Black Heart, page 46
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Americans were employing, shiny with oil, spitting orange death as they chattered over the deafening thunder from the
metallic skies.
Two more Khmer Rouge went down before the first of the Americans was hit. He was a tall man with blond hair and blue eyes. He clutched at his throat as blood gouted through his fingers and he arched back, pitching sideways into the undergrowth. A second American followed him soon after but by that time fully half of the cadre had been taken out.
Still the Americans advanced. Khieu found his heart held no delight to see the foreigners' death. Nor did he participate at all in the defence of the cadre's perimeter. He was an observer, totally neutral.
Flames rose, seething, to obscure the rumbling, cloud-filleo sky. Mean huts burst into bright light, fragments raining, as tht. shelling continued onward north by northeast up the valle< towards Sre Khtum. The heavy moisture-laden air hummei with the whut-whut-whut of the copters as they began to veer oh in the wake of the 6-525. Cindrous smoke drifted upward i charcoal-grey petals only to be pressed down again by the be;,* of the rotors. The stink of ash and kerosene almost managed t mask the stench of running blood and faeces. And fear.
Macomber had taken temporary refuge behind a sagging wa,, creaking in the wind fanning the firestorm. Off to Khieu's rigL he could detect movement now as the remaining two Amer cans scuttled from one clump of cover to another. The rapid > spreading fire was hampering the Khmer Rouge defence; thi j were nonplussed by having guerrilla tactics used against them Khieu could see that the Americans were both very smart and well-trained. His heart leaped to witness this beautiful assault.
Ros and the remaining members of the cadre had picked up the advance of the two Americans now and they moved cover themselves. There was a murderous look in Ros' eyes. The cadre began their fire against the advancing Americ i duo. At that moment, Macomber darted out from behind th. half-collapsed wall, zig-zagged along the cadre's left flank. H^ held his fire, wanting to get as close as he could to maximize th<. shock.
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It would have worked to perfection, too, had one of the American duo not inadvertently stepped on one of the concealed mines.
The soldier, broken in half, was hurled high in the air. The hellish cumulus of the raging firestorm took him and he was gone. His companion had been hit as well, but not fatally. Blood drooled down his left leg where the thin cloth and much of his skin had been stripped away. He fell to one knee, firing his AK-
4.7. Then a fusillade riddled him and his corpse was flung away.
Macomber began to fire. A Khmer Rouge spun, clutched at his shredded chest, his mouth full of blood. Macomber never ceased his short-burst fire. Three more of the cadre staggered back and fell to the ground, seeping blood. Only Ros and one other was left and in the swirl of smoke and fire, on the increase, Khieu lost sight of Ros.
The last member of the cadre had leapt at Macomber and now they were grappling along the ground. Khieu emerged from his place of concealment. He found that he did not want this American to die; rather, it was his former Khmer comrades for whom he wished death. For what they had done to his country; for what they had done to Sam.
The Khmer Rouge - it was Mok, Khieu could see now - had his knife out. Khieu saw the flash of the blade as it arched in towards the American's face. He began to run, unsnapping the holster at his side that housed his prized .38 pistol.
He had just set himself to aim when he saw Macomber extend his left elbow in a blur of movement. Mok screamed as the American applied enormous pressure to the other's eye socket. Then Macomber's right hand was free and he had torn the knife from Mok's weakened grasp, slashing in a long deep horizontal strike from one side of his neck to another.
He was up in a moment, having thrown the corpse from him. But now Khieu spotted Ros, half-hidden behind the low shelter of a crumbling stone wall. He was taking aim at Macomber.
'No!' Khieu cried and as Ros turned in reflex towards the sound of his voice, Khieu shot him twice. Ros went down as 'f pole-axed.
Then, calmly, carefully, Khieu walked over to the American,
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stepping over the mounds of the dead. Glowing cinders rolled along the ground like evil eyes and smoke plumed the air i^
gasps.
Macomber had sunk to his knees and Khieu could see that he was bleeding slightly from several superficial wounds. He stood over him now and, pointing the .38 Smith & Wesson at Macomber's head, said in perfect French, 'Well, well. What have we here?'
Orange skies and the peeling blackened bark of a charred palm. Those were all Khieu was aware of. His heart beat so fast he thought it must burst his ribs, the bars of its cage. But first, you must escape this country of madness. He thought now that Musashi Murano had been right; he could stay in Cambodia no longer. 'fetes-vous blesse?'
The American stared at him uncomprehendingly and Khieu thought, Buddha, how could they send him in here ignorant of French? He repeated the question, this time a bit more slowly. 'Are you hurt?'
He knelt in front of the American and, holstering the .38, picked apart the open front of the black blouse that clung, sticky with blood, to the American's flesh.
'Not so bad," the American said in fairly good idiomatic
French.
'Good,' Khieu said, 'you speak the language. My English is not so good.' He looked into Macomber's sweat- and dirtstreaked face. 'I'm sorry about your men. There was nothing I could do about them. If I hadn't waited to help you, they'd've shot me instantly.'
'I thank you for your help,' the American said, struggling to get up. He introduced himself then. 'Lieutenant Delmar Davis Macomber.'
'I am Khieu Sokha,' he said, extending his hand. Unconsciously he had used the Eastern form: last name first.
Macomber had taken his hand in his own. 'Good to meet you,
Khieu.'
Khieu had never corrected him. He was about to when he realized the import of what had just occurred. That reversal
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of his name came to represent to him his break with his past.
'I thought you were going to kill me back there,' Macomber was saying. 'Why didn't you?'
'You came to destroy the Khmer Rouge,' Khieu said.
Macomber nodded. 'Yes. This camp was our objective.'
'I want to destroy the Khmer Rouge.'
'But you are Khmer Rouge.'
Khieu shook his head. 'I want no more of the Black Heart. They destroyed my brother. Now you have destroyed them.' He lifted his prized .38 and put it firmly in Macomber's open hand. 'Though this is my only possession worth anything, it is but a token.' He bowed his head in front of the American. 'I owe you a debt I can never repay.1'
'I'm not interested in that, Khieu,' Macomber said softly. He put his free hand on Khieu's shoulder. 'I have a mission to complete and now there's only me to see it through.'
'I will help,' Khieu said. 'You must allow this.'
Macomber smiled, squeezed Khieu's shoulder. 'All right.' His face clouded. 'But I've got to warn you. If you do help me, it'll be very dangerous for you here in your own country.'
Khieu looked up at him. The thunder had at last ceased. 'The war devours Cambodia like a great tiger. It has left me nothing, not even my own life. I go where you go.'
'All the way back to America?'
'All the way,' Khieu said, nodding.
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The day was filled with drifting clouds, grey and puffy, no rain dancing in their midst. Just a diffuseness of light ever changing, shifting, banding and breaking, apart.
Music played deep within their celestial depths, dark reverberating chords, spinning down corridors, rich tapestries of melody and counterpoint harmonies. The choir of the ages sang, full-throated and angelic.
Then the first rumblings of war shattered its perfect peace. A line of palms flew skyward, shrieking in gold and crimson flame. A serpent of oily smoke blossomed and plumed, smudging the sky, hanging thickly in the heavy humid air. The stink of cordite, the awful cloying stench of human flesh frying.
Tracy awoke with his nostrils full of war, jerking up and crying out. Soft hands held him, murmured words sounded, softening the bursts of exploding shells in his mind. He breathed and slowly the stink of crisped flesh transmuted itself into the antiseptic scent of a hospital. His eyes fluttered closed and he was gently laid back to bed.
'Doctor ..."
And his mind, tired, sinking back into drugged sleep, picking up the word, throwing it back and forth like a ball in his drifting mind.
Doctor, Doctor, Doctor ... sent him drowsing, burrowing down again into the darkness from which he had been briefly pulled.
Lauren tried the triple pas de chat for the fifth time. This time she was not alone. Her partner, a tall Dane named Steven, was at this rehearsal, along with the sixteen members of the corps: eight boys and eight girls.
The first two times, she was slightly behind, after that, overcompensating so that she was a full beat ahead. The Stravinsky
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score, a work she particularly loved, just did not seem to mesh inside her head. Melody existed apart from tempo which, of course, was disastrous for a dancer. She had begun to respond to the changing tone of the notes rather than the metnc fourfour measures Martin had mapped out for them.
She fell into Steven's arms in the middle of the second jump and almost injured them both. Martin broke off the music immediately and the girls in the corps began to whisper among themselves. The boys stared in curiosity.
Martin came away from the wall against which he had been observing them. He clapped his hands sharply several times and the large room emptied quickly until only he and Lauren stood within it.
The long line of mirrors which covered one wall was behind him, opening up the space, increasing Lauren's sense of isolation. Martin did not approach her. Instead, he crossed his burly forearms over his chest. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up slightly old-fashioned black trousers. Ballet slipper were on his feet.
'Lauren,' he said, after a time, 'how many years have you been dancing now?'
She looked at him. 'Since I was five-and-a-half. All my life.'
Martin began to walk along the bane, fingertips against its polished wooden length. 'Did you ever consider being anything else but a ballet dancer during that time?'
'No. Never.'
He turned towards her. 'Why do you think that was?' His handsome Russian head was held perfectly erect The tic in one eye was barely noticeable at this distance. Still, the ice blue of the irises projected across the space between them
'I wanted to dance. Always.'
'And you wanted to dance with me. With Vlasky. Always.'
Lauren nodded. 'Yes. The New York company's the best in the world. I always aspired to be the best.'
'And that's why you're here now!' Martin said with some force 'The best are here ... and not just to dance. One can dance m the Royal, the San Francisco, American Ballet Theater. You are here to learn, to expand yourself as a dancer. To become
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something more!" There was a kind of cool fervour in his eyes if not his voice. Martin never proselytized to dancers as he did to the press and the members of the Guild. The two were absolutely distinct: one was dance, the other publicity and funding. As Martin was fond of saying, one could not occur without the other. No, dancers came to him.
He came across the expanse of the room towards her now. 'You are something more, Lauren. Yet you are also what you always have been. A professional. Whatever is troubling you, I want it erased from your mind. It distances you from the music. I create the steps; you bring them to life. If your concentration is broken, you cannot do that.'
'I don't know what's the matter with me,' she said miserably. 'It doesn't matter,' Martin snapped. 'The consequences are what concern me.' He was close to her now and she could feel his presence, his calmness of spirit like a soothing hand across her brow. 'If you are a professional, you will dance. Period. We must have this ballet ready within the week.'
'Why? What's so important that this all has to be rushed.' Now Martin's eyes were sparkling. 'The season is over,' he said, 'but we will not go to Saratoga. We have been invited to be the first Western ballet company to perform in China.' 'China!' Lauren breathed.
Martin nodded. 'Delicate negotiations have been going on during these past three weeks. I have said nothing because I was told by our State Department that at any moment the deal could fall through. The Chinese are apparently unpredictable that way. But this morning the call came from Washington. We'll be on our way in several days.
'I planned to make the announcement at this afternoon's rehearsal. But, in this case, I thought it might do you good to know beforehand.' He turned away from her and moved easily across the room. His arm moved outward from his side, floating. 'The music awaits,' he said simply and disappeared out the
doorway.
In a moment, Steven reappeared. Lauren smiled at him and went to turn on the Stravinsky. As she did so, she fought to clear her mind, to again become the professional she had studied so
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long to be She willed her thoughts of Tracy away, pushed the anger and whatever other emotional baggage that was tenaciously holding on, into a dark corner of her mind
The music returned and, with it, the joyous tempo of the ballet She flung herself into Steven's arms and out again, leaping away, one, two, three The pas de chat
It took them a day-and-a-half to find it, principally because it wasn't at O'Hare The key bound in black electricians' tape opened a small locker at the Greyhound Bus terminal on Clark and Randolph Streets in downtown Chicago
The team, including Brady, had taken most of the next morning off to sleep off the effects of the long night before It took a lot of convincing on Thwaite's part to get the Kemlworth Police commander to relinquish the piece of physical evidence over to Art Silvano and his hot-shot Chicago PD squad
'By all rights,' Brady said when they had reconvened in his office just after noon the day after they had cracked Senator Burke's private files, 'we should be bringing the FBI into this The case has taken on distinct interstate characteristics and procedure is unwavering in this regard ' He was staring directly at Thwaite
'I hate those sonsabitches,' Thwaite said 'They think we're cretins because we haven't been to Washington They're infected with Fed fever '
Brady had grinned Thwaite found the man almost looked human that way 'If I remember correctly, Thwaite, you once said something about keeping this between us roosters Still feel that way''
'More than ever '
Brady nodded 'Then let's keep everything as small as possible I don't want to move this case out of Kemlworth '
'I appreciate that, Commander,' Thwaite said gently
'Look, Commander,' Silvano broke in, 'no one wants to horn in on what is essentially a Kemlworth PD operation But I gotta tell you, the facilities in town're gonna get us home I gotta connection into a locksmith who can smell out anything There's no number on this thing it's been filed off But worse
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still we don't know what kind of lock it fits. Is it a house? A car? Safety deposit box? What? This guy I know'll be able to clue us in if anyone can. But other than him, I can guarantee no one at my precinct'll know shit about this op.'
Art Silvano was as good as his word. The locksmith, a studious looking young man, took the key from them. Along one wall of his laboratory he had perhaps a hundred locks of every conceivable type.
'It's a locker key,' he told them after an examination that took no more than fifteen minutes. 'The kind you find in terminals ... airports. That sort of thing.'
The locksmith took the key over to a setup with empty glass beakers. He donned thick rubber gloves and bade them to stay
back.
'See, the guy who had this, he filed off the number. Probably had it memorized.' He took down a glass bottle.
He unstopped the bottle, carefully poured an amount of the clear liquid into a beaker, he added water from the tap in a slow steady stream, keeping his head away from the mouth of the beaker. Thwaite began to scent a faint but distinct acrid smell.
The locksmith took the key up by a pair of tongs. 'This is acid,' he said, indicating the contents of the beaker. 'It may just be possible that it'll run through whatever's left of the etched numerals and recreate the pattern. Can't guarantee anything but
it's worth a try.'
He lowered the key into the dilute acid, holding it beneath the surface for several seconds. Then he ran it under cold water for a minute or so. He took a look.
They held their breath. 'What I got for you,' he said, looking up at them, 'is one number: Nine. The only other thing I can tell you is that it's the middle numeral of three.'
'Well,' Thwaite said, 'It's better than starting blind. Thanks.'
Now the four of them, Thwaite, Silvano, Brady and Pleasent, were grouped around the square locker in the fourth row inside the bus terminal. The number of the locker read: 793.
Thwaite put the key in the lock, turned it quickly to the right and pulled. The small metal door swung out towards them. The lighting inside the terminal was all overheads, throwing thick
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shadows down every vertical surface. Consequently, none of them could see anything within the tunnel of darkness.
Pleasent took out his pencil flash, snapped it on, trained the beam directly into the locker.
Thwaite said it for all of them: 'Shit!' His voice was filled with frustration and suppressed rage. 'Not a goddamn thing!'
Rain sleeted down, turning the world to a grey-green blur, pelting them both. Khieu on his knees.
Tol sniffed, as if he had just developed sensibilities. 'You just sit there,' he said, laughing, 'while this downpour washes the vomit of your trousers.'
Between Khieu's spread knees, the tangle of matted hair and bloated flesh. The eye sockets of one of the Soviet heads were empty; in the short time the bundle had been over the houseboat's side, half-buried in the silt at the river bottom, scavengers had already been at work. Sharp nips here and there on cheek or neck where ribbons of skin dangled.
