Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Page 17

‘Retired?’

  ‘Who knows. He’s probably casting an eye on Guadeloupe or Saint Bart’s. He always wanted to be an emperor.’

  Susanna did not feel outside the conversation, even though most of it was incomprehensible. More and more, as the days passed, she felt a part of this strange group of men. She had never known that in her life. Even during her army training she had never made friends easily. She realized that even though these four men had different nationalities and different personalities, they were in many ways very similar. They relished what they were doing. They woke up each morning not knowing what life would bring.

  She realized that Creasy was exerting an ever-growing influence over her. She could not define it as love, although the physical attraction was very strong. It was more a question of companionship. She felt good when he was nearby. She enjoyed his dry sense of humour and the depth of his mind. She had noticed that he kept himself completely in touch with world events, always looking for newspapers and weekly magazines and every day listening at least twice to the news on the BBC World Service. During their discussions she had noticed a strange combination of conservatism and liberalism. That night during dinner he had teased Jens, telling him that Denmark was probably the only truly communist nation left on earth. The Dane had been indignant, but Creasy had pointed out that the true ideals of communism had never been realized in Russia or China or even Cuba. In a strange way their real ideals had possibly evolved in Denmark. The community looked after its own. It was a contradiction. The people had a free and inventive spirit and yet they conformed to the good of the whole. They paid massive taxes with surprisingly little complaint because their tax money was spent sensibly for the community. There were very few rich and very few poor. Jens had started arguing. Creasy had held up a hand and said: ‘I’ve travelled the world, Jens. And since I’ve met you, I’ve spent some time in Denmark. The quality of life there is the highest I’ve ever seen. Be proud of your country.’

  That had silenced Jens. Then Creasy teased Guido about Italy.

  ‘A nation of peacocks,’ he said. ‘A recent survey showed that Italian men spend forty per cent of their disposable incomes on clothes.’ He glanced at his friend, who was dressed immaculately in an Armani suit. ‘In your case I suspect you spend sixty per cent.’

  Guido took the ribbing good-naturedly, and answered: it’s a sign of civilization. The Americans and the English have no style. We hate to pay taxes, we like rich food and plump women. We live in the sun and dream dreams. We are, on the whole, chaotically happy.’

  The Owl joined the conversation. ‘If you talk about civilization, France is the heart and the soul. We have the greatest food, the most beautiful women, the finest wines, the most delicious cheeses and the fastest trains. The Danes are well organized, the Italians have a superficial style, the Americans have Hollywood. But la France has flair.’ He turned to look at Susanna. With a twinkle in his eyes he asked: ‘What has America given the world except John Wayne?’

  She felt her patriotism welling up and answered: ‘We gave the world the blues and the jazz. Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Brubeck and Miller. That music is unique and it came from America. You can have your Mozarts and Beethovens and Verdis. We have our own culture and we’re proud of it. And we don’t need some snivelling Frenchman lecturing to us about culture.’

  The Owl beamed with delight.

  It had been a good evening. Eventually Guido drained his glass and stood up, saying that he had a meeting with his bed. Susanna poured herself a little more Cognac and Creasy poured himself the last of the red wine.

  ‘How do you choose them?’ she asked.

  ‘Choose?’

  ‘Yes. Among all the hard men that you must have known, how do you choose people like those . . . and even René and Maxie? They are good men. I guess they may have done terrible things, but they strike me as decent men.’

  The question gave him pause for serious thought. He swirled the glass of wine, looking down at it, and then answered: ‘It’s not a matter of choice, Susanna. Life is like being in a fairground and riding the dodgem cars. You bump into people all the time. I guess that sometimes the bumps are not so bad. Jake Bentsen was like that. I bumped into him in Vietnam. He was just a scared kid putting on a brave face. But I liked him. When I met his parents I knew why. They’re good people. I guess that’s why I’m here. I have enough money saved and invested not to have to work any more at my trade. I want to find out what happened to Jake Bentsen, not just because of my own curiosity, but because back in San Diego there’s an old couple who deserve an answer. It’s not a question of sentiment or even emotion. It’s a question of balancing out.’

  ‘Balancing out what?’

  He sighed reflectively. ‘Balancing out my own life. I’ve done a lot of things and not all of them to be proud of. I’ve done jobs for money that put me outside of what decent people would call proper behaviour. It’s not a real excuse, but I had no choice. I was in the fairground getting bashed up by all the dodgem cars. For most of my life the main criterion was survival. Perhaps instinctively, I’m trying to redress the balance. I’m in danger here . . . We all are. I could leave in the morning and go back to my old farmhouse in Gozo and swim in warm seas and eat good food and enjoy the friends that I have there.’ He shrugged. ‘But maybe I wouldn’t sleep so good. I want to be able to tell that couple in San Diego that their son is either dead or alive. If he’s alive, I want to take him home. I’ve been called a dog of war and I accept it. But old dogs have their own loyalties. And this dog wants to rest in peace.’

  ‘What will you do after this?’ she asked. ‘Just go home and retire?’

  He laughed quietly, as though at an often-heard joke.

  ‘I’ve been trying to do that for the last ten years. I decided to retire after a stint with the Rhodesian army back in the late seventies. I was drinking too much and I got right out of shape, mentally and physically. I turned up at Guido’s pensione in Naples one night with no horizon in my life at all. He arranged to get me a job as a bodyguard to the young daughter of an Italian industrialist. I did a lousy job. She was kidnapped and later killed: but in the months before that, I had fallen in love with that child. Not physically, you understand. She was only eleven. But she came into my life and changed it. I was badly shot up in the kidnapping and nearly died. I went to Gozo and spent two months getting physically fit again. Then I went back to Italy and killed a lot of people . . . the Mafia gang who had been responsible. I didn’t do it for money. I did it for myself. The girl’s name was Pinta. Since then, at periodic times, there have been other Pintas in my life.’ He smiled wryly. ‘In a sense Jake Bentsen was a Pinta . . . I guess there will always be Pintas turning up somewhere; and that’s good. It gives a purpose to my life. It gives me always an unseen horizon.’

  ‘Do you ever get lonely?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really. I live in my own head. I have conversations with myself. Perhaps there are occasions sometimes in the night.’ He gestured out into the darkness. ‘They say that Cambodia was a killing field, and that’s true. But I’ve been in many killing fields. Sometimes a memory brings loneliness, and that’s always late in the night.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ she said softly. ‘Tonight I will stay with you. After all, you recently did the same for me.’

  She woke at first light. Her body was entwined with his. Her mood was serene. The love-making had been long and gentle. She was watching his face as his eyes opened. He moved slightly and kissed her on her chin and murmured: ‘It was very good.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The love-making. It was perfect.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  His eyes opened wider. ‘I’m talking about last night. I’m talking about the meal and the conversation, and afterwards the lovemaking. It was perfect.’

  She gave him a puzzled look. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We just slept together, that’s all.’

  He pulled her close and ch
uckled into the nape of her neck.

  Chapter 44

  ‘You’re crazy!’ Creasy said.

  ‘I’m totally sane,’ Jens answered. ‘Trust me.’

  Creasy sighed. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the rented Toyota. Jens was driving. They were on a bumpy road running parallel to the east bank of the Mekong River.

  ‘An ex-colonel in the Australian army?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And he’s now a Buddhist monk?’

  ‘That’s right. And he lives like a hermit outside the village of Prek. He’s our man.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He was captured by the Japanese during World War Two, in Burma. He survived the war and afterwards got himself demobbed in Thailand. He took up the Buddhist faith and studied it for the next twenty years and became a monk. In the early sixties he moved to Cambodia and became so learned in the faith that the local people venerated him to the point where he became considered among the three holiest monks in the country. When the Khmer Rouge took over, he was taken by his followers back into Thailand. He returned to Cambodia four years ago. He’s eighty-eight years old now and he’s looked upon as the holiest man in this country. He’s an expert on Buddhism, and in particular its history and its temples. However, he’s a recluse. I’m not sure he’ll even talk to you. We can but try.’

  ‘How did you get on to him?’

  ‘I was talking to an American in the bar last night. A place called the No Problem Bar. It’s a place where the expatriates hang out. The American is doing field work at Angkor Wat. He’s a postgraduate student in Eastern Archaeology and a convert to Buddhism. One of those nutcases with long hair and a beard and bangles on his wrists. But he knows his stuff. This Australian ex-colonel, now monk, is called Chum Bun Rong. The American tells me that he’s a living, breathing encyclopedia on Buddhist temples. The trouble is he doesn’t like talking to people. I’m not crazy, but maybe this guy is.’

  They passed through the small, dusty village of Prek. Jens stopped the car, consulted a hand-drawn map, and then pointed to a rickety wooden house on stilts which hung precariously over the river bank.

  ‘That’s got to be it,’ he said. ‘How shall we play it?’

  Creasy looked at the house and muttered: ‘You carry the rice and the fruit, and I’ll carry the photographs. We don’t say a single word. You give him the rice and food and I hold the photographs in front of his face. If he’s such a fucking expert, he’ll get curious.’

  It worked. They climbed the wooden steps and pushed open the squeaking door. The old man was sitting in the lotus position in the corner of a totally bare room. He wore dirty, saffron-coloured robes. He was completely bald. His face was as lined and as dark as the wooden walls. Jens placed the wicker basket containing the rice and the fruit by the door. Creasy moved forward and placed the four photographs on the floor in front of the old man. Then he retreated back to the door. The old man ignored the wicker basket and Jens. His eyes remained steadily on Creasy’s face. Perhaps three minutes passed with the only sound the river beneath them. Then very slowly, the old man’s gaze lowered to the photographs.

  Chapter 45

  ‘We’re going to need help from the Americans,’ Creasy stated. ‘But it has to be selective help.’ He looked up at Susanna and then pointed at the photographs. ‘That temple lies in the heart of a Khmer Rouge stronghold.’

  ‘Was the monk sure?’ Susanna asked.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s almost ninety but he’s as bright as a button. He was also surprised to see that photograph. Before the Khmer Rouge took over there were more than thirty thousand temples in this country. They destroyed more than two-thirds of them. That monk could not understand why this one was saved.’

  Guido looked down on the photographs. He said: ‘If there were thirty thousand of them, many must have looked alike. How can he be sure where this one is sited?’

  ‘He was very sure,’ Creasy answered. ‘During the nineteen-fifties and sixties he visited that temple many times and prayed in it. It was built by Jayavarman the seventh between 1181 and 1193. The architecture has particularly strong Indian influences. The monk was in no doubt.’

  Susanna asked: ‘Apart from being very old, what else was he like?’

  ‘The most striking thing,’ Creasy answered, ‘was his accent. It was as though he had never left Sydney. But he had no curiosity about the outside world. He was very serene, but also a little frightening.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I was with Jens, but he only talked to me. He looked at my face for a long time and then told me that I was in great danger. And that the danger was represented in the form of a woman.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it’s nothing. But the man had a strange influence on me. I’m not religious or superstitious, but somehow he had a presence, and an air of deep understanding.’

  ‘Is that why you want to call in the Americans?’ Guido asked.

  Creasy shook his head. ‘No, that’s not the reason. This well-laid trail is going to end at that temple. It lies four kilometres to the south-east of a village called Tuk Luy, which is the headquarters of the largest concentration of Khmer Rouge troops in Western Cambodia. There’s no way that I can simply drive over there and take a look. I need help to get in and before that, I need good intelligence of what’s happening in the area.’ He glanced at Susanna. ‘Since it’s possible that there are American MIAs there, I take it that assistance will be forthcoming?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll phone Colonel Friedman and he’ll set things in motion. I’d better do that from my Embassy on a secure line. What will you need?’

  Creasy sighed and answered: ‘I have no idea yet. But the first thing is to get information on the whole area south-east of Battambang and particularly the Cardamom Mountains. I’ll need detailed maps and, if possible, satellite surveys. I’m sure the CIA will have them. I’ll also need to know the level of Khmer Rouge concentrations and, if possible, the names of local commanders. I don’t want to have to go through any Cambodian officials. That’s too risky because many of them still have secret ties with the Khmer Rouge.’

  Susanna glanced at her watch and made a calculation. She said: ‘It’s eight o’clock in the evening in Washington. Elliot will be home. I’ll call him there. I’ll get the address of the American Embassy and then take a taxi.’

  Jens was sitting at his computer. He punched at the keys and then read from the screen: ‘The address is 27 EO Street 240. The ambassador is called Henry Gates and the CIA resident is probably a senior military attaché whose name is William B. Garner. Aged forty-two, married with two children, and plays a lot of tennis.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘How do you get this stuff?’

  He just gave her an enigmatic smile and answered: That’s my job.’ He looked at Creasy and said: ‘I’m wondering if Colonel Friedman has enough seniority to pull the right strings.’

  Susanna answered that query. ‘Yes, he does. And if he runs into any problems, he’ll make a call to Senator Grainger, who can pull just about any string in America.’

  She was interrupted by a knock on the door. The Owl opened it and came back with an envelope.

  ‘It’s from reception,’ he said, ‘and addressed to you.’

  She opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a typed message which read:

  I have information of interest to you. I will send it to the hotel on Thursday afternoon. It is important that your associates do nothing in the meantime.

  It was unsigned. She passed it to Creasy who read it and then showed it to Jens, Guido and The Owl.

  ‘Let me see the envelope,’ Creasy said.

  She passed it to him. It was addressed to Captain Susanna Moore, US Army, MIA Department, care of Cambodiana Hotel, Bungalow 4.

  Creasy looked at the envelope for a long time as though it was conveying information, then passed it to Jens. The Dane took the magnifying glass from his briefcase and ca
refully studied both the envelope and the letter. Then he stated: ‘It was printed on a modern laser printer with high resolution.’

  From behind him The Owl said: ‘There was one in the office of the Lucit Trade Company. A Japanese OKI.’

  Creasy took the sheet of paper back and said: ‘It’s another piece of the paper trail . . . but why do they want us to wait until Thursday?’

  Nobody had an answer. Creasy said to Susanna: ‘Make your call to your boss anyway.’ He turned to Jens. ‘In the meantime, I want you and The Owl to get to Hong Kong as soon as possible and start looking into the background of Bill Crum’s last years. It would be good to know something before Thursday afternoon.’

  Susanna picked up the photographs and put them into the folder along with her translation of the correspondence, and then said: ‘I should be back in about an hour. If Jens needs a secure link from Hong Kong, I could arrange that through our Consulate there to our embassy here.’

  ‘It could be useful,’ Creasy agreed. He was still looking at the printed message. ‘Maybe they’re stalling,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’re moving too fast for them.’

  Chapter 46

  Moira Friedman had made a beef casserole with fresh spring vegetables. Following a long-established ritual, she carried the pot to the table and lifted the top. Elliot leaned forward, inhaled the aroma and spoke the often-repeated words: ‘You are beautiful, creative and the light of my life.’

  He was about to ladle himself a large portion when the phone rang. In exasperation, he rolled his eyes at his wife and said: ‘Whoever it is, I’ll get them to call me back.’

  It was not to be. She heard him say: ‘Hi, Susanna. Where are you?’ Then he listened intently for a couple of minutes and reached for a pad and pencil. He made some notes and said: ‘Wire me the photographs, all of them, including your transcripts.’

  Moira Friedman could hear the excitement in his voice. He said: ‘I’ll be at the office in twenty minutes. And I’ll have State communicate with our Ambassador with orders to co-operate with you in every way. I’ll arrange for them to set up a mobile SAT phone for you so you don’t have to go to the Embassy too often.’ He listened again and then said: ‘I don’t think I’ll need Grainger, not with those photographs. It’s the first break we’ve had in years. But I’ll keep Grainger informed anyway. Maybe I’ll send someone out there as back-up for you.’ He listened again, then nodded and answered: ‘OK, I’ll hold my fire until Thursday night your time. Just wait there at the Embassy and I’ll call you back when I’ve talked to the guys at State. By the way, your friend, Professor Woodward, has been calling the office two or three times a day trying to get hold of you. He seems agitated . . . OK, I’ll tell him you’ll be in touch in due course. Be careful out there. It’s a dangerous place.’ He listened again and then chuckled. ‘Yes, I guess you are. OK, wait for my return call.’