The Brittle Limit, a Novel (29 page)

Andrew spoke, his voice muffled by the
guard’s beefy arm, the guard trying to imprint Andrew’s face into
the grain of the wood.

Not an uncivilized man, the Prime Minister
lifted a finger and the guard pulled Andrew upright, to allow him
to speak, still gripping Andrew’s arms in tight right angles behind
his back.

Andrew repeated his words. “You’re in danger.
Your country is in danger.” That wouldn’t be enough. Andrew knew he
had one chance before he was shown outside and permanently retired
with a discrete bullet in the back. His government would receive a
condolence letter stating that Andrew had had an unfortunate
accident while on holiday. He mentally sifted through the words
from Hakk’s Manifesto.

“Year Zero is upon us,” Andrew said. He
repeated this, slowly, emphasizing the second word.

For a moment, the room was silent, as these
words were absorbed by the men seated at the table. Then a
commotion erupted, as the Ministers gasped and stood and began to
fret and bicker, their well-honed manners wilting in the grip of
fear and anger.

Andrew had chosen his words carefully, for
maximum impact in this precarious situation. “Year Zero” was a
reference to Pol Pot, who had pronounced April 1975 as Year Zero,
when the Khmer Rouge regime abandoned and erased all that had
occurred before its ascension, all culture, customs, beliefs, and
history, wiped clean. Hakk’s Manifesto described Year Zero coming
again. Setting the clock to zero, once more, to begin the future
anew.

Andrew had figured it out on the flight back
- that was the meaning of Hakk’s last crazed rant, that with his
plan in place, in motion. Time had been reset to Year Zero.

Starting tomorrow, Sunday, Pchum Ben Day.

Uttering these words, in this room, to these
men, Andrew had seeded the doubt he needed to survive this
meeting.

From his position at the table, directly
opposite from the country’s leader, Andrew watched the commotion,
as the men discussed in increasingly loud tones what this
interruption could mean.

The commotion ceased when the Prime Minister,
still standing, raised his voice just above the volume of the room.
“Enough." He spoke in Khmer, his tone clear. He banged his open
palm, once, on the table, and repeated himself, loud enough to be
heard above the anxious murmuring. A hush fell over the room.

All eyes were on the Prime Minister, who in
turn stared at Andrew, his dark eyes fixed, his expression
guarded.

He waved a dismissive hand twice at the table
occupants, as if sweeping away a fruit fly. “Everyone, leave us,”
the Prime Minister told his Ministers. They stood and filed out of
the room, glancing at Andrew, some with hatred, some with fear,
some simply with curiosity.

The Prime Minister motioned to the guard.
“Bring this man to me.”

The guard man-handled Andrew toward the front
of the room and the Prime Minister, shoving Andrew into an empty
leather seat.

“Leave us,” the Prime Minister said to the
guard and turned to Andrew, his hands clasped behind his back. His
face showed no expression. He spoke in English.

“You come here...you break into my building,
you disrupt my meeting…and you disrespect me in front of my men.
These are unacceptable offenses.”

He tapped his finger on the table to each
syllable as he repeated the word. "Unacceptable.” He continued, his
voice calm and even.

“I know who you are. I know that you are
American, that you work with the US Embassy. My people have been
aware of your movements since you arrived to Phnom Penh several
days ago.”

Andrew looked surprised, so the Prime
Minister explained. “There is little I do not now know of in my
country.”

“But sir, there is something you don’t know.
Something that has been hidden from you, by people who oppose the
country’s progress and direction, who want to turn back the clock,
to expel the foreigners, to stop all progress, to close the doors
and return to a dark past.”

The Prime Minister raised his voice, ever so
slightly, the only sign of his rising irritation. “You spoke of
Year Zero. What is the meaning of this?”

“There is a document, in my pocket. If you
read it, perhaps it will make sense.”

The Prime Minister stared at Andrew without
blinking. He showed no emotion and, worryingly to Andrew, no
concern. Andrew did not think he was getting through. But he
waited. He could think of nothing else to say.

The Prime Minister sat, thinking. After
several minutes of silence, he approached Andrew and yanked the
pages from Andrew’s breast pocket. He read quickly across the Khmer
script then tossed the pages on the table.

“These are the ravings of a crazy person. A
nobody.”

“Yes, but a crazy person with followers. I
saw them myself. We have very little time. Sir, I need your
help.”

The Prime Minister stepped to the long
picture window, the bullet-proof glass offering a view of the
well-lit courtyard and a single large mango tree, heavy with fruit.
Beyond the courtyard, the lights of Phnom Penh lit the night
sky.

“What is planned?” the Prime Minister
asked.

Andrew walked him through what he knew of
Hakk’s plans. The Manifesto had been vague, he explained, it
rambled. They knew only the time and the day. Not where and not
how. Not yet. But if they could prepare, Andrew explained, he
believed they could stop it. Or at least blunt it.

As Andrew spoke, he saw a glimmer of
acceptance in the Prime Minister’s face. Andrew pushed while he had
an advantage, explaining what he would need from the Prime
Minister.

The Prime Minister only half-listened as he
looked out into the night. A fruit bat mad with hunger winged its
way across the sky, its zigzag flight defying reason.

The Prime Minister had faith in his men, in
their intelligence gathering and most of all, their loyalty. He
doubted that anyone could stage an act of terrorism in his country,
let alone a plan to disrupt the entire nation, without being caught
and thwarted. It was unthinkable. And therefore, impossible.

The Prime Minister considered the loss of
face that Andrew had inflicted on him. Once lost, face was not
recovered. He pondered his next steps. A foreigner must not dictate
policy nor be seen in a position of power. Not now. Not ever.

He chose the only course available to him. He
turned to Andrew, his face a mixture of contempt and arrogance.
“These are lies. Western conspiracies. Take your nonsense
elsewhere. This will not happen.”

Before Andrew could react, the Prime Minister
slammed his fist on the table and yelled “Guards!”

The door swung open but rather than a
heavily-armed guard, the Prime Minister’s key aide rushed in, his
eyes wide with fright. He held a cell phone in his shaking right
hand, far in front of him. He spoke in Khmer, in unrestrained
tones, not at all appropriate for speaking to the Prime Minister.
But he could not help himself.

Andrew couldn’t decipher the words, but he
could tell their meaning from the worried tone. Something was
up.

The Prime Minister took the phone and said
“Yes?” and listened.

Andrew watched the Prime Minister’s face as
the caller spoke, the relaxing of his jaw, the loosening of his
brow. Replacing the disbelief and disdain was worry. He listened
for a few more moments, nodding his head as the person talked
excitedly on the other end of the line. Then the click of
disconnection.

The Prime Minister inhaled and placed his
hands flat on the table.

“We have found a bomb.”

Andrew nodded “Where is it?”

“Outside of the Angkor complex. A truck went
off the road. Some children found it in the jungle. It has a timer.
It’s counting down.”

Chapter 38

A small room was allocated for planning. The
wooden table in the center was cluttered with papers, articles and
copies of Hakk’s Manifesto lay on the table, in Khmer, English and
Chinese. A huge map of Cambodia was taped to the wall, the
country’s major cities circled in black marker. A red ‘X’ marked
the bridges in Phnom Penh. They had been highlighted and annotated.
There were still unanswered questions.

Flint sat at the table, alternating between
scratching a mosquito bite on her bare leg and taking notes on the
yellow pad in front of her.

“Let’s go over it once more,” she said. She
glanced at Andrew, who walked around the room looking stressed. He
hadn’t shaved for a week. The large dark circles under his tired
eyes made him look like a half-dead raccoon.

They reviewed the translated missive from
Hakk.

Flint asked, “What did he hope to accomplish
exactly?”

Andrew had been thinking about that
constantly since he had left the jungle. Hakk had seemed so certain
of himself, certain of the inexorable outcome, even in the face of
his own demise. Stopping in front of the map on the wall, Andrew
shared his thought with Flint.

“He's trying to break this country.”

“How do you mean?” Flint asked

“He's putting the pressure on. The terror
from the emails, the bridges, the fear, the panic. This country is
brittle, from its horrible history. After what? Forty, fifty years
of war and internal strife, it can't absorb any more trauma. It has
no flex left within it, no bend, no capacity for strain. One more
war, one more coup or period of unrest or even uncertainty, and it
will snap like a bad bone. Hakk was counting on that, the
brittleness, the country at its limit. He wants to break the
country’s collective will to survive. To make people give up.
Succumb. If the foreigners leave, it will ruin people’s livelihood.
It would be too much to take.”

Understanding flashed on Flint’s face as she
shook her head in astonishment at a mind bent on destruction merely
for destruction’s sake.

“Sick bastard. And here, I got this today.
This is more of the same.” She gave Andrew Hakk’s latest email
communication to the Ambassadors. It had been sent late Friday
night, set on a timer to go after the bridges collapsed.

“You were warned,” was the message the email
contained. It had been sent to all the Embassies in Phnom Penh, to
everyone from the Ambassador to the interns, dispatched
automatically. Not surprisingly, on the heels of the bridge
collapse, this message had created a flurry of international email
communication, secure and not secure, from Embassy staff to their
home country. Most embassies were closing on Monday while this
matter was investigated.

Andrew’s phone rang and he stepped out of the
room.

Flint doodled on the pages of the manifesto,
drawing the DC skyline as she read again the musings of a mad
man.

“Siem Reap is safe.” Andrew said when he
returned to the room.

“That’s a relief. Pretty touch and go up
there for a minute,” Flint said.

A US special-forces demolition team, flown in
from parts undisclosed, was decommissioning the massive bomb in the
jungle outside Siem Reap. Andrew understood from the amount of
explosive inside it, it would have cratered the shabby little
town.

Andrew shook his head as he stared at the
map. He had tried to recreate from memory what he had seen in
Hakk’s hut in the mountains.

“The thing is, I’m not so sure we’re out of
the woods. I think he had a back up plan. That’s what he meant when
he said there was no stopping, that it was already in motion. The
bomb was just one part of it. All his men in the jungle, what’s
their mission?”

Flint drew swift, straight lines on the blank
paper as she spoke. “Smaller bombs? Light weaponry? Suicide vests?
Tourists are sitting ducks, really, for the lone rogue warrior.”
She tilted her head at Andrew. “The Agency would like to alert the
public to the threat.”

Andrew turned to her. “It’s not gonna happen.
The powers-that-be here want this contained, controlled. Kept
quiet. We have permission to stop it, not advertise it. Too much at
stake if the press gets a hold of it.”

Flint shook her head. “Bad decisions.”

“Well, it’s what we’ve got to work with.”

Andrew’s phone rang again. He looked at the
number before he answered it. Not a number he recognized.

“Hello?” he said. The caller was female and
frantic. Andrew looked relieved. Flint watched him.

“Thank God. Severine, where are you?”

“It’s a long story. I’m fine. I’m on the
Mekong, heading south toward Phnom Penh.”

“Don’t come here. You can't get by. Hakk has
blown up the bridges.”

“Who’s Hakk?”

“It doesn’t matter right now, I’ll explain
later. Just, don’t come to Phnom Penh.”

He heard Severine turn and speak to someone
beside her:

“He says we can't get through, the river is
blocked.”

Andrew said, “Severine, listen. Go north. Go
to the deepest point in the river and stay put. We'll send someone
for you. Call me when you get through.”

“OK. We can do that. I’ll tell the others.”
She clicked off.

Andrew wondered what others. He would ask her
later.

The door of the room opened and a secretary
pushed in a metal cart set with drinks and lunch. The cart was a
mini-version of the street pushcarts that were ubiquitous in Phnom
Penh, the Cambodian version of a food-truck, selling all manner of
food and souvenirs.

The cart’s black wheels squeaked as they
rolled over the linoleum. Settling the tray in the corner, the
secretary bowed slightly and departed, closing the door behind
her.

Flint stood and headed to the cart. She never
ate on international flights and hadn’t had a decent meal for two
days. Flint grabbed a sandwich from the stack, sniffed it and took
a bite. She chewed, content.

Andrew walked up behind her. “What looks
good?” he asked, eyeing the rectangular metal cart. The top shelf
held a tray stacked high with triangular white-bread sandwiches,
crusts cut off. The cart’s lower shelf was filled with soda cans,
the brightly-colored aluminum cylinders packed in tight.