Refusing to commit, I left the offer on the table, literally, and fled in a taxi to home and bed. I should have said no, but instead I said I had to think about it. It wasn’t just money being offered, it was my salvation. If I helped break a big smuggling ring, I might even generate publicity that would cleanse my name in the art world. Of course, the same caveat kept coming back at me: It wasn’t worth it unless I was alive to collect.
Leaving my apartment, I headed around the corner along Canal to Mulberry and down to Bayard Street in Chinatown. I needed two things to help me think—an ice cream cone from the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory and a Chinese foot rub.
Both the ice cream and the rub were soul-soothing. At a time in my life when Thai takeout was my idea of splurging on dinner, little things like a foot rub took the place of jumping into a plane on impulse for a weekend at a five-star spa hotel in Bermuda.
I had to admit, living where Chinatown, Little Italy, and Soho bumped into each other was never dull because of the energy that constantly flowed on the streets: a babble of languages everywhere, ethnic restaurants, trendy and funky boutiques along places that sold used clothes, designer stores, art galleries, dozens of tourist shops, street vendors hawking their wares … It was all around me, alive and teeming with energy.
Chinatown was a city within a city, like a piece of old town Shanghai had been transported here. Locals crowded into the vendor shops each day to select their vegetables, fruit, spices, fresh fish, and meat. The freshest fish was still flapping when you bought it. I had found a dim sum restaurant that was cheap and good, right across the street from an ice cream factory that made the best homemade ice cream. My favorite flavor was Zen Butter made with peanut butter and toasted sesame seeds.
As I licked my cone and dodged people on the crowded sidewalk, I wondered why Detective Anthony had been more gung ho than Ranar to send me undercover to Cambodia. I could tell from Ranar’s body language that he wasn’t enthused about the idea. I didn’t know whether it was because I was a foreigner who could get hurt … or he didn’t want any more of the dirty underbelly of his country exposed. I had a feeling that my life rated rather less than national face.
One thing I was sure of … Detective Anthony wasn’t going to force me to go undercover in some godforsaken place under threat of arrest. He had nothing on me or he would have pressed charges. I had deduced that all by myself. Figuring out cops was something I was getting good at … no doubt a talent linked to my experience narrowly escaping criminal charges.
I called Bolger before I stepped into the foot rub parlor. After giving him an overview of my adventures in the alley and under police interrogation—his cold silence signaling “I told you so”—I asked for a favor.
“Can you check the Internet and tell me anything about a Prince Ranar.”
“What kind of prince is he?”
“Cambodian. Deputy minister for cultural security, something like that.”
“You know, you really should get into the Internet yourself.”
“I know, I will, but then I wouldn’t have the fun of bugging you.”
“What are you getting yourself into now? Do you plan to give your Thai mafia friends another chance to kill you?”
“I’ll be careful.”
I hung up in the middle of his loud, unpleasant burst of laughter.
* * *
WITH MY HEAD back and my eyes closed, I tried to shut down my mind and just listen to the petite Chinese woman’s birdlike humming as she massaged my feet. I really missed the days when I got a full massage three times a week. And didn’t have to worry about risking my life to earn a living.
My quiet moment was shattered by my cell phone ringing. I’d forgotten to turn it off. The Chinese lady didn’t miss a beat in her song or the pressure points on the bottom of my feet. I thought it was going to be Bolger already, but I didn’t recognize the number and hesitated answering, wondering if it could be a bill collector. I let it go into voice mail and checked it—Michelangelo the cop.
“Call me.” That was it. Charming bastard. But sexy.
He answered my call with a “Yeah?”
“You called me,” I said.
“Yeah. Have you told his highness yet that you’re going to take his offer?”
“Detective Anthony, I am still considering all the national and international ramifications of—”
“Your bill collectors?”
Bastard. “When I finally come to a decision, I’ll be sure and let you know … when and if I get around to it.”
“Listen, Dupre, I’m cutting you some slack here. There’s a federal agent who called and said he’d love to kick the chair out from under your feet if I could put a rope around your neck.”
That was an understatement. I could guess who called him. The FBI agent had tried to lynch me over the Babylonian mask. “And why are you being so gracious?”
“Well, first of all, I’m a sucker for a good-looking woman.”
He paused to let that comment tickle my ego for a moment—which it did.
“And I don’t like crooks messing around with art. Drugs, whores, gambling, that’s where crooks should keep their noses. But art, that’s culture. It’s not a place for thugs and punks.”
“Your feelings about art endear you to me … almost. If we could just add some manners and a little grace to that ax murderer personality of yours, you would be almost likable. As it is you’re…”
He stood in the doorway grinning at me, the phone still to his ear.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Taking you to lunch.”
I waited until I’d left the foot massage place before I made an accusation. “You’ve had me followed. Otherwise you wouldn’t have known where I was.”
He shook his head. “You overrate your importance. In a world where terrorism takes number one priority, camel-jockey cabdrivers take precedent over mafia dons at being tailed. I was on my way to drop off a painting at a Soho art gallery when I saw you go into the foot rub joint.”
“Something you painted?”
“Yeah. Wanna see it? It’s in my car.”
His unmarked car was parked in front of a fire hydrant. He opened the trunk and removed a bedsheet wrapped around the painting.
“Self-portrait,” he said.
It was indeed. But the swirling, chaotic brushstrokes and intense colors—his blond hair was almost orange on the canvas—was more Van Gogh than his namesake Michelangelo. And it wasn’t very good. I wouldn’t have recognized it as a self-portrait.
“Very nice,” I lied.
“You really think so?” He wrapped it back up. “Better not tell you where it’s gonna hang. Considering your habits, you might steal it.”
So much for my compliment. “You did leave out one thing.”
“What?”
“Your horns.”
“I guess I deserve that. And you deserve lunch. There’s a dim sum and then some place down the street. Best Shanghai dumplings on the planet.”
* * *
THE RESTAURANT TURNED out to be one of my favorites. I poured myself hot tea, he ordered a Tsingtao Chinese beer—no glass.
He toasted me with the bottle. “May you reach heaven an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”
“Old Irish toast?”
He looked at me, surprised.
“Exactly. Told to me by a priest. I was a choirboy, you know. Before I grew horns.” He took a swig. “I guess you think I’m riding you.”
“Why should I think that? Just because you’re coercing me to go to one of the most dangerous places on the planet to rat out murderous criminals? No, I don’t think you’re riding me, I think I did something to you in a past life and now you’re going to pay me back by getting me killed.”
He gave me a charming boyish grin. “I see that your brief interaction with Far Eastern art has given you karmic spirituality by osmosis. But getting you killed is an overstatement. It’s not quite that bad. Cambodia has
quite a tourist trade and—”
“A million land mines and smugglers robbing temples.”
“That, too, but you’re not going to be Angelina Jolie fighting tomb raiders. Phnom Penh, the capital, is civilized—more or less. You can have a great vacation, stay in a first-class hotel, hop over and see Angkor Wat, which I saw last year and loved…” He grinned. “And all you have to do is put out the word that you’re in the market for museum-quality pieces.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to send a cop over?”
“We did, but they cut off her ears and nose and sent them back to us.”
He howled at the look on my face.
“Just kidding, Maddy.”
“Bastard.”
He got serious. “I’m going to tell you why you’re a perfect fit for the job, it’s going to get you pissed, but you already know it.”
He didn’t have to spell it out.
“I come with the right credentials, that’s what you’re saying? I made one mistake in my entire life—”
“Fifty-five million worth. You’re famous in the world of art for having handled a world-class piece of art loot. The temple looters in Cambodia will flock to you.”
“You have an overworked imagination and are highly delusional if you think I’m a crook who will attract other crooks.” I smiled, sweetly. “In case you haven’t noticed, despite the best efforts of you and the FBI, I’m not wearing prison stripes. If you had any real evidence against me, instead of idle threats, you would have charged me. Instead, you malign my pristine reputation with baseless, malicious accusations.”
“Will you sleep with me?”
“Ah … now isn’t that a romantic approach. I’m touched. You didn’t even use the word ‘fuck.’ And Detective Anthony, Michelangelo, whatever your name is, I admit I was attracted to you … for a very short time, right up to the point where you tried to pin a crime on me that I didn’t commit and realized you want to get me killed in a foreign country. I have this strange aversion to men who give me a choice between a cell at Riker’s Island or getting my nose or whatever cut off.”
“You’re right.”
“About what? Give me a list.”
“My approach wasn’t romantic. And fucking was exactly what I had in mind, as opposed to candles and sweet nothings. I like to get right down to basics with women. And I’m willing to concede that you weren’t conspiring with the delivery guy. But that’s not what’s important right now.”
“It is to me.”
“You love art, much more than a guy like me who only dabbles in it. It’s your life. Even after you got knocked off your feet, you jumped right back into it. From what I’d heard, when you found out that fifty-five-mil piece was a cultural treasure that had been looted, you set out with the wrath of God to redeem it.”
“I see. You’ve found out that you can’t control me with threats, so you’ll try a little honey.”
“I’m just doing my job. What am I supposed to believe after you’d been handling a contraband Khmer piece shortly before I find you chasing a smuggler in an alley? I don’t recall hearing that you called 911 when you realized it was contraband?”
“All right, I love art. It’s the most important thing in my life.” I brushed hair off my forehead. “It’s my only love because I’ve never found a man yet that’s excited me as much as a good piece of art—pun intended. Let’s cut to the chase. You want me to go to Cambodia. You said you’ve been there?”
“Briefly. Saw Angkor. Phnom Penh’s just a smaller version of Bangkok. The Thais just hide the dirt better than the Cambodians. It’s safe enough.”
“I get the impression that Prince Ranar isn’t as enthused about me going to Cambodia as you are.”
“Ranar is afraid of stirring up the pot. His country’s already got a black eye in the international community for not cracking down on the looting of the country’s Khmer art. Far Eastern art is hot. And he walks a tightrope. There are people in high places in his country who are on the take and don’t want the trade to stop.”
“And you want me to step into this snake pit?”
“I want you to help put a stop to the destruction of the cultural heritage of a small, poor nation. A thousand years ago people worked pieces of stone into shapes of gods and kings. Sometimes they spent years, decades, on a single piece. In seconds, a tomb raider with a hammer and chisel breaks off a piece and destroys much more. They cut off the heads of statues and sell the heads.”
He put his hand on my knee. “The only way we can stop this destruction is do what the tomb raiders do to statues—cut off heads. The heads of the looters. We need to find out who’s behind it and stop them. We’re not going after the villager who makes a hundred dollars. It’s a year’s wages for them. That hundred-dollar piece sells for a thousand to a dealer in Bangkok. Ten thousand when it hits Hong Kong. And a hundred thousand when it’s sold in New York, London, or Tokyo.”
The hand under the table found my warm spot.
12
We were going up the steps to my apartment when my cell phone went off and I recognized Bolger’s number.
“Ranar has a vague, long-distant relationship to the Cambodian royal family,” he said.
I kept going up, Detective Anthony beside me, pawing and trying to kiss me as I tried to keep my voice neutral for Bolger. I hoped none of my neighbors stepped out of their apartments and caught the action.
“A bunch of people call themselves princes and princesses over there,” Bolger said. “Ranar’s made speeches at UNESCO and other cultural heritage conferences about the destruction of the cultural treasures of third world countries. Since Cambodia is right up there with post-invasion Iraq in terms of wholesale looting of antiquity sites, he no doubt qualifies as an expert on the subject.
“He’s half French, half Cambodian. His mother was French, an old plantation family, his father a big shot in the government until the commies took over and he was executed. Spent a bunch of years in Paris. Probably more cosmopolitan than most Cambodians.”
“Why the French connection?”
“Cambodia was a French colony, part of French Indochina until the 1950s. Had rich French rubber and other plantation owners. Some of the French stuck around even after the country became independent. The country still has a cultural connection to France. Ranar’s education in Paris is typical of rich Cambodians even today.
“By the way, I took a look at news reports of the present political situation in Cambodia. The stability is measured by how dominant the current dictator is. It’s a typical third world country with the usual problems of corruption, violence, and poverty.”
I thanked Bolger and hung up as I opened the apartment door with Anthony still pawing me. He was trying to take off my dress. Not a good idea in my hallway. He had all the subtle romantic finesse of a horny sixteen-year-old.
What was wrong with me? I was a thirty-something, sophisticated woman of the world, educated, ambitious, successful—before I fell from grace. And I loved being pawed by this guy who drank beer straight from the bottle, parked in front of fire hydrants, and had artistic credentials not far beyond paint-by-numbers.
What happened to that woman who expected champagne and diamonds before falling into bed with a man?
“Who were you talkin’ to?” he asked.
“Friend.”
He started to pick me up, and I stopped him and pointed at the bed.
“Small apartment,” I said.
“I have something big for you.”
Oh, God, what a dumb line.
He bent down and grabbed my dress and pulled it up over my head. My slip went off next. I was down to panties and bra and platform heels.
No class, I thought. Pure animal instincts. Why would a woman with class and worldly experience put up with this base sexual play? I could get as much relief from a vibrator. But not as much action. A vibrator just didn’t feel the same as a throbbing cock.
I’m a weak person, I thought as I helped h
im strip off the last of my clothes.
* * *
MY DETECTIVE LOVER left in the middle of the night. I slept for a couple hours, then woke up and stared up at the darkness, my mind racing. I always had a problem sleeping, even before my life started unraveling. I did my best thinking at night, working out problems that didn’t seem to have a solution in the light of day. Like instant replay with videotape, I also ran the mistakes I’d made back over in my mind, agonizing over them, wishing I could erase the tape and start over.
I slept until nearly noon and then called Bolger.
“I’m going to Cambodia,” I said.
“Are you insane? Must I look up the latest statistics on murder, rape, and pillage in the country?”
What could I say? I was being asked to save the world.
The world of art, at least.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
Bureau of Consular Affairs
Washington, D.C. 20520
Consular Information Sheet: CAMBODIA
CRIME: The Diplomatic Security Service rates the overall crime threat in Cambodia as critical. Street crime remains a serious concern in Cambodia. Military weapons and explosives remain readily available to criminals despite efforts by authorities to collect and destroy such weapons. Armed robberies occur frequently in Phnom Penh, and while not specifically targeted, foreign residents and visitors are among the victims. Victims of armed robberies are reminded that they should not resist and should surrender their valuables as any perceived resistance may be met with physical violence, including lethal force. Local police rarely investigate reports of crime against tourists and travelers should not expect to recover stolen items.
The U.S. Embassy advises its personnel who travel to the provinces to exercise extreme caution outside the provincial towns during the day and everywhere at night. Many rural parts of the country remain without effective policing. Individuals should avoid walking alone after dusk anywhere in Sihanoukville, and especially along the waterfront. Some of the beaches are secluded, and post has received reports in the past of women being attacked along the Sihanoukville waterfront during the evening hours. These security precautions should also be taken when visiting the Siem Reap (Angkor Wat) area.
The Deceivers Page 9