The Deceivers (12 page)

“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 him 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. D
EPARTMENT OF
S
TATE

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.

Pickpockets and beggars are also present in the markets and at the tourist sites. Persons visiting Cambodia should practice sound personal security awareness by varying their routes and routines, maintaining a low profile, not carrying or displaying large amounts of cash, not wearing flashy or expensive jewelry, and not walking the streets alone after dark. Travelers should be particularly vigilant at tourist sites in Phnom Penh, Siem Reap, and Sihanoukville, where there have been a marked increase in motorcycle “snatch and grab” thefts of bags and purses. In addition, we recommend that Americans travel by automobile and not use local moto-taxies or cyclos for transportation. These vehicles are more vulnerable to armed robberies and offer no protection against injury when involved in traffic accidents.

[Consular Information Sheets can be accessed at
http://travel.state.gov/travel
]

13

Phnom Penh

Pa-nom-pen
. With a guidebook open in my lap, I practiced the pronunciation of the city's name silently to myself during my flight to the capital of Cambodia.

After having spent sixteen hours on the plane from New York to Hong Kong, then adding on another twelve hours for the time change, by the time I arrived in Hong Kong I was in a haze. The long flight exhausted me. Since I couldn't afford the luxury of first class or even business class anymore I was stuck in the cramped coach section. It was bad news all the way around. The plane was full, so no empty seats were available to stretch out on.

God … I'd forgotten what it was like to be squashed in a center seat with elbows on both sides, my knees almost up to my chin while I breathed recycled air. I'm certain I saw Ebola and other nasty things crawling out of the vents.

The food was edible only because I was trapped in a plane. The clever person to my right in the prized aisle seat—that my last-minute, Internet economy ticket didn't entitle me to—had brought a deep dish pepperoni and cheese pizza aboard. As I stared at my airplane food, something called Chicken Milano, wondering if the chicken had come from an egg or a test tube while the smell of pizza made me delirious, I was tempted to beg for a piece of the pizza.