Intent to Kill Page 3

  Samnang moved farther away, still talking on the phone. Then he slipped it back into his pocket, even as his attention never left the woman who was poised to exit the hotel.

  Simon frowned. Samnang’s intent was obvious. He meant to follow her, and that made no sense. But Simon’s instincts were clear. He had only been wrong once before.

  Chapter Four

  “No, I’m fine, really,” she said, but the words in response to the concierge’s question lacked conviction. Something sour and hot lodged in the back of Claire’s throat, like she wanted to hurl what little breakfast she’d had. She took a deep calming breath as the concierge opened the glass-plated door and she stepped into the heat and noise that was Bangkok. Her fingernails pinched the palm of her hand as she clutched her day pack. She would not have it hijacked, stolen—whatever had happened—again.

  She looked back at the concierge and rocked indecisively on her heels. Should she go back, demand answers? None of her questions had been answered. She suspected they never would be. But still her mind went through the possibilities. Had it been a random theft or had they targeted her? And how had they gotten into her room? She hadn’t noticed the bag was gone until she’d returned from breakfast. Had the bag been stolen during the night? She cringed at the thought that someone had entered her room while she slept. Or had someone slipped into her room while she was at breakfast? That thought was no more comforting. But more disconcerting was the fact that it had all been so unexpected.

  A report will be filed.

  But nothing of value had been taken except her notes—invaluable to her, worthless to anyone else. They weren’t even worth reporting. And yet, they were everything. They held the stories of her Uncle Jack, his escape from Cambodia’s killing fields, the thoughts and feelings he’d shared over the years. The notes held a good part of what had brought her here.

  She needed to be more vigilant. She squared her shoulders—petty thieves and missing notes wouldn’t stop her.

  She glanced at the card in her hand. On learning of their mutual interest in archeology, Sakda had been enthusiastic about recommending a shop that sold antiquity replicas. On the back of his business card he had written the shop name. She flipped the card over: Khun Sakda Boonmee, Inspector, Bangkok Immigration. An official, that was reassuring.

  She sucked in a deep breath and for a moment felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. But a childhood of mutating suburban row housing and an adult life that was relatively commonplace couldn’t prepare her for this. That’s why this trip had been so important. It was time to leave the nest—this time in the job arena. But the hugeness of Bangkok, the foreignness of Asia, combined for a moment into a painful stab of homesickness for the peace and cold of Minot, North Dakota, in March, and for the sanity of fewer people and more regulations.

  “Taxi, madam?” a tuk tuk driver asked.

  “How much for two hours?” she asked, her smile rather forced. She ran her hand along the chrome support that held the motorcycle’s canopy in place as if it would ease her mind. A bench seat with a canopy tagged onto the back of a motorcycle body hardly inspired confidence. But with a price quickly agreed on, Claire climbed aboard and the vehicle sputtered and coughed its way into traffic.

  The driver wove in and out through the endless traffic stream, where tuk tuks, motorcycles, and cars battled for space. She choked on exhaust fumes and forgot her nerves as she marveled at the tangle of vehicles that mixed easily with masses of vibrant flowers on the sidewalks and boulevards, their rich perfume adding to the chaos. On all sides were the upscale shops and factories built for the tourist trade. Then the signs caught her eye. Than’s Jewelry, and beside that Siam Silk.

  The tuk tuk slowed.

  “Not here,” she said.

  The tuk tuk stopped.

  “No!” she said, leaning forward. “No jewelry. No silk.”

  The driver pulled back into traffic. Within minutes they stopped again. This time it was another silk shop, and so it continued as her temper frayed.

  This is it, she thought as they pulled up to another jewelry shop. No more.

  “Good quality. You look.” It was obvious that her driver, like many tuk tuk drivers in Bangkok, was getting some kickback for delivering tourists to see silk, jewelry, and tailors.

  The beginnings of a headache began to throb behind her right eye. She met the driver’s hopeful gaze and smiled faintly. She didn’t want to disappoint. Besides, he was just trying to earn a living.

  “After this, no more.” She enunciated slowly, wanting to ensure that he understood.

  Inside, the air-conditioning swirled in a comforting breath of cool air. Her sandal-clad feet whispered softly on the thick carpet. A Thai woman stood by the door with hands linked behind her back, a tailored dress and elegantly coiffed hair giving the impression of wealth. An older man dressed in a custom silk suit hurried over to her.

  “Hello,” he said in perfect English.

  And before she knew it, she was deposited in a creamy leather chair across from a display case of breathtaking jewels.

  “Madam.” The man lifted the cover from the display glass. “Diamond? Ruby?” He eyed her. “Emerald?” He lifted a gorgeous necklace with a thick gold chain and one teardrop emerald in its center.

  The emerald lay cool and exotic against her throat. It was small, tasteful and affordable. But it was only when it winked subtly in the muted light that she made her decision. It reminded her of the mystery of Asia and the stories she had heard of her Uncle Jack’s early days in Cambodia, before the Khmer Rouge.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, thinking of how short life was and of the parents she’d already lost. Someday this would be a memory of her uncle and everything he had taught her.

  She left the shop, the small emerald dangling beneath her T-shirt like a talisman, and emerged into the street noise and blasting heat.

  “There.” Her driver pointed before she could step into the tuk tuk.

  She followed the direction of his arm and saw the name of the shop Sakda had recommended, only two shops over.

  “Thank you. I won’t be needing you any more today,” she said as she handed him the fare.

  The painting caught Claire’s eye immediately. It was displayed in the shop’s window. The battle scene was heavily etched and distinctly Khmer.

  She hurried over, barely stopping to glance at the painting she had admired only at a distance. She pushed the worn gold-gilded door handle and stepped into the air-conditioned coolness.

  “Hello.” A small, wizened man smiled as he looked up from a paper he had been reading. “Can I help you?”

  Busts lined the shelves. Ancient and weathered, they circled the room, filling the floor and the walls. A giant Buddha stood in one corner of the room.

  “Is this a museum?” She examined a small bust. It was beautiful and she was overcome with an urge to trace a finger along the worn patina.

  “No. The replicas are that good.” He slid out from behind his desk. “See this one.” He smoothed a hand over another Buddha. “Made by a local artist. It will go to a gallery next week.” He glanced at Claire. “Unless, of course, you were interested.”

  “No. It’s beautiful but well out of my price range. Besides, it’s hard to travel with a souvenir that large.”

  “I suppose,” he agreed. “And you’d hate to spoil your trip. You will love Thailand, madam.”

  “I’m sure I would.” She smiled. “Unfortunately, Bangkok is all I’ll see. I’m heading to Siem Reap tomorrow.”

  “Cambodia,” he said thoughtfully. “A woman alone. You must be careful.”

  There it was again, the warning. She laughed as if that would dispel any doubts. “I will be.”

  She walked over to a shelf full of smaller but no less beautiful busts. “So, these are all replicas of originals?”

  “Not all. Some are original from the artist’s imagination. No original antiquities leave Thailand, at least not legally. Smuggling i
s still a big problem. It troubles me greatly, seeing our country pillaged.” His voice was sharp, angry.

  She turned, surprised at his outburst. “I agree with you. Antiquities should remain part of a country’s heritage.”

  “Yes, madam, but sadly they have become others’ profit, but enough of such talk. Are you sure I can’t interest you in something else? Possibly this Buddha?” He brought another bust from behind the counter. “I can offer you a deal this week.” He winked and lifted the piece. “It’s not Thai. This piece is from a Cambodian collection.”

  She traced a finger along the bust’s lines. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t think even a deal will bring it into my price range.”

  He turned away to move another bust, a smaller one. He placed that beside the Buddha. There was no comparison. The smooth lines of the first piece gave the illusion of age, and the Buddha’s all-seeing eyes were rich with untold secrets. Like the country the bust represented, the eyes were still and deep. She took in a long, slow breath. The image of the bust in her small apartment was becoming irresistible. She lifted the bust, surprised at its weight.

  “The artist is one of our best.”

  “How much?” She held her breath.

  “Six thousand one hundred.”

  She let out a disappointed breath. It was well out of her price range.

  “Baht.”

  She took in a relieved breath. Two hundred American dollars, give or take.

  “For you—half off.”

  “I appreciate that but the size will make it difficult to transport.”

  “Not at all.” He whipped twine from beneath the counter and demonstrated on an empty cardboard box an efficient and simple carrying system.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Within a minute the bust was boxed and twine was wrapped around it into the promised carrying handle.

  “Have you been selling antiquity replicas for long?” Claire asked and wondered how much the old man might know about the state of today’s antiquity smuggling. Any information she could get might steer her in the right direction once she landed in Cambodia.

  But his answer was stayed by traffic noise as the shop door opened and Sakda entered.

  “Claire, what a surprise.” Sakda smiled.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed.

  Sakda gave him a brief nod. “Niran.” But his attention remained on Claire. “You found the shop without problems.”

  “Yes.” She frowned, unsure of why he was here. “There was no need to follow me.”

  “I wasn’t. Actually, I had some business to clear up with Niran.”

  Her gaze swung from one to the other. There was something that didn’t feel right. When Sakda had given her the name of a good antiquities shop, she had gladly accepted his help, but his showing up now was unsettling. “I’d best be going.”

  “That’s some packaging, my friend.” Sakda’s brow arched. He reached for the box.

  Niran lifted the box and handed it to Claire.

  “Have you seen the new shipment, Sakda?” Niran’s tone had an edge to it.

  “A moment, my friend, so I can help the lady with her purchase.”

  “A beautiful replica, done locally,” Niran persisted. “Just arrived yesterday. Exquisite work.”

  “It’s all right, Sakda. I’ve got it,” Claire said, sensing an undercurrent in the exchange between the two men.

  She turned her attention to a beautiful figure of Vishnu.

  “Do you know that’s from the Khmer period?” Sakda asked, and there was something else in his tone, something she couldn’t identify.

  “Yes, also called Angkor.” She smiled at his look of surprise but unease raised goose bumps on her arms.

  “Your knowledge of archeology goes deeper than I would have expected.”

  “I’ve studied a great deal.”

  “I too, although as a professional.”

  “But you’re an immigration officer.” She hesitated. What was going on?

  He nodded. “I have been both, government official and archeologist, at one time or another.”

  “Interesting career path.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to get back. I’m expecting a phone call,” she improvised, her unease urging her to create a distance between them.

  “Maybe I’ll see you back at the hotel,” Sakda replied.

  “Maybe.” One word that held all her doubt and reluctance to be involved any further with Sakda, immigration or not.

  Chapter Five

  Someone was behind her.

  Following her. She could feel their presence.

  Sakda.

  Claire wasn’t sure why she thought of him immediately except that he was the last person she’d had contact with, and each of her encounters with him had been incrementally more disturbing. Not that he hadn’t been cordial, polite even, but there was an air about him, something that set her off, had her intuition firing off warning bells.

  She was being ridiculous. She’d read one too many news headlines and was seeing danger where there was none. Still, she looked over her shoulder. But there was nothing to indicate any threat.

  She kept walking, but the air seemed to close in around her. She supposed it was the weather, as the clouds had come in while she was in the shop and everything seemed mired in a heaviness, a thick humidity. An approaching storm? She looked up and only saw electrical and telephone wires merged and bunched in giant ropes straining low over the city’s crowded pulse. As she approached an alley she could see steaming sewers, rotted garbage, and dogs and cats roaming through it all. She took a deep breath; somehow in all the strangeness of this city, that seemed as disconcerting as it was normal.

  She looked around again as the feeling of danger became more intense, more disturbing. This time she did see someone. Someone she recognized easily from the hotel. It wasn’t Sakda. But whoever he was, he was every bit as familiar and he seemed to tower over most people thronging the street.

  What were the odds that in a city the size of Bangkok two men she had so recently seen in her hotel lobby would end up in the same place? It was clear that one or both of them was following her—but why?

  She swung around, clutching her bag as a weapon, poised on the outside of the sidewalk as if she could leap into the traffic-congested street to safety. But she suspected there was no need of that. Intuition was telling her that he was no threat, but common sense told her to be prepared.

  Suddenly a scream had her turning to see pedestrians scattering. A motorcycle had lost control, swerving off the road, and now careened down the sidewalk straight at her. Before she could comprehend what was happening, she was bowled over, a strong arm around her waist, a flash of heat against her ankle and the smell of exhaust strong in the air. Her package landed with a thump on the sidewalk and she found herself pressed against a hard chest and a familiar face. For a minute she didn’t move, her back against his chest, his heart beating thickly against her. Her attention remained on the biker, who ripped down the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians before bouncing over the curb and back onto the street.

  Her heart pounded too loud for words. Her stunned gaze followed the bike as it wove down the street and was quickly lost in the crush of traffic.

  She pushed away from her rescuer and sat up, reaching for her package, thankful her bag was still firmly on her arm. It was oddly anticlimactic, for despite the earlier shrieks and dives for cover, everyone now went about their business now as if nothing had happened.

  She stood up.

  He unfurled seemingly in tandem with her.

  “Who are you?” she demanded and struggled to keep her voice steady.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Despite a slight shake to her knees, she’d never associated him with danger. “Why are you here?” She took a calming breath. “And thank you.”

  “No need. Right place at the right time.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You followed me.�
�� She had to force the words out. Everything seemed to be happening too fast and again, in slow time, like she were in a slightly skewed vacuum. The shock of what had just happened was still too fresh to easily shake off. Still too incomprehensible really. She’d almost been killed. An accident, or . . . What had happened? And who was he?

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You’re not that good at espionage,” she snapped as she struggled to get control of the situation.

  She focused on the facts. He wasn’t uncomfortably tall. Six feet, give or take, half a foot taller than her own five feet four. His elegant chiseled features looked faintly sheepish, his deep green eyes riveting as they clashed with hers.

  “Espionage?” His masculine voice was low and husky with a touch of amusement.

  She grasped the strap of her bag, hugging it against her ribs. “Why were you following me?”

  “I’m not—”

  “I’ve run into you twice in one morning.” She raised her hand before he could speak, as if the motion alone would elicit silence. “Oh, I saw you peering around that newspaper in the hotel lobby. Whatever your interest, stay away.” Her heart beat in her ears, and it wasn’t fright but an odd, disconcerting attraction.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  “Then maybe you might want to do something about the other guy who’s been trailing me.” She wasn’t going to admit that Sakda was anything but a stranger, a stranger who she suspected this man knew. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “I know him.”

  “Do you?”

  “He’s dangerous. Stay away from him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A man with the wrong kind of interest in antiquities.” He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket and twirled them in one hand.

  “What are you saying? And who are you?”

  “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself.”

  He held out his free hand and Claire took it, her hand enveloped in his too warm, too strong grip.