Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Page 3

  Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘This friend of yours. Was he regular army?’

  The Dane shook his head. ‘He was a Marine. But that was before he was a French Foreign Legionnaire and a mercenary. He was in Vietnam in the latter capacity.’

  The colonel nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘Yeah, we had quite a few of those. But I have to admit they weren’t the kind of guys who would go on a wild-goose chase twenty-six years later looking for a soldier who is almost certainly dead. They must have been very good friends.’

  Jens Jensen shook his head and stood up, saying, ‘They were not close friends, Colonel. The truth is I don’t really understand why my friend is going back . . . Then again, he is not like the others, who just fought for money over there.’

  He picked up his briefcase and from his top pocket pulled out a card and placed it on the desk. ‘A thousand thanks. If you ever find yourself in Copenhagen again, please call me and we’ll go and have a Schnapps together.’

  As he reached the door the colonel’s voice stopped him.

  ‘If your friend travels under a US passport, he might have trouble getting into Vietnam. And if he does get in, he’ll have more trouble if he starts asking unofficial questions about US MIA’s.’

  Jens answered: ‘You might be right, Colonel. But then I’m just a detective. When it comes to trouble, my friend has a history of taking care of himself. Again, a thousand thanks! Or as you may have heard the expression on one of your nights in Copenhagen and the Kakadu, “Tusind tak”.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘It’s a set-up. That’s the only answer.’

  They were in a hotel room in downtown San Diego. Creasy was standing at the window looking out on sheets of heavy rain. The Dane was sitting on the bed with the open briefcase beside him and the computer on his lap. The Owl was sitting on a chair in the corner.

  ‘Set up for whom?’ Creasy asked over his shoulder.

  ‘For you, of course,’ Jens answered. ‘First the dogtag and the scrap of paper with your name on it. Then you find out that it was delivered here to the Bentsens’ by a man you know but who you thought was dead.’

  Creasy turned and said: ‘Of course it’s not certain that I know the man. All I saw was a sketch of his face, added to the description that he limped on his left leg.’

  The Owl entered the conversation. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence. Who is the man you thought was dead?’

  ‘It was a guy who worked for the South Vietnamese police. His name was Van Luk Wan. He was a senior officer in the Intelligence Department, which meant that he tortured a lot of people. One of them happened to be a friend of mine. She was just a girl who worked in a bar in Saigon. Van had the idea, without any basis, that she might be a VC informer. I don’t think he cared one way or the other. He was that kind of man. She died slowly and badly.’

  ‘So you killed him?’ Jens asked.

  ‘I thought I did. It was at night and the light was not great but he was only five metres away. I don’t usually miss at that range.’

  ‘You didn’t double-check?’ The Owl asked.

  ‘There was no time. It was that kind of situation. One shot, and I was gone.’

  Jens leaned forward and asked: ‘You heard nothing about it later?’

  ‘No. That night I flew out from Than Son Nut airport for Bangkok. I never returned to Vietnam. By that time I was sick of it. Sick of the whole damned charade!’

  The Dane was pecking away at his computer console. He glanced up and asked: ‘This policeman, Van, did he know you well?’

  ‘Yes, very well. A week earlier he had picked me up for interrogation. There was no rough stuff. They didn’t do that to Americans: only to their own benighted people.’

  The Owl intervened again. ‘So why did he pick you up?’

  Creasy had turned back and looked down again at the rain as he said: ‘You have to understand the time and the place. The war was at its apex. There were all sorts of people running around Saigon. It seemed like every crook and conman had made it their home. I worked for the American military as what they called an “irregular”. They had their Green Berets and their Rangers and other special forces. But when there was a very high-risk job to be done, they hired guys like me. In their jargon we were called “expendables”. We had no mothers or fathers to cry over the body bags when they were shipped home. Sometimes they used us to beef up their regular forces. The money was good and so it attracted all kinds of assholes. A sort of refuse that came out of the Congo and Biafra. There were some good guys among them, even a couple of ex-legionnaires. But most of them were the worst kind of dogs. And when they weren’t out in the field, they were into every racket you can think of, from drugs to prostitution, gun-running to extortion. This guy, Van, was supposed to be in charge of the Saigon police department which was set up to combat those rackets.’ Creasy laughed without mirth. ‘But he, and most of his team, were part of those rackets. The corruption in that city was incredible. Of course he had to make a show to his superiors, so every once in a while he would pull one of us “irregulars” in for questioning.’

  Jens asked: ‘Did he know it was you who shot him?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t shoot him in the back. Before I pulled the trigger I said: “This is for Ming”. He knew she was a friend of mine. He knew why he got the bullet.’

  The Dane was again tapping at his computer. He said: ‘Can you remember the date that you shot him?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Yes. It’s possible I can find a way to check the hospital records and find out if he died or lived.’ He looked up with a smile that was almost smug. ‘That’s what detectives do. Common soldiers like you wouldn’t know about things like that.’

  Creasy glanced at The Owl and remarked: ‘Sometimes this prick forgets that I’m paying his expenses.’

  The Owl replied: ‘You’re quite right. But the problem is that his brains are bigger than his balls.’

  ‘Enough levity,’ Jens said. ‘Try to remember the date, or at least the week.’

  Creasy dropped his chin onto his chest and thought. After half a minute he said: it was sixty-eight, the week before Christmas. It was a Thursday evening.’

  The Dane’s fingers tapped the keys of the computer. ‘I’ll get a calendar and check the dates for sixty-eight.’

  The Owl did something surprising. He stood up and started pacing the floor. He was normally a sedentary man. He began to talk to Jens as though Creasy were not in the room.

  ‘If this guy, Van, did survive, and had a motive of revenge against Creasy, why would he wait all those years? If that dogtag was the bait on a hook, he would know that Jake Bentsen’s father would find Creasy. Which means that he would know where to find Creasy himself; in which case he could have gone to Brussels and bushwhacked him.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Jens answered. ‘He obviously wants to lure Creasy back to South East Asia. My guess is that Jake Bentsen is dead long ago. The dogtag and the scrap of paper are just bait. There’s got to be somebody else behind Van Luk Wan.’

  Creasy pushed himself back into the conversation. ‘And how do the brilliant detectives deduce that?’

  The Dane lifted the computer from his lap, closed it, and laid it reverently on the bed. He stood up and stretched his portly frame, then gave one of his ultra-intelligent looks to Creasy and said: ‘Sometimes even geniuses rely on intuition. To use an Americanism: some big shot in South East Asia wants your ass. How many big-shot enemies have you got over there?’

  Creasy thought about that for a moment, then looked at his watch and said: ‘Let’s go get something to eat and I’ll think about it. Then I’ll write you a list.’

  Chapter 6

  She had a curved face and at first glance it appeared beautiful. A second glance changed that perception. The cheekbones were just a bit too high and the nose slightly too hooked: but it was the eyes that dispelled any thoughts of real beauty. Behind her back she was known as ‘the Cobra’, and it was the l
atent venom in the eyes that gave her that name. Nobody would be so foolish as to say it to her face.

  Her real name was Connie Lon Crum, and she combined cruelty with sophistication; designer jeans with a black heart. The well-dressed Thai businessman seated opposite her knew something of her history. Her father was the notorious Bill Crum, a half-Chinese, half-American rogue. During the Vietnam War he had amassed a fortune selling whisky and other merchandise to the US Army PX’s. In order to do so, he had bribed scores of American soldiers, from two-star generals down to supply staff. He had met his death in 1977 in a mysterious fire in the New Territories of Hong Kong.

  Her mother had been a Cambodian prostitute. Connie Lon Crum had contrasted a French education with marriage to a senior Khmer Rouge officer, whom she had later killed in a fit of jealous rage. She had inherited her father’s gift for shady business and her mother’s wiles for manipulating men.

  As he looked at her, the Thai businessman felt a surge of sexuality, tainted by the tinge of fear.

  Standing behind her to each side were two short, wide, young Cambodian women. They were dressed in black tunics and trousers and had holstered pistols strapped to their waists. Their faces were flat and expressionless but their eyes never wavered from the man.

  He was incongruously dressed in an Italian suit, a silk cream shirt and a silk striped tie. His shoes were by Gucci. It was not the normal attire for a meeting in a hot jungle on the Thai-Cambodian border; but then, it was not a normal business meeting.

  She pushed the flat wooden box across the table towards him and said: ‘I’m in a hurry. You have fifteen minutes to make an offer. Payment will be in US dollars, Swiss francs or gold.’

  He opened the box and looked down at the gemstones. They were sapphires and pieces of uncut jade. He picked up a piece of jade weighing about fifty grams. A tiny ‘window’ had been sliced open on one side. The colour was pale green, almost translucent. He looked up and saw the mirthless smile on her lips. She said: ‘Of course, under normal circumstances, you would like to take it back to Bangkok and have an even greater expert than yourself look at it: but you have no time, Mr Ponnosan. In this place, life is always a gamble.’

  The hut was not air-conditioned. He could feel the sweat running down his chest under his shirt. He had an urge to loosen his tie, but he resisted it. It was the first time that he had done business with the woman. Others from Bangkok had traded with her for many months. Some had made a lot of money and others had not. He realized that he was in a sort of jungle casino. She glanced at her gold Rolex and he concentrated on the stones. There were about two dozen. He separated them within the box. She watched and said: ‘You take all or nothing.’

  He knew the procedure. He said: ‘Fifty thousand US dollars.’

  She gave him a cynical smile. ‘Calm down, Mr Ponnosan. You are buying jewels, not glass.’

  The trading lasted for less than five minutes, after which they agreed to $85,000. She reached forward, closed the box and pulled it back to her side of the table, saying: ‘Hold out your left hand, palm upwards.’

  He complied, knowing what was coming. One of the two young women behind her came round the table, took his hand in hers and studied the palm intensely. She then turned to Connie Crum and nodded. Connie pushed the box into the centre of the table. He had passed the test. He stood up, unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and pulled out the canvas money belt from around his waist. He first extracted a single thousand-dollar bill and passed it to her. She held it up to the light, examined it closely and then nodded. He counted out eighty-four more bills, and then departed with the box.

  As his Mercedes drove off down the dirt track towards Thailand, a battered Willys jeep pulled up at the hut. A middle-aged man jumped down. He wore thick spectacles and faded denims. As he walked into the hut the two Cambodian women looked at him alertly, then they relaxed. Connie Crum was putting a thick elastic band around the dollar bills. She gave him a genuine smile.

  ‘Welcome back!’

  He sat down, glancing at the big wad of money. He spoke in French: ‘A good trade?’

  Her smiled widened. ‘No, Van. A very bad one. He paid eighty-five thousand dollars for stones worth twice that much.’

  ‘Have you become a philanthropist?’

  ‘Not at all. He was a virgin. It was his first time. When he gets back to Bangkok he will make a big profit and believe that I’m not as clever as he had heard. He’ll come back for more, and again he’ll make a very good profit. That will happen three or four times, and then he will be both confident and very greedy. That’s when I’ll castrate him.’

  The Vietnamese grinned at her with affection.

  She asked: ‘What news do you bring from America?’

  ‘It moves along,’ he answered. ‘I delivered the dogtag and the piece of paper on the third of last month. The old man left for Europe two days later and returned to San Diego after a week. Our people saw Creasy entering his house on the evening of the thirteenth. He stayed for one hour. As instructed, our people did not try to follow him.’

  She had sat back in the rough wooden chair. Her eyes were fixed at a spot on the wall above and behind Van’s head. ‘Can you trust those people?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘They are American and they love money. The detective agency has a good reputation. They did not know Creasy’s name; they only had his description. They described the man who entered the Bentsens’ house exactly. There is no doubt it was Creasy.’

  She reached for the dollars, stood up and stretched her lithe body. She did not look feline. It was the body of a racing snake: but her smile was as contented as that of any cat that had just spied a sleepy mouse.

  Chapter 7

  It has been said that if you want to make contact with any individual in any city anywhere in the world, it should not take more than three phone calls.

  Jens Jensen believed in that saying. In this case, he needed a reliable Danish contact in Ho Chi Minh City. During his years as a policeman he had done a few favours for journalists but never asked for anything in return. But now he was no longer a policeman. He picked up the phone and called the foreign editor of the Morgenavisen Jyllandsposten. After an exchange of pleasantries and the promise to meet for a drink or a lunch next time he was in Århus, he raised the subject.

  ‘Do you have a correspondent in South East Asia?’

  ‘We have two. One in Hong Kong and one in Bangkok. They cover the whole area, so they travel quite a lot. What do you need . . . ?’

  ‘I need to make contact with somebody in Ho Chi Min City . . . That’s the new name for the old Saigon.’

  He heard the snort of disgust down the phone. ‘I happen to know that. I happen to be the foreign editor of the Danish newspaper that has the most foreign correspondents around the world.’

  Jens laughed. ‘OK, relax. I know you’re a genius . . . Can you help?’

  ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Jens’ wife Birgitte had prepared lunch of skipperlabskovs, which translates as ‘the ship’s captain’s favourite dish’. It was a sort of stew with potatoes, meat and vegetables with a topping of ham. It was also Jens’ favourite dish, and he had just sat down to a piping hot plate of it when the phone rang. Birgitte answered it, then held it out, saying: it’s Henrik from Århus.’

  Jens cursed, but went to the phone. He said: ‘You always did pick the worst time to return a call.’

  Henrik laughed. ‘Were you having sex with your lovely wife?’

  ‘No. Something better than that. I just sat down to a plate of skipperlabskovs.’

  ‘My sympathy. But when you ask a favour you can’t stipulate the time . . . Do you have a pen and paper?’

  ‘Yes. Go ahead.’

  ‘I talked to my guy in Bangkok. He’s got a drinking friend who has just been transferred from A. P. Møller’s office there to their new liaison office in Ho Chi Minh city; which by the way used to be call
ed Saigon.’

  ‘Good. So forget the sarcasm and give me the details.’

  After his meal and lavish compliments to Birgitte, he roughly calculated the time difference between Copenhagen and South East Asia. It would be late evening in Ho Chi Minh City. He looked up the international code and then dialled the number. His contact was at home, and obviously very happy to hear a Danish voice. After establishing his credentials, Jens made his request. He gave the name of the Vietnamese policeman and the date when he was shot. Then he hung up, put on his overcoat and went to watch the football match between Brandby and OB, reflecting that it was nice to have other people doing the legwork for a change.

  Chapter 8

  ‘He lived.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Your friend Van Luk Wan. He entered the hospital on December 19 1968 with a severe gunshot wound. They operated immediately and he survived. He was discharged on January 27 1969.’

  Creasy was in Guido’s penzione in Naples, with the phone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He was impressed.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  In Copenhagen, Jens chuckled down the line. ‘For a man like me it was very simple. I chartered a plane to Saigon, managed an introduction to the head nurse, took her to dinner at the Continental Hotel and plied her with champagne; seduced her and persuaded her to break into the records of the hospital that night and, using the Minox camera I supplied, she photographed all the records during that period . . . I can tell you, Creasy, my expenses bill is going to be spectacular.’