The Brittle Limit, a Novel (4 page)

Jeremy said, “We hope, of course, that you
won’t need to use it.” He gave Andrew a pointed look. “It’s not
standard procedure, but orders are orders.”

Andrew stood. “I’d like to get started.”

“Of course. Janey will show you to your
office.”

As if on cue, the heavy wooden door opened
and Janey breezed in.

*******

With the same efficiency she brought to her
typing, Janey wordlessly guided Andrew through the maze of the
embassy hallways. Her high heels clicked on the tile floor as she
walked, the sound echoing in the high hallways.

Andrew glanced at his watch. It was just
after 4:30 PM. At the end of the hallway, they descended a flight
of stairs and then another long hallway, almost identical to the
one above, only with lower ceilings and dank air. Andrew had a good
sense of direction, but was having trouble keeping track in this
subterranean lair. They turned left and right a couple more
times.

She stopped and turned halfway to face the
wall.

“Here we are.” They were standing in a
hallway with no doors as far as Andrew could tell. Janey pulled a
small coppery key from her blue skirt pocket and inserted it into
an imperceptible key-hole in the wall. She pushed lightly on the
wall, revealing that what had seemed to be just endless walls was
in fact a door, its handle discrete, that gave way into a small
office with concrete floors, a metal desk on which sat an ancient
desktop computer and a printer. And a single high rectangular
window.

“Sorry to have to put you down here in the
nether world. Orders, I’m afraid. Far from probing eyes. Need to
contain the buzz about the handsome new man on campus.” She smiled
at him and added. “People talk here. There is not much else to do
in this little town.”

“People talk everywhere. Anyway, I’ll prefer
the privacy, so it works out.”

Andrew stuck his head inside his new office,
looking for the light switch, which he found on the cool steel
wall. He flicked the switch and the overhead fluorescent light
blinked on, off, then on again, with its trademark hum.

“This works.”

Janey looked around at the office one last
time. Satisfied that all was in order, she said, “Right. I’ll leave
you to it.”

Andrew was peering out the high small window
that allowed what little daylight remained into the basement room.
He turned back to say “Thank you” but Janey was already halfway
down the long hallway, walking with sharp steps on to her next
task. Andrew watched her turn the corner at the far end of the
hallway, pivoting on her toes.

Andrew looked around the office. It wasn’t
the same as climbing stone temples, but it suited the task at hand.
Andrew closed the door, sat down and flipped opened the thin file
Jeremy had given him.

Inside, there were a few local newspapers,
some tourist brochures and magazines filled with glossy pictures of
riverside restaurants and smiling Cambodian hostesses, a rambling
police report with a statement from the girlfriend, and a large
colorful map of Cambodia, with a circle around Phnom Penh. There
was also a newspaper article about Ben’s father, outlining his
company’s vast success.

Andrew reviewed the file material, made a few
notes, then logged on to his email to see if Flint had sent him
anything further. Two new emails from Flint, one with photos of Ben
and a very pretty dark-haired girl. The second email was
standard-issue CIA background info on the country and its dark
history of civil war and unrest, most of which Andrew already knew.
Hard not to know about the Khmer Rouge.

He had hit ‘Print’ when there was a knock on
the door. The printer was in high gear, clacking away, spitting out
pages. Over the racket, Andrew called out, “Come in.” The door
opened to reveal Janey.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you so soon but I’ve
brought you a local phone. We thought you’d want one, it’s easier
for making local calls. We hadn’t had time to pick one up for you
before you arrived. One of the secretaries just dropped it
off.”

She handed him a basic plastic gray phone.
Andrew took it, amused. It looked like a child’s toy. No
full-length slick glossy screen, no camera, just an actual push
keypad with numbers and letters and a little plastic window for a
screen. Andrew thought, Welcome to the stone ages.

“Thanks.”

Janey continued. “I’ve loaded it with credit,
so you should be good for a while. If you run out, you can top up
at any store, just buy a card.”

“Will do.” Andrew didn’t bother to mention he
had a secure cellular phone that worked anywhere in the world. He
smiled up at Janey.

“Thank you,” he repeated, looking down at his
desk, adjusting the keyboard and papers. He wanted to get back to
work but for some reason Janey was lingering, intent on
staying.

Janey eyed him. “I’ve also brought you this.”
She stepped forward and held out a sheet of paper, which she placed
on the desk and slid across to Andrew.

“The ambassador received this email some
weeks ago now. He’s quite busy, as you can imagine, so he passed it
to Jeremy. We get a lot of crank mail, from all over the world.
Jeremy said that’s what this was, just another crank, and not to
bother you with it. But, since you’re here, I thought, perhaps you
should know…”

Andrew picked up the page. It was brief, only
four words.

“Ch’kai leave or die.”

“Who’s Ch’kai?” Andrew asked, staring at the
page.

“It’s not a who, it’s a what. ‘Ch’kai’ is
Khmer for dog. Khmer is the Cambodian language,” Janey explained,
tilting her head as if in apology. Andrew nodded - he knew this -
and Janey continued. “Sorry, some people don’t know. So, Ch’kai is
a terrible insult in Khmer, really the worst thing you can call
someone. It means street vermin.”

“So someone doesn’t like the US Ambassador
very much?” Andrew said.

Janey stepped closer. “No, it’s not that.
Ch’kai is also a slur. It means ‘foreigner’.”

Andrew looked again at the note.

“Foreigners leave or die.” He read aloud then
looked up at Janey, who was watching him with careful eyes. “That’s
a clear message. Simple, to the point. Cranks usually go on and on,
unable to stem the tide of their theories or injuries or
complaints.”

“Yes, I know.” Janey said, her eyes bright.
“And here’s the catch - from what I’ve heard from the other EAs,
almost every embassy in town received this. I thought you should
know.”

“Thanks. Mind if I keep this?” He looked at
Janey.

“Of course. I hope it’s helpful.”

“Yes. This is not the kind of thing to shove
into a file. You did the right thing, sharing this. Actually, can
you forward me the original email?”

Janey nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll do that
right away.” She exhaled, relieved. She didn’t usually disobey her
boss. She turned to head back upstairs, then turned back to Andrew,
who was reading Flint’s notes on the computer screen. “Also…a word
to the wise?”

Andrew looked up. “Yes?”

“Keep this door locked. I wouldn’t expect
anything to happen, security is tight. But you’re down here on your
own and while I’m sure you can take care of yourself…an ounce of
prevention…” She tilted her head to one side.

“Yes, ma’am. Understood. I’ll lock myself in
tight,” Andrew said. He stood to lock the door as instructed.
Wouldn’t hurt, he figured.

She nodded. “Good. And please, let me know if
you need anything else.” She pivoted on her five-inch heels, stood
silhouetted by the bright hallway light for a heartbeat, and walked
away.

Andrew could hear the clack clack of Janey’s
heels as she disappeared down the hallway. He stood to shut and
lock the door. He wanted to peek out to watch, but thought better
of it.

He sat back at the desk, staring at the note.
It appeared that his vacation was well and truly over. He sighed,
with both resignation and relief.

These last four years, under cover in a
global trafficking ring, had taken a toll on him. He hadn’t known
how high a toll until he’d made a rookie mistake, falling for the
target, a Moroccan beauty with a sharp wit and a knack for selling
stolen guns at inflated prices. Andrew thought he could take it -
Entanglements went with the job; some thought it was a perk. But it
hadn’t worked out that way for him.

His boss had yanked him out of the operation,
brought him back to the surface. He’d flown home to Langley,
chagrined and depressed, to sit in a high-backed leather chair
staring out a wide window at the northern Virginia woods as his
boss Officer Denise Flint presented him with his one option. “Take
a break.” She’d talked about him not being the only one, she’d seen
it happen before. But when he asked her to name names, even one,
she wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

Flint knew of course enough about Andrew’s
personal life to know all was not well. Hadn’t been for some time.
Right before he’d gone deep undercover again, Andrew’s wife of ten
years had left him, taking their eight-year-old daughter with her,
saying little except “This cannot be all there is.”

He’d had no time to process this life event
or to even accept it. He’d had to move blindly forward, that was
his job, who he was. So he assumed another identity for four years,
as his life fell away from him.

Take a break. Flint had repeated it several
times during their conversation. Andrew knew what it meant. His
cover blown, he assumed he was now of little use. They’d put him
out to pasture. If that happened, and Andrew was sure it would, he
didn’t know what he’d do. The idea of a desk job was unappealing, a
Washington DC think tank equally dismal. All he knew was the field.
He was good at it.

Well, he had been, once, he thought.

Andrew stared at the gun case on his desk. He
unlocked it and flipped it open. The gun, packed into stiff gray
foam, gleamed a dull muted black. Andrew slipped his finger through
the trigger and lifted it out of the case, checked it wasn’t
loaded. He held the pistol up to the buzzing florescent light,
turned it back and forth, then brought the muzzle to his nose. He
inhaled. There was only the fine smell of composite. He looked down
the barrel; it was pristine. He adjusted the grip, feeling its
rough texture in his large hand.

The gun’s magazines were tucked in the thick
foam. Andrew grabbed one and in a simple fluid movement, loaded the
weapon. Without a thought, he shoved the weapon into the space at
the small of his back, over his shirt. He pulled on a jacket and
ventured out into the hallway, hoping he could find his way out of
the maze to the street level above. He had questions to ask.

Chapter 5

The Phnom Penh waterfront was a busy place
for expats and locals alike. The main Road, Sisowath Quay, was
lined with restaurants offering authentic Khmer dishes, “happy”
pizza, and French fries for the unadventurous. Tourists could buy
colorful raw silk scarves and pirated Hollywood DVDs for a fraction
of the price back home. On a central corner, stood the famous
Foreign Correspondents Club, or FCC to those in the know. From its
broad balcony, one could watch boats heading downriver to Ho Chi
Minh City or upriver to Tonle Sap, the Great Lake by Siem Reap.

The balcony was a good place to escape the
heavy afternoon rains, especially in the late afternoon, when it
was quiet, after the busy lunch crowd but before the expat dinner
boozers arrived, with their tall tales and foolish dreams.

Severine sat at a table along the balcony’s
edge, overlooking the river, staring out at the muddy water and the
rows of huts on the opposite shore. Stunned by the past 24 hours,
she felt like her brain was breaking into pieces. Dark circles
under her eyes, she scratched a mosquito bite on her forearm.
Street kids who knew her by sight wandered by her table and asked
her for change but she waved them away. One enterprising young boy
put a giant furry tarantula on her table. His pet usually scared
the Western women into running away from the table, leaving their
purses behind. Severine merely looked at the boy with sad eyes.
Disappointed, he picked up his spider and walked down the street
looking for his next victim.

Severine sipped her coffee, cold now. She
drank it anyway. She’d been sitting there for hours. The staff had
given up on asking her if she wanted anything else. She’d called
work this morning and told her assistant what had happened, said
maybe she’d be in tomorrow. Maybe.

She did not know what to do.

She watched her cigarette in the ashtray, as
the fire crept along the tightly-rolled white paper, in a slow,
jagged advance, the flame leaving behind it a fragile branch of ash
hanging from the fine divide between the burnt and the unburnt. She
tapped the cigarette once, and the ash flaked to the floor,
discarded.

Ben had wanted her to quit. He'd started with
gentle chiding, then when she'd resisted - she'd say "I'm French -
we smoke, we drink, we make mad passionate love to our men," he'd
smiled but had taken to hiding her cigarettes in the cupboards and
corners of their home.

This, because he'd wanted to start a family.
At age 26, he was ready. But she'd said wait. Let's wait. As if it
was something they would do together.

A tear fell to the table.

Two large young western men in tan uniforms
who had been watching her from a distance approached the table.

“Severine Chandon?” asked the taller of the
two men.

“Yes?” Severine was surprised to hear her
full name, spoken so formally. She looked up at the men. One of
them held her picture in his left hand and he glanced at it again,
as if to double-check they had the right lady.

“Will you please come with us? Someone would
like to speak with you.”

She knew by their accents that they were
American. They sounded like Ben, the same long vowel sounds, and
the wasteful enunciation.