Quiller Salamander

by Adam Hall

  I waited.

  Exhaust gas came drifting, and another stone hit the jeep and the nerves jerked because it was so like a shot.

  Insignia. Did they carry insignia, the transports of the Khmer Rouge forces?

  The vehicle wasn't slowing; no brakes, no boots. It was alongside now and still moving at the same speed, equipment, maybe a spade, rattling in its straps to the vibration. Voices, calling in Khmer above the noise. What were they saying? What's that jeep doing there, it's not one of ours, there's no insignia?

  No. They weren't interested, hadn't noticed anything wrong about it, assumed the jeep was out of petrol and that the driver had walked to the camp to fetch some.

  Moving on, they were moving on, and I gave them sixty seconds and climbed back into the jeep and started up straight away, using the other vehicle's engine as sound cover as it rolled into the camp past the guards.

  Were there guards? That was important too.

  Started up and made a tight turn and drove back along the track, using the manual gear change to shift ratios with as few revs as the engine could take, keeping the noise down.

  So you located the camp and came away, with no opposition?

  I was lucky. There weren't any guards at the perimeter.

  The sun on my right now and a little behind me, stones banging under the wings, the canvas top flexing as the chassis twisted to the uneven surface of the track, nothing in the mirrors until the flash came, the flash of the sun across glass a mile behind me, the glass of a windscreen, the windscreen of a vehicle on the move.

  My thoughts on the debriefing had been premature, then, presumptuous, counting chickens, shit, we need policy here, and make it quick.

  I could gun up and try driving my way out but I didn't know what vehicle they were using - it could be half as powerful as mine, or twice. There would be two men on board: if they were coming to check out the jeep there would be two of them, both armed. Add, then, the weight of one man plus the weight of his assault rifle and ammunition belt, but that wouldn't give me any advantage if they were driving something more powerful.

  Policy, then? Because if we're going to make a run for it we'd better start now.

  The flash came again, brighter. They were closing the distance, coming flat out, the vehicle bouncing, the windscreen flashing like a semaphore, it wasn't just a routine transport leaving the camp. There had, then, been guards, and they'd seen the jeep when I'd turned, and they'd sounded the alert..

  Decision, yes, and this was it, not terribly sophisticated: I couldn't hope to drive clear because it was daylight and I was stuck on this one narrow track and they could start picking me off at any time now, any time they wanted to.

  So relax: 50 kph on the clock and I left it like that, medium speed, out for a Sunday afternoon drive, this was a pleasant route, winding through the rocks, wildflowers here and there, yellow and red, a scenic route, you might say, we must bring Fred and Gertrude here next weekend, they'll really –

  Shots, just a short burst, and then fluting overhead, a warning, then, their aim couldn't be that bad at half a mile. I didn't slow, waited for the second burst, got it, took my foot off the throttle, stuck my hand out of the window and waved, yes, I've got the message, hold your bloody fire.

  I was stationary at the side of the track when they arrived, two men in military fatigues with red check kramas, both carrying assault rifles as they jumped down from their Chinese-built jeep while I sat with my hands on the wheel, raising them as they prodded with their guns, shouting Khmer in my face.

  'English,' I said. 'Anglae.' It was one of the few words I knew.

  More shouting, while one of them looked around inside the jeep, turning the cushions over, scattering the bottles of Evian water.

  'Qui es toi?' the other one asked, using the familiar, but of course, the Khmer Rouge can do that, they can do anything they like.

  'Jesuis Anglais.' I used one hand, cautiously, to show them my papers, and they took it in turns to look at them, didn't give them back. My papers, I said indignantly, give me my papers back, not bloody likely, who do you think you are, working out the odds, I was working out the odds while they walked slowly round the jeep, not looking for anything, simply showing me they weren't going to miss anything, I was to take them seriously, even with those red checked kramas round their heads; a dishcloth is a dishcloth, whatever you choose to call it.

  Then one of them slapped the bonnet and shouted 'Viens!' and jerked his head towards their jeep.

  'Mais jai trompe de chemin,' I said indignantly, 'c’est tout!' Missed the road, that was all, but he wasn't interested, pushed his rifle into my chest. The other one joined in, so I said 'Merde!' and left it at that, having established my cover story, and climbed out of my jeep and into theirs, one of the bastards going too close to the spine with his gun, prodding my back, no respect for the vertebrae, and this is one of the things, the many things, that can tilt the balance and leave you undone, a pinched nerve robbing you of agility just when you need it most - we shall have to start thinking now, my good friend, of things like that, start making preparations in the mind; that's a hornets' nest down there, if you'll forgive the cliché, and my presence has been requested, so that death might not be long in coming unless we are nimble: these are the Khmer Rouge, and they murdered a million souls in the Killing Fields.

  You've only got to make one little mistake with Pol Pot, and that's your lot. Tucker, drumming his fingers on the control column of the Siai-Marchetti. People have disappeared, you know what I'm saying?

  Yes indeed.

  Then one of them got behind the wheel and started up while the other dragged my jacket half off and used the sleeves to bind my arms behind me; then he whipped the krama off his head and tied it round my eyes and pulled it tight; it smelled of sweat and something else - hair oil? Scents were important now because we were in a red sector and I couldn't see anything - scents, sounds, tactile impressions, whatever information I could pick up, however slight: I might need to recognize this man again, and the hair oil might do it for me if he came close enough.

  Bloody gun in my ribs, to remind me not to do anything silly; he hadn't cleaned the barrel for God knew how long, I could smell it, these weren't the Queen's Light Infantry.

  Stones pinging from under the tyres as we bumped our way down to the camp, the driver shouting something in Khmer and my escort shouting back, We going to put him against a wall, are we? But we must use the mind for preparation, yes, not for glum conjecture.

  Twilight suddenly, cast by the camouflage net as we rolled to a halt, no more than a lessening of the light at the edges of the krama by a few degrees but enough to inform me. A strong smell of canvas - the camouflage net - and diesel oil, rubber, cooking stoves, tobacco smoke, chickens.

  The rifle prodding again. 'Bouges pas!' Don't move, but of course not, with my arms bound, what would it profit me, you espece d'idiot?

  The other man had gone off - to fetch someone in authority? - but my escort stayed close, the muzzle of his gun resting against my chest the whole time. There was a line of light along the top of the blindfold but even when I turned my eyes upward as far as they'd go there was no useful vision taking place: it was just peripheral, capable of detecting movement but no images.

  'Look,' I said in French, 'you're making a mistake.'

  The man didn't answer.

  'And that's okay,' I said. 'People make mistakes. I do it all the time. But the thing is, my government isn't going to like –'

  He told me to shut the fuck up and when the other man came back they hustled me across the camp to a concrete cell and threw me inside and slammed the door and locked it.

  Chapter 11

  CHOEN

  Bare walls, bare floor, cracks in the concrete, streaks of dried blood near the door, a sandal lying in a corner with the strap broken, human feces, dried, not fresh, they hadn't put anyone else in here recently, the door made of metal, streaks of rust where rain had come in through the ga
p at the top, the lock massive, the only light coming through a grille in the ceiling.

  I'd twisted my arms free of the jacket and taken the blindfold off as soon as my escorts had gone; that was some time ago, perhaps two hours. I hadn't untied the sleeves or the knot of the krama; when I heard them coming back I would restore the image of the helpless captive, because that was what I wanted to show them - a man who didn't even try to free himself when left on his own, who would not, therefore, be expected to make any attempt to escape.

  There had been vehicle movement during the time I'd been here, regular, routine, as if base manoeuvres were being conducted under cover of the camouflage net. At least one of the vehicles was a half-track or a tank - I heard the links rolling - and once I caught the gear-whine of a gun turret swivelling. But most of it was light stuff, its exhaust gas smelling of petrol engines, not diesel.

  In between the bursts of mechanical noise I'd heard chickens clucking, the falsely reassuring sound of a sleepy farmyard: those smooth brown eggs had supplied the fats and proteins to the human muscle that would keep this intruder overpowered, perhaps drag him to the wall and squeeze the trigger.

  Getting thirsty.

  In the small grille overhead there was no direct sunlight, but by the sun's waning strength I put the time at close to five, on the threshold of evening. They'd taken my watch, of course: the impoverished soldiery always enjoys toys. It's also the first and essential step in the process of disorientation, denying the captive the knowledge of time, but in this case I didn't think they'd be keeping me here long: if they thought I was an intelligence agent they'd do what they'd done to the one in the Piper Seneca at Phnom Penh airport.

  Another diesel engine rattled suddenly into the first few hundred revs and stayed there, sending exhaust gas through the gap under the door, and of course I thought of Auschwitz and it didn't improve my day. Not that they'd take the time for that sort of thing if they decided to write me off: they'd use the bullet, their favourite toy of all.

  Hot in here, and the thirst was getting worse. I would ask for some water when they came back: they'd expect me to, and that would conform to the first principles: Never worry your captors, we tell the neophytes at Norfolk. Do what they expect you to do, keep them relaxed, get them to trust you, so that when you make your break you'll surprise them. Never underestimate the value of surprise: in any delicate situation it can gain you at least a second, sometimes even more, and that can save your life if you've planned your break with care and the timing is critical. The 'delicate' is classic Holmes: he delights in understatement.

  The drumming of the big diesel died away, and now I heard boots nearing, crunching over the stones. For the fifth time I twisted back into my jacket and slipped the krama over my eyes and waited, dropping and sitting against the wall with my head drooping, even when the door was banged open and the boots came in. Then I raised it, as if I could see.

  'Who are you?' In French, with an atrocious accent. But it was the bark that got my attention.

  'I gave them my papers,' I said. Tone weary, resigned.

  A rush of Khmer and someone came and whipped the blindfold off, not Choen, one of his men - but on Choen's orders: he wanted to see my eyes, to tell when I lied.

  'I not ask about your papers. I ask who you are.'

  He wasn't a short man, for an Oriental, but stood with his chest out and his shoulders back as if he sensed he ought to put on a bit of height; or it was simply a caricature of the pigeon-chested parade-ground posture. His face was flat and his mouth pulled down in an expression of arrogance, inflexibility; his eyes were narrowed and unblinking, one of them not perfectly aligned with the other. His red check krama had some sort of emblem pinned at the side; perhaps it signified his rank.

  I struggled onto my feet. 'Can I have a drink of water?'

  'Who are you?'

  'David Jones,' I said. 'And you?'

  I didn't expect him to answer that one but he pulled his shoulders back another half inch and said, 'I am Colonel Choen of Khmer Rouge Army.'

  'How do you do, Colonel?'

  He ignored this, as expected. 'What are you doing on private road out there?' he asked me.

  'I told your people - I lost my way.'

  'What was destination when you "lose way?”'

  'I was trying to find the lake.'

  'In this direction?'

  'Look, Colonel, I arrived in Cambodia only a –'

  'In Kampuchea!'

  'Oh, right, yes, Kampuchea. I've only been here a few days, so I haven't really got my bearings yet. I thought –'

  'Why you want to find Tonle Sap?' The lake.

  'I'm with Trans-Kampuchean Air Services. We're thinking of running a Beriev Tchaika amphibian service to the coast, bringing fish in to Phnom Penh, pretty well straight out of the nets. The hotels –'

  'You alone in jeep?'

  'Yes. Look, I'm sorry if I was trespassing, but –'

  'Yes. Will be sorry. Yes.'

  'For God's sake, can't anyone lose their way in this country?'

  Choen looked quickly at the private, and as his hand came up and across I turned my head away just late enough to let him feel he'd made an impact; then I went through the business of crashing against the wall and hitting the floor and grunting in pain and so on, which was easy enough to do with my arms still pinned behind me.

  'Why you come to Kampuchea?'

  I got onto my feet again. 'Well, quite a few reasons. For –'

  'Why you come?'

  The private's hand moved and I waited but he didn't do anything this time. 'I was with the UN, originally, and then when I –'

  'UN stupid idiots!' He spat, accurately, at my face, and I would have done a great deal to be able to wipe it off. 'This not their country! This Kampuchea! What this country?' It sounded like a question, and he came forward a step, chest out, one eye staring, brighter than the other. 'What this country?'

  The private lifted his hand in readiness.

  'What? Oh. Right. Kampuchea. Kampuchea.' It was the name they preferred, these people: when the Khmer Rouge had been in control of the country they'd insisted on it, then it was changed back to Cambodia after their defeat. They hadn't liked that. This man didn't like it. His spittle was drying on my face: think of something else.

  'UN stupid!' he barked again. 'You English?'

  'Yes.' I'd told him that already.

  'English stupid idiots! Queen of England stupid cow!'

  'I rather think otherwise,' I said.

  'You meet Queen of England?'

  'Actually, no.'

  I could really use a glass of water.

  'You fuck Princess Diana?'

  'I've yet to enjoy that privilege.'

  Knew his London tabloids, kept up with high society.

  Suddenly he turned at right angles and strutted to the wall and back to the one opposite, boots grating on the concrete, back to the door, turned, looked at me. 'Who know you in jeep?'

  'I'm sorry, I don't quite follow.'

  'Who know you in jeep? Answer!'

  'Who knew I was driving the jeep?' Oh, right, this was rather important. 'Who knew I was going to the Tonle Sap?'

  'Yes.'

  'My manager,' I said, 'and the head of the airline, some of the staff, two of my friends, a few other people. I was given the assignment, you understand.'

  'When they last see you?'

  Things didn't sound terribly good. 'When I left our office. That was - oh, about one o'clock.'

  British agent for Trans-Kampuchean Air Services reported missing. Just joking; the only person who'd miss me was Pringle, biding his time in the Hotel Lafayette, ready to pick up on the first ring: I hadn't signalled at noon, so I was technically overdue.

  Choen was eyeing me steadily, his mouth pulled down. 'Jeep rented, or belong to airline?'

  'It belongs to the airline. Look, I happen to be a man who can keep his mouth shut, Colonel. I strayed onto your territory by accident, but there's no need for
me to tell anybody I saw anything; it's none of my business - or theirs. All I'm interested in is working out how we can fly fish to the capital from the lake.'

  He didn't say anything, seemed to be waiting to hear more, stood watching my face, one eye filmy, the other bright, deep now, concentrating. So I took it from there, because maybe there was a chance he'd just leave me here in the cell without water or food for a couple of days, have me roughed up a little to warn me off and then kick me out, have me dropped back on the main road.

  'I agree the UN was wrong,' I told him reasonably, 'to come busting in to your country, and quite frankly I wasn't sorry when they pulled out. But I'd got to know the place by then, and' - with a shrug - 'I'd met a Kampuchean woman here, you know? I'm seeing her again ... she's very pretty.'

  The private was staring at me too with his lidless eyes, probably didn't understand what I was saying, was just watching for a wrong move. I didn't have one in mind.

  'I was a bit embarrassed, I suppose,' I told the colonel, 'to give you my real reason at first for coming back to Kampuchea. Cherchez la femme, right?'

  A diesel rumbled past, one of its tyres sending a stone banging against the metal door. The noise was unexpected and hellishly loud in these close confines but the colonel didn't flinch.

  I left it at that, didn't want to overdo things. I was interested now in how Choen was going to answer me. A lot depended on it.

  But he didn't say anything at all. He turned to the private and barked some Khmer at him and the private swung round and pulled the door open and yelled something and another man came trotting up with his assault rifle and gave the colonel the revolutionary salute with his fist, but Choen didn't respond. He just looked at me and then at the two men and raised his elbow to the side and held one finger straight against his temple for an instant and took it away with a little jerk and walked out of the cell.