The Deceivers (18 page)

Chantrea said, “I'm leaving in two days and meeting up with Kirk halfway to Angkor so we can caravan. The road's mostly safe and caravanning makes it even safer. Why don't you come along with me? I could use the company.”

“There's one thing driving will give you that a one-hour flight at twenty thousand feet won't,” Kirk said.

“What?” I asked.

“An adventure that lets you see the real Cambodia, jungle and farmland, much of which hasn't changed in eons.”

“I like that part, but I usually find that adventures are fun memories only after I survived them in one piece. What are the dangers?”

He shrugged. “The usual warlords, bandits, land mines, two hundred miles of oxen wandering out onto the roadway, and buses that don't stay on their side of the road. But you only live once.”

“That's the point,” I said.

“Okay, I'm exaggerating, but there are a few adventures en route. To be honest, it wasn't that long ago the area was a hot bed of Khmer Rouge and just plain bandits. But the government has it pretty well cleaned up.”

“It's safe,” Chantrea said. “The most common hazards are pigs and oxen that think they own the road. I make the trip every couple of months and the worst I've run into were tire blowouts and getting stuck in the mud when I hit a rainstorm. I wouldn't make the trip unless it was safe. I'll be driving an official car and Kirk's SUV is known everywhere in the country. No one wants to mess with the great land mine hunter … he's needed too often. Besides, he's known to be armed and dangerous.”

I didn't want to be a chicken. And the idea of flying on a third world airline wasn't appealing. “I'm game for it. If you don't mind—”

“I'd love to have you along,” Chantrea said again. “I'll explain everything you want to know about Khmer art along the way. We'll even see some sites.”

“Great. I'd love to see the art in its natural environment.”

Chantrea smiled and shook her head. “Some people would say that the natural environment of our art has become the back of a smuggler's truck. The market for stolen antiquities is so hot that men who once smuggled heroin now use power saws to slice off pieces of our national heritage as if they're cutting cords of wood.”

The nightmare image of Bullock sawing away at a temple suddenly came back in my head.

*   *   *

WHEN KIRK ESCORTED
me back to my hotel, again at his insistence, I didn't resist. I had watched him and Chantrea together that evening and couldn't see any lovey-dovey glances or secret gestures so I assumed nothing was going on between the two of them but I still wasn't totally convinced.

As we got off the elevator I said, “Chantrea is very nice.”

“Yes, she is.”

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Not that long.”

“Does she have a man in her life?”

“I honestly don't know. Why all the questions about Chantrea?”

“Just curious. She seems to like you.”

“I like her, too.” He suddenly stopped and put his hand on my arm. “Wait a minute, do you think her and I have something going on?”

“Well, I wasn't sure. I didn't want to butt in if—”

“No, we're just friends, that's all.”

“Okay, that's good to know.”

When we got to my door, he took me in his arms and said in a low voice, “Are you going to invite me in tonight?”

A whiff of musky aftershave lotion filled my nostrils as he nuzzled my ear. It sent goose bumps down my back. “I promise not to stay too long,” he said, smothering my neck with kisses.

“Oh, I'm not worried about that,” and kissed him on the mouth.

He ended up staying the night.

After an hour of intense raw sex, I fell asleep in his arms with my back cuddled against his chest.

Sometime during the night, I dreamed that Kirk and I were high atop a temple at Angkor Wat. No one was around. I was lying spread-eagled on a flat smooth surface on my stomach, the warm sun radiating on my naked body. I felt his hard member brushing against my behind, and I arched my rear higher, eager for him to enter me. His thumb massaged my sensitive clitoris, slowly at first, teasing, then firmer and more urgent until I couldn't stand it anymore. “Go in me now,” I moaned.

I shuddered and climaxed as he rammed like a wild animal, until he, too, collapsed on top of me.

18

I awoke the next morning totally rested and relaxed, feeling better than I'd felt in months. I should be ashamed that orgasms did more for my physical and mental health than jogging and yoga, but I was shameless.

I stretched my arms and opened my eyes to find Kirk sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning down at me.

He saluted me with a cup of coffee. “Morning.”

“Good morning. You're up early.”

“It's not that early. It's almost eight. I was going to leave at the crack of dawn to beat the heat, but I guess I had too good a time last night. I couldn't drag myself out of bed.” He was already dressed.

I sat up and pulled the sheet over my naked breasts. “Why didn't you wake me earlier?”

“You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't want to disturb you. I was about to leave you a note.”

I leaned back on the pillow and smiled. “I had a great time last night, too. I had a weird dream that you and I had sex on top of a temple.”

“Well, we did have sex in the wee hours, but it wasn't on top of a temple.”

“We did?”

“I was horny for you.”

“I must have really been out of it.”

“Uh huh, you didn't even wake up.”

“Do you really have to go?”

“Yes, I really do. People are expecting me.” He got up and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Although I'd much rather get in bed with you.”

I patted the bed beside me and smiled at him.

“No, I'll never get out of here.”

“I think you should stay.”

Even though we had spent the night together and had sex, I suddenly felt a little embarrassed by my nakedness. I grabbed my tank top that was lying on the floor and put it on.

“I have to go. There's a land mine out there waiting for someone to step on, and I have to get to it. I'll see you and Chantrea sometime tomorrow, probably about midday.”

“There must be a less dangerous way to make a living.”

“You should ask yourself the same thing.”

That was a strange remark. “What do you mean?”

“Hunting for art in the backwaters of Southeast Asia has to carry some risk. I ordered breakfast for you. Are you hungry?”

“Actually, I am.”

“Stay in bed, I'll get it.”

I stared at his back as he got a tray of food that was sitting on a small table. I was still taken back by his comment about my dangerous line of work. And I didn't buy his response. Buying art in the open in Cambodia wasn't inherently dangerous—buying it as an undercover police agent was.

I gave him a big smile as he brought back the tray.

“Wow. Breakfast in bed! How nice.”

“I thought you'd like it.”

In one basket was an assortment of breads and miniature muffins. Another basket contained jams and butter. Slices of fresh papaya, pineapple, and mangoes were arranged artfully on a small plate. He poured coffee in my cup.

“Eat already?” I asked.

“I'm not a big breakfast eater.”

Instead of leaving, he sat down on the bed again. He looked a little pensive and subdued as I spread jam on a piece of bread. Something was on his mind.

“Is anything wrong? You look like you want to tell me something.”

He waited a moment before answering. “You should go home.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you—”

“I heard what you said, but why are you saying it?”

He shook his head. “I get the impression that you're not here just for a little R & R and to pick up legally exportable art, the tourist grade stuff. Something in your body language. You're too cautious and careful about what comes out of your mouth, too. Bullock spotted it, that business about not revealing that you were also in the art business.”

“He's an ass. I had enough of him in the short time I talked to him on the plane. I didn't want to spend hours chitchatting with him about art.”

“I don't blame you there.”

“If you don't think I'm here for art—”

“I didn't say that. My concern is that you might try to get an artifact out of the country, thinking you can slip it past customs officers for a few bucks. The customs people are corrupt, but it's not done openly like that. Trying it would guarantee you a one-way ticket to a Cambodian prison.”

“Look, I'm here to enjoy myself. So far I've done all the touristy things, the museum, the Royal Palace, eaten Cambodian food. And now I'm going to see Angkor Wat. I don't intend to steal any national treasures.”

He didn't say anything.

“Kirk, like everyone else, I came to see Angkor. But I have a personal reason, too. My father was an art teacher who wanted to be Indiana Jones. He talked about Angkor Wat but never saw it. I'm not leaving until I see it.”

I paused for a response from him but he was still quiet.

“Is that the real reason you want me to go home? Because you're afraid I'll try to smuggle out something?”

He sighed and said, “I guess I'm just worried about you wandering around and something happening to you. Nom Pen's okay, but not the safest place in the world for a woman alone.”

“I wasn't born yesterday, you know. I'm aware of all the perversion and corruption going on around this place and I know better than to be out after dark alone.” I grinned. “I even know to carry my purse on the building side of sidewalks and cross streets with monks.”

“Wow. I guess that makes you a real pro.”

“I had a good teacher.”

I pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. “Are you sure you don't want to join me for breakfast in bed.”

“Gotta go. Just be careful.”

“Hey, a lot of tourists come here and nothing happens to them. I want to see things just like everyone else.” I picked up a muffin and took a bite. “It's good.”

He glanced at his watch. “Why do I get the feeling you're not taking me seriously?”

“Oh, but I am. It's a dangerous place with dangerous people playing dangerous games.” And I wondered if he was one of them.

He kissed me on the forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow.” Before he closed the door behind him, he turned and smiled. “Just for the record, I like you better with your top off.”

Something told me to hold back the truth from Kirk about what I was doing in the city. My intuition was screaming not to trust him. I liked him but something wasn't right. He was too concerned about me. That made me wonder why … unless he knew something I didn't know.

Stopping the purse-snatcher had not been faked. The blow caught the thief entirely by surprise. But that didn't mean it was a coincidence that Kirk had been on the street behind me at that moment. He could have been following me.

I didn't know what to think. I had just made love to the man and would have done it again if he had stayed. Yet I wasn't sure I could trust him.

Something was rotten in Denmark and I think my attraction to the wrong kind of man was part of the stink.

I got up and headed for the shower. It was my day to visit the notorious Killing Fields.

When I passed through the lobby the concierge asked if he could get me a taxi. I lied and told him I'd rather walk. I was afraid I'd be followed to the exhibit and be seen talking to Rim Nol. I decided to grab street transportation.

On Monivong, I bought a straw hat to protect me from the sun and then boarded a motorcycle-rickshaw pulling a small cart that had a canvas-topped seat compartment. Pho had called it a tuk-tuk.

I hoped I chose a driver who was honest. When Kirk was giving me a laundry list of the city's ills, he told about the time he was returning to his hotel one night in a moto when the driver detoured and took him on a side street. The driver stopped and told Kirk he wasn't going to take him back to his hotel until Kirk handed over twenty U.S. dollars. Obviously, the driver picked on the wrong foreigner. He got a beating rather than dollars.

I showed the driver the picture of the Killing Fields monument I'd ripped out of my guidebook. He got the idea.

The Choeung Ek exhibit was only about ten miles out of town but the going was slow, with the streets choked with traffic. By the time we reached the area down a pockmarked road, I was coated with sticky heat and dust. A regular taxi would have been better, but I told myself it was more exciting going native. It just didn't feel like fun.

Small children and an older man with a leg and one hand missing were begging at the entrance. Cambodia's atrocious land mine heritage brought home my mother's admonition not to complain if I have no shoes because some people had no feet.

I spotted Rim Nol as I followed a path toward a tall, pagoda-style tower that had become the symbol of the exhibit.

After a cordial greeting, he walked beside me toward the tower. I didn't see any other large buildings and asked where the prison was located.

“Choeung Ek and other places we call Killing Fields were not prisons, though those existed, too. One of the most brutal prisons, Tuol Sleng, had been a high school. It's now a genocide museum in Phnom Penh. The Killing Fields were places people were brought solely to be murdered. Open fields worked well for the Khmer Rouge because there were so many victims that mass graves were used.”

“For political crimes?”

“Few were killed for reasons as commonplace as political crimes or even any violation of law. My wife was killed because she was a schoolteacher and educated. My father was killed because he wore eyeglasses. To the peasants who comprised much of the Khmer army, people who wore glasses were intellectuals.” He touched his glasses. “I broke my glasses during the exodus when hundreds of thousands of people in the capital were forced into the countryside. That is why I was not killed as an intellectual.”