This version, a piece about two feet long and half that wide, could well have been broken off from a long relief over a doorway or along a wall at Angkor.
Again, I found Taksin’s signature.
I leaned back and sighed. Poor Taksin—had he been born in the age of kings, he would have been considered a master artist instead of a master criminal.
I left the pieces and took a walk around the pool. Nadia and Lav followed me with their eyes. I wasn’t sure what my status would be once I told her that all her artifacts were fakes. Nadia was the claw-out-the-eyes type … while Lav would strangle me with piano wire and stuff me into a fifty-gallon barrel to be dumped at the local landfill.
With such pleasant thoughts, I decided not to tell Nadia that all three were fakes.
“Two of the pieces are fakes, but they’re so good, I can get you a good price from a collector who doesn’t mind buying a fake.”
That was the truth—but that meant selling them for thousands of dollars rather than millions.
Nadia’s eyes narrowed. “They are all real museum pieces. That’s where Illya got them, from a museum. He told me so.”
A minute ago she knew nothing about where Illya got them.
“The Brahma and the Mount Meru relief bear the signature of Taksin.”
“Taksin? What’s Taksin?”
I was disappointed that she didn’t recognize the name. “He’s a Thai craftsman who’s noted for creating museum-quality pieces. He leaves a distinctive mark on his creations.”
“How long has he been dead?”
That from Lav. A strange way to approach the subject, but no doubt a reasonable question from the nature of his employers.
“I don’t know if he’s dead. He’s not from the ancient world, if that’s what you mean. He lived and worked in Bangkok and has dropped out of sight recently. Maybe terminally.”
I had a feeling that if he wasn’t already dead, Lav would give him a helping hand to hell.
I gave them a bright smile. “The good news is that the Hari-Hara doesn’t have Taksin’s signature.” This wasn’t the time to tell them it was also a fake.
“How much?” Nadia asked.
“It’s extremely rare, so rare that I don’t think another one like it has been on the market in years.”
“We can check on the Internet here.”
“I can’t surf the Internet. I have to call museums and collectors all over the world.” A partial truth—I had to call the museum in Cambodia to find out if the Hari-Hara still was on display. “It’s going to take me a few days and I’m flying back to New York tonight. I’ll get an offer from my collector on the other two Taksin items and get back to you as to how we should handle the Hari-Hara once I verify its authenticity.”
“You mean, museum pieces,” Nadia said.
“Right. I’ll be in touch. I think my taxi’s outside.”
I fled, hoping the taxi was waiting.
34
Forged art. Oil billions. Revolution. Cheung’s strange offers. None of it made any sense as I mulled it over in the taxi on my way back to the hotel.
I called Detective Anthony and gave him an update, including what I learned about Taksin and his signature. “When I get back to the hotel, I’ll have the concierge help me call the Royal Museum in Phnom Penh. I need to get ahold of that curator named Rim Nol and have him check to see if the Hari-Hara is still there.”
“It’ll be hell getting through. I’ll call Ranar and have him check it and give you a call back. You can bet it’s there. The word would be out if a piece that valuable got stolen.”
“Then there must be another master artist out there making these things.”
“Maybe Taksin was paid not to put his signature on it.”
He didn’t sound impressed with Nadia’s connection of art, oil, and political upheaval.
“Just talk,” he said. “Probably Illya boasting to his girlfriend that he’d buy her a country.”
It took less time for the detective to call Ranar and get back to me than it did for my taxi to crawl through Hong Kong traffic and reach my hotel.
“The Hari-Hara’s at the museum. His highness was in the building and personally checked it. Call me when you get back to New York.”
I still liked my second artist theory and was curious about what I’d learn if I checked out Taksin for myself in Bangkok.
By the time I reached my hotel, I’d already decided I was going to book a flight to the Thai capital rather than go home with my tail between my legs—or back to Phnom Penh empty-handed.
* * *
THE WOMAN AT the concierge desk assisted me in arranging a flight to Bangkok. She pretended not to notice that I was wearing a cocktail dress before noon.
I put my carry-on, my sole piece of luggage, on the bed and started cramming everything in, pressing down to get in the new things I’d bought, when I felt something hard. An object was wedged in the layers of the soft material of the carry-on.
A short line of stitching looked different than the regular, obviously machine-made stitching on the luggage. I used a fingernail file to open it up, reached in, and pulled out something and gasped—the jade Buddha Jimmy Cheung had tried to literally give away.
A piece of paper was there, too: a bill of sale from Cheung Dragon Antiques. U.S. $20,000.00. Cash. Stamped onto the receipt in bloodred ink was “REGULATED ANTIQUITY—NOT FOR UNLICENSED EXPORT.”
My heart jackhammered.
The jade Buddha came with Chinese prison stripes.
No way would it have gotten by airport security. I would have been taken out of the security line, turned over to the police, and not seen the light of day till I was old and gray. My hands shook as I held it.
Son of a bitch. That little prick Cheung. He had set me up.
But why?
I shook my head. Why didn’t matter at the moment. I had to get rid of the jade—fast. The Red Chinese didn’t have a sense of humor about Westerners smuggling out their cultural history. Thoughts like no right to an attorney, wasting away in jail awaiting trial, sharing a cell with criminals who I couldn’t even communicate with, flew through my head.
I put the piece in a plastic bag and went into the hallway intending to drop it into the trash bag hanging on a maid’s cart, but I hesitated outside my door. The maid had come out of a room and looked askance at me. I smiled and shook my head and stepped back inside.
I couldn’t trash the jade Buddha. The little guy had survived centuries of war and storm and manhandling and it was still exquisite. Besides, it was a revered religious object. It would be a crime for it to be crushed in a landfill. I couldn’t take it with me and couldn’t leave it in my room to be found.
The obvious thing to do was turn it over to the police. Anonymously, of course.
I got the address of police headquarters in the phone book, then stuck the Buddha in my purse and headed for the elevators and checkout.
At the concierge’s desk, I waited while she dug up a manila envelope and what I estimated was enough stamps. I retreated into a ladies room, addressed the envelope to the police, wiping my fingerprints off the envelope and statuette, and went out onto the street and grabbed a taxi to the airport. At the airport, I picked up my ticket and boarding pass for Bangkok and deposited the Buddha in a mailbox.
As I sat in the waiting area for my plane, I tapped the floor with a nervous foot, wishing it was Jimmy Cheung’s face. The reasons for his strange mannerisms were apparent: Someone had hired him to set me up. Or maybe he did it because I was getting too close to some rich and dirty scheme he was engineering. I opted for the first reason. I had a list of candidates wanting to screw me, and number one on the list was Bullock. It would be right up the alley of a man who set up phony robberies. And Cheung had handled the jade with a handkerchief so my fingerprints wouldn’t be smeared.
Obviously, someone thought I knew something … or was getting close to finding out. I just wished I knew what it was.
I didn�
�t breathe a sigh of relief until we were in the air and miles high.
I wondered what new challenges faced me in Bangkok.
35
Bangkok, Thailand
People … motorcycles … cars … buses … chaos … turmoil … noise … engine exhaust. I felt as if I were back in Phnom Penh, but the Thai capital was much bigger and vibrated even more with rich and poor, monks and Mercedes, ancient temples and modern skyscrapers.
It was everything I imagined and nothing I expected.
The city was dirty, crowded, violent—but with rare beauty, infinitely more interesting than America or Europe.
My guidebook said the official name of the city was “City of Angels.” Not unlike the infamous city on California’s coast, it was huge—seven or fourteen million, depending on who was counting.
Like Phnom Penh, the people were beautiful in form and essence. Physically attractive—copper-toned skin, large walnut eyes, slender, firm muscles. It was rare to see anyone obese as I took a taxi in from the airport.
And there was pathos. The children weren’t just too skinny, they were mature in ways that no child should be. Kids ten or twelve years old were already responsible for their own survival. What a terrible thing, I thought. A child shouldn’t have to survive by their wits.
I had to admit that despite the third world qualities of Bangkok and Phnom Penh, there was cultural magic to both of them that I loved. I was a diehard romantic when it came to exotic locales.
Learning about the fascinating art and experiencing the cultures of the Far East was an exciting new encounter that would prove useful in the future when I dealt with Asian art.
Now … if I could just keep my head above water financially and stay alive long enough to use some of this exciting new knowledge.
* * *
TO FIND TAKSIN, the King of Art Forgery, the most obvious place to start would be with art dealers. Like Hong Kong, the Thai capital was a world-class venue for tourist junk and antiquities. With thousands of dealers I could spend weeks or months before I got a hit. And after being framed by a dealer in Hong Kong, I was in no mood to mentally arm wrestle with another dealer.
A cop who dealt with art fraud would be another choice, but finding one in a country where art fraud wasn’t necessarily illegal—as long as it was practiced on foreigners—would not be easy. And I wouldn’t trust a cop any more than an art dealer.
I quickly eliminated museum curators. I had become a curator after earning my stripes through buying, selling, and appraising art, but most curators were university types who knew little about how the market really operated. They were too scholarly, had too much of an esoteric relationship with their museum pieces to give me a tip about where to buy forgeries.
That boiled down to the real experts on the underbelly of just about everything in a city: taxi drivers and hotel concierges. Between them, most were able to direct you to a fine dinner, a good play, an “escort” service … and hopefully the best place to buy art fakes.
After checking into a tourist-class hotel because I didn’t have to impress anyone, I made the rounds of concierges at the best hotels where the high-roller art collectors would stay.
I hit pay dirt at my third stop and got the name of a taxi driver who spoke English and an appointment to have him pick me up and take me to dealers.
“I’m not a tourist,” I told the cabbie after he picked me up. “I’m looking for a particular person. Find his shop and I’ll pay you well.”
It took all day with the cabbie getting out and talking to dealers, but he finally found it. I couldn’t read the name written in Thai but I knew right off this was the right place: A small symbol, the half-circle I called Taksin’s signature, was also on the sign.
The only person in the shop was a rather forlorn old woman. I used the driver to ask her questions. We started by letting her know I would pay her for information.
Taksin was gone, that much came out in a burst of Thai immediately. Not just gone, but taken, leaving behind a dead friend, several weeks ago. Coming back from a festival, she had seen him being taken to a van and had found his friend’s body.
“She says Cambodians came and took the shop owner and killed his friend. The police were paid to look the other way.”
She rattled off something else and he said, “An American or European, too.”
“Helped the Cambodians?”
“He was the boss man, but she doesn’t know what he was, just that he was a white foreigner.”
I had two immediate candidates. Kirk and Bullock.
I tapped my hair. “What color hair did the foreigner have? Dark like mine and yours or blond?”
Blond was the response. My heart sank. Kirk had blond hair. I tried to pin down more description but all she said was that the “boss man” was a white foreigner with light-colored hair.
“She hasn’t heard from or seen Taksin since?”
“Not since that night.”
I asked whether she knew which art dealers Taksin made pieces for.
After querying her, the driver shook his head. “For a long time he worked for Bangkok dealers, but lately worked only for Cambodians.”
“Do the Cambodians have a local shop?”
No shop that she knew of; the only thing the woman seemed to know was that they were Cambodians. As traditional enemies of Thais, she had a few choice words for them that the driver told me he couldn’t translate.
I pointed up at the “signature” on the sign. “Ask her what that means.”
“It’s a begging bowl. Taksin had been a monk.”
A begging bowl. How appropriate for a Buddhist monk.
“She says that his work was so good, that if he didn’t sign them, no one could tell that they weren’t real.”
Unfortunately, his work was so “real” it may have cost him his life.
I paid off the driver and the old woman and meandered in a brown study through the Thieves Market, shaking my head at hustlers as I made my way in the direction of my hotel.
When I witnessed Kirk smuggling Khmer artifacts, I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. Now that he might be involved in murder …
I wondered if Taksin was still alive. Good chance that he was. They could have killed him when they killed his friend. Instead they had grabbed him because he had something they wanted. Maybe nothing more than his talent. A man who could create a multimillion-dollar piece of art from a chunk of cheap stone with a hammer and chisel would be an asset for crooks who could market the pieces.
Who “they” were was still a puzzle to me, but Kirk had too many strikes against him: a blond-haired foreigner with connections to Khmer art smuggling, he was a perfect fit for the “boss man.” I just wished I had had a picture to show the woman.
I tried fitting the pieces together.
Kirk, Bullock, and some unnamed Cambodians were stealing Khmer art and smuggling it out of the country. At some point they realized Taksin was capable of making pieces that were much more valuable than the ones they stole. And not only more valuable, but far less risky than smuggling them.
It made sense and no sense at all.
What bothered me was that I couldn’t see Kirk involved in both smuggling and dealing with Illya’s faked pieces. It took two different talents. Hacking through the jungle to rob Khmer tombs fit Kirk’s soldier of fortune personality. Working with the Jimmy Cheungs in Hong Kong, New York, and London was more of a ruthless gentleman’s game played by people who spoke art. Bullock, scum that he was, spoke the right language.
Kirk and Bullock. They would make a perfect pair. Kirk the acquisition man—and enforcer when necessary—Bullock the marketer.
I felt I had put more pieces of the puzzle together, even though there were still a lot of empty spaces on the board. I needed to know more about Bullock and what he did in the Russian Market. And I still had some questions for Rim Nol, the curator. I believed he knew a great deal more than he had revealed. I kept thinking about a forger n
eeding to closely examine museum pieces besides photographing them. You couldn’t fake a great work of art from a snapshot.
I had to get back to Phnom Penh—and this time not let anyone know I was coming.
Bourey’s horrible death lay heavy on my mind as I bought a ticket back to the Cambodian capital. I didn’t think his spirit would rest while his killers remained free and unnamed.
PHNOM PENH
36
I checked back into the Raffles Le Royal. I liked the hotel because it wasn’t in the heart of the government area where Kirk and Bullock’s favorite drinking hole—the Foreign Correspondents’ Club—was located. And I felt safe there.
Now that I was back in the fire from the frying pan, I needed a plan.
Nol was in a position to give access to the Siva. Or knew who did. But he didn’t strike me as the type to take a leading role in an art conspiracy. For sure, something was bothering him. Maybe he was feeling guilty. That was my impression—a guy who had done something he regretted but had no control over it.
My instincts screamed that he was a reluctant participant. Someone who had been ordered to let Taksin copy the piece or at least told to look the other way.
Ranar also had the power and position to get the Siva into Taksin’s hands for duplicating. He was a high official in a small country noted for its political corruption. The Killing Fields were history, but police and military corruption were still rampant. If I found out he was involved, I’d get back to New York fast and make my accusations from there.
I obviously couldn’t just waltz into the Royal Museum and start cross-examining Nol.
I decided on a little deception.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING I arranged with the concierge to join a tour group going to the museum. Wearing dark glasses, an oversized sun hat, and a poncho, I carried an umbrella for both protection from the merciless sun and to hide under. I felt confident that I blended into the group of teachers from Iowa.
The Deceivers Page 24
