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

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Apart from what you have read in that report, do you know anything about that man Creasy?’

  ‘No, sir. Just that he’s a mercenary.’

  The tone of Senator Grainger’s voice changed. He became almost musing. He said: ‘Colonel Friedman, can we talk off the record and in confidence?’

  Friedman glanced at Susanna as if for advice. She simply shrugged and started to walk towards the door. Friedman stabbed the hold button and told her: ‘Stay where you are, Susanna. When a senator wants to talk to an officer in confidence, it’s better to have a witness.’

  Very intrigued, she returned to her seat. Friedman reopened the line and said: ‘Of course, Senator. This conversation is between you and me.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to ask nothing that will compromise you. It’s simply a request. I would like you to keep me informed of any further contact you or your department have with this man Jensen or with the man Creasy. I would also ask that in the event of such contacts, you render all assistance possible.’

  The colonel looked up at Susanna, who again simply shrugged. A few seconds passed, then Friedman said: ‘I’ll be happy to do that, Senator Grainger, under any circumstances. However, you will understand my curiosity. Can you explain why?’

  Friedman and Susanna looked at each other through the silence. Through the speaker, she could hear the Senator’s breathing. He said: ‘I’ll be in Washington next week. Perhaps you would join me for lunch at The Red Sage?’

  Susanna saw Friedman’s eyebrows rise in surprise. It was a very rare event when a senior Senator invited a colonel to the best restaurant in town.

  ‘It will be an honour, Senator.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have my secretary phone you and fix the appointment. Thanks for your co-operation.’

  The line went dead. Friedman sat back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. Then he lowered his gaze to Susanna.

  ‘What the hell is all that about?’

  ‘It’s about having perhaps the best meal in your life.’

  A thought struck him. ‘Should I wear uniform or a suit and tie?’

  ‘Ask the secretary when she phones. I would certainly polish my shoes.’

  He was thoughtful again. ‘Put your thinking cap on, Susanna. What the hell is behind all this?’

  ‘I don’t know. But my guess is that his interest lies more in the mercenary Creasy than in the Dane.’ She had stood up. ‘But Elliot, one thing is for sure: you had better go to that lunch fully prepared. You need to know more about this man Creasy.’

  ‘That’s true. But if I ask for a more detailed report from the FBI, they’ll alert Grainger. I have to find another way.’

  She nodded. ‘You have to have the advantage of knowledge without the Senator being aware of it.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘You put a routine inquiry through to Interpol in Paris.’

  ‘Interpol? But he’s a mercenary, not necessarily a criminal.’

  ‘Yes, but I read somewhere that for the last couple of decades Interpol have been keeping a registry of all known mercenaries. It’s no problem. We often put inquiries through to Interpol, and I doubt if Senator Grainger has any influence there.’

  She closed her eyes as the plane screeched onto the runway. No matter how many times she flew, she could never relax during the take-off or landing. A voice from the seat beside her drawled, ‘I know how you feel, ma’am. To me it’s always a miracle that these damned machines ever get off the ground.’

  She opened her eyes and turned her head. From an earlier conversation she knew that he was a Texas oilman. She would have known it anyway. He was all boots and a big brass belt buckle and a friendly courtesy. He helped her off with her bag and invited her to share a taxi into town. She declined politely, not relishing the idea of conversation or an invitation to dinner.

  During the half-hour journey she noticed the increased bustle of the city. There were ever more street vendors and Honda mopeds. Capitalism was returning to Vietnam with a vengeance.

  Her thoughts turned back to Washington and to Elliot Friedman. Interpol had answered their query within hours. She had watched the fax come off the machine in her office. It had kept coming and coming until more than five yards of it had spilled onto the floor. She had read it in silent fascination and then taken it through to Elliot. After he finished reading it, he looked up and asked: ‘You read it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, I should have brought it through straight away, but I started reading as it came off the machine and I couldn’t stop.’

  Slowly and thoughtfully, he rolled the paper into a tube. He tapped it on his desk. ‘You saw the connection,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Lockerbie, Pam Am 103. Creasy’s wife and child were on it. So was Senator Grainger’s wife. It’s known that some person or organization mounted a revenge attack against the bombers in the Middle East. That fax more or less confirms it. Creasy was involved.’

  ‘He was involved in a lot of things,’ Friedman answered grimly. ‘An ex French Foreign Legionnaire, then a mercenary in the West African wars in the sixties. And then in Vietnam and Cambodia as an “unofficial” connected to our special forces.’

  ‘The dogtag,’ she said.

  ‘The dogtag?’

  ‘Yes, Elliot. That has to be the connection. Maybe he knew Jake Bentsen over there.’

  ‘Let’s try and track it down. I want you to scrutinize every unit that Bentsen was attached to. The records will not show if any “unofficials” were attached, but I can use my own unofficial sources to find out.’ He grinned. ‘Senator James L. Grainger is not the only one with connections.’

  The taxi pulled up at the Hotel Continental. Every time she came to Ho Chi Minh City she always decided to stay at a modern hotel, but inevitably she changed her plans at the last minute and booked into the Continental. Her father had stayed there very often during his years in Vietnam. He had told her of its famous veranda and bar and its old colonial atmosphere. It was always a bitter-sweet feeling as she went through the door. Then, after a few minutes, it was better to have the memory and in a strange way feel his presence.

  She stood under the old copper showerhead washing her hair and irreverently thinking of the line from South Pacific, ‘I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair’. Her boyfriend, the professor Jason, was not really in her hair. Somehow her passion seemed to be on hold. Subconsciously she was waiting for a man to come along: not to sweep her off her feet, but to light some passion that she knew must lie within her. So far it had been dormant. She enjoyed the company of the man, both mentally and physically, but the physical side had always been more or less routine. A social act rather than a blending of the body and the mind. She had watched some of her friends stumble madly into love and then usually out of it. It had never happened to her. Perhaps her mind was too logical, her life too controlled.

  She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and soaped her long body. Again, her mind went back to Washington and her boss. Elliot had returned from his lunch with Senator Grainger at The Red Sage and immediately dropped by her office. She had spent the first ten minutes pumping him about the restaurant, the food and the clientele. His gossip was satisfying. He had spotted the Vice-President’s wife lunching with an ageing actor, and the Attorney General with a couple of Senators. He was sure it had all been strictly business. Grainger had ordered a plain grilled steak but Elliot had been more adventurous, starting with a wild salmon mousse and going on to duck à l’orange. It had been delicious. At first Grainger had been cautious, obviously sizing up his man. But with the main course he had opened up and talked about his personal life. The conversation had slowly turned to Creasy. It appeared the two men were very close friends. It had begun with their shared tragedy over Lockerbie - indeed, Creasy had mounted a revenge attack partially funded and assisted by Grainger. A couple of years later Creasy had become involved in a sort of war against a white-slave-and-drug ring in France and It
aly. Grainger had been able to pull a few strings to help the mercenary during that time. The ring had been destroyed and its leader killed. The Dane Jens Jensen, together with The Owl, had been part of that operation. A year later the daughter of one of Senator Grainger’s constituents in Denver had been murdered in Zimbabwe. The local police had made no progress and the dead girl’s mother had come to Grainger to ask his help in applying pressure on the State Department to get results. Instead, Grainger had introduced her to Creasy who, in his own way, had extracted justice. Jens Jensen had also been involved. So it was no surprise that the Senator’s curiosity had been roused when Elliot had put in a query to the FBI about the Dane.

  Elliot had been pacing up and down her small office with a coffee mug in his hand. He stopped, turned and said: ‘Susanna, at this point it became obvious to me that the senator holds much affection for this man, Creasy. There and then I took a decision. I told the Senator that for the next few weeks I would routinely be basing one of my officers in Saigon. I suggested that the Senator get in touch with Creasy and inform him that if he needed any help and backup in that city, he could call on our organization in the person of that officer.’

  Elliot smiled, and said: ‘Who happens to be Susanna Moore.’

  She was startled. She had not been due to visit Vietnam for at least three or four months.

  ‘I want you to leave tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Something in my blood tells me that this could be important. I have a feeling that this man Creasy does not go charging around the world on wild-goose chases.’

  She stepped out of the shower and towelled herself down. It was something of a mystery to her. Elliot Friedman was not a man to act on impulse. He had a well-trained logical mind, which is why he was so good at his job. He was also careful with his budget and not given to sending his officers on speculative trips. But then he had given her another nugget of information.

  ‘I checked with my sources,’ he said. ‘Jake Bentsen went missing in action during a fire-fight near the Cambodian border on September 24th 1968. It was a Special Forces mission. It so happened that they were accompanied by two unofficials. Of course those guys always used false names. I tracked down the then lieutenant who led that mission. He’s now a full colonel. He remembered the mission well, and the two unofficials. One was a Belgian. The other one had French papers and spoke with a slight American accent. His physical description fits that of our man Creasy. Also his actions and demeanour. The colonel remembers that young Jake Bentsen was only twenty-one years old at the time. He tended to keep close to the unofficial who fits Creasy’s description.’ He took a sip of his coffee and said thoughtfully: ‘I see the scenario thus: Bentsen’s dogtag was returned mysteriously to his parents in San Diego. They had previously drawn a blank with us. Maybe young Bentsen had mentioned Creasy in his letters from ‘Nam. They managed to track him down and now he’s on his way back to ‘Nam to look for Bentsen or his remains. The point is, Susanna, a man like that can do things that we cannot. He can go places that we could never go. He could ask questions in a way we never could. He might turn something up. He might even throw a light on other MIAs at the same time.’

  He gave her a long look and continued: ‘So I want you on the scene. Keep your eyes and ears open. And if he does contact you, give him every co-operation.’

  She finished drying her dark hair, went into the bathroom and slipped on a lime-green linen dress. She applied a minimum of make-up, and decided to have a pre-dinner cocktail in the bar.

  As she walked down the stairs her thoughts turned to her professor back in Washington, and she tried to decide if there was any future in that situation. She tried to decide if Professor Jason Woodward was the man to spend the rest of her life with. Not that he had asked her to marry him. On the contrary, the subject had never arisen, but she knew that he would never leave her. She chuckled mentally, realizing that in a way she was like his rows of dusty books or the old, felt slippers he pulled on when he came home in the evening. She was a fixture in his comfortable, ordered life. As she tried to define her feelings, it dawned on her that she actually loved his mind. She loved the way he looked at a situation or a problem or an event: the way he analysed things without presumptions or suppositions: she loved his fairness. She enjoyed long conversations over dinner when she would act as devil’s advocate, trying to probe and provoke. Of course he knew what she was doing and he would give her his gentle smile and argue with a combination of logic and humanity.

  In her mind she tried to find a balance between the mental and physical. Was it enough to love a man for his mind, or was it necessary to have the juxtaposition of physical love as well? There had been many times when she wished she did not have physical desires. She had read in a biography of Gandhi how he believed that it was impossible for the mind to develop to its full potential unless the weaknesses of the body had been overcome. By weaknesses he meant sexual urges. He had deliberately cast out sexual urges in order to focus on his life’s mission and destiny: but she was no Gandhi. She was a normal, healthy woman who once in a while wanted to climb into bed with a man and make love. It was that simple.

  Occasionally she had cast an eye over other men intrinsically looking for a body more than a mind. There was a young lieutenant in the office. She could feel his physical interest in her. He was tall and well-built and gave off a sexual magnetism. He was also as dumb as a brick. She had often thought that she might combine someone like that with her professor; a physical release on the one side and mental stimulation on the other. So far it had been impossible. She had a bottom line in terms of morality. She knew that her professor loved her and in receiving that love, she felt she had the obligation to be faithful.

  She reached the ground floor and put the professor from her mind. Tonight was tonight, and tomorrow would be tomorrow.

  It was a room that intrigued her. A room full of history. She stood at the door and cast her eyes around and almost turned away. There was not a single woman in there. Most of the men were foreigners, she guessed either businessmen or journalists. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke. She decided to go out onto the veranda and order her drink from there, but as she walked across the room, a voice suddenly stopped her.

  ‘Miss Moore, is it not?’

  She turned. There were two of them sitting at a table. Jens Jensen and The Owl.

  Chapter 12

  It was just before ten o’clock at night when the phone rang in the Bentsen household in San Diego. The old couple were watching Star Trek on the television. She turned down the sound while he picked up the phone.

  She watched as he listened. About three minutes passed, then he said: ‘Thank you, and good luck.’

  He hung up, turned to her and said: ‘That was Creasy. He was phoning from Italy. He’s leaving for Vietnam tomorrow. He phoned to keep us informed. He stressed again that the chances are almost zero and that we must not be too hopeful. He will spend a minimum of two weeks in South East Asia. If anything develops, he will phone us immediately.’

  She turned back to the television and put up the volume. After a few minutes she said: ‘For me, the main thing is that we have now done everything possible. If Creasy cannot find him or discover what happened to him, then I’ll accept that he is dead.’

  She turned to her husband and gave him a smile that was almost serene. ‘In two weeks’ time, whatever the outcome, I will sleep a little easier.’

  Chapter 13

  She warmed to the Dane. It took a little longer to find any mental communication with The Owl. In fact it took until halfway through dinner. The small Frenchman remained silent during the drinks in the bar and the first part of the meal in the elegant restaurant. Meanwhile she felt as though Jens Jensen was probing her mind and her competence. She was not offended, because he conducted himself and asked his questions with great charm.

  He started by telling her that Creasy had phoned him that morning from Naples to tell him that he and his friend Guido would be arriving in Saigon w
ithin forty-eight hours. She told him that she would be in town for some time, and would be on hand to give whatever assistance her office could provide.

  Then the questions began. The first ones concerned her private life and background. She smiled inwardly and talked about her early life in Boston: the high school years, and then university at Wellesley. She had majored in modern history. She then talked about the disappearance of her father in Vietnam and how she had taken the abrupt decision to make a career in the US Army. Jens listened with amusement as she recounted her early days in boot camp and the sudden transition from a patrician New England family to the rigours of army life.

  Meanwhile, The Owl sat silently as though existing in a different world, simply eating the fine food with enthusiasm and sipping at his glass of claret.

  The Dane’s questions moved on to her present work. He was curious about the structure of the MIA. It was obviously a curiosity born of shared experience. They were very much on common ground. It was work of elusive frustration. A hint here; a scrap of information there; a suggestion from somewhere else. Much of the work involved instinct, guesswork and optimism. Much of the results involved disappointment. She explained that the only results had been in the form of the bones and skeletons. Recent advances in genetic fingerprinting had been a major help; but still, the success rate was less than two per cent.

  ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked.

  Her answer was an unqualified ‘yes’. She explained about her missing father, and what it would mean to her and her mother if one day they could lay his remains to rest at Arlington.

  He seemed to understand, and suddenly, so did The Owl. He lifted his head from his rare entrecote steak, and made his first contribution to the conversation.

  ‘Whenever I’m in Marseille, I visit my mother’s grave. I clean it and put flowers on it. I was close to her and when I’m there, I still feel close to her.’ For the first time he smiled. ‘Do you know that in Madagascar, once every few years they dig up their ancestors’ skeletons and dress them in fine cloth and take them in a parade around the towns and villages? They make a big party about it and really enjoy themselves. I like that.’