Intent to Kill Read online

In the background the strains of Verde calmed him, eased his jangled nerves. The pain was rough today.

  “I will message you later. In the meantime, I have a little problem to clean up here in Bangkok. I’ll be in Siem Reap as soon as I can.”

  He wished he could let Claire write that story, the one that she had come here for, the one that she was so determined to write—before she died. The story, with his help, would tell the truth about it all. It would be a story that would show how brilliant he was, how he had outplayed them all. As much as he wanted that, it was impossible.

  His pressed his hands to his temples and for a minute he physically couldn’t move as pain swept through him. He needed more time and he suspected he had less then he’d previously thought. He had to prioritize. In eleven days the shipment would exact revenge as planned. Ella would take out Trent and Richard would take out Ella. It was brilliant and a plan neither of them knew anything about. In the meantime, it wasn’t just Ella that needed watching and more explicit commands. Richard had put some heat on Claire in the market today and before that in Bangkok. He had no problem with that if done properly. Richard could toy with his prey indefinitely. That’s what he’d admired about him from the beginning. But this time, Richard had been off his game, amateurish, and as a result he’d run the risk of getting Claire’s defenses up and made killing her a trickier proposition.

  “One other thing, rein Richard in,” he commanded. “Remember, Claire Linton will die when I say, and how I say, and not before.”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” she said in the sugary voice she seemed to use only with him.

  He cringed and reminded himself that she still had her uses as Richard’s keeper. “Where’s the bust?” He was curious as to whether she would lie or tell him the truth.

  “She doesn’t have it.”

  “And Trent’s partner?”

  “You knew all along,” Ella breathed. “You planned for Trent to intercept it.”

  “Even I am not that good, my dear. Let’s just say that it was inevitable.”

  “Niran—”

  “Bitch!” he hissed. It was a breath of sound that cut off what she was going to say. Ella thought she could play both sides, telling him about Niran as if she had no part in it. Her usefulness to him was becoming more and more finite.

  “Carry on, my dear,” he said as he took a breath and regained the cool control he was so proud of.

  He ended the connection.

  Like others, Ella had reached her expiration point. She just didn’t know it yet.

  But first, it was time to make one last call to an old friend in the Phnom Penh police force, Chan. They had served their country together a very long time ago and that friendship had held. It was time to lean on the loyalty forged so long ago and call in a favor.

  In the meantime he’d let the game go another round.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Yoo hoo!” Ella called. Clutching her handbag with one hand, she straightened her straw sun hat with the other. “I’m so glad to see you, dear.”

  “Ella.” Claire took in a frazzled breath. Her last words with Ella were just before she was left standing alone on the ledge in a temple at Angkor Wat. The feeling of being watched, the weight of what felt like a hand on her back—it all came back to her. Who was she kidding, it had never left her, none of it. She was way out of her depth. She knew that as she fought to regain her composure and to present a calm face.

  “What did you think of Angkor?”

  “Angkor was incredible.” She wasn’t up to this. She was exhausted and thinking completely irrational thoughts. Including the fact that Ella might have tried to kill her. In the sunlit street with tour buses rumbling by, it all seemed farfetched and slightly ridiculous.

  “Do you mind?” Ella puffed and launched her ample body into the chair across from Claire without waiting for a reply. “It was a scorcher today, wasn’t it?” She fanned her large, florid face. “Was I right?”

  “About?” The word was so mundane in the face of all her doubts.

  “Was it? The dig the other day. The one I pointed out. Was it an active archeological dig, I mean.” She stroked her fingers along the edges of her faux leather purse in a repetitive, almost caressing motion.

  Claire frowned and drew her attention from the purse to the woman’s face, as if the answer lay there, but Ella’s face was almost banal. “From what I know of digs, yes.”

  “Is it an American and a Cambodian? The Cambodian is the artist. He’s very good. Made some fabulous things for Archie and I. Ah, I digress.” She pursed her lips and stared into the distance before returning her attention to Claire.

  “You’ve met them.” She squinted, looking at a point over Claire’s shoulder. “What did you think?” Her hand continued to stroke the purse and she paused only long enough to give her order to the waitress.

  “There was only one man there. I assume he might have been American. We weren’t introduced. Actually I was told to leave.” She stirred her drink and crossed her legs. She remembered the two figures she’d seen from Angkor Wat and she remembered later the look on Simon’s face, the sound of someone else from behind that rock. Lying had never been her forte.

  “Really?”

  She took a breath. “Do you know if there’s been much smuggling of antiquities here lately?”

  Ella’s lips pursed. “Smuggling? Why do you persist, my dear, in asking about something so ugly? There is so much beauty here. Surely there is something you would rather speak of?”

  “Ella, I don’t mean to upset you . . .” But that was the problem, she never liked to upset anyone, even someone she suspected of . . . The thought broke. It was too outrageous. Someone had pushed her. But Ella?

  Impossible. Ridiculous. Suspect.

  The last thought was terrifyingly real. Ella was not who she portrayed. The question was, who was she?

  “Then don’t. There are so many more pleasant things in this world to think of. You young people, really.” She laughed dryly.

  Claire shifted in her chair.

  Ella glanced up as her drink accompanied by a glass of water arrived. “Thank you, dear,” she said to the waitress and took a healthy swig. She wiped her hand across her forehead. “Ah, nothing like gin to set one to rights on a hot day.” Her attention returned to the street and her lips tightened as she pulled her purse tighter to her and seemed to draw inward.

  “Ella, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” She turned to Claire and her eyes had a wild, hunted look.

  “Ella?”

  Ella launched herself out of her chair, her handbag bumping the table, ice water and gin spilling on her linen pantsuit.

  “Here.” Claire reached across with a napkin.

  Ella held her hand up, palm out like a sentry warding her off. “No, I’m fine. I’ll see you in Phnom Penh.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire rose from her seat. “Wait.”

  “No time,” Ella huffed. “Another time.”

  Ella was moving fast now and her last comment was thrown over her shoulder as she hurried away.

  Claire sank back down. Phnom Penh? How did Ella know she was traveling there? A feeling of unease curled in her gut and the feel of that hand on her back was clear and chilling in the afternoon heat.

  “Claire.” The easy baritone was familiar and disconcerting.

  “Simon?” She couldn’t temper her surprise as she turned around.

  “How do you know Ella?” His frown did nothing to detract from his chiseled good looks.

  “You know Ella?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  He sat across from her in the seat Ella had so recently vacated.

  “Why didn’t you join us?”

  “You shouldn’t associate with her. She’s dangerous, Claire.”

  Her hand twisted the napkin and her fingernails dug into her palm. “Dangerous? How?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “So you expect me to believe
without any sort of explanation, that she’s dangerous?” Even without evidence it felt like a redundant statement. The shove at Angkor wouldn’t leave her mind. She would have died if she hadn’t been agile enough to regain her balance.

  “A few years ago there was a smuggling deal that was intercepted by Interpol.” His green eyes were piercing. “People died, Claire.”

  “And Ella,” she guessed, “is involved, how?” Her nails bit into her palms at the thought that what he was about to tell her just might destroy any hope that her suspicion wasn’t so outrageous after all.

  “She was there,” he said simply. “She was there and because of her people died. I don’t care how badly you want this story. Stay clear of Ella Malone.” He took her hand. “Please. This morning, the market, that alone should convince you to be careful.” He narrowed his eyes. “And now . . . Was she stroking her purse?”

  “What?”

  “She’s been known to carry a grenade wherever she goes. When she has one, she strokes her purse. Considers it, in my opinion, like a well-loved dog.”

  It was like everything froze. She couldn’t keep the horror from her eyes.

  “Claire?”

  Ella had stroked her purse on the bus and again while she was here. She took a breath. Could she trust him? She remembered the market and that he had told her he was once with Interpol. He’d told her little else, leaving more questions than answers. But despite all of that, she instinctively trusted him. And somehow the reference to the grenade, as horrifying as that was, slid to the background. “Someone tried to push me at Angkor Wat.”

  “What?”

  “I was standing in the inner temple overlooking the courtyard. And I felt something, a push against my back. I lost my balance.” Even as she said the words it made it somehow less frightening. She’d been attacked. The worst had happened.

  “What I don’t get is why.” She frowned.

  Simon didn’t answer right away. It was as if he were preparing to temper his words.

  “Maybe it was my imagination,” she prompted.

  “Maybe.” But there was more doubt than confidence in the word. “All I know is that two women have died already. There may be a criminal entity that is targeting single women travelers.” He shook his head. “Your first instinct might have been right. Someone may have tried to kill you.”

  “Ella was there,” she whispered.

  “What did you say?” The words punched out with an almost physical force. “Damn it, Claire. Stay away from that woman. She’s killed before and she’ll do it again, and if you even suspect . . .”

  She leaned forward with her heart pounding and her mind trying to shut off his warnings but it was all too much. She dropped her shaking hands into her lap as her mind veered to his earlier words. “A grenade,” she whispered. “What does she do with that?”

  “Nothing good.” His expression was troubled. “I suspect I know how important this article is to you.” His thumbs butted against each other.

  She blew out a breath. Normally she would have stuck to the original subject as disconcerting as it all was. But now, that was too heavy and she needed to digest what she’d heard—for now, they both needed to move on.

  “I don’t believe you do. First, it’s not an article, it’s a story. And it’s big. Bigger, I think, than I first thought.” Her eyes locked with his. “Will you help me?”

  He stood and offered her his hand. “Meet me tomorrow.”

  “You’ll answer my questions?”

  “I’m not making any promises but it will be a beginning.” He offered her a half smile and laugh lines crinkled in his deeply tanned face, even though both of them were far from feeling humor of any kind.

  “For starters, I accept.” She held out her hand and shook his.

  “For starters I expect more than that,” he replied, pulling her up to him. Suddenly she was in his arms as his lips claimed hers, and he held her firm against the length of his body. The traffic noise around them seemed to settle in the background even as she sank into the kiss. It was wrong, everything about it was wrong, and yet as her body bent beneath the weight of his and his tongue traced her lips and flirted with more—more was all she wanted.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said when the kiss ended. His hand cupped her chin and his green eyes seemed to caress hers. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be in touch soon.” He took her hands. “I don’t like the attention Ella has already given you. Stay near your hotel . . . please.”

  She nodded with no intention of staying at the hotel. “I’ll be careful,” she said and meant it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Claire returned to the hotel early in the evening, she was drained and had learned nothing. The local paper had had a rookie behind the desk who had archived articles over the past year, and those only rehashed much of what she already knew. One thought was becoming more plausible, the fact that her souvenir Buddha might have been no souvenir at all. Was it possible? She considered all that had happened in recent days—the women who had died, one of them with an antiquity in hand. She thought back to the conversation with Niran and realized that she hadn’t chosen the souvenir Buddha. Instead, he’d brought it out from behind the counter when he’d heard she was traveling to Cambodia. Her heart pounded uncomfortably as she realized that the evidence was rapidly supporting the thought that the Buddha might have been real.

  She veered past the elevator, preferring to walk up the open sweep of gleaming hardwood stairs. The night sky shone through the large windows, reflecting off the wood’s glossy polish. It was quiet, peaceful.

  She stopped with her hand to her mouth when she reached her room. The door was ajar. Tentatively she reached forward and gave the door a slight push. The door swung open. The sheets were strewn across the room. The dresser drawers lay on the floor, one upside down on the bed. Her hand began to shake as she gripped the doorknob.

  She gave the door a final push and strode in, anger overcoming her fear. How dare someone do this, rip through her things. How dare they!

  Clothing was strewn everywhere. Her suitcase lay crookedly on the floor, one hinge broken. Her laptop was as she had left it, or was it? Curiously, it was sitting on the dresser rather than in the dresser drawer where she usually left it.

  But it was what she saw on the floor that made her pause. She hesitated before picking up the red and white checked scarf. The Khmer krama, she realized as the worn cotton slipped over her hands. A common enough piece of clothing often worn by rural Cambodians, but in the time of the Khmer Rouge it had taken on a different meaning and one color—red.

  Ridiculous, she thought. And yet, was it? Was this a warning? Her fingers trembled as she dropped the scarf and wrestled with an always overactive imagination.

  “Oh, God.”

  Who had been here and why?

  Minutes ticked by as she went through her things. Nothing had been taken, or had it? Her thoughts jumped to her computer. Were files removed? And then she remembered her thumb drive. It had been in the drawer with her computer. She scoured the room. She couldn’t find it. Was it lost or was it gone? And again there was the question that couldn’t be answered—why?

  But something instinctive told her that some of the answer and maybe even the elusive story lay with her souvenir Buddha. Replica, antiquity—whatever it was, she had to find it, and soon.

  “The police,” she considered, but she was still shaken and leery of the authorities here. There was no one she could trust, not completely. Her mind ran through alternate possibilities as she straightened her room and checked her things.

  It was an hour later before she fired up the laptop and opened her e-mail. Her boss at the Minot Post had been prompt. She had sent a synopsis of what she’d discovered so far and a message was waiting in her inbox.

  A good start but I want you to be careful. I expect you to come back alive. I’ve had more phone calls about your column. Get me more and quickly.

  “Yes!” She pun
ched the air with her fist. She sat back, letting the success of that wash over her. It was a small step but a major victory in setting up a freelance career. But what she still didn’t have was the story.

  She scrolled down, scanning through his words of caution until she came to the information he had obtained. She reread the lines as she skimmed her finger under some of the more relevant words. Her boss had done a little digging. Turns out Mr. Trent had a bit of a reputation in Asia. Three years where he had worked on some high-profile digs, including a dig that ended in tragedy, scandal, and his disappearance.

  Her smile faded as she read the rest of the e-mail. Phone your Uncle Jack.

  She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone, but it rang through to voice mail.

  “It’s me, Claire. I’m in Siem Reap and I’m fine. I’ll phone later. Love you,” she finished with a smile in her voice as she hung up.

  She realized that she hadn’t given him the name of her hotel and sighed. She was exhausted. “Tomorrow,” she promised herself as she closed out the e-mail and began an Internet search for Sakda. The search came back more quickly than she had anticipated. Sakda, an immigration officer in Thailand, was dead. Shot in the line of duty a little over two years ago.

  She stopped, her finger hovering over the keyboard. Dead? Could there be more than one? Was it possible? If the man she met in Bangkok wasn’t Sakda, who was he?

  She changed her search engine and redefined the search as “smuggling in Cambodia plus Simon Trent.” There were multiple returns.

  She rose and walked to the window. Minutes passed, yet she couldn’t bring herself to read what glowed on the screen.

  Ten minutes later she forced herself to return to the laptop. She took a deep breath and hit enter. After a number of dead ends she came across one just over a year old, an article published in the Phnom Penh Post entitled “Death at Angkor.” She noted that the article had originally appeared in the Siem Reap Post. She went on to read, and as she got further into the article her frown deepened. A woman had died, Sovann Akara. She had died as the result of a gunshot, caught in a raid, a trap for a smuggler named Samnang. Who was Samnang? She read on. Samnang had escaped detection and was thought to have fled into Thailand.