major Joel Lane laughed. He was thinking the same thing.
RICHARD NIXON LIBRARY AND BIRTHPLACE
YORBA LINDA, CA – 4:01 P.M.
Huay crossed Yorba Linda Boulevard and entered the parking lot on foot. Not too many people walked to the Nixon Library, but then most people didn’t mind having their automobiles videotaped by security cameras. Huay had parked his Mercedes six blocks away near a movie theater. He was dressed as a tourist: dark windbreaker, Calloway golf hat, sensible walking shoes and he carried a Sony 8mm video camera with a flip out LCD viewing screen. He also carried a large camera bag with a wide nylon strap that dug deeply into his shoulder. Inside the bag were a pair of cotton gardening gloves, a black knit ski mask, and three OZM 4 electronically-fused bounding mines. A bounding mine explodes in two parts, the first smaller explosion elevates the mine to a height of about one meter, where the second, larger explosion distributes the shrapnel. The OZM’s were manufactured in the former Soviet Union and possessed a kill radius of approximately 15 meters each.
Huay had spent an entire day at the museum two months earlier doing reconnaissance. He had carefully noted the placement of each surveillance camera, the movements of the security guards, the layout of the nine acre grounds, the hours of operation, and possible hiding places. In spite of his secret mission, Huay had been absolutely fascinated by the scope and detail of the facility. The large museum chronicled nearly every aspect of Richard Milhous Nixon’s extraordinary fifty-year career in American politics. It included everything: his exposure of Alger Hiss, his Vice Presidential terms, the Kennedy debates, the Viet Nam War, his diplomatic breakthrough with China, the Watergate tapes and his post presidential statesmanship. There were also displays of incredibly ornate Presidential gifts from the Moroccans and Saudi’s, election memorabilia, love letters he wrote to Pat during the time he served in the navy, and even an exact replica of his New Jersey office on the day he had his fatal stroke. The lush grounds were beautifully landscaped and included a reflecting pool, a 500 bush rose garden, and most amazingly, the original house where President Nixon was born. The site was so spectacular that it was often rented out for corporate events, visiting speakers, political lunches, and even weddings (the actual gazebo from Julie Nixon’s White House Rose Garden wedding to Eisenhower’s grandson was part of the attraction).
Huay held his Sony up to his face as he passed the first surveillance camera in the parking lot. He pretended to film all the way up the front walk and into the smoked glass doors of the entrance. Inside he had to lower his camera to approach the ticket window, but he kept his large sunglasses and golf hat on. A woman in her mid-fifties wearing red white and blue took his six dollars. As she handed back a nickel she reminded him that the Museum was only open for another forty-five minutes. Huay nodded and said “Thank you.”
Huay quickly strolled out of the museum building, down the western colonnade that ran alongside the reflecting pool, and across the grassy knoll that formed the top of the Pat Nixon amphitheater -- the construction of which was funded (the sign said) by a generous grant from Bob and Dolores Hope. As Huay passed several tourists who had paused to admire the wedding gazebo, he checked his watch. He knew the last guided tour of Nixon’s boyhood home was scheduled for 4:30.
The small one and a half story white house, built from a kit by Nixon’s father, was at the end of the property. During the time Nixon lived there, the surrounding acreage had been a struggling orange and nut grove. A rare confluence of lucky events had spared the little house from the bulldozers of creeping Orange County development. An elementary school had been built on the site of the orchard and the house had been preserved as a residence for the caretaker of the school. After Nixon became President, and the site selected for the library, the school was torn down and the house restored back to its original condition. Huay had been particularly interested in this piece of history during his original visit. His own boyhood home had not been so fortunate. In fact, the entire village he had grown up in had disappeared in a firestorm of one thousand-pound American bombs in 1973 sent by Nixon on the advice of Nobel Peace Prize winner Henry Kissinger. Huay had tired to go home only once. It had taken a long time to even find where it had been. Water from nearby rice fields had filled the craters, creating a series of small ponds where people now farmed fish. Not a trace of his village remained, it had been scorched black and then swallowed by the earth. Later Huay learned that the military action that had been responsible for the bombing had been called Operation MENU. The target zones were divided into various quadrants and referenced as Breakfast, Snack, Lunch, Supper, Dinner and Dessert. Huay’s family home and birthplace had been in the Snack quadrant.
A tour was exiting out the backdoor of the house as Huay approached. He quickly went around to the entrance on the other side. A volunteer senior citizen guide, or Docent as they were called here in California, watched over a small line of tourists waiting for the four-thirty tour. Huay was glad to see there were several Asians in the line, it would help him blend. But for now he avoided joining the group, he still had five minutes, and he wanted to be near the tail end of the line. To kill time, he pretended to film the gravesites of the President and First Lady, both of these were conveniently located in a small flower-ringed memorial garden only ten yards from the house.
Huay had to admit that the historical symmetry was remarkable. A man is born in a simple hand-made white house, goes to war, becomes a congressman, becomes President, lives in the big White House, travels all over the world and then, 81 years later, ends up buried a few steps from the room he was born in. It was like a modern Monticello. Mount Vernon West.
Huay looked back over his shoulder at the line. The Docent was opening the door and clicking her people counter. Huay closed his eyes and exhaled, collecting himself, steeling his nerves. When he opened his eyes he found that he was looking down at the 37th American President’s black marble headstone. It’s engraved epitaph read: "The greatest honor h
istory can bestow is the title of peacemaker." It was exactly the inspiration Huay needed.
HOTEL SOFITEL – 5:05 P.M.
Lane was dismayed to find the Avis desk closed. The rental agent had left early as well. The concierge told him to try again in the morning. Lane went up to his peach room and decided to call the only friend he knew in Los Angeles. He found the number in his address book and dialed the Euro phone.
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