Phnom Penh Express Read Free

is in his late twenties at most, but clearly the one in charge. He speaks softly, almost whispers, like a loving parent saying goodnight to his child.
    “We can do this all over again. Take all night, maybe two. We’re paid by the hour.”
    Dieter produces a pathetic, unintelligible sound and stares wide-eyed at the ceiling. His brain is frantically trying to process the onslaught of information mixed with surging emotions and the threat of more pain to come. For the moment, he’s mostly focused on the pain aspect. The young man still has his mouth pressed to Dieter’s ear. He speaks in a monotone voice, quite used to if not a little bored by the macabre spectacle.
    “You will tell us everything about Cambodia. If any of the details don’t add up, you will leave this world in a way you’d never imagined possible.”
    The man pauses and gently strokes Dieter’s face. He wants to ensure his victim clearly understands.
    He continues.
    “This was just a little sample.” For an instant a brief smile flickers on the man’s face, then quickly fades.
    “In return for your kind cooperation we will assist you out of your miserable existence quickly and more humanely — the choice is yours.”
    Dieter is breathing fast, like a rabbit in its death throes. Once the word ‘Mossad’ pops into his brain. But he quickly stops trying to think, he just wants this to be over. He has never experienced such agony and is surprised his body has been able to take it so far. He’s definitely too young to die, but right now he’d give just about anything to not have to go through that hell again — including his life.
    The man is now standing upright. He looks relaxed, hands casually tucked inside his pockets as he smiles down at his handcuffed victim. It’s the ominous smile of a sadist. Dieter stares back with big, quivering eyes and moves his head. It’s more of a jerky spasm than the intended nod.
    “Congratulations, my South African friend,” says the man quietly. “Wise choice... I guess,” he adds with a hint of disappointment in his voice. He turns his head and looks at the doctor.
    “Inject the pain killer.”
    The man glances over his shoulder at a young, oriental woman lingering at the far end of the room from where she has been quietly observing Dieter’s ordeal. At her nod, the three men leave, closing the door behind them. The young woman walks over to Dieter and positions herself in front of him.
    When his tear-blurred vision finally manages to focus properly on the woman, Dieter’s face flashes with surprise and then anger. Black Lotus! Her iconic nickname races through his conscious while the young woman remains emotionless. The distinctive birthmark on her right cheek is shaped like the petals of a lotus flower. It grants her the illusion of innocence while her brown, Asian eyes belie her icy gaze. She starts talking to Dieter in a businesslike fashion.
    “It’s all over for you now. You know the deal. You talk, I listen.”
    It doesn’t take him long to contemplate his options. He hasn’t got any. Once again, Dieter moves his head.
    Several hours later, in the darkness of the late evening, his body would wash ashore on one of Tel Aviv’s beaches.

Chapter     THREE
    LIKE MANY OF the other establishments that line Phnom Penh’s Street 240, a Belgian bakery and café, The House, is busy. Its tables are swollen with people casually chatting while they eat. Young Cambodian staff run around clearing tables and taking orders.
    Two doors down is another elegant French colonial building. It’s an offshoot of the bakery’s business and will soon become Cambodia’s first chocolate factory. Belgian owner Nina has already named this new extension to her business ‘The Chocolate House’. It made perfect sense to her — how could it be anything else?
    She loves the new building that she recently acquired and renovated. None of the original floor tiles are missing and with their subtle colour scheme they