Phnom Penh Express (15 page)

***

Despite Phirun’s feeble protests, Merrilee had settled the bill and they were now standing outside the entrance. She’d decided to forget the likelihood of encountering Phirun’s boss when a car pulled up alongside them.

“Ah, that’s Nina’s car,” Phirun says.

Merrilee tenses but nothing in her behaviour would betray how she prepares for what might happen.

“How’s it going, Rambo?” Nina asks cheerfully while slamming the door shut.

When Phirun introduces them, the two women shake hands, exchanging the ‘pleased-to-meet-yous’. Merrilee observes how Nina throws Phirun an admiring ‘nice catch’ look.

“I’ve heard a lot of flattering things about you,” Merrilee says to the woman.

“Oh yes? Then I wonder what he wants,” she answers ironically, mock-scrutinising Phirun, “I promoted him only a few days ago, you know.”

“Perhaps he’s being sincere?” Merrilee continues, ignoring Phirun.

“Uh-uh...” Nina shakes her head. “I can be a real bitch when someone pisses me off, believe me!” she laughs while returning Merrilee’s look.

Then she spots the workmen at her new chocolate shop a few metres down the road. “No, no, no, no, that’s not what I asked for at all...!” she exclaims.

“What’s wrong?” Phirun asks.

“Look! That plastic signboard they’ve put up. How ugly is that! I asked them to paint the name onto the front of the house, in brown letters — ‘The Chocolate House’. In Khmer and English. Not some ugly, plastic signboard. They’ll have to take it down again. Phirun, can you tell them?”

Phirun assures Nina that tomorrow morning the plastic board will be gone, winking quickly at Merrilee. After a hurried goodbye, Nina scuttles into her café, leaving Merrilee and Phirun next to each other on the street, hostage to the surrounding motodop mob.

“Do you hear that?” Phirun asks Merrilee.

“What?”

“Listen, carefully... You don’t hear it?” he asks again. His voice sounds serious but his eyes betray a playful sparkle.

“What, then?” Merrilee laughs.

“Duty calling...” Phirun sighs, exaggerating a sad face, indicating the chocolate house. “I’ve got lots to do for the next few days,” he explains.

“Well then, thanks for having breakfast with me,” Merrilee replies. “I need to get going — more research to do for my paper.”

“When will I see you again?” he asks her.

“Er... hold on, that one was way before my time... it’s on the tip of my tongue.... ‘The Three Degrees’! What do I win? See you, Phirun,” and she’s already negotiating her trip’s fee with one of the many drivers by the time he thinks of a response. Nonetheless, while she hops onto the back of a moto, Phirun calls after her.

“Very funny. And no goodbye kiss?”

“You want to become a true Cambodian? Then no more kissing in public!” she yells while her driver steers his rusty Daelim out of Street 240.

It has been a strange but interesting morning, Merrilee thinks. Phirun didn’t react in the slightest when she mentioned the word ‘diamond.’ On the other hand, there had been that moustache guy taking a picture of her, and Colonel Peeters strolling out of the café as if it were some bloody catwalk.

As for Nina, she wasn’t sure yet. What did she say?
I can be a real bitch when someone pisses me off...?
Was that meant as a warning? Merrilee wonders. Hardly the thing to say when you meet someone for the first time, normally, but then the woman is Belgian, so she claims... Moreover, she seemed genuinely concerned about her shop, Merrilee ponders, recalling the little scene about the plastic signboard. Hardly behaviour befitting the ruthless leader of an international, criminal organisation. Why would she give a damn about a bloody sign?

She looks at her watch — 10:30
AM
. Phirun said he’d be producing chocolates all day — so now’s a good moment to check out his flat more thoroughly. She needs some proof.

When the motodop reaches Phnom Penh’s riverfront, Merrilee stops him and gets off. After he disappears, she flags down another. Phirun knows the moto drivers that hang around Street 240, Merrilee assumes, and she doesn’t want hers to tell him where he drove her. Her Mossad training had taught her time and time again never to leave anything to chance. That little rule had saved her many times after she infiltrated Hezbollah in Lebanon.

WATT’S FOUNDING AND only current member, William H. Stoppkotte, is about to commence his secret taskforce’s first field operation — a reconnaissance fact-finding mission to The House on Street 240. He scrutinises himself in the mirror in his office and is satisfied with his decision. He’s wearing his normal work outfit of beige-coloured trousers, dark-brown shoes, and a short-sleeved striped shirt without a tie. His thick brown moustache makes him look a few years older than he really is, he realises, but he had never gathered the courage to shave it off. His moustache is like a loyal friend, behind which he can hide in times of distress. Moreover, it has become nothing short of a family heirloom: his father had worn one until his death, his grandfather too, and his great-grandfather before that. He’s not so sure about his great-great-grandfather — but the odds are, he proudly sported a top-lip warmer, too. What his moustache adds in years, the full, wavy hair covering most of his scalp takes off; all in all Billy looked his actual age of forty-six.

He had first considered wearing some sort of disguise, but then nobody knows him anyway, for Billy is a very private man. He rarely goes out at night; if he does, it is usually to one of the many girlie bars scattered around town. And the patrons frequenting those kinds of bars move in different social circles than those visiting more family orientated places such as The House, apart from maybe the odd middle-aged development-aid worker.

He turns away from the mirror and steps towards the large window of his office, which is situated one floor above the Kennedy Room. From here he’s got a view onto Street 96 and part of Wat Phnom, the capital’s famous fourteenth-century hilltop temple. Across the street, he sees motodops waiting for customers, and he decides he’ll take one of those instead of driving his official car. It’s a question of not attracting too much attention. When he leaves the embassy’s fortified gates, he hails one of the drivers and explains his destination in risible Khmer. The driver nods eagerly, and heads off into the opposite direction with Billy sitting behind, cursing like billy-o.

Twenty-nine minutes later, and after a lot of shouting at the driver, who deliberately took the loud, impolite American to all the wrong places, Billy finally arrives on Street 240. The driver, a former musician, is by now totally fed up with being treated like dirt by the white
barang
. He ignores Billy’s request to stop and drives right past his destination, narrowly missing the opening door of a large SUV.

“Hoooly shit!” Billy shouts, partly to his driver and partly to the driver of the SUV — a big foreigner in a white t-shirt.

Thirty metres on they finally come to a standstill. Senior Intelligence Officer William H. Stoppkotte is not used to sitting on the back of a twelve-year-old half-functioning Daelim motorcycle, breathing seventy per cent exhaust fumes and thirty per cent air. He’s accustomed to being chauffeured around in the comfort of his temperature-controlled notchback luxury sedan, reading
The Cambodia Daily
and slurping black coffee. It is also rare that he’s disrespected like he was a piece of shit — by having a car’s door almost slammed into his face — by some goddamn fellow honky.

Billy climbs off the back of the motorcycle and angrily throws some money at the driver. An exchange of insults follows immediately, with the Cambodian driver suddenly talking very clear English and disdainfully throwing Billy’s money on the ground before taking off. The start of his reconnaissance mission has so far met with, at best, middling results, Billy grimaces, especially the part about keeping a low profile. Half of Street 240 has been watching the angry exchange with keen interest and when Billy enters the Belgian bakery, his mood scraping the floor, there’s still a small crowd of spectators lingering, hoping that the crazy
barang
might lose his temper again.

He finds a barstool at the counter and tries to cool down, ordering himself a freshly squeezed orange juice, waffles with maple syrup, and a cappuccino. The pretty young girl in the open kitchen smiles at him while she squeezes his oranges, making SIO William H. Stoppkotte daydream; in doing so he immediately forgets why he was in a foul mood when he came in.
T’aint what you do, it’s the way that you do it
is playing in the background, and before long Billy finds himself tapping along to the tune with his fingers. Actually not too bad a place, even a bar-hound like he recognises, and he promises to visit The House more often.

When he finishes scoffing his waffles, Billy takes in his surroundings in more detail. He turns halfway and nonchalantly leans back with one elbow propped on the counter, getting a better view of the double row of wooden tables where people are chatting away. About one-third Cambodian and two-thirds foreigners, he estimates. Some are dressed smartly and seem to be having business meetings over breakfast, judging from the reports or laptops occupying half of their table. Others seem more relaxed, just here for a lazy morning of fruit juice or coffee while reading their newspapers.

At the far end from where he’s sitting, at a table for two next to a window and near the entrance, he spots a young couple eating breakfast. They look Cambodian but are dressed like westerners. Billy has no problem recognising the young man. It is a face tucked away in his ever-growing ‘Chocolate File’ and is captioned ‘Phirun’. The guy who delivered the diamond-encrusted chocolates to the government officials. Billy knows this to be fact.

He sips his cappuccino and takes another look. This Phirun isn’t quite the rough-and-tough type that Billy expected. He looks more like an academic or a namby-pamby artist. Anyway, that doesn’t mean a thing. Billy remembers how, years ago, his office once assisted in busting a serial killer in Cluj, Romania. Turned out to be a 73-year-old asthmatic nun. He wonders who the girl is that Phirun is talking to. His girlfriend? Maybe not; they’re not acting intimate enough. A member of his criminal gang? Physically, she’s got Cambodian features as far as Billy can see, but her manner is western — confident, yet not as arrogant as the nouveau rich locals. She’s attractive, even wearing hardly any make-up, whereas most of the upper-class Khmer broads are like walking Andy Warhol paintings. Must have been raised abroad, Billy thinks.

He shuffles on his stool to retrieve his camera phone from his pocket. He programmes the alarm to sound off in one minute and when it rings he starts talking, pretending he’s answering a call. Half a minute later he pushes the disconnect button, discreetly wafting it towards Phirun’s female companion and presses the shutter release. He scans the result: perfect. I’ll run it through the database when I’m back at the embassy — you never know what it may spit out, he thinks.

When Billy puts his phone on the counter next to him he notices a little plastic display stand with rectangular white and brown coloured cards. He takes one out and looks at the printed drawing of a beautiful two-storey house. Beneath it he reads:
The Chocolate House, by The House. Belgian chocolates at their finest. Opening soon
. Another venture by the terrorists? Billy wonders. Of course; it makes sense, if they choose chocolates to smuggle their diamonds across borders, then why not open a goddamn chocolate shop. He takes another look at the card.
No. 35 Street 240
, he reads. Must be one of the houses next door, Billy concludes and decides to take a look later.

He folds the card in half, puts it inside his pocket and is just about to ask for the bill when he spots a tall, muscular man appearing from the back patio, walking up to one of the waiters. Billy studies his white t-shirt and black combat pants. Shit! That’s the bastard who nearly knocked me off that motorcycle with his car door. Billy can’t help thinking that he knows the guy and wracks his brain trying to place him.

“Hoooly shit...,” he mumbles quietly, “... if he is who I think he is...”

He whips a file from his bag and opens it, making sure that nobody else can see it. He rapidly thumbs to the page featuring the picture of the same man standing barely two metres from where Billy is sitting. It had been e-mailed to him yesterday by the American liaison officer at Phnom Penh airport. Colonel Peeters from Belgium, Billy thinks — in the very same House! Coincidence? My ass!

He watches the Colonel briskly exit the café. Too late to follow him now, Billy decides, and considers probing the waiter as to what they were talking about. Nah, that’s too obvious. If the Colonel clocked that he’s being monitored, it would blow Billy’s entire operation. He thinks on, considering the ghastly proposition that al Qaeda and the Colonel are in some kind of cahoots. It could make sense, if the Colonel lets the terrorists make use of his network... in return for a cut of each transaction? That would mean The House is probably part of the Colonel’s operations, being a Belgian joint and all.

Billy smiles at the progress made by his secret WATT. This morning’s fact-finding mission had produced the goods so far. Still some questions remain, though. Why would they bribe the officials with diamonds again if the network already exists? And why so publicly? Because they’re expanding their existing network and more people are getting involved? Billy frowns — something else must be going on here, he thinks. But what? He asks for the bill, pays and walks out.

Billy has no trouble finding No. 35, soon to be the new chocolate retailer. The house looks almost finished; two guys are putting up a large plastic signboard that reads ‘The Chocolate House’ underneath a striking logo. Apart from that, there doesn’t seem to be much going on, at least at face value. The closed doors and window shutters lend the building a mysterious air. I bet there’s something bent going on behind those walls, Billy thinks, a new conspiracy already brewing in his mind.