A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  Their driver, a grinning lad in a baseball cap, was leaning against the side of the car. A cigarette dangled from his lip.

  Singh reached for the packet in his breast pocket, tapped out a stick and slipped it between his thin upper lip and plump lower lip. The driver whipped out a coloured plastic lighter and held the flame to the tip. Singh inhaled slowly, watching the tip glow orange. He exhaled a stream of grey smoke and noticed that the taxi was doing something similar through its exhaust pipe. Perhaps he should have just stood downwind and taken a deep breath. Glancing around, Singh saw that most of the skinny young men with the dark skin and jet-black hair of the Khmer were puffing furiously. It was typical and rather sad. Poor third world countries were the few places where there were still no laws, or where the laws were not enforced, forbidding the advertising and selling of tobacco to the young and vulnerable. There wasn’t even a health warning on the packet he had bought at duty free. Still, from what little he knew of Cambodia’s history, cigarettes were probably fairly low down the list of major killers.

  Singh clambered into the back of the car with some difficulty while the young man slung his bag into the boot like an Olympic hammer thrower. Chhean slipped in next to him and he noticed that she had sweet features in the broad face, small ears and hair that had an auburn tinge.

  “Where do we go now?” he asked politely.

  “Hotel Cambodiana. Many of the foreigners stay there.” She made it sound like a criticism. When he did not answer, she snapped, “Prices in US dollars – only UN can afford it.” She glanced at him slyly, “Also ASEAN.”

  Why did he always get the women with attitude? wondered Singh, his lips turned down despondently. He supposed he should be grateful that she spoke English. He certainly didn’t have a single word of Khmer at his disposal.

  They set off at a cracking pace and Singh yelped with shock. It took him a moment to realise that he hadn’t found a suicidal driver. Apparently, they drove on the wrong side of the road – or the right side if he was to be accurate – here in Cambodia. A legacy from the years of French rule, he supposed. That and the six-lane wide, straight-as-a-die boulevards they were hurtling down. The traffic was the usual third world mix of motorbikes, four-wheel drives and crowded minibuses. The signboards were in Khmer, whose script looked to Singh like so many dancing earthworms. His driver pulled into a station for fuel, narrowly avoiding the vehicles that had formed an extra lane going in reverse to the main flow. It was a Total station. Across the road, he spotted a Caltex. The foreign powers which had treated Cambodia as their personal plaything were now back, this time in the guise of commercial interests. On the other hand, thought Singh, reading the road signs with interest – Rue Sihanouk was followed by Rue Nehru and Rue Mao Tse Tung – the Cambodians had sought some of their heroes elsewhere.

  The driver, perhaps disappointed with Chhean’s uncommunicative silence in the back seat, turned around and said, “You want I take you to place for tourists? Very good price. We go Royal Palace, National Museum, Tuol Sleng museum, Choeng Ek killing fields?”

  Chhean snapped something in Khmer, or at least Singh assumed the breathy language was Khmer, and the driver subsided into grumpy silence.

  “Only in Cambodia tourist highlights include torture chambers and mass graves,” she muttered.

  Singh, unable to think of a suitable response, focused his gaze on the dilapidated shops with corrugated roofs and faded, peeling paint. Goods were stacked on the pavements outside as if the shop owners doubted that any customer would choose to enter their premises. Singh didn’t blame them. Half-dressed, plump, grubby children played by the roadside, oblivious or indifferent to the traffic. He noticed the familiar mansions of the corrupt protruding grotesquely from the surrounding slums, their architectural styles derived from watching too many episodes of Dallas.

  Like the riel notes in his wallet, the beer advertisements on the roadside billboards were decorated with the stupas of Angkor Wat. Communists or not, these people weren’t above sticking their most iconic monument on the front of a beer bottle. The inspector nodded approvingly. With that kind of entrepreneurial spirit, the country would soon emerge from its communist constraints into a haven of commercial enterprise and consumer excess like his home town.

  Singh glanced at the frowning profile of the young woman beside him. “It’s very pretty here,” he said ingratiatingly. Compliments, however untruthful, always softened one of Mrs Singh’s moods.

  Chhean glanced out of the window and snorted.

  So much for polite chit-chat, thought Singh wearily. He tried again. “You speak English very well.”

  This overture earned him a sweet smile and an explanation. “I grew up in a refugee orphanage run by Americans,” she explained.

  Singh breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared that his minder was not quite as terrifying as he had first assumed.

  The Cambodiana’s concession to its location and name was an excess of gold-trimmed pointy roofs in a sort of modern ‘wat’ style. Communist architecture in royalist colours with faux historical roofs – an uncommon mix, thought Singh, quite possibly only found in Cambodia. Just as well too. He didn’t think it was an architectural style that would catch on.

  Chhean escorted him in, led him to the reception counter, spoke rapid Khmer to the woman in charge, almost snatched at the key she was handed and gave it to him silently. She rummaged in her capacious practical bag and produced a thick blue file tied up in pink string which she handed to him officiously. “Update on present trial for crimes against humanity of Samrin.” He grasped the file with stubby fingers, immediately rueing its thickness. This shabby scowling figure had provided him with enough reading material to last quite a few evenings.

  “I will pick you up in the morning at eight o’clock for tribunal,” she said, in lieu he supposed of the more traditional words of farewell.

  He nodded his great head, uttered his thanks to a retreating and indifferent square back and gratefully accepted the escort to his room of a decidedly less taciturn female bellhop wearing a short skirt that made the most of her short legs.

  A few moments later he drew the heavy layered curtains and looked out over the Mekong River, the major artery that linked the countries of Indochina. The sun was setting and the waters glowed red and orange, reflecting an angry sky. He could see the dark silhouette of numerous fishing boats on the river and the glinting yellow lights from shacks along the banks. The noise of scooter engines and minibuses on the road below was a rumbling, muffled soundtrack to the extraordinary view. For the first time, Singh felt the mystic charm of the small isolated country. Like it or not, for better but almost certainly for worse, he was in Cambodia for the foreseeable future. He would have to make the best of it. The fat policeman admired the scene for an instant longer, drew the heavy curtains, chucked the folder on the bed and reached for the room service menu.

  ♦

  “I knew them,” said the French embassy attache. The words were like heavy stones dropped into a deep pond. They sank without a trace, a few ripples the only evidence that words of such enormous importance had been spoken.

  “What do you mean?”

  Gaudin’s appearance reminded the attache of the Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. Without opening his mouth, this elderly gentleman from France gave him the impression of a man in anguish. He answered quickly. “They were here – they asked to be allowed to remain, to be evacuated with the French nationals as the wife and children of a French citizen.”

  “And…?” There was hope in the voice, like brittle glass.

  The attache shattered it with his next words. “We couldn’t let them stay. They had no proof, you see. No proof of marriage.” His voice tailed away for a moment and then gathered strength. “I believed them. I begged the authorities to issue them a passport, some papers, anything to give them what little protection the embassy still had.”

  “Why did you believe?”

  “They were…they were clearly part Cau
casian, the children that is. Dark hair but not black, hazel eyes and rosy cheeks.”

  “Then why wouldn’t the authorities let them stay?”

  Blue eyes met grey. The official shrugged, a knowing gesture, one man of the world to another. “They could have been illegitimate. We had no way of being sure.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They were here right until the end. It was my fault. I gave them hope, you see.” He winced. “In the end, it was just a handful of Khmer left on the grounds including your family. The trucks were due to arrive the following morning to take us to Thailand. The airport was off limits so our escape was overland.”

  “What happened to them?” François’s voice was a decibel short of a scream.

  “We let them out at night to give them a chance to sneak past the Khmer Rouge guards at the entrances. But the baby…the baby started to cry. She couldn’t make it stop. I watched from the gate as they were picked up.” He took a deep breath and found the courage to be honest. “Your wife tried…she wanted to toss the baby back over the gate. The Khmer soldiers grabbed her arms and stopped her. I swear to God I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

  There was no response from the other man. He was staring at the table top as if it was a flat screen television playing out the events that were being described.

  “With their mixed blood, the Khmer Rouge would have targeted them. There is no possibility they could have survived,” whispered the attache.

  ♦

  It was dusk. Only a car aficionado would have been able to identify the make of the car he was driving. The dents, dirt and add-ons from other vehicles rendered it anonymous. The driver smiled, exposing teeth worn to the gum. He was amused by the idea that someone might recognise his vehicle. There weren’t many car experts lurking in the paddy fields of Cambodia and he wasn’t driving one of those bloated Mercedes belonging to the corrupt nouveau riche of Phnom Penh. The man pulled off the road – if the typically pot-holed, randomly-tarred track deserved such a title – next to a cluster of bushes and extricated his square frame with difficulty. He was already wearing dark clothes but he poured some water from a bottle into the dirt, rubbed it in with his booted foot and scooped up a handful of mud. He carefully applied the mud to his face and hands, not forgetting the ears as he had been taught almost too long ago to remember. He leaned into the car, opened the glove compartment, slipped out a revolver and tucked it into his trousers. He could feel the cold metal against the pale skin of his back and it was reassuring. Guns, any weapons, were terrifying – unless you were the one behind the trigger. He wondered a bit at this – even with his background he wasn’t sure it was entirely normal to find such physical comfort in a weapon. He didn’t want to think that his balance was slipping. It was of utmost importance that he had complete faith in his mental equilibrium. Otherwise, he wouldn’t trust his judgment in matters that were of significance to him – matters of life and death.

  He took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the yellowish-white flower of the rumdul tree. He paused to contemplate the glow of a pink and orange sky. The colours were so intense that they belonged on a canvas, an exaggerated depiction of the traditional glorious sunset. Such beauty had no place in the real world. It mocked the suffering of individuals that their gods were too busy mixing colours to notice their pain. The man forced his mind to the job at hand in the way farmers channelled waters to their fields, suppressing his burgeoning sense of injustice with an effort of will that was almost physical. It left him sweating and the breeze felt like a cold compress against his high, lined forehead. There was no time for any hiatus before action. He needed to focus on what was important, what he had come to do. His muscles became taut like a boxer anticipating a punch. He felt his senses sharpen and he slowed his breathing intentionally.

  He walked quickly towards the fields. The haphazard geometrical shapes of individual paddy fields were obscured by tall brown stalks that swayed rhythmically to the music in the soft breeze. It was almost harvest time so if he kept to the dykes and kept low, he was as invisible as the wind but just as potent. In the distance, he spotted a man walking with a leisurely step, leading a docile water buffalo towards a clump of houses that formed the small village, identical in size and configuration to thousands of others scattered throughout Cambodia. The old man whistled as he walked. It was not surprising – the rice plants were golden and heavy. The crop this year would be bountiful. After the planter threshed the stalks and milled the grain, there would be rice to sell in the markets and to exchange with the fishermen and farmers for their produce, not forgetting, of course, to set some aside for the saffron-robed monks with their alms bowls. The farmer looked up. The final rays of the sun had turned the sky a deep purple, the colour of shrouds, and mild gusts brought the coolness of evening after a scorching day.

  At last, the man leading the buffalo drew level. The assassin stepped out in front of him, more shadow than substance.

  The farmer gave a start, but it was an instinctive response to the unexpected. There was no trace of fear in it.

  “Chom-reab-suor,” he said politely, a formal greeting for a stranger. His elderly face creased into a gap-toothed smile.

  The man pulled the revolver from his waistband in one smooth unhurried action and, arm outstretched, pressed it against the farmer’s forehead. He noted the thin grey hair cut close to the head. It was so sparse that in better light he would have seen the pale scalp gleaming through.

  “Why?” whispered the old man.

  It was an interesting response. He was not begging for his life although there was fear now, visible in the rheumy whites of the man’s eyes even in the half-darkness. Some of the others had grasped him around his knees and wept for the right to live. This man’s voice was leaden and dull – as if he had emotionally forfeited his life the moment he saw the gun.

  “I think you know.”

  From the suddenly downcast eyes, he knew he was right. This victim, confronted with sudden death, was resigned. Only a slight sad wobble around the mouth suggested he regretted the appearance of the grim reaper. The killer became aware that he despised his victim. It annoyed him. It contradicted his self-portrait, that he was an agent of justice, not revenge.

  He pulled the trigger quickly, such a small shift in weight with his index finger and in front of him a man died. The loud report caused a flock of swifts to launch themselves into the air, screams of indignation issuing forth from open beaks.

  There was no need to check for a pulse. The peasant lying on his back in the dirt with a gaping dark hole in the middle of his forehead was most definitely dead. As he walked back to the car, the killer noted with satisfaction that the evening’s work brought his tally to eleven.

  Three

  Justice always seemed to wear robes, decided Singh. He wasn’t sure why it was necessary for such an excess of heavy cloth. Perhaps it was to convince ordinary folk that serious matters were at hand. How could one gainsay a judge in a costume that swept the floor with regal disdain as he walked? The Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC), funded in part by the United Nations, had really gone to town on the outfits. The judges, and he counted at least five of them – three Cambodian and two foreign – wore red shiny robes, gathered in pleats around the shoulders. The prosecutors and other lawyers had opted for rich purple. White bibs were draped across their chests as if they might nip out for a hurried meal between proceedings. Singh folded his arms across his belly and wondered whether consultants had been hired to design the ECCC and its accoutrements. It looked like they’d obtained the services of a theatrical company by mistake.

  The Sikh policeman felt out of place in his usual uniform of dark trousers, white shirt and white sneakers. The last part of his ensemble already looked grubby. He thrust out his bottom lip in an irritated pout. Every time he was sent overseas on a work trip, his shoes were the first to acknowledge the distance he had travelled from Singapore – physically, e
conomically and hygienically.

  Singh looked around. Here at the ECCC, every effort had been made to turn a large air-conditioned room in a complex of military buildings into an international war crimes tribunal. All the parties sat behind waist-high polished wooden ramparts. The policeman noted the large flags, that of the Kingdom of Cambodia (no surprise that, like the currency and the beer, it depicted Angkor Wat) as well as the more familiar sky blue of the United Nations, draped behind the judges’ dais. The entire trial chamber was encased in bulletproof glass. The glass walls gave the proceedings a slightly unreal air, as if he was watching the trial on a massive television screen rather than in real life and real time.

  Singh turned his attention to the accused. Samrin sat quietly in the dock, a carved wooden affair in the centre of the room. He had neat grey hair, small regular features except for a long thin nose and fair skin. His eyes were rheumy and tired and he had neat bags arranged in semi-circles under each one.

  In the first trial before the ECCC, Comrade Duch had been tried for the death of an estimated twenty-one thousand people at Tuol Sleng prison, or S21 as it was sometimes called, and sentenced to life imprisonment.

  Now, Samrin, accused of being the commandant at the Choeng Ek killing fields, faced the same fate, life imprisonment for crimes against humanity. Indeed, the only reason that he had not been charged with genocide was that his victims had been chosen generally without reference to ethnicity, race or some such feature. Singh closed his eyes, the dark lids like heavy curtains. It really was quite extraordinary to think that the Khmer Rouge killings had been so indiscriminate that a charge of genocide as defined in the UN Convention on Genocide wouldn’t stick. He would bet his next curry that the framers of the definition hadn’t expected such an irony.

  Singh had read in the handwritten notes provided to him by Chhean that Samrin professed to be a born-again Christian. Very convenient, thought Singh, his lips pursed together grimly, and not an option that his victims were allowed. Most Cambodians were Buddhists and had a simple faith in the cycle of rebirth until a state of Nirvana was attained. Singh, an atheist, particularly disliked the idea of being reborn, one’s status in the new life determined by one’s conduct in the old. It was asking for trouble. Especially as Singapore was quite happy to hang all the murderers he apprehended. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. He was pretty sure that everyone he had sent to the gallows had been guilty. But that might not be enough of an excuse under the pacifist Buddhist doctrine. He, Singh, might be reborn as a cockroach, or worse, a vegetarian.