The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (learn to read books .TXT) 📕

came out again, ten minutes later, Tuk was smiling broadly. ‘All fixed,’ he said. ‘We can go now.’ Vacant eyes watched them leave.

Outside the heat of the sun seared the skin and the senses, and it was a merciful relief to slip back into the air-conditioned comfort of Tuk’s car.

Mak Moun came as a shock, even after the poverty and corruption of Bangkok and Aranyaprathet. This largest of the Cambodian encampments on the border was little better than a rural slum. The place was black with flies, a huge depressing sprawl of small huts crammed together, refuse piled in stinking heaps, broken bottles and empty cans, decaying scraps of food scraped from meagre plates, a flyblown chicken carcass. Men and women and children squatting to defecate in a nearly dried-up stream running through the camp were almost obscured by the flies. The stench of human excrement was choking. Young Thai soldiers carrying rifles or automatic weapons wandered arrogantly between the rows of huts, occasionally shouting at the children. Any who dared to argue with them were rewarded with a blow from a rifle butt.

As they drove through the camp they watched a soldier strike an old woman several times about the head with a long cane, until blood appeared oozing from her hair. Elliot felt his scalp tighten with anger. Tuk grinned back at them and shrugged philosophically. ‘Life in the camps,’ he said. ‘But what can one do?’

‘We could kick the shit out of that bastard for a start!’ Slattery growled.

‘That would not be very wise, Mr Slattery. Van Saren’s people would only shoot you. The Thai army presence here is for show only. They are happy to let Van Saren police the camp. People are often shot trying to leave. Van Saren could not have his position undermined by allowing a foreigner to attack a soldier. Oh yes, and remember,’ he added, ‘to call him Marshal. Marshal Van. He is a little eccentric, but his control is very effective.’

‘Effective in what way?’ Elliot asked.

‘He controls distribution of the food that the ICRC and UNICEF truck in every day. And on the border, Mr Elliot, food is power.’

The car drew up outside a hut near the camp’s administration centre and they all got out. Tuk waved at the hut. ‘Van’s kingdom,’ he said. Not ten metres away a squalid, half-starved group of women were trying to wash themselves in the same dried-up slick that doubled as an open sewer.

‘And I thought I’d seen everything,’ Slattery said, brushing the flies from his face. ‘Jeez, if the world needed an enema this is where they’d stick the fucking tube.’

Elliot glanced at McCue, who had remained silent throughout their journey. He was impassive, his face betraying no trace of emotion. But his eyes missed nothing, and Elliot sensed a tension in him. He was beginning to regret having come here at all.

They climbed the steps and entered the empty hut. It was a shambles: two-tier bunk beds down one wall, crates of beer stacked against another and under the beds, empties strewn everywhere. Slattery kicked one across the floor and it rolled into a corner. There was a large desk and a swivel chair by the window. An electric fan whirred and clattered on the desk making erratic sweeps and stirring the papers strewn across the desktop. Several sheets had fallen to the floor. Crumpled cigarette packs lay on the desk, ashtrays brimming with half-smoked cigarettes. A window blind had slipped down to hang at an angle. The floorboards were crusted with dried spittle and the room stank of human sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

‘Cosy little place,’ Slattery said, and spat out a fly that had crept in at the corner of his mouth.

Tuk turned in the doorway. ‘Ah, here comes the Marshal now.’

Van Saren strode across the compound towards the hut, a small figure, ridiculous in US army trousers tied above the ankles, open sandals, a khaki shirt open to the waist and a pork pie hat set squarely on his head. A large crucifix hung round his neck, glinting in the sunlight. He had a cocky swagger emulated by the three thugs who accompanied him, all in khaki, bandoliers slung across shoulders, AK-47s tucked under arms. Each had a dirty scarf tied around his head.

Van grinned as he saw Tuk, revealing several gaps in a mouthful of yellowed teeth. He greeted him in Thai. The thugs ignored the newcomers, pushing past and propping their automatic rifles against the far wall. One climbed on to one of the top bunks and flopped across the sweat-stained sheet. Another dropped into the swivel chair and cast an indifferent glance over the strangers. The third sat on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette.

Tuk made the introductions. He seemed out of place and ill-at-ease in these surroundings, dabbing again at his forehead with a now grubby handkerchief. ‘Saren, this is Mr Elliot and his colleagues.’

Elliot nodded and Van looked at them appraisingly before smiling broadly, as though proud of his bad teeth. ‘Welcome to Mak Moun,’ he said. ‘Here you under my protection. Protection of Khmer Serei.’ He paused. ‘You want go Cambodia, Than tell me. No problem. You enjoy stay my country.’ And he laughed uproariously, pleased with his joke. ‘I take you. No problem. When you want go?’

‘A week or so,’ Elliot said. ‘But I want to talk to some of your refugees first.’

Van waved a hand dismissively. ‘They talk you. No problem. I tell them. You want drink?’

‘Sure.’

Van giggled. ‘Hah! “Sure.” I like “Sure.”’ And he snapped an instruction at the thug sitting on the desk. Wordlessly the man rose and opened half a dozen bottles of beer to hand them round.

‘Not for me, Saren,’ Tuk said.

Van chuckled. ‘Sure you drink with us, Than. No problem.’ He turned to Elliot. ‘Than like glass with beer from refrigerator. He think we very uncivilized here.’

Tuk took a bottle reluctantly from the thug, who showed his first emotion in an evil grin.