Intent to Kill Page 5

  “Who is this?”

  “Ah, Jack. You would forget me?” The cat’s purr was a low-gear rumble lulling him in the background. “Have you forgotten all things Cambodian then?”

  There was silence on the other end, a silence that only confirmed that the man, now called Jack, knew who he was speaking to. Better yet, he knew the game was almost up.

  “Samnang?”

  There was fear in the voice and Samnang smiled. Once he would have done anything for Jack. He flipped a page of Claire’s notebook, looked at the artistic flair of the penned notes.

  Nights sleeping on the ground after days of torture, mind games, food deprivation. Some of us didn’t survive and others—well, some were heroes.

  Bastard, he thought. He knew Jack. He’d painted himself as a tortured hero. His niece’s notebook said it all—and it told him something else. Claire Linton had lived too sheltered a life to doubt. Such people could be easily led.

  “It’s a bitch, Jack,” Samnang said in their native Khmer. “But retribution time has arrived. It took awhile to track you down.” He coughed a rasping, harsh rattle and silently cursed his body’s weakness. “You got careless.”

  “What do you want?” Tension pulsed through the words.

  “You were the brother I never had. I was the same to you, at least that was what you said then. And our family was the Khmer Rouge.” He paused, his thumb stroking his upper lip. “You turned your back on us.”

  “On the killing, I . . .”

  “Did you think I would give up?” Samnang laughed. “It might have been decades ago, another time you might think. But there, my friend, you are wrong. You stole my dreams, my vision, at least for a time. I would never forget.”

  “Too many years ago, Samnang. Let it go. I’ve changed.”

  “Once Khmer Rouge, always Khmer Rouge. You owe me, Jack. By the way, the English name suits you.”

  Samnang laughed dry and humorless.

  “Years where you ran and hid and, I suspect, didn’t know where your next meal was coming from. You should have stayed like that, Jack. You were harder to track down. Getting married, a wife, a family—even a niece.” Claire. Fortunately she shared no blood with Jack—tainted blood. He grimaced. Not one ounce Cambodian. An American, a foreigner. He smiled. That made it easier to give the order to pull the trigger.

  There was a gasp at the other end, as if Jack had only just realized what this phone call might mean, or more interesting, that he might have read his thoughts. “Why?”

  Samnang gritted his teeth and brutally pinched the cat’s soft flank. The cat leapt up with an enraged yowl and arched its back before leaping off his lap with a look of indignation.

  “You were my family once, Jack. No more,” he said thickly.

  Jack’s voice held more than a hint of desperation when he said, “I’ll pay you back.”

  Samnang leaned back and crossed his legs. He was ready to play this out for as long as it was enjoyable.

  “You can’t afford it, Jack. Don’t think I don’t know that. I know everything, including the fact that Claire Linton is a beauty.”

  “What’ve you done?” The words were rushed, shaky almost.

  “I have done very little. It wasn’t I that wrote the article that has her so intrigued. I just made sure it got into her hands.”

  “What article?”

  “You didn’t know?” That surprised Samnang. He had thought Jack and his niece were closer than that. It didn’t matter. “Just something in a small local paper. Made a mention of artifacts and linked that to tourists and possibly . . .” Samnang paused for effect. “Khmer Rouge.” He laughed. “Claire is fascinated by both that and archeological digs and antiquities. A hobbyist maybe but no less passionate.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Aw, Jack.” Speaking English again, he affected a stronger accent than he actually had. “You sparked her interest. I only stoked the fire you started. Nothing more. Your niece is a journalist who wishes to succeed. Does she not?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Glorious, I’ve finally fucked you, you bastard—silence.

  “I’ll do anything . . .” The accent was a skewed version of Midwestern American with the uncomfortably heavy influence of one whose first language would always be Khmer. “She’s innocent.”

  “She’s your niece. That’s enough, that and you love her like she was the child you never had. Don’t you, Jack?”

  “You’ve had me followed.” And there was fear—long-awaited fear and agony in that faraway voice.

  “I did.” He cleared his throat and sucked in a breath at the sudden but not unexpected pain in his gut. He longed for life’s unpredictability for not knowing how or when he would die. Unfortunately, cancer had taken the surprise of death out of the equation.

  “How?”

  He looked at the syringe, heroin seemingly his only friend in these end days. “I may not have family anymore but I have friends, Jack. You of all people should know that. Airport security and immigration are one of the best places to gain friends.” He drew in a rasping breath and his throat hitched as pain knifed hot and uncompromising through his gut. “Did you really think marrying an American, lying to her, pretending to be what you were not—a refugee—was a sound strategy.”

  “I was.” There was a hitch in Jack’s voice. “I was a refugee.”

  “From justice, Jack.”

  “You? Justice?” Jack said with belligerence in his voice. “You are everything that is wrong with Cambodia. I left that.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’m a different man. Surely you understand that.”

  There were almost tears in the voice. Jack had either become a very good actor or he truly believed what he was saying. Samnang suspected the latter, and that thought couldn’t have made him any happier than slicing Jack’s throat now and preferably in front of his family, in front of Claire. But he suspected that would never be.

  “No, Jack. I have not changed. It’s you who tries to be something you are not, American. Worse, middle class, middle of the road. Ah, Jack, you had so much more potential than that.”

  “What do you want?”

  Samnang cursed softly in a rare display of anger. He took a deep breath. Jack was being more obtuse than he had thought. It was time to spell it all out. “You’re quite fond of your niece, Claire. And she’s fascinated by your stories of surviving the Khmer Rouge, of running and arriving in America, getting the perfect family, who, of course, suspected nothing. Did they know you were a thief, Jack? That you were no refugee but instead one of them, or should I say us?” He purred the question, holding back all the hate that had built over the years.

  “Bastard,” Jack said almost quietly, as if the fight had already left him.

  “I promise you, she will die quickly, Jack.”

  “No!” Agony wretched in that one word.

  “Yes, Jack. And that’s all I can give you. Except . . .” He cleared his throat, as if he were about to offer hope. “One other thing. Don’t come here. Unless you come here to die, there’s nothing you can do.”

  “Don’t kill her,” Jack begged.

  Samnang’s heart raced at the desperation and fear he heard. He’d waited so long for this. “There is one other option, Jack.” He paused, his fingers trailing along his thigh, his breath long and slow. “I’d take a life for a life. Kill yourself and Claire lives. You have slightly less than two weeks.”

  He ended the connection there. He wouldn’t barter. Jack’s life was the only acceptable exchange and he was sure Jack wouldn’t bring himself to offer that. So that left only one option.

  Claire Linton would not leave Cambodia alive.

  Chapter Nine

  Claire awoke the next morning to the buzzing of the alarm. She blinked in the early morning light, disoriented for a moment. But in a short time she was showered and slipping into the hotel’s dining room, where she poured coffee and chose a croissant from the buffet. She fin
ished her breakfast while reflecting on the fact that already the Khmer Rouge had been mentioned more than once in less than twenty-four hours.

  She shrugged. This was Cambodia and the Khmer Rouge were an ugly but integral part of its history. The references meant nothing more than that. But even as she folded her napkin, picked up her day pack and stepped into the pungent warmth of early morning, she wasn’t convinced that it was all that benign.

  The bus to Angkor Wat was waiting, idling outside the main door of the hotel. She slid into the last vacant seat. Minutes later the bus slipped into traffic and Claire watched out the window at a road that was choked with bicycles, motor scooters, and the occasional truck transport, all negotiating through what looked like chaos.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” a precise British voice interrupted her thoughts.

  She swung around and faced a large, densely built woman with an iron gray pageboy that framed a tanned, weathered face.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I found it rather overwhelming myself the first time.”

  “The first time? How many times have you been?”

  “Oh,” the woman said with a chuckle, “every year for the last decade or two.”

  Claire looked at her sharply. “Then you know Cambodia well?”

  The woman’s attention wavered and she fidgeted with her overstuffed, box-style purse. “My husband was a photographer so we lived around the globe for many years.”

  “Interesting.” This might be her first side story. “Do you mind if I take a few notes?”

  “You’re a writer?”

  The woman beamed when Claire nodded and then stroked her purse as if it were a cat or other household pet before returning her attention to Claire.

  “I’m Claire. I write for the Minot Post.”

  “Minot, in the United States?”

  “How did you know?” Claire asked.

  “I’ve a friend in the States. And I study maps and current events. A bit of a junkie, really.” She smiled. “I forgot, you introduced yourself and . . .” She brushed a hand through her short hair. “I’m Ella.”

  They shook hands. The other woman’s hand was damp and too warm.

  “What were your first impressions of Angkor?” She asked the question quickly as she wiped her hand discreetly on her shorts.

  “Blurred, I think. I was more interested in the man beside me. It was my honeymoon. I married late. But it was worth the wait.” She took a breath. “Oh my, that rhymes.” She ran a thumb along the slight bulge in the purse. “But once I was inside Angkor, for a moment my Archie was forgotten.”

  “I read a story recently about preserving the antiquities,” Claire said.

  “Did you? Antiquities. Yes, my dear, that’s always been a problem. So senseless really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, the smuggling, of course. Isn’t that what you’re speaking of? Small-time hoods, uneducated peasants, they all take their toll. Oh my, it’s so sad.” There was something dark and previously unseen in her look.

  “Is it small-time hoods and desperate poor only, do you think?” Claire hesitated. “I’ve heard there’s been a number of deaths as well.”

  Ella shrugged. “Be careful, my dear. Don’t be asking questions about smuggling antiquities. A young woman traveling alone. An American unfamiliar with Cambodia, there are hazards in any country, my dear.”

  The conversation stopped as their attention was caught by the first glimpses of Angkor Wat. It was a fleeting view, obscured by the bus windows and the chaos of other buses pulling up. Disappointed, Claire pulled back from the window as the bus slowed on entering the crush in the parking lot.

  “Watch yourself,” Ella warned. “The young boys will want to guide you around the temples. They’re fine. Just don’t pay more than a tour is worth. But it’s the older men I would watch, some of these temples are fairly isolated.”

  “I will. I have no wish to be robbed again.”

  “Again? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Just a tourist trinket. The thief must have thought it was more. Lifted it at the airport.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Claire held back the surprise she felt. “Why do you ask?”

  “Don’t you want him caught?” Ella sighed and patted Claire’s knee. “Really, dear, you must be more careful. Theft is quite common here.”

  “Do you think you might know of him?”

  “I doubt that he travels in my circle.” Ella’s laugh was quick and short. “But I suspect he was Cambodian.”

  Claire rose and grabbed the safety bar. She rocked on her heels as the bus lurched before stopping. “I would like to stay in touch. Would you mind? Your experiences sound fascinating.”

  “An interview? Of course. I’m staying at the Angkor Hotel.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said before she stepped off the bus and caught her first unobstructed view of Angkor Wat. The weathered stone monument dominated the horizon. Built for the Hindu god Vishnu, it had evolved through history and was now also used as a Buddhist temple.

  As she emerged from the crowd, her eyes were drawn away from the weathered stone as she was swept by another wave—child merchants. They swarmed ten deep, encircling her, pushing, jostling to sell their embroidered goods and souvenir T-shirts. The children, like children everywhere, were endearing, unwilling to let a chance to smile or laugh slide by.

  “Later,” she promised.

  “Later, madam,” one girl repeated. “You will buy when you are done. I’ll find you.”

  Before her, the long cobbled bridge leading into Angkor Wat stretched in endless splendor, overshadowed in majesty only by the temple itself. Orange- and saffron-robed monks whispered past her as their bare or sandaled feet never veered from paths worn through years of tradition that bound them to their ancestors.

  Inside, the heat was cloying, despite the shelter of the massive rock that cast deep shadows far into the interior. The shadows deepened and made a mockery of the sunlit parking lot she’d so recently left. A feeling of foreboding moved through her and she remembered the strangeness that had begun the moment she’d landed in Bangkok.

  Once again she had that feeling of being watched. Ahead of her, the orange-robed monks disappeared as they went about their business like all was well. Behind her, groups of tourists loitered, snapping pictures, talking, oblivious to the spirituality trapped deep within the stones or the devotion shown in the depths of the monks’ silence.

  Claire moved on through the main temple as the smell of incense wove through each breath and seemed imbedded in the stone. She took a deep, comforting breath as she emerged outside and faced the steps that rose steep and intimidating to the top of the massive, timeworn stone structure that dominated the center courtyard. The steps were smooth, narrow paths worn by generations of people, testaments to the agility of ancient man, but now roped off. A new set had been built, wide and accommodating. Still, it was a climb that she made slowly, even as she watched a nimble-footed teenager race past her in flip-flops with a small boy riding piggyback.

  She reached the top and straightened her wide-brimmed Tilley hat, feeling even more noticeably a tourist. A hank of hair curled under her chin, escaping the quick ponytail she had tied it in earlier that morning. Between the arches of broken stone she could see far below to where the remains of an opulent courtyard lay empty and neglected. She moved on to the next arch and the next, the view changing and yet strangely remaining the same. On the other side of the temple she faced the alcove that held a giant Buddha. The fractured stone was draped with the orange robes of the Buddhist monk. In a corner, across from the Buddha, a silent woman sat, her ancient limbs folded cross-legged behind a tangled mass of incense. Claire added a coin to the pile of coins beside the woman and chose an incense stick, bending to light it over a small flame.

  “Thank you,” Claire murmured and carried the burning incense to t
he Buddha, where other sticks had been left at the base of the statue. And for a moment she felt her mother’s presence, clear, undeniable. The scent of roses, the perfume that her mother had always worn enfolded her and she trembled. Then, the feeling was gone.

  She needed air.

  Her mother had died suddenly over three years ago and Claire wasn’t one to believe in ghosts. Yet, what she had felt had been real and unexplainable. The memory was sharp and disturbing, for as much as she’d loved her mother, she’d often felt restrained within the shadow of her mother’s much larger, demanding presence. She moved away from the Buddha and leaned against a pillar. For a moment sadness overwhelmed her.

  A glint far in the distance caught her attention. Beyond the courtyard of the main temple she could see the smaller ruins of another temple, and beyond that, she wasn’t sure. She squinted. There it was again, the glint of metal.

  “Foreigners, I hear, my dear.”

  She jumped.

  “Ella!” She swung around, hand to her throat. “You scared me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Ella’s purse swung on her arm as she pointed. “An interesting excavation. At least, so I’m told. I hear it’s closed to tourists.” She smiled at Claire. “But then you’re not just a tourist, are you, my dear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, don’t play coy. You were asking about antiquities. About smuggling. If anyone can tell you about that, it would be them.” She shifted her purse and rubbed her thumb along the worn gold clasp. “Well, I must go. You can leave a message at my hotel, Angkor.” She repeated it as if Claire would have forgotten. “Don’t forget the interview. I’ve some good stories . . .” She paused and for a moment the look she gave Claire was heavy-lidded, unreadable. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said as Ella turned away. She went closer to the arched opening but the angle seemed to create a shadow that obscured the view. Maybe she could zoom in with the camera. She looked behind her. No one was there except the old woman.

  “This is a stupid idea, Claire.” But she took a step out onto the narrow ledge anyway, her hand instinctively reaching for an indent in the wall—an ancient handhold that worked just as well in the present. Here she could see clearer without the stone wall throwing shadows in her path. She adjusted the camera, trying to enlarge the view, but all she could see were two faint figures.