Impact

trouser button.

A deep boom rumbled across the valley and echoed among the hills. Six and Tuk seemed to freeze.

'Oops,' said Ford.

Six sheathed the knife and exchanged a rapid glance with Tuk. The tall man, with no sense of hurry, strolled out of the room toward the front of the house. A moment later he returned and nodded to Six. The Cambodian barked an order at the soldiers, who untied Ford from the chair, gave him a rag to mop his cuts, and led him back through the house and onto the verandah. A crooked, snakelike cloud of smoke and dust was just dissipating over the summit of a nearby hill.

'Wrong hill,' said Six, parsing the cloud and sky with his binoculars.

Ford shrugged. 'Those hills all look alike.'

'I not see drone.'

'Of course you don't see it.'

Ford noted that Six, who up until now had appeared impervious to the heat, was badly sweating.

Ford said, 'You now have sixty minutes before this camp is destroyed and all of you hunted down and shot like dogs. You better make up your mind soon.'

Six stared at him, his small black eyes tight and hard. 'How I get this million dollar money?'

'Get my backpack.'

Six yelled an order and a soldier disappeared, returning with Ford's pack, which had been taken from him on his capture.

'Give it to me,' Ford said.

Ford took the pack and removed an envelope. It had already been torn open and examined. He handed it to Six.

'What this?'

'That's the letterhead of Atlantic Vermogensverwaltungsbank, in Switzerland. It contains a numbered back account and authorization code. Please note the amount on deposit: one-point-two million Swiss francs, or about one million dollars. With that money, you'll be able to settle down somewhere, safe from harm, and live the rest of your days in comfort and ease, surrounded by your children and grandchildren.'

Six removed a linen cloth from a pocket and slowly passed it across his brow.

'All you have to do,' Ford said, 'is present this letter and the code to collect your money. The bearer of the letter and code gets the money--do you understand? Whoever it is. But there's a catch.'

'Yes?'

'If I don't show up in Siem Reap within forty-eight hours and report in, the money vanishes from the account.'

Six mopped his brow again. Ford glanced at Tuk. He wasn't sweating; he was frowning and staring at the spindly cloud disappearing in the sky above the hill.

Tuk spoke: 'That was a small missile. I think maybe we should send a man up the hill to check it out.' He turned to Ford and smiled broadly.

Ford checked his watch. 'Be my guest. You've got fifty minutes left.'

Tuk regarded him through the slits of his eyes. 'That's enough time.' He turned and said something to Six in dialect, who gave orders in dialect to one of the soldiers, a small, wiry boy of no more than eighteen. The boy put down his gun, took off his ammo belt, and stripped down to black pajama pants and a loose shirt. Six pulled a 9mm out of his belt, checked the magazine, and gave it to the boy, along with a walkie-talkie. The boy disappeared like a flash into the jungle.

'He will reach the hill in fifteen minutes,' said Tuk. 'And then we will see if that was a missile strike--or a fake.' He smiled and stared at Ford, his eyes opening all the way for the first time, giving him a comic, surprised look that was even more creepy.

They waited. Outwardly Ford remained calm. Khon, apparently, had not had time to reach the double-topped hill. And it seemed he hadn't been able to lay his hand on much explosives--it had been a rather anemic explosion.

The tension on the verandah increased.

'Ten minutes,' said Tuk, with another rotten smile.

The shoulders shifted uneasily. Six sweated. He read through the letter again, folded it up, put it in the envelope, and slipped it inside his shirt.

'Five minutes,' said Tuk.

Another boom echoed across the valley and a fiery cloud rose above the jungle trees, billowing upward. Six fumbled a walkie-talkie off his belt and yelled into it, trying to make contact with the soldier. Nothing but static. He tossed it aside and scanned the empty sky with his binoculars. 'I not see drone!' he screamed.

Ford kept his attention on Tuk. The old man had shifted his attention from the hill to Ford and was staring at him with canny brown eyes. A long, hard stare.

'Whoever presents the letter, you or your proxy,' Ford repeated slowly, 'gets the money.' He looked at Tuk as he said this, and saw understanding in the man's wickedly intelligent eyes.

With a single smooth motion, Tuk removed a 9mm pistol from his belt, aimed it at Six's head, and fired. The white-haired man's head jerked to one side, his face a mask of pure astonishment, his brains splattering loudly across the verandah floor. He crumpled with a soft flop and lay still, his eyes remaining wide open.

The soldiers jumped as if shot themselves, swinging their weapons wildly around toward Tuk, their eyes bugging out.

Speaking calmly in Khmer, Tuk said, 'I am in charge now. You work for me. Do you understand? Each of you gets a bonus of one hundred American dollars for your cooperation, payable right now.'

A moment of confusion and it was over. Each soldier pressed his hands together and bowed toward Tuk.

The tall Cambodian bent down and neatly slid the letter from Six's jacket pocket, rescuing it just before the soaking puddle of blood overran the floor. He slipped it into his pocket and turned to Ford with a faint smile. 'What now?'

'Order your soldiers to clear the camp. Of everyone: guards, prisoners, miners. If the CIA finds itself bombing workers remaining in the camp you won't get your money. The bombs will begin dropping in . . .' he checked his watch, 'thirty minutes.'

Quietly, Tuk went into the house and a minute later returned carrying a bundle of twenties wrapped in plastic. He counted out five twenties for each soldier, then gave each one an extra twenty and told them to clear the camp and drive everyone into the jungle--the Americans would begin bombing in thirty minutes.

As they ran down the trail, firing their weapons into the air, Tuk held out his hand to Ford. 'I always liked doing business with the Americans,' he said, with a faint smile.

Ford managed, with some effort, to smile in return.

27

Abbey stared at the green sweep of the radar scope as the Marea chugged along in the heavy fog at five knots, condensation streaming off the windows of the pilothouse.

'My poor aching head,' said Jackie. 'Don't make me do this.'

'We're almost there.'

'You're a regular Bligh.' Jackie popped the top off a Tylenol bottle and shook out two pills, then cracked a