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

Van said something in Cambodian and all the thugs laughed. Then he raised his bottle. ‘Death Khmer Rouge bastard!’ he shouted.

Elliot took a swig from his bottle. The beer was hot.

The sound of raised voices made them turn. Through the open door, across the compound, outside the administration hut, they saw two white men engaged in an argument. One was big, unshaven, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a Colt .45 stuck in his paunch. The other man was smaller, fair-haired, in pressed trousers and white shirt. The argument was heated and in English, although from the hut there was no telling what they were saying.

Suddenly the big man stepped forward and pushed the other back, his voice rising to a pitch of fury. The smaller man stood his ground, trying to calm aggression with reason. Then the big man swung a fist like a football and hit him full in the face, so that he staggered back and fell in the dust, blood pouring from his nose. As the big man advanced he scrambled backwards, getting hurriedly to his feet. He stood off, holding a handkerchief to his face, shouting angry words before turning and striding quickly to a jeep parked at the edge of the compound. He got in and drove off fast, tyres spinning in the dirt.

As the big man started towards their hut, Van turned grinning to the others. ‘That Garee,’ he said. ‘He clearing today food distribution with Red Cross. No problem.’

Tuk moved next to Elliot and said quietly, ‘I would advise caution with this man. He can be – unpredictable.’ He turned to McCue. ‘A fellow countryman of yours, Mr McCue.’ And Elliot saw McCue’s jaw set.

‘Cool it, Billy boy,’ Slattery said softly. McCue said nothing.

The big American climbed the steps and stopped in the doorway, taking in the new faces. ‘Who the hell are these guys!’ He didn’t look happy to see them.

‘Friends of Mr Tuk, Garee,’ Van said. ‘They want we take them cross border.’

The American grunted.

Tuk said, ‘Mr Ferguson is Saren’s Minister of Defence for the National Liberation Movement of Cambodia.’ Elliot picked up the irony, but it seemed to elude Van and Ferguson.

‘Marshal Van is the father and saviour of all Cambodia,’ Ferguson said, in a way that defied anyone to contradict him. He pushed his way past McCue and Slattery and flicked his head at the thug in the swivel chair. It was vacated at once. Ferguson slumped into the chair. ‘Fucking Red Cross think they own the place!’ His feet thudded on to the desk.

‘You tell them different, Garee,’ Van said.

‘Fucking right I do.’ He looked at Elliot. ‘And I’m not taking any shit off you guys either. Got that?’

‘Sure,’ Elliot said evenly.

‘Hah,’ giggled Van. ‘“Sure.” I like “Sure.”’

But Ferguson was glaring with ugly hostility at Elliot. ‘I don’t like your tone, pal. You show some respect for my father.’

Elliot looked at him steadily. ‘I’m surprised you have one.’

Ferguson frowned. He simmered for a moment, then seemed to explode from the inside out. ‘Marshal Van is my father! You trying to say something different?’ He was on his feet, hands on his hips, swivel chair clattering backwards.

Elliot said, ‘I said I didn’t think bastards had fathers.’

Slattery wondered at Elliot’s coolness and he began to feel good, adrenalin pumping. He glanced quickly round the room. The three thugs were taut and alert. Tuk was pale with fear and had stepped back towards the door. Van just watched, apparently quite relaxed. Outside somewhere a baby was crying. Ferguson was puce with rage. He drew his pistol from his belt and levelled it at Elliot’s head.

‘You apologize to my father!’ he shouted. ‘Or you’re a dead man!’

Slattery caught the slightest movement out of the corner of his eye, and a long blade glinted at Ferguson’s throat, the point drawing blood. McCue. He’d forgotten about McCue. Slattery swivelled round, snatched an AK-47 from the wall and turned it on the three thugs, almost before they could move. ‘Don’t even think about it, boys.’

Ferguson had gone rigid and he glanced quickly sideways to see McCue’s face very close to his own. He felt the heat of his breath, smelled the beer on it. McCue’s eyes chilled him. ‘Move that trigger a hair’s breadth and I’ll cut your fucking head off – pal.’ McCue’s voice was barely a whisper.

Elliot reached out and took the Colt from Ferguson’s hand and tucked it back in the belt below his paunch. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s dangerous to point guns at people?’ he said.

The tension was broken by Van’s laugh, high-pitched, almost a giggle. ‘Good. Very, very good. Nice thing they on our side, huh Garee?’

Elliot nodded to McCue and Slattery. Slattery lowered the automatic and McCue slowly withdrew the knife, his eyes never leaving Ferguson for a moment. Ferguson slapped at his neck and looked at the blood smeared on his fingers. ‘Hey, you guys,’ he said. ‘Just a goddam joke.’

‘’Course it was.’ Elliot smiled and turned to Van. ‘How about letting me talk to some of those refugees now?’

‘Sure, sure. No problem. Garee, he take you.’

They walked through the camp, Elliot, Ferguson and one of the thugs, who kept a wary eye on Elliot. Ferguson seemed preoccupied, animosity apparently forgotten. ‘Hey, Elliot,’ he said. ‘Who is that guy?’

‘McCue?’

‘The runt with the knife.’

‘Vietnam vet.’

‘Shit, ain’t we all?’

‘Tunnel rat,’ Elliot said. ‘Did three tours.’

Ferguson whistled, an expression of awe. ‘Hey, I heard about them guys.’

Elliot smiled. ‘Be glad he didn’t fillet you.’

Ferguson lapsed again into contemplative silence, leading them abstractedly between rows of mean little huts. A group of children stopped and stared at them. Big brown eyes in shrunken faces, looking out through a film of indifference. There were no games played here, no cries of joy or petty squabbles, just the lacklustre eyes, brittle sticks of arms and legs poking out from torn T-shirts and dirty shorts. There was no curiosity in their stares, not even fear. Flies crawled over their faces, in mouths and