Prum said nothing.
Ford rose, walked over to Prum, flipped the gun around, and handed it to him butt first. "Take it."
After a hesitation, Prum snatched it. He popped out the magazine, slipped it back in. "It's loaded," he said, pointing the gun at Ford. "I could kill you right now. I suggest you leave."
"That wouldn't be a good idea."
Prum smiled broadly. It was as Ford hoped: with the gun in his hand he was feeling secure. Little did he know Ford had taken apart the rounds, poured out the powder, and fitted them back together.
"Here's the proposition." Ford slowly reached into his pocket and removed a small document. He laid it down in the yellow pool of light. It was a student visa to attend university in America.
Prum snorted. "I have no need of that. I'm fifty years old! I'm a rich man, respected. I'm in business and everything I do is legal. I break no laws and steal nothing from anyone."
"The visa isn't for you."
Prum looked puzzled.
"Go ahead . . . take a look."
Prum hesitated, then reached out and took it. He opened it up and stared at the photograph on the front.
Ford slipped an envelope out of his pocket, and laid it next to the visa. The envelope had a crimson logo on it with a single word, Veritas, and a Cambridge, Massachusetts, return address.
"Read the letter."
Prum laid down the passport and took up the envelope. He slipped out the letter on heavy cream paper and squinted, reading it in the dim light, the paper shaking slightly.
"It's an acceptance letter to Harvard University for your son, signed by the Dean of Admissions."
A long silence ensued. Prum slowly laid the letter down, an unreadable look in his eyes. "This is the carrot, I see. And what is the stick?"
"I'll get to that in a moment."
"I can't rely on your promises. These are meaningless pieces of paper. Anyone could have forged these."
"True. You'll have to judge my sincerity. Right here, right now. The opportunity will pass, never to come again."
"Why do you want to know the location of the mine?"
"That gets us to the stick. Where do you think these honeys are ending up, Mr. Prum? On ladies' necks."
"So?"
"One of the biggest honeys ended up on one of the biggest ladies' necks, the wife of a very important United States senator. She was the admiration of all of Georgetown until she lost her hair and got weeping sores on her breasts from radiation poisoning. We traced those stones to you."
A silence, and then Prum exhaled. "Mhn sruel kluen tee!"
Ford recognized the vulgar Khmer expression. "This is some serious shit, as we say in English."
Prum wiped his face with a handkerchief. "I never knew this. I never even imagined. I am a businessman."
"You know they're radioactive."
Silence.
"The stick is the senator is told you're the one who did this to his wife. What do you think will happen to you then?"
"If I tell you about the mine, they'll kill me."
"The CIA'll kill you if you don't."
"Please, don't do this to me."
"Look, the mine owners won't know you told us. That's why we came at night through the back door."
Prum shook his head vigorously. The gun, all but forgotten, rested in his limp hand. "I need time to think."
"Sorry. Decision time, Mr. Prum."
He mopped his face again. "This mine, it's my livelihood."
"You've had a good run."
"In addition to Harvard for my son, I want money."
"You're really pushing it."
"A hundred thousand dollars."
Ford glanced at Khon. The Cambodian love of bargaining never ceased to amaze him. He rose, swiped up the visa and letter. "The CIA will take care of you." He turned to go.
"Wait! Fifty thousand."
Ford didn't even pause as he headed for the door.
"Ten thousand."
Ford was almost out the door.
"Five thousand."
Ford paused, turned. "You get the money if and when the mine is successfully located." He came back in. "Now give me back my gun."
Prum handed it over. He rose shakily to his feet, went to a wooden chest in the corner, unlocked it, and took out a map. He unrolled it on a table, placing the oil lamp on it. "This," he said, "is a map of Cambodia. We are here, and the mine is . . . here." A tiny finger fell with a thump on a wild, mountainous area in the far northwest. The Cambodian turned his liquid eyes on Ford. "But I tell you this for your own good: if you go there, you'll never come back alive."
16
Mark Corso felt a presence in the doorway of his cubicle, and as he straightened up from his work he surreptitiously used his elbow to shove some papers over the gamma ray plots he'd been working on. "Hello, Dr. Derkweiler," he said, forcing his features into a semblance of respect.
Derkweiler entered. "Just checking up on that SHARAD image processing."
"Almost done."
The supervisor leaned over his shoulder, humming, and peering at the papers and printouts neatly squared off on his desk. "Where is it?"
"Right here." Corso wasn't exactly sure where it was, somewhere in the stack of printouts, but he didn't dare sort through them for fear of exposing the gamma ray plots. "I'll have it on your desk by the end of the day."
Derkweiler reached out with one of his trotters, pushed a few papers around. "Desk nice and neat. Not like the rest of us slobs around here. Good for you." His breath smelled of orange Tic Tacs.
Another push of the papers. "What's this?" He reached down, slid a computer printout clear from the stack--a gamma ray plot. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were still working on that gamma ray data. You promised the SHARAD images to me yesterday."
"I'm still working on them. They'll be on your desk before five. Dr. Derkweiler, for the record, my assignment here is to analyze all the E.M. data and that includes gamma rays."
More sucking on the Tic Tac. "Mr. Corso, I think we might have a fundamental misunderstanding here about how this department is run. We work as a team and I'm the team leader. I'm sorry, but I thought I made it clear that the SHARAD images were your first priority. I want it all done--all of it--and presented at the meeting next week."
Corso said nothing.
"Do you understand, Mr. Corso?"
"I do," he said.
Corso waited until Derkweiler had left, and then he sank into his chair, trembling. The man was intolerable, a mediocrity who somehow rose into a supervisory position and was now relishing every moment. He cast a sour eye over the gamma ray plots, sitting on top of the other papers. He would have to bust ass to finish crunching all that SHARAD image data by five. Why was he so insistent on the SHARAD images? It wasn't like Mars was going anywhere soon. At the same time, the gamma ray data was truly bizarre. He had taken it a step beyond what Freeman had done. If Derkweiler didn't see the value of it, surely Chaudry would.
A soft knock came at the open door and he turned to see Marjory Leung standing in the doorway like a gazelle, one leg straight, the other cocked, leaning on the door with a smile on her face, her long torso flexed like a bow.
"Hey," she said.
Corso smiled and shook his head. "Is he gone?"
"Turning the corner now."
He passed his hand through his hair. "Come on in."
She flopped herself down in the chair in the corner and leaned her head back, her hair spreading on the seat back. "Lunch?"
He shook his head. "I've got to finish this data."
"How's it going?"
"It's a number grind. I've been spending all my time on gamma rays."