A Dangerous Game
2014, Koh Ker, The Kingdom of Cambodia.
A stone slipped from the step and clattered down the ancient stairs, rupturing the silence of the Cambodian jungle.
Boran pressed himself against the side of the pyramid. Every bounce of the stone felt like a gunshot, harsh and abrupt.
Finally, it stopped.
The only other thing he could hear was his labored breathing. A drop of sweat rolled across his forehead. The oppressive heat dragged at his limbs, his damp T-shirt clung to his wiry frame. He stayed low as he climbed, keeping out of sight.
A raw, sulfuric smell drifted past on the wind—a campfire, some ways off. The stone felt rough against his hands, scraping the calluses on his palms as he scrambled up the staircase. His hand fell on a shoot sticking through the rock, the dirt surrounding the crack was squishy and damp.
Everything he did felt loud and conspicuous. His feet scuffed against the stone, leaves and dead twigs snapped under his weight.
Three-quarters of the way there.
Beneath him, the dense canopy stretched for miles. A worn dirt path traced a red finger through the ruins, ending at the stairway leading up the seven-stepped pyramid. No sign of anyone.
But he knew they were here. Had to be.
He peeked over the top. A terrace encircled by a small stone banister appeared in front of him. Scaffolding materials lay scattered around with digging equipment. A wood frame had been erected over an opening in the temple, a rope and harness hooked to the top.
He vaulted over the last steps and onto the platform, landing in a crouched position. The stone railing shielded him from view.
His hands trembled.
Next to a pile of shovels, someone had propped up an old Kalashnikov-style AK-47. A journal lay on the ground beside it, along with a half-full leather satchel.
He sucked in his breath and hurried to the gun. His adrenaline spiked as his fingers brushed the cold metal. The gun’s safety lever, above the grip, was off. His heartbeat shook his chest.
They used to sell Kalashnikovs in the military market off Pochentong Road where the guns lined up like pirated DVDs. The Khmer Rouge had favored the gun for its low cost—most of the gun was wood. It was not an exact weapon, but it was easy to transport, weighed less than five kilos, and held thirty rounds.
Rounds that could be dispensed in seconds.
Point and shoot.
Boran had known these men were armed. He had known they were dangerous. But feeling the wooden stock made the danger real. He pressed the release for the magazine in front of the trigger. The magazine was heavy, the bullets spring-loaded.
Full clip.
As he reached to re-insert the magazine, he thought better of it. One less gun meant one less person who could try to kill him. A flick of his wrist sent it soaring towards the opening, where it disappeared into darkness.
Next, he approached the satchel. It contained tools, a handgun and a small leather notebook, the kind you’d find in any paper shop in Phnom Penh. He opened it.
Small, meticulous handwriting in Afrikaans covered each page, with diagrams and drawings of the temple.
Jan.
Boran picked up the handgun, a Glock 17 with a stainless-steel slide, fit with a flashlight below the barrel. Out of habit, he ejected the clip and checked the chamber, then reinserted it, the metal familiar in his hands.
For a moment, he felt relieved—he had found them. But a growing sense of unease quickly replaced the feeling. His years of training had taught him to be cautious. Overconfidence could get him killed. What he was doing now was necessary, but left him exposed.
Just then, a faint sound carried on the wind. He turned his head, listening.
Voices.
He froze.
They sounded far-off, but becoming clearer.
He stood, both hands clasping the Glock. One step, then another—his feet carefully placed and his movements deliberate—until he reached the platform’s edge, where he crouched next to the stone balustrade. He peered over the top.
A thin line of men followed a dirt path from the jungle towards the pyramid. Behind them, he saw vehicles, equipment, and smoke rising from a campfire.
In a matter of minutes, they’d round the pyramid’s front and cut off his only escape. They’d be between him and the clearing’s entrance, between him and his dirt bike.
Too many to fight. He whispered a curse in Khmer, and turned to run to the stairs. He needed to get out of their fast. Speed over silence. But as he hurdled the scaffolding, a wooden beam slid off and knocked over the AK.
The gun hit the ground, and the single round left in the chamber fired, pinging off the stone barrier.
No use hiding now.
People shouted in several languages.
“O fok!”
“Chjoey Mai!”
Clutching the Glock in his right hand, he leapt towards the platform’s front edge, vaulting over the stone banister and down to the sixth tier. Skirting to the side and avoiding the broken stairs, he jumped to the next level. Pain shot through his legs as he landed. His momentum carried him forward.
He leapt the last two tiers in succession, falling several meters to the ground, hitting it hard. His hands slapped the dirt as his knees compressed. He leaned forward, pushed with his legs, and broke into a sprint, quick steps elongating into strides as his body flew through the air towards the gate.
Shouts echoed behind him, voices thick with anger.
“Shoot him,” a voice roared.
Every muscle in his body strained forward. The gap in the stone wall circling the temple was in front of him, twenty yards away.
Dirt sprayed his legs. Shots echoed off the stone pyramid. The characteristic rat-tat-tat of an AK-47 added to sporadic pistol fire coming from his rear. They’d have a clear shot until he reached the gate and put the wall between them.
He risked a look back.
One enormous man sprinted in front of a mob, racing around the pyramid’s side. Faded army fatigues with a strange pattern of brownish-red and tan brush strokes covered his frame. The man seemed over six feet and at least two hundred pounds of muscle.
Jan Botha.
His face was a mask of anger.
Boran fired wildly behind him, then whipped his head forward. A bullet hit the stone gate as he flew past it, showering him with rock dust and stone chips. He ducked behind the wall, running as fast as he could in a crouch.
He cut a path straight through the surrounding temples, bounding from rock to rock. Vaulting over a half-buried rampart, his hand touching a carved garuda, he slid down the twisted roots of a spung tree. Past another wall, he veered back towards the road.
An ornate stone doorway gave him an opportunity to fight back. He needed to slow them down. He tucked himself behind the carved rock and took aim along the temple corridor lined with two seven-headed water snakes. As soon as he saw a flash of color, he fired, emptying the Glock’s clip. He didn’t wait for a response. He dropped the useless weapon and sprinted back into the temple complex.
Renewed shouts and curses followed him, but he knew the obstacles would slow them down. He’d grown up exploring these temples, chasing his best friend through the ruins.
His breath caught as Thomas’s face flashed in front of his eyes.
He shook his head, forcing the breath out, and sprinted over a walkway, the centuries-old stone a mixture of grey and green, reflected in standing pools of water on either side.
There. His bike.
He pulled out the kick starter and stomped hard. The engine sputtered, then died.
“Come on!”
Another kick. More sputter.
Panic threatened to overwhelm him.
He kicked a third time, grunting in frustration, and gunned the throttle. The engine flared to life with its high-pitched whine.
The bike’s back tire spun wildly as he released the clutch. The front wheel raised as the back tire caught solid dirt, and he hurtled forward. Boran shifted gears quickly as he picked up speed.
Puddles hid enormous potholes, big enough to trap a car or throw a rider. His bike shuddered as it bounced against the dents and dings in the road—a proverbial minefield. Still better than driving through the jungle.
As the Khmer Rouge had retreated north, they had covered their exit with landmines. There were ox-cart paths through the dense overgrowth, ones a dirt bike could follow. But he would have faced a different danger by veering off the beaten path—a literal minefield.
Boran ran the motor ragged with quick bursts of acceleration. His speed edged past what he knew to be safe.
Gunfire, and a motor’s roar erupted behind him. He bent over the bike and tensed every muscle, willing himself to go faster, the jungle whizzed past him in colors.
There. On his left. Dirt flew behind him as he rode the bike over a mound and onto a rutted ox-cart trail. The bike coasted on the well-worn ruts of the path. He stopped at a banana tree and put his hand out to steady himself.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he concluded he’d lost them. The jungle sounds around him returned, the chatter of birds, a monkey howling, a faint scent of rotten fruit. The adrenaline was wearing off, exhaustion took hold. Everything hurt, the ache spreading and intensifying through his body.
Something pressed against his butt. In the heat of the moment, he’d stuck the notebook in his back pocket. He pulled it out and examined it. It was a nondescript thing, a black leather journal, 9 by 14 centimeters, with a leather tie around it.
He rolled his head back and relaxed his neck, taking long breaths with his eyes closed.
The sun peeked through the banana tree leaves and warmed his face. The muggy heat of the jungle was overwhelming, and the breeze offered no consolation. The hot air felt like a furnace.
He had escaped. But they still had Thomas St. Pierre.
He didn’t understand why they needed an archaeologist, a professor.
But he knew one thing: he couldn’t leave his best friend to die.
