Once a Jolly Hangman by Alan Shadrake Page B

hide or fear. Terrorists are their priority targets. And drug traffickers. Security officers in uniform and some in plain clothes pretending to be fellow travellers were also everywhere ready to respond to any eventuality. He was also aware that other eyes could be watching him. The syndicate in Phnom Penh had warned he would be shadowed every step of the way to make sure he delivered. If they were bluffing he would take no chances. The man in the seat behind him might have been one of them. Any deviation, change of heart, would mean serious trouble. He feared for his life from all quarters. He just wanted to get home, safe and sound, among family and friends again. Just after 7.15 p.m. he heard the Qantas flight announcement. He downed the last dregs of the coffee to keep his mouth from drying up, gathered his belongings and began walking slowly towards Gate C22.
    He knew the next few steps would be the most hazardous part of the journey. His very life was on the line. He understood the meaning of those four simple words, always in English, on the sign he had just passed: 'Death To Drug Traffickers'. r fhey were everywhere - on immigration and customs declaration forms and walls at every checkpoint. Nguyen did his best to maintain a cool look as he was motioned through the arch of the metal detector by a female security officer. The canvas bag and haversack were going through the X- ray machine to his left. His heart almost missed a beat as the alarm sounded. But this was not unusual. A bunch of keys, a belt buckle, a mobile phone or a few coins could do that. He stayed cool - on the outside. The officer told him to stand facing her, legs apart on two 'Big Foot' imprints embedded in the thick carpet. She passed a hand
    held metal detector around his body, front and back, up and down and between his legs. No alarm this time. Nguyen breathed a sigh of relief. But it was not over yet. The officer then ran her hand gently over Nguyen's back. Perhaps she had already sensed there was something suspicious under his jacket. Or perhaps she already knew more than he could ever have imagined. Perhaps she had been waiting for him. Whatever the reason, she called a male officer to take a closer look, a closer feel. Nguyen was taken to a room within Gate C22 for a more intrusive search. His haversack and canvas bag were now being carried by the officer. His heart was pounding. Inside the search room, Nguyen was ordered to take off his jacket and shirt. He did as he was told without further prompting. Then he turned around. A plastic packet was strapped to his lower back with yellow and white adhesive tape. He also had half a dozen counterfeit watches, and a number of belts - Christmas presents for friends - in the haversack with a second plain packet. At this point the police officer called for his superior, Sergeant Teh Kim Leng, to take over the questioning. The calm demeanour he tried to exhibit was now one of sheer terror. Streaks of sweat ran down his forehead. He cried, banged his head against the wall, and crumpled to the floor, howling, rocking back and forth with his head in his hands. His nightmare had just begun. He would never see his family and friends in Melbourne again. He would now be re-routed. Destination: Changi Prison. He was a man in transit of an entirely different kind. But at that moment he was still inside the search room at terminal one.
    The questioning began. 'What's this on your back?' 'Heroin'. 'What's inside the haversack?' Nguyen meekly took out a second packet. 'What is this?' 'Heroin'. The baby-faced trafficker was in possession of just under 400 grams of the stuff - enough to hang him 26 times. Under Singapore law anyone caught with more than 15 grams of heroin faces a mandatory death penalty. The street value of 400 grams would have netted several million dollars on the streets of Sydney and Melbourne. At the time of Nguyen's arrest a heavily diluted gram would fetch A$300 to A$400 from desperate men and