by Kae Bell
“We’ve got a deal?” Tom asked.
“Like I said. I’ll set you up.”
Tom handed the paper to Andrew and added, “It’s near Wat Steung Meanchey. Strange place for a Barang office. Not real nice out that way, not too welcoming.”
Andrew took the paper. “Far from prying eyes maybe. Thanks for this.”
“Sure.” Tom ordered another whiskey as Andrew stood up and started toward the front.
Tom called out after him. “Hey there buddy, can you take care of this bar tab for me on your way out? And get me sorted on what we discussed.” Tom tossed back the last of his whiskey in anticipation of the second.
Walking toward the stairwell, Andrew lifted his right arm and without looking back, gave a small wave.
“Take it easy, Tom. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 16
Wat Steung Meanchey was bustling in the afternoon. Saffron-clad monks wandered by, seeking alms, their silver donation buckets tied to their slim waists. Local families crowded the Wat, the fathers wearing their best, the mothers bearing platefuls of rice. Children trailed behind their parents, tugging on their uncomfortable clothes and staring at the bright robes of the bald monks who walked by them, silent as stone.
The motodop dropped Andrew on a side street, past the Wat.
The driver, his voice muffled by his large helmet, said ‘there’ and pointed down an alley. Andrew saw a metal gate, with a faded number painted on the side, matching the number on Tom’s paper. Andrew was not surprised there was no sign advertising ‘River Metals’.
An intercom on the fence suggested that visitors would be welcome but Andrew was certain no one would answer if he rang. Nor did he wish to announce his arrival. He didn’t see a security camera, but that did not mean there wasn’t one tucked up in a tree.
Andrew followed the high wooden fence around to the back of the building. Through the fence slats, warped from the rains, he could see a large courtyard on the side and back of the building. Andrew saw two cars, one a beat-up jalopy with California plates and the other a slick silver SUV with no plates to speak of, and a crotch-rocket motorcycle. He’d found his tail.
Andrew sidled along a hedge adjacent to the fence. Outside the fence, a row of dented gray trash cans overflowed with refuse. A few rats scurried away from the trash when they saw Andrew approaching, leaving behind the food they’d scrounged. They’d return after he was gone; there was plenty for everyone.
Andrew found a metal lid, placed this on the sturdiest bin and hopped up. Now, peering over the fence, he had a full view of the house and the courtyard. He could see a couple lights on in the first floor of the two-story house.
Glancing behind him, seeing no one, he pulled himself up and over, dropping on to the cement and moving behind the larger of the two cars. He hadn’t seen any cameras on the outside of the house and hoped there were none in the courtyard.
Staying close to the house, he edged along the building’s side. Through an open window, he heard a male and female voice, both speaking English. He moved closer to the house, avoiding a large threatening anthill, and onto the grass. He reached the open window.
Sounds of paper rustling, then an electric whirring sound. Andrew leaned forward to the window’s edge and peeked in.
Inside, a heavy middle-aged woman with disheveled red hair crouched on the floor, feeding papers into the shredder. She’d fed too many pages at once and was having to pull out the resulting paper jam. She looked stressed and rushed. Piles of papers surrounded the shredder; the woman had her work cut out for her.
A tall broad-shouldered young man, with closely cropped dark hair and a clean-shaven face, stood in the doorway of the room where the woman was working. His legs were long and he still had the air of a colt about him. He was dressed in sweats and looked like he had just come from the gym. His face was flushed.
“When’s dinner, Mom?”
The mother looked up from her task. “Have you packed yet?”
“Nah, I’ll do it later.”
His mother put the papers down and her hands on her ample hips. Andrew could see she’d been pretty once, but somewhere in the past five years, she had decided it was all too much effort and for what.
“Please do it now. We fly out first thing in the morning. Early. I want you to be ready. Pack first and then I’ll feed you.”
The young man, who Andrew could see now was only sixteen or seventeen, loped out of the room, grumbling.
Andrew tried to get a better glimpse of the files, but it was just words on the page from where he stood.
The woman continued her work, having discovered the perfect number of pages to feed into the machine. She thought that whoever built these shredders surely must know that this task usually had to happen quickly.
Andrew stepped back from the house and looked up. The bedrooms were probably on the second floor and knowing teenage boys, he figured the boy would be in the back of the house, which put him a good distance away from the mother’s office. Far enough away for Andrew and Mom to have a chat.
Andrew walked around and tested the front door, a solid wooden door. Locked. It took a couple tries with Andrew’s pick but a sharp click told Andrew he was in. He opened the door a fraction and looked in. The hallway was empty. He stepped in and shut the door behind him.
The inside of the house confirmed his suspicions. This was indeed a home. Enlarged photographs of family vacations hung on the walls, an arty black and white print of three children staring out to sea, and framed hand-drawn art from children, probably many years old by now, maybe even the grumpy teenage boy. The requisite picture of Angkor Wat sat above the mantle in a living room across from the entrance hall.
Several pairs of shoes were lined up at the front door. Pink running shoes. Men’s sneakers. Flip-flops and sandals.
Andrew walked toward the office, where the woman was still feeding paper in to the machine. Her back was to him. He stepped in and in a moment, he had her in a chokehold, his hand around her mouth. He whispered, “I’m not going to hurt you. But I need to ask you some questions and I need you to cooperate. Do you understand me?” She nodded.
He lifted her up from her kneeling position and placed her in a nearby chair.
“I’m going to take my hand away. I need you to stay quiet. Can you do that?”
The woman nodded again, her eyes wild.
Andrew released her and stepped away, back to the wall. Shredded paper was everywhere, the garbage bags waiting to be filled with the stuff.
“Are you ‘River Metals’?”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice was a whisper.
“Did you hire Ben Goodnight to go to Mondulkiri?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that he got killed by a land mine out there?”
At this, the woman teared up. “Yes.”
Down the hall, the front door had opened and closed without Andrew hearing and a tall swarthy man, with a thick black mustache, crept down the hallway. He stopped to listen to the unknown male voice speaking in stern tones to his wife. This did not please him.
The man sidled up to the open doorway, looking in to see his wife weeping in a wicker chair and a strange man glaring at her. Enraged, he charged into the room, directly at Andrew, tackling him and dragging him to the ground, punching Andrew in the face again and again. Andrew grabbed the man’s shirttails and, knocking his feet out from under him, pushed him face down into the deep pile of shredded paper, holding him down while the man struggled and swore.
Andrew recognized the man. This was indeed the tail he thought he’d picked up on his second day in town. He wondered if this man was also his bridge shooter.
Andrew lifted the man, frisked him, and finding nothing, threw him into the chair by the wife. He trained a gun on the two of them.
“What’d you tell him, Louise?” The man looked sideways at the woman.
“Nothing!”
“Who are you and what do you want?” the man demanded,
nursing a busted lip.
“I’m holding the gun, so I’m asking the questions. Why did you hire Ben Goodnight?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Look, you’ve been following me around for the past day and a half. You’re a lousy tail. And now I find your colleague busy shredding files and packing up. Looks a little suspicious to me. So I’ll ask you again. Why did you hire Ben?”
The man sneered at him. “None of your business.”
Andrew stepped closer and reached into the man’s inside jacket pocket, pulling out a U.S. passport. He opened it up.
“Says here you’re an American citizen. Also seems like you are in hurry to go somewhere. Perhaps I can make it my business to find out what the rush is all about. I’ll get you shipped back to the US, your passport revoked, faster than you can sing ‘America the Beautiful’. I don’t know what your operation is here. But it doesn’t look legal."
The man looked stricken. He did not want to go back to the States. Andrew’s threat had his full attention. Andrew wondered for an instant what it was - crime, drugs, money - that caused the anxiety evident on this guy's face. Whatever the reason, the man started to talk.
"Some old guy gave me a pile of cash, told me to hire Ben to go out to Mondulkiri to do some prospecting out there. ‘Tell him to dig around in the dirt’ is what he said. Wanted him to have a look around, file a report on what he saw. He gave me the exact coordinates where Ben should look.”
“When was this?”
“About two months ago.”
That would be sometime in July, Andrew thought.
“Did Ben take the job?”
“Sure. He flew out the next day. When he came back, he was all wound up, thanked me for the work, gave me his report. I paid him, like the old guy said to do, and I hadn’t seen him since. Then I heard he got blown up out there just the other day. So I don't know what to think.”
“Do you have a copy of his report?"
The man turned to his wife, who still looked terrified. “Louise?”
She jumped up to help. “Yes. Yes. Maybe.” She was breathless. “I think I was about to shred it. I’d done March, April, May. Let’s see.” She thumbed through a pile of paper by the shredder.
“That’s June.” She picked up the next pile, flipped half way through it.
“Here it is!” She pulled a piece of paper from the stack, held it up like a prize.
Andrew took it and skimmed the page, words from the report jumping off the page at him.
“Stone carvings”
“Gold statuettes”
“Bamboo huts”
Andrew looked up. “It says he strongly recommends that this land not be conceded for mining. That he found artifacts out there. A lot of them.” Andrew shook his head. “But the land was conceded anyway. I read about it on the Ministry website.”
The man shrugged, his wife staring at Andrew.
Andrew talked to himself now. “This was two months ago. Why did he go back out there last week, if the land was conceded?”
The wife spoke up. “Maybe he wanted to check his facts.”
Andrew’s eyes grew wide. Of course. Ben had tried to alert the Ministry about the artifacts in Mondulkiri. But they went ahead and conceded the land anyway. Perhaps they’d investigated themselves and found nothing, Andrew thought.
Severine had said Ben had brought her out there because he wanted her to see something. But not only because he didn’t think it would last.
“That’s exactly it. He went back for proof.”
Andrew folded the report and tucked it in his back pocket.
“Thanks for this. Sorry for the fright. You’ve been very helpful. Good luck with the move. Stay out of trouble.”
Andrew ducked out into the night. The jungle awaited.
Chapter 17
Severine picked up the toys that had not made it back into the large plastic storage tubs. There were always a few hiding under the benches and the instigators were always the same. Late afternoon and the children were finishing their lessons after a short but noisy recess.
She jumped when she looked up and saw Andrew watching her from the archway. Her shoulders relaxed and she put a hand to her cheek.
"You scared me."
Andrew walked into the courtyard. "Vith let me in. I said hello a couple times, but you must not have heard me. Deep in thought?"
“I guess. I've got a lot on my mind.” She picked up the last toy and tossed it in the bucket.
“Care to share?”
Severine shook her head.
“Is this an OK time to speak?”
Severing glanced back at the house, where giggles and high-pitched voices twinkled out of the windows.
“My cook called in sick today, third time this month, so I have to get dinner ready for the kids.”
“What are they having?” Andrew shifted from his left foot to his right.
Severine looked at Andrew. “Spaghetti.”
“Don't they get enough noodles in this town?”
She smirked. “They love it. It helps them learn about other cultures. Every week, we do a ‘Noodles From Around The World’ night.”
“Nice. How about I help you boil the water?”
She smiled. “Are you sure you know how?”
Andrew grinned. "Lead the way and I'll show you how it’s done.”
*******
In the kitchen, steam rose from roiling water in the industrial-size stainless steel pot. The kitchen windows by the stove were fogged up.
Andrew described the Ministry report while Severine stirred the water.
“Where’d you get a copy?” Severine asked.
Andrew relayed his afternoon’s activities and explained his theory.
“I think somebody buried that report. Someone who didn’t want anyone nosing around out there.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“The report mentions a camp and empty huts. Maybe someone did not want that known.”
Severine looked up at him. She knew how men like Andrew worked. She’d been married to one. “When are you leaving?” she asked.
“Now.”
Chapter 18
Hakk stood on the bamboo porch of the primitive hut, staring out at the orange sun setting over the wide sea. A scantily-dressed young Khmer woman sat on a wicker chair nearby, her legs tucked up under her, watching episodes of I Love Lucy on an Ipad, the wires from the earphones trailing down her shoulders. Every few minutes her giggling would ring across the hut, despite her having been told to keep quiet twice already.
Now, she’d worn out her welcome.
“Get out. Leave me be,” he hissed in Khmer. He was annoyed and not only by her laughter. There had been a delay.
As the young woman hurried out, a black-clad young man knocked on the open doorway and cleared his throat.
“What is it?” Hakk asked.
"The American man is asking a lot of questions about the boy. He has talked with the French girl.”
“Yes, I know of him. I met him. It does not matter now. Did you find the reports at her apartment and the Ministry?”
“Yes.” The young man held up several papers in his left hand.
“And Mr. Cheng?”
“Taken care of, as you instructed.”
“Good. Traitors will not be tolerated,” Hakk said, the wooden floor creaking beneath him.
He turned from the sunset and walked to a table piled with large green coconuts, the skin smooth like a melon. A machete sat by the fruit, its blade sharp and ready. Hakk lifted a coconut, balancing it on its end and began to chop away at the outer green rind with practiced slices.
Rather than leaving, the young man walked in to the hut, uninvited, to watch as Hakk whacked away at the fruit. He was thirsty and wanted some coconut. He spoke, his tones unmeasured. "I heard the American tell the French girl that the boy’s father is rich. Maybe we should have held him for ransom instead."
Hakk dropped the fruit, the
knife still in hand. In a heartbeat, the machete’s silvery blade was pressed against the young man’s slim throat. His arms hung by his side, his left hand still clutching the stolen reports.
“Never doubt me,” Hakk hissed. “Never say such things. Do not even think them. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes, Father. Sum tho.”
Hakk allowed the blade to slide away from the young man’s neck but not before he’d pressed it hard enough to nick the flesh above the collarbone.
Released, the young man trembled. His right hand went to his neck. He pulled his hand away, his fingers red with blood. He blanched.
Hakk had returned to his work on the coconut, which had been shorn of its green rind and now shone bone white, its flesh fragrant and clean.
“Keep me informed of his movements. Soon, it will not matter.”
Hakk jabbed the knife horizontally across the peaked top of the white mass, catching and lifting with the blade a two-inch piece of the coconut flesh to access the sweet juice within. He looked up at the young soldier. “Burn those reports. And tend to that nasty cut.”
The young man, terrified, backed out of the room.
“Eap!” Hakk shouted. The young man stepped back into the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Send in Heang.”
On hearing his name, a large Cambodian man appeared in the doorway. His dirty yellow t-shirt was two sizes too small and his bulk filled the doorframe.
“Where is the truck from Thailand?” Hakk demanded.
Heang leaned on the doorframe. He was Hakk’s most trusted guard. He had been a street kid ten years ago when Hakk had recruited him right off a corner, given him work and money.
But he did not like to give Hakk unpleasant news. Hakk had rages and Heang had been on the receiving end of a few of them. He was not looking forward to answering Hakk’s question.
“The driver made the pick-up as arranged. He ought to be there by now, but we have not heard from him and his phone only rings. His girlfriend got a text from him while he was driving. She said he’d been drinking.”
Hakk slammed the knife into the wooden table. “Find that truck.”