victims, but fear drove them to obey. Eventually the tears dried up along with any emotion he felt. Obeying came without question.
In December 1978, Cambodian forces invaded Vietnam. They were repressed and Vietnam retaliated by invading Cambodia and seizing the capital, Phnom Penh. As a result, the four-year reign of terror by the Khmer Rouge was toppled, but the resistance movement of the Khmer Rouge continued to fight on in western Cambodia from bases hidden in Thailand. The Khmer Rouge were “unofficially” aided by the Thai Army and the United States Special Forces. Diamond and timber smuggling were used to bring in money to supplement their needs.
In 1996, Pol Pot signed a peace agreement officially ending the movement. By then, Da Khlot had become a high-ranking guerrilla leader with twenty-one years of experience at torture and murder. Although he was an expert marksman, he was particularly renowned for his ability with a knife.
Da Khlot knew the spot on the back of a person’s neck in which to plunge a knife and cause instant paralysis. The victims would collapse in a heap, but their eyes revealed their horror as their brains wondered how long Da Khlot would let them live — sometimes hours, sometimes longer, depending on the impression Da Khlot wanted to make on other prisoners.
To obey and kill without question. It was all Da Khlot really knew how to do, but during the late 1990s his profession was quickly coming to an end. Many of the top Khmer Rouge leaders were being captured and imprisoned for war crimes and crimes against humanity.
It was Da Khlot’s knowledge of the smuggling routes and vital contacts that allowed him to survive in the jungles for nearly seven years. He had a rudimentary knowledge of English — the universal language of understanding in the higher echelon of a trade, where numerous ethnic groups did business together. Heroin was soon added to the smuggling list and the money was no longer being taken by the Khmer Rouge.
For a while, Da Khlot thought fate was smiling kindly upon him. Then, in July 2005, he was arrested near the Thai border by Cambodian Special Forces soldiers. Under armed escort, he was brought to a small airfield to be flown to Phnom Penh, where he knew he would eventually be executed for his crimes.
As he sat handcuffed and in leg irons in a small office awaiting transport at the airfield, he counted the number of Special Forces soldiers guarding him. Six! True, I am a large man. Perhaps even bigger than most Westerners. But six! A child with a pickaxe could do what it takes six of these men to do …
Jubilant, these men knew the prize they had caught and were taking no chances. By tomorrow, he would be front page news. Now it is I who kneels in the pit. Waiting and listening to the screams as my turn approaches. Perhaps I will be lucky enough to throw myself out of the helicopter. Cheat them of the torture of waiting.
He did not hear the expected rhythmic beat of an olive-drab Soviet-made Mi-8/17 helicopter from the Royal Cambodian Air Force arrive to whisk him away. His salvation arrived — in the form of a Falcon 50EX jet.
The impossible was made possible. A man of unlimited influence had arrived. A man capable of changing one’s destiny.
The top soldier bowed when the newcomer emerged from the jet and Da Khlot was taken from the room and paraded in front of the newcomer. Then it happened. This man, this shaman, told the soldiers they had made a mistake. Da Khlot had never been fingerprinted. Confirmation of his identity was strictly visual. At least, that was the official version, thought Da Khlot wryly. I wonder how much was paid for my release?
It was Da Khlot’s first ride in an aircraft, let alone a luxury jet. He was also given a new job. He was told he was to be a bodyguard.
Da Khlot soon learned that he was much more than a bodyguard. He was used to quietly fulfill The Shaman’s wishes in some of the countries they visited. He was of particular use in countries where guns were not available due to the annoyance of certain customs regulations.
Much like my early days as a soldier … bullets are not always available. It does not matter; I am an expert with a knife — or even a pickaxe.
Da Khlot never questioned The Shaman’s orders or why someone was chosen to enter the spirit world. Khlot lived by a motto from his days with the Khmer Rouge: To keep you is no benefit. To destroy you is no loss.
Da Khlot wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He was seated facing the cockpit at the rear of the plane. Despite his unwavering faith in The Shaman, he was never comfortable in the air. After all, it is I who is mortal …
“Feel better?” asked Sayomi. A stifled smile betraying her amusement.
Da Khlot stared passively at Sayomi, who was sitting in another overstuffed lamb’s leather seat facing him. She is like an annoying mosquito in the jungle who finds a hole in the net over where I sleep. Why does this spoiled young Japanese woman take such delight in my discomfort?
“Ignoring me, are you?” she chided, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head.
She is beautiful … when she is quiet. Does she think she is better than me? Yes, she has a third degree black belt in kick-boxing … capable, she says, of breaking a man’s neck. But even she admits she has never killed. Who is she fooling? Herself? Her being a bodyguard is only polite address for her real function. That of being The Shaman’s mistress. Any whore could fill that role —
“Perhaps your ears don’t work so well anymore,” suggested Sayomi. “I asked if you were no longer afraid?”
“I am not afraid,” replied Khlot, staring back, his face without expression. You grow older every day. Your beauty fades with the knowledge of who you become. Perhaps soon, another young woman will catch The Shaman’s eye and he will decide that to keep you is no benefit …
Da Khlot abruptly turned his attention to The Shaman, who glanced back from his seat near the front of the plane. A slight nod from The Shaman commanded his presence.
“Don’t forget to bow,” teased Sayomi. “Otherwise the next person you may be ordered to kill for not showing respect could be yourself.”
Da Khlot ignored her as he quickly made his way forward, bowed respectfully, and took a seat across from The Shaman.
The Shaman, eyes focused on his laptop, finished reviewing the latest news posted on the Internet by Canadian newspapers; including the Vancouver Sun. Keeping up to date on the latest news from the countries he visited had become a ritual. Any articles of interest, such as pending court decisions regarding the legality of criminal proceedings or sentencing practices, were kept for reference. Over the last few years, he was constantly encouraged by what he read concerning British Columbia.
The Shaman looked gravely at Da Khlot and said, “This mission is of the utmost importance.”
Da Khlot remained stoic. Are not all of The Shaman’s missions important?
“Your duty as an observer on this mission does not mean that I have lost faith in you. Quite the opposite. Loyalty is what it is all about. Do you understand?”
Da Khlot nodded, although he didn’t really understand.
“I expect that tomorrow night you will need to wear your new suit,” said The Shaman. “Make sure you do not lose a button on the suit jacket,” he added, with a smile.
Da Khlot did not question why his new suit was equipped with a hidden video camera and a lens that looked like a button. I am but a soldier. I obey. Tomorrow night someone will die. It does not matter
