Restless Soul - Alex Archer [99]
At the top, the door looked sturdy and resisted her attempts to force it open. Finally, she summoned the sword, and carefully used the blade to worry at the hinges until she could get it open. Unless he was deaf, he had to have heard her. She noticed as she passed through the door frame that she’d tripped a silent alarm.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. It would either be keyed to a police station or private security firm, or perhaps—like the antiques store in Chiang Mai—to thugs who would come roaring up with guns ready.
The kitchen was dark, but she could pick through the shadows enough to make her way toward the doorway. The kitchen smelled of dirty dishes and food that had been left out. She wrinkled her nose and picked up the scent of something far worse.
Insects were thick inside the apartment, too.
“No.” She entered a hall and felt around for a light switch, turning it on and holding the sword out in front of her.
He was lying on the couch as if he’d fallen asleep, a newspaper flat against his chest and flies buzzing around his face. He’d been dead for at least a few days. Annja dismissed the sword and cupped her hand over her nose, trying to cut the smell. She saw a chair near the couch and dropped into it.
Lanh Vuong had been a small man who looked ancient. The wrinkles were deep, and the skin thin like parchment, the hands twisted with arthritis to the point they looked like the claws of a bird—claws that were thick with gold rings. Three thick gold chains hung around his bloated neck. She looked away from the corpse, feeling the candy bars rise.
Annja felt sick to her stomach, and cheated of answers. She’d driven through three countries to confront him and to demand answers about the skull bowl and the smuggling operation. She’d dragged a frightened henchman with her—who might at this very moment be calling in thugs.
Lanh Vuong’s death had robbed her of any feeling of completion.
“No. No. No. No.” She sat there for several minutes, then pushed herself up and looked around for a phone, still cupping her hand over her nose.
Annja got a good look at the furniture. Beautiful antiques, every piece, many hinting at a French origin, and most of it well maintained. The carpet was threadbare in places, however, partially covered up by an expensive-looking Turkish rug that dominated the center of the living room. The apartment was small—the living room, kitchen, single bedroom and a bath all compact. There was another room, this with a stackable washer-dryer and a desk. The message light on the telephone blinked red.
Annja sat at the desk, the smells of laundry soap helping to cut the odor of the old man’s corpse. She remembered the phone number of the consulate in Chiang Mai and once again called it. Lanh Vuong would not mind if she added to his phone bill. She wanted to call the lodge, too, and see if someone there would get Luartaro for her. But it was late, too late for an indulgence like that.
After being transferred from person to sleepy person, Annja was connected to Pete Schwartz.
“I’m surprised you’re still working,” she said. “Oh, it’s because of me, isn’t it? Sorry. Really, I am sorry.” She quickly related the story of her mad dash to Vietnam, leaving out her borrowing of Nang. “I wasn’t sure who to call about all of this.”
She had no contacts in Hue or Hanoi, and no computer to connect to her network of internet associates. Lanh Vuong didn’t have a computer that she’d seen, though there might be one downstairs in the antiques store. That would be her next stop. She didn’t want to take the time to search the apartment.
“And I didn’t want to call the police just yet, Pete.” She’d have too much explaining to do.
Pete told her there was a U.S. Consulate General in Ho Chi Minh City, and an embassy in Hanoi—both too far away to be convenient, though he gave her phone