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.
'English,' I said. 'Anglae.' It was one of the few words I knew.
More shouting, while one of them looked around inside the jeep, turning the cushions over, scattering the bottles of Evian water.
'Qui es toi?' the other one asked, using the familiar, but of course, the Khmer Rouge can do that, they can do anything they like.
'Je suis Anglais.' I used one hand, cautiously, to show them my papers, and they took it in turns to look at them, didn't give them back. My papers, I said indignantly, give me my papers back, not bloody likely, who do you think you are, working out the odds, I was working out the odds while they walked slowly round the jeep, not looking for anything, simply showing me they weren't going to miss anything, I was to take them seriously, even with those red checked kramas round their heads; a dishcloth is a dishcloth, whatever you choose to call it.
Then one of them slapped the bonnet and shouted 'Viens!' and jerked his head towards their jeep.
'Mais jai trompe de chemin,' I said indignantly, 'c’est tout!' Missed the road, that was all, but he wasn't interested, pushed his rifle into my chest. The other one joined in, so I said 'Merde!' and left it at that, having established my cover story, and climbed out of my jeep and into theirs, one of the bastards going too close to the spine with his gun, prodding my back, no respect for the vertebrae, and this is one of the things, the many things, that can tilt the balance and leave you undone, a pinched nerve robbing you of agility just when you need it most — we shall have to start thinking now, my good friend, of things like that, start making preparations in the mind; that's a hornets' nest down there, if you'll forgive the cliche, and my presence has been requested, so that death might not be long in coming unless we are nimble: these are the Khmer Rouge, and they murdered a million souls in the Killing Fields.
You've only got to make one little mistake with Pol Pot, and that's your lot. Tucker, drumming his fingers on the control column of the Siai-Marchetti. People have disappeared, you know what I'm saying?
Yes indeed.
Then one of them got behind the wheel and started up while the other dragged my jacket half off and used the sleeves to bind my arms behind me; then he whipped the krama offhis head and tied it round my eyes and pulled it tight; it smelled of sweat and something else — hair oil? Scents were important now because we were in a red sector and I couldn't see anything — scents, sounds, tactile impressions, whatever information I could pick up, however slight: I might need to recognize this man again, and the hair oil might do it for me if he came close enough.
Bloody gun in my ribs, to remind me not to do anything silly; he hadn't cleaned the barrel for God knew how long, I could smell it, these weren't the Queen's Light Infantry.
Stones pinging from under the tyres as we bumped our way down to the camp, the driver shouting something in Khmer and my escort shouting back, We going to put him against a wall, are we? But we must use the mind for preparation, yes, not for glum conjecture.
Twilight suddenly, cast by the camouflage net as we rolled to a halt, no more than a lessening of the light at the edges of the krama by a few degrees but enough to inform me. A strong smell of canvas — the camouflage net — and diesel oil, rubber, cooking stoves, tobacco smoke, chickens.
The rifle prodding again. 'Bouges pas!' Don't move, but of course not, with my arms bound, what would it profit me, you espece d'idiot?
The other man had gone off — to fetch someone in authority? — but my escort stayed close, the muzzle of his gun resting against my chest the whole time. There was a line of light along the top of the blindfold but even when I turned my eyes upward as far as they'd go there was no useful vision taking place: it was just peripheral, capable of detecting movement but no images.
'Look,' I said in French, 'you're making a mistake.'
The man didn't answer.
'And that's okay,' I said. 'People make mistakes. I do it all the time. But the thing is, my government isn't going to like — '
He told me to shut the fuck up and when the other man came back they hustled me across the camp to a concrete cell and threw me inside and slammed the door and locked it.
11: CHOEN
Bare walls, bare floor, cracks in the concrete, streaks of dried blood near the door, a sandal lying in a corner with the strap broken, human faeces, dried, not fresh, they hadn't put anyone else in here recently, the door made of metal, streaks of rust where rain had come in through the gap at the top, the lock massive, the only light coming through a grille in the ceiling.
I'd twisted my arms free of the jacket and taken the blindfold off as soon as my escorts had gone; that was some time ago, perhaps two hours. I hadn't untied the sleeves or the knot of the krama; when I heard them coming back I would restore the image of the helpless captive, because that was what I wanted to show them — a man who didn't even try to free himself when left on his own, who would not, therefore, be expected to make any attempt to escape.
There had been vehicle movement during the time I'd been here, regular, routine, as if base manoeuvres were being conducted under cover of the camouflage net. At least one of the vehicles was a half-track or a tank — I heard the links rolling — and once I caught the gear-whine of a gun turret swivelling. But most of it was light stuff, its exhaust gas smelling of petrol engines, not diesel.
In between the bursts of mechanical noise I'd heard chickens clucking, the falsely reassuring sound of a sleepy farmyard: those smooth brown eggs had supplied the fats and proteins to the human muscle that would keep this intruder overpowered, perhaps drag him to the wall and squeeze the trigger.