Impact (8 page)

The white clapboard house stood on the main road, porch sagging, paint peeling, dead car on blocks on the lawn. Dusk was falling and the lights were on in the attached barn. Worth parked in the driveway, got out, and went to the side barn door. He gave it a double rap. He felt a lot better since he’d smoked a little crank on the way over. That shaky feeling had left his legs and his mind felt clearer, stronger.

“Who is it?” came a voice.

“Worth.”

The sound of a lock being turned. The door opened and Devin Doyle stood there, in painter’s overalls, holding a beer and a cigarette. His hair stuck out, he hadn’t shaved; he was one of those thirty-year-olds who looked eighteen. And acted it.

“Hey, Randy, you fucking ape, whassup?”

Worth came in and Doyle shut the door behind him, turning all the locks. The back of the barn was piled high with stolen furniture, covered with dirty tarps.

“Beer?”

Worth grabbed a Bud Light and threw himself down on a ratty sofa. He took a long pull, draining half the can. He put it on the table and closed his eyes.

Doyle collapsed in a sofa chair. “Hey, Randy, you seen those new Britney photos with the shaved pussy? I got ’em on my computer, you won’t believe—”

“I’ve come for my cut,” said Worth.

“Hey, man, what’s this shit? Your
cut
?”

“You heard me.” He slowly opened his eyes and stared.

“I told you: when I get paid, you get paid.” Doyle sucked in a last lungful, blew it back out, stubbed the cigarette in a clamshell sitting by his chair. He hunted around with his hand for the beer, found it, picked it up.

“I boosted that crap off Ripp Island a week ago,” said Worth. “I took a risk. I did my job. Now I want my cut.” He could feel a muscle in his neck beginning to twitch.

“We don’t even know what your cut is until I move the shit. Antiques aren’t like flat-screens. I told you this would take time, and you agreed.”

Closing his eyes again, playing it cool, Worth said: “Sorry. Don’t got no stinkin’ time. I brought you a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of antiques and I want my money.” He popped open his eyes, dropped his booted leg to the floor. “
Capisce
?”

“Hey, Randy, don’t talk shit to me. I’ll be lucky to get ten—and you’ll get half, like we agreed. When I get
paid
. Okay?”

“
Not
okay, dickweed.”

Doyle fell silent. Randy picked up the beer, drained it, crushed the can in his hand, and tossed it at Doyle like a Frisbee. It bounced off his shoulder. “You listening?”

The muscle in his neck was jumping like a kangaroo.

“Look, Randy,” said Doyle, “we had an agreement. I’m working on it. By Monday, I’ll have something for you.”

Worth could see that Doyle was sweating. He was scared.

“You say ten thousand? Cool. I want my half. Now. As a down payment.”

Doyle spread his hands. “I don’t
have
five thousand, for fuck’s sake.”

Worth rose from the sofa, swelling with confidence in the effect he was having on Doyle. His neck was now twitching, jerk, jerk, jerk, scaring the mortal shit out of Doyle. He could see the man’s eyes darting around, looking for a weapon. “Don’t even think about it,” Worth said, pushing up close, crowding him in the chair.

“Give me til Monday.”

“I want my five grand. Now.” He pushed himself at Doyle even closer, shoving his dick practically into Doyle’s face.

“I don’t have it.” Doyle crowded back in the chair.

Worth slapped him hard across the top of the head, once, twice.

“Fuck! Randy, what the fuck are you doing?” He tried to stand up but Worth shoved him back down. He stood over him with his legs spread, straddling him, trapping him in the seat. God
damn
, he was starting to feel like Tony Soprano. He reached around and pulled the .44 from under his belt, shoving the barrel in Doyle’s ear. “Get me the fucking money.”

“Randy, you crazy? You’re all fucked up on meth—”

Worth whapped him again, this time across the face, back and forth.

“Stop it!” Doyle tried to fend him off, his skinny arms held up in front of his face, ducking and dodging. “Please!”

“Where’s your wallet? Gimme your wallet.” He smacked at him again.

With a shaking hand, still fending him off with the other, Doyle groped in his overalls and pulled out his wallet. The faggot was actually crying. Worth took it, opened it up, and fished out a wad of money. It was a bunch of fifties. He let the wallet fall to the floor, counted out the bills. “Lookee here. Eight hundred bucks.”

He feigned a sudden lunge at Doyle and the man cringed, his hands flying up. Worth laughed. “Cocksucker.” He folded up the money, stuffed it into his back pocket. He poked the gun barrel into Doyle’s forehead, gave it a little push. “Listen, fuck-face. I’m coming back Monday. I want four thousand two hundred waiting for me, with a card.”

“We had an agreement,” said Doyle miserably. His face was streaked like a snot-nosed kid.

“Now we have a
new
agreement.”

15

Ford waited for Khon to come out of the bar and fell into step beside him as he walked down the muddy street.

“Prum’s a man of regular habits,” said Khon. “He’ll leave the bar at one sharp, get in his new Mercedes, and drive the three hundred yards back to his house, arriving at one-oh-five.”

“Is he a tough customer?”

“Mentally, yes.”

“Will he be drunk?”

“No. He drinks two beers a night, no more, no less.”

They approached Prum Forgang’s house, a new whitewashed cinder block construction erected next to what was evidently his original home, a traditional Cambodian
dnmak
on stilts, with a water buffalo sleeping underneath. Rice paddies surrounded the house on three sides, with a front yard full of coconut palms.

“We’ll approach from the back,” said Ford. They left the road and took a path that ran along the top of a dike between rice paddies. It was a warm, clear night, a full moon just rising in the east, coming up blood red. Ford inhaled deeply the smell of Cambodia: mud, vegetation, humidity.

“Lovely night for a stroll,” said Khon, breathing deeply and stretching out his arms.

Keeping on top of the dikes, they circled back and around. The whitewashed back of Prum Forgang’s house loomed out of the darkness, a ghostly rectangle set against the dark. They came up to the back door and Ford quickly picked the simple lock. They let themselves in.

The interior of Prum’s house smelled of sandalwood. Keeping the lights off, they made their way to the front sitting room. Ford occupied an overstuffed sofa chair at a strategic position to the left of the door, while Khon settled himself on a sofa on the right.

“Twelve forty,” said Ford, in a whisper. He removed his .32 Walther PPK from his pocket and rested it in his lap.

At the appointed time, exactly 1:05
A.M
., the headlights of Prum’s new Mercedes swept through the curtained windows and a moment later Ford heard his key in the lock. The door opened, a match flared—there was no electricity at that time of night—and Prum stood there, staring at them.

He instantly tried to duck back out the door, but quick as a flash Ford leapt up and slammed his foot into the door, blocking it from being reopened. He pressed the gun to the man’s head and held his finger to his lips.
Sssshhhhh
.

Prum merely stared.

Ford gently closed the door and gestured at Prum with the gun. “
Suor sdei
, Mr. Prum. Shall we sit down?”

Prum remained standing, very tense. Khon appeared from the shadows and lit a single lantern, filling the room with a feeble yellow light.

“I said sit down.”

Prum took a seat warily, like an animal ready to spring. “What do you want?”

“We come to you in friendship and trust, with an excellent business proposition.”

“You break into my house in friendship?”

“We let ourselves in the back for your own protection, not ours.”

Prum shifted uncomfortably. Ford studied the man. He was middle-aged, skinny and small with a potbelly and a restless manner. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, untucked, baggy pants, and flip-flops, and he smelled faintly of beer and cheap perfume. His large, liquid eyes were very alert. He remained silent.

Ford smiled. “Mr. Prum, we are here to learn the location of the honey gemstone mine.”

Prum said nothing.

“We are willing to pay handsomely for the information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t want to hear our proposal?”

“There’s nothing you could offer me—not money, not women—that would make me change my mind.” Prum smiled. “Look around: I have all I need. A nice car, a beautiful house, flat-panel television, computer. Nice things. And I know nothing about any mine.”

“They’ll never know you gave us the information.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Not the slightest bit curious to hear our proposal?”

Prum said nothing.

Ford rose, walked over to Prum, flipped the gun around, and handed it to him butt first. “Take it.”

After a hesitation, Prum snatched it. He popped out the magazine, slipped it back in. “It’s loaded,” he said, pointing the gun at Ford. “I could kill you right now. I suggest you leave.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Prum smiled broadly. It was as Ford hoped: with the gun in his hand he was feeling secure. Little did he know Ford had taken apart the rounds, poured out the powder, and fitted them back together.

“Here’s the proposition.” Ford slowly reached into his pocket and removed a small document. He laid it down in the yellow pool of light. It was a student visa to attend university in America.

Prum snorted. “I have no need of that. I’m fifty years old! I’m a rich man, respected. I’m in business and everything I do is legal. I break no laws and steal nothing from anyone.”

“The visa isn’t for you.”

Prum looked puzzled.

“Go ahead . . . take a look.”

Prum hesitated, then reached out and took it. He opened it up and stared at the photograph on the front.

Ford slipped an envelope out of his pocket, and laid it next to the visa. The envelope had a crimson logo on it with a single word,
Veritas
, and a Cambridge, Massachusetts, return address.

“Read the letter.”

Prum laid down the passport and took up the envelope. He slipped out the letter on heavy cream paper and squinted, reading it in the dim light, the paper shaking slightly.

“It’s an acceptance letter to Harvard University for your son, signed by the Dean of Admissions.”

A long silence ensued. Prum slowly laid the letter down, an unreadable look in his eyes. “This is the carrot, I see. And what is the stick?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment.”

“I can’t rely on your promises. These are meaningless pieces of paper. Anyone could have forged these.”

“True. You’ll have to judge my sincerity. Right here, right now. The opportunity will pass, never to come again.”

“Why do you want to know the location of the mine?”

“That gets us to the stick. Where do you think these honeys are ending up, Mr. Prum? On ladies’ necks.”

“So?”

“One of the biggest honeys ended up on one of the biggest ladies’ necks, the wife of a very important United States senator. She was the admiration of all of Georgetown until she lost her hair and got weeping sores on her breasts from radiation poisoning. We traced those stones to
you
.”

A silence, and then Prum exhaled. “
Mhn sruel kluen tee!
”

Ford recognized the vulgar Khmer expression. “This is some serious shit, as we say in English.”

Prum wiped his face with a handkerchief. “I never knew this. I never even imagined. I am a businessman.”

“You know they’re radioactive.”

Silence.

“The stick is the senator is told you’re the one who did this to his wife. What do you think will happen to you then?”

“If I tell you about the mine, they’ll kill me.”

“The CIA’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“Please, don’t do this to me.”

“Look, the mine owners won’t know you told us. That’s why we came at night through the back door.”

Prum shook his head vigorously. The gun, all but forgotten, rested in his limp hand. “I need time to think.”

“Sorry. Decision time, Mr. Prum.”

He mopped his face again. “This mine, it’s my livelihood.”

“You’ve had a good run.”

“In addition to Harvard for my son, I want money.”

“You’re really pushing it.”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

Ford glanced at Khon. The Cambodian love of bargaining never ceased to amaze him. He rose, swiped up the visa and letter. “The CIA will take care of you.” He turned to go.

“Wait! Fifty thousand.”

Ford didn’t even pause as he headed for the door.

“Ten thousand.”

Ford was almost out the door.

“Five thousand.”

Ford paused, turned. “You get the money
if
and
when
the mine is successfully located.” He came back in. “Now give me back my gun.”

Prum handed it over. He rose shakily to his feet, went to a wooden chest in the corner, unlocked it, and took out a map. He unrolled it on a table, placing the oil lamp on it. “This,” he said, “is a map of Cambodia. We are here, and the mine is . . .
here
.” A tiny finger fell with a thump on a wild, mountainous area in the far northwest. The Cambodian turned his liquid eyes on Ford. “But I tell you this for your own good: if you go there, you’ll never come back alive.”

16

Mark Corso felt a presence in the doorway of his cubicle, and as he straightened up from his work he surreptitiously used his elbow to shove some papers over the gamma ray plots he’d been working on. “Hello, Dr. Derkweiler,” he said, forcing his features into a semblance of respect.

Derkweiler entered. “Just checking up on that SHARAD image processing.”

“Almost done.”

The supervisor leaned over his shoulder, humming, and peering at the papers and printouts neatly squared off on his desk. “Where is it?”