by Johan Smits
“Oh shit...” Phirun whispers.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally moves and sits down on the bloodied chair where Jacky had been resting only moments before. For several blank minutes he is clueless about what to do. Then he sees some passersby gawping in through the windows. Nobody dares to enter. He stands up, grabs his mobile phone and quickly makes a call. Then he sinks down again into the chair, staring once more at the corpse. At least poor Jacky and poor Sergio are together again, is all he can think right now. Their separation was short-lived but their reunion is pretty definitive, he muses, strangely.
“What’s that...?” He bends forward and retrieves a bloodstained envelope from Jacky’s shirt. He opens it and unfolds a single sheet of paper upon which a single, baffling statement is inscribed.
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, not a man’s,” he reads aloud slowly.
“What the hell...! Another message?”
Chapter TWENTY THREE
PHIRUN ORDERS HIMSELF an ice coffee and a sugarcane drink for Merrilee. They’re sitting outdoors at one of the many street stalls alongside the riverfront. An explosion of activity is filling the broad promenade with vendors competing for public space to punt their wares. Fresh coconut juice, fried fish and cloudy gasoline in used Johnnie Walker bottles are up for sale among greasy motorcycle repair men, single-seat barber shops, professional beggars, small shoe-shining boys and little girls selling roses and pirated copies of popular books.
Over the road an army of families, teenagers and amorous couples fills the grass square, picnicking on rattan mats, playing cards, listening to music crackling from portable radios and mobile phones, or just joking and gossiping.
At the other end of the square and across another road is the long yellow wall of the Royal Palace, plastered with finger-sized geckos stalking bugs to snap up. Behind the wall, soaring spires crown the orange-and-green tiled, multi-layered royal roofs. They bask in the last rays of a tropical sun quickly sinking behind the famous confluence point where the Tonle Sap, Mekong and Bassac rivers blend into one another. At 5:30 PM the late September breeze offers welcome relief from the daytime heat. The entire riverside stretch, from the Royal Palace all the way to Wat Phnom, is teeming with life.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Phirun says into his coffee. “I had to get away from there. It’s too depressing; two murders in one day.”
“Anytime Phirun,” Merrilee murmurs, trying to sound neutral to mask her intrigue.
“Did you know them well, these two French men?”
“Not really, but I can’t believe they deserved to die. They were okay guys, you know; wouldn’t hurt a fly, either of them. That’s why I still can’t believe this has happened.”
Phirun sighs and watches a vendor pass by with dozens of brightly coloured strung-up balloons, dancing inches above his head.
“Would you like a red balloon?” Phirun asks feebly.
“No thanks,” Merrilee says. “I appreciate your generosity.”
Phirun is oblivious to her sarcasm. Merrilee steers the conversation back to the day’s frightful events.
“You said Nina thinks the murders were some sort of revenge against Couleurs d’Afrique, perhaps some kind of business dispute?”
“Yeah... that’s what she thinks, anyway... But I think she’s exaggerating. Sergio and Jacky were decent guys. Those weird notes don’t mean they were mafia henchmen, you know.”
Merrilee readjusts herself on the plastic chair, interested.
“What notes?”
The sinking sun has quickly disappeared behind the rivers’ horizon, and a romantic blend of pink and cobalt blue, characterising the typical early Phnom Penh evening, is enveloping the city. It’s a colour unique to this time of day and fades within a couple of minutes, leaving nothing but a longing memory. A stray dog lifts its rear leg and pisses against a parked tricycle.
“Haven’t I told you yet? About those messages found on their bodies?”
Merrilee’s all ears now. “No, you haven’t. What messages?”
“One said that ‘Belgian chocolates are worth dying for’, or something along those lines; and the other said that ‘diamonds are a girl’s best friend, not a man’s’. But what does it matter now, Sergio and Jacky are dead and the police are not going to find their killers, I’m sure.”
Merrilee is carefully studying Phirun’s face.
“But don’t you think that’s really weird?”
“Yes, of course. But it doesn’t prove that Sergio and Jacky were criminals, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Merrilee answers absentmindedly, absorbed in thought. Her instinct is alerting her to a possible connection to Dieter Driekamp’s female Israeli contact here in Cambodia. Then, there’s that Belgian, Colonel Peeters; she’d recognised him in The House yesterday morning, despite his pathetic attempt at disguise. When Mossad had been preparing her for this mission, they had come across his name far too frequently.
“Merrilee, are you okay? Would you like some fried crickets?”
“Yeah, I’m fine... just thinking about what you said,” she answers truthfully for once.
While Phirun wanders over to the cricket vendor, Merrilee meanders towards an inevitable conclusion. One note had mentioned diamonds, he’d said. They are a girl’s best friend, not a man’s, it had said. A girl’s, not a man’s. And the other note mentioned Belgium. Belgian chocolates are worth dying for? Merrilee sips her sugarcane juice. This stinks of a hood turf, she thinks. A war between a girl who loves diamonds and a man from Belgium, or the as-yet unidentified Israeli woman and Colonel Peeters.
Merrilee shifts uneasily in her chair. This double murder episode raises more questions than it resolves, she thinks. Why did they kill these French guys from the fabric shop? What did they have to do with it? And if the Israeli and the Belgian are fighting each other, then why, for heaven’s sake, do they target the same business, Couleurs d’Afrique? None of it makes any sense at all.
Merrilee sets her drink down and when she looks up Phirun is standing before her, holding a little plastic bag of fried crickets in one hand, and a red balloon on a string in the other.
“For you, mate,” he smiles.
“Phirun,” Merrilee looks at him with mock-incredulity. “I am twenty-eight. What on earth do you expect me to do with a red balloon? Please.”
Phirun smiles sheepishly and releases the string. The balloon ascends rapidly, the wind carrying it over the Tonle Sap River until it becomes nothing but a minuscule red dot against the darkening blue sky.
“Something to eat then?” he asks, offering her the snack.
Merrilee takes a handful of the fried crickets and crunches away, while looking at him. She suddenly realises that this guy, who less than a minute ago was holding a balloon, has nothing to do with the network she’s after. She can’t prove it, yet — but she’s absolutely sure. She had found nothing at all when she’d searched his flat a second time yesterday. The only thing that had caught her attention was another poem with her name on it and she hadn’t been able to resist taking it with her. The certainty of his non-involvement floods her with relief. She can cross Phirun off her hit list and the feeling that realisation creates inside her is probably the closest she’s been to happy in a very long time. She can’t deny it stirs something long dormant deep inside her and she’s both annoyed and excited by it.
A little bit hesitantly, Phirun says:
“Thanks again for coming, Merrilee. I needed to see someone normal. I really appreciate it. But I need to go now... still got work to do.”
Merrilee stands up and gives Phirun a warm hug. He is pleasantly surprised.
“You’re a funny guy, Phirun,” Merrilee says, “and thank you for offering me a red balloon — I shall always remember it,” she adds, mockingly. “Why don’t you stay? Let’s go for a walk along the river.”
Phirun reluctantly grabs his bag and, his voice soaked in regret, answers:
“I still need to see some
courier company. I have an appointment at 7 PM. Nina asked me to help her sort out the mixed-up parcel of chocolate boxes.”
“Even after what happened today? Does she not have any sense of...?” But Merrilee interrupts herself. “What was that? What mix-up? What parcel?”
Phirun sighs. “It’s boring work stuff. It seems like a courier company messed up one of our shipments. We’ve received some chocolates from Israel — of all places! — instead of Belgium. Happened a little while ago. But, then, yesterday Nina’s original order from Antwerp finally arrived. That’s how we found out about it. She wanted to try and settle the confusion with the courier company herself, but it’d be easier if I do it, in Khmer. Plus, I owe her a favour.”
Merrilee is flabbergasted. This whole mess is just a stupid, run-of-the-mill mix-up!
“I’ll come with you.”
“Where? To that courier’s?”
“Yes. It’s not against your religion, is it?
Then we can have a drink afterwards.”
Phirun does not need any more convincing. Any opportunity to spend time with Merrilee is a little slice of Nirvana to him. When, five minutes later, he’s driving his old, rusty motorcycle along the riverside with Merrilee on the back, her arms clasping his waist, Phirun is in seventh heaven. He feels like Superman, Spiderman and Batman rolled into one.
***
Soon they are both sitting inside the courier company’s office, opposite the logistics assistant — a young man in his early twenties.
“What was the name of your house again?” he asks.
“The House,” Phirun answers solemnly.
“Baat, baat, and the name of your house?”
Here we go again, Phirun thinks. His facial expression betrays his utter despair, while realising that he can’t really blame the clerk.
“That’s the name: The House. It is a house, and the name of that house is ‘The House’. You see?” Phirun takes one of his business cards and hands it over to the perplexed assistant. “You see, it is written on here: The House. I know it’s confusing, but that’s the way it is.”
“Baat...” the young man answers hesitantly, carefully studying both sides of Phirun’s business card.
Indecisively, he slides open a drawer stuffed with file cards. Then starts shuffling through them at such an agonizingly slow pace Phirun thinks for a moment that he’s stopped moving at all. After ten excruciating minutes, the clerk pulls out the third card to study, as if it were a secret treasure map — he obviously has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing. Phirun knows that his people can be world-class masters in slothfulness but this time even he loses patience. The same moment he takes a deep breath to launch into a tirade, the boy looks up and speaks.
“Cannot find it,” he concludes and smiles at the couple opposite him, expecting that therewith the matter has been successfully resolved.
“What do you mean, cannot...,” Phirun begins, but Merrilee interrupts.
“Perhaps your boss knows? Let’s get your boss,” she tells the young man gently but firmly.
“Okay, I get my boss, he logistics manager,” the logistics assistant agrees, glad to pass the burden on to someone else.
Ten minutes later Phirun and Merrilee are still waiting. The logistics assistant has simply vanished; his favourite crisis-management tactic. Sometimes it works but not in this case. The moment Phirun realises what’s happening, he walks around the desk and jerks the drawer.
“Locked,” he says, casting one eye at Merrilee.
“You stay here and calm down,” she tells him and walks out.
***
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Phirun and Merrilee are finally getting somewhere. After Merrilee had managed to locate the logistics manager, they naturally had to repeat the whole, painful process of explaining their problem again (“Baat, but what is the name of this house?”) Only after threatening the logistics manager — who was clearly about as proficient as his absent assistant — that they would not leave his office until the matter was resolved, he had called in his logistics director. The middle-aged lady who was just about to go home, finally shed some light onto the affair, loathing the thought of doing overtime.
With no paper trail to follow, she has to rely on the memory of the young shipping clerk on duty the day the parcels arrived. The moment the young boy appears, Merrilee considers this a lost cause. With his MTV-bred attention span, the boy is highly confused within two sentences of his boss’ explanation and instead decided to check out the ringtones on his mobile. Now it’s Merrilee’s turn to lose her temper. She suddenly snatches the mobile phone out of the hapless delivery boy’s hands. While threatening to smash it against the wall, she shouts angrily in broken Khmer:
“Wake up! Our shipment of chocolates, remember?”
Something shifts in the boy’s eyes. Against all the odds, he seems to be remembering something.
“Chocolate, yes,” he says, eyeing his mobile anxiously.
“What was the destination address?” Merrilee asks.
“There wasn’t one,” he claims. “Maybe it got lost, because there weren’t any papers at all.”
“Then why did you send them to The House?” Merrilee retorts.
Phirun glances at her, thankful, and a little taken aback by her uncharacteristically aggressive tone.
“If the shipment stayed in the office, my boss would blame me and cut my salary,” the boy answers. “I found only one chocolate shop in Yellow Pages so I sent it there.”
The boy smiles shyly.
“It’s not funny, you caused us a lot of trouble,” Merrilee continues, giving him a hard time.
“Baat!” the boy semi-laughs.
Had this been in Australia, she would have started swearing aloud — but Merrilee recognised his laughter as the typical reaction of her country-folk when faced with an embarrassing situation. She’s seen enough examples of foreigners losing it when confronted with laughter during conflicts and she doesn’t want to join them.
“All right, then,” she cools down. “Perhaps you can help us find out what the original destination address was? Did nobody come to claim these parcels?”
The boy is visibly relieved.
“No, nobody has turned up. I don’t know how else to find out. I’m sorry bong.”
***
Phirun and Merrilee are finally having their long-awaited drink on the balcony of the Equator bar, overlooking the human traffic traversing Street 278. Phirun is sipping a dark Leffe beer and Merrilee a house cocktail called ‘Amnesia’.
“Thanks for your help today,” Phirun tells her. “You were quite persistent.”
“Yeah. I guess I overreacted a little,” she confesses. “I just wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible and have a drink. After all, it’s Friday night.”
Merrilee looks gloomily into her glass. She should have considered the glaring possibility — of a simple mix-up by an incompetent clerk, an error on the part of the courier company — beforehand. She’s been on the wrong track the whole time. That means she can also scrap Nina from her hit-list. That leaves her with not much; certainly no concrete names, she realises. But her priority remains unchanged: to identify and eliminate whichever Israeli woman Driekamp had screamed while under interrogation.
She glances at Phirun who’s watching the multifarious comings and goings below.
If The House has nothing to do with all of this, what was that Belgian Colonel doing in there yesterday morning? Coincidence? Or has he, too, been led up the garden path, just like her, Merrilee wonders. In any case, it’s not the Colonel she’s after, it’s the Israeli. But if he’s fighting a turf war, the Colonel should be able to lead her to her target, she decides.
“How’s your amnesia?” Phirun asks.
“I can’t remember,” she jests, waking from her maze of half-formed thoughts. She smiles warmly at Phirun. “Cool bar — thanks for bringing me here.”
“No worries — mate,” he smiles back.
Phirun stands up from his barstool. “Les toilettes...,” he exclaims. “Please guard my vintage Leffe with your life.”
Merrilee returns to her interior dialogue. Her instructions are clear. She’d do whatever it takes to locate and eliminate her target and accomplish her mission. If she can’t get to that Israeli traitor directly, then she’ll have to take a little detour.
In the background, UB40’s ‘Rat in mi Kitchen’ is playing. Merrilee quietly sings along.
If I want to fix that rat then I’ll have to get to Colonel Peeters first, she concludes. And having studied the Colonel’s profile, she knew exactly how to do just that.
Chapter TWENTY FOUR
SHUFFLING RESTLESSLY ON the wooden bench in the stuffy Phnom Penh courtroom, Colonel Peeters is getting anxious. What’s taking the judge so long to reach a verdict? This is the second time that the trial’s final session has been postponed. The new court hearing is scheduled for 4:30 PM. He looks at the large clock on the wall: 4:23 PM.
The weight of the handcuffs around his wrists is starting to ache; could he end up with nerve damage from their drag? In Cambodia they still use heavy, old-fashioned welded steel cuffs, not the modern versions made of aluminium or synthetic polymers, that he himself has snapped shut on suspects many times during his career. He had pleaded ‘not guilty’ to numerous charges: of conspiracy to murder; trafficking of illegal goods; and attempting to bribe police officials. He had subsequently bribed the general prosecutor, three magistrates and the judge to ensure his freedom. But now doubt starts eating away at his previous confidence. The Colonel has heard enough disturbing stories about what happens behind the walls of Cambodian prisons; ghastly visions of rape, mock executions and starvation haunt him.
Shit, he thinks, keep yourself together old boy. If they think you’re breaking down it only encourages them to suck you even more dry of cash. Despite lecturing himself to keep calm, tiny sweat droplets start forming on the Colonel’s forehead. He looks at the clock again: 4:35 PM.
