Phnom Penh Express

by Johan Smits

Tzahala hesitates, then sits down again. This Colonel is either a damn good actor or an imbecile.

  “Dieter Driekamp,” she intones. “Don’t tell me you don’t know about him.”

  “Was that the guy my Cambodian contact was supposed to take care of in your shop? Well, as you must already know, to your great satisfaction I assume, the idiot got your neighbour instead. You left me no choice. And for the record, this was after you raided my market.”

  “My shop? You mean your shop. Now wait a minute... This is ridiculous; what the hell is going on...?”

  ***

  On the other side of the amphitheatre, a figure is peering intently through a pair of binoculars at the Belgian man and Israeli woman having their little discussion. To them, Merrilee is just a distant dot. She listens in to every word they exchange — Israeli surveillance technology, she thinks, approvingly. The microbug that she had sewn into the lining of the Colonel’s trousers back in his hotel room can be activated remotely. Our Belgian Colonel faithfully wearing his good old, black combat trousers, she smiles. Then she closely studies the face of the woman next to him.

  “Finally,” she whispers, “finally...”

  ***

  It has been a heated discussion. First, they agreed that they couldn’t just start a turf war. They both would lose support from their respective local protectors, who are generally content as long as there’s no trouble such as a pair of barangs fighting a war in Phnom Penh. Then, to their consternation, they’d discovered that neither was responsible for provoking the other and that The House wasn’t part of either of their local networks. A new question forced itself into the foreground and the Colonel is the first to verbalise it:

  “Then who the fuck are these clowns?”

  “I don’t know, I swear. I was convinced it was your bakery. After all, it’s Belgian.”

  “Do your homework properly next time,” the Colonel retorts, annoyed.

  “As if yours was so brilliant — why the hell did you think The House was mine?” Tzahala snaps.

  “Because I traced those fucking diamonds to it, and they came from Israel. Your fucking diamonds!”

  “Okay, okay, we’ve been through that already. Let’s think this over. What other information do we have?”

  They both stare ahead for a moment, then simultaneously reply:

  “That Phirun guy.”

  Tzahala is the first to speak.

  “Okay, you have the most contacts here. I can guarantee a good supply via Israel; cheaper than yours, I’m sure. We both want the Thai market. I don’t see why we can’t make a deal. Thailand keeps on growing, and other Asian markets will soon follow suit. And just wait till China gets hungry.”

  “China’s all about jade,” the Colonel states.

  “Sure, but not all one billion of them.”

  “One point three billion.”

  “Exactly! See what I mean?” Tzahala studies the Colonel’s face.

  “So where does your supposedly cheap supply come from, then?”

  Tzahala hesitates.

  “Hezbollah, isn’t it?” he says, adding, “not bad for an Israeli. I couldn’t have done it better.”

  “So we have a deal then?” Tzahala asks, ignoring the Colonel’s mock compliment.

  “Okay.”

  “Then our priority must be sorting out that chocolate shop. What do you propose?”

  The Colonel winces. His headache is still grumbling away.

  “I propose we go in, beat the information out of that guy, get the names we need and pick them off. The whole lot of them. I’m sick and tired of all this. I just wanna go back home and eat mussels with fries — it’s the season.”

  “But we’ll have to do it ourselves. My contact completely screwed up. That moron had seen too many Hollywood action movies — he snuffed the wrong guy.”

  “At least he got the right house. Mine went to the neighbours — couldn’t even figure out the address. I mean, can you fucking imagine?”

  Tzahala nods.

  “Very well. Let’s do this by ourselves this time.”

  “When? Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, tomorrow.”

  They shake hands but none of them seem to be leaving. Their eyes cross a few times silently. It’s Tzahala who takes the initiative.

  “All right, then. Your place or mine?” she says.

  “Yours,” the Colonel answers immediately.

  Chapter TWENTY SIX

  SENIOR INTELLIGENCE OFFICER William H. Stoppkotte is sitting alone in his U.S. embassy office and has instructed his secretary to ensure he’s not disturbed for the next hour. He wants to read his newspaper. Two days ago The Cambodia Daily had run a front page yarn detailing the murders in Street 240, and today there was a follow-up article in the national section. Billy rereads it carefully.

  A few hours after the murders, the police, more out of habit than investigative ability, had arrested some beggars, he learns. It wasn’t until someone pointed out that the assassins were spotted respectively speeding away on a Honda Dream and in a black Lexus, two modes of transport rarely enjoyed by the homeless, that the beggars were released. The police promised to continue their investigation, find the perpetrators and punish them harshly.

  Billy closes the Daily and tosses it on to his desk. What the hell is going on in there? he wonders. He’s sure those murders are linked. The past two days he had listened in on the bugging device in that chocolate shop, but to no end — there was no activity at all to monitor. And it wasn’t because of faulty equipment, because he could still hear traffic passing by outside. No, they must have closed down temporarily, he hopes, rather than relocate entirely. After all, a murder has taken place there. The inactivity frustrates Billy — he doesn’t want his operation to stall. What to do now?

  He looks at his watch — it’s 6 PM. Billy picks up his phone and dials Charlie’s number once again — a last try for today. As usual, after two rings the phone connects with the equipment hidden inside the chocolate shop and Billy hears the hum of the air dehumidifier and also a voice.

  “Finally!” he exclaims.

  He quickly activates his mobile phone’s recording function. He hears a constant background noise — probably the chocolate-melting machines — interspersed with some weird laughter. Though the lack of response gives Billy the impression there’s only one person present. He hears the loud voice again and Billy concentrates. But the more he listens, the more his facial expression twists into one of horrified disgust.

  “... my little dark-skinned sweethearts. Hah! Yeah, now you’re quiet, eh?”

  Billy swallows. He wants to make absolutely sure that what he’s hearing is correct.

  “... gonna stick my teeth into you slowly, one by one, and then suck all the life out of you, you little black creeps...”

  Oh my God, Billy thinks, horrified. There’s one hell of a sick bastard in there. From the sounds he’s going absolutely wild and, moreover, he’s a goddamn racist!

  “... you sweeties, and finish you all so that nothing will be left of you at all...”

  He’s a maniac! Billy sneers in disgust and puts down his phone. He’s heard enough — and recorded sufficient evidence to justify immediate intervention, authorised or not. There’s no time to waste.

  He grabs his Dictaphone and quickly speaks into it:

  “Senior Intelligence Officer Stopkotte at U.S. embassy, 18:06 hours. WATT emergency intervention approved. I’m going in!”

  Chapter TWENTY SEVEN

  PHIRUN IS SWEATING profusely. The murders of Sergio and Jacky are still haunting him. He’d spent the day off Nina had given him at home, locked away indoors, doing nothing but listlessly drinking Angkor beer in front of his tiny TV, and feeling blue about Merrilee not answering his messages. The next day, he took another day off and treated himself to an afternoon of shopping — he badly needed some new clothes and could also do with some distracting DVDs. But each time he entered a shop, a feeling of anxiety besieged him; he was seeing a
rmed killers in every corner.

  Then finally this morning he realised that he should concentrate on his work and try to forget about the horrible events. But being back inside the chocolate shop, the mere sight of the floor on which Jacky’s dead body had lay, brings all the bad memories to the fore.

  He puts another space praline in his mouth, his fifth in the past few hours, and slowly bites it in half.

  “You sweet, dark bastards...” he murmurs. “I shall finish each and every one of you.”

  While he chews he watches how, inside the large stainless steel bowl in front of him, Jacky’s silhouette is slowly churning itself into the mass of milk chocolate.

  “Jacky...” Phirun whispers. A tear wells up in one of his eyes; he breaks into an uncontrolled fit of giggling.

  Then he hears the front door open and close with a loud bang behind him. His chocolate Jacky hallucination dissipates. When Phirun turns around, his watery, red eyes stare at the two tourists — a man and a woman — who just entered.

  “We’re not open yet,” he tells them with a woozy grin. Then Phirun’s eyes fix on the weapons they’re carrying. “Oh...!” he exclaims and sniggers again unnaturally. He’s sweating at the same time.

  The man, a large foreigner in black combat trousers and a white NGO T-shirt bearing the inscription Say No To Corruption, locks the door through which they have just entered. The woman with him, an athletic, exotic-looking type in her mid-thirties, calmly faces Phirun. A faintly ironic smile tweaks the corner of her mouth. Then she speaks.

  “Dr Livingstone, I presume?”

  Phirun can’t avert his eyes from the gun that Tzahala is casually holding in her right hand, at hip level, as if it were a handbag.

  “I... I... I’m sorry?” Phirun stutters.

  “You... you... you’re sorry?” Tzahala mocks. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you... you... you... think?”

  Phirun giggles, uncontrollably. Then he almost starts crying, immediately followed by another fit of giggling.

  Tzahala looks questioningly at the Colonel, who just shrugs.

  “I can be funny too,” Tzahala says sinisterly. She glances at her watch. “You have ten minutes to draw up a full list of names — all of them — starting with your boss. You don’t want to find out what happens if you fail.”

  Phirun is sweating profusely by now. This is all very confusing. Who is this weird couple? Are they even really here or are they, too, products of his grieving, substance-addled mind?

  “I... I... I don’t know what you mean...,” he grins.

  “That’s one minute gone.”

  Phirun giggles.

  Tzahala nods towards the Colonel, who hasn’t said a single word yet. While he quietly screws the silencer onto the barrel of his own gun, he keeps his eyes fixed on Phirun.

  Phirun stares at the weapon transfixed. One moment he’s horrified, the other moment it seems the gun is fashioned from chocolate.

  “Yummy,” he says. Then the gun triggers the image of Jacky’s lifeless, bloodied body.

  “Jacky...,” Phirun sobs and approaches the Colonel for a hug. Peeters quickly raises his weapon to Phirun’s forehead. Phirun freezes and clamps his eyes tightly shut.

  Immediately after the distinctive ‘popping’ sound is the noise of the metal gun clattering onto the floor, followed by a heavy thud. When he reopens his eyes, Phirun stares at the gentleman with the chocolate gun, who’s awkwardly slumped on the floor at his feet. His eyes stare unblinkingly at Phirun and the weird, immobile beginnings of a smile mark his face. Phirun smiles back at the dead Colonel.

  “PUT IT DOWN!” a female voice shouts from the back of the shop.

  A young woman descends carefully from the stairs both arms stretched out, her smoking gun pointed firmly at Tzahala’s head. For an instant Tzahala hesitates, then slowly bends down and places her weapon on the floor in front of her.

  “Merri... Merrilee...?” Phirun stammers, a blissful smile all over his face. But the young woman pays him no mind while advancing towards Tzahala, maintaining her aim.

  Phirun stares at Merrilee, his astonishment increasing with every second. Then he unsteadily slumps to the floor. Jacky was right, it’s more comfortable down here and the view is different, but interesting.

  “Who the hell are you?” Tzahala hisses between clenched teeth.

  Merrilee answers her in Arab.

  “Eza al kalam men fedda fal sokoot men dahab!” Speech is silver but silence is golden.

  Merrilee stares intently into Tzahala’s eyes while an ominous silence reigns. Then she cocks her weapon; she says just one word.

  “Traitor.”

  At that precise moment there is a loud crash — and the shop’s back door flies wildly open. Billy storms into the room brandishing an automatic rifle, which he points in quick succession at Merrilee, Tzahala, Phirun and back at Merrilee. His hands are trembling slightly when he shouts an order at Merrilee to drop her gun. But she doesn’t move — ignoring the intrusion, retaining her weapon and keeping her eyes and the gun fixed on Tzahala.

  Phirun looks from each strange face to the other in absolute bewilderment — where are all these funny people coming from? he chuckles inwardly. Then he slowly sinks back into a beautiful, pink, misty void.

  Billy shuffles forward, his face pouring with sweat, until the barrel of his rifle pushes into Merrilee’s back.

  “I SAID DROP IT!”

  Merrilee’s nostrils flare angrily. She shoots a poisonous look at Tzahala, then reluctantly lets her gun drop to the floor.

  Billy allows himself a deep sigh of relief. Then motions with his weapon both women to back away from the fire power.

  “All right now, folks,” he says, trying to regain his composure and sound in control, “I want to know exactly what the hell is going on here. And I want to know exactly who is who in this goddamn circus.”

  He turns his weapon on the euphorically spaced out Phirun. “You! I know who you are, you damn terrorist — and you too,” he says to Merrilee, “and actually, him too,” he motions at the dead Colonel, realising now that he actually knows most of the people in the room.

  “Then that leaves you and I,” Tzahala says, still observing Merrilee.

  “U.S. Intelligence, ma’am,” Billy announces proudly.

  “U.S. Intelligence?” Merrilee shoots back, disbelievingly.

  “Senior Intelligence Officer William H. Stoppkotte, at your service,” he answers. “And you are Merrilee Ahmad, wanted fugitive and operative of Hezbollah,” he embellishes dramatically.

  “What? I’m NOT Hezbollah, for god’s sake — I’m Mossad! Update your bloody files!” Merrilee snaps.

  “Mossad...?” Billy is thrown for a moment or two. Then he smiles. “Sure, and I’m Peter Pan.”

  “I repeat, I’m not Hezbollah, I’m a Mossad operative who infiltrated Hezbollah years ago. This bitch here...” she indicates Tzahala, “is a rogue Israeli diamond trader who finances Hezbollah. She has betrayed Israel and I am going to avenge our people. And this shithead here,” she continues, gesticulating down at the Colonel, “was a sick, ruthless gangster from Belgium. They were going to work together. And this guy here has nothing to do with any of it, he’s simply caught up in it.”

  Phirun smiles and waves weakly. The effect of a sixth space praline kicked in just a few moments ago.

  Billy is wavering on his feet, undecidedly. How come his field operation turned so goddamn complicated again?

  “Don’t listen to her,” Tzahala yells abruptly, “it’s all lies! These two are part of a diamond smuggling mafia,” she says, pointing in the direction of Merrilee and Phirun. “I’m an investigative agent from Interpol,” she adds, hoping to buy some time.

  “Who shot this guy here?” Billy demands.

  “She did,” Tzahala answers immediately, pointing at Merrilee, “they were business rivals.”

  Merrilee starts to interrupt until Billy turns his rifle on her.

  “Everybody shut up!�
�� he orders.

  “Diamonds in them chocolates, eh?” he says while warily moving to the worktable. While maintaining aim at Merrilee and Tzahala, he blindly runs his free hand over the table’s surface till it collides with a plastic box. He fumbles the lid off and takes out a chocolate; his eyes don’t leave the women for a second. Billy carefully bites off a tiny piece and lets it melt in his mouth. His expression changes, slightly. Then he takes another bite. Soon, Billy has finished the chocolate. No diamond.

  “Bullshit!” he decides. “I wanna find out the truth of what the hell is really going on in here — or people are gonna get hurt very soon.”

  But something else is already going on in Billy’s mind. The space chocolate is starting to impact on Billy’s view, which is beginning to judder, and also his overall manner which, strangely, is growing warmer and rosier by the second. When he’s distracted by the rhythmic pulsing of a door hinge, Tzahala is first to notice the barrel of his rifle gradually lowering. Without hesitation, she throws a backfist punch to Merrilee’s face, following with a rapid elbow strike to her head. Merrilee stumbles and goes down while Tzahala dives for her gun which is still laying a few metres away on the floor.

  Everything that follows happens in quick succession, as if life has sped into fast forward mode.

  Tzahala snatches up her gun, swirls round and aims at Merrilee.

  Phirun has been following everything with extreme interest. Things now remind him of those funny silent movies, somehow. The moment he sees Merrilee gets knocked to the ground, he stands groggily up and hurries towards her suddenly filled with unbearable longing to come to her aid. Hardly a fraction before Tzahala’s shot rings out, making the windows vibrate in their frames, Phirun hurls himself at Merrilee, driven by a flood of emotion that wants a hug, even if the Colonel hadn’t been responsive to the same request. Then his body slumps downward while spatters of blood spray Merrilee’s face.

  Via automatic reflex and with improbable speed, Merrilee unsheathes the knife strapped to her right shin and throws. Tzahala has no time for a second shot. She sinks to her knees as if imitating the Colonel. Merrilee’s knife is stuck deep into her throat.