Ky stared at the stain as his brain worked. Then it occurred to him. Western had placed his arm into the filthy bilge water in the bottom of the boat. Why would he have done that unless he was hiding something? A gun? A weapon of some kind to be retrieved later if possible?
Not likely.
What then? Something important to him that he doesn’t want us to find? His passport? No, the purser had collected all the passports. They were all accounted for. Money maybe, or other valuables?
It’s possible. Western had obviously seen them approaching the Mekong Dawn and hidden in the bilges before they boarded. Ky fought the impulse to go into the saloon and drag the man out, to beat the truth out of him. He knew Western would only lie to protect whatever he had hidden.
He slung his AK74 onto his shoulder and headed aft.
The engine room was quiet without the big diesels running. Despite the lack of the generator, several bare bulbs glowed in wire cages over the machinery and Ky guessed they must be running on power from the batteries. He walked to the bench and picked up a torch then un-dogged the hatch leading forward. No lights showed in the space and he flicked on the torch before stepping through.
The space had no lighting. The bulbs were all dark. With the Mekong Dawn stopped there was no slosh of bilge water and he could hear something dripping in the distance. He played the torch beam along the grated flooring and could see the light reflecting off oily water beneath. The grating itself looked untouched and he moved farther into the space. Western had been cowering at the far end, near the water tanks where the walkway divided left and right. Ky headed for the forward bulkhead.
He studied the spaces between the mess of pipes and equipment. In several places the flooring didn’t cover the bilges and he plunged his arm into the tepid, stinking water, feeling about until he was sure that nothing had been concealed in the ooze lining the inside of the hull.
He tried in several different places and found nothing. Ky wasn’t given to cursing, but he felt his anger rising. He would go back to the saloon, drag Western down here and force the man to retrieve what he had hidden in the water.
His mind made up, he started back along the walkway but stumbled and had to brace himself against the pipes. Shining the torch at the floor, he saw that the edge of one of the square grates didn’t sit flush with the others. He wedged the torch into a gap in the pipes so that it shone onto the grate then squatted and hooked his fingers through the steel mesh. The grate came away surprisingly easy and Ky pushed it back along the walkway out of the way then picked up the torch.
A rainbow-like sheen of oil glittered on the surface of the water, but the light couldn’t penetrate into the murky depths. He dropped to his knees and plunged his arm below the surface. Forty centimetres down he felt the inside of the hull coated with a thin layer of slime. He worked his way methodically around the opening and his fingers brushed against something. Grinning with triumph, Ky lifted the object out of the water – a black vinyl case, the type used to carry a laptop computer.
Undoing the flap, he found the bag did indeed contain a laptop. Water ran from every hole and seam in the laptop’s casing. If the machine had been valuable, it was now ruined. No electronic device would work after being submerged like that. Ky folded the screen open and stared at its dark face for a moment. Maybe there was valuable information on the hard drive? If there was, Malko would have access to people who could retrieve it. People who would be able to analyse it and understand its worth.
He closed the dead laptop and turned for the hatch to the engine room. Replacing the torch on the workbench, he noticed a rack of screwdrivers on the tool board. On a whim, he selected one and started removing the back of the laptop. The small hard drive would be much easier to manage than the larger computer. He removed the screws and lifted away the plastic covering.
There were no electronic components. The black casing was an empty shell. A green baize bag lay in the gutted space. He lifted the bag and it filled his cupped hands, the contents hard and lumpy. Undoing the drawstring, he held the bag close to one of the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Rocks glinted in the light.
Some kind of drug in its raw form? Perhaps Western was a drug smuggler.
A lot of trouble to go to for a pitiful amount of drugs.
It hardly seemed worth the effort.
Ky took one of the rocks from the bag. The size of a grape, it felt glassy to the touch. He held it up to the light and was instantly captivated by the fire in its depths. Even in the weak light of the battery-powered bulb the stone glowed with an energy of its own. He upended the bag onto the workbench. There were about forty stones, varying in size from peas to plums.
Diamonds!
Ky didn’t know much about the value of gems, but if Western had gone to this amount of trouble to conceal them, then they must be worth a great deal; possibly more than the ransom on the passengers.
With great care he placed the diamonds back in the bag and then secured it in one of the large pockets in his fatigue trousers.
He went back up the steps to the deck. The dusk was growing, the swamps bathed in purplish shadow. High above, the summit of the mountain glowed in the last rays of the setting sun. Ky touched the bulge in his pocket and turned for the saloon.
This had indeed been a great day for the cause.
Chapter Sixteen
A string of lights burned along the waterfront at Kampong Chhnang as Van guided the RHIB towards a poorly lit dock on the edge of town where a few dilapidated water taxis bobbed at their moorings. A rice barge had anchored in the channel, its deck lights throwing a ring of glittering yellow onto the muddy surface of the Mekong. On the high ground behind the waterfront scooters shuttled back and forth where a road serviced the dock area. Beyond the lights a four-wheel drive with police markings sat parked in the shadows.
Malko jumped to the dock as soon as Van manoeuvred the boat alongside.
‘Stay close to the boat.’ He held up a mobile phone. ‘I will call you when I am ready to be taken back to the ship.’
Van nodded and Malko walked up the stone steps towards the police vehicle. The driver leant across and opened the passenger door.
Police Chief Turan smiled broadly. ‘A fruitful day, my friend.’
‘Now the hard part begins.’
Turan started the engine and put the four-wheel drive into gear. ‘I would have thought the hardest part is behind you. You have taken the boat and hidden it and the passengers.’
Malko shook his head. ‘Do you know where most kidnappings come undone?’
Turan edged the vehicle into traffic. ‘No.’
‘At the ransom payment. That is where it usually all goes to pieces. For that is where the link is between the kidnappers and those paying the ransom.’
‘Maybe, if you are dealing with cash, but in this electronic age, money comes in many forms. It can be moved about at the push of a button.’
Malko took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up without offering one to Turan. ‘True, but even an electronic transfer is still a link. And the money can be traced out of the account. Withdrawals can be tracked, giving authorities a trail, however flimsy, that can be followed.’ He drew hard on the cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke against the roof. ‘The trick is to convert the electronic transfer into cash or some other form of negotiable funds.’ He studied the glowing end of the cigarette. ‘And then to disappear.’
Turan drove them through Kampong Chhnang and out into the countryside beyond. They skirted the airfield and followed a wide dyke between rice paddies to a squat little concrete building in a grove of palm trees. He parked beneath the trees and they walked to a metal-sheeted door in the wall. Rattling through a collection of keys, Turan found the one he was looking for and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and felt around the jamb. A fluorescent light flickered on.
Malko stepped into a room that contained four chairs and a bench on which sat a fax machine, a photocopier, a telephone
and a laptop computer.
‘I have provided everything you asked for.’ Turan swept his hand towards the devices.
‘None of these items is traceable?’
Turan shook his head. ‘The phone and fax are hooked into the main exchange on false numbers. They may be able to trace them back eventually, but I have been assured by the man you sent me that it will take a week or more to sort out the mess of lines he has used.’
Malko nodded and handed Turan the stack of passports. ‘Make copies of the photo pages of each of these. You have the numbers I requested?’
Turan unbuttoned the top pocket of his police uniform and removed a slip of paper. ‘Direct numbers to the duty desks of the embassies. Also the fax numbers.’
‘Thankyou, my friend.’ Malko took the piece of paper and sat in the chair by the telephone. ‘Let us begin.’
***
Peter Hartman had his feet up on the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand and his gaze fixed firmly on the TV on the far wall. The football game was coming in live from Australia via satellite, West Coast Eagles versus Fremantle Dockers, and his beloved Eagles were down by three points in the final minutes of the game. He had twenty dollars riding on the outcome with one of the girls on the clerical staff.
The phone beside his feet rang and Peter glared at the thing. No one rang after hours, not unless there had been some kind of incident involving an Australian citizen. Here in Cambodia they were few and far between. He placed his feet on the floor, his hand hovering over the ringing phone. West Coast had the ball and were making a play towards the forward lines. But he knew he had let the phone ring as long as he could and picked up the receiver.
‘Australian Embassy. Peter Hartman.’
‘Mr Hartman, my name is Malko. Colonel Malko.’
The voice sounded distant and feint. The line hummed with strange static.
‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’ As Peter spoke, the fax machine in the far corner of the duty office beeped into life.
‘I have twenty-eight Australian citizens in my custody, as well as some other nationalities.’
‘Twenty-eight!’ He wasn’t aware of any sporting teams touring Cambodia at the moment. It wasn’t uncommon for a group of lads to have a little too much to drink and fall foul of the local authorities. ‘What have they done?’ The embassy would offer what assistance they could, but if some bar had been busted up in a drunken brawl, the boys would be paying for it themselves.
‘You don’t understand, Mr Hartman. These people are hostages of the Cambodian Liberation Army. For their safe return I will require the sum of one million dollars per person.’
Peter snatched up the TV remote and hit mute. His training had taught him to deal with most situations he would come across, but this was something new.
‘You have got to be kidding me?’ It was a lame response and the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
‘I never joke, Mr Hartman. You have a fax machine in your office, yes?’
Peter turned to where the fax was pumping out page after page into the holding tray. ‘Uh, yes?’
‘I suggest you check it now.’
Peter took the cordless phone and crossed to the fax machine. A face stared up at him from the tray, a woman in her sixties. He picked up the sheaf of papers and riffled through them.
All faces. All from Australian passports.
‘Do you see the passport photos?’
Peter had almost forgotten the phone in his hand. ‘Yes?’
‘These are your citizens that are now in my custody. I will be in touch with the necessary details for payment. One million dollars per person. Any stalling on your part and people will die. Any military activity in this area and people will die. Good evening Mr. Hartman.’
The line went dead.
Peter stared at the phone in his hand for a few seconds then punched in a number.
‘This is Peter Hartman at the duty desk. I need to speak to the ambassador. Immediately!’ He flicked through the pile of faxes as he waited and wondered how many of these faces would survive this.
‘What? No, I don’t care where he is. Get him on the line now. This is an emergency.’
***
The telephone woke Ang out of a sound sleep. Beside him, his wife slept on, conditioned to ignore any late-night calls for her policeman husband. They had no telephone extension in the bedroom, so he slipped from the bed and padded across the cool tiles to the kitchen.
‘Hello?’
‘Major Sinh?’ He recognised the major general’s voice.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get in here now. We have a crisis in the wind.’
He tried to shake sleep from his befuddled mind. The kitchen clock told him it was 4:30 am.
What crisis? What the hell is he talking about?
‘What is it?’
The voice at the other end of the line sounded sharp, gruff.
‘It’s to do with Malko. I’ll explain when you get here.’
The line cut off.
Ang showered and dressed as quickly as possible. His wife and children still slept as he left the house. It was a little after five. Too early for the water taxis. He kicked his old scooter into life and puttered down to the river and across the bridge. A few motorbikes and trucks made their way into the city as Phnom Penh stirred into life. Ang was grateful for the light traffic. He reached police headquarters in record time to find the parking lot crowded with vehicles, some with diplomatic plates.
A bored-looking sergeant sat at a desk in the foyer. He watched Ang walk through the doors and called out, ‘Briefing room, Major. They’re expecting you.’
Pausing in the doorway to the briefing room, Ang looked at the crowd of concerned faces. The major general saw him standing there and waved him over.
‘Gentlemen.’ The major general addressed the men and women in the room. ‘This is Major Sinh. He is the man currently running the investigation into Malko and his activities.’
Ang couldn’t help but notice his boss’s use of the word currently.
‘What’s happened?’ Ang wished he had been given the courtesy of a briefing before this impromptu meeting.
‘Malko has seized a tourist boat on Tonle Sap. He is holding the passengers to ransom. A million dollars each.’
Ang could do little more than stare at his boss. Tonle Sap? So this was Malko’s plan. The hand-drawn map suddenly had much more meaning.
The chief inclined his head at three well-dressed Western gentlemen on his right. ‘These are, in turn, the ambassadors of Great Britain, Australia and the United States. Their embassies all received phone calls from Malko during the night, along with faxes of the hostages’ passports.’
The Australian ambassador leant forward and offered Ang his hand. ‘Barry Thompson, Major. The major general tells us you have been chasing this Malko for years. What can you tell us about him?
Ang shook the offered hand as he collected his thoughts. ‘Malko calls himself a colonel, though it is not an official rank of any sort. He was once a member of the Khmer Rouge and is suspected of many atrocities while they held power in this country. Now he is little more than a common thug and criminal.’
‘He called his organisation the Cambodian Liberation Army.’ This came from the American. ‘Are they a rebel organisation?’
‘Not one that is considered a serious threat to Cambodia’s sovereignty, sir. My intelligence puts his organisation at no more than fifty men, and very few of those are permanent operatives. He uses patriotic-sounding titles for his recruitment purposes, but really they only hide his criminal activities.’
‘Are his threats against our citizens likely to be carried out?’ The British ambassador held a mobile phone to his ear. Ang could only guess who was on the other end of that call.
‘Malko is as capable of murder as he is of brushing his teeth. You have been to the Killing Fields memorial?’
All three ambassadors nodded as did some of th
eir aids. The Killing Fields, site of the notorious purging of enemies of the state by the Khmer Rouge, was now a memorial to the tens of thousands who had perished there. A glass stupa, fifty feet high, was filled with human skulls removed from mass graves. The memorial and surrounding grounds were as chilling and sombre as Auschwitz – and a place Ang had no desire to visit.
‘A great number of those skulls in the memorial were people killed by Malko. It was his job during the reign of Pol Pot.’
‘So if we refuse to meet his demands, our people are as good as dead?’ The American placed a hand to his forehead and massaged his temple with his thumb.
Ang could do little more than nod. He had no words of comfort to offer these men. Nothing he could say would ease their burden.
The Australian looked up. ‘So what’s the plan? My country has a policy, as I know do the countries of these gentlemen, of not negotiating with terrorists.’
The other two men nodded their agreement. The British Ambassador added: ‘If we were to pay these demands it would open the floodgates. Our citizens would not be safe anywhere in the world.’
The major general gave a little cough, shifting the focus back to him. ‘While the negotiations are taking place with Malko, we have a small window of opportunity to find the Mekong Dawn and do something about releasing the passengers. Major Sinh will be on his way to the area at first light. If we can find the ship, then we can change the game.’
The American leant forward. ‘A military option?’
‘It’s far too early for such plans. First we must find the vessel. The swamps surrounding Tonle Sap are very dense and very large. Malko has given us twenty-four hours, of which fifteen hours still remain. Even if you agree to pay the ransom, there will still be a little time in which to act. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a busy day ahead.’
The ambassadors and their entourages left with the police chief promising to keep them informed of any progress. Ang hovered in the background and waited until his boss had seen them off.
‘If I am to head to this area, sir, a helicopter would be very useful. Perhaps we can persuade the air force to help with a search of—’ He stopped as the major general shook his head.