Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater Read Free Book Online

him as if they were secret co-conspirators and whispered in a hoarse tone, “Kep was made for people like us. Nice beach town, built by the French, who are long gone, thank fuck. It’s a bit shambolic down there, but things are getting better. Haven’t you heard? Cambodia’s booming. Now’s a great time to get your investments in, mate.”
    The old man had got up. Pete threw him a few clunky chunks of Khmer. The son had also stood up, showing off the pistol in the belt of his low-slung ghetto pants. The older man bowed slightly.
    â€œMy name is Tep. I am number one in Kep. My friends call me Tep.”
    Maier couldn’t imagine that this man had friends. The handshake was soft and moist, like creeping death. Did number one expect a round of laughs? Maier extrapolated a little – the man had Khmer Rouge and genocide written all over his face. The old comrades from the politburo, those who had survived the vagaries of history, had become investors. The price of peace.
    The younger man with the gun did not introduce himself, but that was OK.
    For a long moment, Tep smiled silently at Maier. The sonic sins of a Britney Spears song hung suspended between the two men, creating a strange, trivial backdrop to the encounter. What was a man like that doing in a place like this? Tep should have died in the jungle a long time ago.
    â€œI run a few businesses in Kep. I can help you if you need anything in Kep. Come to visit on my island. And bring your girlfriend.”
    The old man’s English was simple and barely understandable. Carissa pulled at Maier’s sleeve, as the detective tried to look as uninformed as possible.
    â€œBeer?”
    Pete had already ordered five cans of Angkor Beer and banged them on the table. Tep sat back down, a shadow of irritation shooting across his face, and turned to Carissa. The Antipodean journalist was waiting for him.
    â€œAren’t you a former Khmer Rouge general? And aren’t you the guy who blew up the Hotel International in Sihanoukville? Perhaps you remember: a tourist from New Zealand died in that attack, General Tep?”
    For a split second, the old man’s eyes burst into flames. Pete laughed nervously, “Wow, Carissa, babe, Carissa, we aren’t here to reheat old rumours, are we? It’s great to see you, babe.”
    Pete, Maier decided, was capable of balancing a tray full of landmines, which was just as well in this place, at this moment.
    A young Khmer with a skinhead, dressed in an immaculate white silk suit, dead drunk and sporting a slight similarity to the bust of the god-king, had pulled his gun at the next table. A flat-footed tourist had just stepped on his brand-new, imported Nikes. Enraged the young Khmer had spilt his beer onto a row of green pills he’d lined up on the table in front of him, which he now tried to rescue from the ash-sodden slop directly into his mouth. The hapless tourist had already disappeared into the throng.
    There’ll be trouble in a minute, was the only thing that came to Maier’s mind.
    The bald playboy swallowed his last pills and got up to scan the crowd for a likely scapegoat who was going to pay, one way or another, for someone else’s clumsiness. Someone would have to pay. With a theatrical gesture he whipped his gun from his belt and waved it around the room.
    Sometimes things happened quickly. The skinhead climbed onto his chair and began to scream hysterically. Tep nodded to his son and turned to Maier, “Don’t make any problems in Kep. Investors are welcome, snoops and stupid people are not. You see.”
    The first shot, the one to drive up the courage, went straight into the ceiling. The Heart stopped in its tracks. The DJ cut the music. The house-lights flashed on, illuminating a few hundred twisted, strung-out faces in mid-flight. Carissa grabbed for Maier’s shoulder and pulled him to the sticky ground. Pete had already vanished. Punters rushed for