by Kae Bell
Andrew said nothing. Jeremy seemed nervous, on edge. Andrew turned his gaze to the window. He disliked complainers. It wasn’t his fault this guy was being inconvenienced. Out the window, the park across the street looked luscious, peaceful.
“So I’ve been instructed to support your investigation. I am to provide you with whatever you need,” Jeremy said, annoyed at the lack of sympathy from Andrew.
“We’re setting you up downstairs. I’m afraid it won’t be much, just a desk, a computer and…”
“That’s all I need.” Andrew stood abruptly, folder in hand. He hated briefings and this one had gone on too long for his liking. “Is that it?”
Jeremy gazed at Andrew over his round eyeglasses, displeased. “Nearly. It is very important you grasp this next point.” He waved a hand indicating that Andrew should sit.
“Our country is pleased to enjoy good relations with the Cambodian government, but we are still guests in this country. We have been asked politely to stay in the shadows on this matter with Ben. They fear this particular incident might frighten tourists away, if too much is made of it. So…if you can please conduct any inquiries with discretion?”
Andrew nodded. “Got it. If I kill anyone, I’ll do it on the down low.”
Jeremy’s mouth opened and a slight choking sound came out.
Andrew chuckled. “Sorry, bad joke. My humor, it’s not for everyone. No worries, discretion is my stock-in-trade.”
Jeremy tapped the desk with his pointer finger twice and then held it in the air, pointing to the ceiling, as if testing the wind. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”
Jeremy leaned back in his squeaky leather chair. One hand on his chin, the other hand on the arm of his chair, he tapped his fingers a few times against the armrest as he looked at Andrew. “Flint had said you would be without a weapon. Seems curious for someone of your...ahhh...profession to travel so unprepared.”
Andrew shrugged. He’d chucked the gun he’d lifted from the attempted bus robber. “Do YOU bring a gun on vacation?” Jeremy shook his head ‘No’.
“Me neither. It makes getting through airport security easier,” Andrew said.
Jeremy nodded. “Of course. Of course.”
Andrew had deliberately not brought his gun on this trip, had been happy to leave it home. Some people wanted to turn off their blackberries during vacation; Andrew had wanted to be gun-free for a moment. It had been nice while it lasted.
Jeremy walked to the wall safe and with a few swift turns, opened it. He pulled out a small black plastic case and carried it to the desk, where he set it down gently. A few clicks of a numbered combination, and the case opened to reveal a small black handgun, a Glock 19.
He watched Andrew. ”It’s what we have available.”
Andrew shrugged. “It’ll do.”
Jeremy shut the case and slid it across the desk toward Andrew, who picked it up with his right hand.
Jeremy said, “We hope, of course, that you won’t need to use it.” He gave Andrew a pointed look. “It’s not standard procedure, but orders are orders.”
Andrew stood. “I’d like to get started.”
“Of course. Janey will show you to your office.”
As if on cue, the heavy wooden door opened and Janey breezed in.
*******
With the same efficiency she brought to her typing, Janey wordlessly guided Andrew through the maze of the embassy hallways. Her high heels clicked on the tile floor as she walked, the sound echoing in the high hallways.
Andrew glanced at his watch. It was just after 4:30 PM. At the end of the hallway, they descended a flight of stairs and then another long hallway, almost identical to the one above, only with lower ceilings and dank air. Andrew had a good sense of direction, but was having trouble keeping track in this subterranean lair. They turned left and right a couple more times.
She stopped and turned halfway to face the wall.
“Here we are.” They were standing in a hallway with no doors as far as Andrew could tell. Janey pulled a small coppery key from her blue skirt pocket and inserted it into an imperceptible key-hole in the wall. She pushed lightly on the wall, revealing that what had seemed to be just endless walls was in fact a door, its handle discrete, that gave way into a small office with concrete floors, a metal desk on which sat an ancient desktop computer and a printer. And a single high rectangular window.
“Sorry to have to put you down here in the nether world. Orders, I’m afraid. Far from probing eyes. Need to contain the buzz about the handsome new man on campus.” She smiled at him and added. “People talk here. There is not much else to do in this little town.”
“People talk everywhere. Anyway, I’ll prefer the privacy, so it works out.”
Andrew stuck his head inside his new office, looking for the light switch, which he found on the cool steel wall. He flicked the switch and the overhead fluorescent light blinked on, off, then on again, with its trademark hum.
“This works.”
Janey looked around at the office one last time. Satisfied that all was in order, she said, “Right. I’ll leave you to it.”
Andrew was peering out the high small window that allowed what little daylight remained into the basement room. He turned back to say “Thank you” but Janey was already halfway down the long hallway, walking with sharp steps on to her next task. Andrew watched her turn the corner at the far end of the hallway, pivoting on her toes.
Andrew looked around the office. It wasn’t the same as climbing stone temples, but it suited the task at hand. Andrew closed the door, sat down and flipped opened the thin file Jeremy had given him.
Inside, there were a few local newspapers, some tourist brochures and magazines filled with glossy pictures of riverside restaurants and smiling Cambodian hostesses, a rambling police report with a statement from the girlfriend, and a large colorful map of Cambodia, with a circle around Phnom Penh. There was also a newspaper article about Ben’s father, outlining his company’s vast success.
Andrew reviewed the file material, made a few notes, then logged on to his email to see if Flint had sent him anything further. Two new emails from Flint, one with photos of Ben and a very pretty dark-haired girl. The second email was standard-issue CIA background info on the country and its dark history of civil war and unrest, most of which Andrew already knew. Hard not to know about the Khmer Rouge.
He had hit ‘Print’ when there was a knock on the door. The printer was in high gear, clacking away, spitting out pages. Over the racket, Andrew called out, “Come in.” The door opened to reveal Janey.
“Hi. Sorry to bother you so soon but I’ve brought you a local phone. We thought you’d want one, it’s easier for making local calls. We hadn’t had time to pick one up for you before you arrived. One of the secretaries just dropped it off.”
She handed him a basic plastic gray phone. Andrew took it, amused. It looked like a child’s toy. No full-length slick glossy screen, no camera, just an actual push keypad with numbers and letters and a little plastic window for a screen. Andrew thought, Welcome to the stone ages.
“Thanks.”
Janey continued. “I’ve loaded it with credit, so you should be good for a while. If you run out, you can top up at any store, just buy a card.”
“Will do.” Andrew didn’t bother to mention he had a secure cellular phone that worked anywhere in the world. He smiled up at Janey.
“Thank you,” he repeated, looking down at his desk, adjusting the keyboard and papers. He wanted to get back to work but for some reason Janey was lingering, intent on staying.
Janey eyed him. “I’ve also brought you this.” She stepped forward and held out a sheet of paper, which she placed on the desk and slid across to Andrew.
“The ambassador received this email some weeks ago now. He’s quite busy, as you can imagine, so he passed it to Jeremy. We get a lot of crank mail, from all over the world. Jeremy said that’s what this was, just another crank, and not to bother you with it. But, since you’re here, I th
ought, perhaps you should know…”
Andrew picked up the page. It was brief, only four words.
“Ch’kai leave or die.”
“Who’s Ch’kai?” Andrew asked, staring at the page.
“It’s not a who, it’s a what. ‘Ch’kai’ is Khmer for dog. Khmer is the Cambodian language,” Janey explained, tilting her head as if in apology. Andrew nodded - he knew this - and Janey continued. “Sorry, some people don’t know. So, Ch’kai is a terrible insult in Khmer, really the worst thing you can call someone. It means street vermin.”
“So someone doesn’t like the US Ambassador very much?” Andrew said.
Janey stepped closer. “No, it’s not that. Ch’kai is also a slur. It means ‘foreigner’.”
Andrew looked again at the note.
“Foreigners leave or die.” He read aloud then looked up at Janey, who was watching him with careful eyes. “That’s a clear message. Simple, to the point. Cranks usually go on and on, unable to stem the tide of their theories or injuries or complaints.”
“Yes, I know.” Janey said, her eyes bright. “And here’s the catch - from what I’ve heard from the other EAs, almost every embassy in town received this. I thought you should know.”
“Thanks. Mind if I keep this?” He looked at Janey.
“Of course. I hope it’s helpful.”
“Yes. This is not the kind of thing to shove into a file. You did the right thing, sharing this. Actually, can you forward me the original email?”
Janey nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll do that right away.” She exhaled, relieved. She didn’t usually disobey her boss. She turned to head back upstairs, then turned back to Andrew, who was reading Flint’s notes on the computer screen. “Also…a word to the wise?”
Andrew looked up. “Yes?”
“Keep this door locked. I wouldn’t expect anything to happen, security is tight. But you’re down here on your own and while I’m sure you can take care of yourself…an ounce of prevention…” She tilted her head to one side.
“Yes, ma’am. Understood. I’ll lock myself in tight,” Andrew said. He stood to lock the door as instructed. Wouldn’t hurt, he figured.
She nodded. “Good. And please, let me know if you need anything else.” She pivoted on her five-inch heels, stood silhouetted by the bright hallway light for a heartbeat, and walked away.
Andrew could hear the clack clack of Janey’s heels as she disappeared down the hallway. He stood to shut and lock the door. He wanted to peek out to watch, but thought better of it.
He sat back at the desk, staring at the note. It appeared that his vacation was well and truly over. He sighed, with both resignation and relief.
These last four years, under cover in a global trafficking ring, had taken a toll on him. He hadn’t known how high a toll until he’d made a rookie mistake, falling for the target, a Moroccan beauty with a sharp wit and a knack for selling stolen guns at inflated prices. Andrew thought he could take it - Entanglements went with the job; some thought it was a perk. But it hadn’t worked out that way for him.
His boss had yanked him out of the operation, brought him back to the surface. He’d flown home to Langley, chagrined and depressed, to sit in a high-backed leather chair staring out a wide window at the northern Virginia woods as his boss Officer Denise Flint presented him with his one option. “Take a break.” She’d talked about him not being the only one, she’d seen it happen before. But when he asked her to name names, even one, she wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.
Flint knew of course enough about Andrew’s personal life to know all was not well. Hadn’t been for some time. Right before he’d gone deep undercover again, Andrew’s wife of ten years had left him, taking their eight-year-old daughter with her, saying little except “This cannot be all there is.”
He’d had no time to process this life event or to even accept it. He’d had to move blindly forward, that was his job, who he was. So he assumed another identity for four years, as his life fell away from him.
Take a break. Flint had repeated it several times during their conversation. Andrew knew what it meant. His cover blown, he assumed he was now of little use. They’d put him out to pasture. If that happened, and Andrew was sure it would, he didn’t know what he’d do. The idea of a desk job was unappealing, a Washington DC think tank equally dismal. All he knew was the field. He was good at it.
Well, he had been, once, he thought.
Andrew stared at the gun case on his desk. He unlocked it and flipped it open. The gun, packed into stiff gray foam, gleamed a dull muted black. Andrew slipped his finger through the trigger and lifted it out of the case, checked it wasn’t loaded. He held the pistol up to the buzzing florescent light, turned it back and forth, then brought the muzzle to his nose. He inhaled. There was only the fine smell of composite. He looked down the barrel; it was pristine. He adjusted the grip, feeling its rough texture in his large hand.
The gun’s magazines were tucked in the thick foam. Andrew grabbed one and in a simple fluid movement, loaded the weapon. Without a thought, he shoved the weapon into the space at the small of his back, over his shirt. He pulled on a jacket and ventured out into the hallway, hoping he could find his way out of the maze to the street level above. He had questions to ask.
Chapter 5
The Phnom Penh waterfront was a busy place for expats and locals alike. The main Road, Sisowath Quay, was lined with restaurants offering authentic Khmer dishes, “happy” pizza, and French fries for the unadventurous. Tourists could buy colorful raw silk scarves and pirated Hollywood DVDs for a fraction of the price back home. On a central corner, stood the famous Foreign Correspondents Club, or FCC to those in the know. From its broad balcony, one could watch boats heading downriver to Ho Chi Minh City or upriver to Tonle Sap, the Great Lake by Siem Reap.
The balcony was a good place to escape the heavy afternoon rains, especially in the late afternoon, when it was quiet, after the busy lunch crowd but before the expat dinner boozers arrived, with their tall tales and foolish dreams.
Severine sat at a table along the balcony’s edge, overlooking the river, staring out at the muddy water and the rows of huts on the opposite shore. Stunned by the past 24 hours, she felt like her brain was breaking into pieces. Dark circles under her eyes, she scratched a mosquito bite on her forearm. Street kids who knew her by sight wandered by her table and asked her for change but she waved them away. One enterprising young boy put a giant furry tarantula on her table. His pet usually scared the Western women into running away from the table, leaving their purses behind. Severine merely looked at the boy with sad eyes. Disappointed, he picked up his spider and walked down the street looking for his next victim.
Severine sipped her coffee, cold now. She drank it anyway. She’d been sitting there for hours. The staff had given up on asking her if she wanted anything else. She’d called work this morning and told her assistant what had happened, said maybe she’d be in tomorrow. Maybe.
She did not know what to do.
She watched her cigarette in the ashtray, as the fire crept along the tightly-rolled white paper, in a slow, jagged advance, the flame leaving behind it a fragile branch of ash hanging from the fine divide between the burnt and the unburnt. She tapped the cigarette once, and the ash flaked to the floor, discarded.
Ben had wanted her to quit. He'd started with gentle chiding, then when she'd resisted - she'd say "I'm French - we smoke, we drink, we make mad passionate love to our men," he'd smiled but had taken to hiding her cigarettes in the cupboards and corners of their home.
This, because he'd wanted to start a family. At age 26, he was ready. But she'd said wait. Let's wait. As if it was something they would do together.
A tear fell to the table.
Two large young western men in tan uniforms who had been watching her from a distance approached the table.
“Severine Chandon?” asked the taller of the two men.
“Yes?” Severine was surprised to hear her full nam
e, spoken so formally. She looked up at the men. One of them held her picture in his left hand and he glanced at it again, as if to double-check they had the right lady.
“Will you please come with us? Someone would like to speak with you.”
She knew by their accents that they were American. They sounded like Ben, the same long vowel sounds, and the wasteful enunciation.
Severine glanced around the street and looked up at them. “I’m sorry? Come with you to where?”
The tall lantern-jawed man stood close to her table so that she had to look straight up at him. She pushed her chair back from the table to get some space.
“To the embassy ma’am.”
“What embassy?”
“The US Embassy, ma’am.”
“Who, exactly, are you?” she asked. She wasn’t completely surprised by their request. She’d known there would be questions. But she was not in the mood to cooperate. Not yet. As the men stared at her, their impolite eyes boring down on her back, she considered her options. She was tempted to jump up and run down the stairs, just to see what these goons would do. But she didn’t have the energy. So she chose to be difficult, which was equally satisfying.
“Why on earth would I go to the US Embassy? I’m French,” she said.
She was tired. The past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare, the trip back from Mondulkiri a blur. She touched the red scratches on her legs, from nasty briars as she’d run through the jungle after the explosion, all the way back to the dirt road.
Then talking to the police, who had been no help at all. They clearly felt they had bigger problems than a single mine death. Thousands of people died every year from landmines, one officer had told her. They couldn’t investigate each one. Especially so far away, in Mondulkiri.
And now these American goons, acting so imperial, she thought.
The short redheaded fellow spoke, his Napoleon complex kicking in despite his efforts to contain it. “We have a few questions for you about Ben Goodnight, who we understand was killed in the jungle yesterday. Come with us now.”
The taller guard stepped closer, glancing at his partner.
