Lethal Redemption (4 page)

“Have you even considered approaching the Accounting Command? JPAC. They run all the normal searches—”

“You know damn well he wouldn’t want them involved.” This time she narrowed her eyes at him. “Nobody who comes to you does. His plane was never on an official pursuit list.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that Vale Expeditions is history. Your grandfather’s plane may be the Amelia Earhart of black ops lost planes, but when you buried your grandfather you should maybe bury his war with him.” His stern tone bordered on one he might use speaking to a child.

You, Porter Vale, are a real hard ass, she thought. Time for a new tactic. “I have pictures of something that was one of the reasons he wanted it found. It might even interest you.”

She opened the backpack and took out the folder from the waterproof plastic bag. But when she went to show them to him he backed off and held up his hand. “I’m not interested.”

“They were taken on the last days of the war,” she said, moving closer and holding up a faded photo. “That’s my grandfather standing beside the plane next to a statue of the female warrior Trung Trac who led the Viet armies against the Chinese two thousand years ago. That five-hundred-year-old statue was on the plane.”

“Her sister was the better fighter. Look, you can find a million like it in any marketplace. I told you—”

“That’s the original. It was taken from a Buddhist cave in the Black Virgin Mountain. I don’t know which sister the statue is of, but the Viet holidays, street and school names are all about Trung Trac. The Buddhists didn’t want the communists to get it so they asked my grandfather to take it out for them. You can read entries in his diary.” She held it out to him.

Porter Vale refused to even look at the well-worn leather bound journal. “No. My final word of advice—”

“Yes, I remember. Get a bath and dry clothes and go home. Not happening.” She took another step closer.

“That’s your decision. That statue may be a good copy, but copy or not, there are unsavory types who might like to get involved with you. If that plane exists there’s nothing on it but trouble. It was nice meeting you. I’m leaving the country in the morning, so I doubt we’ll run into each other again. Good luck.”

He gave her a dismissive look, and then walked off back to his Aussie friend and a handful of other Westerners downrange. She wasn’t sure any guy in her whole existence had blown her off quite like this. Maybe her instincts about him were totally wrong. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly to get herself to relax a little.

The Aussie said something that made the others who’d joined him laugh. Porter Vale didn’t join in the amusement. He just glanced at her and then turned away.

To hell with you and your friends, Kiera thought. She strode angrily back to Miloon. “Take me to town.” She glanced at the range boss. He was in his hammock still playing with a hand gun. Maybe he’ll shoot himself, she thought.

“Porter Vale no help you?” Miloon asked, as if he knew the answer to that all along.

“No. He’s got more important things to do.”

“Yes. The Saffron Revolution.”

She stopped and turned to Miloon. “The what?”

“Porter help the Young Buddhist Movement,” Miloon said. “He not welcome in Phnom Penh. Go Burma. Maybe get killed there.”

“What is the Young Buddhist Movement about?”

“Democracy in Burma. Suu Kyi.”

Kiera was taken aback. Suu Kyi? She knew well of one of the world’s most prominent political prisoners, the woman having recently garnered the Congressional Gold Medal in the states. Yes, indeed. Porter Vale was a man of mystery. That bit of information forced an instant and discomforting challenge to her attitude towards Porter Vale. Now she was serious.

***

“That fine looking spunk is no barker’s egg, mate,” Aussie Curtis Knolls opined. “Another angry notch on the belt of your sordid past?”

Porter glanced in the direction of the road as the Vespa vanished. “Just a lady that’s not going anywhere I’m going.”

“Where’s the lady want to go?”

“Southern Laos. You interested in slogging up impenetrable jungle mountains in monsoon season chasing another phantom plane crash?”

Knolls shook his head. “You kidding? You know I’m getting shackled in Sydney. I got to stay clean, if not sober, in preparation for matrimonial bliss followed by indentured servitude. Besides, a cobber like you needs a cash infusion. I’m surprised you’d pass up the opportunity. Long stems lead to a sweet flower.”

“Usually with nasty thorns. No thanks. See you at The Red Fox right after the show, unless you change your mind and come with me.”

“Not into rock opera,” the Aussie said.

Porter shrugged. “It’s history.”

“Not into history either.”

“It’s a love story with depth.”

“I prefer the shallow end of the sea of life, mate.”

Everyone laughed at that.

Porter Vale watched the scooter vanish in the palms. “That’s a whole lot of somebody else’s problem,” he said. “CIA planes, mysterious statues, the Ho Chi Minh Trail. That cocktail will ruin any good day. I wish her luck.”

“She goes up there,” Knolls said, “the lady’s gonna need a hell of a lot more then luck, mate.”

Porter nodded. The Secret War’s bombing attempt to disrupt the Ho Chi Minh Trail had claimed a lot of planes that were never put on the Alpha List. But no lost plane had the cachet as the one flown by Neil Hunter, the man the secret war’s tribal mountain fighters—especially the Hmong—called Captain Hard Rice because he brought them ammo and other supplies. He’d been shot down numerous times but survived to make the run again and again.

As his father liked to say, there are soldiers and there are warriors. Neil Hunter was a warrior.

Porter forced himself to turn away from the lady, from her problem, from the past. She was exactly the type that normally he would get tangled up with in a hot, mad minute. She had the body, the looks, and the attitude to keep him interested. Not this one, not this time. “My last night in Phnom Penh, then it’s on to Burma,” he declared.

Knolls said, “You and that woman should hook up, mate. You’re both nuts. Make a great couple.”

That produced a round of laughter that Porter acknowledged with a wry smile. “That’s my past, gentlemen. In my future I intend to be much more selective in women and causes.”

7

Kiera leaned forward and told Miloon to pull off the road. She had to rethink this and she was nervous about going into town and approaching another guide.

Miloon slowed, turned, then asked, “We go town?”

“No. I need to figure something out. Sit tight,” she told him as she slipped off the Vespa after he came to a stop and stood under the palms, looking back toward the gun range.

She knew something now that made her even more interested in Porter Vale.

Besides, losing him really put her in a bind. Sure, he had plans and he was under no obligation, but he could have been a lot cooler about how he handled her. For one thing, he could have told her he had something in Burma he needed to deal with.

No, she thought, it’s not his fault. She had made a decision that seemed very questionable. Once she knew people were interested enough in what her grandfather really knew, she should have taken some other course of action. What, she didn’t know exactly. But coming over to Cambodia with no help, no ‘team’, didn’t make a lot of sense right now. It was her grief and anguish over the death of the man who’d raised her, and maybe some of it was her need to know the truth about him and that plane that drove her to an impulsive decision to do this now. Truthfully, it was the reporter in her as much as anything else. She understood that now.

But what would have been the situation had she waited? Both Vales would be gone. Who could she have trusted? According to her grandfather, no one.

And she knew now he was absolutely right.

Was it that Porter didn’t believe what she was after was the real thing? Or did he? He didn’t even take the time to really look at the photo. That irritated her to no end. If he was so involved in the Buddhist movement he should want to know that a very important piece of their history was at stake.

He didn’t believe it. That’s what it was. I need to talk to this guy, make him see what I have. It is the real thing.

She’d believed, along with everyone else who knew her grandfather, that he had no idea where the plane was located and that he’d wandered for days in the jungle with injuries before some natives helped him across the Mekong. Then she’d found his journals and diary and the pictures and the map. All those years he’d maintained he had no idea where the plane was or how he got out of there. All a lie. Why? That question was driving her crazy.

I need to talk to Porter again, she thought. I need to go back there and make him listen. He needs to see everything. At least make a decision after knowing all the facts.

She paced under the palms. Her ribs were a little sore from the accident and fight.

The other alternative that came to mind was getting out of Phnom Penh, going to Tahiti and finding Michael Vale and pay the bastard whatever he wants, she thought angrily. Set him up for life if need be. Then Porter could just follow his father and paint nudes till his last breath.
Shoot—I’ll pose for him.

She took another calming breath, trying to sort things out.

But what about these guys who didn’t get my backpack? Who were they? Just getting out of Phnom without being attacked again was something she had to deal with. Maybe, if Porter didn’t want to guide her, he could at least help her get out. Go see his father.

I’m going back and talk to him, she decided.

She started back to Miloon when a beat-up Land Rover came barreling down the road and passed them, and Porter Vale was at the wheel.

He didn’t appear to notice her in the overcast sky and the beginning of twilight. One arm was out the window, hat off, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to music she couldn’t hear.

No, she thought. Not so easy, dude. You aren’t off the hook yet.

“Miloon!” she said, running back to the Vespa. “Let’s follow him. I want to make him an offer he won’t refuse.”

“What you offer?”

“Whatever he wants. Let’s go.”

Miloon had his hands full negotiating the waterholes, other vehicles, an elephant and growing darkness. But in the end it was lack of speed that made following Porter Vale turn out to be impossible.

When they reached the quay in town Kiera was sullen, but still in a determined mood. She leaned forward. “We need to find him.”

Miloon pointed out some bars, Phnom Penh’s night life in full swing. “The Strip. Like Las Vegas. Porter maybe here.”

It was a long run of clubs, bars and restaurants. Places like the Shanghai Bar, Howie’s, The Heart of Darkness where, Miloon informed her, the Khmer mob hung out.

Probably the hangout of the thieves who got her suitcase, she thought grimly.

Leaving her with the scooter, Miloon went in one bar after another and outside talked to fellow tuk-tuk, cyclo and taxi drivers.

Then he tried the Flamingos Hotel where he said a lot of guys like the Roof Top Lounge.

No luck there either. But he came back and said that a friend of his said a couple men had been asking around about an American girl. Tall. Maybe one with some face bruises.

“You wait with a friend,” Miloon said. “I find Porter Vale.”

He took her to an out of the way little restaurant far down the quay and had her come into a small patio where she wouldn’t be seen by patrons or anyone on the street. She did have a lovely view of the river and Miloon said his friend would bring food.

She paid Miloon twenty dollars and promised him twenty more when he found Porter Vale. A small fortune for a guy like him. She liked Miloon and didn’t know why he was so loyal to her but she accepted it. He was her one piece of good luck.

A woman came out on the patio and held out a black cotton blouse and black cotton pants. “For you. I clean,” she tugged gently at Kiera clothes. “Okay. Very fast. I clean. You eat food, I finish.”

Another woman came out with a large basin of water and some towels. “You clean.”

I love these women, Kiera thought as she stripped out of all her clothes and put on the trousers and blouse.

A hundred times more comfortable, Kiera had what otherwise might have been a really enjoyable meal on the private patio at this little bistro on the quay. Baked fish with coconut, lemon grass and chili in a banana leaf plus a rice noodle soup called
kyteow
. She ate hungrily, but her anxiety level remained extreme. I’ll sleep with the son of a bitch, give him blow jobs all the way to Laos, she thought with a macabre inner laugh.

But then Mister Bushwhacker Cool probably had all the females and blow jobs he needed. He hadn’t acted the least bit interested, so she assumed her carnal thoughts were most likely for naught.

She sipped an iced coffee sweetened with canned milk that was a little like drinking liquid sugar. She was also subjected to an occasional whiff of harsh smelling cigarettes from the men talking and smoking on the other side of the bamboo wall that separated the owner’s private area from the restaurant.

Her anger unabated, she watched river traffic. The sun had filled the cloudy sky with a spill of reds and pinks and now, as it slipped away, the solemnity of night settled all around.

The river here was actually the intersection of rivers and bustled with flat-bottomed pirogues and long-tailed, roofed boats and all manner of fishing craft and few power boats. It was like looking back in history. People had been living on this river for thousands of years and many of them exactly the same way.

I’m going up there, she thought, looking off in the direction of Laos. I’m going to find that damn plane and that’s all there is to it. She asked for another glass of coffee and watched the sun go down.

And she thought about the robbery and the Mercedes. That might have been a random crime but it didn’t feel like it to her. Everything about her arrival in Cambodia had her unnerved.

She began to wonder if she’d see Miloon again. And if not, what to do next. There were plenty of westerners walking around. She considered talking to some of them, but changed her mind. Porter Vale was somewhere in town and she was going to make a final pitch and he was going to listen.