They spent the evening at the base of the mountain they’d descended to enter the hidden valley. After eating his fill of the fish they’d packed for the return trip, Chey stood near their small fire and removed a cask from his bag.
“My friends, congratulations. The king authorized me to offer you this, the Khmer’s finest rice wine, as a reward for a job well done. Gentlemen, I salute and honor each of you for your part.” Chey broke the seal on the cask, took a long draft, and then handed it to Sihanouk to pass around to the men. In no time the vessel was drained, each man having eagerly taken a brimming mouthful and savored the liquor’s pleasant burn. Chey excused himself and went to relieve himself in the brush. When he was finished, he rejoined the men, lingering at the edge of the small clearing, watching the dance of the orange flames.
Half an hour later the fire was little more than glowing embers and the soldiers were passed out, the sleeping agent in the wine having worked its magic. Chey had taken an antidote before he’d drunk, but the rest of the men were lost to the world, sprawled around the fire pit, snoring.
Chey approached Sihanouk and drew the warrior’s sword. He paused as he inspected the wicked blade, and then, without hesitation, thrust the point through his throat. Sihanouk stiffened as his appendages twitched, and he gurgled a strangled moan before falling still. Chey stepped back from the lifeless body and repeated the act with the others until he’d slaughtered all the men in their sleep. He glanced around at the corpses, his face impassive, and nodded once to himself before he retrieved Sihanouk’s belt and scabbard and cinched the wide leather strap around his waist.
He moved to the bag with the provisions and tested its weight. It was heavy, but he could always jettison food if he tired of carrying it. Better to have too much than too little, he reasoned, as he shouldered the sack and set off by moonlight for the trail that would lead him back to an uncertain future and to his king, who’d authorized the murder of his loyal men in order to keep the treasure’s hiding place secret.
Now, only Chey knew the truth. And Chey was a survivor. Whatever awaited him in his homeland, he would fulfill his oath and bring to the king the location of the temple, for which he was sure he would be rewarded lavishly.
All he had to do was make it back alive.
Chapter 1
Stars glimmered through a light haze of smog over Rawal Lake. Traffic had slowed to a trickle from the city, the raucous noise of poorly muffled vehicles fading as darkness fell. Now the air was filled with the sound of televisions blasting from open windows and the dissonant keen of polyrhythmic music from radios as the suburb of Bhara Kahu settled in for the night. Largely working class, the area was only five miles from Islamabad, connected via a highway that skirted the lake.
A garbage truck rumbled down a dusty street on its way to the communal neighborhood dumping spot, piled high with contributions from local residents and passersby. A lone dog trotted stiffly behind it, a hopeful look in its haunted eyes. Lights glowed behind the iron-barred windows of small homes encircled by high walls topped with broken glass.
Four local men sat outside a tiny café at a circular glass table, playing cards and smoking strong cigarettes from which serpentine coils of pungent smoke corkscrewed into the air before dispersing into the light breeze. A boy no older than ten carried out to the men a red enamel tray loaded with four cups of coffee the consistency of crude oil. He set each down carefully before scuttling back inside. The men laughed at a joke, toasted, and resumed their betting, insulting one another good-naturedly as they traded coins back and forth.
A battered Nissan sedan with glass tinted so dark it was nearly opaque crept down the street and slowed as it approached the café. The men visibly stiffened, and one reached beneath his baggy shirt; and then relaxed when the passenger-side window rolled down and one of his friends waved and called out a greeting.
Jack Rollins watched the exchange through night vision goggles from the second-floor window of a house at the end of the block. He was wearing a balaclava and head-to-toe black, invisible in the darkened interior. Next to him lay a Kalashnikov AKM with a collapsible wire stock and a satchel that housed six magazines. Beside it was a .50-caliber sniper rifle with a compact night vision scope — a weapon that fired hand-loaded explosive rounds that would vaporize a man’s head at a thousand yards.
He tapped his earbud and waited for a click to signal that all was still well. The answering pop came a second later. The target hadn’t shown himself since returning from the nearby mosque for Isha salat, the last prayer of the day, intended to carry the faithful from dusk until dawn. Jack had wanted to take the man out right on the street, but that wasn’t the mission, so instead he was waiting patiently.
“See anything on that side?” he murmured. A voice crackled in his ear almost immediately.
“Nothing’s changed. Lights are on inside the house. Couple of goons outside with assault rifles. AKs, of course.”
“Of course.” AK-47s were ubiquitous in the Punjab area of Pakistan, as common as flies after decades of nonstop warring in nearby Afghanistan — something Jack knew all too well after two tours of duty there. The Afghans were mean as striped snakes and lived to fight, most having grown up battling the Russians and then the Americans.
Not my problem, Jack thought. We all do what we must to survive.
“Any signs from the surrounding houses?” Jack asked.
“Negative. All’s quiet. Except for Saddam, of course. He never sleeps.”
Saddam was the nickname they’d given the shooter on the roof of the adjacent home, part of the target’s security precautions. Hamal Qureshi was a moderate voice in the debate with more extreme interpretations of the Koran, a devout cleric respected by many — so much so that his views on the non-orthodoxy of the latest terrorist groups disrupting the Middle East were shaping the dialog on whether they were legitimate or a false-flag operation for Western imperialist interests. Dangerous questions to ask, which would be rewarded with a death sentence.
“Probably has a guilty conscience,” Jack mused, “or he’s daydreaming about those fifty-five virgins.”
“I think the number’s seventy-two.”
“Whatever.” Jack checked his watch. “We go live in twenty minutes. Got the flash bangs and the ack-acks ready?”
“You bet. And in this outfit I look like Omar the Tentmaker, so they’ll never see me coming.” Jack’s crew had been outfitted with local garb, in keeping with the clandestine nature of the assignment. They were to look like locals, terrorists out for a vocal dissenter’s blood. The assassination would create outrage in the community and hopefully dampen enthusiasm for criticism. Whether it would work or not was above Jack’s pay grade; he was just the hired help. And good at his job.
“All right. Let’s maintain radio silence until we’re ready to rock. Won’t be long now. Watch your backs.”
Jack signed off and watched the decrepit Nissan roll away, trailing exhaust from inadequate combustion. He’d been in town for three days with his crew, reconnoitering. Finally it was time — the waiting was the hardest part. He knew from experience that once the shooting started it would be over in a blink; hundreds of thousands of dollars of preparation, arms, fake papers, all for the two minutes he’d estimated it would take to neutralize Qureshi’s guard and take out the great man himself.