Intent to Kill Read online

“Simon. And you?”

  She dropped her hand.

  “Claire. Why were you following me?” She shifted the box and her bag bumped her hip.

  “What did you buy?” he asked as he ignored her question and his gaze swung to her package. “Can I see? Maybe we could—” He gestured to a nearby restaurant even as she cut him off.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know you and I’d prefer you either tell me why you’re following me or leave me alone. In fact, this conversation is over.”

  He gave her a brief nod. “Have a safe trip,” he said cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just blown him off.

  “I will.” She took two steps backward before turning to cross the street.

  “Angkor Wat is amazing. You might plan to spend more than a few days there, or even a week.”

  “What?” She teetered on the curb for a moment before catching her balance. She marched back. “How do you know my travel plans? Who are you?”

  He looked all little-boy innocent but something lurked deep in those emerald eyes that told her the innocence was feigned. “It’s a logical route if you’re interested in artifacts.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and turned his attention to the street before looking back at her. “I just assumed that you might be considering it.” He paused. “Can we go somewhere? To talk,” he clarified. “Seriously, you could be in danger.”

  She wavered and was jostled by a shopping bag as the crowded street seemed to bustle around them.

  “No. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help adding the last part and she wished with everything in her that she could reel it back. She had no need to be sorry. No need to soften the edge of her words. And despite everything, despite the mystery of why he was following her, she had the inescapable urge to get to know him. She hadn’t felt that out-of-nowhere attraction in a long time since . . . she swallowed—since, ever. But going off with strangers wasn’t wise even at home.

  Besides, this wasn’t home. She was a woman alone and already she’d had a preview of all the danger that entailed.

  Chapter Six

  “Simon!” Arun flagged him from across the street. With the confidence of one accustomed to Bangkok’s traffic snarls, he dodged easily through the traffic to reach the other side.

  “Did you find him?” Arun asked as he leapt a grate and landed gracefully on the curb. “And . . . what are we up against?”

  “Yeah,” he said, knowing Arun referred to Samnang. “I’ll fill you in on that later. I could use a drink.”

  They settled into plastic patio chairs at the sidewalk café as Simon motioned to the waitress. “Two beers, please. Singha.” He turned his attention to Arun. “Samnang is going by Sakda.”

  “Undercover. I wonder . . .”

  “Don’t.” Simon frowned. He hadn’t expected any of this. What the hell was Samnang playing at?

  “A Thai name.” Arun frowned. “That name is familiar. Wait a minute. Remember the immigration officer that was shot a few years back?”

  The waitress set two cold-sweated bottles of beer down, one in front of each of them.

  “Thanks,” Simon said even as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

  “Wasn’t that his name?”

  Simon set his beer down. “You’re right. Not a big player but involved in antiquities smuggling nonetheless.” He considered what it all meant and what it had taken to steal an identity and why he would do it. “He’s got balls.”

  “He stole a dead man’s identity.” Arun shrugged. “Never mind a small player that was never fingered by the authorities.”

  “So that’s how he’s kept under the radar.” Simon frowned. “Either way, our plan will still make him surface.”

  Arun nodded. “The onion is gathering too many layers.”

  “Something else, he’s got himself another interest. Followed her to Niran.”

  “That’s not good.” Arun leaned forward. “Who is she?”

  “Claire. An American journalist is all I know so far. Nothing explains his interest in her.” Simon wiped the back of his neck. It was hotter than usual. “But I have . . . Never mind.” There was something unforgettable about her. When she turned her back on him, he’d wanted to reach out to her—it was like he knew her.

  “A feeling?”

  “He sold her something.” Simon’s eyes remained on the street, where a woman pushed a stroller and a toddler ran unevenly beside her in that stilted gate common to very young children. It all looked so normal and so simple. For a moment, Simon considered what normal would feel like. He hadn’t felt that in years. But then he hadn’t been home in years—wherever that was. Once, a long time ago, home had been somewhere in Ohio. Now, home had been the road for too long.

  “What?” Arun asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

  “I didn’t see,” Simon said as he turned his attention back to Arun. “Samnang circled around. I had to stay out of sight.”

  “So, we know what exactly?”

  “Someone may just have tried to kill her. Hurt her anyway.”

  “What?” Arun slapped both hands on the table. “When? How?”

  “Motorcycle. Didn’t get a look at the driver except that he was male. Accidental, on purpose, I’m not sure, but you know how I feel about coincidence.”

  “Richard is in the area.”

  “Samnang’s lackey? He wouldn’t be here for no reason.” Simon rubbed his chin. “Damn, it’s sounding less and less likely that what happened was an accident.”

  “Samnang has never been one to do his own killing if he can pawn it off.” Arun shook his head.

  “Accidental or not, I’m going to have to go back, see what the hell she’s purchased.”

  “There’s something else . . .” Arun frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I overheard that her bag was stolen the night of her arrival.”

  “Her bag? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. But here’s where it gets interesting. The hotel returned it to her. Found it in an alley, or so they claim. Now, whether anything was lifted from it or not, I don’t know. Chances are it has nothing to do with any of this anyway. Except . . .”

  “She’s definitely part of the puzzle.” Arun leaned forward. “I wonder where she fits, how . . .” He looked up. “What else is there?”

  Simon put his glass down. “She has a ticket to Siem Reap.”

  Arun smiled. “So, if nothing else we know where she’ll end up.”

  “Angkor,” Simon said without a hint of humor.

  “To Angkor.” Arun raised his glass. “The mystery deepens.” He took a swallow. “The gods must be laughing.” His lips twitched.

  “Don’t you dare,” Simon said, in no mood for Arun’s humor. “This whole business is giving me an ulcer.”

  Simon took a deep breath, tipped the bottle and chugged back a swallow, two, then three.

  “What? Not cut out for high espionage?” Arun chuckled. “We’re going deep, just like Interpol warned us not to do. Information collection and police coordination only—as if either of us would settle for that. It’s only going to get more interesting.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He glanced at Arun. For all his irreverent remarks, he knew Arun took this every bit as seriously as he did.

  “Me too. Maybe it’s time for us to call it quits.”

  “You know I already tried that and apparently it’s not an option,” Simon growled. “Didn’t work for you either.”

  “If you weren’t so damn good, Interpol might have let you continue to feign retirement.”

  “I wish,” Simon replied darkly. He raised his glass. “For Akara.”

  “For Akara.”

  Their glasses clinked.

  “First thing. Eight a.m., we fly out,” Arun said. “What about the woman you tailed? Can we beat her in or . . .”

  “I checked with the concierge who got her tickets for her. We’ll be there on the flight ahead of hers.”

  “
I’ll intercept the package. She knows you,” Arun said.

  “Yeah, well, just don’t get cocky.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “I suspect she’s transporting more than just a bust replicated for tourists. Samnang obviously suspected something underhanded from Niran, otherwise he wouldn’t have followed her there. And I can’t think what else it might be.”

  Arun raised his glass and took another healthy swallow. “Bad news. If your tourist is in this willingly, she’s as good as dead.”

  Simon’s hand fisted as he looked out on the endless activity of Bangkok. He didn’t see the traffic or the frantic movement of people; instead he saw a slim, dark-haired girl who held a delicate hand to him and mouthed his name. A voice he would never hear again. He shuddered. When he finally spoke, the words were harsh, flat, and landed like a verbal gauntlet. “Not if I can help it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Claire shifted her bags and wiped a nonexistent streak of perspiration from her cheek. The line to get through Cambodian immigration was tediously slow. She felt sweaty and yet she wasn’t.

  She tucked a magazine she’d picked up into her bag. One article stuck in her mind, “Smuggling Crackdown.” Like the article she’d read on the flight here, it was about the loss of Cambodian antiquities and how the situation was compounded by a new breed of smuggler who solicited female tourists to get the artifacts out of the country. Her mind drifted back to what she had thought was an innocent souvenir. Was it possible she had been followed in Bangkok because of the Buddha she had purchased? Could it be real, not fake?

  That’s crazy, Claire. Antiquities are leaving Cambodia illegally, not returning. It’s not reverse order.

  Still, two men had followed her and Simon had as much as promised that he’d see her in Cambodia. She cursed her overactive imagination even as her heart did an involuntary thump at the thought.

  “I hate this,” she muttered under her breath as a blonde man with a crew cut and a yellow and purple T-shirt glanced her way, his carry-on bag knocking against his bulging middle. She smiled tightly, his ludicrous outfit and come-on smile making things oddly more normal.

  “You okay?” the man asked with another hopeful look that swept appreciatively over her.

  She nodded and turned her attention to her luggage.

  Her notes were gone and she was starting from scratch. The fact that someone had obviously been interested enough to steal them, the incidents in Bangkok, all of it was only confirmation that this journey was right. She could not shake the feeling that she was on her way.

  But despite that, there was something else she was sure of, something that made her belly curl. Siem Reap, Cambodia, felt like a mistake. Trouble. The contradictory warning brewed deep in her gut. Her resolve faltered as she came to the head of the line and faced a row of men lined up behind a long counter, stern-looking men in military-type uniform. Their heavy brows accented their broad, deep foreheads. Their thick shoulders jostled one against the other as their expressionless faces scanned the crowd.

  Men like these were responsible for the mass graves of the killing fields. The Khmer Rouge, she thought as her Uncle Jack’s stories came flooding back. Tales of soldiers and guns, of death, fear and possible torture.

  It was her Uncle Jack’s cryptic words as they’d watched the television news showing the recent trial of a former member of the Khmer Rouge, “I knew him.” It was those words that resonated with her and made the blur of history real. An only child, there were few that she could call family, but she had Uncle Jack. He’d always been there for her and she hadn’t been honest with him. She hadn’t told him the real reason for coming to Cambodia. She’d been afraid of what he might say, that he might try to stop her. And briefly, she only wished he had.

  She glanced up and caught the eye of one of the officials. He licked his full lips and smiled and something about that smile was deceptive and frightening, and she could only think—thug.

  Claire’s eyes riveted on the first man, thick hands and arms, a short torso and broad shoulders, like the others but somehow more threatening. She closed her eyes.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. They are only airport personnel. Nothing else.

  The first thug looked up. His opaque eyes, like dark bitter pools, met hers and then his attention returned to the paperwork in front of him.

  A chill raced through her like a premonition.

  “Next.”

  Claire picked up her suitcase and shifted the package, the twine pressing an uncomfortable groove in her hand. Her mouth dried as he gave her a cursory look.

  She’d take X-rays and metal detectors any day over this.

  She handed over her passport and watched as he glanced at it, squinted, grunted and passed it to the next man, who leafed through each page before he lowered his stamp. The passport was passed to the man beside him, who glanced at the stamp and passed it to the next man.

  Finally, she was free. She glimpsed pavement through the opened door, a line of waiting taxis—an escape. She’d never thought that traveling alone would be this difficult. But as she dragged her suitcase behind her and hurried toward the door, she could only think how comforting it would be to have a companion.

  She juggled the cardboard carton and wrestled with a shaky hold on her suitcase. It was impossible. The carton bounced against her thigh, the twine snapped and it dropped. She dived, trying to catch it, and collided with a slight Cambodian man with an arrestingly handsome face.

  “I’ve got it, madam.”

  Trim build and model-sharp looks, and he knew it. The package containing her Buddha lounged in his arms.

  He started to walk away.

  “That’s mine.”

  “No, madam. It’s Angkor’s.”

  She closed the space between them and reached for the package. He pulled it just out of reach.

  “Don’t follow me.” He glanced at the lineup of immigration officials. “You wouldn’t want to call attention to yourself, would you?”

  “What do you mean?” Her hand shook as she continued to hold it out, even while guessing his meaning. The authorities. Thugs. She could feel the sweat on her forehead.

  “I’m serious. Let it go.”

  She looked behind her. The arrival line moved consistently forward as the immigration officials continued their work, their faces frighteningly impassive.

  “Give it to me,” she said softly.

  “No. Later, you’ll want to thank me. Believe me. You don’t want this.”

  She held out her hand. “Return it!”

  “I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me, unless you want me to get their attention.”

  She was stayed by his words. The handle of her luggage tow slid from her fingers, smacked against the concrete and cracked in two wide fissures. In the distance the man jogged across the terminal, taking her package with him. She bit her tongue and clenched her fists. She wanted badly to turn him in. But this was Cambodia, and if the authorities looked anything like immigration—she sighed. She couldn’t report the theft. The effort would be far more arduous than the value of the piece.

  Resigned, she picked up her suitcase and went toward the taxis that waited outside the terminal. The closest driver squinted at her and produced a pair of Ray-Bans from his shirt pocket. His eyes were guileless, unlike those of the immigration officer, unlike the thief’s. Claire’s racing pulse slowed.

  “Madam.” He pointed to himself. “I drive.”

  The drive into town was slow, the winding road unpaved. They passed fields plowed by oxen. On the road bikes flooded the pavement, carrying everything from electronics to sheaves of bamboo—the riders were children to the very elderly. Dodging it all, the motorcycles flew past, despite the pothole-mired road conditions. Everywhere there were people, and yet she felt so alone and, considering everything, vulnerable. She forced her thoughts outward, to her reason for being here.

  “Are there any antiquities specialists nearby?”

  “Of course, madam. Siem Reap i
s full of antiquities.”

  “And smugglers?” Claire added softly.

  This time he glanced quickly at her before turning back to the road.

  “I imagine you hear a lot driving every day.”

  “The smuggling is dangerous, not something a tourist need know about.”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  The car stopped at an intersection and the driver swung around. “Don’t ask questions, not about that. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Who am I dealing with?”

  He scowled. “No one messes with the Khmer Rouge.”

  “Khmer Rouge.” The name fell from her lips even as her mind spun into overdrive. “That’s long over.”

  “If you want to stay alive, quit asking questions. Already tourists have died. It was said they fell at Angkor Wat.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “What the authorities have reported, of course.”

  “Of course,” Claire repeated. She clutched the door handle as the car veered around a corner.

  “Be careful who you question. Don’t question the authorities.”

  “Why?”

  “Already, I have said too much.”

  Chapter Eight

  Samnang stroked the taut belly of the cat that had so recently adopted him. Long, sure strokes that the cat loved. He smiled slowly. Like the cat, his patience was finally about to pay off.

  His underlings were complete fuckups, but with the end so near he kept his anger under control. He couldn’t afford to kill too many incompetents, at least not before their time. But already Richard had botched things. The man was becoming a liability. Killing Claire Linton was one thing, doing it cleanly was quite another, and it seemed Richard was incapable of anything but screwing up. But he wasn’t sure what his other choices might be. His best had been taken out over a year ago. His thoughts broke as his phone call was answered and his heart seemed to stop. For even after all these decades, he’d recognize that voice. The voice of a man he’d once called brother.

  “Jack,” he said pleasantly. His fist clenched.