Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Read online

  She reached forward and flicked two switches on the side of the matt black metal box. With a soft thump, an aerial started to extend upwards and stopped at a height of about two metres, almost reaching the roof of the hut. A red light then appeared at the top left-hand corner. She waited for half a minute and then picked up the handset and pressed the first of the row of buttons. A number flashed up onto the small screen. It had many digits. She swung her long hair away from her face and placed the phone against her ear. The box emitted a series of musical tones and then went silent. She tapped her right foot on the wooden floor as she waited, explaining to Van: ‘The signal is bouncing off the satellite to an earth station in Phnom Penh and is then fed into their telephone grid.’

  Half a minute passed. Then suddenly she was talking excitedly and laughing. ‘Yes, it is me. Yes, I am in Chek. No, they haven’t put a telephone line in. It’s just that I have upgraded our communications equipment from carrier pigeon to satellite communication . . . Do you have anything to report?’

  She listened. Van Luk Wan watched her face turn from happy amusement to sharp alertness. She listened for several minutes without interruption, then said authoritatively: ‘Don’t leave your office. I’ll call you back within an hour.’

  She clipped the phone back onto the box and stood thoughtfully looking at it. Then she said to Van: ‘Two things happened last night. In Saigon, your entire hit team got wiped out in a gun battle at the follower’s home. The follower and his family escaped unhurt.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Van said. ‘My instructions were that they were not to attack until Creasy had left for Phnom Penh.’

  ‘He did leave for Phnom Penh. According to Sok San he arrived there with the girl in the afternoon. It must have been the Italian Arrellio . . . or somebody else he brought in.’ Her expression was now very hard. ‘He’s a clever bastard! The follower must have told him of the threat to his family. And so he turned the follower by promising him protection.’

  They looked at each other in silence. Then Van said: ‘That man moves quickly.’

  ‘Yes, he does. Last night the office of the Lucit Trade Company was entered and searched.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  For a moment anger flamed in her eyes. Then she took a breath and said: ‘Of course I’m sure. Sok San was carefully instructed. The past few nights pieces of cotton thread were lightly fixed to doors, cabinets and drawers, all of which were locked. This morning all these threads were displaced. Creasy went through that office and then relocked everything after him.’

  ‘Was anything missing?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s too clever for that. But we can assume that he checked every file.’ She was tapping her foot again impatiently.

  Van said: ‘But wasn’t that the intention?’

  ‘Yes, it was; but not so quickly. From the moment that Creasy arrived in Saigon, I expected it to take him a week or ten days. I’m not ready for him yet and the date is not right. We must find a way to keep him in Phnom Penh for a few more days. Meanwhile, we leave for Tuk Luy in two hours.’

  She reached again for the telephone.

  Chapter 37

  It was a rare luxury. She lay on the sunbed by the hotel pool with a tall glass of chilled, fresh orange juice by her side, reading a novel by P. D. James.

  It had not crossed her mind to pack a swimsuit, but the hotel boutique had a wide selection, all from Paris and all wildly expensive. It had pained her to pay nearly three hundred dollars, even if the skimpy bikini did have a designer label on it. But the pain had eased when she looked in the mirror, and eased further when she walked out to the pool and saw the heads turn.

  Creasy and The Owl were sleeping off the night’s work, while Jens had gone off to try to get Creasy’s film developed.

  The night before, she had waited up with Jens. He had produced a pocket-size backgammon set, but after she had lost half a dozen times, he tactfully put it away. They had just talked. She found herself liking the Dane. He had a dry sense of humour and a charming self-deprecation which contrasted with what she already knew was a razor-sharp brain. He told her the story of how he and The Owl had first met Creasy. It sounded like a hilarious adventure instead of a war against a deadly gang of drug dealers and white slavers. He also talked about his wife, Birgitte, and their young daughter, and she saw the fondness in his eyes. It was obvious that while he was enjoying himself in this exotic place, he was missing his family. She liked men like that.

  Creasy and The Owl returned at three a.m. They had the air of a couple of men returning from a visit to a good nightclub rather than from a dangerous act in a dangerous city. But she noticed that Creasy took a rare drink, and so did The Owl. Creasy quickly briefed them and then handed over a tiny roll of film to Jens.

  She was very excited, but tried to keep it from her face. In the years that she had worked in the department, this was the closest she had ever come to solving a case. Keeping her voice calm, she asked Creasy: ‘Are you sure it was Jake Bentsen in the photograph?’

  He nodded firmly. ‘Of course it showed him much older, but I’ll never forget that face . . . It was Jake Bentsen.’

  ‘And there were two other Americans?’

  He shrugged. ‘There were two other Caucasians, but they weren’t waving the Stars and Stripes.’

  At that moment she saw the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. She felt a sudden sympathy. He was a fit man, but not young. In the previous twenty-four hours, he had made love to her and then driven for hours along one of the worst roads in the world. He had finally gone out in the middle of the night and risked his life.

  ‘You need sleep,’ she said.

  Creasy nodded. ‘We all do.’ He looked at the Dane. ‘Jens, you have to try to get that film developed in confidence. And you have to be there while it’s being developed and be sure that nobody else sees the prints.’

  Jens looked at the film in the palm of his hands and then slipped it into his pocket, saying: ‘I’ll put my mind to it.’

  She caught the eye of a white-jacketed waiter and ordered a fresh fruit salad. When it arrived, she laughed in astonishment. It was a largebowl set inside an even bigger bowl filled with ice. It contained at least ten different kinds of tropical fruit, some of which she had never seen before. She had only managed to eat half of it when she saw The Owl on the other side of the swimming pool. He looked so incongruous in this luxury setting. He wore baggy grey trousers, a dark-blue shirt buttoned to his neck and, even in the tropical heat, a black woollen cardigan. His eyes were moving over the recumbent bodies, obviously looking for her. She watched as he walked around the pool and saw his eyes focus on her and then move away. She put down the bowl of fruit, sat up and called out: ‘Here!’

  His eyes swung back to her and he stopped abruptly. She stood up, asking: ‘What is it?’

  He was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Susanna, I didn’t recognize you.’ He waved a hand at her. ‘I mean, I never saw you like that before.’

  Sternly, she said: ‘I am a woman, you know.’

  ‘So I see.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And I might say, Mademoiselle, a very beautiful one.’

  She inclined her head to acknowledge the compliment and asked: ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Jens is back. I just woke Creasy. We have a meeting in fifteen minutes.’

  She was immediately alert. ‘Did he get the film developed?’

  She thought she saw a slight smile as he said: ‘Of course, Mademoiselle.’

  She washed off the suntan oil at the poolside shower and strolled back through the luxuriant garden to the bungalow. Creasy was finishing off a late breakfast of croissants, ham and cheese. He looked refreshed. Jens and The Owl were at the other end of the table, leaning over the photographs. From somewhere, Jens had managed to find a large magnifying glass.

  Creasy gestured at the photographs and said: ‘Take a look, Susanna.’

  The two men made room for her and she looked down at the large-grain prin
ts. Three of them were photographs of photographs. Jens pointed at one of them and she leaned closer. It was black and white. It showed three men. One was tall and fair-haired, wearing only khaki shorts. He was holding a dark, round object in his hands. The other two men were short and Oriental. They wore Khmer Rouge uniforms and they had rifles slung over their shoulders. They stood on each side of the taller man. They were smiling at the camera. She had studied Jake Bentsen’s file back in Washington. She too recognized the face. It was not smiling.

  The other two photographs were of similar Caucasians, each bracketed by two Khmer soldiers. Jens handed her the magnifying glass and she studied them. Bentsen had been clean-shaven, but these two men wore heavy beards. She studied the faces for a long time and they told her nothing. But she knew instinctively that they were Americans.

  She looked again at the photograph of Bentsen. Directly behind him in the distant background was a low hill with a building on its crest. She brought the photograph closer under the magnifying glass and saw that the building was a temple, typical of the many thousands scattered around Cambodia. She looked at the other photographs. There were six of them, all depicting lines of handwritten Vietnamese.

  Creasy pushed away his empty plate and said: ‘Can you read that, Susanna?’

  She picked up one of the photographs and held it under the magnifying glass. After studying it for a minute, she looked up and said: ‘I can decipher most of it.’

  ‘Good,’ Creasy said. ‘Then that’s a first step. Jens, please find Susanna a pad of paper, and as she finishes each page, put the information into your computer.’

  Jens lifted his briefcase onto the table, opened it up and produced a yellow legal pad and a felt-tip pen. She asked him: ‘How on earth did you get that film developed so quickly?’

  He shrugged modestly. ‘I’m a detective, Susanna. And to be a good detective, one needs to be a bit of a psychologist. I knew that the manager of this hotel is French and of course the French always love a good intrigue, especially when it’s a matter of the heart. And particularly if it involves a scandal, no matter how small. So I arranged for a meeting with the manager, Monsieur Marcel Duprey, who has been here three years and of course has many contacts in the city. And I simply explained my problem.’

  ‘Your problem?’

  ‘Yes, of course. A clandestine love affair between a Danish female army officer on assignment here with the UNTAC - which is United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia - and an Australian major attached to the same mission. Obviously, someone in that mission dislikes the Australian to the extent that he or she sent an anonymous letter to the woman’s husband in Copenhagen, who happens to be a wealthy businessman, much older than his wife. At that point I gave Marcel Duprey my business card which identifies me as a private detective, and explained that her husband hired me and my colleague to come to Phnom Penh and check the details contained in that anonymous letter. That was what my colleague was doing last night. He managed to get compromising photographs of the couple concerned. Naturally, before flying back to Denmark, I needed to get the film discreetly developed and enlarged to be sure that the photos are clear enough.’ He gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘Marcel Duprey was suitably intrigued. And since he knows many officers in Phnom Penh attached to UNTAC, he asked me who the lovers might be. Naturally, I gave him a polite little lecture on client confidentiality inasmuch as it applies to both hotel managers and private detectives. He kindly phoned a close friend at the French embassy, where they happen to have their own dark room. The rest, as they say, was plain sailing.’

  Susanna looked up at Creasy, who said: ‘As well as having to be psychologists, private detectives also have to be damned good liars!’

  At that moment they were interrupted by a tap on the door. While The Owl went to answer it, Jens quickly shuffled the photographs together and slipped them into his briefcase. The Owl returned with an envelope and handed it to Jens. Inside was a slip of fax paper. The Dane read the two lines and then passed it on to Creasy who in turn read it and passed it on to Susanna. It read: ‘The deal was concluded satisfactorily very early this morning. Our traders are returning home and I will join you shortly.’ It was signed Henry.

  She looked up. ‘I assume that Henry is Guido and that the traders are Maxie and René?’

  ‘Yes. Guido should be here by tonight or tomorrow.’

  Jens had put the photographs back on the table. Creasy reached out and picked up the photograph of Bentsen, studied it and said quietly: ‘The clue lies in the temple. We have to find out where it is. And for that, we need an expert to identify it.’ He looked up. ‘In the meantime, Susanna, we need that translation.’

  Chapter 38

  It took her an hour to translate the writing on the photographs. As she was finishing the last page, Guido arrived, and again she noticed the strange ritual. As Creasy greeted him, he kissed him hard on the side of his face, close to the mouth. She had asked Jens about that, and he had explained that it was the custom between mercenaries of that era. A sort of symbolism. Guido greeted Jens and The Owl warmly, but not in the same way. He gave her a kiss on both cheeks and an envelope, saying: ‘Messages for you which came to the hotel after you left.’

  There were three messages, all from Jason Woodward. The first one read: ‘Please call me.’ The second read: ‘Please call me urgently.’ The third read: ‘Please call me very urgently. I love you.’

  She looked at that last message for a long time, and then crushed the papers up in her hand and dropped them into the waste-basket beside her chair.

  Guido’s face was as drawn and exhausted as Creasy’s had been the night before. She listened as he briefed the three men on the events in Saigon. He himself had managed to get an early connecting flight via Bangkok. René and Maxie would stay holed up in the safe house for a few days, and then either head home or come on to Phnom Penh if they were needed.

  Creasy brought him up to date on what had happened in Phnom Penh, and showed him the photographs. While Guido studied them, Susanna finished off the translation, handed the last sheet to Jens, and said to Creasy: ‘It was a correspondence between the leader of a group of irregular Vietnamese militia and an officer of the Khmer Rouge who, at the time, was based in Battambang.’ She could not keep the catch from her voice as she said: ‘It involved the sale of three American prisoners of war who were held by the Vietnamese. The price for one of them was two taels of gold. The price for the other two was three taels. The difference in value was because the two were experts in minelaying and clearance.’ She sat down and they could all see the sadness permeating her face.

  Quietly, Creasy asked: ‘Were they identified?’

  ‘Not by name. Only by dogtag numbers.’

  Jens was transcribing the last page into his computer. He looked up and said: ‘The buyer and seller were not identified by name either. Only by code words. The Vietnamese was known as a Commander Tanon and the Cambodian by the name of Commander Indravarnam.’

  Susanna laughed without humour and said: it’s the name of a famous Khmer emperor who reigned in the ninth century.’ She turned to Creasy. ‘I have no choice now, since I have dogtag numbers.’

  Creasy was nodding thoughtfully. He said: ‘Yes, but I want you to give me time. Just forty-eight hours. I want to try to identify the place where those photographs were taken.’

  She started to argue, but Creasy held up his hand. ‘Susanna, be fair. I let you come on to Phnom Penh with us. Right now you could be on your way back to the States knowing nothing. Give me the forty-eight hours. If these men are still alive, those hours could be crucial to them.’

  Jens had finished on his computer. He closed the lid and joined the debate.

  ‘Susanna, in the last few days we’ve made great progress. The danger is that if you inform your boss, you’ll involve the Phnom Penh government, which is a web of corruption. The Khmer Rouge have their own agents in very high places. If they find out that the American government suspects th
ere may be American MIAs in the country, then the evidence could be quickly obliterated . . . which means six feet under the ground.’

  All their eyes were watching her. Irrationally, she thought to herself that the past two days had all been about making decisions. She sighed and said: ‘It means that as an officer, I’m breaking my code of duty . . . But OK, forty-eight hours.’ Guido stood up and asked: ‘Where do I sleep?’ Jens gave him a key and said: ‘That’s for the bungalow next door.’

  He picked up his canvas bag with a curt nod and walked out.

  Chapter 39

  The Toyota Landcruiser pulled into the compound in a cloud of dust. It was followed by two covered trucks. Piet de Witt watched as Connie Crum jumped out of the jeep and strode towards him. She was carrying a leather folder and an air of urgency, but she greeted him warmly and said: ‘I hear you’ve been doing good work. But now I need you to go into top gear.’

  With the scent of her perfume in his nostrils, he followed her into the building, as she shouted out for cold drinks and something to eat. Her clothes and face were covered with dust. As they sat down side by side at a long table, she asked: ‘Piet, how many mines do you think you and your team have cleared in the last six months?’

  By chance, he had been calculating that the night before.

  ‘About twelve and a half thousand.’

  She turned and gave him her most engaging smile. ‘That’s wonderful. But now I want you to lay a few thousand.’

  At first he was struck speechless. Then he asked with incredulity: ‘You want me to put them back in the ground?’