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heard it was over and you…”He stopped and held St Clar with genuine concern. “I heard about you.”
    St Clar could hear the tremor in his friend’s voice. Opening his mouth to speak he started and at first the words did not come out, then he finally said:
    “Take him… take him far from here. Leave this place – leave some here and go, just you and a few… hide him…but he must breed… you must have him breed.”
    “I will, my lord,” stuttered De Odes. “I will do your will… I know what it takes. I will not fail.”
    St Clar thought he should say more, but there was nothing more to say. De Odes knew what needed doing. The fog was coming. A tunnel appeared for St Clar. There was a warm light at the other end. He decided to go. It was so cold where he was. He closed his eyes.
    Seven years later his brother William found out about his heroism.

6
    Rocko Rizotto stepped off the plane onto the hot sticky tarmac of Siem Reap airport. Although the flight was only two hours long he almost preferred commercial flights to the small but serviceable Embraer Legacy 650 jet that David had talked him into leasing. The truth was their businesses had been very successful by all accounts, that success showed itself in cash flow, and that cash flow allowed things, like a three-year lease on a small private aircraft that most people never had the luxury of affording. Rocko wasn’t so much into luxuries. The hostess was staff, so it was hands off and the toilet was such an enclosed space he seemed to bounce off every wall. He openly shrugged his broad shoulders. At least he didn’t have a bunch of people knocking at the door as he emptied his often-disruptive stomach.
    David stepped out behind him, a little worse for wear. He had flown overnight from Greece, with a couple of awkward stops for fuel in Bahrain and Pakistan. He hadn’t slept much as he was pondering all the new information and the trail that Stacey had set up for him and on picking up Rocko in Kuala Lumpur he hadn’t done much more than a brief overview, handed his old pal a beer and then tried to grab some more shut eye.
    “I like this place, David, are we going straight to Pub Street?” said Rocko, knowing only too well that was the last place on David’s agenda.
    “No, big guy. We most certainly are not. In fact we are going to grab a tuk tuk and head straight out to Angkor Wat. Mr C is going to meet us there.”
    Mr C (real name Chereak) was an old friend of both of the men. A tourist operator and wheeler-dealer, he was one of Cambodia’s new breed of savvy entrepreneurs who knew his way around any system.
    David’s wavy hair blew straight in the breeze and his steely eyes set sight on an official just outside the door to the terminal.
    “That’s our guy, Rocko. C said he would be there.” David marched off purposefully, shook hands with the man and Rocko almost didn’t notice the US$20 note shift from David to the man. The next thing they knew they were marched right past the huge line of tourists from the commercial flights all struggling with the Visa on Arrival counter and dealing with typical Khmer bureaucracy. Just four minutes later they smiled good-bye to the immigration official as the tuk tuk puttered away from the airport.
    Rocko always loved Cambodia. The people, the smiles and probably the thirty years of beating the hell out of each other in a civil war really appealed to him. The girls were ridiculously pretty, the beer $3 for a whole beer tower and the food was a culinary surprise being based on the French occupation of ninety years coupled with that amazing Thai style of the region. Today he was hoping to sample all three loves, yet before he could do so he knew he had at least to endure David’s blabbering and find out what the creative genius Stacey had found.
    “So what’s holding me up from Pub Street?” asked Rocko as the tuk tuk puttered its way through a forested road away from the airport.
    “You know how I was on the