Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater Page B

about to collapse. The armed real estate man next to him was going the same way.
    â€œJust fifty thousand dollars. Good price. The barang buy. We build Kampuchea again. Every year more.”
    â€œI will think about it.”
    The policeman leaned over a little too far towards Maier. “And be careful if you see the beautiful woman with the cut on her face.”
    Maier nodded respectfully.
    â€œI fight many years. I fight Khmer Rouge. I fight many battle and massacre.”
    Maier sat, waiting for more.
    â€œDeath is a lady, monsieur, I tell you. Every time I fight the enemy, I see the woman. Death is a lady. Every time she come, we all know, someone die. But you never know who goes with the lady. Sometime the enemy, sometime my friend. Maybe me next time.”
    The policeman yawned and scratched his balls.
    â€œWhy is the woman with the scar so dangerous? The war is over now.”
    Maier was not going to get an answer. Despite his intake of amphetamines, Cambodia’s finest had fallen asleep on the broken bench.
    Maier left quietly. The dog didn’t budge.
    Police dog.
    Nice dog.

 
    THE REEF PIRATES
    Â 
    Reef Pirate Divers was an appropriate name for Kep’s only scuba-diving outfit. Tourism in Cambodia was limited to the temples of Angkor. Beyond the magnificent ruins, the country was still waiting for wealthy foreigners. You could tell in this shop.
    The office of the dive business was located in a small traditional family home that rested on high stilts on Kep’s main beach. A few hundred metres to the east, a long stone pier stretched into the shallow water of the Gulf of Thailand. A large sculpture of a nude woman, recently painted in glistening white, rested regally at the end of the pier.
    The compressors were located in a concrete shed. The bottles, wet suits, buoyancy control devices, regulators, masks, fins, snorkels and weights hung in a long wooden pavilion, underneath a grass roof that didn’t look like it would survive a rainy season. Reef Pirate Divers was a modest enterprise.
    A few tourists, geared up to dive, were just clambering onto a long-tail fishing boat. A young Khmer was loading the bottles.
    Kaley stood on the beach, talking to Pete, who was shouting into two mobiles simultaneously until he recognised Maier.
    â€œOur German hero and investor! Hello, Maier. Hey, Rolf, the other Kraut I told you about has turned up.”
    With his Porsche shades, his torn T-shirt and a pair of faded shorts that sported stark prints of white skulls on black cloth, Pete looked like a man intent on spending the rest of his life on a beach. Rolf on the other hand looked the stereotypical involuntary heir to an industrial fortune. Maier couldn’t imagine this instantly likeable, good-looking young man sitting in an office to count coffee beans. But he was no pirate either.
    Rolf was more than ten years younger than Maier, and he looked like he’d enjoyed a healthier life. He had a deep golden tan from working outdoors. A couple of decent tattoos of sharks circled one another between his shoulder blades. His dark straight hair fell just over his broad shoulders. Around his waist, he’d wrapped a red karma, like a belt. He was half a head taller than his English partner. A tiny earring sparkled on his left lobe, but that didn’t make him any less acceptable for a visit to grandmother. Rolf Müller-Overbeck was one of those who’d always been lucky in life. Until the day he had decided to visit Cambodia.
    â€œHello, Maier. Pete already told me about the mayhem at the Heart. You’re an old friend of Carissa’s? I’m Pete’s partner, Rolf.”
    Strong handshake, chiselled features, open smile, steel-blue eyes. He looked more like Till Schweiger than his mother. With long hair. Maier’s gaze drifted to Kaley, whom Pete had not introduced. For a second Maier could detect a moment of insecurity in the eyes of the young German who continued,