by James Samuel
James took a deep breath. He felt the same way, but justice demanded he make amends. Letting Blake get away with not cleaning up his mess was out of the question. For an outsider like Adam, he would never be able to understand that.
“Blake stays. This is his fight too.”
Adam’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Really? I’m surprised that of all people you’d be the one fighting his corner.”
“He’s part of this mission whether I like it or not. He got us into this mess, and he has a part to play in getting us out of it. It’s not like we’re taking a civilian. He knows how to fight.”
“You have a very black and white sense of justice. One day it’s going to get you seriously hurt.”
James could do no more than flick his eyebrows in agreement. Black and white made life easier. It made his life easier. His brief told him who was to be sentenced and he was the instrument of that justice. Musing on matters made life more complicated.
“I’ll watch him. He won’t betray us,” said James. “Doing something reckless, possibly, but he wouldn’t stab us in the back.”
Adam didn’t look convinced. “I don’t have the same professional ties. If he puts this mission in trouble, I’ll shoot him myself.”
James nodded. He wouldn’t stop him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bangkok, Central Thailand, Thailand
Shao arrived in Bangkok. He came alone. The lack of security felt uncomfortable, like a pair of new leather shoes pinching at sensitive feet. He was used to bodyguards and servants tripping over each other to please him. This time, he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. In Bangkok, people didn’t know his name. He had to keep it that way.
The pristine yellow-and-green taxi fought its way through traffic. The highway soared above the city, with slums and new office buildings positioned in perfect chaotic harmony.
They soon pulled off the highway and descended towards an older business district. The modern glass and metal buildings were replaced by vast warehouses with rusted doors and crumbling brickwork. Shao had arrived in the part of the city nobody wanted to see.
“You sure you want to come here?” asked his taxi driver.
“Yes. Stop here.”
The taxi driver said no more as Shao gave him a hard stare and handed him a stack of Thai Baht, each worth about three cents in US currency. He noted the driver shaking his head as he climbed out and the car began its journey back to Don Muang Airport.
Shao called the number on his phone. It rang three times before Tep Prak picked up on his Thai number.
“It’s Shao. I’m on the street you mentioned. Where are you?”
“Good. Good. Do you see a dark green door?”
Shao stood on the edge of the curb and looked up and down the street. He tried to decipher which door had once been green.
“I think I see one,” he said, picking out a shade faded by sun and time.
“Knock and I’ll be there.”
“Give me a few seconds.”
Shao had come armed, but he knew he wouldn’t need it. Prak believed he was still his steadfast ally. He would deal with the Khmer Rouge soon enough. For now, he needed to find out what Qiu knew.
He made his way to the warehouse door. Slamming his fist against it, the whole door shook on rickety hinges. Shao listened to the footsteps approaching from inside. The door screeched open with the effort of two of Prak’s men to reveal the Khmer Rouge leader himself.
“Tep,” said Shao without any warmth. “Where is Qiu?”
“He is here. Waiting for you. Please, come inside.”
Shao stepped into the warehouse and the two Khmer strained as they rolled the door shut again. Holes in the roof allowed daylight to slide in. The derelict warehouse appeared to have been abandoned for twenty years or more. Flaking metal and swirling dust obscured the failure of what had once been a thriving business.
“He’s waiting at the back, said Prak. “Follow me.”
Prak led the way, with Shao a step behind. He became acutely aware of the two Khmer following him. If they wanted to ambush him, he wouldn’t be able to react in time. His heart felt like it was teetering on the precipice of a cliff. Had he walked into a trap?
Around some rusted production lines, in a small space, he found Qiu. He’d survived the drugged juice prepared by Prak only to have his torturers tie his hands to an overhanging pipe with a shiny pair of new chains like Jesus Christ. His eyes and the chains glinted like the full moon in the warehouse’s gloom.
Shao stood in silence. He felt neither sadness nor shock, regarding the scene before him as just one of life’s twists. He noted Qiu’s purplish bruises around his eyes. One had been swollen shut like a beaten boxer. Some blood seeped through his sweat-soaked shirt. They’d battered him with an expertise possessed by few.
“Not as smart as he thought,” said Prak. “I know he wanted to lure me into a trap. I wonder what it’s like for him to be on the other side of this.”
Qiu’s eyes widened as he tried to talk through his gag. Shao could only stare at his compatriot in this state. He could read the words in his eyes. Qiu wanted him to save him, to reap vengeance upon Prak and the men who had done this to him.
Shao felt Prak’s eyes on him. Prak wanted to see the slightest indication of resistance. It took all of Shao’s training to show no emotion.
“Tep,” said Shao at last. “Thank you.”
Prak’s face broke out into a smile and he began to laugh. “You’re very welcome.”
Shao returned with a little half-smile. “At last. Let me speak to him. He deserves to know.”
Prak motioned to his two men to remove his gag. They ripped the gag from Qiu’s mouth. Each gave him a little slap on the cheek as they returned to their places.
Qiu’s pleading eyes were replaced by rage, hatred. His hands and feet were both bound so he could do little more than sway like a newly grown tree caught in a breeze.
“You betrayed me.” Qiu spat at Shao’s feet. “You turned against the party. Beijing will find out and then this will seem like nothing compared to what they will do to you.”
Shao digested Qiu’s words then turned back to Prak. “I hope you don’t mind if we speak in our native tongue.”
Prak nodded his head in assent as he pulled an apple from his pocket and crunched down upon it.
“Well, Qiu, my old friend,” he said in Chinese. “This may come as a surprise, but this was authorised by the party. You have become a problem.”
“What?”
“A mad dog was the term I believe they used. Too brutal. Too much of a sadist. The party has decided they had no further use for you, so you were used. Used to strengthen our relationship with the Khmer Rouge. A show of good faith.”
Qiu lunged towards Shao again. “Like a gift?”
“See it how you like,” he said coldly. “I didn’t come here to debate with you. Due to your many years of service, you deserved a direct explanation.”
Qiu’s one good eye spun in its socket, a final attempt at finding a way out. Even at the end, Qiu expressed no remorse. He made no attempt to beg. A mad dog indeed.
“You would allow a Chinese to be handed over to foreigners?” asked Qiu. “Is this the China we work for now?”
“You are not going to survive this by appealing to my nationalism.”
“Then send me to Beijing for trial.”
“Beijing?” Shao queried. “What makes you think Beijing wants to see you again?”
“I want to die by Chinese hands.”
Shao bristled. “You’re not important enough for a public trial. But if you want to die by Chinese hands, I will oblige you.” He turned to Prak. “Do you need him for anything else?”
Prak shook his head. “I will return to the Cardamom Mountains. I await your orders, Shao.”
Shao nodded and Prak departed with his two guards. He listened for the door screeching open and closed again. They were alone.
“Shao,” sai
d Qiu. “Are you really going to kill me?”
Shao stiffened. It would be easy to release Qiu and save his life. Qiu could disappear and live out his days in exile. But his moral code prevented it. He would never put himself at risk by disobeying his masters in Beijing. The party discarded rusted tools all the time. This was nothing new.
“I’m giving you one mercy,” Shao said at last. “I will let you die by Chinese hands.”
“Son of a whore!”
Shao had had enough. He whipped out his QSZ-92 pistol and planted a bullet straight into Qiu’s heart before he could hear another word.
Qiu fell forward, his bonds catching him. His eyes stared at the floor. The mask of an unserved dish of revenge chiselled into his face forever.
Shao walked away from the scene, Beijing appeased and his plans for Cambodia still in motion.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cardamom Mountains, Koh Kong, Cambodia
The steaming forests covering the Cardamom Mountains felt like a sweatbox. Gone were the tourists and the friendly smiles from the green hell of Cambodia. Every Khmer they saw stared, suspicion lining their faces. Most of them were farmers on foot herding their malnourished cows, bells hanging from their necks tinkling. Others passed on ancient motorbikes; their straw hats attached to their backs with a string around their throats.
Like Preap ordered, they left the air-conditioned pleasure of their car on a side road at the edge of the highway and began their walk in a long line. Five men. A fellowship of murder.
“When were you last here?” asked James, just behind Preap.
“Many years ago, now. The highway was only built in 2002, but the land hasn’t changed in a thousand years.” He gazed around him. “It’s like walking through a photo book.”
Blake stepped along behind him, followed by the Xiphos agents. Adam insisted on taking the dangerous position at the back. If anyone ambushed them from the rear, he wouldn’t have time to react.
The journey took them along a network of dirt roads, splayed out like varicose veins, into the deeper forests. Rapid inclines tested their lung power and flat roads offered some respite. The mosquitoes buzzed and bit, seemingly immune to the repellents they slathered over themselves.
James tasted the salt of his sweat dribbling from his forehead into his mouth. Already, fatigue gripped him. He focused on shifting one boot in front of the other, ignoring the bulletproof vest weighing him down.
“Get on the sides of the road,” said Adam. “It sounds like a lorry.”
Everyone jumped out of sight and got down, hands on their weapons. The roar of the truck struggling up the hill they’d just hiked curtailed the tranquillity of the mountains. It appeared and Preap stepped out into the road waving his hands.
The truck came to a halt. It bore large planks of freshly cut lumber stacked on the back. Little splinters of wood floated onto the tyre tracks the driver had dug into the road.
“What’s this?” asked James.
“You can come out. He’s just someone who lives in the mountain villages,” replied Preap.
The foreigners shuffled into the open. If the driver had any reservations, he didn’t show them.
Preap and the driver began quickly exchanging words in Khmer. James couldn’t tell whether things were going well or not based on the ambiguous gestures and the usual smiles.
At last, Preap turned back to them all. “The driver said he would take us as far as the temple. It’s about one hour from here. Climb onto the back.”
Dylan let out a puff of air. “That was lucky.”
“Lucky?” Blake snorted. “It’s only part of the way.”
Dylan scowled.
“He isn’t wrong,” said Preap. “The worst is still ahead. Tomorrow, we enter enemy territory. I wouldn’t celebrate yet if I were you.”
James felt uncomfortable at the tone Preap adopted. As he climbed onto the lumber, he wondered what the Khmer Rouge had in store for them. He looked around at each man in his party and wondered whether they would survive the trial before them.
The truck huffed and puffed through the Cardamom Mountains. Each incline took them higher and higher. James never saw anything but the verdant canopy and the sun tracing an arc across the sky, but he could feel it. They saw fewer and fewer people. Colourful, nameless birds became bolder as they flitted from tree to tree. With every hill, the truck sounded like it was choking on its own fumes.
The hour mark came and went, marked by the movements of the digital numbers on their phones. James felt his skin baking under the glare of the afternoon sun. None of them spoke, each man contemplating their role in the mission.
For James, he questioned why he came at all. Why he continued to torture himself with these missions. Why he risked his life at all anymore. Like always, he never found the answer, a justification to stay or a justification to leave. The truck tumbled on towards danger.
Another thirty minutes passed before they could leave the truck behind. The Buddhist temple, which would serve as tonight’s camp, had long since been lost to time. Nature had come to claim the ruins. Stones had turned slick with green moss. Cracks had formed in the steps leading up to a collapsed interior. Two statues of the Buddha still stood guard over the sacred space.
“What’s the name of this place?” asked Dylan.
Preap sighed as they settled into their makeshift camp. “I don’t know. It was lost to history. It was built centuries ago. Some old men used to worship here, but nobody comes here now. It’s why I chose it.”
The mercenaries would sleep under the stars. No tents, no sleeping bags, and no hammocks. Their food for the evening would consist of a few pieces of fruit, chips, and a few bars of chocolate each. They couldn’t risk lighting a fire and they had to keep the weight down. An extra bag could mean the difference between life and death. It wouldn’t be a pleasant night.
“Do you remember this place?” James ripped open a bag of greasy chips. “Can’t be that hard when you know the road.”
Preap smiled. “I remember the temple, but I never slept here. The road will get harder. For now, this is easy. We were lucky to catch a truck.”
“And your friends?” said Blake. “When are we likely to meet them?”
Preap shrugged. “Some way up, if the base is still active.”
“If the base is still active,” he repeated.
“I know nothing about the current incarnation of the Khmer Rouge. But the Vietnamese never made it to our strongholds in the mountains. It wasn’t worth the losses for them. The Khmer Rouge had no reason not to stay here.”
“What about Pol Pot? He was caught in these mountains.”
Preap gave Blake a pleasant smile. “Pol Pot was forced out by other factions within the Khmer Rouge when he became a sick man and began to lose his mind. That was why he was captured.”
Blake grunted.
“We should set a watch,” said James. “I know it’s early, but we should sleep as much as we can. I don’t want to take any risks.”
The five of them agreed on a schedule for a watch. They decided upon a two-hour watch each, with Preap allowed to sleep the whole night.
All of them were worried, other than Preap. He insisted that they were too well-hidden in the temple, and too low down in the mountains for them to be ambushed. None of them believed him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Phnom Penh, Phnom Penh Province, Cambodia
Commander Chhaya had everything prepared. He’d gathered together a small team of men from Hun Sen’s elite bodyguard unit. Men he could trust. Men who would sacrifice their lives for their commander.
Night had fallen over the city and Chhaya confronted the royal palace. The more he looked upon the seat of the King the more he questioned his decision. All remained calm. All remained tranquil. The Cambodia Royal Guard slumped at their posts. Nothing of note ever happened here.
“Commander,” Lieutenant Kravaan spoke over the radio. “We are in position.”
“A
wait my command,” he replied from the head of a small speedboat in the river.
The five-man team he’d assembled were under strict instructions not to get into a firefight with anyone. They were to plant a remote C4 charge and detonate it. Nothing more.
Chhaya looked back at the men on his team. He could see only their beady eyes, watchful and alert. They’d dressed in black with all insignia removed. General Narith couldn’t hope to track them, and the hunt would afford them the time they needed.
“Lieutenant,” said Chhaya. “Greenlight.”
Chhaya squinted across from the Mekong. Lieutenant Kravaan began to move in on the two palace guards. He raised a hand and with little more than a faint splashing in the water, they edged their boat toward the shore.
The boat touched the reeds of the Mekong and Chhaya stepped onto dry land with another man. Everyone had their instructions. The boat would be their escape route.
Chhaya sprinted up the hill to the wall separating the Mekong from the promenade.
“Down,” Lieutenant Kravaan confirmed over the radio.
The two white jackets lay sleeping on the ground, strangled into unconsciousness. Chhaya and his partner sprinted across and flattened themselves against the defensive palace walls.
Chhaya nodded and his lieutenant sprang into action. He took out a small pair of bolt cutters and went to work on the lock. It fell to the ground easily and they eased the gates open. The entrance to the palace lay open.
Chhaya went first. He kept his breathing steady, his heart rate as well. The faint lights illuminated the trees and marble statues of precious kings.
He moved away from the lights, sneaking up behind a guard and pressing his forearm into his windpipe. The unsuspecting man dropped his gun with a clatter and reached for Chhaya’s forearm. He moved too late and soon went limp. Chhaya eased him down onto his side. No casualties.
The King’s quarters took up half of the palace complex. Chhaya aimed for the nearest door, advancing with his Daewoo K1 assault rifle. Against the sounds of the city outside the palace walls, they moved like an errant breeze.
