Phnom Penh Express

by Johan Smits

  Billy looks at the Colonel’s file photo: the stern visage of a military man through and through, well-groomed black moustache and all, stares impassively back at him. Looks like a go-getter himself, he thinks. The shot is dated December 2006, nearly two years ago. Despite the Colonel’s standard-issue crew cut, at age forty-eight his hairline was hardly receding.

  Billy continues and learns how by 2003 the entrepreneurial Colonel was shipping African blood diamonds into Cambodia, after having them cut and polished in Antwerp. And from there he smuggles them into Thailand. The blood diamonds are purchased directly from West African rebel leaders. The first part of the report concludes that Peeters does not act directly against U.S. interests and hence does not constitute a threat.

  “And the Belgian government just sits back and watches, or what?” Billy mumbles.

  Access to the second part of the report is restricted: the system demands special clearance. Billy frowns. That means that it contains data meant only for within certain circles of the Bureau. He types his SIO clearance code but it is rejected.

  “How the hell am I supposed to do my job if I’m not allowed to know what some obscure Belgian mafia boy is up to, for chrissakes!” he shouts.

  Billy re-examines the Colonel’s profile. This guy’s trained in hand-to-hand combat, surveillance techniques, light weaponry... All the things he’d wanted to do himself.

  “Shit, if this bozo is gonna mess around on my turf, I need to know what I’m not allowed to know,” Billy mutters.

  For a moment he considers applying for special clearance, but then he’d have to justify it and he doesn’t want his secret WATT to be exposed before it sees any action. He looks at his watch — 9:56 PM: that’s 9:56 AM in Pennsylvania. He picks up the phone and calls dad’s old buddy, the Executive Assistant Director for Law-Enforcement Services John Schneider. It takes a full minute to get a line, but eventually:

  “Johnnie! It’s Billy, in Cambodia. How are you?”

  There’s a short silence at the end of the line. Then abruptly:

  “Billy, hah! How are ya, my boy? It’s been a while!”

  “All right Johnnie, how are you? And how’s er...”

  “Maggie? Fine, fine... You haven’t met her yet, have you?”

  Billy already knows what he needs to know.

  “No, I’m afraid not. It’s been a while since we had that barbecue, we should do that again.”

  “We sure have to, my boy, it’s been a while! Are you coming to the States?”

  “No, no immediate plans, I’m afraid. I was going through a bunch of pictures in my desk and came across the one of you and dad at the firing range. As I was right by the phone I thought, let’s give Johnnie a call, it’s been a while.”

  “It sure has, Billy boy! Damn me if it hasn’t been a while!”

  After another five minutes, Billy puts down the receiver. John Schneider hasn’t changed one bit, he thinks. Since the death of his wife four years ago, he’s switched lady friends about every six months. So the latest one is called Maggie, he smiles. He turns his attention back to his computer and this time registers onto the database as John Schneider. He clicks once again on the link to the second part of the report. When the special clearance message pops up, he types ‘Maggie’ as the password.

  Access Denied

  He knows he’s got only three chances. He tries ‘Margaret’.

  Access Denied

  Hell! Last chance. ‘Maggy’.

  The file opens.

  “Good old Johnnie,” Billy mumbles to himself, “it’s been a while.”

  The second, classified part is over seven pages long. It starts by going back to the eighties in Belgium, when a gang called ‘The Brabant Killers’ were terrorising the Belgian province of the same name, nearby the capital, Brussels. Twenty-eight people had been killed in a series of violent, seemingly random attacks, mostly carried out in supermarkets. The assaults were executed with military precision, while the takings for the robberies were almost negligible. At the time, it had led to suspicions that these attacks were principally efforts to destabilise the country, perpetrated by right-wing members of the paramilitary gendarmerie. The murder weapons had been stolen from a police cache, and Colonel Peeters, the report revealed, was suspected of being one of the main organisers.

  This is getting goddamn complicated, Billy thinks, cursing his luck. The report also reveals that the murders committed by The Brabant Killers were rooted in a conspiracy shared by two Belgian ‘stay-behind’ networks and the American Defence Intelligence Agency. The report explains that a stay-behind network is a secret combative cell based by a given nation in its own territory, for use in the event that the territory is overrun by an enemy. Billy remembers that during the Cold War, NATO and the CIA sponsored such forces in many European countries, intending to activate them only if the Communist Party won a democratic election. The operatives concerned would then form a resistance movement or spy from behind enemy lines.

  And Colonel Peeters? he wonders.

  According to the report one of the two Belgian stay-behind cells was embedded in the Belgian Military Intelligence Service; the other in the Belgian gendarmerie. It was the latter, headed by Colonel Peeters, that had carried out the attacks. The official gendarmerie, with its antique weaponry and underpaid officers, was powerless to prevent the attacks, let alone apprehend any of the suspects. The murders went unsolved, but Colonel Peeters’ unit saw its annual budget grow by two hundred and thirty per cent as a result. The first thing the Colonel then did was place a multi-million dollar order for new equipment with an American defence company of which his brother-in-law was a board member.

  Billy whistles lightly; no surprise this guy comes to Cambodia, it’s a natural habitat for a crook like him.

  He continues reading: senior American DIA officers were linked to Peeters at the time of the attacks.

  ‘It is the expressed wish of the DIA that this unconfirmed speculation stays within the boundaries of the family of U.S. Intelligence services,’ the report wryly concludes.

  No wonder they leave the damn guy alone, Billy thinks, the last thing they want is for him to start singing and cause an international scandal. He was right not to go through the official channels; they would have never allowed him to investigate the guy, he realises.

  Tiredness washes over Billy suddenly. He’s not sure where to place the Colonel. He didn’t think the Colonel was linked to al Qaeda. To him, Colonel Peeters is a ruthless gangster involved in drug trafficking, money-laundering and diamond-smuggling, working purely for his own gain. But then, he’d be a fool to exclude anything at this early stage. Maybe al Qaeda is using his network, just as the initial intelligence had suggested.

  He downloads the Colonel’s file photo and prints out a copy. Then he sends an e-mail to his liaison officer, who is assisting the Cambodian government with airport security. He attaches the Colonel’s picture and instructs the officer to alert him if this person is spotted entering or leaving Cambodia. Since the U.S. both sponsored and installed the new face recognition scanners in both Cambodian international airports, a Memorandum of Understanding allows them to use that data without clearance.

  Billy looks at his watch and inwardly curses — 11:20 PM. He must be the only desk jockey left. Time to get some sleep, the coming week promises to be a busy one.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  THAI AIRWAYS FLIGHT TG696 is starting its descent towards Phnom Penh airport. In business class, Colonel Peeters empties his cognac and places the glass onto the tray in front of him. A young Thai air hostess bends over to pick it up, giving the Colonel a warm smile, and walks away. The Colonel’s eyes linger on her perfectly shaped buttocks as she carries his tray into the service area. Nice ass, he thinks approvingly, and realises how much he has missed the Far East. The overnight stay in Bangkok had been pleasant. After having dumped Nit... Nat... Noi?... with a fake gold necklace at her suburban Bangkok slum, he had visited his favourite go-go bars and spent
the night with five cheap hookers in a $30 guesthouse near Pat-pong, before returning in the morning to his $950 suite at The Oriental where he showered, shaved, had breakfast then checked out.

  He’s feeling tired and a stiff drink was just what he needed. Ignoring the ‘Fasten Your Seatbelt’ sign, he gets up and enters the toilet three rows behind him. While he urinates the cognac and various other drinks in the toilet bowl, spilling half of it on the floor, he studies his face in the mirror to his side. He still hasn’t become used to it. Since he decided to come to Cambodia, he’s had his hair grow out of its customary crew cut. Now his normally dark hair is dyed a light shade of brown, almost blond, and new contact lenses transform his normally steel blue eyes into a pallid grey. But what had pained him most was the removal of his proud moustache. While he shakes off the last droplets, generously fouling the toilet seat, he looks again. Shaving it off does take five years off him, he admits, but it simply isn’t him anymore. Privately, he fears he’s been emasculated. It’s almost like cutting off my dick, he thinks.

  Knock-knock

  “Sir?”

  Knock-knock

  “Please return to your seat sir, the plane is landing.”

  The Colonel opens the door, winks at the air hostess and returns to his place. While the Airbus is taxiing the runway, he studies his new passport. ‘Gargamel Sponsz’ he reads, studying his new identity. He constantly has to remind himself of his new name. Why has that bastard Alexander chosen such a ridiculous sounding name, he winds himself up. Moreover, it sounds suspiciously familiar and he tries to remember where he’s heard it before.

  After leaving the plane, the Colonel queues to buy a business visa. It allows him to stay in the country for four weeks, but he can extend it in Phnom Penh by a year for $280, no questions asked. And it’s legal, he chuckles to himself, cheaper and easier than getting his annual golf membership. What a wonderful country...

  A few moments later the Colonel is in another queue, this time in front of customs’ checkpoint. ‘Mr Gargamel Sponsz officially enters Cambodia,’ is going through his head while being photographed by the little webcam at the desk. The bored Cambodian officer stamps his passport and waves him through with nary a glance. Colonel Peeters then waits at the conveyor belt for his luggage to show up. Nobody knows I’m here, he smiles smugly.

  ***

  “Ah, Colonel Peeters from Belgium has arrived,” the American liaison officer says aloud to himself. He’s sitting in front of a laptop inside a small airport office, less than fifteen metres from where the Colonel is waiting. Despite his new looks, the American-made face recognition system had immediately identified the Colonel’s features. His photograph had just popped up onto the laptop’s monitor. The e-mail instructions the liaison officer had found the previous morning were to do nothing, apart from notifying his superior, Senior Intelligence Officer William H. Stoppkotte at the U.S. embassy. Before Colonel Peeters even passes through the exit gates with his luggage in tow, an e-mail capturing his new look is waiting in Billy’s inbox.

  ***

  Outside, the Colonel is immediately assaulted by a small army of taxi, tuktuk and motodop drivers. He puts on his sunglasses and enters the first car in a row of waiting taxis.

  “Sok sabay,” the taxi driver welcomes him with the accustomed Khmer greeting. “You go where sir?”

  The Colonel hesitates. He prefers to stay at the Raffles Le Royal but it’s easier to smuggle prostitutes into the InterContinental. Eyebrows always rise at Raffles, which he hates, whereas at the InterCon nobody gives a shit.

  “InterContinental,” he replies.

  Ten minutes later the Toyota Camry is making painfully slow progress into Phnom Penh. The sun is still rising but this is one of the busiest times of the day.

  “Can’t you drive faster?” the Colonel shouts from the backseat.

  “InterContinental Hotel, baat?” the driver asks.

  “Yeah, but faster,” the Colonel motions, shaking his upper body back and forth while holding an imaginary steering wheel.

  “Baat, baat,” the driver replies and slows down.

  Fuck, the Colonel thinks, sinking back into his seat, I forgot about Cambodian drivers. He resolves to rent a proper 4x4 tomorrow and drive it himself.

  The taxi finally arrives at the hotel.

  “How much?” he asks the driver, knowing well that it’s a flat fee of $9, testing the man’s honesty.

  “Nine dollars, sir,” he replies, to the Colonel’s disappointment.

  The Colonel hands him the exact fee and ignores the imploring look in the driver’s to pay him a tip. The Colonel always distrusts honest types. They’re either plain stupid or they’re up to something else, he figures.

  Entering the lobby, he walks to the reception desk while behind him a young bell-boy lugs a gilded cart with his suitcases.

  “Do you have a room?” he moodily addresses the receptionist.

  “Good morning, sir. Yes, sir. What kind of room would you like, sir?” the girl replies.

  “A suite.”

  “One moment sir,” the girl answers. She types something and reads off the screen. “We have an Executive Suite available and also an Apartment Suite.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The Apartment Suite is less expensive, sir, it’s smaller.”

  “Give me the Executive Suite,” the Colonel barks without bothering to enquire about the rate.

  “Yes sir,” the girl replies, unimpressed. “How many nights, sir?”

  “Dunno, does it matter?”

  “No sir, that’s all right sir. May I have your passport please, sir?”

  The Colonel throws his passport on the desk drumming his fingers impatiently while the girl logs his details.

  “Thank you,” the girl hands back the Colonel’s passport, “and may I please also have your credit card...”

  Colonel Peeters begins to reach for his wallet.

  “... for security purposes, Mr Sponsz?”

  Fuck, the Colonel realises, I don’t have any credit cards in that stupid name. He withdraws his hand back from his inside pocket.

  “I’ll pay cash.” He counts ten $100 notes and puts them in front of the receptionist.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replies, counting the notes. She hands him back two $100 notes together with a receipt and a plastic key card. “This will cover your first night sir.”

  Shit, I’ll have to get to an ATM, the Colonel thinks. If it wasn’t for those retarded Israelis entering my fucking market, I wouldn’t have to go through all this crap.

  By the time the Colonel finds his suite, his mood has sunk. He puts the plastic card into the slot beneath the doorknob but nothing happens. He curses inwardly, turns the plastic card and tries again. Nothing. Cursing aloud, he turns the card and inserts it reverse-side up. Finally, the magic click, a green light and the door opens. The bellboy, who had been standing behind the Colonel the entire time but hadn’t dared intervene, shyly enters and carefully unloads the cart. He then, for possibly the first time in his young career, discreetly leaves without pausing for the customary tip.

  After setting all the air conditioners to full blast, Colonel Peeters enters the bathroom and takes a cold shower. When he steps back into his suite’s living room, he’s cooled down and his dark mood has leavened slightly. He pours himself a cognac from the minibar and sinks into one of the sofas.

  “Time to think,” he mumbles. “Where do I start?”

  Before he left Antwerp, he had compiled a file with all the information his agent had gathered to date. He pulls it from one of his leather bags and places them onto the coffee table.

  What do we know so far? he tries to order his thoughts. He sips the cognac and picks up a photograph of Phirun e-mailed to him just before he left Belgium. He studies it pensively.

  The delivery guy was a Cambodian-Belgian returnee employed at a bakery called The House in central Phnom Penh, the Colonel reads. He will soon be involved in opening a new
business producing more Belgian chocolates. Probably to function as a central transit point for diamond shipments, the Colonel guesses.

  He empties the cognac, stands up and starts pacing around the living room, hands crossed behind his back.

  The origin of the shipment had been easily traced to Tel Aviv. They probably want him to know, the Colonel thinks. Then he speaks out loud:

  “They underestimate Colonel Peeters and will fucking regret it!”

  The Colonel is all wound up again. He realises that he has miscalculated the extent of the influence he exerts on his local government contacts, obviously. He thought he had them all, but of course, every coin has two sides, even those spent on buying off corrupt politicians. If someone else comes along offering more money, their loyalty is worth as much as that of a horny Bangkok hooker on a Saturday night. Especially if the bribe comes in such a spectacular fashion — handing out free diamonds indeed.

  The Colonel plops into the sofa. He knows that he needs to act quickly and ruthlessly if he doesn’t want to lose his burgeoning Cambodian empire. As a paramilitary man he thinks in terms of martial solutions. He hadn’t been shy about all that gung-ho stuff back in Belgian in the eighties, when he had personally trained and organised that elite elimination squad. As a result, his brother-in-law had not only sold arms to Belgium’s gendarmerie according to the terms of an unusually lucrative contract, he had also seen his company’s share price increase 43 per cent. But that was years ago. Now we’re talking about much larger sums. But he won’t be shy this time, either.

  He takes out a map of Phnom Penh and looks up Street 240. Tomorrow he’ll have breakfast at the so-called House, he thinks. He’ll decide on a plan of action there and then.