Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Page 13

  ‘I have a way,’ he answered. ‘After we leave here, I’ll find out.’

  She was both curious and a little piqued.

  ‘What are you going to do? Take me down to the river, half-drown me and then ask me how strong my maternal instincts are?’

  He shrugged. ‘In a different way, that is what I’m going to do.’

  It was a big room. It gave an impression of a white mist. The impression came from rows of mosquito nets hanging from the ceiling and covering the cots and beds. The young nun walked between them as they crossed the room, explaining to Susanna about the workings of the orphanage. Near them were the sounds of crying. The nun moved to the cot and lifted the net and picked up a baby and crooned gently to it. It was a girl, only a few months old, but her features were already formed. She looked like an oriental doll, with narrow eyes and the beginnings of jet-black hair.

  Another baby started to cry. The nun turned to Susanna and said: ‘Please hold this one for a moment.’

  Susanna took the tiny bundle and cradled it in her arms. She looked down at the little face and murmured silly words. The baby stopped crying. Susanna lifted her head to Creasy and said: ‘You bastard!’

  Chapter 30

  It was hard for Jens to realize that he was in a country which only a decade earlier had witnessed one of history’s greatest acts of inhumanity.

  He sat with The Owl on the patio of a bungalow in the gardens of the Cambodiana Inn. It could have been a scene from Eden. It was just after midnight and a full moon hung like a lantern above them and illuminated the bougainvillaea which tumbled down the walls of the bungalow. There was the low, throbbing sound of thousands of insects, and the air was heavy with the scent of a tropical night.

  The Dane was satisfied. They had eaten a delicious local meal at a small open-air restaurant by the river. Together they had drunk an excellent bottle of claret selected by The Owl, and on returning to the bungalow, The Owl had produced a bottle of duty-free Hennessy XO. In the meantime, Jens had phoned his wife Birgitte and spoken at expensive length to her and his daughter. That alone would have put him in a good mood, but his night was made perfect by the fact that during the afternoon he had worked well at his profession.

  They had arrived from Saigon in the late morning. And by early afternoon, they had discovered the source of the fax number to which Tran Quock Cong had sent his reports. The Owl had been very impressed, which made Jens even more satisfied. They had gone from the airport straight to the offices of the Khmer Telecommunications Corporation. Jens produced one of his bogus business cards and presented it to the receptionist, gave her a charming smile and asked for an appointment with the technical executive. He was slightly astonished to be ushered into the office of a tall, sunburnt Australian who, after shaking hands, asked: ‘What’s the problem, mate?’

  ‘What’s an Australian doing here?’ Jens countered.

  The Australian went to a fridge in the corner, took out three cold cans of frosted lager and, having proven Australian hospitality, explained that his company was co-operating with the Khmer government to repair and upgrade telecommunications in the country. He pointed a finger upwards and remarked: ‘Everything comes and goes through a Russian satellite up there. You can phone or fax the world, but it’s damn near impossible to get a call through to the next town.’

  Jens explained his problem. He was an exporter from Copenhagen specializing in meat products, and through a trade organization had been put in touch with a Khmer company. For the past months they had been in fax communication and potential business looked promising. So, while on a business trip to Saigon and Hong Kong, he had decided to drop in at Phnom Penh and pursue the matter. The problem was that his briefcase had been stolen at Saigon airport, and it contained the relevant files. He could not even remember the complicated name of the Khmer company, but he could remember the fax number.

  The Australian was very helpful. He punched the number into the computer on his desk, hit a button on the console, looked at the screen and said: ‘Bingo! It’s one of three faxes located at the business centre of the Cambodiana Hotel.’

  Jens also had his Notebook computer out. He tapped in that information and then asked: ‘Is there any way you can find out who has been using that particular fax?’

  The Australian shook his head and said: ‘That information is held by the hotel itself. The manager is a Frenchman called Marcel Duprey. He might help and he might not. He’s a bit officious. You know what the French are like.’

  Jens had grinned, and gestured at The Owl. ‘I know exactly. This one is French as well!’

  The Australian was not at all put out. He just reached forwards, patted The Owl on the shoulder and remarked: ‘Some French are OK. I had a cracker of a French girlfriend once.’

  ‘Is it a good hotel?’ Jens asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s the best and the biggest. It’s right on the river. It’s air-conditioned and has a great bar and good food. If you’re going to stay there, opt for the adjacent Cambodiana Inn, which has its own bungalows. Mind you, it’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.’

  Jens stood up, saying: ‘That’s OK. Business has been good lately. Maybe we’ll see you in the bar down there some time, and return your hospitality. Many thanks!’

  The rest was straightforward. They checked into their bungalow and then made a recce into the hotel’s business centre. It was very up to date, with the three fax machines, telex, phones, computers and a very charming Cambodian-French manageress. Jens signed in for a week, and explained that he would be expecting some important faxes that evening between five and seven. She told him to relax in his bungalow and she would have them sent over as soon as they arrived. He demurred, explaining that they would be of a highly confidential nature and that he would prefer to wait himself during that period in the business centre. She fully understood and told him that he could order food and drinks from room service.

  So he waited inside the centre while The Owl waited outside the hotel with a taxi standing by. The centre was very quiet. Between five and five thirty, three Chinese businessmen came in to send and receive faxes. At a quarter to six Jens ordered coffee and a ham sandwich. At five to six, a tall, slim Cambodian man came through the door, wearing a smart business suit and carrying a briefcase. He nodded politely to Jens and took a seat at a table near the fax machines. Jens munched away at his sandwich and read a three-week-old Time Magazine. At precisely two minutes past six, the centre fax machine came to life. Both he and the Cambodian jumped up and approached it.

  ‘I’m expecting a fax at this time,’ Jens explained.

  The Cambodian smiled and said: ‘Me too.’

  They watched as the paper curled out. The Cambodian turned it and read the postscript.

  ‘It’s for me,’ he said, and with a subtle movement placed his body in front of the machine, but not before Jens had seen the word CALAN at the head of the paper. He went back to his seat and picked up the magazine, raising it so he could watch the Cambodian over the top.

  The Cambodian only glanced at the fax before tucking it into his briefcase and strolling out. Jens followed him through the lobby and watched as he went through the entrance, down the steps and into the back of a waiting black Mercedes. Jens looked across the road and nodded at the Owl, who immediately jumped into his waiting taxi.

  The Owl was back at the bungalow twenty minutes later, and reported: ‘He went into a building on Achar Hemcheay Boulevard. It’s the offices of a company called Lucit Trade Company.’

  And so Jens went back to the business centre and sent a fax back to Creasy at the hotel in Saigon. Then they went out for a well-deserved dinner.

  Chapter 31

  They decided to have a nightcap in the hotel bar. She had been silent during the taxi ride back, but now she felt the need to talk. They sat on stools at the end of the bar, which was almost deserted. Creasy was a good listener. She told him about her early childhood and life as an army brat, when she and her mother had foll
owed her father to postings in Germany, Japan and Guam. Then he had been posted to Vietnam and she and her mother had returned to the States.

  It had been difficult for her at school because, due to her travels and experiences, she had been mentally older than the other children in her classes. Even though she had done well at her lessons, she had become isolated and increasingly drawn to her mother.

  Then had come the terrible day when they were told that her father was missing in action. He had been a senior combat Intelligence officer at Chu Lay and one day, as the Khe San disaster was looming, he took a helicopter to that isolated base. On its return the helicopter was shot down by a SAM missile over heavily forested Viet Cong territory. The pilot just had time to radio that they were hit and that he was trying to make an emergency landing. The helicopter and its occupants were never found, even after the end of the war when the Vietnamese government was co-operating with the Americans.

  ‘My mother always believed he was alive somewhere,’ she said. ‘She believed that until her death from cancer ten years later.’

  He had been taking small sips of his vodka-tonic, holding the glass with both hands and leaning forwards with his elbows on the bar. He glanced at her and asked: ‘Did you also believe it?’

  ‘Not really. Of course I hoped and I prayed, and I guess that I voiced my belief mainly to support my mother. Every year on his birthday, she used to make a dinner of his favourite food and lay a place for him at the table. It was as though he might walk in the door any moment. On those nights I could never sleep. I would hear my mother crying in the next bedroom. The day before she died, she asked me to continue that practice. I never did. The day I buried her, I also buried any thoughts of a live father.’

  Again, Creasy just glanced at her as she continued.

  ‘I joined the Army because it was the only life I knew. When I had the chance to join the MIA department, I jumped at it. I was well suited to the work.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I’m very good at talking to relatives, to try and console them. In fact, so good that they made me a captain.’

  Still looking at his glass, Creasy said: ‘They made you a captain because you are intelligent and damn good at your work. The Vietnamese and Khmer languages are among the most difficult anywhere, but you learned to speak them both, and also a bit of Lao. When I was here in the war, I met dozens of US Army Intelligence officers and CIA men and so-called specialists. You could count on the fingers of one hand those of them who spoke Vietnamese with any competence. It was a farce. They had to rely on ARVN interpreters, many of whom were VC sympathizers. The level of military intelligence was appalling.’ He shrugged and, without looking at her, said: ‘That’s no slur on your father.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she agreed. ‘My father was a linguist. He spoke good German and Japanese and was fast mastering Vietnamese before he went missing. I read his file. It’s why he went to Khe San. He didn’t believe the reports he was getting from the Marine Intelligence officers.’

  Creasy had finished his drink, and as though by magic the bartender appeared and refilled his glass. Susanna declined another one. She was feeling a little light-headed from the wine at dinner and from the emotional experiences afterwards. As the bartender moved away she said: ‘Perhaps the isolation, you might even call it loneliness, has made me ambitious. My father was made colonel when he was forty-two. He was tipped to go on to be a general. Since he couldn’t make it, I’m going to.’

  She looked at him and saw a half-smile on his face. He lifted his glass in a toast and said: ‘I’ll drink to that! I only made sergeant myself, but sergeants can always judge officers. You’ll make it to general. I hope you’ll still talk to me when you get your first star up.’

  She smiled at the thought, and then said seriously: ‘You would have made a fantastic senior officer. I can hardly believe what’s happened during the last few days. It’s only been ten days since Jake Bentsen’s father approached you in Brussels. Only a week since your name popped up on our computers in Washington. Now here we are in Saigon. You have a defensive team around our informer and his family, and your advanced team is in Phnom Penh and are already feeding back information. I’ve met both teams and I’m impressed. You know how to pick the right men for the right jobs.’

  ‘That’s just instinct,’ he said. ‘I’ve known them all for years and they’ve proved themselves.’ He took a hand from his glass and lightly touched her on her arm. ‘Also we had your help. We’ll miss you.’

  There was a silence, and then she turned full-square on the bar stool and said: ‘You’re not going to miss me. I took a decision driving back in the taxi. OK, you forced that decision. I’m not going back to Washington. I’m not going to have an abortion. Right now I’m on official holiday. I want to stay with the team. I want to go with you to Phnom Penh tomorrow.’

  Creasy shook his head. ‘The situation is different. We’re being sucked into what could be a violent party. I’m not taking a pregnant woman into that.’

  She laughed. ‘All I have is a seed inside me. It will be weeks before I even begin to feel pregnant. Right now it’s only in the head, not in the body. At the speed you’re going, this mission will probably be concluded in a couple of weeks. I have an instinct about that. I’m going with you. We have an office in Phnom Penh which could be useful. And don’t forget that I also speak the language.’

  He was shaking his head. She went on.

  ‘Besides, if I don’t go with you, I’ll feel duty-bound to report to Washington that there have been recent, reported sightings of American MIAs.’

  ‘That’s blackmail!’

  She laughed. ‘Look who’s talking! Who was it that hijacked me to an orphanage a couple of hours ago?’

  ‘That wasn’t blackmail. That was just an exercise in mental suggestion.’

  ‘Whatever it was, I want to see this thing through. Apart from anything else, it’s my job.’

  She watched his face as he considered. Then he gave her a brief nod.

  ‘OK, you’re staying. But early tomorrow morning, you have to use your influence with your friend Dang Hoang Long to pull some strings and get you a visa to Cambodia. It can usually take up to a few days, but I’m sure he can fix it quickly. Then we’ll go by road.’

  ‘What about Guido?’

  ‘He’ll follow in a couple of days. If those people are going to hit the follower’s family, they’ll do it as soon as we leave Saigon. So Guido will keep an eye on the outside while Maxie and René are inside.’

  ‘What will we find in Phnom Penh?’

  He drained the last of his vodka, turned to her and said: ‘We continue to follow the paper trail as laid down for us. For sure it won’t end in Phnom Penh.’

  ‘Where will it end?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it will end in death. Theirs or mine. It always does . . .’ He pushed himself up from the stool. ‘I don’t know why they want me, but it’s not to give me a kiss on the cheek . . . Let’s get some sleep.’

  Once again, the lift was out of order. As they walked up the stairs, she said: ‘I’m sorry I got a bit emotional down there. I guess I talked too much. It’s not like me. Maybe it was the wine . . . Maybe it’s because today is the twenty-seventh.’

  They had reached the corridor. He asked: ‘What does that mean?’

  They were at the door of her room. She said: ‘It’s the date of my father’s birthday.’

  They both had their keys in their hands. He turned and looked at her with his brooding eyes. She put her key in the lock. He said: ‘Susanna, if you don’t want to be alone tonight, you can sleep with me.’

  Her laugh was almost hysterical.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot of come-on lines in my life, but that’s a great one!’

  ‘It’s not a line. I’m not inviting you to bed to make love. And I’m not being sentimental. You’re a long way from home and the man who you thought might love you. Right now you’re a lonely human being. Go in there and lie awake half the night, if you want. O
r else come with me and sleep.’ He gave another of his almost smiles. ‘I have that effect on women.’

  She looked at him for a long time, and then slowly pulled the key out of the lock.

  Chapter 32

  They only had to wait ten minutes at the Moc Bai Border Crossing. Creasy had got out of the car with the passports in one hand and a folded hundred-dollar bill in the other. ‘Nothing changes,’ he grunted as he got back into the car and started the engine.

  ‘It never will change,’ Susanna said, ‘while government officials get paid less than subsistence rate.’

  The road was potholed to such an extent that Creasy had to weave his way between them. The countryside was flat and wet, with paddy fields stretching out on each side of the road. Traffic was sparse; a few beaten-up old trucks and occasionally a UN vehicle.

  ‘What time will we reach Phnom Penh?’ she asked.

  ‘With the condition of this road, it’s hard to say. But not before late afternoon.’

  They had hardly spoken since leaving the hotel at dawn, and then it had only been to exchange comments and observations. She glanced at his profile and said quietly: ‘I suppose I should apologize for this morning.’

  ‘Apologize for what?’

  ‘For what happened this morning.’

  He gave her a quick, puzzled look and said: ‘Well, this morning we got up, had coffee and croissants, loaded up the car and headed off to Phnom Penh.’

  ‘I mean before that. I mean before we got up.’

  His eyes were concentrating on the road again. He said: ‘All I remember is going to bed well after midnight and having to wake up at five thirty with a bit of a thick head.’

  She laughed inwardly. ‘I guess I must have been dreaming.’