Intent to Kill

by Ryshia Kennie

  As she focused on the dig and debated whether Ella’s suggestion was worth following up on, something or someone hit her from behind. A solid force against her back. For a moment, a split second of time, she wavered. Then her foot slipped and her body catapulted forward. She never knew if it was foresight, the hours she’d spent in the gym, or just luck that kept her from pitching over the edge. She only knew that as one foot remained on the ledge and her hand reached out into space, she hovered above the decaying courtyard that had once been the grandeur of the city of Angkor and saw only imminent death. She clawed the ancient rock, her right hand flailing uselessly in the air before she hooked one finger and then a second on the edge of the arch. She trembled there, her upper body suspended, her arms shaking and her knees quivering before she got a surer grip. Her entire body seemed to shake as she pulled herself to safety.

  As she pressed her back against the cool stone, the shadows played ominously around her and the sunlight flirted through the arched openings. She felt shaken, even afraid. The old woman ignored her as if nothing had happened. Claire asked her what she might have seen, and she only smiled and looked at her with a blank, uncomprehending stare. There was no help there. There was no help anywhere. Who had pushed her? For it was clear that was what had happened. The whack against her back had been unmistakable, as had been the sense that she was being watched. Her heart beat thickly at the implication while a sliver of doubt wondered if maybe it might have been her imagination.

  “A British student, another with nationality unknown—at least to me—and then . . .” She hugged herself. “An American, me.” Just saying the words had her shaking, and she sat in the alcove as time disappeared around her and her nerves began to steady.

  When she finally collected herself, she made her way from the relative isolation of the second temple to the main square, where she was lost in crowds of tourists and vendors. In ten minutes she was in the backseat of a taxi like nothing had happened. But as she glanced back and instinctively lifted her camera with shaky hands for a last view of Angkor, she caught a familiar face. Distant but easily identifiable was Ella, staring over the grounds of Angkor. Watching her?

  Claire snapped the picture and turned away from the unsettling moment as unease swept through her and settled like bitter bile.

  Chapter Ten

  “Any trouble?” Simon asked at the dig when he caught sight of the package. He shaded his eyes, but even from a distance the main complex of Angkor Wat dominated the horizon and overshadowed this little dig. They were surrounded by a scattering of sun-baked scrub brush and plants that had provided them cover so often in recent years.

  “Nope.” Arun hoisted the cardboard carton. “She came in on yesterday morning’s flight just as we planned and I had this thing locked up good and tight until today. Thought we should open it together.”

  “Because?” Simon’s eyebrows went up.

  “Just because . . . Because maybe we were wrong and this is just a trinket. The thing weighs no more than a pair of my grandma’s tights.”

  “Yeah, and you know what a pair of tights are.” Simon laughed as the sun beat down a relentless 110 degrees and only reminded him of how divine a cool shower would feel.

  “So? I can imagine.”

  “Your grandma’s tights? You might want to reconsider.”

  “Disgusting and slightly incestuous?” Arun tossed the package to Simon. “You didn’t tell me she was beautiful.”

  “Shut up, Arun,” Simon growled. Being here only reminded him of why he’d considered getting out of the business. The discomfort, the long hours, the unpredictability—it was all grating on him.

  “She could make an old man’s mouth water before he’d gotten his glasses on. She was hot and scared. I’m not sure what was with that but I played on it.”

  “What do you mean? What’d you do?” He dropped the package and closed the gap between them and grabbed Arun’s T-shirt.

  “Hey, pal, you’ll rip the material.”

  Simon let go. “You scared her.”

  “C’mon, man, it was necessary. How else would I get the bust?”

  “I didn’t want her hurt.” What the hell was with him? He was overreacting. He knew that and he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “She wasn’t. There was no other way to keep her from going after me.” Arun frowned. “Jeez. Lighten up.” He picked up the package, sank cross-legged to the ground and began to rip it open. “She’s under your skin and you don’t even know her. Sweet.” Arun looked up and smiled. “By the way, she’s at the Riverside.” He tossed the newspaper aside. “Shit. This thing looks disturbingly real. Take a look, would you.”

  Simon’s full attention shifted as he came over to the bust. The wear on the piece was brilliant. Its patina was rich and softly worn. He’d seen many replicas before, but if this was one, the artist was in a league of his own. He picked it up, running his fingers along the lines. Every detail was there, from the wear in the grooved face—the expression less distinct than when it was created—to the mystery one feels when holding a genuine artifact. And the bottom looked as if at one time it might have been attached to something. “I can’t be certain without taking it to a lab, but my first instinct is you’re right.”

  “Real,” Arun repeated. “What the Sam Scratch?”

  “Where the hell did you find that one?” Simon eyed Arun fondly. Arun had a penchant for collecting clichés and language oddities.

  “A collectible.” Arun grinned.

  Simon nodded as he set the bust down. “This is unbelievable.”

  “Makes you wonder what the hell is going on. Shouldn’t someone have picked this up at the airport? Given me a run for my money?”

  “Something fouled up, or maybe”—Simon glanced at his friend—“you deeked them out.”

  “Deeked?”

  “Hockey term. Fooled, tricked.”

  “Deeked,” Arun repeated, pronouncing the new word like a caress.

  “Is Samnang’s control slipping?”

  “Makes sense. The cross fire the other night, the slipup at the airport. That’s not like the Samnang we know. But what—”

  “Is going on? And what does Claire have to do with it? She’s a journalist,” Simon said thoughtfully.

  Arun shrugged and shook his head. “Nope, not going to touch that one and neither would Samnang.”

  “You’re right.” He wasn’t alone in his aversion to that particular profession. His gut tightened as it had when he’d first learned she was a journalist.

  “She’s something to Samnang. That seems more and more obvious, and the motorcycle incident in Bangkok may have been a scare, an accident . . .” He scowled. “I find that hard to believe. Or . . .” He shrugged. “You saw Richard in the area. Why?”

  “Someone’s been using tourists to smuggle antiquities out of Cambodia. Is it possible that for whatever reason this is an antiquity and it was coming back to Cambodia?”

  “Via another female tourist,” Arun finished and rubbed his hands together. “Not Samnang’s MO . . .” He frowned. “Niran?” He smoothed a hand over the bust. “Niran selling Samnang’s own illicit goods out from under him. Wild and . . .” He shook his head. “Nah, makes no sense. Back into Cambodia and then out again—risking two borders. Not unless this piece is worth a crap shoot of money, not unless . . .”

  “I don’t know if this has any relevance but—” Simon thought of how Samnang had bent down, hunched over as if in pain. “There’s something wrong with Samnang.”

  “I suspect the same. Sick maybe. Which we won’t find out until he shows up here, if . . .”

  “He has to. No matter what’s going on there . . . the action is here.”

  “And you’re here. That alone will bring him here. It looks like the archeology dig is back open for business.”

  “Hopefully that journalistic curiosity will get Claire Linton in too, and then we can keep her safe. Immigration reports say she’s here to do a story.” He sighe
d and rubbed the back of his neck. “For now at least the Buddha’s out of her hands.” Christ, he was tired. He looked down at the mural that was still mostly encased in dirt. The artifact was part of the small, forgotten dig they had commandeered exactly sixteen months ago. He shook his head. “It’s not worth much.”

  “Which explains why it’s still here,” Arun said. “Speaking of which, I should make a duplicate of the Buddha before someone comes sniffing around.”

  “No time, Arun.”

  “We’ll see,” Arun said. “This Claire, does Interpol know of her?”

  “Not a word. And I’m not going to tell them yet. Not unless it has some relevance.”

  His head ached and he’d already taken one antacid and two aspirin this morning. It took all his willpower not to track her down, make sure she was safe. But he needed her to come to him. It was now only a matter of time.

  “No worries. We’ll get Samnang this time. And the tourist, Claire . . . she’ll be fine. C’mon, pal, you know I’m right.”

  Simon closed his eyes, the pain fleeting as he thought of her. “We thought we were right once before, didn’t we?”

  “Simon,” Arun said patiently. “You did everything you could. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I should have killed Samnang then, Arun. I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

  “So you could rot in a jail cell or maybe have died too? Good choice.” The usual play in Arun’s voice was gone. “She died in the line of duty, doing what she loved. She got more involved than she should have, like us, but that was her nature. She was my sister but I have to say it, you’ve got to let her go.”

  Arun rose. “Let’s break for coffee. There’s nothing to do here anyway but wait.” Arun disappeared behind the shelter of ancient battered rocks, taking his knapsack with him to the lunchroom, as they jokingly called it.

  Arun stuck his head out from the alcove a few minutes later. “Jehoshaphat!” he said in an under-the-breath whisper and as quickly retreated.

  “Hello.”

  The voice was so soft Simon thought he could have dreamt it. But his eyes validated what his hearing didn’t. Sandaled feet, delicately painted toenails; the leather sandals were dusty, the kind sold in overpriced shoe stores. He followed the line up long, slim, yet well-toned legs and stopped where her blouse clung to full breasts. Simon realized he was staring and sheepishly raised his head to her face, which was half hidden by a ridiculously floppy Tilley hat.

  “Meets your approval?”

  Her voice was mellow and achingly familiar. But yet there was a tremor in her words that he didn’t remember from their earlier meeting and an almost frightened look in her eyes.

  It was her, Claire, and if he could have, he would have scooped her up and carried her to safety, preferably out of the country. It was imperative that she didn’t see Arun. Never had his thoughts been this scattered.

  “Didn’t you see the markers?” he demanded as he stood up, planting his feet hip distance apart in the middle of the aperture, hiding any possible view of Arun. He couldn’t help it she angered him and attracted him simultaneously.

  He kept his face blank. Let her guess whether he was playing a game or really didn’t remember her. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, since the hat and sunglasses covered most of her face.

  She scowled at him. “What are you doing here?” Her scowl deepened. “Markers?” She looked around. “I came in from the other way. How did you expect me to see them?”

  She had a point. Not that he was going to admit that to her.

  “Simon,” she acknowledged him. “I didn’t expect you here.”

  “For an archeologist, Cambodia is prime,” Simon replied. “I suppose I didn’t tell you that’s what I am.”

  “No.” Her smile was without humor. “As you know, it wasn’t that kind of meeting.” She stepped away from him, peering over his shoulder. “Is this a new dig?” Excitement laced through her voice. She came closer and squatted, balancing easily on her designer sandals. “What century, do you think?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen.

  “You expect to interview me now, here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m a journalist. Minot Post.” She pushed the hat back as if to see him better.

  He knew who she was. Oh yeah, he knew all about her, at least everything the authorities did, which wasn’t much. He squatted down beside her.

  She took her sunglasses off, squinting for a moment in the bright sunlight. She held out her free hand. “We meet again.”

  He rocked back on his heels and ignored her hand, and in that moment he felt the essence of her. Then she raised her rich, dark eyes to his. For a moment he staggered, lost his balance and dropped a hand to the ground. A squat that had served him for hours, scrounging on hard-packed ground, sifting through dirt and man’s history, failed him.

  Behind him, Arun chuckled.

  “What was that?” She peered over his shoulder.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Or maybe no one?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Okay, your call. Is this a government dig?”

  “Where’s your group?” he almost snapped, trying desperately to dodge the question and the attraction. Instinctively, he knew indifference would spark her curiosity, reel her in, keep her close. His gaze locked with hers.

  “Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to wander around without a guide?” All he could think of were the women who had been recruited here to carry antiques, and more importantly, of the ones that had died here.

  “Group? Guide?” Her voice carried a laugh.

  “Stumbling around in the countryside, you could have tripped a land mine.”

  He stood up.

  She followed.

  She took a step closer, too close, uncomfortably close. He hadn’t imagined the slight softening of her mouth, or the knowing look in her eyes. It might be subtle, it might even be subconscious, but it was an invitation.

  He couldn’t help it. He’d been aching for this since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, since the first time he’d held her and may well have saved her life. His hands settled on her shoulders and he leaned down and kissed her. She tasted of sweetness and warmth—honey in a strange and tantalizing way. He wanted more but it was only seconds before she shoved him away.

  “Like I said, stay with the groups,” he said as if it hadn’t happened. As if his heart wasn’t thumping in an erratic beat that only wanted to turn up the heat. As if he only wanted to forget Arun, who had witnessed it all, and spread her out right here and make her his—that is, if she were willing.

  His thoughts were madness and yet she hadn’t smacked him for being too forward. She’d only taken one step back and looked slightly bemused.

  A slight cough.

  Arun.

  “Someone’s there.” She stepped sideways off the path.

  He wasn’t himself. He couldn’t think straight and what he did next only confirmed it.

  “Get off there!” he ordered, his voice unintentionally harsh.

  She hesitated. Her lips flattened. And he knew it was impossible, but he felt sparks in her gaze. He had the crazy urge to fold her against his chest and keep her forever.

  She ripped the ridiculous hat from her head. “What are you saying?”

  “Shall I be blunt?”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Apparently not. We’re in the midst of sensitive work here. Leave. You’re unauthorized.”

  She let out an unladylike snort and swung away, her long legs carrying her easily and provocatively away.

  Simon wiped the sweat that gathered on his forehead and watched her until she was safely out of sight.

  “She’ll be back,” Arun said as he came up beside him.

  “Thank God she didn’t see you.”

  Arun rubbed his calf. “My leg is cramping, lover boy. Any more charming and she would have shot you. What the hell got into you? That’s not like you at a
ll. Jeez, I bit my tongue a couple of times. Did you stay awake last night thinking up those things?”

  Simon trailed his hand along the night’s overgrowth of whiskers and dust.

  “She’s gorgeous.” Arun grinned.

  “Now who’s infatuated?”

  “Not my type.”

  “Too gorgeous for you?”

  “No, too yours.” Arun’s smile was wicked. “Look, I’m off to meet with the pencil pushers late tomorrow afternoon. Maybe they have something more to help us. Meantime, keep an eye on things and on our new wild card . . .”

  “Claire. She’s not the type to give up that easily. Good thing. I need to find out what she’s about.”

  “That girl’s in trouble,” Arun muttered. “One way or the other, Simon or Samnang.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Arun, thank God. Where the hell have you been?” Simon took a sip of coffee. It seemed like days had passed and yet it was only a day since Arun had left. “I thought you’d call as soon as you landed.”

  “Got caught up in a traffic crunch, phone didn’t work in the airport. The list goes on. Anyway, you know where I’ve been, still am.”

  “Yeah, I know Phnom Penh, since last night. Hopefully getting some of those answers that seem to be alluding us here.” Simon drew a hand through his hair. It was hotter than yesterday, if that was possible. “How much longer?”

  “Another few days, then maybe . . .”

  Simon sucked in a breath. He’d have to be patient. Keep an eye out for Samnang and a watch on Claire on his own. There was no other choice. If anyone could ferret out what central office might or might not know, it was Arun. “And there’s the matter of the souvenir. Where is it?” Simon thought of the Buddha. He needed to know where the hell it was.

  “Breathe, my friend. All’s well on that front. Give not another thought to the souvenir.” Arun drawled out the last word. “I’ll be back . . . soon. Remember, most of the plan is really only one big waiting game.”