Intent to Kill Read online

  Buried deeper in the article was another name. Archie Malone. A one-time British Intelligence officer apparently turned smuggler. She rubbed her eyes. It was late, past two in the morning. She was exhausted but the article fascinated her. Apparently Archie had died that night. Caught in a cross fire between a smuggling ring and police. Interpol was mentioned in a brief one-sentence summary and then a name made her pause: Simon Trent.

  She punched up the next article, which was only more of the same. She backed out and tried the next article. It was a story from the CNN website, a follow-up. As her boss had said earlier, there was some thought that Trent might have been involved in the woman’s death, a hint that he might have been working on the wrong side of Cambodian law. There had been no proof, only vague accusations.

  The questions were compounding.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was early the next morning when Claire left the police station. Food carts lined the street, the smell of barbequed meat, spices, and freshly baked pastry filling the air. She bought a bun filled with warm spicy pork. She ate as she walked, and as she swallowed the last bite she dodged around a family just rising from their night on the curb. The woman brushed her long hair back and reached for her toddler as if it were normal to begin one’s day on a public sidewalk.

  Her Uncle Jack’s words came back to her, of the many nights he’d slept in the woods and on the streets, of days and years in refugee camps before finally making it to the United States.

  She glanced across the street at the building that housed the Siem Reap Post. The research she’d done since she’d arrived hadn’t given her much more than she’d learned before her arrival, although she’d managed to recompile her missing notes. Other than that, she’d drawn blanks at the library. The Internet had only raised more questions, and in her brief foray into the police station this morning she’d filed a report for the break-in, but her other questions, the ones about smuggling, had been brushed aside. Unfortunately, the evidence for the break-in, as the officer who took the report was quick to point out, had been compromised by her tardiness to report it and the fact that she’d cleaned, as he called it, the crime scene.

  Her mind shifted to the article she’d read only last night. An antiquities smuggling deal gone wrong where people had died and no arrests had been made. She bit her lip as she reflected on her boss’s innuendoes regarding Simon. She paused in mid-stride. But despite her doubt and confusion, she knew that whatever Simon was and whatever he was part of, he wasn’t a killer. She suspected that answers lay somewhere in Siem Reap’s newspaper office, where the article had been researched and written. Maybe the reporter who had researched the story was still there. If nothing else, maybe she’d learn something about the illusive Sakda/Samnang, who seemed to be at the heart of it all.

  For a moment she hesitated. She thought of Simon. The truth could change everything.

  She took a breath and crossed the street to the newspaper’s office where she asked at the reception desk. After a brief wait she was led back to a small office to a reporter who failed to give her his name. Despite that, she wasted no time.

  “Did you know a Thai named Sakda Boonmee?”

  “Sakda.” He ran his hand through jet-black hair that spiked straight up in a short punk cut that seemed too young for his middle-aged face. “He died a few years back. Why do you ask?”

  “I was introduced to him just two weeks ago.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Then whom did I meet?”

  “It’s obvious he’s being impersonated.” His brow furrowed. “Unbelievable.”

  “Who would impersonate Sakda?” Her stomach clenched as she waited for what she hoped might be a major break. “And why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Claire tried to feign shock and settled for silence.

  “What did he look like?”

  She described the man she had known as Sakda, and the reporter rose and sifted through a stack of files. He pulled out a report and riffled through it before finding a picture. He shoved the picture at her. “Tell me, madam, that this is not him.”

  “It is.”

  “Damn it!” He flopped down and spun in his chair, dead stopping with his feet against the wall. He stared out the window before swinging back. “Samnang. I knew he’d surface.”

  “How did Sakda die?”

  “Samnang killed him.”

  “Killed,” she murmured. Somehow that didn’t seem as shocking as it should. “And this”—she touched the photo—“is Samnang? I knew him as Sakda.”

  “A clever impersonation.”

  “Why?”

  “Why else. He’s back and he doesn’t want the authorities to know.” Excitement flooded the reporter’s voice. He kicked off against the wall again and spun his chair. “I knew you’d come back, baby, I knew it.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “It’s the story I’ve waited for. It’s big.” He almost chortled.

  Claire almost shared the reporter’s glee—almost. If nothing else, his excitement was contagious. She had a sense of the size of this story herself. “Is it antiquities—smuggling?”

  “What else?” The man threw his pen on the desk and folded his hands behind his neck. “Unbelievable,” he gushed. “This is utterly fantastic. I can’t wait to get back on this horse.” He eyed her. “This is my story.”

  “Interesting,” Claire said. “But you wouldn’t have known he was back. I mean, if I hadn’t told you.”

  “I would have,” he said almost defensively. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Like what?” she asked, knowing that he was defending his story—and also suspecting what he didn’t, that her story was no threat to his.

  “Samnang is one of the most wanted men in Cambodia. Forget Cambodia, Interpol has been tracking him for years. This story’s big. Stay clear,” he warned darkly. “He’s Khmer Rouge.”

  Something tight and heavy lodged in her throat. They would kill for the fun of it. Because we were too slow, we wore glasses, we were smart, because they thought we didn’t believe. They killed slowly. They . . . It was a time she had never experienced and yet one she felt so vividly. Memories, words, stories she’d heard again and again from her Uncle Jack that reminded her of the fragile blessing of freedom.

  “Samnang was notorious back in the day and he’s kept his connections.” The reporter rubbed his short-cropped head with the palm of his hand.

  “And they’re back killing like they did in the old days,” she suggested. “Two tourists already. Both female.”

  “There’s no evidence of that. Not of who did it.” But there was a strain in his voice, as if he were covering something. “And it wasn’t about the killing, not for Samnang. But about the antiquities.”

  “I thought we could help each other.”

  “Maybe you could help me but I’m not sharing this story with anyone.”

  “Isn’t it more important that a criminal is caught?” She had the unfamiliar urge to smack him, as if that would dispel his arrogance.

  “You are naive, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Stay in touch. You’re obviously of interest to Samnang.” He tapped a pen on his desk and for a minute that had been the only sound in the room. “Where are you staying?”

  “Why? So you can use me for your story? Forget it.”

  “It won’t be hard to find you.”

  “Then why ask?” She smiled and offered her hand. “Good luck, I think you’re going to need it.”

  Her smile didn’t slip even at the whisper-soft expletive that followed her. Call her what he wanted, but most dogs wouldn’t take offense at that particular name, so why would she?

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Simon Trent, who are you?” Claire asked herself. This morning she’d filed the police report and interviewed the reporter at the newspaper office. This afternoon she was on a mission for other answers as she hopped off the bus at Angkor Wat and battled her way through the waves of vend
ors. After five minutes she veered onto a walking path, where she found a feeling of safety at not being in plain view. Still, she looked squeamishly on either side, remembering Simon’s words and what had then felt like outrageous warnings. And while he had been over-the-top, land mines were a reality, and she certainly didn’t plan to take any shortcuts off of the safety of explosive-cleared roads and paths. It was a half-mile hike on the path through scrub brush before she reached the little overgrown patch that hid the dig behind it.

  “Claire.” Simon stood up with a smile. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Really?” She bit back an answering smile as a wave of pleasure ran through her. Instead she pulled her retractable pink pen from behind her ear. “This is yours?”

  “Yes. It’s my dig, mine and my partner, Arun . . . he’s in Phnom Penh right now, visiting relatives.”

  There was something in the tone of his voice that rang flat.

  “And what’s here?” She moved closer, flicking her pen between her fingers. “I mean, what have you found or hope to find?”

  “A mural, to begin with.” He motioned to her. “Come here, take a look.”

  “I saw that the other day but I wouldn’t mind a closer look.” She squatted down beside him. But she could quickly see that it was no different than the last time she’d seen it. No more had been uncovered. The part of the mural that could be seen was rather uninspiring, ordinary men and women going about their work many centuries ago. She suspected that it wasn’t rare enough to hold any interest. Still, there could be more beneath the surface of the site, and yet it didn’t look like there’d been much work done.

  “We haven’t had time to unearth it—we just got back at it when Arun got called away.” Simon shrugged. “So I’m hanging pretty much, wasting time until he returns.”

  Claire tried not to look judgmental or questioning or even confused when she felt all those things.

  He shifted, resting on his heels.

  “Do you have much trouble with theft here? I mean, you leave the dig unprotected. There’s no one else here. Isn’t that an open invitation for thieves?” Claire contemplated which question would finally glean the answers she needed.

  “Not really.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” The fingernails of her left hand dug into her palm as she fought to temper her words. There was more to Simon than he seemed willing to admit.

  “Do you?” There was an edge to his mellow voice. “Like you know from experience?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were you the victim of theft, Claire?”

  Claire frowned, debating how to continue. She’d been robbed more than once since she’d been here. First her notes, then the Buddha, and then her thumb drive.

  “More than once.”

  Shock registered in his eyes. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

  “I am. My bag was taken in Bangkok right out of my room. It was later returned but my notes, the research I did before I came here, were gone.”

  “Notes on?”

  She frowned. There was no surprise in his voice, it was like he’d known. “What my uncle had told me. He was Cambodian, so he had memories of growing up here and surviving the—” She broke off as an overwhelming sadness welled up inside her at the thought of all her uncle had endured.

  “Khmer Rouge,” he said with a husky edge to his voice. “I’m sorry, Claire. But thank God it was only your notes.”

  “You’re right. I can replicate most of them from memory.”

  “Claire?” He said her name in a way that was disconcerting, like she mattered to him. “What else?”

  She stood. “It wasn’t much. A souvenir. Nothing of value except to me.”

  “The airport can be a hazardous place.”

  “How did you know?” She took a step back, unable to hide the shock in her voice.

  “Know what?” His expression was veiled and one elegant brow lifted.

  “Know that my souvenir Buddha was stolen on arrival, at the airport.”

  “Common sense. That’s where most thefts occur.” His gaze dodged hers and he looked oddly uncomfortable, as if he was covering up.

  “Do you know something about the theft?”

  He steadied himself with one hand on the ground. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t like to see you taken advantage of. Thieves can be dangerous.”

  “Someone thought I had something. Something more than a simple tourist souvenir.”

  “Like what, an antiquity? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know.” She held his gaze. “You tell me.”

  “I think you’ve let your imagination get the better of you.” He rose. “That theft was a mistake. Forget it.”

  Was he taking ownership of the theft? And if so, why? What did he know about it? She struggled to keep her expression from exposing her thoughts. “I still feel you’re hiding something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Explain the connection you have to Sakda.”

  “Sakda?”

  “You were following him in Bangkok.”

  “I was following you.”

  “You were following me because you know what Sakda wants. It’s obvious this all hinges on my stolen Buddha.” She looked at him expectantly.

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “It’s either a valuable replica like you suggested or something else.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. But why is an immigration officer involved in smuggling?” She paused, considering how to ask her next question. Then she just straight up asked.

  “Who is he, Simon. Who is Sakda?” She held her breath and wondered if he’d admit that they were talking about a dead man and about an identity swap and so much more. And as she let out her breath she knew he would admit to none of those things.

  “Stay away from him. He’s deadly.”

  “Hardly. He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said calmly.

  She glanced up at Simon; some of the color had left his face. He took both her hands in his. “Claire, the less you know—”

  “The more I ask. I’m a journalist, remember. Samnang is going by Sakda, a dead immigration officer.” She pulled her hands free and held up one hand, warding off his interruption. “I’ve proof of what you’ve known all along, Simon. The man I met in Bangkok was not Sakda but Samnang.” She bit her lip. “It gets a little confusing but it would be a whole lot easier, Simon, if you would tell me some things. The simple things maybe.”

  When he only stared at her, not responding, she knew there was no use pursuing the interview. It wasn’t going to happen.

  “Look, Simon. I’ve got to go. I’ve got work to do and there’s not much more I can ask you. Not in your present mood.” But even with those words, she almost hesitated, for his silence was so uncharacteristic from what she’d come to know of him that she suspected it was only an admission of some sort of guilt.

  He insisted on walking her to the bus in front of the main temple of Angkor Wat that would take her back to Siem Reap, and one comment rang over and over in her head: that theft was a mistake.

  “Mr. Trent, I don’t think you’re as innocent as you’d like me to believe.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Claire felt a difference as soon as she opened her hotel room door. Someone had been here.

  “Not again.” She stood with her hand still on the knob. A scent lingered, a light and barely perceptible hint of fresh air, a familiar aftershave. Her stomach flipped and tingles roamed her spine.

  Her things appeared untouched. Her suitcase was as she had left it, her travel journal still on the dresser. Yet something was different. She suspected as she picked up her journal that it had been what drew him.

  Simon.

  She knew it with a surety that she knew so many things. How had he gotten here ahead of her? She sighed as she remembered the wait she’d had for the bus; even walking back to his dig hadn’t taken as much time as that wait. And she remembe
red too that he had his own transportation. He could have been here and back twice over.

  She clenched her fists and left the room without a backward glance. Outside, she hurried through the park. She stopped at the sound of his voice.

  “There you are.” It was Simon, with relief rippling through his voice. “Mind if I tag along?”

  She stopped, unsurprised that he was there but yet angry that he was. “You were in my room. Why?”

  He stopped. “What are you saying?”

  “You broke into my room. Went through my things.”

  “Someone broke into your room? My God, Claire. Are you all right?”

  His eyes would not squarely meet hers.

  “No, Simon. It was you.” She had no intention of telling him about the other break-in, not now. She’d told him more than enough. “Start talking.”

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. He analyzed the traffic. Finally he spoke.

  “You’re right, Claire. I owe you an explanation.” He put a hand on the small of her back, guiding her away from the park’s edges and to a sidewalk bench.

  They sat and she waited while trying to find calm in the whisper of leaves rustling in nearby trees and the muted sound of traffic.

  “You know, Simon, for everything you don’t tell me, the more I ask questions elsewhere,” she said, her patience beginning to break.

  “Claire.” He moved closer.

  “Don’t, Simon.” His closeness only made it more difficult. His arm dropped across the back of the bench.

  “All right.” He blew out a breath as if about to take on a prize fight. “It’s like this. I work with Interpol full-time. I’ve been assigned throughout Asia, and lately here.”

  “Interpol?” She frowned. “I’m confused. You said earlier that you used to work for Interpol.”

  “I still do.”

  “So you’re not an archeologist?” She’d wanted so very much to believe him.