Douglas Preston - Impact

"This is incredible. You're on to something big."

He turned to her. "I think it could be a miniature black hole, or a very small neutron body, somehow caught on the surface of Mars or orbiting around it."

"You're shitting me."

He gazed steadily into her lively, black eyes. "No. I'm not. When you've eliminated the impossible . . ."

". . . whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. " She finished the familiar aphorism for him, punctuating it with a bright smile on her red lips.

He lowered his voice. "If this is a miniature black hole or tiny neutron star, it could grow, eat Mars--and sterilize the Earth with killing gamma rays--or even explode. This isn't some academic exercise. This is real ."

Leung breathed out. "Jesus."

He put his hand on her leg, gave it a squeeze. "Yes. It is real."

She leaned forward, her face closer to his. He could smell her shampoo. "What are you going to do about it?"

"It's going to be the subject of my presentation." He slid his hand just a bit under her skirt, which was riding up on her thigh as she sat on the stool. After a moment she flexed her hips forward, causing the hand to slide up farther. He could feel the hotness of her thighs.

She leaned closer to him and said, "Mmmmm," into his ear, her peppermint breath tickling his face.

"Another drink?" he asked.

She adjusted herself on the stool, sliding her hips even farther forward so that his fingers came in contact with the hot curve of her panties. She pressed her thighs together on his hand. "Do you want to come back to my place?" she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do."

13

Sisophon was as ugly as Ford remembered it, whitewashed cement buildings scattered among tattered palms and sickly banyan trees. The streets were dirt and many of the building facades were still pecked with shrapnel from the war. As Ford's driver entered town, a UN Land Cruiser, stuffed with blue-helmeted men, careened past, its sides emblazoned with UNDP MINE ACTION SERVICE logos.

The Tourist A-1 Hotel was right where it had always been, more rundown than ever, the street outside thronging with child vendors. The cinder block building mostly hosted NGOs and had probably never seen a real tourist in all its shabby days. Ford booked a room and left his suitcase with the manager, giving him a ten-thousand riel note with a promise of fifty thousand more if the case was intact on his return.

Leaving the hotel on foot, Ford directed his steps toward an open-area antiquity workshop on the outskirts of town. As he walked, cement buildings gave way to wood-and-thatch huts on stilts, small rice paddies, and water buffalo hauling wooden carts. The antiquity workshop, sprawling over a vast field, was a scene of bustle and activity. Open-sided tents were set up in long rows, inside of which stonemasons labored to the merry clink of steel chisels on stone. It was one of the more famous antiquity workshops in Cambodia, where a battalion of talented artisans turned piles of broken sandstone rocks into fake Angkorian antiquities to be sold in Bangkok and around the world.

Strolling through the cheerful outdoor workshop, Ford watched stoneworkers chiseling away at chunks of stone propped on sandbags, from which emerged eleventh-century dancing apsaras, devatas, buddhas, lingams, and nagas. In a nearby metal shed, powered by its own generator, the hum of high-tech printing could be heard, as forgers created the documents necessary to authenticate an antiquity and give it a convincing provenance. To one side the fresh sculptures were being subjected to acid sprays, mud baths, tea stainings, egg-white coatings, and even burial to make them look old.

Ford scanned the crowds of workmen, buyers, and sellers, looking for the figure of his old friend Khon. And there he was, impossible to miss, the rotund figure and polished head moving among the artisans, chatting with everyone, rapping on various pieces with his walking stick, laughing loudly, and enjoying himself immensely.

"Khon!" Ford strode over and clasped the man's hand warmly.

"Wyman, my good friend! How fucking delightful to see you!"

"The name's Kirk," Ford said, with a wink.

Without a beat, Khon declaimed, "Kirk, my good friend!" He laughed, a bell-like laugh, his head thrown back, then composed himself, his face becoming serious. "I never thought I'd see you again, after . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Here I am."

"Kirk, you're damned thin! And so much gray hair! There's an ancient Cambodian saying: 'Just because there's snow on the roof doesn't mean there isn't a fire in the fireplace!' " He laughed again.

"Somehow I doubt that's an ancient Cambodian saying."

Khon waved his hand. "I brought you a present." He dipped into his pocket, removing a small stone head of Garuda, the mythical birdlike creature. "It's a fake of course. Welcome back."

Ford was glad he had remembered the Cambodian way of exchanging gifts. "Here's something for you."

Khon stared at the carved green stone through his round spectacles. "Don't tell me you've been buying gems in Bangkok!"

"It's an emerald, and it's real. Lousy quality, mind you, but I liked the carving. And trust me, I didn't get taken."

Khon squinted at the small stone, took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirttail, and put them back on. "Why, it's Garuda again!"

"Great minds think alike." Ford gestured with his head toward an empty area of the field. "Let's take a walk."

They strolled along. Khon said, "I never had the chance to tell you how very, very sorry--"

Ford stopped him with a light touch to his arm. "Please don't."

Khon nodded and they walked across the field. He waved his hand. "Good business, this, eh what?"

"An excellent business," said Ford. "Now they aren't tearing down temples to steal the real thing. I heartily approve."

"Welcome to the new Cambodia!"

As they strolled along, Ford took the opportunity to examine his old friend out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't changed in the slightest; although Khon had to be at least fifty, he seemed ageless. Neatly dressed in an olive canvas jacket, white shirt, loose cravat, khaki pants, and walking stick, he could have been an extra from an Indiana Jones film. Appearances were deceiving; he was a man of rare courage, placid and unflappable. That's what happens , Ford thought, when you grow up under the Khmer Rouge.

"Well, Kirk, what's the assignment?"

"Honeys."

"Girls or stones?"

"Stones. I'm here to track down the source. The mine."

Khon halted, turned. "You back at the CIA?"

Ford shook his head. "Freelance job."

Khon's hand relaxed on his walking stick. "For who?"

"Never mind for whom. My job is to get the GPS coordinates, document the mine, photograph and videotape it, and pass on the information."

"And what will 'they' do with it?"

"Don't know, don't care."

Khon wagged his head thoughtfully, thumbing an ear.

"There's a middleman honey dealer here by the name of Prum Forgang," said Ford. "Know him?"

Khon nodded his rotund head. "Oh yes. He's one of the top gem brokers in town. Antiquities, gems, and rice--the three pillars of our economy."

"Any family?"

"A son. Eighteen. Bright lad. Going to university in Phnom Penh."

"Does Prum live alone?"

"Yes."

"We'll pay him a visit tonight."

Khon's eyes lit up. "Will there be violence?"

"No."

Khon's face fell. "How are you going to get what you want?"

Ford squinted at the metal building on the other side of the field, where the hum of printing could be heard. "You say he has a son in university? Maybe all it will take is a few pieces of paper."

He broke into a fast walk, heading for the printing building.