The Khmer Kill: A Dox Short Story (Kindle Single)

nothing—no worry, no hostility, no exceptional alertness, just a relaxed, comfortable, quiet oneness with his surroundings. He felt himself just as much part of the room as the tables and chairs, and would be equally unremarkable to the bodyguards, whoever they were.
    After a few moments, he stretched and glanced around again. The bodyguards had taken up positions alongside the entrance. A Khmer man in a navy suit had just come in—full head of luxurious gray hair, erect posture, a relaxed and confident stride. A younger Khmer guy, also in a suit but not as well fitted, followed close and deferentially behind him. The manager greeted the older guy with a notably humble
sampeah
, his pressed palms high and his head low, then ushered the two to the table with the foreigners, all of whom stood at their approach. There were handshakes all around and more greetings in English. The older guy took a moment to introduce his younger companion, who seemed ill at ease, perhaps at the presence of so many foreign VIPs.
    Dox glanced at the bodyguards. Their postures were alert, but not unduly so: clearly, they’d satisfied themselves that the room was secure. If they were basing that conclusion on no more than a visual scan, their principal must have been of some importance, but not, say, a president or foreign minister, who would have prompted an advance team of explosives experts and bomb-sniffing dogs and a retinue larger than just two. Still, whoever he was, he was somebody with some clout—his carriage, the deference with which the manager had greeted him, the presence of the flunky, the way the foreigners had stood at his approach. He was talking to them now, and though Dox couldn’t make out the words, the Khmer had the poise of a gracious host. For some reason, he reminded Dox of the Dalai Lama—the hair and the suit were wrong, of course, and this guy wasn’t quite that old, but he had the same air of compassion, confidence, and, what… gratitude? Yes, a kind of pleased gratitude, nothing servile about it. And an appealing twinkle of humor in his eyes, too, which did nothing to diminish his aura of gravitas.
    Dox finished his breakfast and made his way to the door, offering a
sampeah
and a smile to each member of the staff he passed. Though he couldn’t hear their conversation, the Khmer seemed to be holding a kind of genial court among the foreigners. Dox paid them all only the barest moment of casual attention, which was no more than the bodyguards paid him as he passed their position and headed out into the bright Phnom Penh morning.
    The sun was midway to its apogee but it wasn’t excessively hot yet, so he decided to walk to Rubie’s. Easier to check for followers walking than it was from the back of a tuk-tuk, anyway. He crossed the street and strolled past the imposing iron and concrete walls surrounding the American Embassy. It was odd to behold such a fortress of officialdom on his way to such an unofficial meeting. The bars and walls and guard posts all seemed to declare his status as unacknowledged, unaffiliated, unwanted. And yet here he was, on his way to do their dirty work. Well, no one ever said the world had to make sense.
    He skirted the green oasis of Wat Phnom, its massive concrete spire bleached white against a clear blue sky. A dozen kids were roughhousing on the grass as he passed, young mothers chatting on park benches nearby. The lucky ones, he thought, with mothers who watched out for them. A few geezers moved with arthritic care through a series of tai chi exercises, younger men in short-sleeved white shirts and dark ties striding obliviously past them, likely on their way to meetings or some other business in the area. Just ordinary people trying to make their ordinary way in life, and yet hidden in their collective midst was something so misshapen it could turn thirty-thousand children into sex slaves. He felt a warm satisfaction at the thought of killing Sorm and immediately pushed it away. A job was a job. Beyond knowing the target was legitimate, he didn’t want to feel one way or the other about it.
    He turned south, parallel to the waterfront, naturally noting the high spots in the surrounding buildings that would make the best sniper hides along the way. The bars were all closed at this hour, and partially obscured by stalls selling tee shirts and assorted bric-a-brac. In contrast to the lively, tawdry night scene, in the harsh light of day it all just looked tired, and