Hard In Cambodia

By James Sarver

Something strange is going on at Angkor Wat. CIA Agent Edward Davids is sent to find out what. He discovers an outrageous plot to commit one of history's greatest crimes, and along the way meets a beautiful woman, evades multiple attempts on his life, drives a tuk-tuk, and stops everything at 2 p.m. for the afternoon rain. Lovely, deadly, tragic, brilliant -- Davids finds that when it comes to murder, blackmail, corruption, and theft, nothing is easy. Everything's hard in Cambodia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781678112035

Book preview

2

Eighty-seven years later — or so it felt — my plane touched down, bounced up, and low-rider-ed to a landing at Siem Reap International Airport. The time was 1:17 p.m. I can never sleep on planes, but somewhere over Bangladesh I’d finally succumbed and lapsed into a fitful slumber that lasted until turbulence from the mountains of Thailand rocked me right back into crotchety consciousness. The woman next to me, apparently mistaking me for a St. Christopher’s medal, had gripped my hand like a helicopter mom at a pedophile convention. She’d never flown before, she explained, but her lifelong dream had been to see Angkor Wat, and now that she’d separated from her husband she had the time and money to do so. She apologized after, as I wrapped a Qantas napkin around my palm to staunch the blood her wedding ring had drawn.

The heat, when they opened the main cabin door, shot through the plane like a current. And down my throat like a drain snake. I fought to catch my breath, swallowing big mouthfuls of wet, sticky air — Bombay had been bad, but that was kindergarten, this was postgrad. I hadn’t known air molecules could get that hot without combusting, or that wet without congealing into cloudburst. Already my underarms threatened to overflow their banks.

I pulled down my carry-on, waited for the line in front of me to file out — Carter refused to indulge my cover story of Businessman who should be flying Business Class — and stepped out into the stifling Cambodian day. Above, the sky was marble-blue, with white wisps on the horizon. Over the powering-down of the plane’s engines, jungle sounds chirped and bayed and clacked. The plane hadn’t taxied to the terminal, but parked not far away, and they’d run out a staircar. In front of us, Siem Reap International Airport sat low and flat, huddled against the earth to keep cool.

Welcome to Cambodia, I thought, sucking in oxygen that had heft and tang. I smacked my lips and freestyled over to the terminal.

*      *      *

The clerk at the Immigration counter was short, with close-cropped hair and tiny little spectacles that must have been prescribed for the pupil, but not the iris. The wait hadn’t been long, as these guys had been dealing with the tourist trade for decades and had it down to, if not a science, at least a working hypothesis. The group I’d come in with was, so far as my experienced eyes could tell, every last one of them a tourist. Which meant every last one of them was probably no more a tourist than I was.

Welcome to Siem Reap, sir, said the clerk. His voice was pleasant, if perfunctory.

Thanks, I said, handing over my passport and the fifty-dollar bill for the visa.

He held up the passport, checked the photo to be sure I was me — I didn’t blame him, as in the original I’d been wearing tinsel for a tiara and two ornaments as earrings; from my cursory inspection of the photo Langley seemed to have done its airbrushing job well, but my eyes, like the rest of me, were past their prime — then he smiled a smile that told me I was in trouble and said, A few questions, if you please?

If we must, I said, warily.

Name?

My face scrunched up like I’d smelled something I shouldn’t have. Isn’t it on the passport?

This will go very much faster if you simply answer the questions, he said, still smiling.

I gave him a look that said, It’d go even faster if we dispensed with the questions. Davids, I answered. Edward Davids. Pointedly: Edward Allan Davids.

That, said the clerk, is a very distinguished name. A name for a poet, or a philosopher.

Or a car salesman from Arlington.

That is your place of residence?

Yes. Arlington, Virginia. United States. I tried not to sound like I was pulling rank with those last two words, but go on, you try it sometime. It ain’t easy.

Hair color?

I gave him another glare. Hair color? You’re looking right at me.

This is your natural hair color?

As God gave me, I said. Though a few more minutes of this and I’ll convert to atheism.

I shall write down ‘Dishwater blond with tufts of gray.’

Seems as if you’re the poet, not me, I said.

Married?

To my job, I said.

He chuckled. So many men who come here, that is the case.

Ah, I said, hoping he’d catch this as rhetorical.

Yes, he said, failing to, many men around your age come to Siem Reap. Overworked, underpaid. Many are sexual tourists, but a surprising number are lost souls, seeking a fresh start on life. Midlife crisis, you know. ‘What have I done with my fifty years? What will I do with the next thirty?’ Career was all they ever knew or cared for — and now they are beginning to ask themselves, what was the point of it all? They stare into the void, and the void stares back.

This was about six paragraphs more than I’d wanted to know about travelers to Siem Reap, and about six bars more of his amiable-but-pedantic voice than I’d cared to listen to.

I don’t worry much about my soul, I informed him. It’s safe in Zeus’ hands.

"You see? You are a philosopher!"

I said nothing, because it had become clear that to speak to this man was to encourage this man.

Children? he asked cheerily.

I’m not married, how would I have children?

Oh, sir! We are in the twenty-first century! Marriage is not a requirement for children these days! Especially in your more progressive and hedonistic Western countries!

I went back to saying nothing.

Anyway, you are married! he chortled. To your job! He let out a cackle of the type that usually comes from behind a boiling cauldron.

Well, my job had a hysterectomy, I said. No children.

I myself have five, he said, raising his eyes toward the ceiling, probably trying to remember their names. They are the joys of my life.

I’m guessing they don’t have a lot of competition, I said.

That is very clever, sir. You presume that because I work at airport immigration that my life is tedious and tiresome.

No, I presume that because everyone’s life is tedious and tiresome.

A movie star — an explorer — a race car driver — a Prime Minister — an airline pilot?

You’re right. I’ve wasted my life in sales.

The man’s smile underwent a subtle change, as did the glint in his eyes. Sir — may we be honest with one another?

Why start now?

You do not work as a car salesman.

I don’t?

You are employed rather by an agency of a foreign government.

I am?

An agency that most probably has a three-character acronym.

A TCA?

He adjusted his spectacles and, his eyes narrowing, ran his gaze up and down my frame. Then, left-to-right. Then up-and-down again. I felt like a road he was about to cross.

Would you like, I asked, to check my teeth?

He removed his spectacles and tapped one of the tips against his lips. You have the nondescript conventionality of the Central Intelligence Agency, he said. But! You also have the understated wit of MI6. In addition to the sarcastic acerbity of the DGSE. And the unruffled confidence of the Mossad. Not to mention the stolid practicality of the BND. And a touch of the somber rigidity of the GRU.

Your vocabulary, I commented, is wasted on the Immigration desk.

Your passport, of course, is American, he said. But that is meaningless. You could be from any of these agencies. Or a more avant-garde choice, such as the Indian RAW?

As he said this, his voice rose in pitch, as if he’d uncovered my secret and expected me to thumb him a doggie treat.

I’m a car salesman from Arlington, I lied. I’m not a lost soul, I don’t have any kids, and I don’t work for the CIA, the KGB, or the DMV. I’m here as — I spoke the first thing that came to mind — a sexual tourist.

The clerk stamped my passport and said, Very well, sir. Enjoy your stay.

3

Outside, the population of Buffalo vied for my business, yelling Taxi! and Tuk-tuk! and Mistah! and You don’t go with him, you go with me! They came at me in a never-ending wave, grabbing for my bag and promising me everything from the cheapest fare to their firstborn daughter. Having no discernable basis for a decision — one guy in a Nike shirt, short pants, and flip-flops looks as untrustworthy as another — I pointed at one at random, who suddenly burst into song, or looked as if he was about to.

I took one step in his direction and was pulled to my left by a strong arm and a voice that said, My tuk-tuk much better!

I started to protest, but we were almost immediately at his tuk-tuk (he must have parked it on the curb) and he’d flung my bag into the cab and was in the process of flinging me in after it.

Wait! I said.

No wait! he said back. Go go go!

He jumped on the bike and gave it the gas, which propelled me backwards into the cab. The rear seat was nothing but a two-by-four covered by a bedsheet, which my hindquarters were introduced to with spine-compacting authority. I grunted and then arranged myself, testing for fractures, as the driver kept swiveling his head ten degrees to the right to gape into the rear-view mirror for two seconds, then swiveling back.

What your name, Mistah? he shouted over the tuk-tuk’s motor, which was somehow producing all the noise of a Saturn V with none of the power. Pedestrians were outpacing us.

Can I just tell you, or do you need my passport? I shouted in reply.

Just tell me!

Edward Allan Davids, I said.

Ah! You are the right one! He nodded his head, pleased.

And your name is? I asked, the sweat starting to sting my eyes.

Gopa, he said. You can call me Gopa.

Nice to meet you, Gopa.

Nice to meet you too!

Can I ask you a question, Gopa? I pressed the sleeve of my shirt against my face to wipe away the perspiration, but it was like drying off by taking a shower. My face was wetter after.

Sure, Mistah!

I took a handkerchief out from my pocket. Why am I ‘the right one’?

Erm — you are the right one for me to be driving today! Good karma, yes? You have good karma, I have good karma!

If he’d been testifying in court the judge would have locked him up for perjury, but I was too moist to care. My shirt was soaked through, and my underwear wasn’t far behind. The handkerchief, which I’d used to mop my brow, may as well have been run under a faucet. Twist-squeezing it poured out enough fluid to irrigate Yemen. The sun was no help, either — exposing raw flesh to its concentrated rays was like getting acupuncture with a machete.

I took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The air was blistering, in the mouth, on the tongue, down the gullet — I coughed and covered my lower face with the handkerchief.

You okay, Mistah?

I’m fine, I rasped. Just haven’t been this hot since that trip to Venus.

Is hot, yes!

Couple that with the humidity, and you’ve got yourself quite the climate. I pressed the slightly-cooling wad of the handkerchief against my neck and face. Did Dante visit in the winter, or was he here for summer break?

This is the dry season, Mistah!

Oh yeah? What do you do in the wet season, don scuba gear?

This is the tropics, Mistah! Hot and wet!

Two of my favorite adjectives, I thought. So why am I so miserable?

You like the view? asked the driver. Beautiful view here!

I peered out from under the shade. The road was wide, divided by a central median that didn’t appear to have attracted the attention of a city planner at any time during the twenty-first century. Lining each side of the road were two rows of tall trees that swayed gently in a breeze that I wished would leave them alone and come sit next to me. The only traffic on the road was the occasional tuk-tuk coming in the opposite direction and the occasional car that roared past us at fifty times our speed.

It wasn’t a disagreeable slice of the Cambodian landscape, but beautiful view was not how I’d have chosen to describe it.

Am I missing something? I asked. Am I supposed to cross my eyes, or look backwards through a mirror?

No mirror! said the driver, waving his arm expansively. Just this! Beautiful view!

I agreed, in the interest of appeasement. It is very beautiful, yes, Gopa.

He smiled good-naturedly through the rear-view mirror. You been to Cambodia before, Mistah?

Nope. First time.

His eyes got bigger. Ah! You will like here. Many beautiful girls.

As beautiful as the view?

He laughed. "More beautiful!"

Well, I said, as long as they don’t have Twitter accounts.

He didn’t seem to have heard this, as he was maneuvering the bike around a corner and onto a less-paved, more jungly thoroughfare. The trees closed in quickly, and the sun vanished, though the heat remained.

You want beautiful girl? he asked, returning to the subject at hand. "I can get for you, very