Cambodia Noir (28 page)

Yale pulls out a knife. He puts the tip under my good eye. “If this is a lie, I will take your eyes before I kill you.”

I stop breathing.

He laughs. “Mercenaries. I have a soft spot for mercenaries. And, yes, I would like very much to have those pictures.” He slices through the duct tape on my hands. From another pocket, he pulls my cell phone.

“Set up the trade. I'll give you a location.”

It has to be done carefully. As soon as I hear her voice, I start talking.

“Viola, it's me.”

“Will. What—”

“Never mind, Vy, never mind. I'm okay.” I don't sound okay. Keep going. “Remember I said I might need you to bring me that memory card I gave you?”

“Of course. Where are you?” That's my girl.

“I'll give you GPS coordinates.” I look up at Yale, who's writing down the numbers on a piece of paper. He nods slightly. “Rent a car and come out to meet me. Alone. You're going to give the card to some friends of mine, and I'm going to come back to Phnom Penh with you, all right?”

“I understand.”

“Make sure you follow my instructions exactly. Remember: alone. If these guys see more than one person, I'm in trouble.” Glance at Yale, squinting down at me. “Call this phone fifteen minutes before you arrive. If I don't answer, don't come. Once you've seen I'm okay, give the guys the card and we'll go home.”

She doesn't hesitate. “Okay, Will. I'm coming.”

It's good to be home—though it feels funny to call my cage “home.” Still, it feels more like home than a lot of places that better deserved the name. I finished the first part of the story in the car, and handed it to Gus: peace offering. He seems to have grudgingly accepted that I was being foolish, but not irresponsible, and offered some gruff words about taking better care of myself. I pinky swore, and came up to get changed.

Tonight: drinks with the guys. Everything back to normal.

. . .

3 a.m.—

The bedroom is empty. I've looked everywhere: The balcony, the stairwell . . . is it just nerves?

But something woke me. A rustle from the house—footsteps on the stairs?

From the bed I can see everything, moonlight in the balcony door, pale squares on the ceiling. I don't know why I'm afraid.

—downstairs—rattling locks

Is someone here?

That smell again—perfume, thick in the hot night air. God, it's everywhere!

And I know it. . . . It's on the tip of my mind, where I've smelled it before, a thousand dollars an ounce, scent mixing with the smell of blood . . .

She's found me.

The spot Yale picks for the trade is perfect, considering he's planning to kill both me and Vy there. A narrow stretch of dirt track, about an hour's drive north of wherever we were. Probably near the Thai border. Tall grass on either side, posted with the bright-colored signs the NGOs put up to warn of land mines.

Nowhere to sneak up from, nowhere to run.

I laugh when I see it, and Yale and Luke both look at me. We're in one car: me and Luke in the back, Yale up front and one of the Khmers driving. The other Khmer is following us in a second car, with two more of their Chinese American thugs.

“This reminds me of someplace I used to come when I was a kid,” I say.

Luke glares. Yale smiles.

They made me tell them how I wound up with the pictures. I considered making up a more plausible story than the truth, but decided against it. Yale would be watching my eyes, not doing lit crit. I felt bad about Gabriel: they'll kill him if they get the chance, just in case he knows anything. But he'd have done the same for me. They didn't talk to me much after that, just scurried around getting ready for the trade.

We're early, so the guys can scope the area. Luke has my digital camera, and he's made me show him how to use it, so he can check the photos. It's just starting to get dark when the call comes in. Yale hands me the phone, lets me answer it.

“Hey.”

“Will, are you okay?” She sounds breathless, scared—perfect.

“Yeah, Vy, I'm fine.” As instructed, I talk her through the last directions to the meeting point.

“Just do what they tell you, and it'll all be fine.”

“Okay,” she almost sobs.

“Vy?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry.” I hang up. That's it, then.

One of Yale's guys comes over and whispers to him: presumably they've had someone watching her.

Yale nods. “Your friend has done well. She must care about you a great deal.”

“We've had our moments.”

He smiles, and it looks genuine. Guess he likes this part. “What will you do when you get back home?”

“Get stoned and go to Martini's.”

That makes him laugh. “A man who knows what he wants!” He turns in his seat to look at me. “But I meant America.”

“Oh.” It's been a long time since that was home. “CBGBs. Ever been?”

He smiles again. “I saw Guns N' Roses there in 1987. Amazing.” The sick fucker is loving this. Like a cat playing with its food.

“Awesome. I'd have given a finger to be at that concert.” We both laugh. “Iggy Pop, that's what I'm gonna do. Iggy at CB's. After, get some of those honey peanuts. Go up to St. Mark's, go to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge, if they haven't torn it down for a fuckin' Starbucks. Drink till I pass out on the street.”

“I wish you luck with that.”

“Unless you need help here.” I smile back. “Luke's good at what he does, but he doesn't really blend in, y'know. I know the territory. You could use a guy like me.”

Luke's glaring like he's ready to go for the bolt cutters again, but Yale's still smiling. Why get riled? I'll be dead in ten minutes anyway.

“I could at that,” he says. “But I think perhaps it's better for us all if you go on back home. Rediscover American life, and stop thinking about all the bad things that happen out here at the edge of the world.”

“Maybe you're right.”

He looks at his watch. “Get up,” he says, his voice sharp again. “It's time.”

It's full dark now, the moon obscured by heavy clouds. Car headlights cut tunnels through the black. Luke and I stand out front—him a bit behind me, piece rammed into my back. Yale next to us, the two thugs behind him. The Khmers are still in the cars.

It's a warm night, and the air has that near-sea-level fug. We stand there awhile, Luke shifting from leg to leg.

“Where the fuck—”

“She'll be here,” Yale says, his voice calm. We wait some more. The moths and mosquitoes do a flying-circus act in the lights. Finally, just when I'm getting worried Luke's going to shoot me and be done with it, another pair of glowing lamps starts to flicker over the track.

The lights blend with ours, making a yellow corridor between the three vehicles. She's in some ancient sixties-era Renault, must have been sitting in someone's garage since before the war. It stops about thirty feet from us, and she steps out.

Tall, dark, and gorgeous in severe black pantsuit. Her heels look unsteady on the dirt, and the men with their fingers on the triggers relax a bit at the sight of her.

“Turn off the lights first, remember?” Luke shouts.

“Sorry,” she shouts back, and starts to do it, then stops, looking confused. “I've got the card.” She holds it high in her left hand—nervous, scattered.

Brilliant.

“Are you okay, Will?”

“The lights,” Luke says, taking his gun off me and pointing it at her.

“I'm fine,” I say. “Sorry about the mess.”

“I'll take it out of your salary,” she replies.

Luke and Yale have just about enough time to register something's wrong when a faint pop echoes from somewhere in the bowels of that old car. Luke's head rocks back and he crumples to the ground.

Already I'm moving, grabbing Yale's arm with my duct-taped hands and spinning him like a shield against the guys behind me. They look confused. As we hit the floor I see one of them fall. Gunfire, loud: she's shooting now, too.

Yale struggling on the ground, hand at my face—

I lean on his arm, pulling as hard as I can until I hear something creak and pop. One of the cars behind us revs up—then stops with the sound of bullets punching through glass.

Yale yanks his good arm free. I don't see the blade, but I hear the click of it snapping open. Roll away—not fast enough. Burning across my upper arm.

More gunfire: Yale stays low, bracing himself for another lunge at me. I spin on the ground and kick out at him. He scuttles back, forced to use his good arm to move, and I feint again. He brings the knife around, slashing my leg, but now his face is in reach: plant my heel in his jaw and he goes limp. Then I'm on him, pinning down his knife arm and hammering him with my elbows.

The shooting stops. I look up.

Kara is walking down the lighted path, flanked on one side by Miss Eyre, her bodyguard from the hotel, and on the other by a tiny Japanese man, both carrying rifles. I see the holes in the Renault's hood, and I get the logic of the ancient car: it's a rear-engine, and they've converted the passenger seat and trunk into a sniper's nest.

The yakuza works fast.

Back in the hotel, I'd made Vy promise to take Kara the memory card as soon as she got to Phnom Penh. I needed to know where the Koroshis stood: they could have been behind the smuggling ring themselves and would kill me for learning too much, but I didn't think they'd go after a public figure like Vy. When Luke and Yale took me, Kara became my best shot. I already knew she'd play along when I called. I guess she isn't in on the smuggling—but I don't know if I've saved myself or just bought a few more hours.

Just this second, it doesn't matter.

Yale is still dazed, but his eyes go wide when he sees Kara standing over us, cutting my hands free.

“Mr. Chua,” she says. “Pleased to meet you in person.” Then something in Japanese; all I catch is the name, but her face makes the meaning pretty clear: Ryu Koroshi sends his regards. Yale makes a noise like a chicken getting its neck wrung, looking from her to me and back.

“Welcome to the motherfucking jungle,” I say, and break his jaw.

Maybe I like chess after all. At least when I can play with the queen in my pocket.

 . . . crying, again . . . a last indulgence: the luxury of tears scalding my face

. . . soiled and torn, barely even a person . . .

. . . time, I will remember. I will keep all the pain, the shame, the fumbling fingers and the sickness inside me: I want it. I would not let it go. It's just a path, and now I am walking it, it's no different from any other. I let him use me, thoughtless as a child or an animal—and why not? It didn't matter. I'm ready.

I'm not waiting for anything anymore.

The road north is a mess of ruts and holes, but that doesn't stop Kara's driver from taking it at sixty-plus. He can't weigh more than 110, and he's wrestling with the Range Rover's huge steering wheel like it's a wild animal. Out the front window, rocks and stumps and potholes loom up in the headlights, some big enough to send us crashing into the trees. A sharp twist of the wheel and they vanish again in the dark.

“Relax.” Kara's voice comes from the blackness behind me. “Mr. Keihatsu knows what he's doing.”

We've been driving like this for hours, hurtling up this midnight highway at speeds that make my teeth chatter, Dexedrine and nerves keeping me awake. No one says much. Once I tried to turn the radio on—Keihatsu reached over and shut it off.

Kara hasn't said where we're going. I wonder if she's taking me somewhere just to dig a hole. If so, she went to a lot of trouble. Clutched to my chest is the backpack I retrieved from the trunk of Mr. Chua's car. Inside, I can feel the rectangular shapes of June's diaries. Kara hasn't searched it, but she might, anytime.