Intent to Kill Read online

  He squinted but the light had faded and now he could only see the dark pool of the lake.

  And then out of the darkness another shot, near them. Too near.

  “Holy shit,” Arun said.

  Simon raised his head. “Damn it, that was close. Who the hell were they shooting at?”

  Then everything was silent, broken only by deep, hitching breaths. Simon glanced at Arun and then realized he was hearing his own breathing. He took a deep breath and struggled to regain control.

  Sounds rustled in front of them, and then from behind there was a sound that could have been wind whispering through the trees.

  “Clear,” Arun whispered behind him. “For the moment and then . . .”

  “Get the hell out of here!” Simon commanded in a whisper.

  Five minutes later they reached their motorbikes.

  “I don’t know what the Sam Hill that was about,” Arun grumbled. “Except, of course, the obvious. They were selling some of what they’d robbed from archeological sites, but you’d think those deals would run pretty smooth. Samnang’s been at this a long time.”

  “Maybe, but something has changed. I don’t know who the hell was shooting at them, thieves maybe. It was hard to tell. Anyway, we have the proof we need to move forward. Samnang’s back at it and Ella Malone is at his side.”

  “They found two bodies at Angkor Wat over the past week. Tourists. Women,” Arun said starkly. “The police claimed both fell from the inner temple. Odds are high that’s a lie in both cases. Makes no sense, in fact . . .”

  “It might be unrelated.”

  “Maybe. And those shots . . .”

  “I know.” Simon pressed his motorbike into life. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. He dragged in a breath. “Good chance, considering how close it was, that the last one was meant for us.” He grimaced, shrugging off the disquiet, as he’d learned to do over the last decade. “In the meantime there isn’t a female tourist traveling solo in this country who’s safe.”

  “A slight exaggeration, my friend, but still a concern. Not every . . . Just the women they’ve targeted. Any who ask too many questions, are alone or are slightly unsure and have the look of marks.” Arun slapped the palm of his hands on his thighs before starting the bike. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Minutes later only the faint smell of exhaust remained as evidence that they had been there at all.

  Chapter Two

  “Antiquity smuggling in Cambodia seems to have taken a spin with a different breed of criminal. Two weeks ago a British college student died after a fall at Angkor Wat. There have been reports that the death might not have been accidental. A 900-year-old artifact found in the woman’s knapsack led one local authority to speculate that the bleed of Cambodia’s heritage may have taken a new turn.”

  Claire Linton folded the worn newspaper article and slipped it into her bag. After eight years as a small mid-western journalist working for a paper where the most exciting story was usually a weather threat that never occurred or a series of petty thefts, she was ready for more. She wanted the excitement of chasing a bigger-than-life story, the intoxicating feeling of being her own boss, of freelancing, if not full-time than at least part-time. She could hardly wait to begin asking questions, to build on the notes she’d already collected, but mixed with all of that was trepidation. This was her first trip of any duration alone. She glanced at her watch and then out the plane’s window, where city lights covered the ground for as far as she could see. Bangkok, City of Angels.

  The newspaper article had convinced her to use up her precious vacation time to come here. It had arrived mysteriously with only a Cambodian postmark, but from the first word Claire had known that it had the potential to be the story of a lifetime. Admittedly, stripping historic sites in Cambodia wasn’t news, but a possible tie to a tourist death and implications of tourist thefts of artifacts had her intrigued. And the article had hinted at something else. The hint of an association with the Khmer Rouge. The Democratic Kampuchea, as they were formally known, had terrorized a generation. That association might be a long shot, but it had Claire’s attention. She’d contacted the newspaper but was unable to reach the writer of the article. With extra vacation days looming, she’d made the decision to fly over. An article like this was intriguing, especially coming out of Cambodia, a country her uncle had fled. In a way, it was a story she’d been primed to tell since the first day her uncle had walked into her life, the day he’d married her aunt in a late marriage that spanned cultures and exposed her to a history she had never imagined. In a way this story was for him as well as herself.

  The story of a lifetime would begin and end in just under three weeks.

  It was a thought that wouldn’t leave her because it was as much fantasy as reality. Three weeks was the amount of time she had to prove that her story idea was worthwhile. The fantasy was that she could pull it off—that the story would command the interest needed in the United States. She knew the odds, she’d outlined them to her boss, while carefully hiding doubts. Did she have the ability to launch a freelance career one column at a time?

  She unzipped her day pack and took out aspirin. She swallowed one and then two, hoping that would squelch the headache. She unfurled the thin airline blanket then folded it into a perfect square, running her finger along each fold, flattening it as if the straight neat lines would dispel any doubts about this trip.

  “First trip?” her seat mate asked as they touched down. He was a slim, middle-aged Asian man who, with the exception of a few pleasantries, she had not spoken to the entire flight.

  “Overseas, yes. I’m heading to Bangkok for a day and then on to Cambodia.”

  “Traveling alone?”

  She smiled. “No choice. I’m here on business. I’m a journalist.” She couldn’t help saying that last with a touch of pride. It hadn’t been easy but she’d known she wanted to be a journalist since she was a child. But her mother hadn’t had much money nor much faith in higher education and there’d been no help there. She’d saved every dime she’d earned through high school and worked for two years after before heading to college. She’d been able to save enough to sign the lease on a tiny rent-to-own condo. It had taken some innovation but a part-time job and a small inheritance from her father had funded the remainder of her education, and taking a roommate had helped her pay for the condo.

  “Cambodia,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “Things have changed much there. And in some ways not at all.”

  The cabin lights came on as they arrived at the gate and passengers began to collect their belongings.

  “You seem like a nice woman. I’d hate to see you hurt. It’s no place for a woman alone. The era of the Khmer Rouge might be over but they’re not gone. Not all of them. Be very careful.” He turned his attention to gathering his belongings.

  Careful.

  Claire bit back a ripple of unease. The Khmer Rouge and the late seventies genocide were not unfamiliar to her, nor were they unfamiliar to her family thanks to Uncle Jack. And she wouldn’t let any of it stop her.

  “Question everything,” he said as he slid past her. He glanced back with a frown. “Keep safe.”

  The cryptic words echoed long after he had disappeared into the airport’s crush of arrivals.

  Even at three in the morning Bangkok’s airport was crowded with people, and the disembarking passengers only added to the noisy confusion. Claire hurried along and soon became caught in the stream of locals and tourists converging on customs and immigration.

  Despite the late hour and the long line of people awaiting him, the immigration officer looked unflustered. His features were placid, his smile genuine.

  “Cambodia?” he asked. “Where?”

  “Siem Reap.”

  He looked up. The smile was gone. His dark eyes reflected in the glare of the fluorescent lights and were hard to read behind his wire-rim glasses. He picked up the passport, then set it down and looked at her. �
��Occupation?”

  “Journalist.” A slight twinge at her temple warned of another impending headache.

  “Are you going for a story?”

  She hesitated. She knew a journalist could be seen as trouble and her answer now, well . . . She took a deep breath. “I plan to do a story, yes.”

  He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the archeology book she still had in her hand. “On antiquities?”

  She followed his gaze. “Hopefully.”

  He handed her passport back. “Be careful.”

  The words echoed as she rode the escalator down to the main floor, where the crowd was much thinner and a front-page story blared from a newspaper stand.

  Murder or Accident? Another tourist dies at Angkor Wat.

  She stopped and her heart seemed to stop with her. Another death. That was how many? Two by her count. Were there more? Angkor Wat, the place where she was headed, and the place where female tourists were apparently dying.

  It’s dangerous.

  You’ve never traveled overseas.

  You’ve never traveled alone.

  The voices of her friends and her family came back to her. They’d all had doubts and concerns for her safety. And the newspaper headline should have confirmed all those doubts but it only sparked her determination. She plunked money into the slot and purchased a paper.

  “It’s now or never.” And within minutes she held a taxi slip and was outside, where the warm air caressed her skin and the roar of endless traffic assaulted her ears.

  The trip to the city center was quick, due only partially to the sleek, ultramodern freeway set high above the labyrinth of city streets and more to the cabdriver’s penchant for speed. But once they reached the heart of Bangkok, the shadows of early morning took them through a twisted and convoluted path that had Claire lost and tense by the time the car stopped.

  The driver turned and smiled. “Okay?”

  “Yes.” She slipped a tip to him, opened the door and took a deep breath—warm tropical air laced with sewage and gas fumes. She squared her shoulders as she faced the shadows that clung under the fluorescent lights and congregated in the darkened corners of the hotel’s entrance. The road in front of the hotel was a narrow, twisting labyrinth where the pavement ran black and slick, crowded by a tumble of mismatched and run-down buildings that pushed in from either side. Light flickered within the darkness and reflected off the scum of pollution that coated the buildings, making them ominous and unidentifiable. Claire could see that in the daytime and late into the night, the area would be alive with commerce. The evidence was in the deserted plastic tables, the shop doors still closing and the carts being pushed down the street as the last merchants headed home. Only stragglers remained, the darkness broken intermittently by lights from overhead apartments and the glare of the occasional vehicle’s headlights.

  “Ring if you need anything,” the bellhop said in that disengaged way of his that had become oddly familiar in the few minutes it had taken to get from the hotel lobby to her room on the sixth floor.

  As he shut the door to her hotel room behind him, Claire rested her forehead against the window. Outside the lights of the city glowed.

  Asia.

  She couldn’t believe she was here. Worse, she couldn’t convince herself that this might not have been a huge mistake. And as she wrestled with doubts, the lights went out in the buildings that sprawled outside the hotel and she turned to face a room full of darkness.

  “Damn.” She went to the light switch and flicked it once, twice—nothing. It was a full minute before the lights came back on, but even then, across the city she could see patches of darkness, like an omen.

  But it wasn’t until the next morning that she discovered something far worse: one of her bags, the one with her notes, hours of copious research, was gone.

  Chapter Three

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Simon muttered the words he’d already asked himself a dozen times. The trip back to Bangkok had been unprecedented and unexpected. One minute they were in Siem Reap on a recognizance mission, the next they were hopping an early morning flight to Bangkok as they followed Samnang’s trail. But there’d been no choice. They didn’t have enough information and they had little time. Samnang would be shipping soon, that was clear. All his minions were moving into place. He considered how many days they had. Three weeks less a day. He needed not to think about that. He needed to redirect and refocus his attention.

  He took a breath as random thoughts ran through his mind, strange and oddly philosophical. Like how the hotel lobby’s faded richness was only a pretense, a sham not unlike the man he followed. But he’d been on Samnang’s trail for three years. It was the longest he’d been involved with any criminal. Samnang had turned out to be a brilliant strategist. One could almost admire him . . . almost. But he’d rather watch him die. His thoughts broke as he saw the elevator doors open and his quarry emerge. Pressing ahead of a harried bellhop, Samnang strode toward the reception desk.

  Simon lifted his newspaper like an absurd cliché in a vintage espionage film.

  Samnang slid a room key across the desk, then passed an envelope after the key. “Keep this until I return.”

  Simon’s paper rattled as he turned the page, the previous page unread. He lowered the paper as the elevator doors opened again.

  For a moment, Simon forgot to breathe. Akara, he thought. But so many things reminded him of Akara—a mannerism, long dark hair, a laugh. But none were her. None ever could be.

  Behind her the elevator doors slid noiselessly closed. How could you not notice her? She crossed the lobby with a lithe yet feminine walk. For a moment, just a brief second, he forgot about Samnang. She was like a freshly opened flower amid the hotel lobby’s worn décor.

  She must have felt the unsolicited attention as she turned in his direction. As her eyes swept past him, he could see they were deep and rich and exotic in the way that only beautiful women’s eyes could be. That combined with high sculpted cheekbones, full lips and a slight delicate figure that curved sweetly, seductively—he took a breath and dived behind his paper. She was nothing less than gorgeous and he was not interested.

  But another quick look revealed again that her attention was elsewhere. She looked distracted, upset even. He watched as she leaned over and spoke rapidly to the receptionist. He heard a few words, bag, missing, and then one that made him sit up. Stolen.

  A flurry of words followed before the woman followed the bellboy closer to the door and to him. “This is yours, madam?” the bellboy asked as he pulled a slightly scuffed brown leather bag from behind a small counter. “Found in the alley this morning by one of the kitchen staff.”

  “Yes. I . . . I should report this to the authorities.”

  “No need. Make sure everything is intact. In the meantime, madam, it will be reported.” He handed her a folder. “Your tickets.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice held a tremor of what he suspected was confusion. It was a voice that was sweet but with a woman’s depth. Then her voice lowered and he couldn’t catch the nuances.

  “You are welcome, madam. Check the times, please. Siem Reap, Cambodia. Tomorrow, ten o’clock. Yes?”

  Siem Reap. Simon lowered the paper further. At that moment, Samnang turned. Too late, Simon was caught. Shit! But no, Samnang was every bit as enthralled by the woman as Simon was.

  “Madam, you are American?” Samnang purred. “It is so nice to meet an American so far away from home.”

  Simon leaned forward.

  “You?” she asked.

  “Thai, but I love America. Lovely country.” Samnang finished his business at the desk and then gave the woman his full attention.

  Thai, what the hell?

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Many times. Visiting my mother.”

  Mother! The sophisticated veneer masked a brutal player in Asia’s smuggling web. If Samnang had a mother, Simon would be shocked.

  “Your mother is A
merican?”

  The woman’s voice was a sultry caress, like she suspected nothing. Simon grimaced. How could she?

  “Yes, well, it’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it.”

  What was his interest in this beauty? A foreign buyer? Simon shifted the paper.

  “Mr. . . .” The beauty held out her hand.

  “Sakda, just Sakda.” He shook her hand. “I’m in Bangkok for just a few days.”

  Sakda, what the hell? Samnang had changed his name? He frowned. It didn’t make sense. Why would Samnang be going by a different name? A Thai name, a Thai identity, more than interesting. That and the fact that the new name was vaguely familiar.

  “Claire,” she reciprocated and her voice was clipped, cautious.

  She was older than he’d first thought, possibly early thirties. She wasn’t forward and yet there was something very poised about her. At another time, in another place, he’d introduce himself, he’d . . . He took a deep breath. What was Samnang’s interest in her? She wasn’t his type. Samnang’s type was younger, and male.

  They moved toward the doors. The conversation became muted. Samnang stepped closer, invading the woman’s personal space. It was evident in the brief flash of discomfort that swept her placid features. Then she shook her head, and even from this distance Simon could see her lips form the word no. Still, Samnang looked pleased as the woman walked away.

  Samnang pulled a phone from his pocket and spoke in a rapid flurry of Thai. Simon caught only bits but one sentence stood out. “She’s on her way.”

  Damn it, what did that mean? Samnang’s attention, despite the phone conversation, was locked on the woman. Simon sensed she was in trouble. The frustrating part was that he couldn’t imagine what Samnang was planning. One of the largest antiquity smugglers in the area surely had no need for the small-time plays of using tourists to move antiquities, no matter what the value of the piece. Yet, already two tourists were dead.