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trigger the cameras at prearranged co-ordinates. And before we even land at the base in

Thailand, the photographs will be on their way to whoever wants to have a look at that little

piece of South East Asia. We'll finish the checks. Get taxi clearance and start up the engines."

Five minutes later the AWAC (plus 246/7) surveillance plane with its giant radar dome and its

crew of fourteen experts lifted off the US Air Force runway on the Pacific island of Guam. After

they had levelled off at 42,000 feet and set up the computers, Colonel Chapman and his co-pilot

sat back in their seats and began drinking the first of many beakers of black coffee. They would

not touch the controls for the next five hours.

"It takes me back," Chapman said reflectively. "I was on B52S at the end of the 'Nam war. My

first assignment. We used to do the round trip from Guam to the Ho Chi Minh trail, and also to

eastern Cambodia. I was just a kid and all fired up, but I can tell you that after twenty-five

missions, I was bored out of my skull. It was a ten-hour round trip and everything was

coordinated from our base in Chiang Mai. We had about one thousand guys up there enjoying

the hash and the massage girls and playing around with computers which got signals from

airdropped sensors that supposedly could tell the difference between the passing of a column of

Viet Cong troops on foot or in trucks. They were crazy days." He glanced at his much younger

co-pilot.

"It was a sort of a ritual. When we were over our programmed position, the computer

would trigger the bomb release. The B52 would elevate about fifty feet. Then there would be a

silence after which all the crew would chorus reverently: 'Sorry about that!'" He smiled at the

memory. "The trouble is that often as not the damned Viet Cong would have found the sensors

and moved them half a mile away from the trail. We must have dropped millions of tons on

nothing in the jungle or on innocent villages. We lost that fucking war because of technology."

"What do you think this mission is about?" the co-pilot asked.

"Who the hell knows? Maybe some general wants some nice photographs for his office walls."

He cursed again. "I had to cancel a round of golf this afternoon. Now tell me, Lieutenant, what

comes first? A game of golf or taking pretty pictures over Cambodia?"

The co-pilot smiled ruefully. "Don't complain, Colonel. I had to give up a lunch date and an

interesting afternoon with a pair of big tits from the base hospital."

The colonel chuckled. "Ah, well. I guess our country comes first." He glanced at the computer

screen to his left. "We hit the Manila beacon within an hour. It's going to be real exciting because

at that moment, this plane banks three degrees to the north while we sit and drink coffee and

contemplate our navels... I was born fifty years too late. Imagine what it was like, wrestling with a

Mustang or a Flying Fortress over Tokyo or Berlin. That was real flying."

The lieutenant smiled. He was only twenty-three years old, but he had heard the same lament at

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least a hundred times.

Chapter 53

The minefield was finished and the Dutchman was proud of it. He led the way out, with his team

of ten men following exactly in his footsteps. They made the last zigzag and approached the

waiting canvas-topped truck. A Khmer Rouge officer was standing at its rear. He pointed and

shouted an order in Khmer which Piet de Witt could not understand. His team could, and the

men quickly lined up and stood to attention. The officer moved to the side and gestured for de

Witt to come and stand beside him. The Dutchman did so, a little puzzled. And then he realized

that the officer would be making a speech of praise for the many dangerous hours that his men

had spent laying that incredibly dense minefield without a single accident.

The officer turned and shouted another order. The canvas back of the truck dropped down and

the Dutchman saw the machine gun and simultaneously watched the flame spit from its muzzle

and then heard the crackling rattle as the bullets cut down his team. He stood rooted to the spot

in horror, watching the bodies twist and fall. One of them scrambled away amidst the screams,

but in his terror went the wrong way. The first mine at the outer perimeter blew him high into

the air.

The Dutchman turned, his hands coming up in a reflex action to strangle the officer: but the

officer was holding a pistol pointed at the Dutchman's forehead.

"It was necessary," he said.

Chapter 54

He was young, handsome, intelligent and obviously very expert at this work.

Creasy didn't like him. Maybe it was because he was cocky; maybe it was because he was so

obviously trying to impress Susanna; maybe it was because he brought bad news. He had arrived

from the American embassy ten minutes before and spread out the photographs on the

dining-room table in the cottage.

Naturally, being CIA, he was dressed in a dark suit, a plain tie and a button-down shirt.

"You would need at least a batallion," he said, "with tanks and heavy artillery." He pointed at

one of the photographs. "There are at least one thousand Khmer Rouge soldiers in that area

within a radius of twenty kilometres from that temple. The government troops don't even

contemplate the idea of going in there." He pointed to another photograph. "That's the small

town of Tuk Luy, which is the main headquarters of the Khmer Rouge in the area."

Creasy was only listening to him with one ear. He and Guido were studying the photographs

intently. Some had been taken two months earlier from a satellite, and the others a few hours ago

from the AWAC plane out of Guam. They were very high definition, and the CIA man had

brought a device that could be placed over the photographs and give them a three-dimensional

aspect. It was easy to pick out buildings, vehicles and individuals.

The temple itself measured thirty metres by eighteen and was in remarkably good condition. It

was surrounded by a high wall with a diameter of about a hundred metres. There was only one

gate, and the two guards standing just inside it were clearly visible. Several of the photographs

had been taken using heat-imaging film and were simply a kaleidoscope of different colours.

The CIA man explained, "They show different vegetation and different kinds of soil and even

minerals." He pointed to one.

"That was taken by a satellite two months ago when we did a complete coverage of the area.

The darker red is forest. The lighter red is grassland. And the pink shows paddy fields. Now,

there's something interesting here." He leaned forward and pulled the photographs directly

under Creasy's eyes. "This was taken from the AWAC today. Of course all the photographs were

sent simultaneously to Washington for expert analysis." He put his finger on a photograph. "This

is your temple." He pushed another photograph alongside. "This is your temple taken from the

satellite two months ago...Notice the difference."

There was an obvious difference. On the photograph taken from the AWAC, a pale grey area

circled the temple. It was not present on the earlier photograph.

"What is it?" Creasy asked.

The CIA man seemed to savour the moment. After an over-dramatic pause, he said: "Our boys

at Langley tell us that it's a minefield, and a very extraordinary one. There are hundreds or even

thousands of minefields all over Cambodia, laid by the Khmer Rouge, by the Vietnamese during

their occupation, and by the present government. It's estimated that there are more than five

million mines, but none of those minefields ever showed up on satellite or aerial photographs.

That minefield is extremely dense and so it had to be laid by experts. And it must have been laid

within the last two months."

Susanna remarked: "Maybe by our American MIAs ..."

Creasy said: "It's a possibility. Jake Bentsen was an ordinance specialist, but not that experienced

by the time he got hit in that firefight. But still, he could have learned a lot within the last

twenty-six years."

"Could be," Guido said. "But then I can't get something out of my mind. The follower in Saigon

told us that the white man he had seen was referred to as 'the Dutchman'. What would a

Dutchman be doing there right among the Khmer Rouge?"

"It could be a mercenary," Creasy said. "There hasn't been much work around for the last ten

years, except in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Chechenya. I've heard rumours that a few mercenaries

are working in this area and also in Burma...A Dutchman," he mused. And then abruptly lifted

his head and said to Guido: "A Dutchman, that was what we always called the Afrikaaners.

There are very few Netherland mercenaries, but there were plenty of Afrikaaners."

The Italian was nodding, and he began to count them off on his fingers. "Joey Bock, Renne de

Beer, Janik Jarensfeld, Piet de Witt. From what I hear, they're all still active."

Susanna said to Creasy: "Why don't we do what my boss did when we wanted information on

you? He contacted Interpol in Paris where they keep very extensive files on all active

mercenaries. Something might turn up." She turned to the Italian. "Guido, please write down all

the names you and Creasy can remember of Dutch or South African Afrikaaner mercenaries."

She gestured at the CIA man. "Mr Jennings can then fax Interpol from the Embassy. From our

experience in the MIA department, you'll get a reply within twenty-four hours."

Creasy nodded to Guido, who immediately started writing names on a sheet of paper. Creasy

was again looking at the photographs and the indication of the minefield.

"It fits the pattern," he said. "She expects me to attack that temple and she's laid a minefield in

preparation." He turned to the CIA man and asked: "Do you have any agents in the area?"

"Negative."

"Does the Cambodian army have any agents?"

"If they do, they're not telling us. Anyway, they would be an unreliable source. We have a guy in

Battambang, which is a hundred and fifty miles from that temple. He's a Thai businessman, but

frankly, I think he just takes our monthly cheque and sends us reports from the local newspaper.

He's probably also in the pay of the Khmer Rouge."

Susanna had turned away from the table and was pouring coffee into four cups. Over her

shoulder she said: "Mr Jennings, how many agents do you have in the country?"

The American smiled and answered: "Please call me Mark. I'm sorry, Miss Moore, the answer to

your question is of course classified."

She brought him a cup of coffee and gave him a sweet smile and said: "Well, Mark, it will only

take me one phone call to Washington to get it unclassified. We may have three MIAs in that

area. Your orders are to co-operate with me fully. If I make that phone call, I will preface my

conversation by stating that the co-operation from Mr Mark Jennings is seriously lacking in

quality."

She gestured at Creasy and Guido. "For the last few days these two men have been

risking their lives trying to help my department locate those MIAs. They are risking their lives

right now being in Phnom Penh, and I have no doubt that during the next few days, while you're

resting your tight, elegant, little ass in your elegant office at the Embassy, they will be taking even

bigger risks."

She had moved close enough to the CIA man that they were almost eyeball to eyeball. Very

quietly, she asked: "How many agents do you have in-country?"

His answer came immediately. "Ten. Four Americans including me, and six Cambodians."

Susanna backed away, turned to Creasy and said: "I'm sure my department can get authorization

to use those agents, including Mark here."

Creasy looked at Guido and they simultaneously burst out laughing. Then Creasy said to the

CIA man: "No offence, Mark, but if you offered me a company of Rangers, I couldn't use them.

The last thing we need is another Mogadishu."

Susanna had diplomatically moved back to the coffee table. She brought cups for Creasy and

Guido and said to Jennings: "They work in different ways, Mark. It's not a question of firepower.

There's more to this situation than meets the eye and I'm afraid that the reasons for that are

classified, even to you."

Jennings' irritation was mirrored on his face. He was looking at Creasy. He said: "So I'm just a

messenger boy, Mr Creasy. I've been in the country for the past eleven months and you've been

here for the last couple of days. Maybe you don't have much respect for the American armed

forces, but that's no reason to insult people who are trying to help you."

Creasy's voice was relaxed. He said: "I appreciate your help, Mark...I hope you don't mind my

familiarity in using your first name...I have a lot of respect for the American armed forces. I was

a Marine before being dishonourably discharged. It's a question of overconfidence. With all the

technology they've got these days, they rely too much on gimmicks. That's why they fucked up

on the raid to try and get the hostages out of Tehran. It's why they fucked up in Mogadishu

trying to capture a warlord. And it's why they would fuck up if they went gung-ho into that

temple. Have you ever been in combat, Mark?"

"No."

"Have you ever killed a man?"

"No."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-six yesterday."

"Happy birthday, Mark! The guy I'm looking for was twenty-one years old when he was hit on

the Vietnam-Cambodian border. He'd been in the army for three years and had been fighting in

Vietnam for eleven months right on the front line. He was a good soldier, he was a patriot. He

didn't have to be drafted, he enlisted. It's just possible that he's alive and has been a slave of