Downer Helped To Recruit New “Language Students” For The Tents, While Georgiev’s Other Aides Found Different Ways Of Getting Girls To Work For Them–Including Kidnapping. The Khmer Rouge Helped Gather New Girls Whenever Possible.
Except For This Sideline, Downer Found Cambodia A Bore. The United Nations Guidelines Were Too Soft, Too Restrictive. As He’d Learned Growing Up On The Docks Of Sydney, There Was Only One Guideline That Mattered. Did Some Son Of A Bitch Deserve A Bullet In The Head? If He Did, Pull The Trigger And Go Home. If He Didn’t, What The Hell Were You Doing There?
Downer Took A Last Swallow Of Coffee And Pushed The Heavy Mug Back Along The Vinyl-Covered Card Table.
The Coffee Was Good, Black And Bitter, The Way He Drank It In The Field. It Made Him Feel Energized, Ready To Act. Maybe That Wasn’t A Good Idea, Here And Now, Where There Was Nothing To Act Against. But He Liked The Feeling Anyway.
The Australian Looked At The Watch On His Sun-Darkened Wrist. Where The Hell Were They?
The Group Was Usually Back By Eight O’clock. How Long Did It Take To Make A Videotape Of Something They’d Videotaped Six Times Already?
The Answer Was That It Took As Long As Captain Vandal Needed It To Take. Vandal Was In Charge Of This Phase Of The Operation. And If The French Officer Weren’t So Efficient, None Of Them Would Be Here. Vandal Was The One Who Got Them All Into The Country, Had Acquired The Hardware, Had Supervised The Recon, And Would Get Them Out Of Here So They Could Start Phase Two Of The Operation, Which Would Be Run By Georgiev.
Downer Fished A Graham Cracker From An Open Box And Snapped At It Impatiently. The Taste, The Crispness, Brought Him Back To His Arms Training In The Outback, The Unit Lived On These Things There. He Looked Around The Small, Dark Apartment As He Chewed.
His Soft Blue Eyes Moved From The Kitchen On The Right To The Tv Across The Room To The Front Door. Vandal Had Rented This Place Over Two Years Before. The Frenchman Admitted That Luxury Was Not A Consideration.
The One-Room, First-Floor Flat Was Located On A Crooked Little Street Just Off The Boulevard De La Bastille, Not Far From The Large Bureau De Poste.
Apart From The Location, The Only Thing That Was Important Was That They Be On The First Floor Of The Building For A Window Escape If Necessary. As Vandal Had Promised When The Five Of Them Pooled Their Savings For This Operation, He Would Spend Extravagantly Only On Forged Documents, Surveillance Gear, And Weapons.
As The Tall, Powerfully Built Downer Brushed Crumbs From His Faded Blue Jeans, He Glanced At The Oversized Duffel Bags Lying In A Row Between The Tv And The Window. He Was Baby-Sitting The Five Lumpy Bags Filled With Weapons. Vandal Had Done His Job There. Ak-47’S, Hand-Guns, Tear Gas, Grenades, A Rocket Launcher. All Of Them Unmarked And Untraceable, Bought Through Chinese Arms Dealers The Frenchman Had Met While The Pko Was In Cambodia. God Bless The United Nations, Downer Thought. Tomorrow Morning, Shortly After Dawn, The Men Would Load The Bags Onto The Truck They’d Bought.
Vandal And Downer Would Drop Sazanka, Georgiev, And Barone At The Factory Helipad And Then Time Their Departure So Everyone Could Meet Again Later At The Target. The Target, Downer Thought. So Ordinary Yet So Vital To The Rest Of The Operation. The Australian’s Eyes Returned To The Table. There Was A White Ceramic Bowl Sitting Beside The Phone. The Bowl Was Filled With Black Paste-Burned Diagrams And Notes Soaked In Tap Water. The Notes Contained Everything From Calculations About Approximate Tail Winds And Head Winds At One Thousand Feet Up At Eight In The Morning To Traffic Flow To The Police Presence On The Seine. Ashes Could Still Be Deciphered; Wet Ashes Were Useless. Just One More Stinking Day Of This, He Told Himself. When The Rest Of The Team Returned, There’d Be One More Afternoon Of Studying Videotapes, Making Sure They Had Everything Covered For This Phase Of The Operation.
One More Night Of Drawing Maps For This Part Of The Operation, Then Calculating Flight Times, Bus Schedules, Street Names, And The Location Of Arms Dealers In New York For The Next Phase. Just To Make Sure They’d Memorized Them All. And Then There’d Be One More Dawn Of Burning Everything They’d Written So The Police Would Never Find It Here Or In The Trash.
Downer’s Eyes Drifted Across The Room To The Sleeping Bags On The Floor. They Sat In Front Of A Sofa, The Only Other Piece Of Furniture In The Room. There Was A Big Window Fan In The Room’s Only Window, And It Had Been Running Constantly During This Heat Wave. Vandal Assured Him That The Hundred-Plus Temperatures Were Good For The Plan. The Target Was Vented, Not Air-Conditioned, And The Men Inside Were Going To Be A Little More Sluggish Than Usual. Not Like Us, Downer Thought. He And His Teammates Had A Goal. Downer Thought Of The Four Other Ex-Soldiers Who Were Involved In The Project. He’d Met Them All In Phnom Penh, And Each Of Them Had A Very Different, Very Personal Reason For Being Here. A Key Rattled In The Front Door. Downer Reached For His Type 64 Silenced Pistol, Tucked In A Holster Hanging From The Back Of The Wooden Chair. He Gently Pushed The Graham Cracker Box Aside So He Had A Clear Shot At The Door. He Remained Seated. The Only Person Other Than Vandal Who Had A Key Was The Superintendent. In The Three Times Downer Had Stayed At The Apartment During The Past Year, The Old Man Only Came By When He Was Calledand Sometimes Not Even Then. If It Were Any One Else, They Didn’t Belong Here, And They’d Die. Downer Half-Hoped It Was Someone He Didn’t Know. He Was In The Mood To Pull The Trigger.
The Door Opened And Etienne Vandal Walked In.
His Longish Brown Hair Was Slicked Back And He Was Wearing Sunglasses, A Video Camera Carrying Case Slung Casually Over His Left Shoulder. He Was Followed By The Bald, Barrel-Chested Georgiev, The Short And Swarthy Barone, And The Tall, Broad-Shouldered Sazanka. All Of The Men Were Wearing Touristy T-Shirts And Blue Jeans. They Also Wore The Same, Flat Expressions.
Sazanka Shut The Door. He Shut It Quietly, Politely. Downer Sighed. He Slipped The Firearm Back In Its Hol-Ster. “How’d It Go?” The Australian Asked. Downer’s Voice Was Still Rich With The Tight Gutturals Of Western New South Wales.
“Ewed Ih Gow?” Barone Said, Mimicking The Australian’s Thick Accent.
“Stop That,” Vandal Told Him.
“Yes, Sir,” Barone Replied. He Threw The Officer A Casual Salute And Frowned At Downer.
Downer Didn’t Like Barone. The Cocky Little Man Had Something None Of The Other Men Possessed: An Attitude. He Acted As Though Everyone Were A Potential Enemy, Even His Allies. Barone Also Had A Good Ear. He’d Worked As A Custodian At The American Embassy When He Was A Teenager And Had Lost Most Of His Accent. The One Thing That Kept Downer From Lashing Out At The Younger Man Was They Both Knew That If The Little Uruguayan Ever Crossed The Line Too Far, The Six-Foot-Four-Inch Australian Could And Would Pull Him In Two. Vandal Put The Case On The Table And Popped The Tape From The Camera. He Walked Over To The Tv.
“I Think The Surveillance Went Fine,” Vandal Said. “The Traffic Patterns Appear To Be The Same As They Were Last Week. But We’ll Compare The Tapes, Just To Make Sure.” “For The Last Time, I Hope,” Barone Said. “We All Hope,” Downer Said.
“Yes, But I’m Anxious To Move,” The Twenty-Nine-Year-Old Officer Said. He Did Not Say Where He Wanted To Move. A Group Of Foreigners Meeting In A Rundown Flat Never Knew Who Might Be Eavesdropping. Sazanka Sat Silently On The Sofa And Untied His Nikes. He Massaged His Thick Feet. Barone Tossed Him A Bottled Water From The Refrigerator In The Kitchenette. The Japanese Grunted His Thanks.
Sazanka’s Command Of English Was The Weakest, And He Tended To Say Very Little. Downer Shared His Uncle’s View Of The Japanese, And Sazanka’s Silence Made Him Happy. Ever Since Downer Was A Child, Japanese Sailors, Tourists, And Speculators Had Been All Over The Harbor In Sydney. If They Didn’t Act As Though They Owned It, They Acted As Though One Day They Would. Unfortunately, Sazanka Could Fly A Variety Of Aircraft. The Group Needed His Skills. Barone Handed A Bottle To Georgiev, Who Was Standing Behind Him. “Thank You,” Georgiev Said.
They Were The First Words Downer Had Heard The Bulgarian Speak Since Dinner The Night Before-Even Though He Spoke Nearly Perfect English, Having Worked For Almost Ten Years As A Central Intelligence Agency Contact In Sofia. Georgiev Hadn’t Talked A Lot In Cambodia, Either. He’d Kept An Eye Out For Their Khmer Rouge Contacts As Well As Undercover Government Police Or Un Human Rights Observers. The Bulgarian Preferred To Lis Ten, Even When Nothing Was Being Discussed. Downer Wished He Himself Had The Patience For That. Good Listeners Could Hear Things In Casual Conversation, When People Had Their Guard Down, That Often Proved Valuable. “Want One?” Barone Asked Vandal. The Frenchman Shook His Head.