Lethal Redemption by Richter Watkins Page A

threatened in the tree tops, Kiera and Porter pushed through a bamboo thicket to the outskirts of the village.
    They came upon a line of saffron-robed Theravada monks carrying bowls.
    “Early birds,” Kiera remarked.
    Porter said, “They’re going to the village for their morning rice. The belief is—and it’s a good one in my opinion—if the monks are given their meals first thing it reduces the stress and egotism of the day for the entire village. It was an odd concept to me when I first came to Cambodia to live with my father. But in time I came to see the wisdom of it. And few people on this spinning ball of dirt and water need a stress releaser more than these folks, given the hell they’ve been through.”
    Ahead of them a vendor pushing a cart and chanting in a falsetto voice about his breakfast offerings made his way from thatched house to thatched house. Kiera thought it would be nice to have your breakfast delivered every morning. The air already wafted from the early morning food smells and awakened Kiera’s taste buds and brought a growl to her empty stomach.
    Out on the riverbanks the fishermen prepared their nets.
    Two monks hurried over to them. Porter spoke with them in Khmer, then said, “We’re on our way. Narith has a fast boat.”
    The monks led them along the bank of the river between the stilted, thatched-roof houses.
    They became the objects of much attention from the boat families, especially the children.
    Porter called out to a man handling fishing nets. He waved and yelled, “Porter, my friend.”
    Porter spoke to him and then another fisherman joined them. There seemed to be much excitement, even a little apprehension. Once again she wondered if Porter was known by everyone in Cambodia.
    One man disappeared into a small house and moments later a monk hurried out and went to Porter and they shook hands.
    She sensed that was Narith. He had an authority about him. Everyone showed him great deference.
    The monk glanced at her, nodded and then came over to her.
    Porter introduced her to the monk who bowed and the smiled and shook her hand with a gentle grip. The saffron-robed Narith was a smallish, self-effacing man with a bald head and brilliant, intelligent eyes. When he spoke it was in excellent English. “It is a great pleasure to meet a friend of Porter’s.”
    He spoke with Porter in Khmer.
    “They want us on the boat and on our way. He’s anxious to see the picture,” Porter said, “but wants to get moving.”
    They were each given some rice balls and then boarded a longtail boat.
    “Will they come into Laos after us?”
    “They’ll go anywhere on this planet. We’ll lose them in the mountains. We just have to get there.”
    They watched Narith talking to some fisherman. Then Porter took out his SAT phone and tried to call McKean, but got no answer.
    Porter said as they headed down along the river front, “You’re going into Lan Xang—land of a million elephants.”
    “How many are there now?”
    “A few thousand at most. Same fate as the great plains buffalo.”
    They were both still wet and she really wanted to get clean and dry but there was no time.
    “Since we enjoyed cuddling coming out of Phnom Penh, we get to do it again,” Porter said. “The arrangements to get over without inspection have, hopefully, been successfully made.”
    “Will that be considered our second date?”
    “More like a shotgun marriage. This time in a really tiny hold. It’s a compartment, so it’ll be tight, hot and, hopefully, not too fishy.”
    Narith asked to see the picture. She took off the backpack and removed the plastic bag as the boat headed out to the center of the still dark river.
    He studied the photo intently, nodding. “Very good.”
    He handed it back. She could feel the excitement in the man about the prospect of finding the real thing.
    Under the roof of the long cabin the monks pulled back several wooden crates and piles of cloth and pulled up the latch of the