disc copy of the audio feed from Ich, and headed for Worldwide Translation Services. Translating the feed was their next best bet because things at the Fortune Happy Restaurant weren’t going so well.
Annie Ting wasn’t saying anything, and neither were any of the people who worked there. Striker had expected as much. He lodged everyone in jail while Ident processed the scene.
It was the best strategy possible. Sometimes a few hours in jail made people talk. And when it didn’t, some hard forensic evidence often did the trick. Regardless, they were stuck in another waiting game, and that was a game Striker didn’t want to play.
They reached the corner of Grant and Commercial, where Worldwide Translation Services was located. It was a place Striker was familiar with, having been here a dozen or so times over the years, when the clumsy and inadequate translation people of the police departments failed them — which was too damn often.
Striker sat in the waiting room, the latest disturbing events circulating in his head. He turned to Felicia. ‘You call the hospital again?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, no change with Patricia Kwan. Dr Aussie’s gonna call us back when he has any information.’ She pulled a Caramilk bar from her jacket pocket.
Striker stared at the chocolate bar. ‘Jesus, do you eat anything else?’
‘Yeah, Snickers.’ She broke off a piece and dropped it in his hand. ‘Have some. If things keep going the way they are now, it might be the only nourishment you’re going to get today. Besides,’ she smiled wryly. ‘I’ve kept it close to my heart for you.’
Striker smiled back at the comment, and popped a Caramilk square into his mouth. He wasn’t the chocolate fiend Felicia was, but it was the only thing he’d eaten today since whatever it was he’d had for breakfast. He let the chocolate melt in his mouth and scratched at his face. He hadn’t shaved for two days now and the growth was bugging him. He let out a frustrated sound and muttered, ‘Any news on the Amber Alert?’
‘No, the Kwan girl is still missing. But we’ve called every relative she’s got, and have every jurisdiction looking for her.’
‘We find a cell number for her?’
Felicia made a face. ‘She’s on a prepaid and it’s run out. Found the phone in her bedroom.’
Striker said nothing, just groaned.
‘Relax, Jacob. This is what kills you — stressing about what you can’t control. We’re here to translate the disc. Focus on that until we can do better.’ She offered him another piece of chocolate. When he declined, she grinned. ‘It’s a substitute for sex, you know.’
‘If I used it for that, I’d be three hundred pounds.’
Magui Yagata opened the office door and entered the waiting room. Striker looked her over: she was in her late fifties, and the lines around her eyes and lips showed it. She was a hard-looking woman, and her mannerisms were no different. Before Striker could even say hi, she reached out and grabbed the disc from his hands.
‘Blu-ray, huh?’ She snorted. ‘You’re a lucky man, we just got a new reader for this type of media; some asshole broke the last one.’
‘Nice to see you too, Magui. How’s life treating you?’
‘Like a used condom. Follow me, both of you.’
Magui turned and left the room, expecting them to follow. Felicia gave Striker a look as if to say, What’s up her ass? and he just shrugged.
That was Magui for you.
They followed her into the adjoining room. It was another featureless office — tables, chairs, a video unit. Striker and Felicia took a seat at the table and waited as Magui looked at her watch and frowned, as if she had other pressing matters to attend to, matters much more important than this one. She turned on the television, loaded the disc, hit play.
And all at once, Striker was watching the shooting again.
What struck him as odd this time was his own reaction — it was no different from any of the other times he’d seen the footage. By now, after seeing it so many times, he’d expected its impact to have lessened, at least a little.
But no, it was just as devastating.
When the video was finally over, he unclenched his fingers and looked at Magui. The scorn on her face had been wiped away, but it was not replaced by shock or pity or even terror. A look of dark intrigue covered her face, ugly as a birthmark. Without saying a word, she got up and fiddled with the Blu-ray player.
Felicia leaned into him and whispered, ‘This bitch gives me the creeps.’
Striker nodded. ‘Maybe so, but we need her — she speaks eleven languages, for Christ’s sake.’ He looked back at Magui, and got down to business.
‘Can you tell me what they’re saying, or not?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be absurd. Of course I can.’ Magui reset the disc and replayed the feed. When they reached the point where the gunmen came face to face, just prior to dragging out and killing the boy dressed as the Joker, they began to talk. Magui translated.
‘Target One and Target Two eliminated. Target Four not located.’
Striker listened to the words. ‘ Target?’
‘This is the most correct translation.’
Striker retreated into himself, let the words sink in. Target. The word disturbed him, not because of the meaning, but because of the context; it had been used with purpose, instead of ‘she’ or ‘he’ or any real names. There was only one reason to do this, and that was to dehumanize the victims and desensitise the gunmen. Even worse, it wasn’t the language of some socio-pathic students or crazed murderers. It was the language of mercenaries. Soldiers of Fortune. Pros.
It was goddam military speak.
Striker looked at Felicia, who had stopped eating her Caramilk bar. She caught his stare, bit her lip.
‘This is not good,’ she said.
‘Couldn’t be much worse.’
Magui spoke loudly, cutting them both off. ‘The greater concern,’ she said, ‘is not what they are saying, but how they are saying it.’ When Striker didn’t respond and just waited for more information, she continued: ‘They’re speaking Khmer.’
Felicia shrugged. ‘Which is?’
‘Well, essentially, it’s Cambodian. But the words are more clipped and more formal than that of the modern- day society. Which would suggest that these two men grew up in the seventies — a very bad time for that country. Mass murder. A full-out genocide.’ She sat down in one of the office chairs, swivelled to face them. ‘You ever hear of the Killing Fields?’
Striker nodded. ‘You’re talking about Pol Pot’s regime.’
‘That is exactly what I mean.’ She gestured towards the two masked gunmen on the feed. ‘You may well have uncovered someone who was a part of that regime — or even worse, a survivor of it.’
Felicia, who had remained patiently holding her tongue, finally leaned closer to Striker and spoke up. ‘Okay, forgive my ignorance here and fill me in — who the hell is Pol Pot?’
Striker looked at her like she was crazy. ‘He was a dictator, Felicia. One of the worst the world has ever seen. Killed three million people.’ Striker gave a deep sigh then continued, ‘Pol Pot turned children into soldiers. Made them kill their parents. Ordinary women and children were starved and raped and tortured into giving false confessions. Almost a quarter of Cambodia’s entire population died because of his regime.’
Striker looked back at the image of Red Mask displayed on the monitor and recalled the eyes of the gunman. So dark. So cold. So dead. When he saw the morbid curiosity in Felicia’s eyes, he didn’t want to say the words, as if speaking them might make it true.
But she had to know it.
‘We’re talking about the Khmer Rouge.’
Sixty-Seven
