Nancy whispered, ‘Looks as if someone is missing.’
***
Ky sent men to search different parts of the ship, working methodically from bow to stern, from sundeck to the lower spaces. He carried a copy of the passenger manifest in his hand. The Colonel had ticked off all the passengers against their cabin numbers. Only one remained unaccounted for.
Simon Western. Cabin 113.
He reached cabin 113 and found the door open. The airconditioner hummed away and there were discarded clothes on one of the twin bunks. The cabin had definitely been occupied. Using the muzzle of his AK74, he pushed open the door to the small bathroom. The shower curtain was partly closed and he thrust it aside, his finger on the trigger.
Empty.
Going back into the cabin, he stood for a moment, studying the contents of the room. The open door and scattered clothing suggested that Simon Western had left in a hurry. But where? Soon after boarding the ship, Ky had placed men on the sundeck to watch the surrounding water, partly to keep a lookout for approaching vessels, but also to spot anyone who might try and swim for the shore.
He turned for the door and saw the open safe in the small closet. One glance told him the safe was empty. Whatever had been inside was now gone, along with the occupant of the cabin, Simon Western.
What was so important or valuable that Western took the time to remove it from the safe?
Ky stepped back onto the companionway and continued aft, signalling the man behind him to follow. They reached the laundry alcove and spent a few moments searching, pulling linen off the shelves and opening cupboards, but finding nothing.
Continuing aft, Ky stopped at the engine room door. He placed his face up to the small glass window and saw steps leading below decks.
‘Who searched here?’
The man with him gave a shrug.
Ky un-dogged the door and swung it open. The noise of diesel engines increased to a howling roar. Van, the river pilot, had the Mekong Dawn underway and both main propulsion engines were running. Ky ignored the noise and went down the steps.
The engine room was manned by the Mekong Dawn’s engineer, carrying out his duties under armed guard. Both men wore hearing protectors against the horrible din. Ky went to the guard, lifted one cup of the hearing protectors away from his ear and shouted to be heard.
‘One of the passengers is missing. Are there any compartments leading away from this one?’
The guard nodded and pointed to a door set in the forward bulkhead.
Ky raised his rifle and moved to the door. He signalled his companion to un-dog the lock. The man lifted the metal bar and swung the door open. Ky aimed his rifle into the gloomy interior. A walkway stretched into the distance. Pipes and tanks filled all the remaining space. The far end of the walkway disappeared into blackness.
Ky turned back to the engine room and looked at the racks of tools above the workbench. He found what he was looking for and picked up a battery-powered torch from its holder. He turned the torch on, tested its beam, then moved back to the open door.
***
The noise of the diesels filled the compartment as the door at the far end opened.
Jenkins pushed himself back into the gap between the pipes as a shadow extended down the walkway. He still held the screwdriver, though he knew it would not make a good weapon, not against someone armed with a gun. He held the screwdriver in front of his chest and watched as the shadow advanced. It reached the forward bulkhead and started to climb upwards. Then the shadow disappeared, replaced by a bright circle of light. The circle played left and right and Jenkins realised that whoever was coming down the walkway carried a torch.
He looked down at the screwdriver, but couldn’t see it in the darkness. If he was found armed, even with a screwdriver, they might shoot before he could drop it. He pushed the screwdriver behind one of the pipes just as the searcher passed the last tank.
The torch beam played against the far side of the compartment, illuminating pipes and machinery. Jenkins could see the silhouette of the man holding the torch. He could also see the deadly outline of the rifle that followed the beam wherever it went and felt sick in the pit of his stomach.
The beam scanned the far side of the compartment then came back towards him, sliding over the bulkhead and pipes like a wraith until it found him cowering in the corner. Jenkins squinted and held up his hands to protect his eyes from the light. Rough hands seized him and shoved him back towards the engine room.
Prodded along by the barrel of the rifle, he stepped into the brightly-lit engine room. There were two more armed men in here along with the engineer he had passed earlier. All were surprised to see him pushed through the door and into the room. The man behind him tapped him on the shoulder and Jenkins turned to see him properly for the first time. He was short but well-muscled. The look of anger on his face told Jenkins that his captor was not too pleased about him hiding in the compartment.
The gunman pointed to the stairway leading up and prodded the rifle barrel into his back. He reached the top of the stairs and stepped out onto the companionway. The sun had burnt off the mist and full daylight assailed his eyes so that he stood blinking in the bright sunshine. The door was dogged shut behind him and the roar of the diesels faded, leaving his ears ringing after the painful onslaught. The air smelled clean and fresh after the dank confines of the bilges. As his eyes adjusted he could see that the Mekong Dawn was crawling along the edge of the jungle at about three or four knots and he wondered if they had entered the river. Someone seized him from behind and shoved him up against the bulkhead so hard that his head struck the wood panelling.
‘I say! Don’t be so bloody rough. I’ll report your manhandling to your superior officer.’
‘You have caused me some concern, Simon Western.’ The gunman’s face was only inches away. One of the armed men from the engine room stood beside him, his gun aimed at the middle of Jenkins’ chest.
Simon Western? The name on the fake passport.
‘What were you doing down in the engine room?’
‘I was hiding. I thought you were pirates or something.’
‘What did you take from the safe in your cabin?’
‘Nothing.’ Jenkins felt the gun against his ribs. He thought fast, trying to remember how he had left the cabin. ‘I never used the safe. It was open the whole time I’ve been aboard. The only thing of value is my passport – and the purser has that.’
The man nodded slowly. He stood back and examined Jenkins from head to foot. Then he came forward and patted him down. ‘Do you have a mobile telephone?’
Jenkins felt the man’s hand work methodically over his clothing, patting his pockets and any loose folds. ‘No, I don’t have one. I don’t carry it with me when I’m travelling. It’s good to get away from everything once in a while.’ He looked down at the man, at the surplus store fatigues he wore. No badges or patches of any kind. No rank insignia. ‘You’re not the police, are you?’
The man finished his search and stood back. ‘We are the Cambodian Liberation Army. You are our prisoner.’ He pointed forward along the companionway and Jenkins turned in that direction. They herded him all the way forward into the breezeway and on into the dining saloon.
‘My God!’ Jenkins exclaimed as he surveyed the room. All the passengers and crew were gathered around the central tables. Armed men guarded the exit. He was shoved brutally from behind and sprawled onto the deck.
The muscled little man stood over him and grinned.
‘No more trouble out of you, Simon Western. Okay?’
Chapter Eleven
Ang walked along narrow streets that were rapidly filling with people beginning their day. It was a five minute walk from his apartment on the north bank to the ferry jetty. He could have driven or taken his scooter, but he hated the bustling traffic that would more than double his journey time. The ferry was a more practical option and the terminal on the city side of the river was very close to the p
olice building.
As he descended towards the riverbank several stalls were open for business, the proprietors’ voices competing with each other over the din of traffic as they solicited clientele from passing commuters and a few tourists. Ang thankfully left the yelling behind and strode along the jetty to the floating terminal. A striped canvas awning shaded a few wooden bench seats and he found an empty space where he could look across the river at the city as he waited.
As always, Malko was never far from his mind, and he thought about the failed raid and the smattering of intelligence they had gleaned from the building in the old quarter.
There wasn’t much to go on.
Malko had new weapons and ammunition, a worrying proposition. Ang knew Malko had styled himself as a revolutionary, the saviour of Cambodia. He also knew – from bitter experience – that Malko was nothing more than a common thug and murderer. Information from the few informants who dared to come forward had Malko assembling a team of ten or more men, all hardened criminals or ex-soldiers – men with a strong belief in the political propaganda Malko spruiked – men prepared to commit unspeakable violence at Malko’s direction.
As he sat, he pondered the meaning behind the outline of the peanut shape impressed into the page of the notepad. Malko or someone else who had been in that room had drawn that shape onto the preceding page, leaving the imprint on the page underneath. Why had they drawn it? What was it and what did it mean to Malko and his plans? If someone had taken the time to draw it, then it was important.
He still wondered about the peanut shape and associated lines and circles as he boarded the narrow ferry to cross the half-kilometre stretch of water to the city. Was it a crude design for a bomb? He certainly wouldn’t put it past Malko. Klim had made a sketch of the page and had spent the last day trying to match it up with maps of Phnom Penh’s streets or those of other towns and villages – without success.
The ferry reached the city terminal and the helmsman expertly manoeuvred them alongside the jetty. Crewmen stood ready with lines to make the vessel fast. A barely perceptible bump signalled the ferry had docked and lines were thrown over bollards. Ang followed the other passengers up the short gangway onto the terminal where cyclo riders yelled for fares beyond the gates.
The sun emerged from behind a cloud and bathed the scene in harsh tropical light. Ang reached into his shirt pocket, removed a pair of sunglasses and placed them on his face. He looked up and was confronted by a sign advertising the fast ferry to Siem Reap. The sign had a map painted on it showing the route of the ferry, a hydrofoil that made a daily run to the northern city and back again. Part of the map displayed Tonle Sap as a peanut shape running from north-west to south-east.
Ang stopped and stared at the shape and wished he had asked Klim to make him a copy of the notebook page as well.
Could it be?
A wire-framed stand sat beside the fast ferry counter, filled with brochures. Ang went over and flipped through the documentation until he found one that showed a map similar to the one on the sign. He pocketed it and hurried for the police building.
Klim was at his desk in an outer office.
‘Do you have that copy of the notebook page you made yesterday?’ Ang didn’t break stride as he passed. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Bring it to my office.’
Within moments Klim was sitting opposite Ang with a copy of the imprint. Ang took the brochure from his pocket and opened it on his desk with the map uppermost. He stabbed at it with his finger.
‘What do you think?’
Klim leant over the brochure and placed his hand-drawn copy of the notebook page beside it, orienting it so that both peanut shapes line up. The copy from the notebook was crude and childlike compared to the map on the brochure, the scale all distorted. And if the line emerging from the bottom was the river, then it had none of the curves or bends of the map.
‘It could be, sir. It’s very close, but even if Malko has drawn Tonle Sap for some reason, that’s thousands of square kilometres of swamps and jungle and open water.’
‘I know. Get me a proper map of this area. And some aerial photographs. Bring that notebook. Let’s have a closer look. There may be something we missed.’
***
From the table in the dining saloon Scott watched the jungle slide by on the lakeshore. Except it wasn’t really the shore, he noted. Water extended back beyond the foliage and disappeared into shadow and distance. Some kind of swamp or something. Whatever it was, it was huge.
The Mekong Dawn’s captors manoeuvred the vessel along the waterlogged tree-line at little more than two knots. It seemed to Scott that they were searching for something amongst the trees.
Four armed guards, two standing at either end of the saloon, had their rifles unslung and held loosely at the ready. The one named Malko had disappeared not long after the passenger head count. His lieutenant, the little ball of muscle named Ky, had left soon after depositing the missing passenger on the floor. Scott looked over at the man sitting at the next table and remembered him from when they first boarded the Mekong Dawn. Western, or something like that. He’d had that laptop with him and spoke with a South African accent.
I’d hate to be in that man’s shoes, he thought. He really pissed them off hiding out like that. If they start offing passengers I reckon he’ll be first on the list.
The thought that killing might be involved hit Scott like a rock in the face. He squeezed Nancy’s hand and felt her reassuring squeeze back. He shifted his thoughts to the phone hidden under mulch in a pot on the sundeck.
It might as well be on the moon for all the good it is right now.
Fred sat resting his chin on one hand, his head low so as not to draw attention, but Scott noticed the way his eyes darted back and forth, looking at distant landmarks, looking at the shadows. Fred was trying to keep track of their position.
‘Where do you reckon they’re taking us?’
Fred looked at Scott. ‘We’re running north-west along the northern edge of Tonle Sap. Last night I had a good look at that chart the cruise company have pinned up in the breezeway. There’s nothing on this side of the lake but swamp and tight little waterways.’
‘Maybe they’re going to hide us in there somewhere while they wait for the ransom.’ Nancy’s whisper was barely audible.
Fred nodded. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. You could hide a whole flotilla in there. A boat this size won’t be much of a problem. As long as they’ve got someone that knows the waterways.’
Scott glanced at the guards standing in the breezeway. They wore a simple uniform of dark-blue fatigues. The weapons looked new and the men held them like professional soldiers, not like an untrained criminal might. ‘These guys seem to know what they’re about. Looks as if they’ve got all the bases covered.’
***
Todd McLean sat at another table in the dining saloon. He had three mates with him, fellow members of his local rugby team from Cobar, New South Wales. The four friends were on an end-of-season celebratory holiday. The Hawks had won the local premiership 34 to 27, defeating long-term rivals from Hay, and Todd and his mates had planned on getting drunk every night of their two week vacation. They had been on the sundeck till after midnight, drinking at the bar. They were all hung over and would still be asleep in their cabins if not for men with machineguns bursting in and herding them to the dining saloon.
‘I don’t like this. I heard shooting. They’ve already gunned down some poor bugger, probably more than one,’ he said to the others.
Paul Wilkins sat opposite Todd. He lifted his head to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes. ‘I think they’re Khmer Rouge.
‘Don’t be daft, Wilky.’ Paul Karlsson shook his head ‘The Khmer Rouge have been out of business for years.’
‘Maybe at first glance. But one of the guides I was talking to last night said there are still Khmer Rouge cells out there, waiting for a chance to strike. It wouldn’t surprise me if these blokes were fro
m one of those cells.’
Todd shook his head. ‘That big bald bloke with the scar said they were Cambodian Liberation Army or something.’
Wilky glanced at the two nearest guards. ‘Either way, I think they’re a bad bunch. It won’t be long before they start shooting passengers to show they mean business. They have to, otherwise the authorities won’t take ‘em seriously.’
‘What are you saying?’ Paul looked up from the table top. ‘Do you reckon we need to do something? Try and take ‘em out?’ A bead of perspiration trickled out of his ginger hairline.
Wilky shook his head. ‘Not all of ‘em. Just the blokes between us and the water. Look how close we are to the shore. I don’t know about you blokes, but I reckon if I made it to the side I could dive over and swim underwater until I was in the trees. They’d never find me once I got in there.’
Todd looked at the trees sliding past the picture windows. They were tantalisingly close. He could throw a stone into them from here. ‘Wilky’s right. It’s better than sitting here and waiting for one of those goons to put his gun to your head and …’ He shook his head, unable to finish.
‘But what about the guns? They’re sure to shoot at us, even underwater. They’ll just spray the area with bullets.’ Paul was so concerned he had forgotten to whisper. Todd kicked forward and landed a blow on his shin. He wasn’t wearing shoes, hadn’t been given time to put any on after the gunmen burst into his cabin, but the kick had its desired effect. Paul shut up.
Barry Morgan sat beside Todd, his frame towering over his three friends. ‘I read somewhere that bullets only travel a metre underwater before they lose their momentum. If we swam deep enough we’d be safe until we were in the trees.’
‘I don’t know.’ Paul shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the ransom is paid?’
Todd looked him in the eyes. ‘They won’t pay a ransom, Paul, you know that. Just about every country there is has a policy of not negotiating with terrorists. No one is going to pay any ransom. Not for us.’