Intent to Kill Page 10

  “No. I am an archeologist. But for now . . . I work for Interpol. I’ve spent the last ten years overseas. That’s pretty much it. I’ve been redeployed by Interpol after spending over a year on the run,” he said gravely. He held up his hand. “Don’t even ask, I can’t tell you why. I can only emphasize the dangers of any involvement by a civilian.” His hand skimmed her bare shoulder and then fell away. A tremor ran through her. “Especially you.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded. “It’s fairly apparent that you may have been marked to transport an antiquity over the Thai border and back to Cambodia. At least it’s a fair assumption.”

  Even though she’d already considered that possibility, her heart seemed to do an extra beat at what he said. “If this is true, then do you know who has the Buddha now?”

  “No. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense. It was stolen at the airport by a man who looked like he should be shooting movies, not stealing antiquities.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Who was he, Simon?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “But you saw him,” Claire murmured.

  “No, Claire, I didn’t. I only saw the report.”

  “So is that why you’re following me—I’m a lead to smugglers?” Her breathing hitched. Despite her suspicions, she hadn’t been ready for any degree of truth. “It was a game, wasn’t it?”

  “No, that’s not it. And it’s definitely no game,” he said. “Even without the assignment, I would have followed you. How could I not?”

  He looked at her with a longing that told her that what he said wasn’t a lie. “You’re unstoppable. But you’re risking your life for a story on antiquities. That’s insane.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “That’s what I thought. What else is there, Claire?”

  “Khmer Rouge,” she whispered.

  “No!” His voice was harsh in the darkness.

  “The connection is looking more and more probable, Simon.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s not news, Simon. The media has already implied that might be the case.”

  He shook his head. “Claire, this is a dangerous situation. There are things you don’t know, may never know.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I can’t, Claire. It’s too volatile.” His eyes seemed greener, deeper, almost troubled, and his lips were a flat line.

  She shook her head. “I trust you, Simon, to a point. Yet what you’ve told me only raises more questions.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t say any more.”

  Silence lay heavily between them. The palm of his hand brushed against hers. The heat seemed to sear through her palm. She shifted slightly away.

  She glanced at him and their eyes met and held. It was time to give a little if she wanted him to reciprocate at all. “It wasn’t the first time, when you broke into my room,” she reluctantly admitted. “Someone ransacked my room yesterday.”

  “God, Claire. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Nothing was taken, not of value anyway. My thumb drive, but it held no secrets. Just my recent research.”

  “Just your research. Claire, that’s invaluable to you.”

  He understood. Her edge softened. “I spoke to the Siem Reap police this morning in regards to that theft.” She shrugged. “Don’t ask me why, but I never mentioned the Buddha.”

  He blew out a breath, oddly she suspected, of relief.

  “I must admit, I didn’t like their reaction,” she continued. “Or lack of one. I even mentioned a possible connection to the Khmer Rouge.” She bit her lip. She wasn’t ready to reveal what she’d found. “The police officer, well, he told me . . .” She took a breath. “Not a direct quote but . . . that I read too many American spy novels.”

  “Claire, you should have told me.”

  “And you would have done what? I informed the police. There was nothing that could be done. And they were obviously a bad choice. I should have followed my instincts and not bothered, but after two incidents—” She paused. “I thought it was time.”

  “I don’t know what the problem was with the police, but Claire, you’ve got to be more careful. Someone obviously is looking for something. I suspect the Buddha. Let me handle it.”

  “I don’t understand.” Claire shook her head. “They stole the Buddha, why would they be looking for it? Are you saying . . . what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know, Claire. Just hypothesizing.”

  She frowned. “You can’t expect me to do nothing.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking. Don’t do any more than you already have. I’ll mention all of this to the Phnom Penh police. In the meantime, back off, spend some time shopping . . .”

  “Shopping? You’re not serious?” She rubbed her arms as if there was a chill in the air. “No, I get it. You don’t want any interference. I respect that but in the meantime, I’m working on a story and I want to learn as much as I can for Uncle Jack.”

  “Your uncle? The refugee?”

  She nodded. “I’ll take into account what you’ve said. I’ll be careful.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Ah, Claire, if it were only that simple. But even a conversation with the wrong person could be dangerous.”

  “Who are you implying is dangerous?” She sat back down.

  “As you know, Ella Malone for one. And anyone involved with her.” He paused. “You already suspect what she might be capable of. Don’t give her another chance to prove it.”

  “I know, Simon.” She laid the palm of her hand over the back of his. “Ella has earned my distrust and I’m not one to take unnecessary chances. I’m a journalist, not a private investigator.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be careful. I promise. But I’m not giving up the story.”

  “Claire.” His eyes were a muted green in the fading light as he moved closer, his hands cupping her face as his lips met hers. She swayed into his touch, the evening air plush and warm around them, her body craving more than the kiss he was offering.

  But she broke the kiss before it had barely started, pushing him back, establishing a distance between them. “I’ll be careful. And if things get bad I’ll consider your advice. I don’t plan to die for a story.”

  “Most people don’t.” He took his wallet out of his back pocket, pulled out a worn picture. “Take a close look.”

  Claire looked into the eyes of a dark-haired woman with a beautiful smile. She frowned as she realized how silly she had been. She meant nothing to him. This was a flirtation and he obviously had a love interest somewhere else, some safe place that he called home. “Who is she?”

  “Her name was Akara. She was a victim of getting too familiar with the vipers that filter antiquities out of Cambodia. She’s dead,” he said bluntly as he put the picture back in his wallet. “I don’t know how many ways I can tell you this, Claire. You’re out of your league. Back off.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon.” And she was, both because of the devotion he still obviously felt and the fact that he had lost the woman he’d loved. But despite that she couldn’t drop this story, not yet. “I can’t.”

  “Damn it, Claire! I won’t watch another woman I care about die.” He put the wallet in his pocket. “I’ll walk you to your hotel.” But there was little warmth in his voice. “Although I don’t understand your persistence. I wish, at least, that you’d quit asking questions.”

  “Don’t, Simon. Ask me anything but don’t ask me that.”

  And even as she said those words, she briefly considered heeding his advice except that the lure of the Khmer Rouge and the possibility of another story was too strong to ignore.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I don’t believe you’ll mind if I check the back.” Samnang leaned meaty elbows on the counter as the older man’s face paled.

  “What are you suggesting?” Niran moved back, bending slightly as if reaching for something.


  Samnang reached across the counter and grabbed Niran’s shirt. “Don’t try it.”

  The gun was beneath the counter. Did Niran think he didn’t know that?

  “Why, Niran? We were so good together.” His tone was soft, thoughtful, as if Niran’s betrayal was truly hurtful. And it was hurtful, to his pocketbook. What Niran had stolen was a pittance to him but enough for Niran to retire a very rich man.

  They’d been friends once. This had been the one relationship he had counted on like few things he could count on. His childhood had been one of growing up too soon as he fled his family’s dysfunctional poverty. The Khmer Rouge and this man had saved him. Once he would have trusted him with his life. But that was long ago, and caring, he had learned, only got in the way of one’s work. He grimaced as Niran’s fear emanated from him like mold on rice.

  “You would have been rich on what I paid you if it weren’t for your habit,” Samnang purred. “Nasty little thing, especially at your age.” He traced the reddened marks on Niran’s arm. “That’ll keep you out of polite company.” He shook his head. “What are we to do?”

  “Surely, Samnang, you don’t think . . .”

  “Oh, but I do think.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you suggesting?”

  Samnang held the sinewy wrist. He squeezed and was satisfied to hear the man grunt. He squeezed harder, felt the bones shift. It wouldn’t take much, but oh, how he wanted to delay the pleasure. He couldn’t, the man was once what he considered family, and a friend.

  His grip eased as he saw Niran’s other hand come up, prepared to defend. He jerked back, throwing the man off balance. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to prolong this.” He smiled pleasantly before his grip tightened and he twisted hard. The bone snapped and the sound mixed pleasurably with Niran’s scream.

  “Fucking cunt, Samnang!” he roared. Tears rimmed his eyes and he blinked them back, nursing his broken wrist. “You fucker!”

  “Payback, Niran.”

  Niran backed away, fumbling, clutching his wrist.

  “No you don’t, my man.” Samnang leapt across the counter, his heavy torso surprisingly agile. There was only a fleeting moment of pain as his body absorbed the jolt, but he schooled his face to show nothing.

  With his good hand Niran grabbed the gun he had stashed under the counter. Unfortunately it was his right and Samnang knew he was left-handed.

  Samnang smiled as Niran fumbled. But there was no time to enjoy Niran’s panic.

  While Niran hesitated, Samnang grabbed the broken wrist and wrenched the injured limb.

  Niran screamed.

  The handgun clattered to the floor.

  Samnang held tight to the man’s wrist as he reached down to pick up the gun. “Let’s see what you’ve got back there.”

  “Nothing,” Niran gasped. “Fucking ease up!”

  “For your sake, I hope so.” Samnang twisted, reveling in the feel of the sharp edges of bone that pushed under his hand.

  The next scream was deafening. A tingle roamed down Samnang’s spine and nestled pleasurably in the cup of his crotch.

  Niran screamed again.

  Apparently, pleasure and pain were not for everyone. Samnang took a deep breath, savoring the moment. “You will die soon, my friend,” he whispered in the old man’s ear, “unless you speak the truth. If you do that, I will drive you to the doctor myself.” He smiled. “Let’s hope it is a truth I will want to hear.” He tightened his grip on the broken limb, and this time Niran’s breath hitched and then he became deadweight. He slapped the mottled cheek and Niran’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Awake, my friend. We have much work to do.”

  Fifteen minutes later he left the shop with a sad smile on his face. He would miss his old friend. But the job had been necessary. He had tried to be merciful. He had ended it with a full shot to the face and all he felt was relief that a rat was gone and others would soon follow. He had plans now that he knew the full depth of the deception. Niran had been quite willing to reveal everything, not that any of it was a surprise. It had only taken a few minutes of agony with his kneecap blown out before he’d been willing to turn even his mother in if it had come to that.

  Samnang whistled as he flagged down a cab.

  With nine days to go before the finale, he was just warming up.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You probably haven’t heard. The information isn’t publically released yet. But they’ve found another tourist, dead,” Arun said over the phone the next day. “Female, twenties, dead just outside of Siem Reap. The authorities are dealing with the aftermath right now. I don’t like what this might mean.”

  “Killing for sport would be my guess.” There was a sleep-deprived edge in Simon’s voice and a lump of pain in his gut. It wasn’t as ridiculous a statement as it sounded. It had happened before.

  “Maybe. The last victim was empty-handed.”

  Simon rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Malone,” Simon replied before Arun had a chance to continue. Ella Malone had already proved herself to be a killer, preferring young women. “She’s begun killing again. I know there’s no evidence. But Claire thinks she might have tried to push her off a ledge in Angkor Wat’s inner temple.”

  “What? Is she sure?”

  “No.” Simon shook his head. “Ella was the last one she saw before the shove.”

  “Unbelievable . . .”

  “I didn’t expect it to come down like this.” Simon pressed a forefinger against the throb in his temple.

  “Here’s something else. Samnang’s Khmer Rouge.”

  “That’s not news,” Simon said dryly.

  “I know. But this is, Claire Linton’s uncle was Khmer Rouge.”

  “Christ! She said he was a refugee.” He looked into the distance. “You’re serious?”

  “Never more, but . . .”

  “Where is he now?” Women traveling alone had already been targeted, but Claire, to have a link to the Khmer Rouge, what did that mean?

  “He fled to the United States before it all ended. He was guarding the same camp as Samnang during the genocide.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it. But . . .” Arun laughed, a dry humorless sound. “You know, I forgot to tell you. Samnang’s dying.”

  “Dying? My God, Arun. This changes everything.”

  “Exactly. That shipment might be his last.”

  “No one would have considered double-crossing him before but . . .” Arun finished.

  “The door’s wide open.”

  “Oh, one other thing. Niran was found dead, beaten and shot. No suspects. The whole thing was rather ugly. My gut feeling is Samnang.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Simon said. “So what we suspected about Niran may be true. He was running his own deals with Samnang’s goods. So Samnang is tying up the loose ends. Kind of seals any question of that souvenir of Claire’s.”

  “Real, if what we suspect is right. If Niran really was the one using female tourists to transport valuable pieces from the main collection and pocketing the money. But with Samnang dying, well, that means the finale is close. Two weeks plus a day. That is, if nothing changes. I can hardly wait.”

  “Your sarcasm is showing.”

  “What about Claire? You need to get her out.”

  “I’ll do my best.” And his heart pounded as he realized for the first time in almost a year someone mattered more than logic, more than plans, more than his freedom and his wanderlust. Claire mattered and he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. “She’s heading to Phnom Penh soon.”

  “Can’t be soon enough.” Arun flipped topics. “If Claire’s souvenir is real, what are the odds of tracking down the potential buyer?”

  “Slim to none.” Simon bit back frustration and only came up with more questions.

  “Things could get ugly real fast,” Arun predicted.

  Simon’s gut churned. He hoped that they would be able to protect Claire
. He took a deep breath and fought more doubts than he had ever entertained in all his thirty-five years. “There’s something else. Not that this isn’t bad enough but I just feel, I can’t say what, but . . .”

  “I know,” Arun added. “This time I’m sharing your gut feeling. In the meantime you best tighten your surveillance.”

  Those words carried him through the evening, and it was an hour after the telephone call with Arun when he found himself on the veranda of the guesthouse where he was staying. Caught in his thoughts, he stepped off the veranda, where he narrowly missed walking into Arielle.

  “Hey, watch it,” she said, cheerful as always.

  “I haven’t seen you around for a while.”

  Arielle, an Australian relief worker, had been in Siem Reap for over a year. And a few years earlier she had been here as well. Cambodia was home to her, despite her Australian accent and penchant for watching every televised Aussie football game.

  She brushed back a stray strand of golden blonde hair. “Got a minute?” she asked as she looked up at him with blue eyes that would melt many men. She had a bottle of Angkor beer in her hand. “Get a beer and join me.”

  Minutes later he slid into a bamboo chair with a cold beer.

  “So what’s the news?” he asked.

  “Smugglers.” She tugged at the label on her beer, peeling bits of paper and rolling it between her fingers. “At least, I think. Antiquities.”

  “You think?” What had she found? Arielle was a teacher at the orphanage. The children were what she existed for. How could she know anything about the recent antiquity smuggling?

  “I was approached by a man in the café this afternoon.”

  “And that’s unusual?” Simon joked, as if that would dispel the tension in his gut.

  “No, of course not.” Arielle grinned. She couldn’t help it, flirting was instinctive with her and meant nothing. “He asked about you, about your site. Hinted that you might be involved in smuggling. I let him talk.” She knew some of Simon’s story, at least what she had gleaned from having lived here so long. And she had known Akara, they had been friends. Just over a year ago Simon had needed her help to exit the country. It had been Arielle who had obtained his visa for Laos. As far as she knew, without that he could have languished in a Cambodian jail until guilt or innocence had been determined. As it was, Interpol had let the truth of his innocence dangle, left him tarnished with the guilt brush and allowed the culprits to breathe easy. And then they’d called him back.