by Kae Bell
In the backseat, a baby fussed. His young mother cooed at him, but she too was anxious, tapping her bare brown foot on the floor.
Andrew stood to better see out the opposite window, leaning over an elderly couple that stared up blankly at him. Andrew recognized them from the Bayon Temple. “Guten Tag. I think we have a flat tire,” he said in German. The old man blinked, his eyes watery and blue.
Outside, on the ground by the front tire, the driver turned a hand crank, trying to lift the bus off the ground. Not surprisingly, he was having little luck with the passengers still on board.
Andrew made his way down the aisle, stepping over suitcases and handbags cluttering the walkway, and pushed open the door, stepping outside. The air, though warm, was fresh and felt good on his face. He took a deep breath.
“Can I help?” Andrew asked the driver, leaning down to inspect the wheel. A spare tire lay in the dirt, a worn affair that had seen better days.
The driver smiled up at him, grateful for any assistance with this old stubborn bus he drove every day. Andrew saw that the driver’s eyes were yellow with jaundice. “Flat tire. Maybe need to fix before go.”
Andrew nodded at the flat. “Yes, I’d agree.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Andrew asked, squinting in the bright sun. The driver jumped up and scooted backwards out of the way to make room, kicking up the dust along the roadside. Andrew knelt down in the dirt, sun glinting on his brown hair. He ran his hand along the black tire, fully flat, for signs of damage. There, halfway down, near the metal rim, was a rusty nail head flush with the rubber, the only evidence of the damage inflicted inside.
As Andrew leaned forward to inspect the nail, poking at it with his finger, he felt something cold and hard against his back. He figured it was the driver, handing him the tire jack he’d seen on the ground. Then a young male voice say, “Give me money.”
Andrew turned his head. Behind him, a teenage boy, maybe fifteen, thin as a rail, dressed in loose, well-worn plaid shorts that had made their way to Cambodia via a Goodwill bin, was jabbing a pistol into Andrew’s shoulder blades. The bus driver stood behind the boy, wringing his hands and pleading with his yellow eyes, hoping that Andrew could fix not only the flat tire but also this too.
“No problem, no problem.”
Andrew lifted his hands above his shoulders where his attacker could see them. “Can I reach into my pocket here? My pocket.” Andrew pointed at his back pocket, where his wallet was tucked firmly in his tan trousers. The boy nodded and waved the gun in approval.
Andrew stretched his right arm out and down, exaggerating the movement toward the wallet, his elbow pointing back at the boy, who had stepped closer, anxious to be away with his gains.
With a sudden practiced movement, Andrew jabbed his elbow into the boy’s narrow sternum and grabbed his thin wrist, grabbing the gun and flipping the surprised thief onto his back on the ground. The boy looked up at Andrew, fear in his hungry brown eyes. “No hurt, no hurt. Sum tho, sum tho!”
“It’s a little late for apologies, buddy.” Andrew waved the gun at the boy, with no intention to shoot, only to scare. “Shame on you. Shame! Go home!”
The boy scrambled to his feet, his stick-like arms and legs flailing, knocking the bus driver to the ground in his panic, and lurched into the jungle. The driver sat on the ground, watching the boy’s retreat. He turned to Andrew, his face filled with relief.
From the bus, a rousing round of applause from those who had witnessed the scene. This was just the kind of excitement they would tell their friends about. But they were hungry and tired of this bus and ready for a stiff drink. Surely now they could be on their way?
Andrew helped the driver to his feet with his left hand, the gun still in his right. He walked to the bus door, shoving the slim silver pistol into the small of his back, pulling his shirttail out to conceal it, and stepped inside the bus.
“Minor set- back folks, a flat tire...and an attempted robbery. If you can all please step outside for a few minutes, it’s safe now. We’ll change out the tire and be on our way.”
For effect, Andrew repeated this message in German, French, Japanese and Chinese, to everyone’s delight. If his cover was well and truly blown, Andrew figured, he may as well make use of his skills.
Chapter 4
On the banks of the Mekong and Bassac rivers, Phnom Penh hummed. Once a quaint backwater with dusty roads leading down to the sleepy riverbank, the city had transformed, overnight, into a buzzing mini-metropolis, with traffic cops, high-rise buildings and bustling corner cafes catering to the expansive expat community. Fueled by an influx of foreign investment, speculative businessmen, volun-tourists, and colorful carpetbaggers, the city thrived.
The rickety bus arrived to the Phnom Penh city limits two hours late, but intact, just in time for the daily rush hour. It vied for pole position with tuk-tuks, motodops - motorbike taxis - and shiny SUVs on the crowded roads, designed for less crowded times. Motodop drivers above the law wove in and out of the melee.
During this particular rush hour, a long single-file line of Cambodian children in spotless plaid uniforms marched home along the road’s edge, backpacks filled with homework to learn by rote.
Ahead of them, a brave bicyclist attempted to enter the oncoming traffic, hoping to ferry his way to safer asphalt. As he entered the traffic stream, a black SUV with tinted windows and no license plates revved its engine at him, causing him to jerk his handlebars dangerously to the left, landing the wheel into a deep, water-filled pothole. The bike flipped, with its rider following suit, flying off the bike and onto his back, his basket of handpicked fruit flying in every direction. For a moment, traffic came to a halt, Andrew’s bus included.
The school children, delighted at the fracas, broke from their orderly line to gather near the cyclist. Car horns honked and drivers yelled at the cyclist. People laughed and pointed at the foolish man sitting dazed on the ground, shaking his head.
The cyclist picked himself up, and brushed off his muddy trousers, ignoring the loss of face and the laughing children, who jeered at him, hoping to get a response. He stood, his arms at his side, watching the offending SUV that barreled away, running a red light and screeching around the next corner. The SUV gone, the man went about collecting his star fruit, piece by piece, wiping it off on his shirt, and inspecting it for damage. No one offered to help. Eventually he had all of his wares back in his basket. He gave the bike’s front wheel a kick, his only visible reaction, and mounted the bike to continue his journey home.
The show over, the school kids fell into line again, hoping for further entertainment at someone else’s expense.
Traffic moving again, the bus navigated its way through traffic, past the Olympic Stadium to its final stop in the center of town.
It pulled up to a three-story red brick building adjacent to a massive yellow domed structure that looked like it could hold a football field under its sunny roof. The sign outside read ‘Phsar Thmey’, in Khmer script, with the translation underneath, ‘Central Market’.
Andrew waited to debark, as others pushed from the back to exit the now pungent bus. The toilet had not met expectations.
Off the bus, Andrew maneuvered to escape the milling crowd, some people waiting for their luggage to emerge from the bowels of the bus and others waiting for passengers from buses yet to arrive. His departure was hindered by several fellow passengers offering to buy him drinks or dinner, to thank him for fixing the flat and foiling the robbery.
A seedy male passenger, a gray-haired, paunchy man with broken eyeglasses and stale breath, approached him. “Fancy going to the bars? I hear it’s cheap and easy here, cleaner than Thailand.” Andrew declined this and all invitations, including one to meet the German couple’s single niece, ‘a very nice girl’ who would be arriving in a week’s time.
Andrew grabbed his duffel bag and walked to a shady corner to get his bearings. An endless row of red, yellow and blue tuk-tuks stretched well past the
bus depot, the smiling drivers waiting patiently for the buses.
Out of the line up, Andrew picked a red tuk-tuk whose Cambodian driver had a broad easy smile and who wiped the seat down with a rag when he saw Andrew approaching. On the tuk-tuk’s rear was a wide printed panel of Simpson’s cartoons, rows of funnies to entice the tourists.
“The US embassy please.” He’d check in to his hotel later. He wanted to get to work. Andrew recited the address he’d memorized: #1, Street 96, Sangkat Wat Phnom, Khan Daun Penh. The driver smiled at him, waiting for more information. Andrew said, “Near Wat Phnom.” He’d seen this landmark on the map. It was a hill, home to a famous Pagoda near the river and across the street from the US Embassy.
“Oh, yes. Yes.” The driver nodded several times, pleased to understand his passenger. “No problem. Wat Phnom. US Embassy. Yes, yes. Not too far. This street 128. Street 96 not far.”
The driver showed Andrew into the tuk-tuk, loaded Andrew’s luggage and walked up to his small motorcycle attached to the open-air cab. With a roar, the engine started and the tuk-tuk pulled away from the curb into the flow of afternoon traffic. As he leaned back into the red vinyl of the tuk-tuk seat, Andrew watched the stream of motos, bicycles and SUVs.
Several stop signs later, which the driver had ignored, the tuk-tuk slowed as it drove down a long lane, approaching a fortress-like cream-colored structure surrounded by a vast, well manicured lawn, all tucked behind a high black wrought-iron fence. Must be the Embassy, Andrew thought. It was a massive structure for a US embassy in a small developing country barely on the grid. But it offered excellent proximity to all the surrounding countries. Hide in plain sight, Andrew thought.
Andrew overpaid his grinning driver, who gripped the ten-dollar bill for the three-dollar ride. He gave Andrew a worn business card; on it his name Kiem, and said call anytime, mister. Anytime, no problem.
Throwing his duffel across his back, Andrew approached the well-guarded front gate, where four large scowling American guards stood waiting for it to go down. Each one had a machine gun strapped to his broad chest and the attitude to go with it.
Andrew’s name was on the day’s list of expected visitors. The guards snapped to attention when they saw whom Andrew was visiting. Andrew assumed there must be a gold star by his name. Or someone had been given strict orders to make this operation run as smoothly as possible for a speedy resolution.
As he walked into the building, Andrew cringed slightly. Since he worked mostly undercover, he did not usually waltz into US Embassies. Granted, he didn’t have a big flashing “I’m CIA” sign on his forehead, but still. He felt exposed. After so long, the muscle memory of deception was a reflex. He glanced over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.
Through the metal detector and inside the vast lobby, Andrew waited, looking around. The marble floors and vaulted ceiling, coupled with air conditioning, made for a pleasant welcome. He didn’t know whom to expect.
A tall pale man with a few wisps of black hair remaining and sloped shoulders rushed to Andrew from the central corridor, extending his hand in greeting well before he reached Andrew. The man’s glasses had slid halfway down his large nose and he pushed them up the bridge of his nose once, then again. His bald head shone in the ceiling lights.
“Andrew Shaw? Welcome. I’m Jeremy Baker.”
Andrew turned at his name, glancing around the lobby at who might have heard. There were a handful of people in the lobby, some filling in forms at the front desk, others reading a plaque on the far wall. In a far corner, a maintenance worker in black coveralls watered towering green plants with large yellow blossoms. No one paid any attention.
Jeremy continued talking while they shook hands, holding Andrew’s hand in his own for longer than Andrew deemed necessary or normal.
“I’ll be your attaché during your stay with us. I’m one of the Consular Officers here. I hope the bus ride wasn’t too awful. The route from Siem Reap is under construction, so it takes even longer than usual. Not the nicest ride. Still, the scenery is alright, if you like trees.” Jeremy’s confident and bellowing voice carried across the open space. It belied his bland physical appearance. Andrew imagined that contradiction came in handy in diplomacy.
“Good to meet you. Thanks for the welcome.” Andrew extricated his hand from Jeremy’s tight grip.
“Well, let’s get you settled in. Please follow me, it’s a bit of a madhouse today.” Jeremy glanced left and right, sweating profusely despite the air conditioning. As they walked down the long hallway, people rushed in and out of office doors. A girl in her twenties hurried by carrying an armful of purple and yellow streamers. “Scoose me,” She said as she pushed past them both. She smiled at Andrew, her white teeth gleaming.
Andrew watched the woman walk away. “What’s going on here? Seems like a lot of activity?”
“Ahhh. Chaos. Absolute chaos. The ambassador is hosting a reception here later this week – a party really – loads of people, local dignitaries, members of the business community, and of course the embassy staff. There are fireworks, music and drinking.” He glanced at Andrew and added, “It’s a security nightmare.”
Andrew looked up at the orange crepe paper strung from pillar to pillar along the hallway. “What’s the occasion?” He asked.
Jeremy gave Andrew a sideways look as they walked. “Ahh, that’s right, you’re a tourist. I get to play tour guide today.” Jeremy smirked then continued. “It’s for Pchum Ben, a Cambodian festival of the Dead.”
“Pchum Ben?” Andrew repeated the phrase, not sure he had the right pronunciation.
“Yes. It’s a festival to honor one’s ancestors.”
As they walked, they passed several more closed doors, where Andrew could hear happy talking and laughter. It was a festive atmosphere. Everyone was excited for the holiday party that signaled the end of the annual torrential downpours. Rainy season was long and people had cabin fever.
Another well-dressed young woman ran by them down the hall, carrying two boxes filled with blown-up balloons. She nodded at Jeremy as she opened one of the doors off the hallway and ducked in. More laughter.
Turning a sharp corner down another hallway, he continued. “The dead may seem an odd reason for a party, but Cambodia is eighty-percent Buddhist, so ancestors are a big deal here. And we like to acknowledge that.”
Andrew had listened intently. Other cultures and customs fascinated him. “Sounds kinda like our Halloween. Or more like All Souls Day.”
Jeremy had quickened his pace and walked with swift, short, efficient steps, like a small dog. Despite his height, Andrew had to work to keep up with him.
“Yes indeed. All souls.”
A few more steps down the hallway and Jeremy stopped. “Here we are.” Jeremy opened the heavy wood-paneled door and they stepped into a large bright anteroom. An attractive secretary, typing furiously, focused on her computer screen, glanced at them and then returned to hammering on her keyboard, her ear buds drowning out distraction with a steady bass beat that Andrew could hear four feet away.
“Janey.” Jeremy took a step closer to her desk. Janey looked up at Jeremy now standing just inches away. She took out her ear buds and removed her reading glasses. “So sorry, I was on a roll, I want to get this out today, since tomorrow will be a bust and I still have to buy a dress and I’ve promised the girls I would help decorate.” She stopped, running out of breath and smiled a brilliant white smile at Jeremy and turning her head slightly, raised her eyebrows at Andrew.
Jeremy smiled back, the indulgent look of a boss who tolerated quirkiness only in the face of extreme competence.
“Janey, this is Andrew Shaw. Andrew, this is your go-to person while you are here. Janey will get you whatever you need.”
“Hello,” Andrew nodded and Janey half-smiled, her eyes flicking back to her screen in anticipation of accomplishing important things. Andrew followed Jeremy, who had wandered into his spacious office.
Jeremy’s desk stood ne
xt to massive windows with views of Wat Phnom. Jeremy took a seat and motioned to Andrew to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of the imposing desk.
“I understand you were on holiday in Siem Reap. Unfortunate time for a vacation, really, it’s still officially the rainy season after all, but I’m sure you knew that when you booked your trip. Do you enjoy the rain?”
Jeremy’s chatter was a tool, Andrew knew, to disarm people. Andrew found it irritating.
“No. Just was when I was free.” Andrew shrugged and added, “My time is not my own.”
Jeremy stared at Andrew for a long moment “No. Of course not.” He looked back at the folder on his desk and continued. “Like Flint, who I understand you spoke with yesterday, we too received a phone call seeking, nay, demanding cooperation.” He opened the file on his desk. “I know you’ve been briefed but here is the information we’ve got. It’s not much I’m afraid.” Jeremy rustled through the papers, looking for something, but not finding it, closed the folder. He handed it over to Andrew, who flipped through the pages. The name of the victim was on the front: Ben Goodnight.
“The young man was here with his girlfriend. He’d been in country about 18 months, she has lived here a good bit longer.”
“So there’s been one death, by land mine. And one very upset parent,” Andrew said.
“And one moderately peeved Embassy attaché,” Jeremy added, straightening his pale yellow tie with a sniff. “I didn’t move halfway across the world to get a dressing down from some Millennial Whitehouse page boy, simply because someone’s careless son got himself blown up.” He cleared his throat and scratched the carefully shaved skin between his upper lip and his wide nostrils. He’d wanted to say that out loud since he got the call yesterday from the US.