Temple of Gold

by A. J. Stewart

  “I take it you’ve been here a while?” Lenny asked. For the first time he really looked at her face. Her demeanor was pleasant and she had a bubbly energy, and her skin was that English alabaster that made women look timeless, unless they fell victim to the sun. Kendra had not, but despite that he saw the onset of wrinkles around her eyes. He liked wrinkles on a woman’s face. They told him she had seen a thing or two and so probably knew a thing or two, and they told him she wasn’t afraid to smile. Lenny didn’t trust people who were afraid to smile. They always had something to hide. Lenny pegged her for nearing thirty.

  “A few years. It’s my second stint abroad, actually. I was in Singapore before, and then I was back in London, but I found it too cold and too boring, really. So here I am.”

  “You work here in the embassy?”

  “I do. British Council. We’re a cultural relations and education organization.”

  Lenny nodded like he was impressed, but he was thinking about how there seemed to be a lot of people distributing their culture across Southeast Asia in all kinds of interesting and unrequested ways.

  “Anyway,” she said, retrieving her drinks from the bar. “I should get these drinks back before they go hot. It was nice meeting you, Sergeant Cox.”

  “You too, Kendra,” he said, noting that she knew Marine rank insignia.

  “I hope I see you around.” She gave him the cute chipmunk smile again and then dashed across the room to hand the beer to a guy in uniform. He took it with a tight grin and a quick nod, and then drank half of it down like he had just wandered in from the desert. His uniform, like many in the room, was drab khaki, and could have been British or the armies of any number of Commonwealth countries. But the hat the guy carried tucked under his arm was distinctive. It was a khaki hat, wide-brimmed, with one side pinned up. The Australian Army slouch hat.

  Lenny watched the Australian for a moment. He was only average height but thin and wiry, like he probably walked across the Australian outback on his days off. Lenny knew the look. Lenny had the look. Only this guy’s hair was regulation, probably blond but shaved so close as to almost not be there at all. The guy sipped his beer as Kendra introduced him to a man in a penguin suit.

  What the Australian didn’t do was look at Lenny.

  Which told Lenny plenty. When a guy is that thirsty and is made to wait for his beer, the guy watches his beer make its way across the room. Maybe he even gets a bit antsy. And if the guy has any interest in the woman getting said beer—and he usually did—then the guy would not only watch her return to him, but he would take a good look at the reason for the delay: the competition, so perceived. But this guy didn’t. He never looked back toward Lenny. Not once. Lenny watched the group of three chat for five more minutes and the guy didn’t so much as glance Lenny’s way. Which suggested he either was completely indifferent as to why his beer had taken so long, or else had already done all the looking at Lenny that he needed to do, before Lenny even knew he was there.

  Lenny collected his own beer and wandered back outside. He didn’t enjoy these types of events or these types of people. He was a sociable guy, and he preferred to be in the company of people more often than not, and he preferred good folks over bad. He knew everyone had a story and everyone had a secret chamber where they hid their darkest thoughts from the light. But people like these seemed to see the keeping of secrets as a way of keeping tabs. The more secrets you kept, the higher you scored. Lenny’s experience was different. He had found that the more secrets one kept, the darker their soul became, and their score, whatever that meant, tended to fall.

  His own father was a case in point. Lenny had lived his entire life just outside of San Diego, where his father was stationed in the navy. Lenny recalled good men and women who enjoyed a beer and a laugh and a game of cornhole after a grill-out in the backyard. They shared everything and hid the bare minimum. That was how Lenny had seen it, anyway, as a boy. Then his father went to Vietnam. Two tours, after which, Lenny’s father smiled less and spoke little. The things he had seen, the things he had done, he kept them all inside his secret chamber. His navy brothers did likewise. The beers continued but the grill-outs stopped. The man who left for his third and final tour of duty was not the same man who had left for his first, and it had taken Lenny years to understand why. It wasn’t just what his father had seen, or what he had done. It was that all of those things had become secrets—from his friends, from his wife and family, from himself—and those secrets had consumed him from the inside out.

  On the steps to the garden, the British Ambassador to Thailand gave a speech that was the work of a pro and mercifully short. They toasted the Queen, and Lenny found himself raising his glass but not saying anything with it. Then some of the crowd slipped away into the night, for dinner dates or bars or back to work, while others settled in to drink the night away on the British taxpayers’ pence.

  Lenny finished his beer and gave due consideration to grabbing a tuk-tuk back to his little billet near the river. The thought didn’t get far. He saw Alice Brooks walking in his direction on the arm of a tall, balding man that Lenny knew by sight but had never spoken to. They came to him and Alice spoke.

  “Sergeant Cox, have you met Ambassador Jeffries?”

  The tall man offered his hand to Lenny, a crisp white cuff protruding from the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. Lenny came to attention. He wasn’t completely sure on the protocol; a United States Ambassador wasn’t exactly the commander in chief, but he was the closest thing in these parts. Besides, everyone loved having a Marine in full dress blues come to attention for them.

  “Sir,” said Lenny, offering a sharp salute before taking the Ambassador’s handshake.

  “Sergeant, thank you for your service.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Miss Brooks informs me you are on a temporary detachment with the embassy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wonder if I might ask a liberty of you.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “We have a bus of staff and servicemen going out to Kanchanaburi this weekend.”

  “Kanchanaburi, sir?”

  “Yes. Are you familiar?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The River Kwai?”

  “That I know, sir.”

  “It’s ANZAC Day. Kind of like our Memorial Day but for the Australian and New Zealand defense forces. They have a memorial cemetery out there from World War II, and a contingent of us are going out to represent the United States.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Problem is, our bus driver has come down with malaria. Doesn’t look like he’ll be up for the job. Miss Brooks tells me you might be able to fill in.”

  Lenny glanced at Alice and then back at the Ambassador.

  “You want me to drive a bus, sir?”

  “I know driving a bunch of bureaucrats out to the countryside is a little beneath the skill set of a Marine—”

  “There are lots of drivers in the Marines, sir. Without them we don’t even get to battle, let alone win, sir.”

  “Of course, Sergeant. I’d consider it a personal favor. You’d be helping me out of a pickle. And your presence would add to our show of respect to our Australian and New Zealand friends.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “So I can count on you?”

  “You can always count on the Marines, sir.”

  “Good man. Who’s your CO? I can clear it with him.”

  “My CO is Colonel Yardley, sir, but that won’t be necessary. The colonel will be more than happy for me to help you out.”

  “Good, very good. Sunday, then. And bring your dress uniform for the service. It’s at dawn on Monday, but we’ll be staying Monday night and returning Tuesday morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Ambassador nodded and thanked Lenny, and Lenny snapped his heels and saluted. Jeffries smiled and stood tall and then walked away. Alice watched Lenny with a grin at the corner of her mouth.
>
  “At ease, soldier,” she said.

  “A soldier is in the army, ma’am. I’m a Marine.”

  “Aren’t you just? Your beer glass is empty, Marine.”

  “I was thinking about bugging out.”

  “Have one more drink with me. Then I’ll spring for a taxi.”

  “I prefer a tuk-tuk,” said Lenny.

  “You do? You like putting your life in someone else’s hands?”

  “I think if you’re going to be in a place, you should really be there. Take this garden. This town is hot, humid, loud, and confronting. But this garden is trying to hide from that. I don’t see the point of it. You might as well stay home. I’m never going to ride home in a tuk-tuk once I’m back stateside, am I?”

  “No, Marine, you are not. Tuk-tuk it is. But first, one more of Her Majesty’s gin and tonics.”

  Chapter Four

  Alice Brooks woke to the sight of a Royal Palm outside the window and the scent of jasmine on the air. She lay for a moment, letting the cool air from the room’s air conditioner descend over her. It was fighting a losing battle, the heat rising with the sun, the humidity having never left. She lay with her head on Lenny Cox’s chest, his red hair tousled like a bird’s nest. Alice didn’t wake him. She knew he had nowhere better to be. Ventura had given him no orders, and Colonel Yardley had given him orders to play nice with Ventura, and now he had orders of a sort from the Ambassador for the weekend. And besides, she kind of liked having him here. She wouldn’t go as far as to say they were in a relationship—that implied all kinds of commitments that hadn’t been made. Theirs was something more transitory. People might have called it a casual arrangement, but there was nothing casual about it. It was intense and passionate in private, and something quite different in public, as it needed to be. But she enjoyed it. Lenny was smart and athletic and hell, sure, a younger man. That made her smile for reasons it probably shouldn’t have.

  She lay against him, their breathing in sync, and listened to the sound of the city rising outside, the horns and hubbub never having died away completely, just finding a more relaxed rhythm during the night. She glanced up and found him awake, staring at the ceiling.

  “You look a million miles away,” said Alice, brushing her hair from her face.

  “Nope, I’m right here, in every way.”

  “Because if you’re going to be in a place, right?”

  “Sure.”

  Alice rolled onto her side and propped her head on her elbow.

  “What did you think of last night?” she asked.

  Lenny raised an eyebrow. “You doing post-game analysis?”

  “Not that part. The embassy function.”

  “I think the Brits would say it wasn’t really my cup of tea.”

  “No, I didn’t think so. So why were you there?”

  “You sorry I was there?”

  “You fishing for a compliment, Sergeant? You know what you’re good at.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I mean why did Colonel Yardley send you to a British Embassy party?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “You’re very good at that, for example,” she said, her eyebrows pinching together.

  “Good at what?”

  “Answering a question with a question.”

  Lenny nodded against his pillow. “So why do you think I was there?”

  “I think Yardley asked you to be there to make Ventura wonder what you were doing there. Perhaps make him think he doesn’t actually control everything you do.”

  “Ventura didn’t seem put out by it.”

  “He’s a pro. He doesn’t try to change the past. He adapts and moves on. So I’m willing to bet he told you to keep an eye on things.”

  “Things?”

  “Me, for example.”

  Lenny kept his eye on a water stain that had formed on the ceiling paint.

  “Why would an American businessman want to keep an eye on a legal attaché?” He turned and looked at her. He wasn’t smiling but he didn’t look unhappy.

  “I work for the Justice Department,” she said. “He thinks there is an inherent conflict in what we do and what he does.”

  “What is it he does?”

  “He imports and exports things.”

  “Right.”

  “When he’s not running guns for the CIA.”

  Lenny raised an eyebrow again. “Is that what he does?”

  “American businessmen don’t get to use Marines as their playthings.”

  “Playthings?”

  “You know what I mean. Of course I know he’s CIA. And I know he thinks—or at least some folks at Langley think—that we have to provide military support to one side or the other to any number of forces in Southeast Asia, and he thinks the Department of Justice may see his actions as illegal. So he sees us as some kind of enemy.”

  “He’s not a very trusting guy.”

  “He can’t be, in his line of work. You should take note of that.”

  “You think he’s using me?” Lenny asked.

  “I think in one sense, we’re all being used. You’re in the military, so by definition you get used. I work for the United States Government, which means by definition I’m the same. But I also know that there are ways of using someone and ways of using someone. You’re not one of those guys who is ever going to end up in front of a tribunal claiming he was just following orders.”

  “You don’t think I follow orders?”

  “I think you’re a good Marine, and a better man.”

  “Now you’re just buttering me up. Maybe you’re using me, too.”

  Alice threw her leg over Lenny’s waist, and then sat her naked body on him and looked him in the eye.

  “I already did that,” she said, with a quick grin. Then her eyes turned serious again. “I need coffee.”

  She flopped off him and threw a silk robe on and padded away into the kitchen. She had the coffee machine gurgling before Lenny wandered out in a similar robe. It was several sizes too small, but it covered the basics.

  Alice’s apartment was a compact one-bedroom in the Embassy District overlooking Lumphini Park. It was five times the size of Lenny’s billet and the bedroom had AC, which meant he always stayed at her place, and never the other way around. Alice poured herself a cup of coffee and then retrieved a carton of orange juice from the fridge and poured Lenny a large glass.

  Thank you,” he said, taking a stool at the breakfast bar.

  Alice nodded. “We are nothing if not full-service.”

  “I say nothing to that.”

  Alice raised an eyebrow. She flicked on a fan and took a stool next to Lenny.

  “So what do you think?” she asked.

  “Good OJ.”

  Alice pursed her lips.

  “Are you ever not thinking about work?” Lenny asked.

  “I had my moments last night.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a good guy, but serious is not your thing. So what do you think?”

  “I think I have to watch what I say. The CIA doesn’t care much for pillow talk.”

  “Lenny, I know what Ventura is doing. He’s flying arms into Kampuchea.”

  “You know that? And the DoJ is okay with that?”

  “It’s the DoJ’s job to understand where we sit within a legal framework, and to advise the administration accordingly. What the administration will do is what they will do.”

  “All right, then, you’re the Georgetown graduate, explain something to me.”

  “What?”

  “From where I’m standing it doesn’t look like Ventura’s out on a limb here. He’s not running some private Vietnam. So what gives? Why are we supporting a murdering bastard like General Tan?”

  “Ah, Brother Tan. Yes, that is the question.”

  “What’s the answer?”

  “What do you know about the Khmer Rouge?”

  “I know about Pol Pot, I know about the ki
lling fields. I know they murdered over a million of their own people. And I know we appear to be helping them now.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It doesn’t look complicated, Alice. It looks like we’re the bad guys.”

  “Shifting sands. What we know now as Kampuchea was known as the French Protectorate of Cambodia and was a part of French Indochina, along with what we now call Vietnam. After the Second World War the country became independent—the Kingdom of Cambodia. The whole area was as politically unstable then as it is now. Communist parties raised their profile across Indochina, supported by China and the Soviets. In 1970, Prince Norodom Sihanouk was overthrown by the military because of his alignment with the communists in North Vietnam in the Indochina War. The new regime was declared a republic and realigned Cambodia with South Vietnam, and with the United States.”

  “How does Pol Pot come into this?”

  “Because of the historical ties to France, a lot of students went to Paris to study in the fifties. There was a large Marxist community that grew there. Pol Pot was among them. Pol Pot rose to become the leader of a party that had many names, but was—is—best known as the Khmer Rouge.”

  “So he’s a communist, but we’re helping him?”

  “This is where it gets funky. During the Vietnam War, the North Vietnamese established troop and equipment routes through eastern Cambodia. They launched attacks on our boys from across the border. So we attacked back. We carpet-bombed the hell out of them. And the former head of state, Prince Sihanouk, along with the growing Khmer Rouge, used the festering anti-American sentiment to position themselves as the party of peace. They got massive popular support, and when they marched into Phnom Penh in 1975 to take the capital, they did so pretty much unopposed, and largely to the cheers of the local people.”

  “But?”

  “But Pol Pot had other ideas. The prince was reinstated as head of the new state of Kampuchea—temporarily at least—but he eventually resigned, some say under threat of death. Pol Pot had really been in charge anyway, so he just did away with the façade.”