The Deceivers by Harold Robbins Page A

conspired about bringing it to you. I’m still working on that angle.”
    What a bastard.
    He gave me a malicious grin. “Don’t think you did us any favors by making us come in to save your ass in that alley. I planned to have a surveillance go for weeks and net some big fish, but we had to break our cover because you blundered in.”
    â€œI’m sure Ms. Dupre’s motives were pure,” Prince Ranar said. “The police in my own country are, of course, fully cooperating with the international effort to stop this savage looting of Khmer treasures.”
    I had the feeling that Ranar’s comment was directed at the detective. I detected friction between the two. From what Bolger said about the chaotic situation in Cambodia, I had a suspicion that the NYPD detective was not happy with the performance of his Cambodian counterparts.
    â€œI’m confused,” I said. “You say the Apsaras piece is a fake, a really good one at that. But there’s widespread looting. Why bother making a fake if authentic pieces can be stolen so easily?”
    â€œMoney,” Detective Anthony said. “The demand is greater than the supply. The market for Asian art has skyrocketed while the supply is shrinking as the international art community gets more educated about the damage being done to Khmer art. And as you said, the piece was exceptional. It wouldn’t be sold as a fake.”
    So he had eavesdropped after he stepped out of the room.
    The detective grinned, realizing he had slipped up. “The fact there’s no meaningful catalog of Khmer art on the market means that an exceptional fake can be passed off as the real thing. The art gallery chosen to move the piece in New York may not have known it was a fake … or wouldn’t care if they knew. For sure, the buyer wouldn’t know and in some cases also wouldn’t care. Because of its artistic appeal, the piece would have sold for many times the average Khmer artifact.”
    â€œWhat a businessman would call diversification has happened,” Prince Ranar said. “With less exceptional pieces on the market, gangs of criminals have started pushing exceptional fakes.”
    â€œMust be real money in it,” I said. I was dying to know how much.
    Detective Anthony pulled a four-by-six picture from an inside pocket of his coat. “Art crimes rank third after drug trafficking and illegal arms sales in the financial impact of crime. This is why.”
    He handed me the picture.
    â€œA Siva,” I said.
    Siva was one of the main gods of Hinduism, the paramount lord in the pantheon of gods in some sects. A very complicated deity, the Hindus considered him both a destroyer and a restorer, a wrathful avenger yet sensual and a herdsman of souls.
    The sandstone statue in the photograph was typical of how Siva was portrayed in works of art: It had four arms and three eyes, one of them giving him inner vision but capable of fiery destruction when focused outward. His necklace was a serpent threaded through skulls. He sat in the lotus position, with legs intertwined, left foot over right thigh, the right foot over the left thigh.
    One arm was broken off at the elbow and a hand was missing at the wrist. Limbs were the first to go on stone figures as war and mishandling occurred over the ages, which was why bronze was a more typical material for this type of complicated piece. But the price of a truly fine piece of art wasn’t much affected by broken limbs. The Venus de Milo , with one arm broken off at the shoulder and the other above the elbow, was proof of that.
    â€œAn exquisite piece,” I said. “How large is it?”
    â€œAbout a foot,” Detective Anthony said. “It was sold to a private party for twenty-two million.”
    â€œIt’s fake?”
    â€œHow could you tell it’s fake?”
    â€œThat was a question, not an opinion. I can’t tell from a picture, but we were