by James Samuel
“The same,” James agreed. “More tea?”
“An Englishman and his tea,” Preap joked as he went to fetch the pot.
Even Prak managed to raise something that passed for a smile.
James readjusted himself against the wall. As he patted his trousers, he felt the small canisters inside his pocket. They’d taken his weapons but failed to check his pockets. The mercy remained where it was. Preap’s mercy. Now he understood why the Khmer hadn’t shared the drug with the Americans. Preap wanted them for torture.
Preap refilled each of their cups from a beaten-down metal kettle. Once again, the essence of jasmine rose and crept into every crevice of the house. Outside, day sprung to life and dampened the effect of the paraffin lamps.
“That’s everything I know,” said James. “Everything I was assigned to do. I’m only a field agent. A soldier. They only give me what I need to know and nothing else.”
“We understand.” Prak blew on his cup and lapped at the tea. “You’ve helped us. This information will be useful.”
“And what about you? Whose side are you on?”
Prak’s lips became a thin line, as sharp as the edge of a knife. “Excuse us.”
He gestured to Preap to follow him. Gripping his pistol and making a show of taking James’ gun from the table, he led Preap outside to speak in confidence.
James’ first instinct made him perform a visual sweep of the house. Despite lulling them into a false sense of security, he grimaced at the lack of anything he could use. Prak had lived in these mountains and fought his war for many years. He took no risks.
He couldn’t see the two men outside the house, only their voices in hurried Khmer. This was his chance.
James retrieved the cyanide from his pocket and popped the rubber cap off with the edge of his dirty thumb. He noted the bitter smell of almonds leaving the canister. James cracked open the cyanide pills, which split from their plastic holding in the middle. A few grams of powder soon swam in the jasmine.
He snapped back into position and tried to look casual as Prak and Preap returned.
“Mr. Winchester,” said Prak. “We’ve discussed it at length. I’ll allow Preap to give you some information… out of the goodness that comes with sharing, of course.”
At that moment, Prak had revealed a dangerous truth. The one thing you should never tell someone under interrogation. Making it clear there was no way out for the hostage made them do dangerous things. Without hope, they had no reason to act rationally.
Prak sat down and crossed his legs again. His gaze didn’t linger on his tainted beverage for a second.
“Okay,” said Preap. “General Narith is backed by a man named Shao Fen, a businessman from China. He has close ties with the Chinese Communist Party. This whole coup is because the prime minister refuses to allow them to build up the shipyards in Sihanoukville and house the battleships of China’s navy.”
James’ eyebrows knitted together as his brow furrowed. “I thought the Khmer Rouge hated foreigners.”
“We do,” said Prak. “But if it’s our way to power, we can deal with the Chinese later. They’re a tool and nothing more.”
“Fine. Is that all? Can I go now?”
“In good time,” said Preap. “You must understand, we must be completely sure that you will leave Cambodia. Once we make the arrangements, you’ll be driven directly to the airport so we can see that you leave.”
“I think that’s everything that needs to be said.” Prak lifted his cup. “In the meantime, you’ll stay in this house as an honoured guest of mine. You’re not to leave this house without permission and you will be put under guard.”
James agreed and lifted his cup to toast. “Thank you.”
Prak nodded and swallowed some of his tea. As James lowered the rim of his cup, the look of panic rippled across the Khmer Rouge leader’s face. Cyanide killed in a matter of seconds. Faster with the amount of aged powder James had left in his cup.
Preap snapped to his brother in arms as Prak entered a seizure. His whole body shook, and his mouth foamed. The eyes flashed their final light as Prak searched for help. Even as Preap gripped Prak and tried to stop the mad flailing of his arms and shoulders, James moved swiftly into action.
Throwing a meaty forearm around Preap’s neck, he strangled the traitor. Preap tried to pry James’ grip away from his throat, but it was useless.
“You’re not going to get away,” said James into Preap’s ear. “I’m glad you made me take that cyanide.”
Preap croaked something out from his throat. It made no impact as James squeezed tighter.
“Watch Prak. Watch him die. He’s already gone.”
James stared at the motionless body of Prak and the look of terror stencilled onto his face forever as he suffocated Preap without another thought. He felt nothing for Preap now. The man who’d helped him and the man who’d betrayed him deserved nothing else as his leader’s life floated away.
He didn’t let go until long after he’d felt Preap’s death rattle. When, finally, he did let go, he let him flop to the ground like a sack of potatoes, face-down.
Preap’s mercy had done its job.
Chapter Forty-Two
Phnom Penh, Phnom Penh Province, Cambodia
Phnom Penh International Airport crawled with the usual array of tuk-tuk drivers and jet-lagged tourists stumbling into Cambodia for the first time. Shao arrived in a black car, with a second identical car containing his Chinese bodyguards. Travellers and locals alike cast glances at the vehicles that had turned up outside the doors of the arrival hall.
Shao climbed out of the car alone. He’d instructed his bodyguards not to appear. They’d already drawn enough attention with their necessary security precautions. He made it to the centre of the concrete plaza of the airport when Song Wen and his assistant exited the airport.
“Good morning,” said Shao in his native Chinese. “How was your flight?”
Song Wen wore a number three cut and a pair of glasses. His gentle eyes descended to cheeks that drooped like a basset hound. Nobody would have thought anything of Song Wen if he moved through a crowd in the same suit millions of Chinese employees wore to the office every day.
“Comfortable,” said Song. “Beijing has instructed me to inform you that they are very pleased with your work in Cambodia. They are thankful that you have put the needs of China beyond your own personal ambitions.”
Shao bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Song.”
Song’s assistant deposited his luggage into the back of Shao’s car. They made polite small talk before getting into the car. Shao understood the message clearly. It was a pat on the head with a small warning not to deviate from the path he’d chosen. Messages from Beijing never meant what they said. A smart man read between the lines to decipher their true meaning.
“Is this your first time in Cambodia?” asked Shao as they pulled away from the airport.
“Yes. I was delighted that I was chosen to lead China’s interest in the area. It is a great honour.”
“You understand the terms of the assignment, though?”
Song turned to him. “The terms, Shao?”
“You’ve arrived very early. These are an extremely critical few weeks.”
“I was told in advance of leaving Beijing that you would tell me about the progress of these plans. I was also informed that you preferred not to speak too much over the phone.”
“It pays to be careful, even with the technology we have at our disposal. “It’s quite simple. Nobody must know that you’re associated with me. You’re here on a private business matter.”
“Not a problem.”
“Once Hun Sen is removed from power, General Narith will take control. It’s my intention that he not be allowed to consolidate his power. Once he’s quietly disposed of, you will take over control of Cambodia.”
Song’s thin smile grew. “An excellent plan. However, I’m unable to rule Cambodia as a man from China. We need
someone who we can control. A local who can command respect but can be controlled. Is General Narith not this man?”
Shao shook his head. He’d thought about using General Narith as their puppet. Some men didn’t care who was truly in control as long as they could enjoy the love and luxury of the people. After a few meetings, Shao determined General Narith unsuitable.
“Then who?”
“A man named Vang Kravaan. Commander Kravaan. He recently became the commander of Sen’s elite bodyguard after he prevented a false flag attack on the royal palace.”
“I was informed of the attempt on the King’s life.”
“General Narith thinks that Kravaan is completely loyal to him. I reached out to Kravaan and he’s more than willing to work for us when the time comes. It’s my hope that Kravaan will be able to remove Narith himself.”
Song’s face had become one of concern. “Shao, how can we trust this man who has already turned on so many? We need some sort of alternative plan if Kraavan isn’t the man he professes to be.”
Shao crossed one leg over the other. “I already have an insurance plan, Song. Keep out of sight and you’ll see in time.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Cardamom Mountains, Koh Kong, Cambodia
The sunlight streamed into James’ eyes. He emerged from the little wooden house to find himself standing at high altitude. It seemed Prak had built his own private camp atop a high crag. He pitched his head forward and caught a glimpse of the main camp below.
James performed a sweep around the house. A sheer drop greeted him on all sides, like a slip ‘n’ slide into an uncertain abyss. One steep trail would take him down to the main camp below. He heard the stream bubbling away, hidden from view. From here, the thin canopy gave him a clear view of the sky and the impressive Cardamom Mountains beyond. The green carpet appeared to stretch on forever, punctuated by the wound of a lake here and there.
Beginning to inch his way down the trail, he had only two pistols. His own Glock 19 and Prak’s fully loaded Tokarev TT-30 were not enough to take on an army of on-edge Khmer.
Remembering Preap’s words, he scooted away from the trail to use the foliage as cover. There were no clicks to fear this far from the main road. James approached the camp, high wooden fence posts towering at least seven feet high.
He saw one entrance, guarded by a Khmer sitting in a chair with his AK-47 across his legs. James carried on, shielded from view. He couldn’t take the risk of trying to sneak past him.
James soon discovered the extent of the Khmer Rouge’s building work. This was no mere camp. It was a small village. As he moved around the perimeter, he happened upon the stream again. The scene of Preap’s betrayal.
He peered up to find the remains of the fence and the buildings ripped apart by the Molotov cocktails. Black skeletal pieces of the constructions reached into the air. The dirty ashen smell of destruction still bristled in his nostrils.
James took a deep breath and approached the gutted fence, his Glock 19 drawn. He found a gap in the fence and peered through. His first glimpse of the camp shocked him. It was crawling with Khmer Rouge. Most of them were either making food, cleaning out their weapons, or laughing with friends. None seemed preoccupied with restoring their damaged home. Maybe they were waiting for Prak to give the order?
James kicked a plank of charred wood free and squeezed through the gap. He should have waited until the cover of night. He might have had a better chance. Crouching down, he weighed his odds. He had to free Dylan and Blake if they were still alive.
He flitted between the buildings. Every time a Khmer Rouge threatened to investigate, he worried it might mean the end. With nobody to ask and no clues, he took to spying through the windows. Nothing looked like a prison to him.
A tinkling bell stopped him in his tracks. Like a tone used to summon a butler. With it, the Khmer Rouge in the centre of the yard stood and followed the sound. Men stepped out of buildings with elevated wooden steps and tramped towards the insistent bell.
James watched in amazement. They all converged upon a long building at the side of the yard huddled underneath the cliff where Prak’s home stood.
He didn’t wait around to ask questions. James rushed to inspect each building up to the north end of the camp.
When James attempted to look through another window, he found black fabric on the inside shielding his view. He reached in and shifted the fabric aside. He saw a single Khmer Rouge, his back turned to him munching on a rice ball. He watched the main doorway. He’d found something.
James pressed his fingers into the window and hoisted himself up. He dangled in the air to avoid kicking the wood. Little by little, he muscled up onto the ledge and into the darkened room.
The guard, chewing away, hadn’t noticed him. He scooped up more rice from a dulled metal plate and licked his fingers each time.
James crept closer, using the shadows for cover. He advanced on his target. When he reached the corner of the room, he squatted down. He didn’t have to wait long. The guard let out a long burp and stretched his legs. He entered the room with the plate at his side. James struck.
He caught the man in the temple with the butt of his gun. The guard dropped onto his side, his head snapping against the unforgiving floor.
James swept the room. It didn’t look much different from Prak’s own home. He turned to leave when an errant breeze fingered the interior. The wall at the other end seemed to move. James approached. In the grimness of the house, the thick black fabric acted as a false wall.
He held the pistol in front of him. With his left hand, he swept the fabric aside. His trigger finger twitched in retreat. The broken figures of Blake and Dylan.
Both men showed the extent of their beatings. They’d been stripped to the waist. Angry welts and vicious cuts crisscrossed their flesh. Dylan had been tied to a chair. Blake had it worse. They’d tied him to a wooden structure resembling a crucifix and affixed it to the wall.
James removed the gag from Dylan’s mouth. “Come on. Are you alright?”
Dylan responded with great gulps of air. “What happened to you?”
“Later.”
James busied himself with untying Dylan’s arms and feet. To his credit, James thought, he didn’t flop forwards like most hostages. Dylan grimaced as his joints cried out in relief, but he still managed to rise to his feet.
“We thought you were dead when we didn’t see you,” said Dylan. “Wait, what about the guard?”
“Out like a light. There was a bell and the lot of them went into a building.”
“Meals,” Dylan confirmed. “I’ve heard it three times.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“These?” Dylan rotated his arms. “Just superficial. Hurts like hell though, but they’ll heal. Blake got it hard. They took a disliking to him.”
James turned to Blake on the crucifix. His face bore the grey mark of hopelessness. One of his eyes had swollen shut. He was a mess.
He released Blake from his torture device. He managed to stand for a moment only to drop to his knees.
“How... how did you get out?” Blake said between desperate gasps.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Blake sat back on his haunches. His body trembled in pain.
“Can you walk? We don’t have much time.”
“I can walk. Just give me a minute. You look like you haven’t got a scratch on you.”
“It was a setup. I never even got inside,” said James. “Preap and Prak were together.”
“Dirty bastards,” Blake growled.
“Prak’s dead. They’re both dead. Come on.”
Blake wobbled to his feet. He’d never seen the American look so weak. A few tentative steps and James wondered whether he could get Blake out of the Cardamom Mountains at all.
“Here.” James handed Dylan the Tokarev pistol. “This was Prak’s. It’s all we got.”
“They took our weapons.” Dylan turned the pistol ov
er in his hand. “We won’t get them back. How are we going to get back without Preap?”
“Slowly.” James threw the piece of black fabric aside. “We’ll stick to the trail... if we can get out of the camp.”
The three men left the torture chamber. The guard continued to sleep softly. James attempted to calculate how long it would take the rest of them to finish their lunch. He didn’t like the answer.
“Out the window. We’ll take the stream.”
Nobody argued as they climbed out of the building. Blake had to be helped down, shaking with every step, his breathing heavy.
James knew they wouldn’t last if the Khmer Rouge pinned them down in the camp. They had to get onto the trail, where they could use stealth and strategy to negate the Khmer Rouge’s superior numbers.
The three mercenaries hopped from building to building. By the time they made it around to the broken fence, the first guerrillas emerged from the building patting their bellies.
“Shit.” James shoved Dylan forwards. “Take Blake. Hurry. Where the fence has burned away.”
James held his pistol with a two-handed grip. He kept his eyes on the small army leaving their mess hall. A shout gripped him. He didn’t know what it was for a moment, then it hit him. The guard had come to.
“Move!” James shouted and began running. It didn’t if they saw him now. “Get as far down the trail as you can. We need a chokepoint.”
James crashed through the fence, bruising his shoulder as he charged and splintered a piece of scorched timber. The first shot came whizzing in their general direction.
He hurled himself towards the stream. Dylan had managed to force Blake away from the camp. The shots kept coming and coming.
He searched for a place to return fire. There was nowhere safe. James jumped and vaulted over fallen logs, ducked under hanging vines, and tumbled through the undergrowth. The shots didn’t come close, but he wasn’t losing their pursuers either.
He reunited with Dylan and Blake close to the side of a cliff jutting out onto the path.
