She heard a door open, but could not raise her head far enough to see who was there. Then a man’s face leaned over her, smiling, kindly, with fine black hair brushed back from his forehead. ‘And how are you now, my dear?’
‘Where am I?’ The fear was clear in her voice.
‘Now, you mustn’t be afraid.’ He sat lightly on the edge of the bed and carefully brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘You are quite safe. My name is Tuk Than. You were coming to see me, I think. The police found my name and address in your handbag. When they contacted me, of course I insisted they bring you here. Unfortunately your passport and money were gone with your assailant.’
She looked at him, trembling. ‘Did he — am I...?’
‘The doctor says you were not violated, my dear. Perhaps he was only after your money. Perhaps he was interrupted. We will only know when they catch him. Now you must rest. The doctor has given you a sedative and we shall see how you are in the morning.’ He rose from the bed. ‘Perhaps, though, you might tell me what a pretty young English lady was doing carrying my name and address around in her handbag.’
‘I’m looking for my father.’
He frowned. ‘Your father?’
‘Yes. Jack Elliot. I was told you might know where he is.’
And a shadow fell across Tuk’s face.
Chapter Twenty-Two
An estimated one hundred and twenty thousand Vietnamese troops are making sweeping advances in the face of crumbling resistance from the Revolutionary Army of Kampuchea. Outnumbered in the region of three to one, almost half the nineteen divisions of Kampuchean troops committed to the border by the Khmer Rouge have been encircled in two massive flanking movements by the Vietnamese — at the Parrot’s Beak in Svay Rieng and the Fishhook in Kampong Cham. Independent sources say that Kampuchean tanks and artillery are being destroyed by superior Vietnamese firepower, and there have been reports that Khmer Rouge cadres are being murdered by their own troops rebelling against what is said to be intolerable repression within the armed forces. A brief silence. This news comes to you in the World Service of the BBC.
Slattery switched off the shortwave radio and stowed it away in his backpack. He looked grimly at Elliot. ‘Looks like we could be running out of time, chief.’
They had slipped from one year into the next almost without noticing. But 1979 had not brought them much nearer to their target. From their vantage point high up among the trees they looked down on the main road east from the northern town of Sisophon. Their progress had been much slower than Elliot had allowed for. Tangled subtropical jungle had reduced their advance south to only a few kilometres a night. Almost impenetrable in places, it had forced them to take several detours to find a way through. The previous night they had reached Sisophon and made a wide sweep round the eastern flank to avoid risking a possible encounter with Khmer Rouge patrols. Having reached a point several kilometres south-east of the town, they laid up during the hours of daylight, catching a few hours’ sleep and watching the activity on the road below. Armoured vehicles and trucks full of troops had been heading south-east to Siem Reap all day. The war with Vietnam was not going well, and the Khmer Rouge were having to commit more and more troops to the conflict.
It was dark now, and Elliot was examining several maps by the light of a pencil torch. McCue was on watch. Elliot acknowledged Slattery’s observation with a solemn nod. ‘We’re going to have to make Siem Reap by tomorrow night at the latest. If they’re moving troops in large numbers they may start to move civilians. I don’t want to get there and find Ang’s people gone.’
‘Shit, chief, that must be a good seventy kilometres or more. How are we going to do that?’
They turned sharply as McCue slipped through the undergrowth to join them from where he had been watching the road. ‘There’s a truck pulled up almost immediately below us. Supply truck with a driver and two armed guards. Looks like they got a puncture.’
The truck driver glanced at the two guards smoking idly at the roadside and cursed under his breath. They would not condescend to lend him a hand to change the wheel. And he knew that while he had to drive through the night, they would be curled up in the back of the truck sleeping. He manoeuvred the large unwieldy wheel into position, lined up the holes with the bolts, and slipped it into place. Quickly, he screwed each nut as tight as it would go by hand, and then used the brace to finish the job. He lowered the jack and chucked the tools in the back.
‘That’s it. We’d better move,’ he told the guards, and climbed up into the cab. The guards threw away their cigarettes.
From his position, lying flat in the bushes not five metres away, Slattery saw one of them hand the other his automatic and start walking towards him. Jeez, he thought, he can’t have seen me! The other guard swung himself up into the back of the truck where Elliot’s hand closed like a vice across his mouth, and a long blade glinted in the dark before it slipped between his ribs and into his heart.
Slattery watched the silhouette of the approaching guard until it was less than a foot away. The guard had stopped almost above him and was loosening the cord on his trousers. For a moment Slattery wondered what he was doing, and then truth dawned and he pushed his face down into the earth with sickening anticipation. A warm jet of urine splashed over his head and trickled down his neck. Slattery swore inwardly. Where the fuck was McCue! The jet lessened, became a trickle and stopped. The guard buckled at the knees and fell forward into the bushes, landing beside Slattery, eyes wide and lifeless and staring into his. Slattery looked up and saw McCue grinning down at him.
‘Enjoy your shower, buddy?’
‘Bastard!’ Slattery hissed. ‘You waited on purpose.’ He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water, and moved quickly out of the bushes. Crouching, the two men ran to the back of the truck and climbed in. Elliot was bent over the prone figure of the other guard, stripping him of his black pyjamas and kramar. He chucked them at McCue.
‘Put these on. You could almost pass for one of them in the dark.’
The driver revved the engine several times and shouted something from the cab. The three men froze and looked at one another. None of them had any Cambodian. Elliot leaned across and banged twice with his fist on the side of the truck. They waited for a tense moment, then the driver gunned the engine and the truck jolted into motion.
Slattery grabbed the chequered scarf from McCue and rubbed his stubbly wet head and neck with it vigorously. He threw it back. ‘Bastard!’ he said again. Elliot looked blankly from one to the other.
McCue shrugged and slipped on the black pyjama top. ‘He finally got that wash he was after.’
The truck bumped and rattled over the broken surface of the road, trying to make up for lost time. Elliot prised open two of the crates stacked in the back. He whistled softly.
‘Mortars!’ He lifted out one of the lightweight 60mm mortar launchers and examined it. ‘Chinese-made by the look.’ He handed it to McCue. ‘You can carry it.’ And he turned to Slattery. ‘You and I’ll carry a couple of rounds each. We might need the firepower.’
McCue took out the dead guard’s cigarettes and passed them around, and they all had their first smoke for days. After about an hour, the truck slowed and they went through a small neglected-looking town. Broken-down shops with corrugated-iron roofs. Decaying houses and empty gaps. There were no lights, no signs of life except for a dog that bayed at them as they passed. McCue sat up at the back beside the open canvas flap, in black pyjama top, chequered scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, AK-47 resting across his knees. Elliot and Slattery lay flat on the floor beside the stiffening corpse.