The Afterglow of Cameron Highlands (US Edition)

Chapter 3: The Law of the Jungle

Cat and Mouse

The jungle was a living thing, and Jim Thompson was moving through its veins.

There was no more hesitation. The faint unease from yesterday had sharpened into certainty today. Someone was out there. Someone highly trained, someone who could blend into the rhythm of the jungle itself.

His walk had changed. Every step was now a calculation. He avoided hard ground, choosing moss and dead leaves to silence his footfalls. He would stop without warning, turning on his heel. He’d mimic a bird call, then wait, listening for a response.

It was textbook counter-surveillance.

The old skills, buried under twenty years of silk and antiques, were coming back as if they had never left.

(Their numbers? A three-man cell, minimum,) he thought.

(Weapons? From that boot print, probably older AKs or carbines. They have a radio.)

He didn’t feel fear. Quite the opposite. He felt his cells waking up, his senses honing to a razor’s edge.

The tedious boredom he felt in his Bangkok mansion had vanished. He was back in the game.

His age, 61, meant nothing here. His status as the Silk King meant nothing.

All that mattered were the skills to survive and the speed of one’s judgment.

Meanwhile, watching Jim’s progress from between the trees, Kamar felt a cold sweat on his forehead.

Who was this white man?

He moved like no government soldier Kamar had ever seen. He was the prey, yet somehow, it felt like they were the ones being hunted. Every time the old man turned, Kamar froze behind a tree trunk, his heart seizing in his chest. He sees us. He has to know our position.

“Major, the target’s movements are abnormal,” Kamar whispered into his radio. “He knows we’re here. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t panic, Kamar,” the Major’s voice returned, as cool and steady as ever. “It’s fine that he knows. He’s testing us. Let him swim. First, we see where he’s going.”

The Major was right. Jim was pushing into dangerous territory to identify his enemy. He began to follow a small stream. It was a basic tactic to mask the sound of his own footsteps, but it was also a trap to lure out his pursuers. Where there was water, there were almost always human settlements.

Jim deliberately left a clear footprint in the wet sand by the bank. Then, a few meters ahead, he concealed himself behind a rock and waited, holding his breath.

Minutes felt like an eternity.

The silence of the jungle. The murmur of the stream.

Then, a man appeared before the footprint Jim had left. He was dressed in the black pajamas of a farmer, a worn rifle slung over his shoulder. It was another guerrilla, not Kamar. The man studied the footprint, then scanned the area cautiously.

In that instant, Jim knew for certain.

(There you are…)

The man didn’t spot Jim’s hiding place. He turned and headed upstream, likely to rejoin his comrades. Jim waited until he was completely out of sight before slowly emerging from behind the rock.

His heart was hammering. Excitement, and a cold dread spreading through his veins.

They were a professional armed group. And he was all alone.

Cyrillic Rust

Jim followed the direction the guerrilla had taken, moving even more carefully now. The option to turn back was fading from his mind. He couldn’t go back empty-handed, not after coming this far. The enemy’s numbers, their equipment, and if possible, the location of their base. If he could secure that intelligence, he would win this dangerous game.

The stream widened into a small clearing. Someone had camped here recently. The black scar of a fire pit remained on the ground.

He knelt by the pit, touching the ashes with his fingertips. Still faintly warm. A fire had been used here within the last few days.

His eyes caught a glint of rusted metal poking out of the dirt next to the fire pit.

He carefully dug it out. Wiping away the mud, he saw it was a reinforcing bracket from the corner of an old ammunition box. And stamped onto its surface was something that made his eyes lock in focus.

АК-47

7.62x39 мм

Cyrillic. And the model number of the world’s most famous assault rifle, the Kalashnikov.

Soviet-made ammunition.

A tremor of dread, far greater than anything before, shot through him.

This was not just a local insurgency. This was part of an international communist network, receiving direct arms shipments from the Soviet Union or China. This was no longer a regional dispute. This was a microcosm of the Cold War, the same proxy war being waged in Vietnam.

He stood frozen, clutching the rusted piece of metal.

The thing in his hand was not just a piece of junk. It was hard evidence, the kind the CIA was desperately searching for, proof of communist activity in Southeast Asia.

(…I should turn back.)

Reason screamed at him.

This wasn’t a problem an old, retired spy could handle alone. The enemy was a cold-blooded armed group that knew this jungle inside and out. He needed to get back to the bungalow right now and contact Noice at the CIA. It was the smart move. The only move that guaranteed survival.

He glanced back in the direction of the bungalow. He could almost hear his friends’ laughter, like a phantom on the wind. A calm, safe world. A life of light as the Silk King.

But his feet wouldn’t move.

(…Just a little further,) a devil whispered from deep inside him.

(The main base has to be near. Just a little more, and you’ll know everything. Pinpoint its location, and this information is priceless. Are you going to let some desk jockey like Noice take the credit? Show them. Show the world that James Thompson isn't finished.)

It was pride. The unquenchable pride of a man who had run the shadows of Europe and survived the jungles of Asia. And it was the fatal dulling of his sense of danger, brought on by years of comfortable living.

He was trying to forget that he was no longer the man he used to be.

The internal debate lasted only a few seconds.

He shoved the rusted metal into his pocket and turned his face upstream again.

He chose the path to ruin with his own two feet.

The Closing Net

Kamar watched the entire scene from a hill above, through his binoculars.

He saw the man find something at the old campsite, saw him hesitate for a moment. And then, he saw the man, with grim resolve, start walking again, directly toward their main base.

“Major, the target found the ‘evidence.’ But he is not turning back. He is coming toward us.”

The Major’s voice on the radio held no emotion at all. It was a simple declaration.

“Understood. Second and Third squads, set the net at the valley entrance. Kamar, you will guide him there. Do not be seen.”

“…Roger that.”

Kamar lowered his binoculars.

The man had no escape now. He was walking to his own grave, like a moth drawn to a flame.

Kamar almost felt sorry for him. Who was he, really? What was he searching for? Money? Honor? A simple thrill? Whatever it was, the only thing he would find in this jungle was death.

That was the law of the jungle.

The strong live, the weak die. And anyone who breaks the rules is eliminated, without mercy.

Kamar slipped down from his perch on the tree branch and began to circle around, silently, behind Jim Thompson.

To drive the prey into the killing ground.

High above, a lone eagle circled in the sky. As if silently watching the quiet, murderous ritual about to unfold on the ground below.