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“Yes.”
“Why you here? Not back home?”
“Not Russian. Not my battle.”
He seems to like that answer. After all, he’s not off fighting the war either. Obviously, as paid mercenaries, we’d fight in any war for money, but if there’s an easier job, it’s going to be preferable to fighting another man’s war. “I’ll give you tour.”
He takes my dark blue passport, one that identifies me as Mattvey Andrei Kuznetsov, and hands it over to the guard at the gate. If that passport was a real passport, I’d be concerned. Confiscating passports is a clever technique to solve employee attrition issues.
“I’m Vlad.”
“Mattvey,” I say, although he just read my credentials. He didn’t hire me. Someone higher up did. The real Mattvey, hired by a recruiter based in Singapore, is en route to an undisclosed location with the possibility of being granted EU citizenship.
“You’ll be at the gate at seven each morning. You’ll come in, night crew leaves. Small number live on grounds. I live on grounds. Where you live?”
“Not too far from the casino.”
Vlad narrows his eyes. “Gamble you?”
“Nyet.”
He nods and proceeds inside.
According to my debriefing, Vlad Reinert is a Grade-A asshole. He remained close-lipped around our source, Ninh, a Vietnamese man tempted by the higher pay. He quit after one too many disagreements with Vlad.
Ninh said the men and women held here arrive with the promise of high pay and easy work. Only most are trapped here paying off outstanding loans. Many had to borrow to cover travel expenses, and the company charges exorbitant fees for training. Ninh claims they work fifteen-hour days, seven days a week and have no hope of ever repaying the debt owed. As a trained Vietnamese soldier working for the Wagner Group, Ninh didn’t face the same outcome, but he saw one too many fellow Vietnamese trapped by these people. If caught attempting escape, physical punishment is swift and severe.
Ninh landed on the CIA’s payroll as an informant, trading intel on both the Wagner group and the Cambodian compound, but when Vlad tasked him with caning a man, he quit. His contacts are currently helping him find new employment.
He’s still on the CIA’s payroll. I got the sense he might be on a few other countries’ payrolls, too. On paper, these compounds are owned by a legitimate Cambodian company, but the people consider one senator to be the owner. Locals refer to him as King, thanks to the number of businesses he owns. Multiple governments have pointed out the Cambodian police never investigate claims of abuse when the rare escapee reaches the media. It’s unknown how many escape and never find a media contact.
We walk through the compound together. According to public records, the firm owns over twenty acres of land. The compound is near the center of the land and encompasses approximately four acres. The only road leading up to the compound, like so many Cambodian roads, is packed dirt.
Of the compounds the firm owns, this one is located the closest to a city. Given this compound specializes in cyber scam work, computers and Internet access are required. Reliable access to electricity is a requirement to pull off an operation of this size.
Inside the walls, the ground is tamped dirt. There’s no vegetation. All the buildings have concrete walls. The smaller buildings have thatched roofs. Vlad points out the smaller buildings, saying they are staff living quarters.
In the center, there are two taller gymnasium size buildings. The two larger buildings have ceramic tile roofs and are approximately two stories tall.
We enter the first of these buildings and step into an open room filled with rows of tables with monitors and keyboards. Wires spill out behind the monitors and keyboards into rows of extension cords below the tables.
One young man glances our way, and Vlad snaps his fingers and points. He quickly returns his attention to his monitor. There’s a song playing from a small black radio with a silver antenna. I don’t recognize the song, but it’s playing at a low level and serves as background noise. There are no windows in the building. Fans on the ceiling spin, circulating the humid air.
Metal stairs bolted to the far wall provide the only access to the second floor.
“What’s upstairs?” I ask Vlad.
“Same. We don’t manage the work. Wagner handles security.”
I follow Vlad through the building to the door at the end.
Mostly men sit at the computers. At least, based on the hair length, I assume they’re men. They all wear loose, tattered short sleeve shirts. Brown leather or cloth sandals. There’s a deadness to their eyes. An acceptance of the situation. I search for signs of abuse, but there are no black eyes or busted lips. No scarring on wrists.
Vlad opens the door at the end of the hall and bright sunlight streams in. The man closest to the door lowers his head, wincing from the bright rays. His shirt shifts, and near his collar I glimpse red, swollen skin. The telltale sign of back lashings matches with Ninh’s account.
I’ve expended less than thirty minutes inside the compound, but my gut gnaws at me, telling me we’re following another wrong lead. Sloane couldn’t conduct any kind of research in this place. The floor is dirt. Packed dirt, but dirt. Something’s off. Our intel is off. Once again.
Vlad opens the doors to the next gymnasium-sized building. The stench of urine wafts into the courtyard. “You be here. Most come and go freely. Some…they no earn that right.”
