The Khmer Kill: A Dox Short Story (Kindle Single)

  the khmer kill

  barry eisler

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2011 by Barry Eisler.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  about

  the khmer kill

  For former Marine sniper Dox, a long-range hit in Cambodia was supposed to be just business as usual. But when you find yourself mixed up with rogue intelligence operations, gorgeous bar girls, and the world's worst human-trafficking heart of darkness, business is anything but usual. And making it personal is the most dangerous business of all.

  contents

  the khmer kill, a dox short story

  notes & sources

  Preview: the detachment, a john rain thriller

  Preview: the lost coast, a daniel larison short story

  Preview: paris is a bitch, a john rain short story

  about the author

  books by barry eisler

  contact barry

  the khmer kill

  a dox short story

  Dox sat on one of the stone benches at the edge of the open-air courtyard in the center of Phnom Penh’s National Museum, insects buzzing in the tropical vegetation, the December air agreeably hot. The broker had told him to be there at noon, but Dox had arrived just after eight, when the museum opened. Back in his oo-rah days, he’d sometimes waited through a half-dozen sunsets in a sniper hide—cold, wet, whatever it took. A few hours on a cool and shady veranda was nothing by comparison, just a cheap and easy insurance policy that might prevent an unpleasant surprise.

  Not that he was expecting trouble. After all, how many other operators could deliver a headshot at all distances, and under all conditions, as reliably as he could? Some active-duty military, sure, but there were all sorts of jobs Uncle Sam wanted done but didn’t want to be associated with, and for those, nothing beat the private sector, and ideally a discreet sole proprietor instead of one of the big contractors with all their bad publicity. To the powers-that-be, an operator like him was more useful alive than dead.

  On the other hand, he’d learned the hard way that people who had no particular beef with him might take an interest just because of his known associate John Rain, who despite his doubtless good intentions had a habit of riling the people he did business with. “Act as if” was a pretty good maxim in his line of work, here meaning “act as if a passel of nameless badasses is looking to punch your ticket even if you yourself can’t imagine a single thing you’ve done to deserve it.”

  Which is why he’d arrived in the city ten days ahead of schedule. Doing so had given him plenty of time to get the lay of the land and to build up some credible cover-for-action. He’d already been to the National Museum twice, and to the Royal Palace and the Silver Pagoda. He’d snapped pictures of these and the other tourist attractions, such as they were, and of the streets he’d been methodically exploring. He was staying at Raffles, the best hotel in town, and he’d brought a different bargirl back with him every night. By now, the hotel staff must have concluded he was some kind of off-the-charts western pussyhound, taking advantage of Phnom Penh like it was a cut-rate version of Bangkok. Well, maybe there was a kernel of truth in all that, but hell, the best cover was always the one that kept closest to the facts. He’d been generous with the girls, during and after, and he imagined if the shit ever really hit the fan and they were questioned by the police, they’d corroborate his story. Not ideal, of course, but “All right, it’s true, I came for the local ladies” was preferable to “Shit, you got me, I’m here to assassinate some hombre I never even heard of until after I’d arrived.”

  Despite the cover-for-action usefulness of tail-chasing in Phnom Penh, though, and despite its other, more obvious attractions, he was ambivalent. He didn’t want to wind up with anyone other than a freelancer, and he certainly didn’t want to give his money to anyone involved in child prostitution or anything else coercive. Cambodia was notorious for that kind of thing. In fact, twice late at night in some of the seedier parts of town, he’d seen several very young girls sitting in front of a dim storefront. Their cheeks were rouged and they looked doped up and vacuous, and he had a feeling they were for sale. But what could you do? Once, when he was still green in Asia, he’d punched out a punk in a Bangkok bar for slapping a woman. It turned out the punk was her pimp and was affiliated with the bar’s management, and Dox had wound up running for his life from a bunch of security goons with truncheons who were doubtless themselves hooked up with the local police. Probably after he’d been forced to hightail it, the pimp had beaten the woman even worse, no way to know. And he’d given cash to seemingly half the street people in Jakarta when he’d first arrived in Indonesia, without any noticeable effect. At some point it just started to feel like you were beating back the tide. The truth was, there was nothing you could do, and it was best not to think too much about it. The world could be an awful, ugly place.

  He glanced unobtrusively at his watch—a Traser H3, accurate, tough, and functional, but not as obvious a tell as the giant G-Shocks some of your soldier-of-fortune types seemed to fancy like black ops bling. A half-hour to go, assuming the broker was punctual. He stretched out his legs and relaxed, letting himself feel like a tourist. He was dressed for the part, naturally—sneakers, jeans, and a short-sleeved madras shirt—extra-large to accommodate his size 48, and untucked to conceal the clip of the folder he’d picked up at legendary Cambodian knife-maker Citadel Knives. He preferred not to turn a bag into a hostage for the airlines when he traveled, which meant gearing up locally. Well, with an institution like Citadel on hand, that was fine. It was a beautiful specimen, too, handmade with a kukri blade and horn handle. Maybe he’d ship it home when his work here was done.

  He noticed it felt a little odd being alone. He’d been spending more and more time with a nice Khmer girl named Chantrea, which she’d told him meant “light of the moon.” He thought the name was pretty, though not nearly as pretty as she was. He’d taken her back to the hotel five nights earlier after making her acquaintance in a place called Café Mist. He was planning to take the night off, and had stopped in after an evening’s urban reconnaissance just to relax over a beer. But he’d noticed her on the other side of the bar, black shoulder-length hair loose around her shoulders, eyes slightly over-large and skin honey-brown, and he was intrigued at the way she averted her gaze when he caught her looking at him, rather than coming over the way your typical bargirl would. She was slim, even for a Khmer, but he thought he saw enough curves where you’d hope to. One by one, he’d shooed away a half-dozen other girls, but she stayed put, glancing at him with an appealing combination of curiosity and shyness. Finally, he got up and walked over.

  “Darlin’,” he said, smiling, “if you don’t speak any English, it’s going to break my heart.”

  She’d smiled back and cast her eyes down, then looked back at him again. He thought he’d flustered her, somehow, and his interest grew.

  “I think your heart should be okay,” she said.

  They’d talked for a long time in the bar. She told him she was a student at the Royal University, a psychology major. He told her he worked for an American real estate company and was in town for a few days to assess the desirability of some joint ventures the company was considerin
g. The story was thin, but not every tale had to be fully backstopped and he didn’t think this one would ever be put to any kind of a stress test. He didn’t know whether she believed him, though he supposed she had no reason not to, but either way she asked him no questions and he told her no further lies.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of her. On the one hand, her English was good and he was inclined to believe her about being a student—anyway, there was no reason for her to lie about that. On the other hand, Mist wasn’t the kind of place a girl would hang out alone if she weren’t a professional. On the other, other hand, if she was a pro, she seemed to be in no hurry to get him to take her out for a night on the town, or back to his hotel where she could make some money. He decided to classify her as what he called semi-pro—open to the possibility of some kind of remuneration, but only from the right client.

  When he told her he was getting ready to call it a night and asked her if she’d like to come back to the hotel with him, she’d looked down as though embarrassed, and he wondered if maybe his diagnosis had been off, and he’d been too forward. But then she’d nodded yes. He was still so unsure what to make of her that he didn’t even know whether to pay a bar fine. He decided to finesse that issue by leaving an extra big tip with the bill for their drinks.

  They got a tuk-tuk ride back to the hotel. In the room, she’d been shy and uncertain. He didn’t mind. He liked her, and besides, he could get laid anytime, one night without wasn’t going to kill him. He told her he didn’t want to do anything that made her uncomfortable, and she was welcome to spend the night if she liked. There was only the one bed, but they could keep their clothes on, it was fine.

  So that’s what they did. She did most of the talking, telling him about her family, her city, her hopes for the future. Her father drove a tuk-tuk and her mother ran the house, taking care of two brothers and a sister, sewing garments for some of the clothes shops in town to earn a little extra income. They all slept in the same room of a low-rise apartment building and shared a bathroom with the neighbors. Both her parents had grown up orphaned by the Khmer Rouge, and sending their first child to college had required considerable sacrifice—so much so that it was unlikely any of her siblings would be as fortunate. She told him these things matter-of-factly, in response to his questions. Still, he wondered how much of it was true. Every bargirl in Southeast Asia had a story about a dying grandmother or a sick baby or an aging water buffalo, all intended to play on the rich foreign customer’s guilt.

  At one point he started to doze off and she’d laughed at him, and when he apologized, she gave him a kiss, just a light one, on the mouth. That woke him up, and after looking at her lovely face for a moment, just a few inches from his, he kissed her back. Her lips were soft and he liked the way she smelled—flowers, and the hint of some exotic spice, too. He was aware that if the kiss turned into much more, he could easily get to the point where he’d want to persuade her and where he’d be disappointed if he couldn’t. Or where maybe he’d feel like he’d been rude in trying. So with some regret, he broke the kiss and said, “Sweet dreams, Chantrea.”

  She got up early the next day to go to class. He would have walked her down to the lobby and gotten her a tuk-tuk, but he sensed she would have been embarrassed if the hotel staff had seen them together in the morning. So he just checked through the peephole and unbolted the door. He paused before opening it and looked at her.

  “Ms. Chantrea, I’d like the pleasure of your company again, if your studies permit.”

  A moment went by. “Why?” she said, looking at the tile floor.

  He laughed. If she really wasn’t this innocent and awkward, she was a mighty fine actress. “Well, I like you is why.”

  “I like you, too. But… we didn’t…”

  He pulled five twenties from his pocket—a tip that would have been ridiculously large even if he’d seen some action last night, which he hadn’t. He hoped he wasn’t being a chump. Maybe she was just an exceptionally fine judge of character, a consummate con artist, and had spotted a way to milk him of some money without even offering any boom-boom in return. But he didn’t care. What kind of person would he be, if he avoided helping a nice girl on the off chance she didn’t really need it? Sometimes you had to act as if something was true, even if it might not be.

  She looked at the money. “Why?” she said again, making no move to take it.

  “Were you telling me the truth last night, about your family?”

  She nodded.

  He reached out and took one of her small hands and folded the bills into it. “Then take the money. I told you, I’m only in town for a few days and then I have to go. In the meantime, I’d like to see you again. And I’d like to help you and your family out a little. I’m not asking for any quid pro quo.”

  “Quid pro quo?”

  “An exchange. Reciprocity. You know, payback.”

  She shook her head. “I shouldn’t take your money. I didn’t even… We didn’t…”

  “That’s fine. I enjoyed your conversation. We can do it again, if you give me a phone number.”

  She did. And since then, he’d seen her every day after class, and she’d stayed with him at the hotel every night. The second evening was a little awkward. He could tell she was willing, but he wasn’t sure if she really wanted to. And he was concerned that by giving her the money, he’d made her feel obligated, which hadn’t been his intention. So they’d talked for a while, and then he read a book while she studied, and in the end they’d cuddled but that was all. They fell asleep spooned together, with her in front, and he knew she could feel his hard-on against her ass right through his jeans. He was glad she knew he wanted her but that he was holding back. He’d given her another hundred when she left in the morning, and the second time seemed to establish a comfortable pattern. Maybe he’d make love to her before he left the country, maybe he wouldn’t. He wasn’t overly concerned either way.

  He’d told her he had a meeting today. She didn’t inquire what about; she just asked if he wanted to see her in the afternoon, the way they’d been doing. He told her yes. He wondered what she made of him. A rich foreigner could be her ticket out—hell, her whole family’s ticket. But she never pressed. Maybe she wasn’t sure whether to trust him. Maybe she was afraid he would make her a bunch of promises, buy her off with some cash, leave without saying goodbye. Maybe she had decided sometimes you have to act as if something was true even if you couldn’t be sure, the way he had. It bothered him some, that she might have those kinds of doubts about him. It bothered him more that she had some reason. But he didn’t see what he could do about it.

  He stretched and cracked his knuckles over his head. Still no sign of the broker, but that was all right, it was only ten minutes to noon. He didn’t even know what the man looked like, only that he went by the name Gant and that a former Marine buddy had vouched for him. “Some kind of spook,” his buddy had assured him. “Agency is my guess. But could be Homeland Security, or maybe even NSA outsourcing the dirty work. Whoever he’s with, he’s got juice—ask for whatever hardware and logistics you want, he’ll get it for you pronto. And his money’s green.”

  He thumbed through his Lonely Planet guide, periodically lifting his eyes for a casual sweep of the approach to where he sat. Some Japanese tourists, clicking cameras at the Angkor-era statues in contravention of signs prohibiting photos of the exhibits. A Khmer mother and two small kids, making a picnic in the coolness of the veranda shadows. He couldn’t have seen more than a few dozen people since he’d arrived, and it occurred to him that the museum seemed to boast more artifacts than it did visitors. The place had a slightly strange feel—sleepy; half-forgotten; somehow provisional, as though the curators expected that any day they might suddenly have to crate up everything and move it underground. Habits of war, he decided. It’s not just the warriors who keep them after the conflict has ended. Civilians do, too, and maybe even more so.

  He liked Cambodia. He’d never been anywhere i
n Southeast Asia that didn’t agree with him, and it was no coincidence he made his home in Bali. Phnom Penh was seedy and hot and shit-poor, with colonial buildings stoically crumbling in the tropical humidity, and sidewalks so dilapidated they looked like they’d been bombed. There were pockets of construction—hotels and office complexes and such—but these only seemed to emphasize the parlous state of everything else. Families economized by riding three and sometimes four at a time on legions of motor scooters, there were beggars everywhere, and food was apparently dear enough that an overweight Khmer was nowhere to be seen. But despite all this, the place thrummed with optimism and hope. The Cambodians had been sodomized for centuries—the Vietnamese, the French, and most of all, the homegrown Khmer Rouge—but no matter how life beat them down, they kept getting back up. They hustled at work, strolled with their children along the river quay, and never stopped smiling. He’d read somewhere how a wild thing never felt sorry for itself, no matter how bad its circumstances, and that seemed to describe Cambodia, too. Certainly it described Chantrea.

  Gant showed at twelve o’clock sharp, a novice move. Either he wasn’t particularly tactical, or he wasn’t particularly concerned. Hard to know on short acquaintance. The man was unremarkable in every way: Caucasian; thinning brown hair, neatly cut; average size and build; a crisply pressed shirt, khaki pants, canvas shoes; expensive-looking sunglasses; a camera hanging around his neck. Dox looked more closely, and saw the camera was an older model digital Olympus, which he’d been told to watch for.

  Dox stood as the man approached—for courtesy, of course, but also because he preferred to be on his feet and mobile when greeting a stranger like this one. Gant’s hands were empty and his shirt was tucked, but Dox knew plenty of places a man could conceal a weapon besides around his waist.