Overthrow (A James Winchester Thriller Book 2) (James Winchester Series) James Samuel (reading tree TXT) 📖

“Two,” Sinclair answered for him.

The owner didn’t ask them which beer they wanted as they dropped their bags and a Khmer child gathered them up to take them to their rooms. As soon as they’d paid, they were one of the family. Tourists clustered around plastic tables and chairs on what was billed as the terrace. It was little more than waist-high plastic tables placed along the street to keep pedestrians from wandering onto the front of the guest house property.

“What do you think?” asked Sinclair.

“It’ll do, I suppose. We could have chosen a more Western hotel. It’s not as if we’re operating on a tight budget here.”

Sinclair laughed as the owner popped open two bottles of Kingfisher beer. He handed over the two sweating beers and issued them another gleaming smile and an enthusiastic bow of the head.

“It’s important to blend in, James, I told you. These two beers are part of the process. You did the same in Mexico. You stayed in an apartment like a local, and you paid local prices if I remember correctly. Let’s be consistent and blend in.”

James tightened his lips as he clutched the soaking bottle in his hand. The Blackwind private military organisation provided near-limitless budgets to field agents. Clients all over the world paid hundreds of thousands of dollars, and in some cases millions, for agents like James and Sinclair to eliminate their targets.

The two men sat at one of the free tables, watching the street as the mess of tuk-tuks and motorcycles jockeyed for position on the tarmacked streets. By the time they’d made it into town and found their hotel, the sky had already darkened. Tourists walked amongst the rubbish piling up at the side of the road on their way to the bars lit by garish neon.

“Did you call him? Thom?” asked James.

“Yes, I did it.” Sinclair sipped at his beer. “We have around three hours before our meeting. It’s only about 15 minutes away, so we have plenty of time.”

James nodded and took his first swig of Kingfisher. It went down cool and easy, offering him some relief from the burden of the day’s travel and the sweat pooling underneath his clothes.

The smiling owner approached their table, his hands pressed together in prayer by his waist. That smile in the half-light shone like a crescent moon.

“Sirs,” he said with well-intonated formality. “Can I help you with tours? Need a good place to eat? Girls?”

James distrusted people by nature, but he felt the warmth radiating out from the owner. “What’s your name?”

“Mr. Arun,” he said with yet another little bow. “I can help you with anything, sirs.”

Sinclair downed the rest of his beer. “Another beer for me, wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Of course, sirs.” Mr. Arun snatched the bottle off the table and strode towards his counter.

He quickly returned with a new open beer. The moisture pooled on the sagging table.

“Mr. Arun,” said James. “We’re new here and we were wondering if you might be able to help us get to know some people.”

“Of course, sirs, who do you want to know?”

“Nobody yet. We’re meeting a friend of ours tonight. After that, we’re going to need someone who knows the town and the country. If you want some extra work, you can have it.”

Mr. Arun’s smile grew wider, close to the bounds of his face. “Yes, sirs, you need help you call me, yeah?”

James smiled back at him as Mr. Arun bounded off to attend to his other guests. He liked Mr. Arun already. The joy and genuineness flowed from every movement and every word.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Sinclair.

“Just a feeling.” James sucked on his beer. “He’s going to come in handy.”

Chapter Four

China House enjoyed renown as one of the trendiest restaurants in Phnom Penh. Located on the banks of the thick soup that was the Mekong River, China House served all sorts of delicacies, including the famed bird’s nest soup.

Traditional Chinese musical instruments played through crystal clear speakers in the background. Tables laid out in the Western fashion contrasted with the faux bamboo roof. A large portrait of a beautiful Chinese courtesan looked over the diners below. Unlike in the rowdy Doun Penh District, everyone spoke in soft, unobtrusive voices.

James and Sinclair, dressed in freshly pressed shirts and polished leather shoes, were shown into the restaurants by smiling Cambodian waiters. They knew who Pen Thom was without checking the leather reservation book.

“Come this way, sirs,” the maître d’ said in heavily accented English.

He showed them to a table close to the window, where Pen Thom and his assistant already waited. The midnight blue river glistened across from them. Little boats glided along its surface during the day. At night, huge neon-covered party boats plied its waters.

Pen Thom wore thin-rimmed glasses that caught the warm yellow light of the restaurant. His dark silver hair flanked a bald patch covered with liver spots. They shook hands with Thom and with his assistant, a much younger man with beady eyes and a suspicious expression.

“Gentlemen, I am so glad you are here at last,” said Thom. “Please, enjoy, eat first and then we discuss business.”

Thom spoke without the heavy accent and the common mistakes Khmer tended to make when they spoke English. He confirmed he’d spent a lot of time abroad, studying at the great universities of Europe.

During the meal, they ate a variety of dishes, including scented noodles, fresh chicken feet, and other cuts of meat James didn’t bother to ask about. Either way, the quality of the food far surpassed the ten-dollar Chinese buffets found in every corner of the world.

James and Sinclair exchanged words with Thom throughout the meal. They never spoke about anything serious, just the usual polite questions about each other’s backgrounds and how much they