Impact by Douglas Preston Page B

gestured with his head toward an empty area of the field. “Let’s take a walk.”
    They strolled along. Khon said, “I never had the chance to tell you how very, very sorry—”
    Ford stopped him with a light touch to his arm. “Please don’t.”
    Khon nodded and they walked across the field. He waved his hand. “Good business, this, eh what?”
    “An excellent business,” said Ford. “Now they aren’t tearing down temples to steal the real thing. I heartily approve.”
    “Welcome to the new Cambodia!”
    As they strolled along, Ford took the opportunity to examine his old friend out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t changed in the slightest; although Khon had to be at least fifty, he seemed ageless. Neatly dressed in an olive canvas jacket, white shirt, loose cravat, khaki pants, and walking stick, he could have been an extra from an Indiana Jones film. Appearances were deceiving; he was a man of rare courage, placid and unflappable. That’s what happens , Ford thought, when you grow up under the Khmer Rouge.
    “Well, Kirk, what’s the assignment?”
    “Honeys.”
    “Girls or stones?”
    “Stones. I’m here to track down the source. The mine.”
    Khon halted, turned. “You back at the CIA?”
    Ford shook his head. “Freelance job.”
    Khon’s hand relaxed on his walking stick. “For who?”
    “Never mind for whom. My job is to get the GPS coordinates, document the mine, photograph and videotape it, and pass on the information.”
    “And what will ‘they’ do with it?”
    “Don’t know, don’t care.”
    Khon wagged his head thoughtfully, thumbing an ear.
    “There’s a middleman honey dealer here by the name of Prum Forgang,” said Ford. “Know him?”
    Khon nodded his rotund head. “Oh yes. He’s one of the top gem brokers in town. Antiquities, gems, and rice—the three pillars of our economy.”
    “Any family?”
    “A son. Eighteen. Bright lad. Going to university in Phnom Penh.”
    “Does Prum live alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’ll pay him a visit tonight.”
    Khon’s eyes lit up. “Will there be violence?”
    “No.”
    Khon’s face fell. “How are you going to get what you want?”
    Ford squinted at the metal building on the other side of the field, where the hum of printing could be heard. “You say he has a son in university? Maybe all it will take is a few pieces of paper.”
    He broke into a fast walk, heading for the printing building.

14

    Randall Worth tied up his dingy at the town floating dock, slung on his backpack, and stomped up the ramp to the wharf, keeping his head down. It was five o’clock—maybe he wouldn’t run into anyone. He could feel the heavy lump of the old RG .44, the gun he carried on his boat, tucked in his belt.
    “Hey, Worth.”
    Fuckin’ A. Worth looked up to see the last man he wanted to see—Ernie Jura, owner of the lobsterman’s co-op, six foot four, two hundred twenty pounds, standing there in foul-weather gear and rubber boots. Jura’d tormented him in high school and never stopped.
    “I’m going to need that money you owe for diesel, three hundred and twelve bucks. I can’t fuel you up again until I get it.”
    “I told you I’ll pay you.” Worth felt his limbs trembling with anger. Jura, he was sure, was one of the bastards who had cut his traps.
    Jura looked at him hard, his eyes narrow. “I hope you do.”
    Worth brushed past him, and then, on impulse, gave him a little shove with his shoulder as he went by. Jura seized his collar and hauled him around, pushing his beefy face into Worth’s, breathing beer breath over him.
    “Listen, punk. You lied when you bought that diesel, said you had the cash on you. So you pay me, cocksucker, or I’m gonna make a bow tie of your balls, hang them round your neck, and send you off to dancing school.” He pushed Worth away, turned his back, and said over his shoulder, “I want the money. Before noon tomorrow. You got that, Worthless ?”
    Worth reached in, hand closed around