The frenzied, staccato voice of a female reporter came on first. She spoke into the camera, live at the scene. “The work of terrorists…government officials have reported…just minutes ago.”
“Any news about Simok?” Malak interrupted Lee’s concentration as he crowded onto the bed. “Have they mentioned anything about him?”
“Shh, listen!” Malak slipped off the bed back into the shadows of the room.
“According to government figures the death toll has now reached two hundred and eight-nine.”
Having heard enough, Lee got up and turned off the television. He felt the curious burn of Malak’s eyes on his back as he went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Water gushed from the tap into the sink, and he splashed his face to cool his cheeks. As he toweled his skin dry, he wondered about his childhood friend’s fate and fought back the guilt that tugged at his conscience about Simok being thrown to the wolves.
A few minutes later, he came out to the pungent smell of wild rice, brown pork, and spicy salad Malak and the other soldier were eating. The stench put Lee on edge.
“Open the door and let the stink out. My God, how can you eat that crap?”
Malak cracked open the front door and turned on a fan. Lee nodded his head, then went over and sat back down on the bed, while they continued eating.
A few minutes later he stared across the room at them. Unable to contain his emotions, he said, “ By God, we did it.” He kept his voice low. “We brought the place down. Now they’re out looking for us, scrambling around like ants on an ant hill that caught on fire. The only thing that disturbs me is I don’t know what they’re doing to Simok. Poor guy, he’s sacrificed so much for our cause. To one day enjoy a country free of the Communists. That’s what we’re in this for.” He frowned and shook his head. “God only knows where Simok is, or what they’re doing to him.”
“I want to know too.” Malak got up and switched on the television. “The news is killing me.”
Lee sat on the bed, staring up at the screen, but his mind was someplace far away.
I grieve for you, my friend. What they must be doing to you now, the bastards. I am helpless. I am heart-sick and can do nothing now to help you. You are a brave and loyal soldier. But I wonder how long you can withstand the torture before you crack and give them the information they are looking for. Or will you die with our secret pinned to your heart? I wonder, my friend, I wonder…
He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because just then he saw his picture flash onto the television screen.
* * * *
Kicked and shoved down a dark corridor in the bowels of the police station, Simok was pushed through the door into a small, cramped interrogation room. Inside a small gunmetal gray desk and two chairs stood next to O-rings attached to the floor. Simok’s left hand strained inside one of the rings. He cocked his head to the side to see the tall reedy officer, who sat behind the desk under a light bulb dangling on a wire from the ceiling.
“Tell me everything.” The officer spoke in a voice seething with anger and hatred. “Why you and your friend blow up Telecom building?”
Simok said nothing. A guard at the door stepped across the room and drove the toe of his boot into Simok’s ribs. Simok squealed in pain and keeled over as he felt the bones crack.
“Now you talk,” the reedy officer said. “Who was the other man with you?”
Simok kept quiet. The front door banged open. Two military police entered. One had a battery operated device with two cords and two electrical prongs attached to it. The MPs cuffed Simok’s free hand to another 0-ring. They shackled his feet to the floor, then ripped down his pants and pulled off his underwear.
“Now you talk,” said the reedy officer.
Simok went quiet. His eyes darted back and forth before they snapped wide open in a look of terror. He stared up at his captors. Sick, sadistic smiles crossed their faces as the cables attached to the high-powered battery moved his way. The clips swung open and clamped shut on his testicles. A horrifying scream shot out of Simok’s lungs into the room as the shock ravaged his body.
“Now you tell,” the officer said.
His teeth clipped together. A fire raged inside his eyes. Another jolt of electricity sent Simok’s body arching up off the floor. He went into a series of convulsions, writhing, twisting, turning, jolting up and down, and flapping like a fish out of water as the current shot through him. His body was on fire. Surely his heart would stop any minute. The pain was so horrific. The smell of smoke and searing flesh filled the air.
“You talk,” the reedy office shouted, just as his cell phone began to ring.
Straightening up, the officer spoke abruptly into the phone a few times and then left the room. Outside in the hall the overzealous security guard who had apprehended the prisoner waited. A low ranking guard, he kept his eyes on the floor in deference as he spoke to his superior.
“I know the prisoner’s friend,” he said. “I have seen him many times before. He is a mystic who sells magic crystals and spirit water. I have seen him at the Open Air Market here in Vientiane, also up north, in Lao Prabang. He was once a soldier. His name is Kanoa Lee.”
The reedy officer called the Office of Social Services in Phonsavan. Minutes later a fax came over the line with a photo of Kanoa Lee. The officer walked back down the hall and entered the interrogation room. Simok lay on his side, curled up in a ball, shivering on the floor.
“Kill him,” he told the guard.
Three cops wrestled Simok down into an empty cell in the basement of the building where he was shot in the face at point-blank range and collapsed dead on the floor.
Chapter Nineteen
The landscape changed as Tory and Seabury entered steep, mountainous terrain. Tall stands of white pine bordered the road. Further back inside the forest were thick, knotted clusters of bamboo, banyan and evergreen. Animals moved through the trees in a shadowy maze of sun-dappled light.
Seabury felt the bike laboring under him now, up a steep hill, down the other side, then up again. The engine whined and sputtered in protest. He wondered if he’d made a mistake renting the bike and taking it on a long journey. It was grossly underpowered for the steep terrain.
Here at a higher elevation the air was cool and fresh with the fragrant scent of forest pine. The temperature had also changed. Maybe four or five degrees, Seabury guessed, judging from the sudden chill in the air.
Tory’s arms circled his waist. Her raven hair blew out from under the seam of her cap and fanned the edges of her narrow shoulders. She held on tight as they raced down the highway.
Every now and then a clearing appeared inside the forest. Further off in the distance, the stout black figures of grazing cattle stood out from a wall of high, thick grass. Further back in the vast open spaces of remote valleys, Seabury could see bright spears of sunlight bounce off the roofs of homes in the sleepy isolation of the tribal villages clustered together under the clear blue sky.
“What’s the next town?” he shouted as he slowed down a little.
Tory let go of his waist and bent over to study her map. She’d trapped it between his back and her stomach while she held onto the bike with her other hand.
“It has a funny name…Hin Hoeup. It’s not far…maybe three or four miles.” She tucked the map back into the waistband of her pants and clutched his waist again.
Taking the curve in the highway, he straightened the bike out and felt her tap his shoulder, hearing her voice above the roar of the engine.
“Maybe we should stop. You can put your hat and scarf back on. You don’t look old enough now.”
“Not yet,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
For the last few minutes he’d watched them. Up ahead, off to his left, a trail led straight down onto the highway. Dark figures stood there now, watching their approach. Bandits, not forest people, Seabury thought, judging from the dark clothes and red headbands. He saw them clearly now: two men and a woman,
moving out of the forest onto the highway and walking down in the band of sunlight toward them.
A tall, lank figure dressed in black stepped ahead of the others. Seabury saw a ray of sunlight reflect off the barrel of his shotgun. He waved a hand and signaled for Seabury to pull over.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Tory shouted.
Seabury said nothing. He eased up on the throttle, heard the engine whine and growl down as the speed decreased, and headed toward the soft shoulder of the road. Closer now, he could see the figure up ahead. A tall, gaunt Lao, wearing a black shirt and black baggy pants, with a red handkerchief wound around his slick oily head. A fierce, ugly, very unfriendly beast, Seabury thought, as the guy scowled and stopped a few feet in front of him. He looked at tory and grinned lustfully. She squirmed on her seat.
“Don’t move. Don’t say anything,” Seabury said. “Just stay low and hang on.”
Seabury saw the leader’s hand move in a flurry of activity, motioning him down off the bike. The other man and the woman stood off to his side, a few feet behind him, with their rifles cocked and ready.
The engine idled to a slow purr as Seabury’s eyes focused on the leader. He glanced at him then back at the highway. It dropped down a steep hill on the other side. The leader motioned again for Seabury and Tory to get off the bike, this time with his shotgun. Seabury gripped the handlebars and felt the engine idling under him.
The man shouted something in Lao, his voice rocked the air with a harsh, ear-splitting blast.
“He wants us to get off,” Tory said.
“Tell him, fuck you,” Seabury said, revving the engine.
Tory paused briefly, said, “He’s serious. He said get off the bike or he’ll shoot us.”
“Tell him what I said,” Seabury told her.
Tory translated the message. At first the guy’s mouth flung open. Then his eyes narrowed to tiny slits of anger. Seabury timed the guy’s facial reaction to coincide with the quick downward twist of his wrists on the bike’s throttle. The surge of power was immediate. Head low, his chin inches above the handle bars, Seabury gunned the engine and the bike roared straight at the guy, catching him off guard as the front wheel crashed into the middle of his chest.
The guy flew back off his feet like he’d been caught in a bomb blast and crashed to the ground, groaning in pain. Seabury didn’t waste time. He gunned the bike hard to the right and roared back onto the highway. A few seconds later they dropped down over the hill as bullets whizzed past them. Tory’s screams turned to laughter the further they got down the hill until the road eventually leveled off to a flatter stretch.
Out of immediate danger now, he swung the bike off the road near a stand of trees where Tory helped him put on his old man’s disguise.
“I thought we were dead back there,” she said, catching her breath, staring up at him in admiration. “That was quick thinking,” she said.
“Only when you land on your feet.” He exhaled a puff of air. His chest heaved. But he felt more relaxed now. “They would’ve taken us back into the woods,” he said. “They would have raped and killed you, then me. After discovering the ransom money, they’d have lived a life of luxury. I couldn’t risk it. Getting off the bike wasn’t an option.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you can be stubborn and obstinate?”
“Yes. A few times. Why?”
“Oh, never mind,” she said with a smile. “I’m still recovering from a case of heart failure.”
“We’ve got a long way to go before reaching the Plain of Jars. Having second thoughts?” he said.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Thanks,” he said. “So far we’ve been lucky but I don’t want to push it. Dark forests, winding roads, bandits all around, the police out looking for us—I don’t like the idea of stopping—not until its safe.”
“I take it from here. It looks better for a young woman to be driving an old man. No offense, Seabury. You’re really not that old.”
They exchanged places and she drove back onto the highway. On the outskirts of Hin Hoeup, she slowed down as they entered town.
“I hope we get through this time without trouble,” she shouted as she eased off on the throttle. “I don’t think my heart could take another surprise like the one we just had back there.”
* * * *
At the motel, Kanoa Lee turned on the water inside the shower and stepped inside. He lathered his stout, muscular body twice under a hot stream of water, rinsed, and then stepped back out of the shower and dried himself. He changed into a pair of dark slacks and a white cotton shirt, and returned to the bedroom. Malak and another soldier were there eating lunch and staring up at Lee’s picture as it flashed across the television screen.
“This is the man believed to be the terrorist responsible for the bombing of the Telecom building this morning,” the news anchor said.
Lee sat down on the end of the bed warily, his face a mask of surprise and disbelief. For a moment said nothing. He stared up at his picture on the screen, shook his head sadly and muttered the sergeant’s name over and over.
“Simok…Simok…Simok,” he said in a voice filled with pain and sadness. “They broke your spirit, my friend. They took the life out of you.” He continued to stare up at the screen, visibly shaken and wrought with pain.
“I don’t think they broke him,” Malak said. “He would rather die than compromise the mission.”
“Then who?” Lee asked. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” Malak said and watched Lee snap on the hand communicator and speak quickly into it.
The voice on the other end was panic-stricken. “Your picture…all over the television.”
I know,” Lee said. “But don’t worry. No, no, no. They captured Simok. I think the torture was too much for him and he cracked under pressure. No, don’t worry. I said I’ll take care of it. We proceed as if nothing happened. The Financial building goes down at three-thirty. We’ll give the bastards something else to think about.”
Chapter Twenty
Traffic was light coming in and out of Hin Hoeup.
“Don’t stop,” Seabury told her. “We’ll gas up later in Vang Vieng.”
Tory nodded and they eased through town. Shops and restaurants lined the main street and metal grates were pulled down over bars and karaoke clubs, Seabury noticed. Customers moved in and out of store fronts, walking down the sidewalk, carrying plastic shopping bags in their hands. Cars parked along the street. The air smelled of cooking oil and fried fish mixed with the smell of charcoal roasted chicken coming off the grills of roadside vendors. Young men with wet, slick hair and grim faces stood around in doorways watching as they passed by.
Up ahead was a traffic light, the only one in town. Strung above the street between electrical wire and two poles, it appeared to drop out of the sky like a glowing red disk. Tory brought the bike to a sudden stop. Just their luck the traffic light was in front of a police station, Seabury thought.
Two policemen stood outside talking near a jeep parked outside the front gate. One of them glanced across at her. As his friend joined him, Seabury riveted his eyes to a spot directly in the middle of Tory’s back. He held his breath, waiting. Mentally, he counted off the seconds showing on the digital screen suspended on a metal post above the street.
Ten…nine… eight…seven…
When the light changed, the two cops were already in the jeep and had pulled in behind them. Seabury heard the bike’s engine change speeds as Tory accelerated to ten miles per hour, then twenty.
Tory leaned back and said, “I don’t like the idea of stopping. If they pull us over, I’ll make a run for it. There’s a road up ahead. It veers to the right, back into the forest. Maybe I can lose them there.”
“Can you motor this thing?”
“Sit back and watch.”
“No, hold on a minute. Let’s see what happens.”
She eased into second gear but continued to hold her speed down as they reached the
edge of town. The cops moved in close behind them. Seabury slumped forward, like an old man stooped over a cane. He breathed deep, took in long puffs of air, relaxed and controlled his heart rate. For a fleeting moment he thought about Colonel Maran Tint.
By now he’s fuming. Mad as hell that I didn’t show up at police headquarters. He’s probably sent out an APB.
Any moment Seabury expected to hear the sound of a siren and a cop on a bull horn telling them to pull over. Nothing. The seconds ticked by. Still nothing. Then up ahead he heard another sound. It seemed to come out of nowhere, pouring out of a grove of trees off to his left at the edge of town. A garage door opened. A car parked over a service bay stood in the shadows of the garage. The loud, concussive blast of high-energy rock music screamed out through a set of speakers.
The front door on the passenger’s side of the high gloss, souped-up, canary yellow Honda was open. The car had mags, a moon roof and a nasty spoiler over a trunk embossed with the head of a screaming eagle. Blam! Blam! Blam! The music rocked on without missing a beat. The cops turned off the road toward the sound. Tory and Seabury eased up the highway out of town.
“Want to drive?” said Tory a while later, pulling over a half a mile out of town.
“Okay,” Seabury said and she climbed on back.
He wasn’t sure if the move was intentional but as she slipped onto the seat behind him, her small breasts pushed up against his back. He felt the softness through his jacket. His body tingled. Now, as he gunned the engine up to speed and roared down the road, he wondered about her.
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