familiar with the paramilitaries, the men in charge of the country’s internal “security.”
Which is why they had turned their Mercedes over to their driver, instructing him to take it for a long drive around the city. If he was stopped, he was to say he’d dropped them off a short time before near the Manhattan Club, Victor Chao’s casino-discotheque. They were careful not to pass by Sharky’s, the bar and restaurant they own together, but they called one of their employees and asked him to rent, in his own name, a sport utility vehicle. This machine turned out to be a Honda CR-V. They flung their bags into the back and left.
It was six in the evening. Darkness was starting to fall.
Their goal was the Thai border, just beyond a small town named Koh Kong. A meeting place for smugglers and whores. Six hours’ drive away.
Kasper called Patty, his Italian girlfriend. She’d been with him in Phnom Penh up until a few days before and had only just returned to Rome. Her leaving when she did was a piece of luck. On the phone, he stated only the essential facts of the matter. In a few words, without hesitations that could be interpreted or pauses to allow questions.
“We have to leave the city and probably the country.” His tone was unnaturally calm. “There are problems. We don’t know what they are. I think we’ll find out there’s been a mistake, but we want to be prudent. Don’t be worried. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
She asked no questions. And even if she had, the only response would have been a dial tone.
This isn’t the first time Kasper has found himself obliged to cut all ties with some place in the world. But it’s the first time he’s had trouble understanding why. And Clancy doesn’t seem to have things figured out any better than he does.
And so they start thinking about how their security was compromised. In Cambodia, it’s not hard to become a target, that goes without saying, but what could have happened?
The road to the border enters a harsh, suddenly hostile landscape that slowly wraps itself in its evening cloak. Kasper and Clancy talk over the past few weeks. Who or what could have put them in danger?
Maybe they stepped on somebody’s toes at Sharky’s. The bar’s clientele includes a lot of touchy people—something could have happened there. But what? Something to do with women? Or debts? Certainly not. Some blunder? Some injury this was payback for? Unlikely. Or maybe Kasper’s military expertise ruffled the sensibilities of some security boss working for Hun Sen and his government. Possible, but he would have known it already.
Theories. They’re not good for much except clarifying the horizon, thinning out the possibilities. They move you closer to the truth.
For example, suppose it was Kasper’s North Korean investigation—a mission he’d undertaken at the behest of the Americans—that had put them in danger. It seemed like a job well done. It seemed perfect. But maybe something had gone wrong.
Very wrong.
Kasper can feel it.
It’s a doubt that’s been churning around in his head from the start. Now he understands that it’s much more than a doubt. It’s a premonition. And it’s getting stronger and stronger.
Suppose it was that job I did for Clancy’s friends? he wonders under his breath. The question goes unanswered.
Kasper’s positive he made all the right moves. He used maximum discretion and followed orders. No one except his only contact with “the Company” knows about his mission. And, of course, Clancy. But even Clancy knows very little about it.
Kasper did a good, clean job. He did what he’d been asked to do.
Leave town now.
The Cambodian senator knows nothing about Kasper’s investigation. But the senator knows a lot about a lot of other things. It wasn’t clear from his telephone call where the danger was coming from. He didn’t specify whether they should be wary of “round-eyes” or “slant-eyes,” Westerners or Cambodians—or maybe even North Koreans.
Kasper decides to tell Clancy about his persistent doubt. His American friend listens to him in silence. They’ve known each other for twenty years, and they’ve been through a lot together. In Cambodia they share a house, they’re business partners in Sharky’s, and they collaborate in all things, each contributing his own particular set of skills.
Clancy’s sixty years old and not very talkative. He’s reticent and cautious. And smart. He’s someone who listens, first of all, and then discusses, basing his reasoning on his background as an organizer and an analyst. As for experience, he’s had a lot. He’s an American who has passed—not totally unscathed—through some of the pages of recent history.
“The thing with the North Koreans,” Clancy says, stroking his white beard. He ponders a bit. “Well, it just seems strange to me. I don’t know much about it, but . . .” He clears his throat and sighs. “But if that’s what it is, we’re in deep shit.”
“You know the Company people better than I do. Do you think that’s what it is?”
Clancy stays quiet for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head and says, “No, not unless you fucked up in some major way.”
“I didn’t fuck up. I followed their guidelines. I kept them informed about everything.”
“Everything?”
“Every fucking thing.”
“Did you do anything on your own initiative?”
“Nada.”
“Or talk to other—”
“Never.”
Clancy nods. “So no fuckups on your end,” he recaps.
“No, my friend. No fuckups.”
“Then that job has nothing to do with this. I don’t think it has anything to do with this at all.”
—
The bridge between Cambodia and Thailand is about a hundred meters long. Shortly after midnight, Kasper and Clancy arrive within sight of the border. They decide to spend the night in Koh Kong and cross the bridge the following morning. After getting two rooms in a trashy motel that offers hourly rates for the benefit of whores and their clients, they eat something in a fast-food joint nearby. Next morning they’ll leave the SUV in the motel parking lot and cross over on foot.
Separately.
That’s their plan.
They have to pass through two border checkpoints, the first Cambodian and the second Thai. But only the first one presents some risk.
Some risk? Kasper wonders. Or a huge risk?
That’s the crucial point, the Cambodian guard post. Once they’re in Thailand, all they have to do is to head for Trat, the nearest town.
Kasper would have preferred to avoid crossing the bridge altogether. He was for getting across the border at once, while it was still night, without wasting time. “Being afraid of
