Read Online The Khmer Kill: A Dox Short Story (Kindle Single) by Barry Eisler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barry Eisler
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half the street people in Jakarta when he’d first arrived in Indonesia, without any noticeable effect. At some point it just started to feel like you were beating back the tide. The truth was, there was nothing you could do, and it was best not to think too much about it. The world could be an awful, ugly place.
He glanced unobtrusively at his watch—a Traser H3, accurate, tough, and functional, but not as obvious a tell as the giant G-Shocks some of your soldier-of-fortune types seemed to fancy like black ops bling. A half-hour to go, assuming the broker was punctual. He stretched out his legs and relaxed, letting himself feel like a tourist. He was dressed for the part, naturally—sneakers, jeans, and a short-sleeved madras shirt—extra-large to accommodate his size 48, and untucked to conceal the clip of the folder he’d picked up at legendary Cambodian knife-maker Citadel Knives. He preferred not to turn a bag into a hostage for the airlines when he traveled, which meant gearing up locally. Well, with an institution like Citadel on hand, that was fine. It was a beautiful specimen, too, handmade with a kukri blade and horn handle. Maybe he’d ship it home when his work here was done.
He noticed it felt a little odd being alone. He’d been spending more and more time with a nice Khmer girl named Chantrea, which she’d told him meant “light of the moon.” He thought the name was pretty, though not nearly as pretty as she was. He’d taken her back to the hotel five nights earlier after making her acquaintance in a place called Café Mist. He was planning to take the night off, and had stopped in after an evening’s urban reconnaissance just to relax over a beer. But he’d noticed her on the other side of the bar, black shoulder-length hair loose around her shoulders, eyes slightly over-large and skin honey-brown, and he was intrigued at the way she averted her gaze when he caught her looking at him, rather than coming over the way your typical bargirl would. She was slim, even for a Khmer, but he thought he saw enough curves where you’d hope to. One by one, he’d shooed away a half-dozen other girls, but she stayed put, glancing at him with an appealing combination of curiosity and shyness. Finally, he got up and walked over.
“Darlin’,” he said, smiling, “if you don’t speak any English, it’s going to break my heart.”
She’d smiled back and cast her eyes down, then looked back at him again. He thought he’d flustered her, somehow, and his interest grew.
“I think your heart should be okay,” she said.
They’d talked for a long time in the bar. She told him she was a student at the Royal University, a psychology major. He told her he worked for an American real estate company and was in town for a few days to assess the desirability of some joint ventures the company was considering. The story was thin, but not every tale had to be fully backstopped and he didn’t think this one would ever be put to any kind of a stress test. He didn’t know whether she believed him, though he supposed she had no reason not to, but either way she asked him no questions and he told her no further lies.
He wasn’t sure what to make of her. On the one hand, her English was good and he was inclined to believe her about being a student—anyway, there was no reason for her to lie about that. On the other hand, Mist wasn’t the kind of place a girl would hang out alone if she weren’t a professional. On the other, other hand, if she was a pro, she seemed to be in no hurry to get him to take her out for a night on the town, or back to his hotel where she could make some money. He decided to classify her as what he called semi-pro—open to the possibility of some kind of remuneration, but only from the right client.
When he told her he was getting ready to call it a night and asked her if she’d like to come back to the hotel with him, she’d looked down as though embarrassed, and he wondered if maybe
He glanced unobtrusively at his watch—a Traser H3, accurate, tough, and functional, but not as obvious a tell as the giant G-Shocks some of your soldier-of-fortune types seemed to fancy like black ops bling. A half-hour to go, assuming the broker was punctual. He stretched out his legs and relaxed, letting himself feel like a tourist. He was dressed for the part, naturally—sneakers, jeans, and a short-sleeved madras shirt—extra-large to accommodate his size 48, and untucked to conceal the clip of the folder he’d picked up at legendary Cambodian knife-maker Citadel Knives. He preferred not to turn a bag into a hostage for the airlines when he traveled, which meant gearing up locally. Well, with an institution like Citadel on hand, that was fine. It was a beautiful specimen, too, handmade with a kukri blade and horn handle. Maybe he’d ship it home when his work here was done.
He noticed it felt a little odd being alone. He’d been spending more and more time with a nice Khmer girl named Chantrea, which she’d told him meant “light of the moon.” He thought the name was pretty, though not nearly as pretty as she was. He’d taken her back to the hotel five nights earlier after making her acquaintance in a place called Café Mist. He was planning to take the night off, and had stopped in after an evening’s urban reconnaissance just to relax over a beer. But he’d noticed her on the other side of the bar, black shoulder-length hair loose around her shoulders, eyes slightly over-large and skin honey-brown, and he was intrigued at the way she averted her gaze when he caught her looking at him, rather than coming over the way your typical bargirl would. She was slim, even for a Khmer, but he thought he saw enough curves where you’d hope to. One by one, he’d shooed away a half-dozen other girls, but she stayed put, glancing at him with an appealing combination of curiosity and shyness. Finally, he got up and walked over.
“Darlin’,” he said, smiling, “if you don’t speak any English, it’s going to break my heart.”
She’d smiled back and cast her eyes down, then looked back at him again. He thought he’d flustered her, somehow, and his interest grew.
“I think your heart should be okay,” she said.
They’d talked for a long time in the bar. She told him she was a student at the Royal University, a psychology major. He told her he worked for an American real estate company and was in town for a few days to assess the desirability of some joint ventures the company was considering. The story was thin, but not every tale had to be fully backstopped and he didn’t think this one would ever be put to any kind of a stress test. He didn’t know whether she believed him, though he supposed she had no reason not to, but either way she asked him no questions and he told her no further lies.
He wasn’t sure what to make of her. On the one hand, her English was good and he was inclined to believe her about being a student—anyway, there was no reason for her to lie about that. On the other hand, Mist wasn’t the kind of place a girl would hang out alone if she weren’t a professional. On the other, other hand, if she was a pro, she seemed to be in no hurry to get him to take her out for a night on the town, or back to his hotel where she could make some money. He decided to classify her as what he called semi-pro—open to the possibility of some kind of remuneration, but only from the right client.
When he told her he was getting ready to call it a night and asked her if she’d like to come back to the hotel with him, she’d looked down as though embarrassed, and he wondered if maybe
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