Angkor Cloth, Angkor Gold

By Steven W. Palmer

The aftermath of the Vietnamese liberation of Cambodia sets the stage for a chilling pursuit of justice. In the refugee camps along the Thai border, a ruthless killer is targeting young girls. Decades later, a series of similar crimes in Phnom Penh awakens painful memories for the Minister of the Interior, whose sister was a victim.

Determined to find answers, he assigns his trusted investigator, Chamreun, to join forces with Sophie Chang, a seasoned police officer returning from Boston. Together, they delve into the past while racing against time to solve the murders. As Interpol links the Asian crimes to unsolved killings in Europe, Chamreun and Sophie's investigation takes an unexpected turn. Amidst the unfolding horror, their own connection deepens, forging an unbreakable bond.

Through the chilling perspective of the killer's diary and their relentless pursuit of truth, "Angkor Cloth, Angkor Gold" delves into a web of forgotten victims, haunting secrets, and the enduring fight for justice. Will Chamreun and Sophie unmask the killer, or will the victims remain forgotten, denied their rightful closure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jun 12, 2023

Book preview

1

Khao-I-Dang Holding Center, Sa Kaeo Province, Thailand. January 1980

Chaos and disorder.

The sheer hell of a mass of humanity herded together like cattle and kept in conditions no better than the lowest animals. Your pale white faces, like flickering beacons of pity, pick their way through this chaos offering your condescending help to those you see as much less than you. How arrogant, how presumptuous you are. Your Europe was under a cloud of darkness and barbarians walked your lands while we constructed the wonders of Angkor. And your America still belonged to its natives, long before you brought disease and murder to their shores, while we were building a transport and irrigation infrastructure you could not dream of.

Yet look at us now. Brought to our knees, first by a succession of external enemies, and then by our own brothers, cousins, and sons. We may be on our knees now, but we shall rise again. The proud children of Angkor will return to our beloved Kampuchea one day and we shall rebuild our nation and our people.

But for now, this maelstrom of Khmer survivors, a mixture of victim and oppressor, are in thrall to you, thrown together and dependent on the mercy of our lesser Thai cousins and the aid of the very barangs who helped put a match to the tinder.

Yes, look at us now. Feel pity for us as you hand out books or clothes or medical supplies. Turn your eyes blind to the violence and rape and prostitution and revenge happening daily in front of you. Go home to the comfort of your hotel and swap anecdotes of how much you have helped these poor people. You look at me and you see nothing but a refugee in borrowed clothing with nothing to their name.

You do not know me. You do not know my history or the history of my people. You do not know where I came from, nor do you know to where I shall return.

We shall rise again. I shall rise again.

But for us to rise again there has to be a cleansing. I see too much cloth that has become soiled and which can never be clean again. And for us to truly rise, only the purest, whitest cloth is fit to wrap Khmer gold in. So I have a divine task ahead of me. If we cannot clean those soiled cloths, then we must purge them from our communities. The day shall come when we return to our Kampuchea, and when that day comes the cloth must be the cleanest of whites, and the gold must shine for all to see.

Chaos and disorder.

Some see hell. I see a need for cleansing.

2

Foreign Correspondents’ Club. Phnom Penh. 30t h November 2016

It felt like the rainy season was mounting one last desperate offensive on Phnom Penh, trying to retain the often flooded grip it had held over the city, particularly in the last six weeks. The rain was coming down in vertical sheets, almost shrouding Chroy Changvar from view and it didn’t look like it was going to end anytime soon.

Chamreun nursed his dragon fruit shake and stared into the wet darkness. It was times like this that he truly missed alcohol, missed its warm embrace and the option to hide in drunken oblivion. He’d had real trouble sleeping since his squad had helped close down the trafficking ring that had been killing Cambodian children, and nothing the doctors had given him had helped. He was losing count of the times he had bought a bottle of whisky on the way home only to argue with himself on arrival and end up pouring it down the sink to remove the temptation.

He looked out at the rain again. Sometimes he thought the city was like the hands of Lady Macbeth, forever trying to clean itself of the stains that had marked it for decades, yet never ridding itself of the echoes of violence and going slowly mad with the unceasing effort. Paul had taken him to a production of Macbeth in Bangkok last year and he had found himself sympathising with the ultimately tragic woman. Gazing down at his own hands he wondered if he too was becoming like the city in that respect. Despite the support and ongoing counselling from his abbot friend, Chanvatey, he still felt the burden of the violence he had visited on people. He knew that it was, in most cases at least, fully justified, but he still struggled to reconcile that justification with his growing religious beliefs. His guilt and the memories of his violent actions were things that invaded his thoughts every day. And not just every day; the faces of those he had tortured or killed were often in his dreams, well more nightmares than dreams, and he would wake drenched in sweat at several points during the night. Would he ever be free of this stain of guilt?

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

The person he was meeting was late, and looking at the weather outside he didn’t think they would be turning up any time soon. There had been no SMS message or phone call, and no answer when he had tried calling. But if his friend had been coming by bike there was little chance they would have heard the ringing over the constant drumming of the rain, even if they had stopped somewhere to take shelter from the deluge. He considered sending a text to cancel the meeting then realised that if he left while the rain was this heavy he’d likely spend a couple of hours sitting in flooded traffic. In the absence of his friend, but the presence of a monsoon attack outside, he may as well order some food and hope that the rain might stop in the next hour or so.

He called the waitress over and ordered a classic chicken Caesar salad and a bottle of Kulen water, then returned to gazing at the interminable rain outside. Where next? His disillusionment with his work seemed to grow every day, and he knew that were it not for the camaraderie within the team he would likely have resigned straight after the trafficking case. Since then there had been little for the team to do; assisting the police with a couple of drug busts, the theft of some Ministerial documents by some amateurs which took two days to crack, and a few of the usual training exercises the squad undertook in quiet periods. He knew the team would write off his disillusionment as boredom and say that he just needed another major case to get his teeth into, but he knew the real problem went much deeper than that. He needed out. He needed away from death and pain and misery and all the things that went with his job.

He felt that he had paid his dues and made his contribution to moving his country forward, and now it was time to think more about himself. The price was too high to keep on paying, and he worried that one day this doubt would cost either his own life or the life of one of his team through a moment’s lapse of concentration.

Part of him didn’t care if he ended up dead, but he also didn’t want to be responsible for a friend’s death and then he had to think about his family too. Losing his sister had devastated what was a close family unit; if they lost him too then he knew his mother’s heart would break. His phone rang and he looked at the screen. Damn, was that woman telepathic? He had thought about her for the first time that day and here she was phoning him.

Hi, Mama, sok sabai?

Is everything okay? You haven’t phoned for days.

Sorry, I’ve been a little busy. I was going to phone you when I got home tonight.

You’re not at home? Do you have rain there? It’s a big storm down here.

I was meant to meet a friend but then the rain started. They haven’t turned up and I’m going to have something to eat in the hope that the rain stops before I finish.

What are you eating? You never seem to eat well, always rushing about and eating barang food. It’s not healthy for you, his mum said.

I’ve ordered a Caesar salad and a bottle of water, he replied with a wry smile on his face.

See? Barang food. It’s not good for you.

It’s a salad, Mama, he answered, not mentioning that it likely had more calories than a McDonald’s meal.

Yes, well, said his mum, sensing she could be losing the battle but determined to fire a final salvo. That may be, but Khmer food much better for you.

Chamreun sighed.

Yes, Mama. I’ll have some Bai sach chrouk for breakfast.

It would be better if I made it, said his mum, grabbing some small victory from what had seemed like defeat. You haven’t been home for weeks. Come and see me. Your father misses you.

Chamreun knew that his father would never say something like that, even if he thought it. Like most Cambodian men of his generation, he thought emotions were something best left to women.

Mama, he said before she could launch another offensive, I have a free weekend coming up. How about I come down and spend it with you and the family?

There was an unexpected pause at the other end of the line. Do you promise? his mum said.

I promise. I’ll drive down on Friday night and come back to the city on the Sunday evening. How does that sound?

It sounds wonderful. I’ll cook all your favourite food and we can have a party Saturday night, his mum said happily.

Great, Mama. Look, I have to go. The waitress is bringing my food.

Just remember, not too much barang food. We will see you on Friday.

Chamreun put the phone away, relieved the interrogation was over but happy that he would see the family at the weekend. The only downside was that he knew there would be at least two or three female guests invited to the festivities on Saturday, maybe a friend of his sister’s or the niece of one of his mother’s friends. Since Aya’s death, but especially in the last few months, his mother had been dropping lots of hints that he should be thinking about marriage soon. It was one reason he hadn’t been home too often; the succession of prospective brides was beginning to be a little off-putting. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married, it was more that he couldn’t consider it while still in such a dangerous job. And if… when he did quit, he felt he needed some time to adjust to normality again. He hadn’t even thought about what he would do once he left the armed forces. Things like ‘aptitude in torture’, ‘knowing 20 ways to kill a man with your bare hands’, and ‘insertion of a special forces team into enemy territory’ were hardly skills that looked good on a CV. It wasn’t as if he was short of cash either as the Minister had allowed the team to hold back some of the cash they had confiscated from the various illegal operations they had broken up over the last few years. But what could he invest it in? He couldn’t see himself running a bar or restaurant, that was for sure, but then he couldn’t see himself running any sort of business. Some time off to gather his thoughts was definitely the core of his future plans, once he summoned the courage to tell his boss that his time in uniform was over.

His phone rang again. This was getting weird. First he thought about his mother and she phoned seconds later. Now he had thought about his boss, the Minister of the Interior, and here he was phoning immediately after too.

Hello, sir, how are you?

I’m good, Chamreun, thank you. And you? the Minister said.

I’m good too, thank you, Chamreun replied, wondering where the small talk was leading.

Chamreun, we, well, I, have a situation. Can you be at my office at 9am tomorrow?

Yes, sir, I will be there for 9.

And with that the call was over, leaving more questions than answers. The fact that the Minister had said ‘I’ made it sound personal rather than government business. Chamreun wondered what he was getting into this time, and if whatever awaited him at the Ministry could be the opportunity to make this his final mission.

3

Khao-I-Dang Holding Center, Sa Kaeo Province, Thailand. January 1980

I watch my brothers and sisters every day and I despair. There is no light in their eyes, just never-ending shadows and abject surrender. Where is the pride in our history? In our achievements? We pulled ourselves from under the heel of the French and surged into the 1960s in a blaze of creativeness and joy. Yet, that joy was soon to evaporate under the searing gaze of poor politics and a bombing campaign by the arrogant Americans. Where are our artists, our musicians, our writers and poets? Dead in some provincial field or killed by Saloth Sar’s mindless followers. What few have survived now hide their talents or have fled for distant lands.

We shall rise again.

I shall rise again.

Yesterday I chose the first piece of cloth that I will cleanse. I have watched her for two weeks now, shamelessly giving her body to anyone who can offer some money or food. My friend tried to defend such actions, saying that we must do anything to survive. But without pride, survival is just another word and has no meaning. Without pride, we are nothing but empty vessels. Throughout it all I have kept my pride. When I killed the beggar in April of 1975 to disguise my true identity, I felt pride that I would not be discovered and sent to S-21. When I ate whatever I could find in the work camp of Pursat, I was proud that I would survive and help rebuild my nation. When I marched the miles to the border, driven on by the Khmer Rouge dogs as the Vietnamese dogs pressed them harder, I felt pride that I was still alive. And when I cleanse this first piece of cloth, I will feel pride that I am removing a stain from our people.

After a troubled sleep I awake, knowing that today I will take another life. That first killing was born out of necessity; the beggar knew who I was and would have given me away to those he saw as liberators and comrades. His death meant I went undiscovered and also gave me a disguise as the Khmer Rouge herded us out of the city in pursuit of their agrarian dream. Dream? More like a nightmare. How can there be any sort of plan when you have killed or exiled all those who knew how to plan? When you are led by a twisted little man who could not pass a simple exam? Whose whole raison d'être came from membership of the pathetic Cercle Marxiste, little boys playing at being revolutionaries. If it had remained a game then how different life would have been, but world events conspired to let the little boy become a man with power, and a man with power is often a very dangerous thing.

You will likely read my words and judge me as much of an animal as Saloth Sar. And if I defended myself by saying that my killing had a purpose and a noble cause at its heart then you would likely reply that Saloth Sar believed this too. But I believe my brothers and sisters will judge me differently. This is the problem with you Westerners in Asia, you try to transpose your belief systems, standards, and philosophy onto an alien land. The difference between East and West is as marked as that between night and day. What separates us is far greater than anything that we have in common. When you finally understand this, then, and only then, will you be close to understanding Asia.

I spend the day much as any other in this small corner of hell. I wait in line to use the often pungent latrines. Then I wait in another line to accept the meagre offerings of food that are given out. Then I retire to the small bamboo and thatch hut I share with five other refugees. I have become inured to the smell of my roommates, and indeed the stale sweat aroma of my own body which clings to me like a reluctant lover. I retrieve my one true possession here, a much-read copy of Nhok Them’s ‘Kulap Pailin’ (The Rose of Pailin). It was one of only two things that I carried with me from Phnom Penh to Pursat and then from Pursat to Khao-I-Dang. The other is this diary that you read just now. And both of these prized possessions I kept carefully hidden on the work farm. If they had been discovered I would have faced at best a beating, at worst death. My family’s valuables are all buried back in Phnom Penh, waiting for the day I, and any others of my family who may have survived, return to claim what is ours. I have no idea what happened to any of them when the capital fell, so I don’t know which of them are alive or dead. I take solace in the written word to keep the grief at bay, rereading words I know so well, letting the story carry me away from this pitiful existence into a magical tale of courage and integrity, true traits of the Khmer people.

After a small bowl of rice, I again retire to my hut and meditate, preparing myself for the evening’s task. I know what I do is wrong, and I know that I will be consigned to a Naraka once this life term is spent. I think of the words in the Ambalatthika-Rahulovada Sutta:

If you, Rahula, are desirous of doing a deed with the body, you should reflect on the deed with the body, thus: That deed which I am desirous of doing with the body is a deed of the body that might conduce to the harm of self and that might conduce to the harm of others and that might conduce to the harm of both; this deed of body is unskilled, its yield is anguish, its result is anguish.

But why should I fear anguish when anguish is all my people have known these last few years? Will my sacrificing of my karma to an endless time in Naraka not be seen as a worthy sacrifice? Are the needs of my nation not greater than those of this worthless soul? The Saccavibhanga Sutta says:

And what is right action? Abstaining from taking life, from stealing, and from illicit sex. This is called right action.

So my taking a life is no worse than these other worthless souls selling their bodies and soiling the Khmer cloth. If anything, surely my expunging of their sins should be seen as worthy and justified, my actions the erasure of a stain on our futures. I am under no pretence that my actions are innocent, nor that I will escape justice, in this life or the next, but I see what I shall do as a sacred duty, a protection of our very being. One day someone will find this diary and, if no-one has unmasked my crimes by then, a hundred thousand fingers shall point and cry ‘monster’. But what defines a monster? If, as I believe, these soiled pieces of cloth feel shame at their actions when they lie in bed at night, then surely I am giving them some sort of relief. Monsters are defined by our own thoughts, our own moral standards, our own experiences and philosophies. By those parameters, I am no monster though I have the intelligence to know that others will not judge me so kindly.

The darkness falls, a lesser darkness than that which has kept our country in shadows these last ten years, and a darkness that will provide me with the mask I need to hide my actions. I know the habits of this creature, how she sleeps much of the day then surreptitiously moves around the camp in the evening, making as many as three rendezvouses before she takes her shameful soul back to her refuge. The first man she meets, a Thai guard, is stationed around 600 metres from my hut, and there are latrines close by. I know that she will go, as she does every night, straight to the latrine to try and exorcise the shame from her body. Tonight I will help her get rid of the shame forever.

I sit in silence, offering prayers for my success and preparing myself for the act to come. Finally, it is time. I leave the hut behind me and move furtively through this great gathering of humanity brought here by inhumanity. In the darkness and flickering shadows of campfires, no-one speaks to you, no-one makes eye contact, every mind is focused on surviving another day, on marking another day closer to returning to our homes. Wrapped around my hand is a length of white cloth I washed and cleaned today. This is the instrument of my cleansing, the instrument of their redemption, the instrument that will herald the rise of Khmer pride once more.

I reach the latrine area and stand motionless in the heavy Thai night, my eyes, now accustomed to the dark, watching for movement coming from the nearby guard station. What seems like hours pass, though I know the reality can be counted in minutes. For a moment I begin to doubt my resolve, to worry that I shall be discovered and my crusade end before it has truly begun. But it is but a moment and my resolve regains control.

Finally, I see movement and a figure makes its way towards where I wait. As it gets closer I realise it is her, the one I have been waiting for, and that the time of her salvation is upon her. I look around me, there is no-one else, everyone having headed to their huts for another night of troubled sleep and tortured dreams. She passes me and looks at me briefly before discounting me as just another exiled soul who is lost in the long night that has lasted since April of 1975.

I begin to breathe deeply, knowing that the act of cleansing is now mere minutes away. It seems as if the night stands still and the camp has become silent, and though I know this is just in my imagination I worry that she will make noise. I must be determined and swift in my actions, I must be finished and gone in a matter of minutes or this ends where it starts.

She exits the latrine and again looks at me, this time with more curiosity as if to wonder if she knew me once. The irony is that she may have known me, may have seen my face in a newspaper or magazine and envied my life. She passes, and now I move with the swiftness of a snake, stepping behind her and unravelling the cloth in one movement. I loop the cloth over her head and pull it tight to muffle any cries of help or despair. She struggles against my grip as anyone would knowing their life is about to end. But even her desperation is no match for the determination I have inside me. Gradually her struggles grow weaker and less violent, and then there is no struggle, her body goes limp under my hold, and I gently lower her to the ground. For a moment I imagine I can see her life force leave her physical shell, but I know this is just in my mind.

Her body lies at my feet, clean once again, and I say a small prayer that she will be reincarnated in a better place and time, and that something in her eternal memory remembers her sins in this life and seeks only cleanliness in the next. I lay her hands across her chest and she looks as if she is merely sleeping. To honour what was good in her, I wrap the cloth around her hands and leave her lying there while the night is still empty. Retracing my steps to my hut, I enter, ignoring the snores and dream noises of those people I share with, those people I am so close to in physical terms but so far from in every other way.

I lie in my corner and close my eyes, though it is a long time before sleep finally embraces me. When it does, my dreams are free of violence, free of hate, and I sleep peacefully for the first time in many months.

4

Ministry of the Interior Building, Norodom Boulevard, Phnom Penh. December 2016

Chamreun had expertly woven his way through the early morning traffic to reach the Ministry on time, soundtracked as always by his favourite Sin Sisamuth CD. He arrived at the Minister’s office ten minutes early and spent some time chatting with Ly Leakena, the Minister’s long-time and loyal secretary. Almost on the stroke of 9am, Leakena’s phone rang and Chamreun was told to go through to the main office.

Nhay Sakphea looked tired and worried, and Chareum thought he looked five years older than last time they had met. The Minister forced a smile and shook Chamreun’s hand, directing him to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk.

Sok sabai, Chamreun. It’s been several weeks since we spoke. How are things with the team? said Sakphea.

I’m good, thank you, sir. It’s been quiet as you know, but I ensure the men keep up their training regimen so we are always ready.

That’s good to hear, said the Minister, though on this occasion I only want you involved in this case. Chamreun, how much do you know about my background?

Well, sir, I know the usual biographical information; you escaped the Khmer Rouge in 1978, spent a couple of years in camps in Thailand, then were fostered by your uncle in the USA. Graduated university there, then returned to Cambodia in 1986 before becoming a member of parliament in 1993. Then you rose steadily through the party ranks despite often clashing with the leadership.

And what about my family? asked the Minister. Not my family now, but from the Khmer Rouge times.

Not very much. I know most of them disappeared during 1975 and were presumed killed and that only you and your sister survived from here, but that she died while in the camps. Yes, said Sakphea, she died in Khao-I-Dang holding centre in 1980, mere weeks before I got the news that we were moving to America. But what most people don’t know is that she was murdered. There was no real investigation. The camps were chaos, and rapes and deaths were far too common, so she was just another statistic.

I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Excuse me for asking, but why are you telling me this now?

Three weeks ago a young sex worker was found strangled on Street 94 near Wat Phnom. Then two days ago a KTV hostess was also found strangled on Street 105 in Toul Kork, said the Minister.

Tragic news for sure, but how does it involve me, or indeed your sister?

What we haven’t told the media is in that both cases the women were strangled with a piece of cloth, and that same piece of cloth was wrapped around her hands which had been placed across her chest. Almost as if the killer was honouring his victim in some way. And what very few people outside this room knows is that this is exactly how my sister, and the other victims, died and were left in Khao-I-Dang.

And you think there is some connection? But that’s nearly forty years apart.

Chamreun, I don’t know if there is a connection for sure. But it’s a pretty strange coincidence. It’s not as if the murders in the camp were reported in the media. So either it is the same killer or it is someone who is copying the murders from all those years ago.

I’m still not sure where I come into it, sir. I mean, we are usually used for more active roles, not criminal investigations. Surely this is a case for the Judicial Department?

Old friend, said the Minister, there are very few people I implicitly trust in this world. Many people can put on a façade of being trustworthy but are only out to get what they can. You are one of those very few people. You have always been loyal and have always shown that you care about our country and our people. I don’t want my past dragged up in the public eye so I don’t want this investigation to be purely run by the criminal police. It’s not something I think you will need your team involved in so I want you to head up the investigation. Find the killer, and find out if they had anything to do with my sister’s death and the murders of those others in Khao-I-Dang.

Sir, with the greatest respect, I know very little of police procedure. I’m more a man of action than one of thinking.

First of all, you do yourself a disservice. You have one of the most analytical minds I know. Secondly, I realise that you don’t know the ways in which our police force work and that going in alone you could face some opposition from officers. This is why I am partnering you up with a very competent police officer.

That would likely be helpful. Will I be the ranking officer? Or is he more senior to me?

You will be in charge of the investigation, and it’s a she, not a he.

Chamreun raised his eyebrows in surprise. With the old patriarchal ways still being dominant in most walks of Cambodian life, it was rare to find a