Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Page 6

  He went back to his steak. She looked up and saw Jens give her a wink. ‘I can just see it,’ the Dane said. ‘The Owl here parading around Marseille with the bones of his parents on his shoulders. They’ll lock him up and throw away the key.’

  The Owl ignored him. ‘Do you like music?’ he asked Susanna.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Mostly classical.’ She saw the sudden interest in his dark brown eyes.

  ‘Which composers?’

  ‘Mozart, Verdi, Beethoven, and I must confess, Strauss the younger.’

  He nodded slowly, and she had the absurd feeling that she had passed an important test. It also seemed that, for different reasons, she had passed the test with the Dane.

  ‘How are your contacts with the government here?’ he asked.

  ‘Close, Mr Jensen, for two reasons. First of all they are very anxious to obtain US recognition and a lifting of all sanctions. For my government, such recognition is conditional on their full co-operation on the MIA cases. Secondly, unlike some of my colleagues, I never came here, or to Haiphong, waving a big stick. I took the trouble to get to know them, and to request their help rather than demand it.’

  Jens gazed at her across the table and then made a decision. He reached for the briefcase at his feet and took from it a thin brown file. He passed it to her, saying: ‘These are brief details on a Vietnamese called Van Luk Wan. In the old days he was a senior policeman in the anti-corruption branch of the Southern regime. Late in he was shot and seriously wounded. I’ve discovered that he was released from hospital on January 27 1969. I need to know what happened to him and if he is still in Saigon.’

  She opened the file and studied the contents, then commented: ‘There are three possibilities. He either escaped the country before the fall of Saigon, or he was captured and executed because of his past, or he was sent to a rehabilitation camp, in which case he might still be alive.’

  She closed the file and asked: ‘Can I keep this?’

  The Dane nodded. She said: ’It might be of help if I know why you’re looking for him and who shot him back in 1968.’

  The Dane glanced at The Owl. Something telepathic may have passed between them, because the Dane answered: ‘Creasy shot him and presumed he had killed him. But it turns out that he not only lived; he may have been the man who delivered Jake Bentsen’s dogtag to his parents’ home in San Diego.’

  While she digested that, he went on: ‘I doubt that Bentsen is alive.’ Another glance at The Owl. ‘We think that the dogtag is just a bait to lure Creasy back to South East Asia.’

  ‘You may be right,’ she answered; ‘and of course Creasy knew Jake Bentsen.’

  She saw the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes. ‘How could you know that?’ he asked.

  She leaned forwards and gave him her sweetest smile. ‘You’re not the only detective in this room, Mr Jensen. Your friend Creasy fought here as an unofficial. I know that it’s almost certain he was on that final patrol when Jake Bentsen was presumed killed. The only question I have is why, after all these years, a man like Creasy takes the risk of coming back here to look for a man who was at best, a mere acquaintance. Also why he would go to the considerable expense of sending you and your friend as a vanguard. He’s certainly not doing it for payment. I checked out the Bentsens’ finances. They are very moderate, certainly not enough to hire a top mercenary and his team.’

  There was a heavy silence. Then Jens asked: ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ she answered. ‘When I’m ordered by my superiors to give co-operation to a man, I like to know who I’m dealing with. There are two things that I’m sure about. One is that Creasy is a very hard human being, and the other is that he is not given to sentimentality. So Mr Jensen, if we’re going to get the best out of our co-operation, I suggest that you be completely frank with me . . . What is Creasy’s motivation?’

  There was a pause while the waiter brought them coffee. Then the Dane said: ‘First of all, please call me Jens, and allow me to call you Susanna. As for motivation, I can only guess. And it’s not in my nature to share my guesses. Within a couple of days you’ll meet Creasy. He may tell you. If he does, I’d be glad if you’d tell me.’

  ‘That’s fair enough.’ She tapped the file. ‘Meanwhile, first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll start to look into the possible whereabouts of Mr Van Luk Wan.’

  Chapter 14

  Mr Dang Hoang Long was a gentleman in every way, in spite of the fact that he was a dedicated communist. He had been educated at the Sorbonne back in the early fifties and had considered himself to be Francophile until one evening in a Montparnasse café he had found himself in conversation with a group of fellow Vietnamese. One of them had round, thick spectacles and the voice and charisma to cut through sentiment or even logic. He had been introduced as Monsieur Ho.

  Later in the night, when the others had departed leaving Dang Hoang Long alone with Mr Ho, they had talked on into the early hours of the morning. Dang was due to return to Saigon and take up a post in the French colonial customs department. Mr Ho questioned him at length about his background, his political beliefs and his aspirations for a future Vietnam. Inperceptibly, Dang had found himself giving answers which surprised him. Answers which would have seriously displeased his French masters.

  Finally, Mr Ho had asked for his address in Saigon and written it down in a small black notebook. As they parted outside the café in a misty rain, Dang had asked:

  ‘What is your full name?’

  The bespectacled man had turned and said into the mist: ‘Ho Chi Minh.’

  Four years passed before a man came to Dang’s small house on the outskirts of Cholon. By that time Dang had risen through the ranks to become a senior customs officer under the newly independent government of South Vietnam. The man gave Dang a letter, waited until it was read, and then took it back and burned it. The letter had been signed by Ho Chi Minh. At that moment, as he watched the letter being burned, Dang became an agent of the then Viet Minh, and later, when the Americans arrived, an agent for the Viet Cong.

  After the fall of Saigon, he was rewarded for his years of service by being promoted to the Politbureau, with special responsibilities for Ho Chi Minh City. Because of his education and his many years of experience with Americans, he found himself handling diplomatic contacts with them in the old South. His directives from Hanoi were clear: We need their recognition, we need their investments, we need their trade and their expertise. Therefore co-operate as far as you can.

  The fan in Dang’s office circled slowly, barely stirring the humid air. From a Thermos flask he poured a glass of chilled water for his visitor. For some reason she always made him feel paternal. It wasn’t just because she was about forty years younger than him. It was her attitude. He felt that she respected him and looked up to him. She had visited his office several times over the past few years and occasionally they had dinner or lunch together. He respected the fact that she had taken the time and trouble to learn his language. He had made a particular effort to try to trace the whereabouts of her father’s remains and always regretted his lack of success. He admired the fact that she treated her father’s case on an equal footing with the scores of others.

  He said: ‘Susanna, we now have only eighteen files still open, and they are very obscure. I have to say that we are beginning to lose patience. Surely we have done everything asked of us. During the war more than two million Americans passed through our country. About fifty-two thousand of them were killed or went missing. During the same period many more of your citizens were killed in traffic accidents in America, and even more simply disappeared. What else can we do?’

  She had heard such comments many times before, and she sympathized with the ageing man across the desk. ‘I can only speak unofficially, Hoang Long, but the buzz around Washington is that recognition is around the corner, and all that follows. I assure you that all my recent reports have been in favour.’


  He inclined his head in acknowledgement and asked: ‘So what brings you to Saigon this time, and how can I help?’

  She passed across a slip of paper, saying: ‘I would like either to locate this man or find out what happened to him.’

  He read the name and the brief details on the piece of paper, and then looked at her under raised eyebrows. ‘Do your agencies now look for missing Vietnamese policeman?’

  ‘It’s tangential. He may provide a lead to one of our MIAs.’

  He picked up the piece of paper and stood up, saying: ‘Because you enjoy Cantonese food, I’m going to take you for lunch at one of our few remaining Chinese restaurants in Cholon. In the meantime, my best assistant will try to track down this Van Luk Wan.’

  She decided he was flirting with her and she was not displeased. She knew he was close to seventy-five years old, but his charm was unfaded. With the long serving chopsticks he picked out for her the most succulent pieces of abalone.

  ‘Why have you never married?’ he asked.

  She looked into his dark eyes, noting the hint of mischief. ‘Because nobody ever asked me.’

  ‘That’s because you gave them no encouragement . . . I think you are too severe with men.’

  ‘I never found a man I really wanted to encourage.’

  ‘Then you have never cast your net wide enough.’

  ‘Must a woman cast a net to catch a man?’

  His voice turned very serious. ‘Certainly. But it must be a net with big holes so that the little fish go through it. Only a big one must be caught.’

  Equally seriously, she answered: ‘Maybe the holes in my net were too wide even for the big fish.’

  With a trace of irritation he shook his head. ‘I fear, Susanna, that you have cast no net. How old are you?’

  She was not surprised by his directness. Although it was unusual for a Vietnamese, she had become used to it with him. Perhaps she had encouraged it. ‘I’m thirty-four,’ she answered.

  He reached forward and picked out another piece of abalone for her, and then gave her a long look. ‘You are a captain in your army, so your career is successful. I know that you’re well regarded by your superiors. You are attractive and intelligent . . . Have you had many lovers?’

  She laughed. The man gave her a stern look. She asked: ‘In your mind, Hoang Long, what number would be adequate or appropriate?’

  He considered the question, and answered: ‘Not less than five and not more than ten.’

  She found herself mentally calculating and laughed again. ‘You have it exactly right. There have been seven, not counting the drunken one night stand I had on my graduation night.’

  ‘You have no lover at the moment?’

  ‘In a way, but it’s mainly cerebral.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Which means we talk a lot and not much else.’

  The waiter brought the last dish of chow fan, and again the old man served her. ‘You would make a good mother,’ he said. ‘I know that you made a good daughter. The one follows the other. This Vietnamese is very unhappy that your father lost his life and his presence in this country. I would like you to find happiness here. Our country has seen too much grief and blood. It is time we gave it a little happiness.’

  She was disconcerted both by his words and by their sincerity. She glanced around the almost empty restaurant and saw the young woman come to the door. She watched as the woman crossed the room and handed an envelope to Dang, uttered a few words and left.

  The waiter served tea while Dang opened the envelope and read from the two pages. She saw his ironic smile, then he looked up and asked her: ‘Does the date 30 April 1975 mean anything to you?’

  ‘Of course. That was the day the South Vietnamese government surrendered.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was the day that the last Americans were helicoptered out from the roof of the US Embassy together with the ambassador and of course, his dog. There were many thousands of Vietnamese puppets pounding on the Embassy gates trying to get in. It seems that one of them was your friend, Van Luk Wan. He didn’t make it. Together with many others he was arrested by the Vietnamese Patriotic Army.’ He was looking down at the two pages spread in front of him. ‘He claimed to be a minor functionary in the Duong Van Minh regime, and at first was sent to a detention camp in the mountains. It was then discovered that he had been a senior police officer in that same regime and he was returned to Ho Chi Minh City for interrogation.’

  ‘And I suppose, subsequently executed,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘I would have assumed that. He committed many crimes against the Vietnamese people and at that time, there was an understandable thirst for vengeance.’ He looked up at her. ‘Your Mr Wan was not executed. He was, in a way, ransomed.’

  ‘Ransomed?’

  ‘Yes. There was massive corruption in Saigon under the old regime. Regrettably, some of that corruption continued afterwards and remains to this day. A bribe was paid, a very large one. And Van Luk Wan was allowed to leave the country.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  The old man looked down again at the paper. ‘He was traded across the Cambodian border.’

  She took a sip of her almost cold tea, then asked: ‘Can you tell me anything more, Hoang Long?’

  She could detect his air of embarrassment. He said: ‘You have to understand, Susanna, they were strange times. Then as now, money talked. It appears that Van Luk Wan had a strong business connection with a man who traded in our country during the war. He was a very evil man. He bribed both Americans and Vietnamese. This report indicates that he also bribed some communist cadres after the fall of Saigon. The indication is that he was the man who paid one kilo of gold to get Van Luk Wan released.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘His name was Bill Crum.’

  She took a tri-shaw from the restaurant. It wove its way through the narrow, crowded streets of Cholon and then across the river into the equally chaotic streets of downtown Saigon. She was buzzing with excitement. Perhaps it was brought about by her competitive spirit. The detective Jens Jensen had given her a longshot of a query, and less than twenty-four hours later she had obtained the answer. She was impatient to present her accomplishment. She tapped her fingers on the armrest as the tri-shaw squeezed its way through the traffic to the hotel.

  At the hotel reception desk, she glanced at the rows of keyboxes. Jensen was in room 36. The key was not there. She did not wait for the lift but ran up the two flights of stairs and rapped sharply on the door. She had composed a little speech in her mind. She would be nonchalant and simply give her information as though it were the slightest of gifts.

  The door opened. She looked up, and then looked up a little higher. She was staring into a face that reflected a miasma of mystery and menace. Then, somehow, the menace was dissipated. She saw the deep-set eyes and the scars, and she found her voice.

  ‘Mr Creasy, I presume?’

  His voice was low and strangely reassuring. ‘Yes. You must be Susanna Moore.’

  Chapter 15

  She felt like an outsider. She also had the absurd feeling of being a schoolgirl reading out a report to a bunch of teachers.

  They had all gone down to the bar and sat at a circular table in the corner. Creasy was directly opposite her, with his Italian friend Guido to his right. Jens and The Owl sat on either side of them. They drank beer and she drank coffee.

  She felt an outsider because there was a palpable bond between the four men. They were easy with each other as though they were among family. As they waited for the drinks she listened to their conversation. They talked and joked about old friends and past times. It was not as though she was deliberately excluded; she just felt there was an invisible sheet of plate glass between her world and theirs. She felt a sudden loneliness and to get away from it, she studied the four men.

  Creasy and Guido were alike, though at first sight the Italian had appeared to be simply, lazily han
dsome. His thick black hair was greying at the temples. His tanned face was lined in exactly the right places. His smile was easy. He wore a black, silk polo neck shirt and black slacks. He could have stepped right out of Giorgio Armani’s show room. When he looked at her, he was seeing a face and a body. When Creasy looked at her, she had the feeling that he was watching only her mind.

  The Owl was his usual silent self, observing and listening. The Dane had set up his computer and was studying the green screen. He glanced up at her and said in an informal voice: ‘Please proceed, Susanna.’

  She started to recount the conversation with Dang Hoang Long and Creasy asked: ‘What language were you using?’

  ‘Vietnamese,’ she answered.

  ‘Do you speak it well?’

  ‘Fluently.’

  ‘What other languages do you have?’

  ‘Good French and passable Cambodian.’

  His face remained impassive, but she noticed his glance at Guido. She continued her report, still feeling a bit like a schoolgirl. In some ways, she was junior to these men; obviously in age, and certainly in experience. She was well informed about their backgrounds and although she was a confident woman, she could not dispel the feeling of nervousness.

  They listened for a few minutes in silence, and then Guido interrupted to ask about the background of Dang Hoang Long. She gave a thumbnail sketch including his watershed meeting with Ho Chi Minh in Paris. As she spoke, Jens was tapping the information into his computer.

  ‘Why does he trust you?’ Creasy asked.

  ‘Because I’ve always been honest with him, and unlike many Americans, I do not treat him, or other Asians, with condescension.’