Temple of Gold Read online

“Cox, are you getting me?”

  “What is it you want me to get, exactly, Ventura?”

  “You can call me ‘sir.’”

  “What was your rank again?”

  Ventura leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “You military guys all think you’re so superior because you’ve got shiny boots and fancy medals.”

  “No, Ventura, we know we’re superior because when office guys like you make deals with the devil, it’s the guys with the guts to do those things that earn medals who get stuck cleaning up your mess.”

  “You’re a means to an end. You don’t get that.”

  “On the contrary. I get that completely. The problem is that you don’t get that the same applies to you.”

  “You’re insubordinate.”

  “Not to anyone in my chain of command.”

  “I don’t care how good they say you are, if you’ve put my op in jeopardy . . .”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s yet to be proven.”

  “What did Barbera say?”

  “Barbera doesn’t know anything.”

  “He knows if I fired a shot or not.”

  Ventura’s lip curled.

  “And he said I didn’t fire, didn’t he?”

  “Something happened.”

  “Astute.”

  “You’re damned lucky I didn’t leave you in the jungle.”

  “I’ve walked further and in worse places. But it would make a good headline, wouldn’t it? ‘Genius Behind Vietnam Debacle Leaves Marine for Dead in Asian Jungle.’”

  “Everything we do here is classified. You breathe a word . . .”

  “Relax, Ventura. I don’t chat about Uncle Sam’s business. But I gotta ask: What the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s above your pay grade, Cox.”

  “No doubt about that. Aren’t the Khmer Rouge the bad guys?”

  “It’s all relative.”

  “How relative? These are the guys who systematically murdered more than a million of their own people, aren’t they? How bad can the other guys be?”

  “As bad as they get, Cox. The Reds are everywhere.”

  There was a knock at the door and Ventura stood to answer it. He found another uniform standing there, only this was one not even remotely under his control. He looked the Marine officer in the eye and the gaze was returned with interest. Ventura shrugged, waved the uniform into the apartment, and walked out to get some water, and to give the Marines the pretense of privacy.

  Lenny turned back to the water. He didn’t get any of it. That wasn’t new. He was cursed with skills and brains. The skills meant his country used him to do things that walked a fine moral line. The brains meant he couldn’t help but question the morality of those things they made him do.

  The door opened and Lenny heard the boots walk in. One set. He heard soft shoes walk out. One set. The door closed. Lenny stood to attention and then spun on his heels.

  “Colonel Yardley,” he said.

  “Relax, Sergeant.”

  Lenny stood at ease but didn’t sit. The colonel walked to the fridge and took out a bottle of water.

  “What the hell is going on, Sergeant?”

  “Above the sergeant’s pay grade, sir.”

  “Don’t yank my chain, Cox. And sit the hell down, will you?”

  Yardley dropped into the chair Ventura had occupied, and Lenny sat back down opposite. The colonel was a battle-tested veteran, wiry and fast and shrewd. Lenny figured one had to be to make it through four tours in Vietnam, and Yardley had. His hair was gray at the sides and cut short. Perspiration glistened at his temples.

  “Talk to me, Lenny.”

  “Colonel, why are we supplying guns and ammo and God knows what else to the Khmer Rouge?”

  “Lenny, I’ve told you before, asking questions like that just ends in heartache.”

  “Having a heart ends in heartache, sir.”

  Yardley smiled. “Remind me why you’re not an officer candidate?”

  “I hate classrooms, sir.”

  “You and me both. But seriously, Len. This mission could make your career. CIA ops don’t earn medals but they get you noticed by people that matter.”

  “I just want to do the job, sir.”

  “And what job is that?”

  “To protect the United States.”

  “And who is our biggest threat?”

  “They tell me it’s the Soviets, sir.”

  “Right.”

  “I didn’t see any Ruskies in the Southeast Asian jungle.”

  “Well, that’s above my pay grade, too. Talk to your friend at Justice about that.”

  “Seriously, sir?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Sergeant. Sometimes the powers that be decide the indirect effort is the best way. Helping the locals fight their own battles.”

  “I get that, sir, but I didn’t see anyone fighting any battles out there.”

  “What happened, Cox? What’s got Ventura’s knickers in a bunch?”

  “General Tan.”

  “Your spotter says he was going to kill a villager.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “And he says you had a shot on Tan.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “But he says you didn’t take the shot.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Colonel Yardley leaned toward Lenny just as Ventura had.

  “Did you take the shot?”

  “Barbera isn’t the brightest spark but there’s nothing wrong with his hearing.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “No. Sir. I did not take the shot.”

  Yardley leaned back. “Okay.” He looked out the window at the view and then turned back to Lenny. “You look like a man who could use a beer.”

  “Sir, you are both an officer and a gentleman.”

  Yardley and Lenny wandered down the stairs and through the company office and out onto the street. They were assaulted by the sounds of people and motorcycles and cars and horns, and by the humidity that wrapped itself around Lenny’s neck like a vise.

  Damn, it’s hot, Lenny thought. No, strike that. Not hot. He could do hot. He had grown up in Southern California, and when the Santa Anas blew in off the desert the entire region could sit above a hundred degrees for weeks on end, a putrid bowl of smog and heat. That he could do. This humidity was something else. He had never given any thought to how a fish felt, but he figured that this was as close as he would ever get to walking in a fish’s metaphorical shoes. The air was so full of moisture it was like being underwater. Under boiling water.

  Yardley led Lenny into a labyrinth of lanes and half-lanes, spaces between buildings and open street-food stalls and roads wide enough for only one small car to pass. They came to a darkened doorway in a plain concrete building. There was no signage and no number but Yardley didn’t break stride as he stepped inside.

  The interior wasn’t any cooler than the street but for the desk fan that sat on the short bar and pushed the tepid air around the room. Lenny noted dark wood tables and chairs, and more wood stools by the bar. The only light in the room came from a sign advertising Singha beer.

  Yardley took a stool and Lenny followed. A man wandered out of a back room. He had a helmet of thick, curly hair and a bushy mustache.

  “Lads,” he said in a heavy East London accent. “What’ll it be?”

  “Two hot coffees,” said Yardley.

  Lenny shot his commander a look. It was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk and humid enough that the egg would poach before it fried, so a hot coffee was the last thing on his mind. He opened his mouth to say something about false pretenses when the bartender opened a fridge below the bar and produced two ice-cold, frosty-glass mugs, into which he poured two beers. He dropped one in front of each man.

  “Two coffees, hot,” said the bartender, without the slightest hint of irony.

  “Thank you, Jimmy,” said the colonel.

  The bar
tender gave a nod and wandered back into the room from which he had appeared. The two Marines touched their glasses and sipped their beers. The glasses were so cold that tiny ice crystals had formed on top and they tingled Lenny’s lip in the best possible way. He downed a third of his beer in one pull, and then dropped his mug to the bar and leaned his head back to feel the coolness weave its way into his bloodstream. When he felt the heat abate in his feet, he smiled. The sensation might have been completely in his head, but Lenny believed that events in the mind were every bit as real as anything that affected the rest of the body.

  “So now that the CIA isn’t listening,” said Yardley, “you want to tell me what happened out there?”

  Lenny wiped his mouth. “Somebody made a shot.”

  “Somebody? You mean General Tan was hit?”

  “Not exactly.” Lenny explained what he had seen, how the general had cocked his gun to shoot the old man, and how the tailgate had fallen open and half the load and the general had ended up on the ground.

  “How the hell did the tailgate fall open?”

  “Like I said, somebody made a shot.”

  “Shot what?”

  “The latch holding the tailgate closed. Shot it right off the truck.”

  “Someone in the village?”

  Lenny shook his head. “Nope. Someone up on the hill. Just east of my position.”

  “You were how far out?”

  “Eight hundred yards, give or take.”

  The colonel frowned. “Somebody shot a latch off a tailgate at eight hundred yards?”

  Lenny nodded and picked up his beer.

  “That’s a hell of a shot.”

  Lenny sipped his beer and breathed in the cool. “It is. And it was silenced.”

  “Seriously?” Colonel Yardley sipped his own drink and then glanced at Lenny. “You could make that shot.”

  “Sure, most days.”

  “Who else?”

  “There are guys.”

  “There are guys who can hit a torso at eight hundred yards. How many can hit a latch that’s what, two inches in size, first try?”

  “Not as many.”

  “The Russians have guys like that,” said the colonel.

  “You think the Russians have people in the Kampuchean jungle?”

  “We’re there, aren’t we?”

  “If it was a Russian, why shoot the latch? Why not shoot just the general? He’s their enemy, isn’t he?”

  “That’s the trouble in this damned place,” said Yardley. “There’s no telling who the enemy is anymore.”

  Lenny wondered on that. He believed in the Stars and Stripes, but he wasn’t too sure about being seconded to the company. He wasn’t even sure how seriously to take Ventura’s cover. He was an athletic-looking guy—good hair, square chin. He looked like an import–export guy, even though Lenny really had no idea what the hell an import–export guy was. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the CIA had a team of people coming up with bland company names and bland job titles and curating photos of bland-looking men and women who would be totally forgettable to the enemy, whoever the enemy was. The nameplate on the office door below the safehouse read A&Y Exports. He wondered how many man-hours had gone into coming up with that gem. He knew one thing for sure: If he ever needed to figure out where the Russians were keeping all their spies, he’d just grab the yellow pages and start ticking off all the import–export companies. Great cover.

  The two men drank their beers in silence for a while, enjoying the cool liquid and the moving air from the fan. When the colonel had finished his drink he slipped off his stool and tossed some Thai baht on the bar.

  “Have you showered this week?” asked the colonel.

  “Not yet. I just buy a new shirt every time I get too sweaty.”

  “You’ll need more than a fresh shirt. Get back to your billet, wash off. You got a dress uniform in country?”

  “Yes, sir. Why?”

  “There’s a function tonight at the British Embassy. Your CIA friends will be there.”

  “I’m not CIA, sir.”

  “I know that. But I need you to suck it up and keep Ventura happy. I don’t trust those guys, and neither does Quantico. But if we’re all going to end up in another war, we’d like to know ahead of time.”

  Chapter Three

  The British Embassy in Bangkok was a leafy compound in what had been a rural area when it was established in 1922 on the corner of Phloen Chit and Witthayu Road. An upscale neighborhood had sprung up around the complex after the Second World War, but the chaotic sprawl that was Bangkok had eventually swallowed the area whole.

  The embassy was something else. Lenny’s dress blue uniform earned him a smile and an up and down look from the girl with the clipboard, and despite his name not being on said clipboard, the uniform earned him entry to the party.

  The gardens inside the compound made for tranquil relief from the city hubbub. Oddly, even the humidity seemed lower here. Lenny wandered the garden with a glass of beer. There were a good number of uniforms present: British Army red and Australian Air Force blue and US Navy white. Even the civilians wore their uniform of choice: black tie.

  One such tuxedo was worn by Ventura. He noticed Lenny across the garden and gave him a what are you doing in this sort of company look, and Lenny raised his glass to him.

  “I didn’t know you two were so close.”

  Lenny spun to see a woman standing before him in a red dress of Siamese design. She wore the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth, but her raised eyebrow dulled the effect. She was blond and trim and closer to thirty than Lenny by about five years.

  “Miss Brooks,” he said.

  “Ooh, Miss Brooks. Really?”

  “It must be the surroundings.”

  “Getting your British on?”

  “Something like that.”

  She looked him over with a critical eye. “You look good in dress blues.”

  “Everyone looks good in dress blues. That’s why the Marines kick butt.”

  “I told you the dress uniform would be useful.”

  “You did.”

  “There’s not a room you can’t get into in dress blues.”

  Lenny glanced around the garden. “Or a penguin suit, it seems.”

  “The civilian equivalent. And a touch less memorable. But I prefer the blues.” She flicked the hair from his collar. “Is that haircut regulation, Marine?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She nodded and sipped her champagne. “I have to mingle.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Lenny watched her saunter across the garden and then he wandered inside. Ventura was standing at the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Free beer,” Lenny said, lifting his empty glass.

  “You were talking to Alice Brooks.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s with the Department of Justice.”

  “I believe so.”

  “What does she know?” Ventura jutted out his chin when he was being all serious, and he was being all serious most of the time.

  “She knows plenty, I would imagine. She’s a legal attaché.”

  “You know what I mean. About us.”

  “There’s an us?”

  “I don’t much care for your attitude, Cox, but you’re not here for your charm. You’re a tool, and I’ll use you until I don’t need you anymore. Now, what does she know?”

  “As far as I know, Ventura, she doesn’t know anything about us.”

  “Good. DoJ could be a headache.”

  “They don’t want to support homicidal maniacs in taking back their country?”

  “They’re all homicidal maniacs, Cox. That’s what you don’t get. But DoJ is a little more gun shy than the rest of us.”

  “Lawyers can be like that.”

  “I know,” Ventura said, without irony. “I know.” He slapped Lenny’s shoulder like they were best buddies and then made to walk
away. “Keep your ears open on that front, all right?”

  Lenny smiled his best yes, teacher smile and let Ventura go. He waited until the CIA man had gotten another drink before he made for the bar himself.

  A small woman was waiting for the bartender to pour her drinks, so Lenny stepped in beside her.

  “You win,” she said, in an English accent that made Lenny think of manor houses and rolling lawns. He glanced at her. She was a foot shorter than him, with hair the color of chestnuts, and rounded cheeks that could have hidden a decent supply of said chestnuts in them, and which made Lenny think of chipmunks.

  “Usually,” he replied, with a quick smile tacked on for good measure. “What did we win this time?”

  “Fancy dress, of course,” she smiled. “You Marines always have the nicest uniforms.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Lenny said, noting she wore something akin to a business suit. “You look very nice.”

  The woman blushed as if she had never received such a glowing compliment. The bartender passed her two drinks, something clear that smelled of juniper berries, and a beer. The bartender looked at Lenny.

  “A beer, please, sir,” said Lenny.

  The bartender nodded and got to work. The glasses weren’t frosty but the beer was cold enough.

  “I’m Kendra,” said the woman, holding out her petite hand. “Kendra Abernathy.”

  “Lenny Cox.” He shook her hand.

  “You’re new around here.”

  “Am I?”

  “Oh, yes. I keep a tab on who comes and goes. Especially the fun people.”

  “I’m fun? How do you know?”

  “Well, for one, you didn’t get sore about my fancy dress remark. That usually sorts the wheat from the chaff. I hope you didn’t find me disrespectful.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. What’s the second thing?”

  “Second thing?”

  “You said, for one thing, which implies a second thing.”

  “You don’t have one of those severe haircuts you American servicemen like to wear.” She glanced at Lenny’s hair, hanging down to his collar. “Yours is more relaxed. Like you don’t have a stick up your bottom.”

  Lenny knew the haircut and the uniform didn’t gel. The CIA didn’t want him looking like an enlisted man, but the longer haircut with the dress blues made him feel like a fraud. He made a note not to wear his uniform again until he was back under the Marines’ rules and regs.