The Deceivers (26 page)

I wanted to resist him, but my body controlled my mind again. I didn't want to make love with him since I would be sleeping with the enemy. But I was still attracted to him, and when it came to sex, great sex, I was a weak person. Maybe I was the one that had a problem.

Damn it. Why did he have to turn out to be a rat?

28

Bourey lived two miles from the Angkor site in a small two-room house with conventional wood walls and a bamboo roof. The house had electricity but no plumbing or phone. A bicycle was his only means of transportation.

Like most older Cambodians, his loss during the horrific Khmer Rouge years had been tragic, losing both his wife and child in 1976 to the excesses of the brutal regime. He remarried ten years later but lost his second wife to cancer.

He lived a simple life of guiding and chatting with tourists at Angkor, working the vegetable garden in his backyard, and once a week playing cards and drinking a homemade brew with old friends. Most of his life had been spent associated with the antiquity site. When he was younger he worked to clear the monuments from centuries of jungle growth. As he grew too old for hard labor, he worked with the restoration group that did more delicate work with the ancient images. Because of his familiarity with the temples, becoming a guide was a natural evolution for him.

Late in life, he went through another evolution of spirit and purpose. Rather than be a passive observer of the damage done by avaricious looters to his nation's cultural treasures, he became an active participant in stopping the genocide of Cambodia art.

Like his friend Rim Nol in Phnom Penh, whom he shared fear and misery with in a Khmer Rouge camp during the insane days when Pol Pot ran the country, he was a patriot of his country. Both men recognized that only a great people could have built a temple complex recognized as one of the great wonders of mankind. They wanted those wonders preserved for future generations and not taken by rapacious thieves of culture.

It was Nol who had first approached Bourey about making a contribution to the protection of artifacts. Nol had made contact with an administrator in the Ministry of Culture who was also concerned with the looting. He had gone to the man with suspicions about thievery at the National Museum. With the administrator's encouragement, Nol recruited his friend at Angkor Wat, another at Angkor Thom and other key antiquities sites. They were an unarmed, unauthorized, unofficial group who lacked everything but courage and resolve.

The morning after he showed the American Madison Dupre some of the wonders of Angkor by night, he rode his bicycle to the local marketplace where a phone in the back of a fish shop could be used for a small fee. He called Rim Nol in Phnom Penh to tell him of his meeting with the woman and to ask his advice as to whether she should be told their suspicions about what was actually happening to the finest Khmer art in the country.

“I agree with you that she is a sincere person,” Bourey told his friend over the telephone. “But we must move cautiously. She doesn't understand the political dynamics of our country. She may say something innocently that will reveal our investigation.”

Rim Nol concurred but didn't want her to stop from progressing with her own investigation. “As a foreigner, she has more protection in asking questions than we do, but even a foreigner is not immune to disappearing, never to be seen again. I have let her know that something is amiss and that those she socializes with are not her friends. I think she realizes the power of the forces that she is offending, but we must let her know just how much danger she is in.”

*   *   *

BOUREY ARRIVED EARLY
at Angkor the next morning. Early risers were already taking photographs of the complex in the rising sun, but hordes of tourists arriving like tsunami waves would not begin until later. He skipped his morning exercise group because he had received a message to report to the supervisor of guides. It wasn't the first time he had been instructed to report early to the supervisor. Sometimes it was for instructions on changes in procedures, but usually it was to give a special tour to a VIP. He didn't like giving tours to important people because the tourists were much more generous than VIPs, most of whom never bothered to reward him with a gratuity. Important people lived in a different universe than those who had to earn their rice.

The supervisor said, “You have a special assignment this morning. An important American art expert. He wants to get started before the gates open.”

“I already have a customer, also an American art expert. I gave her a tour last night and made arrangements to guide her again today.”

The supervisor waved away his objection. “Another guide can serve her. You have been requested by this American. You should be pleased that your worth as a guide is recognized.”

“But I promised the woman—”

The supervisor pointed up. “The instruction that you serve this American man came from the gods atop Mount Meru. Now go, he's waiting outside. He wants to get started before the tourists begin arriving. Perhaps he will only need a short tour and then you can still serve your tourist.”

There was no arguing with the supervisor. When the orders came from Mount Meru—meaning a high-ranking Angkor executive—refusal was not an option. He had no faith in the supervisor's prediction that the art expert would want a quick tour. Art experts took much more time that ordinary tourists.

His customer was waiting outside. About fifty years old, the man was unhealthy from what Bourey called a form of food poisoning—eating rich foods to excess. His skin was as pallid as a fish's belly.

Everything about the man offended Bourey's sense of peace, tranquility, and spiritual path. People who led bad lives suffered negative rebirths. This man was the product of a bad past life and a bad current one.

Bourey had seen him before at the site a number of times, but he had never used a guide. The man had once rebuked one of their guides claiming that he knew more about Khmer art than the Angkor guides.

Bourey introduced himself.

“Bullock,” the man replied. “I won't be taking up much of your time. I just need an interpretation of a relief near the top of the main tower. Let's get going. I want this done before the great unwashed masses arrive.”

As they walked, Bourey noticed that two off-duty park officers followed behind them.

29

The rising sun was spectacular over Angkor, but the red tint made me wonder again about my karma. Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Not a good sign from the heavens.

No sign of Bourey was the first indication that all was not right. I wondered if I had misjudged him. As with Rim Nol, I had been reading between the lines of his remarks. I was positive that Bourey was planning to share a confidence with me.

I shook my head and told myself that he had to have a good reason for not being there. Flat tire, dead battery, stomachache. Anything could be possible. But my excuses didn't work because my gut told me something was wrong.

My paranoia spiked earlier when Kirk sneaked out before dawn. He knew I was getting up early, too, to see the sunrise, but he had left without waking me. I pretended to be asleep as I watched him gather up his stuff. He hadn't left anything … which meant he didn't plan on coming back. It seemed odd that he left no note, either.

He had left like a thief in the night. He knew I was planning on checking into a hotel in Siem Reap later today. If he cared about me, wouldn't he want to know where I'd be staying or recommend a place where I should stay?

After what I witnessed in the brush last night, a thief in the night pretty well summed up his character, anyway.

I told myself I should be happy he'd cut out. It wouldn't be long before I would have to accuse him of being a looter. I refused to think of what would happen to him when I did that. Or what he would do to me.

I waited half an hour at the foot of the causeway and then went to the hut where the supervisor of guides held court.

“Not available today. Special assignment. I will get you the best guide in all Angkor.”

I turned down the best guide in Angkor and made my way to the temple complex hoping I would see Bourey. My paranoia was running high. “Special assignment” didn't set right with me. He had promised to meet with me. It sounded too much like somebody high up had jerked him out of my reach.

The only somebody I knew who could do that was Chantrea.

Kirk was a temple looter. Chantrea was a temple administrator. The two really didn't mix, not unless they were working together.

Jesus. What a complicated mess! Cambodia had more intrigues than the
Sopranos
.

I wandered in, looking for Bourey. It was a big complex. What had he said? The biggest religious monument in the world. Even if he was here, I might not see him. And I wasn't sure he was still at Angkor Wat. The wat was just a small part of an archaeological site that ran miles in every direction. If the motive was to keep him away from me, they could have sent him miles away to any one of a dozen areas in the park.

He could be anywhere. Which at the moment left me nowhere.

I could go on and enjoy one of the great archaeological monuments on the planet, except that I couldn't think of anything but the fact that I seemed to do nothing but screw up. I had been in Phnom Penh and now Angkor Wat and I had accomplished nothing.

I could spend days roaming Angkor, but I was undecided as to whether to turn around and take a taxi to the airport and go back to New York and hole up in my apartment … or go back to Phnom Penh and start all over.

I decided not to give up until I made sure nothing had happened to Bourey. Besides, I was a weak person when it came to antiquities. I was in the midst of a cornucopia of some of the world's best art. There were a million things I wanted to see. I wanted to see everything. I opened my guidebook and started reading about a relief that related the tales of the
Ramayana,
the epic account of Rama's search for his wife, Sita. The wife, Sita, had been kidnapped by a demon king. There were wars and intrigue and—

I heard a shout, more like a cry of fear, and looked up to the great central tower, the same tower that Bourey was planning to take me up. In one of the doorlike openings a man stood, pausing as if in slow motion. I don't know why but it reminded me of someone getting ready to jump. I just stared at him, mentally telling him not to do it.

Then he came out, all the way, over the edge, flying off the temple like a giant heavenly bird.

I heard the thump as he hit the ground. I ran over to the crumpled body. It was Bourey. His mouth opened to take a breath, then collapsed. It was his last gasp.

*   *   *

I LEFT THE
site immediately and checked into a hotel in Siem Reap. I tried to call Rim Nol at the National Museum to tell him about his friend but was told he was out sick.

I didn't tell the person who answered the museum phone who I was out of fear that I would compromise Nol. Nol would know soon enough anyway.

I was sick and scared. Sick for poor Bourey. Frightened for myself.

An accident was the reason put out by the Angkor authorities. The hotel concierge heard radio news reporting Bourey stumbled and fell when he was showing a customer the upper level of the central tower.

Accidents happen.

But I didn't believe it was an accident. Bourey was too competent a guide.

He also fell from where he had planned to take me.

It didn't take long for me to figure out my next move: get out of the country as fast as I could.

I had the concierge make a reservation for me on a flight to Hong Kong from the Angkor airport. He claimed it was a busy and safe airport.

So much for my road trip to avoid the dangers of third world flying.

My excuse for going to Hong Kong was to follow the money. A good reason. I needed a fresh lead, but more than anything else I needed to get away and clear my head and recharge my courage.

I felt I'd worn out my welcome in Cambodia, fallen from grace with the country. So much greatness, so much gentleness, a land that could produce the likes of ancient Angkor and modern men like Nol and Bourey. But so much savageness.

I called Michelangelo in New York. I wanted to talk to someone in authority who knew where I was in Cambodia and could help me if I suddenly became a statistic.

I didn't tell him everything. In New York he said he was cooperating with Ranar and the Cambodian authorities investigating the looting and smuggling. He could very well say something that could get back to people in the government who were in league with the criminals. Ranar himself could be that person. That meant I couldn't relate my suspicions about Bourey's death. Too much chance that it would bring trouble to Rim Nol and myself.

“What do you think of Cambodia?” he asked.

“The people here are gracious and wonderful, but the corruption is incredible. Even the innocent have to keep their mouths shut because there's no protection against retribution. There are ads in the local paper by people who negotiate with kidnappers for the families of victims. If you don't hear from me every couple of days, send the Marines.”

“They wouldn't be too welcome. The last time the American military went to Cambodia they dropped about a million bombs. Have you made any progress?”

I told him about the piece with the half-moon on it in Sinn's shop. “There's a disreputable art dealer named Bullock from San Francisco living here. From what I hear, he's also what they call a sexpat instead of expatriate. He specializes in molesting children when he's not dealing in contraband art.”

Michelangelo said he would check him out.

As usual, I didn't have any problem throwing Bullock to the wolves. I was almost angry enough at Kirk to include him, but I opted out at the last moment.

“Actually, I called to get some information about the woman who sold the Siva at the New York auction.”