They’d turned off somewhere, at a time when they’d been out of sight past an outcrop.

  I swung the jeep in a U-turn and gunned up.

  Access of a sort, providing I didn’t lose the target. A hundred kph on the clock and then slowing through the hills, seeing nothing, the sun swinging behind me now, bringing relief from the glare.

  Target not seen.

  The stretch of potholes again and I hit the brakes in time and let the jeep skitter across them, one of the headlights shattering to the vibration, glass tinkling against the bodywork in the slipstream.

  Target still not seen but there was a track to the left, hidden by boulders until I was almost on it, had to use the brakes and let the rear end swing through the U as I gunned up to get the traction back and then turned to follow the track, baked mud and loose stones, the surface natural, the way ahead formed simply by the passage of wheels over the passage of time.

  A small leopard vaulted a rock and turned to watch the jeep go past.

  Target.

  The sun flashing across its rear window as it turned in the distance ahead and below me among the hills as the track descended, stones rattling under the chassis.

  We were in a ravine, with rocks rising on each side, their shadows on the right, sharper now, the air less humid. I let the speed die again, losing the staff car from sight but not worrying.

  There wouldn’t be another track leading away from this one: the terrain was too steep, too rocky.

  Flash and I saw the target again, much smaller now. But even at this distance 1 wouldn’t be safe if they looked back and saw the jeep; this wasn’t a public road, and any vehicle on it would belong to the forces of the Khmer Rouge. This was their private territory. It wouldn’t have been possible to get even this far if I hadn’t chosen a camouflaged vehicle, but that wouldn’t help me if they took an interest and brought me to a stop.

  There would have to be a break-off point: at some time I would need to decide when I was as close as I could go to the target without risking exposure.

  Flash and the staff car was turning again, but this time onto a side track where the rocks gave way to flat terrain half a mile across and covered with dark green foliage - scrub or short trees, from this distance I couldn’t tell which.

  Then the target vanished.

  It hadn’t turned to one side or the other: the sun had been steady on the rear window, then had gone out like a lamp switched off.

  I cut down my speed, rolled for a hundred yards and then put the jeep onto a slope of firm ground that would let me turn without having to back up, give me a chance to get out fast if I had to. Then I sat looking at the flat green terrain down there, some kind of plantation except for the rocks strewn across it, no individual bushes, no clearly-defined trees, just a stretch of - right, got it now - camouflage netting.

  This was how the staff car had vanished like that in an instant, passing under the edge of the screen and out of sight.

  The camp was perfectly placed, too far from the main track to attract visitors and too far west of the airfield in Pouthisat to be seen from the lowering flight paths. But even so, it had been decided to rig the camouflage screen to provide total concealment from the air.

  I switched off the engine, because this was the break-off point. I was as close as I could get to the target, was too close, even, for safety: if there were guards mounted there at the camp’s perimeter the jeep would be in sight of them.

  The heat lay across the canyon, the sun burning its path through the sky to the south and touching fire from the rocks, dazzling the eye, leaving the lungs stifled. Under the spread of camouflage down there it would be cooler; perhaps that too was its purpose.

  There was nothing more I could do here. I couldn’t hope to infiltrate an armed camp, even by night; let it be enough that I had a fix on it; the day hadn’t been wasted. But as I reached for the ignition I stopped and froze as a sound came into the silence, echoing among the rocks. Another vehicle was on the move, coming the way we had come, and I slipped across the passenger’s seat and dropped to the ground, crouching, listening to the sound of tyres scattering loose stones, one of them hitting the side of the jeep with the force of a bullet.

  They would see the jeep standing here, not far from the track, couldn’t miss it. It was camouflaged, a military or paramilitary vehicle - that was why I’d chosen it - but it didn’t carry any kind of insignia. Had the staff car carried insignia? I hadn’t been close enough to the rear to see if it had or not. Did all the Khmer Rouge vehicles have insignia? It was important, because if they did, the one moving past me now would hit the brakes and slide to a halt across the stones and boots would thud to the ground and the driver would come walking across.

  I waited.

  Exhaust gas came drifting, and another stone hit the jeep and the nerves jerked because it was so like a shot.

  Insignia. Did they carry insignia, the transports of the Khmer Rouge forces?

  The vehicle wasn’t slowing; no brakes, no boots. It was alongside now and still moving at the same speed, equipment, maybe a spade, rattling in its straps to the vibration. Voices, calling in Khmer above the noise. What were they saying? What’s that jeep doing there, it’s not one of ours, there’s no insignia?

  No. They weren’t interested, hadn’t noticed anything wrong about it, assumed the jeep was out of petrol and that the driver had walked to the camp to fetch some.

  Moving on, they were moving on, and I gave them sixty seconds and climbed back into the jeep and started up straight away, using the other vehicle’s engine as sound cover as it rolled into the camp past the guards.

  Were there guards? That was important too.

  Started up and made a tight turn and drove back along the track, using the manual gear change to shift ratios with as few revs as the engine could take, keeping the noise down.

  So you located the camp and came away, with no opposition?

  I was lucky. There weren’t any guards at the perimeter.

  The sun on my right now and a little behind me, stones banging under the wings, the canvas top flexing as the chassis twisted to the uneven surface of the track, nothing in the mirrors until the flash came, the flash of the sun across glass a mile behind me, the glass of a windscreen, the windscreen of a vehicle on the move.

  My thoughts on the debriefing had been premature, then, presumptuous, counting chickens, shit, we need policy here, and make it quick.

  I could gun up and try driving my way out but I didn’t know what vehicle they were using - it could be half as powerful as mine, or twice. There would be two men on board: if they were coming to check out the jeep there would be two of them, both armed. Add, then, the weight of one man plus the weight of his assault rifle and ammunition belt, but that wouldn’t give me any advantage if they were driving something more powerful.

  Policy, then? Because if we’re going to make a run for it we’d better start now.

  The flash came again, brighter. They were closing the distance, coming flat out, the vehicle bouncing, the windscreen flashing like a semaphore, it wasn’t just a routine transport leaving the camp. There had, then, been guards, and they’d seen the jeep when I’d turned, and they’d sounded the alert..

  Decision, yes, and this was it, not terribly sophisticated: I couldn’t hope to drive clear because it was daylight and I was stuck on this one narrow track and they could start picking me off at any time now, any time they wanted to.

  So relax: 50 kph on the clock and I left it like that, medium speed, out for a Sunday afternoon drive, this was a pleasant route, winding through the rocks, wildflowers here and there, yellow and red, a scenic route, you might say, we must bring Fred and Gertrude here next weekend, they’ll really –

  Shots, just a short burst, and then fluting overhead, a warning, then, their aim couldn’t be that bad at half a mile. I didn’t slow, waited for the second burst, got it, took my foot off the throttle, stuck my hand out of the window and waved, yes, I’ve got the message, hold your bloody fire.

  I was stationary at the side of the track when they arrived, two men in military fatigues with red check kramas, both carrying assault rifles as they jumped down from their Chinese-built jeep while I sat with my hands on the wheel, raising them as they prodded with their guns, shouting Khmer in my face.

  ‘English,’ I said. ‘Anglae.’ It was one of the few words I knew.

  More shouting, while one of them looked around inside the jeep, turning the cushions over, scattering the bottles of Evian water.

  ‘Qui es toi?’ the other one asked, using the familiar, but of course, the Khmer Rouge can do that, they can do anything they like.

  ‘Je suis Anglais.’ I used one hand, cautiously, to show them my papers, and they took it in turns to look at them, didn’t give them back. My papers, I said indignantly, give me my papers back, not bloody likely, who do you think you are, working out the odds, I was working out the odds while they walked slowly round the jeep, not looking for anything, simply showing me they weren’t going to miss anything, I was to take them seriously, even with those red checked kramas round their heads; a dishcloth is a dishcloth, whatever you choose to call it.

  Then one of them slapped the bonnet and shouted ‘Viens!’ and jerked his head towards their jeep.

  ‘Mais jai trompe de chemin,’ I said indignantly, ‘c’est tout!’ Missed the road, that was all, but he wasn’t interested, pushed his rifle into my chest. The other one joined in, so I said ‘Merde!’ and left it at that, having established my cover story, and climbed out of my jeep and into theirs, one of the bastards going too close to the spine with his gun, prodding my back, no respect for the vertebrae, and this is one of the things, the many things, that can tilt the balance and leave you undone, a pinched nerve robbing you of agility just when you need it most - we shall have to start thinking now, my good friend, of things like that, start making preparations in the mind; that’s a hornets’ nest down there, if you’ll forgive the cliche, and my presence has been requested, so that death might not be long in coming unless we are nimble: these are the Khmer Rouge, and they murdered a million souls in the Killing Fields.

  You’ve only got to make one little mistake with Pol Pot, and that’s your lot. Tucker, drumming his fingers on the control column of the Siai-Marchetti. People have disappeared, you know what I’m saying?

  Yes indeed.

  Then one of them got behind the wheel and started up while the other dragged my jacket half off and used the sleeves to bind my arms behind me; then he whipped the krama offhis head and tied it round my eyes and pulled it tight; it smelled of sweat and something else - hair oil? Scents were important now because we were in a red sector and I couldn’t see anything - scents, sounds, tactile impressions, whatever information I could pick up, however slight: I might need to recognize this man again, and the hair oil might do it for me if he came close enough.

  Bloody gun in my ribs, to remind me not to do anything silly; he hadn’t cleaned the barrel for God knew how long, I could smell it, these weren’t the Queen’s Light Infantry.

  Stones pinging from under the tyres as we bumped our way down to the camp, the driver shouting something in Khmer and my escort shouting back, We going to put him against a wall, are we? But we must use the mind for preparation, yes, not for glum conjecture.

  Twilight suddenly, cast by the camouflage net as we rolled to a halt, no more than a lessening of the light at the edges of the krama by a few degrees but enough to inform me. A strong smell of canvas - the camouflage net - and diesel oil, rubber, cooking stoves, tobacco smoke, chickens.

  The rifle prodding again. ‘Bouges pas!’ Don’t move, but of course not, with my arms bound, what would it profit me, you espece d’idiot?

  The other man had gone off - to fetch someone in authority? - but my escort stayed close, the muzzle of his gun resting against my chest the whole time. There was a line of light along the top of the blindfold but even when I turned my eyes upward as far as they’d go there was no useful vision taking place: it was just peripheral, capable of detecting movement but no images.

  ‘Look,’ I said in French, ‘you’re making a mistake.’

  The man didn’t answer.

  ‘And that’s okay,’ I said. ‘People make mistakes. I do it all the time. But the thing is, my government isn’t going to like –’

  He told me to shut the fuck up and when the other man came back they hustled me across the camp to a concrete cell and threw me inside and slammed the door and locked it.

  11 : CHOEN

  Bare walls, bare floor, cracks in the concrete, streaks of dried blood near the door, a sandal lying in a corner with the strap broken, human faeces, dried, not fresh, they hadn’t put anyone else in here recently, the door made of metal, streaks of rust where rain had come in through the gap at the top, the lock massive, the only light coming through a grille in the ceiling.

  I’d twisted my arms free of the jacket and taken the blindfold off as soon as my escorts had gone; that was some time ago, perhaps two hours. I hadn’t untied the sleeves or the knot of the krama; when I heard them coming back I would restore the image of the helpless captive, because that was what I wanted to show them - a man who didn’t even try to free himself when left on his own, who would not, therefore, be expected to make any attempt to escape.

  There had been vehicle movement during the time I’d been here, regular, routine, as if base manoeuvres were being conducted under cover of the camouflage net. At least one of the vehicles was a half-track or a tank - I heard the links rolling - and once I caught the gear-whine of a gun turret swivelling. But most of it was light stuff, its exhaust gas smelling of petrol engines, not diesel.

  In between the bursts of mechanical noise I’d heard chickens clucking, the falsely reassuring sound of a sleepy farmyard: those smooth brown eggs had supplied the fats and proteins to the human muscle that would keep this intruder overpowered, perhaps drag him to the wall and squeeze the trigger.

  Getting thirsty.

  In the small grille overhead there was no direct sunlight, but by the sun’s waning strength I put the time at close to five, on the threshold of evening. They’d taken my watch, of course: the impoverished soldiery always enjoys toys. It’s also the first and essential step in the process of disorientation, denying the captive the knowledge of time, but in this case I didn’t think they’d be keeping me here long: if they thought I was an intelligence agent they’d do what they’d done to the one in the Piper Seneca at Phnom Penh airport.

  Another diesel engine rattled suddenly into the first few hundred revs and stayed there, sending exhaust gas through the gap under the door, and of course I thought of Auschwitz and it didn’t improve my day. Not that they’d take the time for that sort of thing if they decided to write me off: they’d use the bullet, their favourite toy of all.

  Hot in here, and the thirst was getting worse. I would ask for some water when they came back: they’d expect me to, and that would conform to the first principles: Never worry your captors, we tell the neophytes at Norfolk. Do what they expect you to do, keep them relaxed, get them to trust you, so that when you make your break you’ll surprise them. Never underestimate the value of surprise: in any delicate situation it can gain you at least a second, sometimes even more, and that can save your life if you’ve planned your break with care and the timing is critical. The ‘delicate’ is classic Holmes: he delights in understatement.

  The drumming of the big diesel died away, and now I heard boots nearing, crunching over the stones. For the fifth time I twisted back into my jacket and slipped the krama over my eyes and waited, dropping and sitting against the wall with my head drooping, even when the door was banged open and the boots came in. Then I raised it, as if I could see.

  ‘Who are you?’ In French, with an atrocious accent. But it was the bark that got my attention.

  ‘I gave them my papers,’ I said. Tone weary, resigned.

  A rush of Khmer and someone came and whipped the blindfold off, not Choen, one of his men - but on Choen’s orders: he wanted to see my eyes, to tell when I lied.

  ‘I not ask about your papers. I ask who you are.’

  He wasn’t a short man, for an Oriental, but stood with his chest out and his shoulders back as if he sensed he ought to put on a bit of height; or it was simply a caricature of the pigeon-chested parade-ground posture. His face was flat and his mouth pulled down in an expression of arrogance, inflexibility; his eyes were narrowed and unblinking, one of them not perfectly aligned with the other. His red check krama had some sort of emblem pinned at the side; perhaps it signified his rank.

  I struggled onto my feet. ‘Can I have a drink of water?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘David Jones,’ I said. ‘And you?’

  I didn’t expect him to answer that one but he pulled his shoulders back another half inch and said, ‘I am Colonel Choen of Khmer Rouge Army.’

  ‘How do you do, Colonel?’

  He ignored this, as expected. ‘What are you doing on private road out there?’ he asked me.

  ‘I told your people - I lost my way.’

  ‘What was destination when you “lose way”?’

  ‘I was trying to find the lake.’

  ‘In this direction?’

  ‘Look, Colonel, I arrived in Cambodia only a –’

  ‘In Kampuchea!’

  ‘Oh, right, yes, Kampuchea. I’ve only been here a few days, so I haven’t really got my bearings yet. I thought –’

  ‘Why you want to find Tonle Sap?’ The lake.

  ‘I’m with Trans-Kampuchean Air Services. We’re thinking of running a Beriev Tchaika amphibian service to the coast, bringing fish in to Phnom Penh, pretty well straight out of the nets. The hotels –’

  ‘You alone in jeep?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry if I was trespassing, but –’

  ‘Yes. Will be sorry. Yes.’

  ‘For God’s sake, can’t anyone lose their way in this country?’