by James Samuel
“I’ll siphon the gas,” said Dylan excitedly.
“What are you doing, Winchester?” Blake leaned against the door as James busied himself by popping open the beer and pouring it onto the bamboo floor.
“Just get me some rags. I’ve got an idea.”
When James had emptied the bottles, he found Dylan siphoning the gas from the tanks using a rubber hose he’d procured from one of the generators. He sucked on the hose until the gas got close to his mouth and then filled the empty bottles. The painstaking process crawled by.
James kept his eye on the position of the moon as it floated across the sky. They needed the cover of night for this mission. By daybreak, the trails would be swarming with Khmer Rouge investigating the shooting from the previous night. This was their chance.
Dylan spat some gas out of his mouth. “There. That’s all they have in there.”
He inspected the bottles. They had three beer bottles of gas floating inside. James stuffed in the rags Blake had procured.
“Molotov cocktails?” said Blake. “Isn’t that a little simple for us?”
“You got a better idea?”
“Let’s just hope they burn well enough.”
“The buildings will be made from wood,” said Preap. “It hasn’t rained in a long time, so they should burn nicely. We just need to be prepared.”
James, Dylan, and Blake each collected a Molotov cocktail and made their way back onto the trail. They still had time to get to the camp before daybreak. The moon shone brightly, promising a couple more hours of cover. Just enough time to get the job done.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Phnom Penh, Phnom Penh Province, Cambodia
Sinclair had spent the last twelve hours examining the files Thom had given him. Basic Internet searches had yielded nothing public about any of the men forming part of Chhaya’s group. These men were ghosts. Sen’s carefulness hadn’t taken into account the possibility of these men going rogue.
He sighed and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. The files were piled high next to the portable monitor he always kept in his travel bag. The computer fan whirred as he settled into his thoughts. Without some inside help, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Computer hackers weren’t like they were portrayed in the movies.
With a bitter taste in his mouth, he grabbed his phone and dialled the number for Gallagher.
“Sinclair?” Gallagher said. “What do you want?”
“Did you authorise this assignment?” he asked. “To find out who the traitor was.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sinclair.”
“You do. Thom said you authorised an expansion of the project. The plastic explosive planted in the palace in Phnom Penh. Commander Chhaya was shot by one of his own men and handed over to General Narith.”
Gallagher paused. “Is this a secure line?”
“Of course, it is. This is the phone you gave me to call you. I need answers to these questions. The files I have on the members of that team are of no help to me. These people are ghosts.”
“I authorised it. It was Thom’s idea, and he is your primary contact, so it wasn’t my business to stop him. I warned him of the risks involved and he decided to proceed anyway.” Gallagher paused. “You and Winchester dug yourself into this hole.”
“It was Blake who killed Sambath.”
“Wood, be careful.” Gallagher’s voice grew dangerously low. “I have a full report from the scene and Harrison assured me that Winchester put him in an impossible situation. Nevertheless, I decided not to remove both of you from Cambodia. You have a chance to redeem yourself.”
Sinclair held the phone away from his ear and took a deep breath. Gallagher’s man-crush on Blake infuriated him. He’d never understood how the two had become friends or why Gallagher could never look at any situation involving Blake objectively.
He returned the phone to his ear. “The point is, I need outside help to research these men. There is nothing available on any of these people on the public web. Unless someone can get into the Cambodian government’s files, I have no way of finding out anything more about these people.”
“I see. Then I will trust your judgement in matters of intelligence. Should I pass this to Finch?”
“Yes, sir,” Sinclair breathed. “It would go a long way to helping me fulfil this part of this contract. When I find the traitor, I can pass it to James.”
Gallagher grunted. “Good. Finch will contact you when there is something to report. Send the files to the usual address. A name and some basic background will be sufficient, I’m sure.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sinclair put the phone down. Jacob Finch was everything Sinclair wished he could be. Jacob was the elusive computer whizz of the Blackwind. Reclusive by nature and socially awkward, Finch worked from afar. There was no computer system in the world he couldn’t break into, given enough time and inclination.
At times, Jacob found himself in prison for several crimes, the most recent being online extortion of a variety of major corporations and educational institutions. He never needed the money; he just had nothing better to do. Gallagher had pulled some strings and had him released on the condition that he worked exclusively for Blackwind. Of course, he still committed some minor crimes in his spare time, but his employers glossed over that little fact.
Sinclair took each file and entered the most basic information about each figure. Jacob never needed anything more. He attacked any assignment Gallagher assigned him as if it were a personal insult. As he clicked the ‘Send’ button, Sinclair finally relaxed for what felt like the first time in days.
He would have everything he needed within a few hours.
Chapter Forty
Cardamom Mountains, Koh Kong, Cambodia
The shroud of night continued to cover them as they departed the Khmer Rouge outpost and began the perilous journey to the main camp. They inched up the trail as it continued to climb, winding them with each incline, only to reveal another greater incline. James swiped the sweat dripping down his chin.
Each man had swapped out their weapons to take the AK-47s left behind by the dead Khmer Rouge. The straps around their necks held the Kalashnikovs in place, but they were still cumbersome for travelling. James kept moving his out of the way as it bobbled around his moving limbs.
Then something miraculous happened. The hills disappeared and they found themselves on a mesa of some kind. The path through the trees evened out and they could walk at a brisk pace again.
“The stream should be on the right in a few moments,” said Preap, his voice barely above a whisper.
James grunted as he peered into the trees. From the darkness, the gentle bubbling of flowing water. It came from the right, probably just beyond the treeline. His tired mind and body craved to run to it and throw himself into the cooling water.
“Let’s go,” said Blake. “It’s there.”
“No,” said Preap. “We need to find the right path to it first.”
Preap probed the sides of the trail by nudging the undergrowth with his foot. The whole ceremony seemed rather odd, but after what happened to Adam, nobody voiced their opposition.
It took a couple of minutes of prodding before Preap stopped and waved at them to follow. This was the moment of truth. Preap would either walk them into the trap or they would emerge to find the cool blessing of a mountain stream.
James watched every step Preap took, ensuring his feet hit exactly where Preap’s had been. He held onto the hanging vines and low branches as they broke through the first line of trees. He saw only more black shapes glittering underneath the final flashes of the moon. Then it became clear.
Preap ascended a fallen log covered in moss. The gnarled, rotting wood provided them with an easy passage towards the stream. Each man ascended and traversed it in a low crouch to keep their balance.
He heard the water before he saw it as Preap plunged in. James joined him, the water coming up to his knees. He steadi
ed his boots on the riverbed before pressing the water to his face and dumping it over his head with one hand.
Balancing the Molotov cocktail in the other, he felt like he could breathe again. The ancient stream had cut a path through the thick foliage. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, he felt like nature wasn’t trying to kill him.
Blake paddled into the stream. “How far to the base?”
“No more than a few hundred metres. The stream will be safe. This is where they get their drinking water,” said Preap. “The only place in Cambodia where you can get fresh drinking water from nature. You should try it.”
“Gee, thanks for the local knowledge, but let’s hurry up. The Sooner we do this the sooner we can go down again. Prak better be here after this.”
“Oh, he will be.”
James didn’t like the surety in Preap’s voice. The thoughts of betrayal he’d shut out of his mind during the skirmish at the outpost returned. This time, James lingered and allowed Blake and Dylan to pass him. If Preap was going to betray them, he would do it in the next few minutes.
The walk through the stream brought its own set of difficulties. The water flowed slowly, but the uneven rocks under their feet on the riverbed made them slip and slide.
Preap stopped. He turned to them as the night sky grew lighter and the moon lost some of its lustre. He placed a single finger over his lips and pointed to the left side of the stream. He forced Blake and Dylan to get in front of him, and with more hand gestures, encouraged them to light their Molotov cocktails.
He then melted back towards James.
“Is that the base?” asked James.
“The corner of it. This is the place.”
James squinted at the place where Preap pointed. “It doesn’t look like much.”
“We built high walls and fortified it. This is as close as we should get, or they might see us first. The stream starts to rise again there.” He pointed at the stream arching upwards next to the camp. “You see?”
James nodded.
“Let them throw first. I told them when they throw, they should run up the hill next to the wall and go in through the main entrance. There are no mines this close to the camp.”
James held back for the two Americans to use Blake’s lighter to ignite the rags sticking out of the bottles. The long rags caught fire and soon the men held two fiery stars in their right hands.
Blake nodded at Dylan and they unleashed their loads. The bottles hurled through the air like fireworks. Two sounds of smashing glass led to a whoosh of fire and the screams of the Khmer Rouge inside the camps.
As Blake and Dylan charged into the burning camp, James readied his AK-47 and jogged after them. He clambered free of the stream as the desperate struggle between life and death began.
A sharp blow struck him in the temple. He registered the strike reverberating throughout his mind. There was no pain. But he knew. He should have heeded his gut. He should have noticed the signs. All this he knew as he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Forty-One
Like a deep thrum of a war drum, James’ head throbbed. When he opened his eyes, he made out two figures shrouded by a blur, like a washed-out photograph. He blinked but it didn’t help his vision, still unfocused.
“James,” said Preap. “James. Do you hear me?”
James squinted. His vision started to clear, and he could see his surroundings for the first time.
He sat in a wooden house lit by two paraffin lamps. The open windows showed the early light of the morning. Preap had propped him up against the back wall opposite the door. James felt the rough touch of a reed mat underneath him.
Shifting his arms and legs to check himself for injuries, he realised Preap and the Khmer Rouge hadn’t damaged him. The raging headache still sent pulses through his skull. He lifted a hand and pressed it to his temple. They hadn’t bound him. Was he a prisoner or a guest?
He reached for his holster only to find they’d taken his gun.
“Where am I?” asked James.
“In the Cardamom Mountains. You weren’t hit hard. Just enough to knock you out. I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Preap flung a hand towards the other man in the room.
It took a couple of seconds for James to process the face staring him down. Tep Prak, leader of the Khmer Rouge.
“It was you,” James said through gritted teeth. “After all that, you were just leading us to him.”
Preap’s calm expression didn’t shift under the accusation levelled at him. “Yes, James, I did. I brought you here. To him.”
“Why? I took you away from living on the side of the river. I cleaned up your business with Mr. Chea.”
“For that, I’ll always be grateful. That’s why you’re a guest of the Khmer Rouge, not a prisoner. We haven’t treated you badly and have no intention of doing you any harm.”
The mention of ‘harm’ and ‘prisoner’ sent his foggy mind spinning back towards their line of attack from the stream. The last thing he remembered. The burning buildings and two Americans charging into the fray.
“Blake, Dylan, where are they? Are they dead? What have you done to them?”
“They’re alive for now. Comrade Tep assured me that they’re being interrogated and nothing more.”
James recoiled at Preap using Prak’s first name as if they were roommates at university.
“He’s torturing them,” James cried.
Preap sat on a reed mat to his right. He crossed his legs and rocked back on his haunches for a moment.
“If you’re going to kill me just do it. Do it or I’ll kill you… and the rest of them.”
Prak looked upon him with a curious expression, as if he didn’t know what to make of the barang who had managed to climb so high into the mountains. The look of a man in total control, and of a man who knew it.
“Where am I?” James said at last.
“So many questions,” Preap lamented. “Comrade Tep doesn’t speak English so well. The main camp you saw isn’t where he lives. You’re not in the main camp with the rest of them. As I said, you’re a guest of the Khmer Rouge. You should consider this an honour.”
James’ head spun. He couldn’t see Preap and Prak’s purpose in separating him from the Americans. It didn’t make sense for them not to torture him. He couldn’t imagine they would allow him to peacefully hike back down the mountain as if nothing had happened.
“What do you want from me?” asked James.
“I’ll translate for you if you want to speak to Comrade Tep. Remember, I’m just a courier. Unless you speak Khmer, of course.”
James looked Prak up and down. He seemed like he might have some years in the tank. The Khmer Rouge leader just glared at him. In his hand, he held a pistol, with James’ own weapon sitting on a scrubbed table covered with papers.
He switched to French. “Do you speak French?”
Prak and Preap eyed him in surprise.
“I do,” Preap replied in French. “How does an Englishman speak fluent French?”
“I spent a few years as part of the French Foreign Legion. Everyone has to learn to speak French fluently.”
The two men nodded. Although the Khmer Rouge was largely comprised of the peasantry during the days of Kampuchea, many of its leaders spoke French. During the days of colonialism in Cambodia, the upper classes always spoke French. The Khmer language was considered uncouth. The older, better educated Khmer could still speak French, although it was seldom heard on the streets.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” said James. “Why not just torture me like you’re doing to my friends now?”
“Preap insisted on it as part of the bargain. You are lucky that Preap has shown mercy to you. He is my brother and for that I allow him to have that one thing. For now, we will speak.”
Prak crossed the floor and sat cross-legged on a mat directly in front of him. He still cradled his pistol in front of him. The gap between the mats wouldn’t give James enough time t
o grab the weapon, and Prak likely knew it.
“You wanted to kill me.” Prak’s brown eyes shined. “Preap already told me much of your story. Who do you work for?”
“Hun Sen,” answered James.
Prak nodded. “Soon, he will be dead. General Narith will control Cambodia. My advice to you is to leave. Leave as soon as you can, barang. In the new Cambodia, tolerance for foreigners will be low.”
“And you’re going to let me walk away as if nothing happened?”
“Perhaps.”
Preap butted in. “You cooperate and I’ll take you down the mountains again, we drive back to Phnom Penh, and you get on a flight out of Cambodia. If you don’t –”
“I can imagine.” James stretched his legs out to the side and flexed them. “What do you want to know?”
Prak took a long time to just look at him. It didn’t intimidate James. He’d gone through interrogations before. His experience in the armed forces taught him how to hold out under interrogation. This time he wouldn’t endure torture. He would tell them what they wanted to know until an opportunity arose.
“We will begin. Preap, please make some tea.”
Preap busied himself with making tea in some chipped porcelain. Soon, the sweet smell of jasmine filled the house. Prak didn’t ask any questions whilst Preap served them tea. There was little ceremony about the process. He plonked a cup in front of each mat.
“Mr. Winchester,” said Prak with an air of formality. “You work for Hun Sen, a man who makes this country weak. Who employs you?”
James explained everything about Blackwind and the mission they’d assigned to him. It went against every lesson of training he’d received in standing up to interrogation. With every truth he gave them, their shoulders sank. They were relaxing. The mild, free-flowing jasmine tea aided lessened the tension.
“Mr. Winchester,” Prak said at last. “You’ve been helpful and cooperative. It’s also been a long time since I’ve been able to speak French.”
