Target still not seen but there was a track to the left, hidden by boulders until I was almost on it, had to use the brakes and let the rear end swing through the U as I gunned up to get the traction back and then turned to follow the track, baked mud and loose stones, the surface natural, the way ahead formed simply by the passage of wheels over the passage of time.
A small leopard vaulted a rock and turned to watch the jeep go past.
Target.
The sun flashing across its rear window as it turned in the distance ahead and below me among the hills as the track descended, stones rattling under the chassis.
We were in a ravine, with rocks rising on each side, their shadows on the right, sharper now, the air less humid. I let the speed die again, losing the staff car from sight but not worrying.
There wouldn't be another track leading away from this one: the terrain was too steep, too rocky.
Flash and I saw the target again, much smaller now. But even at this distance 1 wouldn't be safe if they looked back and saw the jeep; this wasn't a public road, and any vehicle on it would belong to the forces of the Khmer Rouge. This was their private territory. It wouldn't have been possible to get even this far if I hadn't chosen a camouflaged vehicle, but that wouldn't help me if they took an interest and brought me to a stop.
There would have to be a break-off point: at some time I would need to decide when I was as close as I could go to the target without risking exposure.
Flash and the staff car was turning again, but this time onto a side track where the rocks gave way to flat terrain half a mile across and covered with dark green foliage — scrub or short trees, from this distance I couldn't tell which.
Then the target vanished.
It hadn't turned to one side or the other: the sun had been steady on the rear window, then had gone out like a lamp switched off.
I cut down my speed, rolled for a hundred yards and then put the jeep onto a slope of firm ground that would let me turn without having to back up, give me a chance to get out fast if I had to. Then I sat looking at the flat green terrain down there, some kind of plantation except for the rocks strewn across it, no individual bushes, no clearly-defined trees, just a stretch of — right, got it now — camouflage netting.
This was how the staff car had vanished like that in an instant, passing under the edge of the screen and out of sight.
The camp was perfectly placed, too far from the main track to attract visitors and too far west of the airfield in Pouthisat to be seen from the lowering flight paths. But even so, it had been decided to rig the camouflage screen to provide total concealment from the air.
I switched off the engine, because this was the break-off point. I was as close as I could get to the target, was too close, even, for safety: if there were guards mounted there at the camp's perimeter the jeep would be in sight of them.
The heat lay across the canyon, the sun burning its path through the sky to the south and touching fire from the rocks, dazzling the eye, leaving the lungs stifled. Under the spread of camouflage down there it would be cooler; perhaps that too was its purpose.
There was nothing more I could do here. I couldn't hope to infiltrate an armed camp, even by night; let it be enough that I had a fix on it; the day hadn't been wasted. But as I reached for the ignition I stopped and froze as a sound came into the silence, echoing among the rocks. Another vehicle was on the move, coming the way we had come, and I slipped across the passenger's seat and dropped to the ground, crouching, listening to the sound of tyres scattering loose stones, one of them hitting the side of the jeep with the force of a bullet.
They would see the jeep standing here, not far from the track, couldn't miss it. It was camouflaged, a military or paramilitary vehicle — that was why I'd chosen it — but it didn't carry any kind of insignia. Had the staff car carried insignia? I hadn't been close enough to the rear to see if it had or not. Did all the Khmer Rouge vehicles have insignia? It was important, because if they did, the one moving past me now would hit the brakes and slide to a halt across the stones and boots would thud to the ground and the driver would come walking across.
I waited.
Exhaust gas came drifting, and another stone hit the jeep and the nerves jerked because it was so like a shot.
Insignia. Did they carry insignia, the transports of the Khmer Rouge forces?
The vehicle wasn't slowing; no brakes, no boots. It was alongside now and still moving at the same speed, equipment, maybe a spade, rattling in its straps to the vibration. Voices, calling in Khmer above the noise. What were they saying? What's that jeep doing there, it's not one of ours, there's no insignia?
No. They weren't interested, hadn't noticed anything wrong about it, assumed the jeep was out of petrol and that the driver had walked to the camp to fetch some.
Moving on, they were moving on, and I gave them sixty seconds and climbed back into the jeep and started up straight away, using the other vehicle's engine as sound cover as it rolled into the camp past the guards.
Were there guards? That was important too.
Started up and made a tight turn and drove back along the track, using the manual gear change to shift ratios with as few revs as the engine could take, keeping the noise down.
So you located the camp and came away, with no opposition?
I was lucky. There weren't any guards at the perimeter.
The sun on my right now and a little behind me, stones banging under the wings, the canvas top flexing as the chassis twisted to the uneven surface of the track, nothing in the mirrors until the flash came, the flash of the sun across glass a mile behind me, the glass of a windscreen, the windscreen of a vehicle on the move.
My thoughts on the debriefing had been premature, then, presumptuous, counting chickens, shit, we need policy here, and make it quick.
I could gun up and try driving my way out but I didn't know what vehicle they were using — it could be half as powerful as mine, or twice. There would be two men on board: if they were coming to check out the jeep there would be two of them, both armed. Add, then, the weight of one man plus the weight of his assault rifle and ammunition belt, but that wouldn't give me any advantage if they were driving something more powerful.
Policy, then? Because if we're going to make a run for it we'd better start now.
The flash came again, brighter. They were closing the distance, coming flat out, the vehicle bouncing, the windscreen flashing like a semaphore, it wasn't just a routine transport leaving the camp. There had, then, been guards, and they'd seen the jeep when I'd turned, and they'd sounded the alert…
Decision, yes, and this was it, not terribly sophisticated: I couldn't hope to drive clear because it was daylight and I was stuck on this one narrow track and they could start picking me off at any time now, any time they wanted to.
So relax: 50 kph on the clock and I left it like that, medium speed, out for a Sunday afternoon drive, this was a pleasant route, winding through the rocks, wildflowers here and there, yellow and red, a scenic route, you might say, we must bring Fred and Gertrude here next weekend, they'll really -
Shots, just a short burst, and then fluting overhead, a warning, then, their aim couldn't be that bad at half a mile. I didn't slow, waited for the second burst, got it, took my foot off the throttle, stuck my hand out of the window and waved, yes, I've got the message, hold your bloody fire.
I was stationary at the side of the track when they arrived, two men in military fatigues with red check kramas, both carrying assault rifles as they jumped down from their Chinese-built jeep while I sat with my hands on the wheel, raising them as they prodded with their guns, shouting Khmer in my face.