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

tight corridors and rooms. Plus, I’ll lose the element of surprise on the first floor. A random foreigner is not going to wander through the back entrance.”

“Okay,” Sinclair said slowly.

“So, I should keep the element of surprise by pretending to be a guest. A high-paying guest will be able to get as close to Mr. Chea as possible without raising any suspicion, am I right?”

“Your logic is sound.”

“And then when I get to the so-called executive suites, logically I would be closer to Mr. Chea, thus it would make it easier to gain access to him. Then I can kill him as quietly as possible, and we won’t have so many problems.”

“You’re forgetting one thing.” Sinclair folded his arms. “How are you even going to know that he’s there.”

“If I went in the back door, how would I know if he was there either?”

“Fine, do it your way. But I won’t be able to stay in contact with you. It might raise some suspicions if you have a radio attached to your ear.”

James inspected The Palace again. It looked to him like it had three floors at the most, and most likely a few corridors that ran from left to right. He could do it without close intelligence support this time, he guessed.

“We need more intelligence,” said Sinclair. “Going in blind won’t help.”

Sinclair stepped out of the way of a mobile street food stall. The mangoes wobbled as the middle-aged Khmer heaved it forward with a bent back, leaving a pleasant citrusy trail in its wake.

“We need to find a regular for that,” said James. “A foreigner who can tell us more about the interior.”

“Well, we have time. I can find someone. I think it would be best if I do this alone. Two guys asking questions about a place like this looks a little suspicious if you know what I mean.”

James nodded. He had no stomach for that sort of work anyway. His training was in killing a man efficiently, not how to talk to one. And he relished the thought of killing a man like Mr. Chea.

He decided to make a circuit of the block while Sinclair fought his way through the crowded bar. He circled it a couple of times, dodging between the hawkers, in the vain hope he might find something useful. On each lap, a different tuk-tuk driver called out to him. The fourth tuk-tuk driver came level with him. As usual, the shouting commenced, and James quickened his pace.

“Hey, you want The Palace? You want to know about The Palace? You look confused.”

James finally stopped. “Were you watching me?”

To his surprise, it was the sleepy driver who had wanted to drive them there earlier. His motorbike hummed and shook with the effort of dragging along the passenger carriage coupled with it.

“I saw you watching The Palace. You confused? I help you. I know everything around here.”

“That depends what you know. Do you a man called Mr. Chea?”

“Mr. Chea?” The driver repeated. “Mr. Chea. Barang don’t know Mr. Chea.”

“The owner of my hotel mentioned him. I think he might be the sort of man who could help me with something.” James approached the friendly tuk-tuk driver. “How much would it cost me to find out more about him?”

The driver looked at him dumbly. “Please, sir, no.”

James’ hand stopped before it reached his wallet. “No?”

“You get in tuk-tuk. I show you Mr. Chea. I show you many things. Come.”

He thought about it for a second and climbed into the back of the tuk-tuk for his first ride. As the man kicked the motorcycle into gear and the carriage began to roll, James questioned whether this was a warm smile to beware of.

Chapter Eight

From a distance, Phnom Penh’s traffic appeared to have no rhyme or reason. Yet James found his tuk-tuk ride surprisingly gentle as they merged with the hectic traffic of the Doun Penh District. Weaving motorbikes, the terrified looks of tourists in the backs of tuk-tuks, and the fancy imported cars of the rich coloured his short ride.

The tuk-tuk stopped on the road running parallel to the Mekong River. James didn’t understand why they’d come to a halt here. They were far from anything of importance, but he got out anyway.

This particular stretch of the Mekong River ran along one of the main thoroughfares of Phnom Penh. The multilane road followed a grassy hill that ran down to a wall of tall reeds on the shore. Beneath them, families fished and washed their clothes in the muddy waters.

“Why do they wash their clothes there?” asked James in confusion.

“Sir, they live there.”

“They live there?” James said incredulously.

“Yes, sir. They put up huts at night. In the morning, they must take them down or the police make trouble for them.”

James nodded. “Please, call me, James.

“Okay, Mr. James. My name is Nhek.”

“Why did you bring me here, Nhek?”

“Ah, you wait here. You wait.”

Nhek descended the steep hillside, his feet splayed out to the side to keep his balance. He moved like a mountain goat, never wavering for a second as he approached a fisherman from behind.

As James studied Nhek’s movements, his phone rang. He grabbed it from his pocket and leaned against the outside of the tuk-tuk.

“How’s it going, Sinclair?”

“Fine,” said Sinclair. “I met an old man from France inside the bar. He’s in the bathroom at the moment so I haven’t got long. This is where he met his wife, so he’s got a lot of useful information. I’ll see how much I can get from him.”

“Good, good.”

“Where are you?”

“By the Mekong. I met a tuk-tuk driver called Nhek. He seems to know Mr. Chea. God knows why he brought me here, though.”

“You just be careful. We don’t know how