Danger in Cambodia: A Love Story

By Allan Kapilivsky

Retired doctor Harold Gordon thinks he knows the shape of his life. For years, secrets from his past have put distance between himself and his beloved wife, Emma. Now they're trying to reconnect through a cruise to Cambodia, where he had worked soon before they were married.

Around the same time, Daevy Khang's sister is kidnapped by thugs working for Alexei Kozlov, an emigree Russian mobster, who is, in turn, acting under orders of a powerful local Cambodian crime warlord, an elusive Mr. Pho.

Kozlov is eager to find out what Pho wants with the Khangs while at the same time having to contend with an assassin sent to kill him.

"Danger in Cambodia" is a love story told against the backdrop of an adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350960273

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

EPILOGUE

Copyright © 2024 by Allan Kapilivsky

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents besides the chapters about the pillage of the Summer Palace and the capture of the Mayaguez either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35093-736-7

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35093-737-4

To my adventurous soulmate,

who journeys beside me all around the globe.

Your wanderlust fuels our shared odyssey.

Thank you for sticking with me, no matter what, through thick and thin.

Lillian, this book is dedicated to you.

My eternal life companion, with all my love.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am unsure if people spend time reading this part of the books they purchase or jump straight to the story, but I am grateful you allow me a few moments to express my gratitude to the persons who helped me create this adventure.

First and foremost, thanks to my beautiful wife, Lillian, for organizing the trips and traveling with me to all the places we have been lucky to visit throughout the years. All of them are amazing in their own way.

This story is based on one such trip.

No, we were not chased by bad guys, but the depiction of the city is as accurate as possible. Some of the places described in the story don’t exist anymore, but they did when were there.

Thanks to the wonderful beginner and experienced writers at Critique Circle, who showed me how to take the first steps.

Thanks to Don Holbrook, who put the training wheels in my journey to learn how to write and later took them off to let me keep on going.

Mr. David King, my editor, not only edited the book but also had the patience to correct the more basic mistakes I had committed after my umpteenth revision before sending him the manuscript.

Thank you to my dear friend Monica Lemor for agreeing to read the book when finished and for all her notes to make it better.

Writing is hard work but is also a lot of fun.

If you decide one day to write something yourself, go for it. It will take time and will be an uphill battle to produce something people may care to read, but if you become proud of your work, that will be enough reward.

Hope you enjoy the story.

CHAPTER 1

Sihanoukville, 2011

Dara had been looking forward to enjoying a lovely day. Sunny, not too hot, not too windy. Perfect for a stroll down the beach, watching the crest and crash of the waves and the intermittent flight of the pelicans against the wind.

Well, almost perfect, except for the obvious detail that Dara was not walking down the beach; she was not splashing the surf or admiring the trawling boats in their daily pursuit of fish.

Instead, she was in a dark, dark place.

Dara trembled. The damp air chilled her to her bones, and she could not do anything about it.

The room looked like an old prison cell from the movies. A ten-by-ten-foot dark enclosure with moss-covered stone walls and moisture dripping from the ceiling. Words and dates scratched on the walls told the stories of previous prisoners’ desperate plights. The only light came from barred windows across the corridor outside her cell.

The smell of human sweat and worse filled her nostrils, making her gag with each breath.

Across the room’s only opening, thick, rusted bars blocked the way. An iron lock the size of her fist secured the door. A single steel chair faced her cell.

Her dress was soiled and dirty from when she was thrown into the dark rock room, and the thin fabric was shredded from rough handling.

Dara managed her business on the streets of Sihanoukville, selling her grandfather’s homeopathic healing potions to locals from her rickety wooden cart. Every day she stood and smiled, greeting her routine customers and the occasional curious tourist.

Today, she had seen three foreign men in dark outfits approach her from different directions. She had thought nothing of it, despite her grandfather’s warnings.

She continued her business like she did every day, smiling at passersby and greeting whoever came to her to ask about her products.

Then, two of the men grabbed an arm each, lifting her from the ground, her feet dangling in the air.

Hey, let me go! She had tried to throw a punch and kick them, but the brutes held her tight.

Let me go! she yelled. Help, help!

People passing by averted their eyes, ignoring her pleas.

The third man tied her wrists and gagged her. He then pushed her cart into a side alley and left it there. After that, he followed the others who carried her to a waiting car, opened the back door, and shoved her into the back seat. A fourth man inside grabbed her and held her until the others entered the car. They then sped away.

Before she could understand what was happening, one of them slipped a pillowcase over her head. When they tore it off, she found herself in this room.

Once she recovered from the shock, she tried to understand where she was. She remembered the rhythmic vibrations of the tires moving across the road surface and the whistling of the wind. Wherever she had been taken, they had crossed a bridge.

It had to be the long bridge connecting the mainland to the island of Puos offshore. She had never been to the island before but had seen the bridge. It had to be. Her heart pounded, and her quick, shallow breathing made her dizzy.

She had to understand what was happening to find a way to take control. None of the men had said anything to her.

Dara closed her eyes, wishing her capture to be a dream that would go away.

A small steel cot reeked in one corner of the room with a thin mattress. The other items inside were a small table with two candles and matches and a rusty bucket with a handle—nothing to help her there. The sight of bloodstains on the concrete made her shiver.

She pressed against the bars, straining to see as much as possible. She could discern adjacent cells divided by curved stone walls every ten feet or so in the parts of the corridor illuminated by external light.

She listened to soft whimpers and cries of weak anguish echoing along the corridor. She could not tell how many different sounds she heard or where the voices came from.

Hello? she whispered. She didn’t want to draw the attention of the men.

The whimpering didn’t change.

Can anyone tell me where I am?

Hell, a soft voice said. You’re in hell.

She sank into a squat next to the cell bars, where at least there was some light, and the air felt fresher. She wouldn’t sit on the bed. The smell made her heave.

This place was no police holding cell.

Dark secrets lurked in her city; everyone knew that. Most would not speak of the kidnapping of local young girls forced into sexual service or sold to barang men. These girls were taken away, never to be seen again.

Cambodians were superstitious and feared that speaking of such things would bring misfortune down on them.

At nineteen, she had already known of girls her age and younger disappear.

And now it had happened to her.

Unsurprisingly, no one had helped her when she was taken off the street.

Her grandfather had warned her to stay in the open streets and not stray into shops or side streets so she would not become one of their victims. He had told her, when in doubt, to run away.

But she has been on the main street. She had had no chance to run. So, she had been taken away.

Why?

Authorities paid no heed to the disappearance of peasant women. The local police were on the payroll of the criminals, so they offered no help. Her only hope was to obey their instructions and wait to escape if she could.

She sat on her legs by the cell bar and looked at the light from the window before her. She bowed slightly, pressed her hands with the fingertips pointing up, lifted them to the level of her chest, and prayed.

She prayed she could be back at her grandfather’s side, playing with their dog under a refreshing afternoon drizzle.

She prayed she could be back selling her herbs and potions, waiting to see if that handsome boy came her way that day.

She prayed for this nightmare to end.

She started crying.

Dara heard footsteps and the sound of men speaking in a strange, guttural tongue coming her way. She did not recognize the language at first, but then she remembered where she had heard it. Russians…. She had never spoken to a Russian, but they sometimes walked along the city streets where she worked.

So, it had been Russian mobsters who had kidnapped her.

She paced back and forth while taking quick, shallow breaths. Her hands shook and fluttered while her muscles tightened.

She crouched in the corner of the room.

Two men in dark athletic tracksuits appeared in front of the barred door. They may have been the ones who took her from the street; she couldn’t be sure.

A third man loomed behind them. He was dressed in a gray pinstriped suit and a button-up shirt, but he still reminded her of a bear, not fat but muscular. He carried a cane with a gold top. Behind him was a woman with long black hair down to her waist.

Dara couldn’t help but forget for an instant what her situation was and admire her. She was stunning.

She wore a black, tight-fitting dress, dark silk stockings, and narrow black high heels. Her dress was slit on one side to show off her trim and fit leg. This type of woman was not someone you would see walking the streets in Cambodia. She could be a movie star.

The barred cell door swung open, and the entourage entered, surrounding her. The woman stayed behind, inside the frame of the open cell door.

Why am I here? She made herself more diminutive in the corner. I want to go home.

The imposing Russian stepped close to her, leaned down, and grabbed her by both cheeks with his strong hands as he leaned down. He squeezed her jaw until she thought it would crack. Then he brought his face close to hers.

Her brown complexion contrasted with the man’s milk-white hands. He had dark blue eyes, but there was no kindness in them.

So, why does Mr. Pho want you? He said in broken French Khmer slang. What secret do you have?

It was worse than she thought. She wasn’t just a slave. He wanted something from her, and she had no clue what the giant Russian was talking about. Nothing about her would make her valuable to anyone other than her brother and grandfather.

I have no secrets, sir; you are hurting me! Dara pleaded.

He released her face and gripped her by the shoulders, lifted her, and held her several inches from the ground.

Tell me, Malyshka, what makes you so valuable to my client, or I will beat it out of you. Then, I will sell you to my Arab friends, who will make you their private sex slave back in their desert homeland.

Tears began to flow despite her struggle to stop them.

You will be passed from tent to tent, plopped down in their awful swirling dirt piles that they refer to as their nomadic Bedouin lifestyle. It is a hot, dirty, and nasty place. But then, so is this awful, filthy country of yours.

He let her go, and Dara fell to the floor.

The only difference is that is hellhole is also wet.

He came within inches of her face.

The Arabs happened to be lucky by finding oil under their dirty feet, so tell me what you know that he values so much, girl? he demanded.

Dara stared at him in disbelief and started to sob. What to tell him? Laying on the floor, dumbfounded, she tried to mumble something, but terror drove any coherent thought away.

The Russian in charge turned and nodded at the woman. She smiled and then walked over, replacing the giant man before Dara.

My name is Alina. What is yours? she asked in melodic French Khmer.

I’m … Dara, she replied.

My pretty peasant princess, you must tell Mr. Kozlov what he wants to know. Why did Mr. Pho ask him to bring you here?

She still had no answer.

I am afraid if you continue to refuse to answer him, you will either be sold like the other girls, or he will kill you and tell the Cambodian he did not find you.

She got close to Dara’s ear. Dara smelled the sweet perfume she was wearing.

You must tell him what he wants to know, she said so softly that only Dara could hear, and he will reward you with enough riels to make you rich among your friends.

Her voice was smooth and sweet yet firm, and her command of the Khmer language was good, with enough of a Russian accent to sound exotic.

I swear I have nothing of value to anyone. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Dara could not control her shaking.

I live with my brother and my grandfather. I sell my grandfather’s homemade medicines, and my brother is a tuk-tuk driver taking tourists around the area for a few coins. We only make enough to pay for food and keep sandals on our feet. We have nothing anyone would want.

Dara took several steps back. We live in a small cabin out of town to keep us out of the weather. My mother died when I was born, and I never met my father. I know no Cambodian Mr. Pho. We do not have any enemies or people that wish us a bad fortune; for that matter, we have no one that cares if we live or die.

Dara lowered her head, and tears trickled down her face.

The woman shook her head, then turned and spoke in Russian to the man.

The Russian spat on the floor. He put his hands on the black-haired woman’s hips and pulled her close to him.

Dara saw no tenderness or affection in his actions.

Alina, Kozlov said in Russian. I want to know what the Cambodian needs from her. Either she is very stupid or very clever. Either way, what I am getting paid for her skin is not enough. There is something precious somewhere, and she seems to be the key.

He changed his tone.

I am not willing to let that gryaznyy, that filthy Cambodian, benefit from her secret while I only get a few miserable coins. I will not be his errand boy.

Be patient, she said.

Let this be over so I can sell her to the Arabs. He glanced over Alina’s shoulder at the girl. She has a pleasant shape to her and will look presentable once we clean her up.

Ivan looked at Lev, and both lowered their heads and looked away.

Kozlov kept his vice-like grip on her hips and pulled her torso even closer to his own body.

Alina said, You’re being unreasonable and impatient.

I am tired of your arrogance, Alina. You must be careful, or I will find another woman and replace you. You are not getting any younger, and you know I like my women fit and without wrinkles. You are not irreplaceable.

How can you think of me that way when I treat you like a king in this God-forsaken place where you forced me to live? She pushed him aside. I helped you with your dealings in the motherland years ago. I could have turned you in to the secret police or the KGB, and I would have been rewarded.

She pushed herself away from him. I would still be in Russia and be some rich man’s wife by now.

The Russian sneered at her. Comrade Putin would have killed me for being a rogue GRU agent, and then he would have put a bullet between your pretty eyes for stealing the documents. So, your sensual body and sexy smiles would not have saved your life. I was your logical option.

He pointed at the Cambodian girl.

I need the information from this putrid girl before Pho gets here. He turned around and snapped his fingers to call the attention of his associates.

Ivan, Lev. Let’s go.

He then left the cell without another word.

Dara saw the two guards follow the imposing Russian.

The Russian woman ran her fingers through her hair. Then she turned, stood with her hands on her hips, and gave Dara a contemptuous stare.

Ivan and his cousin Lev believed things couldn’t get grimmer. After spending several months in prison for petty thievery, they struggled to find work. They lounged at the airport that morning, wondering what they would do for their next meal.

The two ex-convicts scanned arriving passengers, looking for a stupid tourist to con. Their means of income had dwindled to resorting to petty theft or swindling unsuspecting tourists into giving them money for imagined adventures that would never materialize.

An imposing figure made Ivan and Lev freeze in place when the first person exited the airport from the latest flight. It was as if nature itself cowered at the sight of this visitor’s presence. The ex-convicts turned their gaze at him at the same time. The man was daunting to behold. He was broad with a muscular build. Blue eyes and black hair combed back; he strode as if he owned the place. The man didn’t even acknowledge Ivan and Lev’s presence, casting a shadow over them as he passed by.

He was well-dressed, and his suit was hand-stitched with expensive fabrics. On his wrist was a gold, diamond-encrusted watch, and he wore ornate rings on his fingers. He also had a wooden cane with a gold antique eagle head. He didn’t use it to walk.

Behind the man was a woman, a beautiful, dolled-up lady who appeared to be at least ten years younger than him. She had a frustrated expression. She was dressed in a blue silk gown. Gucci sunglasses covered her eyes, and she wore designer high-heel shoes.

Passing Ivan and Lev, she scowled at them as if they had just killed her prized poodle. What are you louts doing? Get over here and carry my bags. They glanced at each other, nodding in agreement that they would not inform her that neither of them was a porter.

They hurried to grab her bags and followed her to the car waiting for the new arrivals. They reached a black limo with tinted windows, and after putting the luggage in the trunk, the man beckoned them over to the passenger window.

He handed them each a thick wad of cash that widened their eyes. The man spoke in a broad, deep Russian accent.

You both look like honest men. I need trustworthy men by my side. You will work for me. There is more money where that came from. Find the Snake House. Find me today at 8:00 p.m. Don’t be late. And with that, the man and the limo drove off. Ivan and Lev stared at each other.

At 8:00 p.m. sharp that night, Ivan and Lev stood at the Russian office door.

As Ivan knocked on the door, a man with a strong build, a bald head, and numerous tattoos that spread toward his neck and arms opened it within seconds.

Zakhodi, come in. He said, follow me.

As they walked behind the tattooed man, Ivan whispered to Lev, I have a good feeling about this. Let me do the talking.

Okay, whispered Lev back.

The cousins followed the man into a spacious, well-lit office. A mahogany desk occupied the back of the room, and behind it was the man from the airport. The man put his half-smoked cigar on the ashtray, stood, and walked around the desk to meet them.

Good evening. Thank you for coming, he said with a broad smile. Please sit down.

Ivan sat on the chair to the left of the desk, and Lev on the one to the right. The man leaned against the edge of the desk.

My name is Alexei Kozlov, he looked at the bald man and added, This is Yuri, my second.

Ivan said, I am Ivan Sokoloff, and this is my cousin Lev.

Yuri, vodka for Ivan and Lev.

The bald man headed to the bar, picked up four tumblers from the small freezer, and put them on the counter. He placed a bottle of cheap Smirnoff next to the glasses.

He turned to Kozlov, who shook his head. Yuri put the bottle back and brought a bottle of Jewel of Russia.

Kozlov nodded, and Yuri poured a generous measure into each glass.

He served Ivan and Lev first and then filled the remaining two glasses for Kozlov and himself.

Ivan, Lev, I am glad you decided to come. As I said earlier, I need honest men to help my business grow and protect my interests here in Cambodia.

Kozlov leaned toward the cousins.

I am looking for two byki, two bodyguards who will do my bidding and follow orders. Can I count on you two?

Ivan held his glass in both hands and turned his head to Lev, who stared back at him, saying nothing.

He turned his gaze to Kozlov and said, Da. We are here to serve you, Hachal’nik. You won’t find more loyal employees than me and my cousin. Lev is very strong, and we make a good team. He added, You tell us what you need, and we’ll take care of it.

I like that, said Kozlov. Please call me Alexei. I don’t like to be called boss.

Kozlov raised his glass.

After drinking, Alexei asked, Why are you here in Cambodia?

Ivan said, My cousin and I were enlisted in the army and served in the Federal Security Service Alpha group for ten years. My cousin trained as a sniper, and I oversaw his platoon.

Spetsnaz from the FSB thought Alexei. That’s good.

After the Moscow theater hostage crisis of 2002, Ivan extended his empty glass toward Yuri, who refilled it, we were discharged with honors from our unit and, after a few months, left the Rodina to try our fortune somewhere else. After traveling to Southeast Asia and spending time in Vietnam, we learned of the business opportunities here in Sihanoukville with the growing Russian diaspora. He sipped the vodka but immediately finished it in one gulp.

Tragic what happened in the theater. I was not in Moscow then, but I read about the whole episode and the poor outcome for the hostages. At least I am glad none of you boys were hurt.

Yes, Sir. It was a nasty situation, but we were able to dispose of the terrorists, said Ivan.

What kind of gas was used, do you know?

No, Sir, we were never told.

And now you are here.

Now we are here, replied Ivan with a broad smile. We like Cambodia and its lovely ladies. We are hard workers, loyal, and unafraid to accept long-term employment.

Gentlemen, Kozlov said, welcome to this Bratva family.

Yuri, give these guys $1,000 each so they can find adequate lodging, stylish suits, and enjoy a proper meal.

He walked around to his desk and sat. Kozlov opened the drawer and took a piece of paper. He wrote something on it.

He turned to Ivan and Lev and handed Ivan the paper.

This is the address to my house on the island and a note for the guards to let you through. I want to see you tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.

Yes, Hachal’nik. Alexei, Ivan apologized and pulled Lev back. Thank you for the opportunity; you won’t be sorry.

Yuri, please show them out and come back to discuss the other pending issue.

Yes, Alexei. He signaled the cousins and said, Follow me.

Outside, Ivan said, We made it. This is fantastic.

I wonder what Bratva is?

Ivan said, Don’t worry about that. Alexei is generous, and he should be a great boss. He flaunted the $100 bills.

Why did you tell him we were involved in the hostage situation? We were grunts in the army, stationed in Vladivostok peeling potatoes.

Just embellishing our resume, a bit to get the job. Ivan started to walk toward their motorcycle.

Besides, you did train as a sniper for a while, didn’t you?

Yes, and I was good at it. I even got a medal in the last competition.

You see? Everything’s good, don’t worry.

Okay, Lev said. I’m hungry; let’s go eat something.

Sure, let’s go.

We’ll have to be careful now that we are involved with the Russian mafia, Ivan thought.

CHAPTER 2

Aboard the Regency Neptune of the Seas, Doctor Harold James Gordon, a retired physician who had worked most of his career for the U.S. government at the Department