by Kae Bell
THE BRITTLE LIMIT
A NOVEL
Kae Bell
Copyright © 2015 Kae Bell
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is purely coincidental.
"Chaos, like the grave, is a haven of equality."
Eric Hoffer, The True Believer, 1953
Map of Cambodia
Prologue
The ladyboy stood alone outside the circle of light cast by the tall street lamp. Behind him, deep in the shadows of Wat Phnom, the park elephant leaned against a thick tree, snoring. Leaves rustled in the warm breeze. The Wat was nearly empty this time of night.
The ladyboy, or katoey as he was known in some cultures, was tall, willowy, with long black hair that fell to his waist, bleached white at the ends. His tight-fitting green silk dress did not betray him - many of his clients didn’t know he was a man until they were beyond caring. His walk didn’t give him away, as he paced easy and slow like a jungle cat, slim hips shifting under the filmy green satin, five-inch heels clicking on the pavement. His false silver lashes fluttered as he leaned into the light to peer down the street. His client was late.
He lit a cigarette, pursing his lips to avoid smudging heavy red lipstick. He inhaled, the cigarette tip brightening with his sharp intake of breath.
A block away, a long black car turned the corner and slowed as it neared the street lamp, stopping not far from the ladyboy. A back door opened and a deep male voice called from inside the car. “Get in.”
The ladyboy turned his head slightly, to acknowledge he’d heard, then took a last long drag on his cigarette. He flicked the cigarette into the darkness in a practiced move and started toward the car, exaggerating his runway swagger. No one ordered him around he thought, a small furrow in his brow. Smiling as he slid into the back seat, he said “Hello darling” and gave the man’s knee a squeeze. The man batted the manicured hand away. “Stop fooling.”
With a harrumph, the ladyboy crossed his legs and settled back into the soft leather seat.
The car pulled away down the long empty lane.
On the sidewalk, on the edge of the light, the ladyboy’s half-smoked cigarette burned, its trail of gray smoke wandering skyward, a bright red lipstick kiss on the end.
Part 1
Chapter 1
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Rows of children sat rapt in the sunlit courtyard, all eyes on the nimble fingers of the dark-haired man, who plucked the golden strings of a guitar, his deep voice singing a playful song, his eyes smiling.
The children hummed as the man’s voice carried the tune across the open space and out into the streets. He sang of laughter and restless winds.
When the song ended, a small girl from the back row approached him. She had picked a large red flower from the garden and she handed it to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ben.”
“Thank you, little one. I’ve got something for you, too.” He pulled from his pocket a slim chain from which hung a dull oblong green stone. He placed this around the girl’s neck and ruffled her black hair.
“Happy Birthday Samnang. Be good while we’re gone.” Samnang grabbed the necklace in her little hands and ran off to show her friends.
Ben watched the happy birthday mayhem in the concrete courtyard. The concert over, the children, all of them orphans, played games of chase and tag and hide and seek. One of the boys had co-opted Ben's guitar and plucked discordant strings.
A striking woman with unruly long brown hair and high cheekbones emerged from a dim hallway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her pink sundress was a bright contrast with the white walls. Severine smiled at Ben as she clapped her hands to get the children’s attention. "Lunchtime! And cake!" She walked over to Ben, as the kids streamed past her, squealing, toward the kitchen.
"All set?" Ben asked.
"Yes. Kolab will look after things while we're away." She smiled, a fleeting grin.
Ben furrowed his brow and rubbed the woman’s bare shoulders. “Are you nervous?”
“A little.” Severine was quite anxious about their trip to the jungle. She didn’t know why. She was not a fearful person.
“Don’t worry, you'll love it. Mondulkiri is unlike anywhere else you've been. Let’s go home and pack. It’s an early start tomorrow.”
*******
Mondulkiri Province, Cambodia
Immersed in a deep natural pool, Severine lifted her face skyward, eyes closed, a ray of sunlight dancing across her face. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and exertion from the day’s hike. Along the clearing’s edge, tall trees swayed in the breeze.
The explosion rocked the quiet jungle, the massive blast ripping up thick roots and toppling trees, destroying everything within a ten-foot radius.
Severine clambered out of the water, slipping on slick rocks and scrambling to grab her clothes and her backpack. “Ben? What was that? Ben! Are you hurt?” she yelled.
There was no reply.
“Ben!!” she screamed, desperate for a reply, an acknowledgement. Only minutes before Ben had walked down the slight path from which dense heavy smoke now billowed.
Piles of dry leaves from seasons past ignited on the forest floor, eager tinder. Flames leapt at the thick vines encircling the trees. The fire traveled the vines, wicking its way skyward, leaping from tree to tree. Soon, a wall of flames thirty feet high raged in the woods.
Severine dug through her backpack for a red bandana, dipped it in the water and held it over her mouth and nose as she ran down the path cut by Ben’s machete. The heat rolled at her in waves. She faced the flames, frantic to find a break in the towering wall consuming everything in its path. The fire stretched and jawed, threatening to engulf her. Severine stood on its encroaching angry edge and called for Ben again and again.
He could not hear her anymore. The fire had consumed him, all his dreams and tomorrows.
*******
On the other side of the fire, a half-mile away, two men had stopped to listen. They had felt the explosion, could hear the fire and the woman’s panicked screams. They looked at each other. One signaled with a gloved hand, a double flick of the wrist, fingers pointing ahead. The men pressed forward in the dense jungle.
Chapter 2
Siem Reap, Cambodia
Breathing hard, his chest heaving after a sprint up steep steps, Andrew Shaw stared up at the stone faces of the old Gods. The carvings, nearly 800 years old, were taller than Andrew by several feet and towered over him as he studied their blank eyes. The gods smiled at him, serene in their eternity.
Andrew glanced at his watch, it was almost lunchtime. He’d been temple-hopping by foot since sunrise. At 5:00 AM, in the pre-dawn dark, he’d run the three and a half miles from Siem Reap to the massive Angkor complex, home of the famous Angkor Wat, City of Temples.
At dawn he’d stood in front of that temple’s massive conical stone spires, along with scores of American, French, Japanese and German tourists, bussed in from Siem Reap guest houses, to watch the sun rise behind the majestic dome of this most famous Siem Reap temple.
For nearly one thousand years, the sun had risen on the temple of Angkor Wat, built for King Suryavarman II to honor the god Vishnu. As Andrew had watched the earliest morning light silhouette the temple’s spires, he could not help but feel humbled and insignificant, if only for a moment.
Now, late morning, he was exploring a less exalted but no less stunning temple, the Bayon, deeper in the jungle. He preferred this to its more famous cousin.
Here, on t
he back dirt roads away from the desperate throngs of selfie-snapping tourists, dark stone hallways led to quiet corners and stunning archways with views looking out to the green jungle.
As he climbed the stone steps and ducked his 6’ 2” frame beneath the low archways, Andrew felt like a ten-year-old, not the forty-four year old man he was. The heat, however, reminded him of the truth.
After twenty minutes clambering up and over, Andrew sat on a carved stone sill, wiping the sweat from his face with his t-shirt. He drank from his water bottle, the cold water refreshing, and chewed a tablet his hotel concierge had insisted he take, ‘for the salts’.
On his perch, by a sign that read ‘Please do not sit on this windowsill’ in five languages, Andrew stared out at the jungle. Everywhere he looked, the jungle encroached, wrapping its greedy green tendrils inch by inch around stones wrought by men long dead. One day, Andrew thought, the jungle would win.
Across the courtyard, a gaggle of laughing Cambodian children clambered up the stone steps. Andrew watched them play a noisy game of tag among the huge banyan trees, playing hide and seek as they chased each other.
Andrew’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he ignored it, hoping it would stop. It started to ring loudly, the jangling sound impossible to avoid.
Andrew sighed as he pulled out his secure phone. Only one person knew the number and had in fact insisted that Andrew take the phone on vacation. His boss, Case Officer Denise Flint.
“Just in case,” she’d said. Andrew had wondered in case of what. Sliding the green arrow to the right, he knew he was about to find out. “Hello Flint.”
“How’s the sightseeing?” Flint asked.
Andrew tensed when he spoke to Flint these days. “Impressive,” he replied. He knew this was not a social call.
Flint went on. “You’re in…Siem Reap?” Andrew heard papers rustling on the other end of the line. “Says here on your itinerary you’re in Siem Reap.”
“Yes,” Andrew said. “I’m outside of town, at the temples.” There were countless temples a person could spend days exploring. But Andrew guessed from the unexpected call that this was no longer the plan.
“Glad you’ve gotten to see the sights.” She didn’t sound particularly glad, Andrew thought. She sounded focused. In problem-solving mode.
Flint said, “There’s a situation down the road from you. I need you to take a look.”
Andrew’s face registered his surprise. It was Flint who had insisted that Andrew take this time away. Take a break, she’d said.
“I thought I was ‘taking a break’?” Andrew said, throwing Flint’s words back at her. He knew he’d agree to whatever she was about to ask, but it didn’t hurt to make her work for it.
“You were. Now you’re not. Is that a problem?” Flint’s strength and weakness was her unyielding directness.
Andrew poked at a fine crack in the stone wall then leaned back against the frame of the carved windowsill and lifted his feet, wedging himself into the space.
“I doubt it would matter if I said it was. But no, not a problem. So, where am I going?” he asked, as an elderly couple walked by him on their way to the sunny courtyard. The woman, seeing Andrew in the forbidden windowsill, commented to her husband in German that perhaps the poor man could not read. Her husband tut-tutted in agreement. Andrew gave them a slight wave, as he listened to Flint.
“To Phnom Penh. It’s a six hour ride south.”
“Six hours? Can’t I just fly?”
“You can. But I wouldn’t. There’s a bus in the morning. They show films en route.”
“Lucky me, first class all the way.” Andrew cleared his throat. “So, what’s the situation?”
“An American man was killed in the jungle yesterday. A kid really, mid-twenties. Killed by a landmine or some unexploded ordnance. There’s a lot of that left over from the ‘70s.”
Andrew pulled a notepad and pen from his backpack while Flint talked. He jotted down a few notes, his handwriting scrawling across the white hotel paper.
“From what we’ve pieced together, he’d been working in the jungle, a place called Mondulkiri. Somewhere to the east. He did humanitarian work, demining farms and roads, anywhere local kids would play. Sounds like he stepped on something lethal. Blew him up. Started a fire.”
“Anyone else hurt?
“No. His girlfriend was nearby but not at the blast site.”
Andrew hopped down from his perch and started down the hallway.
“How’d we get involved in this? One American kid killed in the jungle is unfortunate but it sounds more like a matter for the local police.”
“Yeah, normally I’d agree. But the kid’s father is some corporate big wig, CEO of an agricultural firm from one of those middle-America states, Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, one of those. He’s got more money than Gates.” She paused, thinking. “Well, maybe not Gates. But he’s a high-roller, flying politicians around in corporate jets, donating money like air. Has a lot of friends on the Hill. None of whom, by the way, care that you’re on vacation.”
Andrew shrugged. Of course not. “How’d it play out?”
Flint continued. “The dad got a hysterical message from the son’s girlfriend, that his son had just been blown up. That was first thing in the morning here - what’s the time difference over there, eleven, twelve hours?”
“Eleven hours ahead.”
“So first thing this morning this guy finds out his son…his ONLY son by the way…”
“…was blown up.” Andrew finished her sentence. “Not the best way to start the day.”
“No. So, the dad called his senator and his congressmen for help, all of them long-time personal friends elected with the generous support of this guy. The politicos started pulling in favors, phones ringing up the chain. I got the call about an hour ago from on high asking about any available agents in Southeast Asia. Was told we needed to ‘look in to it’.”
Andrew could picture Flint crossing her arms, left over right, sitting at her immaculate wooden desk, staring out her Langley window.
While he listened, Andrew retraced his steps through the hallways of the Bayon, past the disapproving German couple, and stepped into the sun, onto the long wooden walkway connecting the temple to the main dirt road. There, charging at Andrew like a small, dedicated army, marched a busload of tourists, anxious to tick one more temple off their bucket list. Cameras at the ready, they trotted full force along the narrow wooden bridge. Andrew stepped politely to the side but was nearly knocked into the mud below by a pasty American man who huffed and puffed as he pushed by Andrew.
“What exactly am I looking for?” Andrew asked.
“Details - what was the son doing, who was he working for, any associates? The father wants a picture of his boy’s last days, so let’s paint him one. The sooner, the better. He’s calling here every hour. Take the heat off me. I don’t love surprise calls from the Director.”
“Alright. I’ll see what I can find.”
Andrew heard Flint shuffle more papers. “The embassy staff will set you up with everything you need. The usual.”
“OK. I’ll catch the first bus outta here in the morning.”
“Good. And be careful out there. My neighbor’s daughter was bit by a monkey her first day in Cambodia. Got a nasty infection, had to be medivacked to Bangkok. Vicious creatures, those.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
Andrew heard the click of disconnection.
Ahead of him, colorful pushcarts lined the long dusty roadway for the mid-day rush, offering t-shirts, local food, souvenirs and sodas. Business was starting to pick up again. The tag-playing kids had left their childish games aside to worry passing tourists for dollar bills and riel.
Andrew glanced back at the mountains of carved stone behind him and then hailed one of the dozen waiting tuk-tuks.
“You seen one thousand-year-old temple, you seen ‘em all,” he muttered.
Chapter 3
Waiting in li
ne for the bus, Andrew listened to nervous chatter from his fellow passengers. He heard German, French, Chinese and some heavy Australian accents. Facing six hours on the road through the Cambodian countryside in a bus with a questionable bathroom situation, Andrew could understand their anxiety. It felt like a badly planned school field trip.
But at least there’d be films en route, Andrew thought.
Standing apart from the tourists, the Cambodian locals waited together for the bus. The women wore light loose-fitting cotton pajamas. A mother squatted on her haunches feeding her toddler son pieces of carrot. The men smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. The bus driver chatted with a young Cambodian woman tending thirty nervous fluttering gray birds packed into a tall wire cage.
Andrew eyed the waiting bus, which puffed diesel exhaust from a rusted tailpipe. There was an air of resignation about the vehicle, like a horse in its last race before the glue farm.
First on the bus, Andrew chose a seat halfway down the aisle on the left, facing forward, with a line of sight to the TV, should the film be worth watching. He draped his long frame across his seat and the one beside it, to encourage other passengers to sit elsewhere.
The bus pulled out of the parking lot, black smoke puffing from its tailpipe. The movie started, a low-budget zombie flick, its soundtrack blasting full volume into the bus. Andrew watched as the living dead terrorized humanity for no earthly reason.
Thirty minutes into the film, Andrew glanced around the bus. Everyone had nodded off. Jetlagged, Andrew leaned his seat back to maximum recline and followed suit.
******
Andrew woke with a start. The bus had stopped. Out his window, Andrew saw only dense green jungle lining the dirt-covered road, a couple cows and a farmer squatting, watching the bus, chewing a piece of grass.
This was not a scheduled rest stop. Andrew checked his watch. They’d been traveling for four hours, two to go. The other passengers were stirring. The engine was off and without the AC, the bus was warming up in the mid-day heat. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, especially for the passengers who had overdressed for the long ride.
