Phnom Penh Express (2 page)

Dieter exhales and tries to distinguish the female sunbathers from the males on the beach far beneath him. He fails at this too — they’re merely black dots from this height. It’s supposed to be season but there’s not many sunbathers around, he muses. Yesterday’s suicide attack in Rehovot may be a reason for people to stay indoors. He flicks ash from his cigarette and watches it dissipate into the air. It’s remarkable how the sound of traffic from far below encroaches up onto his balcony, as if the cars are passing right through his back door. The other sound that catches Dieter’s ears is the incessant thok-thok-thok of several tiny figures playing
Matkot
, Israeli beach tennis.

Dieter looks ahead. Jutting out behind The Renaissance hotel is another tall building. ‘Sheraton Tel Aviv’, he reads in big red letters. It is then that he spots the small white plane emerging from the vast blue flying straight at his hotel. His heart surges as the terrible images of 9/11 flood his mind. The plane is flying worryingly low, almost at the same height as his seventeenth floor — or at least that’s how it seems for a moment. Then the aircraft banks a sharp 45-degree left, continuing its descent towards Sde Dov airport. He wonders why those bloody planes can’t fly along a different route.

Dieter lights another cigarette. He wonders what time it is in Cambodia. Just before 9
PM
, he decides. He taps a number into his cellphone and waits.

“It’s me,” he says.

“I’ve been waiting since Sunday,” the voice replies from on the other side of the planet. It’s a woman’s voice, soft with an accent that could be American, but not quite.

“There have been complications. The discussions took longer than anticipated.”

“What about the deal?” the woman asks.

Dieter inhales a new cloud of nicotine.

“It’s going through. We’ve got a test shipment, left this morning at 7:30
AM
for Phnom Penh.”

“Mazel tov,”
she congratulates him in Hebrew. “So the payment has been accepted?”

“Absolutely,” Dieter replies, “this first shipment should pave the way for many others to follow.”

“Good. This makes things much easier for us. We’ll need to discuss how to expand the operation with my new Cambodian friends. When are you flying out?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then we’ll talk again when you’re back in Johannesburg.”

The woman hangs up.

Dieter lies stretched out on the double bed in his four-star hotel room, smoking a third cigarette. He stares at the ceiling and listens to the almost meditative sound of the
Matkot
players. The first part of operation ‘Phnom Penh Express’ went well; another monkey off his back. He wouldn’t mind staying here a few days longer — enjoying the beach, working on getting a tan, finding himself a good-looking local girl. If he’s lucky, she might wear her army uniform for him and then strip. He’d take her out to dinner and buy her army-coloured underwear. His mind is drifting now. When his cigarette burns down to its filter he closes his eyes and dozes off.

***

The pain in Dieter’s ears is excruciating, but nothing compared to what he feels in his limbs, chest and groin. The rubber ball in his mouth prevents him from both screaming and biting off his tongue, while the doctor at his side stands ready to resuscitate him in case of cardiac arrest. The fluid injected into his upper arm fifteen minutes earlier has wound its way through his system, freezing every muscle in Dieter’s body, and its effect will last another ten minutes at least. His body is already jerking uncontrollably on the bed to which he’s handcuffed by his wrists and ankles. His rapidly dilating pupils indicate that he’s about to lose consciousness.

One of the three men standing around him takes the headphones off Dieter’s head, but the screeching noise continues unabated inside his mind. The doctor injects more fluid into Dieter’s arm, and several seconds later the pain in his muscles subsides enough to prevent him from passing out. The moment the rubber ball is pulled out of his mouth, his fast, heavy breathing fills the room. The doctor watches intently, calmly smoking one of Dieter’s Lucky Strikes. The same man who pulled the headphones off his head now bends forward and puts his mouth next to Dieter’s ear, almost touching it. This man is in his late twenties at most, but clearly the one in charge. He speaks softly, almost whispers, like a loving parent saying goodnight to his child.

“We can do this all over again. Take all night, maybe two. We’re paid by the hour.”

Dieter produces a pathetic, unintelligible sound and stares wide-eyed at the ceiling. His brain is frantically trying to process the onslaught of information mixed with surging emotions and the threat of more pain to come. For the moment, he’s mostly focused on the pain aspect. The young man still has his mouth pressed to Dieter’s ear. He speaks in a monotone voice, quite used to if not a little bored by the macabre spectacle.

“You will tell us everything about Cambodia. If any of the details don’t add up, you will leave this world in a way you’d never imagined possible.”

The man pauses and gently strokes Dieter’s face. He wants to ensure his victim clearly understands.

He continues.

“This was just a little sample.” For an instant a brief smile flickers on the man’s face, then quickly fades.

“In return for your kind cooperation we will assist you out of your miserable existence quickly and more humanely — the choice is yours.”

Dieter is breathing fast, like a rabbit in its death throes. Once the word ‘Mossad’ pops into his brain. But he quickly stops trying to think, he just wants this to be over. He has never experienced such agony and is surprised his body has been able to take it so far. He’s definitely too young to die, but right now he’d give just about anything to not have to go through that hell again — including his life.

The man is now standing upright. He looks relaxed, hands casually tucked inside his pockets as he smiles down at his handcuffed victim. It’s the ominous smile of a sadist. Dieter stares back with big, quivering eyes and moves his head. It’s more of a jerky spasm than the intended nod.

“Congratulations, my South African friend,” says the man quietly. “Wise choice... I guess,” he adds with a hint of disappointment in his voice. He turns his head and looks at the doctor.

“Inject the pain killer.”

The man glances over his shoulder at a young, oriental woman lingering at the far end of the room from where she has been quietly observing Dieter’s ordeal. At her nod, the three men leave, closing the door behind them. The young woman walks over to Dieter and positions herself in front of him.

When his tear-blurred vision finally manages to focus properly on the woman, Dieter’s face flashes with surprise and then anger. Black Lotus! Her iconic nickname races through his conscious while the young woman remains emotionless. The distinctive birthmark on her right cheek is shaped like the petals of a lotus flower. It grants her the illusion of innocence while her brown, Asian eyes belie her icy gaze. She starts talking to Dieter in a businesslike fashion.

“It’s all over for you now. You know the deal. You talk, I listen.”

It doesn’t take him long to contemplate his options. He hasn’t got any. Once again, Dieter moves his head.

Several hours later, in the darkness of the late evening, his body would wash ashore on one of Tel Aviv’s beaches.

LIKE MANY OF the other establishments that line Phnom Penh’s Street 240, a Belgian bakery and café, The House, is busy. Its tables are swollen with people casually chatting while they eat. Young Cambodian staff run around clearing tables and taking orders.

Two doors down is another elegant French colonial building. It’s an offshoot of the bakery’s business and will soon become Cambodia’s first chocolate factory. Belgian owner Nina has already named this new extension to her business ‘The Chocolate House’. It made perfect sense to her — how could it be anything else?

She loves the new building that she recently acquired and renovated. None of the original floor tiles are missing and with their subtle colour scheme they form one of the most intricate mosaic patterns she’s ever seen. But it’s not only the undoubted aesthetic quality that makes her so fond of this place. It’s mostly because this is where all her chocolate is being produced.

Her family has been in the bakery business for five generations, and Nina knows her chocolate. She also knows that Phirun, her new
chocolatier
, has started creating his own strain of pralines and truffles, to hand out at the opening. Each time she enters the place, she is welcomed by a divine aroma. Nina sometimes daydreams that she’s walking inside a giant brownie. She can’t get enough of this place or its smell.

Standing in front of a wooden double door she rummages through her pockets for the key. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, her salivary glands are already anticipating a delectable nibble on one of Phirun’s latest creations. Nina realises how lucky she is to have found him — he’s got an unnatural talent. When she opens the door she hears the electric whirring of the two chocolate-melting machines pumping their waterfall of liquid cacao into the stainless steel bowls. Bowls of heaven, Nina calls them. She enters, closing the door behind her.

Strange, she thinks. The windows’ shutters are closed — she thought that Phirun was going to be busy producing today. Indeed, the machines are running, although the interior darkness hints at something amiss. Where are the light switches again?

Nina takes a few steps and startles at the crunch of broken glass beneath her feet. She eventually finds the light switch, flicks it on and looks around. Nothing unusual — until she spots Phirun’s body slumped motionless on the floor.

“Phirun,” she gasps, “are you all right?” She hurries over to him and kneels.

“Oh...” is the only response she gets.

Looking more closely, she notices how his face and hair are coated with an uneven mix of white flour and dark chocolate. Then she notices the broken Calvados bottle. Is he drunk?

“Phirun, are you okay?” she tries again.

“We are all chocolate,” he manages this time, gazing blankly at some dried-up chocolate stuck to his finger.

“What?”

She helps her young master chef to his feet. Apart from his dazed look he seems okay. Then suddenly he giggles.

“Phirun, are you drunk?”

Another giggle.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

More giggling.

She leads him to a chair then scans around the room, seeking some clue as to what’s been going on. She opens one of the big fridges. It’s packed with plastic tubs of various chocolate products. Nothing unusual. She closes the fridge when the waft of a vaguely familiar aroma catches her nose.

What is it? she thinks. She knows that smell. It’s what often emanates from her husband’s study when he’s claiming he’s got extra work to do. The moment she realises what it is, her eyes fall upon the culprit: a little plastic baggie of a greenish substance.

Of course! Why didn’t she think of it sooner? Phirun must have been ‘experimenting’ by bunging dope into the chocolate mix. He’s stoned out of his mind.

Although she allows herself a brief smirk, Nina can’t help feeling concerned that her newborn venture might be mutating into the kind of wacked-out student farce that ought to be set in Amsterdam.

Adopting a sharper tone, she addresses her chef.

“Phirun!”

But the chocolate wizard is now wobbling in his chair, his arms spread skywards. The happy part has definitely kicked in, Nina thinks.

“So we’re all laughs now?”

“We’re all one!” Phirun shouts in reply, kicking his legs out.

“Where have you stashed these happy chocolates?”

The giggling man lowers his arms and looks groggily at his employer.

“I like you,” he decides.

“Thank you Phirun, I like you too, but where are they?”

All she gets in response is nervous laughter.

***

The House is quiet when Phirun enters — the café is about to close. Two staff sweep and mop the floor and a couple of regulars loiter at a table in the corner, delaying going home. A jazzy tune plays softly in the background. Phirun walks straight up to his boss who’s sitting at the back drinking this evening’s last cup of coffee.

“Nina, I’m sorry...” he starts but is helpless to hide the grin spreading irresistibly across his chop. The happy chocolate effect is evidently one that lingers.

Before Phirun gets the chance to dig his hole even further, Nina interjects, gesturing for him to sit down.

“Let’s not make a big issue out of this,” she begins. “I just want you to understand something clearly. You can do whatever you like at home, but at the chocolate shop you make chocolates, nothing more.”

“That’s what I was doing,” he tries to joke but stops when he notices Nina’s dark mood.

“You look worried, boss,” he half teases. “What’s up?”

“I usually hate listening to people complain,” she sighs, “but since you asked. Quick coffee?”

Nina starts to explain her mounting pile of problems. It all started with the locals who live in the ‘little village’ behind her new building. The ‘little village’ is actually a large backyard cramped with small wooden houses that are, in turn, cramped with large families. The people living there almost started a small revolution over Nina’s new air conditioning system. The industrial unit had been attached to a wall inside the alleyway leading to their backyard. It would have to be removed, they had decided. And removed within twenty-four hours or the chocolate shop might be tested for its fire safety credentials, was their neighbourly missive. Arson has always been a powerful argument for Nina, who quickly obliged.

Then an entrepreneurial servant from the Ministry of Commerce had contacted Nina to let her know that, in retrospect, the cost of her business licence had mysteriously risen three hundred per cent, and she was kindly requested to settle her bill as soon as it was convenient. It would pain his heart to see her shop’s licence revoked, he assured her.