Angkor Tears

2. Dave

2

Dave

Dave shut his laptop with a sigh. The long email he has just received had awoken old memories, memories that had given him nightmares for years afterwards. Memories that he had only recently managed to lock away in some hidden corner of his subconscious. And now they came flooding back with all the horror and sickening emotions that accompanied them.

In early 2003 he was working as an investigative journalist in Cambodia to uncover some of the child s*x trade in Svay Pak, a mostly ethnic Vietnamese village just north of the capital, Phnom Penh. One of his colleagues at The Guardian had written a piece on Svay Pak the year before and Dave wanted to delve deeper, to scratch the surface and see who was enabling these paedophiles to operate with such absolute impunity. But none of his pre-trip research had prepared him for the reality of the situation. Unwilling to work alongside any of the evangelical organisations working in the area as he saw their methods of coercion as often insidious and brainwashing, he had instead linked up with a young idealistic social worker called Kunny who was working with a fledgling NGO, ‘Help The Children’. Kunny had introduced Dave to the city governor, Chea Sophara, who was fully supportive of any campaign to wipe out the trade.

With the backing of city hall and the local knowledge of the NGO, Dave had gone fully undercover. Starting off in the city centre he had frequented some of the lower-class dives, passing himself off as a former shipyard worker who had received substantial redundancy. Beer tends to loosen lips, especially if someone else is paying for your beer, and it wasn’t long before Dave found himself directed to an ex-pat bar on Street 136. He spent a few weeks getting to know the regulars and gaining their trust until finally, on a bar crawl of some of the less salubrious hostelries in town, his drinking companion, a fifty-something teacher from Australia called Greg, had asked him if he fancied finding something younger than was on offer in their current location. Dave had gone along with the idea and his new ‘friend’ had taken them to a small road near the airport where numerous wooden shacks sat off the dirt roads. Sitting themselves at a basic roadside beer bar that consisted of a few tables and chairs and an icebox to keep the beverages chilled, Greg explained that there were numerous choices here, anything from an 8-year-old to a 14-year-old to satisfy any deviant desire. This was the tricky part for Dave on a number of levels. He had to mask the revulsion he felt at both the trade and at Greg and at this early stage of his investigation he could not give himself away in any manner.

A middle-aged Khmer woman approached their table and Greg explained this was the ‘mamasan’ who looked after the girls and negotiated rates. Greg spoke to her in pidgin Khmer and, translating for Dave’s benefit, advised that the mamasan had two new girls who had not yet lost their virginity. One was 11 and the other 12 and they were both available for $500 each. If not interested in a virgin, there were various other girls available, with the cheapest only costing $5. Greg discussed the various girls as if they were cuts of meat in a butcher shop and it took all of Dave’s professionalism to stop himself repeatedly driving his fist into Greg’s face. Greg eventually negotiated one of the virgins down to $400, while Dave agreed to take one of the older girls, thinking to himself that she might speak some English and that she was less likely to report back to the mamasan if the barang gave her extra money but did not have s*x with her. He was not happy about having the knowledge of Greg’s intended actions but had to tell himself that this was the bottom of the chain. If his investigation uncovered the people behind the trade, and those officials helping protect them, then a lot more girls could be saved.

The mamasan took their money and led them down the side of the bar to where the shanty town existed. The area smelled of rotting refuse, open sewers, cooking food and the stench of too much humanity compressed into too small a space. She beckoned to Dave to enter a ramshackle hut and he nervously went in shutting the door behind him. The single room was lit by a lantern and sitting on the dirty bed was a girl of perhaps 14, the fear in her eyes reflected by the lantern light. When she saw him enter she stood and made to start undressing but Dave stopped her with a gesture and the Khmer word for ‘no’. She looked confused so he gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and sat down on the bed, making sure he sat at the opposite end from her. He took out his wallet and handed her a $20 note while making the universal sign for ‘quiet’ by placing his finger over his lips. She took the money and gave him a nervous smile as if she wasn’t quite sure what was expected of her. Dave pointed at his watch then held both hands up three times as if to say ‘thirty minutes’, then again made the sign for ‘quiet’. She seemed to understand, or at least Dave hoped she had understood. She sat there shyly, fingers twirling her hair, and just for a minute, Dave could still see that she was still a little girl at heart, despite everything she had probably been through.

He took a cigarette from his packet and lit it, wishing that time would go faster. It would have been great if he could have interviewed this girl, talked to her at length about her abuse, but he and Kunny had agreed that, for now, they would only interview rescued girls. To go into depth with one of these girls at this stage could jeopardise the whole investigation. But he did want to record the meetings on film. He removed a compact Nikon Coolpix from his pocket. When she saw the camera the girl shrank back, as if some sudden memory had returned to haunt her. Dave gave another friendly smile to reassure her, pointed at the camera and nodded as if to ask ‘okay?’ The girl nodded hesitatingly and went to begin undressing again. ‘No!’ cried Dave, and it was obviously a word she understood in English as she jumped back at the loudness of his cry. He extended his hand towards her, palm downwards, to try and get her to calm down. ‘Two’ he signaled, hoping she realised he meant pictures. The girl nodded and put on a pathetic smile for the camera. Dave shook his head and gestured at his own mouth to tell her not to smile. She nodded again, understanding what he wanted. He took two quick shots, making sure that not only was the sadness of the girl’s eyes captured, but the pathetic surroundings in which she was working. He wasn’t sure whether the picture would ever be used but, if possible, he wanted a record of the horrors he would likely witness over the coming weeks.

Looking at his watch he saw the half-hour was up. Standing up he paused for a minute and took one of the girl’s hands in his own and looked her straight in those eyes that had been r***d of life. He hoped she could feel even a fraction of what was going through his heart and head. In his time as a journalist, he had seen many sad and tragic things. He had covered stories from Africa to the Balkans to the Middle East, but some gut instinct told him that these coming weeks in Cambodia were going to prove the biggest challenge ever. But the worst part of that first night was yet to come, listening to Greg brag about his time with the young virgin he’d bought, Dave again sitting beside him digging his nails into his hand to suppress his revulsion and anger.

But nothing from that night compared to what he would see and hear over the coming weeks. He had passed some sort of test, the shanty town by the airport was only one small piece of the puzzle and the real action still took place at Svay Pak. In the week after his visit to the first site, Greg gradually introduced Dave to what he came to think of as the ‘inner circle’, long-term expats living in Cambodia whose sole reason for choosing this still broken country was the simplicity with which they could pursue their deviant desires. From an international hedge fund manager to the owner of one of the most popular restaurants in the city, the only thing that seemed to draw this diverse group together was their predatory nature. Dave was careful with his questioning, subtlety was the master here, and he did not want his true mission to be uncovered.

It was the third week when he finally got the break he was looking for. He knew that the group he had infiltrated was bribing the local police in the various locations they visited but he suspected that the cloak of protection extended far upwards from just the lower ranks. And it was sheer luck that he had stayed back at the group’s bar of choice for a late-night poker game in the hope that lips may be loosened by the amount of alcohol being drunk. It had gone 2am when an elegant Mercedes pulled up outside the bar. By this time the group was down to four, and the only other person there was Ratha, the Khmer barman who seemed to be there 24 hours a day.

The Mercedes was chauffeur-driven and the figure that emerged from the shadowy rear was obviously of high rank or importance. He may not have been wearing any uniform but the man’s demeanour and bearing told Dave that this was someone from the military or police. The man ignored the group and sat at the bar, where Ratha served him a large malt whisky without being asked. Frank, the bar owner, folded his hand and went over and joined the new arrival. With the background of 70s rock and the talk at the table, Dave knew there was no chance of overhearing anything but he discretely took a note of the car registration then watched the two men talk at the bar. Eventually he saw what he had expected to see. Frank whispered something to Ratha who left the bar area then returned shortly after and passed Frank what looked like a fat padded envelope, an envelope Frank immediately passed to the newcomer, who himself put the envelope in an inside jacket pocket, shook Frank’s hand, then left the bar after draining his whisky.

This was the start of the trail Dave wanted. He knew it would be a relatively easy job to come to Cambodia and to expose the perverts actually preying on the young girls and boys. But there would always be more to take their place once they were gone. What Dave wanted was to crack the shield they had around them. Remove that protection and hopefully the whole sordid business would be exposed and, while maybe not destroyed, at least severely damaged.

His contact in city hall identified the car as belonging to a high-ranking police officer, and one with ties that reached into the heart of government. Gradually, and with the help of the enthusiastic Kunny, they built a dossier that included every Westerner and Khmer they could identify who were involved in the actual abuse – as many children were still being exploited and abused – and those in positions of power, from local policemen to politicians, who were complicit in the widespread s****l abuse happening in the city. Finally, after three months of work, and three months of the greatest self-control Dave thought he had ever exhibited, he felt the time was right for them to take their evidence to Chea Sophara. The governor had expected there to be some powerful names exposed, but he hadn’t expected there to be so many.

For a time, Dave thought he was going to pull out of his side of the bargain, but once he had gotten over his initial shock he organised special squads of police and army and one of the largest operations Phnom Penh had seen since peace returned began two mornings later. By the time the clock had reached 4pm, over 150 arrests had been made, including politicians, police, army, and of course the actual abusers themselves. Svay Pak itself had been raided at 6am while most of the inhabitants were still sleeping and every brothel where children were available had been closed down and the people running them dragged off in handcuffs. This was where Kunny’s job started, while Chea Sophara had organised the squads of police and army, she had coordinated an effort by several NGOs and groups to take care of the rescued children. By 5pm, over 110 children had been rescued from the sites at Svay Pak, the airport and several other areas of the city.

The next morning had brought with it a monumental hangover from the celebrations but a need to continue on from the aftermath of the previous day’s events. There had been interviews with Chea Sophara, high-ranking policemen and politicians, and NGO workers involved in rescuing the children. But after a week or so there came a pressing need to head home and finish up writing his story. The goodbyes to Kunny had been sentimental and they had promised to keep in touch, especially as Dave wanted updates on how the rescued kids were doing. The investigation had created a bond of friendship between the two that time and distance could not erode. Chea Sophara had been ecstatic at the result. Dave was a little cynical as to whether this was for purely selfless reasons or whether the governor saw his political ascension speeding up in the future, but at the end of the day he didn’t really care.

The assistance from city hall had been a crucial part of the operation so political point scoring was a secondary consideration. He would have loved to stay on for a few more days but the world media spotlight was very much focused on Cambodia and Dave had to get back and keep his editor happy. He’d emailed through the headline piece as the story broke, but now had to get the follow-up stories typed up for the weekend editions. His agent was talking a book deal, but Dave was so emotionally drained after his time in Cambodia that he would be happy reviewing films for the next year.

As he expected, it was chaotic from the moment he stepped off the plane. The next two weeks were a whirlwind of work, family reunions, and then the inevitable round of interviews on TV as the story gripped the public consciousness. Once the fuss finally began to die down, he treated himself to a holiday sailing down the West Coast of Ireland, stopping in at little fishing villages where no-one recognised him and enjoying the food, the craic and of course the Guinness. It was the second week of the holiday when the nightmares began, he’d wake up several times a night, drenched in sweat and with the faces of some of the children he’d met haunting the corridors of his sleep. He tried to tell himself that he’d helped save so many of them from the life of horror they had been involved in, but something kept coming back to him, the thought of how many were still being abused, how many abusers were still getting away with it, and how many people were complicit in the crimes just to make money.

He’d sought counselling, had gotten involved in voluntary work with Barnardos, and even started writing a short story he’d been promising to start for so many years. But every shadow he saw was the darkness in a Khmer child’s eyes, every cry he heard took him back to Svay Pak or the awful shanty town by the airport. It was only two years ago that all the nightmares had finally stopped.

His career had continued to flourish. He’d continued to maintain an interest in people trafficking, carrying out investigations in Eastern Europe, Mexico and Malaysia. He had even managed to start and finish that awkward first novel and it had achieved minor commercial success while still being savaged by the critics. There had been a couple of trips back to Cambodia and reunions with Kunny. It amazed him how much the place had changed on each visit, yet there was still that pervading sense of poverty and injustice and an obviously widening gap between those who had and those who had nothing. Kunny now headed up the NGO she had started with as an idealistic young social worker many years before.

And Dave had finally married, to a girl who he’d grown up with but had never looked at romantically till they had bumped into each other at a film premiere. Some 14 months later, their first baby arrived and, snug in their little Wiltshire cottage, life for Dave was finally close to perfection.

And then the email from Kunny had arrived this morning…

“Bros Dave, hope you are well. I loved the pictures of little Caitlyn you posted. She’s getting so big so fast. You and Helen must be so proud. It’s good that you are getting to spend so much time at home with them both. Anyway, sorry to do this but I need help. There’s something going on here and I’m scared that it’s much, much worse than the days of Svay Pak. We’ve been receiving reports over the last year of children disappearing from the provinces. But children disappear all the time and even if I had another thousand staff, we couldn’t keep on top of that. But over the last six months, bodies have started turning up, all within ten or twenty miles of Phnom Penh. Again, there’s sadly nothing unusual in bodies turning up here. But what’s frightening me, really frightening me, is the state of the bodies.

“Dave…these kids have been systematically physically and sexually abused. In some cases, it looks like torture and worse. I can’t even bring myself to describe some of the things that have been done to these kids. I think they’re being sold to some sort of secret club or clubs. This isn’t like the sickening kiddy brothels we worked to take down, this is something far more sinister. The police won’t do anything as they think it’s a serial killer, not paedophiles. But it’s not a serial killer. I think there’s an underground scene here, Dave. I’ve been researching online, and these paedophile clubs happen in the West. So why not in a country where human life is still so damned cheap? I’m scared, Dave, I’m really scared. Please, I know you have a family there now, but I’m family too, and I need your help.”