Highways to a War Read Free

just rumors,” I said. “No one really knows what’s going on, not even the press.”
    She frowned at me. “So it really wasn’t sensible of Mike to go in there,” she said. “Why would he do it?”
    I shrugged. “The story, I suppose,” I said.
    I heard the back door bang, and Rex’s tread in the hall. He entered the kitchen without smiling, dropping his battered satchel on a chair, and came around the counter to kiss Diana on the cheek; then he looked at me, his arm about her shoulders. “Ray,” he said. “Glad you could come.”
    He sighted the bottle, searched out a glass, and poured himself some of the white. Diana watched him and waited; then she asked: “Has anything else come through?”
    Glass in hand, Lockhart looked at her and frowned, eyes narrow, cheeks heavy with portent. He tended to create such moments of hiatus and apprehension—his moods, like those of most drinkers, being unpredictable. Now in his mid-fifties, he was a big, heavy man who still had the remnants of handsomeness, and who always held himself well. He still had a head of thick sandy hair, streaked with gray, and his mustache—a relic of his days in the RAF in World War Two—was a foxy color. He pulled up a stool, loosened his tie, took his first sip of wine, and at the same time fumbled in the inside pocket of his tweed sports coat. Finally he pulled out a sheet of paper, which he spread on the counter.
    “Better read this,” he said.
    Diana and I read it together: it had been torn from a teleprinter.
    1800 hrs.
    MISSING
    Reuter Bangkok, 8 April
    Noted Australian-born war photographer Michael Langford has disappeared inside Cambodia: now Democratic Kampuchea. Grave fears are held for his safety.
    James Feng, bureau chief for British Telenews in Bangkok, has drawn attention to Langford’s disappearance.
    Mr. Feng, a close friend and colleague of Langford‘s, has told the Australian embassy in Bangkok that he believes Langford to be a prisoner in the hands of the Khmer Rouge. According to Feng, Langford crossed the Thai-Cambodian border illegally five days ago, despite the fact that Communist Kampuchea is now closed to all foreigners.
    Michael Langford achieved international fame with his daring coverage of the Indochina war, both on film and in still pictures.
    Published collections of his photographs are regarded as among the best that record the Vietnam conflict, and he has won a number of important prizes for photojournalism.
    “Langford must have snapped his twig to do this,” Lockhart said.
    “He’s got out of bad situations before,” I said. “He presumably knew there was a way out of this one.”
    Lockhart lit a cigarette and looked at me sideways, waving the match out. “One would hope so, mate, yes,” he said. “But I assume you do know the situation. The country absolutely sealed. No telephones, no post, no air links except with Peking, no foreigners allowed in at all, and that means no journalists either. And mass purges going on. So what did he think he was doing, for Christ’s sake?”
    Diana’s expression had now grown mildly fearful; but when she spoke it was to attempt once again to reject any serious concern. “Ray’s right,” she said. “Michael’s always taken risks he knew how to handle. There must be a reason.”
    Lockhart looked back at her without expression, and their eyes continued to hold in a married way I couldn’t read. To break the silence, I said: “He may have made a deal with the Khmer Rouge for safe conduct.”
    Lockhart turned to me, his cigarette suspended halfway to his mouth. “With the Khmer Rouge?” he said. “I’m sorry, Ray. How much do you know about them? No one makes deals with the Khmer Rouge: not even Langford.”
    There was a brutal note in his voice that puzzled me. Lockhart had been deeply fond of Mike in the old days, to the point of sentimentality; yet the only hint of emotion I could detect in him now was repressed anger. Perhaps it was the only one he