it was about him and what he’d left behind. His big secret and the origin of his dark, paranoid world that he’d finally asked her to enter.
At her grandfather’s Arlington funeral three weeks ago, some men she’d never seen before showed up at the solemn burial. A couple of them identified themselves as Neil Hunter’s old war colleagues, Army Intel officers or CIA types. They were dutifully apologetic, knew who she was, and seemed very friendly. But they came at her with questions, with interest about if her grandfather had written his memoirs, or if he’d regained some of the memories of the plane crash. She gave them nothing. Or so she thought, up to the break-in of her condo.
She was now convinced her Google searches and phone conversations were big mistakes. She hadn’t taken the warnings, the seeming paranoia of her grandfather, seriously enough and she was paying the price. She wasn’t the only one looking for that long lost plane.
4
The black Mercedes raced along the swollen Tonle Sap River at high speed, harassing anyone in its way with blaring horns and flashing headlights, as it shot toward the largest estate west of the city.
The driver turned off the main road and slowed at the entrance gate that led into a vast estate. He was waved on by two AK-47 toting security guards. In the passenger seat a former colonel in the Cambodian military and now a head of security for Besson Enterprises, nodded to the armed guards, both once in his army unit.
The colonel turned to the backseat, glancing at the wet, muddy suitcase between the two thieves. That they’d failed to get the woman’s other bag might seal their fate and maybe his. He gave each of them a hard look. He’d sent them on a simple errand and they’d come back with half the package. Not acceptable.
The Mercedes raced up the palm tree-lined ribbon of road that led to the massive French colonial building on the banks of the swollen river. The estate belonged to Luc Besson, a former French intelligence officer and one of the wealthiest men in Indochina.
The driver swung in by the side of the house and parked between a vintage gray Citroen and a green Land Rover.
The colonel got out, opened the back door and took the Samsonite suitcase. He walked around the side of the main house past a fish pond to the expansive veranda that overlooked the gardens, the chopper pad and the river. As he approached he heard the familiar sharp crack of a heavy caliber rifle.
When the colonel mounted the steps, Luc Besson, a tall, thin, grey-haired Frenchman, aimed at something out in the gardens until his houseman said something. He lowered the rifle and turned, seeing the colonel, and more importantly, the suitcase. He emitted a little yelp of delight, and then surrendered his rifle to one of his housemen.
“ Vous l’avez . Excellent.” That was followed by a frown. “There were two bags?”
“The men said the woman was big and strong and fought like a tiger. They were able to get only one before a big crowd gathered and they were forced to run away.”
Besson didn’t take that news well, as the colonel knew he wouldn’t. But it was his American business associate, Arnold Cole, who had ordered the theft and he was the one to worry about. Cole would be arriving from Angkor Wat and he had a vicious temper and many powerful friends all over Southeast Asia. He was nobody to anger.
“Open it,” Besson thundered. He then yelled to his houseman to bring a tool box.
From the tool box the colonel selected a hammer and chisel. He cut the locks with a couple well placed blows.
Besson dumped everything out onto a table. He picked up a plastic bag and removed a manila envelope and took out some photos. He then removed a well-worn, leather bound book of some kind that he leafed through fast. Then, apparently disappointed, went through it much slower the second time. Finally he dropped it with disgust on the table.
Besson then went through the woman’s clothes
At her grandfather’s Arlington funeral three weeks ago, some men she’d never seen before showed up at the solemn burial. A couple of them identified themselves as Neil Hunter’s old war colleagues, Army Intel officers or CIA types. They were dutifully apologetic, knew who she was, and seemed very friendly. But they came at her with questions, with interest about if her grandfather had written his memoirs, or if he’d regained some of the memories of the plane crash. She gave them nothing. Or so she thought, up to the break-in of her condo.
She was now convinced her Google searches and phone conversations were big mistakes. She hadn’t taken the warnings, the seeming paranoia of her grandfather, seriously enough and she was paying the price. She wasn’t the only one looking for that long lost plane.
4
The black Mercedes raced along the swollen Tonle Sap River at high speed, harassing anyone in its way with blaring horns and flashing headlights, as it shot toward the largest estate west of the city.
The driver turned off the main road and slowed at the entrance gate that led into a vast estate. He was waved on by two AK-47 toting security guards. In the passenger seat a former colonel in the Cambodian military and now a head of security for Besson Enterprises, nodded to the armed guards, both once in his army unit.
The colonel turned to the backseat, glancing at the wet, muddy suitcase between the two thieves. That they’d failed to get the woman’s other bag might seal their fate and maybe his. He gave each of them a hard look. He’d sent them on a simple errand and they’d come back with half the package. Not acceptable.
The Mercedes raced up the palm tree-lined ribbon of road that led to the massive French colonial building on the banks of the swollen river. The estate belonged to Luc Besson, a former French intelligence officer and one of the wealthiest men in Indochina.
The driver swung in by the side of the house and parked between a vintage gray Citroen and a green Land Rover.
The colonel got out, opened the back door and took the Samsonite suitcase. He walked around the side of the main house past a fish pond to the expansive veranda that overlooked the gardens, the chopper pad and the river. As he approached he heard the familiar sharp crack of a heavy caliber rifle.
When the colonel mounted the steps, Luc Besson, a tall, thin, grey-haired Frenchman, aimed at something out in the gardens until his houseman said something. He lowered the rifle and turned, seeing the colonel, and more importantly, the suitcase. He emitted a little yelp of delight, and then surrendered his rifle to one of his housemen.
“ Vous l’avez . Excellent.” That was followed by a frown. “There were two bags?”
“The men said the woman was big and strong and fought like a tiger. They were able to get only one before a big crowd gathered and they were forced to run away.”
Besson didn’t take that news well, as the colonel knew he wouldn’t. But it was his American business associate, Arnold Cole, who had ordered the theft and he was the one to worry about. Cole would be arriving from Angkor Wat and he had a vicious temper and many powerful friends all over Southeast Asia. He was nobody to anger.
“Open it,” Besson thundered. He then yelled to his houseman to bring a tool box.
From the tool box the colonel selected a hammer and chisel. He cut the locks with a couple well placed blows.
Besson dumped everything out onto a table. He picked up a plastic bag and removed a manila envelope and took out some photos. He then removed a well-worn, leather bound book of some kind that he leafed through fast. Then, apparently disappointed, went through it much slower the second time. Finally he dropped it with disgust on the table.
Besson then went through the woman’s clothes
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