An old man's body lies alone: Pol Pot dies in steamy jungle
Pol Pot was laid out on what appeared to be a new mattress in a humble plank hut, his head propped on a pink pillow, eyes and mouth slightly open in a gaunt, yellowed face.
His nostrils were stuffed with cotton and a garland of red fuchsias was wrapped around his deeply wattled neck. An overpowering smell of formaldehyde filled the air.
A water bottle and a hand fan were the only signs of his last possessions. Under the bed, as if he had just stepped out of them, were a pair of rubber slippers.
Like an emissary from hell, the Khmer Rouge spokesman had emerged from the steamy jungle to tell us Satan was dead.
'Pol Pot has had a heart attack . . . I am happy,' Nuan Nou, a senior cadre under new commander Ta Mok, said across the bamboo stakes and razor wire that ringed the ultra-Maoists' last stronghold.
'Now the bad images are gone - now there will not be the accusations any more.' I was one of about 30 journalists in a convoy of vehicles winding its way down a dusty jungle path from a Thai military base near the Cambodian border.