Samurai Code. Don Easton

good of a community … or to wreak terror. Control of anything he desired. Lee knew that shamanism was still popular in Korea as well. Usually a shaman was a woman, but not always. Perhaps Khlot is right …

      The jet rolled past, its three engines screaming like banshees, as if protesting their shackled entities to the jet and their subservient existence to the man inside.

      Lee caught his own reflection in the glass superimposed over the jet. Having to live in Vancouver … am I really only a big fish in a small pond? When will … The Shaman … allow me to return home and fulfill the destiny that is surely mine to —

      He lurched forward as a duffle bag connected with the back of his head. A heavy-set woman hurrying past with the bag slung over her shoulder stopped.

      “Sorry, kid. Are you okay?” she asked apologetically, turning around. Realizing her second blunder, she said, “I mean … sir. Sorry, I thought you were … I just caught you out of the corner of my eye. Are you okay?”

      “I am quite all right,” replied Lee tersely, while straightening the neckline of his suit jacket. “Perhaps if you were more punctual, you wouldn’t have the need to rampage around the airport like a fat cow with cataracts!”

      ***

      Da Khlot glanced out the window of the Falcon 50EX as it approached the terminal. He was a long way from his birthplace in the jungle of Cambodia.

      Life had not been kind to Da Khlot. His fourteen-year-old orphaned mother was raped and he was an unwelcome outcome of that atrocity. He was eleven years old in February 1975, when his mother died after stepping on one of an estimated 5 million landmines left in Cambodia from a host of warring factions. It was the same year the Khmer Rouge came to power and he was promptly taken in as a soldier for that regime.

      Over the next four years, the Khmer Rouge, under the command of Pol Pot, were responsible for an estimated 1.5 million deaths of their fellow citizens. A large number for a country that had a population of only 7.5 million.

      Along with other newly recruited soldiers, Da Khlot was taken to open pits containing bound and captive people who had been deemed enemies of the country. He and other newly recruited children were given pickaxes and made to kill the prisoners before they were buried in mass graves. Some of these enemies were Da Khlot’s neighbours. People who fell into the category of professionals and intellectuals … or anyone wearing eyeglasses, for that matter, as they were deemed by the Khmer Rouge to be literate and thereby a threat to the new regime.

      Da Khlot was told that by using pickaxes they would save bullets. In the beginning, he, along with other children, cried as much as the victims, but fear drove them to obey. Eventually the tears dried up along with any emotion he felt. Obeying came without question.

      In December 1978, Cambodian forces invaded Vietnam. They were repressed and Vietnam retaliated by invading Cambodia and seizing the capital, Phnom Penh. As a result, the four-year reign of terror by the Khmer Rouge was toppled, but the resistance movement of the Khmer Rouge continued to fight on in western Cambodia from bases hidden in Thailand. The Khmer Rouge were “unofficially” aided by the Thai Army and the United States Special Forces. Diamond and timber smuggling were used to bring in money to supplement their needs.

      In 1996, Pol Pot signed a peace agreement officially ending the movement. By then, Da Khlot had become a high-ranking guerrilla leader with twenty-one years of experience at torture and murder. Although he was an expert marksman, he was particularly renowned for his ability with a knife.

      Da Khlot knew the spot on the back of a person’s neck in which to plunge a knife and cause instant paralysis. The victims would collapse in a heap, but their eyes revealed their horror as their brains wondered how long Da Khlot would let them live — sometimes hours, sometimes longer, depending on the impression Da Khlot wanted to make on other prisoners.

      To obey and kill without question. It was all Da Khlot really knew how to do, but during the late 1990s his profession was quickly coming to an end. Many of the top Khmer Rouge leaders were being captured and imprisoned for war crimes and crimes against humanity.

      It was Da Khlot’s knowledge of the smuggling routes and vital contacts that allowed him to survive in the jungles for nearly seven years. He had a rudimentary knowledge of English — the universal language of understanding in the higher echelon of a trade, where numerous ethnic groups did business together. Heroin was soon added to the smuggling list and the money was no longer being taken by the Khmer Rouge.

      For a while, Da Khlot thought fate was smiling kindly upon him. Then, in July 2005, he was arrested near the Thai border by Cambodian Special Forces soldiers. Under armed escort, he was brought to a small airfield to be flown to Phnom Penh, where he knew he would eventually be executed for his crimes.

      As he sat handcuffed and in leg irons in a small office awaiting transport at the airfield, he counted the number of Special Forces soldiers guarding him. Six! True, I am a large man. Perhaps even bigger than most Westerners. But six! A child with a pickaxe could do what it takes six of these men to do …

      Jubilant, these men knew the prize they had caught and were taking no chances. By tomorrow, he would be front page news. Now it is I who kneels in the pit. Waiting and listening to the screams as my turn approaches. Perhaps I will be lucky enough to throw myself out of the helicopter. Cheat them of the torture of waiting.

      He did not hear the expected rhythmic beat of an olive-drab Soviet-made Mi-8/17 helicopter from the Royal Cambodian Air Force arrive to whisk him away. His salvation arrived — in the form of a Falcon 50EX jet.

      The impossible was made possible. A man of unlimited influence had arrived. A man capable of changing one’s destiny.

      The top soldier bowed when the newcomer emerged from the jet and Da Khlot was taken from the room and paraded in front of the newcomer. Then it happened. This man, this shaman, told the soldiers they had made a mistake. Da Khlot had never been fingerprinted. Confirmation of his identity was strictly visual. At least, that was the official version, thought Da Khlot wryly. I wonder how much was paid for my release?

      It was Da Khlot’s first ride in an aircraft, let alone a luxury jet. He was also given a new job. He was told he was to be a bodyguard.

      Da Khlot soon learned that he was much more than a bodyguard. He was used to quietly fulfill The Shaman’s wishes in some of the countries they visited. He was of particular use in countries where guns were not available due to the annoyance of certain customs regulations.

      Much like my early days as a soldier … bullets are not always available. It does not matter; I am an expert with a knife — or even a pickaxe.

      Da Khlot never questioned The Shaman’s orders or why someone was chosen to enter the spirit world. Khlot lived by a motto from his days with the Khmer Rouge: To keep you is no benefit. To destroy you is no loss.

      Da Khlot wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He was seated facing the cockpit at the rear of the plane. Despite his unwavering faith in The Shaman, he was never comfortable in the air. After all, it is I who is mortal …

      “Feel better?” asked Sayomi. A stifled smile betraying her amusement.

      Da Khlot stared passively at Sayomi, who was sitting in another overstuffed lamb’s leather seat facing him. She is like an annoying mosquito in the jungle who finds a hole in the net over where I sleep. Why does this spoiled young Japanese woman take such delight in my discomfort?

      “Ignoring me, are you?” she chided, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head.

      She is beautiful … when she is quiet. Does she think she is better than me? Yes, she has a third degree black belt in kick-boxing … capable, she says, of breaking a man’s neck. But even she admits she has never killed. Who is she fooling? Herself? Her being a bodyguard is only polite address for her real function. That of being The Shaman’s mistress. Any whore could fill that role —

      “Perhaps your ears don’t work so well anymore,” suggested Sayomi. “I asked if you were no longer afraid?”

      “I