Phnom Penh Express (8 page)

“Goddamn, Chucky,” he shouts at the poodle, “shut your evil trap!”

He lowers himself onto his knees and gropes with his hand along the floor at the other side of the gate while wishing burglary hadn’t been invented here yet. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a normal house where you can just put your key into the front door, open it and enter? he thinks.

Phirun finally manages to unbolt the gate and to the soundtrack of Chucky’s incessant barking, he pushes his weathered motorcycle inside. He pauses to look at the noisy hound. Phirun’s stare makes the diminutive beast go completely berserk. With spiteful pleasure, he places himself just a few inches away from the little monster on the other side of the iron fence that separates animal from human. Chucky is now beside itself with blind rage.

“One day I’ll turn you over to the Vietnamese,” Phirun says in a low voice and calmly walks away from the raging poodle.

***

A short while later Phirun steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, and over to his unmade bed. It hasn’t changed since he left it that morning, and he wonders if Merrilee’s scent is still lingering between the sheets. He sniffs the fabric, then the pillow hopefully, even while pondering what exactly has made him into a dog or a pervert. To his disgust, the only thing he can smell is his neighbour’s wife’s omnipresent fermented fish. He throws himself onto the bed, ready for his long awaited nap.

The wet towel around his waist chafes so he unwraps it and lets it slide aside. Phirun’s own nakedness awakens vivid memories of Merrilee’s. “Way too late, you traitor!” he shouts at his erect member. She must be used to having loads of men eating out of her hand, he thinks, and wonders if he’s been nothing more than a drunken one-night-stand to her.

He hadn’t told Merrilee much about his own life. He only explained that, just like her, he had been a war refugee. But, unlike her, he was born here and could speak Khmer reasonably well. He told her how both of his parents are alive and being cared for by his younger sister, who lives in Antwerp. Phirun had returned to Cambodia nearly six months ago, the second time since his parents had fled the war with their children. Merrilee expressed surprise at the passion with which he spoke of Cambodia.

“Until now, I’ve been mostly disappointed,” she told him, but Phirun on the other hand is intrigued by what he now considers to be home.

“Hey, if you could hear my parents describe
their
Cambodia, their culture, the music they and their friends partied to — I had to experience it for myself,” he told her. “And I’m sure there’s some of that past spirit left, enough to kickstart a new future.”

But Merrilee wasn’t convinced. “There’s not much spirit to be found these days,” she objected, “only the spirit of money and greed.”

“But who did our people acquire that taste for money from?” Phirun countered. He was not disagreeing with her but he’s convinced that this is a passing, admittedly ugly phase his country must wrestle itself through.

It was a long breakfast and Phirun could not avoid the impression that, behind the sceptical look in her beautiful brown eyes, there was something else too, just a glimpse of it, once or twice. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a certain interest there. It was enough to keep his hope alive. His hope that maybe some day, Merrilee and him would be having another one of those long breakfasts.

“FINALLY!” TZAHALA EXCLAIMS when her phone rings. She glances at her watch — 6:30
AM
. Tel Aviv again, she reckons, and quickly walks into her living room to answer it. But she’s wrong, it’s a local Phnom Penh call.

“Miss Tzahala?”

Tzahala curses inwardly.

“Don’t mention my name on the phone,” she yells.

“Right, sorry,” a man answers in a non-committal tone. “I have just received news. Very interesting.” The voice speaks in a thick Cambodian accent.

“It better be,” Tzahala answers.

“We have managed to locate three of our boxes. Four days ago they were presented as gifts to officials — I mean here, in Phnom Penh — who, it seems, are very impressed. Impressed by not only the chocolates’ secret contents, but more so by the generosity of the donor. We’re still trying to track the other boxes, but we’ll find them soon enough, word is spreading.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Miss Tza...”

“Who’s the donor?” the woman interrupts sharply.

“A Belgian-Khmer man called Phirun.”

“What? Who? Whoever the hell he is, he’s as good as dead!”

“He made the delivery personally, with compliments from The House.”

“What house?”

“Yes, The House.”

“I said, what house?”

“Baat!”
the man confirms in Khmer, “The House.”

“For shit’s sake, what house are you talking about?”

“The House! That’s the name of it. It’s on Street 240, not far from King’s Palace.”

“I know 240. You say their house is called
The House?”

“Baat, baat.”

“Confusing. No wonder they’re into money laundering,” Tzahala murmurs, irritated. “And what the hell are they doing inside this house, apart from handling chocolate laced diamonds?”

“It’s a Belgian bakery and café. I heard they also plan to open a chocolate shop.”

“Are you sure it’s Belgian-owned?” she asks, surprised now.

“One hundred per cent.”

Tzahala pauses. She’s impressed by the irony and arrogance of her competitor. But then, Colonel Peeters has never been a shy man, she thinks.

“Good work. Call me back when you find out more.”

“
Baat
Miss Tz...”

Beeeeep.

***

Half an hour, one cold shower and two coffees later, Tzahala is wide awake and fully functioning. Her brain is processing the events of the past few days. She has no doubt that the Belgian Colonel is behind all this. Of course he was! Why hadn’t she considered him earlier?

Christ, she thinks, the way he snuffed out Driekamp, before they had properly gotten going, means he’s much more powerful than she’d thought. She knew he was the king bee in Antwerp, but never imagined that his influence could reach Tel Aviv. But how the hell did he find out about her network in the first place? At least she now knows who she’s up against.

“Harah!
” Tzahala curses out loud.

But she’s not the kind of woman to panic easily. She’d be in the wrong line of business if that were the case. And the business she’s in happens to be one she’s extremely good at.

Okay, let’s recap, she thinks, pouring herself another coffee. Driekamp is, or was, the one and only connection to her. That had been a condition they had quickly agreed on. She and Driekamp had never actually met in person and he had never seen her face. He didn’t even know her real name.

“So, dear Colonel, I know who you are — but you don’t know me,” she mumbles.

At least she’s got that advantage over him. She has to try and keep it that way, and makes a mental note to warn her local boys to be extra careful when making enquiries. But the question of how the Colonel could have detected her newborn network perturbs her. Tzahala can think of only one explanation. Driekamp must have independently found out about the Colonel’s existing operation that Tzahala is trying to duplicate. He must have approached the Colonel and offered his diamond buying services to him too, hoping to supply both rival networks and double his business overnight.

Tzahala mulls this over and nods — not an implausible theory. Given the Colonel’s reputation of being a careful man, he must have checked out Driekamp’s background and somehow found out about the Cambodian shipment of operation ‘Phnom Penh Express’, thereby discovering the South African’s deception. That would have been exceptionally difficult, though, she admits. Unless the suspicious Colonel had ordered Driekamp’s every move monitored for the last few days of his life, and thus learnt about the test shipment to Cambodia. It would have been easy enough to send a few goons over to Driekamp to beat the information out of him. Good thing that Driekamp didn’t know her identity. But what else could he have revealed? The shipment’s destination, which is the contact at the courier company’s local office here. But Driekamp never knew where the shipment would go to from there. And did Driekamp know the local contact at customs? She didn’t think so. No, he didn’t.

Tzahala jots some notes on a little writing pad, listing her ideas in the hope that it will lend clarity to her thinking.

What would the Colonel have done after uncovering her operation? Identify and then take out the contact at the courier company? Or bribe him into sending the parcel to his own men here, rather than to my contact? It wouldn’t be impossible for him to do that, given that he’s already established a presence here.

Tzahala tries to imagine herself in the Colonel’s shoes. Before she had started her venture, she had conducted a fair amount of research on him and gradually built up a mental profile. Know thy enemy. And from what tidbits she had gathered, she knows that Colonel Peeters can be ruthless, but he’s not some cowboy wildly shooting whatever crosses his path. Intercepting
her
parcel and then openly distributing it to
his
high-ranking contacts, that would be a powerful message to whoever was trying to undercut him.

Tzahala smiles wryly, almost admiring his inventiveness. Yes, that would be more his style and at the same time it would serve his own cause. He has not only demonstrated his influence to his unknown enemy, but used that same enemy’s money —
her
damn money — to oil the cogs of his own network of bent officials. From this perspective, it was a most elegant yet effective way of warning her to back off, Tzahala is forced to concede.

But she won’t back off, she knows. It’s a free market, after all, even if it’s a black market. She has waited long enough. With the global economy shifting inexorably towards Asia, she cannot afford to lose an opportunity like this one. At the same time, with that annoying American war on terror going on, her other business, smuggling arms to and from the Middle East and Africa, has become increasingly difficult to maintain. Diamonds, on the other hand, are a much easier commodity to handle. She’s been into diamonds long enough to know that now’s the right time to expand the operation.

Tzahala studies her image in the bathroom mirror. It’s a reflection that would have instantly charmed Driekamp into submission, she’s sure of that. Her research into the South African had revealed a weakness for good-looking Israeli girls. Information that she had once considered useful. All the more tragic that it must be a Belgian ex-Colonel with a walrus moustache who had done him in and not some dusky femme fatale like herself, Tzahala thinks. But all that doesn’t matter any longer, now that he’s renting space in a Tel Aviv morgue. The damn fool.

Tzahala’s determined eyes stare back at her from the mirror. I’m in a much better position to conduct a war, if that’s what he wants, she thinks. I have no market share to lose. That’s not the case for him.

She smiles at herself.

And I know where to strike, whereas he doesn’t, she continues her thoughts. Tzahala is certain that The House must be part of the Colonel’s network. There are too many coincidences otherwise — the diamonds have been traced there
and
it’s Belgian-owned. Her contact had confirmed it. The Colonel is a business man. She bets that as soon as he realises that his scare tactics aren’t working, he will come to the negotiating table. His pragmatism will win over his greed. She only has to send him a message strong enough to convince him that she means business, too. He chilled one of mine, I’ll fridge one of his, she thinks.
Then
we’ll talk. Where is his little bakery located again? Ah, that’s it: Street 240.

PHIRUN PUTS THE phone down, contentedness smeared all over his face. He finds it hard to believe the upturn in his fortune. For the past five days he’s had government officials sucking up to him, Nina is in seventh heaven and has declared him a hero, and has significantly raised his salary. But, the best of the bunch, Merrilee just agreed to meet him for lunch the day after tomorrow. He had had to call her and when he did, it wasn’t difficult to persuade her to get together on Friday. Phirun is euphoric — life is pretty cool. Finally.

He sinks down into the only sofa he owns, a cheap piece of rattan furniture he bought at a knock-down price at the Russian Market. He just can’t get Merrilee out of his mind. Deep down, he knows that this might be nothing more than a passing infatuation, but all the same he can’t help himself. Despite his love-sickness, he knows that he shouldn’t overreact and risk scaring her off. At this very moment, however, it’s taking all of his will power to resist calling her back right now — the desire to keep on listening to her voice is driving him mad. Instead, he finds a pen and piece of paper, and sits down at the kitchen table. He isn’t always so good with words, but if he manages to translate his feelings onto paper, he’s sure he can write her a half-decent poem. It will have to be a moving declaration of his sentiments that will weaken her will and prise open a window to her soul. He feels combative — just like a valiant conqueror of hearts should.

***

One and a half hours later, Phirun’s cheap, made-in-China coffee machine is gurgling into motion. In a moment the bitter black droplets will start falling into the glass jug.

He has written several verses by now, weighing up every word, scrapping one line for every two he writes, trying to convey the emotions buried deep within his heart. But right now he needs a hit of caffeine. While the coffee is dripping, he rereads what he’s got so far.

Birds are singing, and the sun is smiling — the afternoon is hot
,

Children are playing, my friends are staying — but happy I am not
.

Impatient as I am, I wait for the long day to fade away
,