Hit Hard. Amy J. Fetzer

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СКАЧАТЬ and examined the bracelet.

      “It got wet when I went into the river.”

      “It is unharmed.” He glanced up, bug-eyed through the glasses. “Rebels?”

      She shrugged. “I guess. They wanted it.” But then, they wanted her underwear in her suitcases too.

      “You are to be commended for keeping this from them.” He stared intently down at the gold cuff, making pleased noises.

      “Dr. Nagada thought those were royal Thai markings and from the big painting in the lobby, I’d have to agree. But isn’t that Cambodian?” She pointed to the first marks near the closure.

      He stilled for a moment. “I will make certain, be assured.”

      A servant entered the room bearing a tray of miang kum, and a bowl of steaming water and cloths to wash. She set it down on the table nearby, then left without a word. Dr. Wan Gai slipped the bracelet into a velvet bag, then into his pocket.

      “Sit and rest yourself, my car will take you to the Regent.”

      She opened her mouth to protest. The Four Seasons?

      He smiled patiently. “Salih insisted, and I do as well. It is the least we can do for saving such a prize. Order whatever you need.” His gaze fell briefly to her clothing. “The museum will, of course, take care of the bill.”

      He stood, and exited the room. Viva watched him go, bewildered. The hotel was two hundred US dollars a night. But she wasn’t going to balk. Her body and heart felt abused and all she really wanted was a bath and to sleep.

      Viva washed her face and arms. Kneeling on the floor, she took a spinach leaf from the platter, pinched it to make a cup, then studied the samples, adding shredded dry coconut, red onion, diced lime, peanuts, dried shrimp, and a dollop of sweet sauce.

      Behind his desk, a beautiful Chinese piece handcarved and embellished with gold leaf, was a TV. It was on a local station, and she found the remote and changed the channel to CNN. The reporter spoke in English, the Thai translation voicing over it. The camera panned the Kukule Ganga Dam, the destruction. My God. When did this happen? She focused on the dam, the people crawling over it like rock climbers. Viva moved closer to the screen, shoving a piece of miang into her mouth, then gasping at the spicy bite. Her gaze flicked over the camera shot, wishing they’d hold still, but the broadcast ended. She surfed the channels until she found it again, studying.

      “That wasn’t a pressure crack,” she said to no one. She’d been working with the U.S. Geological Survey when that dam was constructed, mainly because there was a really hot-looking engineer on staff and she’d wanted him. He’d been a dud, in bed and out, reminding her looks weren’t everything, but she’d learned enough from him to know how and where pressure cracks would start.

      The door opened and she turned, food halfway to her mouth.

      “My car awaits.”

      “Thank you so much, Dr. Wan Gai. Did you see this?” She gestured to the TV.

      “The dam, yes, so tragic. All those innocent people.”

      “When did it happen?”

      He looked confused for a second.

      “I’ve been on the dig for a couple months and the only news I had was a radio.” And her Thai translation skills weren’t that fast.

      He smiled like a patient parent. “A few days ago. In the middle of the night, I believe.”

      She nodded, frowning at the screen for another moment, then, after she washed her hands and sipped tea that was so sweet it’d give you diabetes, he led her out through the museum offices to the curb. Wan Gai’s assistant, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stood near the open car door.

      The curator handed over a receipt for the bracelet for Dr. Nagada.

      “Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” She stuffed the receipt in her pocket before his assistant ushered her solicitously into his car.

      Viva sat back in the leather seat, and let out a long, tired breath. Holy Grail delivered into safe hands, she thought. Now I can enjoy some me time in Bangkok before heading back to the dig. Her mind instantly went to Sam, and what he was really doing here that he needed British intelligence guys. Dangerous man stuff, she thought, and leaned toward the window, looking at the sky for the helicopter.

      It was empty.

      Tashfin Rohki sat in the luxurious room, feeding on grilled prawns and drinking strong Moroccan coffee. His favorite. It was placating. The generosity extended to the value of the stones and the people he represented. He procured weapons, handled finances and operations for the LTTE Tigers of Sri Lanka. A large portion of his organization’s money was riding on this deal. And he’d been late to this meeting, stalling for time to find enough stones to compensate for the one the Irishman had stolen. It was his largest, and alone worth millions. How the Irishman had slipped it from the sack still confused him. He died for it, Rohki thought as he remembered the flood.

      He tossed down a shrimp tail, wincing at the gust of pain from his broken ribs, then cleaned his fingers as he rose and walked around the room. It was all familiar now—and tiresome.

      “Mr. Rohki,” a voice said, and he turned sharply, his gaze shifting over the room, then centering on the speakers mounted near the ceiling. “Please be seated.”

      Rohki frowned as he obeyed. Theatrics, he thought, then a large screen on the wall blinked on.

      For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, then the silhouette of a shoulder told him there was someone in the shadows. “The stones are not as promised. You may leave, Mr. Rohki.”

      Rohki scowled at the screen. “You have what you demanded.”

      “You offered a large stone. One you failed to produce.”

      Rohki frowned at the man’s concern. “It was lost in the flood.” He’d spent days since gathering more to compensate for the loss.

      The figure in the darkness went rock still. “You tried to sell it.”

      “They’re mine to do with as I see fit. What do you care? You have the fee? Go back on your deal now and my people will spread the word.”

      A stretch of silence that was almost painful eased by. “You have met the requirements.”

      “And?”

      “While you like to believe you are an intrinsic part, you are not. You wanted to bargain, you have opened the door,” the man said succinctly. “Yours is not the only group that wants my product.”

      “Then I want proof of this weapon.”

      The man hesitated, then said, “In eight days”—the tone was ripe with arrogance—“the world will see its power. Now you may leave.”

      “A million in diamonds and I’m supposed to walk out with nothing?”

      “You do not have a choice.”

      Rohki stiffened when СКАЧАТЬ