by James Samuel
Shao stepped onto the tiles in his silk ruby slippers. The bustle of Sihanoukville failed to penetrate the peace of his compound. The whooping of his vibrant peacocks played counterpoint to the rustling of the trees that hid the wall from the inside. He passed into the pavilion, his slippers hitting the stone with a soft slap.
One of his white-shirted Chinese servants leaned towards him. “Mr. Fen, Prahn Sambath is waiting for you.”
Shao flicked his gaze at him. He never allowed his servants to look him in the eye. The other Chinese continued setting up the instruments of a tea ceremony, as they did every morning. He never allowed a Khmer into his abode without an appointment. He didn’t trust them.
“So early,” said Shao. “Bring him to me.”
Shao sat on the pink cushion of his chair. It creaked slightly under his weight. He cast an observing eye over his servants as they made up a batch of green tea. The soft bubbling of the brook that fed the large pond in his garden kept his mind steady, prepared him for business.
It didn’t take long for Shao to see Prahn Sambath strutting up the path, together with two of his servants. Sambath had always liked to see himself as an important man. For that, Shao hated him. He believed in the ancient Chinese traditions of modesty and humility. Besides, Sambath had been born into a poor family, one of the farmers who had later taken up arms with the Khmer Rouge.
Shao remained sitting, simply nodding his head as Sambath approached. He cradled his cup of green tea in his palms. The hot liquid released an aroma that tantalized his nostrils and refreshed him before he took a sip.
Sambath was an older Khmer with a smiling face and sun-baked features. The many years working in the fields had left their mark upon his face. They had never faded despite the fact he likely hadn’t carried out any manual labour in nearly five decades. Shao noted his great staring eyes, the whites of which shined like two tiny moons.
“You visited me unexpectedly,” said Shao. “Normally, I will never permit anyone to arrive without an appointment. Why do you treat me with such disrespect?”
Sambath recoiled. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fen. So sorry. I wouldn’t come unless it was an emergency.”
Shao’s lip curled upwards in disgust at Sambath’s common accent. “Please, drink some tea.”
At once, the servant poured the boiling water into his cup. Silence passed between them as the tea brewed.
“I would have summoned you in good time,” said Shao. “There was a matter I wished to discuss with you. I fully expect that General Narith will successfully take power in this country and remove Hun Sen. However, I worry about your position and your plans.”
Sambath’s eyes darted from side to side. “I support General Narith in his plans. Hun Sen is a traitor to the revolution and a traitor to Kampuchea.”
Shao couldn’t help but release a small smile at the mention of the old name for Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge. Even today, the former political commissar pretended that Pol Pot’s regime had never really disappeared.
“I… I was sent here by my commander to make sure that we have a place within the new regime. In exchange for our cooperation in the remote areas of Cambodia. We have been smuggling weapons from Thailand and through Laos for a long time. They’re ready for the uprising.”
“General Narith appreciates your efforts, and so do I.”
Sambath’s face glowed at the compliment.
“You will have a say in the new regime. After all, we must remember that Chairman Mao sowed the seeds for supporting the Khmer Rouge for many years at home and abroad. This also led to China going to war with your enemy, Vietnam. Tell me, why did Prak not come here personally?”
Shao already knew the answer to that. Tep Prak hid in the countryside, like the previous leaders of the Khmer Rouge. He probably hadn’t seen civilisation since the establishment of the new Cambodia in 1993. Still, he wanted to test Sambath.
“Mr. Prak is extremely busy watching over our operations. We would lose much if he left our men behind.”
Shao inclined his head. “It is true that your black-market weapons will come in useful during the uprising, as will your attacks in the rural provinces. However, you come here, to my home, to make demands of me and General Narith.”
“No, no, no,” Sambath shook his head with such fury it might have fallen off. “Never, never. We respect you. I show only respect.”
Shao raised a palm to silence the farmer. “The Khmer Rouge is weak. Your men are few, hiding in the forests and the mountains. Most of your force has deserted you. They sit in the cities, alongside the children of those they tortured.”
Sambath’s hands trembled as he attempted to lift his tea to his lips.
Shao allowed his words to sink in. The remains of the Khmer Rouge had played a small role in his plans for Cambodia but little more. He could discard them as if they were nothing, and he fully intended to do so in time.
“To keep you is no benefit. To destroy you is no loss.” Shao parroted the former Khmer Rouge ideology back at him. “We will treat you with respect, and your men will be rewarded, but don’t be greedy.”
Sambath stiffened, caught between the will to fight back and acceptance of the truth. Even an uneducated peasant knew when he faced a superior force.
“Is this the only reason you came here?” asked Shao.
Sambath let out a deep breath. “No, no. Mr. Prak wanted to know when we can start our attacks.”
Shao took a long time to regard Sambath. He wanted the tension and the fear to sink in, like the hot moisture after heavy rain. The purple lotuses clustered around lily pads upon his pond attracted his interest as he mulled over his response.
“Tell me.” Shao changed tack. “How does your organisation believe you can support us?”
Sambath gulped. “We have sleeper agents all over the country, in the cities. We stay in contact with them today. They are old revolutionaries who want to fight. They teach their children to fight. They understand that our cause is just.”
“Good. How many do you anticipate would answer the call?”
“With some pushing, it could be as high as 500 across the country.”
Shao was unimpressed. Five hundred poorly organised and poorly educated peasants wouldn’t press Hun Sen’s forces. Cambodia had come a long way since the old days. Its army had received modern training and modern weapons. The prime minister’s bodyguard, built out of Brigade 70, could defeat these sleeper cells alone.
“I don’t require your sleeper cells to fight Hun Sen’s men. I think they would be better served in another way. You see, Hun Sen has always been ready to throw away his principles. First, he helped the Vietnamese to invade this country. Now, he employs private mercenaries to protect his interests. There is one such organization, Blackwind. I have it on good authority that they intend to deploy field agents in Cambodia; perhaps they have already.”
“We could help. We’ve prepared our men for many years.”
“Good. Make it your mission to hunt down these foreigners. In the meantime, hold your fire. You will receive more orders when the time is right.”
Shao didn’t say another word as Sambath waggled his head as if he spoke to the Emperor of China himself. When Shao still didn’t acknowledge him, the peasant finally got the message and retreated,
After Sambath was out of sight, Shao sighed. The last remnants of the old Khmer Rouge had served their purpose, but he was quickly running out of useful things for them to do. Sooner or later, they had to be eliminated.
He motioned with a single spindly finger to one of his servants and switched to Chinese. “Have Sambath followed. I want to know where Prak is hiding. A peasant isn’t hard to find. Call Dylan Howser and tell him to track their leadership down.”
His servant bowed and departed. It was time for the skittish Xiphos agent to prove his worth.
Chapter Seven
Phnom Penh, Phnom Penh Province, Cambodia
James and Sinclair decided to check out the prostitu
tion district, just a few streets from their guesthouse. Mr. Arun gave them a strange look on their way out as if he didn’t quite trust the goodness of their intentions.
“It’s unlikely that we’re going to see him at this hour,” grumbled Sinclair.
“That’s not the point. I want to see what we’re working with and evaluate the risks. Remember, you’re not the one going inside,” said James.
“Even so, your impatience is showing.”
“I am impatient. Better to liquidate him quickly. I want it done today.”
“You need therapy.”
Phnom Penh’s riverside area by day bustled with foreigners and locals alike. The former seemingly ran the district with a sword made of American dollars, for which the Khmer practically prostrated themselves. It had become so bad that the national currency, the Cambodian Riel, was only used for transactions of less than a dollar. Everyone paid for their other transactions in cold, hard US cash.
The prostitution district consisted of simple shopfronts offering everything from beer to massages. Anyone could have mistaken it for any other street in the tourist hub of Phnom Penh. Those who knew better saw the loitering women and their stern-faced handlers looking for trouble.
“Do you know where The Palace is?” Sinclair asked a tuk-tuk driver reclining on the cheap red leather seat with his feet on either side of the steering wheel.
The driver opened his sleepy eyes. “The Palace?”
“Yes, we know it’s around here somewhere.”
“You go next street. You see it there. You want me to show you?”
James shook his head. “We can walk.”
He shrugged his shoulders and returned to snoozing.
As they explored the congested area that made up the red light district, James noted lots of pretty women but never the rotten abyss beneath. He didn’t see the crime or any signs of child prostitution. He hoped against hope that the rumours weren’t true, or they were heavily exaggerated.
“So, this Mr. Chea…” said James.
“Yes, he deals in children, according to the dossier. Apparently, Cambodia has cleaned itself up in the last few years. The locals aren’t willing to give up their children to the pimps these days. I heard some stories of foreigners been beaten in the villages for touching kids. The Khmer have had enough.”
“Good. About time that changed.”
“Mr. Chea is notorious for dealing in that nasty stuff, though. He started charging the foreigners higher prices for the kids. Unless you speak Khmer and can go to the villages, a foreigner has to go to him if he wants to engage in child prostitution in Phnom Penh. I suppose it helped cut the rates. There’s a reason why the Philippines is the capital for that stuff now.”
James caught his first look at The Palace as they rounded the corner. The Palace stood head-and-shoulders above the buildings around it. A wide-open entrance revealed what looked to be a bar and nightclub combined. A few foreigners drank at the little metal tables.
“What, no glitz?” Sinclair stared up at the large Chinese letters. “Really, from the man who supposedly controls prostitution in the capital, I would have expected something grander.”
“No,” said James. “That makes him smart. Only an idiot would want to broadcast that he’s the king. The most powerful people don’t let anyone else know that they’re the most powerful people.”
“It doesn’t look like there are any secret back entrances.”
“There will be.” James jabbed a thumb back where they came. “There’s an alley running behind the building. The Palace will have a back entrance, just like all the other buildings.”
“I think we should go in the back entrance. It will attract less attention.”
“Think what you want. You’re wrong.”
“I’m… what?” Sinclair’s jaw almost hit the ground. “I’m employed to be your intelligence.”
“And this time I’m overruling you. The easiest way to get to Mr. Chea is to act like a normal guest. Trying to fight my way through a crowded brothel makes me vulnerable in those tight corridors and rooms. Plus, I’ll lose the element of surprise on the first floor. A random foreigner is not going to wander through the back entrance.”
“Okay,” Sinclair said slowly.
“So, I should keep the element of surprise by pretending to be a guest. A high-paying guest will be able to get as close to Mr. Chea as possible without raising any suspicion, am I right?”
“Your logic is sound.”
“And then when I get to the so-called executive suites, logically I would be closer to Mr. Chea, thus it would make it easier to gain access to him. Then I can kill him as quietly as possible, and we won’t have so many problems.”
“You’re forgetting one thing.” Sinclair folded his arms. “How are you even going to know that he’s there.”
“If I went in the back door, how would I know if he was there either?”
“Fine, do it your way. But I won’t be able to stay in contact with you. It might raise some suspicions if you have a radio attached to your ear.”
James inspected The Palace again. It looked to him like it had three floors at the most, and most likely a few corridors that ran from left to right. He could do it without close intelligence support this time, he guessed.
“We need more intelligence,” said Sinclair. “Going in blind won’t help.”
Sinclair stepped out of the way of a mobile street food stall. The mangoes wobbled as the middle-aged Khmer heaved it forward with a bent back, leaving a pleasant citrusy trail in its wake.
“We need to find a regular for that,” said James. “A foreigner who can tell us more about the interior.”
“Well, we have time. I can find someone. I think it would be best if I do this alone. Two guys asking questions about a place like this looks a little suspicious if you know what I mean.”
James nodded. He had no stomach for that sort of work anyway. His training was in killing a man efficiently, not how to talk to one. And he relished the thought of killing a man like Mr. Chea.
He decided to make a circuit of the block while Sinclair fought his way through the crowded bar. He circled it a couple of times, dodging between the hawkers, in the vain hope he might find something useful. On each lap, a different tuk-tuk driver called out to him. The fourth tuk-tuk driver came level with him. As usual, the shouting commenced, and James quickened his pace.
“Hey, you want The Palace? You want to know about The Palace? You look confused.”
James finally stopped. “Were you watching me?”
To his surprise, it was the sleepy driver who had wanted to drive them there earlier. His motorbike hummed and shook with the effort of dragging along the passenger carriage coupled with it.
“I saw you watching The Palace. You confused? I help you. I know everything around here.”
“That depends what you know. Do you a man called Mr. Chea?”
“Mr. Chea?” The driver repeated. “Mr. Chea. Barang don’t know Mr. Chea.”
“The owner of my hotel mentioned him. I think he might be the sort of man who could help me with something.” James approached the friendly tuk-tuk driver. “How much would it cost me to find out more about him?”
The driver looked at him dumbly. “Please, sir, no.”
James’ hand stopped before it reached his wallet. “No?”
“You get in tuk-tuk. I show you Mr. Chea. I show you many things. Come.”
He thought about it for a second and climbed into the back of the tuk-tuk for his first ride. As the man kicked the motorcycle into gear and the carriage began to roll, James questioned whether this was a warm smile to beware of.
Chapter Eight
From a distance, Phnom Penh’s traffic appeared to have no rhyme or reason. Yet James found his tuk-tuk ride surprisingly gentle as they merged with the hectic traffic of the Doun Penh District. Weaving motorbikes, the terrified looks of tourists in the backs of tuk-tuks, and the fancy imported cars of the rich colour
ed his short ride.
The tuk-tuk stopped on the road running parallel to the Mekong River. James didn’t understand why they’d come to a halt here. They were far from anything of importance, but he got out anyway.
This particular stretch of the Mekong River ran along one of the main thoroughfares of Phnom Penh. The multilane road followed a grassy hill that ran down to a wall of tall reeds on the shore. Beneath them, families fished and washed their clothes in the muddy waters.
“Why do they wash their clothes there?” asked James in confusion.
“Sir, they live there.”
“They live there?” James said incredulously.
“Yes, sir. They put up huts at night. In the morning, they must take them down or the police make trouble for them.”
James nodded. “Please, call me, James.
“Okay, Mr. James. My name is Nhek.”
“Why did you bring me here, Nhek?”
“Ah, you wait here. You wait.”
Nhek descended the steep hillside, his feet splayed out to the side to keep his balance. He moved like a mountain goat, never wavering for a second as he approached a fisherman from behind.
As James studied Nhek’s movements, his phone rang. He grabbed it from his pocket and leaned against the outside of the tuk-tuk.
“How’s it going, Sinclair?”
“Fine,” said Sinclair. “I met an old man from France inside the bar. He’s in the bathroom at the moment so I haven’t got long. This is where he met his wife, so he’s got a lot of useful information. I’ll see how much I can get from him.”
“Good, good.”
“Where are you?”
“By the Mekong. I met a tuk-tuk driver called Nhek. He seems to know Mr. Chea. God knows why he brought me here, though.”
“You just be careful. We don’t know how loyal he’s going to be, and we can’t risk the whole city knowing what we’re doing. The Frenchman said most foreigners don’t even know he exists. Got to go, he’s coming back.”