Mekong Dawn

  Nancy rummaged through the contents of the kits and made a mental note of what she had to work with. In one she found a blister pack of paracetamol tablets. She popped two out and found a bottle of water.

  ‘Here you go, sweetheart.’

  Joyce swallowed the tablets down in one gulp. ‘You’re the sweetheart. Thank you, my dear.’

  One of the ship’s staff, a waitress, sat with her back to the picture windows. The girl looked down at the deck, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room. She wore an apron, the edges of a notebook showing above one of the pockets.

  Nancy went over to her. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’

  The girl looked up, her eyes wide with fear. She studied Nancy’s face for a moment. ‘Sanika, Miss.’

  ‘Sanika. How’s your English?

  ‘Good, Miss. I learned it at school in Burma.’

  ‘I bet you can write it pretty good as well?’

  Sanika gave a shy nod.

  ‘Will you help me with a little job?’ Nancy pointed at the notebook and hoped the girl still had a pen as well. ‘As I go around the passengers, I need you to come with me and note down their medications and cabin numbers. Can you do that for me?’

  The waitress turned and looked at Tamko who sat nearby. The purser gave a nod. Sanika turned back to Nancy and repeated the nod. She climbed to her feet and took out the notebook and a pen.

  ‘I see you are gathering an entourage,’ Scott said.

  ‘She’s noting down everyone’s medications for me.’

  Scott reached up and took her hand. ‘Don’t forget mine, will you.’

  Nancy could feel the tremor in his hand. Her husband’s face had that pleading look of a child in a toy store.

  Hold it together, Scotty. For Christ’s sake.

  ‘I won’t forget your tablets.’

  The grip tightened. ‘Small suitcase. Just inside the door.’

  ‘I know where they are.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  When compared to modern forensic laboratories available in developed countries, the laboratory in Phnom Penh barely rated higher than a high school science classroom. Despite this fact, Klim hovered over the page from the notebook and watched with interest as the technician placed it on the stand of a magnifying projector.

  ‘This is a better method for document examination than fingerprint dusting,’ the lab-coated technician said. ‘The paper is too coarse to show any definitive prints.’

  ‘I’m not really interested in fingerprints.’ Klim didn’t look up from the page as he spoke. ‘This page was under one that was torn off. It probably wasn’t even touched. We think the impression left on it might be a map. Can you see if any particular area on the page has received more attention than anywhere else?’

  ‘I can try.’

  The technician slid the page back and forth on the stand. A magnified image of a small portion of the page was projected onto a screen on the wall. The image was so enlarged the weave in the paper stood out as though it were a piece of Hessian cloth. Ruled lines, only as wide as a hair on the page, were five centimetres wide on the screen.

  ‘I’ll start with the bottom of the peanut shape.’ The technician slid the magnifying head across the stand. Parallel blue lines moved across the screen in a blur then settled into stillness. The weave of paper dropped away into a valley running from top left to bottom right.

  Klim stared at the valley for ten seconds before he realised he was looking at a magnified image of the impression left in the paper. ‘If it is a map of Tonle Sap, what area are we focused on?’

  The technician leant over the stand and squinted against the bright light. ‘South-east end of Tonle Sap where it narrows into the river. North shoreline.’

  ‘Follow it to the north.’

  The image slid across the screen. Klim felt as if he was in a very fast jet, flying above the valley. Suddenly the valley stopped and a new one began, heading in the same direction. Whoever drew the map had lifted the pen momentarily and replaced it not quite in the same place.

  For a full minute the image slid beneath the screen from bottom right to top left and back down again.

  Klim watched, mesmerised, until the technician announced they were back at the start point. He felt the slide of failure in his stomach.

  ‘Find the other shape. If that turns up nothing then search the whole page from edge to edge.’

  The technician grunted and moved the magnifying head to the heart-shape drawn near the centre. Another valley filled the screen and he traced around it, moving counterclockwise.

  This impression appeared much the same as the last, a furrow in the weave of the paper created by the tip of the pen on the page above. At this magnification it was possible to see fibres torn out of position and lying in the bottom of the valley.

  The technician completed a circuit of the shape. ‘Nothing!’

  Klim shook his head in disgust. This page had been in the presence of Malko. The impression left on it from the page above may have been drawn by Malko himself, or if not him, then someone who tried to explain something using a rough sketch. The image was important. He knew it. He just had to figure out why. He wracked his brain and tried to think.

  Is it a map?

  It damn well looks like one. A quick sketch of Tonle Sap and Boeng Tonle Chhma.

  Klim had the tourist brochure Ang had given him as well as a 1:25000 scale map of the region of Tonle Sap. He opened the brochure and looked at the map inside showing the route of the ferry between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap.

  He was missing something. What?

  ‘Can you zoom out? Give me an overview of the whole page?’

  The image shrank down so that the notebook page filled the screen.

  Klim glanced between the image and the map in the brochure.

  The map showed the route the ferry took as a broken line progressing up the river into Tonle Sap and across the lake to Siem Reap in the north. Boeng Tonle Chhma was not marked on the map in the brochure.

  Why?

  Because it’s unimportant. The ferry doesn’t go there.

  Klim was aware of the technician staring at him, waiting for instruction.

  ‘If you were to draw a quick map for someone to explain something or show a rough location, you wouldn’t put anything in it you didn’t need.’

  ‘I guess so.’ The technician sounded as if he was becoming bored with the whole exercise.

  Klim held up the brochure. ‘Boeng Tonle Chhma is not shown on this map because it’s not important to the meaning of the map.’ A grin slipped onto his face as the realisation struck him. ‘The person who drew that map also drew in Boeng Tonle Chhma. Why?’

  The technician straightened as he realised he was being drawn into Klim’s line of thinking. ‘Um… because it was needed to show something?’

  ‘Exactly! What do we know about Boeng Tonle Chhma?’

  ‘My sister-in-law comes from a village near there.’ The technician was now infected by Klim’s excitement. ‘I’ve been there once. It’s mainly swamp. The lake is shown on most maps as having a solid shoreline, but that’s not the case. It’s just an area of open water, but the swamps extend much farther than that. Technically, I guess, Tonle Sap and Boeng Tonle Chhma are really the same lake, two areas of open water divided by swamps and trees. It’s a maze of waterways and islands that only the locals know how to navigate.’

  Klim waved the brochure like a spectator at a ship launch. ‘Zoom back in on the sketch of Boeng Tonle Chhma. Examine the area around the lake. Go out as far as you think is needed to cover the waterways.’

  Once more the image expanded and began sliding around the edge of the impression representing Boeng Tonle Chhma. After completing one circuit, the technician expanded the circle then started again. As the magnifying head moved up the east shore of the lake, blue lines slid past in regular order. The fibres of the paper were uncompressed, perfect. Then something that looked like a crater slid into view.


  ‘What’s that?’

  The technician slid the circular depression into the centre of the screen and zoomed out slightly. It was only a quarter the depth of the impressions created by the drawn lines and would have been impossible to make out with the naked eye. ‘It looks like someone pressed the pen or pencil point onto the page above.’

  ‘Examine that area.’

  Once more the image moved. Almost instantly another circular depression slid into view, then another and another. The technician adjusted the magnification to bring all four circles into view on the screen. ‘It looks as if whoever drew this map tapped the pen against the page in this area several times.’

  ‘What area is it?’

  The image moved, slipped out of focus then sharpened again. ‘The eastern edge of Boeng Tonle Chhma.’

  ‘Can you print out what is on the screen?’

  The technician shook his head. ‘Not with this equipment.’

  Klim spread the topographical map on a workbench, pulled a pen from his pocket and traced a circle in the air above the paper. ‘If those dots were on this map they’d be somewhere in this area, wouldn’t they.’

  The technician leant over Klim’s shoulder. ‘A little farther out from the lake, I would say. There is no scale on the rough map on the notebook page. I’d expand the area a bit just to be sure.’

  Klim drew a circle on the map.

  ‘That would about cover it, I guess.’

  Placing the pen across the circle he’d just drawn, Klim used his fingers to mark the diameter and then slid the pen down to the scale in the bottom right hand corner of the map. It measured fifteen kilometres wide. Quickly, he did a rough calculation in his head and felt his spirits plummet.

  ‘That’s an area of over two hundred square kilometres.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re looking for,’ the technician said. ‘But if it’s hidden in those swamps, it will probably stay hidden.’

  Klim cocked an eyebrow and scowled at the man. He gathered up the maps and notebook page and turned for the door.

  ***

  Ang was in his office. He listened attentively while Klim explained about the dots on the sketch and how it related to the topographical map. Then he picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to the police commander in Kampong Chhnang, the closest town of any note to the area in question. Almost a full minute passed before a voice came on the line.

  ‘Captain Turan.’ A bored tone.

  ‘This is Major Sinh in Phnom Penh.’

  ‘Good morning, Major. What can I do for you?’ The voice perked up a little, but not much.

  ‘What can you tell me about the area to the east of Boeng Tonle Chhma?’

  ‘Swamp, swamp and more swamp. There are a few jungle-clad islands and mountains of sorts. Why?’

  ‘The area was mentioned in an investigation. I wanted to ask someone with a little local knowledge.’

  There was a pause at the other end of the line, then the captain’s voice asked: ‘What sort of investigation?’

  Ang had never heard of Captain Turan in Kampong Chhnang. With corruption running rife through the police force he knew better than to give up too much information. ‘Nothing much. Just some information has come to light about a possible arms cache in the area. Left over from the civil war. Thought we could come and get it before some local finds it.’ It was a believable story. Apart from thousands of landmines, Cambodia was riddled with arms caches left over from the Khmer Rouge revolution.

  ‘Do you have map coordinates?’

  ‘No. Just a rough area.’

  ‘Then forget it. Without a good, reliable grid reference or a set of GPS coordinates it might as well be on the other side of the moon. You’ll never find it in there.’

  Ang ran a hand over his face and wondered how much he could tell this man. ‘Any unusual activity in your area, Captain?’

  ‘Nothing of note. Just a few touts ripping off the tourists. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Call me if anything unusual happens. Anything that might be linked to major crime.’

  ‘What has this got to do with an old arms cache?’

  ‘The source of the information might be linked to a large criminal organisation.’

  ‘I see. If anything crops up I’ll be sure to let you know.’

  Ang disconnected the call.

  ***

  Captain Turan hung up the telephone and stared at the ceiling for a full minute. He fumbled with a set of keys hanging from his police issue belt, found the one he was looking for and used it to unlock the top drawer of his desk.

  Under some carefully placed documents he found a special mobile telephone that he picked up and turned on. When the phone finished its start-up routine, he selected a coded name from the internal directory.

  Turan heard strange whirs and beeps for a few seconds then a ringing tone. The phone answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hello, old friend.’

  ‘Sinh is interested in your area of operation.’

  ‘What kind of interest?’

  ‘Something about an old arms cache. I put him off coming to look for it.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  Turan looked down at his desk blotter. ‘He did ask about any unusual activity in the area.’

  ‘He’s like a hungry dog with a bone. Keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if he sends people to the area.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘The other arrangements?’

  ‘They are all in place.’

  ‘I will be at the fishermen’s wharf at 19:30. Pick me up.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  From the bow of her father’s boat, Soo-Li watched the trees glide past. Behind her, the old motor coughed and wheezed but kept running in an erratic kind of rhythm. Her father had drained the contaminated petrol into plastic jugs and allowed it to settle overnight. That morning the heavier water could be seen in the bottom of the jugs, a thin layer beneath the petrol. He had syphoned off the petrol, hopefully leaving the troublesome water behind. Despite the sickly noises, the engine continued to run and power them deeper into the swamps. By noon they would reach the shores of the Mountain of the Sun.

  Already the day had grown warm and the humidity of the swamps made the breeze created by the boat’s motion very welcome. Soo-Li lifted her face and drew in a lungful of air. Some might find the atmosphere of the swamps a distasteful mix of tepid vapours and rotting vegetation, but Soo-Li savoured the smell of pure nature, untainted by humanity. Trees kept the swamp in deep shadow. Only a mottled, filtered sunlight penetrated the overhead canopy. It was a magical kind of twilight world where she loved to travel.

  Ahead, the vista of water and tree trunks were broken here and there by little islets of mud covered with low, scrubby vegetation. Navigation through this area was always difficult, the boat often grounding in unseen shallows. Her father reduced speed and called forward. ‘Watch our depth, Princess.’

  Soo-Li pulled a bamboo pole from the bottom of the boat and stood in the bow. As the boat neared one of the muddy islets, she dipped the pole into the water. It sank two metres before touching bottom.

  ‘Clear ahead, Father.’

  For an hour they carefully felt their way through the maze of muddy islets. There was a deeper channel to the west, their normal route to the Mountain of the Sun. But the armed men in the boat had spooked them both and the less-travelled waterways of the deeper swamp felt safer. Sometimes, Cambodia’s dark past was not so distant.

  ***

  Todd McLean hauled himself out of the water and onto the muddy bank of a small island. He lay panting for a few minutes then rolled onto his back. Mud caked him from head to foot and he felt things moving against his skin.

  Sitting up, he looked down at his legs to see thirty or more leeches clinging to his skin.

  ‘Hey! I need that blood.’

  He found a half-rotted stick and pried at one of the leeches, but only suc
ceeded in bursting a bright scarlet star of blood. The leech’s head remained to continue its grisly work.

  Todd dropped the stick, tilted his head back and tried to forget the leeches for the time being. The sun stood high above. Close to midday.

  What time did he leave the Mekong Dawn?

  They had been preparing for breakfast when the gunmen came. Maybe a little after 6.00am. He and the other boys had made their escape attempt about an hour later. He had been swimming through the swamp for over four hours. After escaping from the gunmen in the speedboat he had maintained a northerly course, easy at the start with the sun low in the eastern sky. As long as he kept the sun on his right he was heading north. Now, with the sun directly overhead, it was far too difficult to maintain a sense of direction.

  He looked about at the water and the trees. The shadowy twilight world of the swamp was the same in every direction. It was impossible to tell north from south, east from west. He might spend the next few hours going in circles, exhausting himself further without making any progress. Better to wait here and rest up until the sun was low enough to gauge direction.

  His mind made up, he edged towards one of the low bushes, but something stopped him. There was a change in the swamp, something beyond the sounds of insects and birds. Todd tilted his head to one side and listened.

  Beyond the buzz and whine of insects another noise was just audible. An intermittent rumble and pop grew louder, but still too far away for him to distinguish a direction.

  A motor.

  Somewhere out there in the swamp a boat was approaching his little islet.

  Todd shimmied along on his backside and crawled under the thickest bush he could find. Was this the hijackers come looking for him? The noise came from a motor that was barely running. This wasn’t the same high-powered boat that had chased him after his escape.

  He lay and waited, trying to make himself as small as possible in the limited space of the bushes. A small open boat appeared out of the shadows on his right, moving at a tangent that would bring it past Todd’s islet at a distance of about thirty metres. The boat was made of planks of unpainted wood. A man sat at the rear, steering the boat by swivelling a small engine on a mount. A young girl crouched in the bow and was using a length of bamboo to sound their way through the group of islets.

  Todd’s mind was torn between two courses of action. He could jump to his feet, wave his arms and shout. The man and girl would see him and maybe stop and pick him up. They might take him to the local authorities. But what if they were in the employ of the hijackers? Sympathetic locals paid to be on the lookout for a foreigner swimming through the swamps?