‘Bangkok?’
‘Ja, Bangkok.’
‘One more thing,’ said Hatcher. ‘Does Thai Horse mean anything to you?’
Cohen was surprised at the mention of his statue. The Dutchman too looked surprised.
‘Vere did you hear about Thai Horse?’
Hatcher’s heart jumped. Cohen seemed even more bemused.
‘Around. Does it mean anything?’ Hatcher urged.
‘Rumors.’
‘What are they?’ Hatcher asked eagerly.
‘Only dat dere is a heroin-smuggling outfit in Bangkok called Thai Horse. Very dangerous bunch, not to mess vit dem. Dat’s all. Booze talk, I tink.’
Cohen tried to hide his obvious surprise. Hatcher hesitated. The more he dug, the worse it looked for Cody. How much did the Dutchman know?
‘You don’t believe it, then?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice from showing any emotion.
‘I believe only vat I can see and touch,’ said the Dutchman.
‘But it’s possible?’ Hatcher pressed on.
‘Veil, as you know, in Bangkok everyting is possible,’ the Dutchman said with a wave of his hand.
The Dutchman was looking downriver, toward the barge. Hatcher ignored it. He needed one more answer. But before he could ask it, the Dutchman’s face drained of color. His eyes bulged.
Hatcher turned and looked. The barge was halfway around the bend. Standing on the front of the boat was Sam-Sam Sam. Hatcher felt a momentary jolt, a combination of fear and surprise — he had expected them to come the other way. Now Sam-Sam was between them and the Cigarette boat. They were cut off, and there were at least twenty men and women on the barge.
In the bar, Leatherneck John said, ‘Jesus, the shit just hit the fan.’
‘It’s Sam-Sam,’ the Dutchman whispered to Hatcher with awe. ‘Get out uf here, man! I don’t even know you.’
Hatcher grabbed his jacket in a tight fist. His tormented voice left little room for argument.
‘Have you seen him there? The warden?’
‘He has been seen,’ the Dutchman quickly stammered. ‘He does some business over dere now. He is passing himself off as a Thai.’
‘A Thai? You know what he calls himself?’
‘Vol Pot,’ cried the Dutchman, squirming out of Hatcher’s grasp. ‘He calls himself Vol Pot.’
THE BEST DEFENSE
With the information that Wol Pot had once been the warden of the Huie-kui camp, Hatcher’s heart was racing as he rushed down the pier to the snakeboat. Cohen was watching Sam-Sam’s barge through binoculars.
‘I don’t think he knows we’re here yet,’ Cohen said. He lowered the glasses and looked at Hatcher. ‘Maybe we ought to run for it, back to the Cigarette boat.’
Hatcher took the glasses and studied the barge. ‘He’ll cut us off once he recognizes me. “Why don’t you people take the snakeboat and I’ll go overland, back to the cutoff and meet you there.’
‘No!’ said Daphne. ‘We came together, we’ll leave together.’
‘This is no time for heroics,’ Hatcher whispered, still watching the barge.
‘She’s right,’ Cohen said.
‘Look, I’m the only one he wants. The
As they watched through their binocu1ars, Sam-Sam Sam strolled the deck and stretched. One of the women came out of the cabin. She was still getting dressed and was as ugly as Sam-Sam.
‘See him?’ Cohen asked, without lowering his binoculars.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Had himself a little matinee,’ said Cohen. ‘Phew, look at that woman, she’d gag a maggot.’
‘This isn’t the Miss Universe contest,’ said Hatcher.
‘More like Miss Mud Fence of 1912,’ Cohen said, swinging his glasses around and checking out the rest of the barge.
As Hatcher watched, another man joined Sam-Sam, a swarthy olive-hued man wearing a white cotton shirt open to the waist. Two gun belts crisscrossed his chest from shoulder to waist and an M-16 rested casually across his shoulders. There was a pistol in his belt and a machete. The three men stood on the foredeck of the barge,
