by Johan Smits
“Yes sir, that’s right, Mr Phirun, he comes in every day now. To prepare for the opening party, you know. Will you come?”
“You bet,” the Colonel replies, walking out without paying.
The chocolate maker is the same fucking Phirun guy who delivered the bribes, he ponders. Perfect!
He turns left into the street and stops in front of the beautifully restored building that is soon to be the new chocolate venture. Those Israelis have style, the Colonel thinks, watching two Cambodian workmen erecting a large signboard. The Chocolate House, it reads in elegantly flowing script. The Colonel doesn’t linger; he knows what to do. I’m gonna make a killing, he thinks, walking back to his SUV.
He cuts off two motorcyclists and four pedestrians in true Phnom Penh style while powering his sizeable vehicle out of Street 240, turning left onto Norodom Boulevard. He speeds around the Independence Monument, his right hand almost continuously honking the horn while bellowing aloud, gloriously off-key, his favourite ABBA tune Money money money.
He continues past the Royal University of Cambodia but is suddenly halted by red lights, or rather the queue of idling cars blocking his way.
“Godvermiljaar!” he curses in Antwerp dialect. “What’s the matter with these people,” he shouts. “Have they finally discovered the significance of the colour red?”
He now notices how five policemen have formed a mini roadblock; they have pulled a few motorcyclists aside.
“Of course!” Colonel Peeters exclaims, recalling a conversation with the owner of the car rental shop this morning.
Tomorrow is Pchum Ben, the Cambodian religious festival of the dead, a three-day public holiday. As with all such traditions, the police need extra pocket money to cover the festivities, so in a rare display of activity they enforce traffic rules. But they only dare to stop ordinary looking cars, motorcycles and the odd tourist here and there. The expensive government cars and large military SUVs with their blue and red RCAF number plates never get stopped, unless the cop wants to lose his job, or worse.
The Colonel makes a mental note to find out where he can buy a blue and red plate.
Less than ten minutes later he steers his vehicle onto the driveway of a large international development organisation in Street 370. After the guard has closed the gate behind him, the Colonel enters the building.
“Is Mr Vanak in?” he asks the girl at reception.
“Yes sir, he’s in his office. Do you have an appointment with him, sir?”
“Of course,” the Colonel lies, “I know where it is.” Before the girl has time to protest, he’s already walking up the stairs to the second floor. He briefly knocks on the door of room 28 and enters without waiting for a reply. A middle-aged man is sitting in a large leather swivel chair at an almost empty desk in the otherwise bare office. A rectangular whiteboard attached to one of the walls displays a lot of complicated diagrams, arrows and charts in blue marker pen. Self-sustaining, forward development, grassroots!!, empowerment, bottom-up, bottom-down, transparency, participatory engagement, community based success... and lots of smileys all over the place, which always remind the Colonel of one of his first shipments of ecstasy pills into The Netherlands.
The man looks up from his papers, his surprised expression quickly morphing into a huge grin of recognition at his unannounced visitor.
“Colonel Peeters! Sok sabay, sok sabay!” he says while removing his glasses and bouncing out from behind his desk to grasp the Colonel’s hand. “Long time no see Colonel! How are you?”
“Fine, fine, Vanak. How’s the world-saving business treating you?”
“Oh, not bad, you know,” the man chuckles. “There’s always too much work to do, but we’re marching on, you know, like brave soldiers. But what good fortune brings you here, Colonel?” Mr Vanak asks while closing the door behind his visitor and locking it.
“I’ll come to that in a moment,” the Colonel answers, “but first I need a little favour, before I forget. How can I get those military red and blue number plates? I want a pair — how much?”
“Oh, I would strongly advise against that, Colonel”
“Why? Any idiot driving anything worth more than twenty grand has one. Can’t be all army, surely!”
Mr Vanak stands up again and smiles at his visitor. “You must understand the context,” he starts, and explains that Cambodia is probably one of the only countries in the world whose army counts more officers than soldiers.
“Those Lexuses and sports cars you see around are official military vehicles. The fact that they are used for a commander’s mistresses shopping trips or to drive to the golf course — and that includes all the Hummers — does not make them less military.”
“So what?” the Colonel replies, a disgruntled look darkening his face.
“Well, put very simply,” Mr Vanak continues patiently, “a white foreigner driving an official Cambodian military vehicle is going to attract more attention than a Phnom Penh week without power cuts. You don’t want that, do you? Neither does the military. And as your broker, neither do I.”
“Hm. Okay, forget it...” the Colonel waves his hand dismissively. He feels like a teenager who has been refused his dad’s car keys on a Friday night. That red and blue plate would have looked good on his SUV, he thinks, but Vanak’s argument makes sense.
Mr Vanak gently enquires if the number plate was the only reason for the Colonel’s visit.
“No, no, of course not. I need to use your services again, Vanak,” the Colonel answers, handing him a brown envelope.
Mr Vanak looks inside, takes a few seconds to count, then looks up. “How appropriate,” he smiles, “tomorrow is the festival of the dead.”
***
Fifteen minutes later the two men conclude their meeting with another handshake and Mr Vanak shows the Colonel out.
“Always a pleasure seeing you, Colonel. Please come round again.”
“Yeah, I reckon I will,” the Colonel mumbles.
Still frustrated about the military plates, the Colonel drives his SUV at a dangerous lick along Mao Tse Tung Boulevard towards the InterContinental. In an attempt to raise his spirits, he resumes his tuneless singing. “Diamonds are foreveeeer!”
Just before he arrives he hits a wandering dog and sees the beast hobbling towards the curb in his rearview mirror. If it had been a local peasant it would have cost me a few hundred and another trip to the ATM, he mentally shrugs.
An hour later the Colonel is pounding one of the running machines in the hotel gym. Nothing better than a good workout to clear the spirits. He wonders how those fucking Israelis will respond to his message and can barely wait until tomorrow.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
MERRILEE HAS FOUND a table for two indoors, next to the entrance. She looks at her watch — 8:45 AM. She’s fifteen minutes early; Phirun hasn’t arrived yet. Customers are scurrying in and out of The House, buying bread and croissants, or having quick coffee-fixes before starting the day.
She had ordered mint tea with lots of sugar, and when the aroma of the fresh leaves reaches her nose, the smell reminds her of Israel. If she wants to, and with a bit of luck, she could possibly finish her mission, this very morning, right here, Merrilee ponders.
She takes a sip of the hot tea. The flinty touch of the knife strapped to the shin of her right leg beneath her linen trousers reassures her. It’s always there. But this morning she had brought along her gun, too, a 9mm ‘Barak’ holding 15 rounds. It’s her favourite pistol. At less than 20cm in length, it fits easily inside her handbag, which is sitting on her lap.
Despite the intelligence she had gathered, something doesn’t feel right. Merrilee has always trusted her instinct, and it has rarely let her down. Driekamp had told her the truth, she’s sure of that. She had watched the interrogation personally and understood the effect of the techniques that had been used. Nobody can withstand those, and Driekamp was nobody’s hero. He genuinely did not know the identity of his buyer — all he knew was that the buyer was
female, was leading the network, and was based here, in Phnom Penh. He had managed to confirm that she was an Israeli national. Merrilee tenses for a second at that last detail, letting it renew her determination. The South African had also revealed everything he knew about the woman’s strategy to rapidly expand her operations in Asia. So if Merrilee wants to destroy the network she has to do it now, before it mushrooms.
She spoons even more sugar to her tea and stirs.
In one way, everything seems to fit. The shipment had arrived in Cambodia and been hidden inside chocolates, just as Driekamp had said. They had been distributed from the very place she’s sitting, The House, and the person running it is a female: Phirun’s boss, a broad called Nina. When she had discovered this, Phirun had shifted from number one on her hit list to number two. Not that it really matters, if she finds enough evidence, they both would have to go, Merrilee muses.
She readjusts her handbag on her lap — the loaded Barak weighs almost a kilogram.
Still, there’s something not quite right, she continues her thoughts. It had been dead easy to trace the diamonds back to The House. Why would they make it so bloody obvious? She’s keen to meet this mysterious Nina. There must be an easy way to find out if she’s Israeli, not Belgian. And then there’s Phirun. After she had drugged him that first night at the bar, she had searched his flat but didn’t find anything of any consequence, not even a weapon. She had thought to make imprints of his keys — she might have to go back and search his place more extensively; she hadn’t had enough time to do the job properly that particular night.
Could he possibly be in the dark about the entire operation? Merrilee wonders. Perhaps this Nina woman was just using him for the dirty work, leaving him as an innocent patsy in the affair. That seemed unlikely, but it would at least explain his unusual behaviour, she thinks. She had never come across a gangster who wrote pathetic love poems. Maybe he really is as ignorant as he seems. Or maybe he’s just a great actor. Still, it’s odd.
She might find out this morning, Merrilee hopes. She had called Phirun and apologised for having ridiculed his poem yesterday afternoon and invited him for breakfast to make things up. He had immediately accepted — that’s how desperate the guy is. And he was about to lead her to this Nina woman without arousing suspicion. He’s clearly in love, so she should keep that advantage alive. Once Merrilee meets Nina in person, she’ll have a clearer idea about her involvement. And once again, when the moment comes she will trust her instinct.
Suddenly a voice interrupts her thoughts.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Phirun apologises, out of breath. “Phnom Penh traffic, you know.”
Merrilee looks up and smiles. She arrived early and besides, the place is great for people watching, so not to worry, she reassures him. When Phirun sits, Merrilee looks at him both reproachfully and playfully, with one eyebrow cocked.
“What...? Did I do something wrong?” he asks her.
“No, it’s more what you didn’t do, you cold swine, where’s my morning kiss? I thought that you Europeans were into kissing?” Merrilee looks Phirun provocatively in the eyes.
“I’m not European, I’m Cambodian.”
“Yeah, right! When’s the last time you put prahok on your sandwich? And how many Khmer love songs do you have on your cellphone?”
“They don’t put... We don’t put prahok on sandwiches, and my mobile phone is too old to have a music player, anyway.”
“Have you managed to put some money aside since you started your job?”
“What?”
“Just answer. Did you manage to save some money?”
“Yeah, a little, why?”
“How much?”
“Er... two thousand nine hundred and six dollars, more or less.”
“And you haven’t bought the latest Nokia camera-phone and MP3 player?”
“Well, no, my old one is okay...”
“Great. I rest my case. You’re not Cambodian.”
“What? But...”
“Shut up and give me my kiss, or do you want me to ask one of the other guys in here?” she interrupts him and turns her cheek while closing her eyes.
Phirun grins and leans over to land a warm kiss on her cheek, right onto the little lotus-shaped birthmark he finds so cute.
Merrilee smiles inwardly. Once more, Phirun’s behaviour confirms her doubts about his involvement in this criminal network. And he hasn’t even really woken up yet, she notices. When she asks him what he’s having for breakfast, he returns the question to her while suppressing a yawn.
“You’re not a morning person, are you? I noticed that the first time,” Merrilee teases him. While Phirun blushes at the painful memory, Merrilee scans the menu on the blackboard. She suggests he order a fresh ginger and orange juice with a solid feed of bacon and eggs — that should sort him out, she tells him.
“And maybe a coffee afterwards. How about that?”
“Sounds great to me. And what are you having?”
“Ah. Fruit and muesli with yoghurt and honey.”
So far for the food menu, Merrilee thinks, let’s get down to business.
“Tell me about your boss,” she says. “Is she ever here? What’s her name again?”
Merrilee listens to Phirun say how he thinks Nina’s really great; she’s become more of a friend rather than just an employer. Nina sometimes looks too stern, he says, but he loves her wicked sense of humour. When Merrilee asks him if Nina is a good manager — because she doesn’t see her around — Phirun hesitates.
“She’s always running around like a headless chicken, but she’s pretty good; the staff seem to respect her a lot. In fact, I think they all love her. Do you want me to introduce you to her? She might pop in later.”
Merrilee grabs the opportunity and says she’d love to meet her.
While Phirun spoke about Nina, Merrilee didn’t fail to notice the white guy with his moustache sitting at the far end of the room, taking a picture of her with his mobile phone. He was obviously trying to be discreet, but had failed miserably. Two years of intensive reflex training have sharpened Merrilee’s senses; almost nothing escapes her attention. Who is this guy? Simply a pervert taking pictures of pretty girls, or is something else going on? Could he be a covert bodyguard? Merrilee readjusts her heavy handbag once more and returns her attention back to Phirun.
“I brought something for ya.”
“For me?” Phirun answers eagerly. “What?”
While peripherally observing the moustache, Merrilee’s hand disappears into her handbag. It brushes the cold steel of the Barak gun, but instead pulls out a white envelope, which she hands over to Phirun. When she reached for her bag, the moustache hadn’t twitched in the slightest, Merrilee noticed, so perhaps he’s just a pervert after all.
While Phirun is opening the envelope — smiling expectantly like a kid under a Christmas tree — Merrilee’s observation skills serve her a second time. Without losing her composure she watches, behind Phirun’s back, a tall, muscular foreigner leave the café. He must be around fifty, and the man’s white t-shirt and black combat trousers lend him a sporty look. Colonel Peeters, the King of Crooks, Merrilee thinks. What the hell is going on in here?
“What is it?” Phirun asks her, a hint of disappointment marking his voice. He’s staring at a blank sheet of paper with a big hole in it.
“A poem.”
“A poem?”
“Yep, a poem.”
He glances at Merrilee, examines the sheet of paper once more, and then looks up again. “I don’t understand... where’s the poem?”
Merrilee smiles briefly.
“Right there, in the hole. You have to hold it in front of whatever makes your heart feel warm and then look at it through the paper. Your favourite flower; a beautiful sunset; a stormy sky... You know, Phirun,” she says while she looks him meaningfully in the eyes, “if you look hard enough, you can recognise a brilliant diamond in almost anything — poetry is all around us, isn
’t it?”
She pauses for a second, studying his reaction, then adds:
“This is my poem to you.”
***
Despite Phirun’s feeble protests, Merrilee had settled the bill and they were now standing outside the entrance. She’d decided to forget the likelihood of encountering Phirun’s boss when a car pulled up alongside them.
“Ah, that’s Nina’s car,” Phirun says.
Merrilee tenses but nothing in her behaviour would betray how she prepares for what might happen.
“How’s it going, Rambo?” Nina asks cheerfully while slamming the door shut.
When Phirun introduces them, the two women shake hands, exchanging the ‘pleased-to-meet-yous’. Merrilee observes how Nina throws Phirun an admiring ‘nice catch’ look.
“I’ve heard a lot of flattering things about you,” Merrilee says to the woman.
“Oh yes? Then I wonder what he wants,” she answers ironically, mock-scrutinising Phirun, “I promoted him only a few days ago, you know.”
“Perhaps he’s being sincere?” Merrilee continues, ignoring Phirun.
“Uh-uh...” Nina shakes her head. “I can be a real bitch when someone pisses me off, believe me!” she laughs while returning Merrilee’s look.
Then she spots the workmen at her new chocolate shop a few metres down the road. “No, no, no, no, that’s not what I asked for at all...!” she exclaims.
“What’s wrong?” Phirun asks.
“Look! That plastic signboard they’ve put up. How ugly is that! I asked them to paint the name onto the front of the house, in brown letters — ‘The Chocolate House’. In Khmer and English. Not some ugly, plastic signboard. They’ll have to take it down again. Phirun, can you tell them?”
Phirun assures Nina that tomorrow morning the plastic board will be gone, winking quickly at Merrilee. After a hurried goodbye, Nina scuttles into her café, leaving Merrilee and Phirun next to each other on the street, hostage to the surrounding motodop mob.
“Do you hear that?” Phirun asks Merrilee.
“What?”
