Intent to Kill Page 13

  “Talent? How do you know if I have that?”

  “I’ve read some of what you’ve written.”

  “Really.” She turned to face him. Her hand brushed softly along his jaw as she looked into eyes that seemed, no matter what his secrets, to always be there for her. She took a breath. Now was not the time and yet the time never seemed to be right. “What do you know about the Khmer Rouge? Seriously, Simon. I know I asked before but I need to know whatever you can tell me. You know, what you may have heard, a different angle. Something that might not be in a book.”

  “I know as much or more than most,” Simon replied. “Why? What else has happened?” His voice carried a suspicious edge.

  She pulled the scarf out of her pocket, the red and white checks fluttering like a neon banner as it drifted from her fingers.

  “Where did you get that?” His tone was sharp.

  “In my room, lying on the floor the night of the break-in. The night before you . . .” She stopped. She bit her lip. “You did the same. What’s going on, Simon?”

  “I can’t tell you. But why didn’t you tell me about the krama?” There was an edge to his voice.

  “Simon,” she said softly. “Like you didn’t tell me that a similar one was left at your dig?”

  “It didn’t have any relevance. I mean—”

  “Is it possible,” she cut in, “that all of this links back to the Khmer Rouge? That dropping the krama in my room and at your site was thumbing their nose at society, announcing they were still around?” Her voice dropped. “And linking us somehow together.”

  “You’ve got a vivid imagination.”

  She looked up at him, into those emerald eyes that seemed honest and yet masked with secrets, and all she knew was that he was elusive, like this country smoky with mystery.

  But it was when he delivered her back to her room and closed the door behind him that home seemed to have a different meaning. When he took her into his arms she was there willingly. Despite her doubts, this time she gave in to the ache of his kisses. But as she wrapped her arms around his neck, he pulled slightly away. She dropped her arms as his hands cupped her face, his eyes grave and almost troubled.

  “Simon, what’s wrong?” She asked as she pressed against him, trailing kisses along his neck.

  He cleared his throat. “Nothing. I was just wondering about your Uncle Jack. What do you know about him?”

  “Uncle Jack?” She put her hands on his chest as she looked up at him. “What is it, Simon?”

  For a full minute there was only silence before he spoke. “You’re right. There are some things that I should tell you.”

  “What, Simon?”

  He was still and silent for so long that he frightened her. Her hands moved to his shoulders as if she could coax the words from him by touch. “Tell me, Simon. Whatever it is, I think it’s better that I know.”

  “Your uncle knew Samnang.” He thrust the words out.

  She took in a breath and dropped her hands. It wasn’t a surprise, Samnang had already implied the same. “In the camps,” she murmured.

  Simon nodded. “Yes, in the camps, but not as you think.” He pulled her impossibly tight against him, almost squeezing the breath from her.

  “Simon, please.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, his lips plundering hers, his tongue possessing her, until she was swept backward with the intensity of it. The kiss ended as abruptly as it began, and this time when he looked at her his eyes held a message that she couldn’t understand but the emotion was heartbreaking.

  “They were friends, Claire.”

  “No.”

  He shook his head. “Yes.”

  She stood there, unable to process what he might be saying.

  “No.” She pressed one hand against the wall as if to steady herself. “Get out.” She took a stuttering breath. “Please. I need to be alone. I, I can’t talk about this now.”

  After he left, she pressed her back to the door. And the strange thing about it all was that the news wasn’t a surprise. There had been things that Uncle Jack had said that had raised questions. Questions she had overlooked and now, with everything that had happened, with what Simon had said, she was left with only one question.

  Who was Uncle Jack?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Samnang should be ready to move. Too bad we don’t know where he’s stashed the antiquities,” Arun said immediately after Simon picked him up from the local airport that evening. He riffled through his duffle bag and pulled out a newsprint-wrapped bust.

  “Arun, you dragged that all the way to Penh?” Simon eyed the bust.

  “No, I duplicated it.”

  “Where’s the original?”

  “Buried beneath the mural.”

  “You sly bastard!” Simon slapped him on the back.

  Arun staggered. “Jeez, Trent, tone down your enthusiasm.”

  • • •

  At the site, Arun shifted the mural face and pried it free of the clay. He laid down the bust he’d brought and Simon squatted to examine it for a moment beside the original that Claire had bought.

  “Christ, Arun. When did you find the time?” He admired the replica. Arun was a gifted sculptor.

  “Took a few pictures and basically did it from those, feel, and, of course, memory. It’s not the best but that might be . . .”

  “To our advantage,” Simon finished. “Even to the amateur eye it will be easier to see that it’s fake.”

  “Exactly. That is, if you have time to take a close look at it, which I hope any thief would.” He laughed dryly. “Did Claire leave?”

  “No, and there was no point asking her.”

  “What?”

  “She’s talking about going to Phnom Penh. That might be just as good for now.” Simon lifted the replica and put it in his knapsack. “This may come in handy down the road.”

  “Maybe.” Arun stood up. “I think I’d be leaning toward convincing her to leave the country.”

  “You’re right,” Simon admitted. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  “If you want, leave it to me.”

  “You? She can’t meet you. Have you forgotten?”

  “Yeah, right. Okay, you then.”

  • • •

  “Uncle Jack, I have to ask you . . .”

  Claire’s fingernails dug into the phone’s plastic case. Simon had been gone for a few hours. It had taken that long to garner her courage because this time she suspected the truth was going to be a bitch to face.

  “Shoot.” But the word was strained.

  “What do you know about the Khmer Rouge?” The question was blunt and followed the usual mundane talk of the trip, the weather, and her own health. It was almost a rhetorical question and yet they both knew it wasn’t.

  “No more than I’ve told you, Claire. Why do you ask?” His voice was gruff. “Watch yourself over there. In fact, come home.” His voice was sharp. “Please.” This time there was a softer edge in his voice. Was it her imagination or did she hear desperation? “Many were never put on trial.”

  “They weren’t, were they?” She couldn’t hide the accusation in her voice.

  “What are you implying, Claire?”

  “Why did you flee Cambodia?”

  “Claire, please.”

  “Were you one of them? One of the Khmer Rouge?”

  “Preposterous! Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

  “Samnang.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  She cleared her throat and continued. “You knew him. He was your friend.”

  “Claire, you’ve got to come home. It’s not safe.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Claire. This isn’t a conversation for the telephone. Come home. Now!” The last words were spit out in an angry staccato.

  “You won’t deny it, will you?” she asked softly.

  “Stay away from Samnang. Get out of Cambodia.”

  �
��Why?”

  “You’re too young to die. I won’t have it.” There was something that sounded like fear in his voice.

  “You won’t tell me, will you?” She took a deep breath. “Good-bye, Uncle Jack.” For there was nothing more to be said.

  “Claire, wait. Please. Give me your number, at least. I need . . .”

  “Tell me,” she said with soft determination.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then this call is over.”

  “Claire, no . . .”

  She disconnected and oddly she felt like she’d done more than end the call.

  The conversation with her uncle had confirmed only one thing, that whatever was going on here was so personal he felt that he couldn’t tell her. He was leaving her vulnerable, unable to make a decision based on fact. She blew out a frustrated breath. This left her only one choice, Simon. Simon, who she’d just verified was with Interpol, according to her boss’s contact in international policing.

  She took a cab to Angkor Wat and then on foot she made her way through the glory of Angkor, past the tourists and peddlers to his site.

  Simon looked up. He was not alone. Beside him hunched a slight, dark-haired man. She strode forward. A new face, new possibilities, maybe some answers.

  The hunched man rose and swung around.

  “You!” she choked.

  “Damn it!” he said. “Sorry.” He bowed slightly to Claire.

  “Shit,” Simon countered.

  “What game are you playing?” Claire demanded.

  “Game?” the other man asked, his handsome face innocent, his dark eyes shifting to Simon.

  “You know—you both know exactly what I’m talking about.” Claire fought to keep her voice from trembling in anger. There was no denying that the man standing in front of her had stolen the Buddha at the airport.

  “Claire, this is Arun, my partner,” Simon said smoothly. “Arun, Claire.”

  They stood facing each other, neither speaking, neither proffering a hand.

  “You,” she enunciated softly as she regained control of her emotions. “You stole my souvenir Buddha. At the airport,” she added in case he was really too dense to remember.

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “Then you have a twin.”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “Arun!” Simon’s voice sliced through the exchange.

  “What?” Arun glanced at Simon.

  Simon nodded and offered a half smile to Claire. “Time to come clean.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Arun glanced at Simon and back to Claire. “Interpol, like Simon.”

  “Interpol.” Claire considered that information briefly. “So why did you steal the Buddha?”

  “There was no other choice.”

  “Were you in on this?” Claire faced Simon.

  “Yes.” He spread his hands. “But Claire—”

  She cut him off. “Where is it?”

  “It’s safe,” Arun said before Simon could respond.

  Arun’s attention flickered and returned to her.

  “I’d like it back.”

  “I can’t do that,” Arun replied. He held a trowel in his hand, its tip holding slight traces of clay.

  Interesting, Claire thought, considering no work of any degree had occurred here in the time she had spent in and around the dig.

  Simon stepped in. “It’s dangerous to have it.”

  Claire swung away from Simon, too incensed to look at him. She looked at Arun instead. “That’s what you said in the airport.”

  “Claire, please. Trust us. It’s complicated,” Simon said, but there was an edge to his voice.

  “Really? So our little romance . . .” She took a breath. “Staged?”

  “Claire, no, I . . .” Simon seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Let me explain.”

  “Explain what? That you needed to keep me occupied? Why? That’s what I’d like to know. You owe me an explanation.”

  “Claire. What we have, that’s real. I couldn’t fake something like that.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” Arun said.

  “Right.” She glared at Simon before swinging on her heel. “Let me know when you’re ready to tell me your side of the story.”

  “My side?” Simon repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “Your side.” She stopped. “For, you see,” she said the words slowly, “Sakda or Samnang, he already told me his.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The bike jerked, coughed and stalled. For the third time Claire fired the ignition and worked the clutch and throttle. She glanced to the west, where the sun hung low in the sky. There was still enough time to get to the dig and back, enough time to accomplish her task before sundown. Less than a few weeks ago she would never have considered renting a motorbike. It was too risky here in northern Cambodia. She’d seen how they drove, read the rules of the road, and now, even that didn’t stop her. Rules, riskiness, all of it came second to what she had to do now. She gunned the engine and the bike lurched.

  “Careful, Linton.” She bit her lip as she got the bike back under control.

  She remembered the clay on Arun’s trowel and the way he had looked when she asked where the bust was. The bike revved and then lurched forward. She drove slowly, getting accustomed to the manual gearshift and the unfamiliar and rough terrain. The road was less congested than it was during other times of the day. Still, there was enough traffic to keep her attention fixed on the road and on the motorbike that seemed to veer every time she hit one of the many potholes.

  Within twenty minutes she was within walking distance of Simon’s dig. In the distance she could see the tourists as they gathered in front of the temple of Angkor Wat waiting for the spectacle of the sun cascading over the ancient stone.

  She stopped and killed the engine. “Here’s hoping you start again.” She didn’t relish a walk home, not here, along a deserted stretch of road.

  Claire quickened her pace. She passed a couple of stragglers. Europeans chatting amiably in languages she could not understand. She smiled warmly at them, thankful for their presence.

  The dig was empty. She stepped over the rope and walked past the warning signs toward the mural. She squatted down. It was exactly as she had remembered. She ran a hand along the clay edge of the mural. It was cracked but this time she saw something that she hadn’t seen before, another crack. Her heart thumped as her hands worked into the crack.

  She pulled out a trowel and began to work. Something shifted and she was able to push it aside to reveal what was underneath. She recognized the bust instantly. It was the Buddha she had purchased in Bangkok.

  She didn’t have time to examine it. Instead, she lifted the bust into the knapsack she had purchased only this afternoon in the market, then dragged the mural back into place, brushed dust around the edges and scuffed her footprints as she backed up and heaved the knapsack onto her shoulders. The bust dug uncomfortably into her back as she jogged back to the bike.

  At first, the bike wouldn’t start. Then it roared into life and with a lurch she was headed back to Siem Reap. Her heart thumped. Simon was right. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was out of here and in Phnom Penh, where she could mull it all over and figure out who was who and what was what.

  She picked up speed, forgetting the machine’s idiosyncrasies, and it swerved right. It took all she had to get the little bike back on course. The last rays of daylight were just clearing the edge of the horizon as she pulled into the hotel’s parking lot.

  “Nice ride, madam?” The bellhop bowed and took the bike from her.

  “Yes, you could say that.” She almost smiled, for it had been a nice ride. And it felt good to finally be in the driver’s seat.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “The bust is gone,” Arun said that morning when Simon arrived at the site. “Did you take it?”

  “Of course not.” Simon walked over to the mural. The ground was bare
ly disturbed. “What the hell?” he muttered. Whoever had been here had known what they were looking for. Something glinted in the sunlight. He reached down. He rolled the retractable pink pen in the palm of his hand, the compact little pen familiar.

  Arun squatted down beside him.

  “Claire.” And as he uttered her name, he almost dropped the pen.

  “Claire? Are you saying she took the bust?” Arun’s voice had a frustrated edge. “What are we going to do?”

  “Go after her.”

  Arun cursed under his breath. “She’s in danger. Interpol confirmed Niran’s part in selling antiquities behind Samnang’s back. Interesting that became easier to prove after death. Which means Niran might have been willing to let this play out but . . . eventually someone is going to want that bust. And I’m assuming they’d kill to have it.”

  “Only if she has the real thing,” Simon said between clenched teeth. He reached his motorbike and kicked it into life. “Richard has an eye for fakes. He spent a few years working legitimately with artifacts. He won’t kill her if what she has isn’t the real thing or as long as he thinks she might have that information. And, we have no confirmation that there’s anyone but he and Ella involved.” His heart seemed to stop even saying those words, and it was like the air around him had thinned. He had to get to her before they did. He had to—he couldn’t think of the other options.

  “What do you mean? You just said—”

  “That the real bust isn’t with Claire.”

  “What are you talking about?” Arun rammed the kickstand back in place and swung around.

  “I wasn’t taking any chances. I switched a little old for a little new.”

  Arun’s mouth dropped open. “Wow! I should have thought of that.”

  “Still, this isn’t good. She’s going to run.”

  • • •

  It was only back at the guesthouse that they spoke again.

  “Checked with her hotel’s reception,” Arun said. “She’s on the next boat.” He paused. “One other thing. We have confirmation on our Saturday. Another shipment of antiquities is being shipped over the border in less than two weeks.” He shrugged. “That’s probably what’s given us the time—no one sniffing around here in regards to this bust. But the time could be running out.”