was all-too aware that Cole knew where he lived; if the dealer was warned, and Cole survived, Boom would have to know that Cole would come for him.
‘You wondering if you can trust me, yeah?’ Boom asked. ‘What other choice you have? You no idea what this man even look like! And I like this game, I help you find pirates, remember? Like Holmes and Watson?’
Cole nodded his head. ‘Okay then,’ he said as he rolled the car to a stop behind a big army truck, reversing back in so he could escape quickly if he had to. He could see that Boom already had his head down, so nobody would see that he’d arrived in Cole’s 4x4.
‘You’re going to start giving me a complex,’ Cole said. ‘Make me think I’m not popular.’
‘Man,’ Boom said from the foot well, ‘asking questions round here gonna make you about as popular as Pol Pot, you know?’
Cole pulled a canvas hold-all over from the backseats and unzipped it, examined the contents and gave Boom a grim smile. The old Thai gun dealer was right, of course; which was exactly why Cole had brought along a little insurance policy from the man’s garden shed.
Just in case.
6
After Cole had pushed past the shadowy parking lot into the well-lit market beyond, he watched Boom enter the crowd from another direction, drifting through the myriad stalls.
The sight was about as bizarre as anything Cole had ever seen – a full market, not too dissimilar in size to Siem Riep’s famous Old Market back in town; only that instead of spices and silks, there were AK-47s and rocket launchers. Other stalls sold skewered meats, noodles and Khmer palm wine; music blared from portable speakers, the sounds of Asian pop mixed with local Kantrum folk music from a pinpeat orchestra of cymbals, xylophones and flutes. The overall impression was of a bacchanalian street party, a feast for the senses after the dense darkness of the jungle.
There seemed to be a busy trade too, hundreds of buyers and sellers swarming the narrow alleyways between the stalls, lit by bare bulbs powered by huge generators chugging away in the background, barely heard above the babble of loud bartering.
And all around was the ominous presence of the jungle, thick vegetation pressing in on the clearing from all sides, always threatening to overwhelm it all and reclaim this small piece of land for itself.
Cole watched as Boom strolled casually along one of the alleyways, shaking hands as he went, a big smile on his beaming face.
Could Cole trust him? It was a risk, but a necessary one. Boom was a gun dealer himself, but seemed excited at the prospect of helping Cole catch an internationally wanted gang of pirates. He’d probably use the story to entertain his own customers.
Cole followed at a respectable distance, not wanting anyone to see that he was watching Boom, waiting for the signal. He wasn’t the only Westerner at the market, but there were few enough for people to notice him if he wasn’t careful.
He slowed at a stall selling grenades, feigning interest in some of the products on display as he saw Boom stop at one of the larger stands, embracing a man, no dding his head as the man spoke – once, twice, three times.
It was him.
It was Khat Narong – Boom’s contact at the market and the man who allegedly dealt with Liang Kebangkitan.
Khat was younger than Cole would have imagined, although in the strange light from the dangling bulbs it was hard to tell. He was slim, short, and dark-skinned, his face baby smooth, hair slicked back under a camouflage baseball cap. He wore an open black shirt, camo shorts and tennis shoes. He looked like an average street seller from Bangkok, not a man making hundreds of thousands in arms sales. But appearances could be deceptive, as Cole well knew.
He knew where Khat was now, and so turned to speak to the man shoving grenades towards him, the enthusiastic seller asking in Khmer how many Cole wanted to buy.
‘Just looking,’ he said in English, hands out.
‘You wondering if you can trust me, yeah?’ Boom asked. ‘What other choice you have? You no idea what this man even look like! And I like this game, I help you find pirates, remember? Like Holmes and Watson?’
Cole nodded his head. ‘Okay then,’ he said as he rolled the car to a stop behind a big army truck, reversing back in so he could escape quickly if he had to. He could see that Boom already had his head down, so nobody would see that he’d arrived in Cole’s 4x4.
‘You’re going to start giving me a complex,’ Cole said. ‘Make me think I’m not popular.’
‘Man,’ Boom said from the foot well, ‘asking questions round here gonna make you about as popular as Pol Pot, you know?’
Cole pulled a canvas hold-all over from the backseats and unzipped it, examined the contents and gave Boom a grim smile. The old Thai gun dealer was right, of course; which was exactly why Cole had brought along a little insurance policy from the man’s garden shed.
Just in case.
6
After Cole had pushed past the shadowy parking lot into the well-lit market beyond, he watched Boom enter the crowd from another direction, drifting through the myriad stalls.
The sight was about as bizarre as anything Cole had ever seen – a full market, not too dissimilar in size to Siem Riep’s famous Old Market back in town; only that instead of spices and silks, there were AK-47s and rocket launchers. Other stalls sold skewered meats, noodles and Khmer palm wine; music blared from portable speakers, the sounds of Asian pop mixed with local Kantrum folk music from a pinpeat orchestra of cymbals, xylophones and flutes. The overall impression was of a bacchanalian street party, a feast for the senses after the dense darkness of the jungle.
There seemed to be a busy trade too, hundreds of buyers and sellers swarming the narrow alleyways between the stalls, lit by bare bulbs powered by huge generators chugging away in the background, barely heard above the babble of loud bartering.
And all around was the ominous presence of the jungle, thick vegetation pressing in on the clearing from all sides, always threatening to overwhelm it all and reclaim this small piece of land for itself.
Cole watched as Boom strolled casually along one of the alleyways, shaking hands as he went, a big smile on his beaming face.
Could Cole trust him? It was a risk, but a necessary one. Boom was a gun dealer himself, but seemed excited at the prospect of helping Cole catch an internationally wanted gang of pirates. He’d probably use the story to entertain his own customers.
Cole followed at a respectable distance, not wanting anyone to see that he was watching Boom, waiting for the signal. He wasn’t the only Westerner at the market, but there were few enough for people to notice him if he wasn’t careful.
He slowed at a stall selling grenades, feigning interest in some of the products on display as he saw Boom stop at one of the larger stands, embracing a man, no dding his head as the man spoke – once, twice, three times.
It was him.
It was Khat Narong – Boom’s contact at the market and the man who allegedly dealt with Liang Kebangkitan.
Khat was younger than Cole would have imagined, although in the strange light from the dangling bulbs it was hard to tell. He was slim, short, and dark-skinned, his face baby smooth, hair slicked back under a camouflage baseball cap. He wore an open black shirt, camo shorts and tennis shoes. He looked like an average street seller from Bangkok, not a man making hundreds of thousands in arms sales. But appearances could be deceptive, as Cole well knew.
He knew where Khat was now, and so turned to speak to the man shoving grenades towards him, the enthusiastic seller asking in Khmer how many Cole wanted to buy.
‘Just looking,’ he said in English, hands out.
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