The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Read online

  Jens’ face showed his incredulity. He stated flatly, ‘You’re both crazy! You’re talking like she’s a stray puppy or kitten that you picked up off the street.’

  Creasy nodded. ‘That’s more or less it. But instead of fleas, she’s got a dope addiction. Instead of a flea bath she goes cold turkey.’

  The Dane shook his head in exasperation then also stood up, carried his cup to the kitchen counter, poured coffee into it, came back, sat down and started talking in a firm policeman’s voice. He explained in emphatic terms that basically they were abducting the thirteen-year-old all over again. He pointed out that they had no right to do such a thing. He told them that there were strict procedures in every civilised country for handling such a situation. His voice grew louder, and his right hand thumped gently on the table-top as he emphasised his points. Nobody had the right to decide the future of any other human being. In every civilised country there were laws and social structures to deal with such cases. The girl was in no condition to make a judgement for herself. She should be taken immediately into care and given professional counselling. He emphasised the word ‘professional’ with a particularly hard thump on the table. Then he gave them both a very stern look.

  Creasy was looking at his empty coffee cup. He said, ‘Well, I’m sitting here with two very uncivilised, very bad-mannered people.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jens asked.

  Creasy gestured at his coffee cup. ‘In the last five minutes you’ve both gone and helped yourself to more coffee and no one offered me a cup.’

  Michael smiled slightly, pushed himself to his feet, picked up Creasy’s cup and went to the counter.

  Creasy looked at the Dane. ‘You talk to me about civilisation. Yes, the French pride themselves on their civilisation.’ He gestured at the closed bedroom door. ‘You call that civilisation? You call that a social structure? I’ve seen more civilisation and social structure in a mud hut village in the middle of Africa. I’ve seen more civilisation and social structure in the slums of Rio de Janeiro or Calcutta.’ He leaned forward, his voice growing more intense. ‘What you’re saying is that we take that stray kitten to a vet. You know what vets do with stray kittens? They usually make a half-assed attempt to find it a home . . . enter your professional social workers. If that doesn’t work they put it to sleep.’ He gestured again at the bedroom door, a gesture of anger this time. ‘Michael and I killed to pick up that stray. You also risked your life.’ He leaned even further forward towards the policeman. ‘There’s no way that stray is going to the vet.’

  Jens looked into the slate-grey eyes, shrugged and said, ‘You’re taking on a big commitment.’

  Michael returned to the table, put the coffee in front of Creasy and sat down. As far as he was concerned, that angle of the discussion was over. ‘What’s our next move?’ he asked Creasy.

  Creasy was still looking at the Dane. Jens saw the question in his eyes. He sighed, tapped the table once more and made up his mind. ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. ‘What is the next move?’

  Creasy took a gulp of coffee and again gestured at the bedroom doors. ‘Jens, go and sit with the Danish girl for a while. I have to talk to Michael, and afterwards he will go and sit with Juliet. Both of you try to reassure them. By now they’ll be getting the craving.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The methadone will be here in a couple of hours ‘

  ‘Your friend will need a prescription for that,’ Jens said.

  Creasy nodded. ‘My friend will get what he needs in this civilised country.’

  The Dane thought about that for a moment, nodded, stood up and quietly went into one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind him.

  Creasy looked quizzically at his son.

  ‘So, tell me, Michael. How did you come to be lying on the floor in that basement, getting your ribs kicked in?’

  Michael stood up and paced up and down across the room. Creasy held his tongue, realising that something was building up in Michael’s mind and that it would soon come out. It came out sheepishly but with an underlying defiance.

  ‘So I was stupid,’ Michael said. ‘I don’t have your experience. You had to get me out with Jens.’ He stopped pacing and turned and looked at Creasy. ‘One day I’ll get you out, just like that. Same scene, same situation!’

  Creasy felt a warmth but had no way to show it. He simply shrugged and said, ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Michael outlined his plans to snatch Boutin’s mistress and get information. He told Creasy how they had gone to the nightclub on a recce and been led into the trap.

  When he finished he looked up and said, ‘OK. First, I should have realised that Corelli might have been corrupt. Second, I should have done the recce alone,’

  Creasy nodded and asked, ‘What did you hope to find out?’

  Michael shrugged and said, ‘I believe that “The Blue Ring” does exist . . . Jens does too, and so does Blondie. My guess is that Boutin’s relatively low-level. I wanted to find out the structure of the “Ring” and who was the next rung on the ladder . . . and I made a couple of mistakes.’

  Creasy said thoughtfully, ‘Your strategy was good, but too hasty. You should not have gone with Jens to police headquarters and he should not have gone with you to the club. That way you could have checked things out without arousing suspicion. Then you should have taken one of the hostesses to bed, made love to her and out of totally natural curiosity, asked her about the manageress. Such women always like to gossip. Then you should have planned the “snatch”.’ Another brief smile flickered across his face. ‘So you learned two lessons: never trust a policeman and never be led by your prick.’

  ‘Weren’t you ever?’

  ‘Only once. I was younger than you. I lost my wallet and a little pride. You were about half an hour from taking a very deep dip in the sea and staying down there.’

  Michael let that sink in and then asked, ‘How did you find us?’

  Creasy explained how he tracked them down, first through Blondie, then through Birgitte, then how he had learned about Corelli from Leclerc. After that it was straightforward.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Michael said quietly.

  Creasy took another sip of coffee. When he spoke his voice took on a different tone. ‘No. Don’t blame yourself. Lay it on my head. I have to realise that you are a man, and that years mean nothing. I should have supported you in this matter; been alongside you, not behind you. Be sure I’m with you now.’

  Michael grinned.

  ‘You were in hospital, for God’s sake! What else could you do?’

  Creasy shrugged.

  ‘I could have supported you from the very beginning, so you would not have gone off trying to prove yourself . . . Don’t let me do that again.’ He stood up, walked to the window and stood looking down at the street five floors below. A light rain was falling. The lights of an occasional car passed by. He turned and looked at Michael and then surprised the young man again. He spoke of his emotions. An event as rare as snow falling in the desert. He gestured at the bedroom door. ‘Michael, something happened to me in there. I killed those people back at the house to get you out. Bur after I saw those girls and talked to them, especially the child, I felt the urge to go back and make sure there wasn’t a flicker of life left in them. I also had the urge to kill the old woman. I don’t often have the urge to kill. It was never like that with me. I worked as a mercenary because it was all I knew, but I never worked for people I didn’t believe in. I never killed without having to.’ He turned and looked down at the road again. A police car sped past, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Over his shoulder he said bitterly, ‘I looked at those girls, especially Juliet, I saw the fear in her eyes and something worse. I saw desperation.’ He turned again and said, ‘Tell me exactly what your mother told you that day at the hospital.’

  Michael also stood up and moved to the window, and they both stood looking down at the wet street.

  Michael said, ‘Like me, she was an orphan. She ran away
from the orphanage when she was sixteen. It was not like the orphanage in Gozo; she was often beaten. She met up with a young Arab. He was wealthy and gave her a good time and hid her from the police. He introduced her to drugs and she became an addict. Then he started selling her to other men. When she refused, he took away the drugs. She thought he loved her, and she decided that if she got pregnant, he would not sell her body to other men. She kept it a secret until very late. When he found out, he beat her and took her to an abortionist. But the abortionist told her it was too late. When she had me, he forced her to give me to the orphanage the next day,’

  ‘How did he force her?’ Creasy asked.

  ‘In a very simple way.’ Michael gestured, his voice deep with emotion. ‘He told her that unless she gave me to an orphanage, he would strangle me. I was born without a doctor, just another prostitute to help my mother. Nobody knew I was alive. She had no choice. She left me on the doorstep of the Augustine convent.’

  ‘You should have told me that in Gozo,’ Creasy said.

  Michael smiled briefly and answered, ‘At the time you didn’t seem very receptive.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Creasy murmured. ‘Now I want to know all about it. I want to be part of it, just like you were part of the Lockerbie thing.’

  Michael turned and smiled. ‘So we do it together?’

  Creasy nodded gravely. ‘Yes, we do it together.’

  ‘What kind of men are we dealing with?’ Michael asked. ‘Apart from the fact that they’re evil.’

  Creasy thought about that for almost a minute, slowly sipping his coffee, and then he started talking, as though he were thinking out loud. ‘I have no religion. Neither do you. Most religions have a clear-cut distinction between good and evil. But in my experience there are many different ways to be evil. Perhaps the worst is the evil of sadism. Most human beings have it in them, to some extent or another, just as most human beings have a measure of masochism. It’s not easy to understand sadism but I’ve seen a lot of it at first hand and one thing is for sure: the breeding ground for sadism is power. The more power a sadist has, the more evil he becomes. In fact, sadism is synonymous with power. It’s a disease without a cure, a disease of the brain. There is no antidote. It’s the reason why sadists are drawn to powerful people and dictatorial situations.’ He put down his empty cup, glanced at Michael and continued. ‘Sadists were drawn to the SS in the last war, just as they were drawn to Genghis Khan centuries ago. In any army at war the sadists soon show themselves, whether it’s a mercenary in Africa, a drug baron’s bodyguard in South America, or an American soldier in Vietnam. Sadism cuts across race, culture, creed or sex. It reaches its nadir when the sadist has a willing masochistic subject. Juliet’s mother for example, did nothing while the stepfather beat her daughter up. You can imagine the mental impression that must have made on the child.’

  Michael asked, ‘What about Boutin?’

  Creasy nodded grimly,

  ‘Yes. Sadism was at the core of Boutin’s character. He talked before he died. He talked and begged for his life. When a man begs for his life he tells the truth. He told me that he processed between six and eight girls a month during the summer and sold them on to “The Blue Ring” for one hundred thousand francs each. That’s about eighteen thousand dollars, it sounds like a lot, but in reality it’s nothing, compared to what Boutin made in his other businesses. For him it was a sideline to satisfy his sadism . . . a little fun on the side, you might say. A chance to exercise total power over an innocent. As we get in among “The Blue Ring” we’re going to find many more like him, perhaps worse.’ He glanced at his watch, ‘Go in to the child now, Michael, I have to phone Leclerc to arrange papers for the girl and the child. And I have to phone Gozo and get hold of Joe Tal Bahar,’

  Michael looked up in surprise. ‘Joe?’

  ‘Yes. He’s just bought that new fifty-foot Sunseeker. It cruises at thirty knots, and he can be here in a couple of days. He’ll smuggle you and the child into Gozo, probably using a fishing boat for the last leg at night. You’ll have to put the child in the wine cave behind the house and lock her in there until she’s got the drug out of her. It will take about ten days and she’ll go through hell . . . so will you. Worse, if that’s possible. You will have no help. Nobody must even know she’s in the house. Clear everything out of the cellar. Just put in a mattress and run a hosepipe in there, and put one of those big, round barrels we use for winemaking in there too. Fill it with water. And put in a pile of blankets, a dozen or more. When you’ve done that, give her a last shot of methadone. The hell will start about twelve hours after that. I’ll take you through the sequence of what will happen to her later. After the last shot of methadone, go down to the village and tell Theresa that you won’t need her until further notice . . . tell her you’ll clean the house yourself. Also stock up on enough food for two weeks.’

  ‘What if she gets really sick?’ Michael asked. ‘Do I call a doctor?’

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘What if she dies?’

  Creasy looked at his son and said, ‘You bury her at the bottom of the garden between the pomegranate trees. You bury her deep. At least eight feet. Meanwhile, put a notice on the garden door that you’re not to be disturbed until further notice.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Run an extension from the phone into the cave, but when you’re not in the cave take it out with you . . . and make sure that cave door is always locked.’ He pointed with his chin at the bedroom door. ‘Go to the child now. Tell her the medicine’s on the way.’

  As the door closed behind Michael, Creasy reached for the phone.

  Chapter 21

  The outside door intercom buzzed at ten minutes after six a.m.

  Creasy had been dozing in his chair. His head jerked up and he glanced at his watch, and quickly moved over and pressed the button. He asked, ‘Yes?’

  A voice answered in French, ‘Red Three.’

  ‘Green Four,’ Creasy replied and pressed the button to open the downstairs door. He went to the table, picked up the silenced Colt 1911, checked the magazine, moved to the door of the apartment and waited.

  The soft tap on the door came two minutes later. He pulled it open, moving back behind it, the gun levelled at waist height, and called, ‘Come in.’

  A man came in carrying a black briefcase and a leather flight bag. He put them both on the floor, studied Creasy for a moment then nodded, held out his hand and said, ‘My name is Marc.’

  Creasy transferred the Colt to his left hand, pointing it downwards. They shook hands, and then Creasy gestured towards the table and asked, ‘Coffee?’

  The Frenchman nodded. He was short, plump, and wearing thick, rimless spectacles. He looked like a school teacher or a bank-teller. He was dressed in a sober grey suit with a blue tie. He noted Creasy’s appraisal and smiled slightly.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I don’t look tough, but that’s been my biggest advantage in this life. Nobody takes me seriously . . . so I always get first strike.’

  Creasy returned the smile and went to the kitchen counter to pour some coffee. The Frenchman put his briefcase on the table and opened it. With the two mugs of coffee, Creasy sat down next to him. ‘Are you carrying?’ he asked.

  The Frenchman nodded and patted his left armpit.

  ‘You have to leave it here,’ Creasy said. ‘And the holster.’

  For a few seconds the Frenchman looked him in the eyes then stood up and took off his jacket. The pistol was a Beretta 9mm, nestling into a Henny, snap-release shoulder-holster. The Frenchman wriggled out of it and laid it on the table. Creasy pulled out the Beretta. He checked the breech and the safety, then took out the magazine and slipped it into his pocket. The Frenchman watched in silence and then spoke.

  ‘I’ve worked for Rene Leclerc for fifteen years. He trusts me with his life. I know all about the man called Creasy. When Leclerc sent me he gave me one instruction: to treat you as I treat him.’

  Creasy studied his
face for a moment, then picked up the Beretta, pulled the magazine out of his pocket, rammed it into the butt of the pistol and put the pistol in front of the Frenchman.

  He said, ‘OK, Marc, keep it while you’re here. But leave it here when you go with my friend.’

  ‘What’s the job?’ the Frenchman asked.

  ‘Nothing onerous, I want you to accompany my Danish friend to Copenhagen with a girl. It will be about a forty-eight hour drive. You’ll take turns at the wheel. The girl is a heroin addict and will have to be sedated all the way. My friend is a Danish policeman.’

  The Frenchman’s eyes widened, and Creasy said, ‘Don’t worry. He’s a good one. After you leave them in Copenhagen you bring the car back here. You will be well paid.’

  The Frenchman shook his head. ‘You will pay me nothing. I work for Leclerc. He pays me.’

  Creasy nodded in assent, stood up and peered into the open briefcase. He reached out and shuffled around the medicines inside. He found the disposable syringes of methadone. He put two on the table, and asked, ‘You know how to administer this?’

  Marc nodded, and then said, ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘On the car radio on the way over I heard a news report of a gang battle out in Boutin’s villa on the coast . . . a lot of dead. You have anything to do with that?’

  Creasy merely shrugged but it conveyed the message.

  ‘Is Boutin dead?’ the Frenchman asked.

  Almost imperceptibly, Creasy nodded. The Frenchman stood up and held out his hand. Creasy shook it.

  The Frenchman asked, ‘Did the girl come from that villa?’

  ‘Yes. And one other in the other bedroom. A child of thirteen.’

  Creasy saw the anger and hatred in the Frenchman’s eyes.

  ‘Are you sure Boutin is dead?’

  Again Creasy nodded slightly, and said, ‘Boutin is in very small pieces.’