The King’s Last Song. Geoff Ryman
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The King himself has argued that neither APSARA nor the National Museum are secure enough to display such a treasure. Perhaps the Book could be the centrepiece of the much-needed museum in Siem Reap?
The Book would be repaired by none other than the royal jeweller, a man much experienced in gold and in repairing artefacts including, it must be said, stolen ones.
The Siem Reap regiment would have responsibility for transporting it. They too want the treasure to come back to the town. Most of the regiment’s many generals have invested in hotels there.
Most particularly General Yimsut Vutthy.
So on the last day of New Year Professor Luc Andrade packs a small overnight bag, pays Mrs Bou who runs the Phimeanakas Guesthouse and tips the staff.
The Phimeanakas security guard helps Luc out with his cases, including a large, empty metal case, usually used to transport film cameras. National Geographic has loaned it to Luc in return for favours. It is lined with shock-absorbent black foam.
He gets in a taxi and makes the short drive to the Regiment’s headquarters, feeling reasonably content. He has told no one about the arrangements, not Map, not William, not his Cambodian dig director. He had tried to tell the Director of APSARA, who just laughed and waved his hands. No, no, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.
Luc will be the Book’s escort during the flight. It must be because he clearly belongs to no Cambodian faction. Which may be why he was not invited to the royal viewing this morning.
He sees the fine new Army HQ. From a distance it looks like a Californian shopping mall in the Mexican style – long, low buildings with red-tiled roofs. Closer up, Luc can see the roofs slope upwards and the tips of the gables reach out like the white necks of swans.
A chain is lowered, the taxi turns crackling into the huge gravelled forecourt. Along the mall, individual offices line up like shops each with its own door and blue-and-white sign in Khmer and English: Infirmary, Operations Office, Intelligence Office.
One of the doors is open. It does not have a sign, but Luc knows it is the General’s office. Soldiers stand crisply to either side of it, and murmuring emerges from it.
Luc walks on, carrying the metal case, accompanied by a soldier.
The General’s office runs the depth of the building and is crammed with military men. They throng around canapés and cognac laid out on tables. The seats are huge heavy wooden benches that look like thrones and make your bottom ache. The wooden floors gleam, and there is a bank of TV and DVD players on shelves.
Right on top of the General’s desk is the Book itself, spilling somewhat loosely out of its ancient linen and pitch packaging. Some of the gold leaves are out of order, resting on thumbtacks on the baize. Two days’ work, calculates Luc, just to find out where they belong.
The General greets Luc like an old friend and jokes, ‘In the old days, people would call me a Cheap Charlie for not offering cigars, but now CNN says they are bad for your health.’
Luc knows much more about Yimsut Vutthy than the man would care for. Luc knows which hotels he has invested in and who his Thai and Singapore partners are. He knows roughly what percentage he takes from the forty- to sixty-dollar fees tourists pay to enter Angkor Wat, for the General is a protégé of the establishment, someone of whom Sihanouk himself would be wary. Yimsut Vutthy is a compromise candidate.
A player, in other words.
The General introduces a number of Army officers and civil service functionaries, all of whom want to be associated with the Book
‘You see,’ one of them says, ‘we take the safety of the Book very seriously.’
Luc cannot stop himself smiling.
They crowd round to look over Luc’s shoulder as he packs away the Book, still in its sections of five leaves. The measurements were correct and the sections fit with serendipity into the slots, gripped in place by the foam padding.
Then everyone toasts the health of the King and Mr Hun Sen. Canapés have done little to absorb the alcohol. Hungry and slightly fogged from cognac, Luc glances at his watch, anxious to get going.
Later than he likes, Luc and the General walk out to a waiting Mercedes. It takes two soldiers to load the now heavy case into the boot. The General holds out an expansive arm for Luc to precede him into the car. Luc smells the soft tan leather upholstery, and runs his hands over it as he slides into place.
Two motorcycles roar ahead of them. Almost inaudibly, the Mercedes eases out behind them, with an Army jeep following. Feeling presidential, Luc settles back with relief as the cavalcade pulls out of the gates.
Conversation with General Yimsut Vutthy soon runs out, but Luc has ready that morning’s Herald Tribune. Rather gratifyingly, if well into the middle pages, the paper reports the Book’s discovery. GOLDEN BOOK HOLDS KEY TO CAMBODIAN HISTORY. An official press photograph shows the General himself displaying the leaves on a wooden table. Luc passes the newspaper to him.
Then very suddenly Luc is sure he has left behind his passport and letter of contract to the Cambodian Government.
With a lurch of panic, he reaches down for his belt pouch. He has time to feel his passport and papers securely inside.
The car swerves. In his slightly befuddled state, Luc thinks the veering has come from him.
Tyres squeal; metal slams. Inertia keeps Luc travelling forward, folding him against the front seat.
An accident. Luc struggles his way back into his seat. He sees an angry face against the window.
Luc behaves entirely automatically. There’s been an accident, someone is upset, so go and see if you can help.
He opens the car door.
The angry man seizes him, pulls him out of the Mercedes, spins him around and pushes him forward. Luc stumbles ahead in shock.
A new silver pick-up gleams by the side of the road. New, Luc thinks, and probably rented. Very suddenly, as if a tree trunk had snapped, there is a crackling of gunfire behind him. This is it, he thinks, this is really it. He’s absurdly grateful for his belt pouch. He’s thinking that it will hide his passport and money. They’ll only get the twenty dollars he keeps in his pocket.
The back of the pick-up truck is down. Someone shoves him towards it. Other hands grab him, hoist him up and then slam his head down onto the floor. He hears a ripping sound and he realizes that heavy workman’s tape is being wrapped around his head. It blacks out his eyes and covers his mouth. Something like a heavy sack is thrown against him. It groans. Luc recognizes the General’s voice. A light, rough covering is thrown over them both; Luc smells cheap plastic sacking.
Someone shouts urgently. A bony butt sits on the most fragile part of his ribcage. The engine revs and the truck jerks forward, bouncing over ruts and slamming the metal floor against his shoulders and head. The truck swings back around on to pavement and accelerates away. Luc assumes it has U-turned back towards town.
The strange things you think when you are in trouble. Luc finds he is worried about the duct tape pulling off his eyebrows and jerking out his hair. He thinks of Mr Yeo and wants to tell him, see how brave I’m being? He thinks of his mother. See Maman? I don’t feel any fear at all. This is bad, this is very bad, but I’m not panicking. He wants someone to be proud of him, to sit up and take notice.
He remembers Tintin. Tintin always remembered how many turns, left or right, and the kind of terrain, and the kind of noises.
So he pretends he is in a Tintin comic book. As they whine along the airport highway he counts to sixty five times. Then they shudder over open ground to the count of sixty times twelve. After a couple of almost vengeful crashes over humps he loses count.
They slow to a stop. He smells dust and something else, metallic and sour, which he realizes is probably blood, his own or the General’s.
The back of the truck thumps down. ‘Out, out,’ someone