The Glass Thief (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Book 6)

by Gigi Pandian

  The kings who’d commissioned temples followed different Hindu or Buddhist sects over the centuries, so here in this land the stories, deities, and their representations fit together like a stained-glass window: beautiful, and with distinct pieces that came together to form a picture that was greater than the sum of its parts. Rulers from the Angkor Empire were primarily Hindu, with the exception of Jayavarman VII. Now, the meticulously carved sandstone temples of Angkor Wat and beyond were both Hindu and Buddhist.

  Aside from what was depicted in the bas-reliefs, much of Cambodia’s recorded history had been written either by foreigners or written centuries later by scholars who recorded older oral histories. How much of the true knowledge of the past had been lost?

  I was in my element here in the midst of history. I ran my fingertips across the warm, smooth stone. So much of Cambodia’s history was a mystery still to be pieced together. Much of the earliest Angkorian records were from Zhou Daguan, the Chinese envoy to the Mongol empire who’d visited Angkor in the late thirteenth century. Cambodians themselves knew much of their history through oral tradition—and the stones. The stone carvings of the temples told stories more intricate than history books. If you knew how to read them.

  If only I knew how to read Rick’s manuscript. Were the pages Rick had sent me hiding more than I realized?

  Chapter 39

  Fueled by a spicy Khmer noodle soup lunch, I was ready for the challenges of the day when Mr. Leap dropped us off at the Angkor National Museum to see the curator. The new museum housed in the terracotta-colored building wasn’t as famous as the National Museum in Phnom Penh, but it was brimming with history. We were directed to a cozy office strewn with papers. A poster-size black-and-white photograph of a temple I didn’t recognize adorned the largest wall.

  A woman with gray hair and a warm smile looked up from the desk. “Dr. Jones? Mr. Peters?”

  “Please, call me Jaya.”

  “And I’m Lane.”

  “Tina. Sorry that Sophea had to tend to an emergency today. I hope I can be of assistance.” She spoke with an American accent, which was quickly explained as she showed us around the museum.

  “I was born here,” she said, “but when I was young my family fled as refugees.” She and her siblings and parents had settled in the U.S., but her parents had died several years ago and she’d gotten divorced, so she moved to Siem Reap as a curator at the museum after getting burned out working at The Met in New York City.

  “I prefer everything about Siem Reap except for two things,” she said. “The lack of funding for the museum, and the dearth of Mexican restaurants.” She made do with exquisite French, Indian, and Cambodian food, and if it was a choice between monsoons and snowstorms, she chose the monsoons. Even the mosquito spray didn’t bother her; she found the air in the New York subway system she rode every day far more noxious than the weekly toxic cloud that swept through the city and surrounding areas.

  She stopped in a room filled with nagas. As we looked around I saw that they shared some similarities with the Durant sculpture, but when I walked around the backs of the glass enclosures, none had markings on their flat backs, and we couldn’t see their base.

  “So many temples have been looted.” Tina shook her head sadly. “We’re doing our best to keep the history safe here.”

  Lane followed Tina’s gaze to a statue that showed stone feet but was missing the rest of its body. “You’re thinking of the looting during the seventies, when the Khmer Rouge was in power.”

  She nodded. “The fragments that remain on this pedestal always remind me of a similar tenth-century sculpture that we lost a few years ago. Glaring red flags should have gone off when an auction house put the top of that sculpture up for sale a few years ago. Nobody wanted to take responsibility for that blunder.”

  “Safe for a thousand years,” I said, “only to be stolen fifty years ago.”

  “You’d think I’d stop being surprised by how much people in my field will look the other way when they encounter questionable provenance, if it doesn’t serve their desired outcome. And also how frequently it’s a rich philanthropist who needs to step in to buy back a piece so that both sides can agree and not feel cheated.”

  I looked from Tina to Lane. His face was impassive, but I knew how much he wished he could have taken back some of his deeds.

  “Is that enough nagas?” she asked. “Let me make sure I understand what else you’re interested in beyond serpents,” she said. “Historical patterns of waterways and…musical compositions recorded on stone? I don’t know that I can help with the music. I love Cambodian pop music, but that’s not here at the museum.”

  “Anything you can tell us would be much appreciated,” Lane said.

  “The Khmer hydraulic engineers were masterful,” she said. “They harnessed the power of the monsoons to turn the Tonle Sap River from a tributary of the Mekong into its own powerhouse, even reversing its course. It allowed for rice to be harvested up to four times a year, even though the country is dry for half of that time. Water is a big deal here.

  “Angkor is in a central area between the Tonle Sap—the Great Lake—in the south and hills in the north,” she said. “Numerous tributaries of the Siem Reap River and Mekong River flow through the country.

  “Stone inscriptions provide the primary recorded history,” Tina continued, leading us into another room, “so these historical maps might be more fiction than reality. But you’re welcome to take a look if it helps. I need to go to a meeting now—everywhere in the world, so many meetings!—but please come find me before you leave. Here’s my cell phone number if you need help tracking me down.”

  We spent the next hour looking at maps, but we didn’t see anything that looked like the markings on the Serpent King statue.

  “We’re still missing something,” I said.

  “Several million dollars worth of LIDAR equipment that could survey this large amount of land,” Lane said.

  “Over the course of years,” I said. New technology that could survey the land from above through overgrowth and even through earth and stone was allowing archaeology to advance. But even if we’d had access to such equipment, we didn’t have any way to narrow down the area, so it would have been in vain regardless. “What does Marc know that we don’t?”

  Tina came back to check on us once she was done with her meeting.

  “Find anything helpful?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Has anyone else been at the museum recently asking similar questions?”

  “I can check.”

  She disappeared from the room, and came back a few minutes later, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  “I didn’t think the answer would be yes,” she said, “but an American woman came this morning. Blonde. Devi didn’t have more of a description.”

  “A blonde American woman?” Lane repeated, looking sharply at me.

  Had Becca fooled me about her true end game? Was she in reality working with her father and in search of the treasure, not seeking revenge for a murder she knew had never taken place?

  Chapter 40

  I wasn’t able to find a good photo of Becca online since her social media accounts were private, but a couple of her friends had posted photos of her. It was impossible to stay completely anonymous in this day and age.

  Tina showed the photo to staff member Devi who’d helped our mystery woman. “She said maybe. That’s the best she could do. What I’m more interested in is the fact that she asked about the same thing as you two. Rivers, in particular.”

  I caught Lane’s eye.

  Tina crossed her arms. “Clearly there’s more going on here than historical research. Why are you and a mystery woman asking about this?”

  “You’re in the museum world,” Lane said. “You know how competitive institutions can be.”

  “Usually those people know w
hat it is they’re being competitive about.”

  I hesitated. Lane didn’t react either.

  “I looked you up,” Tina continued. “I don’t think you’re trying to loot anything. You save pieces of history in unconventional ways. Which is often necessary. I get that. But I know you’re not telling me why you’re really here. If you want my help, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

  Lane shrugged almost imperceptibly. His eyes were on mine. He was leaving it up to me.

  “We think someone,” I said slowly, “or multiple people, believe there’s a hidden work of art that tells the story of the origin of the Khmer Kingdom.”

  “Looters?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “That’s the problem. There’s something going on we don’t understand.” I stopped short of mentioning a murder and that I needed to clear the name of the man I loved.

  “Rulers, empires, and battles are well documented already. If you hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by stones that tell our story. What makes this special?”

  “I believe it’s a jewel-encrusted statue that shows the legend of the founding of Cambodia.”

  Tina’s eyes grew wide. “Kaundinya, Soma, and the naga king?”

  “The prince and princess,” I said.

  “And the naga king guardian.”

  I shook my head. “We think the naga king is a separate statue that holds this smaller one. It’s somewhere else.”

  “The sun and the moon,” Tina said wistfully, “joining two kingdoms and illustrating how our water systems can be controlled for good.” She paused to laugh. “I always hated the most popular version of that story. Why is it a good thing if the Indian prince shot an arrow at the serpent king’s daughter, princess Soma, to convince her to marry him?”

  “Exactly!”

  Lane cleared his throat. “There’s also the version where the prince proves himself worthy, and the arrow is just a metaphor to illustrate his bravery.”

  Tina looked between the two of us, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “What can I say? I’m old and jaded. But not too old to help you figure out what your mystery woman and her accomplice are up to. When the museum closes shortly, I’d like to show you something.”

  While we waited we did one more round of the museum, and I was again struck by how important the naga protector was here in Cambodia. There was even a video about the cobra’s symbolism. Where was the Durant’s missing stone serpent and the prince and princess he was protecting?

  Tina took us on a walk through the night market, where we ate fried tarantula (which tasted like crunchy chicken), watched happy children playing hide and seek in the stalls of merchants selling souvenirs, and spotted a silver bracelet that I thought Mr. Leap’s fiancé would like based on what he’d told me of her. I snapped a photo of it so I’d remember to show him, and that’s when I caught sight of what would become my own purchase. A dark brown leather shadow puppet of the monkey king Hanuman in a scene from the Reamker, Cambodia’s version of India’s epic Ramayana, a grand allegory about good and evil. The artisan seller was a man with only one arm. Lane thanked him in Khmer, or I should say he attempted to. The man’s face widened in horror. Tina laughed and corrected Lane’s Khmer, then thanked the man properly.

  “Finally,” I said, “a language you can’t immediately speak perfectly.”

  “What did I say?” Lane asked Tina.

  “You don’t want to know.” She smiled and gave a few coins to a child in a wheelchair who was playing Cambodian pop music on an ancient CD player. “The Khmer Rouge was opposed to anyone educated or religious, and even entertainers to a large extent. Many of my favorite singers, who were blending traditional music with Western influence in the 1960s, wanted to stay in Phnom Penh. They thought they’d be safe. They were wrong.” She shook her head and wiped a tear off her cheek. “Sorry. It’s been a long time. But…”

  “I understand.” I was speaking to Tina and Lane had fallen behind. When I turned, I caught a glimpse of what Lane was up to. He’d handed several dollars to the small girl.

  “Hungry for a proper dinner?” Tina asked.

  “Only if we can go somewhere with spicy food,” Lane said, reaching our side. “Jaya refuses to eat anywhere that doesn’t meet that requirement.”

  “We’ll stay clear of the tourist spots. Cambodians don’t consider our food spicy compared to Thailand and Laos, but I think I know just the spot.”

  She brought us to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Its name was written in the Khmer script, so I didn’t know what it was called, but it smelled amazing. The sun had set hours ago, and we sat outside under two baby palm trees. We hadn’t brought anti-malaria pills with us, but that wasn’t a problem in the tourist center of Cambodia. There wasn’t a mosquito in sight, since the region was sprayed with a mosquito-killing fog once a week.

  We ordered drinks (no ice) and an appetizer of green mango salad to start. The scents of coconut milk and lemongrass filled the air as a waiter appeared with our main course: fish amok, a coconut milk fish curry cooked inside single serving bowls made of banana leaves, steamed rice that had been grown in the water as it had been in the region for a thousand years, and several vegetable side dishes with edible water lilies and bright red chilies on top.

  “I hope you meant what you said about spicy food,” Tina said. “I requested extra bird chilies.”

  My lips and tongue tingled as I took a bite. Memories of eating similar flavors the last time I’d been in this region of the world washed over me, and for a moment I was transported back to a time when my only worries were avoiding stomach bugs when evaluating the freshness of the food sold by street vendors and figuring out what I wanted to do with my life.

  “Jaya’s in another world,” I heard Tina say to Lane.

  “Hmm?” I asked through a mouthful.

  “I was telling Tina about our motorcycle ride along the west coast of India,” Lane said. “You remember the place you insisted on stopping to eat?”

  “Of course. I was going to pass out from hunger. Which is definitely not a danger here.”

  After we’d happily eaten most of the meal, and Tina’s expression shifted, I felt like we’d passed a test.

  Tina rested her elbows on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she leaned closer. “I know where the mystery woman is going.”

  I gaped at her. “How? And you know who she is? Is that what you were doing for that last hour?”

  Lane put a protective hand on my arm. He’d taken the seat at the table that had the best view of the entrance and exit, as was his habit, but until that moment, I hadn’t thought he’d done it as more than an unconscious habit. He couldn’t possibly think Tina was involved, could he?

  The lines around her dark brown eyes crinkled as she gave a wary smile. “You have to understand, I’ve dealt with all sorts of people over my long career, both in the States and Cambodia. When Americans start sniffing around a Cambodian treasure, I’m going to be wary. So yes, I held back information. I needed to do more research into you both. And since I’m old enough to know what’s true on paper isn’t always true in real life, I needed to spend some time with you.”

  “And now that you have?” I asked.

  Tina nodded. “The American woman who Devi couldn’t positively identify. The woman was extremely interested in the temple of Banteay Chhmar. You know of it?”

  “The last great temple built during the Angkorian Empire.”

  Chapter 41

  “We lost too much time,” I said to Lane as we weaved through the narrow lanes of the night market on foot. Tina had gone home, still looking unsure if she’d made the right decision confiding in us. “It’s too far away to go by tuk-tuk, but we can rent a car—”

  “It’s too late tonight.”

  I stopped next to a stall selling brightly colored shawls and patterned dresses. Lane nearly crashed into me
. “If she’d told us this afternoon—”

  “But she didn’t. Which is good, because now we have time to figure out our next steps.”

  “There aren’t any good ones,” I snarled. “Our mystery woman—Becca or whoever it is—has the map and it told her to go to Banteay Chhmar. She’s a whole day ahead of us. She could already have found the second treasure and have left the country.”

  “I doubt it.” An ‘Angkor Night Market’ sign shone in neon colored lights above us, casting blue and yellow fluorescent light onto Lane’s face. “It’s either difficult to find, or looters are a century ahead of us and beat us all to it. There might be nothing left to find.”

  “I know,” I said, lowering my voice. “We might all be on a fool’s errand to try to find the treasure. Haven’t you realized why I have to see this through? The person who’s after the treasure is the person who can give us the answers to clear you.”

  The next morning, Mr. Leap was waiting for us with his tuk-tuk in front of the hotel.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you we have different plans out of town today. We’re renting a car.”

  He grinned. “A car big enough for your guide?”

  “This could be dangerous,” I said as Lane tried unsuccessfully to dissuade him. “There’s, um, a bad person who might try to hurt me.”

  “Or multiple people who might try to harm all of us,” Lane added.

  Mr. Leap was the same age as many of my students, but the look he gave us told me he’d seen more than most if not all of them. “I’m not afraid. Many of my family have been killed.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to choose to walk into danger if you can help it.”

  “Indiana Jones and Peter Pan need guide, yes?”

  Tuk-tuks, motorcycles, bicycles, and cars kicked up dust in the road around us as we left Siem Reap. I insisted on driving. Sébastien hadn’t let me drive his Porsche in Paris, but a Mercedes on the open road in Cambodia came close.