The Brittle Limit, a Novel (2 page)

Andrew pulled a notepad and pen from his
backpack while Flint talked. He jotted down a few notes, his
handwriting scrawling across the white hotel paper.

“From what we’ve pieced together, he’d been
working in the jungle, a place called Mondulkiri. Somewhere to the
east. He did humanitarian work, demining farms and roads, anywhere
local kids would play. Sounds like he stepped on something lethal.
Blew him up. Started a fire.”

“Anyone else hurt?

“No. His girlfriend was nearby but not at the
blast site.”

Andrew hopped down from his perch and started
down the hallway.

“How’d we get involved in this? One American
kid killed in the jungle is unfortunate but it sounds more like a
matter for the local police.”

“Yeah, normally I’d agree. But the kid’s
father is some corporate big wig, CEO of an agricultural firm from
one of those middle-America states, Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, one of
those. He’s got more money than Gates.” She paused, thinking.
“Well, maybe not Gates. But he’s a high-roller, flying politicians
around in corporate jets, donating money like air. Has a lot of
friends on the Hill. None of whom, by the way, care that you’re on
vacation.”

Andrew shrugged. Of course not. “How’d it
play out?”

Flint continued. “The dad got a hysterical
message from the son’s girlfriend, that his son had just been blown
up. That was first thing in the morning here - what’s the time
difference over there, eleven, twelve hours?”

“Eleven hours ahead.”

“So first thing this morning this guy finds
out his son…his ONLY son by the way…”

“…was blown up.” Andrew finished her
sentence. “Not the best way to start the day.”

“No. So, the dad called his senator and his
congressmen for help, all of them long-time personal friends
elected with the generous support of this guy. The politicos
started pulling in favors, phones ringing up the chain. I got the
call about an hour ago from on high asking about any available
agents in Southeast Asia. Was told we needed to ‘look in to
it’.”

Andrew could picture Flint crossing her arms,
left over right, sitting at her immaculate wooden desk, staring out
her Langley window.

While he listened, Andrew retraced his steps
through the hallways of the Bayon, past the disapproving German
couple, and stepped into the sun, onto the long wooden walkway
connecting the temple to the main dirt road. There, charging at
Andrew like a small, dedicated army, marched a busload of tourists,
anxious to tick one more temple off their bucket list. Cameras at
the ready, they trotted full force along the narrow wooden bridge.
Andrew stepped politely to the side but was nearly knocked into the
mud below by a pasty American man who huffed and puffed as he
pushed by Andrew.

“What exactly am I looking for?” Andrew
asked.

“Details - what was the son doing, who was he
working for, any associates? The father wants a picture of his
boy’s last days, so let’s paint him one. The sooner, the better.
He’s calling here every hour. Take the heat off me. I don’t love
surprise calls from the Director.”

“Alright. I’ll see what I can find.”

Andrew heard Flint shuffle more papers. “The
embassy staff will set you up with everything you need. The
usual.”

“OK. I’ll catch the first bus outta here in
the morning.”

“Good. And be careful out there. My
neighbor’s daughter was bit by a monkey her first day in Cambodia.
Got a nasty infection, had to be medivacked to Bangkok. Vicious
creatures, those.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

Andrew heard the click of disconnection.

Ahead of him, colorful pushcarts lined the
long dusty roadway for the mid-day rush, offering t-shirts, local
food, souvenirs and sodas. Business was starting to pick up again.
The tag-playing kids had left their childish games aside to worry
passing tourists for dollar bills and riel.

Andrew glanced back at the mountains of
carved stone behind him and then hailed one of the dozen waiting
tuk-tuks.

“You seen one thousand-year-old temple, you
seen ‘em all,” he muttered.

Chapter 3

Waiting in line for the bus, Andrew listened
to nervous chatter from his fellow passengers. He heard German,
French, Chinese and some heavy Australian accents. Facing six hours
on the road through the Cambodian countryside in a bus with a
questionable bathroom situation, Andrew could understand their
anxiety. It felt like a badly planned school field trip.

But at least there’d be films en route,
Andrew thought.

Standing apart from the tourists, the
Cambodian locals waited together for the bus. The women wore light
loose-fitting cotton pajamas. A mother squatted on her haunches
feeding her toddler son pieces of carrot. The men smoked
hand-rolled cigarettes. The bus driver chatted with a young
Cambodian woman tending thirty nervous fluttering gray birds packed
into a tall wire cage.

Andrew eyed the waiting bus, which puffed
diesel exhaust from a rusted tailpipe. There was an air of
resignation about the vehicle, like a horse in its last race before
the glue farm.

First on the bus, Andrew chose a seat halfway
down the aisle on the left, facing forward, with a line of sight to
the TV, should the film be worth watching. He draped his long frame
across his seat and the one beside it, to encourage other
passengers to sit elsewhere.

The bus pulled out of the parking lot, black
smoke puffing from its tailpipe. The movie started, a low-budget
zombie flick, its soundtrack blasting full volume into the bus.
Andrew watched as the living dead terrorized humanity for no
earthly reason.

Thirty minutes into the film, Andrew glanced
around the bus. Everyone had nodded off. Jetlagged, Andrew leaned
his seat back to maximum recline and followed suit.

******

Andrew woke with a start. The bus had
stopped. Out his window, Andrew saw only dense green jungle lining
the dirt-covered road, a couple cows and a farmer squatting,
watching the bus, chewing a piece of grass.

This was not a scheduled rest stop. Andrew
checked his watch. They’d been traveling for four hours, two to go.
The other passengers were stirring. The engine was off and without
the AC, the bus was warming up in the mid-day heat. It was
uncomfortable, to say the least, especially for the passengers who
had overdressed for the long ride.

In the backseat, a baby fussed. His young
mother cooed at him, but she too was anxious, tapping her bare
brown foot on the floor.

Andrew stood to better see out the opposite
window, leaning over an elderly couple that stared up blankly at
him. Andrew recognized them from the Bayon Temple. “Guten Tag. I
think we have a flat tire,” he said in German. The old man blinked,
his eyes watery and blue.

Outside, on the ground by the front tire, the
driver turned a hand crank, trying to lift the bus off the ground.
Not surprisingly, he was having little luck with the passengers
still on board.

Andrew made his way down the aisle, stepping
over suitcases and handbags cluttering the walkway, and pushed open
the door, stepping outside. The air, though warm, was fresh and
felt good on his face. He took a deep breath.

“Can I help?” Andrew asked the driver,
leaning down to inspect the wheel. A spare tire lay in the dirt, a
worn affair that had seen better days.

The driver smiled up at him, grateful for any
assistance with this old stubborn bus he drove every day. Andrew
saw that the driver’s eyes were yellow with jaundice. “Flat tire.
Maybe need to fix before go.”

Andrew nodded at the flat. “Yes, I’d
agree.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Andrew asked,
squinting in the bright sun. The driver jumped up and scooted
backwards out of the way to make room, kicking up the dust along
the roadside. Andrew knelt down in the dirt, sun glinting on his
brown hair. He ran his hand along the black tire, fully flat, for
signs of damage. There, halfway down, near the metal rim, was a
rusty nail head flush with the rubber, the only evidence of the
damage inflicted inside.

As Andrew leaned forward to inspect the nail,
poking at it with his finger, he felt something cold and hard
against his back. He figured it was the driver, handing him the
tire jack he’d seen on the ground. Then a young male voice say,
“Give me money.”

Andrew turned his head. Behind him, a teenage
boy, maybe fifteen, thin as a rail, dressed in loose, well-worn
plaid shorts that had made their way to Cambodia via a Goodwill
bin, was jabbing a pistol into Andrew’s shoulder blades. The bus
driver stood behind the boy, wringing his hands and pleading with
his yellow eyes, hoping that Andrew could fix not only the flat
tire but also this too.

“No problem, no problem.”

Andrew lifted his hands above his shoulders
where his attacker could see them. “Can I reach into my pocket
here? My pocket.” Andrew pointed at his back pocket, where his
wallet was tucked firmly in his tan trousers. The boy nodded and
waved the gun in approval.

Andrew stretched his right arm out and down,
exaggerating the movement toward the wallet, his elbow pointing
back at the boy, who had stepped closer, anxious to be away with
his gains.

With a sudden practiced movement, Andrew
jabbed his elbow into the boy’s narrow sternum and grabbed his thin
wrist, grabbing the gun and flipping the surprised thief onto his
back on the ground. The boy looked up at Andrew, fear in his hungry
brown eyes. “No hurt, no hurt. Sum tho, sum tho!”

“It’s a little late for apologies, buddy.”
Andrew waved the gun at the boy, with no intention to shoot, only
to scare. “Shame on you. Shame! Go home!”

The boy scrambled to his feet, his stick-like
arms and legs flailing, knocking the bus driver to the ground in
his panic, and lurched into the jungle. The driver sat on the
ground, watching the boy’s retreat. He turned to Andrew, his face
filled with relief.

From the bus, a rousing round of applause
from those who had witnessed the scene. This was just the kind of
excitement they would tell their friends about. But they were
hungry and tired of this bus and ready for a stiff drink. Surely
now they could be on their way?

Andrew helped the driver to his feet with his
left hand, the gun still in his right. He walked to the bus door,
shoving the slim silver pistol into the small of his back, pulling
his shirttail out to conceal it, and stepped inside the bus.

“Minor set- back folks, a flat tire...and an
attempted robbery. If you can all please step outside for a few
minutes, it’s safe now. We’ll change out the tire and be on our
way.”

For effect, Andrew repeated this message in
German, French, Japanese and Chinese, to everyone’s delight. If his
cover was well and truly blown, Andrew figured, he may as well make
use of his skills.

Chapter 4

On the banks of the Mekong and Bassac rivers,
Phnom Penh hummed. Once a quaint backwater with dusty roads leading
down to the sleepy riverbank, the city had transformed, overnight,
into a buzzing mini-metropolis, with traffic cops, high-rise
buildings and bustling corner cafes catering to the expansive expat
community. Fueled by an influx of foreign investment, speculative
businessmen, volun-tourists, and colorful carpetbaggers, the city
thrived.

The rickety bus arrived to the Phnom Penh
city limits two hours late, but intact, just in time for the daily
rush hour. It vied for pole position with tuk-tuks, motodops -
motorbike taxis - and shiny SUVs on the crowded roads, designed for
less crowded times. Motodop drivers above the law wove in and out
of the melee.

During this particular rush hour, a long
single-file line of Cambodian children in spotless plaid uniforms
marched home along the road’s edge, backpacks filled with homework
to learn by rote.

Ahead of them, a brave bicyclist attempted to
enter the oncoming traffic, hoping to ferry his way to safer
asphalt. As he entered the traffic stream, a black SUV with tinted
windows and no license plates revved its engine at him, causing him
to jerk his handlebars dangerously to the left, landing the wheel
into a deep, water-filled pothole. The bike flipped, with its rider
following suit, flying off the bike and onto his back, his basket
of handpicked fruit flying in every direction. For a moment,
traffic came to a halt, Andrew’s bus included.

The school children, delighted at the fracas,
broke from their orderly line to gather near the cyclist. Car horns
honked and drivers yelled at the cyclist. People laughed and
pointed at the foolish man sitting dazed on the ground, shaking his
head.

The cyclist picked himself up, and brushed
off his muddy trousers, ignoring the loss of face and the laughing
children, who jeered at him, hoping to get a response. He stood,
his arms at his side, watching the offending SUV that barreled
away, running a red light and screeching around the next corner.
The SUV gone, the man went about collecting his star fruit, piece
by piece, wiping it off on his shirt, and inspecting it for damage.
No one offered to help. Eventually he had all of his wares back in
his basket. He gave the bike’s front wheel a kick, his only visible
reaction, and mounted the bike to continue his journey home.

The show over, the school kids fell into line
again, hoping for further entertainment at someone else’s
expense.

Traffic moving again, the bus navigated its
way through traffic, past the Olympic Stadium to its final stop in
the center of town.

It pulled up to a three-story red brick
building adjacent to a massive yellow domed structure that looked
like it could hold a football field under its sunny roof. The sign
outside read ‘Phsar Thmey’, in Khmer script, with the translation
underneath, ‘Central Market’.

Andrew waited to debark, as others pushed
from the back to exit the now pungent bus. The toilet had not met
expectations.