Weaponized (17 page)

P
ang is one pissed-off translator. He holds a pack of frozen vegetables—broccoli, to be exact—against his steadily swelling cheek and lips. Occasionally, he removes the frozen food from his face and shoots Fowler a withering look complete with some lip-smacking to reinforce his already evident displeasure.

Fowler sits across the desk from Pang. He’s not in a much better mood than Pang, but at least he’s getting to talk to the two girls—Pink Hair and her partner in crime Red Hair—and they remember Robinson. The girls speak simultaneously in overlapping sentences—like a Cambodian Robert Altman movie—and then Pang translates the Khmer for Fowler.

Fowler can’t help but be distracted by their appearance. Pink Hair wears a silvery, spangled bikini that resembles Christmas tinsel and is held together with a few gold rings. Red Hair wears a structurally similar two-piece but in gold and with one breast that refuses to stay housed. Every time she bends over to scratch a series of mosquito bites on her ankle, Fowler gets a glimpse of her pierced nipple.

Fowler’s never interrogated a woman who is basically naked, much less two of them. When he first arrived in Southeast Asia years ago, as a kid, he was under the impression that the people—especially the women—were liberated and laid-back when it came to their bodies and nudity. Flesh was another fact of life; sex was just something you did. It didn’t come wrapped up with oppressive feelings of sin and guilt, like back home.

When he came back to Cambodia a few years ago, past his sexual prime, he realized the nudity here was something far sadder and insidious than he’d thought. Some of these girls working at Pang’s have been part of the sex trade since they were eleven or twelve, some even before they got their first periods. Walking around half naked is habit for them. It’s what they do at work. It’s not comfort in their own bodies; it’s forgetting they own their bodies. Point of fact, there’s nothing particularly embodied about Pink Hair and Red Hair at all—they are ghosts to themselves.

“Mr. Robinson,” Pang says, “apparently was quite memorable. He came into the club, had a few drinks, and then started a gambling binge. He played for hours, winning and losing huge sums. Tens of thousands. Betting however the mood struck him. He wasn’t there to win. He said to the girls…hold on…”

Pang consults with them.

“He said when he gambled, he played against God. Not the dealer or other players. He said some people say God doesn’t play dice, but his God
does.
He said on that night, he had gotten the better of God, but it didn’t always go that way. The girls liked that. Liked his attitude.” Pang raises an eyebrow. “They liked
him
very much.”

Fowler’s taken aback. “How do they know so much about him?”

“Mr. Robinson spoke Khmer,” Pang says. “Spoke it quite well.”

Christ,
Fowler thinks.
Who the hell is this guy?
“When did Robinson start talking to the girls?”

Pang asks. “He didn’t. The girls came up to him because he was winning huge sums. The three of them hit it off. Robinson would let the girls play hands for him while he disappeared and made phone calls. He let the girls keep the money they won playing for him. After he had enough of gambling, he asked the girls to come back to his hotel. Both of them. They accepted.”

Fowler crosses his legs, leans in. “Didn’t he cash in his chips?”

Pang consults with his girls again. “No,” he says to Fowler. “He just wanted to play. He didn’t care about the money. He just liked the game.”

Fowler watches Pink Hair. She’s so thin that her tattoos move with her bones, so thin you can watch her breath start in her lower abdomen and make its way to her mouth.

“Where was the hotel?”

The girls give Fowler the address and room number, and it’s the same place he found Robinson. He bites his lip to avoid a smile, knows he’s getting closer. “What happened at his hotel?”

The girls talk for a while as Pang nods, letting them go on. “Robinson wanted to be dominated and to watch the girls. He wanted to be tied up. He wanted to be whipped…hit. He wanted to be made love to with a tightening belt around his neck. He liked to watch the two girls, put them in exact positions. He was very
exact.
” Pang shoots Fowler an evil eye. They are never going to get along. “The three of them stayed up all night and most of the next day, coking and fucking. They said he was inhuman. He never got off himself, and seemed to have no interest in it. He just wanted to keep going.”

Fowler pulls out a pen. Writes down two notes on a pad.
Control freak. Likes to stage-manage.

“Mr. Robinson told them how much he loved it in Southeast Asia. Said he felt at home here,” Pang says.

Fowler takes more notes. “Did he mention to them where he was from?”

Pang asks; the girls answer. “No. They think he was either an American who spent a long time abroad or a European who worked in America. There was something about the way he talked…they couldn’t place it.”

Fowler puts down the pen. “Were the girls scared of him?”

“No. They liked him,” Pang says. “They said he wasn’t like most tourists or politicians here. He was actually having fun. He was interested in pleasure. They hope he comes back soon.”

Fowler smiles, nods to the girls, and uses the only Khmer he knows. Thank you so much, he tells them. You have been most helpful.

T
he two girls leave the room in a cloud of body glitter and the smell of stale champagne.

Fowler watches them go, then turns to Pang. “All right. On your feet. You’re coming to jail.”

“You’re arresting me?”

Fowler nods several times in quick succession. “You bet.”

“Mr. Fowler. Why must we keep doing this? You know I won’t be in jail for more than ten minutes before someone lets me out.”

“One: I don’t think so. You shot at a CIA agent. Even Hun Sen might agree you need to do a little time for that. And two: If they do let you out in ten minutes, I’ll just follow you day and night until you do something else I can pick you up for. Even if you only stay in jail for ten minutes, it’ll sure make me feel better. Besides, I’m really not that busy. I’ve got time to make your life hell.”

Pang seems entirely shocked. “Did I really upset you this much, Mr. Fowler?”

“You
shot at me,
Pang.”

“But I fully intended to miss.”

Fowler motions him up with his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Really?”

“What part of ‘I’m incredibly pissed off at you’ don’t you fucking get?”

“I see,” Pang says. “I see.”

“Glad we agree. Now up.”

Pang stands. “Mr. Fowler, I could be of considerably more help to you.”

“Not interested.”

“Don’t be coy. Of course you are.”

Fowler knows this game, knows he has to play it carefully. Pang’s played it longer and better. Fowler knows from experience
this
is the moment all interrogations work toward, the moment when you and your prey have to take a leap of faith together and believe in each other.

It’s like falling in love with attached electrodes.

“If I tell you what I know, then we forget this whole situation.”

“Depends on how good it is,” Fowler says.

“It’s very good,” Pang says.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You must promise if I talk, you won’t arrest me.”

“You shot at me.”

“Mr. Fowler. Do you think I would have shot at you if I didn’t have a backup plan in case it didn’t work? I’m no fool. I don’t go around shooting at the CIA. I’d have preferred not to talk to you, but if I had to, I knew I could get you to forget a few friendly shots.”

Checkmate,
Fowler thinks. “All right,” Fowler says. “I’ll bite. God knows I’ll probably get another crack at you soon enough.”

“You say you are hunting Robinson,” Pang says. “However, the man in the picture you showed me…that man is not Robinson.”

Fowler sits down. “Okay…”

Pang sits down too. Things are cordial again. “I lied to you. I did meet Robinson when he came in here.”

Fowler pulls out a cigarette, doesn’t bother hiding his sarcasm behind a plume of smoke, “Shocking, Pang. Shocking.”

Pang ignores him. “However, I have also met the man in that picture, and they are two completely different people.”

“Pang, if you are fucking with me, I swear…”

“The man in your picture is not the man who was in my casino two days ago. The man
you’re
calling Robinson I met six months ago. He said his name was Andrew. I assume it’s an alias, but Andrew is what he called himself when he came in here.”

“What’d you meet Andrew about?”

“Documents. He wanted documents.”

“And…”

“I told him I didn’t deal in them.”

“Okay,” Fowler says. “But you referred him somewhere, right?”

“No. Andrew said I’d been recommended highly—”

“He mention who recommended you?”

“No,” Pang says. “Can I finish?”

Fowler holds up his hands, a half-assed apology. “Go ’head.”

“He said I’d been recommended highly and he’d wait to see if I could come up with something.”

“And you didn’t come up with something?”

“No.”

“Did Andrew leave you a way to contact him in case you
were
able to come up with something?”

“He doesn’t use phones,” Pang says. “He left me an address where I could get a message to him.”

“Okay,” Fowler says. “And you’re gonna give that to me, right?”

“Of course.” Pang starts to scroll through his BlackBerry.

“Is that normal procedure? People not leaving numbers?”

“Yes,” Pang says. “People change numbers here daily. Nothing about the address option struck me as odd.”

“What was your impression of Andrew?”

Pang keeps working through his endless list of contacts. “Friendly enough. He definitely didn’t want to hang around and talk. Had no interest in the girls, unlike our other friend.”

“And the other Robinson, the one who came into your casino, how much time you spend with him?”

“Very little. He was on a streak. I came out to offer him drinks on the house.”

“What was he like?”

“Lovely. A man very comfortable with his desires,” Pang says. “You know how it is, Mr. Fowler. If someone’s up, you keep him around as long as it takes to get the money back. No house wants to part with that amount in cash.” Pang pulls out a sheet of monogrammed paper and scribbles down an address. “You’ll find a way to reach Andrew there.”

Fowler pockets the address. “I’m coming back if he’s not there.”

“Yes.” Pang sighs. “I’m aware you are.”

L
ara’s car passes through a cloud of colored incense marking a Buddhist holiday. Wipers wash away the purple fog. They’ve been driving toward Preah Vihear, on the Thai-Cambodian border.

Kyle sits with his head tilted, near catatonic, trying to keep his brain from pouring out his nose.

Lara lights a cigarette, whispers, “You’ve got to hold it together.”

“I am.”

“You haven’t spoken since we left.”

“Neither have you,” Kyle points out.

She doesn’t respond.

Kyle sits up, drums his fingers against the dashboard.

“Take the wheel for a sec,” Lara says to Kyle.

Lara gets involved in a series of text messages, gets frustrated, starts muttering.

“The Chinese are all over my associates,” she says, pointing to her phone. “Guy named Dean just got in touch. He’s a business friend of Robinson’s. Said he was followed all day and then interrogated by a branch of the Chinese secret service.” She drags on the cigarette. “Last night I asked a girlfriend to check on my place.”

“Where’s home?”

“Berlin. Someone wrecked it from top to bottom.”

She hands Kyle her iPhone. He looks at the photos of what’s left of her apartment. Someone cleared off the photos and pictures and took a sledgehammer to the walls. All the furniture has been sliced open and the stuffing dumped out. Food and papers lie haphazardly on the floor.

“They took my computer too,” she says.

“Sorry.” He hands her the phone. “Sorry that happened.”

“Honestly,” she says, “I always kind of hated the place. Robinson bought it for me. It’s his taste. Not mine. When he gets me a gift, it’s never anything I want or like. He thinks he knows better.”

She stops short to let a dozen cows pass. They stare at her with empty moon eyes. Kyle looks to the side of the road, spots a python that’s just eaten. The face is smug, satiated. Kyle watches the slow pilgrim’s progress of dinner through the swollen scales.

Lara honks the horn, throws up her hands. The cows don’t care; the snake snaps its head, its digestion disturbed.

She goes around the cows, and they drive through unvarnished rural poverty. Starving wild dogs living under shacks and terrorizing the inhabitants. A family sleeping in a hammock, limbs peeking through the netting, a treasure dredged from the sea. Busted barbed fencing, a thatched roof on fire from the drought, an unbroken field of baked dirt and banyan trees.

Then the radio dies without warning. No stations. No static. No signal.

“Where’d it go?” Kyle asks. He pulls out his BlackBerry. Frozen. Someone’s jamming the area’s frequency. He puts his head back and closes his eyes. “Fantastic.”

Lara slows down.

There are two armored Maybach 62s blocking the road, all four corners of each car guarded by men with guns.

Kyle sits up and takes notice. “Shit,” he mutters. “Shit. Is this normal?”

“What’s normal these days, Kyle?”

One of the guards walks to the middle of the road and holds his hand up for Lara to stop. He’s flanked by two comrades, both of whom slide H & Ks off their shoulders and aim directly at the car. They all sport the same outfit, triplets of the security-rental generation. Flesh-tone wireless earpieces. White shirts, no ties, buttons undone enough to show off seriously worked-out chests. Their matching black suits are standard issue straight out of Medellín—bulletproof.

Lara rolls the car to a stop. “Looks like we’re on.”