Figurehead (29 page)

He sat up, cross-legged. From the cluster of huts fifty metres away, he heard a soldier barking instructions. He heard Son Sen cry out, angry and desperate. Kiry closed his eyes and listened as Son Sen pleaded for his life, his wife’s life, for the life of his elderly aunt, his soldier sons, his grandchildren, the youngest barely walking.

The executioners walked them down the path towards the road. When the voices grew more distant Kiry got up and stood outside his hut. He saw a flash of light. They shot Son Sen first, probably to shut him up. Then, one by one, they shot his family. Soon it was quiet. Kiry vomited in the doorway of his hut, wiped his mouth and then went inside and lay down.

‘Why?’ Kolab whispered.

‘You know why. Because he has gone soft. Because he is treacherous,’ Kiry said. ‘He has been talking to Hun Sen about a possible ceasefire, completely undermining my delicate negotiations with Prince Ranariddh.’

‘So you are in on this?’

‘Certainly not. My hands are clean.’

‘Are we next?’

‘No, of course not,’ Kiry said. ‘Big Brother must have been certain in his mind that Son Sen was betraying him or he would not have done it.’

‘So he deserved to die? And all of them with him? The children too?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not. But people die. It’s a fact. My mother never got to celebrate the liberation of Phnom Penh. My brother died, so far as I know. My aunty died, cousins, friends. To focus on one family’s death is to distort reality.’

‘Don’t lecture me about death. About killing.’

Suddenly the door of the hut burst open. Brandishing a torch, Ta Mok grabbed Kiry by the neck and shoved him up against a wall.

‘This time he’s gone too far! Too far, I say. He has no authority now. He has no right to choose who lives and who dies.’

‘Please, Mok, you’re hurting me.’

‘Did you know this would happen? Did you? Answer me: DID YOU? He tells you everything, he’s always asking your opinion, he consults you before he eats, before he dresses, before—’

‘Of course I didn’t know. I was asleep.’

‘It’s time he learnt who’s in charge around here,’ Mok said. He shoved Kiry onto the bed. ‘He’s a spent force, no matter how many idiots he kills.’

Mok left, screaming at the night.

‘In the morning, first thing, you must go away,’ Kiry said to Kolab. ‘Go to Bangkok. I will tell Mok that you are ill again.’

‘What’s going to happen? What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe nothing. ’

A few days later Nhem Kiry, Pol Pot and their small entourage fled Anlong Veng. Before dawn they pushed a four-wheel drive the first couple of kilometres until Kiry decided it was safe to start the engine. Then they drove along a track that seemed to grow bumpier, windier and narrower the further west they travelled. The young driver, Charya, gripped the wheel tightly. Every time he turned his head to stare at Pol Pot, who sat beside him wheezing and grunting and slowly turning grey, he clipped a jutting rock or bounced off a tree root.

Pol Pot gritted his teeth. He reached out to pat Charya reassuringly on the arm, but his touch caused Charya to run off the track onto a narrow patch of soft dirt. The wheels spun for a long moment. Then Pol Pot took his hand off Charya, placed it on the wheel and eased the vehicle back into the centre of the track.

There was a hint of morning light in the sky when Charya pulled over. After they unpacked, Kiry ordered Charya to turn the vehicle around. Back and forth he spun the wheel, braking and accelerating, increasingly desperate to complete the manoeuvre. Revs like coughs filled the air. Finally, having created a minor dust storm, he faced back in the direction they had come from.

‘Stay on this road,’ Kiry said. ‘There are government soldiers patrolling the end of it. Give yourself up to them. Offer them the car as a peace offering.’

They took to the wilds, walking in single file around the base of a mountain. Bonarith, Pol Pot’s sole remaining bodyguard, led the way. He wore two backpacks. In one hand he held a long knife for hacking at encroaching foliage. In his other hand he carried Kiry’s black suitcase, the one he took on all his overseas trips. It was full of US dollars.

Following Bonarith came Pol Pot’s wife, Mea, and their daughter, Sisopha. Mea shouldered both their packs. She murmured never-ending encouragement to the girl, who was already complaining about the heat and the insects. Pol Pot came next. He used a tall bamboo pole to drag himself forward. He panted like a dog. He shuffled, as if lifting his feet off the ground would signify a terrible defeat.

Kiry followed close behind Pol Pot, carrying Pol Pot’s pack as well as his own. They were not too heavy, though, because Ol had insisted on taking the bulk of the load. Kiry had tried to protest but even now his shoulders felt as though Prince Sihanouk was lounging across them. Soon Kiry snagged his shirt sleeve on a branch. He had a spare shirt in his pack, but he wanted to save it for when he was negotiating with the Thais to gain safe passage to the Chinese embassy in Bangkok. Within an hour he had split the webbing between two toes. Each time he planted his foot a searing pain shot up his leg.

Ol and Vireak walked behind Kiry. Ol carried two backpacks, one of which contained a portable radio, and, under one arm, a collapsed camp stretcher. Vireak dragged a second suitcase of money; the case had wheels, which he insisted on trying to roll over the rough terrain.

Vireak had only come, Kiry suspected, because Ol had pleaded with him. Not that Kiry thought Vireak disloyal. He was devoted to Pol Pot and revered Ol like a father. But he had a dejected air about him. His grim expression told Kiry that he did not think they had any chance of reaching the border.

As they pushed up a slope that looked gentle but seemed never to level out, Pol Pot veered off the path and collapsed into a bush. When Kiry turned him over his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils, were open wide in a desperate effort to draw in oxygen. His skin was yellow and black blotches graffitied his forehead.

‘Can you hear me, Big Brother?’ Kiry said.

When Pol Pot did not reply they laid him on the stretcher. He opened his eyes and his breathing became a little more steady. He smiled. Ol loaded the suitcases on top of him. Pol Pot groaned feebly and tried to push them away.

‘I’m sorry, Big Brother, but there is no other way to carry everything,’ Kiry said. ‘Just imagine what the newspapers would say if they saw this. Pol Pot in the middle of nowhere, grasping suitcases full of money.’

Pol Pot opened his eyes. ‘Ha … ha … ha,’ he moaned.

Ol and Vireak carried Pol Pot. Kiry walked beside him. Occasionally Kiry used his
krama
to wipe the puddles of perspiration that formed in the depressions on either side of Pol Pot’s body. Pol Pot groaned every time one of the suitcases thumped against him.

‘All you need is a decent doctor, medicine, an oxygen cylinder. A bit of R and R under an umbrella on Phuket beach. A lobster dinner or two.’

‘Yum,’ Pol Pot said.

‘Don’t worry, we are making excellent progress. Any moment now you will open your eyes and we will be in Beijing. You’ll be in your very own palace, a tranquil place with hunting woods and a vast lake with ducks on top and fat trout below. You will eat pork dim sims whenever you want: hundreds a day if you choose. And rice wine and as much beer as you want. And do you know the best thing? You will eat and drink to your heart’s content and all the while you will be sitting on Vietnam’s head. How they will hate having Pol Pot as a hat.’

Sisopha came up beside Kiry and peered incredulously at Pol Pot.

‘Who painted your face? I want my face painted too. My feet hurt, Pa. Can’t we stop now?’

‘Pa’s busy thinking right now,’ Kiry said. ‘Do you know what? We’re going to China. You’ll love it there. There are a billion little girls and boys to play with. That is such a lot of girls and boys.’

‘Maybe more boys than girls,’ Vireak muttered.

‘Are we nearly there, Pa? How long till we get to China?
Pa?
Ma, why doesn’t Pa answer me?’

‘You know that Pa likes to have a rest in the afternoon.’

‘It doesn’t look good. He’s barely conscious,’ Ol whispered to Kiry.

‘I know. But we must keep going. We must try to keep him awake.’

Pol Pot opened his eyes. ‘My daughter wants to have a rest.’

‘But we are so close to our destination, Beloved Uncle,’ Ol said. ‘Can you smell how close we are?’

‘I smell something.’

‘I’ve been doing some thinking, Big Brother,’ Kiry said. ‘I believe I might have found the solution to our problem, right here, right now, while we have been walking. I’m going to tell you about it, Big Brother, for although it is unformed in my mind I trust your judgment and I hope you will think it is a grand scheme.

‘Here it is, Big Brother, my new idea: guided tours of the Dangrek Mountains. Authentic treks with real-life guerrillas. What do you say? The tourists will come from everywhere for this. They’ll pay a premium for it, too, so long as we feed them properly. They call it “Adventure Tourism.” Our country will fill with Europeans eager for some adventure in their lives. Imagine this: “Come and get your feet muddy in pristine wilderness, with authentic mud, and your choice of Soviet, Chinese or American minefields. See the actual site where Son Sen and his family were slaughtered. See headless statues at Angkor temples, then visit Ta Mok’s villa at Anlong Veng to find the heads. Meet real-live Khmer Rouge soldiers. Clean and fire their rifles. Work in the fields for a day just like a real Cambodian peasant. Hide in a shallow bunker and enjoy a simulated attack by President Richard Nixon’s B-52s. Best of all, be stimulated by a one-hour lecture in a genuine grass-roofed hut by the famous revolutionary, Mr Pol Pot.” What do you think of my tourism plans, Big Brother?’

Ol half turned his head. ‘He’s passed out.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I wanted to hear your plans for the future.’

‘I wanted to keep him conscious. I was making a joke.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

They stopped for the day near Kbal Ansom, east of the Chrork Choam Pass. Ol and Bonarith carried Pol Pot into a cave. Kiry kicked rocks aside and they set him down. Mea and Kiry propped him up and helped him drink. His skin sparkled in the gloom. Mea wiped his brow with a
krama
and said, ‘Everything is going to be just fine.’

‘Have we crossed the border yet? Is this Thailand?’

‘Not yet. But we are very close.’

Ol and Mea went to look for leaves to boil for a soup. Little Sisopha lay wedged between two rocks, as if a swollen river had dumped her there. Kiry started telling her a story about a frog who got sick of waiting for the rains and abandoned its pond. But the effort of listening to him made her burst into tears.

‘Take the radio up that hill,’ Kiry told Bonarith and Vireak. ‘Find out if they are chasing us. Find out how close they are.’

Kiry took off his boots and socks. As he stretched his feet, the blood blisters on his heels split open. He dressed Sisopha’s feet as best he could. She screamed for a while and then fell quiet. Kiry closed his eyes. Ol woke him up a couple of hours later to tell him that dinner was ready and that Bonarith and Vireak had fled with the hand radio and all the money.

At dawn, Kiry removed a wad of US dollars that he had strapped to his stomach.

‘You must keep going,’ he told Ol. ‘Go to the border and get help. When you reach Ubon Ratchathani ask to speak to Captain Subramanian. Give him all of the money.
All of it
, Ol, do you understand me? Forget everything Sok ever told you: this is no time for skimming. Tell Subramanian there is more if he helps us. If he wavers, tell him I have been negotiating with Prince Ranariddh. Tell him that our talks are so advanced that I am effectively an unofficial member of the Cambodian government.’

‘But ... is that true? Have you been talking to Ranariddh?’

‘Just tell him. Go on now, you’re our last chance. Go, I say ... What? What is it?’

‘Thank you for teaching me everything,’ Ol said. Before Kiry could reply Ol turned and ran away.

Soon after, Ta Mok’s soldiers found them, announcing themselves like visitors standing in a street unable to remember which house they should enter. Kiry sent Mea and Sisopha to the very rear of the cave.

‘I’m sorry, Big Brother, but we need to go outside now,’ Kiry said to Pol Pot.

Pol Pot turned to the wall of the cave. Kiry was momentarily confused, thinking that he was refusing to go. But Pol Pot placed his hands on the wall of the cave and painstakingly dragged himself upright.

‘I feel much better for the sleep,’ he said.

‘I’m pleased, Big Brother.’

Kiry took two handguns from his backpack. Together he and Pol Pot stepped from darkness into light. Both men stood straight and proud, although Kiry could see that Pol Pot’s whole body was shaking with the effort. As they came out from the cave’s opening, Kiry pointed one gun at Pol Pot’s ear and one at his own chest.

Samnang – a senior officer Kiry knew well and admired for his courage and fairness, even though he had aligned himself with Ta Mok – stepped forward.

‘There is no sense in this,’ Samnang said in a kind tone, as if he was explaining to a child that if you leap from a roof while holding a chicken you will not be able to fly. ‘Please surrender, Brother Kiry.’

‘What do you want to do?’ Kiry said in French to Pol Pot. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Who are all these people? Am I supposed to address them?’ Pol Pot said. ‘Greetings, comrades. Today we are going to learn about ... about ...’

‘Don’t trouble yourself, Big Brother. Everything is okay. We’re in Beijing now. Here comes Mao himself to welcome us.’

Kiry dropped the guns at his feet. Samnang came forward and picked them up.

‘You should be proud of yourself. True loyalty takes no account of circumstances,’ Samnang said, embracing Kiry. ‘Are you hungry?’

Kiry hung his head in shame. He had failed. To surrender so easily, with so much relief, made him a fool and a coward.

Samnang aimed one of the guns at a tree trunk and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He examined the weapon.