stepped on somebody’s toes at Sharky’s. The bar’s clientele includes a lot of touchy people—something could have happened there. But what? Something to do with women? Or debts? Certainly not. Some blunder? Some injury this was payback for? Unlikely. Or maybe Kasper’s military expertise ruffled the sensibilities of some security boss working for Hun Sen and his government. Possible, but he would have known it already.
Theories. They’re not good for much except clarifying the horizon, thinning out the possibilities. They move you closer to the truth.
For example, suppose it was Kasper’s North Korean investigation—a mission he’d undertaken at the behest of the Americans—that had put them in danger. It seemed like a job well done. It seemed perfect. But maybe something had gone wrong.
Very wrong.
Kasper can feel it.
It’s a doubt that’s been churning around in his head from the start. Now he understands that it’s much more than a doubt. It’s a premonition. And it’s getting stronger and stronger.
Suppose it was that job I did for Clancy’s friends? he wonders under his breath. The question goes unanswered.
Kasper’s positive he made all the right moves. He used maximum discretion and followed orders. No one except his only contact with “the Company” knows about his mission. And, of course, Clancy. But even Clancy knows very little about it.
Kasper did a good, clean job. He did what he’d been asked to do.
Leave town now.
The Cambodian senator knows nothing about Kasper’s investigation. But the senator knows a lot about a lot of other things. It wasn’t clear from his telephone call where the danger was coming from. He didn’t specify whether they should be wary of “round-eyes” or “slant-eyes,” Westerners or Cambodians—or maybe even North Koreans.
Kasper decides to tell Clancy about his persistent doubt. His American friend listens to him in silence. They’ve known each other for twenty years, and they’ve been through a lot together. In Cambodia they share a house, they’re business partners in Sharky’s, and they collaborate in all things, each contributing his own particular set of skills.
Clancy’s sixty years old and not very talkative. He’s reticent and cautious. And smart. He’s someone who listens, first of all, and then discusses, basing his reasoning on his background as an organizer and an analyst. As for experience, he’s had a lot. He’s an American who has passed—not totally unscathed—through some of the pages of recent history.
“The thing with the North Koreans,” Clancy says, stroking his white beard. He ponders a bit. “Well, it just seems strange to me. I don’t know much about it, but . . .” He clears his throat and sighs. “But if that’s what it is, we’re in deep shit.”
“You know the Company people better than I do. Do you think that’s what it is?”
Clancy stays quiet for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head and says, “No, not unless you fucked up in some major way.”
“I didn’t fuck up. I followed their guidelines. I kept them informed about everything.”
“Everything?”
“Every fucking thing.”
“Did you do anything on your own initiative?”
“Nada.”
“Or talk to other—”
“Never.”
Clancy nods. “So no fuckups on your end,” he recaps.
“No, my friend. No fuckups.”
“Then that job has nothing to do with this. I don’t think it has anything to do with this at all.”
—
The bridge between Cambodia and Thailand is about a hundred meters long. Shortly after midnight, Kasper and Clancy arrive within sight of the border. They decide to spend the night in Koh Kong and cross the bridge the following morning. After getting two rooms in a trashy motel that offers hourly rates for the benefit of whores and their clients, they eat something in a fast-food joint nearby. Next morning they’ll leave the SUV in the motel parking lot and cross over on foot.
Separately.
That’s their plan.
They have to pass through two border checkpoints, the first Cambodian and the second Thai. But only the first one presents some risk.
Some risk? Kasper wonders. Or a huge risk?
That’s the crucial point, the Cambodian guard post. Once they’re in Thailand, all they have to do is to head for Trat, the nearest town.
Kasper would have preferred to avoid crossing the bridge altogether. He was for getting across the border at once, while it was still night, without wasting time. “Being afraid of trouble is better than seeking it out,” he said, reciting a Tuscan proverb. As a good Florentine, he’d repeated this wisdom to Clancy on several other occasions.
Kasper’s proposal: to ford the little river under cover of darkness and climb up the bank on the Thai side. Had he been alone, he wouldn’t have thought about it for a minute. But he was with Clancy.
Uncle Clancy.
His white beard, that pensive air.
“Are you crazy?” was the American’s response. “Didn’t you say the riverbank is mined?”
“There may be a mine or two, yes. You just have to pay attention. I talked to a smuggler friend of mine. He showed me where we should cross.”
“You cross through the mines. I’m strolling over the bridge tomorrow morning. It’ll be like taking a walk. Then we can swim in the sea off Phuket Island instead of this stinking gutter.”
They arise at dawn. From a public telephone, they call their employee and explain where he can pick up the CR-V. They tell him how to get rid of the guns they’ve hidden in it. Then they have breakfast, exchange a few words. Just the indispensable ones. They say their good-byes.
“Until we meet on the other side,” says Kasper.
“See you soon,” says Clancy with a nod.
—
Looked at from the Cambodian riverbank, the bridge seemed like a joke. See how perspective alters things, Kasper thinks. A few meters, and everything’s totally changed.
His passport passes from hand to hand. Four or five times. Back and forth, like a game. Then the first border guard points his pistol at Kasper’s face. Behind him, other guards have their weapons leveled.
They bring him to an office with a table, three chairs, and a poster displaying medical and health information.
Kasper tries hard not to assign blame, but without success. Swimming in the sea off Phuket Island. Fuck you, Clancy, he thinks, while the Cambodian soldiers search him and take everything he has. They lead him to another room in the guard post. This one’s empty except for a couple of plastic chairs. The soldiers tell him, “You wait here.”
After less than an hour, the door opens again and in he comes, the optimistic American. They detained him the same way: passport, two pissy questions, and a pistol aimed at his face.
Clancy sits down on a chair next to Kasper and plays the role of the red, white, and blue veteran. He says, “Maybe it’s better this way. We’ll clear up everything and go back to Phnom Penh.”
“Is that a hope or a prediction?” Kasper asks.
“It’s a prediction. You’ll see.”
“A prediction. Right.”
Kasper knows that the “predictions” Americans make sometimes get into ugly collisions with reality. The optimistic approach