The Deceivers

by Harold Robbins

  I was surprised at how poor and undeveloped the city appeared. I’d read about it but it was still astonishing when I saw it in person. The roads were in bad repair and pockmarked with potholes. Open sewers ran down gutters and litter was strewn on sidewalks and streets. Most of the streets off the main thoroughfare appeared to be unpaved and dusty. Tenements looked ready to crumble in a minor earthquake. Sadly, most of the children I saw were barefoot, some naked, and some in ragged clothing.

  Contrasting this state of poverty was an ambiance of refinement to the city. French influence in architecture combined with traditional Cambodian styles added a certain exotic elegance to some of the buildings. The city was both ugly and quaint.

  I felt as if I had stepped onto another planet and I had: Welcome to the Third World.

  I always wondered what that expression meant other than it connoted an industrially underdeveloped country. If this was the third world, was the U.S. and other rich countries the first world? Who was the second world? I made a mental note to ask Bolger when I had a chance.

  Taking out several one-dollar bills, I stuffed them into my pocket so I wouldn’t have to fumble with my purse to pay the taxi and the hotel porters when I got to the hotel. Both Prince Ranar and my guidebook said that U.S. dollars were a common currency in Cambodia, along with the Cambodian riel. It took about four thousand riel to equal one dollar, so it was much easier for me to deal in terms of U.S. dollars than trying to convert riels into dollars. Dollars were so ubiquitous, prices were often listed in both riels and dollars.

  When the taxi pulled into the long, wide, circular driveway of the Raffles Le Royale hotel, things started looking up. The hotel was located in the heart of the city and about twenty minutes from the Pochentong International Airport. Lush greenery everywhere added a tropical atmosphere to the place.

  I was immediately greeted by hotel personnel and swept into an air-conditioned marble lobby with tall round arches and a French colonial ambiance. The lobby had tropical plants, art deco furnishings, and Cambodian objets d’art. Definitely old world charm.

  A cool, damp towel and a cold fruit drink with an alcohol kick was in my hand by the time I reached the front desk to register. Somewhere off the lobby, I heard the soothing and peaceful sound of a violin. I knew right off I was going to like this place.

  The hotel had three interconnecting wings and I chose to stay in the main building because I had read it had been restored a few years ago to its original architectural style. The establishment had been around since 1925 and frequented by an international clientele of royalty, dignitaries, writers, journalists, and adventurers.

  My room overlooked the garden in the courtyard. Although small, it was cozy and less expensive than the other rooms available. Again, I was thinking about what I could save from my per diem to survive on back home if I didn’t hit a jackpot in Cambodia.

  My room wasn’t luxurious but it still had a certain quaintness created by Cambodian art. I flopped onto the bed, spread my arms and legs, and sighed. I felt in the chips again. Then I dragged myself off the bed. I had work to do.

  I sorted out my things, hung up some clothes, took a shower, got dressed, and set out to see the city. I wasn’t ready to fake it in antique shops. I wanted to scope out things first.

  When I got down to the lobby, Pho, the concierge, advised me to take a regular taxi rather than the motorized chairs.

  “A taxi is much better for you,” he said with a big smile.

  “Those rickshaw things look interesting.”

  He explained that a tuk-tuk was a motorcycle pulling a small cart with seats, motos were motorcycles pushing a wheelchair-looking seat, and cyclos were pedaled bikes pushing a similar seat.

  Too much to remember. Rickshaws were good enough for me. “Are they safe?”

  He shrugged. “Not as safe as regular taxi.”

  I thanked him and told him the rickshaw looked like fun.

  He was scratching his head when I looked back over my shoulder. Another crazy tourist who could afford to ride a taxi and used poor people transportation because it was “more fun.”

  The hotel was close to Monivong, a major street that flowed down to the National Museum and other tourist attractions, so I didn’t mind walking the short distance. Even though I was a single woman, I felt there was safety in numbers—the streets were packed with people.

  Now that it was late afternoon, I figured it would be a little cooler when I stepped outside but I was wrong. The temperature felt the same as before. Wet, steaming hot.

  Coming onto Monivong Boulevard after leaving the hotel’s sanctuary, the pounding third world hit me with a vengeance. Drivers of the motorized and pedaled rickshaws chattered away in a mixture of broken pidgin English and Cambodian as I walked along the crowded street.

  “Hey, lady, cheap for you.”

  “You ride. Good price.”

  I shook my head and continued walking. I didn’t get far before I had beggar boys and girls at my heels pleading for money. There were too many to deal with and too many to ignore. I threw dollar bills behind me and the swarm of boys descended on the money like a pack of hungry young wolves. I almost ran to get away. It was a dichotomous scene: poor children begging on the sidewalk while expensive foreign cars drove by on the street.

  As I moved closer to the curb to avoid a legless man holding a sign written in French and English that said “Land Mine,” a young man on a motorcycle suddenly pulled up to the curb and grabbed my handbag, pulling me down as he jerked it away from me. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think, but my adrenaline immediately kicked in and I started up right after him.

  “Hey!” I yelled.

  He barely got going before a man ran into the street and smacked him in the face with his elbow, sending the thief flying backward off the bike. The man yelled something to the driver in Cambodian and picked up my bag. He handed it back to me as the driver got up, blood on his face from a bleeding nose. He pushed his motorcycle to get the engine going and left with a screech of tires and a cloud of black smoke.

  “This belongs to you.”

  My rescuer handed me my purse. His accent struck me as Scandinavian.

  “Thank you.”

  “I saw him eyeing you and knew what was coming.”

  I shook my head. “Does this happen a lot?”

  He grinned. “It happens most often to foreign women who walk close to the curb and don’t pay attention to where they’re going. Didn’t you read the section in your guidebook about crime in the city?”

  “I guess I forgot that part. Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  The thief had disappeared into the heavy street traffic.

  “Not unless you want to spend hours at a police station filling out meaningless forms in a language you don’t speak. Getting mugged in Phnom Penh is just one of the less touristy things that happen here to foreigners. You soon learn that you stay away from the curb when you walk and carry your belongings on the building side.”

  “I’ll remember that. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I do. You can have a drink with me.” He smiled and put out his hand. “Kirk Carlson.”

  “Madison Dupre.”

  I gave him a firm handshake and got one back.

  He didn’t have handsome Hollywood looks, but he certainly had a masculine and sensuous appeal. Short, blond, almost white hair, and a deep tan, he reminded me of Rutger Hauer, a Nordic type who played the killer android in Blade Runner, an old Harrison Ford movie that I had watched with my dad. But there was something quirky about his face. Looking close, I realized his face looked too perfect—like it had been wiped clean and put back on with plastic surgery.

  I must have been staring at him because he grinned and said, “Explosion. I was on a military bomb squad with NATO peacekeeping forces in Bosnia and I got too close to one of the bombs.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “I’m used to it. It happens a lot. But I have
to confess, I was much uglier before the slate got wiped clean.”

  His accent was tinged with a touch of foreign intrigue.

  “You’re lucky. The effect is sexy, if a bit menacing.”

  “Sexy and menacing. That’s the best description I’ve gotten. I think I’m going to like you.”

  I started walking with him beside me. “Amazing city. Very exotic, very dirty and crowded, but exciting.”

  I was about to step off a curb when he quickly pulled me back as a car shot by.

  “Wow, that’s twice in the same day. Three’s a charm.”

  “Three’s a charm?”

  “An old saying, three’s a charm, things happen in threes. I’ve had two already, so now…” I knew I was babbling, a little embarrassed for being so careless. “Never mind.”

  He shook a finger at me. “Pedestrians don’t have the right of way here, so don’t assume cars will stop. They won’t.”

  “So I’ve found out.”

  “Another piece of advice: If you have to cross and there’s traffic coming, wait and cross with a monk.”

  “A monk?”

  He nodded at three monks in red robes crossing the street. Traffic had stopped for them. Each had a black umbrella and a sack thrown over one shoulder.

  “Okay … but what if there are no monks around?”

  “They’re almost always around. Forget about crossing if you can’t find one.” He grinned as he took a firm hold on my arm and guided me to a motorized rickshaw. “You look hot, jet-lagged, and a little bruised. I’m buying you a cool drink.”

  He took me to a restaurant in a renovated colonial building across from the river quay. The heat was still oppressive and stepping into the cool, dark bar was a godsend.

  I read aloud the name on the building. “The Foreign Correspondents’ Club. I love it. Sounds like a place Humphrey Bogart would have started if he’d come here instead of Casablanca.”

  “It was called the ‘F’ by reporters and diplomats who made the place their watering hole after the Khmer Rouge fell out of power and Nom Pen became only relatively dangerous instead of a killing zone. Now it’s a favorite place for expats and, more recently, tourists.”

  He pronounced the name of the city the same way as Bullock.

  We went up to the second-floor terrace for a river view.

  “The city’s at the confluence of three rivers, with the Mekong being the King Kong of them. The Mekong flows all the way from the icy Roof of the World in Tibet to the South China Sea. As hot as it gets here, you would never think that the Mekong started out as melted snow.”

  He suggested a Tonle Sap Breezer, a drink he said was named after the biggest lake in the country. One of the three rivers coming into the city flowed from the lake.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Vodka, cranberry juice, and grapefruit juice.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll try it.” I admired the view for a few moments, then asked, “So, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a bounty hunter.”

  “For criminals who jumped bail?”

  “For land mines and bombs.”

  “Interesting … and why do you search for such nasty things?”

  He grinned. “There are hundreds of thousands, probably millions, of land mines all over the country, a result of decades of civil war and foreign invasions. The country got hit with a million bombs, too, and a whole bunch of them didn’t explode and are out there waiting for someone to stumble over. I came here with a humanitarian group about ten years ago to clear the mines and ordnances. As I told you, I’ve had a bit of experience with bombs. After a couple of years, the group ran out of money and now I hunt down the explosives for a bounty paid by the government.” He stopped and took a sip of his drink. “Your turn now. What do you do?”

  “Nothing as noteworthy as you I’m afraid. I’m in the art business, buying, selling, appraising, that sort of thing. Cambodia has one of the world’s greatest art treasures, so I thought I’d check it out.”

  “So you’re going to Angkor Wat?”

  “Yes. I have reservations on a flight in a couple days.”

  “Then let me introduce you to someone.” He led me to a group standing on the other side of the terrace and gave a friendly peck on the cheek to a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. “Chantrea Son, this is Madison Dupre.”

  We shook hands as he spoke.

  “You two are on different ends of the same business. Madison is an art dealer from New York. Chantrea is a deputy director of Apsara, the government agency that administers Angkor Wat.”

  Meeting a woman in the top echelon of management for the Angkor site was a piece of luck I hadn’t counted on. Prince Ranar had offered to set me up with people to contact but I turned him down. I could hardly go around pretending to be on the make for looted antiquities if I came with a recommendation from the country’s antiquities security chief.

  “I’m sure you can find some nice pieces here in the city,” she said, speaking perfect English. “Of course, you don’t want to touch anything that’s prohibited from export.”

  “I’m in the market for any piece with resale value, but I stop at robbing cultural treasures.” I obviously didn’t want to give her the impression that I was here to buy looted pieces.

  “Good. You’d be surprised how many foreigners come here with the idea they can slip a few dollars to a customs official and take home a museum piece. Unfortunately, sometimes even the locals get involved.” She asked Kirk, “Did you hear Hardy got arrested?”

  “Yes. Two days ago, I understand, just before I left Siem Reap. For smuggling antiquities.”

  My eyes perked up with interest. “What happened?”

  “Hardy owns a bar close to Angkor Wat. They found some pieces when they searched his bar, but there’s a rumor that it was a setup.”

  “Was it?” I asked.

  “Siem Reap is the main town near Angkor,” Chantrea explained. “Hardy’s bar has been very successful. In fact, he’s taking business away from the other bars. Getting accused of dealing in illegal antiquities is a good way to get rid of the competition.”

  Kirk made a slicing motion across his throat. “You can get the death penalty for smuggling antiquities. They’re especially hard on foreigners.”

  Oh, wonderful. Something to look forward to—getting my head cut off or hanged or whatever they do to foreigners.

  A man approached us and I cursed a silent oh shit. Of all people, why did it have to be him.

  “Emmet Bullock, this is Madison Dupre.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Not the Madison Dupre.”

  “Are you someone famous?” Chantrea’s eyes lit up.

  “Not at all,” I said, shaking my head. “We met on the plane.”

  “She’s just being modest. She’s very famous in New York art circles. She was the head curator at the Piedmont Museum before all that nasty stuff about buying stolen antiquities from the Baghdad museum came out.”

  I forced a smile at the sleazy, arrogant bastard. Now I knew the reason for his smug look on the plane. “Yes, I accidentally bought one of the fifteen thousand or so pieces stolen from the museum when it was looted as American forces entered Baghdad. It cost me my job and a lot more.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t mention on the plane that you were also in the art business, but it’s a cutthroat business, isn’t it. I imagine you’re hot after a particular piece.” He gave me a wink.

  “Just on vacation.” I was tempted to tell him I didn’t mention anything personal because he gave me the creeps but I held my tongue out of respect for Kirk and Chantrea.

  He gave me a belly laugh. “Sure. Art is like perversion, it’s a 24/7 preoccupation. I’m here in Nom Pen to buy. Why else would anyone come to this shit hole? Here’s a tip: If you’re looking for pieces that can be exported, check out Sinn’s shop at the Russian Market. There’s always a few things left after the better stuff has been picked over.”

  Chantrea cle
ared her throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m stealing Madison away for a bit. There’s someone I think she should meet.” She took my arm and led me away.

  “Charming bastard,” I said, once we were out of earshot.

  “He’s rather disgusting, isn’t he? Comes over from San Francisco for months at a time. He likes to brag about the big-game hunting he does.” She rolled her eyes upward in a distasteful look. “He went to one of the so-called shooting ranches outside of town and paid a couple hundred dollars for the privilege of shooting a staked-out water buffalo with a machine gun.”

  “That’s real sportsmanship.”

  “It gets worse. If I told you what he was really famous for, you’d shove your cocktail pick in his heart.”

  I already wanted to stick it in his eye. I was about to ask Chantrea what Bullock was notorious for when Kirk came up behind us.

  “Sorry about that, Madison, but he did give you some good advice. The Russian Market is a good place to start if you want to pick up Cambodian art pieces. Not antiquities, of course, those come with a death sentence, but there are plenty of reproductions, some of them quite good. Sinn is spelled with two n’s and it has some good pieces.”

  “Why do they call it the Russian Market?” I asked. “Was it started by a Russian?”

  Chantrea shook her head. “Back in the eighties when the Vietnamese invaded and broke the power of the Khmer Rouge, they occupied Phnom Penh. The Vietnamese had a close relationship with the Russians and a lot of Soviet Bloc goods were sold in the marketplace.”

  “You can buy just about anything there,” Kirk added, “from shoes and handbags to fake thousand-year-old Buddhas and fresh marijuana and opium.”

  “My guidebook said drugs aren’t legal anymore in the country.”

  “They’re illegal, but they’re openly sold.”

  He saw the question on my face.

  “Cambodia is like the Roman god Janus—everything has two faces. Take prostitution. It’s illegal, but you can easily buy an hour with a teenage prostitute for the price of a pack of cigarettes in the States.”