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

  The Frenchman said simply, ‘Now we are friends.’

  Creasy wrapped the two syringes in a white napkin, together with some cotton wool and a small bottle of surgical spirit. They went to the first bedroom. Creasy tapped on the door. When Jens opened it, Creasy introduced him to Marc. Hanne was sitting up in bed. She was shaking slightly, and her face was so pale as to be almost white. Jens spoke to her quietly in Danish, gesturing at Marc. The Frenchman smiled at her. It transformed his face. He looked like everybody’s favourite uncle.

  ‘Do you speak French?’ he asked her.

  She looked at him, and then said in a quivering voice, ‘Just a little.’

  ‘English?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I speak it well.’

  ‘Good. Then we shall talk in English. Mine is not so good but over the next two or three days you will help me to improve it. We will be friends.’ He smiled again and she replied with a very tentative smile.

  On impulse, Creasy handed the Frenchman the white napkin and said, ‘You do it. And again every eight hours until she is safe in Copenhagen.’ He gestured at Jens and they left the room and closed the door.

  ‘Who is he?’ Jens asked.

  ‘A friend of a very close contact. He doesn’t look tough but I’m very sure that he is, and that you can trust him totally. He will drive with you to Copenhagen. Her papers will be ready tonight and you leave as soon as they are here.’ He gestured at the telephone. ‘You had better phone Birgitte now, before she goes to school. Keep it very brief. Just tell her you are fine and that you’ll be home within seventy-two hours. Instruct her to tell nobody else. Do not make any other phone calls until you’ve crossed the Danish border. Then call your boss. Make arrangements to drive her straight to the clinic. Only then do I suggest you call her parents.’

  Jens nodded thoughtfully and asked, ‘What about you, Michael and the child?’

  Creasy glanced at his watch. He said, ‘In an hour I call Gozo. Within a couple of days a friend will come in a fast boat, pick up Michael and the child and take them home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes. Home to Gozo.’

  ‘And you?’

  Creasy shrugged,

  ‘I go to Milan to have a conversation with a man who buys girls.’ He gestured at the phone again. Jens moved to it and dialled the number. After a moment he spoke a few brief words in Danish and hung up. Creasy noted with satisfaction that he did not identify himself or mention her name.

  ‘No questions?’ he asked.

  Jens shook his head and smiled. ‘She’s a policeman’s wife.’

  Marc came out of Hanne’s bedroom, closed the door quietly and said, ‘She is calm. She will sleep within a few minutes.’ To Jens he said, ‘I suggest you stay with her until then . . . she trusts you.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Although I can’t think why anyone would ever trust a policeman.’

  Jens grunted something about not being French, and moved past him to the bedroom. Marc was still carrying the white napkin. Creasy tapped on the other bedroom door and Michael opened it. Creasy made the introductions and they all looked at the child lying on the bed. It seemed as though her dark eyes dominated her face; eyes filled with desperation. The Frenchman looked at her and the other two men heard the almost inaudible curses coming from his lips.

  Quietly, Creasy said, ‘Michael, introduce her to Marc. He will show you how and where to inject the methadone.’

  Half an hour later the four men were sitting around the kitchen table. It was now seven-thirty a.m. A curious bond had grown between them. It was as though they were a sports team, about to go into action. Marc had brought with him detailed road-maps covering the area between Marseille and Copenhagen. Together with Jens, he traced their route and calculated that, without stopping, and depending on traffic, they could reach Copenhagen in under forty hours. Creasy made his phone call to Gozo. Again it was very brief. Joe Tal Bahar had left Gozo at the age of eighteen to seek his fortune in New York. He had returned ten years later with a fortune beyond his dreams. Having spent a fraction of his fortune on every conceivable toy a man could want, he was now bored. The little jaunt that Creasy outlined in euphemistic terms quickly sparked his imagination. Yes, he could be up the coast from Marseille with his Sunseeker within a couple of days and yes, his ‘guests’ would arrive in Gozo very discreetly. Creasy arranged to phone him back with a landing site. Marc made a couple of quick phone calls and then from his briefcase took a Polaroid camera.

  ‘I need photos of the girls for their papers,’ he said.

  Jens and Michael started to stand up, but the Frenchman held up a hand.

  ‘Stay here. They are tranquil.’

  He went into the first bedroom, leaving the door open. They heard his gentle voice and Juliet’s calm answer.

  Jens turned to Creasy and asked, ‘Who is the man in Milan with whom you want to have a conversation?’

  ‘I only have a name,’ Creasy answered. The name was given to me by Boutin as he begged for his life. It was only a surname . . . an Italian surname . . . Donati.’

  ‘That’s all you have?’ Michael asked. ‘Just one name?’

  ‘There was another,’ Creasy answered. ‘But not very clear. You have to understand that Boutin was in trauma. He was talking, even babbling, but knowing he was about to die. Apparently, this man Donati had an emissary. In a sense he was a cut-out between Boutin and Donati. Boutin thought that he was half-French, half-Italian because he spoke both languages fluently. This cut-out had no name, but referred to himself only as The Link.’

  ‘You have a description?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Yes, but only one thing of note. He was totally bald, about forty years old, very fit and a man of few words. However, Boutin indicated that whenever he came to Marseille he enjoyed using the girls. He had one other habit. He only drank Campari on the rocks, and in copious quantities.’

  ‘Not much to go on,’ Michael commented. ‘I guess we have to concentrate on Donati. At least it’s a name. Is he Mafia?’

  ‘No,’ Creasy answered quietly. ‘According to Boutin he is “Blue Ring”. He’s the only contact that Boutin had with the organisation. Whenever he had a girl ready he would phone a number and be told where to send her and how.’

  Thoughtfully Jens said, ‘My department has contacts with the Italian police and the carabinieri. Maybe I can get a lead on him.’

  Total silence. Then Michael said, ‘A lead like Corelli?’

  Jens took the rebuff well, but when he spoke his voice was defensive. ‘Well, I can check our own files in Copenhagen.’ A thought struck him. ‘By the time I get back there, I’m still going to have seven weeks’ leave of absence. What am I supposed to do - twiddle my thumbs?’ He gave them both a belligerent look. Creasy smiled but then his eyes turned thoughtful.

  ‘Maybe you can help,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can use you as a point man.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’ the Dane asked.

  Creasy glanced at Michael and explained. ‘A point man goes out in front at an angle and diverts the opposition. In this case it will not be dangerous. You would be blundering around in an official capacity, not posing any real threat to them. They would see you as a bumbling policeman and not get nervous.’

  Michael laughed and the Dane got angry.

  ‘What does “bumbling” mean?’ he asked.

  Creasy smiled to take away any hint of offence. ‘A sort of Inspector Clouseau,’ he explained. ‘While they’re laughing at you, I’ll be sneaking in the back door.’

  Jens digested that, and then said, ‘I’ve never “bumbled” in my life! But if it helps I’ll learn.’ He said the last words seriously. He was obviously keen to stay in the team.

  Creasy said, ‘We may well need you, Jens. I’ll know within a week. Hopefully Michael will be free to travel again in about three weeks. This will not be a quick operation. I have to activate past contacts in Italy.’

  ‘Like who?’ Michael asked,

  ‘First of all your n
ominal Uncle Guido in Naples. He’s passive but still has incredible contacts, and always gives good advice.’

  Jens’ face mirrored his curiosity. Creasy explained that Guido Arellio was his best friend. They had served in the Legion together and for many years afterwards as mercenaries in all corners of the world. The partnership had ended when they found themselves in Malta many years before, and Guido had fallen in love with Laura Schembri’s eldest daughter Julia. They had married and gone to live in Naples, where they ran a small pensione. A few years afterwards, Julia had been killed in a car crash. Subsequently, Creasy had married her sister, Nadia, who in turn had died with their daughter over Lockerbie on Pan Am 103.

  ‘I will also contact a Colonel Mario Satta,’ he said.

  Now even Michael’s face showed curiosity, Creasy explained.

  ‘He’s another old friend. An unusual one. For many years he was head of carabinieri Intelligence against the Italian Mafia. Some years ago, I had a war with a family of the Mafia which stretched from Milan to Sicily. I did not know Satta then. But he knew about me and what I was doing. He gave me a clear field, even though I was assassinating Italians right down the country. Sure, they were mafiosi, but by law he should have tried to arrest me. Instead he pulled off all his men until the last battle in Palermo when I killed the head don and most of his lieutenants. I was badly shot up myself and damn near died. Satta’s elder brother, the senior surgeon at Cardarelli hospital in Naples, pulled me through. He also signed my death certificate, so that the remains of that Mafia family did not waste time trying to find me.’ He smiled briefly at the memory. ‘I’m told it was a lovely funeral.’

  ‘So that’s how you got your Gozo nickname,’ Michael said. He turned to Jens and remarked, ‘Everyone in Gozo has a nickname.’

  ‘What is it?’ Jens asked.

  ‘Il Mejjet,’ Michael answered. ‘It means “the dead one”. They also call him Uomo, which is Italian for “man”.’

  Jens was intrigued. ‘What’s your nickname?’ he asked Michael.

  Michael looked uncomfortable.

  Creasy laughed and supplied the answer. ‘They call him Spicca. It means “Finished”. He got that nickname after they brought him home after his first time at a disco. The name’s stuck.’ He turned to Jens and said seriously, ‘We have to give you a nickname now. It will also serve as a code word. If anyone calls you by that name you will know they come from me or Michael.’ He looked at Michael and said, ‘What shall we call him?’

  Michael thought for a moment and then grinned. ‘We’ll call him “Pavlova”. Jens is very partial to exotic desserts,’ Michael explained, ‘as you can see from his waistline.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Creasy nodded. ‘From now on you’re “Pavlova”.’

  Marc came out of the second bedroom, carrying the camera and several prints. He laid them on the table and pointed to one of them. It was Juliet. He said, ‘That girl is quite a character. She insisted on borrowing my comb before she would let me take her photo.’

  He scooped them up and dropped them into his briefcase, together with the camera. Then he slipped into the harness of his shoulder-holster and clicked the Beretta into it. He picked up the briefcase, saying, ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours with all the papers.’

  He turned to go, but Jens’ voice stopped him. ‘Wait, Marc. Do you have a nickname?’

  The Frenchman muttered, ‘Not really.’

  ‘What is it?’ Creasy asked sharply in French.

  There was a pause and then the Frenchman tapped his thick round glasses and said, ‘If you must know, they call me “The Owl”,’

  The other three men smiled and Creasy said, ‘That is your password. If we ever get a phone call from The Owl we know who it is. Never use your real name.”

  The Frenchman grimaced and went out, muttering something under his breath which included the word ‘crazy’.

  Chapter 22

  Grete and Flemming Andersen lived in the wealthy part of the Hellerup suburb of Copenhagen, in a large old house with a sprawling, tree-enclosed garden. The house was too big for a couple with only one child, but when they bought it they had hoped for several children. They were in bed when the phone rang at ten minutes to midnight. Sleepily Flemming reached for the bedside extension. He listened for half a minute and then abruptly sat upright.

  ‘What is it?’ his wife asked anxiously.

  He held up a hand for silence and then said, ‘Yes . . . yes, of course.’ He looked at the bedside clock. ‘We’ll be there in half an hour.’ He put the phone down and scrambled out of bed saying, ‘Come, Grete! Quickly. It’s Hanne . . . They’ve found her!’

  Jens waited at the entrance to the clinic. He had arrived two hours earlier. The Owl was waiting for him in the BMW. The journey had been swift and uneventful. He saw the lights of the silver Mercedes sweep into the car park and in his mind went over again how he would explain to the Andersens. From his files and from the meeting he had had with them in his office several weeks earlier, he guessed that they were strong people. Flemming Andersen had made his fortune in heavy construction, much of it in the inhospitable terrain of Greenland. He was a self-made man and used to adversity. His wife, Grete, had been his childhood sweetheart and had supported him through the early, difficult years. Although she had been distraught and had wept in his office, Jens believed she was strong enough to face up to the truth now.

  They hurried up the steps to the entrance, their eyes anxious but at the same time hopeful. He opened the door for them and ushered them through and then into a small waiting room. As they sat down, Grete began asking questions. One of them was, ‘Why is she in this particular clinic?’ Her husband put a hand on her arm and said, “Wait, darling. Mr Jensen will explain,’

  Jens did explain. He explained in detail. He kept his voice sympathetic but firm. He told them of the ordeal their daughter had gone through. He told them of the difficulties facing them in the weeks and maybe months ahead. He finished by saying that she was in very good hands in the clinic, and he was sure she would be in good hands when she was allowed home. He stressed that she had been a totally unwilling victim and no blame could be laid on her.

  At this point the father had lifted his gaze from the carpet and said quietly, ‘The only blame is for the men that abused her. Have they been arrested?’

  Jens shook his head.

  ‘They have not . . . and they never will be. It may not be much satisfaction, but I can tell you that they died a violent death, and they died knowing why. Your daughter is not the only one. She is very lucky - first to be alive and second to have such parents.’

  Grete had been crying. Now she lifted her face and wiped away her tears. ‘Did you kill them?’ she asked.

  Again, Jens shook his head.

  ‘No. But I was there. I cannot tell you the story, because it would endanger the men who rescued your daughter and who sent her home. There will be no publicity about this. Nothing in the newspapers.’

  The Andersens were silent and then Flemming asked, ‘The men who rescued her and killed those animals . . . Can I reward them? As you know, I’m not a poor man.’

  Jens looked at him and nodded solemnly.

  ‘Yes, you can certainly reward them. When she’s well again . . . when she is smiling, take some photographs of her. Send them to my office. I will pass them on. That is the reward they would want.’

  He stood up, went to the door, opened it and beckoned. A middle-aged man dressed in casual jacket and trousers came in. Jens introduced him as Doctor Lars Berg, the head of the clinic and Denmark’s foremost drug rehabilitation expert. He said, ‘Doctor Berg will brief you and explain the procedures. I will keep in touch with the clinic.’

  He turned to go, but at the door the mother’s voice stopped him. She moved to him and put her arms around him. She was crying and trying to thank him at the same time. He kissed her wet check, hugged her back and eased himself away. One of the rare occasions when he felt total job satisfaction.
r />   The Owl slept on the settee. Jens slept on the double bed in the bedroom. Birgitte lay wide awake next to him. She ran her hand over his naked body. Over the black and blue bruises. She had opened the door to them ten minutes earlier. They had not wanted food or drink. Just sleep. There were things she did not understand. When the other man was lying on the settee and Jens had gone into the bedroom, he had called out, ‘Goodnight, Owl.’

  The man had raised an eyelid and said, ‘Goodnight, Pavlova.’

  She sighed and kissed a purple bruise on his left buttock. No doubt she would find out all about it in the morning.

  Chapter 23

  There was no moon. The sea was black. Bur Joe Tal Bahar kept the Sunseeker at a steady twenty-eight knots across the low swell. He sat next to Michael on the flying bridge and pointed at the radar screen.

  ‘We are thirty miles south of the western coast of Sicily, and we’re just entering one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. Cargo vessels and tankers heading for eastern Italy, Greece and the Middle East and Far East via the Suez Canal.’

  Michael leaned forward and looked at the screen. There were dozens of blips. ‘How the hell will you pick up Frenchu’s fishing boat?’ he asked.

  Joe laughed. He was enjoying himself. He looked at his watch and said, ‘In about fifteen minutes, Frenchu will raise a special transponder up his mast. This radar has been adapted to recognise it.’

  Michael glanced at him. ‘I guess it’s not the first time the two of you have done this kind of thing.’

  Joe grunted in agreement. ‘True. But it’s the first time we’ve handled people nor merchandise. What’s the story, anyway?’

  Without hesitation, Michael said, ‘Joe, you’ll have to ask Creasy when you next see him . . . You know how it is.’

  ‘Sure,’ Joe answered cheerfully. ‘It’s just that she seems like a nice kid, and from the brief look I had of her she’s been badly abused.’

  They cruised on in silence. Away to port, Michael could see the lights of the accommodation structure of a supertanker sitting up in the water like a small city. He looked to his right and saw several lights. Joe was watching him.